The Ancestors Read online

  “You said the last part of that kinda quietly, my good brother. Is there some reason why all of a sudden the light wouldn’t be stronger? Something I should know about?” Rashid stared at his teacher, who avoided direct eye contact.

  “And,” Abe said quietly, as he continued to clear away the remnants of their dinner, “the shades are now returning to where they last felt her presence to be the strongest, and the most vulnerable, in Ethel’s house—where you saved her the first time.”

  “I’ve never been to Ethel’s house; I never knew Aziza a long time ago, and you haven’t answered—”

  “Your sentinel spirit has been there,” Abe said quietly, turning his back to Rashid again as he worked. “And she took a little bit of it home with her again today. The combined force has now created the beacon they were looking for . . .”

  With his back still turned to his student, Abe caught Rashid’s arm in midair as his student reached for Abe’s shoulder in an attempt to spin him around. “Like radar.”

  “Damn,” Rashid whispered, removing his hand from the elderly man’s grip, and assessing his strength in the process. “I hear you.”

  Facing him, Abe leveled his gaze at Rashid and let out a long breath before continuing. “The more contact you have with her, the more energy you both exchange, and the more you’ll tip off both of your positions. That’s why you need to keep your distance, and if you can, shake her out of your mind and dreams. Right now, they just don’t know for sure where, or who, either of you are—yet. However, now they have their suspicions. Being in constant motion, and living from pillar to post, has kept you both alive. I can also finally see that Ethel was right, moving that child around, too, was in the child’s best interest.”

  “She lived just like me, albeit a little better. But we had the same deal.” Rashid reached out slowly and placed his hand squarely on Abe’s shoulder. When his teacher didn’t stop him, Rashid offered his question in a near whisper. “What happened in that house that would make the woman want to sell off every stick of furniture in there?”

  “Ain’t for me to tell you,” Abe sighed, “no more than I’d break your confidence by telling her anything deep to the personal about you.”

  “Okay, that’s fair,” Rashid conceded, removing his hand from the old man’s shoulder and allowing it to fall to his side. “Then tell me what you can,” he added, rolling his neck to relax the muscles in his shoulders, “whatever will help me help her—us. Like you said, time is running out. I may not be honed to perfection yet, but maybe having a willing enough spirit to help her is gonna have to suffice—given the time issue.”

  The honesty of Rashid’s statement gave Abe pause. He leaned back against the sink and looked at the floor before he spoke. Okay, progress, Rashid thought. Maybe he’d finally gotten through to the old man.

  “Ethel told me Aziza was The One, but I didn’t want to accept it at first. Ethel had the gift of prophecy through dreams, and she said this magnificent room filled with finely dressed people of royal stature had come to her and shown her Aziza and named her before she was even conceived. Ethel didn’t know it then, but The Ancestors had sent her the sign she’d been praying for.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want Aziza to be The One? She’s beautiful, and seems nice, and genuine, and—”

  “Because she is so dear to me,” Abe whispered. “That’s why. And this mission is dangerous. There are no guarantees. Ethel was dear to me, too, and I knew that her grandchild would be in harm’s way. If something had happened to Aziza before Ethel crossed over, it would have broken that poor woman’s heart—and so, yes, I do know how it feels to be in the cloister, my boy. Oh, I know. Trust me on that.”

  “So, we could never . . .” Rashid let the question trail off, answering it in his own mind.

  “Sleep with her—only with profound love for her in your heart, merge your bodies, minds, and spirits, and you’ll effectively be offering both of yourselves up to them on a silver platter. That’s why lovemaking is a sacred act,” Abe said in a low murmur, answering the question that Rashid had never completed. “It is something not to be entered into unadvisedly, or without the proper hallowed rituals, prayers of commitment, and community protection involved. You need a village. Trust me on this.”

  Rashid looked toward the mirror and rubbed his sore wrist, still feeling Abe’s grasp. “Tell me this, old man,” he said quietly, but in a more reverent tone, “why are they after me and her?” Tears filled his eyes as he thought back on the number of people that had mysteriously died in his midst. “I was the one at fault, wasn’t I . . . for the ones . . .”

