Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

  In the late 1930s, Jews were being sent to concentration camps by the thousands. Tomáš’ family snuck several dozen Jews out of the city. They hid them in the basement of their farmhouse until they could get them safely out of Germany. One day, Tomáš’ father went to Berlin to save more Jews. He never returned; the Gestapo had arrested him. He was taken to a building on the outskirts of the city. After days of being tortured, he was dragged to a courtyard behind the building. They propped his limp body against a wall that held the memory of the others who had also stood up to the injustice. Dried, bloody pockmarks were a sanguine tribute to their final act of heroism.

  Upon receiving the news of the execution, Tomáš’ family gathered what it could carry and fled. The journey, through the biting chill of winter, took a month. Eventually they arrived in Nečzia, a safe haven for Jews at the time.

  “So,” Zara said, her eyes misty, “you can imagine how hurt my grandfather was when he saw those words. That was more painful for him than even burning down the store would have been.”

  Dizzy with guilt, D’Melo murmured, “Zara.” His eyes fell remorsefully to the sidewalk, wishing the concrete would open and swallow him whole. “I have to tell you something.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “I already know.”

  His head jerked up; he was instantly mortified. He realized that the silhouette at the rear of the store that night had been Zara. He blinked rapidly, trying to fend off creeping faint.

  “Are you okay?” She sat him down on a bench.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he sputtered in a low voice. “Other than I’m so sorry.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. “You knew this whole time.”

  Zara tightened her lips and nodded subtly.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “Because you guys are just idiots,” she said, with a mix of empathy and vexation. “You and Jeylan don’t deserve to have your lives ruined over a moment of stupidity. People make mistakes. I should know. I can be a smidge hotheaded at times, too.”

  “Noooo,” he uttered, able to muster a tiny slice of sarcasm through a mouthful of humble pie. “You? Hotheaded?”

  Zara chuckled.

  “How did you know it was Jeylan with me? It was dark and he was nearly out the door by the time you reached the stairs.”

  “It wasn’t difficult to figure out which of your buddies it was. Marley wouldn’t hurt a fly. Kazim is a lover, not a fighter . . . well, in his own mind anyway. And when I heard that my grandfather fired Tyreke, it didn’t take much to confirm that he’s Jeylan’s brother. It all made sense.”

  Zara locked hesitant eyes with D’Melo. “I understand that Jeylan was angry, but what I don’t understand is—” She paused warily. “Well, I’ve only known you for a couple days, but you don’t strike me as a guy who would do something like this.”

  D’Melo stiffened straight up. “Ohhh, no, no,” he asserted, waving his hands feverishly. “You think I did this?”

  Zara shrugged doubtfully.

  “No way. I was only here to stop him. But I was too late.”

  Her face softened in relief. “I was hoping my instincts weren’t failing me about you.

  “D’Melo,” she said. “You should know that Tyreke had been stealing oxy for months. My grandfather didn’t want to believe it. But Tyreke was caught on camera. My grandfather asked him to return the pills, mostly over concern that something dreadful would happen. When he found out about Tyreke’s girlfriend, he understood why Tyreke had been stealing. My grandfather encouraged him to take his job back and even offered to pay for his girlfriend’s rehab. But Tyreke turned down the job. He said wanted to get as far away from the pharmaceutical industry as he could. And I don’t blame him,” Zara finished intensely. “The pharmaceutical industry is . . .” She stopped herself. “Ah, sorry. I can’t seem to get off my soapbox.”

  D’Melo was silent, needing a moment to process everything. He squinted through the store window. Zara’s grandparents were jostling playfully with each other as they repaired the store. Shame cascaded through him.

  Zara laid a tender hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t tell Jeylan that I know. It’ll just make things weird.”

  D’Melo nodded in agreement. Her kindness was a healing balm for his regretful heart.

  “I should go in now,” she said. “Thanks for getting me home safely in this tough neighborhood,” she jested. “I don’t think I could have made it without you.” She leaned over the flower box outside the shop door. She drew the lavender to her nose and took in its soothing sweetness.

