One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  Her doubt pierced, but it was an emotion Mor could handle. Not like her loss of hope, which swallowed him whole. It showed his failure.

  He gazed down at his sneakers, thinking of Cheikh. Hurt seemed to stab him from every direction. He was exhausted. It had been less than a week since he had been trying to do more than play at being a man. And so far he was still just a boy in his baay’s sandals.

  He was about to try to explain further when their yaay appeared by the window. Her fuchsia teybass swirled at her ankles from a breeze Mor could not feel. His hands fumbled with the bag of bread and fish he’d forgotten he held, then stopped rustling when she smiled down at him. He felt his face washing over with warmth. His heart nearly catapulted out of his chest with each beat. He wanted to rush into her arms but knew he would probably pass right through her.

  Gliding over to her children on delicate feet, Mor’s yaay sat by Amina’ side. One of her hands settled on her thigh. Amina didn’t move. She couldn’t see or feel their yaay. But the tight clinch of her jaw softened. She almost looked like her lips might break a smile. Mor was sure if happiness could have been poured, it was poured over Amina right then, spilling across her thigh. That was how the touch of his mother’s spirit had first felt to him. It was like having a thousand more games of le foot with his baay.

  “I want to trust that you will find a way,” Amina said, calmer now. “We all will try.”

  Turning to Mor, their mother withdrew her hand and settled it in her lap. Mor looked down at where her hand had left Amina; her skin was as brown as it had always been. There was no outward change. But inside, he was certain, there had been one. Their mother’s touch had absorbed some of his fears the last time she appeared to him, outside their home, when he was unsure and afraid. And he believed it had done the same for Amina now.

  “What’s in here?” Fatima asked, no longer worried about Jeeg’s fate. She reached for the bag Mor held.

  Mor’s eyes were still locked with those of their yaay.

  “Let me see,” Fatima said. She tugged it, quickly ripping the bag from his grip, and opened it.

  “Bread and fish.” She reached for it hungrily.

  “I thought this could be a celebration for the first coins I have made us.” His eyes traveled between his sisters and their mother. “I cannot take all the praise, though. A nice lady at the market gave the fish as a gift.”

  Amina placed a platter under the grease-soaked bag on the dirt floor. She had no idea how close she was to their yaay, and how her movements made the shoulder ruffles of their mother’s teybass flutter. Her eyebrows made a rippled line when she glanced at the empty space that captivated her brother.

  While they ate, their mother stayed with them. Mor wanted to ask Amina if she felt anything near her side as she knelt next to their yaay, her elbow brushing against their mother’s skin. But he said nothing. He and his yaay simply watched Amina and Fatima enjoying the fish and bread, licking every drop of fish juice and oil off their fingers as they went. Mor stared at the meat of the fish as it was pulled away, leaving clean white bones. When Amina offered him some, he told her to eat her fill, like his baay always used to.

  “But there is enough to share,” Amina said, taking another nibble.

  To most, the small fish that sat in front of them would hardly be a meal for one, let alone three.

  “No, I am fine,” he protested, thinking some of it needed to last for breakfast. He prayed his stomach wouldn’t rumble.

  His yaay shook her head. She reached out for the fish and mimicked the act of eating, by bringing her pinched fingertips to her lips. Still, Mor did not reach for the food until her hand rested over his, sending tingles and pops through him. He let her guide his arm toward the platter.

  “Just a little,” he said to Amina. He never wanted his mother’s hand to leave his.

  “I love fish,” Fatima cooed, pulling more meat from the bones.

  Then, from that little spark, a thought burst into Mor’s head.

  “I should become a fisherman. Go out in the mornings with the fishermen and bring home a big, tasty fish for us each night,” he blurted out, excited.

  “But you do not know how to fish,” Amina chuckled, tearing off a tiny piece of bread. She knew to save it too. The skin around her lips glistened with oil. “How will you do it?”

  “Our baay did not always know how to fix motors, but he became one of the best at it in the village. I will go and learn. I will become a fisherman.” He smiled at Amina, liking his sudden idea. Then his smile faltered. He realized his yaay’s hand no longer touched his and that she was gone.

