Fossils of the Missing Ones – V: The Boy Speaks
*The archaeologist was ‘stabbed’ in the back by the barbarian when he fell into the shallow grave. That evening there is a strange occurrence around the campfire*
There wasn’t much sleep going around that evening.
They had cleaned my wound
(it stung like a bitch),
and then we started talking.
We were ecstatic.
Even the locals had felt something in the air
and put on a show,
“The Dance of the Dead – to pay respect to their bones,”
one of them mentioned while passing a cup
of aromatic green tea,
bubbling at the rim.
The fire was huge,
a graphic equalizer that
kept the beat
with the drums’ rhythm,
with each rise and fall,
the dancers’ faces
(and sexy belly buttons);
The gash in my back throbbed;
the girls picked up the tempo,
and the tea pot hissed ‘Mist of Mystery’,
while a primeval fear grew, settling in my throat,
growing with each beat,
“Being … choked from the … inside,” I imagined saying,
but no one heard me.
Their heads were bobbing
to the pulsating music,
drops of sweat tracing
lines of disquiet
on their insipid faces –
or had it been tears?
Had they heard the boy?
Had they felt desperation in his little voice?
Yet the lump in my throat remained like a tumor;
when I couldn’t speak, I held out my hand
(like you do in those nightmares).
Again I heard him,
this time much closer than I’d anticipated,
too close for comfort, to tell you the truth,
for the voice was coming from my own vocal cords.