The Living Blood

by Tananarive Due

  She knew it, then. She had done the right thing. She was where she belonged.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered, rapture taking her heart. “Thank you, Jesus.”

  All of the inconveniences that had dogged the earlier part of her trip vanished in Lalibela. The airport, while small, was amazingly modern, considering that it sat at the edge of a village that looked ancient. No sooner had they left the plane than a helpful young man on the airstrip pegged them as tourists and directed them to a driver who could take them to a government-run Roha Hotel, which was just outside of town. The driver was polite, if a little harried, and ferried them there on a well-paved road without incident. As far as Jessica could tell with the currency she’d exchanged in Addis Ababa, she was not overcharged for the ride.

  The hotel was the best Lalibela had to offer, but it would have been considered a one-star motel if she’d been in the States. It had the basics, though—a bed large enough for both of them, a sink and shower, a toilet. There was only hot water two hours a day, the woman had explained when she checked in, and sometimes the water didn’t run at all. When Jessica turned on the faucet to test it, the tepid water that dribbled out looked rusty, but she supposed it would do for washing; she’d brought more pleasant-tasting bottled water for drinking. Even though this was a far cry from the Fontainebleau, it would be fine. Using the birr she’d converted at the airport in Addis Ababa, Jessica estimated the room would cost her roughly fifty bucks a night. Definitely a faranji price, she thought, but it wasn’t bad either. And if it turned out they really might be stuck here longer than she’d planned, she was sure they could find cheaper lodgings to conserve cash.

  For now, this would be a place to rest, to make plans, and to launch her search for the immortals. Jessica’s only goal that day was to eat and sleep. Armed with a resting place and a key to give her a sense of belonging, Jessica felt more at ease than she had in days. After she and Fana left their backpacks on their bed, they followed the dimly lighted hallway to the lobby in search of a meal.

  At first, there was no sign of the English-speaking woman at the front desk who’d first signed them in. In fact, no other people were in sight. Jessica glanced around and saw a tiny makeshift gift shop stocked mostly with what she guessed were replicas of artifacts from the churches—processional crosses made from brass or carved from wood, baskets woven from rainbow-colored straw, fabrics, and even bags of Ethiopian coffee. But the little store, too, was unattended. This was off-season for tourism, all right.

  Fana fidgeted irritably in Jessica’s arms. “I’m hungry.”

  “I know. Me, too.” Jessica turned to look back at the front desk. “Hello?”

  A deep male voice that spoke from directly behind her rolled like slow, thick molasses. “I’ve taken the liberty of asking the staff to brew you some coffee and begin preparing a meal.”

  Jessica jumped. She was sure she and Fana had been alone just a moment before. Who the hell had just spoken? When she whirled around, she had to look up. The man behind her was as tall and wiry as a basketball player, six foot five or six foot six, with clear skin the color of bronze. He was wearing a white linen tunic, matching linen pants, and a white skullcap. With his pleasant features and neatly trimmed goatee, he looked absolutely regal. Fana, too, stared at him with wide, wondering eyes.

  The man extended his arm, directing them toward a table on the other side of the lobby. Jessica could see that the table had been set with a steaming coffee cup and a glass of orange-colored fruit juice. The man walked behind them with quick, quiet steps, then pulled out the wooden chair for Jessica. “Madame,” he said, tilting his head and shoulders forward with something like an archaic little bow.

  Jessica smiled. Hel-lo. Was this a normal part of the hotel service? If so, Jessica decided, she wouldn’t mind staying at this place one bit. She just wished Alex were here to see it.

  “Since the young lady isn’t old enough for coffee, I thought perhaps she might enjoy some mango juice instead . . .?” the man went on.

  “Yes!” Fana exclaimed. Mango juice was her favorite. From her seat in Jessica’s lap, Fana reached for her glass with shining eyes.

  “Thank you so much,” Jessica said, regarding the man curiously. He dressed like a local, but his English was flawless and she couldn’t place his accent. Not American, not quite British. “Do you work for the hotel?”

  The man chuckled. “Oh, no. Think of me as an ambassador. We don’t see many visitors.” As he said this, Jessica noticed him lean forward with apparent eagerness. He even licked his lips. “This is a priceless occasion.”

