Battle Hill Bolero

by Daniel José Older

  One thing I do know: Mama Esther may not exist in any spirit or corporeal form anymore, but there’s a little bit of her in everything. Everything. It’s like she exploded across the world and some tiny shard of her seeped into each corner and cranny. Her wisdom, her laugh, her wry humor: it’s with us. It’s part of us.

  Makes sense. She did this. We’re living her legacy now. That master plan—it survived on a wink and a smile, but it worked. Mama Esther’s dominion was information. She was wise as hell too, and that’s no small thing. But her real genius was always in being able to see straight through a person, past all that flesh or ethereal goo and directly into their heart.

  And me? Ha. The whole of El Mar gets quiet when I walk in. Even the damn DJ scratches her records to a stop, so the once-festive celebration suddenly becomes a hall of silent wonder, all because of me.

  I flash a smile. “Stop, y’all. It’s just me. I’m still me.” Okay, yeah, I got a certain glow that (thankfully) only folks with the spirit Vision can see. And technically, I’m a kind of demigod, a keeper of the newly torn open threshold between life and death, a being of perhaps unimaginable powers (I haven’t tried them all out yet). But I’m still me! Still Sasha Brass. I’m still a mom and a lover and a fighter. I still get hungry and irritable. Still get my damn period, for God’s sake. Started yesterday while I was herding some of those hellhounds around. And shit: I’m hungry now. “Anybody bring cake to this New Year’s Eve victory bash, or y’all too busy getting wasted?”

  They chuckle, and then Riley’s voice blasts across the room with that spirit megaphone trick—I’d throat punch whoever taught him how to do it, but it would probably kill them. “Sasha Brass, ladies and gentleghosts!” He’s clearly wasted. “The Divine Gatekeeper.”

  I shake my head. Not helping. The whole room explodes with cheers, and then Carlos is there, pulling me into a hug, and everything will be okay, somehow. We kiss, and the room goes “Ooooh!” and I roll my eyes at them. Then the DJ kicks back in with the old-school jams. She’s alive—a slender black woman in a cowboy hat—and she’s killing it.

  The twins poke their heads out from behind Carlos’s legs. They’ve fallen in love with him so quickly, just dove straight into the arms of their father with no hesitation and the intuitive abandon of toddlers. I scoop them up and hold them close, feel their tiny heartbeats against my skin and their tiny arms wrapping around my back.

  “You guys okay?”

  They giggle and coo, and I pass Xiomara to Carlos—she’s already a daddy’s girl, reaching for him and burying her little face in his shoulder when she gets what she wants. Gordo waddles up, Reza and Janey beside him. They’re looking very pleased with themselves, I notice.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you all. I’m sorry it was a lot longer than we thought it’d be.”

  “No worries,” Reza says. “We had fun.” Her grin speaks of the kind of fun only Reza can enjoy.

  I try not to worry. Whatever happened, it’s over. Then my momness kicks in and I can’t help it. “Something happened?”

  Reza shrugs that Reza shrug. “You could say that. But everything’s fine.”

  “It got sticky,” Janey concedes, and Reza scowls at her, looking betrayed. “But we handled it. You don’t wanna know.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Later,” Gordo says. “Tonight is for celebration.” He has one arm wrapped around the waist of a woman so tiny and frail I didn’t even notice her at first.

  “CiCi,” I say. “Wonderful to finally meet you.”

  Small though she is, Cicatriz Cortazar holds herself like a gentle warrior—back straight, a subtle smile creasing her lips. “The pleasure is mine,” she says. “I’ve heard many wonderful things. And I see you are . . . fully manifested now.”

  My turn to shrug. I like how she said that: fully manifested. Feels true. Means this, all of this, has been inside me all along, waiting to come out.

  “¿A bailar?” Gordo says, offering CiCi his big ol’ hand.

  She smiles slyly at him. “Claro, mi amor.” And they glide onto the dance floor and immediately rule it, improbable and ancient and adorable.

  Two-D projections of our fallen line the walls, and you would think it’d be grim, but it feels right somehow, like they’re here with us even though they’re not. Little Damian’s in there somewhere, and Big Cane. Talbot. Breyla. Many, many more. There are hundreds of them, and they smile out at us, and their smiles demand a promise: We died for this, those smiles say. You must live for it.