  When Zara swung the pharmacy door open, the bells chimed festively in D’Melo’s heart like they used to. He popped off the bench and hustled over to her.

  “Hey Zara,” he said, hopefully. “Do you think it would be okay if I helped paint?”

  “Well, if you’re as good a painter as you are a bodyguard, my grandparents could really use your skills.”

  D’Melo smiled deeply.

  “Come on,” she said, towing him by his T-shirt. “They’ll love it.”

  Chapter Three

  Deee… Melll… OHHHH

  “Did you know that ten million pounds of toxic chemicals spew into the waterways in Pennsylvania every year?” Zara trumpeted from behind a portable table through the cool October air. She was wearing a short-sleeve, oversized white hoodie, which contrasted harmoniously with the gold-fringed leaves livening the chilly street.

  “Do you know that DunChem is the biggest polluter in Philadelphia? And it has the nerve to put its headquarters a block from the Liberty Bell. That bell is supposed to be a symbol of freedom. How can we be free if we can’t even trust the water we drink? Sign this petition and commit to boycott all DunChem products!”

  After a full day of educating the mostly oblivious passersby, Zara tossed her handouts into a cardboard box. She lugged the table back to the shop she had borrowed it from, then started for the bus.

  “Zara!” D’Melo, Kazim, and Marley scrambled up. “Is it too late for us to sign the petition?”

  “Hey! What are you guys doing here?”

  “We’re part of the Environment Club too, remember?” D’Melo said, as he scribbled his name on the petition. “Whoaaa. You got over three hundred signatures!”

  “Yeah, it was a slow day,” she jested.

  “You didn’t even tell us you were doing this.” D’Melo passed the petition to Marley and Kazim.

  Zara shrugged. “I know you guys were just being nice to join the club.”

  D’Melo flipped his palms upward, Give us a chance.

  “Okay, okay,” she acquiesced. “How’d you even know I was here?”

  D’Melo chivalrously slipped the box from her hands. “I went to the drugstore to see if your grandparents needed help with anything.” Unconsciously, he was still exorcising his guilt. “Your grandfather told me that you were out causing trouble again,” he chuckled.

  They reached the bus stop. “Hey. We’re meeting my dad for lunch. Wanna come?”

  “I’d love to, I’m starving. But I didn’t bring any money,” she said with through pouty lips.

  Kazim butted in. “I gotchu, girl. They don’t call me Pimp Daddy for nothing. I take care of my girls.”

  “First of all,” Marley said, “no one calls you Pimp Daddy. Second, you don’t have any girls. And third, you know you’re busted and you’re just gonna ‘borrow’”—he included air quotes—“money from me anyway.”

  Marley turned to Zara. “Don’t worry, my treat. I get a discount at Chubby’s anyway. I work there.”

  “Oh, Chubby’s!” she said. “It’s only a few blocks from the drugstore. I can stop at home and meet you guys there. Thanks anyway, Marley.”

  Zara bounced into Chubby’s. Immediately she felt conspicuous, like her milky skin was a beacon in a sea of blackness. The
steady murmur of the patrons dwindled to a thunderous silence. Zara spotted D’Melo in the back corner. She crossed tensely to the table. She felt like glowering eyes were tracking her with each self-conscious step.

  D’Melo introduced her to Baba. She tried to calm her angst with a conscious breath. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bantu.” She extended her hand, still feeling unnerved.

  Baba launched from his chair and took her into a fatherly embrace. “My dear,” he said. “There will be no ‘Mr. Bantu’ from you. You’re a friend of D’Melo’s. You will call me ‘Baba.’”

  The boyz dived into their favorite pastimes—jesting and talking basketball. Zara feigned interest. Inside she was a coiled bundle. Her fingertips agitatedly tapped the table.

  “My dear,” Baba said. “You were a bubble of radiance when you entered the restaurant. Now it’s as if your light has been extinguished.”

  “I just hate that I don’t fit in anywhere,” she huffed. A glum weight settled forlornly in her stomach. She realized she had never felt at home anywhere.

