My Soul to Take

by Tananarive Due

  Fana was wearing a ceremonial white robe from the House of Mystics, with three intersecting rows of cowrie shells sewn on the hem, brushing her bare ankles. The shells represented past, present, and future, all interwoven. Many of the Mystics believed they had been prophesying her birth for four hundred years.

  Three wiry dancers from the House of Mystics cleared a path for her, singing the prophecy in flawless harmony while drums and shakers played at a frenetic pace. Each drum had a different pitch, the voices eerily human, in dialogue with one another as well as the dancers.

  “And her name shall be called Light!” one Mystic sang, waving his arms to the sky.

  “And she will bring rains from the sky!” another sang, scooping imaginary water.

  “And she shall be born with the Blood!” The third leaped to show the Blood’s strength.

  The Mystics were as enchanted by the Letter of the Witness as Michel, and they considered her the rightful heir to Khaldun—his Chosen. Even the Brothers who didn’t believe in the Letter as prophecy respected Khaldun’s special presence in Fana’s life.

  The flea thinks it is the camel’s master, Fana remembered Khaldun telling her, and they often had debated whether Fana was the camel or the flea. As a child, she’d been sure she was the camel. Today, she seemed like neither. Or both.

  Or was Michel the camel, and she the flea?

  The twenty-foot statue of Khaldun stood prominently in the courtyard beyond the Council Hall’s archway, and Fana followed tradition by stopping to reflect on the colony’s creator. The statue’s marble shone like new, but Dawit said it had been built before he and his Brothers arrived in Khaldun’s underground kingdom more than five hundred years ago.

  Despite its height, the statue looked puny. The rendering was stylized, Khaldun’s facial features heavily lined, his beard cropped, so he didn’t resemble the man Fana and her parents had met in Lalibela. He looked nothing like the dreamlike figure who had guided her when the world overwhelmed her, when even her parents had been locked out.

  Her father said that Khaldun had spoken through this statue in years past, with a greeting for every Brother. But Khaldun’s statue had gone silent when he’d left Lalibela. Fana reached up to wrap her palm around the smooth marble hand, three times the size of a man’s. She dropped her chin to her chest, eyes closed.

  Khaldun, I need your guidance as much as I did when I was three, she said.

  The statue was lifeless stone, cold to the core, as if Khaldun had never touched it. Had Khaldun found a way to die? Freed himself to his Rising? That would explain why she’d never been able to find his thoughts, and a part of her was always searching.

  Fana understood why the Life Brothers felt abandoned. Khaldun hadn’t prepared her for Michel, or explained the prophecy he’d saddled his two Bloodborn with. The silent statue almost made her as angry as it did many of her Brothers, but what was the point of anger?

  Fana moved beyond the statue when she thought a respectful time had passed, but she noticed several glares from council members who thought she had not lingered long enough.

  PATIENCE, FANA, Teka said, walking closely beside her to share his thought privately.

  But I knew Khaldun, she said. What’s the point of pretending I found him in the statue?

  THE POINT ISN’T TO FIND HIM. THE POINT IS TO SEEK HIM.

  The stares and riot of speculations made Fana lonely, so she was glad when she saw her family huddle—Teferi’s wives Abena and Sharmila, Teferi’s boys Miruts, Natan, and Debashish. Her aunt, uncle, and cousin were still upworld, but where was her father?

  The women showered Fana with hugs, draping her in beads and flowers. Fana ignored the nearby thoughts, wondering why a gaggle of mortals congregated so near the Council Hall, and the complaints exaggerating their smell.

  Abena’s eyes danced. “Today you are taking your throne, my daughter,” she whispered.

  “It’s only a courtesy call,” Fana told her. “I’m not here to lead Lalibela.”

  “And yet you will. You do!” Abena said, and kissed her cheek.

  Fana wondered when she would see them again. She’d been upworld only a week for the concert and Glow visits, and Natan already seemed three inches taller, past her shoulder at only ten. Natan’s ocher face dimpled when he grinned and handed Fana a sewn doll with three heads with nests of black hair. Each head was shorter than the last, but the doll shared a single body.

  “See?” Natan said. “That’s me. That’s Deb. And Miruts. For good luck.”

