Anansi Storytelling

Prologue

Ancient Forest, England, Below Ground, May 1, 1351, 12:06 a.m.

The brown oval hat slapped down on the roughhewn spiraling stairs, and the man it belonged to hurried on unbothered.

Hawthorne knew he was late, but he hoped his chance was not closed to him.

They had been entertaining the would-be Duke of Lancaster. The man was actually asking for Hawthorne to sign his name to a letter of recommendation to King Edward.

Ha!

He had excused himself from the dinner table and rushed out to meet his celestial deadline.

He and his robes flowed into the underground space. Hawthorne flailed his arms quickly to reveal them so he could work.

Three remarkable rooms made up the below-ground hovel. Clay pots and animal horn beakers covered the table in the Main room. Mixed in with the mundane artifacts were forest glass bottles; the cost of each one was twice the yearly salary of the glassmaker who made them.

Glass fulfilled one of the unique components of the Spell. He used the other two rooms for particular reasons. Hawthorne’s sleep room only held a bed. Sleep was essential to a sorcerer of his caliber. The next chamber was the Casting room. This room could fill with light through deliberately placed mirrors or made pitch black for the darker, more direct spells. The space smelled of sweat, smoke, and dirt.

On a typical day, old, melted candles and rust-colored runes adorned the walls of the magical room. The letters V-E-N-U-S were written on the floor at five different points around the room. However, tonight there were five hearths with five cauldrons. These cauldrons were special. Hawthorne rushed into the Casting room, checking the giant pots.

Each large pot had a unique spire in the middle of it. Hawthorne made each of the spikes of different minerals from the kingdoms represented. Egypt, and the From each kingdom, he brought a mineral and a blood offering for the Spell.

The Spell called for the crowns of the Five Kings of these places and five elements that could only be an allegory of other things. Fire that runs like water, water that stands like fire, air as stony as Earth and Earth as aethereal as air and the spirit to bind them all. Hawthorne traveled to these kingdoms in the dark continent. He stole heads from royal burial mounds; the elaborateness of the kingdom’s burial techniques surprised him. In Egypt, he used a sandstorm to cover his grave robbing, and with the sand caught in his clothes, he made the forest glass spike for one pot.

Hawthorne traveled to the Kingdom of Zimbabwe, and on one late-night raid, after he had wowed them with mirrors and beads, he stole the head of their recently deceased king. He shivered at the memory of the nights he spent in the bush hiding from the hunting parties. Only his magic had saved him.

Directly above was a fey mound. Hawthorne chose this place to make his secret hovel. He personally had seen none of the fey folk, but he believed in their magical rules and how to bend them. His country was in the midst of a terrible disease. People were dying by the thousands, and it affected even the royalty. But the fey. The fey would help, but not for free and not without direction. When the portal to the Otherworld opened, he would ask, no, he would demand they save the land they founded. In exchange, he would offer Africa. Let them suffer and die; they wouldn’t know where the destruction came from and could not enact retribution. Eventually, it would end, and they would carry on. History would never know Hawthorne cast the Spell. He threw off his over robe and waved his hand. All the candles erupted to life.

He found or created the four elements needed for the Spell.

Molten rock was a fire that flowed like water. He had to keep it hot; a great fire roared under one of the cauldrons. The blue-green flame of magnesium stood like a watery flame. The fine dust of the sandstorm was the Earth that was as aethereal as air. The miracle of glass was the air as stony as Earth.

He began chanting. He called upon the great gods, kings, and even queens of the Tuatha de Danann. Hawthorne implored Danu and Balor. Spit flew from his mouth as he screamed the incantation. The five cauldrons boiled violently. Sweat flew from his brow as he cavorted around his sacred circle of summoning. The spikes glowed with power and purpose.

The heads screamed in a high-pitched wail. The noise was terrific. Still, Hawthorne danced and chanted.

After 15 minutes of chaos, Hawthorne’s will tore the tiniest hole in the Veil of the In Between, and a great rumbling began. Streams of dirt flowed from the spaces in the stonework overhead. For the first time, Hawthorne had doubts about being underground. Still, he danced and chanted. After several moments the rumbling stopped and so did he. Hawthorne stood there breathing hard; he noticed he could see his own breath. Something dripped on his head, and he looked up.

