Entry

St. Marco is a tiny village on the northern coast of Jamaica. Most of the villagers ignored my intrusion as I collected my flora samples. Despite their indifference to me, I would feel eyes at my back whenever I walked through the village. Most times when I looked over my shoulder, it would be children or a village elder, all with the same alien curiosity.

Other times, I would be completely alone.

St. Marco had no electricity or running water. Young boys would carry huge, wooden pails to the Black river and heft out water that dribbled over their skin and made it shine like obsidian. Toilets were holes in the earth, dug until the spade hit red clay.

The fourth night in my stay, I was huddled in my hut as a storm raged outside. I was reviewing my daily samples near the kerosene lamp. The wind pounded and shook my tiny hut, but the bamboo walls held. My eyes became heavy and I rubbed the bridge of my nose when I heard a scream.

I flung open my door, inviting in the wind and rain. It slashed at my face and I squinted into the darkness. It was like looking into an abyss. The blackness was infinite. I knew the night played tricks on the senses. I waited, only hearing the whipping of banana trees and the frantic whispering of dense foliage. The hairs on my neck became electrified, running a tingle through my spine. I suddenly wished I had brought my .38 Smith and Wesson. Somewhere in that abyss, someone was watching me.

The scream came again, longer this time. Almost certainly female. I hesitated. The rain picked up the tempo as the wind swirled into my hut and fluttered my papers like huge, white butterflies. Swallowing hard, I closed my door.

A hand shot through the narrow crack of door and jamb and clutched my forearm. I jerked back, yelling a curse. The door swung open. It was a boy, not more than eleven years-old.

"What do you want?" The words came fast and I suddenly flushed. "What's wrong?" I asked, softer in voice.

He was gaunt, almost skeletal. The children in this village were malnourished, more than the adults. It was a tragic sight to see laughing children with ribs and spine protruding tightly against skin, their faces sunken and eyes popping as big as their malnourished bellies. He stood just outside my door, letting the rain pound his fragile frame. It made his skin alive, crawling in the dim light of my kerosene lamp. I felt my flesh get hard and I ignored the urge to take a further step away.

In a thick accent, he carefully said, "Come. Help."

I cocked my head in surprise. These were the first words spoken to me since my arrival. I hesitated.

The boy caught my reluctance and looked over his shoulder then back at me. I swear I saw a small smile. He had tiny, white teeth that were shocking in the darkness.

"Come. Safe."

He left me at a hut on the outskirts of the village and melted into the black rain before I knew he was gone. As if to announce my arrival, the scream came again. From inside the hut.

"Shit." I ran a hand through my wet hair. I contemplated going back to the safety of my hut, but knew it was near impossible in the dark. I'd probably fall into one of the toilets.

When I entered, I noticed the smell first. It was unpleasant, but not offensive. Like the acrid odor of struck flint. The hut was dimly lit by candles in all corners of the room. In the center was a woman in bed, her face glistening with sweat. Her legs were spread apart and she screamed again, echoing off the walls and ringing my ears. She was giving birth.

"White man." The voice rasped like sandpaper. I started. It was Mah-kula, the oldest in the village. He was sitting in a wicker chair against the wall, hidden in the darkness. He gestured for me to come and when I got close, his hand clutched at mine and drew me even closer. His eyes were rheumy and leaking fluid, blinded by cataracts. His hot breath smelling of garlic and decaying gums. As he leaned into the flickering candle light, I swallowed hard.

"Baby," he pointed at the screaming, sweaty woman. "Baby dead."

I looked from the woman to Mah-Kula, uncertain. He squeezed my hand harder, drawing my gaze. His knobby Adam's apple throbbed. "Dead," he said gravely. Then he drew a finger across his throat and flashed a sudden smile at me, black gums and all. I tried to pull away. This made him laugh, his mouth agape and blasting coughs of rotten air in my face. I twisted away, my skin feeling dirty where he had touched me. As I backed away, I realized the screaming had stopped. I turned around.

