SHANEQUA’S BLUES—OR ANOTHER SHOTGUN LULLABY

She never told nobody, but Shanequa knew before anyone else did, how big it was, this thing that was wrong with her. She was only seven, but seven is a holy number, and she was only a girl, but a child is a sacred thing, and she was already dying, but she knew even so, all the same: even back before they come to bury her, she knew about the tree and the great navelstring, the many-limbed, dark-barked tree that grew on the bellybutton of a place some called Guinee, Abyssinia, and others just called Africa, great garden of life.

Partly she knew from sleep, the part of night they call dream, and it was this dream that Shanequa had the night her spirit rise, the night they say her heart stop and her body grew still. On that night, Osiris held her tiny heart-soul and weighed it in the balance against Maat’s plumed feather of truth. Together the god and the goddess weighed her soul that night in the place Between, the place between dead and alive, and it was he who whispered to Shanequa, and touched her, and it was because of his touch that she remembered his instructions now.

Shanequa knew Mama wouldn’t like what the god had told her. She knew she’d tell her to close her eyes and forget, to draw a picture and turn the god’s words into a story, call the story a dream. And that is what Mama had told her, if you can name your fear, then it don’t have no power on you. Mama had said it, smiling, like she’d read it in one of her books, but Shanequa didn’t know if she believed her. Didn’t know if Mama believed herself. She’d told Mama that hard secret, had whispered his name, even when she could still smell his stank breath and hear his scary voice telling her not to, but Mama didn’t act like she heard her then, never even mentioned it again. Shanequa had struggled hard to name her fear but saying the words didn’t do nothing. At least not then. It wasn’t until she got sick, real sick, did the man she named stop, and the time before last, when Shanequa had come home from the hospital, he was gone. Maybe that’s what Mama had meant. Maybe Shanequa’s words, even half whispered when Mama’s back was turned, had made her mama’s ole nasty boyfriend go away. Maybe there was power in the words, but if there was, Shanequa didn’t really see it, not until the god had shown her.

No, Shanequa knew that Mama wouldn’t like the god or what he had said at all. That Shanequa would have to die first in order to live. But even more than the certainty that she could never tell Mama that truth, Shanequa knew something about magic because its dance lived inside her heart, lived for seven years in her bones. She breathed and drank the dance, long before the disease had blown through her blood, strangling each cell, finally overtaking her life. It was the dance she performed, when they thought a seizure had captured her. It was the music she heard, instead of her mama’s sharp screams, her mama’s wailing, somebody calling her name in notes she’d never heard before. And that was the thing about Shanequa: the magic was inside her, and so was the dance, and so when she died she lived again, just like the dogfaced god had said, and when she crossed on over to the other side, the god touched her, and the goddess that looked like a great winged bird or a black angel or one of those black butterflies her mama used to sing about, stroked her face gently with her great feather called Truth, and they laughed and danced, holding Shanequa’s tiny heart-soul up high, and then he touched her there and told her she would have to live, only to die yet again.

Shanequa was a little boney thing, not a hair on her head, just a smooth spark, weak but holding on to life. When the god had touched her, in that quivering spot on the side of her head, the part folk call temple, Shanequa’s eyes had rolled back, her head lolling on her neck, heavy, so full of the music and the magic, her body couldn’t do nothing but dance, and so she had. Shanequa danced all the way back from the god’s hand. She danced all the way under, like limbo, like skip-the-loo under the black angel’s wings, and the magic pulsed through her, making her jerk and throw up her arms, eyes blinking hard, blinking back tears. And when she jerked and grew still, the doctors and the nurses commanded her mama to leave the tiny hospital room, as they lay the machine’s cold electric hands on Shanequa’s quivering brown body, wracked in sweat, believing its fire could wring her from the dance’s mad beat. But all she heard was hoodoo harps and a whole lot of bass, sound like black noise, broke down beatboxing, like the radio dial got crossed, like when Mama tried to find that old gospel station, lost between K97 and the blues.

And as she lay there, her eyes would open every now and then, and somewhere in the distance, she’d hear a shout, look up, but only see stern faces, the fear running slick down their foreheads and cheeks. She’d lay there and wonder why, no one else was dancing, could they not hear the music, didn’t their own bones want to join the dance?

But anyone with half an ear for magic, half a toe for dance, can hear the river melody deep inside the blues, feel its pull on their blood, driving them to throw up each hand, palm kissing sky, and dance. Shanequa’s mother, Brenda Wells, heard it every time she listened, but she only listened when she was afraid.

Brenda’s Blues

Twelve.

That’s how long she had before the street caught up with her. Twelve short years of Double Dutch and red rubber ball bliss before Donnell Peterson in Widow’s Wyck had snatched her rope and stole her cherry in the woods by the creek. She was mad before she even heard him whistling at her heels, mad because Melody Walker had lost not one but two of her prized jacks. Melody called herself being mad because Brenda and her best friend Krystal were beating her and would have beat her again if she hadn’t have turned tail and snatched up two jacks while she was running. Now Brenda had to go all the way back home to get her ‘mergency set, and these were just the plain gunmetal kind, not the pretty, shiny rainbow-colored ones Brenda had carefully kept in a mesh bag long as she could remember.

So when Donnell call himself sneaking up on her, big as he was, snapping every twig and branch from the low side of the land bridge to the high side, back where Brenda and her mama and daddy lived, she didn’t even turn around to look at him, just cussed him over her shoulder.

“Leave me ‘lone, Donnell, ain’t nobody stuttin’ you.”

When she was sure he had gone, when she was sure she couldn’t hear his ragged breathing anymore, Brenda curled herself up into a little ball and let the tears spill out of her eyes and onto the earth, let them spill out until all she could feel was the cool grass and the twigs brushing up against her cheeks. When he first grabbed her, she had tried to snatch away, but he pinned her down, slamming her really, like a move that she and Daddy used to laugh about when they watched Sputnik and Mr. Tojo Yamamoto wrasslin’ on TV.

Brenda didn’t want to even think about seeing Daddy, let alone what he might say, so instead, she lay in the weeds and the little river stones, with the dandelion seedlings floating above her head and tried to rock her pain away. The first song that came to her mind was one of her mama’s favorites. The last time Brenda saw her mother, she was trying to get her father to go with her to see Elvis at Colored Night at the fairgrounds. She had heard B.B. King might be there, and Rufus Thomas, too, and she didn’t want to miss not n’am one of them.

But Daddy had stayed home, saying he wasn’t interested in a bunch of white folk playing at nigger. “Why they can’t sing nothing new? Niggas can’t have shit. Next they’ll be telling us they invented the blues.”

“Why they can’t sing ‘cause they like it? Why everything got to be new with you? New car, and we can’t afford it. New pussy, knowing you can’t do nothing with it.”

“Woman, don’t start no shit with me today—”

“Don’t start none, won’t be none.”

