King's War

CHAPTER NINE

Wishard Hospital was the hospital of last resort, reserved especially for the indigent, the uninsured, those too poor or too out of the system to go to one of the better hospitals. An X-ray technician clutched a half-dozen transparencies as she dashed down the hallway toward the emergency room. A drunk chatted up the nurses at the check-in desk. They dutifully ignored him. The security guard coughed into his fist. King's room was a piss-yellow color with two beds in it. The monitor bleeped mercilessly. Pastor Winburn stood over him, his heart heavy as he touched the tubes which ran into King's mouth and arm. It was all so senseless. More wanton violence, more needless bloodshed, another man cut down and all of his potential cut down with him. Without King, the land seemed darker and the mood more hopeless. Bowing his head, he continued praying for him.

"Why, son?" he thought.

Outside the room and down the hall, Lady G fussed over a piece of fabric as she struggled with a needle or thread. Big Momma had been teaching her how to sew and Lady G patched one of her shirts, the idea of mending things she'd broken before appealed to her. Grief came and went in sudden waves. Setting the shirt and threaded needle down, she hugged herself nonchalantly and rubbed her upper arms. Dark circles swelled under her eyes, and she scratched her nose. Blotches pockmarked her skin like half-healed scars. She knew her place was at King's side, tending to him as best she could. Concern gave her the strength to face up to what she'd done. Part of her owed him some sort of explanation, though whatever words gave voice to her reasons fell pathetically short. She remembered not the hurt, but the years of good times. Then the dulling shock of sorrow swept over her all over again. Part of her hated King. And Lott. Funny what the mind did to protect itself. Or the heart. How the person they once cared so much about became the enemy; how every once supportive or encouraging comment or act became twisted into something nefarious.

"What are you doing here?" Rhianna asked, the words laced with more harshness than she intended.

"King's still my friend. I wanted to be here in case he woke up."

"What the doctors say?" Rhianna lowered herself into a chair next to her. Still sore from giving birth, or at least milking her recovery for all the attention it was worth. Rhianna's mother's theory on motherhood: have plenty of babies — it increased chances that one would survive and thrive. Rhianna had internalized her mother's lessons well. She'd done her time with the wrong man, wannabe players who smoked a little weed, packaged drugs, but mostly sold burn bags to unsuspecting fiends. And she'd spent more than her share of time on her back trying to find love or connection or some sense of worth from another. To most, she was still some fast-tail little girl playing grown-folk business, but she felt like she'd been given a second chance through Outreach Inc, one she'd come close to blowing on more than one occasion, which was why she was on probation. But with the birth of her second child things finally seemed to be falling into place for her. She had even enrolled in GED classes.

"They don't know. They sound confused."

"What you mean?"

"They got the bullets out. The wounds were mostly superficial. Missed all of his arteries and organs. They say he stable. But they don't know why he won't wake up."

"They let you back there?"

"Sometimes, for a bit. Told them I was his sister."

"You love him. So. Hard." Rhianna sucked her teeth.

"I love them both."

"You can't love two men, boo. Then you'll have neither."

"Then I'll have neither."

"You are so full of not trying today."

"That was dirty."

"I'm just saying.

"What we were doing wasn't love. It was pain and anger. Trying to get a feeling back. I don't know. Like we both, we all were chasing something that may not have been real."

"I thought something was going on, just hoped I was wrong. I wanted to go on record as being concerned with the potential smell of that situation."

Everyone was full of that kind of brilliant hindsight, as if saying they thought something was up was the same as doing something. Most times she wanted to say "why didn't you say anything?" or "didn't you care enough about any of us to speak up?" Instead, she just nodded and let it go. "Uh oh, girl, what's up? You still with Fathead?"

"Lady G. Look here, I'm going to need you to come get your people today. It's your turn to deal with this foolishness, okay? Okay." She made a phone out of her fingers.

"I'm on a break from him and his foolishness. I'm too through."

"Do better."

"I'm done. Nigga came home smelling like pussy. Don't need no taco stink on his breath."

"Nuh uh. For real?"

"Next day, some Mexican hootchie had the nerve to try and call me out. I'm asking what's up with that. Then she accuses me of being on crack." Rhianna pushed back in her chair like she was pushing away from a table.

"Bet she got on the phone right away bragging to her girls. So I cut that fool loose. Better off on my own anyway."

"You a down-ass girl. You know that, right?"

Rhianna found it difficult to accept praise for her own abilities or herself as a person. Especially as a friend. She never was around enough or got involved enough. Spent so much time close to things but not really engaging in it.

The automatic doors which sealed off the Intensive Care Unit swung open as Percy and Mad Had came in, escorted by Wayne and Esther. Big Momma trundled in behind them. Lady G kept her eye on Wayne and Esther. She knew both from Outreach Inc. But something about their behavior struck her as familiar. Esther leaned a little too into him; he occupied her personal space. Without touching hands or even so much as a lingering glance, they seemed so… intimate. Lady G dismissed her thought as maybe her projecting her own ways onto others.

"How are things?" Wayne asked.

