His first recollection of the urge had been as a younger man, fighting in the First World War. The boy, who reminded him of Jamey in some ways, looking back, couldn’t have been a day over seventeen, but he was right there with the rest of them Harlem Hellfighters, signed up to fight for a country that hated him. Didn’t he know that? Didn’t they all? What type of simpletons would fight for a country that didn’t want them?
He was strongly built, with a bright smile and hands that had never seen the rough quarters of a cotton field. Clay and the other white soldiers hated him for it. Too cocky. His unit had stumbled upon the boy alone in a hollowed-out house, taking a crap. The unit decided then and there to teach the boy a lesson.
They roughed him up some at first, each of them taking their turn to give him a good wallop. Then the beating turned ugly. It was going badly, and when the feeling of the boy’s pending doom stirred, Clay recoiled and stifled it. But there, in France, was where he’d first confessed to the Catholic priest. Prayer and marriage were his prescribed cures for murder.
It had worked, inasmuch as when he had joined a Klan group when he got back home to Tulsa, it was only in the name of protecting good white folks, and he never participated in another murder. He would die before he would. Before long, he couldn’t ignore the error of his ways and left that band of fools behind too. He and the wife he’d chosen in haste were estranged. Two adults living in the same home but barely speaking, not knowing each other, and almost never having marital relations. Mary had cursed him, threatened to tell his friends that he was off. But he’d stayed to provide for her and their boy.
Then, in a moment as blissful as it was foolish, he’d beaten the daylights out of one of his former Klan brothers for getting too friendly with a young Negro girl. Clay lured him deep into an alley, his intent only to give him a good whupping. But like in France, things went awry and the man lay dead after hitting his head. When the police came, Clay didn’t even try to run.
The inside of a jail cell was a fair tumble downward for a former soldier in the US Army. And it would be only a matter of time before gossip in the tiny town had his name on everyone’s flapping gums. Clay had pried a wire loose from the steel bunk and dragged a piercing line across his chest. He’d hacked and sliced three letters into his skin by the time the woman appeared, standing on the other side of the bars.
Geneva looked exactly the same as she did now, the same beautiful face, the same clothes that never changed or wore out. Clay had scrambled to the rear of the cell. The malevolence the woman wore made him want to shield his eyes. Nobody else seemed to see her. On that first visit, she’d asked about him, his family. It was like she was a priest or something, but that wasn’t possible for a Negro woman.
The next visit, she spoke of Clay’s crime. Asked him all sorts of questions about how he felt about it. On the last visit, she told him she wasn’t too keen about the fact that he had killed one of her people, said a spirit had whispered it to her. One that would be waiting for him, or his son. The last visit, she offered absolution that came with another steep price that would protect his boy. Clay already suspected he’d gone mad. But not mad enough to not agree to take the hand she extended, the hand that felt like salvation had finally come. She offered him a way out: join her. Said they were kindred spirits.
Long, difficult weeks later, the sheriff appeared and pronounced him free. Clay had stumbled into the bright afternoon, where the woman who had paid his fine—Efe—waited with Geneva. He didn’t concern himself with how she’d managed it.
Over the years, Clay had completed the desperate engraving on his chest. The mirror revealed the ragged, inexpert carving of the word “Redemption.” The raised and puckered skin had barely healed. Clay unfolded the knife, sank it into the tip of the letter R, and carved anew. He bit down on the piece of wood he’d clamped between his teeth. He would not cry out. Skin opened and blood seeped from his chest.
Muttering his apologies, Clay begged God to fix him before he died. He was going to hell, for the murders, and for what he’d done to help the demon. But he did not want to go into the afterlife not having been healed.
When he finished, Clay rose, put away his torture and worship implements. He cleaned his wounds with alcohol and covered them with a loose bandage. He sat on his bunk and fell into a fitful sleep, wrought with nightmares and visions of what horrors awaited him in the afterlife. He wondered if Geneva spun them special for him, if she’d cracked him open and looked inside at every horror.
In the morning, sunlight streaming into the trailer, a bird sang its song at the base of his window. Clay rose, peeling back a corner of his bandage. The wound was another shot of whiskey shy of being healed.
Eloko had to admit: he liked Malachi. From the first day they’d met, the man had simply put him at an ease he’d never felt around humans before. He didn’t have the slightest urge to eat him either. They sat this early morning, going over the highlights of Malachi’s new show. How excited he was that people had enjoyed it.
“The key,” Malachi explained, “is that up to a certain point, right below the skin, you don’t feel pain when the needles enter the body. And, of course, it is a matter of mental acuity. Mind over matter.”
Eloko’s snout parted in a grin. “When you lie on the bed of nails, you simply tell yourself you will not feel the pain, and you do not?”
Malachi waved his hands noncommittally. “More or less. To be fair, the nails are not as sharp as they could be, and these”—he whipped out the small acupuncture needles he’d used in his show—“these will enter the skin, but you feel almost nothing. And positioned the right way, they can actually heal.”
Eloko’s golden eyes widened. “What sorts of things can they heal?”
“All kinds. The twelve vessels of the body are outlined in this Egyptian medical text called the Ebers Papyrus. I only know a few of them, though.”
