by LeVar Burton
After hurrying to catch up, Amy walked with the bald-headed man along the waterfront past crumbled buildings and vacant lots. Suddenly, the man grabbed Amy by the arm and pulled her into an empty building. The building was tiny and dark, and smelled of garbage and rats. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth and pushed her to the ground.
“We’re going to have dessert, all right,” the man said, holding her tight. “But it’s not going to be chocolate cake.”
The man climbed on top of her; his weight crushed her chest and made it hard to breathe. Leaning closer, he kissed her face and neck, slipping his hand beneath her T-shirt. His breath came harder as he removed his belt and fumbled to unzip his pants.
Amy was terrified. She knew what was about to happen. She had seen the same thing happen to Sissy Roberts at the shelter late one night. Two of the older boys had done it to her, even though Sissy had begged them to stop. Sissy’s bottom had bled for days and she eventually died. Amy didn’t want to bleed, didn’t want to die.
Desperate, she kicked and fought back, squirmed and managed to get loose. She tried to crawl away, but the man grabbed her from behind and pulled her pants down.
“Don’t that feel good?” he asked, thrusting his hand between her legs. “You nasty little girl. You dirty little girl.”
Amy screamed. His fingers were like sandpaper rough, hot. They grabbed her and poked her, sending rivers of shameful pain burning through her body. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pushed her face into the ground. The dirt smelled sour, like the sweat of the bald-headed man.
Amy tried to fight back, but the man was too strong. He held her tight, her face to the ground, her bottom high in the air. He held her with one hand, and fumbled to remove his pants with the other.
“You’re going to get it now. Yes you are, you nasty little thing.”
Terrified beyond words, she frantically felt along the ground, searching for something to defend herself with. Her fingers glided over cigarette butts and bottle tops, finally coming in contact with the jagged remains of a broken beer bottle.
Amy grabbed the bottle and pulled it to her. Twisting suddenly, she rolled over on her back. As she did, she stabbed upward, driving the broken bottle into her attacker’s face.
The bald-headed man screamed like a woman as the beer bottle ripped across his face, cutting his left cheek to the bone. Blood squirted bright red from the wound, splattering Amy’s arms, chest and face.
He let go of her and grabbed his face, trying to keep his blood from gushing. Amy dropped the beer bottle and rolled away from him. Pulling her pants up, she ran for the doorway.
“Put that on your stupid chocolate cake!” Amy yelled as she fled back into the harsh brightness of day. In the darkness behind her, the bald-headed man continued to scream.
Chapter 4
The stars dotted the night sky like a thousand tiny campfires. Beneath those stars, on a lonely South Dakota hilltop, sat Jacob Fire Cloud. For three days and three nights the elderly Lakota medicine man had sat there, without food or water, with only a thin blanket to protect his naked body from the cold. Praying to the Great Spirit for guidance, he listened for a voice that did not come.
His throat parched, his body weakened from the ordeal, Jacob could no longer stand and barely had the strength to raise his pipe in offering or wipe the tears of sadness from his eyes. Yet he refused to give up, dared not give up.
Time was running out for Jacob Fire Cloud, running out for his people. The Great Shaking was drawing near. The third and final one. Man had not listened to the Creator’s voice, had not taken his wisdom and teachings to heart. The world was corrupt, evil, lost. Nothing had been learned from the mistakes of the past. Those who had died had done so in vain.
Jacob was only a boy, living on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, when the elders told him how, long ago, the Great Spirit had gathered together the four races of man, giving each a responsibility known as the Guardianship. To the red people He gave the Guardianship of the Earth, bestowing upon them the sacred knowledge of plants, minerals and animals. To the yellow race He gave the Guardianship of the Wind, teaching them about the sky and how to draw air within their bodies for spiritual advancement. Chinese monks, their lives spent in ancient monasteries, still relied on those teachings in their daily meditations.
The black race was given the Guardianship of Water, the chief of all the elements. It was the most humble element, yet the most powerful. Because of this sacred knowledge given long ago, it was a black man who discovered blood plasma, for blood is the most precious of all waters.
The white race received the Guardianship of Fire. Even today, one had only to look to the center of the things the white race invented to find that fire. It was in their lightbulbs, their cars and their weapons of destruction. It was also in their hearts. Like fire, the white man had moved across the face of the earth, never still, consuming all that lay in his path.
Fighting off the weakness that blurred his vision and made his bones ache, Jacob let the blanket slip from his shoulders. The cold night air chilled him, caused him to shiver, but it also refreshed and cleared his mind. Leaning forward, he fumbled with the knotted cords, which held tight the edges of his medicine bundle.
The bundle was made of buckskin, stained and brittle with age, its edges carefully decorated with bead- and quillwork. Some of the rows of beads were missing, but Jacob didn’t mind. The value of the medicine bundle did not lie in its colorful decorations. It was what was on the inside that mattered.
Removing the cords, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal an assortment of dried herbs, which he used for healing both the body and spirit, a half dozen hawk feathers, two tail feathers from a golden eagle, a twist of sweetgrass, sage, a leather pouch filled with tobacco, a pocket lighter and his medicine pipe.
