Malachi and I

  I was holding her hand. I was holding her hand and yet I felt nothing. When she let go I felt nothing. I’d felt something when I touched the book…

  “The book…its Esther’s?”

  “Sophocles’ Antigone?” She looked down at it. “Yeah. I’m working on an MFA for Creative Writing and my thesis is on it and Esther’s edition is the only one with the footnotes of—wait…why are you asking—? Shit, I’m late! I have to go! Nice meeting you again!”

  When she spun around she grabbed her bag and left without looking back and I felt as if the ground under my feet was breaking apart. The more I stared at her retreating form as it disappeared into the crowd, the harder my heart began to pound. But that was nothing in comparison to the rush of memories that flooded my mind. Not of decades or hundreds of years past but simply a few months ago, and in my mind, I heard her voice clearly.

  “Esther Noëlle, Translation Editor at Penohxi Publishing House, retiring klutz, persona non-grata of Lieber Falls, and creator of Lord Nation online, I’m your biggest fan.” That was the first time we’d been introduced and that was what had triggered my memories, not the rings.

  “Malachi, this is amazing! I feel like…I like…I’m riding a horse!—” I rode my motorcycle for that exact reason. It felt like I was riding the fastest horse of all time.

  “You have a long lost love? Is that why your books end tragically? For some reason it didn’t work out and so now your characters can never be happy either? Is this why this new book is so hard for you to write?” She knew the answer exactly and yet didn’t realize how.

  “I knew Grandpa would send you. Hi, Malachi, sorry I’m so late…” And the first time she met me, the night under the moonlight, just when she got close to me she’d fainted in my arms. She hadn’t fainted again since…it wasn’t out of exhaustion…that dazed look in her eyes, the way she looked as if she were looking right through me…it was how I was when the memories started to come back to me.

  “Your love, your life has inspired millions—no billions—of people to love foolishly…selfishly…unreasonably, with no regard for anyone or anything else.”

  “It was her…” I said so softly I wasn’t even sure if the words came from my lips… “It was her.” I broke out laughing. It was impossible and yet… Sophocles had fallen at my feet twice. Warning me twice.

  He didn’t just write Antigone…but he also wrote Oedipus Rex…and like him, I’m trying to avoid my fate I had created it.

  RUN.

  It was the only thing I could do, I picked up my things and made it only a few feet before I remembered the old man. But when I looked back he was no longer there…neither was his carry on.

  Where in the…?

  Beep. Beep. “Excuse us.” A woman called up ahead from one of the carts. And there he was, sitting facing me, his nose in my book as he held on to his cane…his cane that looked like…like Alfred’s.

  Like the one he’d been holding in my dream…What am I thinking? It’s not possible.

  And yet the old man who was dressed in flannel with a large bald spot in the center of his head looked up at me and the corner of his lip turned up.

  “No.” I took a step forward but the sea of people quickly closed the gap the cart had created and just like that they were gone in the bustle of the airport and I was sure I was going insane. Part of me wanted to go to the gate just to make sure I hadn’t lost my sanity…instead I turned away and ran in the opposite direction as the screens above showed a picture of John F. Kennedy. His words appeared on every screen and his voice rang out in my ear as I ran.

  “In whatever arena of life one may meet the challenge of courage, whatever may be the sacrifices he faces if he follows his conscience—the loss of his friends, his fortune, his contentment, even the esteem of his fellow men—each man must decide for himself the course he will follow. The stories of past courage can define that ingredient—they can teach, they can offer hope, they provide inspiration. But they cannot supply courage itself. For this each man must look into his own soul. - John F Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States… Thank you for choosing JFK International Airport. Tell us your destination…there is no place we can’t get you.”

  Her.

  It had always been her.

  It was the only place I could think of going and the only person who could get me to her was…

  “Li-Mei!” I grabbed her arm and she stared at me wide-eyed and terrified. “I’m sorry but I need your help!”

  I couldn’t run from this…from her. Everything wasn’t coincidence. It was fate.

  Our fate.

  16. SURVIVE, BE GREAT.

  ESTHER

  Walk slowly.

  Don’t trip.

  Don’t smile too much.

  You can do this Esther.

  You can do this.

  “Are you nervous?” Adith asked as he made sure that not a single thread was showing on the beading of my gold-stitched waist-styled dress. “This is your first time coming without your grandfather, right?”

  I stared at him for second unsure of what to say so I looked back out the window at the slowly moving queue. Even through the heavily tinted windows the flashes made me dizzy. All the cameras, the crowd along the sidelines…it didn’t make me nervous. No. It terrified me. The longer I looked out the heavier my heart pounded against my chest. My hands were balled into fists and my nails dug into my palms as I tried to control my breathing.

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered shaking my head. “Why am I doing this?”

  “You said it was because your grandfather never missed the Autumn Gala and you didn’t want people to forget him—”

  “I know what I said!” I hollered, and as I placed my hands over my face, my breathing came out in a short gasp. Everyone who was anyone would be here and I was sure they would all look perfectly amazing. The most artistic created an iconic look for themselves that left people going, ‘did you see what she wore to the Autumn Gala?’ for weeks and have everyone asking next year, ‘you think she’ll top it for the Met in May?’