  “Yes, you’ll always be with me,” Fana said, hugging him. Children’s energy was like no other, floating straight through her. No masking. So few regrets. Bright and vigorous. Fana knew she could never be a child again, and wouldn’t want to—but if she had a child of her own one day, would she be a Bloodborn, too?

  “Best good-luck charm ever made,” Caitlin said.

  Caitlin was at the edge of the huddle, dressed in white jeans and a white tank top—her nod to ceremony. Fana hugged Caitlin a long time. The spike in her Brothers’ thoughts sharpened as they watched her with Caitlin—hugging mortals! This one not even an African! And Caitlin was helping her spread the Blood, which was controversial in Lalibela, too. Fana had already scandalized her Brothers without a word.

  “He’s a mistake,” Caitlin said to her ear. “A really big, awful mistake.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Fana said. “Waiting was the mistake.”

  “I sure as hell better be wrong,” Caitlin said bitterly.

  Fana tugged on the ends of Caitlin’s hair, their game since childhood when either of them needed to be pulled out of a bad mood. “Am I still me?” Fana said, not entirely teasing. Caitlin would know if Michel was riding her.

  “He couldn’t be you for a day if he tried, Fana,” Caitlin said.

  Fana realized she might not see Caitlin again before she left Lalibela, and she owed her so much! Without Caitlin, she might never have had the courage to spread the Blood and create the Underground Railroad for Glow, beyond her parents’ more cautious efforts. Glow had brought Fana to Michel’s attention, but she and Caitlin had saved tens of thousands of lives. Hundreds of thousands.

  And Fana had told Michel that she would stop healing until their meeting! The networks were running, but she wouldn’t intervene the way she’d promised the health minister in Nigeria. As Fana gazed at Caitlin’s sad smile, her truce with Michel felt like a betrayal.

  “Caitlin …”

  The confession almost came, but Fana’s father’s strong presence radiated behind Fana the instant before he tapped her shoulder from behind. Dawit was dressed in a warrior’s loincloth and ostrich feathers. With her father beside her in Mexico, she could face Michel.

  But her mother hadn’t come. Fana was surprised at how deeply her disappointment burned, like anger. Fana wanted to lash out a probe to find Jessica, but the memory of her mother’s angry slap reminded her not to. They were beyond each other’s guidance now. And where was Johnny? Fana scanned the Life Brothers, and Johnny wasn’t in sight, either. She felt that Johnny and her mother were bound up together, and something was badly wrong.

  YOU SHOULD TAKE YOUR SEAT IN THE HALL, FANA, Teka said.

  The throng thickened as she neared the door. Everyone seemed to want to enter the Council Hall with her, brushing uncharacteristically close. The clumsier telepaths needed proximity to glide through her.

  “Where’s Johnny?” Fana called to Caitlin as the crowd pulled them apart.

  Caitlin waved her off. “He’ll survive!” she said.

  Make sure he’s all right. I have a bad feeling, Fana told Caitlin.

  Caitlin tapped her temple to signal that she had heard. Her empty eyes haunted Fana.

  Dozens of thoughts amplified as Fana waded toward the hall’s archway with her Brothers. Walking within their furious streams was like trudging through thick mud. She hadn’t planned to veil herself at the council meeting—Teka had warned her that Higher Brothers would find it
rude, as if she were hiding—but she might not have a choice. So much noise!

  An intriguing melody issued from the strange instrument one of the Brothers was playing outside the archway, stringed like a lute but held like a clarinet, with a reed embedded in its neck. The musician was a master with the bow. The instrument sounded like three being played at once. Had she heard a hidden strain of Phoenix’s “Gotta Fly”? Fana would have thought she’d imagined it, except for the twinkle in the musician’s eye.

  A hand grabbed Fana’s arm and held on so tightly that Fana almost snapped it away. How dare someone!—

  Then Fana’s irritation melted. Joy came instead.

  Her mother was a beautiful sight. The broken woman from the dream chamber was gone. Jessica smelled sweet from her bath, and Abena had carefully braided her cornrows. Jessica was wearing a white sun dress Fana had never seen, a simple design from a market.

