Indigo Reign

By Sharia Kharif

What good is a king whose tongue does not know the flavor of truth? What good are promises unkept and wishes wasted on pleas for the impossible? How do you choose when your heart blindly leads the way? Perhaps, the only way to see your future is by looking at your past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781678115029

Book preview

Kharif

Legalities…

Copyright © 2020 by Sharia Kharif

ISBN: 978-1-67811-502-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020902853

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental except in specific scenes that were written with the participants’ knowledge and consent.

Published by Sharia Kharif in Nashville, Tennessee

Cover Design and Illustrations by SugaBlues LLC

www.indigoreign.com

www.lulu.com/shariak

Also by Sharia Kharif

Tears in the Wind

Coon Tails

Tomorrow’s Sun

Tears in the Wind revised edition

When Justice Come A-Callin’ (formerly Coon Tails)

Audio Featuring Sharia Kharif

Live From Kijiji: The Open Mic Sessions

Poetic Vol. II by Kobalt Books

Anthologies

The Univer-Soul Language Vol. I by Cedric Mixon

The Art of Educating with V Diagrams by D. Bob Gowin, Marino C. Alvarez

For You

For all who read my words and allowed my voice to sing across your minds

Mindala e nadalo

…and for Mom who reads it even though I cuss a bit

Chapter 1 Searching

Floating blue fields and golden trees.  Hard-packed clay and love.  That’s what he gave her.  Promised his heart and convinced her to surrender her hand.  Another warrior.  With blade strapped to back and braid coiled around his hips, he had promised her a lifetime of love, and that’s all she had been searching for.  And they escaped, ran into the night with lions at their backs and disappeared beneath the trees.  They would miss them as one always missed royalty.

Baba had warned her.  Told her she’d be on her own if she chose the warrior and had forbidden her when it became obvious that it was exactly what she would do.  Mama had sat quietly flinching against her husband’s rage, knowing the child needed to follow love, as it was something she would never feel in this home.  Not as long as he ruled it.  Here she would be revered and referred to, avoided.  She had to leave.  And she heard her plea.  Bowed to the aging king’s will, then disappeared beneath the stars.

They named her River so she would remember.  Carry the souls of her ancestors with her and live as the Maroons and Creek.  Embrace the ferocity of the Massai and kings of Dahomey. At birth she had been sprinkled with herbs and lifted toward the moon, paraded beneath the sun amongst chanted blessings.  She was revered as a warrior from their past.  Hailed and respected draped in kente and admired from afar lest some unknowing soul muddle her aura with his own.  She’d learned early to stand alone to sit alone on embroidered pillows while others tiptoed around her afraid of unleashing a wrath unseen since Shango’s tears rocked boats across the Middle Passage.

They named her River.  Left her to her own devices sure that she would find her way and they were right.  The moment her studies become mundane, River found herself wandering off to speak to the trees.  Dainty feet carrying her across cool tile onto clay paths that led to freedom.  No one looked for her there.  It was where she should be.  Surrounded on all sides by those who had survived the razing.  Cypress and elm lining the compound reaching branches thick like laborers’ legs to mingle amongst the clouds to stretch their leafy palms toward the heavens and give thanks for their lives.

It was there that she learned who she was.  What she was.  There that her training fell short.  She was and would always be a warrior standing still when others were allowed to run.  Lying in wait for the dangers that stalked her people. 

They named her River knowing that she would one day run.  Escape to a place where no one knew what she was.  Who she was.  Where her deep brown skin could melt into the crowds.  She would run.  Pack away her machete and staff and carry with her only the memories of what she had learned.  Strands of blue beads replaced with white as she began anew.  Looped around her neck leaving her hips bare for the first time since her birth. 

They named her River knowing she would run.  Clove sprinkled feet so she treads sweetly through eternity.  Wooden beads carved and collected in woven bag then tied to locs for safekeeping.  They named her River and she ran.

She ran.

Trees gave way to brush, as bare feet stumbled over rock, tearing through wounds that had only just begun to heal.  Two days into her journey, and River was already beginning to forget.  Ancient teachings hitched onto ragged breaths and seeped from her mind, leaving her vulnerable to the others’ truth. 

If only the ocean were closer, she could ride its waves far from this prison and remember what it was to be loved.  If only the ocean were closer…if the endless brush would reveal sand…  But the others were coming.  Near, tracking her scent like wildcats after the drought.  She could not turn back.  Not now that he was calling.  Not now.  If only the ocean were closer. 

Small hands grasped branches that dug at her flesh and tore at her shroud…she was weakening.  River coughed and bit back the cry that threatened to rip from her chest.  There was little blood.  Crimson droplets sprinkling her lower lip.  Ragged breaths snagging her lungs, and she knew it would soon be time.  If only the ocean were closer. 