  Gathering him into an embrace, Abe held him for a moment before speaking. “You did not kill those women. Something definitely evil has been after you for a long time, boy. And you, by your very nature, picked decent, good mates whom you loved with your full heart. When you connected with those good people, you gave up body, mind, and spirit. The shades went after those young women, initially following your joyous light, thinking they were The One, Aziza. Then they realized those women weren’t her, and they needed to keep you on the hunt looking for her.”

  “They had me walking point . . . taking them all into a trap,” Rashid’s voice rasped. His shoulders heaved from the deep breaths he took to stifle the agony of those memories. “Why didn’t they just kill me?”

  Abe held him more tightly, and tried to find soothing words for the inexplicable. “They couldn’t just kill your body to win, son, because your spirit would have still been good—eternally. You’d come back time, after time, after time . . . just like she could, and therefore you both represent an eternal risk factor for them. They needed to crush your spirits too, not just your physical bodies. Their goal was to enter your mind, fracture it, make you kill yourself, then draw you from the light. There were no limits to what they’d use to blind you to it, or to break your spirit, in order to keep you from going through The Veil with her—once they discovered who your previous lovers were not. But, even still, it was not your fault. How would you have known, and what healthy young person would shun love?”

  “Innocent people died,” Rashid argued, tensing against the embrace as his voice broke. “And for what? Because I have a spiritual hit on me? She has a spiritual hit on her? Why? What veil . . . what the hell has this all been about?”

  A mixture of anger and sorrow collected within Abe’s soul as he allowed Rashid to yank himself away. He could only watch helplessly as the young man straightened and refused to give in to the sobs he knew Rashid needed so badly to release. Damn them, how could they have tortured this young man this way?

  “When you first came to me a year ago,” Abe said in a gentle but firm tone, “they’d almost taken your mind over the edge. My granddaughter is the same way now . . . frightened, paranoid, joyless, urge-driven, physically exhausted, light starved, and spiritually confused. They’re taking everything away from her, cornering her till she breaks. But I have something you must see.” Abe walked across the room and then stared over his shoulder at Rashid. “Something to ease your pain and to let you know who you are . . . something to give you hope and purpose and renewed strength.”

  Motioning with his arm, he bade Rashid to come closer, leading the young man to stand before the mirror. He flung off the thick dust cover and then returned his attention to Rashid. “Look at your image, and tell me what you see.”

  “The walking dead. A man who goes through the streets at night helping the helpless, with no life of his own. A man, who killed men in war,” Rashid muttered without lifting his head. “Someone now cursed . . . who still gets innocent people killed.”

  “Look harder,” the old man urged, “and it will also tell you who I am—how old I am.”

  Rashid drew a deep breath and expelled it quickly with exasperation. He stared at the mirror and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Pain is blocking your amazing gift of vision. Look at it, and think of nothing hurtful.”

  Again, Rashid stared at h
is own battered reflection. He noted how his eyes had reddened, and how he stood next to an elderly man within a tiny shop. But he could see compassion in the old man’s expression. There was definitely friendship, a sort of indefinable caring . . . if not an unlikely bond.... something almost near a resemblance. “Yeah, it’s me and you, Mr. Abe. I guess that’s cool. I trust you, and I owe you. I try to look out for those who look out for me, so I’ll check on you from time to time—you know, to make sure you’re all right. I’ll look out for her, but . . . this spiritual stuff just ain’t for me.”

  “Your eyes are still not seeing what they should,” Abe Morgan whispered, then waved his hand before the glass. “Perhaps you are too tired. So much at once, and so unprepared. Too much, too soon . . . with hurts so deep. This time, I will step in, and help guide you in prayer.” Then the old man’s lips began to move as though in fervent prayer. “Let God’s truth be revealed. May God’s truth set you free.”

