The Ghost in Africa

ving mortals, we never wonder wh

e by his charm that she desired nothing else, save his affection.” The frail gray bearded man coughed and shut his eyes. Obviously, the cough

e for him as alluringly as she could, tenderly coercing

to his frail wrists. His hands groped in the near darkness as tho

his story offered, “You do realize we are in a prison

unkempt than the other. After waiting a while, the ‘old one’

as I?” h

ne that had reminded the old one of their c

fist as much as the chains would let him. “But alas,

as Jakob dropped ever so suddenly, but th

two sons already. His heart was his, and her sons, hers - and he had told her just that.” He

rivers of Africa could quench his fiery resolve.” The old one suddenly stopped talking, and as s

e’s hand, hoping to rouse him from the strange slum

d one offered a wane sm

ed bits and pieces. They would rather hear the entire tale without further breaks from the Old o

sk me, I do not know - but whatever it was that happened, this heartbroken lovebird had raced home and in a bid to win his affection, or wa

ers echoed in the stone w

d the happiness she sought. She was scorned by Wiccan and non-wiccan folk

she, Old One

king around, he signaled for Jakob to come closer, and in a rather

June

stillness of the darkness that threatened to blind them. They neither heard the occasional calls of yawning bird-folk nor the unmistakable warnings from prowling animals. E

when the Old One had told them the story of the strange woman. That same night had been th

orn their allegiance to a cause greater than their previous life of crime. This was a calling higher than any of them could have ever imagined. They would band together in thi

r only ‘clothing’ being animal skin skirts wrapped around their waists. On their bodies were diverse markings of varying patterns, each symb

r shaved heads on the very day of their initiation. He had doused the wounds wi

p and strenuously matching his long strides. An unseen owl, the royal night-guard of the African fauna, hooted it

ity had passed through before. The thorn stave, sleep thorn as Master liked to call it was carved from balsa wood with the tip pointing about a foot downwards like a half ‘v’, th

stifled

g warnings spelt cowardice, or love, or compassion, and n

debris, obviously contemplating he means to his end. Master stared at the culprit, his eyes

ing his throat, choking on his own spittle. They all watched on as expressionless as they could be, mustering courage not to look away and incur the master’s w

hey hadn’t gone any farther when Master stopped. The air about them suddenly grew chilly and the smell of tobacco filled their nostrils. The woman was here. Master retri

This was not his first hunt, no, but it was the first time he