The Book of Water by Marjorie B. Kellogg

Author:Marjorie B. Kellogg [Kellogg, Marjorie B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DAW
Published: 1997-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When he finally locates Water Street, and the address that Papa Dja has given him, it’s a narrow side lane, rutted and unpaved, with the usual walled yards and cinder block boxes at the back. No names on the gates, only faded numbers, but the street is pretty clean, not much litter around. N’Doch rings the bell at Number 913.

The gate is solid sheet metal, scarred as if someone had been beating on it with a sledge. A little sliding panel is set at eye level. N’Doch rings for several minutes without result.

“Gotta be patient,” he assures the girl. “Just gotta wait ’em out.”

The apparition is scuffing his feet in the dust, his hands shoved deep into the stretched-out pockets of his shorts. N’Doch remembers these shorts now, except they were his shorts, not Jéjé’s, and were particularly prized for being the match to a pair worn by his favorite pop star at the time. And that’s what weirds him out. The time was ten years ago and he hasn’t seen those shorts since. Or the pop star.

“She ain’t in there,” says the apparition.

“I said, you gotta be patient. People don’t just come racing out to see who’s knocking. They might be watching their show. They might feel safer not being home.”

The apparition shrugs. “There’s someone in there, yeah. But it ain’t her.”

N’Doch’s fists ball up on his hips. “How the hell do you know?”

The girl looks right and left. The street is empty. She lays a warning hand on his arm. “Surely you’ve seen by now . . . if she says she knows, she knows.”

Damn! He’s forgotten again. Of all the shapes the dragon could have pulled out of his mind, it had to be this one? N’Doch guesses he should be grateful she’s not walking around looking like his mother. Or Sedou. This last notion leaves a hollow ache in his gut that he’d rather not have to deal with. He resolves to stop thinking of the apparition as his brother Jéjé. He reaches to ring again. “Gotta at least find out if she lives here.”

The little panel jerks open on squealing tracks, just a crack. “Who is it?” demands a voice.

It’s a woman’s voice, despite its gruffness. N’Doch assumes his best public persona, the one that always charms the ladies. “We’re looking for my grandpapa’s dear old friend, Mme. Lealé Kaimah. Is she at home?”

“Yeah? Who’s this grandfather?”

“He is M. Djawara N’Djai.”

“And who are you?”

“I am his grandson, N’Doch N’Djai.”

A pair of crow-footed dark eyes scrutinize him through the narrow crack. “Lealé doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Excuse me, but my grandpapa received a postcard from her just last month giving this as her address.”

A short pause on the other side of the gate. “What do you want with her?”

N’Doch lets a whiff of the bush spice up his performance. “We’re just into town, my family and I. First time, y’know? Papa Dja asked us to look Mme. Lealé up, see how she’s been all these years.”

“Huh,” scoffed the voice.

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