  The once still lights began to dance again in the room. Rashid glanced back at the mirror, squinted, and rubbed at his eyes. Their two motionless images in the mirror seemed to liquefy and move within a new color spectrum bordered by the huge, pure silver frame. His depth perception seemed off, and the three-dimensional quality of the lights splintered any logical explanation within his mind. The store in the background appeared to be replaced by something he couldn’t quite make out or fathom. Transfixed by the slow transformation, he took in shallow breaths as the images came into clear view.

  Then he saw it all, understood it for the first time in his life, and openly wept.

  Chapter Eight

  Music blared through the house as she slipped under the warmth of the scented bubbles that covered her. Smooth jazz notes filtered into the bathroom, mingling with the lavender aroma and fresh paint smell that made her heady. God, it was so good to be able to relax . . .

  Scrubbing at a stubborn fleck of paint that refused to be dislodged from her forearm, Aziza gave up and tossed her loofa sponge back into the bubbles, and sank down lower to soak off the offending particle. With her eyes closed, she drifted lazily, pleased with her accomplishments of the day. She didn’t even open them as she reached for the nearby glass of Zinfandel that rested next to her steaming tub. The chilled liquid slid down her throat easily, and the contrast of heat and coolness made her sigh with pleasure. Today had been an excellent day!

  After all, she’d not only made a hefty sum that would keep her from having to immediately panic about employment, which meant that she would be financially stable until spring, but she had also finally rearranged the house to her liking. True to their word, the movers had returned and placed all of her most necessary furniture where she’d wanted it. The living room and dining room now had clean Danish-modern lines, the kitchen looked like an updated chef’s haven, her home office was organized and technologically proficient, but most importantly, she could finally sleep in the bedroom.

  With her large stereo wall unit blocking Ma Ethel’s emptied-out closet, a fresh coat of paint, and just a wisp of sheer curtains to cover the more modern mini-blinds she’d hung, the room took on a new life of its own. No more haunting crevices, bed skirts, or dust ruffles. Old, giant-flowered-print curtains had been trashed. An old, worn hook rug had given way to a brighter, expensive Oriental one, and bookshelves and modern art would grace the walls as soon as the paint dried.

  Now, that was a room she could sleep in, she mused. Although the transformation had been an eclectic compromise, with antiques dotting the otherwise totally new-millennium look, it worked. An old vanity here, a country basket there, against a background of technology, seemed to be an appropriate mix for who she was . . . a little of the old interspersed with a mostly new-age Aziza.

  She giggled to herself, thinking of the panic attack she’d experienced when the antique dealer had come to the house. That had been too crazy, totally silly. The man must have thought she was a lunatic! And her few distant friends did have a point. She was centrally located within walking distance to Center City, and all of the hottest little hideaway restaurants and shops on South Street. She could walk to Penn’s Landing, on a nice day, or walk to the Italian Market, and the third floor of her home could either be turned into an office, or could become income-bearing property.

  Either way, she sleepily mused, at her age—with no mortgage on the large brownstone she inhabited, no credit card bills, and no car note, and no one to care for but herself, she was literally set. Her options were vast. Indeed, it was all a matter of perspective—a point of view that had suddenly shifted with her change of luck. Why hadn’t she been able to see it all before, and what had made her give in to unnecessary depression? Stupid!

  She could retire, or go back to school, travel, or even work as a coffee-shop waitress, if she wanted to, just to pay her minimal annual real estate taxes and monthly utilities.

  As the sense of peace totally surrounded her, it suddenly dawned on her that she’d found herself in an unheard of, comfortable position for a young black woman. Just like Ma Ethel used to tell her, “Peace, be still.” One had to get still enough to count one’s blessings.

  Reaching up to the spigots, she turned the knob to add more hot water to the cooling tub, and finished her glass of wine. She gently returned the glass to the floor and shook her head in amazement as she eased herself back into her previous lounging position. Wow, everything had a domino effect, triggering the next event as each piece fell into place. It was like a grand design on an enormous swath of fabric, where one couldn’t see the entire intricate pattern up close, and full understanding required an aerial view.

