Chapter 2

Zubera Delvaux

As the moon ascended gracefully in the night sky and commenced its luminous glow, a gentle breeze began to stir. It meandered through the ancient cracks of the weathered wooden window, its touch as delicate as a lover's caress. In the midst of this ethereal dance, she lay tucked in the embrace of her dreams, unaware of the busy street outside. The cool spring air, infused with the aroma of the Chinese fast-food restaurant below, whispered its way into the room. It glided across the room, brushing against the faded old curtains and rustling them ever so slightly. With each tender stroke, it gently touched her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

In this moment of serene sleep, she was transported to a realm of pure calmness. Her mind, unburdened by the worries of the day, drifted through a realm of dreams.

Dreams were her escape from the burdens that weighed upon her weary soul. Memories, like fragments of a forgotten past of her childhood, whispered softly in her mind, offering a temporary release from the trials of her existence.

However, concealed beneath her calm and composed façade, there resided a woman who had spent years building an impenetrable wall around her heart, shielding herself from the tumultuous waves of emotions and deep connections. Life's relentless lessons had forged her into a fierce warrior, a soul well-versed in the art of navigating treacherous waters.

She had barely managed to steal a few hours of sleep after a grueling day of hard work when an ear-splitting cacophony of noise, so jarring and piercing, abruptly shattered the delicate silence that had enveloped her.

With a sudden jolt, her eyes burst open. Startled, she swiftly sat up, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mind desperately tried to pinpoint the origin of the loud disturbance that had disturbed her sleep.

In agitation, she filled her lungs and inhaled deeply before leaving the bed. With a hurried pace, she sprinted across the creaky floorboards, desperately seeking her robe. Her thoughts were consumed by an urgent need to confront the disturbance. She grabbed her baseball bat, an ever-reliable sidekick she always had on hand.

With a huff of annoyance, she flung open the door. Stepping out into the dimly lit hallway, her footsteps echoed with an air of irritation. The obnoxious cacophony of pop culture music assaulted her ears, coming from the wretched door across the hallway. The air crackled with her seething anger, each breath she took fueling the flames of her fury. Her eyes blazed with an intensity that could scorch the walls around her.

The corridor trembled with the echo of three sharp knocks, Bang, Bang, Bang, each one reverberating through the air like a clap of thunder. She pressed against the stubborn door, its resistance only fuelling her growing frustration and impatience. 

Finally, the door swings open and exposes a disoriented and intoxicated teenager, caught off guard by her forceful intrusion. Without a moment's hesitation, she forcefully pushed him aside and made her way to the center of the room to a chair.

There, she seated herself with an air of regal authority, legs elegantly intertwined, her delicate fingers idly tracing the sinuous curves of the baseball bat. Without a word, she declared it to be her throne, her weapon, and her scepter.

All who beheld her recognized her instantly—it was Zubera, a living manifestation of haughtiness who radiated an unsettling aura of dominance. Everyone in the building knew who she was. 

Children in the building feared her, and women instinctively avoided crossing her path. Men, on the other hand, were oddly drawn to her enigmatic charm, mesmerized by her mystery, beauty and her undeniable sensuality.

The abrupt assault of pop culture music ceased almost immediately as if silenced by an invisible force—her mere presence.

No spoken words were needed to convey what she wanted—the unyielding chill in her demeanor spoke volumes.

"Well, my work here is done." 

"I extend my sincerest wishes for an evening filled with joy and delight, my dear children," she quipped as she gracefully rose from the chair.

With that, she strode out of the apartment, singing a lullaby, her voice resonating with a hauntingly beautiful sweetness, both captivating and melodic.

'Sleep, little baby,

The little baby doesn't want to sleep.

The jumbie will eat him,

The soucouyant will suck his blood.'

A sly smirk played upon her lips as she heard the door shut behind her. Her gorgeous dark brown almond-shaped eyes glistened with amusement and satisfaction.

For Zubera, sleep was an elusive luxury. She had been plagued by insomnia for years, and disruptions like these only exacerbated her struggles. She settled into the dim light of the crescent moon, her thoughts inevitably drifting to the recurring visions of a young boy that had plagued her over the past nineteen years. The boy she never met before, or she thought?

