Chapter Fourteen

They will hunt you until you give them what they want…and they will kill you if you don’t.

I stifle my screams to avoid waking Unk, covering my mouth to muffle the noise as best as possible. The walls in the house aren’t exactly thick, and I don’t want to have another conversation over why I can’t sleep.

I haven’t had a nightmare this bad for a few months. When they hit, they were bad, like bad, bad. Nana thought she would have to create batches of different herbal mixes just so I could sleep every night. They would start and stop without much of a heads-up, and whether I liked it or not, I’d have to deal with it. The suffering would continue until I could figure out whatever “they” wanted and, for that matter, who “they” were. Every time, the same demand was made, and every time, my refusal was absolute, despite my insistence that I didn’t know what was demanded.

“I don’t know what you want. I don’t have what you want!” I say over and over again, each time more definitive than the last, but I can’t escape reliving the same sequence of events. I have trouble making sense of why I keep saying those words. If I could have an out-of-body experience inside of my own dream, that’s exactly where I am during this whole thing. I don’t believe it’s me, but somehow, it’s me.

My clothes are stuck to my skin, dripping wet from the sweltering Georgia heat. Despite it being the last week of September, summers never really end here. I rub my face, wishing I could rip this horrific nightmare from my mind. At this point, any relief from the attack on my psyche would be welcomed.

I check the clock on my nightstand. The glowing red light shows the time as a little after midnight. Relieved I have a few hours before heading to the boating docks, I catch my breath. Only two places exist where I can purge that energy: either the studio upstairs or the boxing gear in the basement.

That inner voice from my dream continues its assault. You know what they want. It’s been inside you all along. Just give them what you possess, and this can all be over. You can live a normal life.

I sit up and stretch as I shake the voice from my head. I want to get out of bed, but my mind and body aren’t on the same page. I give myself a pep talk while drowning out the criticism. “Come on, bro, you have to get this out of your system. It’ll be good to burn it off for a few hours.”

A sudden burst of energy flows through me. A good creative session may just do the trick. I realize there won’t be enough time to get things together once I finish working with Unk, so I prepare a batch of special colognes for the week. The process becomes one that I’ve come to enjoy, in a manner of speaking. The ritual keeps me close to my parents, even though it was my nana who taught me once I was old enough to learn to do it on my own. Not gonna lie, though…I hope that sooner or later, I won’t have to do it anymore.

I sit in front of the sink, taking care to wipe the mirror that fogged up from the steam of the hot water pooling in the basin. I open the containers, which hold the ingredients I need. One by one, I retrieve the creams and oils I use to mask my unique “scent,” as I was told. A scent that prevents those responsible for my parents’ deaths from being able to track me down so they can kill me. Nana’s quiet on the reason my life is in danger, though.

The peculiar mix of fragrances—a family recipe of myrrh, sandalwood, tonka bean, and coriander—is a part of my ritual. The original combination is supposed to be enough to repel human senses…like those who are on the hunt to find me…but not so overpowering that my teachers suggest I change my “cologne.” Thank the gods the concoction isn’t too offensive at first, but when I found a way to tweak the mixture, it has quite the opposite effect on most of the girls at school.

Once I finish my routine with the scented oils, I stretch and make my way upstairs to my sanctuary on the top floor of the house.

Over the door of the studio, I read a phrase Unk had drilled in my head so many times, I want to throw up:

“Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.”

That quote from the greatest boxer of all time has held me together for the past few years. In fact, I’d taken up boxing, thanks to Unk, and as the rumors at school will have anyone believe, I’m that good—despite never fighting in a live match. I don’t know how much longer I can last, but I do know that quitting is not an option. Muhammad Ali might have been talking about how much he hated training, but I’ll take that over surviving high school any day.

