Dancing in the Shadows of Love

by Judy Croome

  My old parlour chair is hard as I lean my head back to look around the room that once meant so much. Why it meant so much is lost. Jamila has placed my old mahogany cupboard in the same place I had it. I can’t look at it for long. It holds too many memories; memories of all I could have been if Enoch had loved me as he’d loved Grace.

  The pain is too heavy to bear and my eyes drift shut. ‘Have you told Jamila?’

  ‘We wanted to tell you,’ Prior Ajani says quietly. He grips my shoulders as he did the day that Grace slipped away.

  ‘We must tell her.’ I try to rise, but my legs are weak with age or sorrow, or with the death of a part of me I’ve lived with for aeons. Prior Ajani and the soldier rush to help me stand.

  ‘You stay here, Mrs T,’ Prior Ajani says. ‘The Colonel and I will tell Jamila.’

  I shake my head. ‘My grandson loved her. He’d want me to be the one to tell her.’

  And, although I don’t tell them, there’s also that part of me I hate, perhaps the eternal imprint of Little Flower’s ezomo on my essence, that wants to hear how Jamila’s Spirit King will answer her now that her dreams are dead and gone.

  • • •

  The Old Sea City is angry. The wind howls off the ocean; the clouds are thick and grey overhead and release a steady drizzle that suits my mood. A perfect day for a funeral and for the day I must return to St Jerome’s court, the first time I have been back since Grace’s burial.

  • • •

  For both my Barrys’ funerals, I’d demanded a service in the grounds of the Templeton mansion. Prior Ajani hadn’t argued much. This time I’m too tired to exert my will, and the Prior is too insistent.

  ‘You must come to the court, Mrs T. The time has come to return,’ he says, over and over. ‘You need to be there for Jamila.’

  ‘Jamila will cope without me,’ I reply. ‘She’s been part of the court for years. People will want to give her support. She doesn’t need me.’

  I almost don’t hear what his silence tells me, for the faint sound of a child’s laughter captures me. I lean out of the window facing the abandoned rose garden and search amongst the wilderness for the flash of chubby legs that gleefully evade the clutch of thorns. But it’s a memory, for young Barry was dead years ago. Dawud, too, is lost and the screech of loneliness has become a crescendo.

  Prior Ajani’s stasis brings me back from an abyss of self-pity I despise in myself. I release my grip on the windowsill and walk to the intercom.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

  ‘Is that you, Beulah?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs T. Do you need me?’

  ‘Would you prepare a tray of tea for us, dear?’

  ‘With pleasure, Mrs T. I made your favourite biscuits this morning. I’ll put some of those on a plate, shall I?’

  I smile faintly. My people, the ones who work in the mansion, have been fussing over me since we heard the news about Dawud. I let them; it gives them something to do. ‘That will be nice, dear,’ I say and switch off the intercom.

  The table takes my weight as I rest my hip against it and face the anxious and silent Prior. ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘Why must I go to the Court for Jamila?’

  ‘Jamila has some problems,’ he says. ‘I’ve heard some ugly rumours.’

  ‘About Jamila?’

  ‘She’s in debt. She owes some fashion designer in the city hundreds of thousands for new clothes.’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’ I wave a hand. ‘She’s my grandson’s fiancée.’

  ‘Your grandson’s dead, Mrs T,’ he says. ‘Jamila has no money of her own.’

  His gentleness almost snaps my control and makes me surly. ‘It makes no difference,’ I reply. ‘It’s only money. What use do I have for it? Dawud doesn’t need it. He’s dead.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  He doesn’t tell me until I prod him.

  ‘Must I live in ignorance, Prior, until the end of my days?’

  A smile skims across the surface of his face. ‘Not you, Mrs T, not you.’ He rises from his chair and wanders to the window where I stand. ‘I’ve received a few Excommunication Requests.’

  ‘For Jamila?’ I’m stunned at the irony. Jamila, who dedicated her life to the Spirit King, who lived with a faith stern enough for a saint, ex-communicated?

  Prior Ajani remained silent, unwilling to repeat what he’d heard but, in the end, he has to tell me. ‘There’s been talk. About infidelity. About…orgies.’

