Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky

by Kwame Mbalia

“ABIYOYO!”

  With a final roar, the giant splintered into a million tiny fragments of darkness. The mountain folk erupted in a giant cheer. I sagged onto the stone stage floor. The shadow children scampered like kids chasing bubbles, hunting down every last piece of the monster and clutching it tight. They bounced over to me, hopping up and down with pride, and I chuckled wearily.

  “Yeah, all right, y’all did good.”

  “No,” a voice said behind me. Ayanna leaped off the forebear as Thandiwe came to a stop. They both ran over, whooping and hollering along with the rest of the Ridgefolk. “You did good,” Ayanna said. “That was amazing!”

  Thandiwe smiled and punched my shoulder. “Not bad, thief.”

  I smiled and pretended my shoulder didn’t hurt. “Thanks.”

  “Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat, and we turned to see the elders gazing at the shadow children.

  “Oh, right,” I said. I closed my eyes and concentrated, willing the children back to their homes in dark corners and under the moonless sky. With a rush of air, like a balloon released from your hands, the tiny silver-and-black toddlers skipped away, until only one was left. It waved at Gum Baby then dove into the shadow of my leg.

  “That was great, Tristan,” Gum Baby crowed. “Did you see that giant fall back? He was like, Oh no, don’t, y’all too strong, especially you, Gum Baby, you’re really talented and should be cheered, raaaaahhhhhh.”

  I grinned and Ayanna shook her head. Chestnutt hopped over and she and Gum Baby excitedly recounted what had just happened.

  The elders and the Amagqirha gathered around, and everybody grew silent.

  “Your efforts were admirable,” Fezile said. “You have proven yourself to be a true Anansesem. Perhaps…a bit more than was necessary. But, because of this, it is clear to us that the Midfolk need Nyame’s treasure.” The chief elder stared grimly around the chamber. “If childhood stories can be corrupted even here, at the top of Isihlangu, that gash in the sky is indeed a threat to us. Bring the Story Box!”

  At his command, two guards zoomed upward on their hoverboards.

  “Thank you, honored ancestors,” I said, bowing low. “I won’t let you down.”

  As we waited for the guards to return with the Box, I rocked back and forth on my feet with excitement. Finally, after searching for so long, we were close to being able to fix the damage I’d caused. Once we snared Anansi and convinced him to close up the tear in the sky, the gods and heroes could work together to defeat the iron monsters once and for all. Then it was back to my world.

  Within just a few minutes the guards emerged from the crowd, gliding on their forebears, carrying something covered in cloth between them on a little stretcher.

  The chief elder nodded, and the guards set the object down in front of me. “Well, go on, Anansesem,” he said. “Behold your prize.”

  The Story Box awaited.

  I grinned and reached for the cloth—

  —and a sudden electric spike shot through me.

  I whirled around. Something had just stepped onto the stage. No, someone.

  “Tristan? What’s wrong?” Ayanna scrunched up her forehead in confusion.

  But I couldn’t explain it. A person had stepped out of nothingness and stood behind the ancestors, watching us.

  Watching me.

  His face was obscured by the hood of a long cloak, and I swallowed as he began to make his way over to me. Who was this? Another story I had forgotten to dismiss? I racked my brain, trying to imagine who I might have called into this world.

  “Tristan? Aren’t you going to—?”

  “I’m afraid he can’t rightly do that, Miss Ayanna. Not at all.”

  The smooth voice had notes of sadness and joy. Like someone getting ready to laugh or cry or both. It made me want to dance and shout, and I could hear tinkling instruments somewhere in the distance as the man stepped into view. He was large—taller than me, but not quite John Henry’s size. Once he pushed back his hood, I saw that he had a smooth brown face, dimples that threatened to pull out a wide smile, and tight curly hair so black it shone.

  He winked at Ayanna and said, “But I’ll take it, sure enough. I’ll take it and be on my way, if it pleases you.”

  The energy rippling off this dude was jaw-dropping. The tingling sensation I normally got in my fingers now stormed through my whole body, like just being near him would make every story funnier and more memorable.

