Stories for Chip (10 page)

“When I hear it, I'll know it. You're not it.”

On his back, he nods his head—submitting, acquiescing, but also asking permission.

The other grants it with a similar nod.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a card, a Deuce of Lions. Across the corner is scribbled:

The House of Nine Doors

KOLHARI

“Here,” he tells the kid. “Go here. They'll know what to do with you. Strip down, and you'll be shouting more words than you ever knew before.”

Without a word, the kid takes the card, sheathes his sword, and walks in the direction he wasn't coming from. The swordsman gets up, and, without dusting himself off, proceeds to the place of food and friends.

2.

When two swordsmen meet, no one knows what will happen.

He's thinking of jewels. Which is not surprising, since he has them secreted all about his person. And
secreted
is the
mot juste
: It is a secret, a big secret, that he has even met with the one who gave them to him. (They are rumored to be mortal enemies.) A secret that he has been trusted with them. Him, and only him.

The idea is that no one could imagine them being transported thus, without a cordon of security—and that he alone has the requisite skills to ensure they reach their destination, anyway.

It is well done, and neatly thought of.

He tries not thinking about jewels. Jewels in little pouches, sewn into special pockets all over his person, here, there, and everywhere, by a master tailor who knows every trick, so that not a single bulge reveals itself.

He whistles a tune he heard a girl sing once, something about sack and sherry. He doesn't remember the words. But better not to whistle; don't want to draw attention. On the other hand, any implication that he doesn't want to draw attention could draw attention to him. This is a city of thieves. And he is passing through the higher reaches of the town, streets of fancy shops. He needs to look like a man without a care, like he belongs there—no, as if he's on his way somewhere pleasant, not important, a picnic, or drinks with an old friend, on the other side of town. Just passing through. No jewels, no intention.

I gave her cakes, I gave her ale

I gave her sack and sherry….

A woman coming from the opposite direction. Singing the song he was just whistling. A coincidence? Maybe. He has his eye on her nonetheless. She is small and lithe, grey-eyed and dark-haired. She isn't looking at him, though; she's looking at the shops, their wares laid out on boards elaborately carved and gilded, because this is that kind of street, trays of goodies depending from the sides of the shops themselves. When night comes, the display tables will be drawn up as shutters and heavily bolted. Right now, though, they're open and displaying just a fraction of the lovely things inside, each one guarded by a self-important apprentice wielding a heavy baton.

His reflexes are too good. When she stumbles, crashes into a board, sending strung pearls and carved lapis tangling to the ground, when the ‘prentice goes for her with his baton, the swordsman throws himself in the way, shouldering the ‘prentice off, letting her grasp his forearm before she can go down.

He thinks she'll make a run for it. But to his consternation, she just stands there, looking every bit as haughty as a woman that small can do. The ‘prentice is torn between seizing her, and catching up all the precious wares before anyone else on the street can grab any.

“Here,” she says to the apprentice, “I'll help.”

She hasn't apologized for the fall. But before too long, everything is back up on the boards, nested in their velvet as before.

“Count it,” she tells the flustered apprentice. “It's all there.”

The swordsman should have gone his way; but that would have looked suspicious. So he stays.

A little crowd has gathered, of course. “Should I call the guard?” someone says.

“Count it,” the woman says again. “Or call your master if you will, and let him do the work. I weary of standing here under the implication of insult.”

Despite himself—or maybe because of it—the swordsman smiles. She doesn't smile back; she doesn't even look at him. She hasn't thanked him, either.

“It's all here,” the apprentice says at last. He nudges a final pearl back into perfect place. “Everything is as it should be.”

She continues to stare at him, her grey eyes sharp like steel. The unspoken word
And?
hangs in the air.

“And I'm very sorry, miss—milady.”

Finally she smiles, showing good white teeth. “Never mind,” she says. “A natural mistake. It could happen to anybody.”

The crowd parts to let her pass on down the street.