Brenda knew to keep the door closed, the blankie ‘round her head tight, but she could still hear them yelling. But even the memory of them yelling didn’t drown out the sound of Donnell’s ragged breathing in her ear. She wanted to reach for something else, not another memory that only brought pain, so she tried to remember her mama singing. A nonsense song came to mind, a song ancient and familiar. She didn’t know where the song came from, hadn’t remembered her mother singing it, but there it was all the same. Mama’s smile, Mama’s voice, then not-Mama’s smile, not-Mama’s voice, but a creature she couldn’t quite place. The sound in her ear was like a low breathing, rushing water, like someone was trying to hum her to sleep, saying words that didn’t make sense no matter how hard she thought on it.

Later, the fireflies came, flitting over her head and worry hit her deep down in her belly. Daylight was turning slowly into twilight, and she didn’t know how long she’d lain there, listening to the song of the strange presence. A lawn mower buzzed far off in the background. With the scent of fresh cut grass and Donnell’s stale, musky scent still around her, all Brenda could focus on now was the sound of her father’s anger, the sadness he carried in the back of his throat when he said Brenda’s name, and the hole her mother had left when she’d gone away.

No, she wouldn’t tell Daddy, not now, not ever if she could help it. Knowing what happened to her would just make the hole in their lives even deeper. Instead, Brenda held her breath. She pressed her body into the warm stillness of the earth beneath her and prayed that the silence and the soil would take her in.

When her baby’s life was reduced to that flickering blue flat line, the only sound Brenda Wells heard was the strange song that she heard humming in her ear that day a fool tried to steal her spirit.

From Senegal to Senatobia

“The more you do it, the more perfect it come to you.”

That’s what Uncle Oumar wrote in his last letter. Mopti had read the line again and again, trying to make sense of his uncle’s perfect penmanship.

Well, the blues am a achin’ old heart disease,

Well, the blues am a low down achin’

heart disease,

Like consumption, killin’ me by degrees.

—Robert Johnson

He could read the words distinctly. The message behind their meaning, well that was a mystery his uncle had left unclear. Mopti had traveled all the way from his orderly desk job in Dakar, Senegal to pay his respects and bury his father’s dead. Mopti had consulted his maps, read several blogs and travel features, and noted the tourist advisories. He packed one case of disposable clothing, just a few simple, sufficiently solemn bits he would not terribly mind losing. He had his hair cut extra low and his shoes shined. He doublechecked his papers, just in case.

Mopti traveled with a few token gifts, some old family photos his mother had pressed into his hand and some fragrant cooking spice. But the older brother Mopti’s father had spoken so crudely of, had turned out to be far more than anyone had ever suspected. Now he knew why the money sent across the waters for his education had dwindled over the years. Uncle Oumar had lived a double, perhaps even a triple life. He’d long since abandoned his medical studies in New York, before Mopti was born. The shotgun house in Senatobia, the bull’s eye heart of Mississippi, had been just one of his uncle’s properties. And from what he could tell, none of them had been worth more than the land they leaned on. The lawyer said two more besides his house in Senatobia remained intact, one near Clarksdale, and the other somewhere in another small town called Mound Bayou.

In all his days, Mopti never thought he would find himself in Mississippi, but that was the path his uncle, prodigy turned pariah, had finally led him. Mopti had crossed the water to see his Uncle Oumar properly laid to rest, but his father had refused. The ocean was not wide enough to contain the gulf between the two men.

And even if Mopti understood his Uncle Oumar’s words, it was the art that he couldn’t make out. Oumar had drawn what first appeared to be a series of concentric circles, then morphed into what looked like pinwheels, then changed again to a jagged lightning bolt, or a zig-zaggy cross. Strange signs and symbols. Hastily drawn images whose meaning wasn’t clear. The words appeared to be more blues lyrics or perhaps the ravings of a backroom madman, someone who abandoned his family, his bloodline, his future, to chase the trail of a Howlin’ Wolf. Mopti imagined the sound of the bluesman’s freight train voice and tried to read between the lines of the words his uncle had carefully written down. There was no one left willing to do so. No one left really who could.

Brother, I knew someday you would come for me, but you are looking in the wrong place. I had hoped that you would forgive me. Despite what you think, my love for our sister knows no bounds. I tried to save her. Was forced to search elsewhere for the knowledge Western medicine could not provide. Please forgive me. I was so very close but not swift enough to save dear Aminata. Brother, since you did not like my path in life, I am sending you on a journey in my death.

Everybody say they don’t like the blues, but you wrong.
See the blues come from way back. And I’m gon’ tell you
something again.

The things that’s going on today is not the blues.
It’s just a good beat that people just carrying.
But now when it come down to the blues,
see I’m gonna show you how to be the blues.
I’m going to show you how to travel the blues
to the places the old ones don’t want you to go.
You just sit back and listen. Watch. Brother.
I’m gonna show you.

-Howlin’ Wolf

The letter with the strange song had left Mopti puzzled. The rooms in the small, two-bedroom, one bath house, were covered with photocopied excerpts of oral histories and interviews of musicians, stories about midnight pacts made at legendary crossroads, of artists who sold their souls to the Devil. Mopti knew very well how his father would have responded to such things. He would have tossed it all, the articles, the grainy photographs and portraits of sad-eyed, weary looking men clutching their guitars, the cryptic lyrics, and the bizarre drawings, everything would have been crumpled up and placed in the trash. What did it all mean and why had Uncle Oumar left this?

Mopti rubbed his face. Smoky circles ringed his eyes like dark moon craters. He was tired from his long travels and frustrated. His father would not approve, but Mopti felt he owed it to Uncle Oumar to at least try to decipher the puzzle he had left. Whatever it was, it what was so important that his uncle pursued it rather than travel home to see his beloved sister buried, the one he said he cherished and missed.

A large arrow pointed to an old stereo system with speakers Mopti had only seen in vintage magazines. When Mopti pushed play, a husky shout filled the room. Startled him so bad, he dropped the letter and nearly fell out of his chair.

III … am, a back door man! I am a back door man.

What men don’t know, little girls understand.

Early morning when the rooster call.

Something telling you, you better get up and go.

I am … I am … a back door man.

Mopti calmed his breathing and stared at the drawing of a great tall, wide tree with a door. They didn’t have trees like that in his father’s old village, not anymore, and Mopti doubted such trees existed in the land where his uncle had chosen to bury his future seed. Mopti did not know why Uncle Oumar had betrayed his promise to the family, or why his obsession had led him to leave his home and disappear into the heart of Mississippi, but Mopti knew one thing for certain. The letter with the lyrics and the drawings were a map. Where it led, he was not sure. Mopti had to listen to the whole song three times before he realized, with some trepidation, the blues was the key.

Now he was driving down Main street, looking for an old dusty record shop that probably wasn’t even open anymore. After he circled the block a few times, squinting at addresses, he decided to gas up and ask someone local who would know.

Mopti had just parked in front of pump two, when he saw her and heard the laughter.

“Girl, you popped that tire off so fast, you need to come and fix mine.” The elder in the Cowboys hat held two bottles of water, handed one to the young boy sitting in his truck. “Started to ask if you needed some help, then I said, ‘naw, this sister got it handled.”

The woman chuckled, tightening the lugs. “If you don’t know, better ask somebody!”

“Need to teach this one. Can’t hardly get him off his phone.”

