Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky

by Kwame Mbalia

  The hiss grew into a shout by the time he was finished. A great pressure, like the weight of the entire world, landed on my shoulders, and it took every ounce of my strength not to buckle under it and sink to the floor. It grew heavier and heavier, and just when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, Uncle C sighed and the weight disappeared.

  “Unless…you give me what I want.”

  “What…is that?” I asked, exhausted.

  “Aw, do I really gotta spell it out for you, boy? That fancy box everybody’s all in a tiff about. You bring that to me, and I’ll give back your precious little book, and nobody’s gotta get hurt. You hear me? It’s on you now, Tristan. Give me what I want, and you can save everybody.”

  The Story Box? Everyone wanted the power of that thing. But why—?

  Before I could respond, the invisible rope yanked at me again, and I was dragged backward out of the room, Uncle C’s last words following me into the hallway:

  “You want to be a hero, right?”

  And then I was back at the entrance, staring into the dark, two torches floating alongside me. I took a deep breath, then another, just as I heard an exasperated sigh.

  “Hey, genius,” somebody said sadly. “You’re still talking to the wrong one.”

  I squeezed my eyes tight. That voice sounded familiar. I knew it. I knew it. I…Eddie. It was Eddie’s voice. The haint had taken some of my dearest memories, but I clung to what I had left.

  “I don’t know what that means,” I whispered. “Uncle C? Who? Who’s the wrong one?”

  “You’re still talking to the wrong one.”

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!” I shouted into the darkness.

  The only answer was silence.

  “Tristan?”

  I opened my eyes to see Gum Baby’s head inches from mine. She held my face in one sticky hand, and the other was stretched behind her, as if she were seconds away from smacking the taste buds out my mouth.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t you dare—”

  SMACK!

  “Ow!” I yelled. “What was that for?”

  “You wasn’t moving.” Gum Baby shrugged. “Ain’t no time for sleep, Bumbletongue, Gum Baby got missions and stuff.”

  I slowly became aware that I was back on the polished stage inside Isihlangu. Not watching the Thicket burn. Not being threatened by Uncle C in a nightmare. I was in the Ridge.

  Everyone was staring at me. The elders, the Amagqirha, Thandiwe…even Ayanna and Chestnutt were looking at me weirdly. High John stood apart from us with his arms crossed, in the same position he’d been in before, but now, instead of a smile, he wore a scowl. He met my eyes and I recoiled from the centuries-old fury roiling in his gaze. But just for a second, something else flickered there.

  Confusion?

  “Tristan, you all right?” Chestnutt asked.

  I shook my head and tried to catch up mentally. My mind was foggy. I’d had a best friend once, back home…. What was his name again? Eddie? I vaguely remembered letting him down somehow. There’d been a lot of pain….

  “Tristan?” Ayanna called.

  I took a breath and pulled myself together. Apparently, no one had noticed that High John and I had disappeared for a while. In the stories, he took slaves’ spirits on trips of happiness and joy and wonder, all while their bodies remained on the plantation and continued to work.

  I guess that’s what he’d done to me, though I couldn’t say the trip was a happy one….

  “Tristan!” Gum Baby shouted.

  “What?”

  “You standing there drooling, that’s what! They about to hand over what we came for, and you like a frog on a log. And Gum Baby hates frogs. Are you even listening?” Gum Baby scrambled to my shoulder and grabbed my ear. “Can you hear Gum Baby? Oh, no wonder—you really need to clean your ears out.”

  “Hey!” I brushed her off and she slid down to the floor and folded her arms. I cleared my throat. “Sorry. I just…Sorry. Continue. I’m here—I mean, I’m listening.”

  Two Ridgefolk guards flanked a large, cloth-covered object. My throat tightened.

  The chief elder stood, and so did the rest of the ancestors, the Amagqirha’s humming chant still powering their ghostly presence. “As I was saying,” Fezile said, “High John has relinquished his demand for Nyame’s Story Box.”

  I gawked. High John shrugged, but anger still lined his face. Anger and embarrassment.

