The Choma warriors clambered in hot pursuit to the summit, but the cavernous alcove was well hidden. Finding no sign of Leda, they assumed she took cover in the underbrush. Just as they were about to scour the forest, a faint cry echoed between the crackle of lightning strikes. A second muted scream steered them to the alcove.
When Kulani realized they had been discovered, he rose with noble fearlessness.
Leda clutched his arm. “There are too many,” she cried in a hushed voiced.
“I will not stay here and watch these barbarians slaughter you and our unborn child.” He laid a consoling hand on her belly. “I will be honored to offer my life defending my family.” Just before exiting the alcove, he turned to Leda and smiled. “Eternity is ours.”
Kulani settled strategically on a ledge above the narrowest part of the path along the mountainside. As the warriors approached, he sent the heaviest rocks tumbling down the mountain. A few warriors were caught unaware and plummeted over the precipice to an inglorious death. The other warriors took aim at Kulani. A flurry of spears and arrows cut with deadly intention through the wet air. As Kulani scrambled for safety up the rocky bluff, the burn of a spear penetrated his leg. He wobbled and clutched onto a jutted rock. Before he could reach cover, an arrow sliced into his arm. He lost his grip and hurtled down the mountainside. In a final act of heroism, he snatched two Choma warriors and pulled them over the ledge with him.
The remaining band of warriors continued their murderous march toward the alcove. A tiny cry reverberated, then another, then another. Just before they reached the entrance, Leda emerged with a baby in each arm. The fire of faith burned intensely in her eyes. The warriors swarmed menacingly toward her, their spears readied to deliver razor-sharp death.
“Sorceress,” the head Choma croaked, “your death today is not inevitable. If you agree to perform your sorcery for my people, I will spare your life.”
Leda replied serenely, “My abilities were granted to me to heal the world. I realize now that saving those who will use their lives to conduct savagery upon their brethren and sistren would be contrary to the will of the Great Spirit.” Leda’s eyes swept pityingly through the bloodthirsty horde, halting at a particular young warrior whom she recognized. She addressed him directly. “Only days ago, you lay dying on the battlefield. The Great Spirit saw fit to grant you another chance to live a life of worth. Now you stand before me, prepared to do the evil bidding of these savages, to take the life of the one who laid the balm of compassion and mercy upon you.”
The child warrior lowered his eyes and tossed his spear aside. “I cannot be a part of this barbarism any longer,” he said to the head Choma. Fully aware of the repercussions of his defiance, he opened wide his chest, ready to receive his earthly consequence. The head Choma drove his spear with fury into the warrior’s heart. Just before taking his final breath, the child warrior turned his gaze to Leda. Her moist eyes dripped with forgiveness and pride. Redemption was his.
The head Choma then shifted his murderous rage back to Leda, moving within striking distance.
“The spilling of my blood is but a harbinger of the new day,” Leda proclaimed. “The souls of the righteous and the very earth itself have been long-suffering, yearning for this day in great anticipation. It would be most inconsiderate of us to delay its arrival for even one more moment. So let us now proceed with your folly and bear witness to the Great Dawn in its full glory.”
“As you wish,” the head warrior spit.
Leda marched to the edge of the path between the split in the waterfall. “You can kill me,” she declared boldly. “But you will not kill my babies.” Her immeasurable love for her children would not allow them to die at the end of a spear driven by hate and ignorance. She gazed down at the perfect bundles in her arms. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll see you again.” She then let out a trilling cry and dropped them into the Ukuqala Pool far below. She then stepped with intention toward the alcove but was blocked by a line of warriors. “May the Great Spirit protect you,” she said solemnly.
Leda turned away and stretched her arms out at her sides, embracing the brutal death awaiting her. The head warrior clenched his teeth, cocked his spear, and plunged it into her back. The merciless blade pierced Leda’s heart and burst through her chest. Crimson pulsed in thick, dark streams into the pool below. Leda collapsed to her knees. She raised faithful arms heavenward and let out a triumphant cry. Then her silent, lifeless body hurtled down toward the pool.
