those who speak in dreams | #ONC2020

With A Sound In A Quiet Place

There is a woven basket already half-filled with rivermud and Memories. Nkechi scrapes the mud from her hands as she drags the other foot out of the mud and adds it to those that are already there, knowing that it is not enough.

On top of the mud, she places a linen cloth before resting dry kindling on its surface. She will dig a pit and start a fire in the courtyard, when she gets home, stoke it hot and leave it to burn while she shapes a pitcher on her potter's wheel. She will push aside the embers and bury the pitcher underneath them with her bare hands. It will hold nothing visible once it is finished, but the vessel itself will be pregnant with Memories, the patterns caused by darkened ash curling across its surface.

She will smoke village herbs around the house, pull her hair up and chant songs under her breath. She will find white clay and a thin stick and she will paint lines on her arms and her legs and the curve of her neck, and her sweat will carve deltas into her flesh.

The man at the entrance of the village is halfway through the square, but she does not pay him much mind. She is searching for stones, now, something smooth that she can line the inside of the pit with to contain the heat. She curls her fingers around one and nearly pitches forward at the force of the Memory it holds.

Two boys, skipping rocks into the stream--when the river was nothing more than a stream and ankle deep. A rock finds itself hurtling towards the back of one boy's head. It touches him, like a claiming, and he stumbles. Falls forward. Puts out his hands to break his fall and hits the water face first. He does not attempt to prop himself up, but only lies there, quiet. His friend, after a few minutes, goes over to see what is wrong. He rolls him over only to trace the blood that muddies the water.

Nkechi does not have to keep Remembering to know what is next. She lets go of the stone, slowly, and the Memory leaves her with it.

She finds other stones, with less painful Memories, and she places those on top of the kindling. By the time she has gathered all that she needs to the basket will be heavy, but it will be enough.

The man at the entrance of the village is somewhere on the trail that leads to the river. If she finishes now and gets to her feet she will meet him not twenty steps from where she is. If she waits, he will come to her.

She tests the weight of the last stone in the palm of her hand, its surface still slick with water. That, she supposes is a blessing, since the droplets hold so many Memories she cannot sort through them fast enough. They slip away from her, and she allows them to. She-Who-Swallows-Memories has five thousand others like them coiled up inside her like the Death that follows the man that calls for her, and she is not looking for rivermud Memories to bring back.

He is less than a yard away from her when she realizes that her surroundings have fallen silent. She cannot hear the chatterings of the birds, and the hoopoe that so often follows her to the river has cut its song short.

Nkechi bites her tongue and tastes blood, but she does not let go. She tells herself that she is lucky that her back is towards him, otherwise he would address her and she would be compelled to answer. Like this, she will let him get as close as he dares. Like this, she will let him get as close as she thinks is necessary.

The man at the entrance of the village is but a handbreadth from her, now.

He stoops down, one hand outstretched to touch her on the shoulder, and Nkechi allows herself the pleasure of turning just enough to look him in the eye.