  “Who are you?” I squeezed out through gritted teeth. Powerful or not, I wasn’t giving up that Story Box. Not now. Not after everything the crew and I had been through. No way, nohow.

  “Oh.” The man actually had the nerve to be surprised, as if I should know him already.

  And…everyone did seem to know him already. Ayanna’s mouth was open so wide I thought I might trip over her chin. Chestnutt trembled as the man walked to center stage to grin cheekily at me. And Gum Baby…

  “Well, sap Gum Baby down and stick her to a wall. Is that who I think it is?”

  The man laughed, a bright and contagious sound that had me smiling along before I could catch myself. “Well, if it ain’t GB. How’s it flowing?”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “You all know this guy?”

  Ayanna nodded, but it was Gum Baby who answered.

  “Sure do! One of Gum Baby’s best students. This is—”

  “My name,” the man said, “is John, but”—he held out a hand—“you can call me High John.”

  WHEN SCHOOL FIRST STARTED, I ate lunch in the library all the time. Monday through Friday you could find me huddled behind a large stack of science-fiction novels, scarfing down a turkey-and-cheese sandwich. I didn’t know anyone well enough to sit with them, and lunchtime was a loud mess of cliques and conflicts. No slick comments meant no quick tempers, which meant no even quicker fists. It was best for me to avoid all that.

  So I went to our library. The librarian was cool—Mrs. Timmons. She would even let me borrow more books than I was supposed to, because we both loved mythology stories. Gods or demigods or heroes? Sign me up. Funny, right?

  One day I devoured my lunch so I could spend the remaining eighteen minutes devouring the latest graphic novel about some caped superhero—can’t remember which one—when a reedy voice interrupted me in the middle of a full-battle spread.

  “That book is dumb.”

  The voice came from behind the stack of books on the table. I leaned to the side to see, sitting across from me, a short, scrawny Black boy with a do-it-yourself haircut, thick red-and-black-framed glasses, super-baggy cargo shorts, and a Malcolm X T-shirt.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said, and went back to my book.

  This kid had the nerve to keep talking. “I’m serious. Gimmicks and overpowered, square-jawed jocks. Miss me with that. And the villains are so over-the-top!”

  Mrs. Timmons glanced over at us with a frown and I glared at the boy. “Okay, cool.” Then I stuck my nose in the book and tried to ignore him.

  He was rude enough to scoot his chair around so he could look over my shoulder. I was too flabbergasted to get angry. You know what Nana calls people like him? Space invaders. Continually pushing into your personal bubble until you pop. But before I could put him in his place, he held out his hand.

  “Edward Garvey. Like Marcus Garvey, except Edward. But everyone calls me Eddie. I just started here this week.”

  Oh. I mean, what are you supposed to do with that?

  I shook his hand. “Tristan,” I muttered.

  “Cool. But, yo, seriously. That book is dumb.”

  I sighed, marked my place with a piece of scrap paper, then leaned back in the chair and studied the kid. He had an earnest, honest expression, like he really expected me to debate him on this, when all I really wanted to do was tell him to scram. But…I didn’t for some reason.

  Maybe it was the look.

  You know what I’m talking about. That look kids have when they’re trying to make friends and aren’t sure how they’
re being received. Hopeful. Anxious. Nervous.

  He fiddled with the straps on his book bag and stared at me.

  Everybody has a story, Nana used to say when I was younger. Listen to it, and they’ll be friendly. Engage with it, and they’ll be your friend.

  Fine.

  “So this is dumb,” I said, nodding at the graphic novel.

  “Yup.”

  “And I guess you got something better?”

  Eddie’s eyes lit up. “Only the strongest, smoothest, wildest hero ever. Rides a crow the size of a Cadillac truck—no, a stretch limo! He even has his own walk-up music—they say drums play when he walks.”

  He started tapping a rhythm on the desk and I started nodding along before I could stop myself. This kid wasn’t so bad. He could lay down a pretty solid beat, and besides, I knew where he was heading.