The warriors called out with sinister delight, “The sorceress is dead!” They pranced victoriously to the summit, heedless of the extraordinary forces about to be unleashed.
As Leda’s body neared the pool, the water stirred in anticipation of this long-awaited moment. It surged upward to greet her, its depths celebrating with flashes of sparkling luminescence. Brilliant bursts sizzled thunderously in the ominous clouds crowning the mountain. The ground itself rumbled, a reminder that even a mighty mountain stands only at the will of the Great Spirit.
The warriors began to tremble. Then, they gasped a terrified breath. A youthful figure rose from the Ukuqala Pool, floating atop a tower of swirling water and enshrouded in a hooded, golden-fleeced cloak.
After a few spellbound moments, the head Choma gathered his wits. “Kill him,” he ordered his warriors. Frozen in awe, they didn’t budge.
“I said, KILL HIM!” he roared.
The startled warriors drew back their bowstrings dutifully and released pointed fury. The youthful figure was unfazed by the arrows cutting lethally in his direction. Just before they reached him, he casually raised a hand. The arrows instantly diverted, whizzing harmlessly into the dawning amber sky.
The young man lifted both arms above his head, bent at the elbow. Spheres of water as large as a man’s head formed in his palms and churned rapidly into tight coils. He launched them at the head warrior, smashing him violently through the forest. Trees in the path of his mortal flight shattered.
The youthful figure then cried out, “Viboko kupanda! (Hippos rise!)” The forest quaked with exhilaration, igniting its creatures into a jubilant chorus. Twelve fearsome hippopotamuses emerged from the Hasira River edging the northern foot of Amanzi Mountain. The warriors threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees.
“Falme Roho! Falme Roho! (Spirit King! Spirit King!)” they chanted.
The tower of water bent toward the summit. The youthful figure stepped onto land, strode purposefully to the alcove, and disappeared within. He reemerged with a baby nestled in his majestic arms: his newborn sister. The warriors didn’t know that Leda had borne a third child, but realized then that that was why she attempted to return to the alcove.
With his sister in his lap, the Spirit King rode a hippo toward the central valley of the four great mountain ranges. There he addressed the four tribes, marking the birth of a nation.
“Oh, Wapendwa—loved ones of the Great Spirit. Rejoice! By the overflowing grace of the Great Spirit Kipaj, all that has occurred prior to this day is forgiven. Let this moment rend asunder the shackles of the old ways and usher in the promise of a new day.”
He then proclaimed the four tribes to be one, calling forth a humble and unified homeland. “We are a single tribe with a single consciousness. This blessed soil upon which we stand, from now until the end that hath no end, will be known as Kipaji—home of the servants of Kipaj.”
Chapter One
Sunday Dinner
The wall clock chimed nine times. Dong, dong, dong….
“D’Melo,” his father called. “It’s time for our show.”
Every Sunday evening, they performed the same song and dance. D’Melo Bantu’s father, Imari, wanted to watch The World This Week together, to widen D’Melo’s perspective beyond their neighborhood and sports. But D’Melo, a high-school basketball standout, was content in the small, comfortable world he had created for hi
mself.
D’Melo stumped into the living room, his towering, athletic frame slouched. “Baba, why do I have to watch this?” He always referred to his dad by the Kipaji word for father. “There are only horrible things happening out there.” His griping about having to watch the news was as regular as the donging of the wall clock.
“Come, son,” his father encouraged, patting the sofa cushion next to him. “You need to understand the world you live in.”
D’Melo sighed and plopped himself down.
