BLOOD AND WATER

They first dug the well. A round well, made of red earth only, no concrete but then again what is concrete in a world where nothing is removed from beneath the earth any more and nothing is put in except broken bodies. The first spurt of water was caressed into a keg and tugged up with ropes. The last man on the lip of the well passed the keg to a man wrapped in white. The man held the keg and took a sip then he drank deep. He nodded his head and turning to the crowd gathered behind him, raised the keg to the skies. The crowd roared with joy. There is water, sweet water.

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They began the wall first. Made of rectangular blocks of mud, red mud, they let it dry under the heat of the sun then as they dug the foundation for the wall that will protect them from the raiders. The wall will take a while to build but they will not build any hut until the wall is complete.

There was a time in their history when they raised their tents in the vastness of the savannah without walls. There was a time too when men did not kill men. Little boys stood on top of the few stunted trees that dotted the open space. They watched for swirling dust in the horizon. That is the only sign they will get before the bloodletting will begins.

The blocks dried fast in the heat and the raising of the walls began. The women came with the water from the well while the men molded the blocks. The girls made food from the little grain they had while the little boys who did not do sentry duty, watched the herd of cattle and goats that was all that was left of all the wealth they had laid claim to. They were all tired and drained of faith but there was still hope.

Four days into building the wall, the well dried up. The man in white sat down before the vault of the heaven, as the sun fell from the sky into the deep night and he casted his bones. He stared into the eyes of spirits seeking knowledge then he sighed and stood up. He turned to the worried eyes of the men and shook his head. The spirits were silent. They have been silent since they lift their village, since the raiders took the Mask of Kumbuyi, the face of their father. The man in white knew that they have been deserted by their gods, left bereft on the troubled sea of life but he could not tell this to his people. Is hope not a lie until it becomes fact?

The men turned away muttering among themselves. They were tired and angry. Were they going to move again? Were they going to live beneath the unfinished wall’s promises of safety? Safety was scarce in the world they lived in.

They had moved before the raiders could take away their women and cattle. They had heard about how the raiders made the girls into pleasure holes and they did not want that for their daughters and wives. They had run before they could watch the abomination begin in their village.

The man in white sighed and stared at the distance. He saw a shadow shift from where it sat and he followed it as it moved towards the well. He got there to see the mute watching the darkness that hid the dried mud at the bottom of the well. He watched the man but the man did not turn to look at him. After sometime, the mute stretched his staff to him, tightened his wrapper around his waist then hitching his legs around the rope that led into the well and proceeded to climb into the darkness. I should stop him, the man in white thought to himself but he did nothing.

A voice screamed in the night and the man in white turned. He saw the stain of dust in the sky as the moon sluggishly crawled out of sleep. The raiders were coming. He turned to the tents and looked to the people rising out of the stupor of sleep. The men had not gone to their mats so they quickly picked their spears and the women coming out of the tents picked their bows and quiver of arrows. Little boys picked their slings and clubs and they turned to look at him. He had no prayers for them so he nodded his head. If they were to die, they will die but they will die well. He turned back to the well.

The mute carefully struggled down the rope in the darkness. They will not put on any light because of the fear of the raiders, he knew but the moon was giving a little bit of light. He could see a little bit above his head but below him was darkness. He grunted as his feet touched the mud. He stopped and listened to the sounds coming to him. The sound was faint but he could hear the screams of fear and the grumble of agitated cattle. The raiders are here, he thought. He pressed his left foot gently into the mud and his feet sank in with a squelch. The rope jerked in his hands and he looked up. He could barely see but he knew that the man in white had gone to join the fight. He sighed. Everyone had his or her part to play.

The villagers sent arrows into the men on horses holding iron sticks that spoke and people fall. The raiders had not expected the villagers to be prepared or to be willing to oppose them. They had come in nonchalantly to the camp and they paid dearly for it. The men maimed the horses before stabbing spears into soft flesh.

Men screamed the names of their gods as bodies toppled to the hungry earth. The raiders had to reload their iron sticks but spears need no reload. Arrows bristled on soft flesh and soon men were fleeing. The battle was over.

Little boys and girls curved around wounds as their lives fled into the greedy earth while women wailed their dirge into the night. The men gathered the iron sticks and bags that they had captured as well as some of the raiders had been injured but still lived. Those who had run into the night were left with their fear. The villagers had not bothered to make pursuit.

The mute tied the rope around his waist and bent to the mud and began to dig with his bare hands. He started from the soft parts and slowly dug away the sun baked clay that hung on the edges. It was slow work but it was hope. He dug the well with his hands until early morning then the first sip of water trembled to the top and soon it started to flow again. The well was alive again. The mute grunted then he tugged the rope hard. Soon he felt the strain on the rope as he was slowly lifted from the bottom.

The man in white was there. His white was stained with dust and bloofnbut his eyes shone with life. He looked at the mute as the man came out, his skin red with mud, his fingers cracked. The mute nodded and walked away dragging his feet. The men looked at him and turned to the man in white. He threw the keg into the well then he drew it out slowly. When it came out, it was heavy with water and mud. The men smiled and turned to look at the mute.

He was bent over the iron sticks. The villagers watched him, silently as he picked one. They watched him stretch it before him and then they jumped as he made it speak. There was silence then the men roared.

The man in white nodded his head. He had always wondered about the mute’s past now he knew something of it. The raiders will be back. Oh yes! They will not let such a defeat go unpunished. They will be back but the village will be waiting for them. They will have spears, arrows, iron sticks, a man who has seen war and a wall. They will be waiting and they will make them pay in blood and broken bones. For the little ones to traverse the savannah freely again, they will make sure of it.

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©warpedpoetic, 2019.