Chapter Eleven
We find a little of everything in our memory; it is a kind of pharmacy or chemical laboratory in which chance guides our hand now to a calming drug and now to a dangerous poison.
—Marcel Proust, Maxims
In her dream, Afriqua Lee met the brown-eyed girl in a huge open field undulating with thousands of tiny blue flowers. Their fragrance made her think of death, but these days, so soon after her mother’s wake, all flowers made her think of death. The girl wore a pink robe, a vibrant pink that shimmered among the flowers. Her robe was stitched with a peculiar glyph and two plumed serpents, guardians of the holy martyr.
She must be a spirit from the underworld, Afriqua thought. All she could muster to answer the girl’s wave of greeting was a nod.
“You’re Afriqua Lee,” the girl said, and beamed a smile that seemed very happy to see her. A tray appeared in her hands and she placed it onto a low table that also appeared between them. The tray was gold, and the gold tabletop levitated, feather-light, a hand’s breadth above the flowers. A white tea set rested in the tray.
Afriqua Lee’s heart double-timed against the fabric of her nightgown. The idea of an angel of the holy martyr speaking to her, even in a dream, was a truly powerful thing. Even Old Cristina would not take it lightly.
“Yes,” she answered, “I am Afriqua Lee. And who are you?”
A comfortable breeze rippled the blue blossoms and fluttered the floppy sleeves of the girl’s pink robe. The serpents on the robe did not have feathers, but large, leathery wings that seemed to fly with the flutter of the fabric.
“Maryellen Thompkins,” the girl said, and plunked herself down among the flowers. “We’re having tea.”
“Tea?”
“Yes,” Maryellen said. “Do they have tea where you’re from?”
“Of course,” she said, and plopped down beside her. A cradle of sky-blue flowers caught her in their petals and held her while they leaned with the breeze. She studied this Maryellen Thompkins who was now pouring green tea into fragile white cups.
Maryellen had the same long, straight hair that Afriqua remembered her own mother having, except that Maryellen’s hair was brown and her mother’s was black, black as obsidian from that crater at Wind Mountain. Maryellen’s eyes glittered a deep brown, and kept Afriqua’s gaze without prying.
“Are you real?” she asked Maryellen.
“Yes,” Maryellen said. “I’m real. The tea is pretend, though.”
The thin cup tilted in her perfect hand, and Afriqua Lee sipped the green, aromatic brew. She felt her lungs hold that breath an extra beat to savor the freshness of the tea.
“It’s my favorite,” Maryellen said. “Do you have mint where you’re from?”
“Yes,” Afriqua said. “The familiyi drinks coffee. I do, too. But we get tea when we’re sick.”
“My mom gives me tea when I’m sick, too,” Maryellen said. “Tea and toast. That’s what I got this morning. I’m sick.”
Afriqua felt herself frown, and the chill of a cloud-shadow slithered her spine.
“My mother … the earthquake.…”
Maryellen’s eyes widened and she set down her cup.
“Did she die?”
Afriqua Lee nodded, then looked up, hopeful.
“Have you seen her? Have you seen my father?”
“No,” Maryellen said, “just you.”
“I thought … if you were from the underworld, maybe you’ve seen them.”
“The underworld? Where’s that?”
“It’s where you go after you die. Everybody knows that.”
“Well, I’m alive,” Maryellen said. “I’m still in the world. We call that place ‘Heaven.’ The underworld, that’s a bad place and we call that ‘Hell.’”
“Well, my mother wouldn’t be in the bad place. Do you dream of other people?”
“Not like this,” Maryellen said. “It’s more like I’m dreaming with you. Like I’m really with you but I know it’s a dream.”
Suddenly, the girl began to fade. They reached for one another, but it was too late. The girl, the pink robe, the tea set, were gone.
Afriqua Lee shuddered again. The shadow that played around her from the gathering cloud roiled, indistinct, across the blue meadow. Once she thought it formed the silhouette of a jaguar, then a butterfly. How strange that a sign so fortuitous would bring her such a chill.