  Fana hugged Jessica tightly, and they breathed together within their hug before her mother pulled back. Jessica was always conscious of having her head too close, letting her thoughts loose. But she hadn’t pulled away fast enough: Jessica was thinking about Johnny, too, worried about him. Excited for him. Fana clipped off the stray thought as quickly as she could, but she’d felt it. And there was more that Jessica didn’t want her to see. As always.

  Fana concentrated on her mother’s smile instead, which was weak but genuine. Faces were far less complicated than thoughts, even if they left too much unsaid.

  “I’m here, Fana,” her mother said. “I hate the reason like hell, but I’m here.”

  You’ve done this before, Fana said privately. You never wanted to see Dad again. But you needed something from him, so you came here on faith, with no idea what to expect.

  “I needed somebody to teach me who you were,” Jessica said.

  “That’s how it is for me now, Mom,” she said. “I have to learn.”

  Jessica’s eyes fluttered with a flash of pain at the idea of Fana learning anything from Michel. “And teach,” Jessica said. “Don’t forget to teach.”

  “Every moment,” Fana said. “I promise.”

  Jessica crossed her hands across her chest in an X, clasping her own shoulders. A sigh shuddered through her. “I’m tired, Fana. But I’ll come wherever you need me.”

  Dawit hesitated before he kissed Jessica. The hurried, tentative kiss reminded Fana of her impulsive kiss with Johnny; wondering if it was welcome, hoping it wouldn’t hurt them both. Jessica touched Dawit’s cheek with her fingertip, tracing a message to him in their secret language. Fana shut out the courtyard’s noise, watching her parents rediscover each other, finding the new paths around old pain. Fana heard her parents’ whispers.

  “Thank you for coming back, mi vida.” Dawit held out his hand to Jessica.

  “Thanks for waiting.”

  They clasped hands, holding tightly, as if one of them might float away.

  The first six hours of the council meeting were a test, because Jessica wished she could escape the dimly lighted chamber. She kept herself awake by counting and recounting the thirty Life Brothers sitting in the semicircle of floor pillows, cataloging their clothing, their gestures, trying to remember their names: Jima. Demisse. Yacob. Ermias. Almost all the remaining Life Brothers were here, more than she’d seen gathered in one place. A few were bleary-eyed, fresh from meditation.

  Tiny metallic Spiders scurried across the tabletop, racing between the council members as they spoke. “For Teferi and the others upworld,” Dawit explained when she asked about the devices. “So they can watch too.”

  The eyes of the world’s immortals were on her child.

  Dawit gave Jessica translations while each of the twelve council members offered greetings, rebukes, or warnings. Some spoke only to Dawit, some only to Fana, others to Fana and Dawit. Jessica, so recently a mortal, was ignored. Many of the Life Brothers refused to look at her, so Jessica relieved herself of her phony smile.

  The Life Brothers rarely ate meals as a ritual, but the council meeting was treated as a banquet, the tables arrayed with baskets and platters of food. Few of the Brothers were eating, but Jessica helped herself to whatever she could reach, remembering to steer clear of the spicier pastes unique to the colony. Ethiopian injera. Boiled eggs. Figs. Grapes. Pastries. And there was more than enough coffee to keep her awake, richer and sweeter than the Cuban coffee she and her friends in Miami had called rocket fuel. Her mind still foggy from Dreamsticks, the taste of Miami was fresh on her tongue.

  Here, she could be eating lumps of soil. Her racing mind made it hard to eat. Can Johnny find a way? Can any of us?

  Jessica closed her eyes and tried to practice the breathing that Teka and Fana were teaching her, tied to her heartbeat. Her heart was excited from thoughts about Michel and Johnny, but she willed her heart to slow. Peace. Stillness. Another pastry. More coffee.

  Finally, it was Fana’s turn to speak.

  Jessica was mesmerized as her daughter took her place before the council. The ease of her walk. The way she threw her head back, high on her shoulders, her back erect. Fana walked to the center of the circle that separated the council members from the spectators. Weighted by cowrie shells, the back of Fana’s robe dragged on the floor. Spiders clicked after her, climbing the wall on thread-thin legs to document her words.

  A hush followed her.

