The Mother's Revenge

By Karan Handa

On his exquisite petite feet, a nine year old boy, Eric, rushed through the green bushy garden outside of a dainty wooden house in the mid of the wild Congo basin rainforest of Africa. Women and men wailed and whined, airing a terror into the horrid stillness of the jungle. Since his mother’s death, three months ago, it was for the quick third time that Eric was seeing this: people clustered around a black box, crying out their breath, amidst the heavy mournful rain in the hideous forest. Eric wonder ed if people were dying because of being shut in the black box.

“The devil—the evil devil!” the tribal cried in grief.

Eric’s father, Mr. Mart Van, stood listless and indifferent beside the afflicted tribal inhabitants. Being a forest inspector, he had grown callous to the pain of both the wild and social animals. Except for the tall, white, indifferent inspector, the whole nature and being of the dense dark jungle trembled in fear. It wasn’t only the number of deaths— in three months— that haunted people’s minds, but the mysterious and traumatizing way of the deaths that wouldn’t leave one’s mind at peace.

Mr. Van's beautiful wife, Flora, and the other three women, too, had died, sucked dry of breath , while surrounded with trees, in the densest depth of the forest. Dead blue lips and lifeless eyes hid some snide secret. Their bodies didn’t explicit any sign of a physical attack whatsoever.

“Why only women?” thought Mr. Van as he sat on the stairs that dropped at the driveway of his house. Smoking a cheroot and contemplating, he watched the hypnotizing wreaths of blue smoke fade away in the baleful air. “This is growing peril”, he muttered to himself. Eric watched his father stuck in grief. His big brown eyes showcased the emotions that pumped his heart. The golden curls of hair fell over his forehead managing to hide the frowns of fear.

Gazing through the wreaths of smoke, Mr. Van caught sight of a silhouette in the dark, a few feet away from him. His eyes grew wide. A stout tribal man, Faraji, came running in from the dark. The tribal was drenched in sweat; a pang of fear struck Mr. Van as he laid eyes on Faraji.

“Mr. Van—Mr. Van” the tribal faltered. “The evil has struck again; it has struck again. The lady is but still alive. We should get there”, Faraji continued.

The inspector threw away his cheroot in despair. “Ahh! I told you fools to go away from the forest”, he cried grabbing the tribal by his hair, and they both rushed to his petroleum jeep. The groan of the jeep’s engine set off a panic in the young brooding mind of the boy, Eric, who from inside of the house watched his father drive away in haste.

Mr. Van jumped out of his jeep and rushed into the dingy tribal hut made of clay, wood, and hay. Everyone stood huddled around the lady in question.

“Give way!” cried Mr. Van. He looked into the eye of the lady. She lay panting heavily; her sallow face unnerved him.

“Kill the . . . devil . . . the . . . breathes, then, won’t rest”, she stalled. Her throat dried up and her eyes bulged out. Bawls and cries stirred every soul present in there.

“We all die or we leave this murderous jungle, right now”, Faraji blurted out in a trembling voice to his tribal group.

“We don’t leave our tribe's land”, said a loud female voice as she entered holding strong to her spear. Everyone made way as the short black woman, the head of the tribe, Lesedi, came in. These trees have been our home for years. We don’t simply dessert it”, continued the Lesedi in her mettlesome voice.

“Oh! What good could a murderous home be? You idiots!” shouted Mr. Van. “Save your lives and run away”, he cried.

The whole tribe raised their spears at him and Faraji held his collars, “You don’t insult our elders or you don’t live!” he said.

“Stop”, a loud order from Lesedi interrupted them. “Throw him out”, she said.

The rough callous hands of the tribal men squashed and draggled Mr. Van through the huge puddles, to throw him away into the jungle. Mr. Van drove home burning in vengeance.

“Eric—Eric!” he called for his son in a hoarse voice. “Where are you Eric? Get me some water”, he called as he walked about the house throwing off his clothes here and there. He didn’t see his son anywhere. “Eric!”, he shouted this time; his voice grew grave. He ran into every room but Eric wasn’t anywhere. Pushing himself madly into the jungle, he went looking for his son. His heart paced up; his face grew pallid. Mr. Van leaped to a tree. He could hear the silence—the cacophonic silence. He lay there numb.

Mr. Van, instantly breaking out of the numbness, ran toward his house. His hands trembled as tried to grab the wirelessc. The device fell from his hand,"oh! my fuck! . . . he picked up the wireless and dials someone's on his wireless.

“You fool! Did you pick any boy from the jungle; I told you to get only women—the mothers!” he cried in a coarse voice. “He is my son”, Mr. Van continued in a crazy anger.

“Stop being a woman Mr. Van”, answered an American accented stern voice. “We know the difference between your son and the tribal women; but we don’t know nothing of your boy”, said a languid and harsh voice.

“NO! . . . NO!” Mr. Van let out a cry of grief.

