Passage

by Khary Lazarre-White

  These are words that would make Harriet Tubman smile. These are words that would ring true in the ears of Malcolm. These are words that Nat Turner used in Virginia, in 1831. These are our words. Martin spoke of another way. He preached, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the comin’ of the Lawd.” Well, mine eyes have never seen such a thing. Why? I walk, following the sounds of the voices and the footprints of the spirits. Mine eyes have seen a jungle, and in this jungle, I am the hunted, hunting the hunter. I am the turner of tides. They say that hatred is destructive, that it poisons the blood. But they fail to see that it gives us earth in which to cast down our roots, polluted as it may be. Like my grandmamma always said: Two wrongs might not make a right, but they damn sure make things even.

  It’s time for an eye for an eye. A life for a life. Time to go back to Old Times. We’ve been turning the other cheek for too long, and we dying because of it. While we sit around the table, trying to get them to hear us, it is our blood that’s spilling, not theirs. Why? Our blood demands that times change. So if we must die, then these, will be dying times. My eyes have seen much pain. They’ve seen much death. Now they see retribution in the air. A wise elder once said, “It is no more harm for you to kill a man who is tryin’ to kill you, than it is to take a drink of water, when thirsty.” Well, we’re thirsty, we’ve been thirsty. And water can’t quench it. I say no more water. It’s been told that “God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time.” Well I’ve heard the voices, and I’ve seen the signs, and they say, the fire this time. The fire this time.

  Warrior heard the response. The voices chanted for fire. This time, they would answer his call.

  Warrior stood and swallowed the last of his liquor. He dropped the bottle to the ground and walked up the sloping hill that led from the benches to the densely wooded area of trees. The trees served as a border, separating the pond from the more open sections of the park. As he walked toward this border, Warrior looked down and saw tracks leading into the wooded area. He followed their path, leaving the dim light of the pond for the absolute darkness of the trees. This was one of the areas that most in the city avoided, afraid of desperate people in desperate times. Warrior liked the desolation, and he had no fear of such people. The desperate dead were another story.

  As he followed the tracks deeper into the darkness, Warrior imagined what the stray dog that must have left them had looked like. He imagined its drooping skin, its protruding ribs. Most likely it had smelled food in the woods, or maybe it was seeking some protection from the snow. The newly fallen flakes crunched under Warrior’s boots as he walked, still following the tracks, the clearest path in the darkness. Warrior studied them as he walked, and wondered at the great number of tracks that had been left. Maybe it was a pack of dogs, or . . . wolves. Just as Warrior stopped moving, a strong blow came to his chest and he was thrown down into the snow. There was darkness all around him. The claw held him firmly in place.

  Didn’t hear the wolves, did you?

  No. Where are they?

  With their master.

  And where is genocide this night?

  Just passed by. Was watching you for a while. Appreciated the vision. Then moved on. The wolves followed. Why? Is my grip not enough to hold you?

  Ignorance is enough to hold anyone. Like a cage.

  Had something to drink I see. Head a little clouded, thoughts blurred?

  Warrior heard the laugh form.

  Why do you not come with us Warrior? Let us show you the riches that could be yours. It’s so easy. You could stop running. Stop fighting. Stop struggling. Just walk our path.

  Never. It is the path that leads to nowhere.

  It leads to our Gods.

  I don’t bow to your gods. Your money does not seduce me.

  Everyone bows.

  The claw tightened its grip, pressing Warrior deeper into the snow.

  Not me . . .

  The claw spoke softly now. Everyone, by time’s end, kneels to our Gods’ reign. Why do you think you have the strength to resist their alluring call, the seduction?

  My religion forbids it. And the voices are too strong, even for you demons.

  And these voices, their names are?

  I would die before I would tell you.

  As you wish, the claw said as it released Warrior. As you wish . . .

