eyes were filled with tears. She should see them, they who had beaten her, lied to her, disparaged her faith and tried to throttle her.
She should.
But she could not think of a reason why.
ACT THREE
Feast among the Bones
Twenty-Six
WHISPERS IN DARK PLACES
The Aeons’ Gate
The Island of Teji
Fall, early … maybe?
Of my grandfather, I don’t remember much. Of my father, even less. He was a farmer, a quiet man, always tithed. Even as I’m able to remember more here on Teji, that’s roughly all I recall.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I do remember what he said to me, once.
‘There are two kinds of men in this world: those who live with war and those who can’t live without it. We can live without it. We can live a long time.’
I remember he died in fire.
I had always wanted to believe I could live without war. Even after I picked up my grandfather’s sword, I wanted to know of a time when I could put it down again. I had always wanted to say that this part of my life was something I did to survive and nothing more. I wanted to be able to tell my children that we could live without war.
I wanted children.
And for the past few days, I was certain I would have them and that I could tell them that.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe father was wrong.
I tried. I really did. Khetashe knows how I did, how I tried not to think about my missing sword or the tome or that life I left at the bottom of the ocean. I tried to do this ‘normal’ thing, to be the kind of man who isn’t obsessed with death – his or someone else’s.
It’s harder to do than I thought.
The bones are everywhere on Teji. I can’t take a step outside the village without stubbing my toe on someone’s bleached face. The reek of death is always present, and so the Owauku light fires to scare away the spirits. They survive off their roaches. The roaches thrive off the island’s tubers. The tubers are the only edible growing things here.
And here, amidst the bones and the death, I thought I would become normal. I thought this was where I could sit back and stare at the sunset and not worry over whether or not I was going to live tomorrow.
Days ago, I was ready to leave this life behind.
Maybe I was wrong.
Things are tense. It must be the water … the air … whichever one paranoia breeds in. Crooked stares meet me wherever I go. People go quiet when I pass. I hear them whisper as I leave.
The Owauku try to hide it, forcing big grins, friendly chatter before they slip away from my sight. The Gonwa aren’t nearly so interested in my comfort. They stare, without shame, until I leave. They speak in their own tongue, in low murmurs, even as I stare at them. And now, they’ve started following me.
Or one has, anyway. Hongwe, they call him, the spokesman for the Gonwa. I don’t know if he’s been doing it for a while and I just caught on or what. But when I walk through the forest, down the beach, he follows me. He only leaves if I try to talk to him. And even then, he does so without excuse or apology.
Granted, if he were going to kill me, he probably wouldn’t bother with either. But then, if he were going to kill me, he’s been taking his time.
Teji is one of the few places I’ve been able to sleep soundly, without worry for the fact that my organs are almost entirely on display for stabbing. And I happen to know from the many, many times Bagagame has told me Hongwe’s watched me sleep that the only thing standing between my kidneys and a knife is a thin strip of leather and a wall of reeds.
So far, he’s done nothing. And as strange as it sounds, I’m not really that worried about a walking lizard that brazenly stalks me and possibly watches me sleep. One wouldn’t think I’d have bigger concerns than that, but it would seem poor form to start questioning it now.
My companions …
I don’t think I’ve ever truly trusted them. Really, I’ve just been able to predict them up to this point. Their feelings are easy to see; their emotions are always apparent. And while I’m not a man who considers himself in touch with – or interested in – such things, I