Deeper into Darkness

by James, Russell

  “One of my father’s lessons he taught me about teaching. In twenty-five years, he said he diffused many fights, participated in none.”

  “You had a wise father.”

  “His support gave me the courage to come here. You know, I don’t even know what sparked the fight.”

  “Tribal nonsense,” Mbele said. “Without Afrikaners to fight, some think we must fight each other. Joseph is my cousin’s son. You have my family’s thanks, and mine.”

  Mbele tore six bananas from the bunch and handed them to Kayla. She put some coins on the counter. He swept the coins into a metal box. He pulled something from the box and closed his fist over it.

  Kayla reached for the bananas. Mbele grabbed her right wrist. His calloused hands had a powerful grip for so slight a man. He rolled her wrist until her open palm faced up. He dropped the object from the box into her hand.

  A glossy tooth glistened in her palm. It looked like the canine from a small carnivore, a few inches long and white as bleached salt. A small hole bored in the root readied it to thread on a necklace.

  Last spring, if someone had put an animal part in her hand, she would have screamed and dropped it like it was on fire. Africa had changed all that. Animal fur and bones were respected here, sometimes revered, for reputed magical powers.

  She gave Mbele a quizzical look.

  “A gift for you,” he said.

  “What’s it for?” Kayla asked.

  Mbele laughed.

  “Miss Kayla! It is a child’s trinket. Have you started believing silly tales of magic?”

  “Oh, no,” Kayla said, her face blushing.

  “Of course,” Mbele said. “Now the superstitious sometimes say a hyena tooth is a spirit catcher, a magnet for traveling souls as they pass to the afterlife.”

  Kayla’s eyebrows arched.

  “Really?”

  Mbele laughed even deeper.

  “Come, Miss Kayla. Who can put stock in such things? It is just a bauble for you. A souvenir.”

  Kayla buried the tooth in the pocket of her dress, embarrassed again by her gullibility.

  “Thank you,” she said. She grabbed her bananas. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, tomorrow,” said Mbele. His eyes twinkled. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  ♦♦♦

  Kayla’s school was a humble, unpainted block structure at the intersection of two dirt streets in the shabby village. Six small classrooms subdivided the building. A relief organization had built it right after the end of apartheid to ensure there was a place for this first generation of free black children to go to school. Large windows in each room let in light and any passing breeze, compensating for the lack of electricity. The missing outside door left an open threshold that provided cross ventilation.

  In Kayla’s classroom, twenty small desks with twenty small chairs faced her desk at the head of the class. Blackboards covered two walls. Artwork papered the third, crayon masterpieces drawn by her second graders with the theme of “My Happiest Day.” Yellow suns, green grass and smiling stick figures abounded. The tech-free classroom would appall American parents. Kayla reveled in the refreshing simplicity.

  Here, she taught. No crutches, no diversions, no backup. It was just her, her chalkboard and twenty students with twenty pencils. Every moment created a personal connection with an eager young mind. Every day brought the reward of seeing children experience the epiphany of academic understanding. Minimalism distilled learning to its pure core, as her father always said it was supposed to be.

  Kayla arrived and sat at her desk. She set the six bananas at the far corner. The children would see the prize even before they knew the rules to win it, then beg to know today’s game. Bananas were always a favorite.

  The children filtered in. The room filled with a sea of blue and white uniform shirts. The usual buzz and shriek of children’s conversation filled the air. Kayla was just opening the class science book when she heard Joseph cry out from the doorway.

  “Miss Jefferson! Come quick. It’s a dog! A big dog!”

  Kayla kicked her chair back against the wall and flew to the doorway. The potential threat to her children sent her heart racing.

  She pulled Joseph behind her and stood in the doorway. Several yards away sat a jet black Siberian Husky. A touch of gray speckled its muzzle. Its sharp white teeth sparkled in the morning sun. Kayla had seen many dogs in South Africa, but almost all were undernourished, yellow bone bags of indistinct pedigree. Never a dog like this.

