One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

Fatima held tight to it. She looked determined to nurse her big brother herself. When Amina backed away, Fatima dipped the cloth in the water again and started to clean off the dirt and blood around Mor’s knuckles. Mor did not protest. Her touch had turned lighter. Then Jeeg came behind her, licking Mor’s wet fingers as if making sure Fatima had not missed a spot.

  “Jeeg,” Fatima said, but neither she nor Mor pushed Jeeg away.

  When Fatima had cleaned each cut, scrape, and scratch she could see, she wrung out the cloth and dropped it into the murky pink water, then moved to kneel at Mor’s feet.

  “Let’s go outside for a bit, Tima.” Amina stepped through the doorway, looking back inside. “Give Mor a minute to breathe.”

  “No.” Fatima snuggled close to her brother’s leg. “I want to stay with him. Everyone always makes me leave.”

  Mor raised his foot and wiggled it playfully near her ribs, tickling her. His face cinched up as he held back a moan. “Just for one minute,” he mumbled, holding up a dirty finger.

  Fatima giggled, pushing away her brother’s foot. She studied his face. Then she slowly got up and left his side, glancing back with each step. Jeeg’s tail twitched as she followed Fatima.

  “Git.” Amina shooed the nosy children away. “There is nothing more to see. Go home.”

  When Mor could no longer see or hear the children or his sisters, he let out a low, slow groan.

  “I never knew getting kicked could hurt so much. It never does in football.” He sounded as if his mouth were stuffed with rags.

  “Well, it’s nothing to get used to.” Cheikh leaned against the wall. His foot rested flat against it. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

  Wincing, Mor quickly retracted a smile that split his lower lip deeper. He grabbed the cloth Fatima had discarded and wiped at his mouth, patting a new stream of blood.

  “Clever trick.” Cheikh took out his pocketknife and the wood he had been whittling the last time Mor had seen him. Cheikh carved whenever he was nervous, bored, or passing time, or now any moment he wasn’t using his knife to threaten or chase people away.

  “What are you making?” The balled-up cloth was pressed against Mor’s jaw. He was anxious to take his mind off the pain.

  “It’s for Naza. She’s been selling them.” Cheikh ran his fingers across the smooth edge. He held it out to Mor.

  “I know.” He studied his friend. “So they know you’re here?”

  “They’re my sisters,” Cheikh said. “Like you, I want to make sure they are safe and have all they need. Besides, they seem to be better at keeping secrets than you or me. For the longest time Oumy just kept begging me to make more gaals, and buses, and motos. I didn’t understand until I saw all the rocks. They are a better kind of sneaky.”

  Mor turned the little boat over in his hand, admiring Cheikh’s skill. Mor couldn’t believe Cheikh had whittled down a branch to what Mor held. Long grooves in the wood resembled the individually bent planks that made up real boats.

  Mor handed it back to him, and Cheikh slipped it into his pocket.

  After a while Cheikh dropped his foot and pushed off the wall, about to leave. Mor shifted. Pain awakened his body.

  “You cannot hide from your yaay forever,” Mor said as Cheikh turned to go.

  “And you cannot play clever tricks every time. He’ll be back, you know,” he warned, as if he hadn’t heard a word Mor said.

  Mor stopped. He rubbed the cut on the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Not tonight.”

  Cheikh cast the cover aside and turned. “Maybe not . . .”

  Mor noticed part of Cheikh’s body lay in the glow of the light outside, while half of it lay in shadow. Mor wondered what side Cheikh would choose.

  Then, as if answering Mor’s question, Cheikh stepped into the light. Mor slipped off the pallet and followed him. He smiled, ignoring the biting sting at his lip.

  “What?” Cheikh asked.

  Mor shook his head, looking around the empty yard. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t want to knock away your smile, but he’ll come soon. I’m sure of it. And I may not be there to be a bump in the road to slow him. I’m sure he thinks I’ve betrayed him, and he will never forget what you did to him in front of so many.”

  “I hope he doesn’t.” Mor hawked up a gob of bloody saliva. It sat like a marble in the dirt outside the doorway.

