It was a simple analogy for which he didn’t have an immediate answer. He gave the only truth he knew.
“My father did none of those things. He was always pursuing other interests and left us frequently.”
“Do you regret not being close to him?”
“I was provided with what I needed to fulfill my destiny. His guidance was minimal.”
“What about your mother?”
Deborah searched his face seeing how terribly uncomfortable he’d become by the question. This was the first time since returning from Ben’s home in West Sussex that they talked about his parents. A few scant pictures of them in the house sparked that initial conversation. Even then, Ben was hesitant only referencing what his father did for a living and when his parents died.
“She was… a lovely, decent woman who was dutiful to my father. She doted on me as much as he’d allow, which wasn’t much. We each had a purpose.”
The underlying truth was Ben had always been the father of the sons he’d later occupy. He was never a son.
“This makes you uncomfortable?” she asked.
“About as much as it makes you uncomfortable to discuss missing elements of your past.”
It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. There was a distance in him she couldn’t recall ever seeing. Gently touching the side of his face, she smiled. He found comfort in her loving gaze and touch. Reaching across her for his book, he adjusted so she could roll onto her side. Picking up the remote, she watched TV as he stroked her arm and read. They sat quietly until it was time for bed.
Having slept peacefully the night before, Deborah arrived to work refreshed. With only a few pages remaining, she was almost finished with the fourth diary. At work the next day, she continued translation and decipher work on the bizarre passages. This can’t be right, but it made perfect sense the more she read. Willem and the others fervently believed Asira was the key to their deliverance despite what was happening with King Leopold’s death squads. The more she read, she felt nauseous.
The raid upon Bakongo was devastating. They killed all in their path. Men, women, and children… few were spared. I have never seen such carnage, and my eyes have seen much since coming here. Asira is no longer safe anywhere within this vast land. Force Publique informants abound. All are fearful given what happened in this village.
The next entry gave another snippet:
There are others with whom we must now concern ourselves. North of the river live a people who worship another. They roam the land searching for any news of the child. We are told they intend to do penance to their god by delivering Asira. They manipulate Force Publique. Sleep is the only choice. There is much to prepare and time is short.
And still more:
All arrangements have been made. The boat waits on the Congo River to take us to the coast. Once upon the Atlantic, I am bound for Brussels. The Dajume will scatter until called. It will be an arduous journey, but there is no other choice. Asira will be safe and when the time is right, awakened.
For the first time since reading the encrypted fourth and fifth diaries, a date finally appeared. In the other diaries, Willem wrote at least two times per week. Depending on what was happening, he wrote several passages per day. But it had been three years since Willem made a dated entry. Deborah was certain the events described previously were in those missing years. But knowing he intended to go to Belgium, she hoped what followed would fill in important gaps and perhaps reveal the location of Oyo Mangua.
March 16, 1900
I have been called before the brotherhood to share my experiences in the Congo. For nearly a month since my return home, day after day I have been questioned about what I have seen. Yet, I fear none choose to believe me. I am weary of this ruse and will end it soon.
Father and mother worry about me, but there is little need. I was blessed with a sight from Asira far greater than any I had known before my time with the Bakongo. I am a new man with a purpose far greater.
Reading further, Deborah was astonished to learn what Willem and the other Dajume had done. Under the cover of darkness, they took the child to the village of Lokulela along the Congo River. Oyo Mangua was located just south of it. In preparation for an elaborate ceremony, holy fires burned with herbs meant to sanctify the area. When the time came, Asira was given a concoction to drink meant to induce a form of deep sleep. With that success, a plug was placed in the child’s throat to hold Asira’s spirit until it was time for the awakening.
In those last hours before Force Publique came, worry consumed me. There was nothing but fear and little direction. Then Asira’s small hand rested upon mine. At that moment, clarity came to me as I stared into eyes as golden as the sun. I then knew what must be done.
Despite their plans, the group was betrayed, and the Force Publique came for all of them. Barely escaping, many were left behind dead from cannon and weapons fire. Willem detailed more horror, but his joy at reaching Oyo Mangua seemed to leap off the pages. They took the child and performed the ceremony with considerable swiftness. When it was done, they placed the child in the sarcophagus burying it until they could retrieve it later. But it was weeks later before any could return to the site. The boat that was to carry Willem to Brussels was attacked. The crew killed for complicity. He was threatened with execution, but his family name alone saved him.
Finally able to arrange passage back to Brussels, Willem eventually uncovered the sarcophagus. He placed it undetected inside his large traveling trunk. When he arrived home, he attempted the awakening ritual but failed. Without another Dajume, he didn’t have the power to do it alone. Each day, despondency overcame him. He feared they had mistakenly killed the child. Oh my God! Deborah thought.