The two talked more, and Eloko relayed how in his own show, it was enough for people to stare and gawk but that perhaps he should consider expanding. Telling jokes or something of the sort. He would certainly not dance.
“Let’s think on it over breakfast,” Malachi said, then rose and offered Eloko a bite of an apple he’d removed from his pocket. Eloko declined. “You know, I don’t see you eat much, and when you do, it is with little enthusiasm. Mabel has been able to accommodate my diet; maybe she can cook something special for you.”
Eloko didn’t want to tell Malachi that he doubted that Mabel could accommodate his unusual tastes. “There are certain dishes I miss; it would take some explaining, though,” Eloko said and then laughed at his own joke, even though Malachi didn’t get it. “I’ve got to go see Clay first,” the dwarf lied. “I can meet you in an hour.”
Malachi agreed and bounced outside with a book. Eloko had been crafty, trying to pump information from his friend . . . did he say “friend”? He felt a stab of guilt but quickly unburdened himself; he would do nothing to harm Malachi. He’d learned only that Liza had some sort of vision. It was possible she wasn’t the one Ahiku was looking for, but there was certainly something unsettling about her. Eloko only hoped, if she was indeed the danger he thought she was, that after the demon was done with her, he would be able to feast on what was left of her flesh. Yes, that would be a just reward. He salivated and shivered thinking about it.
Ah, he bounced a little lighter on his feet; Ahiku must have read his mind. Zinsa and Efe were standing at their posts at the red trailer, and if they were there, then their mistress had to be inside. The women soldiers’ dark skin glistened in the sunlight. As Eloko approached, Zinsa whipped out her short dagger and held it out in front of the dwarf.
“If it is not the eyes and ears.” She brandished the weapon in front of Eloko’s face.
With one clawed hand, he pushed it aside. “Your mistress has returned?” He ignored Zinsa and directed his question to Efe.
But before she could even answer, a voice from inside the trailer called out. “Sen
d him in.”
Efe gestured at the door, and Eloko lilted up the stairs, his snout parted in a gruesome grin. Playfully, he snapped at Zinsa before slipping through the door.
Ahiku lay sprawled on her treasured chaise lounge, her feet crossed at the ankles. She wore the mask this time; slashes of black decorated both cheeks, a creamy tan partway down the center, ending at the tip of her nose. Red filled in the other spaces, including the lips. Eloko didn’t fidget while she appraised him. He was certain that she respected him some for that. Ahiku removed the mask and rose to place it back on the wall.
“It is a fine morning that brings you to me so early. You must have something most important to report.”
Uninvited, Eloko scooted up into the high stool and crossed his legs, swinging them back and forth. He was bursting with excitement. “I do indeed,” he said. “But may we settle the small matter of my reward first?”
Ahiku’s smile melted from her face like scalding butter. “Remaining alive and unskinned is your reward, little dwarf.”
Eloko’s legs stopped swinging. He had gotten ahead of himself. He backtracked. “Of course.” He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. “Your enemy—I think I’ve found her.”
Ahiku looked at him, head tilted. “Get on with it.” She became angry. “There are many women in the carnival and the town both; do you care to narrow it down for me?”
“The temperamental animal charmer,” Eloko explained. “The girl from Baton Rouge you told me to keep an eye on.”
“And what makes you think she is the one?” Ahiku sat up, her eyes intent on Eloko.
“She has become friendly with my trailer mate. The Human Pincushion we got from Barnum’s outfit. He’s not like the rest of them; he’s studied much about the continent—”
“About the orisha?”
“No.” Eloko was getting flustered. He wanted to tell the story, but she kept interrupting him. “I mean, yes, of a sort. He is into this ‘meditation’ thing. Apparently, if one sits long enough and, well, thinks, answers of a kind can come to you.” He paused, certain the demon would interrupt him. When she didn’t, he continued, even more animated. “It was during one of these sessions that the girl had a vision from a spirit.”
“African?” Ahiku had come to her feet and stalked over to her spy.
“I’m not sure,” Eloko said slowly.
Ahiku spat out a stream of words in a language Eloko didn’t understand but that he plainly took for curses of some sort. He was alternately giddy with excitement and wary with unease. He couldn’t say he had ever seen Ahiku worried, and that scared him more than her skinning threat.
“But the age is wrong . . . perhaps—”
“I can easily kill her for you.”
“No!” Ahiku snapped. “You must not touch her.” Eloko flinched, swiped some of his grassy hair out of his eyes. He didn’t understand why they shouldn’t go on and end it here. He had not tasted any flesh since the electrician. Surely, she could spare him another one.
“I understand,” he ventured. “You must have your time to do what you need to with your foe. But . . . but after you are done, do you suppose I could have whatever is left?”
“You are a selfish creature.” Ahiku paced. “You think only of your own hunger.”
Eloko didn’t want to mention that Ahiku did pretty much the same thing. Best to keep his snout shut.
“I check everyone that comes into this carnival,” Ahiku said as if she were talking to herself. “How could I have missed her?”
Eloko blinked but remained silent.