  The dog barked like a shotgun blast. It whipped its muzzle through the air in a circle, like a man dropping a race’s green starting flag. Teeth bared, it burst for the doorway at a run.

  Kayla went on full alert. She pushed Joseph back into the classroom. She grabbed the closest thing at hand, one of the children’s chairs. She pointed the feet at the onrushing dog like some imitation lion tamer, and braced for the assault.

  The dog skidded to a stop three feet away. It sat back on its haunches, and cocked its head at Kayla. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth and it began to pant. The edges of its lips curled up, and Kayla swore the Husky smiled.

  The dog dropped on its side with a thud, raising a small cloud of dust. Then it rolled on its back, all four paws in the air and whimpered a request for a belly rub.

  Kayla sighed with relief. Perhaps she’d misinterpreted enthusiasm for aggression.

  “What are you doing, boy?” she said. She planted the chair on the ground, stepped forward and knelt by the dog. She gave the silky fur of its belly a healthy rub and the dog shuddered with delight. A calm, centered feeling came over her as she stroked the dog.

  “You’re not dangerous, are you, boy?” she whispered. The dog closed its eyes in satisfaction. “What home have you wandered away from?”

  Kayla heard some snickers from behind her. She turned and a swarm of small black heads jockeyed for position in the classroom window, confused to not see mortal combat.

  “What are you all doing?” she snapped. “Everyone back to their seats!”

  Panicked eyes went wide. The voyeurs disappeared from the window frame. The air filled with the scrape of tiny seats against the bare concrete floor. Kayla gave the dog two solid thumps to its belly.

  “Go home, boy,” she said. “I have to teach.”

  She returned to the classroom The dog just lay on the ground, smiled and watched her leave.

  “Good morning students!” she sang on her way to the front of the classroom.

  “Good morning, Miss Jefferson!” they sang in return. Then the class broke into their morning song:

  “Wake up early with the rising sun,

  To learn at school and have some fun.

  Strong and proud of who we are,

  Each of us can be a star.”

  As if on cue, a scratching noise came from the doorway, followed by a soft mournful whimper. The Husky’s nose appeared in the threshold. Joseph was up from his seat and had his head out the window in an instant.

  “Miss Jefferson! It’s the dog. He wants to come in.”

  Kayla slapped her desk twice.

  “Joseph, take your seat. I am not letting some strange dog in the classroom.”

  A muted whimper sounded outside the door and triggered a collective whine from the students.

  “C’mon Miss Jefferson.”

  “You said he was a good dog.”

  “Just let him see inside.”

  Her resolve wavered. The class had been doing so well all week. They really all deserved bananas today. She went to the doorway. The docile dog lay on the stoop, and stared up at her with pleading eyes. It squeaked an entry request.

  “Can you behave?” Kayla asked the dog.

  The dog rolled on its side and rotated two paws straight up in the air.

  “All right,” Kayla said. She waved the dog forward. The Husky rolled to its feet and trotted in. It stopped at Kayla’s feet and licked her hand. She scratched his head and felt that comforting warm
th again.

  Kayla smiled and returned to her desk. The dog followed an obedient two paces behind, and then made a solo lap around the classroom. The dog looked right and left, soaking in the sights, sounds and smells of the classroom. Excited little hands reached out and stroked his soft coat as he passed and the classroom was awash in appreciative oohs and ahhs. The dog even rewarded the brave few who caressed his muzzle with a lick of the fingertips. He took position back at the doorway, rested back on its haunches, and panted happily. The children’s excited dialogue reached a crescendo.

  “All right! All right!” Kayla said in her firm-teacher-voice. “Let’s do our work or the friendly dog goes back outside. I want your science books on your desk and your eyes up here.”

  Books hit desktops with staccato thumps and the room went silent.

  “We are on page sixty,” Kayla said, scanning the students’ books to make sure they were on the right page. She shot a quick glance at the dog, panting and attentive in the corner. He already understood the rules. Assured he was no threat to classroom order, she started to teach.