  Aware that the tub was about to overflow, she used her toes to pull the plug, still allowing the hot water to run. “Yep,” she whispered with her eyes still closed, “you were right, Ma.”

  She let the comforting thoughts join the escaping water. If her parents hadn’t died early, and the way they did, maybe she wouldn’t have hidden her pain behind the books, and been as driven to go into the field of justice. If she hadn’t been so terrified of the house, she wouldn’t have spread her wings early on to experience schools and internships around the country, which gave her an excellent foundation.

  Without that foundation, she would never have been able to get a plum position so young. And, at that firm, she was not only able to help a lot of people in need, but she was also able to acquire exquisite art and still pay off her bills. If any of her relationships had culminated in marriage, hindsight being 20/20, she’d probably be in divorce court now, she laughed to herself, or perhaps involved in a custody battle with one of those jerks! Plus, they probably would have done the perfectly acceptable yuppie thing, and bought a big house . . . somewhere far away . . . had kids, and been locked into a certain lifestyle. At her age, without a potential lover on the horizon, she reminded herself to keep that reality in front of her to chase away any looming blues.

  “It’s all good . . .” she whispered. Had Ma Ethel not taken ill, and had she not left her job, perhaps she would never have trimmed down her lifestyle, which now gave her unsurpassed freedom, nor would she have ever considered moving back into this wonderful old house. And, she reasoned, if she had not witnessed how short and unpredictable life could be she would probably be in credit-card hell now.

  Aziza laughed at her own stubborn temperament, as she began to draw herself out of the bath. Her muscles still hurt from attempting to get it all done in one night. But, she mused, that was her way. Just like with the credit cards. She’d put things on credit for a few months, then pay off the entire bill when her cases settled. She’d buy things that she liked, but only after striking a deal, or meticulously watching for them to go on sale. The old farts at the law firm had taught her one basic rule: never buy retail.

  She chuckled again as she toweled herself dry, and thought of those fairly wealthy gentlemen who stood around the office each morning with coffee mugs in hand, bragging about how much they’d saved over this insignificant item, or tha
t. While she’d witnessed and endured with excruciating anguish their attempts to out-cheap each other, there had been a method to their madness. Like Ma Ethel had instructed her, she’d watched them, picking up little contacts, tidbits, and knowledge from everyone she encountered. Yes, it was all good, she reasoned. You could learn anything from anybody. And, like the harvester ant that her grandmother often compared her to, she’d worked hard, lifting ten times her load, had run around frenetically working, and now it was time to be still. Thank God she hadn’t had a heart attack in the process!

  Sitting on the edge of the tub, she stretched and began applying moisturizing cream to her skin. She’d stayed in the bath so long that the water had wrinkled the tips of her fingers and the bottoms of her toes. The smell of fresh paint from the bedroom filtered under the door. Grabbing her heavy flannel robe, she steeled her senses to the cold blast of air she expected to greet her from the bedroom’s half-opened windows as she opened the bathroom door.

  “See,” she told herself with a chuckle, “if you’d had a lover in here waiting for you, flannel wouldn’t be acceptable.”

  As she made her way across the bedroom to the vanity, additional warmth soaked into her feet when she stepped onto the bedroom rug. But there was something wrong with the sensation. It felt wet.

  “Oh, please, not a leak,” she moaned, looking up toward the ceiling. “There’s eight of my ten thousand dollars right there, in a roofing job!”

  Upon inspection of the freshly painted ceiling, there was no evidence to suggest where the dampness at her feet had come from. Aziza ran her fingers through her wet hair, thinking about the tub. “A plumbing job is just as bad,” she groaned, pacing back into the bathroom and throwing on the light switch. Kneeling down at the head of the huge, old claw-footed tub, she inspected the spigots, the drain, and then looked back over the floor for source evidence of a trickle of water. Then she froze.