From deep in the tunnel, Warrior heard the echo of water dripping. He felt his stomach tighten into knots as he sought to make the eyes lower their gaze. His head pounded furiously from the steady, constant drip of the water. He began to see shadows darting from the mouth of the tunnel, and from within the darkness came the sounds of wolves, furious and hungry. The water dripped. The eyes stared. The wolves cried. And then, as suddenly as they had come, the wolves’ cries disappeared, fleeing into the depths of the tunnel, and the eyes stopped watching. With the wolves and the eyes gone, Warrior’s head became clear.
But one shadow remained. It stood on the other platform, opposite where he sat. Warrior stared at the shadow and realized that it was no shadow at all, but a child. The small boy stood across the tracks on the edge of the platform, his body leaning, almost hovering, over the tracks. He was looking at Warrior, but not staring like the eyes. He was watching Warrior intently as a child watches an animal at play. Captivated and full of unasked questions, Warrior looked at the outline of the boy, his long prominent head and his brown skin. The boy stood still, his body blending into the shadows, questioning.
The shrill whistle signaled a train coming, and from the direction of the high-pitched sound, Warrior knew that it was coming on the side of the boy, not his. He sat there, wondering why a child was out so late, and alone. As the sound of the train hummed closer, as the tracks began to shake and the station rumble, Warrior trained his eyes more closely on the boy. He wanted desperately to answer whatever was this boy’s question. But before he found an answer, he saw something else. The boy had no eyes. Where they should have been, were nothing but empty holes. The boy looked at Warrior as a person with sight does, with curiosity and judgment, not with the fleeting glances of the blind. Warrior thought of brotherman. He thought of the blue soldiers. He thought of a boy whose eyes were gone. Warrior hadn’t seen him since that night. It was said that he had gone down South to be with family. But here he was.
Just as Warrior opened his mouth to call out, the rumbling train sped down the tracks. The last thing Warrior saw before the train cut off his view was the boy’s mouth turning upward, smiling at him, in a way he had only seen on the face of his sister.
Warrior looked through the windows of the subway cars as the train shot by, trying to find the face of the boy. As he searched, the train came to a halting stop and the doors opened. Warrior strained to see into which car the boy walked. The bell sounded the closing of the doors, and then they shut. The train began slowly to move out of the station, and gradually built speed. As each car moved past, Warrior looked inside it, for any sign. He saw nothing. When the last car had snaked out of the station, Warrior looked across the tracks and saw that the platform was empty. No shadows, and no sign of the boy.
Finally, Warrior’s train came, and he stepped in and slumped down into the seat. A nurse, still dressed in her hospital whites, heading home after a long night shift, and a homeless man wrapped in his tattered layers of clothes were the only other people in the car. The man lay sleeping in the corner, riding the train for the night, trying to keep warm. A blue soldier would walk through every hour and hit the metal seat with his stick, waking the man. They were not allowed to sleep in the trains. Might steal the heat. The man would quickly sit up, then in moments the soldier would leave the car, and the man would drop back down to rest, his sleep no longer disturbed. Warrior looked at the man, and then at the nurse, wondering if she was returning home to her sleeping children. He turned his eyes to the window, watched as the soot-covered walls of the tunnel sped by, and thought of the boy with no eyes.
His stop seemed to come much quicker than usual, and not realizing it, he jumped up from his seat and slid through the closing doors. He walked down the platform, turned through the exit, and walked up the stairs. Outside in the night air, he pulled his hood over his already covered head. Between the two layers, he was warm. The streets were empty and silent. Even in this city, there are a few nights, late and cold, when it feels as if everyone is sleeping. Then there is something peaceful in the air, an absence of tension. This was such a night. Warrior walked the few blocks to his building and opened the front door.
As he walked up the three flights of stairs, he could feel how tired his legs were, and looked forward to his bed. He reached his apartment door, pulled off his hood, and unlocked the locks. He knew the sound would wake his mother, and that once she heard his voice, she would quickly return to a much deeper sleep. He stomped his boots, stepped inside the house, and relocked the door. He went into his mother’s room and walked over to her bed.