  Warrior lay on his back in the darkness as the rhythm of his breathing returned to normal. The snowfall was heavier now than it had been when he was sitting by the pond. It covered his body. The sky filled with angry, swirling clouds warned that its wrath was just beginning. Warrior stared up and thought about what he had just done.

  There are those who choose to make peace with their demons. They swear never to confront them, nor to seek to evade them, resigned to allow fate to run its course. There are others who make deals with their demons. They walk to the Crossroads, sell their souls, ensuring that they will never be haunted in this life while possessing their dreams as they walk the earth. For this, they know their souls will one day belong to the demons, knowing nothing but nightmares in the next world. There are those who simply turn and run, believing that they can escape their demons with swiftness of foot. The demons know better. For if their hellhounds do not return those who flee, time will. No one can run forever. And then there are those who feel they have the power to walk the path. They believe they can stare the demons in their eyes and make them blink. Almost always, these stares are met with howling laughter as the demons devour their souls. But those who do survive this meeting of eyes fill the myths and the legends of history. Their stories are passed down for generations, defeating time. Warrior had chosen this path of legion. He had declared war on his demons.

  Breathing deeply, he closed and opened his eyes, trying to clear his head of the effects of the Crazy Horse and the ringing sound of the claw. He shook his head slowly, pulled himself up and stood, the alcohol making him dizzy. He gathered himself and walked out of the wooded area.

  The park was empty as Warrior made his way through the snow toward the city streets. The wind was howling, and everyone was inside, finding shelter. The birds, squirrels, raccoons, rats, and other small animals that called the park home were hidden, too. They found protection within the deep branches of trees, the carved-out holes of trunks, underneath the earth and snow, beneath the ground in the city sewers. This night was no time for life. As Warrior moved toward the stone arches at the edge of the park, he passed the spot where he had seen Weatherman earlier. Even Weatherman was gone.

  As the snow began to fall heavily, and the wind howled tasting the chill in the air, Warrior imagined Weatherman had also seen rage in the sky. Most likely he had used his umbrella to clear a path in search of the warmth of one of the hidden caves that only he knew of—caves in the deepest bowels of the park, hidden from ordinary eyes who did not know the park held such things. If the walk to the caves was too far on a night like this, Weatherman would have found warmth within one of the park’s many dark, damp tunnels. On this night, the wind would not speak with comforting words even to Weatherman, but instead would shriek his name.

  Warrior reached his building and as he entered felt the sudden rush of heat, the result of the tireless work of radiators pumping heat into the once chilled air. As he reached his floor, he walked right past his door, continuing up the flights of stairs to the fourth floor, then the fifth, and then the sixth. Reaching the final floor of apartments, Warrior walked down the long hallway where a flickering light showed the way toward the flight of stairs that led up to the roof. As he made his way up the darkened staircase, he had begun to sweat from the sudden change in temperature, from the exertion, and from the heat trapped close to his body, captured by the layers of clothes he wore. As the beads of perspiration trickled down his back, he stood at the roof’s door, slid open the two, steel, bolt locks, placed his hand on the dark green door, its paint long ago peeled by moisture, and pushed. He used all of his strength, forcing it open, the pr
essure of the wind blowing violently against the metal of the door.

  Warrior stood on the edge of the roof of his building, looking down at the city, his feet firmly planted on top of the cold stone brick of the three-foot wall that surrounded the circumference of the roof.

  The snow swirled around Warrior’s head, whiteness covered everything, reaching the windows of the cars. The street lamps cast a yellow hue on the whiteness, and the moon glowed silver. It had become a blizzard, and Warrior stood in the eye of the storm. He stared ahead at the dense dark sky, the color of blue that folks down South call blurple, and he listened to the fury of the wind. The storm had wiped the streets clean, its mighty, intimidating power staking claim to the night. But Warrior shared in this claim—sought no shelter from nature’s wrath. He wished he could be even closer though, to stand in the clouds, letting the force run through him, stealing some of its power. Warrior continued to look to the sky, and remembered what it felt like to fly.

