The reign of King Musa III had no place for things of the fantastical. He, unlike the previous kings, frowned against the thought of people who wielded the ability to veer situations with their hands. These types of people were wizards; grizzled and old, with vast years of experience at their disposal. King Musa III considered them dangerous, and that their primeval deeds would stain his reign.

When the law was announced, the wizards were incredulous. Every part of this news had to be false. Their combined powers helped to defeat the pishogue of the spider-witch who rained brimstones of terror over the lands. Their knowledge of combining and tweaking plant cells helped to produce an elixir that cured the dengue fever that ravaged the land like a conflagration when the spider-witch cursed the ground. Their years of being the trusted allies and council of elders to the former kings helped build the city of Asadovh. Now they are being treated as second-class citizens, told to return to their former trade if they had any.

A few of them went against the king’s new decree, engaging in magical healing, exorcising foul spirits, and scrying. Those who were caught suffered the punishment of losing their hands, wherein lay all the magic.

• • • •

Father looked one last time at his house in Asadovh. This had been his place of birth and comfort. The fear of having his hands severed for the crime of wizardry made his stomach curdle with fear. He could feel the house whine in tears and hurt as smoke billowed from the window and crevices. The house that was his doubled as his magical workshop and safe haven. They conversed and lived as a family. The furniture, statues, curtains, candelabrum, and cutlery all thronged at his feet, wearing morose faces upon sighting his bag.

“I am sorry. There’s no place for people like me here,” he said, looking widely at his magical creations—inanimate objects that had life in them. He heard the knocking feet of the horse downstairs; his chariot had arrived. The palm tree standing tall shook its leaves vigorously, wishing Father would take it to his new destination.

“Till we meet again,” Father said, trying so hard not to shed a tear.

The objects followed him, but couldn’t leave the house. The magic living in them forbade them to go out in the open. Father entered the chariot, and after moving a few distances from the house, said those magical words to return the objects back to their original dummy state.

• • • •

Father bought a house in Khogi, hoping to start a fresh life as a potter. The law that kicked against the use of magic was equally sacrosanct here. The town had a long history of peace, so his powers were of little need. But he loved this place. The mood that comes with becoming a new person.

Aside from being a wizard, he had a knack for pottery. I could as well leave magic behind and make ceramic and earthenware and statues for those interested, he thought when he lay in bed. There was a challenge poking him in the face. How was he to go about employing people to come work for him? Perhaps, he should go to the market square, paste a paper with a vacancy for apprentices. He gave serious thought to this move, even dilly-dallying in moving forward with this proposed plan. His alter-ego had whispered to him to create another family of animate objects. This thought too was swabbed away. The decision that arose gave him a headache. The life of being a hermit had kept him out of trouble. Bringing a person into his world might be the foundation of a mountainous problem that may be hard to dismantle.

For nights he began to grow pensive, an anxiogenic air swimming all around his house. In the middle of his numerous thoughts, he figured out the answer to this challenge.

“What if I mold beings into existence?” he said to himself while lounging in his rocking chair. “No one would know. They will have the perfect body and shape.”

Yes, this was it, the solution had been with him all along. Digging into his soil of knowledge was all he needed to stand tall again. Just as he was about to go ahead with his plan, a minor challenge nudged him.

“How do I breathe life into them and make them living beings?” he sub-vocalized, stood akimbo, then scratched his gray beard.

His magic worked perfectly to give life to inanimate objects. It was a sweatless effort allowing furniture and cutleries to speak and be mobile. Now he was talking about creating people with human parts perfectly molded to avoid a hue of suspicion from the villagers. These beings would be without health issues, obedient, serve him to the fullest, and have no reason to leave. He hadn’t thought about giving them feelings. Another solution breezed by his ear from the window as he paced; he had a friend who was a magical being inhabiting the forest. She too was relegated into hiding when the practice of magic became an abomination. When the night resumes its shift of being the eyes of the village, he would pay her a visit.

• • • •

The Lady of the Forest lived in a giant mahogany tree away from prying eyes, deep in the belly of the forest. For fear of being discovered, she cloaked herself with unattractive plants that farmers and animals despised. She could only be awakened by anyone who carried an oil lantern, called her name thrice, and whose heart was weighted with hurt and innocence.

Father wore a cloaking lappa that made him invisible to the dangers of the forest. In his hand was a magical compass that displayed a sharp green light upon arrival at his location. He raised his lantern above his head.

“Lady of the Forest,” he said, repeating it for the second and third time. “I am in need of your help. Please show yourself to me.”

He waited for a supernatural manifestation, looking around for her appearance. Nothing came forth. Had he missed a part of the chant? Or was he in the wrong spot? He checked the compass again, though old and rusty it worked wonders. A squirrel scampered past a bush, he pointed the lantern there, but it had gone into its burrow. Disappointment daubed on his face like soot and caked mud. The Lady of the Forest was no more. He took his cloaking lappa, about to cover himself with it when the sound of a snapped branch burst into his ear.