As he moved near to her, his mother whispered, “I’m glad you’re home, shuga. I love you.”
Warrior leaned down and kissed his mother on her cheek, and replied quietly, “Yeah, Mamma, I’m home safe. I love you too.”
She rolled over onto her stomach, and before Warrior left the room, she slept.
In his room he took off his layers of clothes, hung his coat in the closet, threw some clothes in the hamper, and dropped most of them on his chair. He washed his hands, drank some water from the faucet, and climbed into bed. Warrior lay there, staring out his window. His body was tired, but his thoughts were racing, and he wondered how long it would take him to get to sleep this night. As he lay there, he felt his eyes getting heavy, and as he drifted, he thought of his family and remembered the feel of the claw. He saw the boy, standing there in the station, and lying on the street, his face bloodied and his eyes gone. Warrior drifted and heard the voices. As he fell deeper into sleep, these sensations became memories, and his dreams were visited.
All ovah the South there were slaves who were old, and remembered home. They remembered the old tales of Afreeca, and the magic. Slavery was no match for they wisdom. Some called ’em witch doctors, some called ’em kings and queens, some called ’em fools, but all either believed in or feared they power. Depends on which side of ’em you stood. Baalam, was such a man.
They say the spirits spoke ta those who remembered. Say they had voices. Say that if you thought, real hard, you could hear their calls on the wind . . .That ain’t so, the spirits didn’t talk with words, they sang. They sang with they hands, an’ they sang in your dreams. They fingers an’ palms would strike the animal skin a the drum, an’ the words would take to the air. The words could fly. They could ya know? That’s truth.
Say they used ta watch over folks. Say that durin’ slavery times they used ta try ta give people a little bit a peace. Say that they used ta make folk sleep easier at night, an’ help ’em ta dream durin’ the days. Say they used ta sing words and tell tales about Home. Say they used ta dance right behind your ear, whisperin’ magic. They say folks wouldn’t a survived slavery without ’em. Say they kept us sane.
Balaam spoke with the voices. He remembered everythin’. He was a real tall man, an’ he wore black tattered clothin’ that always seemed ta blend with his deep ebony skin. His matted beard was short, thick, an’ stark white. His hair was tightly cut to his skull, and it was gray, like coarse wool. His forehead was covered with long, thin scars of past ritual markin’s. An’ on his neck was the red and black tattoo of a flamin’ spear. Say it meant royalty. What struck like thunda though, was his eyes. They was jet black, so dark that they merged with his pupils.
Everyone remembers the day when he was starin’ at the overseer with them eyes. The overseer got mad an’ brought his whip above his head ta strike ol’ Balaam. He looked down from his horse an’ screamed, “Boy, what the hell are you lookin’ at?”
Then just as that overseer was about ta bring that whip down on Baalam’s back, Baalam stared at ’im right through the blindin’ brightness of the sun, and said, calm as could be, “I’m lookin’ at your soul.” From that point on, no one bothered Baalam.
Baalam would talk ta only some a the slaves, the ones that had the spirit, as he say. He’d teach ’em words, an’ take ’em ta the woods late at night. He used ta stand there, pointin’ up in the sky, talk
in’ ’bout the stars. He would gather the little ones aroun’ ’im, tell ’em stories, an’ learn ’em. He had his own shack set off from the quarters and don’t nobody know what went on in there. Late at night candles would be burnin’ an’ you could see shadows tinkerin’ about. All folks know is that one night people heard whispers. Heard an ancient language chantin’ ancient words, and come mornin’, Baalam was gone. Some say he took ta the air, but that all depends on which side a him the speaker stood.
CHAPTER 4
Monday morning came, and Warrior woke up early to take his sister to school. His mother had a morning meeting at her school with the principal and Warrior had the responsibility of making sure that his sister got up, was fed, and made it to school on time before her class began. After finishing the breakfast of eggs and toast Warrior had cooked, she was in her room getting dressed while he sat at the kitchen table carefully reading through the newspaper. When she came out of her room, half dressed, she wanted to continue the discussion Warrior thought they had finished minutes ago. Ice cream was still on her mind.
