Aravene

By Barry Barnett Keith

Aravene is the third novel (The Cycle- 2002, The Silence- 2009) chronicling the epic battle of Reverend Frank Carson against the insidious, seemingly indestructible force that is The Specter and the people who suffer in his wake of destruction. A love between two childhood friends is torn apart by drugs. A man scorned for his handicap attempts to reconnect with the family he has left. A young man stands on the outside of his own Christian community, confused and crying for help. Reverend Carson finds love in the midst of spiritual and physical famine, setting the stage for his deadliest, most profound encounter with The Specter yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477256633

Barry Barnett Keith

Barry Barnett Keith is a 1983 graduate of the University of Delaware, and is the author of The Waiter (2002) and The Cycle (2002).  He is a native of Alexandria, Virginia and resides in Accokeek, Maryland.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

For Elton Martene Keith

(1954-2010)

Order My Steps by The Mississippi Mass Choir

CHAPTER ONE

The reservation was and always had been an insignificant spot within a world worshipping money before prayer and it became an even smaller blight upon the plains as Frank Carson moved away from it, down the road leading to the city. He staggered within the sound of a freezing wind holding many voices of his past heritage as hostages. The starving, burnt umber plains were cut in half by an asphalt road cold to his bare feet; it was the road leading toward the illuminated, throbbing metropolis in the distance. Carson stood still and confused in the middle of the concrete pathway as water-leaden, ultramarine clouds passed overhead at a blazing, animated speed.

I must gather myself, Carson thought in an instant, closing his eyes and resisting the force of the wind in his face. "Where are my feelings? There is too much . . . . too much here for me to comprehend."

A sound, a buzzing—like a giant machine—became louder by the moment, but there was nothing within sight to indicate such a thing. What felt like metal gears turned within Carson’s mind, then all around, the sounds of flesh and bone being crushed to a pulp were accompanied by shrieks of pain from invisible victims. Children from the reservation died in secret day by day, invisible to the people, to parents and to congregations as pieces of agendas. The endless path of asphalt before Carson continued toward the distance while the hills and dead grass bore a gleaming tint of silver from rays of the cold sun peeking through a velvet curtain. In the distance, a little dark skinned girl appeared. She could not have been more than ten years old. She had long, thick, uncombed hair flapping in slow motion through the strong wind and her large brown eyes appeared sad, as if she had been crying. Her bare arms and legs bore many burn marks. She stood silent and dressed in a discolored white robe stopping right at her knees while the wind continued blowing all around her. Where she came from, Carson had no idea. He had never seen her anywhere on the reservation before. Carson closed his eyes and wiped them with a few fingers, shaking his head as if trying to wake from a dream. When he opened his eyes, the girl stood instantly closer, her sad eyes meeting his. Carson always knew if one is willing, the road can be a journey; an opportunity to learn and grow in spirit, even if one’s destination was the heartless, sin-filled city. The sun made its way through metallic clouds for a moment, yet the air grew even colder with every step Carson took toward the girl. She stood filthy, covered with sienna clay of the earth and dried blood. Her feet were bare and also covered with blood. At first, Carson believed she bled as a result of walking a great distance, or perhaps, even running. He got close enough to see how frozen tears had discolored her face and supposed them a result of something the girl held inside.

She then spoke without speaking. Reverend Carson, can you help me? she sighed. She spoke to his mind—her voice flowing as sweet nectar—as sweet a sound as Carson had ever heard. Her loving voice was also one indicative of a spirit beyond her years—a mature one already a witness to many things.

Why, of course I can, Carson replied aloud, taking another step and eagerly extending his hand, already captivated by the manner of the young stranger. Come here child! Come to me before you catch cold! As he stood before her with his arms extended, Carson noticed there were no footprints on the ground from any direction. No marks of blood straying from her bare feet, no shifting of the chilled dirt in either direction of her vicinity.

Tell me child, how do you know my name? Carson asked, suddenly becoming curious. Who is responsible for your bruises—who has hurt you in this way?

My mommy, she said coldly, again without speaking. Oh Reverend—I can hear your thoughts—I can feel your fear! You know as well as I your God does not intend for you to harbor fear! Please, do not be afraid of me!

Who are you child?! Carson asked, taken aback by her seeming clairvoyance and quickly retracting his hand. Answer me! Where are you from?!

The girl said nothing in reply to Carson, yet her eyes became fixed upon his. The wind then shifted toward Carson from the direction of the city, throwing beads of cold water from the sky and dry clay upon his face, mixing quickly to form mud upon him. At that, the aroma of the clay turned into an odor; one of something dying or already dead. That odor became a magnificent depth and breadth of exposed, rotting flesh and worms hovering about them both. The freezing, rotten stink was a prologue of death itself.

