Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  “But, what . . .” Cree had started to ask.

  “Don’t. Don’t,” her grandmother had warned her.

  Cree didn’t try to talk again. As they reached the man, his head turned slightly toward them. She tried not to notice, but from the corner of her eye, she kept seeing that hat move, almost as if the hat itself were watching them. Once they had walked past, Cree sighed a bit. Behind her, she saw the man’s coat flare up as he jumped from his spot on the fence.

  Her heart jumped in her chest; she knew he was chasing them. She squeezed the old woman’s hand so hard, she thought she’d break it, and her grandmother squeezed back, reassuring her. Behind her, Cree could still hear the man’s coat flapping as he chased behind them.

  She couldn’t help it; she had to look. She jerked away from her grandmother and turned to face the man. She wasn’t going to let him attack her from the back, and she wanted to see his face. Needed to see that dark space there, where the light didn’t shine. Wanted to know who he was and to let him see her face. She didn’t know why, but she had to . . . to show him . . .

  But he was gone.

  She scanned the woods from side to side, but could see no trace of him. The wind had died down a bit and she tried to listen for his footfalls in the woods, but she could hear nothing.

  He was gone.

  Now she couldn’t get that image out of her mind—him standing there on the fence, staring at them through no eyes at all. It scared her, even now.

  “What was he?” she had asked the old woman.

  “A Dark Man,” the old woman had said. “A memory.”

  “A memory of what?”

  “Of that man. His own memory of himself.”

  “You mean he was dead?”

  “Yes, baby, he was dead. He’s lost, like . . . like in those woods there.” She had pointed to where the man had come from, her finger shaking. “Remember when you was little and you got lost in Cavanaugh Woods? Remember how scared you were, and you thought you’d never get home? Remember?” Cree nodded. “And your brothers found you in the barn, crying. You weren’t very far from home, but to you it might as well have been a million miles away. That’s how it is for him. He’s right there, but cain’t find it home.”

  “To heaven?” she asked.

  “To heaven, baby.” Her grandmother had bent down, her knees creaking from the weight of old age, and looked into Cree’s eyes. “Sometimes, sometimes, they need a guiding light.”

  “You’re special, Cree. I’ve always known it, since the day you were born with that caul covering your face. The veil of sight and knowledge. That’s why you can see him. That’s why he can see you. You must come of your own soon, and find your own way.”

  Now that Cree thought about it, perhaps they did relate to each other—seeing this dead man and becoming a woman. After all, she had seen him for the first time the day she’d come on her period, hadn’t she?

  “You know what this means, don’t ’cha?” Cree’s friend Karen asked her.

  “What?”

  “You’re a woman now.”

  “I wish people would stop sayin’ that. I ain’t no woman.”

  The girl laughed, her round face lost in her dimples. “Now you gonna go and get fat. Start eatin’ up everythang. Get all moody, and mad at everybody for no reason at all.”

  “Why would I do that?” Cree stared at her reflection in the pond, her dark skin smooth and youthful in the crystal color of the waters. She thought maybe she’d see something, any hint of her womanhood. Nothin’.

  “I don’t know. That’s what happened to my sister— at least, that’s what my brother said. He said she was painted.”

  “You mean tainted?”

  “No, he said painted. Thought he was being funny. You know, like . . . red.” The girl looked at her, serious. “They say this thing can change you. That it hurts sometimes. Makes ya do strange things—see things.”

  Cree nodded, not saying anything. She had seen things, after all. Strange things.

  “You ready for tomorrow? The water’s cold this time of year. When he throws you in that water, it’s gonna seem like you’re down there forever. That’s what Joe Ann said.”

  “He’s my daddy. He won’t leave me down there long.”

  “I hope not.” The girl put her arm around Cree’s shoulders. Cree shuddered; she couldn’t help it.

  Today she would be baptized. Brought to the Lord. At least, that’s how Daddy had put it. And he won’t’t leave me down too long. She was sure of it.