“Please Wawia? Mommy will never know, and I swear, I won’t tell,” she pleaded, using her best droopy-eyed face.
“No. For two reasons,” said Warrior, calmly. “First of all, it’s too damn early for ice cream, it’s only seven thirty. Second, even if I wanted to buy you some on the way to school, I couldn’t. Because you’d slip up and tell Mamma, just like you always do, and then she’d get mad, and we’d both get in trouble.”
“No I won’t, I swear. Cross my heart. I swear I won’t tell,” his sister said as she stomped her foot.
“Yes you will. So, no. Now go finish getting dressed before you’re late,” Warrior told her.
His sister turned around and walked, shoulders slumped, head to the side, lip hanging, back to her room. She walked slowly, her half-pulled-on sock dragging behind her, still hoping Warrior would reconsider. Warrior smiled at how cute she looked, but didn’t even think twice about changing his mind. He knew his mother would flip if she found out, and with his sister’s mouth, she would.
As Warrior waited for his sister, he sat at the table thinking of the laughter that had filled the house the day before. It had been Sunday, and as with most Sundays in his mother’s house, no one left the apartment all day. They all slept late, his mother had stayed in her robe, his sister in her pajamas, and Warrior in his sweats. They had made a big breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and hot chocolate, eating while looking out the kitchen window at the freezing streets below. The food warmed their stomachs, and as they imagined how cold it was outside, they were warmed that much more. Warrior remembered looking at his mother and sister, hearing the wind howling, fighting to get through their sealed windows, thinking how happy he was to be inside. As he looked at them, his sister had been steadily drinking her third cup of hot chocolate. Just as it seemed as if she was about to burst, she had emptied the cup, smiled at Warrior, and said, rubbing her milk-filled belly, “More, please.”
They had played games all afternoon, sat around telling stories, and watched movies through the night. Warrior observed his mother carefully as they played and talked with his sister. He saw how she wove her lessons, her teachings, into each activity. She wove so effortlessly, so smoothly, that his sister had not even realized that she was learning. His mother passed on the wisdom of her ways, expertly guiding her daughter down the path. She taught her, in the most simple ways, how to be strong, how to have faith, and always to have confidence in herself. She saw the truth in her daughter’s mistakes, and celebrated her difference. His mother cultivated the mind of her daughter, implanting a love for reading, the stories, and the sounds of the songs. She taught about teachings of generations of women; the words that had been passed down to her and she now passed on. The cycle continued. Soon it would be harvest time.
Warrior and his mother had sat up late, hours after his sister had fallen asleep on the couch while lying between the two of them. His mother carried her sleeping daughter’s body into her room, and came back to sit with her son. They had watched a movie together, and in the middle, had gotten into a heated argument over something of no importance—the sort of fight only people who love each other get into. A fight bred out of past anger, deeply buried emotions uncovered by a misplaced word. As the disagreement became more confused, his mother stood up and turned the television off, which only infuriated Warrior that much more. After a while, when they both couldn’t remember how the argument began, they agreed to drop it.
She had lain down on the couch, the strain on her face evident. Warrior walked over to the record player, and sat down by his mother’s epic collection of records. He sifted through the unending horde as his mother rested. After a few minutes he found a record he loved, one that he knew would soothe his mother with a voice that neither of them ever tired of. He placed the record on its player, turned the volume of the speakers down so as not to wake his sister, and dropped down the needle. The record crackled as the needle moved over the grooves, then slowly slid into place. The house was quiet, the streets empty, the windows tightly shut. The voice of Billie Holiday filled the room. Her Blues brought warmth to Warrior and relief to his mother. As Warrior walked across the living room and sat down in the easy chair, his mother took her hand from her head, smiled, and allowed Billie to take her into her world. They listened to her pain, and by the time they went to bed, neither Warrior nor his mother could remember what they had fought about.
