If I held the blade, instead of pretending, then would they have stayed?
But then, they wouldn't have stayed because they celebrated me; more so, they would stay because they were frozen in fear at the blade.
Malik snapped back to the moment and saw a dimly lit hall leading to a room at the end.
Awan and the Nawra hall's representative, David, entered the room at the end of the tunnel-like hall, where a magenta light creeped through from under the doorframe.
From the distance, a fan buzzed loudly, but it almost sounded like the echoes of a weak growl.
Wandering, he dragged his hands across the wall until it met a woven fiber.
Looking closely, he saw that his fingers grazed a canvas. The painting was disturbing, but bizarrely nostalgic.
It was a portrait, one of what appeared to be something between man and beast. It was uncanny, and its tears were soaking into the ground, but in the composition, the face was hidden. Perhaps the artist couldn't capture such a face.
However, it appeared to be split in half between two artists, as one half was highly realistic, and the other was less intricate in its detailing. However, it relished the other half in its simplicity. The left side focused on the beast, and the right side emphasized the man.
The figure in the artwork appeared to be in a purple afternoon, facing away, with a bony spine protruding.
It's skinny. It's hungry, maybe trying to decide whether to become fully human or fully monster. Maybe it's crying because it can't decide, because the world already decided for it. Oddly enough, I feel like I'd get along with it.
Malik laughed at his own thoughts for a second.
Me and my overthinking. I remember overanalyzing the waves in the sea, the seagulls circling above, and every word someone would say. I always stored these things in my pocket, just like something else . . .
But my question is, do they hang this painting here to have something to stare at in fear, or is it because they understand the subject depicted within the picture?
Malik's eyes wandered toward the bottom right of the picture. There was a unique signature, but it wasn't any conventional initials like traditional artists would use.
Instead, it was a beating heart within an open ribcage. The heart was attached to a thread, as each string looped around the ribs, securing the heart in place. The colors of the threads varied from the brightest golds to the darkest blacks, and everything in between.
It exuded unease within Malik, yet he was drawn to it. He had a strange feeling that this wouldn't be the last time he would see the image, or the signature.
At certain moments, the magenta light from afar would flicker, and with each flicker, there'd be something new to scrutinize about the ominous painting.
I wonder if the artists still live here. It feels like something a father and son would do together . . . Ahh, I need to go. I've spent more time here than needed.
Giving a parting view, he nodded to the painting, but the subject in it kept weaning.
Malik slowly strolled toward the door with flickering lights and noticed all there was after the painting was an empty hall, with nothing of note.
When he reached it, the door creaked open. He saw two seats, Awan sitting in front of one, and the middle-aged man sitting behind a somewhat larger chair behind a desk.
"We've been waiting for you, Malik," Awan spoke sternly.
Malik tilted his head and sat down in the other chair. Inspecting the room, it was very minimalistic, except at the end of the room, where there was a large curtain and what appeared to be a monitor tracking a pulse.
David loudly cleared his throat, bringing attention to him.
Malik turned his focus and noticed that Awan kept an oddly serious expression.
I'm guessing he's one to read the room, and he's just learning to write in it.
"I'll make this quick, David. I know we've had our prior encounters, but this time's different. I ask of you to help me write a letter, since me and the people I'm with have been exiled from the court of Marah. It will inform my father that we have arrived in Nawra safely," Awan stated.
The man grumbled and opened a small cabinet behind his desk, laying a thin sheet of sheepskin on the desk and twirling a fountain pen in his other hand.
"Don't try to make it eerie. My people don't take kind to that," Awan bluntly added.
As David began to write, Malik focused on a peculiar object on the desk, which was casually placed like an ornament.
A threaded heart strung to a ribcage.
It's just like the signature. Is he one of the artists? He writes on the skin with such precision, yet I don't get the feeling that he's an artist.
"Quick question," Malik said.
David groaned as he continued to write.
"The painting, the signature, and the ornament on your desk—are they connected in some way?" he asked.
Awan gave a wide-eyed stare to him, but the man only slurred through his words in an awkward fashion.
"T-they came at a bad time. It was almost like a gift after the sleepless night." He paused, dabbing his ink into a cartridge. "One sleepless night, the painting came. The next, this bauble came after. Both, right in front of our barrier."
"I want to know what a sleepless night is," Malik spoke calmly.
"We've had two. Both times came after a festival in our cozy homes. None could sleep, so we heard those growls, those scratches, and those snarls. It's almost like something didn't let us sleep if we wanted to," the man continued.
He coughed. "After the first one, we lost any folk that stayed outside. Then, the rule was made that none shall step outside at night. In fact, we proposed it to the other tribes, and it got approved since, apparently, we're not alone in this."
"Everybody fears the night in some way. Our people just take it up a notch. Night's a death sentence. It doesn't matter who you are on this island—stay indoors."