Jacob picked up the pipe and slowly filled its blackened bowl with tobacco. The pipe’s bowl was made from a piece of red pipestone, carved in the shape of a rattlesnake’s head. The stem was hickory, wrapped in leather and trimmed with gray rabbit fur. A tattered eagle feather hung beneath the bowl, held in place by a piece of imitation sinew. The feather was one of a matched set. Jacob had placed the other feather upon his wife’s chest the day he buried her on a lonely hilltop behind his house.
After filling the pipe’s bowl, he dug a tiny hole in the earth and placed a small pinch of tobacco in it for Grandmother. A second pinch was tossed into the air as an offering to the Great Spirit. Placing the pipe to his lips, he lit the tobacco with his lighter and inhaled the fragrant smoke deep inside his body. He let out his breath and raised the pipe above his head.
“O Grandfather, hear my prayer, for I am but a child lost in the wilderness. Look down upon me with pity and compassion, for many years I have walked the medicine path. I am old now, Grandfather, and I know that my time upon this earth grows short. Soon I will join my ancestors around the great council fire.”
Again he puffed on the pipe and offered it to the Creator. “Please hear me, Grandfather, for I do not pray for myself, but for the people of this land. The Great Shaking is coming. I know this to be true, for it is written in the sacred tablets guarded by the Hopi people at Third Mesa …”
Before sending the four races to different parts of the world, the Great Spirit gave each of them a pair of stone tablets upon which were written prophecies of the future. The prophecies warned that if the four races did not live together as brothers, the Great Spirit would grab the earth and give it a shake.
According to the tablets, the first shaking would take place around the time the people saw giant beetles moving across the land. These beetles would be shaken so hard they would be knocked off the earth and into the sky, flying through the air like grasshoppers. In 1908, when the Model T Ford was mass-produced, the elders knew that these were the bugs the tablets told about. A few years later, Europe erupted in the flames of World War I. The flying grasshoppers turned out to be the airplanes that soared over t
he battlefields.
A sign of light will appear, but it will tilt and bring death. And the sun will rise, not in the east as we know it but in the west. Those were the words that foretold the coming of the second shaking. As the elders at Third Mesa pondered over the meaning of the tablet’s words, an insane corporal rose to become a dictator in Germany. His heart black with evil, he took an ancient religious symbol used by Native Americans and their brothers far to the east—reversed and tilted it—and called it the swastika.
And the sun did rise in the west instead of the east: the rising sun of the empire of Japan. Once again the sacred tablets had predicted the future. Once again the earth was shaken by the devastation of war.
“Please, Grandfather, speak to me. Let your words of wisdom fill my mind. Let me feel your sacred breath upon my flesh. Too long I have cried in the wilderness, searching, listening for your voice. If I am worthy, and if it be your will, please send me your guidance so I may help my people … before it is too late.”
Jacob Fire Cloud knew that the third shaking would happen soon, for it was written that it would occur in the days when men became women and women became men, and when species of animals long extinct were brought back to life to again walk the earth. Finally, the third shaking would occur in the days when men put “the house in the sky.” Even though it was now just a ghost house, Space Station Alpha rose in the east like a brilliant star as it made its nightly climb into the heavens. Jacob watched the space station, his heart heavy.
Time was running out.
Chapter 5
Dr. Reynolds’s presentation had gone better than she had hoped. Several of the medical company representatives had expressed serious interest in the Neuro-Enhancer. With any luck, the Institute would soon have the financial backing it needed to get the Enhancer into production. With the realization that her dreams of helping others on a large scale might soon become a reality, she had felt a great weight lift from her shoulders.
Rene had actually been in a good mood when she took the Institute shuttle to the walled neighborhood where she lived, in what had once been an affluent suburb just north of Atlanta. The neighborhood was now somewhat run-down, but for the most part it had been spared any real damage during the war. A tall concrete block wall topped with razor wire and broken glass, and armed security guards, kept the residents safe from those who would prey upon them.
The trip home had been uneventful; the driver had stayed on the main thoroughfares to avoid the most dangerous sections of the city. Even then, they had to pass through the downtown area, which still bore the scars of the riots and war. Beautiful high-rises were now mere skeletons, their glassless windows staring blindly like the eyeless sockets of skulls. Many of the buildings had been taken over by gangs and squatters; others sat empty and desolate. Once the glistening jewel of the South, Atlanta was little more than a burned-out memory of its former glory.
To pass the time on the trip home, she had struck up a conversation with one of the security guards riding shotgun on the shuttle. His name was Harold, a white man, about thirty-four years old, with a pleasant smile and a wonderful sense of humor. He told Rene that before the war he had worked as an accountant for a large advertising agency. He even pointed out the remains of the building, just a few blocks west of where the Coca-Cola Bottling Company once stood.
But that had been hours ago. Rene now stood across the street from the Hawkins Neural Institute. The building sat in darkness, empty; all of the scientists and lab assistants had gone home for the evening. There were no security guards either, no one to question her motives for returning at such a late hour.