  “Are you okay?” Amina asked.

  “Yes,” he said, convincing himself he was. He turned from the empty space. “I’m fine.” Although his mother was no longer by his side, he felt her presence in the room, as if her scent lingered. He inhaled, dreaming of her jasmine and rose lotion. “Don’t worry,” he said, looking back at Amina. “I will learn the sea. And we will soon have more fish then we will ever need.”

  Amina nodded, one eyebrow raised. Mor ignored the look of doubt on her face.

  “So did you sell all the tàngal?” she asked a moment later.

  “It is all gone,” Mor said weakly.

  “All of it?” Fatima looked up from dragging her finger across the grease-stained bag.

  Amina tilted her head slightly, reading Mor’s face like it was a page from her book. A page that was out of order.

  “I did not get all that I wanted. But I will find another way. Tomorrow will be better, Incha’Allah,” he said with more confidence than he was certain of, but he knew they needed to believe it to be true. Even him.

  THE next day Mor left his bed mat as the purplish pinks of dawn split the night sky. Braving the early-morning chill, he pulled his arms inside the folds of his T-shirt to keep warm and headed across the village to Lat Mata’s beach. Halfway to the short mud wall that separated the beach from the roadway, lavishly painted boats came into view, sitting in a haphazard line. Their bows were bird beaks pointed to the coming sun, and their flags ruffled like feathers whipping in the wind. A group of older teenagers sloshed through the surf and loaded empty buckets onto a gigantic gaal as water splashed against the boat’s sides. A man in blue flip-flops and a shirt with cutoff sleeves untangled netting that lay like a coiled pangolin at his feet.

  Mor jumped the wall, excitement coursing through him. Then he stopped. He did not know where to begin. He looked around at all the men but was unsure whom to speak with about a position on one of the boats. Determined not to turn back, he trudged through the sand until he came to a group of men hoisting a massive heap of netting into a gaal.

  “Balma, but does anyone need help?” Mor gazed up at the men’s faces. No one glanced his way. “Excuse me,” he said again, his voice as loud and strong as he could make it. “I am a hard worker and it will not cost you much to employ me.”

  The fishermen laughed at this.

  “We can hardly support ourselves and our families. How are we to take on another?” a man with a face as round as a soccer ball asked. He tugged in the part of net he was gathering.

  “You are a little boy,” another fisherman said, spitting bark from his lips, some tangling in the hairs of his hennaed beard. He shoved his sothiou in the back corner of his mouth and pulled his beard once before reaching for the net again. “And you would get yourself hurt.” He yanked on the netting. “Or worse, get in our way.”

  Why did everyone think he couldn’t help? “I’m small. I don’t take up much space. Everyone always says I’m a fast learner,” Mor said. His voice got swallowed in the roar of the foaming white waves.

  “You are already in our way.” The fishermen pushed by him, no longer willing to delay their work. As they readied themselves to leave, Mor sprang to avoid the last of the netting being whipped into a boat. His head collided with the hip of one of the men. As he turned to apologize, he stepped on another fisherman’s bare foot. Even though he
didn’t think he’d be in the way, he found that he was.

  Along the beach everywhere he stepped was the wrong place to be. Either a net was being dragged by his feet and he needed to leap aside, or a gaal was being launched into the water, sliding off enormous rolling logs. When he thought he was finally a safe distance away, a fisherman touched his arm. He leaped back, thinking he was about to be squashed by a boat.

  “Calm yourself.” The fisherman leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. “You are fine.” His hair was a field of tight graying curls. “I’m sorry we cannot help you, but you see those fishing vessels in the distance?” Mor looked out to where the man was pointing. Large boats rested on the horizon, with massive nets held out like wings. “They come from far and wide to catch our fish, and there is hardly any to spare.” The man patted Mor on the back. “I’m sorry, but I doubt you will find work here.” He turned from Mor, then raced for one of the huge gaals rocking in the morning tide.

