Black Panther

by Ronald L. Smith

  “C’mon,” M’Baku said. “Let’s go outside.”

  T’Challa turned to open the door—without looking at Mr. Jones—and he and M’Baku stepped outside.

  Both boys began to walk—to where, T’Challa didn’t know. Several moments passed in silence until he finally spoke. “What are you doing, M’Baku? Why did you join them? The Skulls, I mean. I…I saw the ritual.”

  M’Baku came to a stop. He turned to T’Challa. “You what?”

  “I saw it all—the blindfolds, the skull, the oath you took. Why would you do it?”

  M’Baku shook his head. “You spied on me?”

  “I had to find out what you were doing,” T’Challa confessed. “Why you’ve been acting so strange.”

  “Let me guess,” M’Baku challenged him. “Your little nerd friends were with you, right?”

  T’Challa swallowed back his anger.

  M’Baku looked at the ground and flexed his jaw. T’Challa saw that he had on new sneakers. “Where’d you get the shoes?” he asked.

  M’Baku looked up and grinned, then bounced on his toes. “Like my new kicks? Pretty dope, huh? Gemini’s dad bought ’em for me. Said to consider it a favor.”

  “And what does he want in return?”

  “Yo, Marcus!”

  They both turned.

  Gemini, Bicep, and a few other Skull members were headed in their direction. T’Challa recognized a new face—a girl, wearing combat boots. Her hair was drawn back in a ponytail and her face was sharp and angular, like a fox’s.

  “I’m out,” M’Baku said, and turned to meet his friends.

  “Marcus,” T’Challa called.

  But M’Baku didn’t turn around, only headed toward Gemini with a swagger in his step.

  “So what happened?” Sheila asked the next morning. “With Marcus?”

  T’Challa grimaced. “I went by to talk to him, but he didn’t say much. He left when Gemini and his friends showed up. There was a girl with them this time. She had on combat boots.”

  Sheila’s eyebrows rose. “Hmpf. Sounds like Wilhelmina Cross.”

  “Who’s she?” T’Challa asked.

  “Well, she used to be a friend of mine until we hit seventh grade. Then she started cutting classes and hanging out with people I didn’t know.”

  “Sounds familiar,” T’Challa replied.

  Later that day, T’Challa sat in History class, his thoughts rambling and scattered. He couldn’t concentrate. He had barely slept the night before, and when he did fall asleep, he dreamed that he was walking near a deep pit bubbling with molten lava. Every time he got close to the edge his legs trembled and he wavered unsteadily, as if the pit was trying to pull him in.

  The teacher was going on and on about the Battle of Gettysburg, but he might as well have been speaking gibberish. A burst of static from the PA system made T’Challa jump.

  “Mr. T. Charles, please report to the principal’s office. Mr. T. Charles, please proceed to the principal’s office immediately.”

  What now? T’Challa thought.

  His fellow classmates looked at him with quiet curiosity as he got up and headed for the door. T’Challa heard their hushed voices as he walked out:

  What did he do?

  I don’t know.

  His friend Marcus isn’t in school.

  He pushed the gossip aside and made his way to Mrs. Deacon’s office.

  Mr. Walker, the principal’s assistant he’d met on his first day, showed him in with a tight-lipped half smile.

  T’Challa took a seat and placed his hands on his knees. Mrs. Deacon sat behind her desk and took a sip of coffee. She tapped a pencil against a sheet of paper. “Your friend Marcus hasn’t been seen in school in a few days,” she started. “Some of his teachers brought it to my attention. Do you have any idea where he is?”

  T’Challa had no reason to lie, and he was glad of it. “I think he’s staying with the Joneses,” he answered.

  Mrs. Deacon angled her head. “Gemini’s father? Bartholomew Jones?”

  Bartholomew Jones. T’Challa stored the name away for later.

  “Yes,” T’Challa answered. “That’s all he told me.”

  Mrs. Deacon looked to the window for a moment. Now T’Challa had an opening, he realized. She definitely knew something about Gemini. He had to press her and find out more. “Is that weird?” he asked. “I mean—I know he should be at school. But staying with Gemini. Is that something to worry about?”