  Kayla went through the lesson with fluid ease. She drew her students into the material, tailoring questions to the personal strengths and weaknesses she had discerned over the months. She shot an occasional penetrating glance at Joseph, arresting his mischief before he even fully visualized it. Like a border collie herding sheep, she kept the students together, bringing strays back to the fold, moving them towards understanding.

  After thirty minutes, the dog rose and trotted to Kayla at the front of the room. He gave her hand a warm lick. She looked down in the dog’s deep brown eyes. The dog gave a happy “yip” and loped out the door.

  The children rose in an excited mass and crammed the window for a glimpse of the retreating Husky. Kayla looked over their heads in time to see the canine vanish between buildings down the street.

  “Show’s over,” she said, clapping her hands over her head. “Everyone back in their seats.”

  As the children took their places, she looked again at the empty street. Somehow, she knew that would be the dog’s only visit.

  ♦♦♦

  That afternoon, as soon as she was in range of the city’s cell towers, her phone rang. She pulled over and answered

  “Kayla?”

  “Mom!” she answered. “What a surprise. You would not believe what happened today—”

  “Honey,” Kayla’s mother cut her off, “I have bad news.”

  Kayla’s heart sank.

  “Your father passed away last night.”

  Kayla’s body went numb, her stomach dropped to the ground. “How…”

  “His heart, Honey. He was just resting, watching television after dinner. He fell asleep and was gone. He didn’t feel a thing.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Kayla said.

  “He talked about you at dinner. He wanted to see you teaching so badly. He was so proud of you….” Sobs choked off the rest of what she had to say.

  “Mom, I’ll get a flight home. I’ll call you right back, O.K.?”

  There were some muffled sounds of assent from nine thousand miles away, then a clear “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.” The line went silent.

  Something twitched in her pocket. She reached in and pulled out Mbele’s gift, the hyena’s tooth. She closed her hand around it. The same affectionate reassurance she felt petting the dog at school warmed her palm. The sight of the dog’s soft, expressive eyes flashed before her.

  A spirit catcher, Mbele had told her.

  The dog. Her father.

  A gift for you, Mbele had said.

  She wrapped both hands around the tooth, closed her eyes, and wept for joy.

  I believe that every soul has the chance to make one goodbye on the way to what awaits us next. Not every soul takes advantage of it, just those with a strong connection who didn’t get to say goodbye. I had the gift of experiencing it once, before I even knew the person had passed on. I hope someday it happens to you.

  Ω

  Life Amidst Death

  January 22, 1985

  Walt Buckner looked like hell.

  Ray should have expected as much. When you last saw someone at twenty-five, seeing them at sixty-five should be a shock. But Walt looked decades beyond sixty-five. Chemotherapy was an aging trade-off. Patients burned through years of future life for months of current time.

  The Oklahoma City VA Hospital was a hospital of last resort. The hazy winter sky dulled the sunlight through the small window and washed the room’s colors into muted tones of gray. Walt lay in one of the room’s two hospital beds. The other aged resident snored unevenly from his bed. A heart monitor pumped out Walt’s steady rhythm. His vacant eyes stared at the ceiling tiles, and the white sheet over his chest rose and fell at irregular intervals. A plastic tube snaked from his arm to an IV bag, another from his nostrils to a wall socket, and a third from under his bed to a full yellow pouch. Anything entering or leaving his body required assistance. The former infantry sergeant, who took care of his squad in World War II Europe, now couldn’t take care of himself.

  “Sergeant Buckner,” Ray said. “Corporal Toomey reporting for duty.”

  His back creaked a bit as he snapped to attention. He brought a hand salute up to his long gone hairline. Arthritis gave his fingers a knotted curl.

  Walt’s head swiveled towards Ray. A few gray, wispy hairs made a last stand across his mottled scalp. He managed a faint smile and revealed a mouth full of red, swollen gums. His wasted right hand reached out from under the covers. Shrunken, transparent skin covered little more than bone.

  Ray flashed back forty years to memories he’d tried to purge, memories of living skeletons M Company had seen outside a town called Dachau. He pushed the past away and shook Walt’s hand. Walt’s grip was firm, nearly desperate.