  “Before we hand it over to you, champions of MidPass, a request must be honored. Thandiwe, step forward.”

  The tall girl moved to the center of the stage and extended her hoverboard to the Amagqirha. The diviner tied something to its middle, all the while stepping from foot to foot and humming. When she was done, the older woman gave the forebear back to Thandiwe, slipping it on her arm like a—

  “A shield?” I asked out loud. “Wait, why a shield?”

  The answer hit me just as Thandiwe grinned and tied a beaded wrap around her head. “I shall be coming with you. Anansi owes all of Isihlangu an explanation.” She sniffed. “And to show you Midfolk how to fight, of course.”

  Gum Baby rolled her eyes. “Girl, please.”

  “Hush, Gum Baby,” Ayanna said, then she smiled at Thandiwe. The two had become fast friends since our arrival. Which made sense, ’cause they were a lot alike. “We need all the help we can get.”

  “Then take the Story Box,” the chief elder commanded. “I hope your plans succeed. For all our sakes.”

  The tone of the spirit’s voice caught my attention. It seemed like there was something he wasn’t telling us. Before I could ask any questions, however, the Amagqirha stopped moving and humming. The elders began to fade away. The oldest leaders of the Ridgefolk, still guiding and inspiring their people even after death, had stared at me with such intensity that it was almost a relief when they were gone.

  “Well, y’all gonna open it?” High John’s drawl broke the spell.

  I cleared my throat and nodded at Thandiwe. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

  She shrugged. With an unceremonious yank, she pulled off the covering and tossed it aside.

  Everyone gasped.

  I’d expected a shining golden treasure chest, like the one in Chestnutt’s drawing.

  Or a diamond-encrusted, velvet-lined case.

  Even a fake leather trunk would’ve been acceptable.

  High John gave an angry little snort and shook his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hopped down off the stage. “Yeah, y’all can keep all that.”

  Gum Baby threw her little hands up with so much anger, sap flew across the stage. “What sort of soggy garbage is this mess?”

  An old brown crate covered in layers of dust, with sagging hinges and a partially splintered lid, sat there. Thandiwe looked at each of us, puzzled. “You didn’t know? This is how Anansi brought it to us. It’s empty.”

  “WHAT ARE WE GOING TO do?” Ayanna whispered to me.

  We were at a long table—me, Ayanna, and Thandiwe. Gum Baby and Chestnutt sat on the surface and shared a plate of steaming carrots. They seemed oblivious to our disappointment. The sound of drums and singing and clapping kept our conversation from being overheard.

  Why so loud?

  Oh, well, turns out whenever the elders were summoned beneath Isihlangu, a feast was in order—never mind that it was because we had arrived as thieves in the night. I found myself staring at a plate of food I had no desire to eat as the entire mountain population celebrated around us.

  And if you know me, you know a plate of food lying untouched in my presence is weird.

  “Tristan?” Ayanna repeated, and I shook my head.

  “Don’t know.”

  Thandiwe watched both of us with a confused look. “I don’t understand. How did you not know Nyame’s Story Box was empty?”

  I looked at Ayanna, who shrugged and sighed. “We never thought to ask,” I said.

  “It’s not like we could ask,” Ayanna said, looking
at Thandiwe and frowning accusingly. “You wouldn’t speak with us. You treated us like beggars and thieves.”

  The warrior girl pointed a stew-covered spoon in our direction. “One of those labels is accurate, don’t forget.”

  “Okay, okay,” I cut in, not in the mood for another territorial fight. High John had done enough of that already. “The question is, what do we do now?”

  “I think we should take it to Brer anyway, like we’re supposed to,” said Ayanna. “Maybe it will still bring Anansi….”

  “You think Anansi will barter for a broken, dusty old crate?”

  But Thandiwe didn’t seem fazed. “What if you had it repaired?” she suggested.

  Ayanna scoffed, but I ignored it. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, bring it back to Nyame. It was his creation in the first place. Surely he could restore it. Maybe even refill it with stories. Then you take it on to MidPass and summon Anansi.”

