Passage Page 3

  Then the soldiers rolled him over onto his back, and one of them stepped up and kicked him right between the legs. He kicked him with fury. He was smiling this detached smile, as if he was somewhere else. His eyes were glazed over, and a bead of sweat was trickling down his temple. His hair was wet from sweating, and his mouth was open and reaching, like he was waiting to taste something. The soldier was just kicking him over, and over, and over again, in this swaying rhythm. With each kick he would bring his leg back real far, open up his hips, and then with all of his force, drive his leg forward, thrusting his foot into brotherman’s crumpled body at his feet. The soldier just kept kicking him, moving brotherman’s body a few more feet with each kick, as his crew cheered him on. The soldier let out this wild, wounded scream and he kicked brotherman one last time right between his legs. As cold as it was outside, the soldier was sweating hard now, and his body was limp from exhaustion.

  The soldier leaned down over brotherman’s body and pulled out his gun. He took brotherman’s bloodied head and turned his face up. Warrior could hardly see any features on his face, just streams and streams of blood. He heard brotherman moan as the soldier opened his mouth and shoved his gun down brotherman’s throat. The sound of teeth shattering as the gun entered was deafening.

  Brotherman started choking as the blood and shattered bits of teeth flooded down his throat. He started spitting up a mass of red and white fluid. Pieces of teeth littered the sidewalk. The soldier wiped the sweat off his upper lip with his palm and stood up. The other soldiers came over, cuffed brotherman, and threw his bloodied body into the back of one of their cars.

  As they finished up their work, the little boy sat only ten feet away on his plastic yellow three-wheeler. He was about eight years old and had one of those huge, bullet-shaped heads. His big brown eyes were set deeply into his dark brown face. His lower lip hung low, the lollipop Warrior had given him hanging from his mouth. His little hands held on tightly to the handlebars of his three-wheeler. From underneath the green hood that he wore to keep his ears warm, the only visible features were the long stick of the lollipop and those huge brown eyes.

  He had just been sitting there the whole time, watching. He hadn’t cried or screamed, just watched. The boy looked, intently, at the few onlookers who were crying, and then he slowly pedaled the ten feet that separated him from the pool of blood on the concrete. He stuck his hand in the pool and brought up a finger covered in red. He smelled it and then stuck the finger in his mouth, tasting the blood.

  Just then one of the soldiers looked at the boy and screamed, “Hey! What are you doing?!”

  The boy just turned his head and fixed his eyes upon the soldier. The soldier went over and grabbed the boy by his shoulders, ripping him from his three-wheeler. As his legs dangled in the air, the soldier screamed at the boy, “I’ll teach you to stop looking at things that ain’t none of your business!”

  The soldier threw the boy in the back of his car. Then he and another one of the soldiers climbed into the back and slammed the door shut. Warrior and the others on the outside couldn’t hear anything but the sound of kicking and the grunts of the soldiers. Warrior’s jaw tightened and his muscles flexed as the soldier’s gun trained at his head did not waver. After a few minutes, they opened the car door. One of the soldiers climbed into the driver’s seat and closed his door. Just as the engine of the car started, the other soldier, the one who had first grabbed the boy, threw the boy’s body out of the car. The soldier who had kept his gun marked on Warrior, smiled and jumped into the passenger side of his car. Then all of the soldiers’ cars sped off, carrying brotherman’s body with them.

  When Warrior and the few other onlookers rushed to the side of the boy who had landed on his chest, they turned his body over and saw that his face was completely covered with blood. His green hood was thrust back, the sweatshirt torn and red. An older woman, with worn hands, unwound from her head the colored cloth that had held her hair in place, gently cradled the boy in her arms, and wiped the blood from his face. After a few moments, the woman’s hands finished their duty, and wiping the last remnants of blood away from the boy’s still cradled head, she asked, “Little boy, are you OK?”

  The boy calmly nodded his head and then turned his face up to look at her. As he opened his eyelids, the woman released a deep, low scream. She saw that where his beautiful brown eyes had once been, there was now nothing but bloody, empty holes.

  Warrior looked up and saw that the doors of the train had finally opened at his station. He stood, threw his bag across his back, and walked to the opened doors. As he moved past the blue soldier still standing at his post, Warrior’s hands tightened into fists, and his eyes closed to near slits as he stared at the soldier. Warrior moved by him, close enough to smell the musky odor of sweat and leather that rose off the soldier’s body. The blue soldier looked at this man, unaware of the memories that flooded his mind. Warrior walked past the soldier and out into the cold air of the night.

  Now the snow was falling heavily. The city streets sound different when it snows. The din of the city is calmed, the streets tranquil. As the white cascades down out of the black sky, quiet falls with it. As Warrior walked, his feet left footprints on the white ground and he increased his stride, trying to make the few blocks he still had to go pass quickly. He could hear his steps. The snow made him feel as if he were alone, in a ghost town, surrounded by barren, empty buildings. There was no one else on the streets, and the cars were parked, avoiding the icy roads. Windows were shut tightly closed to keep the heat inside. Along with the heat, the windows kept the sound of life within their glass walls. The laughter, the music, the voices of lovers, the cackling of televisions, the reoccurring sounds of daily arguments, all were trapped inside the buildings. Warrior enjoyed the peace.

