Flung: Book I of the Whirlwomen Trilogy

By L. Malaika Cooper

Yasmina, Vaisha, Laila and Rhutnya are the daughters of a powerful ruler of the 3rd Millennium Eblan Empire. They are also the direct descendants of a mystical primordial Goddess, a lineage which gives them supernatural abilities including the ability to time travel. When their father becomes plagued by a recurring dream and seeks the counsel of a dark warlock, the sisters are condemned to death for practicing mystical arts. Their only chance of survival is to flee to another time and place far away from the world they know. In Book I, Rhutnya (Ra), the youngest of the sisters, lands in Seattle and meets Duffle, a street surfer and Katrina survivor who recognizes a time traveler when he sees one. Though he’s sworn to a solo life after losing everyone he loved, Duffle is lured by the magical intrigue that surrounds Ra and vows to help her find her sisters. They embark on a road trip down the Pacific Coast to meet with Dr. Danika Nzinga-Weiss, a Stanford professor and noted archeologist who Duffle thinks might be able to help. Along the way, they discover that Ra’s shape-shifting sister Yasmina is high in the Cascades with a Hollywood couple forced into exile after double-crossing billionaire and Artist of Darkness Queen Nomi Seerge. Yasmina becomes a pawn in the couple’s attempt to regain their A-list lifestyle. Rescuing Yasmina takes Ra and Duffle, with the help of Weiss, her former TA, and Duffle’s peculiar friend Erin Fey, to tunnels deep within the cliffs of Mendocino where Ra must push the boundaries of her abilities to save her sister.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Malaika Cooper
• Release date: Apr 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476021560

L. Malaika Cooper

L.Malaika Cooper is a freelance journalist, world traveler, yogi, runner, hiker and decent cook. She is currently working on the second book of The Whirlwomen Trilogy.

Book preview

Part One

Travelers

Prologue

My sisters and I watched from above the day when Hussein Ben-Wassoud rode into the palace. We crouched behind the balcony wall peeking down on his arrival through the decorative gaps in the masonry. Ben-Wassoud rode a large black horse caparisoned in red and gold. He wore a black cape, his face completely hidden by the hood. He dismounted with flair, throwing his reins to the stable boy who met him. Before being escorted to our father’s chambers, he turned and looked up in our direction as if we had called his name. The man was known to be a warlock.

I feel his threat, I whispered to my sisters, pulling back from the balcony wall.

He smells like a slain lamb as the blood runs from its body. It leaves the taste of soured milk on my tongue, Yasmina said, sniffing the air and frowning.

Laila, born just before me, started to whimper. As delicate as a water lily and just as beautiful, Laila behaves more like the youngest than I. You can look into her golden brown eyes, flecked with lilac, and see her vulnerability. We all doted on her. Laila was shimmering-- her body wavering between opaque and ghostly. Vaisha, born after Yasmina, wrapped her arms around her and cooed to her to keep her from disappearing altogether. Vaisha also likely moved through Laila’s mind, easing her fear and anxiety.

Calm yourself, Yasmina said to me, you are stirring the air.

Yasmina looked most like my father with her full lips and button nose. Being the oldest she often thought she could tell us what to do.

Calm? Our father seeks the counsel of a warlock because of a stupid dream and the whisperings of the servants, I said. Yasmina scowled then turned into a cat and sauntered away. She could become any animal she chose, but the cat was her favorite. She said she enjoyed the animal’s perfection of indifference.

Yasmina is right, Ra Vaisha said. If Ben-Wassoud is here not only for baba’s dream, but to investigate whisperings against us, you only attract his attention if you wave your abilities about. Look at your hands.

Small sparks of white light popped from my fingers.

I am Rhutnya bent Mutia Abdul-Jami. Bent, means daughter of. It is customary to take the name of one’s father, which would have made me bent Sultan Sulayman. I chose my mother’s name as she passed on a legacy far greater than his. My mother or Umi, which means the same, though beautiful and young in appearance, has lived far beyond the span of an ordinary lifetime. She is a direct descendent of the Great Goddess, the powerful primordial being who created the Universe with her enchanted dance over the waters of Chaos. Like Umi, who passed this blood heritage on to us, we are Whirlwomen.

