De'Ante Johnson: The Obsidian Knight

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PROLOGUE

         Bloodshot eyes blazed from the shadowed face looming above him. De’Ante looked away from the evil eyes which stabbed his soul.
         “Look at me.” Demanded the Voice.
         De’Ante steeled himself and stared defiantly at the red, pulsating orbs.
         “You will not defeat me.” The Voice had turned softer, but remained heavy with doom. “Your brother will find pain and suffering, while you wander on other worlds.”
         Who are you? thought De’Ante, his mouth refusing to open.
         “Asking who I am is not important.” Replied the Voice. “What is important is who will you save- the weak or those you love?” In a shattering blaze of fire and heat the Face exploded around De’Ante.

         De’Ante sat up quickly, shaken by the nightmare. Haunted words faded quickly...

         “Choose correctly...or die.”

CHAPTER ONE

         “Wuz up, nigga?”
         Lips pressed tight, Revonne hustled down the sidewalk. Even at thirteen years old he knew what was up.
         “Nice shoes you got, Vonnie.” Two sweatsuited figures, black hoods shrouding their faces, hustled by – one on either side of him.  U-turning, they blocked his path. The reek of stale beer, cheap blunts, and unwashed underarms washed over Revonne.

         The hoodies closed in.

         “Take off the Airs!” ordered the taller one. Inside the dark shadows of the sweat top’s hood, a dull white scar snaked down the thief’s nose.
         “Yeah nigga, take off the Airs.” repeated his shorter, but fatter partner. Crowding in on him, Revonne couldn’t help but notice his dull, mustard-colored teeth.
         “Leave me-- “ Revonne’s words faltered. Spun by the rabbit punch to the back of his head, Revonne landed with his back to Scarnose and Yellow Teeth. Littered with shattered 40s and rotting cigarette butts, the gray sidewalk was unyielding.
         Wincing from the bright sunlight glaring in his eyes, he glimpsed two more figures, also in black sweat suits, smirking at him- one of them rubbing his hand against his pants leg. They quickly squatted to strip-off his new shoes. Gritting his teeth, Revonne bicycle-kicked the one with the sore knuckles, knocking him slightly off-balance.
         “Nigga, did he jus’ kick you?”
         “Naw nigga, his leg jus reactin’ from that punch ah put on his head.”
         “Whateva you wanna believe, nigga. Smack, J.T. put them Tims on ‘em.”

         The first two Mambas who had jammed him up, booted him. Revonne cried out as his head and body jerked in opposite directions. Covering his head with his hands, Revonne balled up. Heart racing, he struggled to breathe. His ribs wounded from the impact of the heavy boots.
         “Yeah, ball up like the--”
         “--Stupid nigga, jus’ shoulda given up da Airs—“
         Attentions fixed on taking the shoes and trouncing Revonne, the four thugs didn’t notice the brown blur behind them.

         Normally, De’Ante Johnson walked down Sumner Street to get home from school. He disliked the crowded four-lane roads – pimped-out cars, their trunks vibrating from heavy bass while their drivers peeped the high school girls and bands of youth running or shouting across the steet at one another. Even the endless number of stores selling urban clothing, beer, wine, and lottery tickets got on De’Ante’s nerve. He preferred the quieter side streets, where folks mowed their yards, and picked up the trash which constantly blew about in the wind, lodging in fences or dangling from shrubs and bushes like cheap ornaments on a Christmas tree.

         Earlier that day, De’Ante had overheard a couple of the Black Mambas, laughing in the stairway about how they were going to jack Revonne Williams for his new sneaks. The Mambas were four wannabe hoodlums who had gotten a reputation for doing lightweight stupid stuff – graffiti, keying teacher’s cars, and back-talking school security. Most of the students paid little attention to their doings – even their gang name carried a tougher image. But recently they had started stealing from kids who couldn’t or wouldn’t do much about it.

         De’Ante stayed out of other people’s drama, but the other day he had noticed Revonne reading the “Autobiography of Malcom X”. Not having seen anyone else their age reading it, he had planned on saying something to Revonne, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
         Now, he hoped to catch-up with Revonne before the Mambas did. De’Ante chilled outside the main entrance, the two sets of double doors swinging out of control as the students stampeded out of the building. Standing on a hip-high concrete barrier, De’Ante scanned the noisy crowd of passing students. Neck sore from looking down, he glanced up, just to see Revonne heading down Lance Avenue. Revonne had taken the school exit that led directly to the teacher’s fenced-in parking lot - maybe he had heard about the Mamba’s plans and had chosen a less obvious escape route.

