Sycorax's Daughters

by Kinitra Brooks, PhD

  “Uh huh,” Janelle rolled her eyes. “I say if you think he did, he probably did. What happened to change your mind?”

  “He’s been great since we both got back home, very attentive.Almost too much so.”

  “How do you mean?” Janelle asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to being spoiled by a man. Is that horrible to say? I haven’t had too many long term boyfriends.”

  “You mean any—,” She corrected.

  “Okay, no long term guys. Anyway. Whatever happened, if something did, it’s over.”

  I couldn’t explain to her a whole month had passed and Tariq’s aura remained clean and unencumbered. Or how the energy surrounding him warmed to pink when we were close.

  What I could tell her was how we were going out and doing things together. He was loving me in all the best ways, cooking dinner and giving me back rubs, little things he never used to do.

  I had a secret glow of happiness because whatever Ashlyn did was apparently working wonders.

  I didn’t like to think of Ashlyn. The memory of her name brought an unnerving itch to the back of my arms, a tingle of pain in my head. Certainly there was really no need to ever speak her name, but I couldn’t help thinking of her, and wondering what transpired over those hours she said I was in a trance.

  I stirred my cooling cup of coffee, and saw a dark swirl moving across the top of the drink, like two drops of blood, moving in opposite directions.

  “What the hell?” Janelle said softly.

  I looked up, and my gaze followed her stare. People were running for shelter as the sudden downpour sent rain and pebbles of hail skittering across the sidewalks.

  “Was rain even in the forecast?” she asked.

  #

  When I was seven, I remember being very angry with the little girl who lived next door.

  Her name was Darlene. We had been playmates from the time we could both walk. Our mothers ate lunch and drank iced tea, occasionally casting a watchful eye on us from the screen door which led to Darlene’s backyard. She was the first friend I could remember. In time, she would become the first I would forget.

  We cut each other’s palms one day, vowing we would be blood sisters forever. We traded Barbie dolls and played in the back yard, skipping rope and telling stories about princesses and castles in make believe countries. Sometimes, we hunted for fairies between the weeds and blackberries grew wild.

  The thing is, I don’t remember why I got mad at Darlene. It could have been anything. She might have ripped off the head of one of my dolls or said the shirt I wore was stupid. Things are like that with little girls. They are creatures who can love and hate deeply, all at once, and with a viciousness found only in the most evil grown folk. And I was no exception.

  All I can tell you for sure is I went upstairs to my room.

  I sat alone, and chanted, and swayed, legs curled beneath me, eyes squeezed shut. I lost track of time and place. I know when I went upstairs, it was just after dinner. It was a clear summer day. Rain came, and then hail, none of it predicted by anyone. Darlene’s mother went outside onto her porch and called out for her, thinking she might have been playing out in the woods.

  Twenty minutes later, Darlene’s mother found her only baby laying in the bottom of her bedroom closet, panting for breath, unable to speak or move.

  Mama came to me the next day and asked what we had argued about it. “What happened? Did you do something to make her sick? Did you use magic, Naomi?”

  I told her no. I had no idea. Last I saw Darlene, she was fine.

  We didn’t argue about anything.

  There was disbelief in Mama’s eyes. But she nodded slowly. “Alright then. We won’t talk about this again, understand girl? But whatever you did, you will not do it again! Magic is not something to be toyed with, child. And if you wield dark things,” her eyes narrowed. “Soon you won’t be able to control them.”

  Heartbroken, Darlene’s family moved away. I don’t know if she ever recovered, or if the damage inflicted was permanent. Mama and I never spoke of it, but she never taught me even the simplest forms of magic from that day on.

  #

  I hadn’t thought of Darlene, or the sudden, unseasonable storm in years. My head hurt, and I felt vaguely sick to my stomach.

  I drove home. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the wind was picking up. I closed the door and locked it behind me, shutting the elements out. In my room, I closed the blinds, got in bed, and pulled the covers over me. I was cold to my marrow. I could hear the water on the roof, pounding as steady as a drumbeat.

