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Bissau locked himself away in Jakada’s spirit room for a week, studying the images flashing across the enchanted mirror surface. In the beginning he was overwhelmed, struggling to comprehend the world beyond and its difference. Eventually the newness waned and he began to learn. The world beyond the Veil was much more advanced than Marai in many ways, but in other ways it was woefully deprived. He was especially upset when he observed the conditions of the lands surrounding the city. The people suffered needlessly because of the greed and abuse of others. The ancestors taught them of the natural hierarchy, how some were blessed with more nyama and naturally prospered more in worldly endeavors. But they also taught that those with more were obligated to help those with less. That lesson was conveniently forgotten by the people beyond the Veil.
He was immersed in the images of Paris when Jakada entered the room.
“Are you ready, Bissau?”
The young man stood. “Yes, Jele, I am ready.” Bissau was dressed in the best imitation of Parisian fashion Jakada’s tailors could produce. He carried a leather backpack, a beautiful creation of Marai design filled with the talismans and gris-gris he would need for the journey. Jakada inspected him and smiled.
“You are ready,” he said. “I wish I could have supplied you with everything you need, but some items are beyond our abilities. Alake has given me the details of the inn where she and Amber will be waiting. Once you locate them you must bring them to the mirror and I can transport you all here.”
“Where will this mirror take me, Jele?” Bissau asked.
“I don’t know,” Jakada admitted. “This is where the adventure begins.”
Jakada stepped past Bissau and waved his hand across the mirror. The streaming images dissipated, replaced by a black void. The jele turned to his apprentice and smiled.
“The ancestors are with you,” he said. “You will bring them back.”
Bissau bowed to Jakada, took a deep breath and stepped into the void. He was engulfed in blackness, his skin tingling with strange sensations. He floated, his feet searching for a surface to stand on, his hands reaching forward for something to grasp. Then suddenly he was falling, tumbling though the darkness. His fall ended abruptly against a wooden floor. He hesitated then fell again as the crumbling floor gave way. His second landing was more abrupt and painful. Bissau lay still, gathering himself and regaining his breath. He looked up through the hole he created, the jagged ends of the broken boards outlined by the dim moonlight.
Bissau struggled to a sitting position. The dilapidated building was empty, which was good. He should have no problem bringing Alake and Amber back for the return to Marai. He had no idea how they would get back to the portal, but he would solve that problem later. He needed to get his bearings.
He tried to stand. Pain stabbed his shoulder and he instinctively grabbed it. He closed his eyes and probed the area with his fingers. He was relieved; nothing was broken, but it was severely bruised. Healing could wait until he was on his way.
It took him a moment to find his way out of the structure. He stood alone, surrounded by an overgrown field resembling an oasis thick with trees, shrubs, grass and sheep. Marai’s pastures were sparse in comparison. He had no time to marvel; he needed to find out where he was so he could set off to Paris. He saw lights to the north, or what he assumed was north, a sign of life. Bissau ambled up the road, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The damp air made it hard to breath and he tired quickly. He would adapt soon, he suspected, but until then he was not very fond of this place called France.
He finally reached the farmhouse and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice demanded.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” Bissau said in heavily accented French. “I am lost and I need your help.”
The door opened and a huge man stepped out. A thick beard covered his face, his pale skin almost sickly to Bissau’s eyes. He looked at the apprentice with disapproval.
“You’re a long way from Paris, African,” the man snarled.
Bissau’s eyes widened. He thought he landed in Paris.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I am looking to return to Paris. I fell in with the wrong type and they left me stranded.”
“I don’t blame them,” the man replied. “Your kind has made a mess of France. The closest train station is in Crecy. I suggest you go immediately.”
There was no chance this man would let him stay the night.
“Merci, monsieur,” Bissau said. He left quickly, following the road in the direction the man pointed. He turned back and the man was still on the porch glaring. Bissau stopped and opened his bag. He took out his wrist knives and put them on. The look in the man eyes suggested he might need them. He planned to avoid trouble, but he definitely wasn’t going to run from it, especially out in the countryside. He had been walking for an hour before he saw the lights coming up behind him. A bad feeling swept over him; he moved closer the road’s edge, hoping to reach the woods before the lights reached him. He thought of running, but if whoever carried the lights caught up to him before he reached the woods he would be too tired to defend himself. So he walked, using his ears to keep up with the closing vehicle. The vehicle pulled up beside him and stopped suddenly. Three men jumped out; the driver was the big angry Frenchman.
“See, I told you,” the big man said. “This is the African that tried to break in my house!”
One of the men, a young man with blond hair and red cheeks, looked at Bissau skeptically. “We should call the police, Pierre.”
“We don’t need the police,” Pierre sneered. “We can handle this monkey ourselves.”
“Please,” Bissau said as he raised his hands. “I meant no harm. I was just trying to get to Paris.”
“Liar!” The big man rushed him. Bissau waited until his attacker was almost on him before stepping aside. Pierre stopped just short of stumbling into the woods.
The third man, tall and lanky with wheat colored hair and a thin face, tried to grab Bissau but the apprentice slapped his hand away. He snarled then swung at Bissau’s head. Bissau ducked and hit the man in the chest with his open hand, knocking the wind out of him. He crumpled to the street gasping. Bissau heard shuffling feet and spun to see Pierre charging him again. Bissau dropped low and spun, whipping out his left leg and kicking Pierre’s feet from under him. Pierre crashed onto his side, his head striking the pavement hard, knocking him unconscious.
Bissau kept spinning as he stood to face the skeptical friend. The man backed away.
“Don’t touch me,” he said. “I have no argument with you.”
An idea came to his head. “Is this your automobile?’
“No, it’s Pierre’s.”
“Can you take me to Paris? I will pay you.”
The man looked at his friends writhing on the ground. “I can’t just leave them here. They are my friends.”
“Your friends attacked me for no reason. I could have hurt them much worse, but I didn’t. You can make amends by taking me to Paris. I think they can find their way home from here.”
The Frenchman looked at his friends and frowned. “Get in.”
Bissau smiled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I don’t want to be responsible for what might happen once Pierre tells everyone else about you. I will take you to Paris but you must promise never to return.”
“I promise,” Bissau lied. He would have to return to pass through the mirror. But he would worry about that later. Tonight, he was on his way to Paris.