"Same old." Lady G couldn't meet his eyes. She picked up her shirt and fumbled with the needle and thread again.

"Nothing changed?"

"No."

"How he look?"

"He doesn't even look like him. Not even like him sleeping. Like part of him is missing."

"It just don't make sense. Things keep falling apart," Wayne said.

"It's like there's a cancer in the group." Lady G guessed what others thought of her because she certainly knew what she thought of herself.

"G… come on. I didn't mean…"

"Yeah, you did. I sure did."

His round, expressionless face and his indifferent eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His red jacket, with yellow sleeves and dirty cuffs, stopped two inches shy of his wrist. Mad Had screamed then writhed about on the floor, pounding it with his fists and feet as he bawled. A couple of nurses raised their heads above the cubicle wall, like prairie dogs catching a scent. Big Momma waved off their concern to let them know she had the situation under control.

Tears welled up in Percy's eyes then trickled down his face. Everyone was hurting. There wasn't anything he could do for them besides cry. He ached from powerlessness as much as anything else. As he rocked back and forth, he hummed to himself, but found little comfort in it.

The tinny strains of "It's All Right (To Have a Good Time)" erupted as Wayne's cell phone went off. It wasn't one of his pre-programmed ringtones, but apparently a message had gone straight to voicemail. He put the phone to his ear and the first words he heard was "Don't be daft. Put me on speaker."

"Dag, Merle don't ever stop," Wayne said. At the mention of his name, everyone stopped and turned to Wayne. Half-throwing his hands in the air, he put his phone on speaker.

"Sir Wayne, it is the prerogative of the truly wise to play the buffoon. I must go away for a time, but no matter because the story keeps telling itself. There are keepers of grails, guardians of blessings, and miracles through whom wonders come. Sacrifices of blood through which healings come. And when those treasures go missing, they need to be sought without further delay."

Merle's words brought back a memory to Percy. When he was on the streets, raising ruckus with his mom, Miss Jane, he once broke into Rhianna's place.

Miss Jane convinced him to break in. Rumors of the household hoarding money and jewelry, eccentric ghetto millionaires. Such tales bubbled up from time to time, excusing would-be treasure hunters their Robin Hood ethos, though the poor who were targeted by their charitable impulse were usually themselves.

Two windows in the apartment, one with an air-conditioning unit in it, though it too was stolen from a first-floor apartment down the street. The bedroom window slid open easily enough. A young girl stirred, disturbed by the rush of traffic sounds from the outside, Percy closed the window behind him. Pausing, he bent over the frame in case the girl fully woke and he needed to make a hasty retreat. He sensed her in the dark, could hear her breathing. Fumbling along her dresser, his large, nimble hands found no jewelry. He ran them along a chalice; inside was a lone ring. He picked up the ring, holding the metal goblet in case it clattered against it. He peered over his shoulder. The sleeping figure didn't move.

Percy leaned over her. Rhianna. The warmth of her brushed against his cheek. He took in a deep breath. Flowers and powder, a gentle scent. Peaceful. The ring grew hot in his hand. He lost the heart to continue going through her things. It was a violation. He ran his finger along her face. Gripped by the panic that always seized him when around her, that sense that he might break her, he scuttled out the window.

"Anything?" Miss Jane demanded.

"No, Momma." The ring burned in his pocket. A memento.

He returned the ring, but it and the cup came up missing not too long ago. He'd always meant to find it again.

"Though the journey be fraught with peril," Merle continued, "when isn't life a risk? Only the innocent can enter their castles. Do not eat anything within the castle, no matter how tempting or hungry. The chalice must be brought home. Its true guardian will know what to do with it."

Mad Had calmed and then moved to lie down with his left hand supporting his head. He dragged his empty pillow case. Mad Had had taken to carrying a pillow with him everywhere. An old, ratty thing, yellowed by sweat, but he insisted on toting it about, sniffing it on occasion. "Momma, my pillow's broke."

"I know, baby. I told you I didn't want you dragging that thing everywhere." It comforted him, but Big Momma wasn't going to drag a mangy pillow around with them everywhere they went. So she let him take his pillow case, which she was careful not to wash — a hard-learned lesson. Babies with his condition tended to wither without the attention of their mother, but Mad Had had thrived as well as a crack baby could. Big Momma had the distinct feeling he could speak more regularly if he wanted to. She saw the glint of the tempest in his eye no one else noticed.

"Be strong and be true, my precious knights. It is in your nature to win the battle."

On the way to Haughville from downtown, off Oliver, a gravel road branched from a railroad crossing, appearing to be little more than a service road. A graveyard for garbage, it wound past rusted-out rail cars to a thick copse of trees between warehouses. This whole side of town stank, as the old garbage dumps had been built over. Not too long ago, folks had brought every bit of metal they could get their hands on. Rumor had it that when China hosted the Olympics, they bought scrap metal in such quantities, it was going for three dollars a pound. Fiends became industrious. Outreach Inc.'s air conditioners got jacked twice during this time. Two days after the Olympics, the price had dropped to seventy cents a pound.