  Not only had she become a woman only a few days ago, but now she would become a Christian, too. Boy, how time flew. Now was the period—poor choice of words—of cleansing. That wasn’t what Daddy said, but that was how she felt. Like they were washing away sins that she had yet to commit.

  Not long ago, the pains had started. They began as throbbing sensations in her belly and raced up her back to her spine. “Birthin’ pains” was what Momma called them. “Crawl-into-your-bed-and-never-get-out-again-pains” was what she called them.

  Would this ever stop? She had asked her momma how long this period thing would last, and the old woman had said that it would be her close friend for the next fifty years.

  Fifty years! Would she even live that long? Cree wasn’t sure, but with a friend like that, who even wanted to?

  The pain moved from her stomach and raced up her back and kept pounding that sin into her somewhere in between. She just wanted to lie there and die. She waited in her room, in her white gown, her hair combed and braided into four tight plaits on her head, with white bows tied at the ends. She sat on the bed, staring out the window.

  Toochie walked into the room, wearing her Sunday dress, and sat on the bed beside her. “Nervous?”

  Cree kicked her short legs back and forth, and didn’t answer her sister.

  “Don’t be. It’s not that bad. Daddy just says a few words, dunks you and that’s it. Everyone’ll be watchin’, but that ain’t no big deal.”

  “He doesn’t hold you down there long, does he?”

  “No. A few seconds. Just long enough to wash all that sin away.” She laughed.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. I wouldn’t lie to ya, now would I?”

  The sun was shining and coming up nicely, the orange and red light spilling into the room, bleeding onto Cree’s toes. Toochie had polished Cree’s toenails just for this occasion: auburn.

  They wouldn’t be having regular Sunday services today. No, instead everyone would be meeting at Muller’s Creek, so as to see her baptized. They had done it for her sisters and all of her brothers. In fact, they did it whenever the time came for a child in the church to come of the Lord.

  Her father stood in the lake, the water up to his knees. He didn’t bother to roll up his pants either. He never did; just stood there in his Sunday’s best, wading in the water.

  The rest of the congregation stood off to the side. Wide-brim hats for as far as she could see, dark faces staring at her, smiles adorning the faces, as if they were so proud to be bringing another soul to Him.

  Daddy reached out his hand to her. She walked over to him, the icy water making goose bumps appear on her skin. She couldn’t believe how bitter the sensation was between her toes, of all places. The sun had yet to reach its peak and the pond was still hidden in shade, and when the water reached her ankles, she almost cried out from the cold.

  Then Daddy grabbed her hand and all other thoughts faded away. It was so soft, so soothing. He had a way of making everything seem okay, as if nothing were allowed to hurt her when he was around.

  He pulled her close to him, smiling. He looked so proud, his long face not showing a hint of his age. He whispered to her, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll hold on tight.”

  And she knew he would, too. He would hold on to her for dear life and never let go. Her pulse, which had begun to race a mile a minute, slowed to a simple crawl, and she smiled back at him, trusting him with all her heart. All her mind, her soul.<
br />
  He spoke, more to her than to the gathering crowd. “We’ve all come here to witness your rebirth. Now shrouded in darkness, a symbol of the life of darkness you’re leaving behind, you shall come into the light . . .” The words were drowned out, not by the water, but by her mind. They went into her ears and got all mixed up in her head. It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand him. It was just that she was too nervous and excited—all at the same time—to focus on the words. They were foreign to her.

  Suddenly he dunked her. Water enclosed her face as she fell backward into the pool. Her eyes, nose and mouth became surrounded by water, and her ears drummed from the rushing coldness. Underneath, she felt a sense of wellness, almost as if what they said were true: all of her sins were washing away in that water. Everything was great. All was well. She felt happy, good.

  For a split second, she opened her eyes. A bright light loomed around her, and she saw her daddy’s face staring down at her. She was surprised that the sun had risen so high and that it now shined down on her. The water around her heated, and she relished the warmth.

