Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten & Other Stories

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Itekwa rolled smoothly. He got up as Gwengyn retrieved his bow and nocked another arrow. Itekwa leapt high into the trees as Gwengyn’s shot missed. Itekwa used his long arms and supple feet to grab at the thin tree trunks and fairly fly through the canopy. Gwengyn loosed another arrow, but it was struck aside by one of the swinging trees.

  Only then did the wound from Itekwa’s bite enter Gwengyn’s consciousness. The pain flared, and he was forced to stop and tend it. It smelled foul, but he had no way to clean it of the god’s taint, so he bound it as best he could with a strip of cloth ripped from his undershirt. He picked up bow and quiver and continued on, watching the canopy for signs of Itekwa and listening for the telltale jingle of chains.

  The trees thinned further. The sound of running water came to him. The grasses, at first short and sparse, grew taller and denser the closer Gwengyn came to the river. It lay just ahead—he could hear it burbling—but Gwengyn stopped, catching a note of vermilion among the swaying, flat-bladed grasses. He ducked low and drew the bowstring just as Itekwa charged from the grasses.

  He loosed the arrow just before Itekwa plowed into him, antlers first. Sharp points tore deep into Gwengyn’s ribs and stomach. He flew backward and slid on his back along the ground, river stones scraping him. He came to a rest at the water’s edge. He regained his feet quickly, searching madly for the dagger as Itekwa charged once more.

  He spotted it among the rushes and lunged as Itekwa roared and leapt. Gwengyn grabbed the dagger and slid it free of the sheath as Itekwa’s foot slammed into his ribs. He screamed and twisted about, slashing wildly.

  But the god was prepared. He leaned away from the swing and then brought his knotted hand across Gwengyn’s brow.

  A high-pitched ringing filled Gwengyn’s ears, and he became severely dizzy. When it passed, he thought he was in a dream. Itekwa removed one of the many fragile chains about his antlers—a chain with a beautiful acorn charm attached to it—and fixed it about Gwengyn’s neck.

  As Itekwa released a harrowing cry, his eyes grew so wide that white showed ’round them. His frame shook with a rigid fury. He touched the wound along Gwengyn’s thigh and with the rough tip of his bloody finger scraped a symbol upon Gwengyn’s forehead.

  Gwengyn knew he was being prepared for death. He ought to feel fear, but the only thing he could think of was Kessa lying in their bed, holding her hand to her stomach while their child lay dying in her womb, fighting the god’s will but sure to lose.

  Make no mistake, Gwengyn son of Callyn, I will take your third child if you fail.

  With an effort filled with anger and fear and love—an effort that took every ounce of his will—Gwengyn reached up and ripped the gold chain from about his neck.

  And his strength was returned to him.

  He blinked fiercely and felt for the lost dagger. One moment his fingers were searching blindly for it and the next they were wrapping around the hilt. He gripped tightly and thrust the knife upward.

  Itekwa roared in pain and lashed out with a muscled forearm. Gwengyn blocked the swing, but his arm paid the price. It went numb from the beating, and he dropped the dagger. Gwengyn kicked at Itekwa’s legs, sending the god tumbling backward.

  Itekwa rolled away, into the river, clutching his leg to staunch the flow of blood. The swift current bore him downriver as he cried his pain to the uncaring skies.

  Gwengyn reached his knees and scrambled for the great yew bow. He reached for an arrow, nocked it, and drew. The arrow curved and splashed harmlessly into the river. Gwengyn reached for another, but found that one broken, the next as well. Either he or Itekwa had crushed the quiver. Every single one of them were now split or bent beyond use.

  He searched madly for the dagger, but could see no sign of it. It couldn’t have gone far.

  Downriver, Itekwa had swum to shore. There, in his gnarled hand, was the buckhorn dagger. Blood still flowed from his thigh, but he was ignoring it.

  Games no longer, his stance whispered.

  Gwengyn took the straightest arrow he could find. Itekwa dodged into the high grasses, not realizing how useless the arrow was. Gwengyn knew it was no good, though. He would never kill with this arrow.

