Heroes of an unknown wor.., p.1
Heroes of an Unknown World: a novel, page 1
HEROES
OF AN
UNKNOWN
WORLD
also by ayize jama-everett
The Liminal People
The Entropy of Bones
The Liminal War
Yote and Kavita (forthcoming)
graphic novel
Box of Bones (illustrated by John Jennings)
The Last Count of Monte Cristo (illustrated by Tristan Roach, forthcoming)
HEROES
OF AN
UNKNOWN
WORLD
AYIZE
JAMA-EVERETT
Small Beer Press
Easthampton, MA
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed
in this book are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Heroes of an Unknown World copyright © 2022 by Ayize Jama-Everett (ayizejamaeverett.com). All rights reserved.
Small Beer Press
150 Pleasant Street, #306
Easthampton, MA 01027
smallbeerpress.com
weightlessbooks.com
bookmoonbooks.com
info@smallbeerpress.com
Distributed to the trade by Consortium.
LCCN: 2022932119
First edition 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Text set in Minion 12 pt.
This book was printed on 30% PCW recycled paper by the Versa Press, East Peoria, IL.
Cover illustration by David Brame.
For Auntie Shukuru,
I owe a debt I’ll never be able to repay.
In Memory of Ibrahim Farajaje-Jones/Big Boops/El Nino,
There’s not a day that goes by . . .
In memory of Andrew Vachss,
My recruiting officer into the only holy war worthy of the name.
Never has someone impacted my life so much with one
lunchtime conversation.
Part One
The wind is still. It only whispers nonsense then shouts. We live in motion, the Children of the Wind, the souls it doesn’t need but has abundant access to. We are one, all the Children of Forever, forgotten and always remembering. You’ve seen us, forgotten us, called on us to keep your secrets, and banished us with the precious messages you wish to forget. Some of us, like me, were once like you; human, made of flesh and substance, not still but oh so slow moving. You may remember me, as I remember what your world once was. When you can see me, you call me A.C. I am a Child of the Wind. But now the wind is still.
Do you remember the Liminals? Taggert, the broken healer? His is the closest to a human tale, so his life you may remember. Servant to Nordeen, the petulant ghost of the Liminals, grandfather and assassin to the younger generation. It was Taggert who broke free of Nordeen to rescue his love, Yasmine, and her daughter, their daughter, Tamara, from a life of shadow work and death. He only partially succeeded. In Taggert’s world, Yasmine died. But he saved Tamara from the breaker of bone and mind. For a moment, Taggert had peace.
Can you recall the Animal totem Liminal, Prentis? The adopted daughter of Taggert. For her, he defied time, space, and a God. To save the girl he even broke with the Liminal acolyte of the God of connections, Samantha, who brings the gift of vision to other worlds with the merest touch. He even managed to convince Mico to travel back in time with him to aid the girl.
From Mico L’overture, we all expected more. His God, the underground tuber that grew for a millennium before the first dinosaur egg was hatched—the one the desert dwellers tried to call Manna—chose L’overture as its vassal of connections in the world of flesh. His was the chance to steward a new age of connections between man, God, and beast. Mico’s allies, formed in his time as the DJ Jah Puba—an adopted father Munji and the smuggler queen Fatima—were primed to form a trinity of connections with the body of the Manna Elohim. Instead, he allowed himself to be seduced by Taggert’s call to friendship and family, and joined in the mission to save the lost Liminal, Prentis. In doing so, Mico left his timeline vulnerable.
All of creation has its opposite number, and the Liminals are no different. Cosmic tautologies that speak their existence from the maw of nothingness, the Alters wear the forms of beautiful humans to advance the most inhuman of agendas: the joining of all life with entropy. It is not their cause, it is their reason for existence. If they drew breath, entropy would exhale. In the hinterland of their time, Taggert and his Liminal brood, with Mico in tow, ended the semblance of life of their leader, Kothar. The timeline paid the cost, for no Alter ever took a straight line to decay.
