Shumba-Lumba

- by Morien Wyn Jones

As a gentleman uncommon,
I leave to view the light,
Of Stonetown in the distance,
On this pitted lonely night.

A figure sits gently rocking,
In the stark starlight alone.
Skin pale and smooth and beautiful,
Like moon kissed moonstone.

Black hair frames this forlone girl;
As her chest heaved and fell;
Her large eyes held the glint of Heaven,
Which whisked me from my Hell.

Raven tells of her lost her love,
By some foolish night of sin;
And how she’d forsake her very life,
For one more day with him.

In a gasp, her presence quickens me.
We talk -  I free my soul,
To the prospect of human closeness,
In a world too dark and cold.

Unaccustomed as I am,
To the rigors of social delights;
We had in mind to stroll,
To the city’s warming lights.

My thoughts, carefree and fluid,
While misty fields we hiked.
It made no matter on this night,
That in the town, I'm not well liked.

And walk and talk we did,
Amid the spice of vibrant folk.
While we enjoyed a tavern,
I spied the Little One in the smoke.

The witch-child Shumba-Lumba;
For years she’s been watching me,
Peering out of socket-eyes,
With crone-doll on her knee.

A dirty white dress,
Red lip paint; a mess,
Wiped across one tiny cheek.

Curly hair in a matt,
Under dusty top-hat,
Adorning petite physique.

Black-toothed and bilious,
Rotting and hideous,
Foulness - her size belies.

Her skin skull-white;
As in permanent fright;
With holes instead of eyes.

Tiny hands eel-writhing,
At the neck of her grim doll.
I cry out, ‘But I can see you!’
And she flees at my call.

It would be rash to confront her here,
In a town she knows of old.
This wily ghost-witch has her tricks,
For the hasty and the bold.

But does my Raven take fright,
Of the spectre; vengeful and hateful?
No, the pure of heart, can’t see the dark,
And for this blessing I am grateful.

We forsake the steamy bustle,
Of town’s people, dark and striking;
Heading instead to my house on the hill;
- A prospect most inviting.

Through my disused banquet halls,
Considered stately in these parts,
Then up to my tower of potions;
You see … I too have my Arts.

I light the candles of protection;
Imbue charms from near and far.
I take her to my window,
To view the splendour of Zanzibar.

The yellow-lit town houses,
Moon-waves washing clean the shore;
Wind-scattered stars over heaven;
I show the one I adore.

I capture this image in a crystal sphere,
And freeze the moment in time;
I halt the translucent crashing waves,
And petrify the sun’s climb.

It is a perfect moment;
Preserved like a perfect pearl.
I gaze transfixed, at this rare gift,
For her, my perfect girl.

---------

And thus he does not see me,
Moving slowly from his side.
I Raven snuff out the candles;
I undo the rites applied.

Tiptoeing down the spiral staircase;
My pace increasing greatly;
Entering the disused banquet hall,
In these parts considered stately.

There I spy my Smokey Princess;
Demure, dead-white in the gloom.
The hellish Child-Jinn, with harrowing grin,
Regally floats into the room.

Her head lolls from side to side;
Venting sounds between purr and hiss;
Inhaling spiteful victory;
Hated bathed in bliss.

I bow my head as I pass her,
But she gives me not a glance;
Our deal done, our tryst fulfilled -
To the stair she does advance.

I look back once before leaving,
As if waking from my dreams;
But I see no more the ghoulish girl,
And all I hear - are screams.