“That your grandson?” she asked.

Cowboy nodded, opening the door. “Yeah, he rolls with me while his mama and n’em at work. If I let him, he’d spend half the day on that thang.” They shared a laugh.

“My daughter, too. She used to…” her voice trailed off.

“Well, you have a nice day.”

“You, too, sir.”

Mopti watched the Ford pull off as he pumped his gas. Sadness replaced the air where laughter had been. The woman looked like she was wiping tears from her eyes. An embarrassed witness, Mopti turned away, watched the black numbers spin.

When he returned from getting a coke, he saw her sitting in her front seat, head bowed, hood up. Any other day Mopti would have driven on and “minded his,” as his cousins in New York would say, but the sadness came off her in waves. He’d had bad days like this, when everything but the right thing was going on.

He bit his lip, then asked quietly, so quietly, he could convince himself that he had never spoken. “Miss, do you need some help?” She didn’t answer. “Miss?”

Relieved, Mopti started to walk back when he heard her sigh. “Naw, I need a new car,” she said. “Short of that, a boost. You got some jumper cables?”

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “This is a rental. But maybe I could look at it?” Mopti didn’t know anything about cars, how they ran or how they didn’t, but he was so embarrassed, he’d try.

“No need,” she said. “I know how to fix it, just can’t afford to right now.” There was that sadness again. To Mopti, it felt familiar, like grief. He stepped back, instinctively, before it caught him, too. He’d been pulled under his own waves before.

The woman frowned. “Don’t worry, I’m not tryna hustle you. Thank you,” she said. She emphasized the last words so pointedly, he knew he had been dismissed.

Mopti felt terrible. The cold drink sweated in his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He stumbled and tried again. “The idea that I’ve just made your bad day worse, is unacceptable. How can I help?” Part of Mopti wished he had never spoken. The other part felt he needed to. Reaching out was hard. When his father had asked him to see after his late uncle’s arrangements, part of Mopti wanted to refuse. Traveling so far from Senegal to New York, all the way to Mississippi was more reaching out than Mopti was used to. He preferred the comfort of his desk.

To his surprise her dark eyes lightened, just a bit. “How do you know I’m having a bad day?”

Mopti smiled. “A flat tire, car not running, and…” he paused, then pointed at the bouquet of flowers resting in the passenger seat. “And someone you care about needs cheering?”

“You got a good eye,” she said, impressed. “You sure you not tryna hustle me?”

The grin on Mopti’s round face spread from ear to ear. The woman’s easy humor comforted him. He liked her accent, the way she made the question sound like a song.

The roots reached back to Africa, but the blues were born here. In his notes, Mopti’s uncle had asked a series of questions. Why were there no blues in Cuba? In Sao Paolo, in Port-au-Prince? In his neat, looping handwriting, Uncle Oumar answered his own queries. Because the blues burst up from the Delta’s fertile earth. The blues burst from the will to overcome sadness, to overcome anger, bad luck, exploitation, pain. Underlined were two words, “personal” and “systemic.”

Flipping through the sheath of papers, Mopti had come to understand that for his uncle, the blues were not only part of some personal quest of his, but the music also represented an ancient path to healing. Mopti was still trying to make heads and tails of it, and still wasn’t sure how he would explain it all—if he dared try—to his father.

The journals were not dated. Mopti could only tell when one passage began and the other ended based on the quality of the handwriting, the color of the ink, the series of drawings. It looked like a madman had written it all, but Uncle Oumar had an order to his chaos. From what Mopti could tell, it was in New York, Harlem maybe or somewhere in Brooklyn at an old record shop, Resurrection Records, where Uncle Oumar had first heard of The Great Going Song.

Mopti laughed. “I’m not so sure you can be hustled. I wouldn’t try anyhow. But maybe you could help me? I’m trying to find Sound Advice.”

“Sound advice? First, you might want to finish that drink and get on in your nice car where it’s nice and cool, instead of standing up out here, burning up with me.”

When she spoke, colors seemed to leap out of her hands, encircle her face. Mopti watched her, shaking her head.

“Friend, you could make iron laugh.”

“Thank you, I think.” She squinted at him.

He chattered on, awkward but endearing. Mopti wasn’t one of those men, fascinated by their own dark places. He seemed to shrink away from the shadows within himself. Instead, he walked in light, directed conversations to the day. He avoided negative holes in conversation, as if he was afraid he might fall into them. Brenda thought she liked this funny man with the big moonpie forehead and the Kermit the Frog smile, but Brenda no longer had absolute faith in her own judgment. The sound of her daughter’s worst memory, one that nearly echoed her own, was woven into the sound of her dreams. Each night, she played it back, how she had tried to stop up her own ears. Pretending as if a truth was a lie. She had hoped there might be a time, some day far off in the future, when the daughter grown older might forgive. Brenda had not yet forgiven herself. She felt she had no right to forgiveness, not yet. Maybe not ever. She only wanted to make amends—or try to. She knew from her own life, you live, you may even forgive but you never forget.

So she watched Mopti out of the corners of her eye, listened with the inside of her heart.

“If you are looking for the record shop, it’s not far from here. Just a few streets down, over on Main.”

“That’s where I was.”

“Well how did you miss it? Nevermind.” She grew quiet, staring at tulips and daisies in the seat of her car.

Mopti noticed a small white and red teddy bear peering up from the bouquet.

“They’re for my daughter. She’s at Delta County.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Mopti said. “I hope she will be well soon.” He opened his car door and placed his drink in the cup holder. An empty potato chip bag floated past Mopti as he scanned the street and pumped gas, trying to ignore the woman sitting in the broken-down car beside him. He listened as she queried each new driver for jumper cables. It seemed with the newer cars, they weren’t as necessary as before. Mopti felt discomfort sit in his belly, a heavy stone, as he sat in his rental and watched each new shopper shake their head ‘no’. He wanted to help but didn’t want to intrude. Good Samaritans could come off worse. But after the last person drove away and he found himself waiting at a light behind them, he turned the car around and rolled down the window. He coughed.

“Miss, miss?”

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“Excuse me. I didn’t know your name.” He struggled for words. “I am Mopti. I am visiting here to help put my uncle to rest. He died.”

Brenda frowned. “Sorry, Mopti. Were you close?”

Mopti swallowed, the discomfort now a stone in his throat. “No but he…he is family.” He looked down then released his words in a rush. “I don’t mean to disturb you, Miss.”

“Brenda.”

“Miss Brenda, but I am new here and I don’t know anyone. I need to run some errands. It would be good to have help.” Mopti bit his lip. He worried she might think he was a creep. She already hinted that he might be hustling her. “I mean directions. If you like, I could drop you off at the hospital, if you let me know where to go. Maybe you could tell me where Sound Advice is, since my GPS and I keep missing it?”

“It’s right on Main Street,” Brenda said, squinting at him. “But you know, ole boy is kind of weird. It’s not like he’s trying to be found.”

“Oh, so you know it?”

She shrugged. “Not my thing, but yeah, it’s been there a while. Has odd hours though. You’ll be lucky if it’s even open.”