  “Well . . . It’s so nice that you would take a special interest in us. Thank you,” Jessica said, sipped her coffee. Apparently, it had already been sweetened for her, and it was luxurious. Her taste buds sang as the warm liquid seeped over her tongue. “Oh, my God. This is so—”

  “Our own blend,” he said. “I thought you might like it. It’s the closest we have to any coffee as you might recognize it.”

  “Well, thank you again.”

  The man’s face seemed to glow as he leaned slightly closer to Jessica. “I was relieved to see you check in. You gave me a little scare. I was expecting you in Addis Ababa yesterday, you see. We didn’t realize you’d been rerouted to Rome. But these things happen, unfortunately.”

  Jessica’s hand locked tight around her coffee cup in midsip.

  “Fana, do you like your juice?” the man asked. Fana only nodded, as oblivious and happy as could be, but Jessica, at that moment, nearly lost her balance in her chair. It was disconcerting enough that he’d known their travel plans, but she’d felt a genuine chill, real terror, to hear the stranger call her daughter by her adopted name.

  “Who are you?” Jessica said, somehow finding her voice. Her heart thundered. If this man made any movement at all, she was ready to leap from her seat with Fana under one arm. She’d fight him off with her chair if she had to. Her muscles were braced to do just that.

  The man smiled and rested his head on his palm, deepening his gaze. “Yes, I know this must seem strange to you, Jessica. May I call you that? Or do you prefer Mrs. Wolde?”

  “Who are you?” Jessica rasped, her tone deadly.

  Fana’s eyes squinted in concentration, as if she heard a far-off voice. “He’s . . . Tef . . . fer . . .”

  “Teferi,” the man said, looking pleased. “You’re very advanced for such a young one, Fana. But I was told as much. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, my little empress?” He turned his attention back to Jessica. “My name is Teferi, as your genius daughter interpreted. I was sent to meet you and to prepare you for your visit. As I said, we don’t see many visitors. More accurately, you are our first. I consider it a great honor to meet you. I have an appreciation for the singularity of women and children that few of my brothers share.”

  The brothers! Was this another immortal? A Life Brother?

  Jessica’s mind, overwhelmed, could only utter one word: “David?”

  “I’m sure he is expecting you,” Teferi said, giving her a reassuring smile. “And, may I add, I can only consider Dawit blessed that someone so enchanting should come in search of him. It’s almost more than any man deserves, mortal or otherwise.” His face radiated sincerity.

  Suddenly, the man stood. Jessica, once again, looked up at him as he towered above her, literally larger-than-life. Jessica felt breathless, but the fear eased up slightly. She wanted to trust this man’s kindness, although she was baffled by him. Was he a Searcher? That would explain how he’d been tracking her every move; but if he was, the Searchers had undergone some radical sensitivity training since she’d met the last one. Teferi was a far cry from Mahmoud.

  And why hadn’t David come to meet her instead?

  “Your food will be brought to you very soon,” Teferi said. “I know you’re quite anxious, and understandably so, but it’s best for you to rest tonight. I’ll call on you in the morning.”

  “I . . .” Jessic
a couldn’t form a sentence, her mind was crowded with so many questions.

  Once again, Teferi offered a slight bow, his long fingers pressed together as if in prayer. “Tomorrow, you’ll learn all you want to know. Please rest. This stay will be very challenging for you, I’m afraid. It is my charge to make your introduction as pleasant as possible, but our world will be extraordinarily foreign to you. It’s best to orient yourself slowly. So, eat. Sleep. Tomorrow will be a fascinating day for all of us.”

  He paused and smiled at her, as endearing as a lover. “Welcome to Lalibela, beautiful Jessica. Lovely Fana. Welcome home.”

  15

  Ulundi, South Africa

  KwaZulu / Natal

  Under better circumstances, Lucas would have enjoyed meeting Floyd Mbuli, who approached Lucas at the bus station with a hearty African-style handshake, slipping his palm tightly around Lucas’s thumb before returning to the Western-style pump. The cheerful Zulu physician’s intellect shone in his intense eyes. He was about ten years younger and six inches shorter than Lucas, wearing a simple burgundy pullover sweater, gray slacks, and round-frame, gold eyeglasses that contrasted smartly against his dark skin. His grin was unreserved. “Dr. Lucas Shepard in Ulundi!” he said. “This is an unexpected turn. I am so sad for the reason, but what an honor this is for me.”