  The wind was blowing hard, or as his father would say, the Hawk had arrived. Warrior pulled his black wool hat down over his ears. As he turned the corner, now only three blocks from home, he thought of family. He remembered that his mother had told him that after work she had to take his sister downtown to buy her a new winter coat. At school, her favorite purple jacket had been ripped beyond repair when she had fallen from the jungle gym and her coat caught on a jagged edge of the metal bars. It was her favorite coat and she had worn it every day since Christmas. Yesterday, after she tore it, she had come home, her ashy face lined with tear tracks. After gently scolding her for not using enough lotion on her face, and taking her into her lap and her arms, the only way their mother got her daughter to stop crying was the promise to buy her the very same coat.

  With the bitter cold his mother had to replace it right away. Come morning there would be a lot of snow on the ground. Even though he liked to come home to his sister’s smiling face, and his mother’s voice, it was better that his sister got her coat now, so that tomorrow he could take her to play in the snow. Now between the darkness and the snowfall, Warrior couldn’t see too clearly. The street was a side street, and what few street-lights there had once been, were now broken. It was then that his peace was interrupted.

  At first it had just sounded like dogs barking, but Warrior realized that the sound had more urgency to it. The sound spoke of hunger, not a mere desire for food, but an absolute bare need of it. Warrior heard the cry of the animals again, and he knew it wasn’t the sound of dogs, it was too wild, too possessed. It was the sound of the wolves’ haunted cries.

  Warrior turned quickly and stopped moving. He slowed his breathing and calmed the beating in his head. He listened to the cries and tried to hear if they were coming from behind him. Realizing that they were, Warrior began moving again, increasing his stride, not running, but moving, fast. The sounds were gaining on him as he reached the middle of the dark block. Then Warrior heard the cries coming toward him. They were the same sounds that chased him, and he now knew it was he himself being chased. The sounds that came from the midst of darkness were getting louder, and Warrior knew that he was trapped. The wolves were
coming for him, he had nowhere to run, and so he decided to fight. There would be a battle, he might lose, but the wolves and whatever drove them would know that they had met a worthy warrior.

  Warrior looked around, and through the white darkness saw that to the left of where he stood was an abandoned building. Broken stone steps led to a large piece of plywood that had been secured against the door. All of the windows were boarded up, and graffiti covered the gray brick. To the right of the building was a pitch-black alley that separated the building from the beautiful brownstone that stood next to it. The brownstone’s striking difference lay both in its beauty and the life that lived inside of it. Warrior looked at the alley that reflected no light, but stood his ground.

  No. This is not a time to hide.

  The sounds of the wolves were very close, almost on top of him, and Warrior tensed his muscles awaiting the unseen. Just as the sounds seemed to come together around his body, as the cries of the wolves encircled his ears, Warrior was grasped by a claw and pulled violently into the dark alley.

  He could see absolutely nothing. It was a darkness like the kind you find in dense, overgrown woods, in the Deep South. Even the light of the moon did not even shine in this place. The sounds of the wolves had ceased, and in the silence, Warrior strained to hear a sound, any sound. He was still held by the claw, but now it held him firmly against one of the walls of the alley. It was not painful at all, the claw did not dig into him; it merely held him, firmly, in place, so no thought of escape was possible—like a tiger holds her young in her jaws, with force, but no desire to injure. Warrior did not struggle to get free; he wanted to know what it was that held him. Then a voice spoke:

  Well Warrior, how do you like my wolves?

  Warrior closed his eyes in understanding. Then another voice spoke:

  And the feel of my claw? How does it strike you?

  Warrior remained silent.

  The claw asked:

  What is it that is said of you?

  Warrior replied:

  That I have an ancient spirit, and a wise soul.

  The first voice asked, with too much interest:

  We have been tracking you for quite some time, where are you from, Warrior?

  Warrior said this carefully, measuring his words:

  I am from Africa.

  The first voice asked:

  Really, what part?

  Warrior closed his eyes and bowed his head. There was silence for a few moments as he let his memory run. He called on his spirit and allowed it to answer. Warrior brought his head up, opened his eyes, and looked through the darkness. His eyes reached the voices, and he replied:

  I do not know. I have been lost for four hundred years.

  The first voice hissed, and its sound backed away from Warrior as an animal does when in pain. The claw spoke through gritted teeth, laughing the words:

  Another time, Warrior, Another time . . .

  Then the grip of the claw disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and the sounds of the night returned, free of the cries of the wolves.

  Warrior felt the ground under his feet, and his heart pounding, he quickly ran in the direction of his building. He covered the three blocks in what seemed like a few seconds. He reached the front door, ran up the three flights to his apartment, and burst through the door. He slammed the door shut and locked it securely. His mother had left lights on for him, and so the house was not dark. He was glad that she and his sister were not home, that he did not have to speak to anyone, that he did not have to put on a mask.