“I feel like I will be lucky if I find it.”

Brenda laughed. “And it would just be my luck if you turn out to be some kind of serial killer.”

Mopti looked stricken.

“Relax, I’m just kidding. It’s been a long day and to be honest, I don’t know how many more days I’m going to get…” her voice trailed off.

“Your daughter?”

Brenda nodded. “Since birth she was a bit of a miracle but she’s not doing well. It’s been tough. I need her to know that I’m there. I need to be there.” Her eyes glistened, reflected sadness. “Look, I can show you the record store and you can drop me off on Main. I can take a bus.”

Mopti started to protest.

“That’s alright, I appreciate the offer,” Brenda said, “but it’s a bit out of the way for you. I’d call my cousin but she’s not off yet. If we just head over to Main, I can show you Sound Advice and I’ll be on my way.”

“It’s no problem,” Mopti said. “I thank you.” He unlocked the passenger door as Brenda took out the flowers and the teddy bear, then locked her car.

“Not that anyone would try to steal this hoopty.”

“Hoopty,” Mopti said smiling. “Everyone has colorful language here.”

“In Mississippi?” Brenda asked.

“Here and New York, everywhere.”

“Is that where you’re from?” she asked as she slid into the seat. “I was finna say. Thought you were frontin’ from Memphis. That’s where my family’s from. You know we got some of everybody there, ‘colorful language’ and all.” She wrapped the paper tightly around the bouquet and balanced it in her lap. Her purse was looped around her shoulder, as if she was prepared to jump out at any moment if necessary.

“No, I’m from Senegal. Dakar. My family’s from very small towns, like this, Dahra and Linguère.”

“Can’t say I know it—but Africa? I always wanted to visit one day. Maybe Ghana or Nigeria.” Brenda’s face brightened, her smile only showing a hint of sadness. “Somewhere they speak English. You know, make it easier on myself. Was hoping Shanequa and I could see the motherland.”

Mopti smiled at that. He found it amusing but understood the sentiment. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like not to know where he was from. He grew up knowing his father’s family was from the little rural town at the back door of the desert as his mother would say, and his mother’s was near the train station, both dreaming of life in the big city, Dakar. His father said life in America was not anyone’s dream until their little sister grew sick. Then a young Uncle Oumar had traveled in search of a medical education that somehow took him on an inexplicable detour. After his death, Mopti’s father had discovered that his brother left a string of small properties in Mississippi. Mostly small houses with little value, certainly not worth more than the land. No one could explain why he had left New York to reside in towns no one in the family had ever heard of. They weren’t sound investments and he didn’t appear to have any close relationships there. Mopti had been trying to retrace his uncle’s wayward steps, but he was worried. He wasn’t sure where Uncle Oumar might lead him next.

“Shanequa, that’s a beautiful name.”

Brenda cut her eyes at him. Was he making fun of her? Satisfied, she thanked him. “It means, ‘Belonging to God.’”

“Beautiful.”

“She is.”

“How old?” Mopti asked. He turned down the radio.

“Seven. Turn down here.”

Mopti was just about to say he had driven that same street three times already when Brenda suddenly shouted, “Bingo!”

He wasn’t sure how he missed it. A few doors from the Benjamin Franklin, pressed between a hardware store and dry cleaners was a narrow building with a zipper-like staircase.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“And with that, I’ll bid you good day and thank you, Mister…”

“Mopti. Mopti Cissé.”

“Yes. Brenda Wells. Pleased to meet you. Be good and I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Brenda said, opening the door.

“Thank you, Ms. Wells. I hope your daughter will be well soon,” Mopti said. He felt that familiar wave of sadness again. He started to pull off when one of the waves softly brushed his spirit. He grabbed the receipt from his gas station bag and jotted down his number. “Ms. Wells, I hope this does not offend you. I mean no harm, but it would be good to have a friend in town. I am not certain how long I must be here, but if it is okay, I will pray for you and for your dear Shanequa.”

His eyes were earnest but Brenda also could see the embarrassment glisten on his wide forehead.

He wavered. “Of course no need to call,” he stammered. “I leave that entirely to you. But it doesn’t hurt to have someone else pray for you.”

Brenda stared at him, her head slightly tilted, as if listening to a song he could not hear. Finally she took the receipt and folded it in her hand.

“Thank you. Prayer is appreciated.”

Sound Advice

Faded vintage posters plastered the walls. Burgundy velvet covered the steps. Mopti walked up each one, careful not to brush against anything. Flyers and event postcards dangled along the sides, stroked him like fingers as he passed. Mopti shuddered.

Now he knew why he had the devil of a time finding the place. Must be a law against putting addresses on the buildings, Mopti thought. He passed the near-invisible Sound Advice sign many times on his own before Brenda had pointed and he finally saw “Vital Vinyl” in tiny letters beneath it. The run-down building was designed as if it was meant to fold up and disappear, accordion-style. Steep stairs led up to a blackhole door.

When Mopti finished huffing and puffing, he looked around. Records filled the space, stacked in rows of teal blue wooden shelves and orange plastic crates, spilled across wide tables. Vintage toys, stuffed animals, old 45s and 78s, and Christmas lights hung from the ceiling. Album covers and occult signs and symbols decked the walls. Mopti saw at least three different kinds of ouija boards. No one was in sight.

“So what are you looking for?”

Mopti nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice was right behind him. A thin older man wearing a “Don’t Hate the Player” shirt stood, hand on his hip, waiting. Castle Grayskull hovered over his head. He didn’t look like an occultist just a hoarder.

“Something rare—” Mopti managed to say.

“Rare? Listen, you ain’t seen rare ‘til you’ve seen my X-ray collection. Straight from the Cold War.” His mouth approximated a smile. “Now we thought we had bootleggers. You got to see what they made over in Russia. I mean bone music.”

He waved and didn’t wait to see if Mopti followed him.

“They had to do everything in secret. Most of the good music was banned. See this?” He held it out so Mopti could note the illuminated ribcage. “They’d etch a copy right on an X-ray they stole from the hospitals, cut a circle with some kitchen scissors, and burn a hole right in the middle with a cigarette. Could play that sucker on anything, just as good as you please. Don’t tell me what people can’t do when they’re pressed.”

“I see,” Mopti said, scanning the room.

“Okey dokey,” Old Player said and placed the album back in its protective sleeve. “Bone music don’t float your boat, so what is it?”

Mopti paused, sorting what he should say from what he wanted to say. The store looked as if a truckload of albums had exploded inside. Vinyl was everywhere he looked. Not a single CD in sight.

Old Player shrugged. “If you’re into vinyl, you’re into vinyl. It’s not something you can explain. It’s just in you.”

“I don’t think much of it’s in me,” Mopti said, “but my uncle, he definitely was…a collector.”

“And what did he collect?” Old Player asked.

Mopti tried to answer. The house on Shands Bottom Road had piles of albums stored throughout every room, even the bathroom. Most, from what Mopti could tell, were blues, some jazz but the collection spanned music from around the world.

“A single record, pressed by unknown hands, never widely released. Something called The Great Going Song? I think that’s the name of it.”

