Some folks die and never show up in the afterlife. They just float out into nothingness. The ones that do make it through as ghosts could turn up any damn place, and usually end up somewhere within the district limits of whatever city or county they end up in. But to have your soul locked perpetually in your own subterranean grave? I shudder just thinking about it. Thousands of imprisoned spirits, cramped into a tiny space after a lifetime of slavery – they must've gone insane with rage.
Gordo's smoking again. "It's a very sad estory," he says.
"But?"
"But," Damian says quietly. "They didn't count on Cyrus the Conjurer."
"That's Cyrus The Mothafucking Conquerer, crackers!" Riley yells out the window. The car full of hoochies next to us exchange concerned glances. "I think they heard me that time."
"It must've killed him not knowing where he was from," I say. "Seeing as how he put down an origin for most of the others buried down there."
"We think he's gotten out," Damian says.
"Gotten out?" I stammer. "The only way he could get out is..." Oh, the pieces. Turn them. Rearrange them. Fit them together. "...by making an entrada."
"With whatever combination of traditions he ended up mastering," says Damian. "But still – it must be tiny. Even with all that magic."
"Too tiny for a human spirit to fit through?"
"Exactly."
"Hence, my brightly-colored little friend," I say.
"Indeed," mutters Damian. His spooky little eyes are elsewhere though. "He must've been down there for years, watching all his contemporaries waste away, gathering strength, preparing. Drawing from their wisdom."
The river below is as inky black as the sky around us. Little flickering reflections of the city dance and disappear in the current. "Council must be pissed." I say, smiling.
"They throwing everything they got at him," Damian says. "That's why we have to move fast. I believe they're quite close to catching their prey."
Of course! All those swarming patrols weren't looking for Riley – they were on the same assignment I was. "That's why we're driving downtown with that machine?" I say. "We're going to finish the job Cyrus started and break open a new entrada to release thousands of entrapped souls of the first African New Yorkers?"
"Exactly," Riley and Damian both say.
Gordo just laughs.
* * *
It's still the wrong century for two brown men to be driving a pickup truck with mysteriously tarped cargo towards lower Manhattan. Angry, suspicious eyes whirl around to glare at us as soon as we cross the bridge. Gordo cuts a hard left on Allen and barrels towards Canal. I'm relieved no one can hear the obscenities Riley's yelling out the window at them.
"You got the map I told you to bring?" Damian asks as we jolt to a halt outside one of the federal buildings. I retrieve the photocopied, taped-together sheets from my pocket and unfold them across the dashboard. Gordo switches on the inside light. "No one knew how large the gravesite really was," our tiny companion explains. "At least they never demarcated its true borders on any of the white people cartographies."
He places Cyrus's ancient, yellowed chart on top of my crisp printer paper. "The entrada should be over Langley's grave. We have to line these two up. Look for landmarks."
A silence falls over the cramped front seat as four pairs of eyes scan the two pictures. Riley's transparent finger traces a diagonal line marking the edge of the African Burial Ground on the conjurer's map. "This looks like it moves along the coast here, the South Street Seaport."
"Yes," I say. "That would make the memorial site about here." I stretch my hand from the border of the map halfway across towards the middle."
"And Cyrus's grave..." Riley tiptoes his fingers along five paces, checking back and forth between the two documents as he goes. "...here."
Damian looks past Riley at Gordo, who's fallen into a pleasant nap. "Ernesto," he says.
"Eh?"
"You brought the map I asked you for?"
"Glove compartment."
I pop it open and find an MTA train map. We spread it across the other two and dart our eyes back and forth.
"Chambers Street train station!" Riley and I yell.
Gordo's eyes pop open. He cranks the gear shift into drive and speeds off down Broadway. We all throw our hands to the ceiling as the truck two-wheel tips, screeching around a corner to Chambers. We blow through a light and pull up beside the subway entrance on Church, heaving collective sighs of relief.
We hop out of the truck and that's when it hits me. "Of course!" I yell, slapping a palm to my gray forehead. "Could Cyrus return to his man form once he was out?"