Turning back, he saw bioluminescent nodes from plants in their full vigor. The budding plants on the ground yawned and stretched as though waking from a long slumber. The ground produced a dim orange color saturating toward the roots of the mahogany tree. The orange light coalesced, slithered up the tree which was now shedding off its flowers. He watched the mahogany tree come to life as the light ascended to create a new outfit. The branches moved, needle-like fingers, crackling stem and sprouting flowers with verdant color. The body of the tree opened its eyes and mouth, yawned, sent a gust of cold air to the ambiance.

“Who dares to wake me from my sleep?” the Lady of the Forest said, sighting the image of a mortal.

“Dear friend, it is me. The wizard of Asadovh, from the Hyliad village. The one who warned you of the incursion of the king’s guards to destroy your home when it came to my hearing,” Father said.

“John, is that you?” she asked.

Father laughed, placed his lantern on the ground, put out the light. The whole place was already illuminated. They confabulated about the old times, and the harsh decision of King Musa III to push them off the cliff. Without further ado he narrated his ordeal, asked for help in carrying out his desire.

She nodded to his request, offering him a basil bearing three stems, two leaves on each.

“Here,” she said. “Squeeze the juice and rub it on your creations after you have molded them. The rest will take care of itself.”

“Thank you, dear friend. What can I give in return?” he asked, looking up at her.

“For old times’ sake, there is no price for this.”

• • • •

Father employed the best builders to build him a kiln at the back of his house. They wondered what he needed a large kiln for. But the pay was good, enough to keep their mouth shut against further questions. Three full sacks of clay arrived at his doorstep, taken inside by the men who brought them to him.

The magic of the Lady of the Forest was perfect. Father had molded four beings to help in the housework and other duties he hadn’t thought about yet. He named them Mercury, Rain, Brown, and Clock. Their skin was dark and smooth as those of well-fed humans. Mercury and Rain were females with breasts and buttocks that wouldn’t make them attractive in the eyes of lustful men. Rain and Brown were able-bodied men with slightly burly shapes and average and tall heights, respectively.

The creation of these beings helped reset the course of his life again. Happiness beamed and spotted all over his face. The four of them were subservient to him, called him master. They helped to deliver earthenware and statues of all sizes to customers. They too had the knowledge of molding. Over time they watched him work with the potter ribs, elephant ear, sponge, shape cutters, and wheels. The best part was when he shaped the ceramics on handmade wheel bats. Soon, Father grew to become one of the best potters around, other artisans were envious of him.

One night when he sat in the confines of his verandah, listening to Rain playing a flute, a thought struck him. His home could be bigger, and more animated with creations. But the fear of having magic tools lying around haphazardly drilled fear into that heart. Perhaps a dog or two, birds who would sing mellifluously to his ears rather than the tintinnabulation from the belfry that disrupted his sleep.

The following nights when he had finished making a new set of bowls and brick toys for a woman and her child, he molded two hounds and an eagle, using the little amount of basil plant juice left to bring them to life.

Father was a man whose mind wandered while he worked. Many a times, he would get sunk into a reverie, thinking of things as though they were in the grasp of his palms. He went out of his house on a breezy afternoon, clouds scudding the vast sky, breaking into particles of cotton and mosaics and eyes like the shape of a blue fire monster. The happiness he longed to derive in his crafts was ephemeral. Each night he slept, a magnet of sulky bubbles busted and glued to his skin. He needed the comfort of another, the void of human touch had to be filled, who loving was a desideratum that would make his life complete. A wife to warm his bed. A son who would inherit his possessions. A daughter who would call him father, and plaster kisses on his forehead. After a series of thoughts, he made up his mind, heading back to see the Lady of the Forest.

She wasn’t surprised to see Father again. The taste of her power was enchanting and desirous. Men and women who visited back in Asadovh often graced her presence with gifts when coming to make ridiculous and huge demands.

Father approached her with the request of making a girl child of his own hands. It was as if she had presaged this day would come. Some of her clientele have mentioned the Lady possessing an optical view that can rummage the demands of a harrowing heart. She requested an item of invaluable esteem from Father. His first thought was of the riches in his chest. But he was wrong, a creature such as her had eyes for things money couldn’t buy.

“I’ll take your eye-shaped ring,” she said, allowing a finch to perch on one of her branches.

Father stood in shock. The ring was the only possession that tied him to the ancestry of wizardry. It was a title given to a few: wizard of the first order. It was akin to a plaque, a customized sword knighted to a war hero, a red crest on the helmet formed from the lake of fire, an insignia on a shoulder that brought him utmost respect, and an automatic visa to traverse lands beyond theirs as he wished. During the epoch when magic was in practice, he wore it freely, sometimes to rub this honor off on the other wizards. In this land it meant nothing but death to him if seen on his finger. If he agreed to part way with this, she would offer him a white orchid plant with two stems and air roots at the base. The flowers were scanty, the quintessential of the number of lives his soon-to-be-created child would have.