  Soon Mor was left alone on the beach with broken boats and old retired fishermen sitting back, talking, and watching the change of light on the horizon. Mor stared at the departing boats. He was about to turn for home when he spotted a man with thick dark-reddish-brown dreadlocks hunched on the edge of a boat, mending a fraying net. Mor headed toward him.

  “Biddééw bi leer gi lëpp-lëpp bi yoon wi. . . .” The words left the man’s lips like a song, but it wasn’t a song. Mor wasn’t exactly certain what it was, though. The man spoke his native Wolof, but the words fell together funny. Mor thought he’d heard him say something about starlight, and a butterfly on a path, yet together they made no sense. As Mor approached, the deep drone of the man’s voice became a tumbling ramble of sounds. It was Mor’s mother tongue, but the meaning was a mystery. “Honey-watered moon”? What could that possibly be? Was that even what he’d said? The words were whispers. Sweet and soothing, almost like his father’s riddle of words.

  “Pardon me, sir?” Mor stood before the man. “Are you going out on the water today?”

  The man continued to whisper to himself, not looking up.

  “Sir?” Mor took a timid step forward. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you needed help out on the water?”

  The man still did not glance up.

  Digging his foot in the sand, Mor flicked a little of it in the air. He craned his head forward, staring at the man. The whites of the man’s eyes raced back and forth under their half-lowered lids. Then the man’s lids snapped back. Between his hanging dreadlocks two piercing brown eyes stared at Mor. The fisherman’s eyes ran over Mor as if memorizing every inch of him. Mor did not allow a muscle to flex, but he suddenly recognized the man from the path where his baay’s accident and his run-in with the Danka Boys had happened. He’d been the one muttering as he pedaled by on a rickety bicycle with a clanging bell and screeching wheels, with a bird as company. Then the man’s eyes lowered as quickly as they had risen. His hands never stopped working on the tattered netting. Mor let out a tiny huff. A part of him wanted to move forward, but he backed away.

  He trudged up the beach to its bordering wall. He heaved himself onto it and dangled his legs over the edge. His heels banged the crumbling mud bricks, knocking away chunks of hard-packed dirt, as he watched the man. Now what was he to do? Drop his own string in the water? His ankles as bait?

  The lone fisherman dumped his netting into his boat and moved to push the gaal out to the water. Then he paused. With a jerk of his head, his dreadlocks whipped over his shoulder. His eyes stayed trained on Mor. The two stared at each other for what seemed like forever. Confused, Mor broke their eye contact and turned to see if something or someone was behind him. But there was no one there. The strange man with dreadlocks that hung down his back like slumbering snakes still stared at him.

  Unsure what to do, Mor climbed down off the wall and waited. The man made no signal for him to come closer, but Mor took a few half steps forward anyway. As he got nearer, the man motioned toward the other side of the boat. He placed his hands on the splintering wood and waited for Mor to do the same. Mor copied him, balancing on his tiptoes. The man gave the boat a hard shove, dislodging it from its berth in the sand. It lurched forward and Mor almost fell face-first onto the beach. Getting his bearings and his balance, he quickly pushed the gaal as well. When the boat was in the grip of the waves, the fisherman climbed in and extended his hand to Mor, who was almost completely submerged in the surf.

  After Mor was seated inside the small gaal on one of two wooden planks nailed down at either end of the boat, the man yanked at the engine cord. It puttered but did not start. He tugged again but nothing happened. Then he took out a wrench and let it slam against the dented motor casing. It collided with the shell in a rattling bang. Mor leaped, alarmed.

  “It will only get worse if you keep doing that,” Mor blurted out as the wrench crashed against the cover once more. “I might be able to do something. My father taught me a lot about engines before he . . .”

  Agitated, the man muttered to himself as if he had not heard, then threw the wrench down and stared at the engine. Mor slid off the plank where he sat and, on unsteady legs because of the shifting waves, made his way to the engine, kneeling in front of it.

  “May I?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, Mor grabbed hold of the wrench and leaned in to inspect the engine. “Here is the problem,” he said, taking a yellow covered wire between his fingers. “It has come undone. This isn’t a truck engine, but they are mostly all the same.” He respun the yellow-coated wire around its bolt and checked that the other wires were secured. “There,” he said, getting up and brushing off his knees.

