Black Halo

ACT THREE

Feast among the Bones

Twenty-Six

WHISPERS IN DARK PLACES

The Aeons’ Gate

The Island of Teji

Fall, early … maybe?

Of my grandfather, I don’t remember much. Of my father, even less. He was a farmer, a quiet man, always tithed. Even as I’m able to remember more here on Teji, that’s roughly all I recall.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I do remember what he said to me, once.

‘There are two kinds of men in this world: those who live with war and those who can’t live without it. We can live without it. We can live a long time.’

I remember he died in fire.

I had always wanted to believe I could live without war. Even after I picked up my grandfather’s sword, I wanted to know of a time when I could put it down again. I had always wanted to say that this part of my life was something I did to survive and nothing more. I wanted to be able to tell my children that we could live without war.

I wanted children.

And for the past few days, I was certain I would have them and that I could tell them that.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe father was wrong.

I tried. I really did. Khetashe knows how I did, how I tried not to think about my missing sword or the tome or that life I left at the bottom of the ocean. I tried to do this ‘normal’ thing, to be the kind of man who isn’t obsessed with death – his or someone else’s.

It’s harder to do than I thought.

The bones are everywhere on Teji. I can’t take a step outside the village without stubbing my toe on someone’s bleached face. The reek of death is always present, and so the Owauku light fires to scare away the spirits. They survive off their roaches. The roaches thrive off the island’s tubers. The tubers are the only edible growing things here.

And here, amidst the bones and the death, I thought I would become normal. I thought this was where I could sit back and stare at the sunset and not worry over whether or not I was going to live tomorrow.

Days ago, I was ready to leave this life behind.

Maybe I was wrong.

Things are tense. It must be the water … the air … whichever one paranoia breeds in. Crooked stares meet me wherever I go. People go quiet when I pass. I hear them whisper as I leave.

The Owauku try to hide it, forcing big grins, friendly chatter before they slip away from my sight. The Gonwa aren’t nearly so interested in my comfort. They stare, without shame, until I leave. They speak in their own tongue, in low murmurs, even as I stare at them. And now, they’ve started following me.

Or one has, anyway. Hongwe, they call him, the spokesman for the Gonwa. I don’t know if he’s been doing it for a while and I just caught on or what. But when I walk through the forest, down the beach, he follows me. He only leaves if I try to talk to him. And even then, he does so without excuse or apology.

Granted, if he were going to kill me, he probably wouldn’t bother with either. But then, if he were going to kill me, he’s been taking his time.

Teji is one of the few places I’ve been able to sleep soundly, without worry for the fact that my organs are almost entirely on display for stabbing. And I happen to know from the many, many times Bagagame has told me Hongwe’s watched me sleep that the only thing standing between my kidneys and a knife is a thin strip of leather and a wall of reeds.

So far, he’s done nothing. And as strange as it sounds, I’m not really that worried about a walking lizard that brazenly stalks me and possibly watches me sleep. One wouldn’t think I’d have bigger concerns than that, but it would seem poor form to start questioning it now.

My companions …

I don’t think I’ve ever truly trusted them. Really, I’ve just been able to predict them up to this point. Their feelings are easy to see; their emotions are always apparent. And while I’m not a man who considers himself in touch with – or interested in – such things, I can tell that all of them are holding back something.

Dreadaeleon skulks around the edges of my periphery, almost as bad as Hongwe. I say ‘almost’ only because he spooks and flees the moment he even gets a whiff of me. I may have been harsh with him in the forest, but he’s never … well, rarely been this jittery before.

Denaos tells me, in passing, that Dread is going through some changes. That’s about all he’ll ever tell me. It’s interesting: of all the sins I’ve tallied against Denaos, drunkenness was not one until now. If I don’t speak to him before breakfast, I’ll never understand him before the slurring, assuming he doesn’t go spilling his innards in the bushes. Each time I try to talk to him, he’s got an alcohol-fuelled excuse that I cannot argue against. It almost seems like he’s planning each drunken snore, each incomprehensible rant. Or maybe he just likes his list of sins well rounded.

In such cases as this, Asper can usually provide insight, but she’s been just as silent. And when I say silent, I mean exactly that. Dreadaeleon flees, Denaos drinks, Asper doesn’t even look at me. I might get the occasional nod or rehearsed advice she’s said to a hundred different grieving widows, but she won’t look me in the eyes. I pressed her once; she screamed.

‘Ask your stupid little shict if you’re so Gods-damned concerned about everything! Pointy-eared little beast knows everything, anyway!’

‘Humans, eh?’ was the extent of Kataria’s explanation when I did consult said beast. Of all of them, Kataria is the one who doesn’t flee, who will look me in the eyes. I should be happy with this. But she’s the most tense of all, even when she smiles. Especially when she smiles.

She seems at ease, but her ears are always high on her head. She’s always alert, always listening to me just a bit too closely, waiting for me to say … something.

She doesn’t stare anymore.

I never thought I would be worried by that.

I never considered them honest, but I did consider them open. Some more than others. Sometimes I wonder if Gariath, and his constant threats, kept all our tension directed toward him. These bipedal lizards just don’t have the same appeal that he has.

Sorry. Had.

If he’s alive, he’s not coming back. He’s wanted to be rid of us for ages, so he said. Of course, he didn’t seem to want to live very badly to begin with, so perhaps he’s found a nice cliff to leap from. Either way, I hope he’s happy.

I want them all to be happy. I do. I want them to be able to live without war. I want us to part ways and be able to forget that our best memories together were born in bloodshed.

And maybe it’s up to me to help them with that. I am the leader, after all. I should be there for them, help them with this, no matter how drunk, skittish, silent or paranoid.

It won’t be easy. For any of us, least of all me. I hear the voice. Not always, not often, but I know it’s there. I’m likely the one man who shouldn’t be looking into someone else’s life.

But I can do this.

I can do this for all of us.

Tonight is Togu’s celebration, a ‘kampo’, he calls it. It’s something of a joint feast to herald the end of summer and remember the day humans came to their island with salvation from starvation. To hear the other Owauku speak of it, it’s an excuse to drink fermented bug guts and rut.

Sounds like fun.

As good a time as any to gather everyone together, to tell them all that I’ve been thinking, to tell them what we can do, that we can live without war. From there? I suppose I’ll find out.

Hope is not going to come easy.

But I can do this.