Estre's Journey

Estre walked mostly at night, led by the soft, yellow light of the moon, and the mossy, muddy smell of the river. As she walked, she often thought of the mythical Tangalimlibo, the daughter of the second wife of an old tribal chief. Thoughts of Tangalimlibo kept Estre moving through the darkness, kept her mind on her foot steps, distracting her from her fears.

Tangalimlibo's mother, who had been barren for many years, became pregnant upon receiving a special nut from a black bird who visited her as she worked the garden. Tangalimlibo was her mother's special love, her precious gift from the bird. As a result, she maintained a rigid guard over her child. According to the myth, Tangalimlibo's mother only allowed her to play at night for fear of being hurt by her father's first wife's jealousy. And so it was that as she grew older, her chores were done only at night. Every night Tangalimlibo walked to the river, by the light of the moon, to fetch the family's water.

Eventually, Tangalimlibo married and delivered a strong, healthy song. She continued her life of daylight ensconce and moonlight existence. But one day, she was forced by her father-in-law to go to the river in the bright light of day. The spirit of the river swallowed her up, taking her from her husband who missed her dearly. Estre thought about the Great.

War Spirit who had swallowed up so many in her family, taking them from her. But the water spirit in the river in the ancient myth continued to give life to Tangalimlibo's son, and eventually returned Tangalimlibo to the earth as a healthy woman, richly blessed by the spirit world.

Estre's family would not be returned, of that she was sure. The war spirit was an evil one and would never be so kind as to bless and return. So many had died, and now she'd been told that her parent's too, had been killed. But Estre was skeptical; she didn't believe anything without seeing it with her own eyes. Besides, she'd also heard that her parents had not been killed. With the phone lines cut, she had no choice but to go and see them.

As Estre's newly callused feet slapped along the road in steady determination, she thought about the guiding light of the moon, and the guiding spirits of the river in her life, and in mythical Tangalimlibo's. She knew she was surrounded by holy spirits and that she would be protected on this, her destined journey.

Haunted by dark shadows in the forest nearby and by rustling sounds in the tall grasses and hilly crevices, Estre stayed at the edge of the woods and kept her mind focused on her mythical sister. "Like Tangalimlibo, I too am 'one who walks by Moonlight'".

By dawn, Estre moved into the forest for rest. She slept in the cool, dark shade of the jungle growth, which lulled and comforted her by day, despite its haunting tricks at night. She knew the murdering rebels were regrouping somewhere nearby, she knew they were running to the same hills and tangled vegetation to sleep off their drunken frenzies, some to slash a final limb from an innocent victim. Yet she could see the images that went with the sounds in the daylight, and she trusted the leaves to hide her well. Despite being in the center of a war zone without rules, Estre felt protected by the tall grasses on the hills of her mother's people, just as she had felt as an infant nestled in the soft hills of her mother's breasts.

Weary from hunger and fatigue, Estre would slip into the sorghum groves at sunrise, parting the grasses and climbing the hills until she found a spot she thought was unclaimed by both animals and militiamen.

She swept her long arms over the tops of the grass, and then froze her frail body, trapping thin breath beneath the surface of her breast bone. She strained her ears, listening for suspicious sounds. Only her eyes darted around, surveying the entry to the forest behind her, and as far into the darkness as her eyes and imagination and fine-tuned senses could take her.

Finally, her shoulders rose as she took in more air and sank again as she emptied her lungs. Long graceful fingers met at her belly and drove into the poetic silence of the bronze and green blades of her daytime mattress. She parted the silky stalks with the arrow of her hands and dove them downward, head and body flowing behind in natural succession. She curled into a ball and carefully pulled the grassy curtain above her head closed, hiding all signs of her presence.

Checking to see that there were no spaces among the tips of the blades, Estre noticed how, from her vantage point on the surface of the earth, the grasses and the trees all around her seemed to be stretching to the sky, the subtle movements of the near-still air made it look as if they had tiny hands and were reaching, reaching to the heavens.

But in the short moments before sleep overtook her, Estre wondered about the heavens; did they hold the souls of her mother and father, her siblings, their husbands, their babies; or were there no heavens, only a raging god and a joyous devil.

Sleep moved in like a prowling tigress, lapping up tiny bits of fatigue; her muscles twitched away the tensions like cows switching flies as they stood in the sun. Sleep stole the answer to her question about the heavens and pushed the question away until the next morning when she would lie down again in a different spot and a different forest surrounded by the same comfort, threatened by the same whispers and shadows.

A black bird screamed over her head and Estre awoke with a start, jumping to a crouching position, still covered by the green blades. She listened to the bird calling over and over until finally it was answered by a mate from deep in the woods and it flew off between the majestic trees. Estre looked toward the mouth of the woods and on out into the open space of the civilized road. She stood and began her journey for the 6^th night.

It was just turning to dusk as she neared her home village. As if on a runner's second wind, Estre's body surged with false energy. She would go straight to the family home at all costs, no more hiding or running. She walked on in a straight and determined way. Her shoulders pulled forward, hips pushed out, eyes starring ahead with such power and insanity that she was almost machine-like as she clipped away the final few miles.

At last, her family house stood on the horizon. Estre's hands swelled from the heat, doubled by her nerves. Her neck stiffened and a hard, dry rock began to grow in her throat. She stepped onto the porch and opened the screen door. It slammed shut behind her; she jumped. The house was in shambles. Furniture was overturned, the refrigerator was opened and flat on its side, its contents spilled, curdled and rotten on the floor. A sour stench caused her nostrils to flare open and her thick tongue to swell over the lump that grew in the back of her throat. She stepped over broken glass and pieces of ripped fabric from clothing, curtains, even furniture.

Estre tried in vain not to see, through watered eyes, the smeared blood stains on the floor, the walls, the sink, even the air. Echoes of violence followed her wherever she stepped or looked. She could feel the splattered blood rise from the surfaces and close in on her; she could feel the blood in her own hair, dripping down her back, behind her teeth and between her toes.

Estre stood in the living room for a very long time. She barely moved, but slowly inched her eyes around the room, stepping around herself. Her fisted hands knotted around the belly of her dress, wringing and twisting and pulling at the worn, cotton threads. Her forehead knotted, her eyes held pools of salty human fluid in their bottom lip; tiny, high-pitched cries resonated in her head and escaped through her nose.

She looked at the back door and tilted her head ever so slightly. Taking slow, tiny, scooting steps, she moved toward it. The door flew open as she approached and she stepped out, leaning on the broken railing of the porch. The stale violence of the now wild garden stared back at her. The banana palms were strung with echoes of human memories; the mango and orange trees were hacked and damaged. The land that had always securely held the fruit trees like fingers around a flowering blossom had always been green and well manicured; now it was wild with twisted weeds as if it were rising from ashes, screaming into the silence.

Estre's eyes were drawn to the papaya trees in the garden. Ah, such an abundance of the soft, oval fruit. Dangling from the branches, they glistened in the sun like rich, royal diamonds. She could almost see the sweet juice dripping from within the fleshy skins. She stepped onto the rock path her mother had laid in the garden years ago and reached up to take one of the sweet nourishing gifts to her breasts.

Just as her palm touched the warm, velvety fruit, she sniffed, as if stifling a cry. She did it again, and again. Then her mind began to register the odor that was grabbing at her senses. Her eyes fell to the floor of the garden and through the weeds, she saw the naked decapitated bodies of 50 or more of the orphaned children her mother had cared for in recent years.

Estre collapsed into the dust. She gagged and spat in a desperate fit and finally, she produced a small drop of yellow bile, which fell onto the broken porch boards...