Black Power- The Superhero Anthology

by Balogun Ojetade

  A figure flitted from shadow to shadow, the night cloak he wore over the more brilliant red beneath dimming his form. The hood he wore, and the darker mask beneath, kept all but the slightest glimmer of his eyes, peering through lenses, from being seen should any be able to spy his stealthy form.

  The tip he’d got indicated that something wrong – something that the police didn’t wish to stake out – was going on near here. There had been disappearances among the street people of the time, and no one knew where the missing might be. Such always happened, and often, bodies turned up in the river or hidden within the scant regions of wilderness near New York. But this was more than the usual numbers. No one seemed to care when people from the Bronx, Brooklyn and Harlem vanished from the Five Boroughs, as long as Park Avenue, Queens and the brownstones of Manhattan were left untouched.

  The man glanced around, his senses alert, his eyes peeled, his hearing tuned to the slightest sounds, despite the covering of cloth over them. He slowly turned his head, scanning, searching for…

  And there it was.

  From a darkened region off to his left, a slight moan could be heard. His eyes fastened there, trying to pierce the gloom that lingered like a veil across the city’s dilapidated waterfront. He focused his eyes on the source of the moaning and stealthily, quietly headed toward it.

  It was a man, dressed in ill-fitting rags, sores on his arms and legs, a putrid odor coming from the open wounds. Glancing around, the Arrow saw no traces of anyone around, no footprints of any others, simply the tracks of this man in the slight muddy traces the misty rain had left that night. These streets were seldom cleaned, and the buildup of debris in the street was sufficient enough to leave something that he could survey.

  The groaning man, about 40, pale of skin, his hair brown, was quite thin, as if he hadn’t eaten in quite a while. His eyes were bloodshot, and wandered aimlessly, out of focus, not appearing to be tracking anything that the world around might display. Taking his drawn arrow into the fingers of the bow hand, the Arrow stepped slowly forward, senses alert for anything around that might be a sign of danger. Gingerly, he felt for the man’s pulse, listened to his breathing.

  The pulse was thready but steady, slightly fast, but not strong. The man’s breath came raspy, forced, as if there was something inside blocking the airway. The Arrow, though not a medic, had picked up a few things in his years and could tell, even without the aid of a clock, the basics of checking the injured. He glanced around again and, hearing nothing, leaned forward, speaking quietly:

  “Rest easy, old man…I’ll try and get you to help.”

  The man’s eyes flew sharply into focus, and stared at the dark hood the other wore. A look of fear came over his face.

  “No!” He reached up and pushed against the Arrow’s chest. “Don’t take me back there! I can’t stand it! All those people…the dying…the dead…and the others…” The man’s shoving was weak, not a threat, a futile act of resistance should the Arrow have posed a threat. But the fear was real.

  “Shh…I’m not one of them…whoever they are.” He reached for the man’s hands and then stopped. A sound, a slight whisper of breeze from behind him that was from something other than the wind whistling through the city, brought his attention around. He re-armed his bow and turned round.

  “NO!” The man near him pointed as he turned, and started screaming, the night pierced by the anguish.

  There, framed by the street light, standing over him at almost twice his height, stood the figure of…well, it resembled a man, but yet it wasn’t. Its limbs were misshapen, large, lumpy, as if formed by some mad sculptor from partially hardened clay. The eyes were uneven, not spaced right, and its lips were twisted and drooling. One eye was focused on the Arrow, the other looking off somewhere toward the man who lay so close. A strange grunting, soft but powerful, emerged from the creature’s throat, covering the sounds of the city around them.

  “Get back!” The Arrow pulled his arrow back as the monster came toward him and the injured old man…

  ***

  Edward Richard Bowyer couldn’t remember his parents. They passed on before he became aware of the world enough for his memories to start. As near as he could tell, he’d always lived at the circus owned and run by his uncles. Back in the days when Barnum and Bailey and the Ringling Brothers were making their marks, some time after the old Buffalo Bill Wild West shows had wound down, the Hillman Circus of the Stars was starting to climb. And it was due to the two men Eddie called uncles.

