Dancing In The Shadows of Love (30 page)

That same abomination has touched Jamila. I think of her, as she was when she arrived on my doorstep. Scared, poorly dressed and half-starved, but with a core of strength I’d admired, for it reminded me of myself. Little Flower’s
ezomo
gave Zahra her steel; Jamila’s came from her
Spirit King
. But he has deserted her as he deserted Little Flower. As my beloved deserted me.

I think of the last time I saw Grace, lips blue with death, as I stood over her with a bottle of pills clutched in my hand.

‘Everyone has memories they regret,’ I say. ‘Do you have someone who can drive me to the court in time for the funeral?’

‘I’ll send a driver,’ he says. ‘Someone you know.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘You will be.’

I am suddenly weary, weary in a way I’ve never been before. I want him gone. I want to be alone, with only the ocean, far beyond the edge of the garden, to watch over me as I mourn my losses. Grace, who I killed with my envy. My Daddy, dead of pneumonia, soon after Grace died. My son Barry, another war statistic. My husband Barry, dead of grief. Now Dawud. I must mourn them, one by one, before I can begin to mourn the greatest loss of all: Little Flower, too, is dead. She died waiting for a stranger who never loved her enough to return.

• • •

I still wait. But on this dull, grey day, I wait for the arrival of two different strangers. On time, I hear a car navigating the driveway.

They are merely silhouettes inside an old, dented vehicle. But, when the car coughs to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, the driver unwinds himself from behind the wheel and a ray of sunlight breaks through the thick layer of cloud dulling the day. He pulls himself out and one long, slender hand rests on top of the car door. His hair is black and longer than I remember, long enough that it obscures his face as he stares towards the sea. All I can see of him is that elegant pianist’s hand, with a flash of blue tattoos on his fingers, and a white and gold angel adorning the back of his leather jacket.

I swing my gaze to the other passenger. She is short, tiny and white, so pale her eyes glow with a brilliance that almost blinds me. He—the stranger! the stranger!—leans towards her. She glances up at him as he points that graceful hand towards the sea. They share a smile, a look so deep they leak into each other, consumed and joined by a golden light I never expected to see again.

They glance up sharply and run towards me. I am not startled, for the resonance of my keening cry holds me stiff and upright.

Enoch! Enoch!

The sea wind bounces the name off the high walls of the mansion. It whips it away into a silence broken by the sound of my small square purse crashing to the floor. I lift my hands to cover my face and try to hide the sobs I cannot, do not, even try to control.

I fall, faint with shock or joy. He is here, at my side. He catches me and gently lowers me to the floor as he holds my head up from the cold stone slabs. His arms, the arms I have longed for, are around me and the sweet smell of cedar is in my nostrils. I am safe. I am home.

‘Mrs Templeton.’ A bottle, cold and wet, presses against my lips. ‘Enoch has you, Mrs Templeton, you’ll be okay,’ the woman says. ‘Drink some water.’

I drag my eyes open and look into a face I’ve never seen before, but would recognise anywhere. Dawud has spoken of the girl from the court. The
Pale One
. So has
Prior
Ajani. Jamila, he told me, has not been kind to her.

She holds some bottled water to my mouth and I watch her over the rim. She is colourless, except for her eyes. One eye dances energetically, almost hidden behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. Now the sun has disappeared and no longer glances off them, they do not glow so brilliantly, but her gaze shines with another kind of light: forged from aeons of suffering, her eyes burn with the same compassion that lent such beauty to Grace.

I can delay no longer. With a murmur, I put my hand over hers, the bandage wrapped around her palm soft and springy. I drag my lips away from the water she offers and twist my head to see the face that floats above me.

He is different. Younger than I remember, and rougher. There’s an earring in the shape of a
nova
dangling from his ear; he never wore that before. His age is difficult to guess because dark glasses cover his eyes, but his skin is as smooth and unlined as it ever was. How is that possible? Every year since he left me, after Grace died, has written new lines on my face and yet
his
face is unchanged.

‘Ma’am,’ he says, when he realises I watch him. He dips his head closer and the single silver earring bobs and bounces until I’m dizzy. ‘Do you think you can sit up?’ he asks.