The servants of our sprawling palace within the city walls of Ebla whispered of our strangeness for as long as I can remember: "Rhutnyah calls the light of the sun and stars... Yasmina takes the form of animals…Laila shimmers into nothing…Vaisha pokes through our thoughts."

As descendants of the Great Goddess, we have blood gifts. I am discovering I have multiple gifts. My three sisters each have primary gifts: Yasmina is a shapeshifter; Vaisha, a mind prober; and Laila can disappear within the folds of time and space. All Whirlwomen have the ability to time travel though it is a talent that needs to be cultivated.

Umi always warned us that we must guard our blood gift with secrecy, but our youth made us careless. We were the daughters of the wealthiest, most powerful man in Ebla. He ruled the land as far as our eyes could see from the tallest minarets of our home. Guards flanked our environs. What harm could befall us?

We were too naïve to consider the harm could come from within.

My father was a large, domineering man softened in stature by a life of comfort. Once breathtakingly handsome, according to Umi, my father had puffy features over an extended belly that made his ankle-length thobe hang shorter in the front than the back. He had a loud, deep voice that carried from one end of the palace to the other just like his laugh. Abu was a formidable presence in our household just as he was both feared and loved by the Eblan people.

Abu suspected we were different, but it wasn’t until he had reason to fear us that it mattered. Just three days after my birth as I lay at my father’s side, I gave him reason to regard me with awe. He looked down at me cooing gibberish and I said to him: speak so I learn.

His eyes grew wide. He scrambled away from me calling for Umi. The Bukhuoor, or scented wood chips that were burned as he dressed each day so the smoke would permeate his skin and clothing, could not hide the smell of rotten fruit that poured off him. I would later learn that was the smell of fear.

I began to speak almost immediately after I was born. Umi said this was no surprise to her. During her pregnancy my three older sisters insisted on talking to her swollen belly almost constantly. They insisted I talked back to them.

Abu had no appreciation for my early development. He distanced himself from me from then on. I have no memory of his warm embrace or his kisses on my cheek as my sisters do. Instead, he treated me like a servant. "Bring me dates. Bring me tea, Ra. Buhrlee feesa!" he’d command, clapping his hands as if I were a yard animal he wished to hurry along. I tried in vain to please him, to garner some of the affection he showed my sisters until one day his rejection did not matter anymore.

Abu began having his dreams when I reached puberty. In his dream, an old woman claiming to be from the past and the future would visit him. She would warn him of his doom. He would die by the hand of the one he had forsaken. She’d tell him he would know of what she spoke when the flow of the sand timer reversed.

Umi alerted us when Abu shared his growing concern over the dream with her.

It must mean something, Abu said to Umi. It comes to me nearly every night.

She shrugged her shoulders. Or it could mean nothing. Your mind has many things to think of during the waking hours. It leaves no energy to make up new dreams for you each night.

You patronize me, my beauty, Abu said, cupping her face. How can you not see that it means something? Or do you wish to distract me from some truth?

We see what we wish to see, Umi said, removing his soft, pudgy hand from her face and kissing his palm lightly.

The dream became an ethereal presence that possessed my father. Abu consulted wise men near and far concerning the dream. Wise men shook their heads or proclaimed it an omen of an impending overthrow. Abu scoffed at this and turned to the mages. The mages were more creative with their definitions of the dream. One said it meant my father would cheat death by fooling time. Another declared my father had been bewitched. The mage who made this claim, a stooped and wrinkled old man dressed in animal skins, pointed the finger of blame at our mother. She bewitched my father, he said, to save herself. She apparently did not have a golden womb—the ability to bear him sons.

She uses you for her own gain and that of others like her, the mage said.

Umi said our heritage, while a precious gift, came with a price. Many would fear us. Others would hunt us to harness the power in our blood. But most dangerous would be those who sought to corrupt us.

