One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  Amina and Mor stared after them. The bag of fruit rustled as Amina squeezed her hand tighter around it. The happy voices of women coming up the road behind them pushed against their fear.

  “Ah,” Tanta Coumba said as they turned. “The lovely faces of Awa’s children.” Her smile slipped a bit once she reached them. “My goodness. Why such sagging expressions?”

  Out of the corner of his eye Mor saw how ashen Amina looked. He hadn’t really noticed it before. The usual dark circles under her eyes were even darker. Sweat sat on her hairline.

  “You do not look at all well.” The other women with Tanta Coumba gazed with concern.

  Mor stared down at the salted fish, covered in dirt, that had landed near the front of Cheikh’s old shoe.

  Tanta Coumba noticed the fish too. “Is that what troubles you? A little fish? I’m sure we can find you something else to eat.”

  She rubbed Amina’s back. “No fish should get you this down.”

  “We should get home,” Mor whispered. “We have more to eat.” He pointed to the bag in Amina’s hand.

  “Yes, yes. That would be good, I think. Go and rest. And if you need anything, you know where I am.” She looked back at Amina. “It will all be fine, child.”

  As they left Tanta Coumba and her friends, Mor hoped her words were true, but hardly anything had been fine in the last few minutes.

  MOR thought he was falling and tried to flap his arms like a bird, but they were somehow glued to his sides. Choking on air as a surge of salt water launched from his throat, he realized with a fright that he was drowning. But the sea was not just rushing in around him; it was coming out of him. He was choking, sprawled across the sand. He hacked and hacked, but the salty water did not stop flowing. When he tried to stand, he kept slipping. He had no feet. Instead there was a long, slippery tail, with iridescent scales stretching up his torso.

  “It’s ready for the skillet,” someone spoke with a voice as gravelly as sandals grinding seashells.

  Before Mor could turn his head, something grasped his tail. Finding himself swinging upside down, hovering over a snapping pan of oil, he tried to scream. But all he could do was suck as water spilled from his mouth.

  “Look at this dieune,” the person laughed. “It thinks it will get away.”

  “All fish do. Just gut it and stuff it and let its eyes pop in the grease,” a deeper voice said.

  Mor wiggled and waggled, trying to break free. The voices kept laughing. Then, when he thought he had swung loose, he realized too late that the person had released his grip and that he was headed straight for the sparking pot. . . .

  “Ahhh,” Mor screamed, and leaped from his mat. His face was bathed in sweat. The last image he remembered before flinging open his eyes was that of the dark-brown faces of Cheikh and Papis cackling as he splashed, tail twitching, scales burning, into a pool of scorching oil.

  Mor glanced around in a panic. Fatima sucked her thumb, something she hadn’t done much of since their yaay had smeared a bitter berry paste on it while she slept. He envied her peaceful slumber when his was a churning storm. He glanced over at Amina, expecting to see her curled with the pages of her book that she’d tried to mend with string and a needle, but instead she tossed back and forth, sweat covering her face and shoulders. She seemed to be faring far worse than him in her own nightmare.

  “Mina, wake up. You’re having an unhappy dream.” Mor reached to nudge her, but when he touched her skin, he drew his hand back as if he’d touched hot coals. Her arm was a flame. And her forehead was no better. “Mina, get up.”

  Worry flooded through him as his sister continued to toss across the pallet, her hair spiking in every direction. Something was wrong.

  Shaking her, he tried again to wake her, but all she did was mumble words he couldn’t understand. He rushed over to the water bowl and scooped some into a cup. Fatima kicked out and grumbled, not wanting to budge from her sleep as Mor moved her aside. Lifting Amina’s head, Mor tried to get her to drink, but water pooled at her closed lips. It spilled down her cheeks.

  “Wake up, Mina. Wake up,” Mor shouted. His voice disturbed Fatima’s sleep.

  “Leave Mina alone,” Fatima whined. “We want to sleep.” Her head flopped back down next to her sister’s.

  “Get up, Tima, and go get Tanta Coumba. Something is wrong with Mina.”

  Fatima rolled onto her side, falling back to sleep.

  “Tima, go get Tanta Coumba. Mina is sick.”