Little Damian considers for a moment. "I imagine so," he says. "But his powers would be diminished. Probably he couldn't leave the immediate area."
"I believe I saw our man earlier today." Everyone spins around to stare at me. "He was dancing to bad 80's music for change on the A train platform."
"Damn," Riley says, "times really are tough."
"He's reaching out any way he can," Damian says. "The birdsong. The train dance. He's trying to let us know he's ready."
Gordo lumbers over to us from the driver's side. "How we going to get this damn thing down there?"
It takes me, Riley and Damian hauling it step by step down the stairs and through the handicap entrance while Gordo runs interference on the station agent, pretending not to speak English, but we eventually make it with the entrada-maker intact. We stand at the edge of the platform, gazing into the utter blackness of the tracks.
"I'll cover the entrance with Gordo here," Riley says. "Carlos, you and the youngin head in. Something comes that we can't handle, I'll give a shout."
"What if a train comes?" I say.
"Ju kidding?" Gordo laughs. "It's after midnight. We have plenty of time."
We all nod gravely at each other and I hoist up the machine and follow the kid down some metal stairs into the tunnel. It's completely dark except for his little glowing form ahead of me. He's got both maps stretched out and he's muttering quietly to himself. We round a bend and my eyes start to adjust. It's all drip-drops and scurry-scurries in the shadows around us, plus the distant rumbling of late night trains.
"How'd you get this map away from the family anyway?" I ask Damian.
"I didn't," he says simply and quietly. "It's an heirloom." I'm left to ponder the significance. Connect-the-dot constellations form around my head. I stagger along behind my little floating glow-in-the-dark guide. That the children of our children's children may know from whence they came and uplift their spirits and our own. Langley hadn't been kidding. Maybe it's because it wasn't so long ago that I stumbled upon a long lost ancestor of my own, but the realization that Damian is in it for his bloodline strikes a chord deep inside me.
"How this mechanical doohicky gonna do anything in the spirit world?" I ask.
"A little sorcery will help."
"Another heirloom, I presume."
Damian doesn't answer. A few minutes later, he stops and hovers perfectly still, scanning the dark walls. "Should be...right about...here!"
I place the machine carefully on the damp ground and step back. Damian is on it instantly, fuddling around, muttering to himself, pouring little vials of liquid into some plastic piping. Soon, a mechanical churning grinds out, accompanied by a low, angelic hum. A dim glow emanates from the wall in front of us.
"It's working," I whisper. Damian just creases his little brow with determination.
I'm trying to fathom how many years this moment has been in the making when Riley's voice comes echoing down the tunnel.
"Company!" he hollers.
"What kind?" I yell back. My hand wraps around the blade handle that's stored securely in my walking stick.
"Soulcatchers. I got this." He does, too. Riley's been waiting for an opportunity to get into it with some COD loyals ever since he went on the run. The clanging and groaning sounds of spirit warfare drift out from around the corner. "Yea
h, what?" Riley's yelling. "What? Thought so."
The light is burning bright from the tunnel wall, now. Damian's still fiddling with levers and liquids, looking up occasionally to see how the work is progressing.
"More company!" Riley yells. There's an uncomfortable pause. "Lots more!" Reinforcements. Those dickheads always roll deep. If they see me it's a wrap. I had just begun having visions of all the good work I could do from the inside, especially being linked up on the DL with Riley's band of rogue ghosts. So much to consider and so little time. "I'm coming to you, man; there's too many of 'em." Another pause. "And they got cops with 'em too!"
That's bad. "Real cops?"
"No rent-a-cops. Of course real cops. Transit, I'd say. Two of 'em."
"Ew. What's Gordo doing?"
"Pretending to be homeless and mumbling to himself."
"Works. Come to us, we're better off closer together." I look over to Damian. "How we looking?"
"Close. But not there." It's downright bright in here now. The light's throwing giant shadow versions of me against the far wall. When Riley comes flashing around the corner I throw myself into one of those sarcophagus-shaped inlets and wait. He pants up and we both draw our blades.