She turned on the television to distract herself from the frightening nightmares of the unknown boy. The news channel maintained its monotonous narrative, relaying accounts of poignant occurrences, including the heartrending Hillsborough disaster in England and the Revolution of 1989.

However, Zubera harbored little to no inclination toward the intricate matters of the world; her own personal realm predominantly consumed her attention.

She flipped through the glossy pages of opulent magazines, their lavishness strikingly juxtaposed with her humble existence. Her head was filled with wild hopes and lofty visions, but she was unsure how to make those desires into reality.

Minutes stretched into hours, and the sun's radiant beams eventually flooded the room with a shimmering morning glow. 

With a resigned sigh, she turned her focus toward the stack of unopened letters and bills that cluttered her table.  She ripped through each envelope, one after another, uncovering a heap of unpaid bills and miscellaneous newsletters. Her financial difficulties weighed heavily on her mind, threatening to submerge her in hopelessness. 

In the midst of mundane and dull letters, one particular envelope gripped her attention as it bore the distinctive and unique calligraphy she hadn't glimpsed in more than ten years. As she hesitantly took the envelope from the pile, a rush of emotion rinsed her over, and her hands quivered with thrill and dread. She clutched a knife and carefully tore it open, and her fingers shivered as they exposed the priceless letter concealed within.

Zubera leaned back in her worn leather chair, her trembling hands clutching the envelope. It was a letter written in delicate handwriting by her grandmother, a woman who had been presumed dead for more than a decade. Her heart raced as she traced her fingers over the familiar curves and loops of the script.

How could this be? How could her grandmother, whom she had mourned and grieved for all these years, suddenly reach out to her from beyond the grave?

Memories came back flooding in. She remembered the warmth of her embrace, her laughter, and the stories she used to tell. But then, tragedy struck, and her grandmother vanished without a trace.

Zubera had no desire to go back and confront the demons of her past. Like a relentless shadow, the past like a relentless shadow, had ushered only misery into her life and that of her mother.  She had witnessed her mother's silent suffering, a yearning that etched lines of sorrow over her face, all emanating from her grandmother, Nafre's mysterious disappearance nearly two decades ago. Every year on Zubera's birthday, letters from her elusive grandmother arrived. Nonetheless, they never revealed her whereabouts.

Clutching the letters close to her heart, her mother found solace in their delicate pages. Each one became a lifeline, a fragile thread of hope that she desperately clung to in her tireless pursuit. With every word, she yearned to unearth a hidden hint, a subtle clue, anything that could guide her toward the whereabouts of Nafre.

The letters bore no return address. Each envelope, without a return address, carried with it a cruel confusion that slowly ate away at her mother's soul. The weight of this mystery grew heavier with each passing year, dragging her mother deeper into the abyss of despair and desolation.

A decade had passed since the letters had last graced her mother's hopeful hands, their absence blowing out the flickering flame of hope that had burned within her heart. The letters had abruptly ceased, leaving behind an eerie silence that echoed through her soul. The ink-stained letters became nothing more than faded memories imprinted in the recesses of her mind. The anticipation in her eyes gave way to a weariness that settled upon her like a heavy shroud. The void consumed her mother's existence. 

Zubera spent her teenage years witnessing her mother's decline into a lifeless existence. Within the depths of Zubera's heart, she held deep resentment for her Grandmother Nafre, which seeped into her existence, poisoning her thoughts and emotions. But it was not just Grandmother Nafre who bore her disdain; the people of Willowdale, too, were subject to her simmering anger. 

  The people of Willowdale, with their narrow minds and judgmental ways, had cast Zubera and her mother away with a callousness that cut deep. They had chosen to ostracize Zubera and her mother, driven solely by the obstinate reputation of her Grandmother Nafre, a labeled witch. This title held no relevance to Zubera or her mother, yet it had become a permanent stain on their lives. 

  In the eyes of the townsfolk, they were tainted by association, forever marked as outcasts. Whispers followed them wherever they went, and the disdainful glances that pierced their souls, all served as constant reminders of their status as Witches of Willowdale. 

Zubera, burdened by the weight of this unjust judgment, could not help but feel the bitterness grow within her. But Zubera knew, deep down, that her mother and Grandmother Nafre were not the monsters they were made out to be. They were women of strength and wisdom, misunderstood by a world that feared what it could not understand.