by L. A. Banks
“Deep,” Rider said, shaking his head.
“You think she can beat this thing, Mar?” Shabazz stroked Marlene’s back and stared at her with searching eyes.
“What they called up is stronger in body. Period. It can shape-shift, and is a more skilled warrior.” Marlene put a hand on Damali’s shoulder when Damali blanched. “But, you have a spirit. It doesn’t. That’s your strength and her vulnerability.” Marlene smiled. “Have you seen the forces of nature destroy man-made stuff? Girl, dams have been washed away by natural floods, steel-beamed buildings have been rocked and felled by earthquakes, houses ripped apart by tornadoes. Forces of nature that even the nonsecular insurance industry, in their documents, call acts of God.”
Marlene chuckled. “No, baby. They can fell a tree, they can strip-mine a mountain, and maybe temporarily harness some aspects of nature. But when it’s all said and done, if that which is pure nature rears up and comes at ’em with sheer force—that, they ain’t got nothing for.”
Damali nodded as the team slapped fives, pounded fists, and grunted their agreement on the side of the road—pumped. However, Damali kept further reply to herself, not wanting to take away from Marlene’s impassioned rah-rah speech. The fact was, Damali didn’t want a single tree felled from her team, whether they would turn into spiritual essence, warrior angels, or whatever.
While all that Marlene had said was philosophically comforting, and intellectually stimulating, she wasn’t trying to have none of her guys go out like that. Deep in her heart, each of her family members had their own irreplaceable and intrinsic value. She understood why Marlene had insisted they stop in Bahia to get spiritual fuel.
New dread overtook Damali. Marlene had come here to prepare her for the possibility that this battle would level casualties like no other before. Marlene obviously wanted her to be straight in her head if she had to watch one or many of her guys fall . . . even Marlene. Yeah, there were things she had to learn to figure out how to best this threat, but this side stop had as much to do with life after the team, as it did strategies to vanquish the enemy.
She glanced up at Big Mike, the big redwood, who was coddling her against him. Hell, no she didn’t want this gentle, giant brother to fall. Nor did she want to see her mother-friend go up into the light . . . or JL, or Dan, or Jose’s smiling faces laying on the rich, blood-covered earth to become a part of the cycle of life. If something happened to Rider, she would never recover, and God knows, if Shabazz went down, they’d have to sedate her.
Time crept in slow increments of perspiration. Forty-five minutes felt like four hours under the Salvador sun. Waiting on a bus in LA was very different than waiting on a minivan by a dusty road near the equator.
But it made perfect sense that a spiritual center would be near a port settled in 1549. One hundred and seventy-six churches, so much hallowed ground . . . yet sugar barons stole bodies from Africa and imported them to stolen lands. Settled? Nothing was settled in 1549, the drama had just begun, three years after the Amazon squad perished in ’46. The numbers were the same as in the Temt Tchaas, everything coming full circle, just like her.
The scents of coriander, pepper spices, and roasted meats wafted from the vendors hawking fresh juices, cold coconut milk. Damali’s stomach growled. African-based music was ever-present, as were the flies. Young vendors plied them with hand-woven bracelets that had three knots, brightly colored good luck charms that combined the African Candomble religion with Catholicism.
Damali chuckled, being a practitioner of neither sect, as a persistent boy just would not rest until she accepted one. He tied it in a knot around her wrist, eagerly accepting her coins, and smiling a brilliant white smile against ashy ebony skin, telling her quickly not to take it off, but to throw it in the sea when her wish came true. Was it that obvious she had a fervent wish? She laughed more to herself as they waited. Children and animals, the pure of heart, could always tell.
When Marlene abandoned a duffle-bag seat, and stood up with Shabazz’s help, the entire team shielded their eyes and craned their necks in the direction of her gaze. A white, rusted-out van came to a lumbering stop, sending the roadside dust into a swirl around the team. A taller, browner, and more muscular version of Shabazz jumped out and raced toward Marlene. Damali cut her eyes at Shabazz from behind her sunglasses. Aw, shit . . .
