Voices From The Other Side Page 4

  He could hear the sound of women outside pounding millet with large wooden pestles, the rhythmic thumps complemented by their singing. Perhaps things are finally returning to normal, he thought. Picking up his reed pen, Oumar dipped it into the ink and started to write again. He looked up as one of the students from his Qu’ranic school came to the doorway.

  “Excuse me, Teacher,” the small boy said, swatting away a pesky fly that had landed on his face. “The almami and the council of elders want to see you.”

  “Thank you,” said Oumar. The boy ran off to join his friends as Oumar carefully set aside the prayer sheets and papers he had been creating, their white surfaces covered with the black ink of his precise writing and geomantic drawings filled with graphs and symbols. After he rolled up the reed mat he had been sitting on, Oumar looked around his simple dwelling, with its thatched roof and mud-brick walls. A bowl of millet couscous with groundnut-leaf sauce sat waiting, as did a calabash of milk left for him by the woman for whom he’d made the gris-gris talisman earlier. Small wooden boards with verses from the Qu’ran that he had prepared for his students were neatly stacked against a wall, and he thought about his lessons and how school had been interrupted lately. An ornately carved wooden chest in the corner caught his eye, and he sighed as he looked at it.

  This was inevitable. He stood up and straightened his robes and the fabric that hung loosely about his shoulders.

  I am the only one now.

  “Oumar Ba, we are sure that you know why you are here,” the almami said. A reed-thin Toucouleur noble whose Arab heritage was evident by his features and light red-brown skin, Dényanké was leader of their village. Although he was the foremost person to take action on behalf of it, the elders actually governed and were consulted on all major matters. They scrutinized Oumar as he entered the room and took a seat before them. They sat silently with folded arms, their embroidered robes neatly falling in deep folds around them. Many had been friends of his father and grandfather, and he could see that all of their eyes registered doubt.

  They must have faith. They must.

  “Do you believe that you can overcome it?” Dényanké asked.

  “What are our options? What other hope do we have for ourselves? For them?” Oumar said as he waved his hands toward the people gathered outside the doorway, straining to hear. “This thing is an abomination. It is an upset to baraka and an affront to Allah. It is not intent on contributing to the breath of life if all it will bring is death. I suppose that is why I must go after it. Who else can?”

  “You are right,” one of the elders said sadly. “There is no one else left but you now.”

  Dényanké’s face looked grim as Oumar got up to leave. “May Allah be with you—and all of us.”

  Oumar walked back to his home, followed by children and villagers shouting out to him in support. As he stepped inside, he found his apprentice, Bayo, sitting there writing. Startled by all of the noise, Bayo looked past him at the crowd of people as he quickly put his work aside.

  “Teacher, I hope you do not mind my presence right now. I thought I’d take care of some things while I had the chance,” he said. “I take it the Council made its decision.”

  “Yes, and I am asking you to come with me. I will need you, starting with your help in getting prepared for the journey.”

  Oumar and Bayo went around his home, gathering supplies for the trip. Oumar walked over to the wooden chest—its golden accents gleaming—and opened it, fingering the papers and contents inside. His fingers tingled as he touched the cover of a well-worn copy of the Qu’ran that had been handwritten by his grandfather.

  This is it, my ancestors. All you have taught me has led to this.

  May Allah watch over us all.

  As Oumar prepared to leave the village with Bayo, he looked ahead into the distance. He walked slowly, with his head held high, but his soul was heavy, with the weight of the entire village’s expectations pinned on him and him alone. In hindsight, Oumar thought that perhaps his statement may have been too cocky, too bold, too presumptuous.

  For hours and hours they walked through the countryside, stopping only to rest and eat a little dried mutton from their bags and ripe mangoes from the trees. He squinted as the sun started to lower in the sky, causing the baobabs, with their twisted, gnarled branches, to cast dark shadows across the ground. He thought of the griots—the keepers of oral history, legend and song—who were often entombed within the baobabs’ hollow cores. He could feel the essence of those old trees as they passed, each one strongly pulsing with the heartbeat of the land, reminding him of the millet-pounding of the women.