  “No need for formality. I’m just plain Lucas.”

  “Lucas!” With his accent, Mbuli lingered on the name as if it were exotic. “I’ll put your bag in the boot,” Mbuli said, fitting his key in the trunk of a sky-blue Ford Escort, which had dried mud streaked across its fenders and grille. “You said you were short on time, so I’ve arranged a dinner invitation with Sarah Shabalala’s parents today. They live fifteen kilometers outside town. I told them you were a famous American man I met while I was in the States. It was best to lie. The Shabalalas don’t trust strangers. I tried to invite them to my house, but they insisted on hosting. You’ve probably learned by now that Africans are always competing for best hospitality.” He said this with a robust laugh that made Lucas mourn his own lost laughter.

  “When were you in the States?”

  “I won a Fulbright scholarship in 1985.”

  “Congratulations,” Lucas said sincerely.

  “Compared to what you were doing with the smallpox virus at the time, it feels very meager, Lucas,” Mbuli said. Inside the neatly kept car, Floyd Mbuli’s cassette player blared to life with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers before Mbuli turned the music down. “But I’ve put my scholarship to good use back here at home, training nurses. The needs are overwhelming. My wife teaches, too. I’ll tell you what I wish! Instead of so many black Americans moving here for business opportunities, I wish more would come to teach. There’s so much lost ground!”

  “Amen to that,” Lucas said. Ulundi was framed by rolling green mountains, and as they drove, Lucas noticed the modern-looking legislative complex at the heart of downtown. But it was a small town, especially compared to Johannesburg and Durban, and little else caught his eye.

  “That’s how I met Sarah.” Mbuli rarely paused, speaking with a natural, rapid exuberance. “I helped train her. A smart girl, too. She was offered a post at a very good hospital in Durban, but she wanted to stay closer to home. Then she met the American women. Her parents tell me she works for practically no wage, and she cooks for them, they say. They don’t like that, of course. They liked her moving away even less.”

  “She must have a good reason for staying with them.”

  Mbuli made an excited sound as the car jounced over a dip in the road. “She has the best of all! What true healer would walk away from a remedy so potent?”

  Lucas could only sigh, not even daring to raise his hopes. “We’ll see,” he said, gazing out of his window. Through an arrangement with the nurses’ station at Wheeler, Lucas had managed to catch Jared from a pay telephone in Durban before his bus left, but Jared had been too sleepy and weak to make much conversation except Hi, Dad and Okay. The nurse told Lucas that sometimes Jared didn’t even wake up for his daily visits from Cleo and Cal. Listening to the officious woman recite Jared’s grim vital signs from his son’s bedside, Lucas had felt ridiculous and miserable standing at a pay phone literally across the world.

  Then, his mind tortured him with a nasty riddle: If death was a part of life, what if finding a treatment wasn’t the point anymore? What if the only point was to be with Jared at the end?

  Mbuli was driving away from the cluster of buildings at the center of town and its neighborhoods of nondescript suburban-style homes Mbuli told him were mostly occupied by bureaucrats, toward the open road that would lead them to the more traditional rural areas of Zululand. But the rustic beauty that began to unfold with each passing mile on the narrow, two-lane road was lost on Lucas.

  “How’s the leukemic boy you told me about?” Lucas asked.

  “Still in remission. I’m so cross with myself that I didn’t learn more from Sarah about what they did for him while the clinic was still here in KwaZulu!” When Mbuli said the word KwaZulu, instead of pronouncing the first syllable as Kwa, he effortlessly made a clicking sound, the first whisper of the expressiveness of his language. “Sarah would never tell me their secret, but Sipho made a believer of me.”

  “Well, Floyd . . . until I know I can find her, it hurts too much to even think about it.”

  “Oh, yes, I understand,” Mbuli said, patting Lucas’s knee. “But we will find her to save your son, Lucas—with the help of God and the ancestors. Just like Sipho! The Zulus consider it very bad manners to send a guest away disappointed.”