But what were her motives? What had compelled her to leave the safety of her home, paying one of the neighborhood rent-a-cops to bring her back downtown? She knew the deserted streets of Atlanta were home to thieves, murderers and thousands of desperate people. They were dangerous enough to walk in the daytime, far worse at night. A woman like her, someone who still had a job and a home, still had money, would not be welcome in the inner city, not at night. It was dangerous, she knew that. Still, she had returned. Why?
Was it because she had a bad dream? No, not a dream; it was something more than that. She had been awakened with a premonition, a warning of things to come. Unable to shake off the feeling that something bad was about to happen, she had returned to the Institute seeking the source of her uneasiness.
Crossing the street, Rene hurried to the front door of the Institute. She looked around, made sure she was alone, and then punched the four-digit code into the automated door lock. A green light shone and the door opened with a click.
She entered the downstairs lobby, closing the door behind her. The building was eerily quiet, spooky, the darkness held at bay by a row of dim security lights set in the ceiling.
She crossed the lobby and followed a long corridor to a flight of stairs. Halfway down the corridor, she passed the examination room where she had given her presentation to the visiting scientists. The rows of folding chairs had been removed, but the room still smelled of coffee and cookies.
Rene had lied when she said the Neuro-Enhancer caused no side effects. Use of the device had in fact caused some very curious side effects in a couple of her patients. But instead of drowsiness, dry mouth, itchy rashes or other by-products normally associated with experimental treatments, they reported suffering from such peculiar oddities as premonitions of the future and mental warnings of impending danger. Unwilling to believe such things were possible, Rene began testing the Neuro-Enhancer on herself, with equally startling results.
She took the stairs to the second floor and turned left. Her office was two doors down on the right. Opening the door, she was relieved to find everything exactly as she had left it: her desk, her computer, the framed photo of her father. Rene paused to look at the photo, as she did each and every time she entered the room. The hurt still tugged at her heart, but not as strongly as before. The pain had faded with the passage of time.
Leyland Reynolds had been a history professor at the University of Georgia. He was a humble man, soft-spoken, respected by both students and fellow faculty members. A man of profound culture, he had used his wealth and talent to promote an understanding of classical art and music in the city of Atlanta. Twice he was elected chairman of the Atlanta Endowment of the Arts, in charge of arranging symphony concerts and arts exhibitions and funding scholarships for worthy fine art students. He was also the editor of Atlanta 2000, a critically acclaimed cultural review magazine.
When his wife, Rene’s mother, died from a rare blood disease, Leyland took over the role of raising Rene. Setting aside his commitment to the arts and the community, he dedicated his every free minute to his daughter’s education and happiness. It wasn’t until many years later that he again focused his attention on matters outside the home.
It was as a result of her father’s fierce devotion to her that Rene developed her enormous self-confidence. She was only five when her mother died, and no matter how hard she tried to retain them, the few memories she had of her seemed to fade with each passing year. Throughout her life it had always been “Daddy” who had been there, for everything from a scraped knee to her first date, with Lonnie Preston when she was fifteen. It was Leyland who had set the standard that Rene had been striving to live up to for as long as she could remember.
Some of her most indelible memories as a child were of the two of them sitting on the porch swing of the house on Lakeland Street, on languid summer evenings, spinning her future out before them like some intricate web. These dreamfests always had one central theme at their core: Leyland’s repeated insistence that there was nothing that was beyond Rene’s grasp in this life if she put her mind to it. He was forever emphasizing to Rene how special and unique she was, and how she would grow up to accomplish great things in her life. He had drummed into her the importance of following her own voice and the value of keeping her own counsel. Being the only child of a great man like Leyland Reynolds had certa
inly provided Rene with considerable benefits and privileges, but it was also a situation not without its drawbacks.
In 2010, Leyland had vigorously supported Senator Lawrence Everette in his bid for the presidency, helping the senator organize campaigns and fund-raisers throughout the Southeast. He believed in Everette’s dream of building a better America, a place of equality and freedom, no matter what color a person’s skin.
Senator Everette’s campaign for racial equality, environmental protection and economic reforms did not sit well with big business and those already in power within the government. Nor was the senator’s political platform very popular with many of Leyland Reynolds’s colleagues at the university. His show of support for the black candidate quickly alienated them, but Leyland didn’t care. His dream of a better tomorrow was much more important than being invited to a few faculty social events.
Professor Reynolds continued to work tirelessly throughout the campaign, even though be had his doubts that an African-American would ever become President. But despite the odds, Lawrence Everette did win. America had elected its first black President.
Rene remembered going to the polls with her father on election day to cast their votes, the first and last time she had ever voted in a national election. She had been nervous and excited, but not nearly as nervous as she was later that night when they sat in front of the television set, watching as the election results slowly trickled in. When it was finally over, when it was clearly decided who the winner was, her father had gotten up and gone out onto the balcony to smoke his pipe. A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Lawrence Everette, calling to personally thank Leyland for all his hard work and dedication, and to invite him to a little victory celebration that weekend in Richmond. She had been thrilled, but her father had accepted the invitation with the mantle of quiet dignity he always wore.
