The Flooding Read online

  The balcony doors, ten paces to my left, are wide open, letting in the sounds of the night, which, as always, are dominated by the relentless and strident hum of cicadas. Coming in with the warm breeze are the fragrances of worship: hints of frankincense, myrrh, and other offerings to Anuket, goddess of the Nile, and Khonsu, god of the moon, who right now is riding the sky in all his glory, rivaling his brother Aten’s magnificence.

  During the day, the veranda offers breathtaking views across the Nile and of Thebes, a city owned and ruled by my benevolent and wise master Ashkai, who sits opposite me, his legs crossed in that strange way he favors, back upright but leaning forward slightly. He pours the pungent blue lotus tea he has been preparing, something usually only imbibed by priests and sorcerers. He is neither, although he is able to do things nobody else can.

  Ashkai, like me, is naked, his long locks (dark except for one thick strand of gray starting in the center of his forehead) hanging freely, tickling his broad, muscular, battle-scarred shoulders. My hair has been cut short, save for a few long tufts of curls, as is the fashion for Nubian women, especially if they are slaves and their duty is to look beautiful and give pleasure to their owners, as mine is.

  My master, who hates it when I call him such, who treats me as an equal, ignoring the protestations of those who serve and advise him, fills a second clay chalice—there is nothing grand or glamorous about this ritual—and asks me to sit upright, which I do, pulling one of the animal skins over my small, delicate shoulders. I’m mimicking his posture now, one he has trained me in during the many hours we have rested in silent contemplation these past months.

  I know what’s about to happen. We have been building to this ceremony for a very long time, preparing my mind for the journey ahead. I remember the night when I had absorbed the idea that he would “awaken” me.

  Unsurprisingly, I had a lot of questions.

  “How long have I been sleeping?” I asked.

  “You have been sleeping all of your seventeen years, and many more.” That was exactly a year ago.

  “What if I am enjoying the dream?”

  “The dream imprisons you.”

  “Of all the people in the world, why have you chosen to set me free?”

  “Because you are special.”

  “But I am just a slave.”

  “That is nothing more than a label. Don’t identify with it.”

  “Who am I then?”

  “That is what we will find out.”

  Now he picks up one of the cups and offers it to me. I peer down at the brown liquid and realize something.

  “I am afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Letting you down.”

  Ashkai smiles, his kind and perceptive eyes giving me all the reassurance I need.

  As I’m readying to drink, there’s a bright flash, then darkness, followed by a violent and disorienting propulsion through space, as if I’m attached to a shooting star. And just like that, I am somewhere else, distilled to my very essence now, an ethereal ball of consciousness floating down a long, dark hallway, gliding past a door with a number on it: 4320.

  What’s in there? I think, but then my attention is drawn to the awe-inspiring beauty in the far distance, knowing where I am now: the world between worlds.

  I’m trying to remember how I died and came to be here, in this majestic theater of energy and color, but at the same time, I’m acutely aware of my need to focus and prepare for the ordeal ahead.

  Thank you, master, for showing me the true path, I think, but then it dawns on me something is not quite right, and almost immediately, I hear a voice say, in a language I don’t recognize but somehow understand, “Hey, time to wake up, we’re almost there . . .”

  Things slow down and I open my eyes. Everything is muggy and dim, and I’m not sure where, or what I am . . .

  “Master, is that you?”

  I hear laughter. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but that’s a first.”

  I begin to come to my senses, finding myself in a human body . . . the material realm, then . . . lying on . . . ah yes, the back seat of the National Express bus, bunched up on my side, face nuzzled into the corner. I roll over, noticing I have been covered with a blanket, and see Eyeliner looking down on me from the next row of seats.

  Did he witness me having a fit?

  “Had me worried,” he says. “Thought you were dead at one point until you started speaking. What language was that?”

  “Where are we?” I ask. I look at my watch: 5:53 a.m. Over four hours since we left Exeter.

  “Victoria, close to the station. Thought I’d better wake you, hope that’s okay?”

  I sit up and tidy my hair, saying, “thanks,” following up with, “this yours?” as I lift the blanket. It’s still dark outside, the only light coming from a few weak bulbs above the seats.

  “I do this journey a lot, so it comes in handy.”

  I give it back. “That was kind of you.”

  “It was nothing. Looked like you needed it more than me, so glad to be of help.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  He throws the blanket on top of his bag, which is on the adjacent seat across the aisle.

  “I got up to use the toilet about an hour in and saw your feet sticking out on the floor”—he points down—“just there. Thought maybe you’d been drinking. You were really cold as well.”

  “How’d I get up here?”

  “I lifted you.” He smiles. “You’re heavier than you look.”

  “Or you’re not as strong as you think,” I say, and watch as his handsome face lights up. That’s when it occurs to me he’s flirting.

  “That’s no way to speak to your master,” he says, which I have to admit is pretty funny. Eyeliner is coming across as a guy who doesn’t take life too seriously. While I know it’s just the top, protective layer of his personality, a mask for the vulnerability below, it’s exactly the kind of energy I need right now.

  The bus pulls into Victoria Station, and as we stand, he says, nodding toward the seat beside me, “Not sure if that’s yours, found it on the floor when I picked you up.”