  I woke up a few hours later. The clock on the nightstand read 7:30 P.M.

  When I came out into the living room Tariq was sitting on the couch. His wore a dark hoodie pulled over his head. His wet, muddy boots were still on, and he was soaking wet.

  “Baby, what happened?” I asked. “Did you walk home through the rain?”

  He turned to me. I jumped backwards.

  An aura should cover an entire body, and are usually layers deep. His aura was dark and shrunken, the gray edges of it dotted with holes, and only surrounded his eyes. The center of it was completely black. I had never seen anything like it and all I could think was death.

  He looked at me, and beneath the blackness of the aura, I saw the spark of anger in his eyes. He looked down at his wet hands, and then at me. Looking into his eyes was like gazing over the edge of a hurricane and into the still center of a storm.

  “What did you do to me?” he asked. “Why can’t I remember anything?” he stood slowly. “Why’s it hurt so much? My head?” He slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I keep trying to get back home to you, and then everything goes away. And all I can hear is you in my head. Chanting.”

  “Tariq, I don’t know what you’re talking about! You went to class this morning. What happened?”

  “I haven’t been anywhere,” he said. “I haven’t been back in this house. I don’t know where I have been.” He edged towards me.

  I felt his anger like heat rising off of him, and backed up towards the kitchen. He was between me and the door. Good luck outrunning Mr. Track and Field. “You tell me the truth,” he screamed. “What did you do?”

  I backed up far enough that my hip touched the edge of the sink.

  Tariq lunged towards me, and I ran around the other side of the kitchen island, making a break for the door.

  I was running for all I was worth. My hand was wrapped around the doorknob when he dropped me to the floor. I fell down on my side. I felt a sizzle of pain in my arm, saw the flash of t he knife as he held it above me. Scrambling to my knees, I managed one punch, even as he sliced my arm again. It bought me a few seconds to catapult myself out of the door.

  One dim light was on. Running, I slipped and fell before I reached the edge of the stairway led down into the courtyard.

  Coming up the stairs, backpack slung over his shoulder, wearing a green parka, blue jeans and a baseball cap, Tariq stared at me. “Naomi!” he yelled.

  With a hood pulled over his head, and bloody knife in his hand, my assailant emerged from our apartment and ran down the opposite stairwell. The neighbor at the end of the hall opened her door, and Tariq shouted at her to stay with me. Tariq ran after him, but I knew he wouldn’t find him.

  Tariq’s doppelgänger had disappeared into the shadows, evaporated as quickly as smoke.

  #

  The ride to the hospital seemed to take forever, even though Tariq drove like a madman.

  Once I was in the ER, they took me straight to the back. The nurse asked a list of questions about how I got stabbed, all of which made me uncomfortable. I told her most of the truth. I woke up and found a man inside my apartment, he attacked me, and I ran. Did I get a good look at his face? No. He was wearing a hoodie. I was running for my life.

  At least my wounds matched my story.

  The mystery man had slashed the back of my arm. The resident on call told me my
wounds were superficial, but deep enough to need stitches. “Whoever this was who attacked you, it’s going to leave a nice scar,” he said softly.

  Tariq was waiting for me in the waiting room. I was grateful to be away from him for a few moments. I needed time to think. I saw the suspicious glares the staff gave him when he brought me in. I don’t think any of the neighbors saw anything, including Mrs. Palmer, the woman who opened her door. I worried about what happened if a well-meaning person gave the police a statement, saying they saw someone fitting Tariq’s description.

  I wondered, if the moment he found me, Tariq hadn’t looked up and seen his own face as the man who stabbed me fled.

  I tried to think about how this could have happened. What did Ashlyn do? I had heard of spells to could make two halves of one being, but I had never seen it done. At the same time, I knew I wasn’t crazy. Though being crazy was a comforting option. There were pills, and therapy, and quiet places with seaside views that could help me if I needed it.