  Fatima’s eyes sprang open then and she turned to her sister. “Mina?” She nudged her sister, then looked at Mor, worried when Amina didn’t wake up. Amina always woke before Fatima. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. Just go.”

  “Is she going to be okay? She has to be okay. Wake up, Mina.” Amina’s head jerked as Fatima continued to yank her.

  And again Amina muttered something neither of them understood.

  “Go.” Mor pushed Fatima. She scrabbled off the pallet and ran out the door.

  He kept touching Amina. Her skin was hot like a flame. “Wake up, Mina,” he begged. “Wake up.”

  He had seen this before when his yaay first got sick so many years before. There was nothing they could do for her then, but he hoped there was something he could do for Amina now. He ran and pulled a cloth from the folded stack on the shelf and poured water into a bowl, like his baay had done all those years ago for his yaay. He soaked the cloth in it. When he turned to race back to his sister, their yaay was sitting on the pallet, Amina’s head in her lap. Even though Amina still twisted and groaned, she seemed almost calmer.

  “Yaay,” Mor breathed. He knelt at their side. The cloth dripped on the dirt floor. “What’s wrong with her? Does she have the same sickness as you?” He asked questions he knew he would not hear answers for. “Please don’t let her go away too.” As he laid the damp cloth over his sister’s forehead, he heard two sets of hurried footsteps rushing for their door.

  “Mina’s not going to die, is she?” Fatima cried. “Oh please, oh please don’t let her. She promised she would always stay with me.” Fatima’s crying entered the barak before she or Tanta Coumba did.

  Tanta Coumba swept in, no head wrap on her head. “What has happened to our dear, feisty Mina?” she asked Mor while rushing toward a restless Amina. “Does she not wake?”

  Mor shook his head, not wanting to move from Amina’s or his yaay’s side.

  Tanta Coumba eased him over but did not make him get up.

  “Fetch me some fresh water from the well, and that bowl so I can soak more cloths in it. Spark a fire and boil me some hot, hot water.” Tanta Coumba barked orders as, thankfully, Naza and Oumy rushed in after her. Naza held baby Zal against her hip as she grabbed the bucket for the well and was off.

  Mor knelt, paralyzed, not sure what to do first. He kept staring at his sister, who looked so much like their yaay had when she had lain on that same pallet, sick. He had to look away. Worry nibbled at his insides.

  “Grab me those cloths.” Tanta Coumba snapped him to attention, her fingers clicking in his face. “Be quick. I will need some roots to make a strong tea.”

  “But what is wrong with her?” Mor asked, still not moving.

  “It looks as if a fever has taken hold of her. The stress has been too much.”

  Mor instantly felt ashamed and wanted to run from the barak, knowing he was the cause of her suffering. He had drawn the Danka Boys’ attention, and it had been at his pleading that they’d told their aunt to go. He stared at his sister, their mother’s shimmering hand cradling her face. “The rags,” Tanta Coumba asked again, holding her hand out.

  As Mor reached up to grab all the cloths from the shelf, small misshapen pieces of fabric in every color sailed to the ground. They mashed into the dirt as he stepped on them, handing Tanta Coumba a few cloths.

  Naza, who was a year younger than Mor, stepped back into the room, the well water balanced in a bucket on her head, while her little b
rother lay sleeping tucked on her hip. Mor rushed to help her take the bucket off her head, nearly tripping on his mat, which almost sent the water crashing to the dirt. Naza quickly steadied it. Only a few drops made splotches across the floor. She laid Zal down in the corner next to Jeeg, wrapping Mor’s bedsheet around him.

  Every inch of the barak was being used. Mor felt in the way. He tried to hold Fatima in his arms, but she pushed away from him, wanting to be near Amina.

  “Go care for Jeeg,” Tanta Coumba whispered. She guided Fatima toward the goat. “She is worried too.”

  Still crying, Fatima dashed to snuggle with Jeeg, leaving Mor standing alone. He stared at everyone around him. What could he do for them?

  He stepped into the yard and saw that Oumy, who was Fatima’s age, had built a fire, heating water to boil. She looked up at Mor, then continued breaking sticks to place on the fire. He turned back to the doorway but knew he just took up space in the small barak. Slumping to the ground on the outside wall, he pushed his feet against the dirt.