  He sat back in his chair, hoping he didn’t come across as too curious. The old radiator in the room clanged and then settled.

  Mrs. Deacon leaned forward and rested her elbows on the wooden desk. She seemed to be struggling with something. Now was T’Challa’s chance to pounce.

  “Marcus is my friend,” he said. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

  Mrs. Deacon took another sip of coffee. She set the cup down and looked to the window again. She turned back to him, and her face was solemn. She stood up suddenly. “If you care about your friend,” she said, returning to the door, “I suggest you do everything you can to get him to come to his senses.”

  T’Challa was flummoxed. Why does she sound so serious?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Deacon,” he said. “I will do my best.”

  She didn’t respond, only smiled weakly as she let T’Challa out.

  She definitely knows something, T’Challa thought, as he made his way down the hallway. She was keeping something back. What does she know about Gemini?

  T’Challa glanced at this watch. Still fifteen minutes left in History class.

  He opened the door quietly and found students bent over their desks, scribbling furiously. There must have been a pop quiz. He closed the door behind him and took a seat. He gazed out of the window at the gray sky and the skeletons of the bare trees.

  “Attention,” the PA system rang out. “Attention.”

  Again? T’Challa thought in disbelief. What is going on in this place?

  “Calmly proceed to the nearest side and back exits of the school in an orderly fashion. Do not use the front exit. Repeat, do not use the front exit.”

  The class immediately began to murmur as the announcement trailed off. Squeaking chairs and voices filled the air. Mr. Sofio, the history teacher, stood up and raised his voice. “Class,” he started, “simmer down. Quickly find your belongings and follow me. No running, please. Single file.”

  T’Challa joined the throng exiting the classroom. Mr. Sofio led them down through the stairwell. What could this be about?

  T’Challa and the rest of the class took a side door exit and gathered outside near a chain-link fence. It was quiet but for the chattering of students, wondering what had interrupted another ordinary day. T’Challa stood on his toes, looking left and right.

  “T.,” a voice called out.

  He followed the voice to Zeke, standing with Sheila a short distance away. They were probably supposed to stay with their own classes, but T’Challa slowly walked over to join them anyway. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Sheila.

  But they soon found their answer.

  Very slowly, heads started to turn. A boy T’Challa didn’t know pointed toward the school entrance, which could be seen from where T’Challa stood, even though it was several hundred feet away. A quiet, almost electric buzz ran through the crowd. T’Challa squinted. Even from this distance, he could tell what it was.

  There, around the double doors and on the yellowed lawn that led up to it, were at least twenty Devil’s Traps, lying in wait, like some sort of bizarre omen.

  “They wanted to make sure they weren’t some kind of explosive devices or something,” Sheila said. “That’s what everybody’s saying.”

  “It’s the Skulls,” T’Challa whispered. “Who else could it be? I mean, we saw those things at their ceremony, remember?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “But what do they do?” Zeke demanded. �
�What are they used for?”

  “Calling spirits,” T’Challa said.

  “Whose spirit?” Sheila asked.

  “Those traps are around the school for a reason,” T’Challa said. “Whoever—or whatever—they’re trying to summon probably has some connection to the school.”

  “Good point,” Sheila said.

  “So,” T’Challa said. “What is it about this school? What could they want that’s connected to South Side Middle?”

  A minute or two passed while the trio sat thinking. Zeke bit his lip. Sheila squinted, like if she did it hard enough she’d get an answer.

  “A teacher?” suggested Zeke.

  “A student,” Sheila countered, and her expression lit up. “Yeah. Maybe it’s a student. Someone who went here a long time ago.”

  “Right,” T’Challa agreed. “Someone that people back then would’ve looked up to. A very smart boy or girl. A leader. Gemini’s obsessed with respect and proving he’s important.”

  “We can look in old yearbooks,” Sheila suggested.

  “But what year?” Zeke asked. “It could be anyone, from any decade.”