  With this arrow...

  No, perhaps not. But there was another, wasn’t there?

  Gwengyn sprinted back into the forest. He ripped through the tall grasses and the thin trees beyond. Itekwa roared behind him, perhaps relishing this chase before the end finally came. It made Gwengyn run the harder. His heart was near to bursting by the time he reached the path that would lead him to Itekwa’s statue.

  A rock-hard grip pulled at his leg when he was halfway up the path. “It is done, Gwengyn. Die facing your god, at the least.”

  In a sudden move Gwengyn fell and allowed himself to slip down. It sent Itekwa off balance, but only for a moment. Gwengyn pulled his legs under him and shoved as hard as he could while grabbing at a stout clump of mustard-colored growth. Itekwa was heavier than he imagined, but Gwengyn’s shove still picked him up off his feet and sent him flying backward.

  Before Itekwa had hit the ground, Gwengyn was scrambling up the trail again. Only thirty feet up the incline was the red-fletched arrow, the one with the obsidian head. Feeling himself slipping, Gwengyn drove the end of the bow into the soft earth in his desperation to reach it. Again and again he speared it downward, using it to lever himself higher. He was so close!

  One last push and Gwengyn reached the clearing. He snatched the arrow and nocked.

  Spun and pulled.

  Released.

  The arrow flew and buried itself deep in Itekwa’s chest. The god’s eyes widened, his hands swiping at empty air. He slid down the incline in a susurrus of shifting leaves. Gwengyn followed and found him lying against the bole of an ancient tree. Gwengyn stared down, and slowly Itekwa’s half-lidded eyes turned to Gwengyn.

  “Why?” Gwengyn asked, a tear slipping down one cheek.

  “You were chosen, Gwengyn son of Callyn,” Itekwa said, his breath rattling.

  “Chosen...”

  Itekwa smiled then, all of his wildness gone. “So I could die.”

  Gwengyn began to shed tears freely. “But why not tell me, so I could simply have done the deed? Why take my family from me?”

  “Because of the hunt!” Itekwa coughed blood. It spattered over his downy chest. “The heavens do not part their curtains for those slain in mercy.”

  “You could have asked it of me. I would have come.”

  That smile returned to Itekwa’s lips, and his hand reached up and gripped Gwengyn’s leg. “And you would have died.”

  For a long time the two of them remained as they were, staring into one another’s eyes, but then at last Itekwa’s eyes glazed and his hand slipped free.

  When the god’s breathing stopped, Gwengyn sat down and cried next to him, feeling lost, not just for himself but for his people. But then he stood and returned to the clearing and the statue of Itekwa. It took him some time, it used the last reserves of his strength, but in the end he had toppled it over. The head snapped at the neck and rolled to one side. Gwengyn spit on it before heading toward the trail that would lead him home.

  As rain fell lazily around him, he wondered if his people’s god had made it to the Gilded Fields. Perhaps gods had their own life beyond this world, different from men. Or perhaps they just died.

  He looked back only once. He wondered, in that moment, what he would tell his child about his people’s god. Would he tell her that Itekwa was dead and that her father had killed him? Or would he hide it and allow her to live with false hopes?

  But then he turned and climbed the steep slope, heading home toward Kessa.

  Toward Kessa and his unborn child.

  A Trade of Shades

  Ellienne, clothed in a white silken dress, stepped into an unending marble hall spaced in both directions by imposing doors and lacquered rosewood benches. The cold against her bare feet—and her faint memories of this in-between place—
made her shiver.

  Not far away, another door opened. A girl, no more than fifteen, jangling chains hanging from her metal-studded belt, marched into the hall to one of the polished benches. Her hunched posture made it seem like her black leather jacket burdened her, and her jeans, cut off halfway up her shin, exposed tribal tattoos on both legs. Doc Martens squeaked as she twisted and sat cross-legged on the bench. She stared at the striated marble tiles beneath her and picked at the fraying edges of her jeans.

  She had, Ellienne decided, a pretty face despite the dark makeup over her eyelids and the eggplant-colored lipstick. Even the studs in her nose and eyebrows couldn’t hide it.