  Warrior walked into his room, quickly removed his clothes from his sweating body, and threw them on a chair. Even though his body was soaking wet, he was chilled to his bones. He turned off the light and climbed into his bed, pulled his two quilts up over his shoulders, and tucked them under his chin. His body began to dry as his heart slowed to a normal beat. He curled up and fell into a deep sleep. Warrior slept more soundly than he had in a while, but as always, words ran through his dreams. This night, he heard the cries of wolves.

  CHAPTER 2

  Warrior awoke the next morning to the sounds of his sister’s screaming, and the feel of her tiny hands shaking him.

  “Wawia!Wawia! Dere’s feetandfeetandfeet a snow outside! We could go play?” His sister’s words ran together into one flow of sound as he opened his eyes staring into her grinning face. “Huh?Huh?Huh?We could go play?” she cried with each word, while hitting him in his naked chest.

  Warrior reached over the side of his bed and grabbed her.

  “We could go play if you stop hitting me, otherwise I’m just gonna hold you here and tickle you all day.”

  With that, Warrior began tickling her stomach as she shrieked with delight. As she began to cry with laughter, Warrior stopped. She lay there giggling uncontrollably.

  “You know last night I got a new coat with Mommy. It’s purple, just like the one I got for Christmas. I’m gonna wear it today. OK?” she asked, her eyes wide, her head nodding.

  Lying on his back, Warror picked her up and held her high in the air above his head. Her braids swung down encircling her face, and she kicked her legs as if she were riding a bike.

  As he brought her down and gently placed her feet on the floor, Warrior asked, “How about this? You go and start getting dressed, and I’ll get up and talk Mamma into makin’ us some pancakes. How does that sound?” Her giggle and the speed with which she ran out of his room were answer enough.

  Warrior sat up, stretched his back, and walked to the window. While the steam of the radiator rose up onto his face, he leaned against the window. The cold against his naked chest cooled him. Warrior looked down to the street and saw the snow measured up to the windows of the parked cars. It was early Saturday morning, so few feet had disturbed the perfectly even slopes of fallen flakes. Warrior looked upon the brightness of the sun and realized that the snow was more impressive, its power more intimidating, when it reflected the deep brightness of the moon than when it did the starkness of the sun. He turned away from the street below, took a shirt from his closet, and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

  His mother sat at the table reading the newspaper, drinking a cup of Brazilian ground coffee. She didn’t just drink a cup like most people. His mother had special coffee cups, the tall kind that held two or three average-sized portions. The cup she drank from was gray, splashed with a dark purple and green design. Warrior knew that by this hour of the morning, she had already filled her cup at least three times. As his mother looked up from her paper, she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and smiled.

  “Good morning,” she said, just before she took a sip.

  “Mornin’ Mamma,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  As Warrior sat down at the table with his mother, he thought back to his sleep that night and remembered that he had slept deeply, but not well. The wolves had kept him company. “Yeah, I slept fine,” he lied.

  His mother put the paper down, picked up her cup and held it in both palms, allowing the warmth of the coffee to warm her. Her rich mocha-colored hands were lined with age. They seemed to belong to another’s body, having been mysteriously sewn onto hers one night as she slept. She was a woman of striking beauty, tall and thin, with a refined, elegant posture. Her voice spoke with sweetness, but with a strength that warned, “Do not play with me.” Its tone had been perfected during almost twenty years of teaching high school. She was one of the exceptional teachers. She had the absolute control and respect of her class. Year after year. She would have it no other way. If a student got out of line, her voice would descend and order would quickly follow. She could reach any child, even those with the most attitude. As she always said: “There are no bad children, just children who haven’t met the right adult yet.” She reminded them of their mothers, or the mother they had always wished they’d had. She spoke to the girls like a mother and sister. She spoke to the boys like a mother warrior. She would teach the boys, “A wo
man is not measured by what you can get in the dark; she is measured by what she can show you in the light.”

  This woman brought light, and it guided Warrior onto a path few men had ever tread. The amount of Warrior’s love and respect knew no bounds.

  “I was surprised when we came home so early last night and you were already asleep. Were you feeling all right?”

  Warrior thought about what he had experienced the night before. He remembered the feel of the claw and the sound of the words. He had always had to protect his mother from the visions, from the faces that he saw around him. They would bring her too much pain. He had to keep her somewhat innocent, could never let her completely know. She had sought to protect him for his entire life, now it was his time to protect.

  I bear the scars from protecting you from the demons.

  You are such a strong woman.

  Except when it comes to the pain of your children.

  Warrior looked in his mother’s face and realized how she had kept him alive.

  “Yeah, Mamma, I felt fine, just real tired.”

  She looked into her son’s face and read the pain. He was unreadable to many, a time-perfected mask, but not to her. She had helped write the story. She saw beneath his tightened jaw, saw emotion in his fast and deliberate walk, and certainly, always could see the tenderness in his eyes. She knew his pain, but she still did not know his demons. That is how Warrior wanted it. As a child he had talked to his parents about everything, but now there were some doors that were closed. They felt shut out at times, but these doors did not intentionally shut them out, they held in and protected them. The demons held behind these doors would never fix their claws upon his blood. He would sacrifice himself before that ever happened. His mother took another sip of her coffee and smiled.