Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “Yes, African-American studies have always fascinated me. The, huh, struggle during the Civil Rights Movement is very interesting. But I also wanted to focus on what started the more commonly known events in our history, what gave birth to those ideas, what sowed the seed of change, so to speak.” Boris cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, feeling shadowed by the Dean’s desk. It was always hard for him to judge how much to divulge with his passions. Too often he’d put Neville to sleep with talk of historical events and places and names.

  Dean Bachman turned another page. “You left the University of Mississippi as an Associate Professor, correct.”

  “Correct. I’d hoped to work up, but…” Boris trailed off, wishing he hadn’t started this path of inquiry. He didn’t want to sound as if he didn’t want the job here, he didn’t want to sound ungrateful for the opportunity, but he could not find many way to avoid the assumption.

  Bachman gazed up, eyebrow arched inquisitively.

  “But I was told about the open position here and thought it would be an excellent opportunity for change.” Boris held his breath.

  “Yes. The position here is for full professorship with tenure track. I have to say, we’re very lucky to have found you, Doctor Petry. Our history department has been, well, somewhat lacking in African-American studies over the years.” Bachman leaned back in his chair again, crossing his fingers together across his chest.

  Boris exhaled.

  “Charles spoke very highly of you, of course. Said you were well on your way of making tenure there.”

  “He did? That was kind of him.” Lying sack of shit.

  “The courses this fall are set, I’m afraid. You’ll be taking over the United States History I & II classes. But, next semester, in the spring, you can submit any specialty course work you’d like to teach. Think about it over the fall. Bring anything you have to Marcy out front. She’ll add whatever you have for my review.” Bachman seemed to relax his otherwise stiff position, but his eyes remained fixed on Boris, as if watching him carefully.

  “Sounds good.” Boris shifted again.

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Huh. Well, I had tried to get some information about Baelo University on the web, you know, flesh you guys out, catch up on your history here. The school website was down for repair, I think it said, and I couldn’t find any other information.”

  “Yes, our IT department has been on hiatus, but we’re hoping it’ll be up and running in time for the first day of classes.”

  “Dean Charles did not give me much information about your school. I was wondering what the staff was like, the other teachers. Do you have department heads I need to report to, specifically in the history department?” Boris crossed his legs, adjusting his thick glasses.

  “Baelo University is not as large a university as Ole Miss, Doctor Petry. Marcy runs our front office, during the weekdays. And we have various other departments to help facilitate the needs of the school. As far as department heads, as I stated before, the history department is in a state of flux. There are three other professors in the history department: Doctor Phillips who teaches Western Civilization, Doctor Connors who covers 20th Century Europe, specializing in Holocaust studies, and there’s Doctor Prystauk who does a series of Medieval and Renaissance classes. They’re all very good teachers, but to be blunt, I have my eye on you heading up the history department, after the fall semester of course.” Bachman, remaining in his seemingly relaxed watchful position, after a second’s moment of hesitation, gave a large expression of friendliness, exposing a set of large white teeth. It was the first time Boris had seen the Dean smile since setting stepping inside his office.

  “Department head?” Boris nearly fell forward.

  “Yes.” Bachman kept the same gleeful demeanor.

  “Are you sure? I mean, I just got here and, well…this is quite unexpected.”

  “As I said, we’ll see how things are after the fall, but we can only do what we can, with what we have, where we are. Only through hard effort and tenacity, Doctor Petry, can we move toward better things. As someone new to our school, I believe you can help move Baelo toward better things with a clear headed perspective. So, what do you say? Do you have the mettle?” Bachman’s eyes fixed on Boris like the dark crystalline eyes of a panther.

  Boris straightened, unsure what to say.

  “Well?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  Bachman sat forward, allowing his giant hands to hit the desk triumphantly. “Excellent, Doctor Petry. Quite excellent.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Boris blinked rapidly, as if his brain had to restart. His skin felt flushed, hands numb. God, to think I would have stayed at Ole Miss with that dimwit Charles. And for what? The promise of promotion? Here, I’m already a full professor, and now…department head…Christ, is this really happening?