Old Player frowned. “Well good luck with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time. Most folks hunting for that good and crazy.”

Mopti raised a brow. “Well, I try to be good. Not sure if I’m crazy yet…”

The shop owner laughed. “No disrespect, son, I’m just saying. Don’t know if they start off that way, but seem like by the time they come through, they’ve lost it.” Old Player squinted at him. “The last somebody call hisself looking for The Great Going Song looked a bit like you. Old Oumar. Y’all related?”

Mopti nodded and lowered his eyes. Shame made his cheeks feel hot and flushed.

Old Player turned around and picked up one of the faced out albums. “Listen, you want some psychedelic acid jazz? Might as well listen to some of this.” He handed the album to Mopti. “This is a rare one.” He leaned his elbows on the counter as he moved the needle. Suddenly the air erupted into the sound of blue crystals. Mopti felt as if he’d been rained on. “What’s your name?”

“Mopti Cissé.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Your uncle was a nice man. A little strange,” Old Player said, “a bit obsessed, like most vinyl hounds, but ain’t no sense in chasing after fairy tales.” He stared at Mopti. “Especially tales that can get you killed.”

If the tick-ticking of the overhead fan had been a record player, the needle would have skipped and scratched. Mopti’s eyes and lips formed a series of questions.

“All I’m saying is that folks been looking for that album a good, long time. Nobody’s found it yet, but a whole lot of folks found some shit they wished they hadn’t.”

“Like what?” Mopti shivered.

Old Player shrugged. “Bad luck. Misfortune. Death. The usual stuff. Which is kinda funny, since the whole point of The Great Going Song is to overcome death in the first place.”

Mopti picked through a box of 45s on the counter. A James Brown bobblehead nodded at him.

“I’ve been trying to understand why my uncle wanted the album so much. It looks like he spent a considerable amount of time and resources trying to track it down. And there isn’t a lot about it out there.”

Old Player looked thoughtful, rested his arms on the cluttered counter.

“Some hobbies have a way of taking over you. Collecting can be like that, like a drug. You never know if and when you’ll grow addicted. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out when you should stop—if you can stop.” He stared at Mopti, his eyes like pennies. “But The Great Going Song is different. It’s not your ordinary record.”

Mopti didn’t like how he was looking at him. He turned and dug through a crate, flipped through familiar names and images. He paused at one, Otha Turner and the Afrossippi Allstars. “My uncle has a lot of these artists. Some he has multiple copies of. Is that Going Song album really valuable?”

A pinwheel spun over Old Player’s shoulder. His eyes took on a waxy sheen.

“Why? You looking to get into collecting?”

“No. I was just curious.” Mopti slid the Allstars back into the crate. “My uncle wrote a lot about different albums. This one seemed to stand out for him. But I can’t figure out who the artist is.”

“Nobody knows. Part of the mystery. And yeah, rare vinyl can get up to crazy amounts. I know a previously unknown blues 45, from Sun, that went for $10,000. A 78 went for $30,000. That was online and the collector didn’t even blink ‘cuz that was a steal. But the record you’re talking about is super rare, more rare than hen’s teeth. Only three copies were made.”

“Just three?”

“Yep. They say the album is made of the perfect sound, full of all the colors of our world. It’s a miraculous key, said to open doors that only a god can.”

“A god?” Mopti didn’t like this kind of talk, and the more the man spoke, the more he sounded like Uncle Oumar’s strange, manic notes.

“Only one number in our universal spectrum is the same color and sound, the core frequency of creation, nature, life. The original musical scale has only six notes, but they say that there are actually nine.”

“Nine? Now you’re speaking my language,” Mopti said. “I’m an accountant. I speak numbers fluently.”

“Ah,” Old Player said. “But these are the kind of numbers that can change a world, a kind of sacred geometry.”

“I’m familiar with this in my country,” Mopti said. “It is a science of creating space, yes? Art, what have you, that reflects faith. You build architecture, music, writings that exhalt the Greatness, the Oneness…”

Old Player’s eyes sparkled, his mouth settling into a tight grin. “You are your uncle’s nephew.”

“Did he come here often?” Mopti asked, unsure if he should be pleased or offended.

“At first. He would buy me out of my blues and some of the rarer, off the beaten path jazz. Place special orders every now and then. He had an eclectic taste. Started off with Hip Hop, classics, and fresher takes. Iron Mic Coalition, Nicole Mitchell’s Black Earth Ensemble, Kamasi Washington, Ekpe Abioto and the African Jazz Ensemble, big pure, free sound like that. But I didn’t see him much before,” he paused. “Before he died.”

“Yes. I am not as versed on this as he was,” Mopti said. “He certainly had a love of music that must have comforted him. I don’t understand it but somehow it drove him. My family had not seen him for many years. I, myself, have no memories of my uncle, though I am told we do share a likeness.”

Old Player didn’t look convinced.

“But I don’t share his music hobby, the collecting as you call it. What is it about this Going Great music? If there were six notes in the original music scale, how do you get nine?”

“It’s called The Great. Going. Song,” Old Player said, emphasizing each word to reveal tiny, sharp teeth. To Mopti he looked irritated. “It is made up of the original six, solfeggio.” He sang the notes, apologizing. “Forgive me. I’m no Maria von Trapp but you get the idea.”

Mopti nodded. think so.”

“Okay, well, you start with the original six that these old Benedictine monks created to sing their Gregorian chants but it’s older than that, dates back to biblical days,” he said. He took a sharpie from a red “Tighten It Up” cup and started drawing. “396, 417, 528, 639, 741, and 852,” he said. “Plus three additional notes, 963, 174, 285. Together they form a perfect circle of sound, and that circle of sound can heal all things, make what is dark, light, what is broken whole. The nine sacred notes of healing. The basis for a song that can heal this broken planet.”

Not sure how to respond, Mopti pursed his lips and nodded affirmatively. “We do need healing,” he said awkwardly. He realized he would not be getting much help from here. The record store owner, who by the way, had not offered his name, may very well have helped to fuel his uncle’s bizarre theories. Mopti began searching for a graceful exit.

“I’ve seen those eyes before,” Old Player said. “The face of a skeptic. Fine. It’s better that you don’t believe. Because whether we do or not, there is no denying. We must find another way. And what is more universal than music? Every culture has a song.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe, it’s that I am struggling to understand.”

“What’s there to understand, Moby?” Mopti smiled. “It’s clear that we’re all off center. The planet is imbalanced. We’re not connected to that oneness you spoke of. Out of sync, probably running out of time. We are in dissonance to another note. But there are nine core creative frequencies to the universe. Nine, Moby. Everything in our universe is made from nine notes. The Great Going Song is what the coldest musicians have been striving for. They reach and they reach and some even get real close, but none have recaptured the legendary sound that’s said to open God’s front door.”

“This talk of music and healing, that I can follow. But this other, it sounds…” Mopti did not want to offend the man, so he held his tongue.

“Dangerous? Yes. Remember what I told you when you walked in here. Folks have been searching, a long time, and they get caught out there. Sometimes when you search for gods you find the devil.”