  The Autumn Gala had started as a follow-up annual fundraiser for the publishing world. It was to New York what the Oscars were to Hollywood. After the Metropolitan Museum of Arts opened one of the largest literary collections, it was now one of the biggest social events in New York for authors, agents, screenwriters, publishers, and even directors. I’d gone twice before with my grandfather when I was around the age of twelve. Other than that, this wasn’t my world. My grandfather…me…I was just…I was just Esther Noëlle.

  “I can’t do this! Why am I here? I’m not a celebrity. I don’t want to be here. Excuse me! I’m sorry, can we turn—?”

  It was too late for that.

  Tears formed in my eyes as the door opened and I could see the long red carpet that had been rolled out. The lights of the cameras flashed never-endingly.

  “Ma’am?” The doorman asked waiting for me.

  Swallowing the lump of fear in my throat I reached out to take his hand. My ankle-strapped heels first touched the step of the car before touching down on the carpet. Adith, held on to the train of my dress, spreading it behind me on the carpet.

  “Pose,” he whispered up to me.

  I glanced around at the cameras but I wasn’t sure what else to do so I merely put my hand on my waist and gave them a small smile.

  “Let’s go,” I whispered as I swept my hair back over my shoulder and walked forward. I didn’t want to take pictures and I was sure they didn’t want one of me either.

  Adith stood just off to my right and I smiled without really caring while I walked slowly forward. Each step I took reminded me of my grandfather, and each step forward without him felt as if I was leaving him behind.

  It hurt.

  All of it hurt.

  I wanted to go home.

  I wanted to cry.

  My eyes were already burning and my vision blurred but I held back. I prayed and fought for the strength to hold t
hem back and it worked. I couldn’t just run past the other actors and actresses, and so when they stopped I stopped so that my picture could be taken, but at some point it felt like I was walking in darkness and I could only see three feet ahead of me.

  “Watch your—”

  I didn’t realize it until it was too late. I’d stepped on my own dress as I tried to climb the stairs and before I could stop myself I was falling towards the red carpet. My hands instinctively stuck out however they touched nothing.

  “Must you fall each time we meet, Ms. Noëlle?”

  I hadn’t closed my eyes for more than a second so I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself in this situation…no, not in this situation but in his arms. How was it that I was in Malachi’s arms? How was it that Malachi just happened to be here? But he didn’t look like Malachi. If it weren’t for his piercing blue eyes and his scar that ran across one of them I’d never would have believed that it was actually him. His hair was cut shorter and styled and he was rocking the most perfect five o’clock shadow. But the biggest change of all was the velvet suit and bow tie he wore.

  “My arm is getting tired. Do you mind standing now?” He smirked at me.

  Rolling my eyes, I held on to him as I stood straight. Adith rushed over to fix my dress but Malachi shook his head and did it himself. Staring at him, I was unsure if I was dreaming or losing my mind. I watched as he flared out the train before he rose and offered me his arm. When I didn’t take it, he took my hand and put it on his arm. Holding his arm up above mine and we continued walking.

  “You might have forgotten but I’m not the best conversationalist. It’s even worse if the other person doesn’t speak,” he said as he paused and turned to take a picture with me. I turned towards the camera and stared blankly into the lens before I remembered to smile.

  “Esther, say something please,” he whispered as we began to walk again.

  “You’re really here?” It was more of a question to myself than him.

  “I am.”

  “How?” It wasn’t like anyone would just get an invitation—

  “I was invited. Alfred always made sure I got one.” When he said my grandfather’s name he smiled but not out of happiness. He smiled like I smiled when I thought of him…which made me wonder if he hurt like I hurt whenever I thought of my grandfather.

  Without another word, we walked into the museum without stopping to pose for any more pictures. The security guard watched us for a moment as we entered and moved in the opposite direction of the Gala but he didn’t bother us. My heels clicked on the granite ground and the classical archways around us mirrored those of Rome or Ancient Greece making it feel as though were walking back in time with each step we took. We walked until we stood under the glass ceiling. In the center of the room was a sculpture, most of it fractured, that was missing both its arms and its right leg. The white stone was now aged and browning.

  “Do you know why these are here?” he asked as he paused to look up at the beheaded, armless, marble statue of Aphrodite.

  “They’re…beautiful and historic,” I answered. Though part of me wondered why I was allowing him to just whisk me away. Why was I standing with him? Why I was still holding on to his hand. And part of me knew the answer as to why I didn’t ask these questions. I feared that he’d just vanish if I did…and I’d be alone again.

  “Beautiful and historic,” he whispered with a smirk before he led me forward again. “Once upon a time they were neither beautiful nor horrid but simply a representation, a mirror, of the person they were created for…it was their way of taking photographs. And now they are here and deemed great simply because they survived throughout history.”

  “You don’t think they are worthy of being great?” I asked softly. No one else was around, with the exception of a few guards, and I didn’t want my voice to echo.

  “There were much better sculptures in ancient Greece…and Rome.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess, in one of your past lives you were a sculptor?”

  “Exactly.” He grinned down at me.

