The Butterfly Heart (15 page)

I wrote about her in my notebook last night.
Witches are mainly just people who get the blame. It has always been that way, because everyone wants to blame someone else for their sadness or misfortune. So I do not believe Fred’s great-granny is a witch, just an ancient odd woman.

It felt a bit of a relief to write it down, because I had started to become really nervous of her and that’s too Madillo-like for my own good. I have known Fred my whole life, and ever since he could talk he has made up stories. I don’t know why I chose to believe this one. I hope he doesn’t make things up to tell his strange little brother, Joseph. Joseph looks like he’d collapse into a heap if anyone said anything horrible to him. He definitely takes after his mother. Although I suppose he has grown up with the whole witch thing, sort of like a family tradition – “Joseph, pass the salt to Great-granny Witch, there’s a good boy” – so maybe he’s not as scared as he looks.

One of Fred’s silliest lies was when he told us that the reason he could get through the hedge between our houses – and we couldn’t – was that the bushes parted to let him through. This is one of the things he says his great-granny has passed onto him. I asked him to show me but he said that if anyone was watching him the bushes wouldn’t do it. How convenient is that? Bushes that wait when they’re being watched? They obviously don’t part wide enough, either, because we always know when he’s come through the hedge just by the look of him.

So all set now for tomorrow. Well, not really all set because I still have no idea how we’ll get Winifred here. Dad said he wanted to take us to Munda Wanga Gardens, but that will just have to wait. I like going there, mainly because of the giant tortoises and the petrified wood. I love the fact that
petrified
really means “turned to stone” – because that’s exactly how you feel when you’re so scared you cannot breathe. It is just how I felt when I heard the great-granny’s voice and just how I know Winifred will be feeling now.

The
moon lay low in the sky and the soil was damp. There were few lights burning in Kalingalinga and people did not stir from their homes. There was something strange in the air, something heavy and unexplained.

In Winifred’s home Mama was clearing away the food. Winifred had not eaten. She was still sitting at the window looking out at the silent emptiness of the streets. Uncle cleaned his plate and licked his lips. Across the table sat his friend, his chair pushed back so his stomach had room to breathe. He was angry that the young girl had not come to the table to serve him his food. He had heard her begging her mother, “Not tonight, Mama. Please, I don’t want to be near him.” And the mother had let her off. A spoilt child.

But the food had been good and his stomach was full. Now he could go to the shebeen with his friend: the night was warm and cold beer would taste good. He didn’t like being around this woman who was going to be his mother-in-law. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. Her husband said she would do what he told her to, but there was something in her eyes that was not good. She was like the woman from his own village who ended up not marrying because she would never do what anyone told her. They called her Mukani, “the one who always refuses”. This mother had the same look in her eyes, even though she pretended to obey her husband. The old man did not trust her.

He had already told his friend that when he was married he would not live near his mother-in-law – he didn’t care for that part of the tradition. He had his own house in the village of his mother, and the young girl would come to live there – it was already decided. He would come back on weekends, when he was not working. That way he could have two lives, a town life and a village life. It would be good.

They set out from the house, these two men, laughing loudly at each other’s jokes, their eyes already greedy for beer. They walked slowly through the streets, their noses filled with the smells of paraffin and cooking that crept out of the open doors of the small houses. They didn’t notice that the streets were empty; that there were no children kicking balls, no children chasing bicycle wheels or pushing the little cars made from wire and Coke cans; no men sitting outside the doors breathing in the night air; no women calling the children to come inside before the mosquitoes got them. They did not notice because they had other things on their minds.

When they got to the tavern they did not see that there was only one other man there, a man they didn’t know. They were too busy to notice a stranger in their midst. They were too busy through the evening to notice that he stayed there for the whole night, sitting quietly in the corner without even sipping from the tall brown bottle in front of him. He looked at them but they did not look at him. The man in the corner wasn’t happy with what he saw; it gave him no pleasure to be sitting there hour after hour, waiting. But he waited, as he had a job to do. He would wait till dawn if that was how long it took.

The drinking and talking continued till late into the night. The barman was anxious to close up shop and go to the back to get some sleep. It had been a long day and night, and he was tired of these men. He knew them and didn’t want to chase them away: they were good customers, even if they were tiring. He also knew the other man, the one who never drank from his bottle. He did not mind him being there.

The two drinking companions grew louder as the night went on, and it seemed that they had forgotten that the darkness should bring sleep. But as the sun started to shine its gentle light onto the horizon, the older man yawned and stretched his arms out. The other man nodded and they both stood up. Neither of them was steady on his feet but they helped one another and shouted their goodbyes.

The third man, who had been watching them all night long, got up and handed the full bottle back to the barman, thanking him for his patience. This was the man who, they said, would keep the snakes away from your shop without asking for payment; the man who said little but heard much. He had spent the whole night listening to the two men as they drank, but they did not know this. He could listen without moving his head.

He walked slowly into the pink light of the morning. He was without his bike, so many of those who were starting their day did not recognize him. He carried his bag over his shoulder and there was a slight movement in it. It could have been the cool breeze that heralded the end of the heavy, warm night. He kept his distance behind the uncle and the old man until they arrived at the quietest part of the street. Then he walked faster until he was only a few metres behind them.

He stopped and undid his bag. Slowly, a magnificent, pure-white snake slithered out. It lay at his feet then looked up at him. Ifwafwa bent down and whispered words to it. Then he stroked the snake, from its pale head all the way down its rippling body. Slowly and elegantly it began its journey, slithering down the road behind the two men.

