Late night, 18 Roalis, 2698
The outskirts of Dkanat
The outskirts of Dkanat
Ifran knelt next to the bed, and brushed the air above his daughter’s forehead with his lips. “Goodnight, efa’on,” Ifran whispered, softly, through the aching lump in his throat. He eased back, slowly, careful of the loose board, of the slip of his feet against the wood.
“Jara?” There was a small, sleepy voice from the bed; a little figure squirmed beneath the blankets and sat up.
Ifran held in the doorway; he had not meant to wake her, not after how long it had taken Nkansi to put her to sleep. But she was beaming at him now, small hands tangled in the blanket.
“Jara, I am not asleep,” Nkemi said, brightly.
Ifran came closer then; he was not so sure what else to do. He perched on the stool where Nkansi had sat reading stories an hour or two before. “No,” he said, “you are not.”
Nkemi was out of the blankets then, and in his lap before Ifran quite knew what to do. He felt an ache in his chest; he settled one hand against her back, feeling the beat of her small heart through the thin cloth of the nightgown.
“Tell me a story, Jara,” Nkemi commanded. “I need a story to sleep." She yawned, and curled her head against his chest.
Ifran swallowed. “I do not know any stories,” he said, quietly.
“I will tell you one,” Nkemi said, cheerfully. “There was a little girl, once. She lived in a big canyon, with the goats. One day, the stars came down to visit her.”
“The stars?” Ifran asked.
“Yes,” Nkemi said, firmly. “The stars needed her help, because the littlest star was lost. She walked all the way through the desert with her goats.”
“Did she find it?” Ifran asked, quietly, a little while later. Nkemi was asleep against his chest; she did not answer.
Ifran eased her away then, slow and careful; he settled her back on the bed, and drew the blankets up over her. He rose, and eased back.
“Jara!” Nkemi cried out. She thrashed, kicking at the blankets. “Don’t go!” She turned and buried her face in the pillow, making a small lump beneath her blankets.
Ifran hurried back, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. “What’s wrong?” He asked.
“It is dark,” Nkemi said; she sniffled into her pillow, and the sound tore at him. “Don’t go.”
Ifran sat on the edge of the bed; he reached out, slowly, and settled his hand on her back. “Even if I go,” he said, quietly, “I will be here.” His hand stroked down her back, slowly, through the blanket.
Nkemi squirmed, twisting to look at him; there were tear tracks down her small cheeks. Ifran swallowed; he gathered her up against his chest. Her little arms wrapped around his neck, and she sniffled noisily into the collar of his shirt.
Ifran rocked her back and forth, as he had when she was a little babe.
“I’m scared,” Nkemi whispered.
“Of what?” Ifran asked. There was only silence from the small, warm body against him. He swallowed; he held her closer.
“I might have a bad dream,” Nkemi said.
“You might,” Ifran said, softly. “I will come and pull you from it, if you do.”
“Like juela does for you?” Nkemi asked.
“Yes,” Ifran said, softly. He closed his eyes. “Like juela does for me.”
There was silence then, soft and contemplative. There was a slow relaxing of Nkemi’s small body, tucked against his heart. Ifran held her longer than he needed to; when he eased her down again, there was a wetness to his cheeks. He settled the blankets over her, and he rose.
“Jara?” Came a tiny, sleepy voice from the bed.
“Yes?” Ifran asked, looking down at his daughter.
“Only checking,” Nkemi said, sleepily. There was a smile on her face; it curled up her cheeks. Ifran smiled, and brushed his hand through her dark curls.
“Jara,” Nkemi said, sleepily.
“Yes?” Ifran asked, softly.
“What if you do not come?” She blinked up at him, sleepily. “How will I find you?”
“I will leave a lantern in the hall,” Ifran promised.
Nkemi nodded; her eyes fluttered shut again.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, and he rose; he eased back, slowly and carefully, beneath the smooth sounds of his daughter’s breath. He went; he brought a lantern back to Nkemi’s room, and set it gently, carefully, outside her door. He knelt; he struck the flint, and lit a small flame amidst the oil. Standing back, he could see it glowing through the glass, a faint pool of light just beyond it; not too far past, Nkemi slept, brushed white by the moonlight.
Ifran watched her; he adjusted the lantern, carefully, so only a little light shone through the crack in the door. I will always come, he wanted to promise; he knew it for a lie. I will always want to come, he wanted to tell her, his beautiful, precious girl. Don’t forget my light, he wanted to beg; don’t forget that I tried.