The woman stood in front of me, her eyes bloodshot and yet blank. Beads of sweat lingered on a faint moustache Her skin glittered like a snake and I tripped over my feet, landing between her and Mah-Kula. In her arms was a swaddled bundle made from the bloodied sheets. She held it out to me. I could see the crown of the baby's head, turning side to side. It wasn't crying.

Then she dropped it in my lap, my arms instinctively cradling it close to me. The bundle was light, almost weightless. I felt the baby writhing against my chest, its legs and arms scratching at the sheets.

With a shaking finger, aware of the woman and Mah-Kula's closing presence, I peeled back the swaddled hood.

It had no face.


***


When I came to, I was alone. The village was deserted. The sun was overhead, baking the surrounding jungle. Last night's torrent had already dried, making the air sticky with humidity. I wobbled on my feet and almost fell over.

"Hello?" My echo was muffled, barely returning to me. I knew I was alone, but I had to know. I checked all the huts, finding nothing. It didn't look like the villagers had left in the middle of the night. It looked like there hadn't been any villagers in the first place. All the toilets were filled and compacted, yet the flies remained. The rain had washed away any sign of tracks. I was alone.

In my hut, all of my belongings remained, except a missing black sock that I had hung outside to dry before the storm. The kerosene lamp was shattered on the floor. I checked my knapsack, finding my clothes and equipment. At the bottom, I found a bottle of water and cracked the seal, letting the cap fall to the floor. I greedily sucked at the neck, water dribbling down my chin and neck. I didn't stop until I drew air and started coughing. It was a violent, syrupy cough that made me stumble against the wall.

Spots of blood. I touched the wall stupidly, surprised it was still wet. Then touched my lips and tongue. I was coughing blood.

I ran outside my hut. Then stopped. Where am I going? The sudden clarity set the panic in motion. I did the only thing I could think of.

I started screaming for help.

Eventually, calm set in. The blood was a constant, yet small, flow. Swallowing became difficult as the saliva became thick with blood. I would spit a red glob into the dirt only to watch the flies swarm hungrily. The sun was getting unbearably hot and I wrapped my shirt around my head. I scouted the entire village, every corner of every hut, searching for a clue. I found nothing. I discovered a small trail that paralleled the Black river, leading into dense jungle. I had been dropped off by a fishing boat from downstream. This path led me upstream. It was a well-worn and wide enough for a small cart that I had seen being pulled around St. Marco's. I went back to my hut and retrieved the ten-speed Schwinn I had bought in Kingston for five U.S. dollars. I had hoped to use it on trails to speedily collect samples, yet found there were no trails to speak of.

Except this one. The path, I was certain, hadn't been there yesterday.

I shouldered my pack and climbed on the bike, taking one more long look around before I started down the path and into the jungle.

I didn't stop until nightfall when it became dangerously dark to continue. I found shelter under a fallen Caper tree, its fruit now rotted and spoiled the air. I slept restlessly, jerking awake to branch snapping and calls of mysterious animals. Finally, I decided to stay awake until I saw the rising sun. As I waited, I thought of the baby despite my urge to forget.

It had no facial features. The skin was smooth, blending perfectly with its bald scalp. Yet, it had turned to me as if aware and I was certain I could see a face, just underneath the surface, pressing against the skin. Somewhere in the night, I heard the screaming calls of monkeys and I nestled deeper into my bed.

In the morning, I came to a waterfall. The crash of water made my teeth rattle, sending beautiful rainbows in its spray. I dropped the Schwinn in the path and jumped into the cold pool. It was shockingly refreshing.

As I stepped out, I noticed something white near the bushes of the waterfall. It was the waddled sheet, the blood still encrusted. It crumbled at my touch, staining my fingertips crimson. I glanced around, certain I was being watched. Behind the waterfall was a door, not bigger than a small child. It was made of solid wood and an iron ring for a handle. In the center were cryptic words that looked vaguely familiar and I shivered in the afternoon sun. Surrounding the door were miniature animal skulls, the white bone glistening from the waterfall spray.

I stood in front of that door, the roar of water directly behind me. I could barely think with such noise. Holding that sheet in my hand, I took a deep breath. And reached for the handle.

Word count: 1735

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