Old Player’s penny eyes flickered into slits. Mopti saw an opening for escape.

“You spoke about jazz but my uncle has a lot of blues musicians in his collection. Delta blues. The early ones. With the crossroads talk and all of that, how does this music connect with The Great Going Song?”

“A lot of blues and jazz got plenty of tritones, this space between notes that just don’t sound right. And of course, wouldn’t have no blues without that blue note. Church folks used to call it the Devil’s music. It’s what gives the music that restless, rambling along feeling. What made it dangerous.”

Old Player pointed to a black and white poster on the wall. “So you get Tommy and Robert Johnson, no relation, talking about the devil at the crossroads. Now, Robert took this photo right at Hooks Brothers on Beale Street up in Memphis around 1935. It’s the only known studio portrait of him. Look at that smile. Look in his eyes. You think that young man knew he’d be dead three years later? Some thangs you don’t play with.”

Mopti found himself inching toward the door.

“So you take that 741 and 528 I told you about. Play them together and it creates a sense of dis-ease. Your body’s trained to hear harmony but instead you hear that weird sound, like something’s off, trouble gonna come. A sound strange as that folks thought it could harm you, physically, emotionally, spiritually, so they called it ‘The Devil’s Interval,’ the Tritone.” Old Player thrust three fingers out, like throwing a curse.

“But others know of it as just a key part of The Great Going Song. African polyrhythms, tonal notes, throat singing, all that heal.”

“Like cats purring, healing their bones?”

Old Player looked at Mopti as if he suddenly grew two heads. “Yeah, well, I guess.” An air of boredom deflated his words. “Browse all you want. Let me know if you see something you like.”

Mopti turned to watch Old Player disappear behind a backroom door. He was gone as quickly as he had appeared. After an awkward silence, when it was clear the owner wasn’t planning to come back, Mopti stopped his half-hearted crate digging. He placed the copy of Sun Ra’s Angels and Demons At Play atop the counter on his way out.

That night Mopti unrolled his mat and prayed for his uncle. For his mother and his father who mourned him, even in anger. For the beloved aunt his uncle could not save. For the kind, sad woman he met who grieved for her child. He wasn’t sure if he understood it, but he felt certain a great sense of loss united them all. Alone in the quiet solitude of his uncle’s lonely house, Mopti felt the reach of greater hands moving them. Something besides death had called him across the waters, something that made Mopti reflect on what he may have loss in his own life.

The next day Mopti headed over to the library on Ward but was surprised to receive a phone call.

“Mopti, this is Brenda. How you doing?”

“I’m well, friend. Good to hear you.”

She had just left the hospital and invited him to join her for lunch. Eager to leave his window seat, Mopti tucked his papers and books in his backpack, waved goodbye to the friendly staff and met her at Coleman’s.

She was sitting at a table, nibbling on some fries. “Sorry, my stomach’s in my back.”

“Indeed,” Mopti said, laughing.

“If I eat anymore hospital food, they will probably have to check me in, too.”

“How is she, your Shanequa?”

“Resting.” She passed him a menu. “If you don’t like pork, they have real good cheeseburgers.”

They ordered burgers and gulped down soda as they talked, chatting about the rhythms that had shaped their lives. Brenda had Shanequa late in life, but the father left. Everybody like miracles but don’t nobody want to raise one. Brenda had fled the city for the small town, in search of a quieter peace for her daughter, closer to family ties she’d long wanted to know. Mopti had remained in the city, where he could disappear in plain sight. The anonymity and routine of his work gave him comfort. The tiny hometowns of his parents, small stops between the desert and the river, would have made the pressure of constant social engagement and familiarity too much for him.

Brenda spoke with an openness that made him feel like she was one of his best friends, not that he had many. Over the next few days, they met for lunch or chatted, sharing more about their worries and their fears. Mopti now knew the child’s condition was serious. She was in an induced coma, awaiting to see if her brain and her lungs could re-learn how to breathe on their own. Mopti shared some of Brenda’s grief. He prayed for the child too young to have such a burdened heart.

One day Mopti told Brenda about his uncle’s collection, his search for The Great Going Song, and his mysterious clues. When he mentioned all of the Robert Johnson lyrics and research, she delivered Mopti his most promising lead.

“It’s either the crossroads or the cemetery, Mopti.”

“What do you mean?”

“We got a whole Mississippi Blues Trail that goes all through the state. If tourists come looking for Robert Johnson, they going to one of the crossroads or to visit one of his graves.”

Mopti nearly spit out his water. “One of his graves? How many graves does the man have?”

“Mane, three. Can you believe it? But if you think about his life, short as it was—he was a certified member of the 27 Club—then it makes sense.” She saw Mopti’s puzzled face. “There are a lot of famous folks, mostly musicians, who all died tragically at age twenty-seven. Robert’s mama traveled a lot when he and his family was young. They went from Central Mississippi to here in the Delta, then she married about three-four times, or something. And he was between her new husband’s in Memphis and folks near here. By the time he ran off, he had already been on the road anyway.”

“Where are these graves?”

“Right around each other. One not too far from where he died. You know the story is that he was a bit of a catdaddy and got poisoned near Greenwood at the Three Forks Store by somebody’s jealous husband. So he’s got a small grave marker out there in Quito, the middle of the boondocks. Another one at Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church in Morgan City, that looks like a big ole Egyptian obelisk. And the other one out on Money Road at Little Zion Missionary Baptist Church, also near Greenwood. A woman from the Luther Wade Plantation told somebody that her husband was the one that dug the grave. And it’s near where he died, so there’s that. But even so, knowing how tricky all this is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t buried in none of them grounds.”

“So you think I should check out the graves first or the crossroads?”

“I’m not sure you should be doing any of this. All the sites are about an hour and half away, some at some pretty obscure locations. The Little Zion is where some of my kin are buried. I haven’t been there in years. You know we don’t like to visit old graves.”

“I understand. There are so many different traditions. I covered all the mirrors in my uncle’s houses, even though it was clear he didn’t live in some of them.”

“Y’all do that, too?”

Mopti nodded. “There are some traditions where they will not remove the deceased through the front door, but will cut a hole in the wall and carry them out feet first.”

“That ain’t the kind of hole in the wall you want to be in,” Brenda said. “So, you’re planning a creepy road trip. How are you going to get there?”

“Drive.”

She laughed. “You can drive all you want, but you ain’t gon’ find that burying ground.”

Mopti’s smooth, moon-like forehead knotted up. “And why not?”

“The folk from out there, good people but private. They take care of each other and mind their business. Don’t welcome strangers stomping all over their burial grounds. They come from a long line of runners. Restless souls. Even the land can’t be still. Ground always changing.” She snatched his uncle’s scribbled map right out of his hand. “I’m just kidding. But you got to know there, to go there.”

“Why can’t I just use GPS?” Mopti said, taking the map back.

Brenda sighed. “If you couldn’t get down Main Street with GPS, what makes you think you’re going to make it through these backwoods?”

Mopti shrugged, laughing. “Brenda! You’re right, you’re right.”