“There are only seven flowers on each branch. Three flowers represent her lives. Four can be used to repair her body parts, give her beauty, make potions when she falls sick, and make her ageless,” she said when she got the ring. Glee sprouted as a hibiscus on her hand while touching the steel.

“Does that mean she can die?” he asked.

She laughed.

“The power of immortality doesn’t belong to mortals.”

“What happens when these three lives get exhausted?” Father asked.

“A Father protects his child from evil at all cost. I expect you will do the same. You know where to find me if the need ever arises.”

• • • •

Father was patiently detailed with his daughter’s creation. Eyes that shone like the early wake of the morning sun, pointed nose, dimples, immaculate skin, chubby-cheeked, and the frame of a fourteen-year-old. Unlike the others, strict instructions were given here. The Lady of the Forest had told him to first put the white orchid in a flower vase, allow faint rays of sun to glow over it, and wet it every day for a week. Once he finished molding his daughter into his desired shape, before he put her inside the kiln, he should cut one of the flowers meant to give her life, speak into it and insert it into her chest while the clay was still moist.

All this he did to detail.

The last part was to bring her out of the kiln, place her on a bed with a room of girly stuff. Father had tasked Mercury with buying the best things the emporium had in stock. He placed her on the bed, stuffed animals and toys by her side. One last gaze at the molded child brought a cloud of balmy shade to hover over around him.

“Goodnight Dayo,” Father said, going back to kiss her forehead. He already given her a name.

The next morning the door of his room flung open. A dark-skinned girl opened her arms wide and greeted him.

“Good morning, Father,” Dayo said. “Do not forget you are taking me to watch Gbenga the Ventriloquist today at the village square. After that I want to go merry-go-rounding, and sight-seeing in the zoo, and then we will stop at the ice-cream shop. I know you have warned against eating sugary substances at night. But please just this once.”

Perplexed, Father’s mouth was ajar. How did she know all about this? It was as though while he created her, the memories he envisioned had slipped into her consciousness. He loved it, every bit of it.

“I love you Father, you are the best,” Dayo said, hugging him.

Father tried not shed a tear. The feeling was paradisiacal.

• • • •

Father had warned Dayo umpteen times never to come downstairs during business hours. Obstinate as a goat, she would defy his orders without thinking of the consequences. She took a penchant for staring at the boy with tribal marks on his face. Although she was always surreptitious in her moves, sometimes father caught her, unable to comprehend why she disobeyed him.

You see, Dayo had fantasized about a perfect life with this boy. A dream of a happy home, farm animals, and trees was what made insomnia her friend almost every night. The boy came to buy ceramic flower vases. He was a frequent customer, too. Each time he came for trade, he donned a different batik attire accentuating a drum, crown, bird, horse, and a home. Seated on his head was a perfectly knitted cap that could be worn in different styles. An air of composure floated around him. Dayo had fallen deep in love with him.

“Perhaps, I should make myself known to him,” Dayo said in delectation to Mercury, falling on her bed afterwards. “How about I offer him a snack. That should do.”

All of father’s creations in her room watched her yapping endlessly, describing how the boy would come and ask for her hand in marriage. She watched herself gingerly in the mirror, dabbed some powder on her face, and a modicum of red lipstick. Quickly, she picked up the perfume, sprayed an ample amount all over herself. The two hounds sneezed. The eagle, Timanok, covered itself with its wings. Mercury, Rain, felt dizzy from the fragrance. Torch and Blu covered their noses—they were Father’s latest female creations. This is a stupid idea, they too thought. We better stop her before she gets us into trouble, another thought came ringing.

“Wish me luck guys,” Dayo said, straightened her flaring gown, patted her golden cornrows, and breathed out the fear clogging the airflow in her nose.

She was about to reach the doorknob when Rain and Torch stopped her. No words needed to leave their mouths to express their disapproval of her stupidity.

“What are you doing? Get out of my way,” Dayo irefully said.

The duo were insistent on maintaining their stance. Father would scold them for not keeping her in check. Dayo tried to push them away, but their sturdy bodies didn’t move when she shoved them. She tried a second attempt, yet all was in futility. She turned to Mercury who was the most senior of all.

“If they do not leave the door, I’ll scream for help. All of my Father’s customers will hear my cries and come to my aid. Imagine what Father will do to you then,” Dayo threatened.

The two ladies shifted their gaze to Mercury. It was her call. Mercury thought Dayo was bluffing. The last time a shrill escaped her mouth, glasses broke from the window panes, slithering cracks on the walls, and one of Timanok’s wings broke. Even the hounds scampered under the bed.

“Fine, go. Just leave,” Mercury finally capitulated.

