The Weight of Our Sky: Chapter 11–Epilogue

The motorcycle judders to a stop in front of the house.

Off to the left, a small group has commandeered a couple of tables and are sorting through what seems to be a massive amount of food supplies.

You took their food and their hospitality and all they got in return was hurt.

Deftly, my fingers tap and stroke, weaving my safety net all over the car, all over Vincent.

The sudden silence seems loud, unnatural, stilted.

Unlike the packed walls of the Chin Woo Stadium, where people had to shrink themselves to fit somewhere between one another and their belongings besides, here families can move around more freely, taking up larger spaces to create some semblance of home for themselves.

Every week since, I’ve heard my mother recite the surah every Thursday night, her voice low and sweet. She says it’s in memory of Abah, and for her parents, the grandmother and grandfather who died before I was old enough to retain any memories of them. A dirge for the dead.

A single tear falls onto the hankie, and as the Djinn screams obscene thoughts of my mother’s death in my ears, I watch the moisture creep slowly across the fabric, rendering it sheer and fragile-looking—as thin as a spider’s web.

Then again, any sane person doesn’t spend sleepless nights counting in groups of three, go into conniptions at being unable to tap things, house djinns in their bodies, or imagine their own mother’s death.

The thoughts come sluggishly, as if they’re swimming to the surface of a sea of sludge.

I lean back against the wall, feeling defeated. Thwarted before you even begin, the Djinn says tauntingly.

I head straight for the front desk, where an officer barely looks up as I approach, busily writing in some files before him. “Yes?” he says brusquely.

He looks up properly then, taking me in, in all my shivering, drenched, bedraggled glory, my soaked uniform clinging to me like a second skin.

I can’t speak; I just stare morosely at the ground and listlessly count the scuffed tiles on the floor around us.

I can’t speak; I just stare morosely at the ground and listlessly count the scuffed tiles on the floor around us.

“I’m going to find my mother,” I say, a little taken aback.

Everywhere you look, gods and deities dance and gambol and grin and leer, all rendered in brilliant, vivid hues and studded with gems.

Everywhere you look, gods and deities dance and gambol and grin and leer, all rendered in brilliant, vivid hues and studded with gems.

In here the floor is cool, the scent of incense floats delicately in the air, and the quiet is calm and serene.

Mama often tells me to seek God, to invoke His name, ask for His help.

I can’t bring myself to speak of such things in this peaceful place; it almost seems sacrilegious.

“Yes, many people came for shelter here when it was happening,” he says. “I’m not sure why! We don’t even have any doors to shut people out. But even without doors, there are not many who would attempt to desecrate this place with violence or angry words.”

The closer I get, the louder and more hectoring the Djinn’s voice becomes.

As we watch, one man lights a cigarette, then tosses his still-lit match casually in through a broken window; minutes later, fire crackles merrily in the empty building, sending cascades of smoke billowing into the sky.

As we watch, one man lights a cigarette, then tosses his still-lit match casually in through a broken window; minutes later, fire crackles merrily in the empty building, sending cascades of smoke billowing into the sky.

I don’t even know what I’m doing; my vision is blurred and my breathing is labored and my ears are ringing, but the moment blade makes contact, I feel it: a sudden, visceral thrill.

May sidles over to me, and I hug her close.

A dry, inquiring little half cough breaks the spell, and we both turn our tear-streaked faces to see Miss Low looking at us, half-disapproving at this wanton display of emotion.

Mama reluctantly lets me go, and I straighten my clothes, feeling as chastened as if I’ve just been caught cheating.

I know he must be in pain, but the boy tries his best not to moan or flinch, and I almost want to cry as I watch him struggle valiantly along, his shirt soaked with sweat.

Mama’s face is frozen in a rictus of confusion and panic, and I can feel my own rearranging itself to mirror it.

I make no move to answer; the din in my head drowns out May’s timid whisper, and it’s taking all my strength to maintain control.

The Djinn begins to pound an insistent beat on my heart, the echoes reverberating through my entire body.

Then, slowly, it dawns on her how hopeless an endeavor this is, and right before my eyes, she shrinks and shrivels until there is nothing left in her place but a shell.

I look up at the brilliant blue afternoon sky, trying to marshal my thoughts.

Frankie’s struggling to keep his eyes open; his head dips and lolls as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

Together, we play a quick, painstaking game of musical chairs: I move Ethan carefully to the front seat, where he rests his head against Mama’s shoulder, May on his other side.

I know the Djinn stirs when we arrive, emboldened by the specters and spectacles of death at every turn.

They had the corpses carted off and interred into mass graves: one giant hole for everyone, a final resting place crowded with companions.

I’ve come to accept that the Djinn and I are always going to be locked in a battle for control of my brain and my body, that he will never truly go away and leave me in peace. But I also know now that I’m capable of fighting these skirmishes with him each day, and that more days than not, I’m capable of winning them.