  Ellienne stepped closer, smiling but unsure. “May I sit with you?”

  The girl looked her up and down with uncaring, heavily shaded eyes. Eventually, she pursed her lips and shrugged.

  Taking that for acknowledgement, Ellienne hiked her dress up and sat, facing the girl. “You’re waiting to go in?”

  The girl shot an anxious look toward the doors. “I guess.”

  Ellienne slid closer and touched the girl’s arm. “Do you remember much?”

  The girl’s brow furrowed, and she glared at Ellienne’s touch. “Barely anything.”

  “It’s wonderful! The valley, the forest, the clear blue water. I’ll bet you can’t wait.”

  “Why would I be looking forward to it?” the girl snapped, but then the corners of her mouth softened, and the stiffness in her posture relaxed. “What about you?”

  “I’m going back.” Ellienne, eyeing the carved door from which the girl had entered, smiled. “Can you tell me about it? How it is now?”

  The girl’s eyes went far away as she stared at the floor. Her posture became progressively more hard, while her hands balled into fists. “There’s so much pain. The dirt, the grime. It’s everywhere, especially in people.”

  Ellienne frowned. Especially in people? “There must be some good.”

  The girl shivered and raked fingers through spiky chestnut hair. A smile touched her lips, but only for a moment. “Yes, there’s some.”

  A door behind them swung open. A figure in a slate-grey robe, face hidden by the deep cowl, stepped out and beckoned. The girl hesitated. She was so much more beautiful when she smiled. “Good luck,” she said to Ellienne, and followed the figure.

  After the door clicked shut and the echoes faded away, Ellienne reexamined the hall. She hadn’t seen the cracks in the floor before, the scrapes at the edges of the benches. Dirt fouled the corners; dust tainted the air. Why hadn’t she seen that before?

  A door opened across the hall. A robed figure held out an emaciated hand.

  Well, she thought, things couldn’t be that bad, could they? She followed, and the door boomed shut behind her.

  Good Morning Heartache

  “Baby, you practiced today?”

  No response, but I could hear him in his room talking with someone and playing that hip hop garbage of his. I’d had a long, long day, and maybe I shouldn’t have been so keyed up, just walking in the door, but I swear someday that child is going to be the death of me. I walked straight to his room and cracked my head against the door trying to open it. It wasn’t locked—no son of mine is having locks on his door—but there was something piled up on the other side. The talk stopped, and I heard them shuffling around inside.

  And I smelled it.

  “Lord have mercy, baby. I told you you can’t be smoking that stuff in my house.”

  The door opened and Dion stood there. He looked shamed, but mostly he was defiant, like I was the enemy. As time had gone on he’d done that more and more, and every time he did I lost a little bit more of myself.

  Combs sat on the far side of the bed in his big old coat and his retro afro, acting cool as summer tea.

  “Give it here,” I said. “Now.”

  It took a minute, but Dion went to his computer desk and took out a small bag of weed from behind the monitor. He handed it to me while staring down at my worn work shoes.

  I shook the bag at Combs. “You bring this into my house?”

  He sat there, his face blank, unapologetic.

  “I brought it, Mama,” Dion said.

  I stared at Dion, sure he was lying. He knew—though I hated to admit it—that I wouldn’t do much to him. But Combs... I catch him bringing weed into my home, his parents are going to hear about it, the cops, his pastor, even his grandmamma who lives in Tennessee would hear about it.

  “Go on home.”

  He left without saying a word while Dion fell onto his bed.

  “When’s this going to stop?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “It was only a little bit.”

  I took a deep breath, fighting the urge not to walk over and hit him upside his little corn-rowed head. That wasn’t the way to win him back; his third time running away had taught me that. He’d been gone nearly a month when the cops found him sleeping in the attic of a South Bronx row house that looked like it was ready to cave in on itself. I couldn’t afford to give him another reason to go back to those people. He’d be selling for sure.

  If he wasn’t already.

  “What would your father say?”