  Though they sent white front men into towns to do their business, the owners were somewhat unusual for the 1920s. One was a “negro” – what they now call a Black man – and the other “Indian” – now called Native American. These were the men Eddie Bowyer looked up to, idolized, strove to be like when he was grown, and to whom he owed his youthful living.

  But there were times…

  The trapeze had been something he loved watching from his youngest days. Watching Grissom up above, with his new wife, soaring in the air with just the thin bars and thinner ropes to support them, and only the flimsiest of nets below in case they fell, was one of his favorite sights in the world. He was watching them one day, smiling and moving his arms back and forth, ignoring the cleaning detail he’d been assigned in his joy over the sight of their practice.

  “Like that, huh?” Eddie looked over. It was his uncle Benny, smoking his cigar. He pulled the cheroot from his lips and pointed toward the acrobats with it. “Want to join them?”

  “Oh, can I, Uncle Ben?” A gleam of excitement came over Eddie’s face, and he looked back toward them. His uncle nodded.

  “Hey! John! You and your bride got room for my Eddie-boy up there?” His uncle shouted, and the trap artist paused when he reached the pole, looking down.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Lamont. Send him on up!”

  Nervously, Eddie went to the pole and climbed up it, looking down only once, and then closing his eyes…but just for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he finished his way up, and made it to the platform near the top.

  “Here y’go, bud,” the trap artist said, swinging one of the bars toward him. Eddie caught it, and looked down, swaying just a bit, his throat in his mouth. “Just hold tight and swing when you’re ready. Stop looking down.” The man looked at Eddie, and the young man looked back, gulped a bit, and then swung out, his hands firmly gripped on the bar.

  As he headed toward the trap artist he felt freed, light, as if there weren’t a care in the world. Smiling, he swung toward the other, and reached him. John Grissom helped him on to the other platform, and all seemed right.

  “That was an easy one, it gets harder when you have to use more than one swing. But it’s a start.”

  “I wanna go back!”

  The man frowned. “There’s no one over there to help you off. It might not work out as well.”

  “Oh, I can do it! I saw you do it lots of times.” Eddie smiled, still keeping his eyes off the ground. Reluctantly, the acrobat let Eddie turn and again grasp the bar.

  “This time, think more about form. Not just getting across, but how it looks…how your motions either help you or hinder you. Grasp it tight, but don’t squeeze…that can tire the arm muscles. And you don’t want that!” John gripped the bar, and showed Eddie how. “Now, just stay relaxed, keep your arms straight, and when your feet hit that platform over there… don’t let go right away, get your balance. Ready?”

  Eddie nodded and began his arc across to the other side, but before he could reach it, he heard the shout from below:

  “Running Bear!”

  Hearing his “Indian name,” he looked down, and…he lost it. Seeing the distance to the ground below, he froze. His feet hit the platform but he did not get his balance. Then, as he fell backward off the platform, he lost his grip and began plummeting.

  He hit the net with his left shoulder, twisted and landed yet again, and eventually stopped.

  “You don’t go up there. I told you that.�
�

  “Oh, let him, Nick…the kid’s gotta grow up some time. Better he learn now than wait.” Uncle Ben puffed his cigar, staring down his son’s father-in-law. Nick looked on stoically, his eyes shifting between Eddie and Ben. Then, finally, sighing, he looked up at the trap artist.

  “Can you help him, Grissom? Are you one of the trusty ones?”

  The trap artist nodded, smiling down. “Sure thing, Mr. Long Bow…the kid did great on his first try. I’ll have him flying up here in no time!”

  Sighing quietly, the tall, long-haired circus partner turned, and as he strode off, glanced over toward Eddie.

  “Don’t fall again!”

  ***

  The Arrow drew back the shaft, sighting along it, aiming for one of the creature’s thighs. “Stay back!” He watched carefully, trying to get some sense of what this manlike being might be.