Malik nodded, staying silent for a second, processing his words. After, there was ambience. The man continued to write, as Awan tapped his foot on the ground profusely.
Then—
Thump. Thump.
It was behind the curtains, and they shook slightly. The monitor near it began to speed up.
What Malik assumed to be a fan had writhed in its enclosure. It was like the propeller of the fan was trying to dismantle its hub. It gave a feeble snarl after and gave up.
"What was that?" Malik asked.
Awan quickly turned to Malik, mouthing words that probably went along the lines of: "Now's not a good time to be nosy."
Suddenly, David let go of the pen and walked toward the curtains. "It's nothing. Our tribe just had a bad bind with it."
The man decided not to open the curtains and instead went to the monitor. He pulled a lever on it, and then—
Sizzle!
A sharp sear pierced the room. And after, only a fizz and silent weaning remained.
Whimpering, like it wanted to be held in someone's arms, only to be hidden beneath a thick curtain.
The pulse on the monitor returned to normal, and David frowned.
Slowly, he strolled back, sinking into his seat, and finalized the letter.
"Listen, both of you. There's a saying where the more you understand something, the less scared you get. That's not the case here."
He groaned. "When it comes to this, there's nothing to understand, because all it wants is to devour your fear—or any emotion for that matter—permanently . . ."
David spoke menacingly as his words continued, although his frown hung lower the more he spoke.
Quickly, he handed the finished sheepskin letter to Awan and waved for them to go on their way.
Accordingly, Awan exited his seat, and so did Malik.
As they began to leave, Awan wasted no time leaving the door. However, Malik kept staring at the curtains.
"Malik, I know. We have to go," Awan whispered.
Hurrying, they passed the painting, and Malik stored the image of the ornament one last time.
As they creaked open the town hall's door, they didn't look back.
The sky consisted of a dark purple, meaning the night would fall soon.
Awan sighed. "I didn't expect him to have something like that. Even as a youngblood vice-chief, that kinda scared me."
"I thought you were close with him," Malik said.
"Close isn't the right word. I make my connections, but I don't get close to people outside my tribe. When it comes to the other, I get it done as quickly as I can," Awan exhaled.
"Is that why you act like a different person around them?" Malik asked.
"It's common courtesy here. A serious and quiet tone is what'll resonate with them the most," the vice-chief said, adjusting his golden headband.
He continued, "Don't force your own ideals on top of theirs. Observe, and see what they respond to. Then, you can build upon what brings the most positive reception."
"Did you become a psychologist in that courtroom or something?" Malik joked.
Awan shook his head. "No, Malik, it's just paying attention when none would pay attention to you. It's a skill I developed naturally, and don't take this the wrong way, but I have a feeling you've felt it too."
"Ouch. Way to hurt my feelings, I have a heart, you know," Malik laughed, pressing a hand on his chest.
"I didn't mean it like that, dude," Awan grinned.
Both of their smiles stayed, even if fear was the only companion of this tribe.
Nobody was outside anymore; only faint whispers from inside the old homes echoed.
. . .
Eventually, they reached Noam's home.
When Malik observed closer, he saw that there were random prongs that jutted out of the wood, like one wrong step could prove fatal.
Awan tapped him. "Malik, I gotta deliver this back to my place. I probably gotta go get somebody to open that gate. I'll be back by then."
Malik shrugged. "Be safe, man. I'm not gonna argue with you. I'm sure you know how this works better than I do."
Awan smiled. "Don't worry, I'll be back before the night, I promise."
"Don't make promises you aren't sure you can keep," Malik chuckled.
"Hey!" Awan giggled. "Don't think so low of me, man. In the meantime, protect the others."
Malik nodded as they both departed.
Awan went on his own path, as Malik faced a porch with a small flight of steps.
His feet creaked as he felt the warm front door near.
Knocking on it, he waited for a response. Then, he heard a chain detangle, and the door opened slightly.
"Noam," Malik greeted sternly.
"Come in," he said, his bangs covering half of his face.
The door steadily opened, and when Malik entered, Noam swiftly closed it.
He met a cozy atmosphere. It was a small house, more like a cabin to be exact. Two beds planted on both sides of the walls.
Oddly, Malik noticed that there were no windows, only a small, faulty light which had a mix of purple and gold dangling from the ceiling. Attached to the light, a whirring ceiling fan turned leisurely.
Noam sat on one of the beds, as Malik saw Kaya and Zayne chatting on the other. Sitting down beside them, Kaya hugged Malik.
"Glad you could make it. It was getting a bit late," she said innocently.
Malik felt her warm embrace in the restful cabin.
For a second, it felt comfortable. All too comfortable. Something in his mind set off.
Is this a warmth that won't lie to me?