My Friend Matt and Hena The Whore Read online

  This time Matt takes in a breath as if about to say something but I squeeze his arm.

  A torch and a clock. She is rich that girl. And cunning as the Spirit of the Left-Sided Beast.

  But we stand firm. We don’t want Hena with us for three days and nights. We’ll end up slaving or fighting.

  She pulls a bundle of shawls, a flask filled with goat’s milk, flat bread, dried meat, half-ripe mangoes, a pineapple, a coconut, a cigarette lighter and a battery radio. It don’t work but it’s still a battery radio.

  You can’t argue with all that.

  ‘How did you know we was going in the first place?’ I ask Hena as we start walking towards the trees standing dark against the dark sky, half the night away.

  She says nothing, she likes to be quiet and mysterious.

  To my left Golam misses a step. I bet she has a hold on him, or bribes him or both.

  My back is breaking under the weight of her bag.

  While Matt plans and Hena schemes and Golam grins, I get landed with the heavy jobs. Always.

  Matt says that’s how it should be.

  He’s got a great brain so he uses it.

  Golam’s got a lovely smile so he uses that.

  Hena’s got a twisted mind so she uses that.

  I’ve got a strong body so I’ve got to use my strong body.

  I kind of agree with him and kind of don’t. I mean, it sounds fair but I am not sure it is. I mean it makes it pretty easy for Golam. And for Hena. Even Matt. I get my back broken and my legs aching and my arms falling out.

  Matt says, ‘Look at it this way. If things go wrong or you can’t do any more we can take your load. But you can’t take my brain or Hena’s mind or Golam’s smile, can you?’ he says.

  Smart ass.

  It still don’t seem fair to me.

  I walk on for some time, then stand for I’ve thought of something else to say.

  ‘Don’t stop me from getting tired,’ I say. ‘Being big don’t mean you don’t get tired out.’

  I look pleased with myself for saying that.

  ‘I get tired thinking, y’know,’ he replies.

  ‘And Golam cracks his face smiling I suppose,’ I say, wishing he would.

  ‘He does help when you need it, don’t he?’ Which is true enough so I shut up and move along.

  ‘You can take Kimo’s load,’ I hear Hena’s voice talking to Matt, ‘but can you take his strength. Can you? Can you?’

  She is the only one who can turn the tables on Matt.

  My heart warms to her in spite of her face.

  Matt is not to be outdone though.

  ‘No. But I can take your mouth for I won’t take your mouth,’ he says calmly.

  I don’t get what he is on about but it shuts her up.

  Matt can make anyone shut up. Even Masters. Even Hena.

  But not Golam for he never opens his mouth anyway. Except to grin.

  The upshot of the argument is that things get divided up.

  Matt takes the clock and the radio – there are no batteries in it, though – and the cigarette lighter. Matt hates cigarettes but loves the lighter. He likes watching fire. Golam gets to carry the food. Hena keeps a piece of cloth, a mirror, combs, a lump of soap and a few other useless things. I’m left with shawls and everybody’s shoes. I end up heavier.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ says Matt, ‘soon we’ll need our shoes, and soon again shawls, maybe – ’ He adds maybe for he hates shawls and shoes – ‘and you’ll be the best off.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Oh all right,’ he goes, ‘don’t mope. I’ll have some of your stuff.’

  But I carry on.

  It don’t surprise him for I am like that when I’m like that.

  Golam stops me, puts his hands into the bag, takes out a couple of shawls, wraps them round his shoulders and grins. I grin back.

  We’ve hardly moved ten shadows of a tree away before I hear the screech of Hena’s words shoot past my earholes. ‘I hope it’s worth it. Worth all the walking and haggling. This Spirit Dance.’

  The light shines inside my head. I understand.

  That’s where Matt is leading us to.

  To the Spirit Dance held in Gonta this time of the season every year. Chiefs and tribes from the North and South and West and East gather to dance for the Spirits. The Spirits then come over from the North and South and West and East to join in and to bless and make happy all those who dance for them. And their friends and relations. Bless them and make them happy and cure their illnesses for one whole year until the next Spirit Dance.