  As the dean stood, Boris met him. Their hands came together in a hearty shake.

  Boris could scarcely contain his heart, fluttering within his ribcage like a trapped bird, nearly hysterical with tweeting laughter.

  I can’t wait to give Neville the news.

  “Do you have nothing else for me?” Bachman placed a large hand on Boris’ shoulder, leading him towards the door. For the first time, Boris noticed the remarkable height difference between them. Bachman was a giant of a man.

  Nearing the door, for whatever reason, besides perhaps strange curiosity, a question did pop up. Boris stopped, turning to look up at the towering Dean of Baelo University. “What happened to the previous professor of American History studies? They were the previous department head, I assume?”

  The kindness in Bachman’s face seemed to melt away like frost on a summer day. Standing more erect, he said without looking at Boris, “Yes. Doctor Jon Weidler, he retired rather unexpectedly.”

  Boris felt cold. “Unexpectedly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Have a good day, Doctor Petry.”

  Chapter 19

  Requiem

  Luna

  Luna woke with a start. Nearly leaping from her bed she glared out into the darkness of her room. Listening. Watching. Screams rang against her skull, slowly fading out into the Mississippi night. Folding her arms across her chest, she rubbed the goosebumps as they pricked her naked skin. The weather seemed unnaturally cold for this time of year. Typically, summer held harvest hostage until finally succumbing to the frigid months ahead. Laying back down, she could still see all the faces, people, relatives, family she’d never met yet somehow had them in her mind, her memory, her subconscious. Places in time and geography she should have no recollection; she knew by heart. These weren’t her memories, she feared. These were gleamed through the sight Memaw had warned her about. The closer that old woman got to death, the more the visions came, and they always seemed to come at night.

  Blood calls to blood, as old fools are known to say. Though Luna did not recognize the dreams, she knew these were of those she lost, the long line of Blanches that had been blighted from this world. She could see, one right after the other, through the decades, the slaughter of her kin. The balance upset with the resurrection of John Turner set right again.

  —Right?

  Right.

  What a horrible word.

  The creature who had once been nothing more than a college boy had become more than Lanmò, he’d become an agent, not for the destitute of the rural Delta, but of Samedi, the Lord of Flies, Death, who breathed life into his nostrils, conjured by the ritualized pleas of Ronna and the Blanche family, setting his twisted mangled flesh, stitched together with wire, on a hunt for those who summoned him. And he did his work well. Not stopping with those who had murdered him, he tore asunder bone and blood and soul of everyone until all that remained were Ronna and her unborn child, Luna’s father.

  And now they came to her.

  Voices from the past.

  Screaming while she slept.

  Too man
y faces to count.

  Necks broken.

  Hearts crushed.

  Limbs torn as if by wild horses.

  Questions unanswered.

  Rolling onto her side, tempted to wake the old woman, she thought better of it. Tossing again to her other side, she made a mental note to ask in the morning why, why did the creature spare her and her child. Why her and no one else. The desire for inquisition swirled in her mind, making sleep seem like something far out of reach. Eventually, the curtain fell over her again, and Luna drifted off into a merciful dreamless slumber.

  ***

  The next morning Luna woke peacefully. Rested. Calm. The tempest from the night seemed to subside. The voices, the screams, and the faces of the dead were nothing but evaporated memory, like dew on the grass in the afternoon. There was a mild breeze, coming from somewhere in the house, whipping at her hair, touching tenderly along her dark skin. Early sunlight snuck between the blinds, casting rays of yellow-white along the wood floor. Stretching her arms above her head, yawning, she wondered if Memaw was awake.