If only the ocean were closer, she could dip in its warmth and heal the night’s wounds.  Restore the memories she had lost along the way, and soothe the ache in her heart.  The others needed her, but only his voice washed over her, now.  Only his voice.  Something small pricked her cheek, and she knew that it would die, as would she if she did not soon reach the water’s edge. 

The teachings would die.  Without them, her people would cease to exist; but she had no choice but to follow the voice that beckoned on the wind.  Soon.  Soon, he said, soon.  But the others were near.  Closer than they would be, had she not given in to the night.  Closer than they should be.  Soon.  He said, soon.  And she believed. 

She had forsaken her people, left them to a fate they did not understand…and for what?  To die alone in the brush?  Feet tangled in weeds, with the others riding her back?  For what?  For love?  Or truth?  Had to break free, reach the place where time began.  Surely, he would meet her there. He wouldn’t leave her to die, would he?  Soon, he said, soon.  If only the ocean were closer. 

Booted feet thundered in the thicket, trampling her footsteps in their haste.  And she stumbled, cried out as rock tore at her flesh inviting the parasites that hovered nearby.  Thunder silenced.  They had heard.  Picked up her scent and the sharpness of blood. It was too late.  She would never reach it in time, and he would leave without her.  Small withering hands grasped at the branches she no longer wished to push through.  Praying for a burst of strength that would carry her the rest of the way, River rose to her feet.  Thorns and rubble pricked at her soles, and she waited.

Forgot her struggle to escape the reverence of the others and be who and what she was without obligation.  It was too late.  Thunder resumed.  Slower now that there was no longer need to rush.  The girl would surrender as she had been warned so many times before.  She would surrender, remain with the others as had been foreseen. 

There was no rush. 

River lay feeding the beasts.  Their hum deafened the footsteps and voice urging her to try.  Try, try, he chanted somewhere in the distance, flooded her mind with hope and possibility.  His voice numbed the pain, and River reached.  She forgot the ache in her heart when remembering him, and raised bruised arms toward the image imprinted on her mind.  She forgot all that she had seen and heard and reached. 

She wanted to enclose the vision in her palms and hold him close.  He had promised her love and change, yet nothing had changed.  She would be returned to the temple where her absence would be mourned.  The others would revere, step aside in fear, and whisper of her escape.  She would require guards now.  Another cough racked her lungs, and she knew.  It was time.  Everything had changed.  Everything.  Pain seeped behind her eyes, as golden sun dropped behind the trees.  It was too late.  The others would not reach her in time.  Thin arms fell heavy amongst scattered leaves. 

If only the ocean were closer.

Chapter 2

Look, you gon talk to me or keep ripping that napkin into confetti? Sittin’ there like some kinda wanna-be queen ignoring me like you thinkin’ you better than me.

Nawe didn’t look up to confirm whether or not hand was on hip, neck was bouncing, or claw was aimed in her direction.  It was in the voice, all eye roll and attitude, so she wordlessly swept the snowy pile into her palm and took a deep breath before pushing out of the wobbly metal chair.  The woman had followed her inside the room and stood against the silence glaring for the last five or so minutes as Nawe pretended she didn’t exist.  Not that it worked.  Not that it mattered. The guilty always speak.  Thankfully, it was only a few short steps to the overflowing trashcan and a few more to the time-scarred door nearly blocked by a vending machine that dispensed a variety of drinks, none of which were displayed on its buttons.  The urge to plant quaking fists against painted lips was too strong to ignore for much longer. 

I need to get back to class. Nawe’s break was far from over, but Jennifer wasn’t going to steal any more of her time.  After years away from Ms. Landon and the rest of her people, it would be just her luck that the new volunteer assigned to her floor was the same bitter heifer she had vowed to avoid.  Ahh, but what’s luck?  The universe had a way of shaking things up at the exact moment they were beginning to settle.  Like one of those souvenir snow globes they sold downtown with Printer’s Alley, Shelby Street Pedestrian Bridge, and Batman building nestled together under blue glitter Nashville snow. Just keep walking.  She doesn’t deserve anything from you.  Don’t look back; you’ve come too far.  Eyes closed. Mouth closed. Just say no.  No, don’t even say that.  Just keep it moving.

True enough, maybe she should have noticed that the halls of Edencrest Middle were unusually silent.  Yes, seventh grade was still in the cafeteria for last brunch, but no one else was running through the halls.  No lockers slammed, no giggles erupted from the bathrooms, only a dull roar slithering from the gym and slight buzz of overhead lights reminding Nawe to ask Sam and Mustafa to check the wiring down at the new Center. Some of the lamps had been flickering at odd times, and she’d rather not have to deal with an electrical fire on top of everything else.  Not now.  I mean, not ever, but especially not now.  Not with Jennifer back. 

