The Spaces Between Us (Purity Trilogy, Book One)
Copyright © 2018 by Ethan Johnson.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://officialethanjohnson.com
Book and Cover design by Ethan Johnson
Cover photo: Precious Onuohah
First Edition: May 2018
THE SPACES BETWEEN US
Book One of the Purity Trilogy
Ethan Johnson
PROLOGUE: THE IDIOT
Nobody cares about the homeless: the ones that have no safety net, no family to fall back on, and no hope for a dramatic turnaround—literally rags to riches. There are common threads running through their plight: untreated mental illness, drug abuse, mental illness and drug abuse, or the occasional sad sack. They are in no way helped by the scam artists that populate street corners and expressway exits, with handmade cardboard signs advertising their need for “help”—money, frankly—diverting it away from the truly needy.
Despite these impostors, there are indeed desperate people who have nothing, or have a cartload of possessions that arguably would serve a better purpose as accelerant. Sometimes, sharp-eyed drivers will notice their bedrolls and other items crammed into tight spaces under freeway underpasses, or along an alleyway, or occasionally, true to the cliché, under a bridge. That concludes the attention that they will pay to these otherwise faceless, pointless features to the urban landscape. They often congregate on cold nights around a burning trash barrel, a blend of grubby faces, foul-smelling clothing, and fingerless gloves, huddled around the fire, arms forward, soaking up the warmth and punctuating the ritual with vigorous hand-rubbing.
The better-off, which is to say, the not homeless, don’t get too close. They don’t see them as people, and certainly, they don’t want to know them as people. After all, they reason, they’re homeless, probably insane, and if not, certainly strung out on drugs or alcohol—or all the above—and conventional wisdom suggests getting too close leads to getting mugged, or worse. If they drive past these gatherings, they may be inclined to check the car door locks, just in case. They tap the accelerator a bit just to put a fair distance between them.
If they walk past, heaven help them if they’re passing by alone. If they’re with other people, even one more, they tighten their formation, look around nervously and pick up their pace. An argument will break out later, once out of harm’s way, as to who had the responsibility of making sure they mapped out their route to avoid crap like that.
It could be understood, then, if not forgiven, when a new face turned up among a group known informally as the Archer Heights Regulars one winter night and was not at all regarded or noticed by society at large. Even the Regulars didn’t know what to make of him. He was dark-skinned, wrapped in robes that could best be described as burlap, and very much not dressed for the weather, with bare feet adorned only by thin sandals. He had no other possessions. He approached a group crowded around a lively fire made up largely of scrap wood and newspaper, like a toddler hoping for a cookie from a stranger. He gestured hesitantly, raising one hand and managing a sheepish smile, taking half steps ever closer to the fire.
“Paqditili.” He took another half step forward. “Paqditili,” he said, more confidently. Three of the Regulars turned slightly to give a hint of acknowledgment to the intruder. The stranger stopped, cocked his head a bit with a hopeful look on his face, and motioned with both arms toward the blaze. “Nura.”
The Regulars turned back to face the flames, striking a pose that could be read from blocks away. One of them muttered, “Piss off and get your own fire.”
The stranger was oblivious to such signals. He started toward the crowd again, and inserted himself between two of the larger Regulars. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the one to his right. “Paqditili.” The Regular shrugged off his attempt at being included.
The stranger reached between the two men and held his hand flat against the flames. He made relieved sounds, if only for a moment. The two Regulars turned around swiftly and pushed the stranger backward onto the freezing concrete. The stranger’s expression turned to a mix of shock and sadness. “Nura,” he implored.
The Regulars did not have a leader, as such, but one man stepped around from the opposing side of the bonfire and looked down at the pathetic, swarthy man wrapped in brown robes and wearing sandals in the winter.
“How stupid are you?” He spat onto the crumbling parking lot and glared down at the stranger.
“N-nura.” The stranger held out his arm, presumably in hopes that their leader would help him up off the ground.
“This ain’t no ‘noo-rah’. This is ours. And if you want some of what we got, you got to pay for it.”
The Regulars let out a hearty laugh at this turn of fortunes. Days spent begging for the barest pocket change and rooting through dumpsters for a bite to eat had been paid by this opportunity to decide who was to have something of their own; never mind that they begged for a light from an unfortunate passer-by, who tossed them his lighter and walked briskly away.
“He don’t speak no English, Earl,” said one Regular. “He got to go back to where he came from.”
Earl looked down at the stranger, and decided that would be a long trip, and inwardly wondered how this Arab got here anyway. He looked like he came in off a sand dune.
“Well, if he wants our fire, he’s got to pay for it.” He leaned forward. “What d’ya got? Pay us.”
“Nura.” The stranger tried to get up on his own, but the two Regulars that put him down stepped on his shoulders, pinning him in place.
“Find out what he’s got.”
The Regulars stripped the stranger of his robes, shaking them out, and to Earl’s bewilderment, sending sand dust trailing off into the night, but no money, drugs, booze, or food. The stranger covered himself with his bare hands as his robes were ransacked, his expression very much one of fear, and panic that he would be left to freeze to death.
