Asira Awakens

by Chevelle Allen

  Ben could be a shrewd negotiator, but it was clear Larry Johnson wouldn’t budge under conventional methods. Ben turned toward the sofa and sat down.

  “What the hell? Are you deaf or something?” Larry shouted.

  “You said none but God could get you to tell me, correct?” Ben said calmly.

  “I said get out! Joanne, call the cops!”

  With a wide grin, Ben peered into Larry’s eyes while leaning back on the sofa. Opening his mouth, Ben let out a deep sigh. Then his eyes closed. Within seconds, Ben’s body began to emit blinding light as a ball of flames came out of his mouth. Shocked by what they were seeing, the Johnson’s stepped back in terror.

  “Larry! What’s happening to him? Oh my God! What’s going on?” Joanne screamed.

  “I don’t know! Call the cops! Right now!”

  She tried to move, but couldn’t. Neither could he. The ball of flames grew white hot as it mutated into a glowing human form floating mid-air with no distinguishable facial features. The more they stared at it, the more irritated their eyes became. Soon the light emitting from Bensaí blinded them. Both fell to their knees as his thunderous voice echoed in their heads. It was deafening.

  “Please don’t hurt us!” Joanne begged.

  “Where is the Collection?” Bensaí bellowed.

  “What the hell are you?” Larry whimpered in terror.

  “I am beyond your understanding. I am what I am. Answer me or be left deaf and blind forever!”

  “St. Mary University in Detroit!”

  CHAPTER 4

  The armored vehicle pulled into the loading dock. One by one, the guards carefully unloaded boxes and crates. With Megan standing nearby, Deborah escorted the guards to the freezing chamber where the items would be kept for forty-eight hours to ensure any insect infestation, no matter how microscopic, would be killed. If the materials passed inspection, they would be transferred to rare documents storage. If not, an additional forty-eight hours would be required. With the last item locked away, Megan signed the papers acknowledging receipt, then handed them to Deborah.

  Looking at it, the manifest simply showed:

  -10 boxes: CONTENTS UNKNOWN

  -2 crates: CONTENTS UNKNOWN

  -Donor: ANONYMOUS.

  -Status: PERMANENTLY RESTRICTED ACCESS

  As the vehicle pulled away, Deborah turned to Megan saying, “Wow!”

  “Yeah… definitely a first.”

  “Now what?”

  “We lock it up after the deep freeze.”

  “What about processing the papers? For all of this, there’s got to be something amazing in those boxes.”

  “According to the donor agreement, nothing in the Collection is ever to be made public,” Megan answered.

  “What? That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Whatever’s in those papers, somebody doesn’t want the world to see.”

  “Then why not just destroy them?” Deborah asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can we protect it if we don’t know what it is?”

  “The agreement says it can’t be made public. I don’t interpret it to mean we can’t process it. But you’ve got to encrypt and restrict the database file somehow. Can you do it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You also have to do this by yourself, too. No students, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  She could only imagine the treasures waiting in the Dubois Collection. Deborah’s head was spinning with excitement as they walked back to their office suite. On her desk were Files #9 and #11. The cursory review of them two days earlier simply revealed the 1902 financial gift to the University, but digging deeper into those files, Deborah learned a little more about the elusive Father Willem and his family.

  Cross-referencing digital research databases from around the world, she was enthralled as pieces of the puzzle came together, but she knew there were still so many holes in the narrative. Born Willem Mathieu Antoine Dubois, Father Willem was the second youngest child and only son of Belgian businessman and financier, Antoine Dubois, and Juliette Margo DuPont Dubois. Among Belgium’s most elite families, the Dubois’ fortunes expanded greatly during the burgeoning rubber and oil industries in the 1890s. Investing heavily in the Congo Free State, their wealth grew substantially.

  Deborah’s digital search eventually led to a faded photo of the Dubois family. Antoine Dubois appeared to be a tall, well-built man. Juliette was a raven-haired beauty. Three teen girls clad in their finery were stunning beauties like their mother, but standing by his mother’s side and in front of his father, the handsome Willem seemed stoic for one so young. He bore a stronger resemblance to his father. The more she stared at the image, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was something purposeful in the boy’s eyes… and something familiar.

  Continuing her work, she discovered the Dubois’ were also devout Catholics giving considerable portions of their wealth to the Church. Rather than follow in his father’s footsteps, Willem chose to become a Jesuit priest. His order built and ran schools and orphanages in Haiti, Cuba, and eventually the United States. By 1895, he was in the Congo Free State in central Africa. Soon after, all records about Father Willem ceased. Except for the illegible hand-written note from his father, he seemed to disappear from historical records.

  As the day came to a close, Deborah headed home exhilarated. But having to wait to delve into the Dubois Collection was beyond frustrating. What happened to Willem? Did he die from malaria or one of the many diseases that often struck missionaries working in remote parts of the world? Is that why his father left such a large amount to the University? Did Willem leave the priesthood? If so, why? Did he see or do something horrible that led to excommunication?