She leaned back from the table staring off into nothingness. She couldn’t imagine what remained in the last two pages. As it was, the tissues in the wastebasket held the evidence of her heartbreak reading it all. She couldn’t recall ever reading anything that moved her so frequently to tears. But she was nearing the end and had to finish the work. She now knew exactly where Oyo Mangua was located. Ben would be thrilled to know before he headed back to London, but she was more interested in learning what became of Willem.
May 10, 1900
The time draws near, and I feel I have no other recourse but to officially abdicate my vow of service to the Church. Father has admonished me for this decision. He tells me the trials of the Congo were God’s test of my faith. He believes I must not fail Him and damn myself for eternity. But none know what I have seen, who I have become. I am Dajume.
June 14, 1900
Another miracle occurred today. My sweet sister Camille went into my chamber while I was out. She discovered Asira’s vessel. Rather than uncover my secret, she wanted to know more. Then she touched the body and wisdom flowed from her like never before. With it also came a plan!
July 22, 1900
My sacred duty to protect Asira has guided my steps. I now know of one place I can venture that may help me, a place where Dajume can gather without prying eyes of the Belgians, French, or English. I am bound for old Saint-Domingue. Many descendants of Bakongo reside there, brought by the French before the inhabitants seized their independence ending slavery.
This shall be my last act under the guise of Father Willem. This is surely the hand of Asira at work! I am to assist the Oblate Sisters of Providence. This Order is comprised solely of African nuns who aid the poor and care for orphaned children there.
“Saint-Domingue?”
“Yes. That’s where he took the sarcophagus after retrieving it from Oyo Mangua.”
“Saint-Domingue is Haiti,” Ben said clearly stunned by Deborah’s revelation.
“I know. He went there because he hoped to find other Dajume to help him awaken Asira.”
“Where in Haiti did he go?” he asked tentatively.
“In the Sud area near the mountainous range of de la Hotte.”
Watching him, it was if the blood was
rushing from his face. Hesitantly he asked, “Tell me again when did the sarcophagus come into the University Museum collection?”
“Sometime in the 1990s, I think.”
Ben pushed away from the dining table as if he were going to vomit.
“Baby, are you okay?” she asked.
“Excuse me!”
He got up from the table and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
No, no, no! This can’t be, he thought. He paced back and forth trying to wrap his head around what Deborah shared. It has to be a coincidence. It has to be!
Deborah tapped on the door before coming in. “Ben, what’s wrong? Can I get you anything?”
“I just need a moment!” he said.
It has to be a coincidence!
CHAPTER 26
Ben seemed despondent, and he wasn’t sharing why. Prodding was useless, so Deborah gave him the space he needed. Throughout the night, he held her close as if letting her go would be the death of him. At least he wasn’t angry. Nevertheless, his behavior was just as concerning as the outburst over not knowing the location of Oyo Mangua. Now he did, and he seemed downright despondent. Remaining in bed as she left for work, he claimed to just need sleep before leaving for London the next day.
When he awoke, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His thoughts were running rampant. Only one thing would put his concerns to rest—the package he expected from Marian. He called her.
“Marian?”
“Yes, sir. How are you today?”
“I’ve been better. I need you to divert the package delivery to Deborah’s apartment.”
“It’s scheduled for delivery by ten your time. I’ll see what I can do about having it driven out to you.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Is everything all right, Ben? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said before hanging up.
He felt ill as conflicting emotions scrabbled his stomach and thoughts. Climbing back into bed, his head began to ache mercilessly. Within moments, Mila appeared hovering over his human form.
“Why have you come?” he asked solemnly.
“I come for you,” Mila said.
“Why?”
“You are distressed… and grieving. I have not felt such things from you since The Supreme left us. What troubles you, brethren?”
Mila floated around him before moving in very close gazing into his eyes. But Ben turned away from the stare, and Mila backed away.
“Have you found Asira?”
“I’m not certain.”
“When you are, be of your word. You must convert or destroy Asira. Either choice is within your power, but you must act!”
“I will do what must be done,” he said.
“And yet your conviction wanes. Why? Is it because of the human woman with whom you have found extreme favor?”
“My conviction has not waned.”
“I am pleased to hear it, as the others will be… because she means little.”
“She means everything.”
“Being in this form has changed you.”
“Do you now turn against me as well, Mila?”
“Never, Bensaí! My loyalty to you will never falter… and I speak for Ontu as well. But understand our loyalty requires that I say what needs to be said. So speak plainly with me. What troubles you?”
“I want to transform her. I want to bring her into our realm.”
“No mortal being can survive it.”
“Her spirit and essence are strong. She will simply require another form.”
Mila watched him carefully before speaking. “Asira assumed their form, and now you wish to give a human ours. This is not the proper order of things, Bensaí! Even with the power of time and space, I cannot do what you ask.”
“What of Edra? All mortal forms were created by Edra, surely…”
“You would align with the Nubí? For a human? It cannot be done!” Mila said firmly.
“Cannot or will not?”