  The only person who had been willing to go with him on this hunt for the rogue djinn was Bayo, whose tall, lanky frame looked as if it had been swallowed by his long white tunic and loose slacks. Only his eyes were visible beneath the white fabric wound around his head and face, and they nervously darted from side to side. As the men made their way through the dry savannah grasses and sand, Bayo’s fear was almost palpable. The young man shifted the leather satchel on his shoulder before turning to look at his mentor.

  “Are we really going to do what you said when we find it?” he asked, brushing against the billowing white fabric of Oumar’s voluminous outer robes.

  “Yes. We shall talk,” Oumar said.

  “Talk? What if it will not reason? If it is capable of that. Then what?”

  “If there is no reason—no compromise—then we will resort to our original plan. As for right now, all we can do is continue to wait.”

  Bayo didn’t look too convinced as he joined Oumar—who squatted in the thick, peach-colored sand—and prepared to begin his prayers. When they finished, Oumar sat with his hands folded in his lap. His calm demeanor was in sharp contrast to how he actually felt: a little anxious about coming face-to-face with the scourge of their small village.

  Oumar thought more about his task as he walked. A djinn. Not an angel, yet not a demon. Moving with the whirlwinds and whims of the desert sands, they could be mischievous one moment and spiteful the next. Yet, this one was different. It was unusual for a djinn to create the kind of havoc that had been unleashed on Oumar’s village.

  Too many times now had screams awakened him during the night, everyone shrieking at once as they rushed out to find chaos in the aftermath. The other villagers ran around frantically as women whirled in place, howling with grief as they clutched their children close to them. Even grown men cried out in horror as the corpses and body parts of loved ones, friends and neighbors were found scattered across the ground like petals. Oumar knew this carnage meant only one thing: It had returned.

  Oumar winced just thinking about it. In the light of morning, he would reflect upon how the attacks seemed to happen so fast that even he was unable to feel or predict their coming. That was something that had never happened before. Amid the grief-stricken cries and wails from bereaved relatives, the dead—who had been mutilated and torn into pieces during the night—were properly put to rest, leaving those left behind with a choice they did not want to have.

  “What will we do?” they all asked him as one by one they came to him for some form of protection—anything to comfort them against this unknown. “What can we do?”

  Oumar contemplated everything he knew, reflecting upon the fact that he had probably been in training for a time like this all of his life, although he had hoped it wouldn’t come to something like this. For years he had studied the mysticism of his Tijaniyya Sufi sect at Qu’ranic school under the disciplined tutelage of his father and grandfather, both powerful marabouts and leaders in their faith. With them both now gone, it was up to him to help his people.

  He knew he was only one in a long line of Toucouleur marabouts and female seers. His ancestors had been among the first to help spread Islam in their region, yet even so, some of the ancient mystical ways still remained as well. So far he had shown the village only a sampling of the special things that he could do, but this time would
be the ultimate test.

  Oumar had been told the stories of the Unseen One and had believed them to be just children’s bogeyman tales until his grandfather brought him the scrolls. Oumar had gasped as he looked upon the ancient records, written in a fading hand, that documented how their village had been preyed upon for centuries. That which had once been, but a story he now knew to be very real. Oumar felt it was his duty to try to defend his village the best way he knew how.

  He was now ready to negotiate with it—or to battle it once and for all.

  “Bayo, while we still have some light, let us do as we planned.” The apprentice opened the satchel and handed him the paper shirts, drawings and amulets from within.

  “Teacher, are you wearing the amulet that I made for you as well?” Bayo asked eagerly, as Oumar reached up and fingered the small bone-and-leather pendant around his neck that he had been wearing lately. “I made it myself, and I was hoping you still had it on.”