         De’Ante hesitated. He would have to run almost all the way around the school to catch up with him. Maybe-
         “Hi, De’Ante.”
         De’Ante caught a noseful of too much bubble-gum sweet perfume. His attention shot from Revonne’s back to the young sista standing below him.
         “Shawna.”
         “Whatcha doin’?” She and a couple of her girls had made a half-circle around him. Two years behind him, it was no secret that Shawna was liking him.

         The feeling wasn’t mutual.

         She was too young, always giggling with her girlfriends, who were even younger than her, and to top it off, her hair was always a fine mess. Worse, she always had that shiny, sticky lip-gloss coating her lips like Caro syrup.
         Didn’t matter anyway. De’Ante already had someone else on his mind.
         Standing and nudging each other, Shawna and her friends giggled.
         “Hey, Shawna, I gotta do sumthin’.”
         “Okay....”
         Just then the door Revonne had just exited a minute ago, flew open, Mambas spilling out, laughing and trying to trip one another’s feet.
         “-later.” De’Ante took off. Thinking fast, he figured he’d go down Angel Street, cut a right at Lennox and maybe get in front of Revonne.
         Headed to the street corner, De’Ante threaded his way through the crowd of students. Moving fast, he tried not to knock anybody down.

         “Man!” The traffic light turned against him just as he got to the corner. He considered crossing anyway, but not more than half a dozen feet away were two city cops. For years, when school let out, students crossed the street, ignoring the traffic signals. Traffic usually came to a standstill for the twenty or thirty minutes that took the students to tire of bogarting the roads. But a couple of months ago, a student luckily only had his foot broken when a towtruck hauling a broken down metrobus ran over it. The city and school officials figured they better do something, before someone got seriously hurt and they got sued or fired.

         By the time the light had changed the Mambas had disappeared around the corner. De’Ante sprinted across the street. Hustling down Angel, he cut a right at Lennox.
         Arriving at the intersection of Lennox and Lance, De’Ante looked left.

         Nothing.

         Snapping his head left, he saw the small circle of boys. In the middle, balled-up on the ground, was Revonne.

         De’Ante’s temper exploded!

         In a flash, he covered the distance between him and the group. Kicking the one with the white scar in the neck, he spun around, slamming the back of his fist into the nose of the fat boy.

         Seeing how quick De’Ante laid out the two bigger boys, the smaller wannabees took off - scampering down the middle of the street, holding up their sagging jeans with both hands.

         Breathing hard, his heart racing, De’Ante clasped his hands on the top of his head. The fight had only lasted a few seconds, but the three block sprint had worn him out.

         De’Ante forced his lungs to slow down.

         “You alright, man?” He asked Revonne, keeping an eye on the two Mambas. Fat Boy was trying to stop the blood gushing from his nose. Scar Nose sat awkwardly with his head between his knees, wheezing, a dark-blue bruise growing on his neck. 
         “Yes.” One foot covered only with a bleach-white sock, Revonne struggled to his feet. Wincing, he doubled over, holding his left side.
         “Man, you don’t look so good.”
         “I’M OK!”

         De’Ante didn’t respond. He’d probably be pissed too, getting beat down like that. Scar Nose’s eyes were squeezed shut, but De’Ante kept an eye on him as he walked over to the one shoe the Mambas had managed to remove. Picking it up, he handed it to Revonne.
         Revonne took the scuffed-up shoe and slid it on, leaving the laces untied.
         “Thanks.” Revonne’s voice wasn’t nearly as harsh as before. Wincing, he slowly stood up.
         “You wan me to roll with you?” asked De’Ante.
         Revonne looked at Scar Nose and Fat Boy, “No, I’m good. Just...no, I’m okay. I’ll see you later.” Revonne paused.
         “De’Ante right?”
         “Yeah.”
         “I’ve seen you in Mr. DeAngelo’s class.” Revonne pressed the tips of his fingers against the back of his head, wincing when he hit a sore spot. “I need to get home. I’ll see you later.”
“Later.” De’Ante watched as Revonne limped away. Then he remembered. “Hey hold-up a minute.”
         Revonne slowly turned around.
         “I saw you readin’ X’s autobiography.” De’Ante said as he sauntered up to Revonne.
         “X?.... You mean Malcom. I found it in my dad’s- “ Revonne’s voice quivered, “-stuff. He’s got plenty of books. He was always handing them out to people to read. Like those folks knocking on your door on Saturday mornings.”
         “Yeah, I heah you.” De’Ante paused, he had never thought about WHAT he was going to say to Revonne, just that he wanted to say something. “Look man, if you wanna hang, just say sumthin’, cool?”
         “I have to get going, my auntie’s going to be wondering about me.”
         “Yeah, I heah you, later.”
         Revonne hesitated. “De’Ante, I appreciate what you did. Thanks.”
         “Ain’t nuthin’. Later, man.” De’Ante watched as Revonne turned and hobbled away. Suddenly feeling something touch his shoulder, De’Ante spun around, fists up, and found himself looking into Naya’s light-brown eyes.
         “Naya...”
         Reaching for him, she began to fade...