“Basa! Basa!” He cried.
One of the Regulars threw his robes down in disgust and allowed the stranger to dress himself.
Earl shook his head and spat. “So, you got nothing. Well, I don’t know how they do things wherever you come from,” he looked around for approval from his fellow Regulars, then continued, “but down here, we earn what we get. So, if you can’t buy nothing, you got to make a trade. You Arabs know how to trade, don’t you?”
The stranger did not speak. He stared intently at the man who now controlled his fate.
“Show him what we made this fire out of. If he don’t got anything else we need, he can help us keep this fire going.” A Regular handed Earl a wad of newspaper. He held it close to the stranger’s face and cracked a sardonic smile. “You know what this is? Do they got these in Noo-rah?”
The stranger shook his head, most likely because he didn’t associate a wad of newsprint with a bonfire. Like Earl said, they did things differently where he came from.
Another Regular exchanged the newspapers for a piece of scrap wood, most likely from a chain link fence with privacy slats in it from a nearby hourly parking lot.
“How about this? Even Iran has got to have wood there, don’t it?”
“They used it all up on Jesus,” cracked one Regular, from further
back in the group. The group chuckled.
The stranger nodded.
“You know what this is? Well, tell ya what. You go get us some more of this here wood, and we’ll let you share our fire for a bit. Not all night, but a little bit. That’s a fair trade, ain’t it?”
The stranger reached for the scrap, but Earl pulled it away. “I ain’t giving you this one. You got to bring us more of these. Can you do that? Can you?”
The stranger nodded again.
“Okay, well, what are you waiting for? It’s freezing out here!” The Regulars laughed merrily as the stranger got up off the concrete lot and ambled away, like a whipped puppy.
“Maybe Jesus can give you some. Get us some wine while you’re at it.”
The stranger disappeared around the side of an office building.
Hours passed, and the Regulars fed their bonfire with their assortment of scrap wood, with the occasional wad of newspaper.
The Regulars would glance over their shoulders to see if the stranger had returned yet, in hopes of buying a place beside their fire. Earl had no plans of sharing anything. That Arab was going to be a useful idiot. A one-time use idiot, at that, but the poor bastard was going to either starve or freeze to death. People were barely giving to white folks. They weren’t going to give any better to some camel jockey who didn’t know what winter was, he thought.
The stranger had been all but forgotten when he returned.
He wasn’t alone.
Two guards, dressed in golden armor flanked him, with deep red capes flowing from their burly shoulders. They clanked as they approached, with the stranger purposefully striding toward the group, still wrapped in his plain robes, and still shod in his meager sandals. And to the surprise of the Regulars, not showing any signs of freezing—or starvation. The Regulars formed a cluster behind their self-appointed Leader, encouraging him to kick their asses and find out if that sweet-looking armor fit anybody.
The stranger uttered a single word, and the guards drew long, shining swords. The Regulars, armed with scrap wood and a few bottles, took a big step backward, isolating their leader. He in turn crouched down to pick up a length of rusty chain, wrapping it slowly around his gloved hand. His brown garden glove looked comical in contrast to the golden gauntlets of the guards.
“They making a movie or something? I don’t know what help these yahoos are gonna be to you, but I do know they’ll get a right ass-kicking unless you turn back right now.” He brandished the chain, and the group stepped forward in a show of unity, fractured as it was.
The stranger marched directly toward him. He spoke another word, not like anything any of the Regulars had ever heard, even from the certifiably insane.
Earl let out a whoop and swung the chain at the stranger, wrapping it around his bare arm. He gave it a yank, and as he did, the chain dissolved into salt. He recoiled in fear, and rubbed his fingers together, unsure as to the white gritty substance that had replaced the steely comfort of the rusted chain.
Earl could not complete the inspection, as guards now flanked him, and pushed him down forcefully onto his knees. The stranger stood before him and caressed his grizzled chin between his thumb and forefinger.
The Leader spat and glowered at the stranger. “Who are you?”
The stranger gave a command. One guard handed his sword dutifully to the stranger, who gripped it firmly with both hands, and raised it over his head, like the very god of judgment.
“You’re a thief,” Earl spat. “Kill me if you like, for all the good it’ll do you, but you’re just a no good dirty thief.”
The stranger relieved Earl of his head with one swift stroke of the sword.
Half of the Regulars turned and fled. Half of the half that remained looked down upon their fellow traveler as his blood flowed generously in all directions, coating the stranger’s feet. Steam wafted from the carnage. The other half dropped to their knees and made prayer motions, as if to plead for their lives. A guard wiped the sword blade clean on his gauntlet and sheathed it.
One of the remaining Regulars motioned toward the fire. “Take it. Take it. I won’t fight you, man. We won’t fight you. Just… take it.”
The stranger smiled and stepped forward to bask in the warming glow of the fire. The guards stepped behind him in their flanking positions but said nothing, swords now sheathed, armor glinting under the streetlights. After a satisfied sigh, the stranger motioned to the others to share his fire. He did not speak. He smiled, and nodded, as the remaining Regulars slowly took their place around the flame. When the ring was completed, except for what remained of their former—if informal—leader, the stranger raised his arms and the flames rose.