There are other ancient powers. Some are rooted in darkness. They want to lure you. If you cannot be persuaded, they destroy you, Umi said.

Those powers found a weak link in our own household. Fear nestled into Abu’s consciousness alongside his addiction to power.

I have summoned Ben-Wassoud. He will be here after the next sunrise if his journey goes well, Abu said to Umi. This was two days before Ben-Wassoud’s arrival.

The one who leads the desert cannibals? she asked, her face twisting in surprise. You wish to bring that mad man into our home? Seek his counsel when you know him to be an agent of darkness? I do not approve.

As I imagined, Abu said, I will not be misled by some agent of the dark, if that is what he is. I only wish to hear what he has to say about the dream and our daughters. His powers are said to be great.

Our daughters do not concern him, Umi said, crossing her arms.

I am not so sure… Abu stopped, his face going slack as Umi entered and moved through his mind more aggressively than she had ever done before. He was resisting her suggestions increasingly. Or something that had rooted within him was. When she got to his thoughts about the warlock, a black wall went up. She pulled back and looked at my father, wondering when he had let the darkness in. Once his mind had been only open and bright. She had roamed through it gently.

The following evening, Umi told us of Ben-Wassoud’s coming while we ate a dessert of cut fruit served to us on woven mats and brocade cloth, our legs folded beneath us.

I do not have a good feeling about this, Umi said. "Your father, he resists my persuasions on the matter."

Perhaps I could help, Vaisha said. "I have persuaded Abu to my benefit on smaller matters."

I knew it, Yasmina said. That is why you always get the best fabrics and beads.

Otherwise, they would all go to you, Vaisha said. You are his favorite.

Girls! Umi said, This is not about your father’s love. It is about his fear.

My belly tickled with apprehension but I continued eating my sweet mango in silence.

Time comes when we must all disappear, Laila said. She spoke the least of us and when she did, it was usually something prophetic, tragic or beautiful.

She may be right, Umi said frowning. We shall stay close tonight, my loves. We may even dance.

We did dance that night. It would be the last time we whirled together. We dressed in our finest clothes and adorned ourselves with gold. We began the dance in a circle, our arms linked. We moved our hips first in small circles. We released one another when the movement spread and our bodies spun. We twirled until our feet left the ground. We ruffled the air so much it sparkled with tiny bursts of white light. Whirlwomen honored their blood gifts through dance. It was a sacred and powerful act that opened the doorway of time and dimension.

The following morning we watched Ben-Wassoud’s arrival. The sun had started its descent when Kareem appeared. Kareem was the boy-servant who ran messages between family members.

The warlock wishes to see you with your father’s blessing, Kareem said, catching his breath. His eyes were wide and he shifted nervously from foot to foot. He feared for us.

Umi joined us as we headed toward my father’s chambers. She was in full perda, and only her eyes were visible from within the billowing rose silks that covered her body. Our footfalls echoed in the ominous silence that had overtaken the palace.

We were paraded before Ben-Wassoud without ceremony. His coal-black eyes, as heavily lined with kohl as my mother’s and older sister’s, bore through me like a stake. Sweat glistened on his head, bald except for a patch at the crown that hung in a long, dark braid down his back. He rose and walked over to me. He towered above me. His energy probed me like insects crawling across my skin. I began to feel ill. My breath caught in my throat as if someone were chocking me. Without thinking, I threw up a barrier of light that only my mother and sisters could see. I heard Umi suck in her breath. Yasmina yanked my arm and pulled me close. Ben-Wassoud stumbled back in surprise, and then his face contorted into a sardonic grin.

You are more than you appear to be, aren’t you?

She is just a girl, Umi said.

"As you are just a woman," Ben-Wassoud said, turning his wicked smile upon my mother.

Abu watched in silence. I saw the same coldness that warped the warlock’s smile fall over his face. We were sent away. That was the last time I saw my father.

