Bacchanal

by Veronica G. Henry

Every performer who joined the carnival seemed to drag in two sets of baggage: one you could see, and the other, trickier variety, all tussled up on the inside.

Startlingly clear daylight stretched over the carnival grounds like a delicate second skin, shutting out any sensation of the outside world. The place had something akin to a heartbeat, a rhythmic cadence all its own. An undercurrent of voices, tools clanging, and fleet footsteps.

“Knowledge of all things is sometimes more of a burden than the liberation you thought you were looking for.”

Malachi stood and regarded Liza curiously. “You had a vision?” He sighed. “Your path is not an easy one, then. Sometimes the spirits have plans for us that we don’t like. But when your path is laid out, you have to walk it. I only hope that you learned something that will help you in what you must face.”

“I know you and some other folks around here think you know something about my business.” She turned her gaze on Liza. “But don’t insult me or yourself by thinking that evil only wears one mask. Choosing not to see it, especially when you find yourself right in the muck of it, don’t make it any less real.”

The spirits desire to leave two things to our children: the first is roots; the other is wings.

Storytelling. Animals, African spirits, people . . . each had stories that needed telling. An audience to listen and do the retelling. In this way, you were never forgotten.

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves,”

After their last conversation, she’d just assumed he’d never want to lift a finger for her again, let alone put his life on the line. The words he’d flung at her . . . awful words. But a person’s anger is often no more than anguish dressed up in a crusty old overcoat.