  “Sorry, my dear,” Baba said, edging closer to her. “Could you speak up?”

  In a hushed whisper, D’Melo informed Zara that Baba was hard of hearing in his left ear.

  She raised her voice. “I said, I hate that I never fit in.”

  “No, you don’t fit in,” Baba uttered matter-of-factly. Zara furrowed her brow, expecting a more comforting response. “D’Melo has told me a lot about you. You, my dear, are a lioness,” he beamed. “And do you know what happens when a lioness reveals herself on the savanna? The other animals become acutely aware that something powerful is in their midst. All attention hones in on her, and for good reason. On the outside, she’s sleek and majestic. She’s so captivating it’s impossible to pull your eyes away. But on the inside, she’s a fierce ravager of whatever she sets her sights on. Hence, the saying, ‘She has the heart of a lion.’ Baba chuckled softly. “I feel sorry for those who get on your bad side.”

  “Well,” Zara felt herself blush, “I don’t know about all that, but thank you.”

  Baba seemed to sense her ambivalence. “Do you believe you’re a lioness?”

  “Umm . . .” Zara reflected. “Sometimes, I guess.”

  “Not sometimes,” Baba shot back. “You can’t be a lioness sometimes. You either are or you’re not.”

  “Well, I guess I am, then, because you told me so,” she smiled gratefully.

  “So now that it’s settled that you are in fact a lioness, you must never concern yourself with what other people think of you.” He motioned toward the restaurant patrons. “All you have to do is embrace who you are, then others will as well. Then,” he concluded, as if having read her mind, “you will be at home everywhere.”

  Zara’s eyes glazed moist. An unfamiliar warmth washed through her. Her life had been agonizingly devoid of the firm, tender love of a father.

  While they ate, Baba reminisced aloud about the first time he and D’Melo came to Chubby’s. On the evening of the day they had arrived in Lincoln Downs, they wandered in the frosty night, exhausted and famished. Suddenly, Baba halted. A man was shooting the breeze animatedly from the sidewalk with a woman propped in a windowsill above a restaurant. Between swigs from a shiny flask, his voice boomed wonderfully familiar sounds through the icy air.

  “Let’s eat over there,” Baba said.

  D’Melo was seven years old, half frozen and starving. From the look on his face, he would have settled for eating tree grubs around a campfire.

  Baba shuffled up. “Molo, bhuti” (“Greetings, brother”). Chubby instantly ceased his conversation with the woman. His eyes shot to Baba, scrutinizing him. His skeptical gaze then dropped to D’Melo.

  “It’s okay, bhuti,” Baba assured. “We’re not Malungan. We’re from Kipaji.”

  Chubby’s face lit up brighter than the Christmas lights framing the entrance to his restaurant. He swallowed Baba in a mirthful bear hug. “Molo, bhuti,” he exclaimed, swinging Baba to and fro. “Karibuni!” (“Welcome”). He threw the restaurant door open. Except for a single light behind the bar, the restaurant was completely dark.

  “Oh, you’re closed,” Baba surmised disappointedly.

  “We’re never closed for a hungry comrade!” Chubby clapped Baba on the back.

  Chubby was a Malungan of the Shuja tribe. He fought with the Shuja rebel army before being captured by the Malungan military. He was tortured for information about the whereabouts of the rebel leader. After providing his captors with nothing, he sensed his time on this earth was soon coming to an unpleasant end. He needed to act swiftly. In desperation, he slyly promised a hefty sum to a prison guard to leave his cell door unlocked.

  Chubby, who wasn’t so chubby at the time, slipped out of the neglected prison compound. He found cover in the surrounding dense jungle. By the darkest moments before dawn, he was safely back in the Nyumbani—the homeland of the Shuja tribe.

  Early that same morning, the Malungan president, Jaru Amani, was assassinated. The Shuja rebels were blamed. Grisly chaos erupted. Shuja families were ripped from their homes and slaughtered on the streets.

  Chubby was able to escape through Nanjier, a neighboring country to the north that was sympathetic to the rebel cause. “And the rest is history,” Chubby said, gesturing around the restaurant. His troubled eyes belied the contentment he tried to convey.

