Synopsis:
MY SOUL TO KEEP
JESSICA IS A Miami
investigative reporter with a beautiful daughter, Kira, and a husband,
David, so loving, brilliant, and attentive that she calls him Mr. Perfect.
Suddenly, her life takes a terrifying turn. Her best friend is brutally and
mysteriously murdered and Jessica discovers an ancient, unimaginable danger
that will shatter her life and family -- forever.
DAWIT is an immortal.
More than four hundred years ago he and a sect of Ethiopian scholars traded
their souls for eternal life. Obeying a vow of secrecy, Dawit has traveled
the world as a soldier, a slave, a jazz musician -- never staying anywhere
long enough for others to notice that he does not age. As further insurance,
with barely a thought he kills any mortal who dares to become too curious
about him. For the first time, though, it is Dawit who threatens to break
his vow and defy his brothers by keeping his beloved mortal wife and child
with him -- forever.
In My Soul to Keep,
the worlds of Jessica and Dawit collide with harrowing, unforgettable
consequences as Jessica learns firsthand the terrible price for eternal
life. The newest novel by Tananarive Due, acclaimed author of The Between,
it is a shocking, brilliantly plotted work of suspense and the supernatural
that astonishes until the final, remarkable page.
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Excerpt:
MY SOUL TO KEEP
EVEN NOW, ALONE,
Dawit knew he was being watched.
One of the Searchers
had found him, perhaps months before. He'd noticed a cigarette butt half
buried outside the back door a week ago, his first physical clue; but other
clues had been present for some time, especially his awareness, his
certainty, of eyes following him. Maybe Khaldun had sent more than one.
Their methods were
undoubtedly sophisticated. They may have equipped themselves with wires
planted throughout his house, ears listening on his telephone line,
discerning eyes intercepting his mail. He could put nothing past them. All
the better, he thought. It should be clear to them that he had not betrayed
the Covenant with Khaldun. He had never betrayed it. Why was mere separation
always considered such a dire threat? All he wanted was peace.
Maybe they would
leave him be this time.
Accidentally, scouring the house for signs of intruders–he
did this daily now–Dawit
unearthed the scratched, frayed clarinet case he'd hidden away in the
cabinet below the bookshelf, among his papers. It had been ten years since
he'd last seen the case. He opened the rusting latches and saw the fme
stained-wood instrument, each section nestled in its proper indentation
against the fading magenta felt, and the memories deluged him in a
crystalline rush that made him take a step backward.
blowdaddyblow spideryousuredomakethatbabysqueal
His
memory was so sharp that he imagined he could smell mingled cigarette and
cigar smoke and illegal whiskey soaking through wooden floorboards.
ihearitspiderihearit sohotman takemehome
Dawit
touched the dusty Grenadilla wood of his B-flat Laube clarinet, and his
heart raced. His armpits felt pricked with perspiration. His fingers
trembled as he lifted the mouthpiece from its bed and examined the cracked,
dry reed. More quickly, he began to fit the instrument together.
It
was Khaldun who had taught Dawit the joy of creating sounds in the House of
Music, while Dawit spent those first bewildered years wondering if he really
would live forever. Ten years stretched to fifty, and fifty to a hundred,
and by then he knew he would be privy to delights most men would never
experience. The learning!
Of
all the other houses that made up his brotherhood's community–the
House of Mystics, the House of Science, the House of Meditation, the House
of Tongues, and the House of History–Dawit
had most treasured his studies in the House of Music. The first instrument
Khaldun taught him to play was a simple, monochromatic flute carved from
bamboo. Next, the stringed krer, with its wondrous ability to follow any
human voice. And Khaldun had collected other instruments from around the
continent: Egyptian lutes, bowl lyres from the lands south of them, the
beautiful stringed koru from the far west coast, Bantu trumpets made from
elephant tusks. And drums, of course, of every variety.
Dawit
carried the love for music that Khaldun had cultivated in him wherever he
went, always finding a way to indulge it. He'd bought this clarinet from a
closet-sized music shop in Chicago in 1916, in January, his first day back
in the States after his last short visit home.
How
long had it been since he'd played his beloved instrument? At least fifty
years, perhaps longer. He'd tried to make himself forget, but now the walls
of his present were collapsing around him to clear space for the past, a
happy past.
He
moistened the reed with his lips and tongue, then blew. The aged reed spat
at him. Too brittle. Damn it to hell. He searched the case for new reeds, or
at least reeds that weren't already worn out. He found two wrapped in a
small cardboard box.
He
put on a recording by Satchmo with his Hot Five, "Cornet Chop Suey," turning
up the volume until the music seemed to hold up the walls. After a breath to
steel himself, he began to play. The reed and sticky keys fought against
him. He was clumsy at first, stopping and starting as his head nodded to the
music's flow. He lost the beat and honked when he should have found the
notes, but then it began to fit back together again. Oh man, oh man.