Relieved, the swordsman walks on the way he was going. What an odd woman! He wonders if he'll see her again. He's a bit shaken; this little excitement was not part of his plans. It will take him a while to start whistling again.

Especially when he touches one of the secret pockets of the sequestered jewels, and finds it empty. There is a small slit in the side.

3.

When two swordsmen meet, no one knows what to expect.

One of them is bearded, the other clean shaven. Each bears a long and elegant weapon with a surgeon's point and a razor's edge, each hilt a work of art, guards scrolled like the fine script of a legal document.

They meet at a crossroads. That is where significant things happen; everyone knows that. Encounters at a crossroads are rarely by chance, and never inconsequential.

The clean-shaven man says nothing. He is slim and young. He draws his weapon, for no apparent reason.

The bearded man has been around awhile. He knows his worth. “I don't fight with strangers,” he says, and the other says, “But you've seen me before.”

“Where?” asks the bearded man.

“In your dreams,” the younger swordsman replies. He wears no gloves. His hands are chapped, rough, the veins rising on the back where his right fingers hold tight around the grip.

He has a companion, a weedy-looking fellow, dark like a crow, who cradles some kind of funny harp in his arms. The musician stands well back, at the edge of the point where two roads meet and form a V.

The bearded man, the dreamer, examines them both. He hasn't seen them in his dreams—or if he has, it was so long ago he has forgotten—but he wants to, from now on.

Still, it doesn't do to look weak. Speak first, or thrust last, but always maintain the upper hand.

“I don't want to kill you,” he says.

“Don't, then.” The hard-handed man throws back his head, showing off his bare neck, a pillar of light and shadow. “But by all means engage.”

“A playful duel? A duel of skill?”

The other nods. “That's right. A game, only.”

“What are the stakes?”

“Let's play for luck. Let's play for memory.”

The bearded man inclines his head. “And him? Your friend?” When he sees him from the corner of his eye, the strange musician does seem to mean something to him. But how? So young…. “What does he play for?”

“He plays for love. Some of us do.”

It's a beautiful fight. They each want the other to win. Not so much duel as duet.

Halfway through, the young musician lifts his device and plays. The air is full of the scent of cinnamon, of city streets, of cigarette smoke and diesel fuel; of baking bread and new-cut oranges.

When two swordsmen meet, no one knows what will happen.

But something always does.

Chesya Burke

The sign outside Hello Design Coffin Works read, FOR SALE: FANTASY COFFINS. But the little girl imagined more ominous words floating just below the other letters, “
Ababuo Need Not Apply.
”

Many people in Accra bought these beautiful caskets on time, and often took many months and even years to pay off one of their expensive death homes. But no matter, her credit in that city was worthless and Ababuo knew she could never get one. The girl chided herself, but she stopped at the storefront, and stared into the window. Without being able to suppress the urge growing inside of her, she entered the threshold of the tiny building. Fantasy surrounded her within, proudly displayed. Closest to her was a giant, man-sized statue of an eagle. The bird's head was held high, its eyes large and knowing. The bird's body was adorned with feathers, brown and beautiful, its beak and talons yellow and bright. This was a strong bird, proud. That meant that the (more than likely) man who would be folded and stuffed into the narrow opening in the back of the carcass was also strong and proud. Perhaps he was a bird lover or pilot. It didn't matter. Although the coffins often represented people's professions, they just as often represented the wants and desires of the people entombed within them. Across from the wide-eyed bird was a hammer, standing almost twice as tall as she, and more than half as wide around. Its owner would likely have been a carpenter or something. Only a person with a love of tools would want to spend eternity in that thing. Ababuo smirked. It wasn't that the hammer was ugly, per se, but it was not what most people would choose out of admiration or simply a love of the craft—instead, this tool represented honor, skill, pride.

