Foregone

Fiction

It is abominable, that which I do.

But I hurry to it anyway.

I follow the stream by the white light of the moon, stilling myself at every sound of crunching leaves or rustling bushes. I have wrapped myself in the darkest Ankara, on top of it, is my father’s hunting tunic, darker than night. I have smeared his tobacco and spice behind my ears to ward off any strangers or their dogs.

A traveling stranger is less interesting if she smells of tobacco and roots, than of hibiscus and lemons.

In my hand, is my shepherd’s crook. It whacks and chokes, whether it be sheep or person.

This is no man's land, distant from mother's watchful eye. Any assailant would be out of range of father’s arrow.

Now well into the forest, I hear the faint roar of the waters and my heart races. Quickly, I begin to climb the hill.

It is dark but I know where to place my feet, where to grip and brace, where to heave and lift. The darkness amplifies the thunder of the rushing waterfall of Arè. It surrounds, it terrifies. It is enough to fail a heart.

I remove my sandals and wade into the river, she welcomes me and draws me in along the current. I hold unto familiar stones, slippery and some tufty with growth, my feet find ground on the sandy bed. I feel for the rocks and climb out into a cave.

At last.

He is there waiting.

He rises to his feet. My heart thumps, my belly flutters.

Tórę..