The guy who swept Marlene up in a familiar embrace was all that and a bag of chips. Damali glanced at the faces of the team. No one’s eyes could be seen behind their shades, but the tension in their bodies, and the way they ground out support for their brother with their clenched jaws said it all. Jose was nearly trembling, and she could see the veins standing in his temple. The brother from the van glanced at him briefly, smiled, and returned his focus to Marlene. What was that about?
This man had two inches in height on Shabazz, and Damali noted Shabazz trying to elongate his spine and puff up just a bit. The competitor for Marlene’s affection had on a low-slung pair of jeans and no shirt. His chest was a dark set of perfect cinder blocks covered in a damp, glistening sheen of moisture. His torso was cut into six bricks that tapered into a slim waist. His locks were down his back, held by a thin leather strap. And judging by the power in his thick thighs, and his arms, he could take Shabazz if any drama kicked off. Damn. This was going to be a heck of a long visit in Bahia.
Sighing, and not totally sure why, Damali hoisted up her duffle. This brother was touching Marlene’s cheek, staring into her eyes, and a private chuckle passed between them. Shabazz bristled, but didn’t say a word, as Marlene turned to the group and formally introduced her mentor.
“Everybody, this is Kamal.” Marlene’s eyes sparkled behind her photo-gray round lenses. Her smile was as wide as a schoolgirl’s. “Shabazz, Damali, Rider, Big Mike, JL, Jose, Dan—Kamal.”
Each guardian muttered a half-civil hello. Shabazz had only nodded. Kamal chuckled, and went to the passenger’s side of the van and opened the door, helping Marlene in first to sit beside him in the front. Shabazz just glared at the man, and grabbed his gear. But he was not fast enough to pick up Marlene’s load. Kamal had swept it up in a deft, graceful motion, and all Damali could do was place a hand on Shabazz’s shoulder. She would have sworn the man growled.
One by one, they piled into the cramped confines of the vehicle. The thing sputtered and knocked, and looked like it was circa 1970s. But no one said a word.
“We gwan up to da mountains. It’s late, and tonight the dances will show part of what you seek,” Kamal shouted over his shoulder above the sputtering engine and loud African music that blared. “Safe ground, no? All protected by spiritual rings—no worries.” Then he did the unspeakable. Turned to Marlene, smiled, and put his hand on her thigh. “Like old times, old gurl. Like da ayahuasca walk?”
Damali was rubbing Shabazz’s back now, like he was a prizefighter sitting in a ring corner chair—just having been TKO’d by a former champion. She cast her gaze out the window. Lord, Lord, Lord please don’t let no mess jump off with my already high-strung team. She sighed. The van was hot. Shabazz was smoldering. Big Mike and Rider were armed. This was supposed to be a spiritual enclave in the hills. Dang . . . she thought Marlene had been with monks and Templars all these years to gain insight, but it was obvious that Marlene had some other sources of information. Old times? She thought Marlene only dealt with the Covenant. Apparently so had Shabazz. Go figure.
Two hours later, and with a silent passenger section in the back, the van came to a stop. Kamal had pointed out all the sugar plantations, explained the politics of the region—the blend of African, Indian, and European peoples, and had given them a crash course in how the Candomble deities had been hidden within the Catholic religion by African slaves forced to give up their heritage.
Rather than focus on the private glances Kamal sent to Marlene, or the way Marlene swallowed away knowing smiles, Damali thought about Lemanja—the goddess of the river and waters he’d told them about. Maybe she would help? Dam
ali chuckled. Going down the Amazon, assuming they made it that far, with the two elders of the group in a standoff, was not going to be good. All right, Lemanja, this is your house over here . . . Dag, can you help a sister out?
The group piled out of the van with a disgruntled series of grunts and stretches. People rubbed their shoulders, leaned forward to allow their spines to reset, and bent their knees. Even Rider, who normally complained about any minor inconvenience, didn’t say a word.
But it was mercifully cooler in the mountains. The bush, as Kamal called it, was a rough-hewn version of forest with dense trees, wide palms, and tall grasses. He motioned toward what looked like a onestory, long, whitewashed shack. The paint on the clapboards was beginning to peel and Damali noted that there were no screens on any of the windows. There was no door to it, either. Obviously air-conditioning was missing in action, too. They were gonna get eaten alive by the bugs, and perhaps anything else that was out there at night.
