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Black Magick: Snowflake,
by Skorpio
Part One: Lucky to be Alive
Danny Sullivan planned on spending the long Thanksgiving weekend with his girlfriend at her off-campus apartment, but when Stephanie broke up with him at the last minute (having caught him cheating for the third time), the sophomore stud decided to hitchhike home for the holiday. Despite being cautioned by friends and parents alike, Danny had done this several times with no hassles. He took it for granted nothing bad would ever happen to him.
When Danny hooked up with Stephanie, not only hot but a trust fund chick, his friend Gary said, "You're a lucky dog, man." But Danny shrugged, "I can get chicks like her anytime I want. She's the lucky one." Modesty was definitely not one of his shortcomings. After Stephanie cut him loose, Danny simply looked forward to the next rich bitch to come along. The opposite sex was meant to be used and discarded when he got bored. Babes threw themselves at his feet, and other dudes formed lines for the honor of being his buddy and wingman.
Everything came easily to this golden boy. He was handsome, glib, charming, and confident. In high school he was the class president two years in a row, prom king senior year, and valedictorian at graduation. In college on a scholarship, his natural athletic prowess won medals for the diving team, and academic accolades fell into his lap. He always got whatever he went after, although he attributed his success to shrewdness and hard work, and disparaged others for not trying hard enough. In fact, Danny Sullivan hardly worked a day in his life.
It was dusk and snow, which the local meteorologists failed to forecast, was falling thickly when Danny put out his thumb on the access ramp to the Pennsylvania turnpike. Although two hundred miles lay between him and home, he expected to arrive in time for late breakfast, maybe lunch. His insulated hooded parka, one of numerous gifts from Stephanie, protected him from the raging elements.
The change in weather seemed driven by some mysterious, threatening malevolence. Standing in the cold for over an hour as the mercury plummeted and the wind howled in all directions, Danny still had no cause for despair. He was confident his luck would hold out. It always did. Fortune seemed to watch over him like a guardian angel. His leaf-green eyes peered through the thick, fluffy precipitation, trusting any minute some generous stranger would deliver him from this predicament.
"That's more like it," he beamed, when at last a black Escalade SUV with tinted windows pulled to the side of the access ramp. Danny trotted over to it. The large side door slid open. Once again Fortune was looking out for him. Didn't she always?
An older, heavy-set black man with a grizzled beard sat behind the wheel, flashing a jovial smile. A younger black man, sporting a knitted woolen cap and dark sun-glasses, sipping from a silver flask, sat shotgun. Old school R&B poured from the radio, and the welcome stench of herb sweetened the rush of heated air.
"Looks like you need a lift!" greeted the driver.
"Sure do! Thanks a lot!" Danny replied. "How far are you going?"
"Philly."
"That's where I'm headed. I've got a couple bucks I can give you for gas."
"Climb in!"
It was dark inside the vehicle, so Danny didn't notice two other shadowy figures sitting behind him until the SUV was moving at top speed.
"Don't move!" growled a menacing voice. Danny froze, feeling the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck.
Another surly voice demanded: "Empty yo' pockets!"
Trembling, Danny handed over his embossed leather wallet to the young cat in the passenger seat, turning around to snatch it from the victim's hand. Danny was terrified.
As he counted Danny's cash, the young man chortled, "You was holdin out on us, whiteboy. Looks like you got more than a couple bucks!" Danny's wallet contained almost two hundred dollars.
Danny was quickly deprived of his gold Rolex (another gift from an ex-girlfriend), cell phone, parka, and brand-new Timberlands. He felt utterly helpless, dreading what these hoodlums might demand next. The lethal weapon was still pressed firmly against his neck.
"Get them clothes off!" demanded the voice behind him.
"Yahhh, that's right! Strip, bitch!" growled the driver. "Hurry it up!"
In blind panic, Danny unbuttoned his flannel shirt and slid off his trousers until all that remained were his white athletic socks and white Calvin boxer briefs. Danny prayed silently that he wouldn't have to remove his underpants. Surely, these criminals had no need of those. He felt utterly helpless for the first time in his young life.
"You ever wonder what it's like to suck a black dick?" said one of the two men behind him.
