The Curse of Her Father (Part 1)

“The Curse of her Father” (Part 1)


16th of May, 2012

Some suffer from the curse given to them. It would chase and never leave them be. In folktales, the perception that a portrait falling from a wall is an omen of an imminent death remains largely a widespread superstition, or if one goes out to the sea in a night with a full moon, the tide will claim one’s soul or Um Humar would capture and eat the souls of the wanderer.  Fatima, a young girl, believed in those folktales. She sprayed water on their door steps each and every day to get rid of her own father’s curse. She broke eggs open on the ground around the house so as to appease the violent interception of a dark apparition, her father’s.   Mameria was an ancient village known for its massive buildings and palaces. The extraordinary structures of its houses were developed by a famous architect, Demali.  Houses were built by coral blocks and limestones allowing the houses to mysteriously change their colors accordingly. The palm-groves and green gardens surrounded the whole areas of the land, even the buffer zones. Water springs existed deep at the bottom of the sea and old ships used to fill their barrels with fresh water. Not only that, springs gushing out from the ground bewildered comers, quenched the thirst of the poor and made a wonderful souvenir to kings and emperors. It was truly a lost paradise in the midst of mountains, unknown to all but the inhabitants of the land and travelers. Once a wise man said, “Do not fall in love with Mameria for she will snuff out hearts or capture them.” Indeed, Mameria did capture many travelers’ hearts that fell in love with the land and became part of it. They loved her dearly more than anything else. Unfortunately, hope has long been abandoned.

Fatima’s father died when she was only a 13 year-old girl. His death came as a shock, crumbling the incredibly sweet smile on her face ever since. On his death bed, he begged, “Where is Fatima?  I wish to see her before my time is nigh.” The family would eventually lie to him to free his heart from misery, “She will come see you anytime.”  He then had fallen into a deep sleep that he never woke up from.  Fatima never visited him.  Despite insisting on her to go visit her father, she always managed to find a reason not to. Something kept her away.   She believed she had a reason to stay away from all the dramatic commotions.

One day, the snow was getting heavier, whirling down in colossal flurries over the silent land of the village of Mameria as the dark immersed the night. The relentless wind raged on through the empty houses, tearing them asunder mercilessly. Horror reigned over the village.   The squeaky doors opened and shut with violent thuds. Windows shattered.  It was that night that the apparition of her father once again appeared, pale and stale.

“I lay my curse upon you my daughter,” the apparition screamed with rage and horrendous voice, the wind got stronger, doors flying over, windows kicking the walls. “Why have you denied me? I enjoyed your company and you were my little angel.  I gave you life.” Fatima was in tear.  She just had not realized what was going on.  “Not a child would believe in this,” she murmured, putting her hands on her head.  “What has happened? Where is my family? This snow, the raging wind, why?”  Many unanswered questions she could not find threads to.  She snapped a look outside.  It was shocking; there, amongst the ruins, was a horrific scene of naked, dismantled corpses of children lying on the white ground, and terrified looks painted on some of the recognizable faces. The scent of uncertainty prevailed.  No innocent smile flowered. Death hovered through, grinning mockingly with threatening gestures. It was a massacre. The unbearable stench of the fermented blood spread. It was doubtful that any man could make it there without being disgusted or throwing up.  Who? Who dared do such a vile act? Was it the unruly nature?  Was it the vengeful ghost?

“Where have the rest of the people gone now?” Panicking, trembling with fear was Fatima.  She sensed a deep, seated hate lingering around the desecrated land that once was one of the wonders of the world.  The place was not as it used to b. It was but dead children’s graveyard being gazed at by death. No headstones to glint in the moonlight and no sweet basil to tempt wandering people to stop for a moment to pray for their souls.  The woe was immense.

The truth mocked her; it didn’t show itself.  She didn’t know where to begin. After one hour of peace, a sudden gust of rage occurred, changing everything around Fatima. “The village of ruin laid in front me as if a nightmare,” she thought. She turned right to see her house.  It wasn’t there.

“Father,” she screamed, her voice echoing throughout, but to no avail. “Forgive me father; I was so scared.  Scared to see you lying on bed, not moving.”


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