 Blackstone Publishing Presents Truth by Omission by Daniel Beamish This book is read by Dion Graham, the end of the beginning. I was one month shy of my eighth birthday when I first saw one person kill another. Nine, when I first committed the same atrocity. My misconceived and futile attempt at justice. I have since learned that one depravity can never excuse another. I've also come to know that the hand we are dealt in life can still be played many ways. That the ledger of eternal fate is not preordained. And that each act of human kindness can indeed make a difference. Me. It was a daily ritual for Antonyaka and me to walk the path from our home to the lush jungle, making noise and song as much for our own play and amusement as to let the creatures of the river know that we were approaching. We villagers lived in a symbiotic relationship of respect with the hippos and crocodiles that also used the waterway and none of us wanted to tip the precious balance fine-tuned over many generations. We each kept our distance and tried not to surprise the other. Us out of fear of being devoured, the beasts trying to avoid slaughter. The length of the path itself was part of the detombed. Our homes were built far enough from the water that the creatures would not venture the distance and take us unawares. The daily treks to the river involved the older boys swinging their machetes to keep the path clear. If this was not done regularly, the way would be lost to the jungle in a matter of weeks. Uncle Zygbotta would jest and tell me often that the only thing growing faster than the jungle was me. At seven I was as big as some of the older boys and Aunty Niaka even referred to me as her little man. And as predictably as the day would dawn, on every river trek I bemoaned not yet being given my own machete. But Uncle Zygbotta knew too well the dangers of the weighty blades. The machetes served their second purpose—to lop off the heads of the mambas, vipers and adders that camouflaged themselves so well in the trees and on the ground and even in the water. There was no truce possible with the snakes. We feared and hated them, and I suspect they felt the same for us. When we could avoid each other, we would, but if either of us got the chance, we would kill the other—us with our machetes and them with their needle teeth. So when Aunty Niaka and I, neither of us wielders of a machete, walked the path alone, we had to be especially loud and vigilant. We usually sang the songs that Aunty's mother had taught her. These were the ones that I liked, the ones that made me laugh and her smile. Sometimes she— Sample complete. Ready to continue?