Fish rotted in the rafters above the dead fireplace. The wind rustled the raffia mat serving as blinds, revealing the moon and concealing it again. The flickering moonlight caught the rat sneaking passed the open sack of yam heads, its eyes fixed on dried fish heads scattered inside a raffia basket resting against a stack of firewood. The sea wafted in with the breeze and stayed when the breeze ran into the night.
The old woman weaving a basket by the door saw nothing;her milky white eyes stared into the distance as her hands wove the raffia. Her hands were rough with use and wrinkled with age. The wavering moonlight caught glimpses of her face during each movement of the raffia window blind. It was not a beautiful face. Her lips were bunched together, moving slowly as she chewed tobacco. The lines on her face were like old journeys, old stories and they were too numerous to be told. A black scar ran from her left ear down her face under her left eye to stop at the bridge of her nose. Whoever did the stitching, did a poor job, the scar dragged the right nostril down as a lion would a heifer.
The door opened and a little boy entered the room swinging a lantern. He placed the lantern on the ground close to the old woman. She grinned, her black teeth a void in the light of her smile. She stretched one hand seeking for the boy hidden in her darkness. The boy caught her hand and moved his body closer to the hand. She held his hand then she moved her hand upwards like a bangle caught in the turmoil of sleep until she discovered his neck and squeezed. She chuckled, the power of violence now in her. She moved her hand upward and touched the boy’s face. She dropped the unfinished basket and added that hand to the other. She explored the boy’s face and he stood still through it all. It felt like a ritual that they had done time and time again yet something was different. The old woman chortled as if glad to feel. She moved over the boy’s nose then she got to his eyes and stopped. Instead of eyes, deep black pits welcomed her. The fingers wandered into the holes and fled back into her mouth.
“What happened? Who did this to you?” She asked.
“Do you hear the sea, Gran?” The boy asked in reply as he moved away from her, out of the lantern’s light.
“The sea? The sea! Who did this to you? I warned you to stay away from the wharf! I warned you! Your mother will not understand,” the old woman said.
“My mother is dead,” the boy replied.
“Nothing dies in this place, boy; nothing,” she replied.
The boy said nothing as he began to arrange firewood in the dead fireplace. He arranged them according to their height, careful to separate those that should serve as kindling from the rest. The old woman’s eyes wandered about her face, curious.
“How do you see?” She asked.
“I don’t know. The priest said I was sacrificing innocence for foresight or something like that,” the boy replied
“Foresight, foresight; you sacrificed your eyes so you can see the future?” She asked.
“Yes I did. I am tired of wondering about tomorrow. A ship comes from afar. I intend to join with them on their travels. They do not discriminate as long as I pull my weight,” the boy replied.
“Oh you fool! You child, no one gives without taking. He deceived you. Do you know the name of the priest who did this?” The old woman asked, rising from her seat.
“What does it matter? My eyes were wide open when I agreed to surrender my eyes so that i can see. I can begin again. Leave all of this,” the boy replied.
“My eyes were wide open when i agreed to save you, you fool. So tell me, mighty seer, what do you see?” The old woman asked.
“Blood. I see a sea of blood and vultures swollen with spoils. If i do not leave this place and soon, people will die,” the boy replied.
He stood up from arranging the wood, walked to the side of the stacked wood where several plastic gallons stood. He picked a small one and shook it. Liquid sloshed inside it.
“You do not listen to me, this boy; nothing dies here,” the old woman replied.
“Gran, this time, nothing will live. I have seen it,” he said, his voice empty.
The old woman staggered back on her stool, her white eyes wide with a sudden revelation.
“Your mother has returned, hasn’t she? She has spoken to you. She must have. You don’t understand why i did it. I did it to save you,” She said.
Her hands searched the ground about her for her stick. The boy picked the stick and placed it close to her hands and she clutched it as if it was life. He walked back to the fireplace, opened the gallon and poured kerosene on the firewood. He returned the gallon to the proper place, bent close to the arranged firewood, struck a matchstick and a tiny flame jumped to life.
“She never left, Gran. She led me to the priest at the wharf,” he replied, placing the kettle on the fire.
“Are you going to kill me then? Have i not treated your son as my own? Is this not enough to atone for my mistake?” The old woman asked.
