She needed to be gone before the rest of the village decided to burn her house down with her in it. They would take the rapist’s side over a known witch’s even though she helped deliver most of the babies in the village, and healed them when necessary. They would turn on her as fast as the lightning strike had hit that stupid woman.
With one last look around her home and her belongings she shifted into a hyena. The transformation was slower than it had been in her youth and was made worse by her arthritic hips.
The pain was sharper than she remembered.
The transformation always left her exhausted, but she still moved faster as a hyena than an old woman.
As she jumped through the back window with her clothes in her mouth, she could hear them banging down the door. The scent of gasoline drifted on the air.
‘Inyanga,’ the crowd gathering outside her hut shouted. ‘Witch,’ they shouted again.
‘Come out or we’ll burn your home down around you.’
‘Hey, Inyanga. Come out!’
The smell of gasoline grew stronger as they doused her hovel with it. The shack hadn’t been much, but it had been her home for many years. She felt the heat as the flames danced on the wood and mud. The flames buckled the metal and shattered the glass of the windows. Using the walls of the other huts as cover, she slowly made her way to the edge of the village. The people she’d looked after for most of her life were too busy dancing around the burning remains of what had been her house to notice the hyena limp into the tree line. She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped from her jaws. She only hoped the mob hadn’t heard her above the roar of the fire and their angry shouts.
She had a long night ahead of her, especially at the speed she moved. She would have to keep going if she wanted to reach Miriam by dawn.
The Impundulu flew down and landed on her back. He’d been kind enough to reduce his size to that of a normal bird. As it was, with the condition her hips were in, the slightest bit of extra weight was too much for her.
He always loved riding on her back. It was something she’d never understood. If she could fly like he did, she would always be up in the sky with the wind beneath her wings and the earth far below her. She would spend most of her time flying above all the mundane issues of human life. Seeing things through his eyes and feeling what it was like up there was a sensation that had always left her wanting more out of life. The exhaustion that followed being as one with her familiar was worth it. She always felt free when she flew with him.
If she’d known that this last time seeing the world through his eyes was indeed the final time, she would have enjoyed it more.
The scent of the smoke from her burning home wafted through the air; thankfully the shouts from the villagers had faded out of her hearing. There wasn’t any sound of them pursuing her. They thought she’d perished in the fire. The relief made her slow her pace. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The bird walked up and down her back like a nervous sentry, trying to get her to hurry. The bird had better senses than she did in her old age.
The sound of a twig breaking echoed through the sparse trees. One of the villagers must not have fallen for her ruse. She held her breath and stood still while she listened for footsteps, or any other tell-tale sounds, of her pursuer. Another twig snapped to her left. A shadow moved at the periphery of her vision. Leaves rustled. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest. Another twig snapped. They were closer, much closer.
Her Impundulu took flight. In her hyena form she couldn’t see things through his eyes, but she could still understand him. He perched on a nearby branch, his head cocked to an angle as he looked around. He squawked. A young girl, not much older than twelve or thirteen, lurked behind a shrub. It was a girl who’d shown interest in the craft and displayed some aptitude for the arts. The old woman suspected the girl also had the gift of second sight, which would explain her ability to find her when everybody else in the village was still staring at the burning shack.
There was no fear in the girl’s heart, only excitement. The bird flew back and perched himself on the hyena’s back. They slowly made their way through the trees, careful not to lose the girl. She could be useful.
The trees vanished and were replaced by grasslands, which provided better cover for the hyena.
Since her rape, Miriam had moved to a riverbank where she could practice her craft away from the prying eyes of the villagers. She’d become angrier, and as a result she was no longer just practising the healing arts or divination. She had started delving into the darker arts. It was also one of the reasons the old woman had decided to take matters into her own hands. She hadn’t wanted the stain of murder on her daughter’s soul. She also worried that once the Impundulu was connected to Miriam, they would both go down a dangerous road from which there would be no return. The only foreseeable end for Miriam on her current dark path was being burnt to death by the people she’d once promised to help. Perhaps the girl would be able to bring Miriam back to the path of healing.
The girl was pure innocence.
The bird squawked from her back. They were approaching Miriam’s hut. She could smell the cooking fire. The sweet scent of chicken roasting on open flames and rosemary drifted on the breeze. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until then.
The girl stumbled over a rock behind them.
The girl’s expression when she realised both the hyena and the bird were looking at her amused the old hyena. The hyena laughed, making the girl scuttle backwards.
Miriam emerged from her hut at the sound of her mother’s hyena laughter.
‘Mama,’ Miriam called as she ran towards her mother. The old woman shifted back into human form. The transformation was slow, painful, and grotesque. The girl vomited at the sight of it and then shied away from Miriam. The girl’s usual bravery vanished. Miriam’s reputation for practising the dark arts had made her the evil villain in children’s bedtime stories. But seeing her now, the old woman barely recognised her daughter. Her aura was dark and brooding.
