Ruin

A splitting pain erupted from the lump on her scalp, burst down her shoulders and embedded its rot into the hollow of her belly. She forced herself up, stumbling and dizzy beneath the cool night sky.

Muddy grime matted her braids. 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 pain in her scalp throbbed, 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 etched moon lit by the one above and she sharpened her machete.

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

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

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

She waded ashore, pulled her shift over her shoulders, and returned to her fire, stroking her blade with the whetstone.

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. 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 anchored 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.

While Auntie snored, she retied her hair and waited.

“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.”

She disrobed and lay in the sand next to the big palm tree. Whistler lowered his trousers, his musty body pressing upon hers. She closed her eyes, ignoring his weight, letting the breaking waves and hissing surf swallow his heavy breath.

Whistler spilled his seed, groaned, and climbed off her. Ife lay naked, her body still, her mind cold. She waited, watching the dark.

Whistler turned away, his breaths ragged as he pulled up his trousers. Ife curled her lip. Her hand plunged into the cool sand, her fingers closing over the handle. She unearthed the steel and rose to her feet.

Tremors slowed her, but as Whistler dawdled, brushing off his shirt, he turned his head just in time to face her. Ife swung the blade down with a quiet thud. Heavy steel sank into the top of Whistler’s skull.

He choked out a roar, tearing through the night. The hissing surf vanished, swallowed by his sudden, guttural screams, spewing from his head. He spasmed, clawing the air to reach her. Ife planted her foot against his belly and ripped the blade from his bone with a wet rip like a stubborn root pulled from the muck.

“You evil bitch!” Whistler howled, thrashing blind, red streaming down his head.

She recoiled from his swinging fists, ducking from his desperate, staggering jabs. Her teeth clenched. She slashed across his chest. The leather of his vest ripped before the steel met flesh.

Whistler snarled and swiped at her with a gnarled hand. Ife slashed again, her braids whipping with each blade stroke.

Whistler's chin dropped, his mangled body toppled over. Blood doused Ife’s body. Her chest quivered with ragged, sharp breaths.

She bellowed a horrifying roar, hacking him into a pool of ruin, coating herself in his viscera, then unleashed a primal, gut-wrenching howl.

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

The captives murmured, rising into a hollowed droning clatter.

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

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

The echoing, rising voices from the Narrows remained a jagged, relentless pulse. Ife dropped the machete into the sand and fled. Her feet tore into the beach.

Adrenaline surged, driving her faster than she ever had. The surf erased her tracks, wet sand kicking from her heels. Her braids soared. And she drove, heaving 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. Eban and Philip charged toward 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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