Then she saw it, sitting across the room in a corner as if forgotten. A beautiful, small white elephant. Ababuo made her way over to the coffin, touching it carefully. It was striped like a tiger, with ears too big for its head. But it was lovely. White Elephant was barely large enough for the tiny body that would grace its shell for all eternity, but Ababuo wouldn't mind leaving a limb or two behind to find peace within the belly of this gorgeous creature. She stood for a long moment touching the tiny white tusks and then the thick sturdy legs. The girl patted the elephant's side as if it was real, closing her eyes, imagining that this coffin actually belonged to her. How morbid it was, she knew, to long for nothing more than to choose her death bed. But the truth was that in this room, nothing mattered to Ababuo because nothing was real, nothing was solid, tangible. She wasn't cursed within this room of fantasy coffins—simply because she could never possess one. Perhaps knowing her life was so short caused her fixation with death, her eternity.

“What are you doing here?” Ababuo slowly opened her eyes. She didn't have to turn around to know who had spoken. It was one of the owners of the coffin shop—the son. Too bad; the father was much nicer. “You can't be here. You have to leave.” He walked up to her, but didn't touch her. That was the rule.

“I was just looking. No harm in that.”

“No point in that either, is there, girl?”

“I can look. I just want to see them. That's all.”

“Not here. You're a
Nantew yiye
child. You must go.” Then he whispered, “It's dangerous.” As a “safe journey” child, Ababuo knew all too well her position. This man did not hate her. In fact, in his own way he probably simply wanted to save her the effort of wanting something she could never have.

Behind her someone spoke. “Dangerous? Pft!” Ababuo recognized the woman speaking as Accra's first lady, the wife of the newly appointed mayor.

The son backed a respectable distance away. “I was just…trying….”

She walked up to him, closing the distance he had set between them, “I know what you were doing. You should be grateful to this child. You're disgraceful.”

◊

Most of the world will never know the sadness of an unfulfilled desire to have a fantasy coffin. Most of the world doesn't even know what a fantasy coffin is. And most will not care. Thus is not the case with Ababuo. Her strongest desire in the entire world was to have her tiny body crammed into the frame of one of those monstrous carved wooden boxes and get buried in the earth of her precious Ghana when she died. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Her foremost desire was to never need a fantasy or any other coffin.

But neither of these was the fate for Ababuo. Her soul was not pure enough for burial, and the earth would reject her body, and punish those who had offered her as a gift to it. The last time a Nantew yiye child had been buried in the Ghanaian soil, the clouds had opened up and flooded the land, killing crops and several people in the process. And not dying would leave the people of Ghana without her protection. That couldn't happen. No whole group should suffer for the wants of one person. Ababuo understood this. Her job was to protect the people of Ghana, not harm them.

Either way, her thirteenth was coming and she had to make a decision.

The girl closed her eyes, hoping to clear her head of those thoughts. As if in answer, someone knocked on the door of the home she shared with her caretaker, paused, and then knocked again. Ababuo opened the curtain and looked down at the man from her bedroom on the second floor. The man glanced up at her and looked around as if he didn't want anyone to see him there. Ababuo was sure that she saw shame displayed across his face.

After a moment the man was let in and Ababuo's caretaker tapped on her door, then opened it. “It's for you, child.”

The girl sat very still, “This is ten, you know? Only three more.”

“We all have a burden, Ababuo. This is yours.” The woman sounded harsh, but she did not meet Ababuo's eyes. They would lose each other soon.

Without further discussion, Ababuo sauntered down the stairs, taking one at a time. She was in no hurry to do what was needed of her. At eleven, Ababuo shoulders were broad and strong, as if hinting at the woman she would never become, but she was still just skin and bones.

While she followed him, Ababuo let her mind wonder about the girl she had seen just the day before. Ababuo had never met anyone else like her, but this child had been chosen to take over after Ababuo had fulfilled her duty. She was only seven years old, so tiny, so frail looking. So much like Ababuo had been a few short years before. Ababuo hated the thought of what would happen to this little girl when she had fulfilled her own duty to Accra; she felt guilty and ashamed.