  I look down and see my wooden spoon. Out of nowhere, the number 4320 flashes in front of my eyes. It reminds me of the hallway and door I saw in my dream, both of which were strangely familiar, although I can’t put my finger on why.

  “Thanks,” I say, shoving it in a side pocket of my bag.

  “What’s it for?”

  Because I don’t have any energy to expend on lies, I say, “For biting on when I have an epileptic fit, stops me chewing my tongue off.”

  “You’re messing with me, right?”

  I swing my bag over a shoulder. “Mind stepping aside? I’d like to get off this bus before it takes me back to Exeter.”

  “Shit, sorry,” he says, grabbing his bag and blanket, letting me pass. He follows behind, asking if I’m heading to the tube, and he says that he can carry my bag if I need a hand.

  As we step off the bus, I glance at my watch and remember that Rosa’s parents will be up soon, and they’ll start phoning friends and raising the alarm. The thought of how desolate and scared they’ll feel makes me deeply sad, and for a moment, I’m on the verge of tears. Well, Rosa is. I realize what I need to do can wait a few hours; the last thing I want is to be alone right now, especially as I’m tired, hungry, and cold.

  That’s why I turn to Eyeliner and say, “What’s your name?”

  His eyes go shifty for a split second. “George.”

  I’m about to challenge him and ask why he’d lie about something so silly, but decide against it. “Who cuts your hair?”

  After a confused narrowing of the eyes, he says, “I do . . . obviously, have you seen the state of it?”

  I keep a straight face. “What with?”

  He sweeps his hair back. “Um . . . scissors . . .”

  “What about the shaved bit?”

  His hand goes to his undercut. “U
se clippers for that.”

  “Where are they?”

  “My place.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Archway, North London.”

  That’s very close to where I’m heading, and experience has taught me there’s no such thing as coincidence.

  “Who d’ya live with?” I ask.

  “Few mates.”

  “Have a girlfriend?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Recently split with someone.”

  “She live with you?”

  “No way, was only seeing her for a couple months. This conversation’s a bit intense for six in the morning, don’t you think?”

  Ignoring his question, I say, “The last thing I need is an angry girl screaming at me when we get to yours.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You coming to mine?”

  “Considering it.”

  A knowing, goofy smile takes over his face.

  “Never gonna happen,” I say, my eyes emphasizing the truth of the statement. “I just want to borrow your clippers, maybe get a bite to eat. You try anything, I’m gone, understood?”

  He comes over, all innocent and jokey. “The same goes for you. It may seem unlikely right now, but the more you get to know me, the more irresistible I get. So when the urge comes, I need you to keep your hands to yourself. Deal?”

  I try to suppress my smile but only partially succeed. “Which way we heading?”

  “Follow me,” Eyeliner says, already walking when he adds, “What’s your name?”

  The answer I give sounds cocky. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  But it’s also the truth.

  THREE

  “That’s extreme,” Eyeliner says as I enter his bedroom holding the clippers he lent me when we arrived at his student house half an hour ago. After washing some toast down with a cup of tea, I headed to the bathroom to give myself a very short haircut. I’m wearing just a T-shirt and jeans now. My jacket, hoodie, and bag are on the floor by the chest of drawers. Eyeliner continues, “You lose a bet or something?”

  Feeling drained and not at all in the mood for this guy’s seemingly never-ending banter, I hold the clippers up and say, “Where do these go?”

  Still awed by my new, army-inspired look, he replies, “Just leave them on the desk,” which is easier said than done, as the desk is a mess of papers, books, empty Red Bull cans, plates, an iMac computer, a scooter helmet, keys, and an “I Love London” mug. The rest of the room is slightly less shambolic, but that’s only because he did a quick tidy while I was in the bathroom.

  Seeing me about to lose patience, he steps across and clears a space, nervously pocketing a container of pills that had previously been concealed behind a stack of books.

  What’s he trying to hide? I wonder.

  “Had a deadline on an essay,” Eyeliner says, “so haven’t had a chance to tidy up. Grades first and all that.” Then, still captivated by my new appearance, he adds, “I’m not just saying this, but it actually suits you. Don’t get me wrong, you looked good with long hair, like really good, but this is . . . well, sort of crazy, yeah, but I dunno . . . unique . . . brings out your freckles, which are super cute by the way. You mind if I touch it . . . your head, I mean?”

  I let out a loud, tired sigh. “George, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me; you’re obviously a nice guy, but could we try coexisting in silence for a while? Actually, I should just go . . .”

  By the time I’ve grabbed my stuff, he’s standing in front of the door, palms raised, saying, “I’m sorry . . . weird, shaved-head girl . . . I talk a lot when I’m nervous and make lame jokes, it’s like a tic, that’s why I’m being such an idiot . . . You look knackered . . . not in a bad way, you just . . .” He pauses, obviously getting frustrated with himself. “How about I leave you alone so you can rest? I’ve got stuff I can do downstairs, how’s that sound?”

  Awesome. I’m too tired to go anywhere, and some alone time, without actually being alone, is exactly what I need. Besides, Eyeliner’s not so bad; he’s just struggling with what has been a very strange morning.