The entire roof of the hovel was gone. Instead, a great liquid hung ominously. In the fluid, Hawthorne saw a blue-green globe turning in the transparent substance. The jewel appeared to be an impossible distance away.

He was so enthralled by the spectacle above him, and he nearly jumped into the unearthly liquid when a soft voice spoke from behind him.

“Wherefore has’t thee did summon Anu,” the melodic voice asked. Hawthorne screamed.

He turned to see a being of immense beauty. Anu’s skin was dark like the moonless sky but shone like polished gold.

Her hair was a galaxy surrounding her head. Stars twinkled playfully in the tight curls. She floated a foot above the ground. She was stark naked and without shame. Hawthorne fell to his knees and bowed his head. The shock of her appearance snatched the words from his throat.

The apparition sighed, “Hast the gib stolen thy tongue?”

“Nay, mine own goddess,” Hawthorne forced the words out, “I come to thee in terrible need.” Hawthorne was looking down at the ground in abject fear.

“Mine own goddess of supreme power, Anu, I pray yond thee taketh this lacking valor disease from us. In return, I giveth the lands of these kings and their people.” Hawthorne let the deity examine his offering.

A scream pierced the hovel and the ground shook. Anu’s toes dipped dangerously close to the ground.

“What has’t thee wrought!” The goddess demanded.

“Goddess, I wilt save mine own compatriots! What art these savages’ lives worth did compare to those in England?”

Anu peered into each cauldron. Her tears fell into the iron pots.

“I shall not doth what thee ask,” she turned to him. Her golden eyes flared.

“Thee shalt.” He responded, standing to his feet. His new courage fueled by old desperation.

“I command thee by the All-Father and by the Crowns of the Five Kings, thou shalt change the object of this illness from England to Alkebulan.” Then almost begging, “those gents art, not men those gents shall not understand death is upon them.

“Do not force mine own hand,” Anu warned.

“Thee wilt, mine own goddess! Real men art dying!”

“Thee shall kill real men if ’t be true thee complete this Spell.

“DO IT!” Hawthorne screamed and clapped his hands together. A spark flashed, and the air above them ignited with a green flame. Anu screamed in protest!

A deep clang resounded in the chamber, and the roof changed again. Anu and Hawthorne looked and saw the liquid matter was pushed aside.

“T’is happening!” Hawthorne whispered. The view wormed its way through strangely thick air. Soon colossal oceans hovered over a giant, frosted planet.

The view resolved into the water and into a similar hovel made of coral. Hawthorne and Anu gazed into the faces of their doppelgangers.

Hawthorne tore his eyes away from the insanity.

“I command thee, Anu! I command thee by the All-Father and by the Crowns of these Five

Kings, thou shalt change the object of this illness from England to Alkebulan.”

A golden tear traced a delicate trail of sorrow down Anu’s cheek.

Hawthorne looked again and saw two beings through the portal. He nearly screamed when he saw them. They were vaguely humanoid shape, and their eyes were on either side of a fish thin skull which was split by a vertical mouth full of sharp gnashing teeth. Oddly though, they were dressed identically to him and Anu. The twins on the other Earth cast the Spell simultaneously. Their buzzing voices argued in similar fashion.

The Magicks resonated with a flash of energy and crimson light. The skulls in the cauldrons exploded one after the other. The spikes holding them up vaporized inexplicably. The giant kettles exploded, sending shards of metal careening in random directions. The window to another world slammed closed. After all the chaos, on the ground lay a strange clear stone. It was heavy and small particles hung in the confines of the Element.

“Tis done,” Anu sighed heavily, “but twisted. Thee all but did fail but know this, Hawthorne, the Spell shall not last,” Anu added the caveat Hoping the Plan would still come to fruition. This descendant forced her hand. That violation was there in the D.N.A. of the Spell, and it would express itself ubiquitously over the centuries.

It shattered her heart! However, it repaired itself in the fires of her enduring Anger. That, too, was baked into Gaia’s Plan.

Weak, wet laugther pulled her from her godly reverie. She found Hawthorne lying with a large wedge of a cauldron buried in his body. Blood pooled impotently in the curve of the metal and made little crimson waterfalls to the floor.

“I hath left instructions to mine own son he shall find this lodging and continue mine own work,” he coughed.

