Truth’s Shadow

Can you discover the truth the main character can’t seem to grasp?

Warning: Some foul language

Truth’s Shadow

 

“Ichabod! Ichabod!” Florence weaved her way through the gathering crowd, her gloved hand wagging in the air above peoples’ heads as she darted in Ichabod’s direction. The sea continued to crash against the land, sounding like soothing whispered promises of adventure. Ichabod and Florence embraced tightly, Ichabod catching the light scent of lavender and Jasmine tea. He would miss that smell, and his wife. It was the only thing that would bring him back from this new territory, back into a reality of…Repeated Mistakes: The Reality of Human Progress…the one book that almost made him the joke of the writing community.

“I shall return shortly, darling,” Ichabod replied.

“Surely you can still change your mind?” Florence glanced up at him, her lips not yet in a smile. Ichabod could see that she hadn’t come to terms with him leaving for a place beyond Europe. “All right, I know,” she continued, visibly gulping back a whimper. “I hope that your journey is safe and that you find endless inspiration for your new book.”

“I love you,” Ichabod uttered.

“I love you too,” Florence said, abruptly swiping a tear from her face. Her fingers briefly fumbled over Ichabod’s cropped red hair.

“Come on, Arton, we’ve got the good wind!” Charles Bradley called, shoving Harrison toward the deck playfully. He was the American from Virginia who told him about the island.

Ichabod took a deep breath, kissed Florence’s cheek, and walked toward the two men. The ship’s crew was ready to set sail and Captain Flemming had his hands in fists on his hips, surveying the crowd. A cigar dangled on the corner of his lips and he itched his neck just above the curly black mass of hair peeking out of the shabby brown V-neck. Any further and Ichabod would’ve mistook him for a bear.

The crew started to cackle like hyenas when they spotted Ichabod’s crisp, clean case containing his belongings. He ignored them and set his case down to see Florence one last time. Maybe he was mad, like some people told him. But that wouldn’t be accurate. Ichabod was mad, he decided, with the curiosity of the old new world. A world basked in unsurprising ignorance that his civilized counterparts found distasteful, but that he found admirable. This island would have people filled with the ignorance of wealth or power or a superiority complex. Mistakes would be unavoidable, but humans were flawed. Ichabod watched his world fade, Florence melding into the splash of light the sunset created. He hardly noticed Charles beside him until the man clapped his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Arton. We’ll be back,” Charles swore.

Ichabod felt a cold chill crawl up his back.

…

The sea rolled beneath them. Ichabod could no longer see the land and instead of tasting the bustling fish market, the salt of the sea blanketed itself on his lips. He beheld endless blue-black waves sway under a setting sun. Some great hand had painted the sky with pinks and oranges and purples that freckled the dark waters. If only Florence was there to experience the wondrous view…but he was stuck with men no more human than wolves. Charles was the only person Ichabod felt he could connect to, despite some of their clashing opinions. Besides, he read his books and enjoyed most them. It was his last book, of course, that would set them off into seething debates. But Ichabod didn’t mind the debates. He felt life itself was a big debate.

Charles said nothing at first, allowing the silence to be consumed by the smooth waves crashing into the ship and rolling back into the sea.

“You wanna know what I love about the sea?” Charles asked finally, his eyes still grazing the seemingly endless body of water. Ichabod turned to him. “The beauty of it; the beauty of the world. It makes you forget. That the world isn’t good.”

Ichabod straightened. “That’s hard to forget,” he responded.

“Do you really believe world peace can’t…exist despite what humans’ve done?” Charles mused.

“If you’re of the religious sort, you would know that not even Jesus Christ could achieve world peace,” Ichabod stated.

Charles smiled hopelessly, his attention drifting back to the sunset leaking its oranges and reds into the dark blue waters.

“That’s why it’s up to us,” he replied suddenly, his arms animated by vigorous passion. “Arton, it’s up to us to change the world. To keep everyone going. This…this, Ichabod, is just one of the few islands filled with savages we have to convert to ways of progress—you get what I’m saying?”

