A little distance from the compound of the chief priest, Ebube stood alone in the night. A crescent moon hung in the sky, giving a faint light to the village. Crickets chirped and fireflies glowed, dancing, it seemed, to the rhythm of a flute in the distance.
Perhaps the flutist was a young man praising the love of his life, or maybe he was just playing to a moonlight tale. There was a gentle wind blowing, but the goose pimples that covered Ebube’s body were not a product of the breeze.
“So they have come!” Ebube slammed his right hand three times across his chest. Then he drew his machete from its sheath, his chest heaving.
***