• • • •

Dayo strode down the stairs in grandiloquence, holding her gown as she ascended. Whispers webbed in all around, questions darting across asking where the girl with the golden hair originated from. Her ebony skin shone as she kept walking. Father was attending to a customer when he noticed faces engrossed in something else. He gazed back to this distraction, and saw her. Fuming anger swelled inside of him. A quick look at the customers found they were enthralled in her; some lewd, some drooled, some called her, others fed their eyes on her, not minding she was a child. She ignored them all, and went to meet the boy of her dreams.

Their chat was filled with laughter and smiles. He told her about his homeland—a place where the sun shone mildly on the people, and the rain didn’t flood their homes. He boasted of the finest batik and adire materials, better than the rest produced in other villages. Dragon fruits were grown massively in his village, he added. Men rode on giant falcons as a means of transport. People spoke to trees, requesting any fruits their taste buds yearned for. Once every month, the people visit the river goddess in her full appearance, asking and instantly receiving their heart wants.

It was hard for her to sieve the lies in what he had said. She had never been anywhere but Khogi. Places she had heard about came through the many books Father bought for her. Dayo anchored her sight on the boy, wishing for him to propose to her. She took it upon herself to show him various items in the shop. Earthen pots of different sizes, cylindrical and wide flower vases, statues, art on rectangular board, mugs and plates laid on pallets and shelves. At intervals the boy complimented her, asking where she got the golden hair from. Their conversation became transient when Father interrupted.

“Is this your daughter, sir?” the boy asked, amazed.

Father feigned a smile, nodded and told her to go make him dinner. The boy asked if he was going to see her again. Dayo’s heart raced with joy. Of course, she will see him again and again. If Father permitted, she would become his wife. If Father refused, she would elope with him.

• • • •

The night breathed darkness over the vast sky, Dayo stood and watched the crescent. Faint calls of owls snuck into her ears. The hounds were playing with a ball. Father summoned all the maids. Dayo found herself in a trance, sunk deeper into the boy’s voice and smile. She replayed their time together all over, glad that she took the bold step of leaving the confines of her room. This sweet moment was abruptly severed by Father’s shout of anger from his room. The hounds let out a faint sound, coming closer to her.

“It’s okay boys. I won’t let Father lock you up,” Dayo assured them, stroking their heads.

Rain knocked and came inside, and told Dayo’s Father required her attention. On entering his room, she saw the maids leaving. They all had their hands behind their back, sad faces as though they had been handed sack letters.

“Hello Father,” Dayo greeted, picking a slice of apple from a ceramic bowl.

“Why did you leave your room when Mercury and the others told you not to do so?” Father questioned, his words sharp and biting.

She shrugged, took another slice of apple.

“For disobeying me I will lock up the hounds. You are temporarily banned from the game room. You will no longer accompany Brown and Clock to check the traps. Blu will not accompany you to pick berries in the garden. This is your punishment.”

“Why won’t you let me go outside and have fun like the other kids?” Dayo spoke in a loud tone before leaving his room.

“It’s for your own good,” he replied. “With the current state of your ill health, you won’t last a day outside.”

She left his presence, a scent of anger trailed after her.

She wept profusely in her room. Her disobedient act had cost her everything. She was no longer going to see the boy, the hounds wouldn’t be available to keep her company. As if the punishment were not enough, she wouldn’t be enjoying the cool ambiance of the tweeting birds and frolicking squirrels in Father’s Garden. Picking berries was something she did every twilight. How was she supposed to be sane if these activities were taken from her? She cursed the day she was birthed. An influx of abhorrence for Father filled her guts. How does a Father become so tough that he refuses his daughter a normal life? She had watched girls her age given some dose of freedom. She envied them, wished to live like them. But she wasn’t anything like them—at least that’s what Father had constantly sang into her ears.

Father couldn’t read the book in his hand. I think I was too harsh on her, he said softly. I should go and explain to her, tell her why I am doing this, he concluded. Getting to the door he paused, giving his next line of action a serious thought. He changed his mind about going to see her. Twice she had lost her life, attacked by a bear when she wandered into the woods, fallen off a horse, and broke her neck in the village feast. She had only one life left. There was no way he was going to allow her to waste the only life left over a boy she hardly knew. He looked at the last flower in its glass. A series of fears erupted inside of him. He wouldn’t forgive himself if she left this world forever.

• • • •

The days that grew found Dayo in a state of melancholy. She refused food and help. Her hair was untidy, and she refused washing up. Nothing made sense, unless Father would permit her to see the boy. The maids spoke to Father about her state, pleading him to allow the hounds to return to her.

“She has to learn her lesson. I will think about it. Now leave me be,” he said in a harsh voice.

Three months ago, Dayo had been plotting her escape from home. Last month, she had time to rethink. Two days ago, she packed a few belongings. Today she was going to flee, and find the boy, and marry him. In months of planning, Dayo had seen Brown hold a lantern each time she left the house into the woods. That must be the way out, she thought.

The maids were asleep. Father’s snores left his room, permeating the walls of the expansive sitting room. Dayo saw the lantern in one of the compartments in the étagère. The hounds followed her.