  When Warrior was young, he had always dreamed of flying. Whenever troubles had become too great, whenever the pain was too much to bear, Warrior had simply taken to the air and flown. When bullies filled the streets, when the cutting laughter of other children had sliced too deeply, when he had gotten into trouble and he knew he would have to face the looks of his father and the words of his mother, he flew. When he had felt the breath of the monsters on his neck, when the cries of the voices rang in his mind, following him everywhere, he had taken to the air and flown. Warrior always knew there was no trouble too great, no pain that could break him, for if the dreams became too much, he could fly away.

  He would soar through the air, gliding, searching, like a hawk. He flew over massive, snowcapped mountain ranges, through dark forests that otherwise would have scared him, over waterfalls, looking down as he glided over the red earth of the Georgia soil, flying all the way to the mighty ocean. In the air he would find peace, quiet, and solitude, away from the drums of others. He would hover above the breaking waves of the ocean, the blue-green water pounding the shores, its power crushing rock into sand. Entranced, Warrior would look down, hearing the repeated pounding, the beating of the water, endlessly keeping time.

  He would never continue on his path to fly out over the ocean, because he couldn’t remember the way across the water. It was unknown to him, the path forgotten long ago. Hearing the rhythm of the waves, he would hear voices calling out his name, not Warrior, not even his birth name, but another one he knew was his. He heard a tongue that he could not understand, but somewhere deep inside of him knew he had once spoken. The voices sang, trying to make him remember those familiar words, now forgotten. The wild waters would crash down, and the words would be lost in the roar. Warrior would look out into the distance, trying to hear through his confusion. He knew, somewhere in his soul, in his memory, that the voices were blood, that he had heard their sounds before, sometime, somewhere that he should have answered their call. Eventually he would turn away, resigned, deciding that the words were just another haunting voice he did not understand. Gathering the air under him, he would flap his wings twice and glide with hawk’s speed back home.

  Now, as he stood on the edge of the roof, convinced that he could fly, he could barely see. The raging blizzard blowing snow into his eyes blinded him. As the thoughts of his childhood dreams filled his mind, Warrior heard the quiet scream that served as the song, foretelling the arrival of the one with no name. The claw had visited him earlier, now it was another demon’s turn. Warrior remembered its call like that of an old friend. As the sound filled his mind, he felt the heat of the wolves’ breath, their jaws biting at his heels, their lips pulled back over razor-sharp teeth as they growled in fury . . .

  Flying would bring so much freedom . . . Would it not, Warrior? Imagine the power you would possess. Imagine what you could see.

  Then it whispered:

  You would be able to travel the seven seas by night, and the seven lands by day. The world would hold no secrets from you. Your name would be sung by all peoples. Warrior: the Traveler, the Seer, the Wise Man of the Earth. Nothing would be outside your reach.

  The seductive, hushed tones encircled Warrior’s head, possessing his ears so that he heard nothing else, not even the sound of the wolves.

  You could release the chains, be free from the voices, and go to a place where there are no wolves, there would be no pain, you could just fly, and it would not follow.

  Warrior could feel the words brushing against his ears. Their tantalizing sound caused his knees to bend, his toes curling through his boots extending over the roof’s edge, his legs tensing as his body prepared to take to the air. Warrior’s eyes were blinded by the storm, his thoughts clouded by the Crazy Horse. His head was pounding furiously as the wind howled around him and the teeth of the wolves snapped at his feet, driving him from the edge. The winds pushed and pulled as Warrior’s body leaned over the edge of the building, his arms preparing to become wings. The air felt strong, so if his first attempts were shaky, like the steps of a newborn foal, the air would steady him, cradling him, until his wings felt sturdy enough to fly.

  Yes. The wind will blow like the gentle hand of a mother. They will not allow you to fall. The winds will show you the way. Listen to my song and fly, Warrior. Fly. Fly, fly away . . .