  “You escaped once,” Cheikh said. “But I can’t promise you will again. You are a brave khale. I only hope your bravery and wit don’t tire. I know him.”

  “I hope I will have another trick by then. Incha’Allah.”

  “We both may need a trick or two.” Cheikh started walking toward the path.

  “Are you going to your mother’s? You can’t go back to Mahktar,” Mor said. Cheikh had put himself in danger for him. “You can stay here if you want. We can figure out something so your baay won’t send you back. I know we can.” Mor reached for Cheikh’s arm to slow him. “You cannot go back to Papis. He was not born with a heart.”

  Cheikh shook his head, stopping. “What he did was wrong. Many things he has done are wrong. And I would defend you again tomorrow if I had to make that choice, but I’ll also never forget whips have sliced him, scorching cigarettes have seared him, and those supposed to care for him have tossed him in the rubbish heap too many times. A heart was rarely shown to him. I won’t forgive him, but I won’t forget, either. He saved me when I was broken.”

  Mor stared. “Don’t go back. He’ll hurt you. They’ll hurt you.”

  “I won’t just slink away. We’ve been through too much for that. He hardens more each day, and I have hardened beside him. But don’t worry, I won’t do it anymore.”

  “Don’t go right away. Wait for him to calm.”

  “He’s a prideful lion, pacing a cage, he will never calm. His rage will only build toward me. I have to do it now. Besides, like you have seen, nothing is safe when your scent runs under his nose.”

  Then he grinned. A dimple appeared in his left cheek, but his smile was not enough to camouflage his worry. “I’ll be fine. Now worry about yourself, Mor Fall.” Cheikh said Mor’s full name, sounding like his mother. He moved away, then spun, traipsing backward. “Remember to twist like the head of an owl, so you can see behind you. You can never know where he will be.”

  Taking the toy gaal from his pocket again, he placed the blade of the knife against it, striking the wood.

  Mor watched him go, his rain-drenched clothes clinging to his tall, slender frame. “Go to your yaay,” Mor called again. Cheikh raised his hand in a dismissive wave as Amina and Fatima returned on a different path.

  “When did he come back?” Amina asked. “I’m sure you are so happy to see him.”

  Mor kept watching his friend walk away.

  “I am,” he finally said, and meant it.

  When they went back inside, the glimmer of his mother’s djiné sat at the corner of the pallet where she had been when she cradled Amina’s head in her lap each day while Amina was sick. She smiled at Mor, tilting her head slightly. He wanted to rush toward her, but before he could, Fatima, Amina, and Jeeg crushed against him. They pushed against his ribs and side, squishing him. At first he flinched as they pressed against his bruises, but he soon realized he felt no pain. As the setting sun’s amber light flooded through the window and doorway, he saw that holding on like this, they were one shadow on the wall, one family. And no matter what tomorrow would bring, they had survived another day together.

  WHEN Mor swallowed, it was as if a ball of hard-packed sand were trying to pass down his throat. All he could think of was water. He grimaced and rolled onto his side. His ribs felt crushed by an elephant’s foot. All too quickly he became aware of bones and muscles he had never known until then. His body screamed out for his attention, but the ache just under his lungs was the loudest. Then a soothing humming blocked out all other sound. It was a familiar song. His favorite. He tried to open his right eyelid, but it was
swollen shut, as if sewn together with Amina’s needle and thread. Squinting out of his left eye, he looked around the still-dark room. Jeeg was in her usual corner, and his sisters were snuggled close to each other on his mat. The night before, Amina had ordered him to take the raised cot for more comfort. And now he was relieved to be on the softer padding that cradled his body instead of the unyielding dirt.

  Next to them was the small metal bowl filled with water and a rag. Even in the dark Mor could tell the rag was soaked in his blood. The humming was still there, but it was not coming from his sisters. Turning his head, he focused on the shelf that held his parents’ photograph. His eyelids fluttered. He ran his hand over his eye, trying to wipe away the sleep. Humming was coming from somewhere. He held his breath and propped himself up on his elbows and stayed perfectly still and listened.