“Shh. Silent boys,” Dayo said in a whisper. “I will be back. I promise.”

The hounds let out a faint cry, followed her. She ordered them back without speaking. Outside, she headed towards the lips of the woods, holding the lit lantern. Father’s property was a huge one, a section of it led towards the exit, but she wasn’t sure of the one. When she was closer, she met an obstacle. Two giant clay sentries stood apart from each other, iron clubs clutched in their hands. Behind them were thorny plants protruding forward, assembled in an assaulting manner. She kept going, fear knocking on the door of her mind. After a heavy release of breath, she held the lantern above her head. The sentries brought down their clubs, stepped away from the entrance. The thorny plants recoiled, went limp, detached. Soon there was a pathway for her to follow. A long path lay ahead of her. She didn’t look back until she was far from the house. One look behind and she saw the exit had shut and become a crowded group of thorns again. She dampened the light, dropped the lantern on the ground. In her possession was a bracelet, a vial of oil, few clothes, and a woolen sweater of five brilliant colors.

• • • •

Balanced in the canoe Dayo bathed in the chilliness of the calm waters. There were other passengers seated across her. She was a cynosure. The passengers kept staring at her, trying to wrap their heads around her origin. Her golden hair gave her away as a foreigner and someone from an opulent home. The cold was becoming intense, whooshing through the atmosphere. She rubbed her palms together, reaching for her bag to pull on the sweater. Tucked inside the bag was a book containing sketches of the boy. Father spent a long time making her fingers, making sure her artistic prowess was brilliant.

• • • •

The boatman woke Dayo up when they arrived at shore.

“Where are we?” she asked, stretching, wiping the remnant sleep glued to her eyes.

“We have arrived?” he replied. “Pay up.”

She rummaged in her bag, but there was nothing of a legal tender in it. She had never bought anything in her entire existence; Father ensured she never ran out of supplies. The boatman was feeling rather impatient. She removed her bracelet, and handed it over to him in place of coins. Smiles pimpled all over his face as he accepted the item. Father would be vexed; she had just given her sixteenth birthday gift to a stranger. That was no concern of hers, meeting the boy was more paramount. You should return. Father will be searching for you, a voice of warning reverberated in her head. She shoved down the voice, joining the large crowd of people.

She walked through the market, showing people drawings of the boy. Sellers invited her to their stalls, asking if she was interested in caged birds. Irked, she wondered why the birds looked scraggy and imprisoned. A man entertained a small crowd of people by putting a big cobra around his neck, speaking to it in an arcane language. The snake did as it was told when the man translated to English. The crowd was left in awe, each giving him a coin. More people trooped in and out, brushing their bodies against Dayo’s. The happening was veracious with what Father had told her about the wicked world. This place was nothing like the boy with the tribal marks had said. The sun rose to its zenith, the traders in a makeshift stall wore a straw hat to escape the lashing heat. A woman walked up to her.

“Child, I have watched you go from one stall to another, are you lost?” the woman asked.

Dayo uttered no word. But her silent and gloomy countenance emitted a thousand of them.

“Do you need a place to stay?” the woman asked again.

Dayo showed her the picture of the boy.

“Oh!” The woman exclaimed. “That’s a handsome young man. If you need help locating him, I can help you.”

Dayo spared no time, going with the stranger. But Father had twice warned her against the deceitful benevolence of men. Beneath their veil lies an ulterior motive.

• • • •

The woman was a loner. Her home was filled with straw materials. Some were half-made into baskets, hats, bags, and purses. A surge of xenial feeling rushed through her veins, Dayo experiencing the woman’s hospitality.

“When are we going to see the boy?” Dayo asked, feeling impatient.

“I am certain you are tired. Have a cup of drink to soothe your taste. Tomorrow, I promise to take you to him,” the woman assured.

Dayo drank a little from the cup. She yawned, and slowly sleep took her. The woman pulled a scissors, snipped some tufts of her golden hair. She dragged a box underneath the straw bed, pulled out a jar of a fetid concoction. Sprinkling the hair into the jar, the woman couldn’t mask her joy at what she saw. The contents of the jar sprang back to life, virescent. She added a rubicund powder to it, mixed it together with a stick and dipped her finger in it. A single application on her visage, she quickly went to her mirror. Her pockmarked face had changed into that of a baby—smooth and healthy.

Laughter dotted on her face. She had just found a new source for her hexes and spells.

• • • •

Father never thought he would become the sort of person who would paste Dayo’s picture on walls and tree barks and opened spots in the market. The maids helped in sharing the missing persons posters, too. The picture boldly showed Dayo was missing.

“If you saw which direction she went please come to the pottery shop on Polar Lane. A reward awaits you,” Mercury said to passersby.

Rain craned her neck, thinking she saw someone that resembled Dayo. Sleep evaded Father ever since Dayo’s departure. How could she have known about the magic lantern? For how long had she been planning her escape? Does she know the danger of staying away from the house? The fear in him towered, made him break down in tears. He didn’t hold them back this time.