  Silence fell again.

  “Wait a minute,” Zeke started, “maybe I can ask my grandmamma. She went to school here a long time ago, like way back in the 1950s. She might know something.”

  T’Challa slowly turned to Zeke. “Your grandmother went to school here?”

  “Yeah,” Zeke said.

  T’Challa looked at Zeke, then to Sheila. “So where do you live, Zeke?”

  Saturday morning dawned bright and warmer than usual. T’Challa felt the sun on his face, and for a moment he had a fleeting memory of Wakanda’s heat and sunshine.

  He found Zeke’s grandmother’s house easily. It was in Hyde Park, the same neighborhood where they all had pizza just a few nights before. Rows of neat houses lined the streets, each with a separate lawn and flowerbox on the porch railings, even this late in the year. He stood on the doorstep and rang the bell.

  Zeke answered. “Hey, come on in, T.”

  T’Challa walked in and looked around. Zeke’s grandmother’s house was warm and inviting, certainly different from Gemini’s. The whole place was bright, with a big bay window in the front room that let in generous amounts of light. Paintings hung on the walls, and vases full of flowers were placed on the dining room table. Sheila sat on the couch fiddling with her cell phone. “Hey, T.,” she called, without looking up.

  “Hey,” he replied. “Zeke, where’s your grandmother?”

  Before Zeke had a chance to answer, a woman came in with a tray of cookies and other treats. She didn’t look old enough to T’Challa to be a grandmother. Her hair was gray and pulled back into a bun, but her face didn’t seem to have a wrinkle. Black don’t crack, he remembered one of the kids at school saying.

  “So you must be the infamous Mr. T. Charles,” she said, setting down the tray. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mrs. Dawson.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” T’Challa replied.

  “Ezekiel talks about you all the time,” Mrs. Dawson said. “He said you’re smart, and I like smart people!”

  Her face lit up in a smile, and T’Challa couldn’t help but do the same.

  Zeke gave a sheepish grin, embarrassed.

  “So,” she said, and then sat down in a chair with a pattern of flowers on it. “Ezekiel said you’re all working on a project about the school? Some kind of history assignment?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Sheila replied. “What do you remember from those days, Mrs. Dawson? When you went to school at South Side Middle?”

  Mrs. Dawson leaned back in her chair. “Well, back then we didn’t call it that. It was South Side Academy for Colored Children.”

  “Wow,” said Zeke. “That’s politically incorrect.”

  “Well,” Zeke’s grandmother replied, “you know things were different back then. Don’t you remember my stories, baby? Colored was the nicest thing we were called.”

  T’Challa listened with a patient ear. He knew the history of black people in the United States. He still couldn’t believe how they were treated during the country’s founding. It was humanity at its worst, his father had told him.

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Dawson went on, “we had dances and socials, just like you kids today. We were all happy, even with all the trouble and strife around us.”

  Mrs. Dawson closed her eyes for a moment, as if remembering her childhood.

  “All that changed with the fire, of course.”

  “Fire?” T’Challa said, leaning in.

  Mrs. Dawson shook her head. “Doesn’t that school tell y’all anything about its history? Somebody needs to write a book.”

  T’Challa nodded. Zeke reached for a cookie and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “So what happened?” Sheila asked. “The fire?”

  Mrs. Dawson took a sip of water and then placed the glass back on the table. “Well, they said it started in the basement. It was a tragedy. Everybody made it out alive but for one boy, poor child.” She shook her head in dismay.

  “Who?” Zeke asked.

  “I’ll never forget,” Mrs. Dawson said, and then smiled sadly. “He was the prettiest boy I’d ever laid eyes on.”

  Zeke groaned.

  “Well, he was, honey. This was before I met your granddaddy. Everybody knew him. Everybody respected him.”

  Zeke shot T’Challa a look.

  Mrs. Dawson tilted her head. “Had a curious name, that child. Vincent Dubois. Said his family was all black aristocrats.” She chuckled. “Can you believe it? This boy was something else. Smart. Funny. But some girls said he was dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Sheila asked.