  It cannot be, he thought a moment later as his mother glittered into focus. Even though he saw her with his own eyes and heard her with his own ears, he couldn’t believe his ears weren’t playing a trick of their own. The familiar melody was coming from his yaay. He had never heard her spirit before. She was crouched down under the shelf, humming. The sound was what he imagined paradise to be. She smiled when she turned his way. She picked up the water pitcher and poured him a cup of water as if it were just another day. She stood and handed the cup to him. Before the water even touched his lips, he felt its coolness through the plastic mug. The water trickled over the cup’s edge as he tilted it back, swallowing every drop. It was the sweetest, coldest water he had ever tasted.

  When he lowered the mug, she held out the pitcher, offering him more. She had stopped humming.

  He tried to speak, but his yaay placed a finger over her lips to quiet him as she refilled his mug. Then she put her hand to her heart and began to hum again. He relaxed. After he finished the water, he settled back onto the pallet and listened. His whole body loosened, as if freed from a belt that was cinched too tight. He tried to keep his eye open, but it grew heavy and he fell back asleep.

  “Can I have his thièrè now?” Fatima asked. “He hasn’t moved and it is almost noon. The cow’s milk in it will stink, sitting in the heat.”

  “It will be fine,” Amina whispered. “Now leave him alone. He needs his rest.”

  “But he won’t eat it. He didn’t eat last night, either.”

  Mor could feel Fatima standing over him. Her body blocked out the light that had been hitting his face all morning.

  “You can have it,” he said. His voice was heavy with sleep. He didn’t want to open his one good eye, because he knew his yaay would be gone. Instead he wanted to lie balled up with the memory of her fresh in his mind, easing the sting of his aches.

  “You need it,” Amina said. “Your stomach cannot stay empty. The millet and cow’s milk will give you strength.”

  “I can’t.” Mor wrapped his arms around himself and carefully curled his legs a little. His eyes were still closed. “I would probably throw it up.”

  “You have to eat,” insisted Amina.

  “Later,” he said, and slipped back into a welcome sleep.

  Demba’s imposing figure hovered over Mor, much like he’d hovered over Amina.

  “Demba?” Mor whispered, about to rise on his elbows, but Demba pressed his shoulder down.

  The air smelled of steam and a piney licorice. Clumps of boiled-down grasses, leaves, and what looked like berry skins covered Mor’s chest. The mixture was hot against his skin as Demba applied it to his cuts and gashes, but it soon cooled.

  “Stop moving so much,” Amina snapped. “You keep knocking everything off.”

  As Mor relaxed back into the pallet, Demba smeared a dusty-smelling orangey paste over his swollen eye.

  “How long has he been here?”

  “A few hours,” Amina said, softening. “He hasn’t left your side except to play rock dolls with Tima as he brewed leaves on the fire. He can make really funny voices for the rocks.” She gave a light laugh.

  Mor was about to say thank you to Demba, when Demba’s large, callused hand lifted his head, pressing a cup of warm broth against Mor’s lips. Although it was nothing like the water his yaay had given him, he drank it down, eased by the warm liquid running through him. When Demba placed his head back on the pallet, Mor wasn’t certain if he’d whispered “jërëjëf ” out loud or in his dreams.

  A little later, as Mor rose, still a bit achy, he realized the sun was already sliding out of the sky to make room for the moon. His sisters were gone and so was Demba. But he heard hushed voices outside the doorway.

  “You’d rather run with demons than come home for shelter? I still do not understand that.” It was Amina’s voice Mor heard.

  “Well, I’m not running with them now,” Cheikh said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Well, you should have been here all along. If Naza hadn’t been keeping secrets, I would have told her that.” Amina actually sounded a little hurt that her best friend had kept something from her.

  “Don’t blame her. She was doing it for me.” Cheikh paused. “Wouldn’t you have done the same for Mor?”

  “Yes,” Amina agreed. “But—”

  “There are no buts.”

  Mor could hear a smile behind Cheikh’s words.

  “Do you think they will send you back?”

  Cheikh went quiet.

  “I mean, your yaay can’t let him.”

  “She will try her best, Incha’Allah,” Cheikh said. “That is all she can do.”

  “Was it really that bad?”

  “It was,” he said flatly.

  “Do you think the one my bàjjan wanted to send Mor to is the same?”