Miriam barely glanced at the frightened child, but that glance she gave was filled with the same annoyance one experiences when stepping in dog excrement. Bringing the child along might have been a mistake. Perhaps nothing could save Miriam from her path now.
‘Mama,’ Miriam repeated as she embraced her naked and exhausted mother. ‘Have you come to perform the ritual?’
The old woman only had the strength to nod. The Impundulu squawked as he took flight and once more gloried in his proper size. He hated being smaller than he was meant to be. He landed next to Miriam, his head at her shoulder height. She stroked his neck like a lover. The weaker the old woman got, the stronger their bond grew. It was time for the transfer of power.
Miriam led them back towards her hut. The old woman could barely walk, the girl had to help her stand and half carried her. The chicken roasting on the fire was ready to eat, but Miriam ignored it. She strode into her shack. The Impundulu followed after her. They were both anxious to get the ceremony done. Everything they needed to perform it was inside. It would be a blood ritual.
At the entrance to Miriam’s hut, the girl hesitated. The old woman could understand why the girl didn’t want to enter. It was dark and reeked of decaying animals. A fire pit was in the centre of the room. The dying embers of an earlier fire glowed in the dark, the only source of light in the room. Not even the early morning sunlight penetrated through any cracks or windows. It felt as though there were things waiting, in the dark corners, things that had been summoned out of the very darkness that they now hid in.
‘She shouldn’t be here, Mama,’ Miriam’s disembodied voice came from the shadows. The Impundulu squawked his agreement.
‘She’s only helping an old woman and will leave as soon as I am in my place for the ceremony,’ the old woman said, trying to keep her own fears of her daughter at bay. The child tried to bolt, but where the entrance to the hut had been was only darkness. There was no way out.
The
old woman walked towards the fire pit, in the centre of the room, holding the girl’s hand.
‘She is no threat to you. She is an innocent. A sweet child,’ the old woman said into the black void that seemed to swallow up the room.
‘The blood of the innocent gets spilled all the time, Mama. I learnt that lesson the hard way,’ Miriam’s voice came from behind them.
There was a flash of a knife blade and the girl’s throat was slit before she had a chance to scream. Her young blood seeped into the mud floor of the hut. Miriam chanted over the girl’s body, and rattled bones and shells.
The old woman barely felt it when Miriam cut her throat. Her warm blood ran down her bare chest as she sunk to the floor and joined that of the child’s. The last thing she saw before her spirit joined the ancestors was the Impundulu, who had served her so faithfully over the years, join with her daughter. Lightning lit the room and travelled through Miriam and back into the bird. They had merged and were as one. The walls and floor of the shack were scorched. The two dead bodies burned, but Miriam was unharmed.
Together Miriam and the Impundulu left the burnt-out hut to take their revenge on the village. As the old woman’s consciousness joined the ancestors to watch on in shame, she knew that she would spend many years watching her daughter commit heinous crimes against the surrounding villages, and she was powerless to stop her.
The Impundulu spread its wings and squawked. He was now free of the leash the old woman had held him on. Miriam set him free upon the lands to do as he wished. Lightning flashed across a clear blue sky as the bird flew off.
Miriam transformed into a hyena and ran across the grasslands in search of her prey.
Jack's Lament
My journey home via Madagascar had taken longer than I'd expected. The slave markets in Zanzibar, Stone Town, were overcrowded and half the stock was diseased and wouldn't last the journey back to Ile de France. We stopped in Madagascar to resupply and sort through the dead and dying cargo.
The Captain was in no hurry to return home and enjoyed the local hospitality, which resulted in a brawl and him being shot by one of Carosin's men. At least he had the good sense to be shot by a French, rather than an English, pirate.
I couldn't wait to see my wife and attempted, in vain, to hurry the scoundrel. She'd informed me of her pregnancy shortly before I left home. On my return to Ile de France she would be close to the time of her confinement. Too many months had passed since then. I would be a father soon.
My heart beat a happy tune as I disembarked from the ship in Port Louis. My coachman collected me at the end of the quay and drove me to my plantation, after I'd secured half my surviving stock in the market to be sold to other plantation owners on the island. The other half would be taken by my foreman, De Robillard, and deposited in the slave quarters. After waiting a full hour for De Robillard to arrive, I left my slaves in the care of the harbour master. The foreman would receive a good whipping for his tardiness. His behaviour was unacceptable.
My homecoming was not what I'd expected.
What awaited me was a nightmare.
I discovered why De Robillard had not arrived to collect our newest load of slaves: his naked, rotting corpse lay on my front steps and my home was but ashes. My heart stopped when I saw my beautiful wife, Gabrielle. I fell to my knees and screamed. Why had they done that to her? Her blue eyes had been plucked out and her blonde hair was now black with dried blood. Her belly was swollen with our now dead and unborn child. My mind shattered. I stared as a raven perched itself on her shoulder and pecked another piece of her flesh. Her arms were outstretched. They'd nailed her to what was left of our front door.
I didn't hear my coachman come up behind me. I didn't feel the blow he struck to the back of my head. The darkness was a welcome reprieve from my nightmare.