Oh shit, thought Danny: these crazy niggers are gonna rape me... I don't believe this is happening... this is a fucking nightmare.
"Open yo' mouth and close yo' eyes, whiteboy!"
Jesus fucking Christ, thought Danny: Why is this happening?
"Nigga said open yo' mouth and shut yo' eyes!!!" barked the driver, glancing at Danny in his rear-view mirror.
Danny's frenzied thought: calm down... you're gonna get through this... I'll just do what they want... and then forget it ever happened...
Fearing the very worst, Danny squeezed shut his long-lashed eyes, and opened his trembling mouth.
"Wider!" demanded a voice in the dark.
A powerful arm crooked Danny by the throat, and he felt the cold steel barrel of the pistol pass between his quivering lips.
"Suck the piece, bitch!"
Danny closed his mouth around the barrel and sucked reluctantly.
"Now you know what it's like sucking black dick! When it goes off, bam!!! You in heaven!"
"He's suckin real good. I bet he's done this before. You a faggot, boy?"
Danny tried to shake his head no, but his body was far too petrified to move. He expected to die any second now. If sucking their cocks spared his life, he was prepared to do just that.
"I think whiteboy wants the real thing," chuckled the front seat passenger, as if reading Danny's mind.
"Nah," vetoed the driver. "We got us bitches for that."
There was a round of harsh laughter. The deadly weapon was slowly withdrawn. The SUV pulled over to the side of the turnpike. The door slid open.
A pair of strong hands grabbed Danny by his bare shoulders from behind and shoved him toward the opening. A swift boot to Danny's cotton-clad buttocks sent him sprawling from the vehicle. He landed face first in a deep bank of snow.
"So long, sucka!"
The black Escalade sped off, leaving Danny Sullivan half-naked in the frigid snow, grateful to be alive.
Danny staggered along the highway. His boxer briefs were soaked, and his nuts felt like ice cubes. A few vehicles sped by, but no one wanted to stop for a half-naked youth frantically waving his arms. A sign proclaimed, Next Exit 13 Miles. Snow continued falling steadily. The wind roared. How long before hypothermia sets in, he wondered.
Looking around, he spied the lighted windows of an isolated structure on a small, flat hill not too distant from the turnpike. It was Danny's only hope.
Making his way across a snow-covered field, stumbling and sliding as he made the steep ascent, Danny came at last to a two-story farmhouse. A wrap-around veranda enclosed the front and side. Smoke billowed from the chimney.
Shivering, he knocked on the door. He could hear music and what sounded like someone chanting.
"Who's there?" boomed a deep baritone.
"Help me," pleaded Danny through chattering teeth. "I was robbed. I was hitchhiking and these... these guys robbed me." He was about to say "these niggers," but luckily he did not because at that moment a very tall black man, silhouetted against the light, opened the door.
"What happened to your clothes?"
If there was an undertone of amusement in the man's voice, Danny did not notice. His brittle ears felt like they would crack. It was hard to concentrate.
"They t-t-took them! The g-g-guys who robbed me. P-p-please, can I come in?"
Picture Danny with snowflakes glittering in his long brown hair as he clutched himself in vain for warmth. This good looking college boy, naked save for his socks and underwear, shivering in the merciless cold.
"Of course, come inside."
There was a fire blazing in the hearth, beside which were two empty bowls set out for a pet. Upon the walls hung primitive African masks with fearsome faces. Tall bookcases displayed countless volumes. A large-screen TV sat atop a stand. A mournful saxophone played softly from unseen speakers. No sofa, but capacious leather armchairs were arranged in a semi circle before the fireplace. A low, round, marble table was set with magazines, burning candles, a laptop, and a cedar humidor.
"I'll get you a blanket," said the good Samaritan. He strode from the living room, returning with a heavy woolen blanket. He tossed it over to Danny, who wrapped it around himself as much for warmth as to conceal his state of dishabille.
One would think that getting warm was all that mattered under these circumstances, but for some reason being nearly naked was equally distressing to Danny. Parading around the campus pool in a skimpy Speedo was one thing, but being in a stranger's home with only wet boxer briefs clinging to his shrunken privates felt like a callous insult heaped upon injury. Almost too ignominious to bear.