The uncle could not say his words properly as he stumbled down the street, and each time he tried he laughed louder, clinging onto his friend’s arm. They were both filled with the fire of hunger now, walking faster so they could get back to the house to find food.

The uncle stopped, out of breath – he had heard something. He turned his head and saw a pale flash on the ground behind him. He shook his head, it must be the beer confusing him. He walked on. Suddenly the dawn light changed and a brightness came over the two men. The uncle turned round. He saw the pale shape moving swiftly towards them. He saw it leap into the air and wrap its long body around his friend’s neck. It stayed like that for only a second before it slid back down. The uncle stood there, his feet unable to move, as the creature turned its attention to him. Slowly, it moved up the side of his body and wrapped itself around his right arm. Then it was gone.

The soft dawn light returned and the uncle looked down at his friend, who lay crumpled on the ground, not moving. The uncle stared at his own arm where the creature had attacked him. His shirtsleeve was ripped off and a mark ran from his thumb to his shoulder, the mark of a snake. His arm burned and felt as if it was no longer part of him. He looked behind him at the empty street and saw a man crouching on his haunches, his hands held out in a welcoming gesture. Then he saw nothing more as his feet found speed and he ran, leaving his friend alone to face the rising sun.

It
is done now. I can rest for a while and take my friend back to the place where he sleeps. He is not like other snakes, which sleep in the dry season and wake up when the rains come; this one sleeps for years and years, waking only to do what has to be done. He is never seen between those times. It is only I who know him. I was told of him by my grandmother, and it was she who passed down to me the way to call him. Today was the first time I have called on him to work. Now I have said farewell to him.

He works swiftly, like no other, and leaves a mark only when it is necessary to do so. With these men it was necessary.

The small girl, Winifred, will be free of him now and able to live her life. I hope that the mother will find her true self and make the uncle leave. It is time for that to happen. The work of the pale snake will strengthen her heart.

Winifred’s
uncle ran down the street, moaning noises escaping from his mouth with each step he took. He could not bear to look down at the arm hanging at his side. He burst in through the thin metal door of the house shouting for help, and collapsed into the chair he had left not twelve hours earlier.

Winifred’s mother was standing in the corner. Like a blind man, he had not seen her.

“What have you done?” she asked calmly She did not shout; she was used to him after too much beer, fighting and cursing, strutting into the house in search of bandages or food.

When he turned to her, she could see that this time was different: his eyes were wild and filled with fear, his right arm hung by his side and there seemed to be a strange mark on it.

“Simon is lying in the street!” he shouted. “I don’t think he can get up. It happened so fast I could not even see what it was. One minute he was laughing, the next he was gone, fallen to the ground… There was this light, a bright light, and then this thing…” He looked over his shoulder in terror, then back at his wife. “This thing attacked me, too. My arm… Look.” He was sobbing now.

Winifred’s mother came closer. From Uncle’s thumb right up to his shoulder was a perfect drawing of a pale snake winding its way up his arm. On his shoulder was the wide-open mouth, its fangs dripping. It looked ghostly against his dark skin. She stepped back from him. “Who did this? Go and clean yourself up, this thing looks evil.” She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. “Simon is drunk, you are drunk. There’s been no lightning this morning – look at the clear sky. What are you talking about, flashes of light?”

He sobbed louder. “I saw it, it was right there, this thing – this monster – it came to Simon so fast and then to me… This cannot be cleaned off, it’s on me and in me, I can feel it move. It’s waiting to kill me. Look at its teeth…” He started hitting his arm as if he was trying to kill the snake.

Winifred’s mother moved back even further. “That’s an evil mark. What did you do?”

“Nothing! I did nothing!” he cried. “There was this man in the street… I saw him calling the snake monster, it was white, bright, shining … it’s his snake, maybe the one from the water? It’s going to kill me; it’s just waiting there to bite.”

He pulled his head to one side to escape the thing on his shoulder while Winifred’s mother looked on in fear. She heard footsteps and turned to see Winifred watching from the doorway.

“Ma,” Winifred said quietly, “what’s happened?”

“Your uncle was attacked – and his friend. He says it was by a snake, a white snake.”

“There’s no white snake that I know of, Ma. No such thing. Where’s the other man?”

Her uncle tried to stand. “He’s lying in the street… You must go and help him. The snake was around his neck, just like that, then gone…”

He sat down again, his legs unable to hold him any longer. “Maybe he’s dead … maybe I’m dead… Get the doctor for me, quickly! This thing is moving, it’s coming closer!”

Winifred looked at her mother. “Tell him to go, Ma. This thing is bad. Tell him, Ma: he must go now.” She was feeling light-headed, as if the world had started speeding up – maybe this was its way of spinning the uncle away. “Tell him, Ma. You can tell him.”

Her mother looked at her, her first-born daughter, so small and strong, standing there with her back straight; her child, begging her.

Then she looked back at the man who had come into her house after her husband’s death, come in like a rude visitor. Like a hyena after a lion, grabbing at what was left. This man who was as loud as his brother was quiet. She hated this man who had made her weak.

Yes, she would do it. She looked at the brother of her husband, and for one moment it seemed as though the world had stopped: there was no one else here, only her and this man, sobbing as he pulled uselessly at his strangely marked arm.