From a rearguard stance, Kothar’s spawn such as that kind reproduces—Rice Montague, found a way to take over the current time/space. He erased the old world that created Taggert and his circle of Liminals and re-created the norms of day, diminishing the power of the Manna and by extension Mico. He’s chosen Baron, Taggert’s brother, a warped version of Yasmine, Tamara’s mother, and a thoroughly corrupted Samantha to be the figureheads of their global aesthetic reach. And somewhere in the shadows of this new world, Nordeen, who shows nothing, controls everything, and lives to pervert the good, lies in wait.
A confession. Taggert and his ilk I call friends. When they can remember me, they do so as an ally. I once loved a Liminal named Chabi. I—We lost her to the manipulations of Rice and the Rat mother Alter, Poppy. Trained by the Alter Narayana, Chabi knew the Entropy of Bones, a martial technique that could end even the densely powerful corpuses of Alters. I could not save her body, only Chabi’s soul. I bound it to a ship and let her sail the in-between worlds as thanks for saving what’s left of my life.
It was this Child of the Wind who rescued Mico, Taggert, Prentis, and Tamara from being stuck in their own past. It was this Child of the Wind who brought them to the new present and sheltered them in an old theater in London. It was this Child of the Wind who refused to let their spirits die despite all that’s been leveled against them. It is against my nature as a Child of the Wind, but entropy is the end of all movement and the winds must always be free. This Child of the Wind takes responsibility for the chaos his Liminal friends inflict on this impacted, infected, unknown world.
This Child of the Wind does not take responsibility for the actions of Mico L’overture. No more. I cautioned against the entropy blades he forged for Taggert, against the trip back in time that fractured the present reality, to his partnership with the so-called reformed Alter, Narayana. It is the nature of Children of the Wind to know but not be listened to; Cassandra was one of us. Even so, dealing with Mico is annoying as sin. From the safety and shelter I provided, Mico has convinced Taggert to accompany him to rescue a human mentor, the Rastafari Bingy man, from the prison of Portmore on the island of Jamaica. They’ve barely escaped with their lives but have also exposed their existence to the Alters. All for a human who doesn’t even remember them. Mico continues to act as though he is in his reality and not a forgotten world. He will learn, as will all the Liminals, soon enough.
Brixton, England
Prentis
Got friends, yeah? Go across time and space for ya? Rescue you from a bloke make the devil look like a poser? No? Then my friends are better than yours. They’re family, zene?
Course now the world’s gone a bit to shite. Turns out I was a bit of a distraction, a way to get Tamara and Taggert, and more importantly, this DJ I know as Jah Puba but they call Mico, out of play so that these beautifully powerful shit-talking void-worshipping lunatics called Alters could, well, alter reality. Didn’t think it could happen, never had that as a concept. But when we got back to the here and now, it was like the whole world took a Xanax. Everything is muted, slowed down, depressed. We are not home. Home’s gone and this wet blanket of reality is all that’s left.
“We’re out!” Tamara tells me. Made a home of this abandoned movie theater in Brixton ever since we’ve been back. Can squat anywhere, I guess, as people aren’t really feeling the cinema anymore. But when Tamara yells, instead of using her telepathy, usually means she’s impatient. Gather my gear from the snack stand where I sleep and head over to the stage.
“Found them?” I’m asking. My rats make a way for me but I ask them to hide when I see Tamara. Tall, not a bit of fat on her, light brown skin covered in slick black pants and an ash-colored knee-length shirt, long red tanned hair braided back, and bandannas around her face and hands, know she’s all about business. At her best, Tam tolerates my rats. Tag missing along with Jah Puba? Definitely not at her best.
“The Wind Boy did. Get on stage quick.” Pulls me up with her telekinetic powers. Used to it. But damn, she really is nervous.
“Who?” Ask before the rats can remind me.
“Keep up, luv.” She’s kind as she turns her head gently toward her right. A blast of wind in my eyes and my memory/recognition gets triggered.
“Bastards couldn’t just wait,” The Wind Boy, A.C., snaps. “They went to bust out Bingy man!”