“Thy ingredients wast incorrect, didst thee not hear mine own warning, thee mewling mortal?” Anu’s divine presence returned as Hawthorne’s life poured out.

She advanced on him, “Thee did fail! This sickness shall ravage thy precious England! However, no matter how unknowingly done, yond sacrifice shall beest enow to twist thy Spell into a semblance of success. Thy people shall prosper after this calamity at the cost and the toil of Alkebulan. A day will come when the Spell will wear thin.”

“When? When is this Thinning?” Hawthorne demanded.

“You are dying, descendant; I can resist you,” Anu mocked. Her golden eyes burned with Anger.

A white-hot burning flashed on her face, and excruciating pain beat through her body.

“Tell me!” Hawthorne commanded. With his red left hand, he scrawled a command rune on the ground.

A dying man’s blood has much power, and it forced Anu to give up something. The Truth.

“We have a need for ice today, we have a need for equality, and we have a need for freedom.

These are natural needs and natural rights we have been denied. So, when you have that need; the longer you are deprived the fulfilment of that need, the greater the child born to you to satisfy that need.” -Louis Farrakhan

BOOK 2

Book of Peret

Part 1

Chapter 1

Harvard University, Boston, Massachusetts, March 7, Present Day 9:00 a.m. EST.

Allen Berg stood in front of the room full of college undergraduates. He was in his element talking about his family history and how it pertained to the world. Better known as a leader in the tech spheres of the Globe, he had agreed to speak to the AP history students about his family as a favor to a friend AND to introduce his new holo-projector device.

Berg was six-foot-one inch and in great shape; he wore a well-fitting Tom Ford sport coat over a cheap-looking ivory t-shirt and expensive jeans. His jacket matched his dark brown hair, which looked wind tossed. Berg’s wintery blue eyes blazed in contrast to his dark locks. The story of his ancestor was still fresh on his full lips. A young blonde woman in the exact middle of the class raised her hand, Berg pointed to her.

“Yes,” he said kindly.

“Mr. Berg,”

“Call me Allen,” he interjected. She laughed nervously.

“Uh Allen, why did Anu say the Spell failed. And why were the ingredients wrong?” she shook her golden locks in disgust.

“Well, what was your name?”

“Oh,” the blonde woman tittered, “Marci.”

“Well, Marci,” Berg nodded respectfully to Marci, “according to the scrolls and legends my ancestor studied, the Spell called for five crowns, and Hawthorne interpreted them as the crown of the skull. It was simply a mistranslation,” Slides of yellowed fragments of bone with small runes carved into the concave side appeared on the screen perched in the corner of the room.

“These are fragments of a skull excavated from the site. I believe Hawthorne tried to reinforce the skulls as reagents. Unfortunately, his entire premise was wrong; Hawthorne read the word wrong. The word was literally a crown. There were Five Kings or Ghana, and some of these kings were believed to have an Element from another universe,” Berg paused and chuckled. The class nervously mirrored him.

“There were five Elements: fire that runs like water, water that stands like fire, air as stony as earth and earth as aethereal as air and the spirit to bind them all.” Berg’s eyes became distant.

Another hand shot up near the front, and Berg pointed at them quickly. The person stood and came to the microphone. They were a Black nonbinary young adult.

“Uh, hi Allen, my name is Quinn and,”

“Uh, Quinn, you can call me Mr. Berg,” Berg laughed, the crowd did not, “I’m kidding. Go ahead.” A ruffle of laugther moved through the classroom.

“My pronouns are they and them. My question is, why did Anu call Hawthorne a descendant? Was she implying he and by extension you, descended from gods?” There was an antagonistic tone in their shaking voice.

Berg chuckled.

“No, we believe it to be a disrespectful term, more like child, kid, or boy.” Berg nodded solemnly.

Quinn stood at the mic with a slightly perplexed facial expression.

“Uh, so you don’t consider yourself a god?” The accusation was suddenly apparent, and the energy in the room changed on a dime.

