Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

“Ma Nesati, Ma Nesati!”

The cry startled old Ma Nesati, who was peering into the pot burbling with a thick, delicious stew. Firela came bursting into the khamir, his young face reflecting extreme agitation.

“What is it? What is it, Firela?” Ma Nesati could hardly contain her anxiety.

“Romaa…Romaa…,” Firela was gasping for breath.

“What’s happened to my Romaa?” Ma Nesati demanded, shaking him.

“Romaa…Romaa’s gone…she’s fallen from the Raperad!”

“NO!” The old woman froze at the news, her rheumy eyes wide open in shock.

“Come, Ma Nesati! Please come soon!” Firela tugged at her skirt, shaking her out of her stunned stupor.

“Yes, yes! We must hurry!” the old lady mumbled, wiping away the tears that trickled down her leathery cheeks. She rummaged about in her old bag for some dried herbs and rags, and then set off with Firela in tow.

“Oh Dumara! Please protect Romaa, my Romaa!” she prayed, quietly desperate, as she hurried along the rocky path to the Raperad.

“Tell me again, Firela, how did it happen?”

“We were playing, Ma Nesati. We were playing Kill-The-Yarpa, and Romaa was the Yarpa. We ran behind her, when suddenly a strong wind blew and whipped up a giant dust ball. We couldn’t see her, but we could hear her. She was calling out my name”.

Firela swallowed the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.

“Suddenly the wind subsided, and we could see her at the edge of the Raperad. We screamed for her to stop, but she didn’t seem to hear us – she just ran over the edge.”

Firela’s voice broke, as he wiped the tears streaming from his eyes.

Ma Nesati shuddered, a chill running down her spine.

“There, there,” she tried to comfort Firela. “It’s not your fault.”

“It was, Ma Nesati, it was my fault,” Firela was openly sobbing now, his heart filled with grief and remorse for his dear friend. “I was the one who insisted on playing the game!”

Ma Nesati silently hugged Firela as they approached the Raperad.

A sombre crowd had gathered, and they parted to make way for the bent old woman, as she stumbled towards the edge.

She looked down into the gloomy nothingness, and called out in a quavering voice, “Romaaaaa…”

A complete silence ensued. It was broken only by Ma Nesati herself, who turned and fell on her knees.

“Oh Dumara!” she beat her chest, wailing in a broken voice. “Why have you done this to us? Why Romaa, oh Dumara? Why do you want my innocent child?”

The women in the group all knelt and began a lament.

Oh Dumara! Your might is great.
Oh Dumara! Is this our fate?
Oh Dumara! Will you relent?
Oh Dumara! Our spirit is spent.

The young boys and girls all gathered around Firela, holding his hand, and sobbing with him.

Binta, the old man of the village, stood bent, his frail hands clutching on to his stick for support. Sitting by him was Surako, the only other male present in the village: he could not travel because he had lost his legs in a valiant battle against bandits during one of his sojourns.

The lament grew and fell like waves crashing against the Raperad’s unforgiving solidity. Roosting birds wheeled in the sky, black frailty against the saffron sunset, calling their own young ones to safety. Gloom settled down upon the village with the night.