I wheeze a bit from the awkward position I lay in. ‘Not yet,’ I say. I lift a hand, as heavy as in a fog or a dream, and touch his face. ‘Where have you been?’

‘The traffic delayed us. I took longer than I wanted.’

I smile at his evasion and play along. ‘Who are you?’

He nods toward the young woman who peers down, chewing her lip anxiously. ‘Meet Lulu. I’m Enoch. We work at St Jerome’s court with
Prior
Ajani.’

‘I know that,’ I say, sorry that I sound peevish. ‘But who
are
you?’

My fingers inch their way over his lips, and his breath brushes their tips as he answers, ‘I am who I am, ma’am.’

He offers no resistance as I reach my destination. I remove the barrier of his sunglasses and I know. I know who he is and I dive deep. Deep, deep, into the eyes I have never forgotten. They draw me in; cocoon me in their swirling mist, until I can bear the joy no longer.

‘Enoch,’ I sigh.

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘You can call me Enoch.’

I nod, happy to do what he wants. ‘You came.’ I say. ‘You came to fetch me.’

‘I made a promise,’ he says. ‘Although it may seem long to you, the court isn’t that far away.’ I chuckle at his little joke.

‘Ma’am, if you’re better, we need to leave,’ he adds. ‘The funeral starts soon.’

I smile, nod, and let them help me. Lulu dusts me off, while the stranger— no, Enoch, he wants me to call him Enoch—bends from his great height to gather the scattered contents of my purse. Flanked on either side by the two of them, I walk down the stairs and climb into the old car. My journey has begun.

• • •

The drive to St Jerome’s is shorter than I remember. Little has changed, since the last time I saw it. People mill around. Dressed in black, with sombre looks on their faces, they pretend to themselves they will remember their grief beyond the time it takes for them to consume the tea and cakes that wait for them in the court hall.

Mostly they stand around in groups and mouth platitudes. So sad. So tragic. He died so young. A hero. Who would’ve believed it of good old Dawud Templeton?

I can see from the slyness of their faces that’s not all they whisper about. They hiss and hint about Jamila, who stands alone. Stiff and upright, she hangs on to her dignity with all her strength. They ignore her; these good court people, although she was one of them until she fell to her private
ezomo
. They flock to me, Dawud’s friends. Generations younger than me, most of them have never seen me cross the threshold leading into St Jerome’s.

They seethe around me and they say, ‘Good morrow, Mrs T. Sorry, so sorry, to hear about Dawud,’ and they touch my arm, my elbow, my cheek, soft touches heavy with love.

‘Dawud’s grandmother,’ they say amongst themselves. ‘For years, she’s helped abused children recover.’

‘She’s alone. Poor woman.’

‘She must be devastated. How sad that such a good person has to suffer.’

The whispers wing their way towards me, loud with relief that, this time, they have escaped. They console themselves that their goodness, their
Spirit King
, will keep them safe. That this loss is mine to bear. They forget that their
Spirit King
was Jamila’s and that this grief is not only mine, but hers too.

Jamila doesn’t exist to them anymore; she’s fodder for their judgement.

Next to me, Lulu lets out a sound that sounds like a snarl. ‘It’s not right,’ she says, ‘what they’re doing to her. Can’t they tell she’s suffering?’

‘You said you hated her,’ Enoch says. I can tell he knows differently.

‘I do,’ Lulu says and scowls. ‘But people shouldn’t be cruel to her. Not today of all days.’

‘Why should you care?’ he asks. ‘After what she did to you.’ the warm irreverence is a little more obvious this time.

She swears at him, a harsh word and ugly, but somehow it sounds like an endearment. She remembers she’s in a courtyard, or that I stand between them. Either is enough to make her contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs T,’ she apologises. ‘I forgot.’

I merely incline my head and ignore the people gathered around us. They all wait for a chance to speak to me, to console me, but it’s their own fears they want to bury, not mine.

We watch Jamila move forward to greet a late arrival. He walks past her as if she isn’t there and she shrinks into herself as he hurries to join the herd. Lulu falls silent. Then, ‘Mrs T,’ she says decisively, ‘will you be okay with Enoch?’

‘Where are you going?’ he asks. He knows as well as I do what she wants to do. It’s what Grace would’ve done.

‘I’m fetching a cup of coffee,’ she replies aggressively. ‘And I’m taking it to Jamila.’

