Evil

“You see, Ife mi? The tea. I tell you child, the tea,” Auntie said with a finger pressed to her chin.

“Aye, Auntie. 'Tis so.” Ife grinned, watching Tunde trace lines in the dirt.

She bent and brushed her cheek against his.

“Bowl!” Tunde pointed to an uneven circle, then drew a second figure with his twig. “Mama.”

Tunde traced a long, flowing line from the head of his drawing, his fingers lingering on the dirt where he etched the shape of her heavy braids. Ife watched him carve crooked circles and dirt squiggles, right up to the crescent moon he captured perfectly.

“Moon,” he whispered before rubbing his eyes.

Ife sat in the candlelight, paring her nails with the machete and filing them with the whetstone. Tunde and Auntie ripped long, heavy snores.

“Ife, come,” Whistler called.

Ife stepped outside. Eban and Philip stood with the Englishman. Moonlight caught the polish on Whistler’s boots, his smallsword pressed against his hip. Eban and Philip braced muskets across their shoulders. Ife drew a shallow, rigid breath as the palm leaves shivered in the dark.

“We’re here for the boy,” Whistler said, balling his fists to his hips.

Ife brushed her braids over her shoulders, gripping the locks to hide her twitching fingers. Her eyes darted to the treeline, waiting for the coquí whistle to slice the cricket chirp before she swallowed her next breath.

“Go!” Eban snapped. “Bring us the boy now.”

She tasted dust in her mouth. Her body pounded from her temples to the balls of her feet. She filled her belly with air, turned, and hauled up Tunde. He slumped against her shoulder, asleep. His skin clung to hers.

From her dark pallet, Auntie gazed into the candlelight. Ife squeezed Tunde tight, locking eyes with the old woman.

“You leave me no choice but to enter!” Whistler yelled from outside, making her flinch.

The Narrows stirred. Tent flaps slapped against thatch and footsteps padded through the dust.

Through the flickering glow, Auntie's voice echoed hollow words. “That is the way, Ife mi.”

Ife bolted from the hut and dashed beyond the scarred boulder, leaving the Narrows far behind.

She tore through rows of towering cane, bracing her sleeping boy in her arms. The cane, thick as the darkness above, swayed behind her tailwind with dirt flinging from her bare feet.

Whistler's voice roared for her to halt, but his voice drowned in the rustling thicket. As his shouts thinned, the sugar canopy swallowed her in absolute darkness.

Tunde snuffled against her neck, still asleep. Ife slowed, turning at the edge of a small clearing. Shadowy figures carried fire in the distance. She ran deeper into the bush, dodging timbers and limbs, awakening the night birds with her heavy stride.

The brush gave way to a rocky foothill. Ife skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, and scanned the slope. The mountain rose into the black sky. Tunde began to weep against her chest. The sugar mill lights flickered down the ridge and in the other direction, the salt-heavy air wafted from the open sea.

“Tunde mi,” Ife whispered.

Tunde’s head whipped toward snapping branches and scraping leaves. Ife pressed a finger to his lips.

“Down here.” Ife stooped, scuffing the soil with her belly crawl as she slipped Tunde under the rocky overhang then squeezed in after him. The tiny cave, cool and dry, had shrunk since the night of the storm. Pressing her back against the stone, holding her breath, she waited.

The whites of her boy’s eyes flared up at her. Outside in the night, the monster crept. Its three eyes of fire burning inched closer. Closer.

The flames emerged from the forest edge. Caged embers carried by the Whistlers and Eban pulsed under the faint moonlight.

The three men faced the ground, their lanterns casting distorted shadows. Slowly, their chins lifted, following a trail of freshly churned dirt that led directly to the cave.

Ife clamped a hand over Tunde’s mouth. The men hissed to each other. Eban and Philip aimed their lanterns, their muskets heavy across their backs. Richard Whistler set down his lamp and drew his blade. The metal scraped, cold and sharp. Tunde whimpered. Ife squeezed him tight against her ribs.

“Ife, come!” Whistler roared into the dark.

Ife didn't move her palm from Tunde's mouth. His breath, hot with spittle and phlegm, soaked into her skin. Whistler leveled his sword, its tip so sharp she shut her eyes.

“Ife, now!” he screamed.

Dirt gritted between her teeth. Ife pushed her chin to her chest, shutting her eyes tight, holding the tension, forcing the storm to blow past.

But when her eyes opened, the men stared back at her from behind their lamps.

A shot rang out from the flintlock. Smoke drifted upward, scattering a flurry of blackened wings into the night. Ife gulped. Her hand jerked away from Tunde’s mouth. His scream erupted, raw and wet with a full stream of tears.

She crawled from her dusty tomb. Footsteps lunged from the shadows behind her, and before she could turn to drag Tunde out, her sobbing child was ripped away.

Ife hit the dirt, seizing Philip’s leg.

“No!” she shrieked. “Please!”

“Get off!” Philip roared, his boot driving straight into her chest.

“Mama!” Tunde cried, shoving his arms out to her, dragged away by the retreating men.

Ife sprang up, blurry-eyed and staggered after them.

“An evil deed!” she wailed, clawing at Philip. Her fingers brushed Tunde’s smock as the men pulled away, carrying her crying boy into the dark.

She held on, her grip locked around the Englishman’s arm, weighing him down, until Eban reared the butt of his musket and smashed it down hard. A violent, heavy brunt slammed into the side of her skull.

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