“I’m just sayin’.” She took a sip from her water bottle. “You could try it, but trust me, the roads are tricky if you don’t know where you’re going.” She pointed at his map. “It’s not too far away. If you wait until Friday, I can ask my cousin to stay with Shanequa for me. We’ve got great uncles and aunts out that way. Haven’t been to Mound Bayou in years, not since I was a kid.”

“Why not?”

Brenda shrugged. “Most of that part of my family has passed on. The rest moved to Memphis or got on down. I don’t really have no reason to go back that much.”

“Well, okay,” Mopti said. “Let’s roll.”

“Oh, we rollin’ now?” Brenda said and shook her head.

They started off early that Friday. Packed like mules, armed with shovels, flashlights, snacks, water, and the hand-drawn maps and notes from Mopti’s uncle.

Everything started off well, but two hours later the laughter had drained out of them.

“I thought you said you knew where we were going?”

For the first time Mopti could recall, Brenda seemed at a loss for words. “It should’ve been over here,” she said, pointing at his wrinkled up map.

“Well, it’s not.”

“I don’t know what to tell ya. You got to go there to know there,” she said.

Mopti frowned and watched her pick through her salad, then drove a fork into his own.

“How many crossroads are in Mississippi? I mean, we have driven through five or six of them and haven’t found that old church yet.”

“You really think something’s out there?” Brenda asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know but my uncle seemed to think so. That house back in town is full of all of his sketches and drawings. He believed the album was magic.”

“Like magic magic?”

“Yes, healing magic.”

Brenda looked up, stopped chewing. “What kind of healing?”

“That I don’t know. The record shop guy said it could heal the world.”

“I told you he wasn’t right. And you say he just dipped on you after all that? Weird as all get out.”

“What I could find in the library was just more of the same stuff Uncle Oumar had. Snippets of references in musician interviews. He kept a whole file on Robert Johnson. Most of it was just different versions on how he sold his soul to the devil.”

“Lies,” Brenda said. “They wrong for talking on that man’s spirit like that.”

“So you don’t believe it?” Mopti asked.

“Hell naw,” Brenda said, laughing. “It’s a good ass story though. I’ll give you that. But the truth probably is he went to the woodshed or found somebody who knew what they were doing, sat himself down somewhere and did his work. But naw! Got to be the devil. Got to be magic. Can’t be that a negro actually worked his ass off. Sound like hatas hatin’ to me.”

“So you don’t believe in the crossroads and all that?”

“I believe, just don’t believe Robert took that route. Think about it. If it was that easy, wouldn’t be no souls left in none of these counties! Mississippi gon’ straight to hell.”

Mopti bit into a tomato. “Brenda, you’re something else.”

“But I’m right though. What if all this crossroads talk was just his way of talking about something he already know?”

“Like what?” Mopti asked.

“Like the heartbreak you get when you give all you got and end up with nothing. Keep in mind, we talking about folks chopping cotton on rented land—sharecroppers, landless farmers. Ain’t no question he ran away from home young. You’d run away, too. Ran away from that backbreaking no-paying work in the fields. Ran away from his parents. He was a traveling musician, hoboing on trains and such. Playing on street corners for coins and dollar bills. You think he didn’t have dreams? I know the biggest one—to escape.”

They sat in silence, remembering their own gambits, disappearance acts, then got back on the weary road. They headed down 55, the blur of green and brown zig-zagging, as one by one the mile markers ticked off each minute of their lives. They hurtled forward to what they hoped would not be another dead end, onward under the clouds and the scatter of wings, loose stitches of black in a sky threatening heavy rain.

Up Jumped the Devil

They took turns holding the shovel as they passed the houses where no one lived. Cobwebs and dust guarded the windows. Mopti ducked under branches. Brenda swatted clouds of gnats that rose from the ground. Together they stepped over the flat faces of rock that watched them from the earth. Out in the woods, everything was bound together, the living and the dead. They walked among the carved names, passed soil-stained tea cups, broken remnants of past lives, the black vertebrae of trees. They had found the cemetery, the place where everything comes to rest.

Brenda shuddered, skeeta-bit and full of regret. She wanted to help Mopti, but this was a road she wished she hadn’t traveled. They would not catch her at sundown peering into amber bottles, a candle lit at the end. Souls were meant to be glimpsed only by their maker.

“Promise me we’re not going to be out here graverobbing, right?”

“Of course not, Brenda.”

“How you supposed to know where to dig?”

Mopti pulled out one of his uncle’s drawings. “This looks like a big tree. I think from these notes, he was guessing the album would be buried under the Tree of Life. In my country, we call those baobab trees. Some of them are 6,000 years old, so wide, you could drive a car through them. They look upside down, like their roots touch the sky.”

“Nope,” Brenda said pointing. “That looks like two trees to me.”

Mopti followed her line of vision and realized she was right. Two giant pecan trees stood like great sentinels in the back of the cemetery. Entwined, their gnarled, outstretched branches did look like great roots against the darkening Mississippi sky.

“Let’s hurry up, mane,” Brenda said swatting at something, “because walking back in the dark is not the move.”

“Right,” Mopti said and bowed his head at the tombstone. “I brought my torch,” he said, then saw her expression. “Nevermind.”

Mopti dropped his backpack on the ground and put on his gloves while Brenda walked back and forth between the two trees, inspecting them.

“Did your uncle have any idea which of these trees we are supposed to be digging under?”

Mopti’s eyes said it all.

“Mmmpf, mmmpf, mmmpf.”

Mopti opened and closed his mouth three times without saying a word.

“Guess you better meeny-miny-mo it then.”

“And what exactly is that, Brenda?”

She walked to the clearing in the center of the two trees and began to sing.

“Eeny, meeny, miny mo. Catch a tiger by it’s toe. If it hollers, let’em go. Eeny meeny, miny mo. My mama told me to pick this one right over here.” She bowed. “To the left, it is. And if it ain’t, you can try the other one and then we’re out.”

“Deal,” Mopti said and he began to dig in the hard earth. It wasn’t as easy as they make it look on TV.

Brenda watched silently, shifting her weight from foot to foot, a silent observer until it was her turn.

“We out here diggin’ for treasure like Pirate Jenny. Better be some money in this hole.”

They were on the second tree just about to give up when Mopti let out a cry. Brenda turned the flashlight on it as the sun sank deeper in the sky.

“It looks like a bag.”

Mopti brushed away the loose dirt and rocks. The soil felt cold to him, even through his gloves. “Thank you for being my friend,” Mopti said and handed the bundle to Brenda.

“You want me to—?”

He nodded yes.

She smiled nervously then handed him the light and bent down next to him.

“Mopti, are you sure you want to do this? Because once we open this, you can’t unring the bell.”

“Open it,” he said, his voice full of what he didn’t anticipate.

“I’m trying but you’re shaking the light. Hold steady.”

Mopti was so weary but giddy, he didn’t have the energy to argue or crack a joke. He waited as she unwrapped the cloth that covered it.

“Oh,” she said and unraveled the fabric. “Ooh, this is wonderful. It looks like spun gold and water. But it’s just a little damp. No telling how long it’s been here.” She pulled out another bag hidden inside. “Mopti!” She handed the album to him. “This was your uncle’s dream. You should open it.”