  “I am, thank you. I’ll take whatever extra protection I can get,” Oumar said as they both rushed to put everything on under their robes. The two of them worked quickly to prepare the area around them as well, arranging the papers under the sand in a circle. The two of them surveyed their work, pleased.

  As he and Bayo sat in the center and waited, the sun finally dipped even lower, throwing a spectrum of color over the dry, yellow-tan brush that stretched as far as they could see. Oumar could see the gleaming silver ribbon of the river in the distance as they sat in expectation.

  “How do you know it will come?” Bayo asked with a hint of resignation.

  “It will come because it is tired. It will come because it is time.”

  “And you are certain of this?” Bayo asked again with a long sigh as the last orange glow of the sun started to dissipate along the horizon.

  “It will. Quiet now.”

  In the silence that followed, Oumar closed his eyes and relaxed, allowing himself to meditate and to concentrate on everything around him. With a flash of white, he felt his mind open up. He felt weightless in the void as it filtered all of the stimuli. He allowed himself to be open to the universe—including to its more unsavory occupants. A faint, thin smell came to him. The rank scent was growing stronger and stronger.

  It is coming.

  It was immense, and almost stifling in its anger and animosity, as it came rushing toward them with startling speed. Oumar could feel it—ancient, unstable, unsure of its intent. Almost as soon as he picked up on these impressions, the presence was before them.

  Its voice, a low and guttural growl, came to him within his head before he actually saw it. He opened his eyes to see Bayo still sitting beside him. The djinn’s attention shifted.

  “You have no quarrel with him, Old One,” Oumar politely told it in a calm, even voice. Bayo looked up, fear filling his face, but did as instructed beforehand by trying to remain calm.

  Oumar could now see the djinn clearly with the disappearance of the sun. Tall, yet thin of build, the Old One was appearing to him as a man. Gaunt, with long, razor-sharp fingernails, it turned its milky, luminescent eyes upon them. The dust had started to settle around the djinn as it stopped moving, but its bloodied gray robes flowed around it in undulating tattered rags, as if still propelled by the whirlwind. Its forearms were covered with blood and thick, crusting gore. Oumar watched in barely contained disgust as the djinn licked blood away from its ashen lips, exposing sharp, fanged teeth.

  “I see you are not surprised by my appearance,” the Old One said, its voice now a series of rumbles like that of a storm passing.

  “With all due respect, I am not here to comment on your looks. I am here to discuss, to negotiate with you.”

  “You? Negotiate with me? That is laughable,” the Old One said in contempt as its milky eyes looked at Oumar. “It will not happen. I am owed as much for what was done to me so long ago.”

  “So long ago that it has faded into memory? Old One, let it blow away like this dust we now stand upon. You must let go of your past and your need for revenge. Be absolved. Move forward, and contribute to the universal energy once more. There is no need to continue down this wicked path.”

  “Never again. This is of my choosing.”

  “This is your wish?”

  “It is,” it said, taking a step towards them.

  “Not one step more,” Bayo said, pointing toward the ground for emphasis. “Not one step.”

  “Oh, he speaks, I see?”

  “Bayo? You can see it?” Oumar said, his pride in his apprentice’s awareness swelling just as the djinn moved swiftly, creating a strong breeze that shifted the dirt around it, exposing a paper mat with inscriptions. Angered, it turned and stood before Oumar. Oumar blanched at the djinn’s discovery of his ruse.

  It whirled around, its teeth bared. “How dare you try to trick me and bind me!”

  Oumar stepped back, shocked that it did not work. How could that be? The djinn used this surprise to its advantage, advancing upon him with one hand raised, its claws menacing.

  “Now my teacher! Now!” Bayo shouted, distracting the djinn for a moment, just long enough for Oumar to get his bearings and start to recite supplications to Allah. At that moment, the djinn paused on another of the geomantic papers that had been hidden under the sand.