  It was wrong. It had made a mistake, and suddenly Warrior knew it. Faith crept, forcefully, into his thoughts. He saw his mother’s face. He heard his father’s words. He felt his sister’s hand inside of his. The voices spoke, shattering the silence.

  His thoughts jarred, Warrior’s body hovered now, leaning over the roof’s edge as the wind swirled furiously around him and the snarling wolves bit the air, inches from his feet. Warrior relaxed his legs, uncurled his toes, and fought the swaying of his body. As his feet struggled to remain planted on the stone wall of the roof, the sneering words surrounded him.

  You will join your brethren now. Another “soldier” falls on the battlefields. Another boy fills my ranks, so much easier to control than a man. It is truly getting too easy now. Even the leaders fall. I used to have to chase your kin, now they come to me, blind fools who believe that I am their destiny. Your dead kindred await you at the graveyard, Warrior. Welcome.

  Warrior remembered blood and became angry. It was not his time. His brethren would have to wait. He was not yet finished serving as witness. He called on the voices and the wolves disappeared, the scream fell silent. Warrior leaned back into the howling wind, straining to steady himself, and then he planted his feet firmly on the brick wall. His balance restored, Warrior tilted his head back and acknowledged the sky. Then, he exhaled deeply and stepped down.

  The roof was empty. There were no wolves, no voices, and the demon had moved on. Warrior stood in the middle of the blizzard, the snow now reaching above his knees. He moved through the snowdrifts, some blown up against the chimney and the water tank now sloped up past Warrior’s head. He reached the roof door and, gripping the handle, prepared himself for the struggle of opening it against the piled up snow. But as he pulled, he found that it opened with surprising ease. The wind had suddenly changed direction, and its gusts aided Warrior in forcing the movement of the creaking door. He walked through the opened space, turned around to close the door, and one last time looked out into the blinding storm.

  As the snow blew into the stairwell, its drift flowing through the door, Warrior felt the freezing wind against his face. He looked at the colors of the night—black, purple, silver, and the white that poured from within the darkness—as he observed the colorful sky, his mind questioned but paid silent respect to the power, the intimidating beauty. Afraid of the answers the night’s sky might reveal, he lowered his eyes and closed the door.

  In his room, he took his jacket off and hung it in the closet, then turned on the radio. He needed to hear music, to hear other voices that did not seek to speak to him. The station was playing one of his favorite songs, and as he slowly began to undress shedding his wet clot
hes, Warrior listened. Exhausted, he sat on the edge of his bed, absently untying the laces of his boots. He kicked them off and fell back onto the bed, his chest bare. As he lay there, calming his thoughts, his song ended, and the DJ began to speak, her voice melting seductively through the air, caressing Warrior’s ears.

  Suddenly, from the radio came the sound of a high-pitched noise, announcing a special news report. The official-sounding voice began to speak, its loud and enunciated words grated on Warrior’s ears, contrasting with the sensual, smooth flow of the DJ’s voice.

  “This is a special news bulletin: There has

  been a snow day announced for all city schools

  tomorrow. All elementary. All junior high. And

  all high schools. Will be closed. I repeat. There

  will be no schools open tomorrow. All city schools

  have been canceled . . .”

  Warrior sat up from his bed, leaned over to the radio and turned off the alarm set for the morning. Now he would not have to get up early in the cold darkness. He stood up and removed what was left of his clothes. He placed them over the back of his chair, turned off his light, and climbed into bed naked. He pulled the covers up around his shoulders and lay wrapped inside the blankets, looking at the frost on his window. The icy layer distorted the glass, making it impossible to see outside. The faintest rays of light from the streetlamps seeped through the window, creating a thick, stained glass effect. The glass played tricks on Warrior’s eyes, making him see imagined designs caused by the frost. His eyes became heavy, unable to focus on the window art. His ears took over, and then he heard the voices as he fell deeply into sleep. Warrior no longer strained to see faces full of pain. He was content to hear his own cries.