  “Well, I never had reason to think that. He was always nice to me. Just as polite as all get-out. Used to do the strangest magic tricks.”

  T’Challa almost stopped breathing.

  “He used to scare the little kids sometimes; used to say—and I always remembered it—‘I am the Prince of Bones, and don’t you forget it!’”

  T’Challa’s mouth went dry. He licked his lips. “Prince of Bones,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

  Mrs. Dawson narrowed her eyes. “What are you children up to? I thought this was about the school.”

  Zeke swallowed. “It is, Grandmamma. We’re just trying to find out what it was like back then.”

  Mrs. Dawson looked at her grandson with a skeptical eye. “Well, don’t y’all go messing with stuff that’s best left alone.”

  Now T’Challa was really curious. Why would she say that?

  Sheila put on her best face—all bright eyes and charm. “We won’t, Mrs. Dawson. So…about the Prince of Bones?”

  Mrs. Dawson shook her head, as if growing tired of the questions. “This is the last thing I’ll say about it.” She took another sip of water and then set down her glass. “Well, some folks whispered that Vincent Dubois had a gang, you see. Not like today, with all the fighting and nonsense, but more like a club. A secret club. Called themselves the Skulls.”

  T’Challa’s pulse raced.

  Sheila dropped her phone and picked it back up. Zeke didn’t say a word.

  Mrs. Dawson lowered her voice, as if telling a spooky tale around a campfire. “You see, people used to say Vincent made a pact with the devil. That’s why he was so pretty. Folks said he was into the dark side. Stuff that God-fearing people shouldn’t be messing with. And that’s why the fire took him.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Mrs. Dawson leaned back in her chair and blew out a breath. “Never found his body, poor child. Somebody said his burned-up bones are under the dang school.”

  The bright sunlight outside did nothing to warm the trio’s dark thoughts.

  “The Skulls are trying to summon Vincent Dubois’s spirit,” T’Challa said.

  “That’s what they’re using those Devil’s Traps for,” Sheila added.

  “Prince of Bones,” Zeke said.

&
nbsp; The words of that night came back to T’Challa, and he said them aloud: “‘I swear my life to the Skulls, in this life and the next. I swear to this oath, and may I be turned to ash if I do not abide.’”

  “Well, Vincent was turned to ash, all right,” Zeke said.

  “That’s not funny,” Sheila scolded him.

  “Guys,” T’Challa cut in. “If Gemini and the Skulls want to summon Vincent Dubois’s spirit, what will they do then? I mean, what’s the purpose?”

  “Maybe they think he’ll give them some kind of power or something,” said Zeke. “For bringing him back to the world. That’s what it’s like in the stories.”

  Sheila nodded. “I think your stories might be right for once, Zeke.”

  Monday came sooner than T’Challa had expected. The days were flying by, and there was still no sign of M’Baku in school.

  T’Challa’s watch chimed. He looked down at the device on his wrist, blinking red. His heart leapt. It has to be Father. Who else could it be?

  He continued down the hall, but quickened his pace. He didn’t want to draw attention, but he had to answer the call. Something could have happened…something bad.

  He peeked into the open door of a classroom. Empty. He rushed inside and tapped the watch face with his index finger. A 3-D image of his father’s face appeared in the air.

  “Father!”

  “Son,” his father replied.

  The king’s face was worn, as if he hadn’t been sleeping.

  “Is everything okay?” T’Challa asked.

  The Black Panther released a trembling breath. “We were attacked two days ago. There were casualties, but we have held the invaders back. As I feared, it is Ulysses Klaw, the man of whom I spoke.”

  T’Challa’s head spun. “Attacked? Hunter—is he…?”

  “Hunter is fine.”

  T’Challa breathed a sigh of relief. As much as Hunter plagued him, he didn’t want to see him come to a bad end.

  His father’s face wavered in a blaze of static and then came back clear.

  “T’Challa,” the king said, and his voice was urgent. “You need to stay safe. You and M’Baku must remain even more on your guard now, until all of this is worked out.”