• • • •

A song from the woman woke Dayo up. She touched her head, shoulder, stomach, and legs: all were intact. Father lied when he said my health cannot survive the harsh weather, she spoke within. The sun sent rays on her skin. She ate food not prepared by Blu. She slept on a stranger’s bed, yet no sign of sickness threatened her existence.

“Once you are done eating, we will go find your lover,” the woman said.

It was obvious Dayo was head over heels with the boy. Her countenance lit up at the mention of him.

The day was blossoming from its cocoon. The cloudy sky smeared creamy mosaic pigment on the carpet. People walked about carrying different loads. Some greeted one another. Others hastened their feet, hurrying to get to the other side of the river. Dayo’s proximity to the woman was like a stray dog’s. Intermittently the woman stopped at her colleague’s shop, making enquiries about the boy. Ahead a little crowd gathered, people clustered, eyes down. Anxious of what was happening, Dayo left the woman without informing her. A boy knelt, tears welled up in his eyes. His hand patted a lifeless dog.

“Please wake up,” the boy said, crying.

Dayo’s eyes scanned the sympathizers and the boy. One after the other the crowd dispersed—as was the end of such a scene. She reached into the inner pocket of her sweater, and pulled out the vial of oil. A few drops into the dog’s mouth, and it came alive seconds later.

“My dog is alive,” the boy shouted.

Those who heard this thought it was false. The dog must not have been dead before, there was no way it would come back to life. The boy hugged Dayo, thrilled for her show of kindness. Onlookers gaped, muttered words she didn’t hear.

“Come, come. Come and meet my mother,” he said, dragging her by the hand.

She declined at first, looking for a glimpse of the woman who earlier accommodated her.

“Come lady, my mother can help you if you are looking for something,” the boy said. His words exhilarated her.

• • • •

When she got to the boy’s house, he went all out telling his mom about the miracle cure this strange lady gave his dog. Marveling at this tale, his mother saw the dog for herself. Its lively attitude meant only one thing: her son was telling the truth.

“Mother, the lady is in search of someone. I want you to help her,” the boy said.

Dayo pulled out the folded paper, spreading it out for the woman to see. Again, it was obvious this was a tale of love. She asked Dayo a series of questions. But all her answers returned flat. Dayo knew nothing of the boy, only what he told her. She was a stranger who was miles away from home.

“He looks familiar. I can tell I have seen him before. Can you tell me how you got that oil in the bottle?” the woman asked.

“My Father gave it to me. He said it is supposed to protect my skin,” Dayo replied, divulging words she shouldn’t.

The woman’s expression became an evil grin, one Dayo couldn’t comprehend.

“Rest, it’s scorching outside. By sunset I’ll show you where the boy lives,” the woman said. “Anyone who is a friend of my son is also my friend.”

• • • •

Father held on to a cross bag and the hounds on leash. The hounds traced Dayo’s sharp scent to a boat at the dock. They barked, sniffed the wooden structure, and growled belligerently when the boatman approached.

“Mister, please hold back your dogs. I want no trouble,” the boatman pleaded, putting his hands up.

Father was about to question him when he sighted the bracelet.

“The bracelet in your wrist, tell me where you got it from?” Father’s voice was poignant and mean.

“It’s mine, mister. Please leave me alone.”

Father loosed the leash and the hounds leaped on him. One of them placed its legs on him, showed him its teeth. The other tugged at his pants. Words bled profusely out of his mouth. He told father about a girl who was desperate to travel to the other side, and paid him with her bracelet when she had no coins. Father yanked it off him and smelled it. His heart yearned for the sight of his child.

“Take me to where you dropped her off,” Father commanded.

• • • •

Dayo couldn’t stop pacing. The boy and his dog watched her peevish attitude. She spoke to herself, rehearsing the line she would use when she set her eyes on the boy. She would comment on his pulchritude, sense of humor, and how her heart had been effervescent ever since they spoke. She probably would let down her guard, kiss him, and tell him to marry her. Yes, that is exactly what she would do. The sound of hooves could be heard from the outside, feet stomping on the ground. Dayo’s heart took flight from joy. He has finally arrived, she thought. I can’t believe this is happening. The boy’s mother came inside, wearing a happy face.

“I have found him. There’s a chariot outside waiting to take you to him,” she said.

Dayo took to her heels, sighting the chariot. Perhaps, she should have thought about this, her alter ego prodded her. She looked back at the woman, thanked her for her kindness. The woman requested a little quantity of her oil. Dayo spared no time in giving her.

“Go well, child,” the woman said. “May the gods protect you.”

Dayo didn’t notice the low tone in the woman’s voice. She waved at the woman, her son, and the dog. The chariot wheeled out into the cold black night. She peeped outside to a road void of people. She thought this eerie. Darkness sheathed the sky, save for the rays from the crescent. The woman sat on her chair, brought out the pouch of coins from her lappa. The sound of coins pouring on her palm was ecstatic. Her feelings were about to get the best of her. But the damage had already been done.