  Deciding to cut him some slack and stop being a bitch, I relax a little and say, “It’s Sam.”

  “Huh?”

  “My name. It’s Sam. As much as I like ‘weird, shaved-head girl,’ it’s a bit of a mouthful.”

  He smiles, and there’s genuine kindness in it. I wonder for a moment about his previous lives and if our paths might have crossed at any point, if that’s why I thought I recognized him at the bus station. I’ve been around a long time, and souls, especially ones with interconnected karmas, often reincarnate together, so it’s possible.

  “Good to meet you, Sam. You need anything, more food, a cup of tea, a wooden spoon . . . ?”

  I roll my eyes, just messing, though, and he says, “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Wow, you must think I’m special needs.”

  By the time the door closes, I’m smiling, and my smile holds as I put my belongings on the floor, pull my boots off, and curl up on the bed, noticing how weightless and textured my head feels against the white cotton sheets and how the pillow smells of Eyeliner. I find both things strangely comforting as I drift off, ready for the dream I know is coming, hoping to find answers in it.

  Before long, trails of luminous, pulsating color begin taking shape in my mind’s eye, their paths crossing in the darkness like comets, another glimpse of the world between worlds, the place from which my Flooding came.

  Amid this cosmic spectacle of energy and light, I hear a deep male voice saying, “Samsara, they have found us. We must go.” There’s a white flash, hot as the sun, followed by the familiar and irresistible pull of a human body. I open my eyes, gasping for breath, and see Ashkai standing over me, no longer the ruler of Thebes but instead a broad-shouldered African American wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The only physical constant, as my birthmark is to me, is that thick wedge of gray in the center of his hairline.

  The sky is clear, save for a few wisps of cloud, and I can feel dry, haylike grass underneath my bare, sweaty arms and legs. I realize where we are now: Central Park, New York. We’ve been staying in my master’s nearby apartment and coming here every morning, pushing our latest bodies to their limits, sharpening senses, honing skills, getting ready.

  Even though I’m pretty certain of the answer, I ask, “Shadow or Chamber?”

  “Chamber,” Ashkai replies, confirming my suspicion.

  The Chamber of Infinites (what a self-important and arrogant name they have given themselves) has been chasing us across the ages and will stop at nothing. Their leader is a female entity known as Meta, and she regards us as outlaws. If captured, we would be taken to a secret location, where we would be heavily drugged until we are comatose. They keep prisoners alive in this state (known as “Long Sleep”) for hundreds of years, damaging the souls inside so badly they forget the art of reincarnation, which is, of course, the point.

  “Could have been worse,” I mutter, referring to The Shadow, an ancient cult of pure, unadulterated evil. As practitioners of the dark arts, they dispatch their enemies in the most heinous of ways, feeding their souls to dark and malevolent scavenger entities. Known as the Decimatio—or True Death—those scavengers end a person’s story once and for all.

  I have never encountered any members of The Shadow and know them only by reputation. For obvious reasons, I’d like to keep it that way.

  I get no reply from my master, so I ask, “Where are they?” prompting him to lower his head and close his eyes.

  After two slow, deep breaths, he says, “Close, and they are many.”

  I am twenty-one years old (in this life at least), and so is Ashkai. If he dies first in any given cycle, I kill myself so that we can always be together. He does the same when the tables are turned. I had a lot of trouble with this the first few times—bodies have an annoying tendency to cling to life, even when the soul knows there’s another o
ne coming—but I got used to it. Although, I must say, it’s never easy being reborn in a new place with new parents being a helpless, oblivious infant. And some parents are not as loving as one might wish . . .

  “We can forget about the Natural History Museum,” I say. It’s on the other side of the park and just happens to be Ashkai’s favorite place in the city. After our workout, the plan was to head over there, grab lunch, and check out the new exhibition on human origins. It would have been our third visit this month.

  Knowing we’ll be running soon, I stretch forward to lengthen my hamstrings, glad to be wearing shorts and a sports vest. “How have they found us? We haven’t even started yet.”

  Ashkai opens his eyes. “Our enemies grow stronger and more powerful with every day that passes.”

  I straighten and begin rotating my upper body, thinking, Not as strong or powerful as you, but saying, “What about the apartment?”

  Emanating peace and calm as always, Ashkai looks at me and uses telepathy to say, Do not underestimate the challenge we are facing.

  I smile and shake my head. Then I also use thought-speak—which all humans are capable of; it just takes a great deal of effort and training to develop—to say, Sorry, Master.

  Speaking aloud, Ashkai says, “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” The edges of a smile are there along with a raised eyebrow, his easy sense of humor never far away. Before I can answer, he moves on: “The apartment is too dangerous; we can never return to it. We must lose them in the city.”

  I’m about to ask why we weren’t warned—Ashkai has a spy on the inside (a member of the Chamber, no less), an ancient soul sympathetic to our cause—but I can sense now is not the time. As I’m thinking about that, an image of a pale-skinned man standing in a snowstorm fills my mind, his colorless eyes trying to tell me something, but it’s no more than a flash frame. I think there was a woman standing next to him, but I can’t be sure . . .