  He handed the man back his wrench.

  “I don’t think we will be needing this.”

  The man tilted his head, examining the engine. Then he glanced at Mor. When he dropped the wrench and yanked the cord, nothing happened. Mor was anxious. The man pulled it a second time, and the engine rattled and came alive. A bluish translucent cloud of smoke swirled into the air. The scent of burning fuel was strong.

  “Jërëjëf.” The man steered the boat deeper into the ocean.

  Mor gripped the rotting wood plank across from the man and smiled as the tiny boat hurtled forward across the water, slicing through the waves, cool wind against Mor’s face.

  Mor swallowed hard. A shallow puddle lapped at his feet in the bottom of the boat, soaking his sneakers even more. With everything happening so fast, he’d forgotten to take them off. “I have never been on a boat this far out before,” he offered as the breeze tried to cut off his breath. He squinted at the man, who still spoke only to himself. “I am Mor Fall. Thank you for giving me this chance.”

  The man still said nothing to him. And Mor wondered if the fisherman would even pay him, or if he’d cheat him like the rude villager who’d taken one of his tàngal. “Excuse me, sir, but how much will I get paid for my work today?”

  The fisherman kept his eyes trained on the horizon.

  “Sir?” Mor gripped the seat tighter when they bounced through choppy waves. He wished he’d remembered to ask about money or fish before he got into the boat. Now it would probably be another day with nothing.

  As they approached a cluster of gaals, the engine’s roar died down and the man maneuvered through the idle boats. Fishermen jeered and pointed when they saw Mor in the boat.

  “He’s gone out with doff Demba.” A fisherman in a yellow jacket pointed. “Now we know we’ll catch some fish. Fish jump into our boats just to get away from him.”

  “I don’t know why he even bothers to bring that rickety junk out here,” a young fisherman shouted across the water, cupping his hands over his mouth. “One day that engine will find a way to scurry away and drop into the sea. Leaving him stranded.”

  Mor couldn’t understand why they were being this way. Their jokes were not funny. The man they called “crazy Demba” had a boat that looked much like theirs. The colors were more faded, and it was evident he had patched up ho
les with flimsy pieces of wood and tarp, but it was still floating, and the way that a little bit of water pooled in the hull was no different from many other gaals. Somehow he found money to keep it fueled, and Mor had fixed the engine. So Mor tried to ignore the taunts and jokes, as Demba did.

  Demba revved the engine. As they moved past the fishermen, Mor could see the large fishing vessels in the distance coming closer. Soon the other gaals behind them looked like specks in the sand. Mor’s nerves pulsed, getting quicker with the rocky sway of the boat. His eyes darted between the open sea and the beach. The boat thumped along as it picked up speed. Part of him wished he had not fixed the roaring motor.

  The waves are a mother’s rocking arms, and the gaal a restless child. Ease your fear, for you are cradled. She means you no harm.

  Although he always welcomed his father’s words, they brought him little comfort as Demba pressed the boat even farther out to sea. “Are you sure we should be going out this far?” Mor looked nervously over his shoulder at the shore, and then around him at the endless span of salt water. Large birds circled close by.

  Settle your heartbeat and unclench your fist. The water will not claim you as its own.

  Demba turned the engine off, and Mor remained silent, holding to his father’s words. They sat for a long time, staring at the glassy surface of the water. Demba watched the birds clustering over their heads, eyeing what Mor hoped were schools of fish in the deep waters. He motioned for Mor to take one end of the netting and stand next to him. Demba rocked his body back and forth, nodding for Mor to mimic him. Mor followed everything he did. When they had built up some momentum, the sides of the boat teetered, touching the cresting waves. Demba nodded and let the netting fly onto the water as Mor did the same. They watched the mesh of electric blue, sun-washed green, and fraying black sink into the sea. Before Mor could get his balance, Demba pulled on the cord wrapped around his hand with a quick jerk to yank the netting closed. But Mor stumbled and tripped on it. He was over the lip of the boat before anything could be done to stop it.