  I wanted to run. I wanted to go back to Ashlyn and make her fix whatever she did to Tariq.

  Maybe Ashlynn could help — if she did anything at all other than listen to me recite old magic I shouldn’t even know.

  #

  “You okay, baby?” Tariq said. He touched my face and I couldn’t help the shudder which crept up my back. It took effort not to pull away.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking out the windshield and into the dark stretch of road ahead of us. “Jumpy, still, I guess. I know it probably sounds crazy, but can we not go back to our place just yet?”

  “A man was sitting up in our house,” Tariq said. “Of course we’re not going right back there! At least not until we get the locks changed or something.”

  He drove us to a little hotel near the airport. It was clean and seemed reasonably safe. As soon as we were inside he ordered room service. I shivered when they knocked at the door. Tariq took care of it. I tried to eat, and managed to hold something in my stomach. He only ate half of his meal too, despite the fact he said earlier he was starving. When we finally climbed into bed, I stayed as far on my side as possible. I think he knew I didn’t want him to touch me, though he didn’t realize exactly why. I wondered what was going on in his head. Had he seen enough to make him wonder if he was losing his sanity too, or did he think maybe our neighborhood was just wasn’t safe for us anymore?

  I lapsed into sleep for a short time. I had uneasy dreams of faces swathed in darkness, a man chasing me through a forest. I started, and sat up.

  Tariq was still beside me in bed, sleeping. His deep, even breathing was white noise. I tried to calm myself. I sat up with my back against the headboard, clutching my pillow against my stomach until my insides stopped doing somersaults. This was my man beside me. This was the part of him that loved me and wanted to be together. His aura was a soothing gray. There was tension in the way he held his body, in his shoulders and chest. Nothing abnormal.

  This man had only been kind to me. Tariq, when a whole man, had always been more complicated, a mix of so many emotions and needs. As all people are.

  I walked over to the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.

  I couldn’t help but push back the curtain, just an inch. The parking lot below was empty.

  Just beyond the lot, between the sidewalk and a line of trees stood a figure in black. The light from the lampposts didn’t stretch far enough to touch his face but I didn’t need it to. His body, his stance, would be plain to me anywhere. He lifted his head, as if he felt my eyes upon him. I could swear I saw his cheekbones move against the fabric of his hoodie. He smiled.

  #

  I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

  Our building manager arranged for the locks to be changed first thing in the morning. The woman apologized profusely when we picked them up, and said security measures would be increased, including cameras. Tariq thanked her, and we went upstairs to our apartment. Except for a few drops of blood on the floor, nothing was out of place.

  Despite what had happened, I was relieved to be home. It wasn’t like anywhere else would really be safer.

  I had to talk Tariq into going to work. I told him I would be staying home, relaxing for the day. Though he didn’t seem convinced it was a good idea, he caved. I was relieved to be away from him a little bit.

  I called my mother and poured everything out to her.

  I’d expected a long, angry diatribe. Instead, she listened carefully. When she spoke, it was in the softest, most gentle way I could remember hearing her speak to me in a long time. The things she said confirmed what I already feared.

  “I don’t think Memna – or Ashlynn- whatever she is calling herself these days, put any spell on Tariq. The magic she did released something already brewing inside you. You wanted to separate the part of him which was unfaithful to you. Inside that thing is tied up all the hate and anger he ever had. The part who lied and did things you didn’t like. And now he’s split. One side from the other. This thing is called a Shade. It fades in and out, only partly tethered to our world since it was separated from his body. It’s tied to you now, which is why it wanted to shed your blood. It’s looking for a link to make itself whole again. The Shade has no real mind. Only fear, and instinct to survive.”

  We talked another half hour or so. She insisted she would get on the road and be in town before sundown. She gave me instructions. “You must believe that you can do it. You summoned this thing.”