The newscaster opened with a story from Washington, D.C. A woman had been killed in a car accident on Christmas morning. D’Melo shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A drunk driver had slammed into the woman’s car and pushed it into oncoming traffic. A military truck barreled into the car, flipping it several times. D’Melo’s heart began thumping heavily against his ribs. He cast a wide-eyed gaze at his father, who seemed to be watching as emotionlessly as he would a program on the history of square dancing. D’Melo’s eyes flashed back to the TV. He cringed at the sight of the woman’s broken body being dragged out of the mangled metal. Nausea pulsed through him. The paramedics sealed the woman’s body in a shiny plastic bag and slid her into an ambulance. D’Melo couldn’t bear any more. Just as he reached for the remote to turn off the TV, two shrill pops reverberated sharply in his ear. Warm liquid splatted the side of his face. He spun to his father. He tried to scream, but no words came out. A lump in his throat threatened to choke him. His father’s body slumped into the sofa, dark red leaching across his white button-up shirt.
D’Melo became light-headed. His vision was going in and out of focus. He sensed a presence lurking in a shadowy corner of the room. He swiveled toward it in a panic. The outline of a hooded figure slunk back, deeper into the murk. Through the fog of his addled mind, distant cries urged D’Melo to run. He couldn’t. His limbs, paralyzed with fear, answered to nothing.
Suddenly, a blanket of darkness descended ominously in the house. Even the faint glow from the streetlights flickered out. D’Melo’s chest constricted, his breath ragged. On the edge of consciousness, he attempted to even his breathing. His mind snapped clear when the hardwood floor creaked with footsteps. He shot off the sofa and stretched his arms searchingly in front of him. He tried to latch onto anything that felt familiar, but nothing did. He ran his quivering hands along the wall, hoping desperately not to encounter the presence from the dark corner. Finally, he reached his bedroom, the place where he was most comfortable. He slipped stealthily into his bed. But then the rusted hinges on the bedroom door squeaked. He yanked a blanket over his head. The chill of the demonic presence loomed over him. His heart hammered in terror.
“D’Melo!”
His body rocked.
“D’Melo!”
He drew in a sharp breath, then jerked up into a sitting position.
“It’s okay, son,” Baba said comfortingly, as he reached to the nightstand and clicked on the lamp. D’Melo’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Baba pulled him into his arms and held him against his chest.
“It’s over, son.”
D’Melo took a long, shuddering breath.
“Same nightmare?”
D’Melo shook his head, as if to cast out the demon. “Pretty much. But this time it started with the other nightmare—the one where I’m play-fighting with that kid in the wildflower field. I could feel the blood streaming down his face, as if it was my own eye bleeding. I can’t believe I did that.”
Baba laid a consoling hand on D’Melo’s face. “Son, you didn’t do anything. It’s just a dream.”
“But it’s not, Baba,” D’Melo said, his body rigid. “I see it even when I’m not sleeping.”
“Oh, son,” Baba sighed sympathetically. “You’ve had this dream so many times that you’re starting to believe it really happened. You were only three when we moved to America. Do you remember anything from Kipaji?” He waited a moment for his question to sink in. “You see, it’s not possible, son. You were too young.”
Over the years, Baba had become an expert on D’Melo’s inner turmoil. Like a skilled psychotherapist, he zeroed in on the root cause. “You have to let your mother go, son. It’s been ten years. Holding onto her is gnawing away at you.”
“I try, Baba,” D’Melo sighed. He squeezed his eyes shut, exasperated, trying to press the horrifying images out of his head. “But this time, it was worse. You were also killed. I was all alone.”
“I’m right here, son.” Baba rocked him reassuringly. “I’ll never leave you.”
The death of his mother weighed on D’Melo’s heart like the heaviest of anchors, mooring him to an insular, sheltered life. Growing up without his mother was difficult enough, but the circumstances surrounding her death had added another crushing burden; he couldn’t reconcile the police’s official findings with his own memory of the incident.
D’Melo pulled out of his father’s arms. “Baba,” he said, leveling his eyes with his father’s. “I’m telling you. That guy tried to kill us.”
“It was a tragic accident, son,” Baba said, trying to assuage D’Melo’s anger as he did every time he made this assertion. “Please let it go,” he pleaded. “As long as you keep telling yourself that the driver intentionally killed your mother, you’ll never be at peace. He was drunk. The police found his car a couple blocks away with an empty bottle of vodka in it.”