Ifran went, then, down past the empty rooms, past the books and papers which whispered temptingly in the night. He went to find his own dreams, and nightmares too, with the lantern burning behind him, and his little Nkemi fast asleep.
“Jara?” There was a small, sleepy voice from the bed; a little figure squirmed beneath the blankets and sat up.
Ifran held in the doorway; he had not meant to wake her, not after how long it had taken Nkansi to put her to sleep. But she was beaming at him now, small hands tangled in the blanket.
“Jara, I am not asleep,” Nkemi said, brightly.
Ifran came closer then; he was not so sure what else to do. He perched on the stool where Nkansi had sat reading stories an hour or two before. “No,” he said, “you are not.”
Nkemi was out of the blankets then, and in his lap before Ifran quite knew what to do. He felt an ache in his chest; he settled one hand against her back, feeling the beat of her small heart through the thin cloth of the nightgown.
“Tell me a story, Jara,” Nkemi commanded. “I need a story to sleep." She yawned, and curled her head against his chest.
Ifran swallowed. “I do not know any stories,” he said, quietly.
“I will tell you one,” Nkemi said, cheerfully. “There was a little girl, once. She lived in a big canyon, with the goats. One day, the stars came down to visit her.”
“The stars?” Ifran asked.
“Yes,” Nkemi said, firmly. “The stars needed her help, because the littlest star was lost. She walked all the way through the desert with her goats.”
“Did she find it?” Ifran asked, quietly, a little while later. Nkemi was asleep against his chest; she did not answer.
Ifran eased her away then, slow and careful; he settled her back on the bed, and drew the blankets up over her. He rose, and eased back.
“Jara!” Nkemi cried out. She thrashed, kicking at the blankets. “Don’t go!” She turned and buried her face in the pillow, making a small lump beneath her blankets.
Ifran hurried back, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. “What’s wrong?” He asked.
“It is dark,” Nkemi said; she sniffled into her pillow, and the sound tore at him. “Don’t go.”
Ifran sat on the edge of the bed; he reached out, slowly, and settled his hand on her back. “Even if I go,” he said, quietly, “I will be here.” His hand stroked down her back, slowly, through the blanket.
Nkemi squirmed, twisting to look at him; there were tear tracks down her small cheeks. Ifran swallowed; he gathered her up against his chest. Her little arms wrapped around his neck, and she sniffled noisily into the collar of his shirt.
Ifran rocked her back and forth, as he had when she was a little babe.
“I’m scared,” Nkemi whispered.
“Of what?” Ifran asked. There was only silence from the small, warm body against him. He swallowed; he held her closer.
“I might have a bad dream,” Nkemi said.
“You might,” Ifran said, softly. “I will come and pull you from it, if you do.”
“Like juela does for you?” Nkemi asked.
“Yes,” Ifran said, softly. He closed his eyes. “Like juela does for me.”
There was silence then, soft and contemplative. There was a slow relaxing of Nkemi’s small body, tucked against his heart. Ifran held her longer than he needed to; when he eased her down again, there was a wetness to his cheeks. He settled the blankets over her, and he rose.
“Jara?” Came a tiny, sleepy voice from the bed.
“Yes?” Ifran asked, looking down at his daughter.
“Only checking,” Nkemi said, sleepily. There was a smile on her face; it curled up her cheeks. Ifran smiled, and brushed his hand through her dark curls.
“Jara,” Nkemi said, sleepily.
“Yes?” Ifran asked, softly.
“What if you do not come?” She blinked up at him, sleepily. “How will I find you?”
“I will leave a lantern in the hall,” Ifran promised.
Nkemi nodded; her eyes fluttered shut again.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, and he rose; he eased back, slowly and carefully, beneath the smooth sounds of his daughter’s breath. He went; he brought a lantern back to Nkemi’s room, and set it gently, carefully, outside her door. He knelt; he struck the flint, and lit a small flame amidst the oil. Standing back, he could see it glowing through the glass, a faint pool of light just beyond it; not too far past, Nkemi slept, brushed white by the moonlight.
Ifran watched her; he adjusted the lantern, carefully, so only a little light shone through the crack in the door. I will always come, he wanted to promise; he knew it for a lie. I will always want to come, he wanted to tell her, his beautiful, precious girl. Don’t forget my light, he wanted to beg; don’t forget that I tried.
Ifran went, then, down past the empty rooms, past the books and papers which whispered temptingly in the night. He went to find his own dreams, and nightmares too, with the lantern burning behind him, and his little Nkemi fast asleep.