         SCREEEEEEEECH!!! The shower’s second-rate plumbing snapped De’Ante out of his dream. His sister, Shannon, always the first one in the bathroom, was taking her morning shower.

         De’Ante squeezed his eyelids together trying to hold onto the rush from the dream. But the dream and Naya slipped away...like always. But, the rest of it was still as sharp as the day Revonne got jacked by the Black Mambas – four years ago today.
         Reluctantly, De’Ante slipped out from under the worn, but clean sheets and quickly made his bed. Waiting for his sister to finish in the bathroom, De’Ante thought about Naya.


         Naya James and De’Ante Johnson went to the same high school, Lincoln South. They’d smile at each other when they passed in the hallway, but not much else.
         De’Ante had been diggin’ Naya since 2nd Grade. He thought about the Valentine’s Day card she had given him – it was still in the top drawer of his dresser. Having just switched schools, he hadn’t made any friends in their class. Everyone was supposed to make cards for everyone else, but it didn’t work out like that.  The students only made cards or gave candy to their friends...and for Naya, the most popular student in the class.
         De’Ante didn’t expect to get anything. So, he was rather surprised when he peeked in his personal mailbox and saw the neatly folded red construction paper. Opening it, there were a bunch of crayoned hearts in different colors and Naya’s name.
         Didn’t matter to him that she had made cards for everyone. But from that moment on, he always got that funny feeling in his stomach when she looked at him or when they were paired up for a project. In nine years he had never told her how he felt. A couple of times he had gotten close, but chickened out each time.
         When she started going out with Lionel Parker, De’Ante figured his chance was gone.
         Parker, a junior, was South’s quarterback and had led the school team to the City’s Championships the year before. A gifted athlete and a decent student, he was seriously stuck on himself. De’Ante often wondered why Naya was with him. 
         But, if she wanted to be with Parker, that was on her.

 
         Walking over to the cigarette-burned antique dresser, De’Ante opened the top drawer and glanced at the card. Years had turned the card from a bright red to a faded pink. But the crayon hearts were still visible.  Shutting the drawer, he glanced at the torn picture of him and his father, James Johnson. They were both holding fishing poles and tackle boxes.

         De’Ante picked up the picture.

         James Johnson, was a cool, smooth talking man of the street. Always dressed sharp, car spotless, “Jimmy J” as everyone called him, had it going on. All the kids loved him, he’d give them change for small jobs - cleaning up the front yard, doing pushups, or running to the store for some small item. Tall, good-looking and muscular, De’Ante’s father had a bass voice that even had the local churches trying to snag him into their choirs. Working as an assembler in one of those suburban industrial parks, he didn’t make a lot of money, but he knew how to wheel-n-deal...he also knew how to gamble.
         Street tough and savvy, it was his ability to make people laugh and have a good time that kept him in many a basement tonk and crap game. No one would ever call him a cheat...not even behind his back, but his luck was unbelievable. Many a times when someone lost big to “Jimmy J’s Juice”, he would end up treating the guy at a local bar or “losing” some back.

         When Jimmy’s main squeeze became pregnant with De’Ante, it didn’t surprise anybody that James Johnson did the right thing and married her, putting her and their newborn son in a nice crib.
         But the street life was deep in Jimmy and so was his desire for the ladies. De’Ante rarely saw his father. Frequently on Saturday and Sunday mornings his father would come down and join them for a late breakfast. But that was about it. Working second shift at the plant, he was sleeping when De’Ante got up in the morning and out long after De’Ante’s bedtime. The only evidence that his father spent anytime upstairs, were the births of his younger sister and Martin, the youngest of the trio.

         So when his father asked him if he wanted to go fishing, De’Ante jumped at the chance.  He couldn’t wait for Saturday to come around.
         Early that morning Jimmy Johnson woke up his sleeping son. Excited about hanging out with his father, De’Ante hadn’t fallen asleep until 4am.
         “Ain’t no fishing during the day, they gots to go to work.” Jimmy had joked with his son.
         When they walked out the house, Jimmy’s two-toned silver and black Cadillac Elegante was still parked in the backyard. Out front was a dark red pickup truck - fishing gear piled in the back. Piling in, they headed out of town for a small lake that was owned by the man who owned the assembly plant where De’Ante’s father worked.

