The days merged into one other and Jackie found herself falling into life at the village seamlessly, which was not without a great deal of surprise on her part. What was supposed to have been a week long trip, extended into another and soon, Jackie somehow found that she couldn't fix a concrete end to her time in Africa. There was a lightness to her step and the cloud that had been hovering above her before she left Wisconsin had dissipated a little.
The children loved her for her child-like enthusiasm, and the adults welcomed her for the easiness of her smile (which had been somewhat absent since Sam had darkened the Formans' doorstep), and it was a regular sight as she did what she could to ease their way.
Admittedly, it wasn't much, for Jackie was never one for manual labor and most of the chores and rigors of daily life in the village was some sort of physical undertaking, (and come on, yes she had changed but she hadn't changed all that much) but she was a source of bubbly energy and endless optimism to the people.
She had a knack for finding little bits of nature: long reeds, flowers, pieces of bark or stones and pebbles of fascinating shapes and colors, little items that on the surface held no real value, but she somehow fashioned them into accessories; items such as headbands, which she braided the reeds into, or a brooch she made out of a safety pin and the flowers she pressed and dried. She managed to charm the tool-maker in the village, a crotchety old man, into hollowing out the centers of the prettiest of the stones that she found on one of her 'scavenging' trips with the older girls in the village, and had it strung into bracelets for them.
She soon had an adoring fan club which did much to boost her battered ego, and with a toss of her hair, she decided that this was what the Big Sister Program in Point Place should have been like, and that she much preferred the Jackie-loving African village girls to snarky-mouthed Donna-loving ones named Colette.
It had become a ritual with Eric and Jackie to take long walks in the late afternoons, when the sun was low and the air was cool. They would head back just as dusk began to fall and arrive at the village as night descended to be greeted by roaring campfires and the scent of roasting meat or fried yams. Meals in the village were largely communal, though it wasn't a rare sight to find smaller groups of people having cozy meals either inside or outside their homes. The villagers loved song and dance, and many a night Jackie and Eric would find themselves sitting by the main campfire and enjoying the laughing and singing and music and the simplicity of life that the people embodied.
The dream started a little differently this time.
He was already awake and in the center of a raucous mob of people armed with blazing torches who were gathered around the banks of a wide and fast-flowing river. The steady tattoo of drums pounded in time with a monotonous chanting that rose from the crowd.
"i'bakish!" Please! He heard a woman wail helplessly. "Kumi! Kumi!" Stop! Stop!
He had a partial view of the wailing woman and saw that she was being held back in the circle of her husband's arms. She looked very weak and he could see the gleam of tears running down her cheeks in the glow of the firelight. She was on her knees, struggling feebly against her husband and cried out hoarsely at a figure by the river till she nearly fainted.
The village shaman stood on a short wooden jetty that extended some ways into the rushing waters of the river. Imposing and forbidding, he was dressed in full ceremonial attire. An elaborate headdress with a long pair of curved horns sat sinisterly on his head, and his face was unrecognizable underneath a complex detail of white paint. A heavy cloak of buffalo hide adorned his shoulders and a loin cloth made out of colorful feathers sat on his hips. He was bare-chested and bare-legged, and what part of his body that was not covered by the loin cloth and the cloak was painted in a swirling mass of intricate patterns. The paint was stark white against his ebony skin and his eyes were hidden under many layers of kohl.
In his arms was a small bundle, and he held it straight out above the murky black rapids below. Despite himself, Eric felt a chill of foreboding.
He stared at the woman. Why did she look so familiar?
The chanting of the crowd grew louder and louder and the ball of dread in his stomach started to grow. Baako's hand tightened around his forearm and when Eric glanced at him, he saw that Baako had his head down, a rosary clutched tightly in his fist and his lips were moving fervently in prayer.
Everything seemed to be moving sluggishly for Eric. Sounds were muted and he felt the dull thrum of the chanting crowd and the steady beat of the drums reverberate through his body. He looked slowly at the nearly unconscious woman back to the bundle in the shaman's hands.
All of sudden, with a great whoosh, everything snapped into focus for him. Eric turned to Baako in horror and a rushing started to sound in his ears. No no no…
He broke free from Baako's iron grip on his arm and started running to the river edge where the village shaman was.