Umi herded us to the forbidden chambers—the far corner of the palace where we were banned when the blood flowed and we were considered unclean. This was my favorite part of the palace. I went there even when it was not necessary. It was sumptuously decorated with large pillows and filmy silk curtains of deep purple and blue. Lavender scented the air and Zainab, the servant whose sole responsibility was our care during this time, was there to rub our feet, our backs, and our scalps with scented oils.

It was here Umi whispered secrets to us that she had hoped to share over time. She removed her coverings revealing her long, golden locks and a sky blue dress that was made to fit every womanly swell of her body. Abu believed Umi was the daughter of a wealthy Egyptian trader, though no one had ever met him. We knew why. Word of Umi’s beauty had spread from Alexandria to Ebla, but Umi was from a land much further away. She had danced into this time and place to procreate. She had chosen my father for his power and wealth.

After spending the night in consultation with Ben-Wassoud, Abu wielded his power mercilessly against his own children. He decreed we be buried alive for practicing mystical arts forbidden to women.

This shall not be! Umi said with such force that the teacups and teapot that sat before us rattled. One cup shattered. Umi was silent for several minutes after. Her breathing turned deep. She quelled in anger. She plotted.

She finally lifted her head and spoke. You must disappear from this time and place.

My sister’s and I exchanged glances. The events swirling around us paralyzed us. Vaisha said what we were all thinking: We are not yet skilled in time dancing, Umi.

But I am. I can send you all away to the same time and land, Umi said. You will have to find one another, but you will live and you will learn and you will meet others like yourself.

The moon still shone when we began to hear the palace guards calling out to us. We were to be imprisoned in the same dank dungeon where thieves, murderers and adulterers were left to die while our grave was prepared.

Umi made preparations of her own. She left us for a short time and returned with four animal skin pouches filled with the gold coins Abu had minted as part of her dowry. She tied a sack to the waist beads my sisters and I wore, symbols of our womanhood.

It is time, Umi said, standing and looking first to Yasmina. I could see my sister struggled to keep a brave face. She most likely wanted to turn into a cat and hide in one of the large vases that lined the hallways of our home.

I watched in fear, anger and awe as Umi embraced her and began to dance. She whirled until her feet left the ground. The two spun into a shimmering cyclone. When Umi let Yasmina go, my sister turned into a burst of white light, then disappeared. Vaisha was next, then Laila. The order of our birth.

Are you frightened, Ra? she asked, stroking my cheek.

I was not. Anger gripped me. I wanted to stay and fight for my life. "Le, Umi," I said.

You know I must do this even though it breaks my heart. Her brown eyes brimmed with tears.

Your hand is forced, I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

Yes. Do not be angry with Abu. He acts out of fear. I felt her moving through my thoughts, trying to soften my anger.

Promise me you will release your anger, Umi pleaded. Anger weakens our light. It makes way for darkness and gives our enemies reign over us.

She held me in her arms and began to turn slowly. I buried my face in the crook of her neck and felt her tears drip onto my collarbone. Her scent of amber and rose, the softness of her locks against my cheek, the warmth of her body were stored in my ever-memory.

You must find your sisters, Ra, she whispered to me. "Gather them. Heal them if the folds of time have warped their minds. They are not as strong as you, but they are of the blood. They will survive. You have many, many gifts that will aid you, habibi."

And you, Umi? What will become of you?

She was silent, turning faster.

Umi? Please, tell me….

I will always be with you. Release your anger. Cultivate your power as it grows. You will always have what you need. Always.

Umi released me and I was flung into darkness.

CHAPTER ONE

A warm, gritty breeze blew in Duffel’s face as he sat crouched behind Ling’s Chinese Palace eating fried rice and egg rolls. Two white bags tied at the top awaited him today, courtesy of the busboy who had caught him dumpster diving months ago. The busboy told him he’d leave leftovers out when he could. The food was not completely cold, but Duffle picked all the shrimp out anyway. Even with the temperatures in the low 50s, seafood turned fast and Ling’s probably didn’t dish out for the freshest catch to begin with. Avoid seafood even it if still looks good had been one of his first literally gut-wrenching lessons in off-street dining.