His
fingers played under, over, and around the cornet's lead. He had it, the way
he had it then, just like that one precious time when the remarkable young
cornet player from Kid Creole's band appeared from nowhere, climbing up on
stage with Dawit and his boys -- "Hey, lemme try this one, boys," the kid
said with a wink. Then he gallantly pulled out the piano stool for Lil, his
delicate-boned little wife -- and they played their hearts out, almost
enough to bring tears to the others' eyes, who were just trying to keep up.
"Cornet Chop Suey," the kid told them it was called. Just wrote it, he said.
Wanted to try it on for size.
That
kid was something else. As much as Dawit loved to play with his own boys, he
began looking forward to the end of their nightly gigs. And then he wasn't
ashamed, like every other true musician he knew in town, to find that kid
wherever he was playing and watch him hold a club in a trance late into the
night. He reminded Dawit of Khaldun, the way he drew them all around him.
Goddamn, he could go!
To go
back there again and hear Louis Armstrong with his Stompers at the Everleigh
Club! No, the Sunset Cafe. Nineteen twenty-seven. No one could play like
Satchmo. No one.
yougotitboy yougotit
Playing on, Dawit heard his clarinet's smooth notes swirling around his
head. His flying fingers hurt. He blew until his face was dripping.
"You go on, Spider, show these cats something."
"What 'chu call this band?"
"The Jazz Brigade. Here every Friday and Sat'day night. Place jumps."
"What's that cat's name on horn? Blowin' the stick?"
"Bandleader. Spider Tillis."
"His mama named him Spider?"
"Name of Seth Tillis. Hey, Spider! Man say we gon' make a recording!"
He
knew it, he knew it, even then he knew it. The music they made was new, it
was an invention of sound, an American-born hybrid; it was going to take
hold of the world and not let it shake loose. From the moment he'd heard it,
from the instant he'd picked up a clarinet or a saxophone or sat at a piano
to imitate it, he knew it.
Seth
was the name Dawit lived under then, left over from slave times. He found
the name Tillis in a book -- no way he'd go by Ole Master's vile surname --
but Tillis was as agreeable as any other American name.
"How come they Call him Spider?"
"Don't ask, just watch his fingers move."
He
lived for that music. Lived for it. It woke him up in the mornings and would
hardly let his brain go at night. For the first time in a century, he'd been
happy to be alive, very nearly giddy, because the music was something fresh
every time he played it. And it became something else again when the boys in
his new band joined in, every voice distinct, their instruments conversing.
"Pumpkin seed, what are you doing in here?"
"Mama said I could watch you play, Daddy."
Rosalie.
The
music stopped. The record had finished, and the only sound in the room with
Dawit was the overloud popping and hissing from his speakers. The noise
swallowed Dawit. His hands, suddenly fumbling and feeling too big, shook
around his clarinet.
Rosalie.
And he'd killed her.
Killed Rosalie. Crushed her face. Pressed the pillow hard even when her
instincts willed her to fight against him to breathe. He'd killed her just
as he'd killed so many before her, and would surely kill so many after.
Dawit
howled and sobbed. The clarinet fell to his feet, the mouthpiece breaking
loose. He nearly sank to his knees, but he lurched against the sofa and
leaned against the armrest as he cried.
Were
the Searchers watching him even now, in this state? Dawit, the fearless
soldier, reduced to this?
The
telephone rang on the coffee table beside him, and Dawit jumped. He let it
ring three times, hoping that when he picked it up he would hear her voice,
the voice that was his salvation.
Yes,
it was her. The first word she spoke was his name, the name he'd told her,
the Hebrew variation of the name his mother had given him in his first
language, so long ago. She spoke it like a melody.
"David? It's me.
"Hey,
baby," Dawit said.
"What's wrong? You sound awful."
"I
was sleeping," he lied. He hated the lies. Everything he said or did was an
utter, complete falsehood. Everything except what was in his heart, at its
core. "What's up?"
"Uhm.
. . there's been a development. Peter's agent has already talked to somebody
who's really interested in our book."
He
couldn't help pausing before he spoke. "You're kidding. That's wonderful,"
he said cheerfully, ignoring the vise wrapped around his chest.
His
words, it seemed, had stunned her. Her end of the line was silent for a few
seconds. "Really?"
"Jessica," he said, "I'm sorry for the way I've behaved. I've been an ass.
There's no excuse. You're publishing a book, that's your dream, and I would
be a fool not to be thrilled. I'll run to the store before school lets out
to pick up some steaks for a special dinner. Does that sound good?"
She
made a sound like a gasp. "Are you sure you're David Wolde? My husband? The
voice is familiar, but..."
"Just
hurry home. We've endured enough unhappiness in this house. It's time for a
celebration." He knew he had found the right things to say. He wanted so
much to be sincere in sharing her elation that he'd nearly fooled himself.
She deserved happy words. She deserved all he could say and more.
"David, I love you," Jessica said.
Dawit
closed his eyes. The vise, for that instant, was gone.
Copyright ©1997 by
Tananarive Due