“Put up your tings, then come to de riva. Marlene knows. Late afternoon, like early morning, we practice. Baths are in the natural riva. Insect repellent is from the bush, not de bottle.” Kamal chuckled and a deep, resounding sound came from his full, sexy mouth. “You’ll get the insects high.”
Marlene offered him a wide smile and nodded. Then the man ran full-bolt through the woods and disappeared within it like he was a gazelle. Oh, boy . . .
No one said a word as they all marched up the steep incline to the guest house. The walk up the hill was enough to add muscles to one’s legs, and this brother ran around the retreat grounds like it was down-town LA, not an obstacle underfoot or an incline in sight.
Climbing three shaky wooden flights up to the house porch, they filed through the door and just stared. Rickety metal cots with bare mattresses stared back at them. The water-stained blue-and-white ticking made it seem like the bedding was wearing convict’s stripes. A thin layer of dust covered the floor and the one huge dresser in the room. They watched a fat beetle skittle by at the invasion. A single, bare bulb dangling from a metal chain served as the light. Spiderwebs and moth cocoons claimed the high corners of the ceiling. A carpenter wasp was busily working at a rain gutter.
Damali sighed, Marlene smiled, and Rider dropped his duffle bag with a thud.
“Ain’t exactly the Copacabana Palace.” Rider put his hands on his hips and glanced around.
“Man, don’t start,” Big Mike warned. “These folks are helping us out, and we all need to chill.” But the fact that he’d shot a look in Shabazz’s direction wasn’t lost on a soul among them.
“It’s all good,” Damali said cheerfully, adding emphasis to the statement as she dropped her bag. “Let’s go down and see what brother is up to by the river. Cool?”
“Yeah,” Shabazz muttered. “Let’s see what he’s about.”
It took her team fifteen minutes to pick their way through the thicket to a clearing. The heavy rhythm of drums and berimbau coming from the direction of the river fused with the chattering wildlife in the trees. Everything around them was alive.
Damali kept her lips sealed shut as Rider argued with Big Mike about the merits of having to use an outhouse versus indoor plumbing. She refused to get into the dispute when Rider started hollering about what might happen if he had to pee at night, and had to brave the unknown, alone, just to take a leak. The riotous conversation almost made her cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. But she dared not, lest Shabazz explode. He was so close to the edge that an electric current seemed to be going through his locks. She could dig it. There were no words when your competition was all that. Been there. Recently. Shoot, at least this guy Shabazz was worried about wasn’t a demon from the depths of the Amazon.
But why did Marlene have to open her mouth to defend the spiritual hostel? If she had just been cool, hadn’t said a word, then it could have remained smooth—but no.
“This is about spiritual expansion here. It’s rustic because the emphasis is not on the physical—”
“Oh, that’s good to know,” Shabazz snapped. “Glad there was no emphasis on the physical!”
Marlene opened her mouth, then closed it with a smile and looked ahead as they made a path to the river.
On the other hand, it might have been better if the group just had a good old-fashioned, nonspiritual shouting match to clear the air before they got down there, because what they saw as they came to a halt, was gonna kill Shabazz.
Twenty-five hard, black bodies in thin, white loincloth strips moved like water on the flat sandy shore. Their fluid choreography was as breathtaking as their defined human structures. Burnt orange, late-afternoon sun reflected off onyx, sun-burnished skin. Kamal led the sultry capoeira fight dance that had the slow, controlled rhythms of Tai Chi combined with a mixture of kickboxing and karate. A guy as big as Mike worked out on the drums, and another slighter-built brother was funkin’ out a berimbau. Yeah, Shabazz was going to have heart failure.
Damali glanced at him from the corner of her eye as the practicing brothers turned in unison, showing uncovered buns of steel as they bent their knees a millimeter from the sand, leaned back, their shoulders barely brushing the ground, and rose in a powerful, stable, slow limbo like a fighter avoiding the swipe of a broadsword. Kamal’s long ponytail of locks gracefully swept the earth. A trickle of sweat ran down the center of his back, further defining the deep gorge of his spine that gave rise to thick walls of muscles on either side of it. And the brother was Marlene’s age? Fifty something? Daaaayum . . . Okay, she had to talk to Shabazz. Later.