“What I perceive, Mr. Bradley,” Ichabod began slowly, “is a man applying ‘savage’ to a people we do not understand; people who decided to exist in their own world, away from ours. And to do so is rather obtuse. There is a bigger problem here. They have been sheltered in their own world, resulting in an ignorance—but what is ignorance? Something they cannot be aware of.” Ichabod sighed when Charles stared at him incredulously. “My primary occupation is not simply a writer. I am a traveler. And I travel because it is a way to discover the aspects of a multidimensional world.”

“You mean…making a two-dimensional world become one-dimensional on paper?” Charles questioned. “I mean, if you put your mind to it, Arton, I think you could do it.”

“No. I discover it to change the minds of those with a one-dimensional view,” Ichabod returned.

“What do we need to understand about them, Arton?” Charles frowned. “Murder is murder—it isn’t right. They killed other men. Like savages. While we sit here making medical discoveries, technological advancements, scientific observations…they sit there lost. It would be a sin to let them go.”

Ichabod scoffed. “I’m not here to atone for the sins of people we have no business knowing—”

“Then why are you here, hm?” Charles snapped. “In your books, don’t you talk about the glories of being enlightened? Come on. It’s embedded in your DNA to gloat. You’re British.”

“Then you miss the point, Mr. Bradley,” Ichabod stuttered. “It is to make the audience understand—”

“To make people understand”—Charles’s arms flailed in the direction toward their destination—“make them understand they’re wrong. We aren’t, dammit. Think about it, Arton! Our power will bring the world together into civilization.”

“Eatin’ time,” Johnny called, his afro barely peeking above deck.

“I think that power is corrupting you like every other ‘civilized’ person in existence,” Ichabod retorted as he walked past Charles.

…

Harrison licked the sides of his bowl like a bored jaguar. Charles regarded the bowl of mystery soup with amusement.

“It’s just beef stew, Bradley,” Johnny huffed, shoving Charles into the table.

“Agh,” Charles grunted. He glared at the cook and then grabbed his spoon. “Alright, alright, you ass.”

“’EY, I just don’t need ya looking at my soup like ya saw a ghost, ‘kay?” Johnny retorted.

“A ghost? Come on, that wasn’t it,” Charles objected.

Johnny slopped some of this beef stew into a wooden bowl for Ichabod. He swallowed a chunk of beef without making a face. Harrison looked amused as he observed Ichabod shovel soup out of the bowl.

“I’m curious,” Harrison said suddenly, “why are you riskin’ your life? Why didn’t you stay home?”

Ichabod swallowed the soup and licked his teeth. “I’m a travelling author,” he replied. “Life is all about risks. Travelling is a risk.”

Ichabod didn’t really know what made him gravitate towards the map Charles had presented him several weeks before. But he felt it was his calling to go there, especially after the backlash of Repeated Mistakes: The Reality of Human Progress. To see beyond the civility his writing circle claimed.

“I like bein’ at sea,” Captain Flemming said, guffawing. “I’ve never left the sea. And yarnt gonna see me on land unless I need things. Yarnt gonna see me on that island either, I swear t’that.”

“We’ll just be needing one of your boys,” Charles replied, mixing the stew in his bowl.

Flemming considered. “As long as ya bring ‘im back, you can ‘ave Walker.”

Walker looked reluctant. “Alright, alright.”

Flemming frowned. “Walker, yer the only one I know smart enough to come back,” he replied. Some of the crew members looked up from their bowls at the comment.

“I don’t get why they’re going,” Walker huffed. “I don’t care about exploring some fuckin’ island. Hell, I say we just bring ‘em back and make ‘em servants ‘r somethin’.”

“That’s not my plan,” Charles retorted. “We’re going there to enlighten ‘em.”

Harrison lifted his bowl and Johnny happily gave him more soup.

“About what? You can’t enlighten idiots,” Walker scoffed. “It’s like trying to teach Tibbly over there how to read.”

“Fuck you and yer grandmother,” the cabin boy snarled.

Walker casually leaned over, his paw clapping the boy’s blonde nest of hair.

“Why do you consider them idiots?” Ichabod inserted cautiously.

“Because they are,” Walker snarled. “I don’t fuckin’ give a damn about some island. We shoulda just left it alone. ‘Specially you, Ichabod. You’re a fuckin’ lady, how are you gonna make it out there when you make a living drinkin’ tea?”