  The creature lumbered forward, arms raised, the odd sounds coming from its throat resounding off the concrete surrounding them.

  “I warned you! Stay back!”

  But the words were in vain. The creature continued forward, accompanied by the screech of the injured man’s hysteric calls joining with the on-comer’s wheezing and rumbling in a cacophony of noise.

  “Shoot it! Kill it! It’ll get us! Kill it!”

  “Last warning, big man!” The Arrow sighted carefully, though the shot was simple, to make sure that it would just go to muscle, not artery. Then he let loose.

  The arrow went quickly across the short distance, piercing the thigh of the so very odd man…for yes, the hero had decided it was, indeed, a man, though one unlike anything he’d ever seen before. As the arrow entered, another was drawn and quickly notched.

  A scream from the throat of the huge man-creature pierced the night, almost giving shivers to the Arrow. But the thing didn’t stop.

  Swiftly, the Arrow released his next shaft, piercing the Achilles tendon. The over-sized brute stumbled, fell, unable to stand. But he kept coming. With his one good leg and his arms he drew himself onward, toward the two men.

  Reaching down, the Arrow grabbed the other off the pavement just as he lost consciousness. Swiftly he headed away from the giant down the alley.

  And there, standing in front of them, were two more of the creatures.

  ***

  The years passed swiftly, and Eddie learned much…how to swing, how to do some magic tricks, how to shout at the barkers. But to the crowds he was nothing but one of the clean-up crew that took care of the tents and the grounds. He couldn’t perform for any but the circus crowd. And while they all loved him, they understood and kept to his uncle’s wishes.

  Slowly, Eddie started to understand the differences color made…the differences in the way that the people treated him when they came in for the show. Somehow, the way these people called him “boy” sounded different from when his uncles and the circus folk used the same word. And then there were the other words…

  One day, a mysterious man came to join the troupe. His uncles treated him quite respectfully, and he began a sharp-shooting act that drew the crowds in well. His sense of showmanship was on a high level, and the strange black hood he wore added to the mystique of the Hooded Marksman. Though he shot guns, he knew something about the bow and arrow and was able to take what Eddie’s uncle Long Bow had taught him and develop it into a fine art.

  On the day the Hooded Marksman left, he spent some time with Eddie.

  “Ah hope that shootin’ ah helped yuh with will serve you good some day.” The man smiled. His older face, about the same age as his uncles, crinkled into a smile.

  “I hope so. I want to do something in the show eventually, but…”

  The man nodded. “I know. The world hasn’t treated your people well. My dad fought in the War to help free them.” He sighed. “Ah barely knew him…muh uncle helped teach me right from wrong back in the day.”

  Eddie nodded back. Though there were few things about his past the man talked about, his slight drawl…something that when he talked to Eddie’s uncles seemed to fade back…sounded Texan to him, though there was a slight trace of Northerner to it. “So we’re both orphans?”

  “‘Fraid so. My dad died later than yours…I still remember him some. But it was rough.” He sighed. “Ah have a son, back home, but…” He shrugged. “He’s a bit of a no-account, ah don’t know what’s goin’ to happen to him. Ah hope he amounts to sumthin’ when he gets older.” The man sighed, then, with a decisive look on his face, opened one of the bags he had packed. The cabby hadn’t arrived yet, and the Marksman decided there was time.

  “Ah got sumthin’ for ya.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a dark leather thing. He handed it over to Eddie.

  It was his mask.

  “Ah got that from my uncle. He made it when my dad died, and…well, never mind, that’s not important. Here. It’s yours.”

  Eddie gasped, taking the mask in his hands and running his fingers across the length of the face part. “You’re sure? You might want this someday…maybe for your own boy?”

  The Marksman shook his head. “Naah…and if I do, I have other masks. My uncle only wore this till he got the owl-hoot that killed off my dad. Then he hung it up, and eventually gave it to me. Now it’s yours. Go ahead…try it on!”

  Eddie put the mask on, and though it was still a bit loose, it was comfortable. The other man smiled.

