There were fires everywhere, fires on the ground and fires in iron braziers on poles, fires burning in open pits and fires in rings of stone.

The hurricane lanterns were off, and in their place, torches blazed along the aisles leading to the limp figure tied to the tree.

The patrons were in a manic frenzy.

Drums were beating like the heart of some great beast, steady and savage. The sound rolled across the earth: boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM, never-ending, never-changing.

“I am afraid, Obi, very afraid!” Kot whispered as I hefted two axes.

“I’m glad you’re scared with me, brother!” I whispered back, watching Amadi walk, steady to the beat of the drums down the aisle, his faithful lackey, Rashad, shuffling in tow.

Halfway down the aisle, he stopped and signaled to Rashad to grab a torch. Then on, they went.

I dare admit that I couldn’t feel my face that night. I watched the capering maniacs, in their white silks, soiled with wine and whatever party juices dripped their way, as they skipped to the rhythm of the drums, anticipating the bloodletting.

As they got closer to the figure, the raised torch illuminated a white shroud beneath which someone was writhing in desperation against a vice grip.

Stopping before it, a great blast of sound went rolling through the enclave. It was as though a thousand screaming throats had joined together to cry out in agony.

It was a terrible sound, a sound to flay a man’s skin and set his teeth to chattering. I clapped my hands over my ears, yet still the horn’s voice beat at me, a dread, hellish shrieking that twisted in my guts and made my heart falter.

When the brute at last lowered the horn, the silence that followed seemed louder still. I saw the patrons staring at one another, and saw mouths open, but no words came out. None of them, not even Kot, moved for a long moment.

Then Amadi pulled off the shroud. Underneath was a naked wisp of a man, just out of boyhood. He was gagged and bound spread-eagled on a low platform, a foot high.

He seemed to be appealing to his tormentor, his eyes wide and white with terror.

Removing the gag, Amadi turned and looked at the transfixed crowd.

“I am the storm,” he cried, and the crowd roared it back at him. “I am the widowmaker, the horror in your dreams!” He thundered on, his voice deeper than the drums, louder than the horns, more terrible than the war-cries of storm and battle.

He was completely transformed from the Amadi I knew.

“I told you I’d find a way to raise our world out of the ashes. I have found a way. I shall sit in the seat of the world, and you shall be my slaves and serve me as I rise, and guide!”

“Ah zah! Ah zah foh, kuh-BEH deh ah! Toh-EE! Toh-EE! Toh-EE meh!” The bound man screamed, but he could’ve been a fly for all the good that did him. He tried to squirm, but the leather binds held him tight on the wooden Greek cross.

He raised the knife above his head, and as if enthralled, the entire crowd got to its knees, save the eight brutes who formed a ring around us, Kot and me.

I looked over at the bar to check on Darce, but her friend was on her own, kneeling with a driftwood crown on her head. All the others seemed to be adorned in the same way, on their bowed heads.

Amadi then gingerly turned and brought the knife to his collarbone, and slowly traced it to his right shoulder, then to the other side, carefully not to break an artery, yet deep enough to split the skin, the white flesh quickly filling with blood.

“Toh-EE! Toh-EE! Toh-EE meh!” The man screamed.

Kot, beside me, was shaking. Was that horror in his eyes? I wondered.

Then he trailed the knife down the xiphoid process, down to the navel. Then calmly held the flap of skin on the right collar and slowly began to flay him! All this while, his congregation hummed and rocked their heads.

Amadi pinched the loose flap between thumb and knife hilt and pulled. It came away with a slow, wet kissing sound, like a boot dragging free of deep mud, then a sharper rip as the last fibers tore. The boy’s scream turned into a single, high note that cracked in the middle and never finished.

I hefted the axe on my right arm. The weight was right, and the wooden handle, wrapped in leather, seemed to have been curved into a perfect fit for my palm.

“Make it stop, Obi!” Kot was crying softly.

“Where is Darce?” My mind was asking!