“Hey now,” Harrison said, a chuckle rumbling beneath his words, “let’s not call out the obvious.”

“That’s enough!” Charles yelled, making even the captain who assumed so much authority turn. “We’re going there to be the philosophers they never had, Walker. Kings of a new world. And Arton’s gonna write it.”

The men began to eat again, their spoons cautiously clunking the bowl while Charles ate his unaffected.

“Well, I’ll go, Bradley,” Walker said as he stood and headed over to the pot of bubbling soup. “You seem to have sense.”

…

Ichabod took another long sip of tea, letting the hot liquid clear his throat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, which he regretted since the quarters smelled like sweat and Johnny’s special meals. Maybe the crew didn’t have any taste buds after soaking in salt air for so long.  It smelled this way for eight days straight, but it wasn’t surprising since the crew loved to get into instantaneous wrestling matches for pastime. Ichabod mechanically extended his index finger out to support the leaning candle as Johnny tumbled toward the table, laughing breathlessly.

“That ain’t fair, Harri,” he said as Harrison lifted him up with one pull.

Walker sat up from his hour nap, the cot shifting beneath him. “Can a man get some sleep ‘round here?”

“Don’t be such a dull boy, Walker,” Harrison shouted, his voice growling off the cracks and corners.

Walker slammed his fists into the bed, hitting the crispy wood board hiding under the scratchy blankets. “Don’t wake me up then!” he barked.

“Don’t you men have something better to do?” Ichabod dared to say, his eyes never leaving the page.

Harrison suddenly hovered over Ichabod and he stopped writing.

“Can I help you?” Ichabod grumbled.

“No, just lookin’,” Harrison answered, a tacky grin twisting his face. “Need more tea?”

“Drink up. I don’t think Islands have tea,” Johnny teased.

“No thank you,” Ichabod replied. “I am sure you have better things to do. Watching me will not be as amusing as giving a crewmember a black eye.”

“True,” Harrison admitted, ignoring the mockery in Ichabod’s voice, “but I’m still curious.”

“I better get dinner started,” Johnny decided, yawning. “Ain’t got time to be watchin’ writers.”

“Hope the story’s good,” Charles voice shot from across the room and the three men turned.

“For now, they’re only musings,” Ichabod remarked. “They won’t turn into anything for now.”

Harrison rolled his eyes, simpering. It looked like he would say something, but he saw the warning Charles’s eyes shot him.

“Flemming says we’re getting close to the island,” Charles announced. “We don’t know what to expect, but remember to have all of your weapons. Guns, knives…whatever you’ve got.”

“Pens,” Harrison inserted smartly. He grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table and took a large chunk out of it before flashing his canines.

Ichabod remained indifferent to the remark meant to irk him. “I never mastered the art of combat,” he told Charles.

“Believe me,” Charles replied, “if there is one thing we can agree on about human nature, it’s our will to survive. If you’ve had a weapon before, you’ll be fine.”

“Weapons make me nervous,” Ichabod replied in a sigh. “They kill. They make war.”

“They protect,” Charles added, frowning.

“Didn’t know there were women aboard,” Harrison snickered, giving the apple another devastating bite.

“Harrison, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Charles asked, his eyes narrowing.

Harrison looked confused. “Yeah?”

Charles smirked. “Then don’t mess with Arton or he’ll make a villain outta ya.”

“I don’t care,” Harrison hissed, tossing the apple carcass back into the bowl out of spite.

Ichabod glanced at Charles, the authority in his features being highlighted by the dim flame. “Besides,” Charles continued, holding Ichabod’s eyes with his own, “he’s gonna show us what’s so complex about the world.”

…

“Land ho!” Flemming roared.

Ichabod shot up. He had fallen asleep and now he groaned, realizing his cheek happened to be pressed to a small puddle of black ink. He looked over at his bed, which was a bit ruffled, but showed no signs of him sleeping in it. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t slept in his bed since they left, afraid to miss something. But he found he missed nothing cooped up in small quarters with a bunch of men who liked to wrestle each other at random.