• • • •

Father tied the bracelet around his wrist. He put it near the hounds’ nose in order to pick up the scent again. Many faces shot at him. What kind of a man holds two hounds and walks freely in the market. They could tell he was a stranger. His fine apparel of unique texture, rings adorning his fingers, and the customized leash on the hounds made him be perceived as a royal. The sun was at its peak. One sharp gaze at the sky and you would be met with a cloudless surface. The market was bubbling with activities on this day. Traders were all out for business. Equally, pick-pockets feigned as beggars, coming to you with open hands.

Father was drawn to a topless man who had a crowd circling him. In his hands were two sabers. The curious crowd was eager to see the wonders up his sleeve. Market days like these were filled with tricksters from other villages. The topless man placed the sabers on the ground, went into his bag to apply something on his palm. He rubbed his palms together, all over his body, and picked up the sabers.

“Can anyone get me the blade sharpener?” the man asked, waiting for someone to grant his request.

Father watched closely. The blade sharpener ensured the sabers were sharp enough. Drops of sparkled light emitted from this exercise.

“I need a volunteer,” the man said again to the crowd, waiting.

A lady came forward. He gave her a saber, told her to stab him. The crowd murmured. But he insisted, saying no one should hold her responsible for whatever happens to him afterwards. She stabbed him with the pointed tip of the glistening blade. No blood came out from his body.

“I want you to stab me harder and cut me with it,” the man said.

The lady did as told. The crowd watched in awe as the blade bounced back off his skin. It was like his body was clothed in rubber. Another volunteer, this time a man. He did the same thing, only this time he proved his masculinity—striking harder and harder. A loud roar swelled up into the sky when the blade broke into two. The crowd applauded, dropped coins into his hat. Father unhooked the leash from the hounds.

“Go find my daughter,” he said to both of them.

• • • •

The cell reeked of unwashed bodies, dust stuck on the iron bars, and moisture from porous walls. Cold faces of despondency were patched on the faces of the prisoners. A stainless bowl housed a remnant of hard bread with mucor permeating all around it. A malnourished man with a black patch on his eye crawled to the bowl, picked up the bread and checked for an edible part. A mist of hurt fell on him, making him fling the plate away as he realized ants skittered from inside the tiny holes.

Footsteps approached. The prisoners moved towards the barricade. A man with a cicatrix on the left side of his face grabbed Dayo by the arm. Another burly man was in their company. He unlocked the cell, shoved Dayo inside with the rest.

“Oh dear. Where is that golden fine hair? Where did it all go?” a man said, approaching her, tempted to touch her hair dripping a color that was different from that of blood.

“Leave her be,” an old woman said in a strong voice.

The man withdrew, clasped his hands together, and put his clubbed fingers to his mouth. He went into a series of jerking snickers, transforming this into hysteria. Dayo touched her head, felt the warm liquid running down it. It was hard to tell the color of this substance, the moon was shielded by the structure of the building.

“It will grow back. The hair is meant to grow back,” the woman who shouted, tried to allay her worries.

Dayo’s mouth was shut. Her mind travelled far away to the happenings that perturbed her life two nights ago. The men who held her captive were the type of men Father warned her about, umpteen times. They disrobed her of her sweater, chained her to a chair while a woman cut her golden hair. Dayo couldn’t fathom the reason for their sinister acts. All her life she had been kind to those who she met, even convincing Father to give others their unspent coins.

The men held her hair in their hands, felt the soft tuft texture like fresh harvested wheat. This was a rare product that would fill their coffers. Dayo was a goldmine that would be milked until she was of no use. She cowered at a spot after all her hair was removed, breathing heavily after struggling to overpower the men—an effort in futility. A naked feeling rushed through her body, a cavity that could only be filled by Father and the love from the maids, and hounds. One of the newest recruits in the gang came to her, touched her face, and ran his hand across her breast.

“She looks untouched and pure,” he said, tilting her neck sideways.

“She’s just a child. Besides the more innocent and pure she looks, the more expensive she will be when we put her up for sale,” his boss said. “Now leave her be.”

Dayo held her skirt together, and pulled the hem to cover her legs. She was unsullied. In the classic books she had read, there was the case of a kidnapped damsel whose virginity was auctioned and sold to the highest bidder. That night after reading the book, she pictured what would become of that poor girl, how her life would be ruined by the hand of the hedonist who had no regard for human life.

Slowly, Dayo began to shrink. The pieces that held her life together had been snatched from her. Her captors saw her on the floor, writhing in pain.

“Throw her into the cage with the rest of the prisoners,” the boss said.

And now that the bitter experience all flashed through Dayo’s eyes, she could hear death inviting her into its cold chambers. The cymbals, and bata drum, and voices of the dead choir singing an elegy from their world echoed in her ears. She wished to set eyes on Father, one last time.