“I don’t think I can. I didn’t know how I would feel, but now…” his voice trailed off. “My aunt Aminata died, young. Her death left a mark on my family. My uncle’s choices left a mark on my father and he in turn left one on me. I am not sure I want to hold his dream.”

Brenda knew something about marks, had lived under the burden of scars her whole life. To know that she had passed them on to her daughter was another burden she would always bear. She held the album, heart aching, unsure what to do.

“Just open it,” Mopti said wearily. “It’s okay.”

She took a deep breath. The album sleeve was not something she’d seen before. Not paper, plastic, leather. It was made of a textile she didn’t recognize. A message in a script she couldn’t read was woven in the fabric. She pulled it off, resting it atop the beautiful covering.

“Wow.”

They both leaned over to see it better.

It was black and coppery gold, splattered, watery waves staring up at them like an iris.

“Not bad for something we found buried under the roots of a pecan tree.”

Mopti shook his head in wonder.

“There’s a message here, in the dead wax.” Brenda rubbed her thumb across the space. “In the what?”

She pointed. “The part where there ain’t no music. Between the end of the last song and the beginning of the label.”

“Let me see.” She handed him the record.

Let the light set you free, it said in English. Mopti turned it over, pointed the light so he could see. “This side looks more worn, but I think I can make it out.”

“Bet you could read a whole book if you got out these woods.” She swatted at some unseen predator. “Talking ‘bout ‘the light.’ You know these mosquitoes out here are about as big as your head. I said I would bring you here, not get eaten alive while you sit up in the dark gawking.”

“I’m sorry, Brenda, you’re right. Let me get you home.” He held the album then placed it back in its covering. “I’m sure it’s been a long enough day. And you’ll want to get back to Shanequa, I know.”

Brenda nodded, fatigue in her voice. “Thanks.” Brenda carefully repackaged it and tucked it gently inside its protective swaddling.

“Well, it’s time to get our great asses going,” she said. “I wonder what it sounds like.”

Though he was ashamed and did not want to admit it, Mopti could not wait to hear what he had found. Giddiness and sadness guided him as he rode the car hard, barreling in the darkness, back through the flat, winding road.

“Mopti?”

He glanced over at her. “Yes?”

“I know you’re happy to have found this thing you say your uncle left y’all for, but if I were you, I wouldn’t tell nobody I found it.”

Mopti turned down the radio. “I’m not sure if happy is the word. You know, my father was angry with Uncle Oumar because he left my aunt. Aunt Aminata, like I said, was their only sister. The youngest, she was always very ill. The family sent him to America to continue his education, but something happened. Now I have an idea of what. I wish I could have talked with him, known more about his life. For me, my uncle’s biography is as illusive as your Robert Johnson. He was supposed to become a big time doctor, doing research and maybe one day help find a cure. But he abandoned his studies—and,” Mopti sighed. “According to my father, he abandoned my aunt, too. And all that to pursue this folktale legend. All those years, searching. And here it is.” Mopti motioned at the bundle in Brenda’s lap. “We’ve found what my uncle could not. He was so close before he died but now what?”

“So you really believe he left everything to find this record? For you to find it?”

“Not any record, apparently, a legendary record,” Mopti said, grief making his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Well, whatever his reason, Mopti, you found it. I have a feelin’ a lot of other folks are gonna want what you got. Better keep it to yourself.”

They drove thoughtfully in silence until he almost ran them off the road avoiding a deer.

“Damn, Mopti!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see it.”

They had no sooner corrected course when a truck shot out of the darkness, crashing right into them.

“Brenda!” Mopti yelled.

The car spun in the darkness, tires screeching disapproval. For Mopti it seemed like everything happened in slow motion. They spun down the road forever, and then, in seconds, everything happened very fast. Mopti didn’t know how long he had lain there, his head pressed against the air bag, before he realized he heard nothing in the passenger seat next to him.

“Brenda,” he whispered. “Brenda!”

She rose her head, eyes focusing in the dark. “Stop hollering, Mopti. I’m alright, I think.”

“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened,” Mopti said. “It just came from nowhere.”

Brenda rubbed her jaw, then stopped. “Shhhh. Do you hear that?” she whispered. “Where is the music coming from?” She was staring over his shoulder when her eyes widened. He saw the scream before he heard it.

“Run, Mopti, run! Get that thing out of here!”

“What?” Mopti’s voice was confusion, pain.

“The record! He’s coming for it. I knew it was no accident way out here.”

Mopti was caught between two impulses, neither included leaving Brenda, possibly broken up in a car that he was driving. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You ain’t got to,” she said, and wrenched herself from the seatbelt. Brenda kicked open the door, was gone before he could stop her.

“I’m okay, Mopti, just grab the record and run!”

Mopti reached in the darkness for it. It had fallen on the floor, beneath the seat. When Mopti felt the burlap wrap, he half-suspected the album would be in pieces. To his surprise, the record was whole. He snatched it up, exited the car and took off.

“You can’t hide, Moby, I see you. You shining!”

That voice, the butchery of his name. Mopti ran alongside the road, heading for the woods. Old Player limped behind him, shouting curses.

“You don’t know what you have! Undeserving. Give it to me, boy!”

“What is wrong with you?” Mopti cried. “Why would you do that? You could have killed us!”

Old Player laughed. “Yeah but what you got in your hands could have healed ya. Play your cards right and I might heal you yet.”

Mopti panted, struggled to see as he stumbled through the woods along the road. There was a field up ahead, not much to hide behind.

“You’re crazy. Are you the one that tore up my uncle’s house? Looking for this old record?”

“That old record is worth more than you, your uncle, or anyone else you know, put together. None of that other stuff he got off me was worth a damn.”

Mopti stopped running. He had to. Could barely see in front of him or see his way out of this.

“Did you hurt my uncle? Are you the reason he died?” He turned to face the man who would have killed him and Brenda, too.

“Natural causes, well, natural enough,” Old Player said. “I told you, the album is supposed to heal but it’s also cursed. Folks who get after it don’t fare too well.”

“So why are you chasing it now? You rammed a truck into us and ran us off the road for something you claim is going to kill you, too.”

“Desperate times require desperate measures. You new to the game. Don’t know what you got, let alone what to do with it,” he said.

Mopti’s head ached. His neck was stiff.

“And what do you plan to do with it? You sat back and let my uncle, me, do all the work, for what purpose? You couldn’t possibly want to heal anything or anybody.”

Old Player stood in the field, his hand at his side.

“You won’t have to worry about that. I’m going to take good care of The Great Going Song and make sure it is never lost again.”

“It doesn’t belong locked up in your safe, like one of your finds. If it can do what you say it can, this belongs to everyone. It belongs to the world.”

“The world isn’t good enough. The world can go to…hell,” he said and aimed at Mopti’s chest. Without thinking, Mopti used the album as a shield. The bullet must have rang through the air and hit the album, because Mopti suddenly felt a tremendous force. It vibrated through him, knocked him off his feet. He didn’t even know Old Player had a gun.