Animals hold the memory of this guy for me. A Child of the Wind, as they understand it. Is fully human, not a Liminal like Tam and me. But also more. The disciple of movement, of change, of flux. Anything that moves is owned and owed to A.C. He’s the one that brought us back to this time. Been our guide to this grayed-out world. But while Tam is ready, he’s seething.
“That
“I’m gonna get sunburned.” Tell her.
“Gonna get killed if we’re not careful.” A.C. moves closer to the front of the stage.
“Shush your face, Wind Boy,” Tam turns on him slowly. “You’ve been catty since we jumped back.” Around us this push and pull begins, a group of invisible bullies shoving. Lose my breath and find it again and again. Feeling of wind pushing against us. Felt this before, it is how A.C. moves us, how he moves through the world, every time, I swear every time, throws me off. So hard to see and stand. All I have to keep me from losing my mind is a hand in mine. Tamara. Feel her creeping in my mind, not smiling, not freaking out either. She’s not losing it, no reason I should.
Cough hard twice, almost flinch, then fall . . . through invisible impossible space. The lizards, a field rat, and a house cat all reach out to say “Welcome to Jamaica.” Ceiling replaced by sky as blue as it gets here with a hazy sun. Sea air replaces stale scent of rancid popcorn butter and the gift of earth under me feels more comfortable than the hard wood of the theater stage. We’ve arrived. Mostly.
“Fuck to shit!” Tam yells at A.C. If she couldn’t levitate, fly really, she’d be off the cliff he tried to land us on. Gray as this world is, this land is gorgeous, the dolphins in the ocean say the same about their home. “What’s up with your aim?”
“When I talk, do you listen?” A.C. scares me, talking from behind me on a patch of sea-fed grass. By-product of his power is that people always forget him. “The world is changed, the psychic positioning and focus points are all off. It’s not just me that’s fucked. It’s the entire world.”
“Whatever, mate.” She comes down to us so gently, I can tell she’s been practicing. Won’t let the effort show. “You got a lock on the dynamic duo?”
“This is as close as I get.” Almost apologizing.
“For the love of all . . .” Tam squirms. Taggert can take care of himself, hell, he taught the both of us how to do it. Back in time, in the American south, he went toe to toe with the king of the baddies, Kothar. Tag won, saved us all, but damn near killed himself in the doing. Tam’s been mother lion over him ever since.
“It’s a huge island!” she moans after reaching out with her telepathy. Scared of reaching out too forcefully. Last time she did, I was missing. Gave most of London panic attacks. That’s a level of attention we don’t want. “I can’t . . . He’s here but . . .”
“Oy!” tell them before they get too tense. “Seagulls half a mile away say they’re at a prison.”
Dunn’s River Falls, Jamaica
Prentis
“What the hell is wrong with them?” Ask with my first gasp of fresh air in twenty minutes.
A.C. yells and the birds twist in the air. Ask me to get him to stop as soon as I come up from the ocean with six large red snappers too slow to run from me and my dolphin friends just outside of Ochos Rios. World of man may be going to a gray sort of hell in this world, but the nature thrived in the absence of coordinated destruction. Coral reefs are rich and strong here, the fish know where to avoid the nets of the fishermen. In the deep, animals are happy and want me to stay. Got a job to do.
When I surface, I ping Tam. Like a Liminal game of telephone, Tam sees the grimace on my face as I come up from the sea and blasts A.C. with telepathy, telling him to shut it. Love her.
“They still at it?” I ask, throwing the fish at my girl.
“Bare twat! A.C. keeps coming at Tag I’ll knock him back to the future, that’s facts.” She grabs half the fish with her hands, the other half with her mind. “Your fish buddies okay being dinner?”
“Cha.” Laugh as we head up the cliffs to the Bingy man’s shack of a house. “Told you before, just cause I can talk to the animals doesn’t mean I talk to the ones I’m about to eat. Nature eats itself, remember.”
