Sleeping with witches

By Imar Z.

Witches -- ugly, wicked witches -- invaded my sleep. I dared not open my eyes for 12 days and 12 nights. Frightened of their bloodshot bulging eyes and razor-sharp teeth looming over my head.

For 12 days straight, my eyes were as shut as tulip buds waiting for Spring. During the daytime, sunlight crept in through the creases of my eyelids. Nighttime was solid black, like aged coal. I lay still in my darkness waiting for the witches to pass.

But they stayed for 12 whole days.

My faithful wife fed me dearly for the first three days and gave comforting words of concern for my wellbeing. I don't know what exactly she fed me, but I opened my mouth obediently, slowly chewed and swallowed whatever it was.

After the third day, she began delegating this boring task to our teenage daughter. She, too, tired quickly, and would dash out to her telephone calls as soon as an opportunity came. Finally, our middle-aged female servant was given this job. A small thin woman with hands as rough as the washboard she scrubbed over daily, and fingers as strong as a hammer. Of course I could feel it -- her generation in the village did not grow up with spoons and forks, thus she fed me with her fingers.

It was the roughness and hardness of her hands that heightened my fear. I imagined witches had similar hands, but with pointed nails to scratch the faces of the hounded. After every meal, the witches seemed closer and closer to my throat. So, after every meal, I asked for a warm cloth to rid my face and neck of that sensation.

The effect was marginal.

I had given up smoking and eating goat innards (high cholesterol, my doctors said). I never drink alcohol, this being the easiest for a moderate Moslem to forego. I give alms annually to our local mosque.

I was convinced that somebody was out to get me and had sent black magic mantras my way. I called my friend Pak Ustadz from down the road. He closed his eyes, placed his hands over my face, and moved his lips in silent prayer. To my disappointment, he shook his head, then swept his face with his hands. He apologized and said the powers responsible for my witches were stronger than his. I need to call his guru, he said, while leaving me in the darkness of my day.

In total despair, I called out for my faithful wife "Buuu... Buuu..." She came running in panting for breath, which showed her age.

"Pak, what's the matter, Pak ...? What did Pak Ustadz say?"

"Bu, listen to me. Pak Ustadz is useless. He said his powers are not strong enough to fight the magic sent to me. Find a dukun. Ask your brother! He used a powerful one last time he was in trouble. Ask anyone! Hurry! I can't stand it anymore!" I cried.

Without a word, my faithful wife vanished to the other room. I sunk down in my bed, with my bolster close to my chest. The witches had been waiting for me to be still. Suddenly, I saw them laughing, snickering about and ridiculing my failure. The one with dirty brown dreadlocks and bulging eyes laughed with his mouth as wide as the sun. I could see his forked tongue and molars, ready to chew a water buffalo whole. The one that looked like a pretty lady with long thick black hair, turned into a wicked witch showing fangs dripping with blood. Their laughter filled my consciousness, and shook the room with great force.

"Bu, Bu, ...do you feel that?" I yelled. Again my faithful wife panted into the room.

"What, Pak?," she said in a solemn, desperate voice.

"The walls are shaking. Feel it? They're doing it! The witches! The house is collapsing!."

No answer. No sound came from my little wife. Was she there? Has she left me too? Has she joined the witches? Maybe she's the one! Maybe I don't give her enough shopping money!

"Bu!" I called indignantly.

"Yes, I'm here, Pak. The walls aren't shaking. The house is still standing strong," she replied. "You're imagining it," she continued in a softer voice, as if she didn't want me to hear. But I heard.

"How can you say it's just my imagination. Do you think I'm making this up? Who's side are you on anyway?" My patience had become very thin. "Go ... go away. Leave me alone. If you can't be supportive of me, just go! But find that dukun!"

The room was quiet again, I slowly began to recite by heart all three prayers I'd learned as a child -- trying hard to bring them out of my memory. I didn't see the witches anywhere. It's working, I thought. And I continued reciting the prayers, one by one. Until finally, my brain cells grew tired and I let my mind rest.

One minute, all was still. Two minutes, my head was clear. Three minutes ... the witches came back. Laughing at my capacity of remembering only three prayers. Ridiculing my efforts at prayer. Their ugly faces filled my mind alternately. More came to join. Many new ugly wicked faces came about.

No ... No ...!!!

I tried to remember the prayers again with no avail. My mind went blank.

The new faces were almost recognizable. I felt I knew some of them. Their ugliness alternated with sadness. Their evilness changed into despair. The one with dreadlocks turned into a civil contractor, who gave us this house we live in (in exchange for the huge development project I approved). The long-haired woman turned into the small frail widow whose husband used to be my employee, who we chose as a scapegoat in the big embezzlement case at our office (the man then committed suicide). These faces started to have a shape so human, so real, so close to my current life.

I shook my head, swayed my body left and right. Slowly, then vehemently. Violently. Shaking off the faces, both ugly and familiar. Pushing away the hot breath venting from their flaring nostrils. I tossed forcefully back and forth with little result. Those faces grew more and more human. The evil eyes became tearful. Their tears flooded my heart. My mind was pulled down by sadness.

Tears began to fill my eyes. They started to slide out of my closed eyelids, down my temples, down the tops of my ears, down my head and nape. Like a waterfall, my tears flowed as if there were no end to this sorrow. Soon my bed became wet, and not long after, the floor became flooded. I cried and cried and cried. No one was there to see me, to comfort me, to give me a single handkerchief. I was alone with my sad pathetic witches -- the victims of my own greed and selfishness.

Submerged in my own tears, and conscious of my aloneness, all became clear to me. But my breath had become filled with water, and my heart had grown weak. I gaped, calling out for my wife, but the words never left my mouth. My lungs felt wet, my ears grew damp.

I cried for my final realization: Regret is always too late.

Glossary: Pak, from Bapak (Father): sir, daddy, Mr. Ustadz: an expert in Koran recital Bu, from Ibu (Mother): ma'am, mom, Mrs. Dukun: shaman