  Testing the cold floor, Luna crept out into the hall. Despite her troubled thoughts from last night, she no longer had any desire to wake her ailing grandmother. Inching closer to her bedroom, holding her breath, she carefully opened the door. Inch by tedious inch. She froze halfway, glaring inside.

  Where is she?

  Flinging the door open, letting it crash into the wall behind, Luna searched the room. Pounding the floor with her bare feet.

  “Memaw?” she called.

  No answer.

  She was gone.

  Her covers throw back. Her dentures floating in cloudy water in a glass cup on the bedside table. Reading glasses. Bell. And her mug for herbal tea. Everything was as it should be, but for her. Where had she gotten off to? Certainly her grandmother was too weak to have gone far. Too weak to have made it down the stairs on her own.

  Luna’s mind flashed in a series of hideous imagines, of her grandmother crumpled in a broken heap at the bottom of the staircase, among others. Dashing out of the room, she ran towards the stairs. Peering over the banister, her gaze darted to the landing below.

  Nothing.

  No body.

  Only the front door. Wide open, knocking into the wall from a gust of wind.

  “Memaw?” Luna called again, her voice echoing throughout the lonesome cabin.

  Taking the steps two at a time, Luna peered over into the kitchen.

  Still nothing.

  She glanced in the living room.

  Again, nothing.

  Not a sign.

  She was gone.

  Is she…? Luna thought as she sprinted through the open door.

  Outside the sun was bright, touching the tops of the tall pines surrounding the cabin in the woods. Birds making merry chatter, frolicking as summer began to die away. Despite the recent chill, the temperature felt milder, the ground still soft with the morning dew. On the porch, there was still no sign of her grandmother. In strange remembrance, Luna glanced over to the spot in the woods she thought she’d seen the monstrous shadow the day before. Nothing there but kudzu and sagebrush now in daylight.

  “Memaw?” Luna called, cupping her hands over her mouth to amplify the sound.

  Only the birds and playful squirrels answered.

  Breathing in aggravated, guttural breaths, Luna closed her eyes, opening her mind. She felt outward into the woods, feeling for the old woman’s familiar presence.

  She lingered for a moment before snapping back.

  Eyes wide.

  There was nothing.

  Only the woods and the pressure of what her grandmother had often called, the bubble.

  Pacing, her thoughts ran wildly.

  Where could she have gone?

  Had someone taken her?

  The pleasantness of the morning could do nothing for the dark cloud hovering behind her eyes. Luna stomped along the porch, trying to clear her head, trying to think. The RAV4 was still there. The old woman had to be somewhere. On a hunch, she followed the narrow path through the woods towards the Great Willow, the only place she could think Memaw might be.

  But if she is, why can’t I sense her?

  Only after stepping on a sharp fallen branch did Luna realize she’d forgotten her shoes. Damn the shoes, she thought darkly, trudging along the dead leaves and spiked branches and pine needles. Everything was damp, sticking to her naked heels and midnight legs. Still, she kept on without so much as a second glance. A bird, must have been a bird, squawked loudly nearby, startling her out of her march. Peering through the dense pines and green oaks and elms, she could see only the woods. Nothing else. Refusing further hesitation, the search resumed.

  After what felt like a longer walk then the last time she’d come out here, the Great Willow stood out in a clearing before her. The gnarled low hanging branches seemed lower today, perhaps the rain or changing season weighed them down. Luna could not be for certain. It was a curious site nevertheless, as if the giant willow was solemn or grieving in some way. Taking a trot, she approached. After a few steps, she spotted someone lying at the base of the trunk near a large root that’d sprouted from the ground.

  “Memaw? Is that you?”

  No response.

  Feeling suddenly too terrified to approach, Luna swallowed hard. Her throat bit back like nails. She moved closer. Tiptoeing, almost. Kneeling, reluctant, she touched the shoulder of the form wrapped in the afghan blanket. The body was rigid, but rolled over freely. Glaring up from the ground, the once warm eyes of her grandmother now glazed white and glassy.