         First, his father taught him how to tie a hook, bait it and cast. They fished the edge of the lake until his father was confortable that De’Ante had gotten the hang of it. After a quick lunch, the two of them loaded into a small row boat and they headed out. 
         His father had landed a couple of bass, which he released back into the lake. De’Ante was only having luck with the bluegill. Seeing his son get frustrated, the next bite he got, James handed the pole to De’Ante. De’Ante battled the fish, but the line snapped, sending De’Ante flying backwards into the bottom of the boat.
         De’Ante was a little bruised and upset, thinking he had messed things up.
         “Ain’t nuthin, son, we’ll just have to catch him next time.”

         But there would be no next time.

         Later that night, after returning home and having an early dinner, his father hit the streets. When he came home the next morning, De’Ante was already up and dressed in the three-piece navy-blue suit he only wore to church and on very special occasions.
         Letting the screen door slam shut, his father walked in and patted De’Ante on the shoulder.  The scent of gin and perfume swirling around De’Ante. His father headed upstairs where his mother was still getting ready.

         De’Ante heard the smooth rumble of his father’s voice.
         “Get off me James.”
         “C’mon, woman you know you wanna give me some.”
         “I ain’t givin’ you nuthin’. C’mon in here smellin’ like another woman and you think you gettin’ some of this, you lost yo mind boy.”
         Crack! The backhand split the air like lightning. “I tole you ‘bout callin’ me boy-“
         “Get outttttt! Get outtttttttt!” His mom screamed.

         De’Ante focused on the yellow and black bee that banged against the windowpane.
         It hadn’t been the first time he had heard his parents fight. At least once or twice a week they were arguing about something. His father would do something to upset his mother and the first word out of her mouth was “boy”. He would hit her and she would yell for him to leave. He’d storm out of the house, but he would always come back...and she would always let him back in the house.
         His parent’s bedroom door opened and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Without looking at his son, James Johnson stormed out of the house, the screen door slamming behind him.
         That was the last time De’Ante saw his father alive.

         A few years later when he was a little later older his mother told him what happened.
         “So you want to know what happened to your father?”
         “Yes, Ma’am.”
         “Well, I guess it’s about time.” His mother sat down on the small couch, and patted the seat next to her. De’Ante sat down next to her.
         “After he left the house, your father went to his favorite hangout, a bar called The Down Under. It’s a place men go to see women, who dance...and other things.”
         “Other things?”
         “We’ll talk about that later, De’Ante.” His mother sighed deeply.
         De’Ante looked at his mother closely. It looked like the wrinkles in her face dug deep and her eyes reddened.
         “It had a rep- a reputation for getting nasty in there. Lots of fights and such, but your dad was a tough man. He could hold his own against anybody...well, almost anybody”
         De’Antes’ mom leaned back against the couch’s worn pillows and closed her eyes.
         “Just remember De’Ante that knowing how to defend yourself is good, but fightin’ don’t solve everything.”
         “That ain’t what Uncle Ronny says.”

         Mrs. Johnson’s left eye popped open at the mention of her half-brother. Sitting up, she brought her face so close to De’Ante, he thought their noses were going to touch. Her breath smelled like carrots.
         “You wanna end up like your Uncle Ronny? In and outta jail. Is that the kinda life you want, De’Ante?”
         The intensity of his mother’s voice made his heart race. He suddenly had to swallow.
         “No-o-o-o.”
         Noticing her son’s discomfort, she patted his knee and leaned back. “It’s okay, De’Ante, I’m not upset with you. Your Uncle Ronny...he jus has a different...way of looking at things. Anyway, next time your Uncle Ronny is giving out advice, you tell me. OK?”
         “Yes, ma’am.”
         “And De’Ante?”
         “Yes, ma’am.”
         “Don’t let me hear you using that word again.”