  “Ray,” Walt rasped. His voice used to echo like thunder across Fort Sill. “You came.”

  “Soon as I got your message,” Ray said. “Tulsa isn’t that far away.”

  “I’ll need your help,” Walt said.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing now. I’m beyond help now. I’ll need your help after.”

  “After?”

  “After I die,” Walt said. “You gotta keep me in the ground.”

  April 29, 1945

  The first shot shattered the Jeep’s windshield.

  “Mother of God!” Ray yanked the wheel opposite the echo of the sniper’s rifle. A second shot cracked from the farmhouse up ahead. It pinged off the Jeep’s rear.

  “Behind the barn!” Walt ordered from the passenger seat.

  The Jeep bounced across the driveway’s drainage ditch and nearly threw Privates Higbie and Carter out of the back. The Jeep skidded to a stop with the barn as a shield between the men and the farmhouse. The four soldiers tumbled out and up against the barn wall.

  “Hot damn,” Carter said. He was a small guy and his helmet shaded half his eyes. “Isn’t someone going to tell the Krauts the war is nearly over? We’re halfway across Germany. What’s left to die for?”

  “No kidding,” Higbie said. He snapped off the safety on his rifle. In the former football player’s meaty hands, the rifle seemed toy-sized. “Can’t these guys just take a knee and run out the clock?”

  “Can it, you two,” Walt said.

  Ray peered around the edge of the barn. The whitewashed farmhouse, the object of their reconnaissance, stood a hundred yards up the driveway. The regiment’s main objective, the Dachau concentration camp, rose a few miles away. Clearing this farmhouse should’ve been a formality, just a drive in the country. A rifle barrel pulled back through one of the broken front windows.

  Inexperienced, Ray thought. A veteran would know to stay back in the shadows.

  “Sarge, he’s in that front window,” Ray said. “I’ve got eyes on him.”

  “Higbie, Carter,” Walt said. “Go left and flank the house. Toomey and I will suppress and cover you.”


  Ray took a prone position and put the window in his sights. Walt took aim from around the edge of the barn. They opened fire.

  Higbie and Carter made their dash, firing as they went. Bullets splattered the farmhouse’s front. The sniper got off one shot that went high. Glass shattered and a sharp, shortened cry came from the farmhouse. The enemy fire ceased.

  Higbie and Carter covered the building and Ray and Walt dashed for the front door. Ray kicked it in. They entered, rifles at the ready.

  An empty table sat in the center of the room. A makeshift bed of straw filled one corner. One helmetless German soldier lay on the farmhouse floor in a growing puddle of blood. Three red hole gaped in his chest. The teenager had dark hair shaved down to stubble and a baby face that needed no such grooming. Twin lightning bolt runes decorated one tunic collar.

  “SS,” Ray said.

  “Butchers,” Walt replied.

  Higbie and Carter bounded in the door.

  “Clear the building,” Walt ordered.

  The men separated. A moment later, Higbie’s confused voice called them back together.

  “Hey, fellas. You gotta see this to believe it.”

  1985

  “What do you mean keep you in the grave?” Ray asked.

  “They’re gonna dig me up,” Walt said. “Defile my body.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know.” Walt’s voice wavered with fear. He raised himself up on his bony elbows. “The same ones who dug up the others!”

  Ray slid a chair next to Walt’s bed. The panicked, insane look on his face gave Ray a chill. He cupped his friend’s shoulder and eased him back down to the pillow.

  “Stay calm,” Ray said. “What others?”

  “Higbie and Carter,” Walt said. “They dug both of ‘em up. Week after their funeral.”

  Ray didn’t even know Higbie and Carter were dead. Of course, he’d lost touch with everyone after the war. On purpose. Too many things he’d rather not relive.

  “Higbie died five years ago,” Walt said. “Down in McAlester. Heart attack. Saw the notice and went to the service. Then a week later, I heard his grave was dug up in the middle of the night. Nobody’d talk about it but I did some snooping. Found out his body had been chopped up, head crushed like a walnut.”