THE GHOST IN AFRICA

“Darkness hides from the light. As raving mortals, we never wonder why then we die too, sane lunatics.”       “In ancient times, long before our oathefathersre was born, a story is told of a woman who had fallen in love with a comely man. So taken was she by his charm that she desired nothing else, save his affection.” The frail gray-bearded man coughed and shut his eyes. Obviously, the cough hurt his throat more than he had expected, but no one would offer him any water. Clutching his stick ever so tightly, he continued his story. “She loved him dearly, and so she had confessed her love for him as alluringly as she could, tenderly coercing him with her sonorous voice and even softer appearance.” He coughed again, this time rattling the chains that loosely clung to his frail wrists. His hands groped in the near darkness as though asking for something, water, but then no one could give him any. “Old one”, one of the young men that eagerly waited for his story offered, “You do realize we are in a prison, and those guards outside would not offer us any water.” The others nodded, each one appearing even dirtier and more unkempt than the other. After waiting a while, the ‘old one’ finally regained his breath and sought to continue his tale. “Where was I?” he asked. “She told him how much she loved him”, the one that had reminded the old one of their current prison predicament was offered once again. “Aha,” the old replied, punching the air with a balled fist as much as the chains would let him. “But alas, this tale is not to be a beautiful love story, Jakob” The countenance of the one now referred to as Jakob dropped ever so suddenly, but the old one would not end his story just yet. “Her would-be lover would not be swayed as her heart willed. How could he love her? She had two sons already. His heart was his, and her sons, hers - and he had told her just that.” He paused and cleared his throat once more. A quiet hush fell over all seven men in the prison. “She had wept streams, refusing to be consoled as she implored him even further, but even all the rivers of Africa could quench his fiery resolve.” The old one suddenly stopped talking, and as so many old ones before him had done in these parts of Africa before him, he pretended to be asleep. “Old one”, the one called Jakob, tapped at the old one’s hand, hoping to rouse him from the strange slumber that had consumed him. “Are you awake, old one?” “Oh I am, Jakob”, the old one who offered a waning smile. “Where was I again?” The other prisoners appeared somewhat disinterested in the tale that was coming forth in scattered bits and pieces. They would rather hear the entire tale without further breaks from the old one. Jakob did not mind. With eager eyes, he reminded the Old one where he had last ended his tale.e “Some say she had seen him share laughs and then maybe a little more with another lady that same night” the Old one continued, “but don’t ask me, I do not know - but whatever it was that happened, this heartbroken lovebird had raced home and in a bid to win his affection, or was it resentment toward her now estranged lover, got rid of those who seemed to stand in the way of her happiness. She drowned both her sons.” The gasp among the prisoners echoed into the stone walls of their prison cell. “As most tales of his sort go,” the old one continued, “she never did find the happiness she sought. She was scorned by Wiccan and non-Wiccan folk alike, cursed to forever roam the earth, seeking her murdered children.” “But where is she, Old One?” Jakob asked. “She roams amongst us, even now she listens to this very tale.” Looking around, he signaled for Jakob to come closer, and in a rather loud whisper, told him, “Whoever traps the woman, controls the nine.”   13th, June 1880   In a thick, fecund forest somewhere on the western coast of Africa, Jakob and his eight companions trudged on quietly in a single file, through the dense undergrowth, in the stillness of the darkness that threatened to blind them. They neither heard the occasional calls of yawning bird-folk nor the unmistakable warnings from prowling animals. Even the eternal chatter of forest insects presided over by the nocturnal orator, the cricket was nonexistent on this very night. An eerie calm had spread and the forest slept. Jakob was not surprised; the old one had warned him already. He remembered the very night when the Old One had told them the story of the strange woman. That same night had been the night of his awakening. He had somehow discovered his purpose in the words of the old one. That very night, he had become illuminated. The Old one was no longer to be addressed by that title. He was now Master. Everyone among them had gone on their knees and had sworn their allegiance to a cause greater than their previous life of crime. This was a calling higher than any of them could have ever imagined. They would band together in this newfound flurry of faith and overpower the guards that had for long kept them locked up this far into the North. Thus began their journey to the Western coast of the country. Jakob and his eight companions trudged on wordlessly through the dense dew-kissed undergrowth, all bare-bodied with their heads shaved, their only ‘clothing’ being animal skin skirts wrapped around their waists. On their bodies were diverse markings of varying patterns, each symbolizing their ‘identity’, as their Master had told them. The patterns were neither drawn nor were they painted onto the skin of their skin. The master had carved it in himself, deep into their skins, even to the top of their shaved heads on the very day of their initiation. He had doused the wounds with sacred ash from the bronze altar at the temple until they had finally healed. As he walked on behind the Master, mute as he had been commanded, he held his head high, watching the master’s every step and strenuously matching his long strides. An unseen owl, the royal nightguard of the African fauna, hooted its greetings not too far off and they all nodded in solemn response. She was an ancient too wizened to be ignored. He held the trap in his hand gingerly, careful not to dislodge any of its coils. This ‘trap’ was a contraption made of blackthornstave and pure copper wire, which no electricity had passed through before. The thorn stave, sleep thorn as Master liked to call it, was carved from balsa wood with the tip pointing about a foot downwards like a half ‘v’, the end curving outwards like a sickle-like a hook. There were three horizontal extensions in the center. Then the copper wire was wound about it, while they had all chanted in unison. Someone stifled a sneeze. “Silence” Master might have said, but he didn’t. Repeating warnings spelt cowardice, or love, or compassion, and none of these foul distractions were welcome amongst them. The culprit already knew what fate awaited him, he had dropped to his knees among the forest debris, obviously contemplating the means to his end. The master stared at the culprit, his eyes unblinking. The latter returned the stare, captured as though unwilling to break his gaze. In truth, Jakob saw the futility of even trying. Master’s eye had turned yellow - the evil eye. In split seconds, the culprit was writhing on the floor, clutching his throat, choking on his own spittle. They all watched on as expressionless as they could be, mustering courage not to look away and incur the master’s wrath on them too. For Jakob, however, it wasn’t an act. He didn’t bother to hide his smile at the beautiful spectacle. To him, this only meant one thing; power. They soon continued their journey once the sneezer was done, transitioning to death. They would not come back for his body after their hunt - there wouldn’t be any. They hadn’t gone any further when Master stopped. The air about them suddenly grew chilly and the smell of tobacco filled their nostrils. The woman was there. Master retrieved the trap from Jakob and wordlessly stuck it in the debris below. A foot away from the trap, he placed a candle. This would lure the ghoul he had told them about earlier. Jakob’s hair tinged with excitement as he smiled at himself. This was not his first hunt, no, but it was the first time he, orangy one of them, was hunting an entity as powerful as this.