  A grand fair is also held in the village in honour of the Spirits – with slides, roundabouts, picture shows, even a circus – to go with the Dance.

  So famous is this Dance that even those who don’t believe in the Spirits, the Christians (we have one or two in the village) and the Muslims (Golam is one), also take part in it. Sometimes just to enjoy the dance, often because in their heart they still believe in the Spirits, like their fathers. And their fathers before them.

  Not the Children of Moses, though. They never join in the Dance.

  But even they come to the fair.

  And so do white men.

  Matt has always been set on Spirits and Gods and suchlike. He don’t often talk about them, but he feels for them. He wants to know about them. He wants to know about the whole wide world. He is like that. Curious as the black cat. Never satisfied.

  ‘How come Hena knows about it?’ I say. I often say that. With good reason. ‘How come Hena knows we’re going to the Spirit Dance!’

  ‘How does Hena know anything!’ says Matt, making his shoulders jump up and down. ‘Black magic. She’s a witch, she is.’

  ‘Maybe I am and maybe I am not,’ says Hena, going quiet and mysterious again.

  As long as she didn’t find out from Matt I don’t care. It would’ve burnt me up if she had. If not, I don’t care.

  I am surprised. But I don’t care.

  Truly I am not surprised either. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hena truly was a witch. Or the Spirit of a witch, which is worse.

  ‘It is thirteen seconds and thirty-three minutes after nine o’clock of the night,’ says Matt. I don’t know why he says it, but he says it. It is earlier than I think. The clouds are making me believe it is later.

  Matt says something else but his voice is lost in the thunder of an aeroplane, flying so low it could’ve been just on top of our heads.

  *

  We’ve been walking for full four hours and fourteen minutes. I know for Matt’s been shouting the time all the time. He calls it regular intervals. I call it all the time.

  Matt says we should be far enough out of the village before we stop for a rest so that if our Dadas come looking for us they get tired and go back.

  I am tired. Golam is tired. Matt is tired. Even Hena is tired though she says she is not.

  I say it is safe to stop for the night, what’s left of it. Matt says it is best if we get to the copse and shelter in the trees. That way we can hide ourselves even if someone does come this far.

  I don’t think no one will. I don’t think no one’ll look for us at all.

  My Dada don’t trust me but he trusts Matt so he’ll think it’s OK. Golam don’t have a Dada. Hena’s Dada has plenty of land and crops but no sense. Anyway he is drunk most of the time so he’s not likely to bother. Besides, like my Dada he trusts Matt.

  And it’s not like it’s the first time. We’ve been gone before and come back right as sunshine. If one of us was missing on his own, or her own if it was Hena, there’d be great worry. But with all of us gone there will only be rolling of eyes and heaving of sighs and making of remarks but no more.

  But Matt likes to play safe. Always does when he wants something, and he wants to get to the Spirit Dance. He don’t want to miss it for nothing. He’s not taking any chances so we keep limping on till we get to the woods.

  Luckily it isn’t too far. Not any more.


  We are now in front of the copse. We stop to wonder at the size of the trees. And the strength of the trees. And the magic of the trees. My Dada believes our family comes from the Spirits of the trees. That is why we grow tall and are built strong and live long.

  Matt sometimes thinks he is the Spirit of the fox: small, cute (he thinks), and clever. But mostly he believes he is the Spirit of the black cat on account of he is always up and about at night and always looking for something not knowing what it is. I’m not sure if that’s what the black cat does, but Matt says so.

  If Hena is not the Spirit of a witch, which she is, she is the river Spirit: murky deep winding and unreliable. Dry or overflowing.

  Golam is not allowed to believe in ‘all this nonsense’ but I’m sure he secretly believes himself to be the Spirit of something or other. I think it is the Spirit of the wolf on account of his teeth.

  *

  One step inside the woods and it’s black as Hell with its fire out. We thought it was black out in the open but we think again now that we are not.

  Matt says it is fine. Safe. He’s always on about safety, which is strange for he is often out catching lizards and snakes with his bare hands. Our Master says that is not safe at all but Dada says a man must learn such things. Me, I’d rather not. Matt says he does as the fox or the black cat: lives dangerously but plays safe.

