Serpent of Eternity 

Prologue

The storefront was secured in darkness, save for the pale yellowish beam that danced about the floor and walls in a circular motion. 
 
Heavy curtains at the windows and door blocked out the streetlights, but not the sudden wail of a siren or the rumbling of a passing truck or the window rattling bass line thump of someone’s car stereo. Urban noise had a way of seeping in to blend seamlessly with the everyday milieu of New York City life, and so, did not deter the young woman from her purpose.

She was moving forward when the din of footfalls approached, stopped and lingered in front of the shop, causing her to stiffen but only for an instant. Even before snippets of their conversation and the chorus of excited laughter reached her ears, she knew that these people were of no concern. Teenagers in the East Village for the first time, giddy with anticipation. Jasmine tightened her grip on the flashlight, held it straight out in front of her and eased further along inside the storefront.

Getting in had been easy — a stolen and copied key, the Elder probed for the alarm security code. Still, she needed to hurry. If anyone arrived early, she’d be caught.

At first, Jasmine had refused to heed the visions that had driven her to undertake this daring, self-imposed mission. She had tried to shutter the window into the savage garden —- a place so dense with violence and brutality that a mere glimpse had pummeled her with fear. She had closed her eyes to the vista of unspeakable, gory horrors, had tried to free herself of the presentiment. But it kept returning, laying its frigid hand upon her. Now, it had a vice-like grip on her heart.

Something evil is coming.

The thought drove her forward with increased resolve. Her unruly burnt sienna hair flogged her face. She was trying to tie it back when the vision came again, intense and without warning: flashes of death and destruction, the metallic taste of blood, the stench of rotting flesh, a sense of inconceivable terror and overpowering despair — all this, and then oblivion.

The cloying scent of residual incense and essential oils drew her attention back to the display-stand in front of her; to the glass case filled with conjuring paraphernalia on her left; to the book-lined shelf against the wall; to the relevance of the moment. Her hands shook, but it was pointless to be nervous. There was no turning back now. The opportunity for that ended the second the door had shut behind her. Anyway, she must press on. The day of reckoning loomed near. This she knew. They had little time left for preparation, for deepening, for harvesting. There’s much gathering to be done, Jasmine thought, and if we don’t collect ourselves quickly, humanity will fall miles apart and many will be lost forever. Of those who perished, only a few would mimic the phoenix, and be reborn to rise from their own ashes more beautiful than before.

She inched steadily forward using her free hand and the feeble glow of the flashlight to guide her, until her fingers made contact with plush, billowing softness. She parted the velvet curtains, passed beneath the archway and stepped through into the smaller back room. Just then something stroked her hair. Jasmine batted it away frantically, but then promptly collected herself with a steadying breath. It’s only a frond from a low hanging fern, nothing more.

What would happen if they found her breaking in like a common thief? They would terminate her, definitely —- perhaps literally, if she believed the rumors. Not that it mattered one way or another. What befell her had no importance. She must do this regardless of the consequences. If she did not, the outcome would be far worse than anything the Society could do to her. It would be dire. It would be devastating. And it would beget the downfall of humankind.

Jasmine pointed the flashlight into the blackness before her and in its ray lay what she sought placed atop a stone altar. Keeping the beam trained on it, she walked quickly toward the ebony box. Her fingers traced the intricacy of its pattern. But for its beauty, it seemed insignificant and unassuming, nothing more than an elaborately hand-carved wooden box. Nevertheless, she believed humanity’s fate hinged on what rested inside.

Pushing stray curls away from her face every few seconds, she worked swiftly, yet carefully, so as not to disturb the small clay figurines that surrounded the box. They represented the ancestors and were revered as such. Perspiration dampened her cinnamon face as she tinkered with the lock. It was a simple one and did not take long to open. A moment later she held in her hand a bronze circle formed by the symbol of a snake consuming its own tail — the Serpent of Eternity. This sphere with no beginning or end was the personification of infinite life and continuity. It was also a counterpart to the much larger bas-relief that graced the wall above the altar and the image tattooed between her shoulder blades. All were visually alike, but the one in Jasmine’s hand was primordial and said to possess great power.

But what if the legend was all myth and no fact? What if the icon she held was not a sacrosanct relic capable of protecting against evil? What if it was simply a piece of metal?

Dizzying splinters of doubt caused Jasmine to falter, to think about returning what she’d plundered to its rightful place. But as she made a move to do so, a warm tingling sensation radiated from the palm of her hand, passed through her body and plunged into the depth of her soul.

“A sign from the One Parent,” she whispered, tucking the consecrated talisman securely into the pocket of her anorak. Then she hastened out of the back room, through the store and out into the night. The cadenced slap of boot against linoleum rippled the silence and with each step, icy fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on her spine and the premonition constricted tighter around her heart.

Something evil was within spitting distance. 

The Elder lit candles as she whispered an entreaty for all descendents of the Goddess, all children of the African Diaspora. The hazy flickering glow hardened her face into a macabre mask.