Either the studio or the boxing equipment calls to me during times of stress or anxiety, and if I had my way, I’d stay lost in both spaces for the rest of the morning. After what I’ve just gone through, I need the release, but I still can’t shake the nagging feeling inside of me. There’s something there, in the nightmares, that I can’t put my finger on, but it feels important. If I can break through the wall and find out, it might calm a lot of things down…at least, I hope it does.

The minute I step inside the dimly lit studio space, the familiar sea breeze scent from the candles I burn surrounds me, its remnants lingering in the air from the last session a few weeks ago. I take a deep breath, letting out a satisfied sigh as my mood changes in an instant.

I cultivated the space as my own over the years, a haven where I could fly free and travel wherever my heart desires…until I have the means and time to actually start checking off my bucket list. The places I’ve traveled always feel like home, and I paint each of them with the same passion and fervor, showing as much brilliance and detail as my creativity could muster. Egypt. Tanzania. South Africa. Ghana. Colombia. Barbados. Jamaica. Each locale holds some special meaning, whether they house a wondrous sight or the simple reasoning that I love the landscape.

They all, however, pale in comparison to a location I’ve placed above all others…Kindara, my nana’s birthplace, and apparently, Zahra’s family is from there, too.

I stare at the most recent image I sketched on the pad sitting on the easel—a palatial estate cradled in the cliffs of Mount Kindara. Sketching always grounds me; I connect to the places that resonate most with me through my art. Nana always told me that Kindara is full of mysticism and that magic flows through me with every stroke of the brush…or so she keeps telling me.

I wonder if Zahra knows anything about the magic of the island. It never hurts to ask, right?

I’ve never really been to the island, to be honest. All I have is my vivid imagination and the nightmares that I’ve suffered from for as long as I can remember to guide me with the imagery I create.

I carefully detach the paper from the sketchpad, rolling and taping it down to join the other completed artwork in a protective container sitting to the left of the easel. Grabbing my pencils and getting comfortable on the stool, I close my eyes and take a deeper breath. Moments later, I nod, satisfied with the next image I want to create.

I battle with the voice inside my head, staring at the blank page. Nana would never lie to me about what happened to my parents. I know it would have never existed, but the memories stay locked in the back of my mind, just beyond my reach, tormenting me.

As I keep myself busy with the outlines of the drawing, I hum a tune Nana frequently sang when I was a young boy to drown out the noise. The lullaby takes me away from the studio, bringing me to the shores of the massive Kindaran coastline in an instant. With each stroke, I envision the way the ocean’s waves crash onto the beach before they recede. I can feel and taste the ocean breeze, tilting my head to embrace the warmth of the sun.

The beach gives way to a forest that provides a protective border that encircles the island, with thick, sharp branches and prickly shrubs that make it difficult to come out on the other side unscathed. The wildlife hidden within the vibrant, emerald foliage ranges from mesmerizing to deadly. The beautiful yet dangerous labyrinth comes with a simple message to strangers who dare to come ashore: enter at your own risk.

From there, I’m transported through the calming waters of River Ko, named for the Vodaran God of the Seas, as the ferry traverses into the Kabila la Maji, or the Water Tribes. I wave at the other children who are learning to keep their balance while inside the boats as they pull fish from the river. I dip my fingers into the cool waves, amazed at the aquatic life traveling alongside the watercraft as they swim toward the northern savannah.

Several ospreys are in formation above me, their expansive wingspans appearing to touch each other. Some already have fish in their talons, while others are in full dive before leveling off mere inches above the water, grabbing their dinner and then flying off over the trees framing the river. I continue sketching as I hum in sync with the pencil skating across the page.

Once we disembark from the ferry, a Jeep Gladiator truck takes me through the hilly terrain, the rough ride bringing me farther into the heart of Kindara. To my right, the majestic beauty of Mount Kindara up close causes me to gasp in awe. Just above where I remember creating an estate on the mountainside, the opening to the Nyati Temple lay hidden in plain sight…something Nana has told me about so many times I swear I’ve been there before. According to her stories, its walls house the true wealth and nature of Kindara: sacred Vodaran magick and another world beyond this one. Only those who are chosen by the Divine Mother could travel there.