The industrial park closed at dusk as it was difficult to find one's way around at night. The woods took on a sinister aspect of their own. Paths turned and shifted in the darkness. Merle kicked at a dirty little blanket. It was in her. All he had to do was touch it and the darkness took on a life of its own inside. This particular shade of shame was different. There was no fear in her eyes, only questioning. Startle become calculation. Thieves needed the night.

"What are you doing?" Nine asked.

"I had to make a phone call," Merle said.

"You had to contact them."

"Send them on their way."

"Ever the nudge. Push them in the right direction, did you?"

"You're a skilled manipulator. You tell me."

"Promise me you won't do any of that on me," Nine said.

"I so swear. I'm cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs." Merle squatted on the ground and scooped up a handful of gravel. Sniffing it and apparently satisfied, he dropped it and clapped his hands together. "Hopefully they're off to fetch God's pimp cup."

"You sent them after the grail?"

"It was my penultimate act in service to King."

"Penultimate?"

"I have one more trick up my sleeve."

"That counting what I want you to do?"

"What is it that you want me to do?" Merle knew the answer but wanted her to play out her role.

"I want you to make a place for us. A magical place. I want to learn how to build it."

"A place of joy and solitude. Never undone. I will teach you."

"Why?"

"I am impelled by a fatal destiny."

Merle knew that his fate was in her arms. And it would not be pretty. Having fallen asleep beneath a bush of white thorn, laden with flowers, while resting in her lap. As the story went. Like how children fall for one another; find one another without introduction, he was hers the moment they met. Beauty reduced to a blues ballad. Not content with his devotion, hers was a mission to isolate him, to get him alone. Nine was dual-natured, both girl and ancient. She would kill him if she could, to satiate the hunger. And still, he cleaned up his alley, his secret place. He swept the broken glass, and picked up the cans and bottles before he brought her here.

"I am but one of the Guardians of the Totems."

"One of the Lords of the Wheel?"

"Coo coo cachoo."

Bored and restless, Merle panted after her worse than an adolescent in love. Truth be told, by now, he probably was an adolescent. He went where she went, jumped when she asked, begged for her company like an old, well-trained dog. And, as girls often were with old men, she was wary of him, impatient with him. And he frightened her. For all of his seeming feebleness, he was the devil's heart, she thought, and she feared when he might turn his powers on her.

For all of her craftiness, her agenda was obvious: she wanted his knowledge and traded it for time spent with her. When the "inborn craft of women" met the "inborn weakness of men". For many, it passed as love. Helpless before her, he was unable to break out of the girl's spell. He wanted to teach her, be her tutor. Show her wonders. To show her his house.

"Show me, mage. Teach me everything."

"The magic is deep and the magic is old. But there is little room for magic in this age. In this world. So little faith. Magic is pure faith. A wellcast magic circle isolates you. The spell is just you and creation. You are cut off. One with…" Whatever image he chased after, the words escaped him.

"Perfect communion."

Merle nodded. "Look around you. What do you see?"

"A thin copse of trees."

"This is my home. My true home."

"A glamour?"

"No," Merle sighed. "Look. Even when you were young, you thought you knew so much. In all your travels, in all your accumulated knowledge, in all your years, you still overlook the basics. The primal forces."

"The dragon's breath."

"Forget the dragon's breath. You forget how powerful you are. You have it at your fingertips to shape that energy into reality. It requires a boldness to repurpose reality. You have to be careful. Concentrate. Block the energies. You tap into it. Can you feel it?"

Old, deep, eternal, a call. The ley line. Lush, thick, green. Candlelight flickering in the night. The delicate hum of whale song. The gentle fragrance of rose petals. The scent of a newborn. A lover's embrace, the feeling of home. The thrum of life. Intimate, deliberate. Intentional. Knowing, probing, wanting. A whisper. A caress.

"Here we are, male and female, in perfect balance. I know that is the final key. Co-equals. Co-heir. Communion." She circled behind him and stretched her arm along his. "Tell me the words."

"The spoken word is the final tool. You have to form your own path, not walk someone else's. What you fear shapes the experience."

"And what do you fear?"

"You. I'm a foolish, foolish old man. Besotted with age and drunk on the promise of the charms of the young's fickle embrace. I know this and I am powerless to stop myself."

"Tell me the words."

"Et Verbum caro factum est."

"Et Verbum caro factum est," she repeated. From her lips, the power carried different images. Tiny skulls crushed under boot heel. The slow spill of intestines from a gutted animal. Graveyard dirt spilling overhead. Old bones grinding together. The splintering of joints. A selfish voice. Proud. Shrill. Chaotic. A living fear. Doubt. Insecurity. Violence. Death. "The home you created. The home you will stay."

The fabric of space bubbled out. Created a slit and then resealed as if swallowing the home in a single gulp. When the light faded, the trees remained as they were. The camp cleared out.

Only Nine stood in the clearing.

In her hands a green orb shimmered. Merle's face flickered across the surface, bewildered then resigned.

"Our time is done, my love. Let the children have their end game."