“Sorry I’m late.” Jasmine said, entering the room.

“Those who get to the river early drink the cleanest water,” the Elder said without looking up from her task.

Jasmine offered no reply. She stood near the doorway of the makeshift temple watching the others and scanning their thoughts for any knowledge of her crime. None seemed aware of the theft, yet they were all thinking about her. The Elder, Imani, a lofty brown-skinned woman wearing a colorful head wrap, considered Jasmine’s powers strong but not yet honed to their full potential. That she now held full responsibility for the young woman’s initiation pleased her immeasurably. Jasmine’s aunt worried about her niece’s fate under the tutelage of Imani. The tall, well-built man — with a shaved head and skin the color of an espresso bean — thought only of his love and desire for her.

Will I see you tonight? The unspoken question fluttered into her mind like butterfly wings and alighted like a kiss.

You will do more than see me, she sent back along with an image that singed him to the core and set his blood ablaze.

Jasmine probed deeper and soon discovered something beneath their thoughts of her. Something they’d been trying to suppress — the return of a faceless enemy, how they would fare against it, and how they would keep their charge, Ayalanna, from its evil grasp.

Ayalanna did not know she was in danger. The Goddess had been earthbound for so long that her memory of the thing that pursued her through time was as masked as those of her true purpose and divinity. But that would change if Jasmine’s plan worked.

“Move, girl. We must begin on the stroke of midnight.”
Jasmine started, looked over at Imani who glared back, and then quickly began filling the offering baskets.

Guardians of an ancient religion, they had gathered in the back of the storefront to give oblation and to seek fortification in their crusade to reunite the primogenital twin deities.

They sat in a semi-circle on low stools facing the altar beneath the stone serpent with Imani in the center.

“We are here tonight to give praise to our Ancestors,” she began in a singsong voice. Her fingers tapped out a rhythmic beat on the drum held taut between her thighs. “We bring offerings of ripe fruit, fragrant flowers, a sweet libation.” Imani stopped drumming long enough to pour some palm wine from a small wooden cup and then began again in earnest. “We are here with outspread arms and open hearts to ask for guidance,” Imani continued. “For a beacon to illuminate our way. Please, heed us in our time of need. Give us the strength and wisdom to fulfill our responsibility.”

This was her verbal request, but her drumming, which began as a gentle tapping and was now a palm then heel of her hand smacking and growing stronger, faster, more urgent with each motion, seemed to have a will of its own and called for something else, something more. Soon, the pounding was that of a thousand heartbeats and Jasmine swayed to it, drifted into it. She let the drumbeat wrap around her mind until she felt lost in it and nothing else existed.

When she closed her eyes, she fell into Imani’s thoughts, and images of dancing trance-like figures swelled in her mind. Swathed in sweat, masked bare-chested men and half-nude women writhed and undulated like stringless marionettes, keeping tempo to Imani’s beat. Jasmine gasped and swallowed boiling air. The room was suddenly sweltering. For a moment, the heat flooded her brain and she rode the waves of dizziness into the circle of gyrating bodies, into the jarring thud of the drum, into the spurting blood of headless animals. But this is not a blood ritual, Jasmine thought, jerking free of the image. Those are a thing of the past. Almost.

She opened her eyes and glanced over at her aunt and the man. Their eyes closed, they still moved with the frenzied sensuous gestures of the dancers, enraptured and completely unaware of Imani’s intentions. The Elder sat motionless, chanting softly, her wide-open eyes rolled up in her head with only the whites showing. In that moment Jasmine understood. The dancers in her vision wore masks — the masks of Zene, keeper of the key between humanity’s realm and the domain of the deities. Imani sought to invoke the divine messenger.

Good. Let her come. Perhaps, she will show you what Lucien and I already know.

Just then another startling image filled her mind, and seconds before the man fell to his knees, Jasmine sent him a warning that she already knew was too late.

“The messenger will not come,” he said, overturning his stool as he scrambled to his feet.

“Quiet, insolent one!” Imani shouted. “Empty vessels make the most noise.”

“But I… I’m sorry. I thought…”

 “It is not your place to think. You are here to learn, to follow, to obey.”

“I am not a child and will not be scolded like one.” He pushed his designer frames up on the bridge of his nose and then strode from the room.

“Forgive his impudence. Lucien is still new to our ways,” the gray haired woman said before rushing out after him.

Left alone with Imani, Jasmine turned and said.  “He is right, you know. The messenger will not come. She cannot come.”

“You are gifted beyond your years, but you have much left to learn before you can question me or the Epkoro way. Now come, we must go.”

Jasmine reached out and grabbed the Elder’s sleeve. “It’s coming,” she said, her voice angst-ridden. “We can’t let it find her.”

But even as the words left her mouth, she knew with searing conviction that what Imani was thinking — what they were all thinking — was that the thing they feared was already back. And it was fast on the heels of its prey.
 

Copyright © 2006 Nikki Persley