18.03.2015

00:06 am

Walt Stone

I woke up in my room. The blinds were down, leaving me surrounded by peaceful darkness. I snapped my fingers and a little clay bumblebee flew to turn the lights on. The brightness burned my eyes, or maybe they had been burning already. There was a note on my desk, carefully placed on top of a food tray.

'Didn't want to wake you up for dinner. I managed to save you some before the others attacked the buffet. Hope you're okay - Aya'

I groaned. How long had I been out for? Must've been forever since we arrived back in Brooklyn, but I didn't feel any better. On the contrary, my body was ready to protest if I dared breathe too quickly.

Making my way on my balcony, I looked out at the stars.

When I was younger, my grandma would say that everyone who's ever loved us, even the ones who never got to meet us, were smiling down on us from the skies. That the stars were those people sharing their light and their wisdom, illuminating the path through the darkness of uncertainty. One of my first memories was listening to her talk till her eyes drifted upwards, till her voice turned to a whisper and she became one with her beloved sky.

My first best friend lived right next door. He was bubbly and talkative, always happy, always smiling. He loved learning new things, his eyes would light up like the stars. He would have loved going to school.

Mom hated the idea of me coming to Brooklyn. Said she couldn't bear the idea of me becoming another one of the ghosts in her albums.

Now, with those stars shining right on me... was Granny one of them? Was Tobby? Was Dad?

What would have my father said? Would he have been proud of me? Would grandpa think I was brave for choosing the world over myself?

If I stared at the sky for long enough, would I find out? Would the constellations shift and turn into a smile? Would I hear the voices of my ancestors, of generations I never got to know, as clear as if they were before me? Or would it be a whisper, a shiver, a hum coursing through my blood, the words forming themselves right in my heart?

I was raised to look out for signs, to trust in guidance. What if there was someone I could directly ask instead of waiting and guessing? What if I could talk to the dead, or maybe even death itself?

A chilling calmness took over my body. After all, death has always been the one constant in my life. The thought was strangely comforting. I was a magician, living in a magical mansion, surrounded by magical objects. There was bound to be something, anything, in the library, that could help me.

I smiled, thanking Granny for guiding me now, guidance hidden in word said long ago. When in doubt, reach out to a higher realm.

One honeycomb immediately caught my attention. Painted pitch black, the yellowing scroll shone inside it like a star.

I needed a place that would be connected to death. Fortunately, I found one. Unfortunately, it was because the candles around Jaz's bed had gone orange – not yet black, but hope didn't seem appropriate anymore.

I probably should have been mad at someone, but I wasn't. The Kanes never promised us we'd succeed, neither survive. We didn't come here for glory, or fairytale fantasies. We answered a desperate plea for help. Everyone in the Nome knew the risk, to pretend otherwise would be to disrespect Jaz's memory.

I sat on a bench outside the infirmary doors. Placed a black linen piece of fabric next to me. It would have been nice to have an alter space, but this would have to do.

I wasn't even sure if my words would go through at all.

Patchouli in a heat-proof plate. I had matches at the ready but something in the back of my mind itched. Instead of setting the plant on fire, I let my hand hover over it. Black cracks soon left nothing but ash.

This was bookmarked in my brain, to be revisited later. When in the process of spellmaking, you have to keep yourself in the right headspace. Grounded, centered, focused. Any distraction could be disastrous.

I mixed rock salt in with the ashes till the white crystals turned black. Then used the black salt to draw a protective circle on top of the cloth. Within the circle – a candle and an obsidian.

Lit the candle. Let my eyes linger on the flame till the world went out of focus.

"Lord Anpu, minister of the dead. I call to thee. He who guides souls to their final judgment, I invoke thee. Lord Anpu, come forth and stand here with me this day, I ask of thee. He who watches over our lost loved ones and the Duat, join me here this day, I ask of thee. Lord-"

Anubis

Myrrh and Frankincense – vulnerable and endangered now. Enclosed halls, open courts, festival processions, cavetto cornices, torus molding along the edges of walls.

Dollar store incense. A shrine on the top shelf of a bookcase, offerings and prayers, a cup of coffee left to evaporate in front of a figurine.

Kemetic souls whisper in the night. Egypt, Libya, Colombia, Venezuela, Dallas. Brooklyn. A magician.

An invocation.

A mix of curiosity and duty found me in the halls of the Brooklyn Nome. On a bench, outside the infirmary doors, stood a young black boy in a sleeveless tee, a new pair of running shorts. He looked like he hadn't slept in a while, shoulders slumped, hands folded in his lap.

Walter Stone. Initiate of the 21st Nome. Descendant of Akhenaton. Cursed like Tuthankamun.

"I was born and raised in death," I heard him whisper. "Grew to know grief as a friend. What for?"

I sat down next to him. "This pain is not only yours. It's the pain of your father, of your grandfather, of your grandaunt and your cousins, of Akhenaton himself. This sense of guilt you keep on trying to erase with every step you make, this fear that deep down you deserve your own death – it's theirs."

"I've thought myself to be strong, for my friends, for Mom. I've learned to live with what I've been given. But some days the pain is too much to handle, sometime I feel like I'm already dead and my body is burning up trying to keep itself together. A corpse living."

"This grief is not only yours. It is the grief of your mother, afraid to lose her son, hurt from losing her husband. It is the grief of your uncle as his kids and wife fell before his eyes. It is the grief of your grandmother, whose final moments were spent remembering. You carry the wounds of generations upon generations in your heart."

"Why did my parents even have me, knowing what my life will be like?"

Maybe my voice couldn't reach his ears, but I knew my words could reach his heart.

"Hope, Walt. Every new soul born is a new chance, hope that maybe someday things will be different."

"What are the chances I will survive, ever heal? The one person I could rely on got caught in death's web."

"If you do heal, Walter, this healing won't be only yours. You will be healing you father, your mother, your kin. All the people you never got the chance to know and all those you are yet to meet – your healing will be theirs, too. As such, no one can walk the path for you."

"I couldn't even be honest with Sadie." He opened his hands. Cradled in his palms was a golden shen amulet. "Couldn't tell her. Why couldn't I tell her? What do I do?"

"What is it?" A familiar voice cut off my next answer. "What's happened?"

I looked up to see Lady Kane's ba floating nearby.

"Sadie. You shouldn't be here. Carter is dying."

If Uncle sees his son sooner than expected, Ma'at just might shatter then and there.

"I know that, jackal boy! I didn't ask to be-Wait, why am I here?"

I pointed at the door of the infirmary. "I suspect Jaz's spirit called to you."

Panic edged Sadie's words. "Is she dead? Am I dead?"

"Neither," I reassured. "But you are both on death's doorstep, which means your souls can speak to each other quite easily. Just don't stay long."

Her eyes lingered on Walt for a moment. "Anubis, what's wrong with him? Can't he hear me?"

I put my hand on Walt's shoulder. "He can't see either of us, though I think he can sense my presence. He called to me for guidance. That's why I'm here."

"Guidance from you? Why?"

Kane – a family name as riddled with grief as Stone.

"You should pass on now, Sadie. You have very little time. I promise I'll do my best to ease Walt's pain."

"His pain? Hang on-"

But the infirmary door swung open, and the currents of Duat spun themselves around her. I smiled – to be taken from one dying lover to another. In a way, it was almost poetic.