  Deborah reasoned at least one of the Dubois descendants had to know something. Hunting them down through genealogical records would be difficult and very time-consuming. Could answers be found researching what happened to Willem’s sisters? Deborah’s mind was racing with all the possibilities. Everything imagined was pure speculation. At least one descendant knew something because they kept the papers before donating them to the University. But the donor was also a mystery. She had to know more… without violating their privacy.

  Walking into her apartment, she dropped her bag on the floor and went straight to her computer in the kitchen nook. Ignoring a stomach rumbling from hunger, she sat down and began searching ancestry databases. These online services were best for tracking public records, and if you were lucky, someone else added to the available information. The trick? Knowing which rabbit hole to follow. It was critical especially since the names Antoine, Willem, and Dubois were fairly common. There could be thousands of matches… and there were. Culling it down to known family locations, made the query more manageable, but it could still be over a thousand descendants.

  Deborah knew from personal experience one wrong turn in a search could lead to nowhere. Completing graduate school, she spent years trying to uncover her family history. From police records to databases about missing and exploited children, her searches always came up empty. Growing up in a Baltimore orphanage, she didn’t know if she’d been abandoned or orphaned as a small child. She didn’t even know if Deborah was her birth name. The only memories she had were interactions with nuns and priests. The only one to dote on her was the grandmotherly Sister Mary Francis.

  Despite feeling loved, Deborah still ached whenever another child under their care was adopted. But it never happened for her. When she’d ask Sister Mary Francis why, she’d say, “Within you is a light so great, you have been entrusted only to us. And we, dear Deborah, love you.” Those words calmed her, but the older she became, they also haunted her. She interpreted them to mean no one else wanted the lanky, dark-skinned child with curious, amber eyes. When the time came for her to leave their care, she furthered her education at the women’s college not far from the orphanage. A year later, Sister Mary Francis died. The world seemed much darker and lonel
ier.

  Deborah continued pouring through the possible matches for the Dubois family. Placing each into the ancestry website’s folder to view later, she still wasn’t certain any of it would be applicable. When the phone rang, she was irritated by the interruption. Digging into her purse and pulling it out, she saw Rodney’s name flashing. She hadn’t spoken to him in three days and didn’t care to. As far as she was concerned, there was no point. She stared at it choosing to let it go to voicemail. She’d deal with him later, if at all.

  Realizing how late it had gotten, she ate an apple to quell her hunger before going to her room. Her thoughts ran rampant about all she’d discovered, but she also knew she’d only tapped the surface. She wasn’t even sure she was on the right track, but it all had to wait. She was tired. Stripping down to her panties, she sat on the bed. Usually, she could lie down and fall quickly asleep, but not tonight. As tired as she was, sleep seemed elusive. Reaching for the romance book on her nightstand, her vision blurred from spending so much time in front of a computer screen. She lay there looking at the ceiling until her mind quieted enough to sleep.

  The next morning, she woke feeling exhausted after a night of restlessness. She attributed it all to an overly active mind that wouldn’t shut off even while her body rested. As much as she wanted to get back to her research, she barely had the energy to get out of bed. She lay there for a moment mustering her reserves to begin a new day. Glancing at the clock, it was already after eight. She was going to be late. When she finally got up, she moved slowly before finally leaving the apartment.

  Her drive into work was a fog. All the things she normally paid notice to were nowhere in her memory. Pulling into the parking lot, she was greeted by Mr. Mugabe, the sweet old man with a broad smile who worked on the landscaping crew. Whenever he saw her, he always asked how she was doing or offered an encouraging word. Today was no different, but Deborah wasn’t in the mood for much conversation.

  By the time she got to her desk, it was after nine-thirty. She sat there staring at the blank monitor when Megan tapped on her door.

  “Hey!” she said.

  “Hi,” Deborah sluggishly replied.

  “Are you feeling okay? You look…”

  “Didn’t sleep well. Nothing an extra cup of coffee won’t fix.”

  “Bonnie put on a pot when she got in.”

  “Thanks. What do you need?”

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Megan came in and closed the door behind her. She sat down across from Deborah. “I met with the President yesterday trying to get additional information about the Dubois Collection.”

  Deborah perked up. “And?”

  “Sorry to say, but the mystery is even deeper.”

  “How so?”

  “All he could tell me was this started with a certified letter from a law firm in Brussels. Enclosed was the check for ten million and notification the Collection was coming. He says it didn’t even say where it was coming from… just when it would arrive.”

  “Did he call the firm?”

  “He did.”

  “And?”

  “They confirmed it’s all very legit.”

  Deeply concerned, Deborah said, “We need to find out what’s in there, Megan. It could be contraband, looted Nazi materials, anything! It’s too mysterious for my tastes.”

  “Mine, too. How soon can you get to work on it?”

  “I really don’t want to pull it out of the freeze room yet, but I can at least open the crates and boxes. At least we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Meet me there in an hour, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  After answering emails and getting the interns set for the day, Deborah grabbed her keys heading toward the freeze room. When she got there, Megan was waiting for her with parkas in hand. The freeze room was kept at -20° Celsius, so they needed the protection. Deborah swiped her security card across the keypad to open the steel door. Flipping on the light, they went inside the twelve by twelve, frigid steel room. Deborah reached for the white cotton curatorial gloves used for handling.