A Middle Eastern man wearing fine clothing and highly polished shoes emerged from the direction that the stranger had retreated and then returned. He approached the stranger languidly and whispered something in his ear. The stranger replied, speaking a strange language. The well-dressed man nodded and raised his hand magnanimously to the group.
“He asks you to share his fire, my brothers,” he said.
The Regulars looked thunderstruck, then began to nod hesitantly.
“Tobias is generous,” said the well-dressed man. “Don’t you all agree?”
The Regulars shifted uneasily around the fire and gave their approval. The fire burned brightly, with no assistance from anyone who surrounded it. After a few minutes, the well-dressed man stepped away from the fire, and addressed the group.
“My name is Syed Hassan. For thousands of years, my people have handed down a ritual, from each father to each first-born son. We have the holy task of lighting the path for him, our Master. And now, it is I who have the great honor of bringing Tobias here, to me… to us. Tobias is generous and kind. You all have been cast aside. You all have been forgotten. You all have been left to die.”
The Regulars nodded slowly and with increasing conviction. Syed continued his introduction. “Now, our work begins. I have work for all of you. Yes, work, food, shelter, clothing… all will be provided. You shall want for nothing, but there will be work to do in return.”
One of the Regulars raised his hand. Syed gave him a nod. “Look, I don’t know who this guy is. And we don’t know you either. Why should we trust anything you tell us? Don’t you think we haven’t heard all these promises before? Where did that get us?”
The Regulars muttered among themselves. They agreed in principle, but one bloody mass on the pavement was enough for one night. Syed and Tobias exchanged glances, then Tobias stepped away from the fire and picked up a stray chunk of concrete. The Regulars took a step backward in case he intended to bash their skulls in.
Tobias turned to the group and held the concrete chunk aloft. He said something in a strange language, and the concrete transformed into something less threatening: a hunk of bread. Tobias held the bread out and gestured to the group to come take a piece of it. A Regular stepped forward uneasily and tore off a piece. He sniffed it, then popped in his mouth. His eyes widened and began to tear.
“It’s… warm.”
More Regulars came forward to try a piece. They each stuffed the bread into their mouths and made satisfied noises as they ate. When the bread was gone, Tobias showed his bare hands to the group with a genial smile.
“Tobias is generous. He gives you warmth,” Syed gestured to the flames, “and he gives you food. Now he offers you shelter and clothing, in exchange for work. Will you accept?”
The Regulars looked at each other uncertainly, then nodded in unison. One of the men stepped forward. “We’ll work. Tell us what to do.”
Syed nodded curtly to Tobias, who smiled in response. Syed raised his chin and clapped the Regular on his shoulder. “Tell the others. Tell everyone you know who is willing to serve Tobias and receive his generosity, as you have done. I shall return tomorrow night, here, to this place. I hope to see many more of you then.”
Syed led Tobias away, followed by his guards.
The Regulars were dumbst
ruck at the turn the night had taken. They had come to the lot expecting misery, and found themselves fed, and warm. The quiet Regular was nudged by another, who looked up at him expectantly. “Who are you telling?”
The Regular savored the taste of bread in his mouth and watched the flames, thoughtfully.
“Everybody.”
CHAPTER 1: THE MIDDLE BROTHER
There’s no place like home for the holidays. Marc Morris sat and half-listened to the loop of Christmas music his parents had been running since noon with a wistful smile. He looked around the room at his parents and two sisters. His elder sister was missing but expected shortly. Her arrival would be announced by the hum of her sensible Volvo’s engine, its rounded frame cutting a sharp relief against the fallen snow. When her car door slammed shut, Marc’s youngest sister Gracie would look up from her tablet, roll her eyes, and announce, “Fortune’s here.”
“Fortune” was the nickname for their oldest sister, as in “Fortune 500”. Jacqueline was indeed a successful businesswoman, the president of a marketing analytics startup and on the advisory board of at least two other firms. She’d regularly use words and phrases like “leverage” and “cross-functional units”.
Gracie had no hero worship for her oldest sister. What Jacqueline called “ambition” and “life goals,” Gracie called “being a bitch,” and “being an even bigger bitch.” This difference of opinion came to a head when Gracie got her first visible tattoo—Marc wasn’t convinced that Gracie didn’t have more—and Jacqueline stood aghast as Gracie showed off the yellow star on top of her left hand, in the triangle of skin where the thumb and forefinger meet. Her array of silver rings, normally sparkly and prominent, faded against this new decoration.
After composing herself, Jacqueline passed her sentence on the matter: “Well, you can kiss Harvard goodbye.”
“Good-BYE Harvard!” Gracie blew a kiss from her pouty lips, which were coated in black lipstick. Heaven have mercy on anyone who called Gracie a “goth”. She was different from everyone else, she lectured, even though when her friends stopped by, if it weren’t for Gracie’s commanding tone, one would be hard-pressed to tell them apart. Marc never bothered to learn anyone’s names.
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