  The news surprises me. Jamila has always struck me as being too pious for passion. ‘With whom?’

  ‘Samanya. Daren Samanya. And his wife, Chuki.’

  I’ve heard the name before. One of Prior Ajani’s strays whispered it in the dark. He’d brought the young girl to me soon after Jamila had moved into the mansion with Dawud and I’d moved into Grace’s cottage. She’d taken a long time to heal, that one. And, recognising her own ezomo overlaid in the haunted eyes, Little Flower had wept bitterly for the scars on the girl’s essence.

  That same abomination has touched Jamila. I think of her, as she was when she arrived on my doorstep. Scared, poorly dressed and half-starved, but with a core of strength I’d admired, for it reminded me of myself. Little Flower’s ezomo gave Zahra her steel; Jamila’s came from her Spirit King. But he has deserted her as he deserted Little Flower. As my beloved deserted me.

  I think of the last time I saw Grace, lips blue with death, as I stood over her with a bottle of pills clutched in my hand.

  ‘Everyone has memories they regret,’ I say. ‘Do you have someone who can drive me to the court in time for the funeral?’

  ‘I’ll send a driver,’ he says. ‘Someone you know.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘You will be.’

  I am suddenly weary, weary in a way I’ve never been before. I want him gone. I want to be alone, with only the ocean, far beyond the edge of the garden, to watch over me as I mourn my losses. Grace, who I killed with my envy. My Daddy, dead of pneumonia, soon after Grace died. My son Barry, another war statistic. My husband Barry, dead of grief. Now Dawud. I must mourn them, one by one, before I can begin to mourn the greatest loss of all: Little Flower, too, is dead. She died waiting for a stranger who never loved her enough to return.

  • • •

  I still wait. But on this dull, grey day, I wait for the arrival of two different strangers. On time, I hear a car navigating the driveway.

  They are merely silhouettes inside an old, dented vehicle. But, when the car coughs to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, the driver unwinds himself from behind the wheel and a ray of sunlight breaks through the thick layer of cloud dulling the day. He pulls himself out and one long, slender hand rests on top of the car door. His hair is black and longer than I remember, long enough that it obscures his face as he stares towards the sea. All I can see of him is that elegant pianist’s hand, with a flash of blue tattoos on his fingers, and a white and gold angel adorning the back of his leather jacket.

  I swing my gaze to the other passenger. She is short, tiny and white, so pale her eyes glow with a brilliance that almost blinds me. He—the stranger! the stranger!—leans towards her. She glances up at him as he points that graceful hand towards the sea. They share a smile, a look so deep they leak into each other, consumed and joined by a golden light I never expected to see again.

  They glance up sharply and run towards me. I am not startled, for the resonance of my keening cry holds me stiff and upright.

  Enoch! Enoch!

  The sea wind bounces the name off the high walls of the mansion. It whips it away into a silence broken by the sound of my small square purse crashing to the floor. I lift my hands to cover my face and try to hide the sobs I cannot, do not, even try to control.

  I fall, faint with shock or joy. He is here, at my side. He catches me and gently lowers me to the floor as he holds my head up from the cold stone slabs. His arms, the arms I have longed for, are around me and the sweet smell of cedar is i
n my nostrils. I am safe. I am home.

  ‘Mrs Templeton.’ A bottle, cold and wet, presses against my lips. ‘Enoch has you, Mrs Templeton, you’ll be okay,’ the woman says. ‘Drink some water.’

  I drag my eyes open and look into a face I’ve never seen before, but would recognise anywhere. Dawud has spoken of the girl from the court. The Pale One. So has Prior Ajani. Jamila, he told me, has not been kind to her.

  She holds some bottled water to my mouth and I watch her over the rim. She is colourless, except for her eyes. One eye dances energetically, almost hidden behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. Now the sun has disappeared and no longer glances off them, they do not glow so brilliantly, but her gaze shines with another kind of light: forged from aeons of suffering, her eyes burn with the same compassion that lent such beauty to Grace.

  I can delay no longer. With a murmur, I put my hand over hers, the bandage wrapped around her palm soft and springy. I drag my lips away from the water she offers and twist my head to see the face that floats above me.