And maybe if she hadn’t been listening to the lights and counting her heartbeat in a half-hearted attempt to forget the past she’d have heard the shushing of house shoes on linoleum or sensed the woman’s proximity long before golden glitter-tipped talons latched onto her locs and high-pitched voice screeched, Don’t you turn your back on me again!  Maybe.

Maybe, if it hadn’t been the end of the day at the end of the week at the end of a trying semester wrangling more than a hundred moody preteens into grasping the newest standards without proper materials, resources, or motivation…maybe.  Maybe, Nawe wouldn’t have been distracted enough to allow the older woman to get that close.  Maybe, if she hadn’t dreamed of rats and chains and laughing skulls she wouldn’t have been preparing for something more painful.  She would have seen the sign as it was and known that her surprise visitor would be a link in that chain.  As it was, Nawe Salaam had been lost for a moment, but not lost enough to forget that she was at work, two and a half hours from Winter Break if Sam showed up in time, and two rooms removed from a sea of children who would rain waves of pain on the pajama-clad woman with the crooked red wig if allowed to witness this exchange.

Funny thing about teenagers, they hate and love at the same time.  Rioting hormones made Mama S their least favorite adult because of her consistency and tendency to call them on their mess…and their favorite adult for remaining consistent with her tendency to call them on their mess.  It doesn’t have to make sense.  Add to that the unfortunate truth that many of these babies saw her more than they saw their own parents, many of whom were laborers by both day and night, and some strange woman with an attitude was first following her down the hall, then caging her in a small room like they were about to go thirty?  Nah.  Not today.

But Nawe was distracted and angry and stressed and had dreamed of rats and chains and laughing skulls, so she allowed herself to be pulled back into the tiny conference room, allowed herself to be sequestered behind its heavy steel door.  The space had last been a private office, so proudly bore a thick deadbolt and windows large enough to let in light but old enough to be too high up the wall to be of any use to anyone trying to see inside.  It was the perfect hiding spot, perhaps twelve feet across without the array of wooden tables with their broken corners, teetering legs and decommissioned student chairs with crumbling blackened tennis balls for feet that had been crammed into the space to foster community during weekly meetings.  Not that it worked.  Not that it mattered. 

On a good day, the room smelled more like lunch than the repurposed storage closet it likely used to be before the last nameplate was hung.  On a good day, the spot could be called cozy, even tranquil with its stone walls and golden light or welcoming to an overwhelmed educator with thirty minutes to eat lunch, grade a few tests, and avoid calling the overbearing parent who seemed to only care about his or her child’s misbehavior now that the semester was ending.  Request then cancel meetings every other week, then wonder why your kid is inconsistent. On a good day, enough light flooded the room to help everyone forget. 

Today was not a good day, and considering the layout and this exhausted teacher’s current disposition, Jennifer quickly found herself splayed across the nearest table cowering from a suddenly sinister smile, her fleece-lined back flat between someone’s forgotten coffee mug and what looked to be the remains of a cafeteria salad.  Thin plastic smeared with oily liquid and specks of wilted greens, small black cup of what may have been grapes, ground beef, or peaches…too hard to tell…tipped on its side leaking thick juices into the mix. 

Let go.  Nawe slid milky grey gaze toward the golden intruders and smiled wider. Maybe it was the light or the smile or the small palm pressed against her throat, but Jennifer swore she saw at least one long brown rope slide from its perch in Nawe’s bun and wrap itself around the arm that still clutched several of its sisters.  Let go.  I’d love nothing more than to break the fingers you foolishly placed on my body.  I’d love nothing more than to squeeze the life from your putrid shell, but you’re not worth the energy it would take to curse you, and I don’t need that kind of karma.  Let.  Go.

Nawe’s voice deepened with rage, and she forced her fingers to stop clenching as those of her nemesis relaxed.  Good.  Now, let’s get something straight.  I don’t owe you anything, and if you ever again feel foolish enough to reach for me, you better be ready for what you get.  Chester lied.  She stepped back in knee-high navy boots, just far enough to give the ample woman room to sit upright.  And fix your wig.  When you show up here, at least have the decency to get dressed first. Keisha and DeShaun don’t need the embarrassment.  I need to get back to class, and you should know better than anyone how to let yourself out.  Stupid.

Without looking back to see if Ms. Landon was preparing again to strike, Nawe flung open the conference room door and began her trek back down the long hallway.  When did I get so used to chaos that I could jump right back in the boiling pot and not even feel the heat?  I need a break. Delicate heels beat steady footsteps into the waxed linoleum as loose ropes were again tucked back into place.  Now, I’ll have to wash my hair. It had already been a long day, as was every day since she’d handed over responsibility of Dreams Deferred, the old Center, to her brothers and best friend.  A quick glance at the wall clock boasted six minutes until her classroom was again full of energetic preteens.  Plenty of time.

Hey, Salaam!  Ugh.  Now what?

You got a minute?  Another quick