The girl’s entire face grew dark as coal and her eyes began burning like fire. Through the flying dirt and water, her skin, in an instant, burned, withered, cracked and flew away like thin paper, exposing smoldering, rotting sinews and bones underneath. Her voice, which before was so sweet, turned to gravel as she, in turn, extended her quickly decomposing hand.

Put your mind at ease now Reverend Carson, she whispered aloud.

November, 2060. Dawn on the black reservation outside Washington D.C.

Thick, cobalt colored tarp flapped loudly on Reverend Carson’s broken window, keeping at least part of the flying dirt out of his nose and mouth as he had tried to sleep through the night. The darkness of the night began to dissipate with the rising of the red orange sun and the increasing noise of the wind awakened Carson. He rose to find himself covered in a thin cocoon of frozen sweat, humidity and the infertile dust of the plains hanging in the air as the result of a lack of rain. Another nightmare. Carson was relieved to find himself surrounded by his bare, crumbling walls, save his tarnished, bronze cross hanging sideways by a thread and the same purpose of ministry for the reservation. Still groggy from sleep, he sighed silently, wiping the blinding dust from his face. Ignoring the light of the sun, Carson pulled his thick burlap blanket back over his head, clutching a smaller cross in his hand tighter as he lay back down. Immobilized for the moment with indecision, he was well aware of how his mortal foe—The Specter—was winning souls by the minute. How can I warn them? Lord, I am weary and feeling alone this day. My congregation is under siege, bereft with hunger—the very thing making these men think thoughts that are not their own. The youth—who are our very foundation—crumble before our eyes, completely unaware—unaware of the danger. Lord—help me combat this force! During dusk of every evening for as long as he could remember, Carson saw the dark silhouette of the evil being standing in the light of the candle near his broken window laughing, assured of victory and becoming stronger as Carson grieved for his fallen friends in silence. Each evening, caught between what was real and what he imagined, Carson fell into a state of sleep only as a result of fighting with himself to stay awake. Even as Carson closed his eyes, he saw the faceless, malevolent being standing over him as he slumbered, clutching his decaying hands with hatred and holding the blade of inequity to finally pierce Carson’s heart. Frank Carson—The Omega Man on a barren land—a simple black preacher born against a breed of black preachers who unwittingly brought about genocide of their own African American brothers with decades of self-indulgence, hubris and greed. Where they thought they were preaching the word of God, they were actually promoting wealth and riches and how material things were the true word anyone really believed in, which left their own communities bereft of true faith. The powerful, evil Specter looked upon Carson as a relic with a pure heart—a trinket from a time when faith among his people stood strong and places where darkness festered within their communities were few. Each night, instead of murdering him, The transcendent entity—visible only to Carson—spared him out of arrogance, believing there was no way one man would ever win against the machine of fear and loathing he had put in place to last for all eternity.

Your people follow so easily that which would destroy them, the thing uttered as worms crawled about its face. No more will I play this game with you—maggot! I choose to extinguish you now!

The Specter raised his decayed hand holding the blade to burn through Carson’s heart as he lay sleeping. The blade came down with a thrust.

Carson quickly awakened again in a coat of sweat, to find his abode the same, only brighter with the sunlight making its way boldly through the tarp over the window. Tired from his lack of sleep and relentless nightmares, he sat on the edge of his bed, mentally preparing himself to deliver God’s word in the city for acceptance or rejection—for whatever the day may bring.

Carson stood in front of his bathroom mirror, actually able to see his face slowly aging right before the glass. In his own face, he saw every place he had ever been in his life; the place in darkness and drugs where he had emerged from, to a rickety standing eight count as a result of grieving so many from the reservation who had passed away from the disease of the flood. He felt the weight of scores more over the plains and beyond who were soaked in transgressions, ready and willing to remain ignorant of the lurking evil standing ready to assassinate mankind by way of bloody overindulgence. Even after those dark years of his life, Carson still stood tall and strong. He was a man whose appearance belied his actual age, a man blessed with a strong heart. Carson knew he could never give up the battle for the lives left on the reservation, even if he wanted to. His task was to alert the people of how they were under the influence of The Specter—how he controlled their thoughts with fear and loathing, with low self esteem, with self destruction. It was now his duty—his mission as a carrier of God’s word—to fight The Specter and his intent to destroy all people—including the last black people left on the reservation in which he lived.

CHAPTER TWO

Standing in the graveyard at the top of the hill on the reservation that morning, Carson beheld what was left of the people as they walked on the roads beneath him in pairs, or in and around their homes. He listened to the silence enveloping him, save a light wind swaying the leaves of trees nearby. Some days on the plains, it looked as if a storm would come and bring rain with it to drench the countryside. Since the great flood before that nearly destroyed the reservation itself, the times rain came were few, with the already infertile ground having turned to dust. Watching those beneath him live out their lives, Carson remembered a place in his own life when he willingly walked hand in hand with The Specter. It was a place near death, of wanting and