  He is different. Younger than I remember, and rougher. There’s an earring in the shape of a nova dangling from his ear; he never wore that before. His age is difficult to guess because dark glasses cover his eyes, but his skin is as smooth and unlined as it ever was. How is that possible? Every year since he left me, after Grace died, has written new lines on my face and yet his face is unchanged.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he says, when he realises I watch him. He dips his head closer and the single silver earring bobs and bounces until I’m dizzy. ‘Do you think you can sit up?’ he asks.

  I wheeze a bit from the awkward position I lay in. ‘Not yet,’ I say. I lift a hand, as heavy as in a fog or a dream, and touch his face. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘The traffic delayed us. I took longer than I wanted.’

  I smile at his evasion and play along. ‘Who are you?’

  He nods toward the young woman who peers down, chewing her lip anxiously. ‘Meet Lulu. I’m Enoch. We work at St Jerome’s court with Prior Ajani.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say, sorry that I sound peevish. ‘But who are you?’

  My fingers inch their way over his lips, and his breath brushes their tips as he answers, ‘I am who I am, ma’am.’

  He offers no resistance as I reach my destination. I remove the barrier of his sunglasses and I know. I know who he is and I dive deep. Deep, deep, into the eyes I have never forgotten. They draw me in; cocoon me in their swirling mist, until I can bear the joy no longer.

  ‘Enoch,’ I sigh.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘You can call me Enoch.’

  I nod, happy to do what he wants. ‘You came.’ I say. ‘You came to fetch me.’

  ‘I made a promise,’ he says. ‘Although it may seem long to you, the court isn’t that far away.’ I chuckle at his little joke.

  ‘Ma’am, if you’re better, we need to leave,’ he adds. ‘The funeral starts soon.’

  I smile, nod, and let them help me. Lulu dusts me off, while the stranger— no, Enoch, he wants me to call him Enoch—bends from his great height to gather the scattered contents of my purse. Flanked on either side by the two of them, I walk down the stairs and climb into the old car. My journey has begun.

  • • •

  The drive to St Jerome’s is shorter than I remember. Little has changed, since the last time I saw it. People mill around. Dressed in black, with sombre looks on their faces, they pretend to themselves they will remember their grief beyond the time it takes for them to consume the tea and cakes that wait for them in the court hall.

  Mostly they stand around in groups and mouth platitudes. So sad. So tragic. He died so young. A hero. Who would’ve believed it of good old Dawud Templeton?

  I can see from the slyness of their faces that’s not all they whisper about. They hiss and hint about Jamila, who stands alone. Stiff and upright, she hangs on to her dignity with all her strength. They ignore her; these good court people, although she was one of them until she fell to her private ezomo. They flock to me, Dawud’s friends. Generations younger than me, most of them have never seen me cross the threshold leading into St Jerome’s.

  They seethe around me and they say, ‘Good morrow, Mrs T. Sorry, so sorry, to hear about Dawud,’ and they touch my arm, my elbow, my cheek, soft touches heavy with love.

  ‘Dawud’s grandmother,’ they say amongst themselves. ‘For years, she’s helped abused children recover.’

  ‘She’s alone. Poor woman.’

  ‘She must be devastated. How sad that such a good person has to suffer.’

  The whispers wing their way towards me, loud with relief that, this time, they have escaped. They console themselves that their goodness, their Spirit King, will keep them safe. That this loss is mine to bear. They forget that their Spirit King was Jamila’s and that this grief is not only mine, but hers too.

  Jamila doesn’t exist to them anymore; she’s fodder for their judgement.

  Next to me, Lulu lets out a sound that sounds like a snarl. ‘It’s not right,’ she says, ‘what they’re doing to her. Can’t they tell she’s suffering?’

  ‘You said you hated her,’ Enoch says. I can tell he knows differently.

  ‘I do,’ Lulu says and scowls. ‘But people shouldn’t be cruel to her. Not today of all days.’

  ‘Why should you care?’ he asks. ‘After what she did to you.’ the warm irreverence is a little more obvious this time.