  Some of Fatima’s rock dolls lay before him. He noticed more rocks had been added to her collection. She didn’t just have their family, now she had stones painted with grass, flowers, fish, and the sea. There was even a little gaal. Then he noticed the flat reddish-brown stone Demba had given him that night in the rain. A dark-green cloth was wrapped around its middle, and when Mor picked it up and turned it in his hand, the face of Demba stared up at him. Amina had even glued straw to make his long, thick dreadlocks. A weaverbird nest was on his head. She had paid attention to all the stories Mor had told. Most of the time, he thought she hadn’t been listening.

  “Demba,” he said out loud, holding the rock in his hand. He jumped up, still cradling it, and ran. “I will be back,” he yelled to Oumy as she dropped leaves into the pot. His bare feet crushed against pebbles and trash as he ran, but he didn’t care. He had to find Demba.

  The only problem was Mor did not know where Demba lived. He ran to the beach, knowing he wouldn’t find him at such a late hour, but he didn’t know where else to go. The shore was deserted, filled with waiting gaals. He sprinted across the sand to Amadou’s shack, but it was boarded up tight.

  The market area was empty and so were the roadways. There was no one around. He spun in the middle of the path, searching. Which way could Demba be?

  The last time he couldn’t find him, he’d run to the dressmaker’s shop, but when he reached it now, all the lights were off. He pulled on the gate, but it was bolted. Then he glanced down the path, remembering Demba’s little brother, Idrissa, and the cemetery by the edge of the village. Hadn’t the dressmaker said that only Demba and the cemetery lay down that way? Did that mean Demba lived out there too?

  Mor raced up the road and cut down a narrow path through the trees to the cemetery.

  A ramshackle cabin he’d never paid attention to before, made from secondhand boards, with chipping paint of every color, stood in the distance. The planks were nailed together, camouflaged by brown and green netting and a thatched roof. Demba’s black bike, with its box on the back, leaned against the wall with another that was missing a wheel. Mor bolted to the door and banged against the wood.

  “Demba, Demba. Are you there?” he shouted. “Wake up. Demba, wa—” As he was about to hammer his fist against the door again, it swung open.

  Demba squinted at Mor.

  “Mina is sick. You have to come.” Mor tugged at Demba’s arm. “Demba, please, Mina needs you. Something is wrong.”

  Demba freed himself from Mor’s grip and backed away from the door.

  “I will not be able to take another breath if Mina cannot,” Mor pleaded.

  Demba had crossed the darkened room in an instant. He stuffed bundles of roots and plants wrapped in cloth into a sack. The shelves around him were crammed with everything from jars of liquid to leafy plants, tweeting uncaged birds, fading magazine pictures of blue skies, and a collection of bottle caps. Photographs of stern-looking people dangled from the makeshift roof on string as well as drooping vines and ribbon. There was even a neat row of worn books off to the side. Tucked at the end, a slim, well-worn book called Le Petit Prince caught Mor’s eye. Part of the cover was missing.

  Demba took the book from the shelf and slipped it inside his bag. A faded red pallet lay on the floor, and Demba reached over it to grab a knife. A golden flower sat in a soda bottle beside it, along with an image of two smiling boys, one in a bright-blue shirt, wet from the sea. It was nailed to the wall where Demba could see it each time he woke. Mor wondered if it was a young Demba in it, with his arm around his little brother, Idrissa, but there was no time to ask. They had to get back to Amina.

  Demba took a small mortar and pestle from the wooden table in the corner. On the way out he whistled to the birds flapping around, settling on anything to be closer to him as he passed. When he latched the door closed behind them, the birds came to sit on the open window, then spread their wings and flew as Mor and Demba dashed back to Amina.

  AS Mor and Demba raced across the night, a cloud-covered moon was their only light. When they reached Mor’s family’s home, Amina looked no better. Tanta Coumba sat over her, patting a damp cloth to her head. Yaay stroked her hair, while Naza sat with her knees up at the end of the pallet, reading bits and pieces from the ripped pages of Amina’s book aloud to her. They each looked up when Mor and Demba entered.