  “We can only hope it isn’t. They are not all bad.”

  Cheikh turned toward the door as Mor reached it.

  “Ah, so he rises,” Cheikh said, getting off the little stump he was on to greet Mor. Amina rose as well.

  Mor tried not to show how much pain he was in when he absently bent to drag over another smoothed stump. He clutched his side. It was still very tender.

  “Where’s Tima and Jeeg?” Mor was nearly hoarse. He glanced up and down the street before taking another step. There was no sign of Demba, either.

  “Malikoum Salam to you, too,” Cheikh said. “They are with Oumy.”

  Mor was about to apologize for not saying hello, but stopped. He was not the only one with a split lip. The skin around one corner of Cheikh’s mouth bulged, and a long gash ran over his mouth. A purplish-black bruise visible against Cheikh’s dark skin haloed it. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing.” Cheikh shrugged the question off.

  Amina sucked her teeth but didn’t share her thoughts for once. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” she asked instead.

  Mor shook his head, then regretted it. He leaned against the outside wall. “No food, but maybe water.” He glanced inside the window to where their mother had sat through the night with him, humming. The corners of his mouth turned up despite the sting. Amina handed him a mug of water. He sipped the lukewarm water, heated by the daylong sun. It was nothing like the cool, honeyed water his mother’s djiné had given him.

  “Here,” Cheikh said, thrusting a turquoise pouch with globes of red and strings of gold crossing it. “Sorry it has taken so long for me to get it back to you.”

  “Yaay’s pouch.” Amina reached for it before Mor had a chance to react. “You had it?” She stared between her brother and Cheikh.

  Mor noticed coins didn’t clank inside it as Amina fiddled with it in her hand.

  “Diallo and Laye got to it before I saw it.” Cheikh looked at Mor. “They took whatever khaliss you had, but dumped everything else in the sand.”

  Amina open the nafa. An old seashell, a baby tooth, a curl of hair, and a button fell into her hand. They had it all back.

  Amina walked inside, staring down at the treasures, forgetting both Mor and Cheikh were there.

  Mor turned to Cheikh, unsure of what to say.

&
nbsp; “Remember when we crept under the pallet when our yaays were chattering—” Cheikh started.

  “And took out the coins and filled the nafa with stones,” Mor finished for him. “My yaay was ready to skin a lion when she got to the market and only had pebbles to pay the fish man with.” Mor let out a small laugh. “She tried to take a switch to me for that.”

  “Mine did,” Cheikh laughed. He winced as if he remembered the punishment, but it was probably just because of his split lip.

  When they both looked up, Tanta Coumba was standing before them. She smiled. “Oh, how it does my heart good to see you two laughing as you always should.” Then her eyes narrowed and she looked at Mor. “But I am not finished with you. Only these bruises keep me from taking a switch to you. How could you keep such a truth from me? How could you let my boy have even one more day of hurt? I thought you were better, Mor Fall.”

  Mor couldn’t look at her. She was right. There were not enough ways for him to say that he was sorry so that she might believe it. Whatever she wanted to do to him, he would deserve.

  “Stop,” Cheikh said to Tanta Coumba, standing up and holding her shoulders. He towered over her. “I told you, it wasn’t his fault, or Naza’s or Oumy’s. If you want to be mad, be mad at me. Mor was being the friend that you have always believed him to be. Every time he saw me, he begged me to come home.”

  Mor felt her glance his way, but he didn’t look up.

  “Hmph,” she sighed. “I will speak no more of it now. You are both my children, and I love that you are here with me and safe.” She rose on her toes and kissed Cheikh on the cheek, closing her eyes and hugging him as she did so.

  Then she pressed her lips to Mor’s forehead and stepped inside the barak, greeting Amina, who still stared at the little treasures from their mother’s nafa. Mor knew tears streamed from her eyes as she sniffled. Tanta Coumba did not bother her; she simply tied the door tarp in a knot to let the breeze in and pulled Mor’s sheet off the bed.

  She balled it up and tucked it under her arm. Then she spread a freshly washed one in its place. When she stepped back outside, she tilted Mor’s head toward the sky to examine his swollen eye.