  “Here. They won’t help with the cold, but they’ll protect the papers when we take them out of the boxes,” Deborah said.

  Taking a pair, Megan stepped closer to the items sitting on the stainless steel table. She then peered at the crates.

  “What in the…”

  “What?” Deborah asked stepping closer.

  “Did you notice this yesterday?”

  Deborah looked carefully at the crates. “Son of a… they’re sealed!” Running her gloved fingers across its edges she continued, “It looks like there’s some type of adhesive in addition to the screws.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I have no idea, but it seems pliable even with the sub-freezing temperature. Worse case I can use a thin chisel to get it out of the seam. I won’t really know until I try.”

  Megan turned her attention to a cardboard box lifting its lid. Reaching inside, she pulled out a leather-bound book. It was worn, but its pages seemed in good condition. Placing it on the table, she flipped to its cover page.

  “Look at this. It’s in French, but the initials are WMD.”

  “Willem Mathieu Dubois,” Deborah said as she peered at its pages.

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’d be my guess.” Flipping its pages, she said, “Look at the headings. It’s a Book of Prayers… in French.”

  “There are six more books in this box. That’s it.”

  “All prayer books?” Deborah asked.

  “Not sure.”

  Reaching for another, Deborah placed it on the table. Opening it, there were no markings on the cover page. However, the handwriting seemed to match the prayer book, but this one appeared to be a diary. She silently read a passage:

  Stanley est le pire des hommes. Ce que j'ai vu doit faire pleurer les anges, inciter à la colère de Dieu. Ces pauvres âmes misérables se sentent comme si leurs dieux les avaient abandonnées.

  “What does it say?” Megan asked.

  “Stanley is the worst of men. What I have seen must make angels weep, inciting God’s wrath. These poor wretched souls feel as if their gods have abandoned them.”

  “What’s the date on it?”

  “April 9, 1895,” Deborah replied solemnly.

  “I wonder who Stanley is?”

  “That’s a good question. I’ll know more when I can really get into this material.”

  “I don’t know about you, but my fingers are getting numb. Let’s take a quick peek in the other boxes and get out of here, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Nearing the corporate jet hangar, Ben’s phone rang. The call was coming from Peter’s line.

  “Peter?”

  “Hello, I’m calling from Mercy General in Baltimore, Maryland.”

  “What’s wrong with Peter?” Ben asked.

  “Are you his next of kin?”

  “He doesn’t have any surviving family, but he’s been dear to mine for years.”

  “May I ask are you in the U.S. or abroad?”

  “Currently in the U.S. What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Grant was brought in late yesterday having suffered a massive heart attack. How soon can you get here?”

  “Where are you?”

  Ben had the driver immediately take him to the hospital. Upon arrival, he was soon met by the physician and briefed on Peter’s condition.

  “The damage to his heart is severe. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. For someone his age and apparent physical condition, it’s unusual. Did he have any known heart conditions, Mr. Stewart?” the doctor asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. What’s his prognosis?” Ben asked.

  “We were able to resuscitate him, but the brain scans are unmistakable. I’m afraid he’s brain dead due to the lack of oxygen during the heart attack. There’s
nothing more we can do for him. It’s likely the heart will fail again despite efforts to repair it.”

  “I see.”

  “This may seem indelicate, but do you know if he has a Do Not Resuscitate order?”

  “He does.”

  “Perhaps some good can come from this tragedy. Is he an organ donor?”

  “You’re welcome to harvest his usable organs.“

  “Thank you. Mr. Grant can help save many lives.”

  “May I see him now?” Ben asked.

  “Of course. He’s in ICU.”

  Peter was hooked up to a variety of tubes and machines. Death was on his pale face. Ben walked quietly toward him. Much to his surprise, it genuinely pained him to see Peter this way. He had servants, wives, and lovers during his time on earth, but Peter was the one human he favored most. He was smart, disciplined, resourceful, and extremely loyal. They often laughed together defying his desire not to attach to any human. Yet, looking at his frail and weakened body, Ben ached for his friend knowing, with all his powers, there was little he could do for him.

  Ben knew what it was like when the human form transitioned toward death. It was rarely painful in the last moments, but terrifying nonetheless. When his father lay dying, Ben was called to his bedside. He came close to hear the old man’s last words. At that moment, it was Bensaí who withdrew the life breath from him. Transferring it into the dying body, the younger man now resided in the one Bensaí occupied for over fifty years. With tears in his eyes, his confusion was palpable. But it was necessary. Bensaí had to consume the younger form to continue his search for Asira.

  Standing next to Peter’s bed, Ben looked down at him thinking such a waste! Hard working and diligent, Peter began his employment with the Stewart family fresh out of university. Before the transference, it was he who kept Ben’s vices and indiscretions from the public eye. Peter protected the reckless young man who bedded every woman he could and spent his father’s money on excess. It was Peter who first noticed Ben was somehow different when his father died. In time, Peter earned Ben’s trust and eventually knowledge of his otherworldly secrets.