***
I awoke to find my house-boy, Philip, sitting on his haunches across from me. My hands were bound behind my back and I was on my knees, the sight of my wife's corpse still fresh in my mind.
“Hello, Master,” he said with his heavy West African accent. My wife had tried to teach him French but he wasn't a very good student. He understood well enough and Gabrielle had believed that he would, in time, be able to speak our language. She'd been so patient with him. I couldn't believe that the man she'd treated with such kindness would be responsible for the atrocity that had been committed in my absence.
“What has happened here?” I asked through a swollen lip. I must have been beaten whilst I was unconscious. I looked around the ruin that had once been our front parlour.
“That pig of yours, De Robillard, took my woman into his bed. She couldn't live with the shame of what he did to her. She walked into the sea.” His French was better than I remembered. He must have been able to speak it before and played us for fools.
“But why hurt my wife? She was innocent.”
“Innocent?” he scoffed. “She was as evil as you are and deserved her fate. A fate which you will soon share, but you will walk this earth forever, bound to the living.”
“But we had nothing to do with what De Robillard did.”
“It is because of you that we are here. It is because of you that De Robillard thought he could violate my woman.”
There was no reasoning with this man. He felt the need to blame us for what had befallen him and I knew that nothing I could say would persuade him otherwise.
“Ah,” he shouted. “Your silence says that you accept your guilt in this.”
I remained silent and watched a large white snake slither around Philip's feet. It was then I noticed the circle drawn, in what looked and smelled like blood, around me. I also noticed a strange pendant around my own neck. It was foul-smelling and looked to be made out of sundry animal parts. Fear took an icy grip on my bowels. I'd heard rumours among the slaves that Philip was a powerful man in his village before he was captured by slavers and sold to me. They whispered that he was gifted in the ways of their ancestors, that he could heal their sick and curse those who'd committed crimes. The slaves preferred to see him when they were sick rather than a doctor from the village. I'd always left them to their strange ways. The other plantation owners thought I was foolish. They'd forced their workers to accept Christ as their saviour and to worship as we did, but how could I force others to believe what I could not?
He stood and walked over to me, carrying a cup. Taking a firm hold of my hair he pulled my head back.
“Drink,” he commanded.
I clamped my jaw shut and refused to drink his brew.
Holding my head down with his right forearm, he blocked my nose with his thumb and finger.
“Drink,” he commanded once again.
I opened my mouth to breathe and the liquid from the cup flowed into my mouth. I spluttered as I fought for air. The room spun around me and strange, shadowy figures appeared. They advanced towards me. I heard Philip chanting in a strange language. His voice rose higher and higher, louder and louder. Then silence. The figures were upon me. They flew into and through me all at once. It felt as though they ripped my flesh from my bones and took a part of my soul with them as they left. With each one that invaded me, the room disappeared more and more and eventually all I saw was a desolate landscape.
A desert lay before me. Philip had disappeared along with the ruins of what had once been my home. The pendant around my neck burst into flames, burning my skin, yet I felt no pain. I felt nothing except an overwhelming rage. The shadowy figures stood around me once again. They were now clearly distinguishable as men. Nine in number. One of them came forward and stood in front of me. He had three heads. One was that of a man, one of a cat, and one of a toad.
“Am I in hell?” I asked
“Some may call it that, but it is a place far older than your Christian church or your god,” his voice was as old as time itself. “Welcome, Lowly One. We have much work for you to do.”
My Life as a Peeping Tom
I’m a voyeur. A peeping tom
if you prefer. I also have an over active imagination. The story I’m about to tell you, however, is completely true. I haven’t exaggerated it in the slightest. I didn’t imagine any of it. My family, on the other hand, would like to believe that I made it all up, that I dreamt it all, that I’ve read one too many Anne Rice novels. It would be easier to believe, but it wouldn’t be the truth.
It happened when I lived on the third floor of a block of flats, in the middle of Scumyside. There was a man who lived directly opposite me in another block of flats, on the other side of the road. He had sandy brown hair and was of medium build. He wasn’t someone who would stand out in a crowd. In fact, the only thing about him of interest was his eyes. They were an icy cold blue and very piercing. They seemed to see straight into your soul. He was rather dull looking and his life seemed to fit his appearance. He sat at his desk in front of the window and worked or read or did whatever it was that he did all day. He sat at his desk from the time that I left in the morning, which was about 7:30 a.m., and he was still sitting there when I got back from work late in the afternoon.
While he sat there he held his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his tangled hair, or tapped his pen on the desk, as though deep in thought. He only moved from his desk to go to the bathroom. He didn’t even go out in the evening. He hardly ever looked out the window. He only seemed to have his eyes on the papers lying in front of him on his desk. They seemed to be his only interest in life. His life seemed to revolve around whatever it was that those papers lying on his desk contained. I came to the conclusion that he led a very boring life. Even so, I found him highly fascinating and I had this urge to come up with some or other explanation as to why he lived the way he did.
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