  He opened his mouth, and I could hear the words already—can’t say nothing, he’s dead—but he changed his mind, I think, because he dropped his head and said, “Sorry, Mama.”

  “You’re talking to Dr. Michaels about this next Monday.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “I asked if you’d practiced today.”

  He shook his head.

  “You got a recital in ten days, Dee.”

  “I know the songs.”

  “Not if that mess you played last night is what you’re calling know.”

  He stared at me.

  “Well?”

  He went into his closet, which was hardly more than a pile of CD cases and computer cables and keyboards, and grabbed his trumpet case. He threw it on the bed and tried to walk past me.

  “Where you think you’re going?”

  “We’re out of Coke.”

  “No, no.” I pointed to the case. “Go on. I’ll get you your Coke, Massah Dee.”

  “Shut up, Mama.”

  I headed down in our slow-as-hell elevator and stepped out after reaching the basement.

  And then I stopped in my tracks.

  Ten feet ahead, blocking my way to the locker room, was an old black man lying on the painted concrete, peering into a metal case the size of a lunch box. As soon as he realized he wasn’t alone he stood, dreadlocks flying. He towered over me.

  The first thing that popped into my head was rape. I was only five-five; he was at least six-two, and he must have outweighed me by a hundred pounds.

  I backed up, ready to run.

  He grabbed his case and charged after me. I turned and ran, screaming for help, but before I knew it he was right by me, shoving me into the wall.

  I cowered against the cold, cinder-block wall, but he just kept on running, past the elevator and into the stairwell leading up to the first floor.

  I sat there, breathing. Part of me knew I should get up and get back upstairs, call the cops. Another part of me, the part that was confused and angry, wanted to know what the hell he was doing breaking into our basement.

  I stared at the door to the locker room, still gasping for breath, and then it hit me. Dee!

  Knowing the elevator would take too long I ran to the stairs and climbed the eight floors up to our apartment. The door was open, like I’d left it, and when I stepped inside, nothing, thank the Lord, seemed different.

  As I listened to Dee practicing his trumpet down the hall, the tightness in my shoulders and arms released.

  Seconds later, though, the hairs on my arms stood up.

  Usually Dee would play “Mo’ Better Blues.” Poorly. It was his favorite song and the one I’d used to get him to sign up for the Music Outreach program at school. His instructor had given strong praise those first few months, but
ever since then Dee had been putting in the bare minimum, practicing only when I pushed him and talking about the recitals like they were worse than civics.

  Tonight, though, he was playing “Good Morning Heartache.” Billie Holiday’s lyrics were replaced with sad and soulful notes that reminded me of a lazy river. He played beautifully. Perfectly.

  I opened his door slowly to find him sitting on his bed, eyes closed, playing the song with a mournful expression on his face. I swear, in that moment, that boy was Satchmo in the flesh.

  “Dee?”

  The song cut off, leaving a breathless silence between us.

  He blinked, looked up at me with a confused expression.

  “How’d you do that?” I asked, wanting to hear him talk more than I wanted an answer.

  “Do what?”

  “Play like that.”

  He shook his head as he stared at the trumpet.

  “I haven’t started yet, Mama.”

  The hairs on my neck stood just as high as the ones on my arm. “Yes, you did. You were playing an old Billie Holiday song.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “No, I wasn’t. I just took it out. Now go on.” He smacked his lips and put a face on like he’d just spent three waterless weeks in the Mojave. “Get me some Coke.”

  “Please,” I said, too unsettled to be angry with his tone.

  “Please.”

  I backed slowly out of his room and went to the kitchen. I waited for him to start playing, and when he did it sounded like it always had: “Mo’ Better Blues,” cracks and stutters and missed notes galore.

  I put on two sweaters that night.

  I never did get warm.

  I saw the old man again a week later. Dion was out the door early for an extra lesson before school. I followed him for a few blocks to make sure, and then, as I was headed for the subway stop, I saw the man walking on the other side of the street. He wore a tattered army coat and a grease-stained fedora that barely contained his dirty pile of dreads. I hid behind an old yellow Cadillac and waited as he crossed the street, looking into that box as he went.