  “He used to be a prince,” Eddie continued. “In Africa. But he got captured and was forced into slavery. His name—”

  “—is High John,” I said, cutting him off. “High John the Conqueror.”

  Eddie’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. “You know the stories?”

  I shrugged. “My grandmother used to tell them.”

  “Yo, that’s so cool! You know those aren’t really written down anywhere? They were passed along by word of mouth. Does your grandmother know any other stories?”

  “She knows all the stories. Trust me. I’ve been hearing them since I was a baby.”

  Eddie basically dove into his backpack—while still wearing it, which was impressive—and pulled out a battered leather journal. I wrinkled my nose. It smelled like old hot dogs that had been left in the sun. A strange tassel hung from the top of the book—a worn leather cord, frayed and tied back together in several spots.

  “You think she’d tell me some?” He stared at me with a serious look, biting his lip while opening and closing the cover of the journal.

  “What?”

  “Do you think, if you asked her, your grandmother would tell me some? I collect old folktales and stuff like that.”

  “Why?” I asked. That didn’t seem like the sort of thing a normal seventh grader would do.

  “Because. Someone has to. Why not me? I like them. I even got a few drawings of some of the heroes. See? Here’s High John. And here’s John Henry. He’s cool, too, but mostly I love his hammer. And this…”

  His drawings were pretty good, I had to admit. Soon we were both huddled over his journal, arguing over what-ifs and team battles. We were both late to our next period, but somehow it didn’t matter.

  That was the day I’d met my best friend.

  High John or High John the Conqueror or John de Conquer.

  All names for one of the most fascinating folk heroes I’d ever heard of. John Henry may have been powerful, but High John was power personified.

  Now the legend himself—Eddie’s favorite—stood there, dressed like the uncle who’s always the loudest at the family picnic. Pants a little too short to reach the top of his high-top sandals. Butterfly-collar shirt only halfway buttoned, and peeking out from beneath it was a small drawstring pouch hanging from a cord around his neck.

  High John noticed my eyes and smiled, then tucked the pouch back inside his shirt. He stretched and cracked his neck. “We ain’t got time to chew the fat. Grab that Story Box for me, will you?”

  Ayanna bit her lip. Chestnutt’s ears drooped so low they covered her eyes, and Gum Baby looked confused. No one wanted to say anything, and you know what that meant.

  Yep.

  I had to be the one.

  “Mr. High John—”

  “Just High John,” he interrupted with a smile. “Only Mister I knew cracked whips, and I ain’t him.”

  “Right,” I said, flustered. “High John—”

  “But we ain’t got time for chitchat right now.” He walked over and threw an arm around my shoulders, flashing a wide grin at the others on the stage. “Young Tristan here has done a great job so far, but I reckon it’s time to put a little hot sauce on the wheels.”

  He waited, but when everyone—including the elders, still sitting on their spirit stools—stared at him blankly, I sighed. Adults and their strange figures of speech. “He’s saying he wants us to hurry,” I explained to the room before turning to High John. “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I got this. Nyame told us—”

  “Nyame?” High John snorted. “He still ain’t right, is he? Still got the bug juice in his veins.”

  Thandiwe frowned. “Bug juice?”

  “Brand flies,” I said, slightly distracted. High John’s comment bothered me, but I tried to push past it. “And I’m sorry, High John, but we’re taking the Story Box back with us. It’s the only shot we have at saving MidPass!”

  “MidPass?” High John looked around in disbelief. “Y’all think…? Oh, no, no, no.” His arm slipped off my shoulder and he moved to the center of the stage, one hand on his hip and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ain’t no saving MidPass—y’all might as well get that outta your heads. It’s gone. Done for. If not today, then tomorrow. Them monsters done surely chewed through that place by now.”

  His words hit me like a jab to the chin.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I mean gone. Them folks either packed up or they dead. Ain’t nobody moving in MidPass now except for fetterlings.”

  An icy chill swept through Isihlangu, and nobody spoke for several heartbeats. Chestnutt broke the silence with a sniffle, and she collapsed against Ayanna’s legs. Gum Baby tried to form a sentence, but nothing came out. Thandiwe and the Amagqirha pressed their lips tight together.