  She continued to stare into her father’s eyes, as his smile suddenly turned to a look of concern. The light grew brighter, and she realized that the glow was not coming from the sun, as she had previously thought, but from her.

  That’s when her grandmother’s words rang back into her ears. Sometimes, sometimes, they need a guiding light.

  A guiding light . . .

  She was the light.

  The light was within her.

  You’re special, Cree, the old woman had said. I’ve always known it, since the day you were born with that caul covering your face. That’s why you can see him. That’s why he can see you. You must come of your own soon, and find your way.

  Slowly she rose as she felt her father’s hands guiding her back to the surface. Her feet reached the ground, her hands still at her sides. She felt great; she never wanted this feeling to end.

  She stood on her own two feet as the water ran down her face and the air reached her nose again. She breathed.

  Cree looked over to her father and realized for the first time, that he was not holding her. In fact, he was standing far away from her, toward the edge of Muller’s Creek. She had been holding her own—she was coming of her own.

  Everyone was staring at her, strange looks on their faces. And he was among them.

  The Dark Man. The one she had seen with her grandmother when they were walking from the cemetery. He was staring at her, too. His eyeless sockets fixed on her, as she came to a realization . . .

  She was the light.

  The Guiding Light. Those words sprang to her mind as the revelation dawned upon her. She knew now what she must do. Just as the sun rises, brightening a new day, so too must the Light of Cree.

  Deadwoods

  Brandon Massey

  “Dad, can you come outside for a sec? I want you to look at something.”

  Paul raised his head and looked at his son. He’d been poring over the “Jobs” section in the Memphis newspaper, The Commercial Appeal, red pen in hand, the mug of Maxwell House at his elbow forgotten and cold. He might as well have enjoyed the coffee while it had been hot. All of the jobs listed either paid insufficient salaries or were outside his field of expertise.

  Fifteen years old, tall and lanky, Akili stood in the kitchen doorway, a puzzled look on his face. He scratched his upper lip, which boasted a smear of a youthful mustache.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul said. “The lawn mower die on you? Please don’t tell me that, ’cuz we don’t have the money to get it fixed.”

  “Uh, no, Dad, it’s nothing like that,” Akili said. “Will you just come check it out? Please?”

  Perhaps his son had stumbled across an unfamiliar species of insect, Paul thought. Either that or something that would otherwise engage Paul’s scholarly nature. Because if it were a real problem . . . well, it was an unspoken rule that Akili’s mother was the go-to person for that kind of thing.

  Paul followed Akili into the backyard. It was a beautiful, warm summer morning. Mornings like this sometimes made Paul glad that they had moved back to the old family home in Hernando, Mississippi. There was a purity in the air here that just didn’t exist in Memphis.

  Country living is better for our health, Paul thought. He would tell that to his wife, Christine, when she and his daughter returned home from getting their hair done at her sister’s house. Paul believed that when you were handed lemons in life, you should learn how to make lemonade—and his brother had handed him a lemon the size of a boulder three months ago, when he’d forced Paul out of the family business and given him a pitifully meager severance package. They’d sold their home in Memphis and moved here, where the cost of living was lower and they could stretch their limited dollars further. Although it was a comfortable house that sat on four acres of gorgeous land, no amount of “look on the bright side, guys” comments had been able to sway Christine and the kids. They hated living there. Predictably, Paul felt responsible for their misery.

  Akili stopped in the middle of the yard, where he had left the John Deere riding mower. He pointed toward the back of their property.

  “See it, Dad?”

  Paul looked. And gasped.

  “Where in the world did that come from?” Paul said.

  Akili shrugged. “I was kinda hoping that you’d know.”

  A tree had appeared on the perimeter of the yard. It was not an ordinary tree: it was colossal, with a trunk boasting a circumference of over ten feet, countless leafy branches, and a crown that peaked, Paul estimated, at over two hundred feet in the air.