  The woods don’t prove too safe though. Serves him right for being cocky.

  Two

  The Poor Naked Man

  I don’t like being shaken up when I’m awake. I hate being shaken up when I’m asleep. I wake up being shaken up after being shaken up while sleeping.

  It is Matt (who else!). His bony fingers are digging deep into my arms like the claws of an eagle. I don’t wake up early at the best of times. After a long day and a long night and a long walk I wake up slower than death.

  ‘Can you hear something?’ I hear Matt saying.

  ‘Wh… wh… what, wh’what?’ I drumble – that’s what Mam says I do when I mumble in my sleep.

  ‘Can you hear something?’ Matt goes again.

  ‘Yes,’ I manage to let slip out of my sleep-swollen lips.

  ‘What d’you think you hear?’

  ‘I hear you saying “Can you hear something?”’

  ‘I don’t mean that, stupid.’

  I always promise I’ll scream next time he calls me stupid, but never do. I decide this is as good a time as any to start.

  I scream.

  He nearly chokes me to death.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ he shouts in a whisper.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ I whisper in a shout. It is not a loud whisper for my throat is still choked up even though his left hand is no longer on my mouth and his right hand no longer round my neck.

  Both his hands are back on my arms and I’m being shaken up again. Matt don’t understand why it takes me so long to wake up. It’s easy for him. The slightest noise or change in the air and he is out of his bed quicker than a fart out of an ass, and as smooth.

  Anyway, shaken up like a rattlesnake’s tail even I wake up, in a muddled sort of a way.

  He puts his hand on my mouth again, just in case, and says, ‘Now don’t make a sound. Just listen. D’you hear anything?’

  I try hard but my ears are still dreaming. Dreaming of nothing. The sweetest dream of all.

  But all dreams come to an end, says Grandma Toughtits. So does this one. I hear like a rustling sound. Like leaves moving.

  It’s not like someone is walking on leaves; just the sound of leaves moving.

  ‘It’s like leaves moving,’ I say.

  ‘That’s how it sounds to me. Leaves moving.’

  ‘Now why would leaves move?’ we both say, sort of together.

  There isn’t a breath of a breeze anywhere. It’d have to be a whacking great wind to get into the thicket and stir the leaves on the ground (it is the sound of leaves moving on the ground, not on the trees).

  The leaves around us are lying happily dead, buried in each other’s laps. The weird swish swishing follows a fairly regular pattern. Not altogether regular, but fairly regular.

  ‘They’re walking the night,’ goes Matt in a hushed voice. I’ve never heard his voice hushed like that before. It shakes my mind like his hands shook my body. I look up at him but it is still black and I can’t see his face. Not even his eyes. Not properly.

  ‘That’s no man’s walk,’ I say, ‘nor woman’s nor child’s neither. And if it is an animal’s I’ll eat my shoes.’ I am a little scared as I say this for my Dada will hang me by the toes if I have to eat my shoes. If it turns out to be an animal Matt will make me.

  But he takes no notice of what I say.

  ‘They are walking the night,’ he goes again.

  I get worried for him. I’ve never seen him like that.

  All I do is repeat, ‘That’s no man’s walk, nor woman’s nor…’

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ he cuts me short and I’m glad for I don’t really like saying all that all over again. ‘I don’t mean man, woman or child – or animal. It is them.’

  By now I’m losing my cool. ‘Them. Who’s them?’ I go crossly.

  ‘The Spirits.’

  Suddenly I am awake proper.

  Suddenly I understand Matt’s behaviour.

  ‘Going to the Dance?’ I whisper. ‘Like us?’

  I am not crazy about Spirits like Matt, but I am interested. Who isn’t? There’s no doubt about that.

  The swish swishing seems to become faster and less regular, then stops. With the noise of leaves gone we expect silence. We hear other sounds. Unclear sounds we cannot put a name to.

  We listen. We listen in fear and hope.

  Fear of crossing angry Spirits; hope of meeting happy Spirits.

