Ship of Souls

by Zetta Elliott

  I feel my eyes starting to close but manage to drowsily ask another question. “Why did you choose me?”

  “You have nothing to lose,” she croons.

  Suddenly alert, I snap my head back and stare at the enchanting bird. “What?”

  “No one to lose, I mean. I had to choose someone whose heart was free.”

  I want to object, to insist that I do have something—someone—to lose. But the bird is right. I like Mrs. Martin, and I appreciate her taking care of me and everything, but I’m not getting attached to her. And Mercy—well, even the visiting nurse said she can’t form a bond with anyone because of the chemicals in her system. Poor kid. She came into this world with her heart already broken.

  I let my head fall back onto the pillow. “So you picked me ’cause you thought I’d be more loyal?”

  “Precisely. You’re wise for your years, Dmitri.”

  “Call me D,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “No one calls me Dmitri.”

  “Someone did…once.”

  My face heats up, and for just a moment I find myself wanting to crush this nosy bird. How could it know that my mother used to call me Dmitri?

  “Great care was taken with your preparation,” she says.

  “Preparation?”

  “Your education.”

  “Oh, I get it. My mom homeschooled me. She didn’t trust the public schools, and we couldn’t afford a private one.”

  “You don’t belong at school.”

  “I don’t belong anywhere, really.”

  “Everyone belongs somewhere,” she says softly. “D?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am not what I appear to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Instead of answering, the bird moves closer to the edge of the bed and silently morphs into a glowing yellow sphere.

  I feel my tired eyes opening wide. “How’d you do that?”

  In a deep male voice, it replies, “I am made of energy, D. I can sense what is in your heart and mind. Once I know what pleases you, I can adapt to suit your preferences.”

  “Are you—I mean, are you, like, an alien?”

  “I must seem strange to you,” the sphere says in its female voice before settling back into bird form.

  “Uh—yeah! You’re amazing. So…are you from another planet?”

  “I am from…another realm.”

  “Another realm. This is so cool! And you came here and chose me—why?”

  “You should rest, D.” She reaches out her wing, but I pull back from her feathery touch.

  “I’m not tired.”

  The bird doesn’t sigh, but she lowers her eyes and seems resigned. “The journey we must undertake will require all the strength you can muster.”

  “Where are we going—back to your realm?”

  “Yes. But first we must gather the dead.”

  “The dead!?” My heart begins to pound inside my chest. One second I am terrified, and the next I am filled with hope. Maybe this bird is an angel sent down from heaven! Mom must have sent her to get me, and now—

  “Long dead, D.” The bird looks at me, and there is kindness in her eyes along with an apology. “These souls have been waiting hundreds of years for me to return.”

  “You left them?” I say accusingly to hide my disappointment.

  “Yes—but not by choice.”

  “Someone made you leave them behind?” I ask with suspicion.

  “Yes. And those beings are out there still. They will hunt us, D.”

  The terror I felt a moment ago creeps back into my heart.

  “As long as you stay close to me, I can keep you safe,” she says reassuringly.

  This time I don’t pull away when the bird reaches out a protective silken wing. She drapes it across my cheek, and I feel myself falling asleep. “Why are they hunting you?”

  This time the bird really does sigh. “All the dead are not dead, D. Souls that have suffered do not always find peace. They are restless, impatient. And sometimes…hostile.”

  Rest in peace. That’s what the minister said at Mom’s funeral. And RIP is sprayed on all the murals painted to honor the memory of those shot down in the street. I have just enough strength to ask one last question. “Where do they go—the souls that can’t find peace?”

  The bird touches her feathers to my lips, and suddenly I can’t remember the question I just asked. I yawn and fall into a deep sleep.

  7.

  That night I dream that I am trapped in my room during a flood. Dark, murky water bubbles up from the drain in the basement and rapidly rises through the house. But just as the oily water oozes under my door, a brilliant star lights up the night sky and forces the water back downstairs and into the drain. I wake with a breathless gasp, but the bird brushes my face with her satiny feathers, and I immediately go back to sleep.