“Quinn, I do not think I am a god.” Berg stated, “I do, however, believe I am capable of godly attitudes. I can be benevolent and merciful.” Berg appeared to forget to mention the gods could be cruel and capricious, as well. “Often in our human history, we worshiped animals because of their obvious strength and natural weapon advantages. We even associated prominent men in history with animals like lions and bears, even dragons. Do we ask them if they believed they were actually a dragon or the like? No, we don’t. We understand they are saying they exemplify some trait of the animal as they understood the animal. I am skipping the middleman. I am not a god, but I want to express myself in a godly manner. Do I believe I am a god? No, but I do,” Berg emphasized the ‘do,’ “believe I can be graceful and loving toward my fellow man.” Berg finished talking and stared at Quinn. To their credit, Quinn stared back.

Someone in the back of the hall coughed-laughed. Another hand shot up.

“Yes,” Berg gestured to the young brown-haired man. Quinn looked relieved and hurried away from the microphone.

“Mr. Allen Berg,” a soft chuckle moved through the audience, “Sir, what did Anu give up?” he gave a slight bow and scurried back to his seat.

“Good question,” Berg replied. He took a breath to speak when the door opened from the hall, and eone turned to look at the latecomer. She was a tall- easily 5’9”- dark-skinned woman with her considerable amount of hair pulled into a natural curly pomp situated high on the back of her head. Her makeup was immaculate, and she sported big, round, pink glasses. She wore tight jeans and a small pink half-T-shirt under a long black hooded angora sweater with a red kente pattern on the edges. On her feet were black and white Chucks.

We all watched as she wound her way to a seat and settled gracefully into it.

The trim on the sweater was a pleasant touch. The attention turned back to Berg. He nodded to the young lady but did not comment about her tardiness. That was Neswt. Her name is pronounced “Nes/oo/t.”

“As I was saying, the thing Anu gave Hawthorne was a prophecy. When his son found his body the next day, Hawthorne wrote the prophecy down and was clutching it in his dead hand.” Berg took an overly dramatic pause. The entire classroom filled with anticipation in the small moment.

“The note said ‘At which hour Aset’s Sw’rd and Buckler appear the Spell shall fail and wilt be’est done correctly ‘r ‘twill fail forever. Translated into regular modern English, the Spell will fail forever when Aset’s Sword and Shield appear. The sword and shield reference could mean anything of anyone. Besides, the Black Plague continued for another two years, and sla didn’t get going until the late 1500s, over 200 years later.” Berg took a sip of water.

[Wow, that is a accurate prophecy,] Neswt said in my mind.

[Yeah, it is. Do you think the ‘Spell’ is real?] I returned, [Nice entrance, by the way.]

[Thanks, did you get to plant the device Noemi gave you? And yes, the ‘Spell’ may be real] Neswt’s response did not make me feel good. The device was a group of nanoparticles that looked like dust. All I had to do was dump some on the desk he was using, and they would find their way into or onto his person. I blinked in after the cleaning crew came in, before class started, and sprinkled the device on the table.

Berg continued.

“I mean, was the Spell successful? No, not the plague never hit the African continent significantly, and it is virtually beyond argument that the plight of the African is mostly the fault of their corrupt and inept leadership.” The class had a minor eruption of protests. Allen Berg laughed.

I stood up to my full six-foot five-inch height; I carried my 225 pounds well, and I hoped I intimidated the shit out of Berg. I was sitting on the end of a row opposite of the door Neswt made her grand entrance. I sauntered down the steps to the front of the class. I was wearing a suit called a CRAS-9, given to me by the preeminent fashion designer of our time Bamidele; he also happened to have abilities. My outfit’s hood was up, and I wore a black mask over my nose and mouth.

[What are you doing, Scipio?] Neswt whispered in my mind. I did not answer because I was so focused on this dirtbag.

I reached the front of the class, which at this moment was silent as a white church.

“Can I help you?” Berg asked without an ounce of nervousness.

“Yes, you can retract your last statement,” I said, sitting on the desk.

“You mean the one where I said African leadership is corrupt and inept?”

“Yes, that exact one.” I examined the man before me. Something was wrong.

“I don’t think I will. I don’t respond to cowards hiding behind masks or hoods.” Berg waved his hand nonchalantly. I felt no kinetic movement from him. My heart sank.

[He’s not here. It’s a hologram.]

[What are you going to do?] Neswt asked.

[Use my privilege.] I turned to the class and spoke.

