Ruin

A splitting pain erupted from the lump on her scalp, radiating down into her shoulders. She forced herself up, stumbling and dizzy beneath the cool night sky.

Her mouth was parched, dry as sand under a midday sun. Dirt matted her braids. Weary and weeping, Ife dragged herself back through the bush, across the grasslands, and past the scarred boulder to the silent Narrows.

Not a single smoldering ember remained. Ife slumped outside her hut alone. Dew muddied the soles of her feet. The throbbing in her scalp too agonizing to touch. She found her whetstone lying next to Tunde’s perfect crescent moon drawing in the dirt. Ife stared down at the dirt-etched moon lit by the one above and she sharpened her machete.

As the sun bled through a violet dawn, she sat her blade aside and resparked the cookfire.

She relieved herself in the sea, plunging her entire body in the morning surf. Her braids fanned out like dark kelp, the dirt and dried blood rinsing into the foam. The cold numbed her scalp, quieting the throb to a dull ache.

She floated in rhythm. Rise and fall. Waves recede and the sea continues. Ife remained still, until the water turned her cold.

More waves would wash away soon enough.

Smoke rose from the Narrows beyond the lemon grove. Ife waded to shore, redressed, and returned to her fire. She sat in the grit, the steady shhh of the whetstone the only sound as she honed her blade.

Auntie emerged from the hut, lifted the kettle from the fire, and pulled Ife into a silent, side embrace. The steady shhh-shhh of the stone against the steel continued.

Steam rose from the kettle, trailing like raw sinew from a flayed skull. Ife sipped the water, scalding and thin, before taking up her machete to the fields.

Ife spoke no words. Nobody did. When Eban rode past, he did not look her way, his eyes locked on a ship anchoring in the bay. Ife picked at the lump on her scalp, drawn to its tenderness. She thumbed the edge of her machete—sharper than ever—before submerging it in the cool sand beneath the big palm tree.

While Auntie snored, she retied her braids in the flickering glow.

“Ife, come.” Whistler’s voice called out.

Ife didn’t blink. She stood, blew out the candle, and stepped into the dark. His sweaty bald head glistened, his undershirt wrinkled from a full day’s wear.

“We gave the boy to Margaret,” he said, turning toward the lemon grove.

“You can see him on Christmas,” Whistler said, walking casually. His rambling meant nothing to her.

She disrobed and laid next to the big palm tree. Whistler lowered his trousers. His sweaty body pressed upon hers, but she closed her eyes, ignoring his weight. She let the breaking waves and hissing surf swallow him; the cricket chirped, and the coquí whistled.

Her machete lay just on the other side of the big palm tree. With the last uncomfortable thrusts and heavy breaths, Whistler spilled his seed and moaned, then climbed off her. Ife lay naked, her body still, her mind cold. She waited, watching the dark, ready to ensnare the weakling.

Whistler turned away, his breaths ragged as he pulled up his trousers. Ife curled her lip and rose to her knees, moving without a sound. She plunged her hand into the cool sand, her fingers closing over the handle. Shaking, but with a forged grip, she unearthed the steel and stood.

Tremors slowed her. But as Whistler dawdled away, straightening his garment, he turned his head to her death march racing upon him. Ife swung the blade down in fury. Before Whistler spun himself around, the sharpest saber in the history of the West Indies submerged into the top of his skull.

Tremors slowed her, but as Whistler dawdled, straightening his garments, he turned his head just in time to face his doom. Ife swung the blade down in a silent roar of fury—heavy steel submerged into the top of his skull. We women are powerful creatures.

He moaned, an echo tore through the night and silenced the crickets. The hissing surf vanished, swallowed by his sudden, guttural screams. Gore spewed from his head, spasming, clawing at the air to reach her. Ife planted her foot against his belly and ripped the blade from his skull bone like a stubborn root in the dry earth.

“You evil bitch!” Whistler howled in blind rage.

She recoiled from his swinging fists. Red ooze blinded him, yet he thrashed. His wild grasps splattered Ife; she bobbed away from his desperate, staggering jabs. Her teeth clenched. She slashed across his chest. Their eyes bulged and locked together in the gore-slicked dark.

Whistler snarled and gurgled, lunging for Ife. His terrifying cries rippled the bay. Ife jumped back again and swung the blade at his hands. His itchy trigger finger landed in the sand, spraying her face with carnage.

They both trembled. Whistler swiped at her with his gnarled hand. Ife slashed a fresh gash into him, then stepped back, ready for more.

Whistler's chin dropped. His blood doused her body. Her breasts quivered, her own breath coming in ragged shrieks. Muscles coiled with every puny breath he drew.

Her braids whipped widly with each stroke. His body slumped, mangled. She bellowed a horrifying roar, chopping the fallen Englishman to pieces.

A trancelike spell seized her. She hacked him into a pool of ruin, coating herself in his sinew, then unleashed a primal, gut-wrenching howl.

The awakened captives stared down at her from the Narrows, gasping. They pointed at the wild-eyed and panting Ife, naked and slick with English blood, clutching her machete. She wiped her face and spat.

The captives murmured, rising into a rhythmic, hollow drone. “Ee-fuh. Ee-fuh. Ee-fuh.”

Horses neighed in the distance. Two torches flickered by the house, casting long, sickening shadows over the Narrows.

“Ee-fuh. Ee-fuh. Ee-fuh.”

Auntie’s voice rasped through the dark, “Run, Ife mi. Run and do not stop.”

The chanting remained a jagged, relentless pulse. Ife dropped the machete into the sand and fled, her feet tearing into the beach.

Adrenaline surged, driving her faster than she ever had. She wept. The surf erased her tracks, wet sand kicking from her heels. Her braids soared. And she wept until the salt air burned.

At the curved tip of the bay, Ife bent at the waist, palms on her knees, wheezing. Across the water, two torches closed in—fiery, shooting stars on a collision course. Eban and Philip were coming. They would find her.

The lonely outline of a ship, carved out of moonlight, bobbed in the dark bay. Ife dove into the water and swam out towards the hull.

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