  The next morning, Mrs. Martin beams at me like she always does before setting a bowl of oatmeal and steaming milk on the table. Mercy’s gurgling contentedly in her carrier.

  “Brown sugar or maple syrup?” Mrs. Martin asks.

  I want to ask for maple syrup, but Mrs. Martin pays a lot for the small jugs they sell at the farmers’ market. I don’t feel right pouring it on thick like the cheap syrup my mom used to buy at the supermarket, and I like my oatmeal sweet. So instead, Perfect-me says, “Brown sugar, please.”

  Mrs. Martin brings the sugar bowl over to me. “You weren’t in the basement last night, were you, D?”

  “The basement? No, ma’am.” Why would I go down there? It’s damp and creepy and full of cobwebs and scurrying things.

  “I came down this morning, and there was a dreadful draft—somehow the basement door came open during the night.”

  Just then icy air wafts into the room, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I glance over at the door leading into the basement, but it’s shut tight and the bolt has been slid into place. I stir a lump of brown sugar into my oatmeal and try to remember more about the dream I had last night. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. Could I have opened the door to the basement while sleepwalking? I’ve never walked in my sleep before, but these days a lot of things are happening to me that have never happened before.

  After breakfast I rush upstairs to ask the bird about my bad dream, but when I reach my room, she’s too tired to talk. “Keep me close,” is all she says before closing her eyes and falling asleep once more. I carefully slip her into the inside pocket of my coat. Then I grab my book bag and head back downstairs. Before leaving for school, I check the bolt on the basement door and make a mental note to ask the bird more about whatever it is that’s hunting her.

  8.

  It’s Thursday. After my second tutoring session with Keem, I come out of the library and Nyla’s there waiting for me. “About time,” she says, rolling her eyes with pretend irritation. “What took you so long?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I—I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”

  Nyla pushes herself off the wall and nods at the golden bird she’d been leaning against. The façade of the library is covered with gold images of people and creatures from famous stories. Nyla chose the phoenix rising from the flames. “You said you were going to show me your bird-watching spot, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I look at Keem and figure I better introduce him to Nyla. “You know Keem, right?”

  Nyla gives Keem a once-over with her eyes and then says, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he replies without revealing a trace of the excitement I know he must be feeling inside.

  “So…I guess I’ll see you next week, Keem. On Tuesday.”

  Before Keem can reply, Nyla taunts him by saying, “I guess a jock like you is way too cool to look at birds.”

  Keem smiles without smiling. Only super cool kids can do that.

  “If you’re going over to the park, I’ll hang with you for a while. I can’t stay too late, though.” Keem looks at me and says, “Qadaa.”

/>   I nod, liking that he trusts me to remember the word’s meaning. But apparently it’s not a secret after all because Nyla says, “You’re Muslim?”

  Keem nods, but I see him grow tense, waiting for the joke or the insult that’s to come.

  “Which mosque do you go to?” Nyla asks, surprising us both.

  “The one on Fulton Street. Know it?”

  “Sure,” Nyla replies as she leads us down the stairs and over to the street. “My girl goes to that mosque. Sanaa Jenkins—you know her?”

  Keem nods. “Since we were little kids.”

  “She says you were a real hell-raiser back in the day.”

  Keem looks genuinely surprised. “Me? I don’t think so. My dad doesn’t play that. Ask D—he knows what my dad’s like.”

  Nyla turns to me for confirmation. “I only met Mr. Diallo once, but…he seems pretty strict,” I say.

  “You don’t know strict ’til you’ve met my dad,” she says before darting across the street and nearly getting hit by a car.

  Keem and I wait for the traffic to pass and catch up with Nyla. She’s standing on the triangular island that divides the busy street. I grab hold of her bag to keep her from rushing out into traffic again.

  I’m holding Nyla’s bag, but Keem’s the one holding her attention. They’re still talking about all the things Sanaa Jenkins said about Keem. I hate to think it, but maybe Nyla has only been nice to me in order to get close to Keem. But Nyla’s the prettiest girl in the whole school—she doesn’t need my help to hook up with anyone. And she has to know Keem’s into her…

  Suddenly Nyla grabs my hand and pulls me into the street. “Move it or lose it, D!”