  “Memaw…” Luna whimpered. Her grandmother was frozen cold. Her once midnight skin, now seemed shades too light. Lips cracked and dry, but yet somehow still with her sage joyful demeanor.

  “Oh, Memaw…”

  Luna fell upon her grandmother’s body, weeping, painfully. Her body shuddered and quaked and hurt with each gasping breath.

  It’s not fair.

  This is not fair.

  Please don’t be dead.

  Please don’t leave me alone.

  Be alive.

  Wake up.

  Please, wake up.

  Above her, the willow seemed to wilt, hanging farther toward the ground.

  The woods fell silent, almost mournful.

  The birds and other animals made not a single sound.

  Luna cared not. She held tightly to her grandmother, rocking back and forth, stuttering, allowing her swollen eyes to ruin. She held her and would forever more if she could.

  “I love you, Memaw.”

  ***

  Time seemed meaningless. Her back was sore against the willow’s truck, her chest was tight and heavy, but at least the tears had abated. Judging by the sun, it was sometime in the early afternoon. Luna had laid her grandmother back on the ground, carefully and lovingly covering her motionless body with her beloved afghan blanket. The woods and birds and squirrels and other wildlife that called the Delta home resumed their habitual practices. Foraging. Making merry. The world it seemed, moved on.

  Luna thought back on when Pappy had passed. Much different than now. She seemed younger than, less aware of how things actually were. She was single mindedly focused on her garden back then, and nothing much else. Not since her parents died. Pappy passed on in a hospital bed, covered in comfortably thin sheets, surrounded by family she gave little interest in. Not since her parents died. Her mother’s family accepted her desire for privacy. No one bothered her much after Pappy passed. She imagined, no one would bother her now with Memaw’s passing, not that anyone would know or care. Besides, who was left? To wonder what happened to poor Lulu? To Memaw? Not a soul. Car crash. Weak heart. Cancer. The world doesn’t seem capable to sugar coat the meanness. For now she was utterly alone, and she knew it, and perhaps the saddest part, she didn’t really care.

  Certainly, she didn’t care about the heavy footsteps coming toward her from the forest. Or the giant shadow which towered above h
er. Luna simply looked at the dead pine needles and leaves and said, “Have you come for me now too? Like the others?”

  The shadow seemed to think, taking its time to answer.

  “Must I?” the voice grumbled, heavy and old and wholly unnatural, but still it spoke like a man would; if only it were that, just a man.

  “Do what you want.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t care anymore.”

  The creature stepped forward, allowing the sun that broke in through the high canopy to shine on his horrible mauled face. The story Memaw had shared was not enough to describe the poor devil standing before her. His skin was dark but gray in splotches around the multitude of scars and stitched wires that mapped his exposed disfigured flesh. He seemed to shy from her gaze, tugging on his long dingy black trench coat, flexing the collar to shield his face. His hair was nappy and worn away to the bone in random patches. It has hard to imagine how this…whatever he was…was once nothing more than a mere boy, a college student wanting nothing for the world but for humanity to stand on equal footing in the sun. Even beneath his thick clothing, his misshapen body was not hard on the imagination. Massive arms, each strangely unequaled, and one strangled white hand. Trunk like legs giving him an irregular towering height. And his eyes, though dark as coal, seemed to contain something brighter than all the stars in the cosmos, glowing with some kind celestial essence.

  Luna closed her eyes and waited for the end.

  Silence fell.

  Moments ticked by.

  The creature did not take her.

  What is he waiting for? she wondered.

  Opening her eyes, Luna gazed up at John Turner.

  The creature stood where he had been, his own gaze had fallen upon her dead grandmother.

  “We need to bury her.” John glanced at Luna, shying away again.

  “Bury her?” Luna felt dazed. Had he not come to finish the job? To snuff out the last of the Blanche clan?

  “Here. On this spot.” John stumped his large foot, marking the area in which he meant.