• • • •

Adjacent to the trickster’s tent was a tavern., Father went in there for a drink. He sat in a position where he could watch the trickster. He asked few people about Dayo, showing them a picture of her. Every man he asked couldn’t help him, didn’t want to. They never saw anyone like that, their responses were the same.

The man whose skin was unpenetrated by sabers was taking a break when Father approached him, praising his artistry. He inquired how he got the potion that made his body like steel. Such conversation was one no business man loved to engage in. The trickster ordered Father out of his tent, threatened to cut him. Father turned to leave, but first he spoke incantations into the ring in his index middle finger. The man went back to his business, saw Father as an old man who was no match for him. Father touched his shoulder with the enchanted ring.

“Where did you get the substance, you rubbed on your body?” Father asked.

Ensorcelled in the magic of the ring, he told Father of his source, a man popularly identified as Ali.

“Close this business of yours. Go home,” Father said, furious.

• • • •

It wasn’t an arduous task locating Ali. Father found him hectoring some customers, telling them about the roots and leaves that could heal all kinds of ailments. Ali saw Father, and welcomed him into his shop upon sighting his apparel. He must have thought Father had some sickness that needed urgent cure. He put a moratorium on convincing the buyers who showed little interest in him.

“Welcome to Ali’s Home of Herbs and Spices,” Ali said. “What can I get you?”

Father fed his eyes on the earthen pots, oil lamp, trussed Dongoyaro branches, snail shells inside woven baskets, dried animal bones, and henna of different colors in a jar.

“I hear you sell oil that makes one’s skin invulnerable to cuts,” Father said, rubbing dust off a counter-top.

Ali denied, shaking his head.

“What do you think the villagers will do to a person involved in dark magic?” Father threatened, waiting for a response. “Such practice has long been abolished. I am certain you know that.”

Ali shrugged, standing on his earlier stance. Father was about to exit the shop when Ali called him back.

“My supplier said he got it off a girl. That’s all he told me,” Ali said.

“What’s this supplier’s name?” Father asked.

“He calls himself Mane. Currently, he’s not in the village. He will return in two days.”

Father managed to hold the anger seething in him, waiting to burst open into raging flames. He left with the vial of oil, a few drops left in it.

• • • •

On the third day of his stay here, Father woke up from the room in his inn. The hounds wagged their tails. A glum look draped over their entirety. They missed Dayo. Father was parched for the presence of Dayo. He feared what had become of her. The sinister world would treat her no better than a child of the street. He would fight tooth and nail to save her from her captors. What would become of him if she died? The answer to this stretched far from his wealth of knowledge. He’d rather not go down this road of ill thoughts. The hounds barked vehemently at the window. Father opened the door and let them out.

Outside, another crowd gathered. It is uncanny happenings like these that brought the people together.

“She was dropped from that wagon,” a woman said.

“Who are the dogs chasing after the people who dropped off the girl?” someone said from the crowd.

“This is an evil child who has lost her powers,” another woman said.

“Let us finish her off and uproot every evil in our land,” a man said in a loud voice.

The people agreed in unison, chanted. Father ran to the scene, his bag crossed around his chest. After struggling his way through, he saw Dayo. Or what was left of her. Her once glowing skin had become pale, shriveled, and gaunt. Her face had become disfigured like an ugly piece of drawing. The golden hair that complemented her beauty was gone—all of it, leaving her bald as an eagle. Father ran to meet her on the ground, tears rushing down his face. Dayo was desiccating, her body slowly returning to a work of sculpted clay.

“I am so sorry honey,” Father said amidst tears. “I should have told you the truth.”

The anger of the crowd had now morphed into a wrecking ball. What better way to send a message than killing father and daughter for their sorcery. The boy with the tribal mark was among the crowd. He came forward, holding his child. His wife placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Do you know them before?” she asked.

The boy with the tribal marks stalled for a few seconds.

“No dear. I have never seen them before,” he replied.

Father stood up, furious at the attitude of the mob. He pulled out a horn from his bag and blew it. At first, the sound was quick to dissipate into the air. He blew it again, this time a little longer. A harsh caw emanated from a distance. The shadow of a winged animal graced the sky. Everyone scattered, running higgledy-piggledy for safety. Father went back to Dayo. Timanok landed on the ground, screeched aloud in ire. Brown, Rain and Mercury alighted when Timanok lowered its neck. The hounds returned from their hunts; bloodied mouths and pieces of Dayo’s sweater clenched in their jaws. Father carried Dayo in his arms after Mercury swathed her in a duvet. They all climbed into the saddle on Timanok’s back, Brown held the reins, charging into the air.

“Timanok, hurry, take us home. I need to see the Lady of the Forest,” Father said.

Dayo was gasping for breath. Mercury and Rain looked down at the empty ground. Hate, disgust, and sorrow filled the crevices of their minds.

“Stay with me,” Father said. “Please stay with me, honey.”