We walked past the woods; there was something wrong I could feel it. Samara was overjoyed, at the climb as she tucked at her father’s sleeve. Her father was always around, even when I didn’t want him to be. She is my best friend, even lets me tag along for trips like these.
“Four little Indians
Walked from the fire
They slashed and killed
And burnt funeral pyres.”
Now why did I make that up I wonder, there is something about this place, the long woods, the grey skies and…that feeling, like someone or something going to spring up every moment.
“This place used to be the place where the natives killed the foreigners, they’d slash their throats cut off their heads and hang them from the trees like fruits of labour.” Her father said. Samara is gushing at this piece of information, while I’m in shivers.
It’s suddenly very cold. I look back and there they are, with guns and knives. There are four of them but they seem like many more. Samara and her big eyes are looking up at them with awe in her eyes. Why is she happy? Does she not know? Her father knows. He knows death when he sees it.
The darkness has faded now, I still hear the scream. She isn’t too happy and joyous now, is she? They take her father tied up, squirming like a goat going to be butchered. They work at the neck first, his legs are still shaking, and they cut off the head. Samara is crying louder and louder, the moment they bring his head close enough for us to look into his eyes, she is quiet. This ghost like silence, she breaks away and runs, the mad men behind her, her father dangling from their bloodied hands.
From far away I hear a scream, that’s the end of Samara I hope, no one would want to live after that. No one but me. Should I have told her? The story of the Indians?
It’s getting cold now, they come back tired from the joy, they are cold too. They drag the headless and the lifeless and burn him up for warmth.
“This place used to be the place where the natives killed the foreigners, they’d slash their throats cut off their heads and hang them from the trees like fruits of labour.” My father had said, years ago, when they had come. But I hadn’t run, I had come back, to finish my rhyme, I’m always back, to do my time.