  “Well, your work should have survived,” I teased. “They might not be as great as the ones of ancient Rome or Greece. But who’s going to know? Among all of the art back then, they survived and now the world only looks to them because we can’t appreciate something that isn’t there…so survival in itself is greatness.”

  “And those who survive without wanting to?” He looked down at me as we crossed over toward the African Art exhibits.

  “They are great twice over. Could you imagine a car that doesn’t want to have fuel in it? And just as it’s on its very last drop of oil, the tank automatically refills itself. Everyone in the world would want the car.”

  “Everyone but Mother Nature.” He frowned and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Seriously, how can you still be so negative?”

  “It’s a gift.” He shrugged.

  “Some gift alright!” I muttered as I paused to shift my gown and take off my heels, but I’d forgotten that they were strapped to my ankle and was forced to let go of him. But before I could bend down he dropped to one knee.

  “What are you doing?” I dropped my dress quickly. Then joked. “Sorry I’m not ready for marriage—”

  “Your feet hurt. I got it. Lift.”

  “You don’t have to be bossy. And don’t comment on my feet either.” Urgh! I felt so embarrassed as his hands softly touched the back of my calf as he undid the buckle around my ankle and allowed me to slip my foot out and onto the bare ground before he worked on the other.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  I was glad that he didn’t say anything, he just stood back up and held my shoes in his hands. I took them from him and held them to my side. I wanted to say…to ask him what was going on, but again fear stopped me because I knew I was dreaming and I didn’t want to wake up. So when he offered his arm I took it once more. We walked towards the exhibit and paused at the first one—a pair of long black ivory masks and I thought of a question I could ask.

  “Obinna the Great and his love, Adaeze? I knew nothing about them other than the fact that they were African royalty who led an army that defeated the English.”

  He stopped and looked up at the African painted shield which had been woven together as if it were one giant shield that hung over our heads.

  “Rumm…bahk…rumah…bacokka…rumm…”

  Looking down from the shields as he whispered—no, chanted—softly up at then. His face was determined but void of emotion. Just by simply closing his eyes and opening them he relaxed, though didn’t smile nor did he look down.

  “Most men, throughout history, who were given the title of the greatness, earned it through the ability of conquest. Whether it was Alexander the Great or Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, history remembers them as kings who expanded their empires to touch the corners of the known world and still they wanted more.”

  “What then made Obinna great if he wasn’t a king or didn’t conquer anything?” I asked and he finally looked to me, with pain in his eyes. “If it hurts you too much to talk about it, you don’t—”

  “Obinna the Great was not a king, but the son of a goat farmer and as such…”

  His voice drifted off as he glanced around at the artifacts. I let go of his arm and he looked down at me confused for a moment until I sat down on the bench.

  “Even in my dreams I’m too lazy to stand.” I smiled as I tucked my feet under me and sat in a very unladylike manner on the bench.

  “You think you’re dreaming?”

  “Shh…” I put my finger over my lips. “I don’t want to think. I can’t be positive if I think too much nowadays. If I start thinking I’ll wonder, why you’re here. Even if you got an invitation you’ve always gotten one and never came. So why now? I’ll end up going down a rabbit hole of questions and I’ll lose out on hearing about the love story of an African princess and a goat farmer.”

  He fixed his gaze on me as
he undid his bowtie. “You do know these stories do not have a happily ever after?”

  “Smudge and waterproof eyeliner along with mascara.” I pointed to my face proudly. “Also you’re technically still here so if anything it’s just a prolonged happily ever after.”

  I was expecting one of his snarky comebacks but there wasn’t one. Instead he merely grinned.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Come, Mr. Lord!” I tapped my wrist. “I have a seven a.m. meeting so I can’t afford to spend all night dreaming about you.”

  MALACHI

  I wasn’t sure if she really believed she was dreaming or not. I’d hoped she would remember as we walked through history—the ruins of our history—and yet she still seemed clueless. It was both frustrating with her and myself. Frustrated with her for not remembering…frustrated with myself for wanting her to remember when I knew what could…what would happen…

  “The year was 1684, and there was not a soul throughout Igboland who hadn’t heard of the disappearances—the beast that came and stole men, women, and even children from the world, whether day or night. Sisters were missing, brothers were dead and tears soaked the earth as fear slithered from village to village. Elders, Kings, and men came together from all across the land. And in desperation, only one answer could be found, that which elevated Obinna to greatness…”

  8th Onwa Asato (August) 1684 – Okwu Village, Igboland, Nigeria

  “Chizoba, walk!” I commanded the stubborn old white goat with black spots around its eyes as if it were some warrior, yet still she pulled none of her own weight and instead stood there happily chewing on the grass, not at all caring that her back legs were sinking into the mud. “Go ahead now.” I threw my hands up in frustration. “Eat. Take your time. I’ll wait.”

  Walking from behind her, I dusted off my hands and feet as I sat by the grass she was eating and shook my head at her. She ate as if we deprived her of food. “Chizoba, hey…are you the only goat in Obokwu? Why now? Why? Every time I turn my face you’re running someplace. Look!” I lifted my feet to show her. “You make me run more than my own father’s switch. Are you not ashamed?”