  In fear and hope we stand up and without thinking start walking towards the mystery noises. Both Matt and I believe we are aces at tracking signs as well as sounds.

  It is different this time.

  The trees and bushes hide the sounds one minute and let them through the next. We get nearer and are still far.

  It goes on like this forever until we come to this place where the trees are taller than my Dada stood on his head ten times over, and darker – which is unusual for my Dada is darker than the night.

  The bushes are as sweet-scented as Mam and I snuggle close to them. All goes completely silent here.

  We think we’ve either moved too far out of range or the Spirits have heard us and gone quiet. We think we best turn round and go back. We think we have lost our way. We think we are in true trouble. In following the sounds we have strayed away from the narrow path smoothed out by years of feet and are now on hard ground with little mounds and tufts of sharp grass here and there.

  We are frightened. At least I am, and I am sure Matt is too.

  We start scanning the ground to see if we can spot our tracks to make our way back, but it’s too black for that. Matt curses the black which shows he is worrying for he loves the black of the night.

  As it goes the black is good.

  Suddenly we see a faint flicker of a pale light. It is so faint that if it had been less black we’d have missed it. It shines through the dark trees, disappears, then shines again.

  ‘Spirit of Light,’ shouts Matt, forgetting the first rule of tracking.

  *

  Now the Spirit of Light is the best there is. She is the Mother of the Spirit of Life.

  No wonder Matt forgets the first rule of tracking in the excitement.

  If you meet the Spirit of Light you live for ever and ever.

  For some time we completely freeze up; then, very slowly, very carefully – so as not to anger or frighten the Spirits – we edge our way towards the trees through which we saw the light shine.

  Thick bushes surround the place. We jump with shock as one bush runs off when our feet kick it by misstate. We learn that it is just put there and not actually growing. Then we fi
nd many more like that. It is getting stranger and stranger. Who’d cut away so many thick bushes and then set them in a careful line? Not a straight line, more like a curve.

  Not only who, but why.

  We are about to find out.

  Matt is already moving as if in control of great powers or controlled by them. I am having difficulty keeping up with him.

  There is a flicker of light again. This time sharper and nearer. Matt streaks through the trees like a hunted deer or a hunting cat and then stops dead.

  Is he bitten by a snake? I think to myself and am struck by a new worry. I am a great worrier. Matt always says that. So do Mam and Dada. Even little brother and big sister say that, so I guess I must be. But no, he is not bitten by a snake. He is standing tall and straight and stiff with a gaping mouth. I can see it for there is light here.

  Has he really seen the Spirits? I think to myself; and is it the Spirit of Light which makes this dark night brighter? I am now worrying good worries. Matt says there is no such thing as good as worries but I say there is. I should know for I worry with good worries. Matt can’t know everything.

  I am so busy looking at Matt I don’t see what’s in front of me. So busy worrying nothing worries that I nearly step into the heart of a real worry. Matt grabs hold of me, puts his hand on my mouth and drags me behind a tree. He does not take his hand off my mouth till he is sure I will be quiet. By now I have seen what there is to see. At least enough to know that it is not Spirits and it is not good either.

  Hidden behind those cut bushes and huge trees I see a clearing. A man-made clearing, quite a large one almost the size of two or three houses. It is roughly in the shape of a circle. There are two huts in the circle. One smaller than the other. They are covered with fresh leaves swept from the ground or taken from the trees to make them look like bushes.

  ‘We must’ve heard them sweeping the leaves to lay some fresh ones on the huts,’ goes Matt in a voice so low I can hardly hear him.

  Even I’ve worked that out, but I don’t say anything.

  We see a man dressed in a sort of spotty green trousers and a spotty green shirt talking softly to another man dressed similar. He’s carrying a small light in his hand which is quite dull but he is still covering it with his other hand to try to keep it from showing at all. Soon three more people come out of the larger hut: two men and one lady. One of the men tall with a fat stomach, and the lady tall with a fat ass, are also wearing spotty green clothes. The second man has a dirty white robe on his body and a look of anger on his face which is kind of all puffed up and is different colours and shades all over.