  “I wasn’t planning to be gone forever,” Chubby continued dolefully. He planted his flask on the bar with a heavy hand, the scent of whiskey drifting up. “But as long as that rat of a man, Dimka, remains the president of Malunga, I can’t go back.” He tilted the flask over eager lips a little longer than before.

  “I begged my parents to come with me.” His glassy eyes dipped to the bar. “But they said Malunga was their home and they would die there.” Chubby reached for the flask, but then shoved it away, toppling it. “I think it’s true what they say: the soil of Malunga is red from the blood of all the people who have sacrificed their lives there.” He blew a distressed sigh. His gaze drifted as he relived that dreadful time.

  “So,” he said, returning to the moment, “I was in America while my people were being slaughtered.” His voice was tinged with guilt. “I naively believed that someone would stop the genocide. But the world sat by and let five hundred thousand Shujas be massacred.

  “Those Borutu savages butchered my people with machetes. They didn’t even have the decency to kill them quick.”

  After a moment, Chubby snapped out of his bitter wallowing. He turned to D’Melo with a toothy grin. “You hungry, little man?” D’Melo nodded fervently.

  Chubby wobbled into the kitchen. Lights flickered on. He poked his head through the serving window behind the bar. “Have a seat. I’m going to whip up a special Malungan meal for you.” He then reintroduced himself to the whiskey flask, which seemed to stoke the fire of his acrimony once again. “One day,” he avowed, waving his finger sharply. “We will be victorious!”

  Baba wrapped up the story. “Chubby isn’t correct yet, but he will be. Tyranny has had its time in Malunga. You can only hold people down for so long. Justice will eventually reign supreme. And in the end, the righteous will be the ones honored, while the tyrants will be brought to their knees and their ill-gotten riches will fade along with any memory of them.”

  “Truth,” the boyz chorused. “Take ’em to church, Baba!”

  Baba toasted. “Kwa uzima.” D’Melo whispered to Zara, “That means, ‘to life.’”

  “Kwa uzima,” the boyz echoed.

  Zara sat alone devouring an eggplant sandwich in the school cafeteria. Her eyes were fixed on an article about the melting glaciers in Greenland, wholly oblivious to the typical lunchtime commotion around her.

  She didn’t make friends readily. In fact, she had never really had a female friend. The girls in her life were focused on things that she c
ouldn’t care any less about. She was not into chasing boys; not interested in pop culture; and loathed shopping, although one would never guess that by her stylish way of dressing. She had a single-minded focus: She needed to change the world—today! She knew that to others her age, she came off as aloof. And that, combined with her looks, made her unapproachable for most insecure teenage girls.

  Zara tended to do a little better with guys—at least they talked to her, but not the kind of talk she would have preferred. She was burdened with a heavy share of testosterone-driven attention. Their unrequited displays of affection led to encounters that were swift and crushing for her spurious suitors. But the state of her social life was of no concern to her. In fact, she preferred the solitude.

  “Hey!” A voice startled her. It was D’Melo. His eyes dropped to her chin, then met hers again. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I missed most of the morning,” she said, wondering why D’Melo’s gaze kept dipping. “I arrived just in time for math class; yay for me,” she said sarcastically. D’Melo’s eyes wandered down her face again. “Dude! What are you looking at?”

  “Oh, sorry. You have some sauce on your chin.” He offered her a napkin.

  “Were you just gonna keep looking at it without telling me?” she snipped. She swiped her chin haphazardly with the back of her hand. D’Melo returned the unused napkin to the table.

  “Uhhh,” he murmured, trying to ignore the lipstick that was now smeared under her lips. “What’s wrong with math?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with math. There’s something wrong with math and me together.”

  “I could tutor you,” D’Melo offered.

  “Well, that would be great,” she said. “But you’ll have to let me help you with something in exchange.”

  “Um, are you good at chemistry?” D’Melo asked.

  “Uhhh, that would be a no.”

  He tried again. “Computers?”

  “Nope,” she said, pursing her lips. “Keep going.”