The warm breeze blew again, harder this time, sucking the napkins from his lap. Duffle looked around for the source of the freakish wind. His grayish-blue eyes searched the alleyway and settled on a small wind devil that spun and shimmered with tiny white lights. While he watched, the wind devil expanded and grew to a height of eight feet making Duffle look up to see if he unwittingly squatted beneath a funnel cloud. The swirling lights merged into one and flashed brightly, making him blink. The warm breeze reversed, making his windbreaker flap, and out of thin air a girl stood in the spot where the light show had taken place. Duffle dropped his meal and jumped to his feet, ready to pull the nunchucks he always carried from his waistband.

She was about his age, which was 16, maybe younger. A petite 5’1, she wore pale green drop crotch pants that billowed around her legs and tapered at the ankles with an ornately embroidered tunic that fell below her knees. She pulled at part of a silk scarf wound around her neck and covered her sandy-brown hair, which hung below her shoulders in two thick braids. She wore one gold-beaded slipper. Her other foot was bare. She reminded him of something out of Arabian Nights. Several seconds passed before she noticed him. She startled as if he’d snuck up on her. She mumbled something that sounded like voodoo, but that didn’t scare him. Contrary to what most people thought, all voodoo wasn’t bad and this girl looked about as evil as SpongeBob. She did, however, look completely bewildered. Duffle knew exactly how that felt. And like the girl, he’d had only one shoe once, too: one wet, secondhand Air Jordan.

What is this place? She said this more like a command than a question. Her voice had a husky softness with a heavy accent. It reminded him of the Turkish man who owned the Kebab shop on 22nd Street. Duffle moved closer to get a better look at her. She had cat green eyes and skin the color of peanut butter, a straight, narrow nose over a modest top lip and plump bottom lip. If it weren’t for her accent, he would have pegged her as French Creole.

You’re in Seattle, Duffle said. Where did you come from?

She cocked her head as if she didn’t understand him. She ignored his question and demanded another of her own: What is the time?

You mean clock time or date time? Duffle said. From the way she’d dropped out of nowhere, dressed like she was, asking that question, Duffle wondered if he was dealing with a time traveler. It wasn’t so hard to believe. His great-grandmother always said time travelers existed, as well as lots of other unexplainable stuff most folks didn’t care to believe. But Duffle kept an open-mind. And he’d seen some things back in old New Orleans—the one before Katrina—that couldn’t rightly be explained. He’d also read lots of books on all kinds of topics, but sci-fi was what he liked to read most.

He eyed the girl and rubbed the back of his neck, a habit when he was confronted with something unexpected.

The girl must have been unfamiliar with the time increments he offered because she asked with less force: What terra is it?

Terra? I’m not familiar with those, but I can tell you it’s March 17, 2010.

March. 2-0-1-0? she said, furrowing her brow.

Yup. As in the 21st Century, Duffle said.

And who rules this land? she asked, sweeping her arms wide.

This could take a long time if we start there, Duffle said. What’s your name?

She hesitated, then, I am Rhutnya of the Eblan Empire.

Empire, huh? They kind of went out of style a few hundred decades ago unless you’re talking about space. Duffle flashed his eyes up toward the sky. Are you from planet Earth?

Earth. Yes, of course.

Duffle watched the girl look him up and down (or maybe she was sizing him up). She got a decided look on her face and said: I have gold. Help me and I will pay you.

You shouldn’t tell a complete stranger you have gold, Duffle said moving closer.

She backed away. If you harm me or try and take from me what is mine, I will call the jhinns down upon you!

Duffle knew enough about jhinns, or what folks back in New Orleans called daemons, to pray regularly that he never had to deal with one directly. His people had been Catholic, but he’d read the holy books of just about every religion that printed one and just about all of them warned against messing with daemons. Whether she looked harmless or not, he wasn’t taking any chances on a misunderstanding.

