Lair of Dreams

Sister Walker laid a hand on Memphis’s arm as he walked past. “Please. It’s important.”



“Memphis John Campbell!” Octavia shouted from the door.



“I have to go,” he said.



“Memphis, you don’t believe I would harm Isaiah, do you?”



“To be honest, Sister… Miss Walker, I don’t know what I believe,” Memphis said and ran to catch up with his family.



While Octavia bustled about the kitchen, preparing Sunday supper, Memphis sat on the front stoop and read over his latest love letter to Theta one last time before mailing it. But his mind was on the earlier encounter with Sister Walker. What could be so important that she had to speak to him? And if it was that important, why hadn’t she brought it up before? Aunt Octavia said that Sister Walker had been in prison—for what, no one seemed to know for certain, though there’d been a rumor floating around church that it had been for sedition during the war. “Can’t trust a word that woman says,” Octavia declared, and Memphis wished he could be so sure.



“Memphis? You out here?” Bill tapped his way out the door.



“Over here, Mr. Johnson,” Memphis said, guiding the old man to a seat on the stoop.



“What you working on out here in the cold?” Bill asked.



Memphis stuffed the letter into his pocket. “Nothing.”



“Hmph. Sound like a woman to me,” Bill said and laughed.



Memphis grinned. “Might be.”



“Sound like a pretty woman.”



“Might be that, too,” Memphis said, embarrassed.



“Aww, now, I don’t mean to be in your business. Mostly, I got to wondering if that Walker woman upset you earlier.”



“No, sir,” Memphis lied.



Bill fished in his pocket and came out with two sticks of chewing gum and passed one to Memphis. “What she want with you, anyhow?”



“Just to talk,” Memphis said, brushing the lint off the gum. It was brittle and stale, so he stuffed it in his pocket.



“And did you?”



“No, sir.”



Bill nodded. “You did right, Memphis,” he said, like an older, wiser uncle. “You did right to look out for your brother thataway.”



Memphis bristled. He wasn’t sure that keeping Isaiah from using his gift was the right thing.



“Little man ever talk about what happened to him the day he got sick?” Bill asked, chewing his gum slowly.



“No. He doesn’t remember anything.”



Bill nodded. “Well, I ’spect that’s for the best. We shouldn’t bother him none about it. Prob’ly just upset him. Still”—Bill took in a sucking breath—“that sure was a miracle the way he pulled through. Yes, sir, a miracle.”



“You sound like Octavia,” Memphis said.



“Wasn’t you, then, that did the healing?” Bill said, lowering his voice.



Memphis’s tone went flat. “Told you, I can’t do that anymore.”



“Yes, you did. You did tell me that.” Bill’s laugh came out like soft cat hisses. “Why, I reckon if you had the healing power on you, you’d put those hands on poor old Bill Johnson and heal up his sight, wouldn’t you, now?”



Memphis’s stomach tightened. He’d never thought about healing Blind Bill. That seemed too great a miracle to attempt. In fact, since healing Isaiah, Memphis hadn’t quite worked up the courage to try again. What if he couldn’t do it a second time? What if there were limits, like a genie in a bottle granting only three wishes? What if it turned sour, like it had with his mother, and he hurt someone? Memphis needed an opportunity to work in secret, in small ways. Easing a scrape here or a sore throat there wouldn’t draw much attention. But giving a blind man back his sight? That wasn’t the sort of healing that went unnoticed.



“You would do that for old Bill, wouldn’t you?” Blind Bill asked again. The playfulness of his tone had vanished.



“Isaiah, Memphis, wash up for supper now!” Octavia called from inside.



“Yes, ma’am!” Memphis called back, grateful for his aunt’s interruption. “Coming, Mr. Johnson?”



“You go on ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”



When he heard the door close behind him, Bill sat for another minute on the front stoop and tilted his head up toward the sky, which he could only see as a dark, grainy impression.



That would change soon, if it all worked out right.



Somebody had healed Isaiah Campbell as the boy lay in that back bedroom at Octavia’s house all those weeks ago. Somebody very powerful. When Bill had put his hands on the boy’s head, trying to see into his Diviner mind in the hope of getting another lucky number to ease his gambling debts, he’d felt the energy in the boy’s body immediately. It had traveled up Bill’s arms and into his own body, till it was too much, and he’d had to let go. That was when he noticed the change in his vision. It was very small—where there had been total darkness he now saw faint, blocky shapes, like looking through several layers of gray gauze. But it had been enough to let him know that it was possible: He could be healed. He could see again. And if he could see again, he could get revenge on the people who’d taken his sight from him in the first place.