"Sit by the fire and get warm, son."
"Th-thank you, thank you so m-much!" said Danny, teeth still chattering, grateful to be safe and warm. "I saw your lights from the highway. Thank you so much!"
"Not a problem. Are you hurt? You want me to call 911?"
"N-no... I'm okay... I guess. I'm just... really, really cold. I just need to get warm."
"Of course. What's your name, son?"
"D-danny Sullivan."
Danny extended his hand, but an odd, tense moment passed before it was received by a firm, lingering grip. The warmth of that large, brown hand seemed to flow into Danny. He almost did not want to let go.
"Pleased to meet you, Danny. I am Master Shabaz."
"Thank you again, Mister Shabaz."
Obviously, Danny had not heard Master Shabaz correctly. It was a wonder his brittle ears still functioned at all. For the first time, Danny took a steady, long look at his gracious benefactor.
Shabaz loomed several inches taller than the six foot youth. He had dark brown, chiseled features, with large obsidian eyes, and a bright dazzling smile framed by full, sensuous lips. A perfectly trimmed, jet-black chin beard set off the line of his jaw. Upon his head was a gray Kufi cap, flat-topped and round, stitched with silver thread. Draping from his broad shoulders was a black, ankle-length linen thawb, the sort of robe Danny had seen in pictures of men from Africa and the Middle East. Black canvas slippers encased his large feet.
"Well, Danny Sullivan, all things considered, you were quite lucky tonight. There isn't another house around for miles. I don't think you would have lasted much longer out there in just your drawers."
"Yeah, lucky," said Danny, bitterly, shivering under the blanket.
"So, tell me. What happened to you, exactly?"
Danny related how the ruthless thugs robbed and stripped him.
"Is that all they did to you?" inquired Shabaz, with a gleam in his dark, jewel-like eyes, as he came to rest in a large brown-leather armchair. "Suppose you tell me everything."
Something strong and reassuring about this man filled Danny with trust. Much to his own surprise, he shared the entire story, including how he was made to suck the barrel of a pistol. Of course, Danny did not refer the thug's obscene comment, likening it to fellating a black man's cock. Danny dared not mention that, nor did he bother to include the ethnicity of his assailants.
"What were you thinking, attempting such a journey in this kind of weather?"
"That's just it," said Danny. "Before I set out, I listened to the weather report. There was nothing about it snowing, let alone a fucking blizzard. It was strange. The storm came out of nowhere just as I was leaving."
"Yes, that is very strange," said Shabaz, with a hint of irony, as if he knew more than he was willing to say.
Danny rambled on about his friends and family, his achievements, how Stephanie caught him cheating, his hobbies, all kinds of trivial matters. He was not sure why. But it was like a burden being lifted from his shoulders. Giving the facts of his life as if they were separate from himself, something he knew about, like a movie he had seen, or a book he had read. Like someone else's life not his own.
With steepled fingers, Shabaz listened intently, asking questions at various points, encouraging the college boy to repeat his traumatic experience once more as if he found it all too incredible to believe. Then, he shook his head with compassionate dismay.
"You've certainly been through a lot," he sighed, consolingly. "Listen, Danny, there's a bathroom down that hallway to the left. Why don't you take a long hot shower while I see if I can't find something for you to wear. How does that sound?"
"That sounds great! I can't thank you enough!"
"I'm sure you can't."
"I mean it," said Danny. "I really appreciate this. I don't know what I would have done. I could have been..." He choked, unable to finish.
"Take your shower. You will feel better." It was more of an order than a suggestion, one that Danny was more than complacent to obey. He really did not want to think about it.
The piping hot shower did the trick, massaging Danny's tense, aching muscles. Unscented soap and shampoo made him feel almost human once more, a luxury he would he never take for granted ever again. He lingered under the scorching water longer than necessary so happy to thaw out. If only he could would scrub away the grime of his recent terrible experience.
This bathroom suited Danny with its paneled, spartan décor, so unlike the way Stephanie furnished her pink-tiled bathroom with girlish charm. No fragrant little floral-shaped soaps set out for show, pretty guest towels, decorative bottles filled with lotions and perfume, cosmetics. Why did chicks value so much artifice? Was it to please men or themselves?