Marlene looked like her heart had stopped this time for real. Girlfriend was transfixed. Damali’s gaze shot around the group nervously. Rider looked down at his own slight gut and shook his head. Dan had been so punked down that his shoulders slumped. Jose and JL had just leaned against a tree. Only Big Mike had the gumption to slap Shabazz on the back, obviously the only male on the team not feeling an ego singe.
“It’s cool, brother. We good.”
Shabazz only nodded, his jaw tense, his eyes unblinking, his gaze forward, his shoulders back—pissed.
She was not even going to ask Marlene how long she’d stayed here. She didn’t want to know. True, these brothers looked like fighting machines. True, this center was probably where Marlene learned how to wield her walking stick. And, true, she might have learned divination and the process of calling down spirits, setting up protective prayer barriers, and cleansing baths, herbology, how to read the stars and all . . . but she also probably learned to appreciate some of the things that were real hard to walk away from. No wonder Marlene demonstrated such discipline. This was you, girl? Impressed, Damali mentally gave the older woman props. Ya just never could tell. Deep.
Blatant curiosity tugged at Damali until she couldn’t help but monitor the expression on Marlene’s face and glance at the control the capoeira master exhibited. He wasn’t even breathing hard and was working his squad out like a champ. Marlene wasn’t even breathing. Girlfriend was definitely going to have to give her some insight on how one walked away from something like that.
Damali could just picture it. Learning the stars from this master, under a flawless open sky? Bathing in the natural, in the river at dawn . . . walking in the woods to study nature, closing one’s eyes to feel the energies enter you, making you one with the universe? Shit. Damali sat down on the ground, crossed her legs yoga style and leaned forward. This mess was reminding her of Carlos too much.
The hour passed as though it were a few minutes the same way it did in a club when the music is on and watching the people dancing holds your attention. As soon as the drums stopped, the freshly worked crew gave a slight bow of honor to their instructor and pandemonium broke out. They talked in a rapid patois-like language among themselves, and from what Damali could make out, they were joking with each other and commenting on their routine.
Kamal jogged ahead of the straggling fight-dancers and joined the guardian team. Still not breathing hard, he
beamed at Marlene. Damali stood and dusted off her fatigues.
“Your squad is awesome,” Damali said honestly, trying to play peacemaker.
“Thank you, pretty one,” Kamal replied, bowing slightly. Then he turned and waved his crew to come meet the guardian group. “This is our brotherhood,” he said with a proud wave of his hand.
Damali chuckled as the men in the group allowed their gazes to openly assess her and Marlene. Perfect white teeth set in dark skin so smooth it appeared to be marble flashed at her as though a hundred cameras had gone off at once. But the glances they gave Jose concerned her. It was a subtle thing, almost like a dog’s bristle. They flexed a little, tilted their heads slightly, took a deep inhale, and then dismissed him with their eyes. Strange thing was, Jose had the same reaction to them.
“Abdul,” one bolder brother said, stepping forward, immediately capturing Damali’s hand, and kissing it like a gentle knight. His skin was the color of midnight, and his eyes blazed with mischief above high, chiseled cheekbones. His lush mouth relaxed into a sensual smile, and his voice dropped a purposeful octave. “Kamal said a team was coming to gain spiritual insight, but he never said we’d be visited by angels.” He held her hand, stepping in closer.
Damali diplomatically extracted her hand with a smile, and raised her eyebrow.
“You are the Neteru?” another just as fine asked in awe. Before Damali could respond, he held up his hand. “Foolish question.” The man laughed, outstretched his arms, and plunged an imaginary sword into the center of his chest. “Marry me. I am Ahmad.”
All eyes were on her, curiosity mingling with awe as they bowed and held her gaze upon straightening their tall, proud backs. Yet she couldn’t help notice how they occasionally glanced between their leader and Jose with confused expressions.
“Uh, this is my squad, fellas,” Damali said, chuckling and flattered. “Marlene, and—”
