The Crescent Hour ✓

Chapter 12. The Dead Speak

Every night the nightmares came, they would appear in the form of white light taking away his dark abyss, hauling him to the visions of his past. He would be forced to relive the worst of his memories, the ones he wished to erase but could not. He would run and run but the ghosts of his past would haunt him, dragging him back, clawing at him until his body would be dripping in blood and his soul would be left shattered, broken.

That morning, when Tamer woke, he cursed at the heavens for the thousandth time. He sat up and blinked, compelling the slivers of his morbid dream to vanish from his consciousness. When he had been little, he would cower in horror, sobbing in some mangy alley, alone and afraid. No one had come to comfort him. No one had come to soothe away his fears, to hold his hand and tell him that everything would be okay.

Until he found me.

His mentor had pulled him from the streets, given him clothing and food, raised him like his own son. He had taught him to be brave and strong, to face his fears with the hardened heart of a soldier and to trust his own strength with the unshakable faith of a pious believer. Idris had saved him from his madness.

The sky was speckled with blues, pinks and reds and the twinkling stars were no longer noticeable. Wisps of white clouds shuffled in lazy motions, unwilling to wake up from their slumber. Tamer’s eyes darted to Clara’s pallet. The sheet lay abandoned, crumpled and flecked in leaves and twigs. Their mount was also missing.

Where was she? His first thoughts were the woman might have left him, refusing to take her responsibility as their saviour. Clara had to carry a huge burden, that she was to take care of a world she was unfamiliar with and as selfish as it may be, it would not be surprising if she ran away.

The frigid wind bit into his skin. Her backpack was still there, rested on the roots of a tree. She wouldn’t leave him, Tamer told himself. A pang of shame pulled at his conscience, making him regret his rushed assumptions.

After taking his weapons, he spun on his heels and stopped at the ledge of the river. The stream gushed and trickled, polishing the stones littered on the bank and bouncing the watsari flowers floating on the surface. His ears picked up the sound of water splashing, far louder than the natural sounds of the moving waters. Perhaps it was Clara or their firis, playing with the river. He followed the source of the sound, moving along the water-logged bank at a purposeful pace.

Tamer patted the leaves of salina mangroves, their hairy surfaces tickling his palms. An insect fluttered towards him, buzzing in his ear. The splashing sounds grew louder until he found Clara a few feet ahead, submerged by the river from waist downwards. Her back was turned to him, a flash of creamy skin visible as she scrubbed the back of her shoulder, her blue shirt sliding to her elbows.

He retreated to the trees, his jaws clenching. His pulse quickened and his tongue slid over his mouth.

Damn it, he thought.

He had not meant to intrude on her privacy. It had been an accident, a mistake. The image refused to fade away, replaying in his mind, tantalizing him with its beauty. He released a deep breath and scowled. Tamer turned away to retrace his steps.

“Are you in there?”

Caught unawares, he stood motionless. What would she think of him? His mind searched for a plausible explanation that would clear his name. He would resort to lying if he had to. No, it would be better to tell the truth. Tamer braved a glance behind him. Clara was fully dressed, her head was lowered and her back hunched low. Her arms were bent in such a manner as to depict she was holding something. She had found a fish, perhaps.

“Am I really his descendant? What powers did the Great Scribe mean?”

The gurgling of the stream persisted, the only response to her questions. Clara had not been speaking to him. She had been talking to her necklace, to Naaji’s entity. He sighed in relief and hurried back to their camp.