  She swears at him, a harsh word and ugly, but somehow it sounds like an endearment. She remembers she’s in a courtyard, or that I stand between them. Either is enough to make her contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs T,’ she apologises. ‘I forgot.’

  I merely incline my head and ignore the people gathered around us. They all wait for a chance to speak to me, to console me, but it’s their own fears they want to bury, not mine.

  We watch Jamila move forward to greet a late arrival. He walks past her as if she isn’t there and she shrinks into herself as he hurries to join the herd. Lulu falls silent. Then, ‘Mrs T,’ she says decisively, ‘will you be okay with Enoch?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks. He knows as well as I do what she wants to do. It’s what Grace would’ve done.

  ‘I’m fetching a cup of coffee,’ she replies aggressively. ‘And I’m taking it to Jamila.’

  ‘That’s not hate,’ he murmurs. ‘That’s love.’

  The Pale One doesn’t hear him. She shoulders her way through the mob and glares with such ferocity at the latecomer who ignored Jamila that he skitters out of her way and surreptitiously makes the sign of the nova after she passes.

  Everyone watches as she returns to where Jamila stands isolated by the choices she has made. Lulu touches Jamila’s arm and I catch a glimpse of the bandage on her hand, splashed with red from the wound she covers on her palm. As Jamila jerks with surprise, startled by the small contact, she almost knocks the cup to the floor and Lulu steps back.

  Jamila, cool, reserved Jamila, takes the coffee, stirs it and then stops. Her head bows, and her face crumples as her cries come to us, loud in the unnatural silence that has descended on the mourners. Lulu, after a small hesitation, gathers Jamila close. Her lips move in words of comfort we cannot hear, her eyes closed as tightly as Jamila’s, but not tightly enough to stop her tears mingling with those of the woman she holds in her arms.

  The courtiers shuffle awkwardly, their shoes grating on the gravel path that leads into the courthouse, and some quickly hush warnings as they listen to Jamila’s pain. Slowly, so it’s not too obvious, one or two break away from the pack and walk over to where Jamila stands, safe in the arms of her friend.

  As I am safe, wrapped anew in the arms of a stranger.

  ‘Take me to Grace,’ I say. Lulu will be there to stop Jamila drowning. She will be there, too, for all the lost and lonely strays yet to come. ‘I want to see Grace.’

  Without a fuss, he leads me away until we are alone. I can hear the crooning of the crowd over t
he gate that leads me into the garden where Grace rests. They are far, far away from me, on the other side of the light. The light that once excluded me from the circle of Enoch and Grace’s love. But this time I’m inside it. I share it. I float on feet as innocent as the day Little Flower was born and the stranger takes me to stand in front of the marble angel that guards Grace’s relics.

  There is silence: silence and light.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Mrs T,’ he comforts. ‘You’re ready. This time you’re ready.’

  The faint strains of a waltz drift into the silence on the breeze.

  ‘Will you dance with me, Enoch? Here? Now?’

  ‘With pleasure, Mrs T,’ and holds wide his arms.

  I step into them and smile at the thought that, since he brought Hope to me, Prior Ajani has called me Mrs T for years and I did not notice until I heard the name tinged with the lilt of ancient tongues. Perhaps I’m not as lost as I had feared. Little Flower is gone, but when the stranger calls me Mrs T, somehow I believe a young child’s innocence was saved the day she found a once-lost stray called Hope.

  ‘Can you hear it, Enoch? The music. Can you hear it?’

  ‘I hear it.’

  My head falls onto his shoulder and he gathers me close. So close I hear every beat of his heart as it waltzes in time to mine. ‘I love you,’ I say. ‘I always have.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. He bends his head and his lips brush the top of my hair, white now with age. ‘I love you too, Little Flower.’

  I close my eyes with the joy and let myself fall into his heart, that great heart of his which pulses deep within us all. And, even as the distant sounds fade into the silence of the golden light, I believe that this time, I am ready.

  I am ready to love, and I am ready to be loved for, at last, my beloved has returned.

  He has returned.

  The End

  Glossary of Terms

  Use your Kindle’s on-board navigation tools to return back to the text.

  CHUBA: Robes (male) or habit (female) worn by the holy people

  CONTROLLER: A Holy Woman