The drums are calling tonight. Tonight, for the first time, Shemmie heard the drums....

This weekend, I lost all the research I'd done on Blood, Drum, and Dance when I crashed my 'puter. It takes a lot of work to screw up a Mac. Well, I put the hours in and managed to do just that. Happily, the first chapter and the intro/conclusion of Blood, Drum, and Dance are online, else I'd have lost everything. The text needs editing; it's very rough. Not right now, though. The drums are calling tonight.

The drums are calling. Tonight, Shemmie heard the drums....

I actually got a solid chapter of Shemmie's story in the can. What I've written is how the story presents itself in my head. Now that the first part is put down in words, I've got to do to go back in there and, as Kate Chopin said, make sure that each word is unique in its place, that each word is the right word. At least, I think it's Kate Chopin.

Ah, Shemmie. The choices we make in life.... Shemmie and his friend, Boy. What a name for a kid. But that's his name. When I began typing, the name dilemma confronted me briefly. None of the regular names seemed acceptable. Not Tony or Tom or anything. Just Boy. A bare-backed, rock-stubborn little cuss who thinks he's Courtney Walsh, a fast bowler. Yet, Boy deserts Shemmie in a time of need. Why? What has sent Boy running away from his best friend Shemmie?

Gotta go. I've some research to do to create the new world Shemmie is about to enter.

Shemmie pounded the scruffed up end of the coconut-branch bat into the worn dustiness of St. Mark's RC School's cricket pitch. He watched as Boy took his sweet time walking down the length of the pitch to the field. Since Boy liked to pretend that he was West Indies fast bowler Courtney Walsh, Shemmie had learned how to duck, and fast.

This time was no different. When Boy began his wind up run, Shemmie crouched over the bat and stared down the sand at him. Precisely at release point, Boy rocketed the tennis ball down the pitch. Shemmie watched it come. Boy was only six, so his speed was all in his mind.

Whop! Both Shemmie and Boy stood and watched the tennis ball soar and loft against the clear blue sky.

"A six! A six! I hit a six!" Skinny legs and arms pumping and jumping, Shemmie screamed his delight. If Boy was Courtney Walsh, then he was Viv Richards.

Dancing a happy war-dance of wriggling shoulders and jigging feet, Shemmie traced the downward trajectory of the yellow ball. The flight of the ball came to an abrupt end when it struck a dark green cotton flag, one of seven, gently rustling in the soft wind. The ball dropped straight down to the base of the stand of flags.

Shemmie's heart dropped, too. Fear consumed delight. The happy war-dance petered out into an uneasy shifting of bare brown feet.

Boy sucked his teeth, and hip-shot, glared at Shemmie. "You're going for that ball. Not me."

"Well, you're fielding. You have to get the ball," Shemmie retorted. Older than Boy by three months, Shemmie infused his voice with peremptory command.

Boy spat on the ground and cut his eyes at Shemmie. "I don't care what you say. You're not my father; you can't make me. I'm not going for that ball. I'm not stupid. I'm not going for no ball by no flags."

Shemmie sucked his teeth this time. "What kind of man you're going to be? You're afraid of a little flag?"

Boy scratched his arm pit, indifferent. "I don't care what you say. I'm not going to pick up no ball by no flag." Then he hit Shemmie with the clincher, "besides, it's your ball."

Shemmie knew that Boy, as young as he was, could teach stubborn to a mule. To underscore his determination, Boy sat down on the hard-packed pitch. Shemmie sucked his teeth, indecisive. The ball had cost him a lot. This was the first time he'd used it, and he didn't want to give up the ball just like that.

Shemmie looked at Boy. Boy looked away and scratched some more. He picked his nose and pretended Shemmie wasn't there. Furious, Shemmie slammed the makeshift bat into the pitch and ignored the quick hum of pain that resonated up his arm. On the dusty pitch, Boy shifted to break wind and, giving a strong impression of one lost in fascination, studied the scab of dried snot he'd picked from his nose.

Furious, Shemmie kicked at one of the pitch-pine wickets and knocked it flat on the parched grass. He stalked off towards the yard that abutted the RC School's playing field. The yard's greenness was in sharp contrast to the parched brownness of the field. In the midst of this abundant greeness of plants and trees stood Mother Clarice's wooden light gray house. To the left and front corner of the yard stood her stand of gaily fluttering flags. The entrance to the yard was an open gap, so Shemmie stood there a moment and scanned the yard and house for signs of movement. He saw none.

Shemmie brushed one itching thin leg against the hibiscus fence that was the same height as he.

"Afternoon, Mother Clarice!"

Shemmie waited.

"Good afternoon, Mother Clarice, I've come to pick up my ball. It fell by the flags."

Shemmie waited again. Nothing.

The distant cluck of chickens scratching somewhere in the back floated to his ear. Shemmie scratched his leg with his hand this time. A line of sweaty fear trickled down his back. Mother Clarice wasn't home.

Shemmie turned to look back over the field where Boy sat in the middle of the pitch. His eyes made four with Boy's, and Shemmie felt the shimmering fear bind them across the distance. Boy bent his head and turned away from Shemmie.

Shemmie faced forward once more and tried calling Mother Clarice again. Still nothing. Shemmie shifted his feet worriedly and turned to look at Boy for silent support. Boy was gone. Without even saying he was leaving, Boy was gone.

Shemmie sucked his teeth and thought of his new ball. Only yesterday his oldest brother had given him that ball. Shemmie wanted it back.

Determination stiffening his young spine, Shemmie stepped into Mother Clarice's very clean yard and went towards the flag stand. Two yards away, quivers of fear halted Shemmie's footsteps. He and the other children had been warned not to go near the flags; they didn't know what would happen if they did, but they had invented a whole series of fantastic tales about what could. Remembering them, Shemmie's mouth went dry.

Shemmie took a few steps closer and stopped again thinking he'd seen a brightly colored shape flash by to his right. He halted to look. Only the quiet yard with its softly fluttering flags and the small forest of potted plants met his eye. Heart thundering, not quite convinced that he was alone, Shemmie eased up to the flag stand. There stood his tennis ball in a small silver-filled hollow at the base of the flags posts.

The galvanize sheets around the flag stands protected the gentle flame in the deya from flickering out. As Shemmie eased into the small corral created by the sheets of galvanize, a flash of color to his right distracted him again. This time, Shemmie thought he heard footsteps or hooves somewhere in the yard. A quick, heart-pounding glance around. Nothing. No one. Mother Clarice had no large animals.

Shemmie stooped to retrieve his ball, and only then did he realize that what he'd thought was a hole in the ground was actually a calabash resting in a hollowed space. In it was not only Shemmie's new tennis ball, but also a wealth of silver coins.

Shemmie's hand brushed the calabash's thin edge as he picked up his ball. Shemmie stood and thrust the ball into the right pocket of his worn khaki shorts. The calabash beckoned silvered temptation. Uneasy, one more quick glance confirmed his aloneness. Tempted beyond bearing, Shemmie reached down swiftly and grabbed a handful of silver. A quick thrust of hand to left pocket to store his booty, a guilty whirl, and Shemmie ran.

Behind him, in that unruffled yard, the flags softly fluttered atop their poles, and from the base of the flag stand came the mournful sound of a drum.