Ichabod rushed on-deck and faltered. Before him lay a vast jungle. Harrison, Charles, Walker, and Ichabod all debarked from the ship and walked warily toward towering trees that shivered in the gentle breeze. Harrison didn’t appear so large anymore. The jungle took on that responsibility, the leaves creating shadow claws and the endless vegetation becoming the body. The bushes pushed them deeper into the forest like a welcome, but the overgrown leaves seemed to warn them, catching their faces and tangling themselves in moving arms and legs. Charles continuously slashed at it with his cutlass, paying no mind to the dry cry of the leaves as he swiped at them.

“Holy shit,” Harrison muttered, hugging his rifle closer.

They found themselves right in the heart of the forest, the sky bleached-white, glaring down at them.

“Keep close and stay alert,” Charles ordered. But his voice broke slightly, making his friends stare at him.

“Here, Arton,” Charles said, handing Ichabod the knife. “Just in case we get separated.”

The men trudged forward, feeling too vulnerable to stay in the wide-open section of the forest.

“Ack!” Harrison’s gun went off and everything went silent. Charles looked around.

“James, what the hell was that!” Charles thundered.

Harrison pointed to some red beast lying lifeless on a bed of thick grass. Charles drew his breath in sharply and shot at the beast again. It looked prehistoric, and Ichabod squinted to see that it was an over-sized bat. He took a few clumsy steps backward, hoping the ground became a grave for the animal.

Charles stopped and put a finger to his lips. “I hear something…” An arrow hissed through the airm, and Harrison howled and fell to the ground. Charles shot in panic at the air. Ichabod tackled him to the ground.

“Get off me!” Charles shouted. He elbowed Ichabod in the chin.

“No! Charles!” Ichabod pointed toward the trees and Charles’s jaw went limp.

“Shit…we’re…outnumbered,” Walker whispered from the side of his mouth.

Dark figures clad in green and brown attire moved slowly, predatorily. They looked like they were parts of the tree and the earth, the only thing distinguishing them being their brown faces and eyes. The forms spoke in a strange dialect. One of them poked his staff at Harrison.

Ichabod stood, his hands up, making these unfamiliar men stiffen and point their arrows at him.

“We come in peace!” Ichabod cried.

The man with the decorated staff said a curt word, his eyes wide. He laughed and smiled.

“Who are you, fire-hair man?” he questioned in that strange dialect.

Ichabod couldn’t understand what the man asked him. He looked around at the natives, his hands in the air for surrender.

“I—I’m Ichabod. Ich…Ichabod.”

“Ichbosh?” The man played with the name on his tongue. “Icabosh!”

“No, Ichabod…” Ichabod swallowed as the men got closer to him and sniffed. “And…and those are my friends.”

“Fire-haired man! We welcome you!” the man pointed to himself. “I am Ezo.”

Ichabod blinked. “Uh…your name is Ezo? I, Ichabod. You, Ezo?”

The man nodded eagerly. “Ayayaya! Ichabod, come with us.”

The other men began to follow, but a woman stopped them with words they didn’t understand.

“Who are you? Are you with the fire-hair man?” she demanded.

The men looked at each other, confused. Ichabod stopped and looked back. He pointed to them.

“Those are—they are my friends.” He pointed to himself and nodded. “They are my friends.”

“Bring them! He says they are with him,” Ezo ordered.

“Is one of them a sacrifice?” the woman asked. “Fire man always brings a sacrifice. Like last time.”

Harrison struggled to get up, still in pain. Ezo pointed to him.

“He will be our sacrifice.”

…

Charles laughed nervously as men and women set out a feast before them on a long wooden table. “Arton,” he said. “I didn’t know your work travelled further than you.”

“I wish that was the case,” Ichabod replied, just as surprised by the generosity of strangers.

They were being very nice and some of the women were trying to feed him fruits, but he politely shook his head at them. Ichabod enjoyed himself despite the language barrier. He would smile back at them while eagerly eating their exotic, spicy, and sweet foods. He didn’t know what any of it was; he just knew his taste buds never sang so much and that these people welcomed him. The people Charles marked as savage.

After eating, Ichabod continued to follow several members through foreign village. He caught Walker staring at one of the women like he was an owl ready to dig his talons into rare prey. Charles grabbed his shoulder, which seemed warning enough. Ezo stopped in front of a hut shaped from the roots of the tree next to it.

“Imer!!! Imeriiiiaaaaayyyy,” Ezo called out.