Mila remained silent for a moment contemplating and watching Ben carefully before speaking again.
“We cannot defeat Nubí or The Supreme without your guidance and wrath, Bensaí. It is our combined powers used against them that will destroy them. You have prepared us for this. You discovered this path. You taught us how to focus our essences to rip The Supreme apart. And when we have Asira… you will rule over all!”
“I will do what must be done!” Ben said assertively.
“And yet your grief remains.”
“Depart from me,” he said.
Having left Ben at her apartment, Deborah was still greatly concerned about him. Settling at her desk, she had to focus. There was only one diary remaining for translation, but she didn’t have the energy to do it. The emotional toll each had taken on her spirit was too much. She needed a break from it. Uploading the last segments of the fourth and fifth diaries into the encrypted file, she sent them on to Ben like she normally did. She then turned her attention to reviewing resumes of the new hires selected for the archivist positions. She scribbled notes on each one, to ensure follow-up questions were in front of her when they started the following week.
As the clock ticked, she grew more anxious about going to Mr. Mugabe’s memorial service. Having kept the information from Ben, she was convinced she should at least pay her respects. When the time came, she slipped out of the office and drove to the Boulevard. The parking lot at the funeral home was full as people piled into the building. Looking at the mourners, there was no way to tell if they were attending Mugabe’s or someone else’s services.
Entering the lobby, the attendant directed her to a small chapel at the opposite end of the hall. Stepping inside, she recognized several faces as Mr. Mugabe’s colleagues from the Landscape Department. Most lightly nodded their heads while others peered solemnly at the obituary program. With only twenty or so people in attendance, the funeral director said words of solace rather than offer an extended sermon. When he concluded, he allowed those who wanted to say a few words of remembrance to come forward. She dared not go, but listened as people spoke of Mugabe’s gentle spirit, hard work, and listening ear. Then it was over. The entire service didn’t last thirty minutes.
Before heading out, she gathered her things and walked up to his picture placed on an easel. Giving the sign of the cross, she moved on so others could pay their final respects as well. Walking toward the door, an older woman approached her. She was full figured but quite striking. When she spoke, her French accent was thick, but Deborah couldn’t place where it was from.
“You must be Miss Deborah.” She smiled.
Deborah was taken aback. How did this woman know her? “Yes, I am.”
“Thank you so much for coming. My brother spoke of you often. You are as lovely as Mugabe said.”
Her face was warm and curious, but Deborah felt terribly uncomfortable by the comment. Why would he talk about her as if there was more than a casual acquaintance?
“I didn’t know Mr. Mugabe had family here,” was all Deborah could say.
Extending her hand she said, “I’m Celeste. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Finally? “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
“My brother lived a purposeful life. He is among the ancestors now.”
“I imagine so.”
“Are you coming to the house for the repast?”
“I’m sorry. I really need to get back to work.”
“Please. It would mean so much.”
“I really don’t know if…”
“The house is not far, just a few blocks away. As you can see, not many came.”
It was still fairly early in the day, and despite her reservations, Deborah agreed to go. Mugabe’s house was nestled in the small enclave behind the hospital. Walking in, she noted it was comfortably furnished. The space reflected the home of an older man who lived alone. Few pi
ctures adorned the walls, yet everything was tidy.
Only five other people came, all much older than she. Finger foods were arranged nicely on the small dining table adjacent to the kitchen. She listened as they chatted sharing more pleasant memories of Mr. Mugabe. She was relieved no one seemed obsessed with how he died, as was often the case at funerals. Eventually, the few gathered guests started to leave. Deborah chose to do the same.
“Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you for inviting me, but I really need to go,” Deborah said.
“Before you go, there’s something he wanted you to have,” Celeste said.
Disappearing quickly into another room before Deborah could voice her objection, Celeste returned with a small box. She handed it to Deborah.
“For you,“ she said smiling broadly.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable accepting this. I was friendly with Mr. Mugabe, but I didn’t know him well enough to…”
“But he knew you. He often spoke of how kind you are to everyone. He also knew you were alone in this world. He wanted you to know you are not. He made this for you. Please, take it.”
Slowly opening the box, Deborah looked at the small gold necklace. Lifting it out of the box, she noted the charm hanging on it. There was something curious and familiar about it, yet she couldn’t place its design right away.
“Thank you. It’s lovely, but I really can’t take this.”
“May I ask why not?”
“It’s not… appropriate. I think Mr. Mugabe’s affections were misplaced.”
Celeste laughed. “My brother thought of you as a daughter, nothing more. He made this for you.”
“Still.”
The teakettle whistled in the kitchen. “Ah, just a moment,” Celeste said as she darted off to attend to it.
Deborah felt awkward as hell. She looked down at the lovely necklace again before setting the box on the coffee table. She walked toward the door just as Celeste came back carrying a tray with a teapot and cups.
Asira Awakens Page 18