those who speak in dreams | #ONC2020

Of Feet Upon The Sand

There is a boulder sitting in the pit of her stomach, and it is growing into a mountain.

This is what Nkechi, She-Who-Swallows Memories knows, and yet she can do nothing but ignore it.

It is, after all, her fault that it is there.

The man at the entrance of the village has met her, now, and he has a name. But she refuses to say it--she does not want it to become too familiar on her tongue, even though his name is like a branding in the back of her throat. Only a few moments ago, she wanted it to burn a hole into the ground.

She steals glances at him over her shoulder as the both of them make their way back to the village.

It is almost dark.

Nkechi does not like the darkness, but she tolerates it. Only the wicked work in darkness, and she is not wicked.

At least, she does not think she is.

Up ahead, she can see smoke from courtyard fires as women prepare the evening meal. It curls into tight coils that resemble her hair when it is undressed, and she breathes in the scent of it.

Behind her, her visitor's face is becoming half-veiled in shadow. When she turns to see if he is still following she sees it, then, the dying rays of light falling across one side of his face.

There is a scar on that side, just above his right eye, and Nkechi admires it in silence. A moment later, she wonders if this is what he wants to forget.

If so, then he is a coward. In her village, men have survived with wounds worse than his, and they have never asked her to take away the reason for them.

She keeps all these things to herself, however, and walks ahead of him still.

In the space between where she is and where she is going to be, there are a hundred Memories lining the grooves of the earth. Where she walks, the ground beneath her is solid enough to keep her mind in the present, but ever so often a vein of Them snakes up to the surface.

And she forgets.

She-Who-Swallows-Memories thinks of the gate that guards the entrance to her home, the feel of it under her fingertips. If she traces the loops and whorls of the wood she will become the carpenter who made it--she will know the way his head tilts when he carves out a hollow in the bark, the lines that frame his eyes.

Most likely, the man does not recall the work that he put into crafting it, but she does. He is older now, of course, with another child on the way and a wife that speaks with her eyes and her hands, not her lips. Today, he is making a cradle for the new addition. Tomorrow, he will carve a gift for his father-in-law in time for the man's nameday.

This is how it is. How it always will be. The village forgets, like her visitor wants to do, and Nkechi Remembers.

It does not take long to reach the center of the village. Already the women have gathered for the evening gossip; when one of them sees her, she stands to her feet and gives the traditional evening greeting--left hand tracing a path from her shoulder to her heart.

Nkechi sees, and she greets her in return. There is a torch, behind that woman, and there is enough light to see how quickly the rest of her companions follow her example.