Amber and Blue Chapter 5 Excerpt

Chapter 5 

First Attempt   

  Weary and worn, but in harmony with his world, the old Rastaman stood on the corner of Fifth and Market.  Dreadlocks swung long and gnarled to his waist, and were salted with the gray of old age.  His clothing hung loose and ragged on his small thin frame, but he held his shoulders back with his chin up.  He was a proud man and he smiled.  Some days he held a sign—Liberate Jamaica.  Other days, he stood with a tray strapped across his shoulders, hawking an assortment of scented oils and perfumes.

   "Have a nice day," he would call out, greeting the capitalists in their three-piece suits.  They pushed by without a glance.  To them—he was invisible.

"Hi Russell!" Grace yelled when he breezed through the door of the shelter.

"Hello Grace, how are you on this beautiful day?"  The rhythmic flow of his accent lilted through the noisy room like music, making heavy heads lift and the downtrodden smile.

"Much better since you’re here!" she said.

She was always happy to see Russell, which was often, when she volunteered at the shelter.  His smiling eyes and kind heart left a lingering peace with every soul that he touched.

Dinner's rush had come and gone and the stifling heat of the kitchen became unbearable.  Grace needed a break.  Outside, she leaned back against the crumbling brick wall at the rear of the building.  Resting her eyes, she enjoyed the slight breeze while fanning her face with a thick paper plate.  Long, stray, wisps of dark hair escaped from her twist, and stuck fast to the sweat that rolled down her neck.  Twirling the strands together, she stuffed them behind her ears before turning to go back inside.

"Excuse me mam," a man said.  He stood with his hands in his pockets, near the entrance of an alley next to the building. "Do you work here?"

She stopped, turning his way. "Yes sir, I do, kind of."

Despite the warmth of the day, he had the hood of his blue jacket drawn over his head and down to cover his brow.  His head hung low but two amber orbs peered out with a rapt intensity.

"Maybe you can help me," he said. "My young son is ill, and we need a place to stay for the night."

"He’s sick?" She walked toward him. "Poor little fella, how old is he?"

"Come see.  He’s in the car."

"Grace!" Russell’s voice called from behind her. "Come here!"

Turning back, she caught the sight of an anxious Russell furiously waving her toward him.

"I’ll be right back," she said to the man, making her way to where Russell stood.

"Grace," the old Rastaman said. "You stay away from that man."

"But his son is sick—"

"No, girl, I have a bad feeling—very bad.  I’ve never seen him before and I’ve been around here a long, long time."

She looked over her shoulder but the man had vanished.

"Look, you see," he said. "Now he’s gone."

"Where’d he go?" Walking to the edge of the building, she leaned around the corner.

"Does your father know you’re here today?"

"No," she replied with a guilty smile.

"You scare me, child," Russell said, coming to stand beside her. "You trust too easy."


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