A tall man—probably seven feet with skin akin to rubber—stepped out, and a small woman with the skin of maple syrup and hair twisted like licorice followed.

“Ago, how are you?” Ezo asked, smiling warmly.

“Ezo, good to see you,” Ago replied.

Ezo motioned Imer to the men he had brought with them.

Imer laughed. “Allo,” he said to the foreigners. “You came to right place.”

Walker’s eyes widened. “You speak English?”

“Acourse I do,” Imer said, offended. “Yer not first who came. I good with other languages. My name is Imer.”

“Holy shit…” Walker raked back his brown hair and briefly closed his eyes.

“What brings you here?” Ago demanded. “We have not seen yer kind fer long.”

“We came here to…explore,” Charles began. But he stopped when he heard Harrison groan in pain. “Can we get some help for Harrison—our friend?”

Ezo nodded at Imer. “He is nokawa.”

Ichabod blinked. “What does that mean?”

Imer smirked. “We never got translation for that,” he answered.

Ago beckoned to Harrison and they took him into the hut.

“He will be taken care of,” Imer said. “Come with me. I show you ‘round.”

Ichabod had his pen ready. He was amazed by the technological advancements of these people. They had an intricate water sanitation system. They carved their huts from the trees around them, and their agriculture seemed advanced and included great variety. He would have to write a book separate of this one…Breaking the Myth of the Uncivilized. Ichabod smiled inwardly at the title.

“You know,” Imer said, pointing to a flower, “this right her cures belly pains. And this her cures skin problems.”

“So…did you learn this from the last guys who came?” Charles asked cautiously.

Ichabod had almost forgotten about the last explorers. The explorers in which only one survived.

“What?” Imer barked. The men flinched, and he started laughing thunderously. “Why do we need help of usha?”

“Usha?” Walker echoed.

“That what you look like. Kinda like ghost,” Imer replied, pinching Walker’s arm. “We help ourself. We jus’ go to wise hall and think of problems we need to fix.”

“What about weapons?” Charles questioned.

“Weapons? We use arrows to hunt,” Imer returned.

“Why not guns? These animals you have—they don’t look like an arrow would take ‘em down,” Charles said.

“Gun? Why would we need gun?” Imer huffed. “We have land to satisfy our need. Gun bring badness.”

Ichabod tried not to smile at this. If only people in his world believed this.

“What’s wrong with bringing modern technology into your world though?” Charles challenged.

“Everything,” Imer replied.

“How about trade?” Ichabod asked. “How do you trade?”

Charles frowned. Ichabod assumed it was because he didn’t consider the gun discussion over.

“Yes,” Imer’s grin returned. “We trade. Instance would be I give Ago two goat and she give me grain, about three bag.”

“There’s an easier way to do it now,” Charles said, snatching the opportunity to spread modern ideas. “We use money.”

“I know what money is,” Imer replied. “But worthless here. Make people crazy.”

“But it’s easier to transport,” Charles challenged. “You can teach your people to use money to do good and to help themselves.”

“There’s no use convincin’ ‘em, Bradley,” Walker grumbled.

“But they don’t need to be swayed,” Ichabod responded. “Money should not have as much value as it does in our own society.”

“Be quiet, Mother,” Walker retorted.

“But that doesn’t mean they can’t learn to use it better than we can,” Charles declared. “It’s all part of human progress.”

“Human progress?” Imer almost hummed the words. He paused. “I don’t like money, Carl. Maybe one day. But no.”

…

Imer continued to show the three men around. Their architecture was unique. Somehow they had found a way to make their buildings from the trees. They made the jungle their god; a Jesus that never stopped sacrificing itself. But the sacrifice didn’t go unnoticed and people gave back to it by planting, worship, and burying their dead beneath its furtile soil. Ichabod found the simplicity beautiful and intriguing. At this rate, he didn’t think he would be going back to civilization. But then he remembered Florence, who waited anxiously for him.

“What’s with the chair over there?” Walker wondered out loud. “Why are they soaking it in….is that blood?”

“That is right,” Imer answered solemnly. “It is for the nokawa. For Olu. We give him bad souls to consume. No bad souls yet.”

“I don’t understand,” Charles returned. “Why is it that your god wants you to carry out who dies and who doesn’t?”

