A novel of self-discovery, family bonds and the healing of one small southern townTwelve Gates to the City is the much-anticipated sequel to Blacks acclaimed debut, They Tell Me of a Home. In this novel, Sister assumes the voice of the narrator, speaking from the spirit realm, telling her brother TL things he could have never known about their family. She constructs the story as a series of spiritual revelations, exposing to readers both who she was in the years of TLs absence and how every event in his life was an orchestration for his return. TL in the meantime is back in Swamp Creek, to stay this time, but hes still haunted by his sisters death. His decision to become the Schoolmaster is the only thing hes sure about, and his impact upon the students becomes palpable. But he still doesnt know what happened to Sister. As he searches for ultimate truth, he discovers the secrets and beauty of Swamp Elements of magical realism ... mixed with black folkloric tradition are described with conviction and passion. Black's personal connection to the material gives a hard-won reconciliation genuine emotional impact. Black describes black tradition and spirituality well. DANIEL OMOTOSHO BLACK was raised in Blackwell, Arkansas and now teaches at Clark Atlanta University in Atlanta, Georgia. He earned the Ph.D. in African American Studies from Temple University then returned to Clark Atlanta as a professor with hopes of inspiring young black minds to believe in themselves. His heart's desire is to write literature which celebrates the African American presence in America and teaches the world how to be more human. He is the author of Perfect Peace, They Tell Me of a Home and The Sacred Place . Twelve Gates to the City By Daniel Black St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2011 Daniel Black All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312582685 CHAPTER 1 Standing at the edge of the road, where the brown scorched grass confronted the hot, black asphalt, TL looked around in disbelief, just as he’d done a week earlier. He didn’t understand the implications of his actions, but he soon would. He’d later explain that something was tugging at his spirit, begging him, as it were, to stay. And he’d be right. For now, he simply pondered, What the hell was I thinking?, as he sighed and watched the bus disappear into a distant heat wave. Across the highway, butterflies hovered peacefully and wildflowers waved, celebrating his return. TL closed his eyes, allowing the sweet fragrance to convince him he’d done the right thing, although he wasn’t fully convinced. “I don’t believe this!” he murmured. “How in the world am I supposed to make this work?” A chuckle, deep in the caverns of his chest, rumbled forth as if he finally comprehended what he’d done. Momma’s note lay crumbled in his right front pocket. That was the real reason he’d gotten off the bus, wasn’t it? He couldn’t let it go. Or let her go. He’d always wanted her love. Or attention. Or affirmation. At least now they could talk about it. For real. But that would come later. For now, he had to accept that he was home—and he was home to stay. Sweat broke free across his forehead as if he had a deadly fever. In his imagination, he saw Daddy’s stern, cold eyes staring at him, pleading with him to make a decision and stick with it. That’s what Daddy always said, that a man—a real, bona fide man—oughta make a decision and stand on it, regardless of what it costs. TL lifted his bags with tremulous hands. Who am I kidding? I can’t live in Swamp Creek again! Especially not now! He remembered that he’d lived there before, but that was a different time, he thought, a simpler context. I was a child then! He’d convinced himself that the community had tolerated his peculiarities precisely because he wasn’t an adult. They’d dismissed all his strange, unsettling ways with the hope that time or education or God would change them, but they hadn’t. He was far stranger now than then, and he wasn’t convinced homefolks would appreciate what he’d become. Yet, somewhere in his heart, he knew he was supposed to be there. It was 5:14 P.M., mid-June, 1993, with no shade in sight. The Meetin’ Tree was at least two miles away, and the sun sat blazing in the heavens. It promised to bake him three shades darker by the time he arrived at the tree. There were no houses around and, this time of day, people were either lounging before noisy window fans or, like our folks, consumed with outside chores. TL’s only option was to bow his head and start walking. Engulfed in stifling heat, he couldn’t tell if he was moving at all. The smoldering air suffocated him like a sauna and scorched his throat. Every tree, rock, blade of dry grass, bird looked exactly alike, as if frozen in time. After twenty minutes or so, he dropped the bags and wiped sweaty palms against his pants. Water drenched his back and gathered in pools of moisture between his thighs. The inner band of his cap was soggy, and