At the top of the mountain, Kindaran sculptors are hard at work carving the images of Nyati and her seven children into its side. I’ve never fully committed them to memory, but in this dream, I can recall them as though they are second nature: Ko, Vodaran of the Sea; Zatara, Vodaran of the Earth; Adin, Vodaran of War; Abibatu, Vodaran of Magick; Nahara, Vodaran of Fire; Ubaka, Vodaran of Air; and Ashanti, Vodaran of Love.

To my left, off in the distance, the twin volcanoes, named for Nahara, rumble in a rare show of power during this specific trip. I marvel at the spectacle, taking the pair of binoculars in the middle compartment to get a closer look at the low roiling of the lava trickling above the lip of the basins. The direction of the flow faces toward the ocean on the west side of the island, building another difficult entry point into the countryside.

To the north, I observe the airplanes as they take off and land at the airport near Drana Tirin, the capital city, which is beyond my ability to see at that moment. I don’t worry too much about it; I’ll visit other parts of the island soon enough. I can’t believe the splendor surrounding me and wish Nana had the ability to take me there, but I’m content with what she’d been able to do for me while I was growing up.

I’m still sitting in my studio, a little confused over how I’m able to dream walk—that’s the only explanation for what’s happening to me. I’m always asleep when I travel to Kindara, but I know I’m awake. I would’ve never been able to make it up here if I were asleep. The whole thing is disconcerting, and I’m struggling to maintain my balance on the stool. I take a deep breath and continue through to the end, but I have no idea how I’m supposed to wake out of this when I’m already awake.

The Jeep finally comes to a stop at the gates of a village called Solara, but instead of finding peace when I gaze upon the enclosure, goose bumps cover my skin, a telltale sign of my agitated state. Smoke rises above the twenty-foot-high stone walls. I move the pencil across the page at a feverish pace now, depicting the fires and explosions throughout the village. Despite the initial panic in my heart, I trudge forward in a desperate attempt to find out what was happening inside.

In the next moment, an alarm sounds, and no matter how hard I try to advance, an unknown force holds me still. My confusion turns to anger as I’m yanked away without warning from the village, from Kindara, and across the ocean at lightning speed, bringing me back to the studio. “No, don’t take me away, please! I want to know what happened!”

I’m unable to get my bearings, and the blaring of the smartphone alarm threatens to cause a headache I don’t need. I silence the device, slowing my breathing before focusing on the canvas and the picture I had been sketching during my “trip.”

Despite the weird way I managed to travel while awake and then get ripped away during my latest journey back to Kindara, I’m ecstatic over the richness of the landscape captured in my latest creation. I love all the aspects I’ve captured, including the legendary Kindaran sunsets that, in Nana’s opinion, eclipse anything I’ll ever witness Stateside. I stroke my chin as I consider my options over how I want to complete the painting. “All I need is the right color combination to paint this, and it’ll be perfect.”

In a flash, a tune Zahra hummed when we were in the mall during the problems we had with Beach Creek seduces my ears. The faded sound of her voice hypnotizes me, raising my body temperature to a low-grade fever. I don’t feel agitated, or overwhelmed, for that matter. I close my eyes to imagine her near me, continuing her welcomed assault on my senses. Her soothing tones…despite being miles away…warm me as nothing else has since I left the A.

The confusion threatens to overpower me, as I can’t figure out where all of this is coming from…and how I’m able to vividly create a painting of a place I couldn’t remember living? It’s one thing to have it happen while I’m sleeping, but I was awake the entire time. How in the world did that happen?

It’s time to get back to Atlanta, ASAP. I have to know if what is happening to me is being created with magic. It’s the only way to explain what just happened to me. There are too many questions, and Nana may be the only one who can give me the answers I need.