“He put us on this land for that purpose,” Imer answered politely, “and because he does not want to look at his mistakes.”

“Our god is forgiving,” Charles said. “I’d rather worship our Lord than to worship a god who gets people to make the judgement.”

Imer’s eyebrow rose. “Your god forgiving? But…gods are only meant to create and give. Not to forgive. Olu give us very much. To be bad is insulting after all he give us.”

Charles sighed. “There’s no convincing you people, huh?”

Ichabod paused. “Wait…when is the next bestowal?” he asked, readying his pen.

“I believe we will leave tomorrow, before Anyago peeks between the trees.” Imer pointed to the sun, which was getting ready to set.

“Ya mean the sun?” Walker asked.

Imer frowned and itched his head. “What is this son?”

Charles pointed to the sun. “That thing.”

“Oh no-no-no,” Imer replied. “That is our nane. Our mother.”

“Tell me more about your idea of cultivation,” Ichabod said suddenly.

“Ichabod, remember that you’re writing about our story, not these people,” Charles replied.

“Yeah,” Ichabod said dismissively.

Charles’s face became hard stone, but he said nothing.

“You stay here for night, fire man,” Imer told Ichabod amiably. “Rest of them sleep outside. No more space.”

“Hey, what?” Walker snarled, flashing his teeth like an aggressive dog.  His glare disappeared when Imer hovered over him with a glare of his own.

“We—we’ll sleep outside,” Charles stuttered, pulling Walker back. “The stars look great.”

“I will get some cots set out for here,” Imer replied, nodding. “We leave tomorrow early.”

…

Before the sun came out, two men were bringing out the chair they had soaked in blood.  Harrison wore their paint in greens, blues, browns, and oranges.  Ichabod surveyed his surroundings, noticing the natives swelling with celebratory joy. First, confusion, then, horrific enlightenment. His body became an internal furnace and he could feel the sweat slither down his back. In a robotic-like movement, he felt his forehead.

“Walker…I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he heard Charles say as they watched the natives dress Harrison.

“Thanks to you, fire man, we will not be in danger. And there will be one less bad soul,” Imer said.

Ichabod swallowed. “Yeah? Yeah.”

Ichabod hardly turned his head as Charles and Walker began to inch away from him.

“Well,” Ichabod said, “I’m glad we were able to get that accomplished. Erm…do you think…we can go now?”

Imer frowned. “Why? Will you not witness the power of Olu? Nonie would love for that to happen.”

“Nonie?” Ichabod echoed, taking a slight step back.

“Grandmother.” Imer swiped his hand through the scene, indicating the whole forest. “Nonie is one who put her daughter in the sky to help life alongside Olu. But Olu has anger because of all the bad things that happen on his land. Angry enough and he burn everything.”

Ichabod smiled tightly, feeling his heart leap nervously. “I’ll come. I wouldn’t want to disappoint grandmother,” he responded.

“Wait—wait, Arton, shut the hell up,” Charles retorted. Imer looked surprised at Charles’s sudden hostility. “No. We won’t participate in your fuckin’ ceremony. I refuse to let you take Harrison. We’re not leaving without ‘im.”

Walker backed away. “Charles…”

“No!” Charles barked. “Where’s our guns? We’re out o’ here.”

…

Ichabod watched Ago finish up her daughter’s hair with peace flooding her face and then kiss her son’s forehead. He began to imagine that it was Florence and their future children. Her and the children seemed to waft between worlds until she became Ago again. Ago gazed up at the sky and murmured little prayers, tears running down her eyes.

Ichabod looked back just in time. Imer directed his words at him:

“Why are your friends angry? You have saved us,” Imer replied, watching his wife too. “The shakes last full moon got very bad.”

“What if you left grandmother?” Ichabod questioned, not much louder than a whisper.

Imer responded with a flamboyant laugh. “To where, fire man? Why do bad souls need to live? Why do they have to be here? Bad souls throw off balance. Olu want to get them out. It is our duty. And I will always do it.” Imer looked very serious now. “Inwu: Death. It is not to be feared. When Olu don’t need us, he will take us in his hot embrace. And we will be one with nonie. She want us with her one day.”

