NOTE: A little Afrikan magic goes a long way.

Monster hurricanes, killer tsunamis, unpredictable global climate change are not entirely “natural” events. Typically, most humans desire to stay blissfully unaware of the truth; but the culprits of these devastations are obvious to anyone who closely studies the Internet. If I don't take immediate action, these sporadic conflicts between man and angry paranormal agents might continue for millennia.

My mortal brethren preached that Guardians (descendants of evil, ancient Afrikan deities) were determined to exterminate all humans; thus, it was our birthright to war furiously against Guardians using all weapons available despite the grievous side effects.

I disagreed.

So, ignoring the lamentations of my peers, I secretly parked my shiny black Porsche near a swamp lake, clandestinely stepped off the hiking path, jumped over a short fence, and plunged into the thorny undergrowth. Guardians mostly hid in sullen isolation away from the paralyzing blare of our I-Pod civilization. I hurried. According to Google, the mystical being I dearly sought would be available between twilight and dusk.

Guardians were unpredictable. You could devote years to acquire tremendous wealth to bribe a Guardian. Or, simply offer a shiny bauble in exchange for services.  However, most petitioners seldom got what they paid for. Chi was a noble Afrikan king, a thousand years ago, who concocted a grandiose scheme, yet submitted a poorly constructed request to a Guardian: Chi sought the power of flight to conquer Arab invaders, but he neglected to acquire the wisdom for flying.  Thus, Chi gleefully soared towards the sun, froze his wings in the thin upper atmosphere, and fell tragically back to earth, crashing amongst his stunned soldiers. The story was miss-interpreted by Europeans seeking to mold a new religion. Ancient Nubian Lords were the best at posing questions to Guardians. Nubians launched a mighty empire and nearly dominated the continent three times.

I panicked as thunder boomed from the densely packed swamp trees, scattered roosting crows, and I almost dropped my precious payment into the smelly muck. I shouted, “Stop! I demand an audience!”  I anxiously waited to see who or what would reply.

After many tense heart beats, I faintly perceived a female voice that whispered, “Nubians wished Afrikan people spread around the world. Afrikan children now live in every corner of the globe because Guardians allowed human bondage on an unimaginable scale.”

I disputed, “Not completely true, dear Guardian. Afrikan people have always been daring travelers and adroit traders not deterred by high mountains, scorching deserts or deep oceans; long before the white northerners discovered the magic of the magnetic compass or the science of the starry constellations.”  I peered into the depths of the Great Dismal Swamp on the Carolina and Virginia border to determine from where the charming soprano voice was coming. This was the same vast wetland where more than a century ago, kidnapped black tribesmen fearlessly trekked through on their way to freedom, braving treacherous, snake-infested regions and nearly impenetrable, thorny thicket. On the verge of capture by confederate thugs, some black escapees who were knowledgeable of Nubian magic, sought out Guardians to gain instantaneous passage back to Afrika; but too often, most of these courageous mortals had to settle for the poverty and wretchedness of America’s industrial cities to slowly grow a new black civilization.

Something hissed loudly and slithered across my path causing my heart to race and my courage to wilt.

“It is just a large, hungry King snake,” purred the Guardian, whose face I still could not see. “You are safe unless you happened to be fat, juicy prey,” she said.  “But that frightened Diamondback rattlesnake hiding behind you could easily kill several stout men. Did you bring payment, my love?”

“Yes.”

“Step lively, Scarecrow.  I will clear a path. Follow the pee stained stones.”

You could not display any weakness to a jokester Guardian.  So, I said, “I see you live in the mud and muck because you lack proper table manners.” It was lame but at least I retaliated.

She replied, “You are a degenerate descendent of once proud Afrikan diviners! Have a giant wasp in the eye!!”
With a quick wave of my hand, the man-sized insect dissolved.

“Well done, Scarecrow! Pardon the mad bee. I really am glad to see you,” apologized the Guardian. “I greatly feared you had abandoned me.”