Like so many men, Danny thought the vanity of women was unnecessary when good pussy and breakfast in the morning were all that really mattered. It was that kind of sexist thinking that always got him into trouble. Luckily his charm and good looks always enabled him to move on to the next girl. So many fish in the sea.
There was a single large white towel hanging on a brass rack, which Danny used to vigorously rub his shaggy brown mane, before drying off the rest of his body. Steam fogged the mirror above the sink, which he was about to wipe away, but decided against. It was an unconscious decision to avoid looking at his own reflection as if that might bring back unpleasant memories.
Securing the towel around his waist, Danny poked his head out the bathroom door and glanced around. Shabaz stood a few feet away, beckoning Danny to follow him back to the living room. "I found you some sweatpants and a tee-shirt that should fit."
Flushed with self-consciousness at wearing nothing more than a towel around his loins in a stranger's home, Danny told himself it was a step up from the scandalous condition he arrived in. After all, beggars can't be choosers.
"Give me the towel and get dressed," said Shabaz, offering the clothes in one hand, and holding out the other for the towel.
It was an almost outrageous request. Did this man expect Danny to stand before him naked? Why couldn't he get dressed in the bathroom? Yet the authoritative timbre of his savior's voice was strangely compelling. The important thing was that Danny was safe and warm. Still, the self-confidence he always relied upon and took for granted recoiled inside, curled up like a snail without a shell.
Uncertain what else to do, Danny simply complied. The towel came off, and the tall, dark man studied him up and down as if taking a quick inspection. The youth's small, pink nipples hardened, even as his cock and balls shriveled and contracted. He felt as if more than his private parts were revealed. It was painful to endure.
"I'm sure these will fit," said Shabaz. "They belonged to someone who used to live with me." He sounded sad, as if recalling a companion who meant a lot to him but now was gone.
How mortifying this would have been had his benefactor been a woman? It was ironic, Danny reflected, that a naked man does not feel discomfited being flaccid around other men, but around women one wants to be erect. The sweatpants and shirt were a little tight, clinging to Danny's well-formed swimmer's physique. But what did that matter? It was better than being nude.
Strange that sexual thoughts should cross his mind. Strange that he felt sexual at all. After all, they were both men. Of course, black men were sexually intimidating. Danny had seen naked black men in the locker room. There was something to the popular myth however much he did not want to accept it.
Shabaz exuded such an aura of masculinity that Danny felt weak and insufficient by comparison, but why, why, was he thinking about these things? Why had the thugs in the Escalade threatened him sexually? Taking his parka he could understand, but the rest of his clothes? What was that about? Why did Shabaz order him to hand over the towel?
No, he was determined not going to associate this kindly gentleman with those niggers. Shabaz was nothing like them. He was not the same at all.
"I want to thank you again, Mister Shabaz," said Danny, pushing aside these invasive prurient notions once and for all.
"That's Master Shabaz," the tall, deep-voiced black man corrected gently.
"Oh? Okay. Master Shabaz."
Master? That sounded like something a student of the martial arts would call his teacher. Maybe that was it. In some ways, Shabaz reminded Danny of his coach.
"Master is my given name," chuckled Shabaz, as if gleaning the young man's thoughts. "You see, Danny, my mother was from South Africa where she suffered many indignities. She wanted me to be addressed with respect. You don't mind me calling you Danny, do you?"
"No, of course not."
"Actually, my mother named me Bwana."
"Like in the Tarzan movies?"
"Something like that. It's Swahili for Sir or Master. When we moved to the States, my mother decided Master would subject me to less ridicule."
"I can't imagine anyone making fun of you," replied Danny, uncertain why he said that. He was used to getting compliments, not dispensing them.
"Let's just say that some of my classmates tried, but I showed them the error of their ways. A man who does not insist upon being treated with respect can't really be considered a man worthy of the name, now can he?"
"No, I guess not."
"It would please me if you called me Master. I don't see any reason why we shouldn't be on a first name basis, do you?"
"Sure, okay.... Master," said Danny. "You're the boss."
"That's better," Shabaz laughed cordially. "You're very polite. I like that about you. Your parents did a good job raising you."