"How's it look?"
"Looks bad," he says. I resist the cheesy 'just-like-old-times' remark that I know we're both thinking. "A lot of 'em out there. Probably got tipped off when Homeboy the Magnificent decided to put on the A train minstrel show."
"Almost...there," Damian reports. I peek around the corner and see the anxious flickering of flashlights. Boots are echoing towards us, along with the ominous swoosh of many, many angry spirits.
"What's going on down there?" an authoritative and terrified voice demands. "Come out and let us see your hands!" The two cops burst around the corner, guns drawn, faces contorted into tense frowns. They immediately throw their arms in front of their faces to block the sharp glare of the brand new entrada.
"Done!" Damian yells. The glow becomes unbearably bright for a moment and it sounds like two tectonic plates are getting it on somewhere beneath us. The light dims slightly and I see the skinny dancing ghost from earlier burst out of the wall and hover directly in front of the stunned policemen. Further behind them, a crowd of fuming soulcatchers hovers in wait.
"What the fuck is that?" one of the cops yells.
"I'm the magic Negro from all your worst nightmares," Cyrus laughs. "Now scatter!" He swirls his arms like he's gonna shoot a fireball at them and they take off, tearing through the ranks of NYCOD agents and disappearing around the corner.
"I like this dude," Riley whispers.
Cyrus directs his attention at the angry ghost mob that's glaring him down. "You want some too, fools? I got some for you, don't worry." The mob advances towards us and I flatten myself deeper against the wall. Cyrus floats away from the glowing entrada entrance; there's a swooshing sound like an invisible rocket just blew past and then a flood of old African souls comes surging forth. They pour out into the tunnel, thousands and thousands of them, and barrel through the COD goons without stopping. They're wearing head scarves and raggedy clothes, carved jewelry and beaded necklaces; a few even have chain links around their arms and legs. I feel the wind of hundreds of years of pent up rage and frustration release across my face. Riley's screaming as loud as he can beside me and we're both laughing hysterically and crying at the same time.
Everything is bright light and holy terror and then the souls scatter through the tracks and out into the fresh New York night. When the air finally clears, a peaceful silence descends on us. Riley and I let go of each other's hands and smile awkwardly. In front of the entrada, Damian has his arms wrapped around Cyrus. His little body is heaving with occasional sobs. Cyrus just smiles that big grin of his and pats the boy on the back. "Hush boy," he says. "It's all over now. We're free."
"¡Coño, mi gente! The fuck happened?" It's Gordo, stumbling blindly towards us around the corner.
"Go help him," I tell Riley.
Damian has collected himself by the time Gordo and Riley get to where we stand near the entrada. The entryway is just a swimmy black void now that the souls have all escaped. Cyrus looks the four of us over carefully. He's replaced his rags with an elegant zoot suit. A bright red feather sticks out of his crisp Stetson hat. Tightly wound braids stretch around the back of his head. "You've done well," he says. "Each of you played your part." He died young, but Cyrus's deeply-lined face beams like a proud old grandfather. "A very capable team."
"What're you gonna do now?" Riley asks.
"Oh, there's so much mischief to make; this is only the beginning." Cyrus looks like he can't control the grin breaking across his face. "I believe I'll stick around in this city for a little while. I think I could be a very unpleasant presence for certain deserving individuals and institutions."
Riley beams at him. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"Besides," Cyrus says, "this isn't the only entrada I been working on." We all perk up and gape at the ancient conjurer. "There's one go straight into the New York Harbor. Been slipping through as a little guppie fish, pestering the cruise boats and them. It's a whole other kinda gravesite out there, boys. You can only imagine."
We make our way slowly towards the platform. Each of us is in our own little daze, dreaming up futures pregnant with Cyrus's swashbuckling adventures and the roles we each could play. For the first time, I can imagine using this ridiculous both/neither status for something I believe in. The idea gives me an unfamiliar feeling, like a hundred baby birds are jumping up and down in my stomach – giddiness, you could call it. "There's much to be done, lads," Cyrus is saying, his voice fluttering with laughter in the dark tunnel around us. As we walk together towards the station lights, the old spirit starts humming – it's a gentle, melancholy blues, a ragged siren song that reminds me that I'm every bit as free as that bright red flicker of feather and bone.