“This man is downplaying Europe and the West’s role in the exploitation of Africa,” I walked through his image, “he is not even here.” The students grumbled in confusion. There was no emitter or reflectors in the classroom. If there were, they would have been obvious. Holo-reflectors were big in virtual teaching. They were small silver globes placed high in the corners of a room and the midway points between to reflect as necessary images from the emitter. Usually, the emitter was placed in the center of the room on a rail or cable. Tiny moveable projectors shone an image to all the reflectors. The emitters looked like spiders on a single thread, moving back and forth along the room’s long axis. The whole holo-system produced a 3D image anywhere in the room.

Today, however, this seminar was in an old classroom with no emitter or reflectors. I stole Berg’s thunder by revealing he had an alternative way of producing holograms. On the desk was a small half dollar sized disk. Half of it was lit up and projecting Berg’s image to the room.

“Your boy here absolves the West of their complicity in the outright manipulation and rape of the African continent and her people. He is still doing it for the Globals you have to have. Don’t praise or lookup to ….”

“Shut up, HOMEBOY!” Someone from the audience yelled.

“Why are you hiding your face?” Someone else shouted.

I raised my hands in mock surrender.

“You’re right. I should let the man himself tell it.” I placed a small domed device over Berg’s projector.

A projection appeared on the wall behind Berg’s hologram.

“People are addicted to these things,” Berg held up a small rectangular device, eone knew to be a Global hub, “I make them for next to nothing and the labor to mine the material all but slave labor. And the leaders of the countries want us there.” In the projection, Allen Berg laughed and so did the small room filled with investors.

“We pay these ‘leaders’ a pittance when compared to the amount of money we make.”

I walked away. I was sure this would be on the news within hours. Unless Sotir fixed it. There was more to the video, but I had already seen it.

I waited outside of the classroom, and I could hear the chaos erupting inside. The day was bright and hopeful. Neswt appeared next to me in her long angora sweater. We removed the shoe alteration from our suits and walked barefoot for a while. The Earth and the sun completing a sacred circle in our bodies.

“You know you cannot follow Berg around and harass him like this. The Zumaridi Council will find out like they always do, and they will try to chastise you.” said Neswt.

“I know, but what can they do? They can’t hold me anywhere,” it felt like Neswt was trying to step on my joy.

“Scipio, you are the only one that can control you. They are waiting for you to learn that.”

“You know, Neswt, I have been doing what eone wants me to do my entire life. I lived in fear of the police and any other white person who wanted me dead. I don’t have to do that anymore. Now I can go anywhere I want, and no one can stop me. They don’t know who I am and definitely cannot find me. What is the harm in making this guy uncomfortable?”

“You have a responsibility. Do you know why we call white people descendants?” Neswt asked? “Yeah, they descended from Africans; I had the dreams too.” I was getting annoyed.

“That is the obvious reason, but the real reason is that we are the Ancestors. We have the wisdom to do the right thing. We do not want to take over the world like they do. We want to determine our own path with or without them.” Neswt stopped walking; I could hear the Campus police getting closer.

“That sounds racist; Neswt I didn’t sign up to hate or belittle people for something they did not choose. If you are saying that is what the Resistance is about, then I should leave now.” I knew full well what she meant. It had nothing to do with superiority but self-determination. I was pissed because Berg was once again spewing lies to people that thought they could trust what he says. I tried to control my emotions, but my heart was racing, and Berg’s words reverberated in my mind.

“It is virtually beyond argument that the plight of the African is mostly the fault of their corrupt and inept leadership.”

Anger boiled in me. I was about to blink back to the Alpha Community when cold handcuffs locked on my right wrist. I turned and looked at the cop.

“Today is not the day, sir,” I stated calmly.

“The hell it is you are going in for trespassing, you and your little bitch.”

I turned to face him and broke his arm below the elbow by swinging my free arm under his extended one. The simple man stumbled back, screaming, “My arm, my arm!”

“Shut up!” I backhanded him, and he launched away. I did not see where he landed.

[Scipio, stop this!] I turned to say something to Neswt when the gunshots started. Between my damage nullification field, my natural regeneration, and Bamidele’s miraculous clothes, guns no longer had any effect on me. I turned to the officer; four more shots slammed into me, but the bullets fell to the ground. I blinked to stand inches from his face. He was shorter than me, and his dark brown skin turned gray when I appeared before him.

“I could kill you right now, and I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep. However, today is your lucky day.”

Neswt and I blinked away. I left the cuffs behind.