“Let’s talk business, Mr. Van”, the indifferent man said listlessly. “We are taking down a huge load tonight. Make sure we are safe—and keep those stinky tribal away”, he asserted in a heavy, languid voice, and then hung up.

Mr. Van broke into tears and wails. “Oh my son” he groaned. He smoked cigarettes and cheroots and cried until tears dried up in his eyes. Nothing served as an anodyne to him. He crazily went about searching every drawer in his room, and pulled out a black ball of Hash. Being stoned, he lay frozen on his bed.

A flash of nacre-colored lightning filled the room; his wife, flora entered the room. He got knocked senseless. His frightened eyes watched her gesture: her hands moved flawlessly in the air; her fingers rolled exquisitely pointing towards the jungle, as she stepped out. Mr. Van threw away his white bed sheet and ran after her. Heavy lightening looked monstrous. The tall mahagony trees, in fiery, swayed as if a lion had opened his jaws to its prey; the moss colored clouds, in rain of rage, spoke of death.

“Maa. . .rt . . . Mart—Mart”, her whimpering whispers startled him, in the mid of the jungle. In a flick of an eye, she transposed into a mahagony tree with a myriad of branches; it started to bleed red and soon the whole tree stood drenched in blood. Mr. Van’s feet couldn’t hold the weight of his body; leaden with fear, he fell upon dry leaves on the ground. As he looked up the next second, he saw his wife’s face in the bleeding tree, then in the next tree, and then the other, until he found himself surrounded by a myriad of bleeding trees with Flora’s lacerated face. The blood bathed tree screamed,” You have murdered the mother—save the child”.

Mr. Van flung from his bed, his sallow face flooded with fright. It was his wife, Flora, in the dream. "Was it a dream?” he thought.

Those whispers ran about in his mind: “You have murdered the mother—Save the son”.

He rushed into the forest to find the place he had seen in his dream. His feet lingered at a place as he walked through the spooky forest. The droning of the night stopped and the silence of the jungle came back. His heart grew cold; he felt as if a knife was slowly piercing into his cold heart. He knew it was the place.

“Ha! Mr. Van you made it; well, I seriously doubted that you’ll be crying, at your home, like a pussy”, the heavy and languid voice that Mr. Van had earlier spoken to on the phone, uttered, and burst into a laughter.

Mr. Van got back to his senses realizing that he had forgotten that they were supposed to meet. The only thought he could brood over was the one of his little fairy eyed son; every inch of whose body felt celestial.

“My son . . . Heady . . . I still can’t find him . . . please Heady”, begged Mr.van.

“That’s bad news Mr. Van”, retaliated Heady in his listless manner, “but Mr. Van, I’m here to take away this huge load of wood, today,” he continued after a pause, smiling at Mr.van, contemplating something. “Now make sure nothing goes wrong, Inspector, and stop trembling like a weak whore”, Heady said as he walked away, “you, sir, must put this place to fire as soon as we leave”, he commanded.

All the men set to work and loaded the trucks with the logs of wood, and started to leave. “Put this place to fire, Inspector”, cried Heady from the glass window of his truck, and drove away.

Mr. Van sat there on his knees, pulling his clothes, as tears fled from his eye. “Oh my son, Eric, where are you?” His knees grew weak and couldn’t hold the weight of the pain he suffered from, pushing him onto the lump of dry yellow leaves, on the ground. He lay numb. All his misery and pain disappeared for a second; a thousand images crossed his mind in a flick of an eye, and a myriad of thoughts passed through his head; an enigmatic desire arose in him, a desire to set everything on fire, to burn everything as he burned himself. Mr. Van with his trembling hands, frantically, took out the liter from his pocket and set the lump of leaves on fire.

The little spark given by him soon grew into a monster, and the flames started to eat the trees. Mr. Van unable to breathe, stuck close to the ground and tried to get away, writhing like a snake, instead stumbling into a ditch. He coughed his lungs out, and his eyes grew dizzy; dumbfound in panic he exerted immense force on his legs to get out of the ditch, falling further deep into it. The suddenness of the fall didn’t let him be aware of his surroundings until, suddenly, he felt a touch of a body under him.

“No!” the Inspector wailed as he realized that he had fallen into a grave; the grave that held in its depths the body of his son, Eric. “My son!” he cried in grief on seeing his son’s body. Eric’s eyes still wide open as if they had seen death before he died; his lips dark blue, and a rat crawled on his little chest, biting and feeding on his skin. Mr. Van threw away the rat and hugged his son’s body. His wails and whines stopped, he lay calm. His eyes stopped shedding tears.

“Do not murder the mother or your sons won’t survive”, he mumbled, “Do not murder the mother or your sons won’t survive”, he kept mumbling the same words until the yellow hungry flames of fire turned them to ashes.

“A forest fire kills an American Inspector and his nine year old son”, read the newspaper, next day.

By Karan Handa