  I told her I would see her soon.

  Once I hung up, I unlocked the door and waited.

  It didn’t take long before the other Tariq, the Shade, crossed my threshold. He stood just inside the doorway, and I stood at the couch. We stared at each other like opponents on a playing field.

  “What did you do to me?” he asked. This time, he seemed more confused than angry.

  “I don’t know,” I said, my eyes filling with tears. “I am so sorry.” I opened my arms to him. “Let me make it better.”

  He came to me, with trepidation, like a frightened child. I put my arms around him.

  It was only when I began to whisper that he started to pull away from me. “I undo what is done. What is meant as one, I wish no longer asunder.”

  He began to struggle, and push at me, but I held on. He turned his eyes to me, and his body trembled. The blackness of his aura stretched as he writhed. The black cloud which hung about his eyes moved to encompass his body. Only then did I let go. One more cry came from his mouth, but it was wordless, his face twisting in agony. He disintegrated, leaving nothing behind but a pile of ash.

  I sat there and cried. I’d known the consequence of this magic before Mama told me. The universe yields nothing without a price.

  Within the hour, my phone rang. I was told Tariq had collapsed at work. An ambulance took him to the same hospital where my arm was stitched up the night before. Despite attempts to revive him, he could not be saved.

  Terror and the Dark

  by Carole McDonnell

  Do Jamaican parents still delight in terrorizing their children?

  I’d like to forgive it.

  To say that my mother and her siblings were country folk

  so as they laughed like idiots, at making their children tremble in fear

  they were ignorant, not aware

  they were building a cavern of fear in our souls.

  It’s hard, though.

  I can forgive the lies they told.

  Yes, they were conscienceless in the way

  they told self-serving stories to keep their children in line.

  I can forgive that.

  I can forgive their beatings and the belts they named:

  Stinger with its metal-tip,

  Scorpion with its cruel sting.

  I can forgive that.

  Because they were country folks

  whuppin was what they did cause they loved you and

  wanted to set you on the right path.

  But
the fear and trembling I strive to forgive.

  Because there was spite in their cruel power

  when they told us of cruel ghosts inhabiting the dark

  when they lay in wait behind walls — belts in hand — ready to strike

  when they told us what happened to little girls

  who do not listen to their mothers and

  who did not wipe their hands properly

  because they had such petty joy in creating terror in us,

  because surely there was some other way to make themselves powerful

  in their own eyes — other than stampeding kids’ hearts.

  Because even now the cavern of fear they built inside me

  is still operational when the phone rings

  when the mailman comes

  when I feel some sudden change in my body.

  Because these are seeds

  my mother, aunts, and uncles planted in me and

  all that terror,

  all that fear,

  is still ingrained and ever blossoming in me.

  The Tale of Eve of De-Nile

  by Joy Copeland

  “Auntie, you’re not being fair,” Eve whined in her little girl voice, the one she used when she wasn’t getting her way. Eve wasn’t a little girl. She was a grown woman three times over with curves in all the right places. See, her Aunt Chlotilde had just accused her of being a tramp. That hurt Eve’s feelings, a little. Truth be told— Eve could put on quite an act to get what she wanted. Today her act wasn’t working, but today wasn’t all an act.

  “So, you gone and got yourself knocked up again!” Auntie Chlotilde’s jaws were tight, her hands on her hips. “You don’t think I noticed that eggplant you been running around with. Humpf, and your behind barely fittin’ in those tight clothes you wear.”

  “I was gonna tell you Auntie.” Eve sighed. She was genuinely surprised at her aunt’s violent reaction to her latest dilemma. She rubbed the baby bump hidden under her oversized jersey to make sure it was still there.

  Now, when times were bad, Auntie had always taken Eve’s side. Like the time they expelled her from Bartholomew High for God knows what. There was the time her mom kicked her out of the house ‘cause she found a greasy fool in her daughter’s bed.