The Passing
Something is very wrong. When I wake up, the knowledge is waiting for me, lurking. All my bones scream it. My gut is clenched with it. It's all over me.
Outside, the sky is still gray. A little light comes in through the window, hits the bare tiled floor. I sit up in bed, feel these old muscles groan with the sudden effort. At first I think maybe this wrongness is in me, with my own collection. I try to steady my mind. Lay back down, close my eyes and go inward to check. All the stories are there, hovering around peacefully, and I breathe a happy sigh. There's hundreds of them, but I know the ins and outs well enough to know at a glance when something's off, and it's not. Not with me anyway. But there it is, that nagging something-or-other. A very terrible thing is happening.
I ease myself up again, slower this time. Drop my legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor sends little gasps of surprise up through the bottoms of my feet. The day is breaking behind the skyscrapers across the river. The city wakes up all around me. I am alive.
But this badness pursues me out of my bedroom, hangs over me while I brush my teeth and sit on the toilet for my morning tinkle. In the shower it recedes some but then it's back when I'm putting the coffee on. Slithering around my ankles. Crawling up my spine. Diablo. I fight off restlessness while I eat my mushy stuff, because that's not good for digestion. My kitchen is pale and bathed in sunlight. I can smile for a moment, appreciating the bright geometry my windows create with those rays, but only for a moment. Then the feeling's back.
From somewhere inside, a story rises. It was an old guajiro back in Cuba. 'Simpático' is the best word for him. It means 'nice' in English, but nice is such a pathetic word. Nice. It just lives and dies in one breath. Simpático is a whole story unto itself. It has panache. This old man was simpático until the day he died. You know, I think he had a thing for me? I was already very old at the time, and this was way back when, understand, but Tomás had his eyes all over me and that hunger radiated off him in hot waves.
His story – it was about his first love. He was old now, and alone, but he
carried it with him everywhere he went, and not in a bad way. It walked along beside him like a faithful friend, that story. Never held him back or distracted him from the present tense, but just remained, a gentle reminder that his heart was alive and well, in spite of whatever hardship may come. Sometimes, before going to sleep, he would think of it and smile his old wrinkled smile. I came to him late at night. Inhaled all that fresh earthy perfume of the countryside breathing through the big open windows in his little house. Put my hand on his forehead and out it came: A whole wily early-twenties romance, complete with messiness and passion, but all in all quite tidy and to the point. I thanked him, and he smiled at me with sleepy eyes.
They always smile when I'm done. They must know that their stories will live on long after they do, that they're sharing a little part of themselves with the great patchwork quilt of humanity, and it must be very pleasant indeed.
Old Tomás's story winds through the chaotic finale and then slides back into the ether and I'm done with my mushy stuff and almost done with my café and the icky feeling is back. Fine. It is here to stay, apparently, so I will investigate. That's all that negativity wants anyway: a little attention. I don't usually pay it much mind because when you do, it feels good and keeps coming back for more. But this is...different. It's someone else's shit, first of all, so I don't know why it's come to trouble my morning.
If it's not my shit, it must be one of my sisters'. I admit I've been a little out of touch recently. It's just that I like it up here in my twenty-first floor apartment, with its cold linoleum floors and the burner that you have to ignite four times before it finally lights, and the occasionally leaking faucet. Most mornings I wake up and am simply content. I have my stories; stacks and stacks of them. Plus I have many memories of my own to wander through. I've been married six times and I still get letters from the offspring I've left scattered around the world. Sometimes different friends or family members stop by for obligatory visits that I can will to be suddenly fascinating tête-à-têtes. Yes, I can still be surprising after all these years. I'm still profoundly in love with life even for all the death I've seen. It still gives me a thrill to feel the cold floor against my bare feet every morning and know that I am alive.
Salsa Nocturna: A Bone Street Rumba Collection Page 13