  Paul’s mouth grew dry. He could not be seeing this.

  A cool wind blew, rippling the leaves, which cast a net of shade that covered half of the lawn.

  “That wasn’t there yesterday,” Paul said. “Good Lord, it would take decades—hundreds of years—for a tree to grow that big!”

  Nodding, Akili said, “It looks kinda like one of those redwood trees they have out in California. I remember hearing about them in a science class. Those redwoods live for over a thousand years or something, right, Dad?”

  “Yeah. But this doesn’t look like a redwood to me.”

  Paul walked closer. The tree did not resemble a redwood. He wasn’t a professional botanist, but it did not resemble any species of tree that he had ever seen. The bark was ash gray and spotted with green-black blotches that looked like cancerous tumors. The leaves, each one the size of his hand, were a strange bluish green, and they were formed in an unusual shape: thin, leggy blades sprouted from the leaf stalk, giving the leaf the look of a tarantula.

  Then there was the smell.

  A rancid stench oozed from the tree, as if the trunk were a hollow tube chock-full of the corpses of putrefying dead animals. Paul covered his mouth and stopped about ten feet away from the tree. If he walked any closer, the smell would knock him on his butt.

  Akili came beside him. He protected his nose with his Memphis Grizzlies T-shirt.

  “Deadwood,” his son said, his voice muffled.

  Paul coughed. “What?”

  “I just made up the name. The tree’s tall like a redwood, but smells like something dead. So I called it a deadwood.”

  Akili fancied himself a rapper, always composing lyrics, which he carried around in a leather-bound journal. Paul wasn’t surprised that he’d come up with his own name for the strange tree.

  “Makes sense,” Paul said, but his thoughts continued to circle around the fact that did not make sense: how in the hell had this thing turned up in their backyard?

  No answers popped into his mind. But he found himself thinking of something that had happened a couple of nights ago.

  A light sleeper, Paul had been awakened by a boom in the backyard. It had sounded as though someone had detonated a cherry bomb. It was a few days after the Fourth of July, and his neighbor had two rambunctious teenagers who loved fireworks, so Paul dismissed the noise as the work
of the kids depleting their remaining bottle rockets and whatnot—until a greenish glow flared through the venetian blinds.

  Curious, he reached the bedroom window and peered outside in time to see the odd light at the farthest reaches of their lawn. Then the glimmer sputtered out, like a dying ember.

  Probably a rocket or something those kids launched onto our property, Paul had thought. But he had never seen a light quite like that one, and he did not see or hear his neighbor’s children, either. Those kids were so noisy that it would have been obvious if they were outdoors playing.

  He thought of going outside to investigate and decided against it. It had grown quiet and dark out there again. It was nothing worth checking out, he figured. He might have even imagined it all. Since he’d lost his job, he spent so much time daydreaming that he would not be surprised if he had hallucinated the spectacle.

  Now, however, Paul wondered if there was a connection between the mysterious light he’d seen and this tree. The deadwood, as his son had labeled it.

  The wind blew, and the rattling branches sounded like dry bones. As they quivered, he thought he caught a glimpse of something hidden high up in the tree’s dense leaves, something blue-black and large. But when he blinked, the visual impression was gone, and he was again left wondering if his acuity was slipping away.

  “Did you hear me, Dad?” Akili said.

  “I’m sorry, son. What did you say?”

  “I said, what are we gonna do about this thing?”

  Paul scratched his head. But his answer was automatic. “Let’s see what your mother thinks. She’ll be home soon.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” Akili muttered.

  Christine was horrified.

  “Where in God’s name did this come from?” she said. Like Paul, she stood at a distance from the tree. She gagged. “And it stinks!”

  “I don’t know, honey,” Paul said. “It showed up here this morning.”

  “That’s impossible,” Christine said. She turned on him, her gaze sharp, her demeanor every bit that of the high school calculus teacher known for not tolerating any foolishness. “Trees this big do not magically appear, Paul. It’s impossible.”