“Never!” I frowned on the tag Scarecrow but the first lesson a practitioner learned in life was never to reveal his true name. So, at the rambunctious age of four, I accepted the moniker Scarecrow from a children’s book as a shield against deadly magic. I planned to use all my abilities to unite with my beloved, who by supreme celestial irony or perhaps holy design happened be a Guardian, I called Dorothy. I should have heeded the advice of my brethren but the time for reconsideration was over as the sun kissed the dirty brown lake water. I entered a small clearing where stood a solitary, two-room dwelling, supported by short stacks of red bricks. A dim green light bled through a cracked window pane. This was a typical Guardian’s nest in the form of a southern style “shotgun” house. I remember seeing pictures of  shotgun houses on Wikipedia and marveling how most mortal men never knew how close to the blistered lip of Dante’s Hell they were perilously perched as they slept in their comfortable beds at night.

A swirl of black fog coalesced into the shape of a petite Egyptian girl barely over the tender age of puberty on the tiny front porch of the shotgun house. Dorothy had many guises; this was one of our naughty favorites. I was always shamefully aroused. The Guardian smiled demurely, “Welcome. Be sure to bring your payment, Daddy. ” Despite Dorothy’s vigorously expressed love for me, she was still tightly constricted by cosmic convention, therefore, she remained very dangerous, if improperly invoked.

Once inside her nest, Dorothy shimmered into a more mature but just as alluring guise.  She wore a beautiful dark brown body draped with long braided hair. Her only clothing was a few wraps of red silk. When I handed her the fee, she became as excited as a Catholic school girl at Christmas.

“A gold ring!” she shouted in glee.

“A wedding band.”

She smiled tearfully. Hot drops of Guardian fluid sizzled on the wooden floor sending up puffs of acidic smoke. “What service do you require?” She drifted tantalizing closer.

“We must heal the wounds between your kind and mine.” I could smell her delightful essence and feel the compassionate heat of her soul. My senses were wonderfully ignited. “I wish for us to be husband and wife.” I risked eternal damnation from both sides of the battle lines, but my commitment was firm.

She paused. Despite our long, surreptitious involvement with each other, her emotions and intellect were always difficult to interpret, which for me was enthralling.

She asked, “Supernatural or mortal?”

“There is no one else as beautiful and caring in the universe as you. I have looked. You will be the perfect wife and mother. I pray to be the perfect mate, protector and father. Supernatural or mortal, you decide, my Afrikan goddess.”

Her form swirled for a moment, then re-solidified. “Mortal!” She declared enthusiastically.  “Their emotions are intense! They truly breathe the ecstasy and pain of life. Supernatural beings mostly observe and jealously interfere.”

She placed her hand in mine. It was soft. Warm. I tenderly licked her fingers. A harsh rumble of thunder shook the shotgun house. Hail smashed into the pine boards as a blinding stroke of lightening illuminated the forest. “Someone is searching for us,” she said anxiously. “But, I can’t stop them!”

“Ready to go, my betrothed?” 

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

We rushed towards the back door of the shotgun house as the ground trembled violently. At the portal, I quantum shifted into a different, future world far beyond the terrible battle between man and Guardian on earth. As we exited, I quickly bolted shut the door of the house. “It is sealed. We are safe.” The new world was giddy with colorful flowers and bucolic meadows. In the distance, was a shining green metropolis levitating on the edge of the bright blue rings of Saturn. “That city is New Timbuktu,” I announced as I stroked Dorothy’s cheek, “There, we will exchange our real names and pledge our eternal souls to each other.”

“Yes, Yes!!” She grinned foolishly, “I’m so happy!” Then in a more somber tone she added, “Our son will create enormous controversy when we return home.”

I took a deep breath of the sweet, warm air. “Our Nubian offspring also will produce many miracles. He will be a great inspiration. He will be a renowned healer. He will offer peace and understanding.”

Dorothy smirked wickedly, “Maybe, but his twin sister will be a real witch and worship chaos, destruction, and greed.”

I was not surprised. “Balance; with our help, we can get the resurrection of our King and his siblings right this time.”