  Jessica glanced at Dawit, and found tears in his eyes. She didn’t dare let herself cry, or she would be a spectacle. How could Dawit sit there and watch Fana like a proud father at a high-school graduation? Jessica squeezed Dawit’s knee, and he rested his steady hand on hers.

  “She’s extraordinary, Jess,” Dawit whispered. “You’ll see.”

  I know, Jessica thought. But so is he.

  “My name is Fana.”

  Fana didn’t have to raise her voice. The Council Hall was silent as stone.

  Nothing had prepared Dawit for the feeling.

  During rare moments after his return to Lalibela, he realized a weight had been lifted from his spirit as he was no longer forced to choose between life with his family and life with his Brothers. There was still dissent about the Blood mission, but Lalibela felt like home again. Perhaps he had always imagined a day when Jessica could sit beside him at the Council Hall, and they might hear the laughter of children in the rock garden.

  But this! His child addressing the council!

  Fana’s presence swept Dawit back to his own beginnings with the Living Blood, awe-filled as Khaldun’s floating visage had addressed this same hall. Khaldun’s voice had filled his life before he’d found Jessica, a voice so vast that Dawit had never questioned Khaldun’s Covenant: No one must know. No one must join. We are the last.

  Had Khaldun been the tyrant Mahmoud now believed he was, or simply a teacher trying too hard to keep his students close to him? To keep them from lording themselves over mortals? Fana would bring a new way to his Brothers, like Dawit’s favorite passage in the I Ching: “When the way comes to an end, then Change. Having changed, you pass through.”

  They would not want to listen to her. But they had no choice, because she was there.

  Fifteen years ago, it had been impossible to see this woman in the fat-cheeked, impetuous baby Fana had been, barely able to walk, driven by a toddler’s rages. But Khaldun had seen Fana’s future. Or, had he and Jessica created Fana’s future based on Khaldun’s words? That was the snake eating its own head, the question with no answer.

  If Dawit ever found Khaldun again, he had only one last question for his teacher: Did you write the Letter, Father? If so, Khaldun had created Michel as he had created Fana, and they had been destined to meet thousands of years before their births.

  Michel’s telepathic attack on their Washington colony had shown Dawit that Michel could easily overpower them all, and Michel had let them go. Michel was haughty and spoiled, but he had respected Fana’s mental dominion in ways he didn’t have to. Michel’s “plague” had been exercised only mild
ly, with so few deaths. It was only a message, a communication. Dawit wasn’t willing to trust Michel, but he studied Michel’s actions to judge him.

  Even if Michel didn’t deserve Dawit’s faith, Fana did. Now his Brothers would see it.

  “I’ve spent my life with mortals,” Fana said. Her Amharic and Arabic were fine, but Fana chose English so that her mother could understand her.

  “My father chose a woman who did not share our Blood to make his wife. She was pregnant when he shared his Blood with her, and they created me. It is the oldest and simplest of stories in the history of humankind. A man and woman fell in love, and made a child.”

  Fana’s gaze came to Dawit and Jessica, and she bowed low.

  Dawit and Jessica inclined their heads. They did not publicly bow to their daughter.

  His Brothers’ tension came in silent, angry waves. Dawit had been ridiculed for taking a mortal wife—more than one! Sharing the Blood had violated Khaldun’s Covenant. But there were other Brothers, like Yacob and Teferi, who’d felt the same call. Most of the Brothers who had gone upworld since Khaldun’s departure had gone to seek a mortal’s life of fleeting passions. Except for those who have gone to Michel, Dawit reminded himself.

  Fana went on. “You have forgotten grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers—but I was raised in my grandmother’s bosom. I tasted my grandfather’s last breath. I have grieved, as all of you have, even if it was so long ago that you’ve nearly forgotten grief. Not everyone who shares my blood—my family blood—has the Living Blood. But now I must twine my two families: the family of my heart and the family of the Blood.”

  LOVELY! Teka told Dawit. But the room was warm with his Brothers’ agitation.

  “There is much we can learn from mortals …” Fana went on. “The world over, men, women, and children know their mortality. They are driven by this knowledge. They move quickly. They build and build. They hope for immortality through their children. They choose a few pieces of the world to learn before they’re gone. They sing and cry for each other. Sometimes they mate for life. They live on memories. They have no time to waste, Brothers.”