  We run across the street, laughing at our recklessness. Keem’s trapped on the island and has to wait for the light to change. While we’re waiting for him, Nyla turns to me and says, “Do you mind if he comes with us? I can tell him to get lost if you want me to.”

  I’d much rather be alone with Nyla in the park, but Keem will be destroyed if Nyla tells him to go. “Keem’s a good guy,” I say. Not a ringing endorsement, but true.

  Nyla watches Keem as the light changes and he does the jock-trot over to where we are. “Ready to spot some exotic birds?”

  Before Keem and I can say anything, Nyla turns and heads into the park. We follow her knowing full well that Nyla’s the most exotic creature we’ve ever seen.

  I figure this is my chance to learn more about her, so I start with some small talk. “You’ve traveled a lot, huh?”

  Nyla shrugs and then pulls her ringed fingers out of her pockets and counts off all the places she’s been. I don’t even have a passport, but Nyla must have stamps on every single page of hers.

  “It’s easy to get around when you live in Europe,” she says. “Everything’s close by, more or less.”

  “Is that how you learned to speak German?” asks Keem.

  “Natürlich, dumm.” Nyla laughs at the confused looks on our faces. “I came here from Ramstein, but before that we moved around a lot. My dad’s an Army engineer. Or was—he retired last year, so we came back here.”

  “Brooklyn must be kind of boring compared to Europe, huh?”

  Nyla looks at me like I‘m crazy. “Are you kidding? Brooklyn’s the world.” She throws out her arms and twirls around and around. Then, staggering dizzily, she says, “Everyone who’s anyone lives here.”

  Keem’s phone goes off, and he steps away to take the call. I catch Nyla watching him, trying to hear who he’s talking to.

  This is my chance—I’ve got Nyla all to myself. “So…what are you?” I ask.

  Nyla’s dimples vanish as the smile slides off her face. I rush on to fix my mistake. “I mean, are you, like, Goth? Or punk?”

  Nyla’s smile returns, and she flips her hair out of her eyes. “What you see is what you get, D. I’m me—take it or leave it.”

  Nyla watches me, her onyx eyes sparkling with unloosed laughter. She reaches out a hand and rubs it over my thick hair. I haven’t had a haircut since I moved in with Mrs. Martin but plan to spend some of my tutoring money at the barbershop—soon.

  “You’d look good with a faux-hawk,” Nyla tells me.

  “Can’t—my mom would freak out,” I say. Then I realize I’ve done it again—used the present tense for someone who’s no longer present.

  I try to look away, but Nyla sees the change in my face. “You and your mom don’t get along?” she asks softly.

  “We used to,” I say, fingering the pink ribbon pin in my coat pocket. “But…my mom died a few months back. She had breast cancer.” I press the sharp pink ribbon pin into my thumb, knowing Nyla will see me wince.

  “Oh, God, D—I’m so sorry.” Nyla reaches out and puts her hand on my face this time. I try not to sigh as the cold silver of her rings presses into my cheek. “It’s just you and your dad then?”

  I shake my head, and Nyla’s hand falls away. “I never knew my dad.”

  “So who takes care of you now—your grandmother?”

  I shake my head and decide not to tell Nyla about my bizarre lack of family. “I live with Mrs. Martin. She’s my foster mother.”

  I never know what to do with other people’s sympathy, but I like the way Nyla’s looking at me now. Like she wishes she could give me something that would fill up the hole in my heart. Instead Nyla’s puts her arms around me and holds me close for five full seconds. I know because I was counting!

  Once Nyla takes her arms away, I feel sort of free inside—brave enough to admit the truth. “Sometimes I forget that my mom’s gone. This past year feels like a bad dream that just won’t end.”

  Nyla nods to show that she understands. “Some people say that life is just a dream—we only wake up when we die. The ancient Egyptians believed the dead weren’t really dead. I think they were right—the dead live as long as we continue to say their names.”

  The dead aren’t dead. That’s what the bird said last night!