The door banged against the wall, forced open by a sudden gust of breeze. The moon flooded the room. The boy walked to the door and pushed it close then he stopped.
“The ship has docked. I leave this night Gran. I am making food for a week. The firewood will serve for that period. Keep warm and eat. Do not leave this room no matter what,” the boy said then he closed the door.
He hunched down over the fire and began to blow. The old woman sat still, her body frozen with fear then she blinked and tears began to form around the edges of her eyes.
“It will not be enough,” the boy said without turning to look at her.
“You think so,” a different, deeper voice replied from the old woman’s lips.
“I know so,” the boy replied turning to look at the woman.
The old woman’s eyes were no longer white but clear and bright. A small smile played on her lips as she stood and began to twirl the stick in her hand. The boy sighed and rose to his full height.
“And so it begins,” he said before his grandmother launched herself at him, her walking stick raised high, her black teeth glinting in the moonlight.
The boy stood and made no move to stop her attack. The stick stuck the boy on his shoulder and he doubled over. He made no sound. The old woman rained blows after blows on him. He fell on his knees bleeding then he was lying down in foetal position, his face hidden in the crook of his arms.
Outside, the sea thrashed and huge waves rose and fell. The trees danced as if drunk with sea salt. A ship anchored deep rammed her body against the bulwark raised to prevent the sea from entering the town. A heavy downpour tore through the isolated community, filling empty wells, drowning huts, killing everything that was on a low ground. The wharf broke and the sea roared inside with the glee of the finally free. Inside, the old woman screamed for help behind the raging beast that had possessed her body. She watched as her arm holding the stick landed heavy blows on her grandson. She wept inside but she was too weak. She thought she was strong but she was killing her only relative and she could not control herself. The raffia blind screeched off the window’s face and rain began to fall inside the hut. The boy had stopped moving. The beast stopped wielding the stick and squatted over the boy.
“Where are you, woman? Where are you?” The old woman asked.
“I am where i have always been, my husband,” the boy replied, grabbed the old woman by her neck and squeezed.
The old woman struggled to be free from the boy’s grip but he was too strong. She flailed her arms trying to use the stick on him but the boy was ready, he grabbed the hand holding the stick, bent it until he heard an audible crack of the old woman’s brittle bone. She screamed. The force within her struggled, livid at being easily overpowered by a little boy.
“You are a woman. You cannot defeat me. I will consume you and this child of yours, this bastard that you foisted on me. I will end your family,” the old woman said through her black teeth.
“This my son, he has power. He will leave beyond our tragedy. His father has power and he has come to take him. You will not reach him where he goes. This battle is between you and me, my husband,” the boy replied.
The old woman’s face swollen with spite began to blacken above the fist that held her throat in a vice. She stopped flailing about. The boy studied her with the empty pits where his eyes used to be then he threw her across the room. She fell on a small mat and stayed still. The boy staggered back and breathed deep. He turned to see the kettle had fallen on its side and the burning firewood was scattered all over the floor. He walked to the door, opened it and fell down on the threshold.
The storm raged for three days and three nights. By the time it was done, no house stood standing. Those who came later on speedboats to rescue survivors found nothing but driftwood and an old woman wandering naked through the trash calling for her daughter in law and her grandson. She was carried to the hospital in the city where she was certified as schizophrenic.
In a distant part of the sea, a ship tore through huge waves. On the deck, sailors struggled to keep her afloat. Among them, a young boy with cloth covering his eyes moved about with the sure foot grace of those with sight. He did not talk and no one asked him questions. He did his job well and the captain was satisfied. At night though, his mates stayed away from his bunk. He thrashed in his sleep and they heard different voices arguing; a man and a woman most times and sometimes, they heard the boy’s voice among those voices weeping and pleading for them to stop. Some nights, the captain takes the boy to his cabin and according to the ship steward; the boy sleeps peacefully on those nights.
Declaration
I certify that my entry to the The Ink Well Writing Prize is my own original work and has been published exclusively to The Ink Well and my Hive profile. I understand that my entry may be excluded from the Writing Prize if I have not met the Rules of Entry and the Community Rules. The Ink Well and the Writing Prize is supported by the @ocd Communities Incubation Programme and the @curie curation initiative