“What if bad souls run out?” Ichabod questioned. He found himself challenging the ways of the people and caught his breath. No…this is not how it is supposed to happen, he thought. But…what they’re doing…it’s…

“Then Olu will send us home in time,” Imer answered, his voice hardly making it into Ichabod’s mind. He looked at his people and said in his language to them, “It’s time for us to go! Bring wood for the ceremony!”

Everyone began to pick up wood while chanting, “Ijoo mku oli put inwu!”

“They say bad soul means death,” Imer translated.

Ichabod’s legs shook uncontrollably, until his knees were on the dirt and he was vomiting. Imer just watched, like this had to happen to him. Like his reaction meant something good. Suddenly, a shot sound rang through the air and everyone stopped.

Charles was smiling at the fearful response. “Imer, translate!”

Imer twitched and Ichabod hyperventilated, his eyes still glued to the ground.

“All of you, stop!” Charles shouted. “Or we will use our guns to hurt those you love! Give us Harrison and no one will die!”

Imer laughed hysterically. “What? No. You stop, usha! You men all think you can get us!”

“You’ve killed innocent people for too long!” Charles snapped. “Your ways are outdated, Imer—it’s time for you to catch up with the rest o’ the world! We don’t have to do this. We can be on our way, but I want you to hear what I have to say!”

“Charles, just start shooting!” Walker exclaimed.

“Imer!” Charles called again, ignoring Walker. “It’s your choice! Lose your people or give Harrison back to us!”

Ichabod looked up and decided it was his chance to run. He got up and began to trot toward a tree. Ago glanced at him, but instead of calling him back, she shooed him away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

…

There was nothing beyond the vast saccharine background. Ichabod could hear his eyes move, and when he gasped, the sound echoed until it whispered like cigar smoke in the wind. He tried to move, but he was stuck in place. He felt like he was in some restrictive invisible box, only enough room for his lungs to expand. Suddenly, Ichabod felt something hot and looked down to see reds and oranges and yellows stacking and melding into each other like liquid fireworks. He yelped and as if on cue, the colorful display vanished. glancing up, he saw Charles, who wore a red headdress and carried a decorated cane. This man dressed in brown attire, which resembled the wood of trees. Ichabod could’ve sworn the natives he encountered dressed the same way. He tried to move again, failing.

“Mr. Bradley?” Ichabod exclaimed. “What are you doing here? I thought you were dead.”

Charles didn’t respond. He stopped smiling and then started to fade into the white of the scene.

“Wait!” Ichabod wriggled, but his feet stayed rooted to its designated spot. “If you could! Wait, Mr. Bradley. Wait, Mr. Brad…ley!”

Large peach-colored hands shot out, breaking the snow-white emptiness into a bright yellow. They grabbed him and he cried out for help. Suddenly, all was dark.

“Ichabod! Darling, wake up!”

Florence’s voice seemed to echo in the distance and slowly began to clear. Ichabod sat up, his face glimmering with sweat.

“What is it?” Florence whispered, her hand placed on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. A—a bad dream.” Ichabod cupped his head and inhaled deeply.

“This is the fourth night in a row, Ichabod,” Florence said worriedly. “Perhaps we need to find somewhere for you to relax. We…we could go to Bath.”

“I’m fine, dear.”

“It’s the book,” Florence declared. Then, in one breath, she said, “Until it’s finished, you cannot stop these nightmares. You haven’t touched it; you haven’t confronted your demons.”

“I am fine,” Ichabod repeated.

“No, you are not, darling. You are not.” Florence sat up completely.

Ichabod started to tremble. “Please. Let’s go back to sleep.”

“No!” Florence cried. “Tell me why you are overwrought and then I will sleep peacefully.”

“He haunts me. Every night. Like he was right and—and I was wrong.” Ichabod sounded frenzied. “He won’t leave me alone—he’s around me, he’s around us all.”

Florence blinked.

“You think me mad, but I know he haunts me. Every night he dresses like the natives and he—he says nothing.” Ichabod howled out, snot and spit culminating near his contorted lips.

“You mean Mr. Bradley? Ichabod…he was wrong,” Florence replied, trying to hug him. “He could have gotten you killed.”

“What if I was wrong?” Ichabod muttered into Florence’s shoulder. “What if he was right that I was wrong?”