Danny smiled. When this was all over, he could not wait to tell his friends about the strange black man named Master who came to his rescue. Yes, someday he was going to look back on this episode and have a laugh himself. Fortune still looked out for him.
"I made some hot chocolate to warm you up," said Master Shabaz, producing a large mug. "I have also taken the liberty of preparing something for you to eat. But, first, drink."
"Thank you," said Danny, sipping the rich, sweet, dark beverage. It had something else in it besides chocolate that yielded a nutty, creamy flavor. "This tastes really good."
"How was your shower? Feeling better now?"
"Oh, yeah, yes! Thank you so much... Master. You're a godsend!"
"So are you, Danny," nodded Shabaz. "So are you."
"What is it that you do?" Danny ventured, sitting down in one of the capacious armchairs.
"I'm a writer, among other things. Stories, articles, books. Nothing you have read before, I'm quite sure. I will show them to you later if you are interested."
Danny looked around the room, taking it all in. The wooden African masks on the wall appeared to be laughing or scowling, depending on their chiseled expressions. Flickering firelight cast shadows, lending these artificial faces the semblance of mobile life, or was it merely a figment of his imagination?
It was then Danny saw an odd piece of antique furniture which had he not seen before. It was a prie-dieu with a narrow ledge upon which crouched the stone statue of a black dog-like creature with gleaming ebony eyes and large upright, pointed ears. Around the throat was an unusual collar adorned with glittering, faceted gems.
"What is that?" he asked. The strange statue seemed to stare back at him.
"An artifact picked up on my travels," said Shabaz. "The people of Nubian Egypt believed the jackal was the sacred totem of Anubis, God of the Dead."
"The dead?" A shiver ran down Danny's spine like ice water, like he was back outside in the cold, dark, infinite night that nearly caused his demise.
"Figuratively speaking, of course," said Shabaz, as if that was meant to ease the young man's superstitious dread. "Death is not the end. It is but a transformation. Death is the beginning of life, just as life is the onset of death. The circle of existence."
"I guess."
"According to myth, the jackal was reputed to guide the living from one life to the next. Would you like a new existence, Danny?"
"I'm happy with the one I have," said Danny, finishing his chocolate, and craving more. It was the most delicious thing his buds had ever tasted. Not just sweet, but nourishing. Relaxing and invigorating at once. He meant to ask Master Shabaz what went into it.
"Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, I think so. Except for what happened tonight, my life has been pretty good."
"The world is full of unforeseeable misfortune. Wouldn't you like a life where you are safe from harm? One with real meaning in which you are needed and have a purpose?"
A chord was struck, making Danny aware of how true that was. Emotions new to him. His lifelong habit of depending on fortune and using others seemed to crumble within his soul. It was all true. He did not feel needed. He did not have a purpose.
Questions arose in his mind. Was Master Shabaz lonely, living out here in the country all by himself? Did he have a wife and friends? Were there others like him? Why did his air of self-sufficiency fill Danny with such a sense of inadequacy? Why did Danny feel so small and helpless?
"I never thought about having a purpose," said Danny, mustering his scrambled thoughts. "I always figured we were meant to enjoy life. To have fun, you know?"
"I think that is part of it," Shabaz smiled. His white teeth gleamed against the burnished polish of his dark skin. "But there is more to life than hedonism. One must know his place. If you don't know your place, you are lost. Like a dog in the street begging for scraps.
Danny tried to stand, but his legs wobbled unsteadily. His tousled head was heavy with sudden drowsiness. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee or a wild animal in pain. "Don't know why I feel... so tired," he mumbled.
"You have been through an ordeal, little man."
As Danny collapsed, Master Shabaz sprang to his feet, catching the young man in his arms, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing at all.
"So tired..." Danny moaned. His eyelids fluttered.
He was vaguely aware of being carried down a flight of stairs. His head came to rest on soft linen pillows. His heavy limbs were useless. The last thing Danny Sullivan heard before passing out was the voice of his benefactor, deep and warm, urging him to rest.
"Sleep, little one. Sleep well, and dream of the new life that awaits you. You are home at last."
Then came blessed oblivion like an overwhelming, drowning tide of blackness.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2: ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY
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