The tiny bundle in the man's hands moved and let out a keening wail: the cry of a newborn for its mother.
No no no!
Shouts and shrieks rose in the stuffy night air and he heard a loud splash as something was being thrown into the river.
Without a second thought, Eric leapt and dove into the thick and roiling depths of the rushing waters of the river.
With a violent jerk, he pulled himself awake. Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, he could still hear the thumping of the drums, the chants of the people. The sound of a mother's grieving wails that cut through him, searing itself into his soul.
He covered his eyes with his hand, striving for control, and forced the memories out of his head. He glanced over at Jackie, and was relieved to find her sound asleep. He desperately needed a smoke, but he had kicked the habit when she had arrived, unwilling to let her see the depths to which he had sunk, and finding her very presence to be a more effective balm in soothing his torment.
Like sunshine to the perpetual darkness of his existence.
She made him forget the bad, the cruel, the evil in existence and shone her ever-present light on the good, the giving and the kindness that co-existed along with it.
He got up and quietly moved over to her bedside, and just sat there and watched her sleep. Long lashes formed dusky shadows on her creamy cheeks and she looked angelic in sleep. As always, a form of peace stole over him and he wanted so much to be deserving of her. He reached out a hand to stroke her hair and run a finger down the softness of her cheek. Her lips parted as she blew out a breath and the urge to just lean down and kiss her was great… To inhale the essence of her.
He leaned a little closer and she stirred. Then she mumbled a name that killed something in him.
"Steven…"
Eric drew back harshly and steeled himself against the lash of pain in the region of his heart. He inhaled shakily and got to his feet. His running shoes were right by the door. He grabbed them and bolted out the door.
And ran as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.
An ominous silence had greeted Eric as he entered the water, drowning out the repetitive beat of the drums. It was pitch black and icy cold. Freezing water had shot up his nostrils and he had fought against the current, diving deeper and grasping around blindly, hoping against hope that the infant had sunk to the riverbed instead of being swept away by the swift-flowing waters.
One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand…
How long had the baby been down there? He pushed himself further down and stretched his arms out wide, sweeping them along the sandy channel. He felt rocks and silt and underwater plants, but no cloth, no baby.
Six five thousand… Seven five thousand…
No baby. Panic kicked in. His lungs were burning, he had to go up for air soon. Please please please…
A minute and forty seconds passed. Eric broke through the surface of the water gasping for air. Several pairs of hands grabbed him violently out of the water and dragged him brutally across the craggy bank. They threw him roughly on the rocky ground of the riverside and his skin sliced open. He turned to his side coughing up silty water and sucking in huge breaths of air.
A hard blow to the side of his head left him seeing stars. Blood trickled down his temple as he looked up into the sepulchral eyes of the shaman.
"Murderer," Eric spat out.
The man's eyes glittered and his nostrils flared. "You white man," he hissed. "You know nuh-thing." He spat on the ground next to Eric, and looked to the men that dragged Eric out of the river, barking out orders to them in Amharic. He slipped one of them something and Eric saw the glint of metal flash as the man tucked a large knife into his pants.
The shaman turned and strode away, his heinous cloak floating out around him.
The sound of the drums started again and the dull chanting of the crowd filled the night air.
Hands grabbed at him as Eric struggled to stand. He saw Baako being similarly held back by two men a distance away. He looked frenzied and was gesturing frantically for Eric to stand down.
Another keening wail split the monotonous chant of the mob. It was answered by the high-pitched nasal cries of another baby.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Eric vaulted forward and the men lost their hold on him. He tore through a wall of people and was brought bodily to the ground as one of the men slammed into him from behind, knocking the wind out of him. He tried to get up, but was wrested into a strong hold and hauled forcefully to his knees. He struggled wildly, chest heaving with exertion.
"No," panted the man to his right, who was straining against the effort of holding him back.
Eric recognized him. He was about Eric's age, young and hefty, an eager student who was a hard worker in the fields. Eric had worked alongside him on more than one occasion and genuinely liked him.