  I chewed that over for a few seconds. “Brer did tell me to bring it right away, but…”

  “But, like you said, there’s no point in bringing an empty, broken Story Box,” she finished.

  I nodded. “Okay. Yes, let’s get it fixed. Nyame owes us one, anyway.”

  “He does?” Thandiwe raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because we—”

  “Tristan freed him from iron-monster control,” Ayanna interrupted. I straightened an imaginary tie and she snorted. “But don’t talk about it around Tristan or his head will get even bigger.”

  “Who’s got a big head? Bumbletongue?” Gum Baby shouted. She was out of her little chair on top of the table and was dancing around my plate to the celebratory drumbeat. Sticky purple drops of syrupy sap splattered my food. I groaned and pushed it away. Now I definitely didn’t feel like eating.

  “Gum Baby been saying that. Boy’s head is so big, we could use it to plug up the tear in the sky. Little bit of sap and a big ole head sounds like the answer. Gum Baby’ll do it. Shoot, won’t even cost you much. Just a new pair of boots and a smile.”

  “You don’t even wear boots,” I said, rolling my eyes as Thandiwe, Ayanna, and Chestnutt laughed at me.

  “You don’t even wear boots,” Gum Baby mocked. “Oh, look, Gum Baby is Tristan. Gaaaaah.” She quickly rolled sap on her head until a giant wobbly ball rested on top of her braids. I guess that was supposed to be my head. She strutted around the table, shouting and throwing a few punches. “Gaaaaah. Look out, Chestnutt, Tristan is gonna get you. Gaaaaah.”

  Chestnutt laughed so hard, chewed-up carrots came out of her nose, and then we all collapsed. It had been a rough few days, so laughing with friends—no matter how weird or small or irritating they were—felt good. It felt real good.

  I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and turned to spy the Amagqirha standing in the shadows. She beckoned me, and I frowned. What had I done now? She gestured again, putting a finger over her lips, and I turned to the group and cleared my throat. “I, uh, gotta go use the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

  “Boy, nobody cares,” Gum Baby shouted. “Go do your thing and leave us cool kids alone.” She strutted again. “Tristan needs to go—”

  “All right!” I yelled, trying to keep a smile off my face. I trotted over to the Amagqirha. She headed up the sloping ramp that curled around Isihlangu’s walls. We climbed in silence, and I watched as the feast carried on below us, with the dancers dancing and the singers singing. It was a beautiful sight, and the fact that people from MidPass and the Ridge were enjoying it together made me feel like they were going to be okay. For now, anyway.

  All of a sudden I realized just how high we were climbing. “Um, where are we going?”

  The Amagqirha pointed up, to the Atrium above us, and stared at me. “There is something I must show you.”

  We finally reached the heavy stone door of the Atrium, which was now closed and flanked by two guards. They slid aside the complicated series of magnetic locks and pushed it open, allowing the diviner to enter. She waved me in behind her.

  I contemplated heading back to the feast, but I’m not built to be rude to elders. (Thanks, Mom.) I stepped inside, and the guards closed the door behind me, leaving us alone. I let my eyes adjust.

  “Sweet peaches,” I said in a low whisper.

  We stood in a perfect cube of polished stone. Black obsidian walls reflected the dim silver glow leaking out of a closed clamshell-like container atop a pedestal. Whatever was inside was the only thing lighting the room, and it gave the Amagqirha’s face a haunted look as she stepped up to it and whispered a command. The light inside flared as the clamshell popped open.

  “You may approach,” she said to me. Tufts of gray hair escaped from the braids beneath her beaded wrap, and more wrinkles than I thought humanly possible lined her face.

  She grunted a few times, and I realized she was chuckling. “Think I’m too old, boy?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said right away, trying not to stare.

  “Liar.”

  She stirred her hands in the air above the pedestal, then motioned me closer. “Look.”

  I climbed three steps, peered down into the container, and my jaw hit the floor. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “That depends on what you think it is.”

  “A Story Box?”

  She nodded. “The Story Box of the Ridge people.”