  The djinn screeched—a deafening, piercing howl—and its body lurched forward, before jerking backwards again, as if pulled by marionette strings. Despite its convulsions, Oumar’s body started to chill and prickle all over as he felt the djinn building up the strength to combat all of their work by draining energy from the space around it. It looked at Oumar one more time before sneering and moving toward Bayo.

  “No!” Oumar yelled as the djinn rapidly closed in on his apprentice. Bayo screamed, his eyes closed, as the djinn approached. It took one swipe at the young man, who cried out in pain as the djinn’s talons cut into his flesh, tearing through his clothes and paper shirt, before it abruptly disappeared. Oumar turned around, looking for what he sensed was still there.

  Where did it go? I can feel its essence, but where could it have gone?

  Oumar caught his breath and turned to look at Bayo. He was surprised to see his apprentice standing before him with a large rock in his hands. Confusion spread across Oumar’s face. “Bayo! What are you doing?”

  Bayo’s face was contorted with a delirious, feverish pleasure.

  Oh, no.

  Oumar’s eyes widened with comprehension, and his hands flew to the amulet around his neck. The amulet! He had been deceived. Bayo had learned from him a little too well—including how to block Oumar’s abilities when it came to this djinn. His mind raced as he thought of the village and its people . . . how they would be picked off one by one . . .

  Everything around him blurred in his panic as Bayo suddenly brought the stone down upon him. He felt blood streaming from the side of his head, and once again he started to recite the supplications, repeating them over and over again, hoping the effect of the powerful words would help him. Oumar’s voice sounded slurred and thick to himself as he began to lose consciousness. As his eyes started to close, he could see the djinn reappear beside Bayo, its sharp teeth curving into a smile as it raised one of its clawlike hands again. Oumar felt searing pain as it started to rip into him.

  “I knew you would come,” Bayo said to it, smiling as Oumar’s body crumpled forward to the ground.

  “I knew my master would come for me.”

  The Share

  Terence Taylor

  Kenny had been in the apartment for almost a week before he noticed the sounds. Running water from the kitchen when there was no one there. Soft, feminine humming in the next room. Music from a distance, faint as a whisper, yet intimately close—traces of Nina Simone and Toni Braxton, jazz classics and soulful R&B, with occasional flashes of percussive Third World rhythms. Whiffs of perfume every now and then, or a brush of warm air, soft as a breath, on the back of his neck. Nothing tangible, just dim echoes
of a phantom female presence.

  He dismissed it all as new apartment jitters. The acoustics were different here, that’s all. So was the airflow. Thin walls made noises from other apartments sound closer than they really were. Air shafts outside the bathroom windows carried strange smells from floor to floor.

  Wishful thinking played a part in it as well. Losing his live-in girlfriend, Nadine, after two years together had left Kenny hungry for the constant company of a woman, for her civilizing influence over his space and time. He missed the signs of femininity around his apartment, from scented potpourri sachets to stockings found in odd places, from potions to treat any ailment in the medicine chest to a refrigerator stocked with fresh food. Nadine had been more than his girlfriend; she’d been his anchor, his connection to the real world, the only thing that kept him from being an introverted, porn-addicted computer geek living on take-out food, like most of the programmers on his staff.

  The last night Nadine made them dinner, she’d told Kenny it was over, and he couldn’t believe it. How could she not have been happy with him when he was so completely satisfied with her? But, of course, his inability to see past his own needs was one of the reasons she had claimed to be leaving him.

  Except that he was the one who had to leave.

  This apartment in Brooklyn was the first he’d found that he could afford, larger than he’d expected to find, a one bedroom with enough space for a makeshift home office, and rent-controlled to boot. It was a corner apartment in an elevator building, with windows on two sides that poured in bright light during the day and offered good cross-ventilation when there was a breeze. North of Flatbush Avenue, it wasn’t in trendy Park Slope, but in Prospect Heights, an up-and-coming neighborhood on the other side of the avenue. Still black enough for him to feel comfortable, it was just gentrified enough to have all the Manhattan comforts he’d grown used to uptown at Nadine’s.