         De’Ante knew what she meant. He had slipped. “Ain’t” and “can’t” were words forbidden to be said in his mother’s presence.
         “Yes, ma’am.”
         She leaned back into the fat pillows of the couch
         “Anyway your dad started talking up some girl, who was there with the leader of the “H Cees”.” 
         “Did he know the lady was with-“
         “-Yes, he knew what he was doing. Looking for a fight, De’Ante. Wanting to take his anger or whatever out on somebody else’s skin. Anyway, they ended up in the alley and that’s where your father lost his...lost his ‘Jimmy Juice’.”
         “What happened to the guy who killed dad?”
         “Nothing. At least not that time, not enough evidence, no willing witnesses. But he got caught up in some drug deal and went to prison. Heard that he got killed by some racist white gang. Too much killing, De’Ante. Like I said, fighting doesn’t solve anything. Remember that De’Ante, fighting doesn’t solve anything.”
         “Yes, ma’am.”


         “Hurry up, Shannon! You’re usin’ all the hot water!” De’Ante’s little brother shouted.
         “Shut-up Marty!”
         De’Ante smiled. Martin hated being called that. Whenever he was getting on somebody’s nerve, they’d call him Marty. De’Ante peeked through the narrow opening between the door and the doorjam.
         His brother, small for his age, but feisty as a pitbull, was throwing a flurry of left jabs and right hooks at the bathroom door.
         With a high-pitched squeal the shower shut off.
         Martin stopped boxing the door and placed his ear against it. “Ugly, you don’t need no makeup. Nobody like yo ugly ass-“
         “-MARTIN COME HEAH!” yelled their Aunt Teetee. Though her birth certificate said Theolina Tubbs, their mama’s older sister was known by everybody as Aunt Teetee. She had moved in with them shortly after De’Ante’s father’s death.

         De’Ante saw his brother’s shoulders sag and heard him swear under his breath.
         “I HEARD THAT MARTIN. COME HEAH--NOW!”
         De’Ante watched Martin slog towards their Auntie’s room, open the door, walk in and slowly turn to his left. De’Ante scooted over a little bit more, his ear pressed tight against the cold brass of the door hinge. He couldn’t see who Martin was facing, but he knew.

         Martin’s eyes got wide.

         “Here it comes...” Thought De’Ante.

         “SMACK!

         De’Ante could tell from the sound that it was only a 4, maybe a 5. He, Shannon, and Martin had a rating system for their Auntie’s smacks. 10s were the worst. Rarely did a smack to the face get more than a 5. Aunt Teetee wasn’t abusive, but she sure didn’t spare the rod or those big hands, either!
         “I tole’ you about usin’ that kinda language in this house. What’s a 10 year old usin’ language like that fo’ anyways?”
         Martin was rubbing his face. De’Ante couldn’t see any tears, but he knew they were there.
         “Git yo teeth brushed an’ leave yo sista alone!”
         “Yes, ma’am.”
         “What you waitin’ fo, day ain’t waitin’ fo you!”

         Martin shambled out of the room just as Shannon opened the bathroom door and shuffled out in her pink and blue slippers.
         Shannon shook her head, silently mouthing Aunt TeeTee’s words. Martin pulled back his fist as if to hit her, but just shook it in her face.
         De’Ante grabbed his favorite towel off the rack behind his bedroom door and scooted into the bathroom and shut the door.
         “Awww mannn.” He heard his brother say.
         “Don’t worry M, I’ll be out in five.”
         “Yeah, whateva.”
         His brother’s slippers scraped against the hardwood floor. De’Ante quickly washed and brushed his teeth— ten times in every direction he could think of: First the uppers, then the lowers. Wiping the toothpaste from his chin, he opened the door and walked out of the bathroom. “Done, M.”
         “Man, why you always do that?”
         De’Ante played stupid. “What?”
         “Playin’ me like that.”
         “Cause I love yah, little brotha.” De’Ante grabbed his brother in a neck lock and razzed the top of his head.
         “Man, lemme go.”
         De’Ante quickly let him go before Martin started making more noise and got both of them in trouble.
         De’Ante bent over and whispered in his brother’s ear, “You should watch your language, M.”
         “Why?”
         De’Ante straightened up and slapped his brother lightly in the face. “So that don’t happen!”
         “You think you funny, don’t you?” Martin signaled for De’Ante to come closer. “I got somethin’ to tell you, Dee.”
         “What?”
         Martin stood on his tippy toes and whispered in De’Ante’s ear. “You should watch tappin’ me like that?”
         “Why?”
         Martin slugged De’Ante hard in the stomach. “So that don’t happen!” Martin dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
         “MARTIN!” yelled their Auntie.
         Silence.

         “MARTIN!”
         Silence.

         “Don’t make me say it again!”
         “Yes, ma’am?”
         “COME HEAH!”
         Before the bathroom door opened, De’Ante barely heard his little brother curse.
         “I HEARD THAT!”
         “Awwww mannnn.”