Chapter Two

By the next New Moon, Eyanka had learned the choreography of fear. Doors closed before sunset. Mothers called children home by name. Men sharpened machetes they privately knew could not cut a spirit. The square filled for the festival because absence looked like cowardice, not because anyone wished to celebrate.

After the Fisherman’s death, the Mad Man was summoned to the King’s court to tell the royal circle what he knew.

“Your Highness and the court, I can tell you nothing but what I saw and heard on that fateful night.” He sipped out of the drinking horn.

He had not been granted a listening ear in so long and in many ways he had become used to being ignored. The sudden appearance of an audience for his gospel made him feel somewhat uneasy, especially considering that he had no idea what exactly they were asking of him.

“I saw the body of a woman approach the village square in the rain. Her flesh appeared burnt, her eyes empty. She carried the Little Girl’s body and walked away. But not before she spoke to me. She said that we would know thirteen rains of peace for every rain the girl had lived, and after that, we would know the true meaning of fear and vengeance until the balance of justice was restored in the land.”

The royal court was a group of old men believed to be ripe with wisdom, but on this occasion, they sat as clueless as newborns, eyes darting frantically with no aim to rest.

“Did she mention how this justice is to be restored? What does she want? Gold? Cowries? A life in return? Has she not already taken one?” one of the elders asked.

“I am afraid this is all I can tell you.” He pressed his knuckles to his temple. The rest of the storm returned only as broken words, and whenever he reached for them, drink washed them farther away. He swallowed more wine.

“Enough ghost stories,” the Executioner said. “Steel has settled every enemy Eyanka has ever had.”

Murmurs of agreement wrapped in fear covered the court. The suggestion was in line with the Eyanka way of doing things. When one couldn’t think or didn’t want to, there was always the option of reaching for the blade.

“Steel created this enemy,” the Mad Man replied. “You want to cure a cut with the blade that made it.”

“So what are you suggesting? That we sit with our hands crossed and prepare some words of appeasement for this vile beast?” The Executioner shot back.

The Mad Man wanted to say: surrender the crown, confess the lie, speak the girl’s name if anybody remembers it. But the Executioner’s hand rested on his machete. Courage visited the Mad Man often; it rarely stayed long enough to be useful.

The drums played louder than the previous year and persuaded nobody. Even the dancers kept watching the roads. Soldiers ringed the square with torches, their formation designed less to stop a spirit than to make fear look organised.

“I know some of you are afraid,” the King started with a speech, “but let us not forget who we are. We are the proud people of Eyanka and we will not cower for man or spirit.”

“Ehen!” a planted man shouted from the crowd.

The King carried on with words; promises and assurances punctuated by the occasional planned holler of agreement. Before his speech, the masquerade had been ushered in and as usual the High Priest gave his readings of good rain and approaching doom. Only this time it didn’t require much of an imagination to picture what this doom meant to the village.

As soon as the King departed, villagers scattered towards home as though a reaping had begun. In small clusters, they whispered about the crown’s part in the Little Girl’s execution, then fell quiet whenever another person approached. They mistook silence for safety. The dead girl had already learned to hear it as consent.

At last, the village fell silent, but darkness did not follow. Homes kept their night fires burning for fear of what shadows might grow without them. The Executioner joined his men on watch. He insisted that some vile animal had killed the Fisherman; a child-spirit was merely a Mad Man’s tale made credible by coincidence. The village’s surrender to superstition enraged him.

As the night passed, all eyes remained fixated on the moon, eagerly anticipating its disappearance with the light of day. The soldiers listened to the hooting of owls and the croaks of frogs hoping to hear something out of the ordinary. It came in the form of rain and somehow they knew this was far from a blessing from the goddess of the skies. It was frightening enough watching for a spirit walker with only a full moon for a lamp. The arrival of rain no matter how light did not help.

Unknown to them, she was there the whole time; like a shadow in the darkness, waiting for the last of lights to flicker into nothingness as it rained on street fire torches. That moment came when the Executioner excused himself from his station to ease his bladder. He had considered easing himself right there, in the middle of the street, but he thought it might suggest he was afraid to go alone. The rain had come to a stop. He excused himself to the back of a nearby hut where he was away from sight but still within earshot. After a look over his shoulder, he relieved himself as fast as he could squeeze.

At first, he did not understand. Fog descended and swallowed the path. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, but the whiteness only thickened. Cold raised gooseflesh along his arms.

“Ey, Eyy! Can you see this?” he called out to the other watchers.

There was no reply. Instinctively, he retied his wrapper and then reached for his machete immediately.

There was no one to swing at. His eyes darted in every direction. He saw nothing. This had to be all in his mind. He willed his spirit to break the spell but somehow he knew he was only grasping at straws. The Executioner fought hard against it, but a lot of him knew he was very afraid. He should have stayed with the others at the station. It was too late for regrets now.

A headless little girl emerged from the fog. Her steps were slow and purposeful. He tightened his grip on the machete and fought the instinct to run. She kept coming. At arm’s reach, he swung. The blade passed through her as though her body were made from the mist itself. He swung again, then again. By the time he understood that escape was his only weapon, the fog had already closed behind him.

In the mist, more figures of headless little girls appeared accompanied by a wailing sound that felt like it blared from inside his head.

He dropped the machete and covered his ears, but the sound had already become pain. It drove him to his knees. He screamed, yet the fog swallowed every cry. Warm liquid gathered in his palms.

“No, no…No!”

He examined his palms to realize they were covered in blood. That was when he felt the coldness on his shoulder. To her touch, his body responded with complete paralysis giving in to her every control. He struggled with every fibre in his being but at most he could only afford to clench his muscles and grit his teeth. A wetness at the back of his ears followed and somehow he knew he did not want to turn to meet his fate.

“Shouldn’t he be back by now?” one of the watchers asked.

The man the Executioner had left in charge ordered two other men to go and check up on him. When they arrived, for a second, they stood in a trance—taking in the horror that unfolded right before their eyes. The Little Girl turned to face them, like an animal briefly distracted from its feeding. From the stare of snake-like eyes on her materialized phantom head, they could still feel the stare from her severed body. Between a set of scattered canines protruding from tightly clenched jaws, chunks of the Executioner’s flesh dripping red with blood hung down to her chest. Completely uninterested by their interruption, she turned back to the business of chewing, gripping hard on his hair to hold him steadier.

His body convulsed with every bite. The guards knew there was no saving him. They sounded the battle horn and advanced, praying help would arrive sooner rather than later. At striking distance, they rained their blades upon her. She did not so much as flinch. No one dared seize her. Reinforcements arrived and joined the useless assault while she continued working through the Executioner’s neck.

When she was done chewing, she ripped the head off the skeletal socket with beastly strength and held it by the hair. The attackers retreated in fear, watching her closely. She turned to them, then stood motionless with the Executioner’s head in her hand like a trophy she had won.

“What do you want?” one of the men managed to ask after fighting a stutter to get the words out.

Without as much as a word, she turned around and began to walk away. Right before their eyes she walked into the mud wall of the hut the Executioner had been urinating on. It was the last they saw of her; at least for the night they lost the Executioner.