  “Now you look the part! Who knows…with that, maybe you can get a job in the circus without anyone getting’ bugged ‘bout your color!”

  And with those words, the cab arrived, and the man drove off, headed toward the train station and the life his vacation had brought him from.

  ***

  The Arrow shot off a few shafts, but the monsters were too close…they had reached the pair of them. Balling his fists, the masked man punched at them.

  But it did no good. The things were too big, too strong, too resistant to pain.

  Eventually, the creatures’ blows took their toll and he lost consciousness.

  When he awoke, he found himself in chains.

  He looked around, and there were people around…most injured, screaming; some, the huge monster-types he’d seen earlier. But they all mostly seemed to be in bondage, except a select few that were keeping tabs on the others.

  And then there was the man in the chair.

  He was dapper, somewhat thin, but not unhealthy. He was reading a book when the Arrow awoke, but put it up as the masked man looked at him.

  “Ah…you’re awake! Good…I’ve been waiting for that. It works so much better than when you’re unconscious. Something in the brain chemistry, I believe.”

  The Arrow shook his head, trying to clear it. And it was then that he realized that he wasn’t wearing his mask.

  The other man smiled. “Worried about your identity? Don’t be…I really don’t care who you were…only what you’re about to become.” He rose, and strode toward the Arrow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Mr. Arrow, that you’re about to become the latest in my line of experiments.”

  The Arrow struggled against the chains holding him, arms outstretched, several inches above the floor, but to no avail. The cuffs were tight…more tight than the bonds that escape artist had taught him how to slip off. He gave up quickly, conserving his strength.

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, just call me the Professor. I like that.” He grinned. “I have read Arthur Conan Doyle’s works, you know.”

  “You’re a madman! Like one of those mad scientists in the magazines and comic strips.”

  The Professor shook his head. “Oh, far from it. Indeed, my experiments may be what lead to the survival of humanity.”

  ***

  Shortly after the Masked Marksman’s departure, the Circus was sold. His uncles, through the use of a well-paid front man, had arranged the sale, and now it was finished. They were in a hotel room in Florida, near the winter camping area that they and other circus
es used. His uncles had bought a special bottle of wine and Ben was pouring it. He took two glasses over to Long Bow and Eddie, then lifted his own.

  “We did it! We brought this enterprise up…despite all odds…and made it a going concern! Now we’ve ensured our future.” He smiled.

  “But what about Running Bear? How will he survive?” Long Bow frowned. “What he’s learned won’t serve him in good stead in this world.” The man set his cup down, the Indian broken English he often used among the rubes nowhere apparent.

  “Hell, he’ll survive! He’s a good kid, and he’ll go far. Besides…” …Ben shrugged… “…eventually, he’ll inherit what we left behind. And with our investment in the stock market, he’ll be well-heeled after that. We ain’t no spring chickens no mo’!” He lifted his glass. “Here’s a toast.

  “To the future!”

  And with that, all three clicked glasses, rose them on high, and drank the sparkling wine in the glasses.

  It was Tuesday, October 29, 1929…a day that was soon to be known as Black Tuesday.

  ***

  The Professor strode forward, examining the Arrow as he did. He reached forward and pinched the hero’s arm. Immediately, the avenger raised his shackled feet and swung them, hitting the Professor hard enough to throw him off balance…but the mad scientist moved quickly backward, out of reach. The red-clad adventurer began swinging on the chains holding him, but to no avail.

  “Naughty, naughty…there’s no use trying to struggle. Despite your fitness of form…something my other subjects generally lack…you can’t escape my bonds. And you’ll be…perhaps…one of the saviors of the teeming masses of humanity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket. I’m sure you remember the stock market’s crash.” He stared into the Arrow’s eyes, but the hero let no trace of his feelings shine through, his face a mask still despite the lack of the leather covering. Faced with silence, the Professor continued.

  “That crash showed the weakness of humanity. We’ve come far since the days our species started. Darwin made it clear, you know.” He sighed. “If only he’d had more sense.”