"Kwame, you cannot do this. Let me go. Please. I have to stop him," Eric pleaded, his eyes frantically scanning the scene in front of him.
He now knew why he found the previous woman familiar, for she had been one of the two pregnant women who went into labor earlier that night. His gaze stopped short on another figure next to the wooden jetty where the shaman was. This new woman was holding on to a man's arm, shrieking crazily. Her gown was stained dark with something wet, and it stuck to her legs as she hobbled forward.
Blood.
A churning started in his stomach as he realized that she was still bleeding from the afterbirth. A soft whimpering sounded from the swaddle of cloths that the man, her husband, was handing to the shaman. Tears streamed from his eyes, but he was stoic and expressionless as he gave over his newborn to the shaman.
Another pair of hands clamped down on Eric's shoulder, forcing him in place. Blood from the wound at his temple flowed into his eyes. Eric growled and wrenched his shoulder out of the man's grip.
"Eric! Please! You mustn't interfere!" he heard Baako shout out.
Eric turned his head and snarled at him.
The shaman started walking slowly towards the end of the jetty. Firelight danced across his face and body, bringing the sinister paintings on his body to life.
Eric had never felt so much hatred for one man before in his life. The woman was now lying across the wooden planks, surrounded by her husband and her family, sobbing hysterically.
The sound of the drums rose to a crescendo, as did the rhythmic chanting of the villagers.
Eric fought like a man possessed. He struggled wildly and desperately kicked out against the three men who held him.
The shaman reached the end of the jetty and held the newborn above the waters. The infant started to cry piteously.
With a feral roar and a savage jerk that almost tore off his own arm, Eric finally wrestled free of the trio. He made for the river in a mad dash, and managed to make it further this time before two of them tackled him to the ground.
He landed heavily, and felt a rib crack, but lashed at them viciously before one of them got him in a chokehold. When he was pulled upright, the third man joined them, and he saw the flash of a blade.
The serrated edge of a hunting knife pressed into the skin under his jaw, forcing his head up.
"No. Do not make it more dee-fficult for everyone," said Kwame. Eric looked at him wild-eyed, and through the haze of desperation and rage and the feeling of utter powerlessness, registered that Kwame's eyes were bright with tears and pain.
"No," he whispered in anguish, "you cannot. Please. Please…"
A loud scream rent the air, followed by the sickening finality of a splash.
Something inside Eric broke and he howled maniacally. He surged forward, and Kwame reacted, the knife slashing deep. Blood poured from the jagged wound, but Eric was past caring and barely felt anything. He strained against the men and battled rabidly to free himself to save the infant. He got one arm loose and rammed an elbow in the face of the man to his left. Blood spurted from his nose, and the man yowled in pain, his hands flying to his face.
Eric pulled his head away and swung at Kwame with his free arm. The blow connected. Kwame fell backwards and the knife was knocked free.
His left arm and leg still held imprisoned, Eric twisted his body and stretched desperately for the knife, moving on pure adrenaline alone. Kwame got up from the ground and reached for it at the same time.
Before either of them could get it, the man with the broken nose clobbered Eric on the head with the base of the ceremonial torch that one of the villagers was carrying. Eric fell to the ground, nearly blinded by the blow to his head.
Something thick and viscous matted his hair to his scalp. Spots of white danced in his vision and he dry heaved on the ground. Blood flowed freely down his neck and seeped into the neckline of his shirt. Eric staggered to his knees and tried to push himself up again. He saw dazedly that Kwame had gotten ahold of the knife.
"Murderers," he grated out.
Kwame walked over to him. He knelt down and spoke in heavily accented English. "You know nuh-thing. Nuh-thing of our practices. We live and die by our beliefs. The land rules us all. These Mingi are a curse. They will cause the suffering of the entire village. You sacrifice two to save the rest. You do not understand. This is not how you help, white man. We thank you for your gift of your white man's language. But do not interfere with what is sacred to us."
"Please…" Eric rasped out again. "I'm begging you… Let me save —."
Kwame shook his head with finality. There was sorrow in his eyes as he brought his hand up and rammed the hilt of the knife across Eric's head. Eric's vision swam and caved. He saw blackness. And knew no more.