  “So,” High John said, staring at me, “what we’ve got to do, if we don’t want the same thing that happened to the Golden Crescent and MidPass happening here? We’ve got to take the fight to them.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, boy, I’m trying to save lives! What? You still fixed on the words of one Alkean god?”

  A wave of despair washed over me. The division between the countries was going to destroy everyone before the iron monsters could! High John was one folk hero god who maybe could’ve bridged the gap. But he didn’t seem to respect Nyame or care about MidPass.

  It was just so frustrating!

  A small crowd of onlookers had gathered again, and they muttered among themselves, but I ignored the mounting tension. A growing, wiggling tentacle of doubt wouldn’t let me completely believe High John’s words. MidPass gone? No way. John Henry wouldn’t let that happen. We were just there yesterday. Yeah, okay, the Thicket had been under assault, and yeah, things had looked bad, but Miss Sarah and Miss Rose, and Brer and John Henry, they wouldn’t allow Midfolk to get taken.

  Not unless…

  A sharp inhale sounded next to me. I looked over to see Ayanna holding a hand over her mouth. She’d arrived at the same thought.

  “They’re okay,” I assured her. “They’ve gotta be okay.”

  “Perhaps,” the chief elder broke in, “it would be best to move this discussion and—”

  “Naw, ain’t no need to move, ’cause there ain’t no discussion.” High John shoved both hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Is there, Tristan?”

  Everyone looked at me. High John raised an eyebrow and waited, and a flush of hot anger burned my face. I hated being put on the spot.

  Bad things always happened when I got put on the spot.

  Hardheaded things.

  I was just about to snap off a remark Nana would have something to say about (you know they can hear you across the street, city, or world, no matter where you’re at) when the wiggling little thought that had been bothering me this whole time finally wriggled free.

  “How do you know everyone in MidPass is gone?” I asked slowly.

  High John groaned. “We ain’t got time for—”

  “No. How do you know they’re gone?”

  “I just know.”

  Chestnutt poked
her head up. “Tristan, what is it?”

  I pointed at him. “This dude comes out of nowhere saying it’s over for MidPass and there’s no need to go back there. How do we know? Y’all just trust him? He could be—”

  “I could be what?” High John said with an easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lying? Pulling a fast one? That’d be a mighty low thing for me to do, wouldn’t you say?”

  I glared at him. Ayanna started to interject, but I ignored her. “All I know is I haven’t seen you at all before now, but as soon as Nyame’s Story Box comes out of hiding, you pop up. Nah, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.” I turned to Ayanna and jerked my head at the door. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a country to save.”

  Her eyes widened. I turned to see High John stalking over. Before I could say anything, he had crossed the stage in three steps and grabbed the front of my collar in his fist.

  “Hey, get your hands—”

  But he yanked hard, and I felt something rip. My chest—he was ripping my chest. Wait, no, he was pulling me out of my…What in the…? Everything looked blurry and upside down. A wordless scream spilled out of my mouth and the world went black.

  AIR WHISTLED PAST MY FACE.

  Before I even opened my eyes, I knew we were moving. I lay flat on my back and the rushing winds tugged at the adinkra charms on my wrist. I rolled over to cover them with my other hand, but the floor felt weird. It was soft. Not like a carpet or that fancy rug Mom didn’t let anyone step on. No, it felt like fur or…

  I opened my eyes and immediately closed them again.

  Sweet peaches.

  “If you’re gonna empty your stomach, best to turn outta the wind,” High John said from somewhere off in the distance. “Otherwise you gonna get a face full of nasty.”

  “I’m not going to throw up,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I just…need a second.”

  “Take all the time you want, boy. Ain’t going nowhere but in circles.”

  He sounded sincere, which only made me more determined to get up. I swallowed the lump of sour fear in my throat and forced my eyes open. Glossy black feathers the length of my forearm fluttered in the wind, and I glared at them, then got up on wobbly legs.