  Tanta Coumba gave a weak smile.

  Mor glanced around for Fatima, and as if Tanta Coumba read his thoughts and worry, she said, “She is with Oumy at my home. She has cried a river of tears and now needs to rest.” Tanta Coumba stood up to greet Demba.

  Demba paused for a minute, staring into her eyes like he sometimes did with Mor, as if he could see through to someone’s soul. Sometimes Mor felt that he could. Demba bowed his head deep and whispered something Mor couldn’t make out, though Tanta Coumba smiled. Demba sat on the wooden stool Tanta Coumba had vacated. He held Amina’s limp hand in his. For a second Mor even thought Demba had glanced at the space where his yaay rested, as if asking her permission to take care of Amina. He shook the thought from his mind as Demba lifted the damp cloth off her forehead and put the back of his hand against her skin.

  “Can you help her?” Mor rushed forward. “Can you make her better?”

  Demba did not look his way as he concentrated on Amina.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Mor asked, hoping one of his questions might get an answer out of his friend. “Will you give her the same root you gave me when I was sick? Is that what she needs? Please make her better.” Mor thought if he stopped talking, he might start to cry.

  “Easy now,” Tanta Coumba said, coming up to him, taking him in her arms. “Give him time. He has only just arrived.”

  Demba looked around the barak, but it was clear from his searching that he couldn’t find what he required. Mor spoke up again.

  “I can get anything you need,” Mor said, breathless, as if he had sprinted two kilometers.

  Demba glanced at Tanta Coumba and then at Mor. It was Tanta Coumba’s turn to read thoughts.

  “Why don’t you go and comfort Tima? I am sure what she needs is a brother’s hug.” She held Mor’s face in her hands.

  “But you said she cried herself to sleep. I want to stay here with Demba.”

  “No,” Tanta Coumba said firmly. “You will go to Tima. She also needs you now.”

  Dragging his feet, Mor moped out the door again, wishing there were more he could do. When he got to Tanta Coumba’s home, he hovered at the entrance, sweeping away intruding tears. He peeked through the window beside the door. Oumy slept next to baby Zal on a floor mat. But Fatima wasn’t sleeping. Her back was to Mor. She was sitting up, her legs pulled close to her chest, with Jeeg next to her. Rock dolls lay around her feet. She held one in her hand and was speaking to it.

  “You better get better,” she said to the rock, sniffling. “And finish my pebble village. You promised you would. And Oumy is waiti
ng for hers. We collected all the rocks you told us to. So you promise you will wake up and finish?” She made the little rock doll nod its head. “You have to be okay.” She held the doll against her chest, tucking up her toes under her sër for warmth. She lay back on Jeeg, closing her eyes.

  Mor knew she’d have questions as soon as he stepped in the doorway. But he knew he had no answers that would comfort either one of them. So instead he walked away, down a path leading away from Tanta Coumba’s house and his. Then he heard the unmistakable scratchy voice of Papis coming from behind another barak. Mor pressed himself against the nearest wall. A burly baobab tree could not have stood any stiller than him.

  “Why are you trying to stop me?” Papis said. “I thought you didn’t want to be seen around here.”

  “I don’t,” Cheikh whispered. “And neither should you. He is not worth your trouble. He has no more use than a flea.”

  The words bit like a thousand red ants at once.

  “Why are you trying to keep me away?” Papis asked. His voice drew closer. “Even in your insults, you seem to protect.”

  Cheikh was silent for a moment. “I just don’t think he’s worth our time.”

  “He thinks he can refuse me. Aren’t you the one who said you would never again let someone get the best of you?”

  Mor strained to hear Cheikh’s response. “This is not the same. He’s done nothing to us.”

  “He has refused us. He thinks he is too good for the Danka Boys. This badola must learn. He cannot think he has gotten the better of me.”

  Mor slipped around the back of a barak as they approached, shielded by a line of drying boubous. He peeked between the stiff fabrics as Cheikh scanned the area. He and Papis continued down the path directly toward Mor’s hiding place.

  “We are not back at the daara, Papis. Let it go.” He stopped, yanking back his friend’s shoulder. “Not every turn needs your revenge.”