Rescue of Tag and Puba was easy enough. Bingy in tow though not sure who we were, saw a jailbreak and couldn’t resist. Broke Mico’s heart to not be recognized. Get the sense there’s more of that to come.
Walk up in silence, me half wet, her just taking in the mental stillness as a gift. Not as hot as it should be. Wind doesn’t flow as smoothly as it has been. I smell the fish. They’ve missed essential algaes. Want to push something, No, I can push something in the snapper, do like Tag does, manipulate the bodies of the snapper. Make them redder. Not oriented that way, it’s not my nature, it’s barely in my talent, my liminality, but I’m tempted.
“You remember any of your time with Nordeen yet?” Name enrages me for a second. Stumble but I keep walking.
“Remember whipping his arse well enough.”
“When he had you, he made you. . . . You put me and Tag up against giant Praying Mantises.” Grin tells me she murdered them dead.
“Been chatted pon.” Remind her.
“I’ve never seen you transform animals like that.”
“Can’t.” Lie. Then, “Can. But it’s not good for either one of us. Likely, animals don’t last long and . . .”
“And what?”
“Takes them a while to trust me afterward. The species.” Praying Mantis generates cycle every three years and technically transformed them in 1971 so I’ve been forgiven. But sharks are ancient and violent. Would barely tolerate me in the water now if we were in our world.
“We let you down . . .” Tam starts.
“Shut your face. You come for me when no one else would have known to. Even though it cost the world.”
Dunn’s River Falls, Jamaica
Prentis
“Seriously, mate, feel free to shut your trap for ten minutes. I swear it won’t be the end of all things,” my girl tells the Wind Boy as we pierce the wall of smoke he’s been masking us in since the breakout. Small bluff next to a sheet metal roof, one-room hut. Fireplace outside serves as living room. Warm enough here. And the view of the ocean can’t get better. Master magician A.C. is, when we can give a toss enough to remember him, A.C. is. Makes him being a right git somewhat tolerable. Tam throws the fish at A.C’s feet.
“Too late for that,” A.C. says as soon as he re-materializes, dodging the fish. Accuses Tag after, “I thought you were going to keep him in line?”
“I did. Best as I could.” Tag don’t so much apologize as mumble. Kneels to the fish with a fresh grown long and sharp pinky nail, Wolverine style. Fat slice up a fish’s belly and red and gray guts come raining down. “Got to respect loyalty to one’s clan.”
“The stakes are too high to be playing favorites.” Wind Boy right but the damage is done so Taggert focus on scaling the fish.
“It’s not about favorites,” Mico says, exiting the shack Bingy calls home. Mico is a fine man. Even in the humble dress of the now, gray cotton T-shirt and thin sweats, no belly but also no arm muscle on him either. But long and tall, light tan skin wrapped so tight to his face, can see his skull contours. And those eyes, swear they change colors but always a different color dark. Not pretty, stunning, boy is. “Bingy is necessary for whatever comes next.”
“So you say Dread. But I nah known you by name or face.” Bingy pushes past Mico, obviously perturbed but happy to be in what passes for sun. Bingy’s Black, rooftop Black, tar-in-the-sun Black. With fat dreads. Bit anemic, more from this world than from him—like in the old world bet they were shiny and brilliant. Here, twelve bulgy twists fall from his pin head to halfway down his back, studded with silver strands throughout. Frail body, prisoner frail, but he have a big man vocal.
“No reason you should ‘known’ him,” A.C. says, finally settling down a bit. “He doesn’t exist in this reality, most of these fools don’t.”
“So ya spring man only to vex, man?” Rasta says.
“I can’t use words . . .” Mico looks at me for a solution but I’ve got nothing. When his eyes plead toward A.C., we get a light show. Wind Boy pulls a large diamond-shaped crystal from under his jacket.
“I fucking do,” Tam says accepting a silent marriage proposal.
“Not on my watch,” Tag snaps. A.C. uses his wind power to keep the crystal floating then makes a small hole in his wall of mist so that a ray of sunlight hits the crystal. A light tan rainbow paints over all of us. Full master of mystic arts this one is.