Warrior’s sister finally came out of her room and walked over to Warrior, her jacket on, her backpack slung across one shoulder.
“Will you zip me up, please,” she said, still looking sad, holding on to her fantasy.
Warrior zipped up her coat, clipped her gloves to her sleeves, brought up her hood, and pulled tight the strings, completely covering her face. As Warrior put on his jacket, she stood there, blinded by her purple hood, and he reached down and picked her up in one arm. As he moved toward the door, he noticed an envelope on the counter. It was addressed to him and he grabbed it, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. He walked out, sister in arm, and into the morning air.
Warrior walked down the street with his sister, now holding her tiny hand in his. Her sight now restored, and her thoughts of ice cream gone, she was smiling again. When they came to her school, Warrior took in the sight.
It was a street owned by children. Their screams and laughter dominated the air, the noise of street traffic bowing in deference to their sound. The crossing guards stood on every corner, dressed in blue, with white hats, holding up traffic with whistles, strong hand movements, and faces that demanded that the driver do as they say. The traffic was backed up, cars lined up bumper to bumper. It was the only place in the city where impatient drivers would sit patiently, yielding to the rights of pedestrians. As the children walked, ran, and skipped across the street, some holding hands, some absently looking down, playing games in their heads, the drivers waited, and some even smiled. The children far outnumbered the few adults who had taken them to school, and so the ways of the children ruled. What was anarchy to grown-ups was perfect order to the little people. There was no hustling city here; there were signs that warned, “Slow! Children at Play.” This was their world, governed by their rules. In a city where people were divided, segregated into small areas by the color of their skin and the money in their pockets, this was a world segregated by age. The stores were not of a certain ethnic group; they catered to the likes and dislikes of children. They did not have the smells of the Old World, or of the Caribbean, pouring forth from their doors. They smelled of sugar. They were stocked with candy, soda, ice cream, and sweets, names foreign to all except to the language of children. Each shop had at least two video game machines lining the back wall of the store, and plastic jars on metal stands filled with nickel treats rose from the floors up to the heads of the children. Seven-ounce drinks, small enough for any child to finish, found only in these places, in these neighborhoods, cost twenty-five ce
nts. These two blocks formed the children’s territory and was their place.
As they moved down the street toward the entrance of the school, Warrior’s sister scrunched up her face, stared ahead and shook her head violently. Warrior’s eyes scanned the crowded street of the school to see where her face was directed, but his eyes couldn’t find the intended mark. He looked down at his sister and laughed at the evil expression on her face.
“Who is that for?” Warrior asked.
“That stupid-headed boy over there,” his sister replied with fury, exhaling and breathing heavily.
“Who?” Warrior said, still not seeing the boy.
“There. On the steps. The ugly one.” His sister pointed out a small boy who had a devilish grin on his face.
“Why don’t you like him?” asked Warrior. “What did he do to you?”
“He makes dumb faces at me, pulls my braids, and pushes me all the time,” she said, with hatred in her voice and a fast-developing screw face.
“He probably likes you,” laughed Warrior.
“Well, I don’t like him. He bothers me too much,” she said as they walked up to the steps.
“Want me to set ’im straight?” Warrior asked, looking into his sister’s face. She nodded her head up and down so fast Warrior thought it might fall off. Still holding her hand, he walked with her up the flight of stairs to the front doors of the school. When he saw her, the boy’s eyes lit up, and his mouth began to open to voice his first insult of the week as if he had been working on his delivery all weekend, reciting his words over and over again in his mind, and now his entire body was full of anticipation. Just as they walked near him, the boy stuck his head right in front of Warrior’s sister’s face and fully opened his near toothless mouth to speak, his eyes full of glee. Warrior cut the boy’s words off before they left his mouth. He grabbed the boy and held him up in the air so that his face was now right in front of Warrior’s. Warrior looked right into his eyes. The boy’s face changed drastically.
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