  A gleaming silver-and-black chest sat on a pillow of black satin. It was a perfect octagon, the eight sides joined at the corners by rippling seams of silver. Patterns etched into the top and sides flared with light every so often, as if it held energy too powerful to be contained.

  The Amagqirha went on. “When the sky god bartered away his golden Story Box, it made his tales available for all to consume. But soon the different lands of Alke discovered that some stories are too potent to be exchanged freely by ordinary people. The tales’ meanings can be distorted if they are shared without guidance. Anansi realized this when he received his prize from Nyame, so he created the Anansesem, his champion orators, like you, to carry his fables far and wide. The other realms, they had no such champions. So they built Story Boxes in the image of the original one to protect the power of the stories they had collected. But none were like the first. None could hold all the stories. Only Nyame’s has that power.”

  She paused, then smiled at me. “Open it,” she said.

  Didn’t have to tell me twice. I reached for it and…she slapped my hand.

  “Ow!” I shook away the sting. “What was—?”

  She wagged a finger. “I said, open it.”

  “That’s what I was about to do!” I complained.

  The Amagqirha shook her head. “Any boy with grubby fingers can flail about. Only you can open it. You are Anansesem—act like it.”

  Man, I get scolded no matter what world I’m in. But I took a deep breath and focused. After a moment of searching out the story beats and the rhythm, I felt it—the familiar tingling. The electric melody built up in my fingertips, and when I couldn’t hold it in any longer, I let out a whisper.

  “Once, let’s say a boy could fly….”

  As the words zipped out of my mouth, the silver Story Box flared so bright my eyes hurt. By the time I could see again, the Amagqirha had rolled up the sleeve on her left arm and was digging around inside the chest, its lid now propped open.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “You will see.”

  She pulled something out of the chest, then grunted with approval and slammed the Story Box closed. I frowned—I hadn’t gotten a chance to look inside—but she ignored me and began shaping something in her hands, whispering strange words over them.

  “What are—?”

  “I said, you will see.” She glared at me, then returned to her mysterious activity. After several minutes, she straightened, examined whatever it was she had made, and nodded. “It will do.”

  She held out her hand. “Your bracelet.”

/>   “Huh?”

  “Your bracelet with the charms. Hand it over.”

  “But—”

  She narrowed her eyes and my default reaction was to do as I was told. I untied the bracelet and held it out, and she snatched it quick as lightning. The Amagqirha had a nice jab. She hunched over and murmured to herself, and I swear I saw silver symbols etched in the air before they disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Finally, she turned back to me.

  “Here.”

  I took the bracelet and held it up, squinting in the dim light. She had strung it with a tiny silver ball, which nestled between the two adinkras.

  “A bead?” What was it with Alkeans and their jewelry?

  “A talisman, boy. For protection.”

  “From what, a loose braid?”

  The Amagqirha pursed her lips. “You would be wise to take this seriously. Something is coming. Something you’ve seen before, and yet have never seen the like. You know of whom I speak, even if you didn’t mention him to the elders.”

  Uncle C’s cackle echoed in my ears, and I shivered. “I do.”

  “Then you know he brings pain. He brings terror. He brings suffering and destruction. The horror he rides in on, the old evil he’s driven up from the Burning Sea, it will deliver death to us all.”

  The words death to us all echoed around the room.

  “You will need all the help you can get if you are to defeat them both.”

  I stared down at the bead. “If? Not when I defeat them?”

  “If seems more appropriate.”

  “And how about Anansi? Will he—?”

  The Amagqirha sighed and leaned on the pedestal, and in its glow I could see just how old and tired she really was.

  “Closing the tear in the sky, defeating these iron monsters—that is only the beginning.” Her eyes seared into mine. “The elders have seen it. I have seen it. If you do not succeed, a terrible war will follow. This talisman will provide aid when you need it.”

  “Will it transform into a shield or a sword?” I slipped on the bracelet and secured it.

  “No, it will help you commune with the—”

  “Ouch!” I hopped up and down and shook my arm. Hot, stabbing pain shot through my wrist, and I turned it over to see Anansi’s adinkra glowing orange-red. A blister had already begun to form where it had burned my skin.