  • • •

  Zenzele Shabalala and his wife, Nandi, lived in a comfortable cement farmhouse with a corrugated-tin roof in a secluded enclave not far from the main road. Their large cattle corral, which Lucas had spotted as Mbuli navigated his car on the path approaching the house, teemed with brick-red and black cattle lowing as they settled in for the night. A lanky young man Lucas assumed was a cattle hand watched with curiosity as they climbed out of the car. Mbuli waved at the young man, who paused and then waved back. In front of the house, a well-worn Kawasaki motorcycle rested against a tin water-drum. But everything else was neat; the white house seemed freshly painted, lined with a well-maintained row of decorative shrubs and plants.

  “Zenzele is well-off, compared to many of his neighbors,” Mbuli said, knocking on the door. “This land was once a kraal, a small village, ruled by his grandfather. The village is gone now—so many people have moved away to be closer to the jobs in town—but the land is his. It’s only a few hectares, but he’s very proud of it. If you want to ingratiate yourself quickly, compliment him on his land.” Mbuli said this with a wink.

  The middle-aged woman who answered the door was slightly plump but tall, with a long neck. Her dress was thoroughly Western, but her head was covered in a colorful head-wrap. Her round face was slightly weatherworn, but was still pretty when she smiled. The man standing several feet behind her, nearly hidden in a shadow from the hallway, did not seem to be smiling.

  Mbuli conversed with the Shabalalas in a cascade of Zulu, all of them clicking and tripping elegantly over the language’s flowing multisyllables. Lucas nodded and smiled his appreciation to the couple when he was invited inside, where he smelled cooking meat and spices. Their house was simple but middle class, decorated in a tasteful mixture of Western and traditional motifs. A television set was in the living room, with a matching black upholstered sofa and love seat facing it, both encased in plastic. The upright piano against the wall was crowded with wooden carvings and small woven baskets. Adorned with beadwork and other art, the walls were a virtual shrine to the owners’ heritage, most strikingly centered around a four-foot shield made of animal hide, pointed at both ends. The wooden frame of the shield looked old, and Lucas wondered how long it had been preserved, and if it had ever seen a battle.

  “You look like a white man,” Zenzele Shabalala said to Lucas, startling him with his abru
pt transition to English. He was at least ten years older than his wife, perhaps sixty-five, and one of his front teeth was missing. His features were smooth, but sun-hardened.

  His wife looked embarrassed at the remark, but she didn’t speak to chide him.

  “Well, in America, there were never any distinctions between ‘black’ and ‘colored’ as there were under apartheid,” Lucas told him. “People my skin color were bought and sold as slaves, too. In my mind, there’s no difference between your skin color and mine. I’m black.”

  That answer seemed to please Zenzele Shabalala, who considered Lucas’s words with the slightest beginnings of a smile. Lucas, remembering Mbuli’s earlier advice, decided to try to push a little further into his host’s good graces: “And before I forget, sir, let me tell you how impressed I was by your beautiful land. You must be very proud.”

  He’d said the magic words. Suddenly, Zenzele Shabalala was full of animation and hospitality, urging his wife to bring them something to drink and directing them toward the table, which had already been set for dinner. Soon, they were settled with bottles of a local beer and steaming bowls of pumpkin soup with chunks of meat, which Mbuli explained to Lucas was a popular traditional meal. Lucas tasted cinnamon in the thick soup. As for the meat, it might be beef or goat, but he didn’t ask.

  Given Nandi Shabalala’s virtual silence since their arrival, Lucas guessed that she was much more subservient to her husband than a Westernized wife. And Zenzele Shabalala had been talking about his land ever since Lucas complimented him, mostly in English, but sometimes lapsing into Zulu that Mbuli had to translate.

  “Land is everything,” Zenzele Shabalala was saying. “Even here where our ancestors are buried, white farmers own so much of the land. And where do our sons go? To town! With all this land I have here, my son believes it is better to own a box inside a building with two hundred other people—a high-rise. It’s rubbish! And they don’t have so much as a patch of grass to claim, only concrete. He thinks his box and his town job and his degrees from the white men’s schools are more important than his own grandfather’s land, where he had a kraal and four wives. Yes, four! And my son has no wife at all! Who will take my ranch when I am gone? When you leave your land and forget your traditions, you have nothing. Everyone goes running to the white man. Not me! I no longer live by the old ways, but I have adjusted to the times. And I have not left my people’s land.”