I mean you no harm. Promise to God, he said. If anything, I should be afraid of you seeing as how you just popped out of nowhere.

As I said, I am from Ebla.

Yeah, but you didn’t get here on a bus.

The girl looked at him and nodded slightly. Duffle could tell some things were getting lost in translation though they communicated well enough.

Why are you here? Duffle asked.

His question must have stirred up something unpleasant and for a second, Duffle wasn’t sure if she was going to scream or cry. Then she straightened her spine and got that decided look again. She also ignored his question. Again. I would like your help if you are able. And I will pay you.

Duffle studied her some more. She put on a good front, but she had to be scared not knowing where or even when she was. She’d be easy prey for some of the less scrupulous street-surfers, or worse, some dirty-minded adults. She could also be a big pain in his behind if she latched on to him. He’d learned in the last few years that it was best to roll solo. No attachments, no worries, no more losses.

But he couldn’t just leave her in the alley. She obviously had no place to go, knew nothing about where she was, and the fact that she was likely a time traveler was pretty freaking amazing. Maybe he could let her hang with him for a few days until she figured things out enough to make her own way. Plus, she sure was pretty, even with the uppity attitude.

The girl must have sensed his internal debate. She reached beneath her tunic and untied an animal skin sac that hung on a beaded chain around her waist. She pulled a coin from the sack and flipped it at him.

Duffle snatched the coin and turned it over and over in his hand. A man’s face was on one side, the veiled face of a woman on the other. The coin felt solid. This real?

Of course. My father is the wealthiest man in Ebla. He rules the land. She raised her chin as if to emphasize the point by looking down her nose at him.

Though he’d only made it to seventh grade before Katrina washed his life away, Duffle hadn’t let his learning stop. He pushed himself to know a little bit about everything and had recently gotten his GED. It had been a breeze. His Uncle Thomas had been the one to teach Duffle about coins. Uncle Thomas had inherited a collection from his father that included some solid silver coins from the 1800s. That collection had been his uncle’s pride and joy and he and Duffle had spent hours studying about the rare coins. They’d even gone to the museum once when an exhibit of ancient coins had come to New Orleans. But like everything else, the coins, and his uncle, had been lost in the storm.

I’ve never seen anything like this, he said, holding the coin up between his thumb and finger. I wouldn’t show nobody else those coins, if I were you. Unless they’re reputable. Like Sotheby’s reputable, Duffle said, flipping the coin back at her. Matter of fact, the faster you put them away the better.

You will not help me then? she said. She held the coin out before her, adding two more to her open palm. She flashed her eyes at him then to the coins and back at him.

I didn’t say that. But I don’t want your money and as soon as you get oriented, you’re on your own. I’m figuring you got no place to go, right?

I do not, Rhutnya said. But you must let me pay you. I can see that you are not wealthy.

Her words stung. Duffle took care that his appearance not let on that he was a street kid. That was a sure way to get the attention of predators or law enforcement or just the disdain of well-heeled folk. He didn’t look wealthy, but he also didn’t look like he needed a handout.

You aren’t doing much better than me, at the moment. Maybe you should get somebody else to help you, your highness. He turned to walk away.

Wait! Rhutnya ran up behind him and tugged on his jacket. I have offended you. I am sorry. Please do not leave.

Duffle was confounded. One minute he wanted to tell sparkly girl to get lost, the next minute he wanted to comfort her. Without saying anything, he took off one of his shoes and then the thick, gray sock that covered his foot. Put this on your bare foot.

Rhutnya looked at the hook-shaped cloth he was handing her. The way she looked it, she probably would not have known what to do with it if she had not seen him take it off. It was nothing like the satiny stocking that covered her other foot. She took it and slid it on.

You’re welcome, Duffle said and headed for the street.

***

Rhutnya followed the boy, grateful that her foot was no longer bare. The ground had been very cold. Her mother’s last words echoed within her: "You will always have what you need." There was no doubt that she needed the boy. It did not matter that he was a complete stranger. She had looked