‘That’s not hate,’ he murmurs. ‘That’s love.’

The
Pale One
doesn’t hear him. She shoulders her way through the mob and glares with such ferocity at the latecomer who ignored Jamila that he skitters out of her way and surreptitiously makes the
sign of the nova
after she passes.

Everyone watches as she returns to where Jamila stands isolated by the choices she has made. Lulu touches Jamila’s arm and I catch a glimpse of the bandage on her hand, splashed with red from the wound she covers on her palm. As Jamila jerks with surprise, startled by the small contact, she almost knocks the cup to the floor and Lulu steps back.

Jamila, cool, reserved Jamila, takes the coffee, stirs it and then stops. Her head bows, and her face crumples as her cries come to us, loud in the unnatural silence that has descended on the mourners. Lulu, after a small hesitation, gathers Jamila close. Her lips move in words of comfort we cannot hear, her eyes closed as tightly as Jamila’s, but not tightly enough to stop her tears mingling with those of the woman she holds in her arms.

The courtiers shuffle awkwardly, their shoes grating on the gravel path that leads into the courthouse, and some quickly hush warnings as they listen to Jamila’s pain. Slowly, so it’s not too obvious, one or two break away from the pack and walk over to where Jamila stands, safe in the arms of her friend.

As I am safe, wrapped anew in the arms of a stranger.

‘Take me to Grace,’ I say. Lulu will be there to stop Jamila drowning. She will be there, too, for all the lost and lonely strays yet to come. ‘I want to see Grace.’

Without a fuss, he leads me away until we are alone. I can hear the crooning of the crowd over the gate that leads me into the garden where Grace rests. They are far, far away from me, on the other side of the light. The light that once excluded me from the circle of Enoch and Grace’s love. But this time I’m inside it. I share it. I float on feet as innocent as the day Little Flower was born and the stranger takes me to stand in front of the marble angel that guards Grace’s relics.

There is silence: silence and light.

‘Don’t be afraid, Mrs T,’ he comforts. ‘You’re ready. This time you’re ready.’

The faint strains of a waltz drift into the silence on the breeze.

‘Will you dance with me, Enoch? Here? Now?’

‘With pleasure, Mrs T,’ and holds wide his arms.

I step into them and smile at the thought that, since he brought Hope to me,
Prior
Ajani has called me Mrs T for years and I did not notice until I heard the name tinged with the lilt of ancient tongues. Perhaps I’m not as lost as I had feared. Little Flower is gone, but when the stranger calls me Mrs T, somehow I believe a young child’s innocence was saved the day she found a once-lost stray called Hope.

‘Can you hear it, Enoch? The music. Can you hear it?’

‘I hear it.’

My head falls onto his shoulder and he gathers me close. So close I hear every beat of his heart as it waltzes in time to mine. ‘I love you,’ I say. ‘I always have.’

‘I know,’ he says. He bends his head and his lips brush the top of my hair, white now with age. ‘I love you too, Little Flower.’

I close my eyes with the joy and let myself fall into his heart, that great heart of his which pulses deep within us all. And, even as the distant sounds fade into the silence of the golden light, I believe that this time, I am ready.

I am ready to love, and I am ready to be loved for, at last, my beloved has returned.

He has returned.

The End

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CHUBA:
Robes (male) or habit (female) worn by the holy people

CONTROLLER:
A Holy Woman

COURT/COURTYARD:
Any place of worship

DARK CONTINENT:
The cradle of humankind, symbolising any place where the battle for good and evil exists

EDEN BOOK, THE:
Any Holy Book

EIDOLON WARRIORS:
Champions of the Spirit King

EZOMO:
Demon or Vice

FEALTY:
Faith

GREAT ERROR:
A Sin

KRAAL:
Enclosure for cattle and sheep

LEVID, THE:
Prime evil

MASTER:
A prophet

NOVA:
A religious symbol; an icon or artefact

OLD SEA CITY:
A coastal town, anywhere

PALACE, EARTH:
Any organised religion

PALACE, SKY:
Paradise; Utopia; Heaven or Nirvana; the kingdom of the spirit

PALE ONE:
Specifically, an albino (or, more correctly, a person with albinism) symbolising a generic victim of prejudice