Then a slow smile curved at the corner of Ahiku’s mouth. She returned to the chaise, switched on the radio on the side table next to her. The sound of the African savanna piped into the room. Not the drums, as was her usual, but the sounds of the creatures, of the wind brushing against dry grass, of the hunt.
“Could she be a daughter, perhaps? If she is, you’ve given me a way to lure that witch out of hiding. Tell me what you know of this girl,” she said, leaning back. “Everything you know, and leave out no small detail. I must be certain.”
Eloko resettled himself in the chair and began a not-too-embellished retelling of the little information he had on Liza Meeks, daughter of an aberration—descendants of Africa who had willingly abandoned her.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED
For those who were especially attuned to its unique chorus, life on the road was filled with boundless melodic treasures. Liza was one of those people. More than once, she had fallen asleep to the steady, reassuring rotation of tires against a bumpy road or open field, only to be awakened by the serenade of a new bird. Even the sometimes bleak, sometimes beautiful things outside the window made it worthwhile.
She and Autumn had called a truce and were back in each other’s good graces for the time being. Mico certainly wasn’t the most friendly animal in the world, so the fact that he liked Autumn counted for something. Liza was certain that deep down, beneath the rouge, below the shimmer of her beautiful clothes, a decent lady was hidden.
The trailer had pulled to a stop, and Liza called out to the driver. “Where are we?”
“Seeing our way a little deeper into Oklahoma,” Jamey called back. Since they had begun seeing each other in earnest, it was, more often than not, him driving their trailer. He’d said the small gesture drew him closer to her. And she didn’t argue it.
“What city?” she asked, coming outside and stretching.
“None yet,” Jamey said. “Have a look around you.”
Liza turned in a circle and took in a whole horizon full of dust and empty. There was no other way to describe it. “Well, when do we get to the city?”
Instead of answering, Jamey came up to her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You meeting some other man?”
“Yes,” Liza said. “He is about this tall.” She held her hand high over her own head. “Has a sad, stern face and wears a worn cap.” She had described her father, but so far, she hadn’t told Jamey much about her family.
“You let me get to him first,” Jamey said, pulling her close. Autumn emerged from the trailer, and Liza pulled away. Autumn still didn’t approve of their relationship, but Liza had no idea why she cared.
“Young love,” Autumn teased as she strolled past.
Jamey looked off in the distance, fidgeted, and turned serious. He took Liza’s hand and dropped to one knee. He slid a ring, a simple golden band, from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Liza raised her eyebrows so high they may well have sailed right off her impressive forehead. She flapped her hands, casting her gaze around to see if anybody was watching them. “Get up. Get up!”
“I want to be with you.” Jamey wore the expression of a man who’d gotten to his own funeral late. He stood. “We together now; why not make it official?”
“I’ve barely known you six months.”
“And that’s more than long enough,” he countered. “My parents got married after they parents decided on the match. It don’t take long to know. Less you got somebody else on your mind.”
He probably meant Ishe. Liza sighed but couldn’t ignore the flutter in her stomach. “There is nobody else, and you know it. You don’t even know anything about me.”
“Past don’t matter. I know all I need to know.”
Clay came up to them then. “Been looking all over for ya, Jamey,” he said. “Give sweet britches here a kiss and come with me—we got work to do.”
Liza was glad for the distraction. “We’ll talk later,” she said, turning to head in the opposite direction.
“Count on it,” Jamey said and then went off after Clay.
“I believe it is necessary for a woman to be sure of character before she selects a mate,” Bombardier said between mouthfuls of bacon and eggs. “Sometimes the most obvious choice is not the best one.”
Hope and Liza shot him a look. He might as well have been waving a sign that said ISHE, ISHE IS TH
E MAN FOR YOU!
“A relationship”—Hope stopped and took a slurp of coffee—“or a marriage is tough—”
“Our marriage, our courtship, was as easy as a Senegalese sea breeze, as exciting as a laamb match, as pure as the sand of Dakar’s Ngor Island beaches,” Bombardier interrupted and laughed heartily. Both women eyed him until he piped down.
“Even for regular folk.” Hope nibbled a biscuit. “But in a carnival? And what about kids? You know you can’t be raising kids here—it’s not allowed—and ’sides, it wouldn’t be much of a life anyway.”
“Who said anything about kids?” Liza pushed her plate away. “I’m not sure I even want to get married.” She had come to Hope and Bombardier, the closest thing she had to an example of how a real marriage was supposed to work—one where both parties spoke and had minds of their own. Still, how sad was it that they, people in a carnival, were her only model.
“Then, my girl,” Bombardier said, zooming in on the opening, “you have answered your own question.”
Liza huffed and swept her eyes over the cook tent. Mabel and Uly huddled in a corner—were they flirting? A couple of tables over, Malachi sat with Eloko. Her new friend waved and inclined his head at her. She returned the gesture with a weak smile that faded as soon as Eloko turned to see who Malachi had made the gesture to. There was something creepy about the little man: not because of his appearance but because of the way he looked at her and his slinking around, watching everything.
Autumn sat by herself under a shaded portion of the tent, flipping through a magazine and managing to make eating breakfast in an empty field seem like she shared a table with the Queen of England.
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