Troubling sleep. Sogolon wake with nothing to do. She don’t want to get out of bed and get a drink of water. She don’t want to go to her window and look out at the moon. She don’t want to rouse up the guard by her door, and for what? She don’t know where the cookroom be or worse, the well if she have to fetch water herself. Nothing for her to do but lie right there above and below sheets, and look at the ceiling.
But then the ceiling look at her.
Everything jump but her body. Even the scream die in her mouth before it reach past her teeth. Something like this happen before, the not being able to move, and she don’t know if she have time to think of it when the ceiling have eyes and eyes are upon her. Waking up but unable to get up. Willing everything to push away the sheet and stand, but cannot. So she trying crawling but that don’t work, and rolling, but that don’t work either. And when she finally pull herself up on her elbows, the tears rolling down her face feel as if they pop out from will, not just distress. The ceiling looking at her, with yellow eyes that glow. Wide like it curious, not even wicked. The eyes pull out from the dark, eyes set in a face still black. The face lower itself from the ceiling, pulling two arms, then a chest, then a belly, lowering out of the dark as one would lower from a pole. Face round like a plum. Like a child. One leg flat on the ceiling and sticky to it, but long, too long. Then his dark, skinny arm reach out to touch her face. Scream, is what she do.
Sogolon roll and fall out of the bed hard, on her chest and chin. The hit shock her all the way to her toes. Movement in the ceiling sound like a scrambling animal. Sogolon jump up and run for the door, but something catch her shirt. This darkchild, the color of tar, his long finger grabbing the neck of her dress, not with force, but just curious. Sogolon scream again. She try to run, but that gentle grip is firm, she running nowhere. The dress tear, she is pulling away hard and screaming for the guard, but he pull her back so easy she might as well be a feather. He let go. She think it is a he, but won’t turn around to see. She is trying to run out of her dress, but he yank her again, pulling her to the ground. Sogolon’s head start to spin. Her head is thumping, and the room is turning and tossing her around. The floor shift underneath her, and won’t stop. She roll again and fall when the floor turn all the way on its side, becoming the wall and the wall becoming the floor. She roll near the window and stretch out her hands to brace against it before she fall through. And still the room shift, but only she is falling. Everything, the bed, the stool, the lamp, the rug, the jug all still. So it must be that her head alone is spinning. But then the room spin again, and she tumble again, and roof become floor and floor become roof. And there he is, standing instead of hanging. She grab a column, unsure of herself.
And the boy, looking like a boy now. A boy blacker than shadow, and skinny. His arms and legs long like a giraffe, his chest and middle small, and his head big. The only light in the room, the dim lamp on the side table, a teapot with a single flame. And his eyes, his yellow eyes. Glowing like incense burning. Down on the floor he bend at the knee and the elbow, a spider now in his movement. Sogolon eye the door now on the other side, which mean getting past him. The boy stomp one foot and hiss. He crawl up the wall, scamper to the ceiling, and just so, he gone. She in a tower and the ceiling is high. But the ceiling is the floor, and floor, ceiling. Or everything right-side up and she is upside down. She stumble to the door and grab the lamp just in time to see him crouching on the floor. Ceiling. He jump at her so quick that she don’t think, she throw the lamp at him, which hit him in the chest. On his chest a flame flicker then burst out all over his front, back, and neck. The boy is shrieking and the noise is a knife, cutting through her ears. Like a spider, he scramble to a window and climb out. Sogolon run down the peak of the ceiling and back up to the door. Only when she is outside that she hear her own yelling. Beyond the door, floor is floor and roof is roof, and the guard is sleeping or dead. Sogolon run down the stairs and through a hallway. Down more stairs and through one door, which lead to another door, which lead to another door, and finally into the first throne room. Not the one where she meet the princess, she can tell, even though nothing much is there to see in the dark. But she see them, three lions asleep in the middle of the room. Keme already warn her. Not every lion is a shapeshifter, some is just a lion. Sleepy, tired, fearful, or just done, Sogolon creep in between them, sink to the floor and sleep.
She wake up the next morning in bed, the sun warming her face, the lamp beside her with the flame out. Sogolon can’t help herself. She dash out of the room and slam the door behind her, waking up the guard standing at the head of the stairs.
“Young mistress, everything good?”
“I not a mistress,” Sogolon say.
“Of course.”
“Where he is? The guard from last night.”
“Last night? Change of shift, young mistress.”
“I not a . . . never mind.”
“Young mistress, you not supposed to—”
Leave. But she do it anyway. Down the stairs, past the rooms that she walk by at night, wondering how this palace sometimes feel more empty than Mistress Komwono’s house. The King is about his business, and so are all the servants, somebody will tell her if she ask. But she won’t ask. Each day waiting on whatever the princess decide to do with her is enough for her to wish the boy on the ceiling did take her away. Two of the lions are still sleeping but the one awake follow her. They walking side by side, and when she ask, “Beremu?” no answer, not even shaking of head come from him. Truth, it might as well have been fart as much as a call. Sogolon shudder. This is not a shapeshifter, but a lion. She is out of words, to name what it is when thrill and terror happen at once. He accompany her half the way to Commander Olu’s quarters, when something catch his eye and he run off.
Leaving Commander’s house as she get there is a woman she never see before. Dark skin, bare breasts, and a wrap around her waist. Both hands full with gold plates, jugs, goblets, and an arrow that Sogolon remember him saying is a present from the King, or Queen, or somebody who love wearing a crown.
“None of that is yours,” Sogolon say.
“And no part of you is me mother,” say the woman.
“He already pay you.”
“He don’t even remember where he keep his money. I take my own payment.”
“I don’t believe you.”