  And we will, my own smile says as I take Carlos’s chilly hand in mine and hoist little Jackson tighter against my chest and we watch the room rock with dancing, laughter, good food and drink, the excitement of a brand-new day.

  Carlos

  “How it feel to be king?” I ask Riley when the dancing slows down enough for us to catch a minute to chat.

  “Man,” Riley sighs. “You know it ain’t like that.”

  “They pick a title for y’all yet, though?”

  He shakes his head; we both light smokes. “We’ll see. All that’ll come.”

  “Word.”

  A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “Carlos.”

  I look up into the single eye of possibly the last motherfucker I expected to see here. “Quiñones?”

  Quiñones runs the Burgundy Bar, a busted old saloon where all the Council folks hang—used to hang in—during afterhours to talk trash. I’d just figured he took me for a lunatic all this time, buying extra rounds that sit beside me while I ramble to people who clearly aren’t there. But here he is. “You can . . . you can see the dead?”

  Quiñones flashes a rare smile, possibly his first. “Man, you don’t tend bar at the Dead’s number one hangout and not eventually end up seein’ ’em.”

  “So all this time . . .”

  He shrugs. “Pretty much. Anyway, I just wanted to say you guys did a good thing. Fuck the Council. If you ever have cause to ramble on back my way, drinks are always on the house, my brothers.” He trades a dap with Riley and pats me on the shoulder, then heads into the crowd.

  I blink a few times. “Did you—?”

  Riley shakes his head. “But wow. All that time leaning over to sip my drink while it’s on the bar like an asshole for nothing.”

  A moment passes. DJ Lynnee has switched to some kind of unstoppable Afro-beat mix that all the young folks are going bonkers over. Krys and her new friend Redd take center stage, Krys throwing a pretend lasso over Redd and pulling him in while the whole room cheers. Baba Eddie even let the Iyawo jump in there, against all protocol, but I can see he’s keeping a sharp eye on her. Baba’s husband, Russell, and Dr. Tijou whisper to each other over the music. The Iyawo ditty bops happily in the corner beside Jimmy; Reza and Dr. Tennessee spin past in a simmering tango that somehow matches the music perfectly.

  “We did it,” I say as it hits me once more. “We did it, Riley. We won.”

  He nods, smiling. The long road we’ve traveled to this moment right here stretches behind us; a whole other one stretches ahead. “Sure as hell did.”

  “What happened to that detachment they tried to flank us with from the rear?”

  Riley laughs. “Man! Apparently some kids showed up and like . . . handled ’em.”

  “Kids?”

  “Teenagers. I guess Gordo and Vince both knew ’em and someone put a call in? Our scouts say they threw some kinda colors at the Council goons and it sent ’em scattering.”

  “¿Qué?”

  “Like paint? Iono, man. They handled business; that’s all that matters. One day we’ll track ’em down and give ’em all a fuckin’ medal of honor, seriously. We’da been even deeper in the shits if those guys had come at us from the rear.”

  I nod, shake my head. “Damn.”

  “We’da still fucked ’em up, though.”

  �
�I know it.”

  Cyrus slides over beside us and puts a pipe in his mouth.

  “You alright, old man?” Riley asks.

  He nods, smiling that sad smile, but I believe him; it’s not just for show. “Damian went how he would’ve wanted to go. Don’t make me miss him any less, but . . . we knew there’d be a price to pay for freedom.”

  “Commander Riley!” Sylvia Bell hollers from the dance floor. “Report to the center of the conga line ASAP or you’re in big trouble.”

  “Shit,” Riley says. “Cyrus . . . you’re the reason we’re here.”

  The old conjureman shakes his head. “Just one of many, many.”

  “For me, man, I’m talking ’bout for me. You lit the way, Cyrus. For me.”

  Cyrus nods and stands, and they embrace, a hug that holds the whole terrible breadth and immensity of the war in it. When they’re done, both men are wiping their eyes and smiling, and dammit, so am I.

  Then Riley heads into the conga line and Cyrus and I just take it all in for a few moments. “Gray dude,” Rohan says, strolling up with a rum punch in one hand and a Red Stripe in the other. “She here.”

  She. She? Oh! Oh, shit. All that happens in my head while I blankstare the guy.

  “You comin’?”

