mind. A forest. A dead cardinal falling through the trees. A faceless man, lurking, then chasing. Then Dash running through the trees. She could see him lying in a creek.
Her blood ran cold at the last image. It maddened her that she couldn’t see more. Just flashes. The only thing that was clear was doom. Nothing like that first dream when she was a girl. Nothing like the shark. Her mind raced. Who was the faceless man and why was he chasing Dash? Maybe she should be walking him to school and back from now on? Or just keep him at home? Then she would sleep better and watch him more. I could keep him in the house …
A knock at the door startled her and she jumped. But then she remembered that it was the second Monday of the month. That meant it was time for the Lottery, the last thing she wanted to think about now.
There was another knock.
Sighing, she made her way to the front door and opened it.
Mr. Johnson was standing on the porch, stomping and scraping his feet, a feeble attempt to remove the thick mud from his shoes. He held the elegant air of a jazzman in his sand-colored suit and brim hat. He ran the storied Afro Man, a local independent newspaper that featured stories about the state of black people in the territories. On the second Monday of each month, Mr. Johnson came to the bottom of the hill to personally speak with Amber Kinwell. A tenacious businessman and one of the few people who ever dared visit, he understood the dollar value of Amber’s dark gift to the sales of his newspaper. He’d been listening to the stories about her for years. The sea breeze that preceded her wherever she walked. How her wild black hair held a supernatural tint, and how her shoulder blades were dusted with salt crystals. The warnings never to look her in the eyes, the only protection against her glare of ruination. People said that the birthmark on her forehead was the thumbprint of the Devil. He heard these things and more and didn’t believe most of it. But he was never sure about her eyes.
Mr. Johnson smiled without looking up. “Good morning, Ms. Kinwell.”
“Morning,” Amber said, holding the door open.
“Thank you. I’m glad we meet again.” The newsman’s eyes traveled up slowly, stopping at the wonderland of her hair.
Amber nodded. She knew that he made a point never to look at her directly like everyone else, but she liked his warmth and ordinariness. And he didn’t seem to fear her.
Mr. Johnson took off his hat and stepped over the threshold into the foyer. Once inside, the lighter palettes of the outside world just steps away melted into deeper hues. No matter how many times he’d been to the house, he was never prepared for that darkening. Gradually, his eyes adjusted as he stood in the vestibule, and he felt his heart slow in the thickness of what he now had to breathe. “Appreciate you having me over.”
“Can I offer you some coffee?”
“Awfully kind, but no thank you.” He followed her down the hallway. “Drank a whole pot last night and haven’t been to sleep yet. Had a problem with a story and almost missed our deadline. Nearly knocked me down. But we got it straightened out.” He let out a nervous chuckle as he followed her into the kitchen.
“Please have a seat,” said Amber. “Water?” She took a pitcher from the pantry.
In the heaviness of the house, water was the last thing the newsman wanted. “Sure, I’ll have some.” He looked into the pantry. The shelves were crowded with rows of mason jars filled with the bounty of the garden, he supposed. But in that beryl light, the contents looked like huge globules in lava lamps. And although he’d been to Amber’s amphibious lair before, the spectacle of her astonished him every time. The floating vines of her hair like ropes of seaweed. The black sheen of her orca-like skin and her thin, chiseled limbs. He stole looks from the corners of his eyes and watched her pour water into a glass, fascinated.
Because the truth was that the newsman believed in Amber’s ability and power, for he hailed from the mystic bayous of the Kingdom of Louisiana. He was raised by a grandmother whom even the rulers of that land consulted before making any serious decisions. His grandmother was a magic woman, a seer who spoke of what she called the Great Loop, and he thought about the things she said each time he was in Amber’s presence. She talked of how damnation was the inescapable circle one made around oneself. How payment would come due for the plunder and ravage of the earth, for there would be superstorms to drown millions and pathogens crawling from one place to the next. She spoke of the cycle of happenings in the empires of the world, with each century marked by the same gall of deed and outrage of talk. But more than anything, he remembered his grandmother saying: “We just going round and round, we creatures of passage. And we gonna keep going round till we understand the Loop.” And sometimes when he looked at the glint of Amber’s dark skin, he thought of his grandmother’s tale about the black wolf whose coat was slick with the elemental oils of the spaces through which he passed, and how the wolf knew the start and end of all stories. So it was no surprise that the newsman was inclined to take Amber and the Lottery seriously, since from his grandmother he’d inherited the tremendous strength to record the happenings of the ages and then watch them repeated.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Amber.
“Don’t mind if I do. Hope you’ve been well.”
Amber rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t slept much again. “Well enough.”
Mr. Johnson looked at the flower print on Amber’s dress. He’d been visiting her each month for a long time, except for that brief period years ago, when she asked him to stop. He’d heard gossip that it was because she had a man around then, but he could never confirm who it was. And then he’d heard she had a baby, so that must have been the son’s father. What happened to him? He didn’t know. The newsman smiled and looked into the tendrils of Amber’s hair. “Appreciate your time today, Ms. Kinwell. Can’t believe it’s June already. The year has just been flying by. How’s your boy?”
Amber filled her own glass with water and didn’t respond.
Mr. Johnson cleared his throat in the awkwardness of the moment. “I thought we might discuss the Lottery in the usual manner today. As you know, folks take an interest, and I never was one to dismiss the powers of the spirit world.”
Amber looked beyond him to the window over the sink that framed the trees. She felt that strange sensation again, as mysterious to her as the origins of her ability. She gazed back at the newsman from across the kitchen table. “You know, my mother died before I was born.”
Mr. Johnson was looking at the angles of Amber’s collarbone, prepared for anything she wanted to discuss, but he was yet unsettled by her sudden statement. He scratched his head. “Childbirth?”
“They say it was a hit and run.”
“Goodness gracious. They ever catch who did it?”
Amber shrugged.
“Mighty heavy load, not knowing.” He was curious about something else now. Because although he’d heard of the tragedy of how Osiris Kinwell was later found, he’d always wanted to know more about his twin he saw driving around sometimes; if what people said she did with that Plymouth was true. And why she and Amber seemed to have nothing to do with each other. He shifted in his chair and began carefully. “Some terrible things have befallen your family and I’m so sorry. Must have been hard on your aunt too.”
The house creaked and a wave of silence rolled into the room.
The newsman looked at the glass of water in front of him and suddenly it was all he wanted. He drank it down in one long gulp and the heaviness in his chest eased.
“Yes,” Amber said. “My aunt Nephthys.” And here she waved a hand as if the gesture would clear the subject away. Because talking about Nephthys meant she had to think about the very first dream she’d ever had. She had to think about her father, the river, and the shark. “Let’s get the Lottery done now.”
Mr. Johnson didn’t press the matter further. He took out an envelope containing her payment from his jacket pocket and placed it gingerly on the table. Then he