“But they never found the driver!” D’Melo snapped, then paused, catching himself raising his voice. “I saw his eyes, Baba,” he said, his words softening into a familiar and respectful tone. “He wasn’t drunk. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
“D’Melo, I know you believe that’s what you saw, but the doctors said you were in shock. You weren’t in the best state of mind to make that judgment.”
Baba again drew D’Melo into a warm embrace. “Please, please, son,” he implored. “Move on with your life.”
D’Melo knew Baba was right about his mother’s death eating him up inside. But he still wasn’t convinced that it was merely an accident. As his father rocked him, D’Melo’s breathing settled and his consciousness ebbed. His body sank heavily into his bed. Baba stayed at his side until he drifted back to sleep.
Early the next morning, Baba rapped a rousing wake-up call on D’Melo’s door. “Sun’s up, and so should you be!” he said. “Time to catch the worms.”
There was no such thing as sleeping in at the Bantu house. D’Melo wished he could have a harsh word with the person who had told Baba the saying, “The early bird catches the worm.” He flung his covers off, begrudging the people who were able to sleep until their eyes opened naturally. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. A chill radiated down his spine, his feet were planted where the malignant spirit lurked hauntingly in his dream. During his years of coping with the demon, D’Melo had developed a strategy for warding off the evil, at least temporarily; he scrubbed the satanic images from his mind with blissful thoughts. Today, he reminded himself that it was Sunday, the most effective anti-evil day of the week.
Sharing a meal with his friends on Sunday evenings had become a most cherished tradition. Nary a Sunday dinner had been missed since D’Melo and his father moved to the Lincoln Downs neighborhood of Philadelphia ten years ago. Being an only child had never been easy for D’Melo. So eating dinner “like a real family,” as he called it, was a weekly treasure.
Communal dinners were one of the few things D’Melo appreciated from his Kipaji heritage. Each week, the preparer of the meal rotated. Because D’Melo’s friends were descended from different countries, Baba requested they cook meals from their native cuisines. Kazim’s father was from Chad and his mother was from Japan, Marley’s grandparents were Sudanese and Ethiopian, and Jeylan’s family was from South Carolina—but he claimed his ancestors were taken from Ghana as slaves, so he made Ghanaian dishes. But that night, it was D’Melo’s turn.
D’Melo greeted his friends at the door. “I have something special for you guys today,” he said excitedly.
“Are you finally gonna make a Kipaji meal?” Jeylan said, already knowing the answer. D’Melo had never much embraced his Kipaji roots. As a child, he was incessantly badgered with ignorant questions. “Do the kids ride zebras to school?” “Were you always hungry?” And on the worst days, kids would accuse him of carrying some exotic, hideous disease, hollering its name and then scattering from D’Melo in the alarm of their own making. Although the rounds of torment were short-lived (often thanks to Jeylan’s protective fists), D’Melo began distancing himself more and more from his Africanness, and rarely looked back.
“No,” D’Melo replied briskly. “We’re making barbecue chicken, fried fish, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and corn on the cob.”
Jeylan pursed his lips, disappointed. “The only way this meal could be any more American is if we have apple pie for dessert while singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ with the American flag sticking out of our—”
“Eh hem,” Baba cleared his throat.
“My bad, Baba,” Jeylan said apologetically. D’Melo’s friends referred to his father as he did.
“Oh, thanks for reminding me!” D’Melo said. “There’s an apple pie in the oven. And Jey,” he smirked, “I have a flag in my room if you want to stick it somewhere.”
“Hey,” Kazim piped. “Please tell me you’re gonna throw some bacon bits into the mac and cheese.”
“Kaz, what kinda Muslim are you?” Jeylan chided. “You don’t pray, you eat swine, and you be chasin’ girls all day”—Jeylan paused to set up the jab—“and not catchin’ any.”
“Man, you just don’t know,” Kazim countered. “I pray a lot. I pray that someone around here will finally make me some pork chops.”
They all shuffled into the kitchen. Baba joined them to supervise, and to make sure the dinner would be edible.
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 2