The Black Opal -- Part One

Mosquitoes covered his arms like fur

and he slapped at them with a vehemence

that seemed born of a fear that from the mists

the beast this living fur bespoke

would materialize and devour him

The beast's shrill screaming

Cut through the fetid air

Like a warped saw blade

 He burst from the mangroves

Eyes wild

Nostrils flared

Lip curled

Foaming at the mouth

and hurled himself ahead

Seeking higher ground

At the crest of Burbidge Hill
an easterly wind caressed his face 

the mosquitoes fell away

and the screaming stopped

He stood there hunched over

His hands on his face

and when he took them away

They held a soup of

His blood and dead mosquitoes

It took him three hours

to hike to the hut

and by the time he reached it

the sky was a reddish-purple

The jackals that made their den

near an occasional creek in the east field

were yipping and chattering
and collared doves
Perched in tree limbs overhead
craning their necks
stared down at them
with disdain

He threw his pack down
on the split log that served
as a bench at the door
and tearing off what remained
of his tattered shirt
went to the pump

After he washed his arms and chest
and rinsed black bits of mosquito
from his mouth
He went to his pack
and removed a small bundle
Wrapped in dirty rags

He carefully unwound the rags
and pulled from the bloody nest
an irregular stone
covered in dark mud

He washed the stone
rubbing the mud from it
with his thumbs

and then he washed
Bunji's blood from the stone
Watching
as if from a shroud
the Black Opal emerged


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