  Am I? I seem to be. I stand, nod at Cyrus. But I’m grimacing as I follow Rohan through the revelry.

  “How’d it go at the botánica?” I yell over the music.

  “Smooth, man. We played Uno all night. Jimmy beat all our asses. Baba Eddie passed out at ten like an old lady. The Iyaweezy and I kept watch till dawn. Council ain’t fuck with us. Pretty sure they had their hands full with you guys anyway.”

  We stop in front of a wooden door that leads to some more back rooms at El Mar. I’m sure all kinds of nefarious shit goes on through here. Rohan says, “Oh yeah,” and takes a sheathed blade off his belt, starts to hand it to me.

  “Nah, man.” I hold him off. “Keep it. I still got one and I don’t plan on using it any time soon.”

  Rohan smiles wide at me. “You alright, C-dog.”

  One table takes up most of the cozy little back room. By cozy, I mean dim and cluttered with various flyers, upside-down chairs, and child seats. A slender, unimpressed white woman sits at the table, smoking. Jet-black hair hangs down either side of her face, partially obscuring one of her eyes. A half-empty bottle of Jack keeps her company.

  “Carlos,” I say, reaching out my hand.

  She doesn’t take it.

  “That’s how it works, man,” Rohan says. “You touch her, she sees it.”

  “My death?”

  “Both of ’em,” the woman says, “in your case.”

  “You told her ’bout me?” I ask Rohan.

  “Nah, man, she just be knowin’ shit.”

  “Miriam,” she says, and smiles. It’s one of those smiles people who never smile whip out when they mean it, and I decide she’s not rude after all, just surly. And I guess I would be too if I saw everyone’s death who I touched.

  “So, you know, here’s how it would go,” she tells me, offering the empty chair facing her. I sit. “I touch you, see the deaths. I tell you what I see, or maybe you can swing some halfie magic and see it through me.” She takes a drag, shrugs. “That part’s up to you. But, look, either way, it is what it is.” Then she stares at me, and I realize her stare is a question.

  And then I realize it’s a question I don’t know the answer to.

  For years, I’d have given anydamnthing to see exactly what happened that night at Grand Army Plaza. Then I saw a snippet of it and it ruined my life. And now we’ve unraveled so much, put so much back in place—both the story and each other. So much has happened, and the knowing took such a toll.

  I close my eyes, and the face I see is the woman with honey on her lips.

  “Thank you,” I say to Miriam, opening my eyes and meeting hers. “I’ma pass.”

  She grins, takes a swig of Jack. “Smart move.”

  I nod at her, and then Rohan, and then I walk out the door.

  It’s just past eleven p.m. on December thirty-first—that dizzy in-between time when we’re not quite here but not yet there—and I put the past behind me forever and head down the corridor, back to the great hall full of the living and the dead celebrating freedom together, back to Sasha, to my family, and all that lies ahead.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my terrific editor, Rebecca Brewer, who has believed in and helped bring this trilogy to life every step along the way. Thanks to publicist Alexis Nixon and the whole team at Ace/Roc Books, particularly the cover art department, who absolutely nailed it. Huge thanks to Eddie Schneider and everyone at JABberwocky Literary for all their hard work and excellent advice. Thank you beta readers: Kortney Ziegler, Troy Wiggins, Phenderson Djèlí Clark, Sorahya Moore, Isake Khadiya Smith. Shout-out to all the good folks on Twitter for keeping me laughing along the way.

  Thanks to Chuck Wendig for giving Miriam the day off so she could come hang on Bone Street for the day.

  The two musicians who appear in this book are real live people and very damn brilliant. You can find Akie Bermiss—who serenades Sasha in the coffee shop—at akiemusic.com and DJ Lynnée Denise at djlynneedenise.com.

  Huge thanks to the great Mildred Louis for the awesome river giant drawing on the front of this book, and to Cortney Skinner for the Bone Street Rumba map.

  To my amazing wife, Nastassian: I love you. Thanks always to my wonderful family, Dora, Marc, Malka, Lou, and Calyx. To Iya Lisa and Iya Ramona and all of Ilé Omi Toki and my good friends in Ilé Ashe.

  I give thanks to all those who came before us and lit the way. I give thanks to all my ancestors; to Yemonja, Mother of Waters; gbogbo Orisa, and Olodumare.

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