Swamp night

I’m reading the amazing Ursula K. Le Guin’s Steering the Craft: a 21st-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story. What a generous gift to all aspiring writers! In it, Le Guin sets various exercises designed to make one think more about the craft of writing. Here’s my response to one of them: a challenge to write a scene in prose of sentences of seven words or less.

It was dark out. Swamp dark. Thick as molasses, old as the earth. Voodoo dark. Heavy with secrets. Nobody else for miles around. Just him, her, and the dark.

He opened the bedroom door. The dark was inside, filling the room. He waited for his eyes to adjust. Shapes emerged. The chair, the bed… her. Her breathing bulk, rising and falling. Drinking in the dark. Exhaling it, changed, hot and wet.

He crept towards her bedside. The floorboards groaned. He came closed – fear stopped him. Her eyes were open. He froze, his eyes locked on hers. Five heartbeats passed. He swallowed, drily. She had not moved.

She was asleep. Or something like it. He let out his breath slowly. When he breathed in again, he smelled her. Stale sweat and spices and raw meat. His stomach shrivelled. He wanted to run; he half-turned.

Then he thought of his family. His wife. His children. Of the things in the dark. Things which were growing bolder. Which would soon overcome their fear of fire. Which would come for them. For all of them.

Il faut le faire, he thought. In the old language. The voodoo language.

He turned back to her. He pulled his knife from its sheath. Its sharpness whispered through the dark. Pain raked white hot across his palm.

‘Être apaisé,’ he said, barely audible.

There was a bowl on the bedside table. He held his hand over it. Blood dripped, sticky and warm. He made a fist, squeezing. More drops pattered into the bowl. The sound softened as the bowl filled.

The dark seemed to thicken. There were whispers now. Whispers in the dark, growing louder. Tendrils of dark reached down his throat. He nearly gagged.

‘Être apaisé,’ he said again, louder, pleading. The blood ran warm over his clenched fingers.

She stirred. Her head turned toward him. Her mouth lolled open. A snake emerged from it, tongue flickering. Fear overwhelmed him; he wanted to run. His feet were rooted to the floor.

‘C’est suffisant,’ she said. Her voice was deep and terrible.

The spell lifted. He could move. He ran from the room, nearly tripping. He ran through the dark. Through the swamp. Back to his home, to his family.

His wife embraced him, he held her tightly. She looked at him, questioningly. He shook his head. She nodded, she understood. Some things are best left unspoken.

The scar healed dark and ugly. It aches every full moon. It troubles him, but it was necessary. The things have not returned. His family is safe.