  Nyla sees the amazed look on my face and smiles before making her own confession. “I still talk to my gran all the time. Dad dragged her all over Europe, but all she wanted was to come back home.”

  “Did she make it?” I ask.

  Nyla’s eyes seem to get a bit darker. “She passed while we were stuck in K-town.”

  “Is she buried in…K-town?”

  “Kaiserslautern?” Nyla shakes her head. “She’s on the mantle in my room—in an urn. We had her cremated.” Nyla shrugs. “I didn’t want to, but…it was easier than shipping the body overseas.”

  Finally Keem snaps his phone shut and comes over to where we are. “Sorry about that. Family drama.”

  “You gotta go?” I ask hopefully.

  But Keem shakes his head. “Nothing I can do about it. My mother’s upset because one of our neighbors saw my big sister and she wasn’t wearing her headscarf.” Keem shakes his head but can’t stop himself from chuckling. “My dad’s gonna hit the roof!”

  Nyla puts a hand on her hip. “You got your sister’s back, right?”

  Keem looks at Nyla and knows he better say yes.

  “No doubt. Nasira’s the reason my dad lets me play ball. She made a list of all the Muslim players in the NBA—Hakeem Olajuwon, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Rasheed Wallace. Dad didn’t stand a chance. My sister’s going to make an awesome lawyer someday. Not wearing hijab is pretty serious for a Muslim girl—in my family, at least. But Nasira’s probably already prepared her own defense.”

  I look at Keem and wonder if he’s supposed to wear his kufi all the time, too. Then I turn back to Nyla and ask, “Would you ever cover your hair?”

  “Hell yeah—it’s not easy looking fabulous all the time.” Nyla tosses her red bangs aside and winks at me. I look at Keem. He’s trying not to grin like an idiot.

  “So where are these beautiful birds, D?” Nyla scans the dull gray clouds in the sky.

  “We have to cross the meadow,” I tell her. “They prefer to nest in areas that are dense with trees.” I le
ad them across the long meadow, a stretch of grass that’s more yellow than green at this time of year. Now that Keem is back on the scene, Nyla’s not so interested in me. I listen as she tells him about her friend Sanaa’s sister, who sometimes goes out wearing a burka.

  “She says it’s like wearing an invisibility cloak. It makes her feel powerful. She doesn’t have to worry about all those fools on the corner saying nasty stuff when she walks by. I swear, guys talk about us like we’re nothing more than a piece of meat.”

  “You like being looked at,” Keem says.

  Stunned, I wait to see if Nyla’s going to curse him out in German. She screws up her lips but then shrugs and says, “Maybe. I’m proud of who I am and how I look. But I got a right to be myself and be respected when I’m out in the street.”

  “True,” Keem says with a nod. “But can you blame a brother for giving praise where praise is due?”

  “Talking about my ass is not a compliment. Some negroes need to keep their ‘praise’ to themselves.”

  “Some girls like it,” Keem counters.

  Nyla sucks her teeth. “Some girls don’t know any better. And some girls aren’t trying to hear it—not from your kind.”

  She means not all girls like boys, but I’m not sure Keem gets the point Nyla’s trying to make. I think about the group of “freaks” that hangs out with Nyla at lunch. Kids at school sometimes call Regine a “butch,” and it was a boy who called Keem a “hottie.” Could Nyla be one of those girls who’s “not trying to hear it”? Maybe Keem’s not my competition after all. Both of us might be barking up the wrong tree.

  The three of us look up as a loud screech comes from above.

  “Wow—is that an eagle?” Nyla asks.

  “Red-tailed hawk,” I tell her.

  It veers off to the east, and we follow it instead of continuing across the meadow. The best bird sightings I’ve had were deeper in the park, away from the busy roads that run along the park’s edge. But if Nyla wants to follow the hawk, I don’t mind. At this time of day, there aren’t a lot of people hanging around. Most kids our age have already gone home for dinner, and that leaves just a few runners, some dog walkers, and a cyclist or two. The days are getting longer, but it’ll still be dark in a couple of hours. We cross the East Drive with no problem and head for the tree line.