Date: 2019-05-07 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Purple Dog Press

I Am Marcus Fox

BRYON CAHILL

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, animals, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Bryon Cahill

www.bryoncahill.com

Cover design by Megan Dorazio

Author photo by Ben Hale

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, contact: author@bryoncahill.com.

For the Shakasantie who remain, always, in my head.

CONTENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

PART TWO

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PART THREE

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LASTLY, FOR NOW …

PART ONE

I

CHAPTER

1

I was born in the back of a stolen, horseless horse trailer as it barreled down a bumpy Texas road on a bitch-hot August afternoon in 1967. As the legend goes, my so-called parents were heap deep in the middle of fleeing the long arm of the law for the umpteenth time when I burst into the world, flailing and wailing.

Etched in my memory is the image of dear old dad’s curled-up hook-hands as he clutched an imaginary steering wheel high above my head. I was four years old and this was our nightly routine.

“I turned the truck hard right. You see, Marcus? Like this!”

As he relived the incredible experience of my preposterous birth, he jerked his tight fists hard right and down, snatching his own perception of the past with a firm grip. The mad retrospection shook like a ravenous beast in his hands.

What little light there was in that particular sleazy motel room came from a souring red bulb outside our window. It illuminated the wild, eye-of-the-tiger look my father wore so well.

“Your momma was bouncin’ so fast and peculiar back there. But that didn’t stop her from shootin’ her pistol out the back of the trailer, no sir! I held control of that truck the best I could over all them damn bumps in the road ’til whammo! We hit one hell of a pothole and the trailer went wide and nearly came off her hinges! But you know what? It was that miracle maneuver that fooled them sumbitch cops sure enough so that, Lord have mercy, they veered right at that fork and we soared left! Hooee that was fun!”

Being far too young to appreciate the full extent of idiocy involved, I was swept away by the incredible adventure of it all. Later in life, I would come to picture my mother as she truly was on that day: terrible, foul, and sweating like a sick pig in all her pregnant horridness — pushing me out, hating me for coming, hating him for putting me in her, one hand blasting away with that .44 (shooting wildly through the dirty air-hole slots in the side of the trailer) while her other hand somehow managed to hold on to the rails of that bucking, aluminum bronco. As they made their most infamous of escapes, she’d been doing her best to keep her feet from sliding through loose hay and horse shit.

“So we sped outta there like a couple of crazy cai-otes and by the time them sumbitches turned ’round to get back on our trail, we was long gone.” He paused here. He always paused here. “We was just — that — fast.” His hands slapped together for emphasis.

“Papa, I come then?” I asked in my tender four-year-old voice.

“Almost there, Marcus. Now hush up good and listen!” The man wasn’t much of a father; in fact, he was in the running (if not the hands-down, blue-ribbon winner) for world’s worst dad of all history of infinite time. But I’ll tell you this, he could tell a walloping good story.

“Your momma was screamin’ so loud you’d think the devil himself was back there stickin’ a pitchfork in her buttcheeks. As the police was still scratchin’ their heads and tryin’ to fig’r where we went, I must’ve hit a rock or somethin’ because the trailer, she hitched, jerked, jumped, you know, right off the ground like. In the rearview I saw your momma; she was suspended there in mid-air. It was like time was movin’ in slow motion. And I swear to you, boy, as much as I’m standin’ here tellin’ ya, your momma was floatin’ for five whole seconds. I counted them as they went by. In my head, you know, not out loud. It was like: Tick — What the fuck is she doing in the fucken air? Tock — Holy shit. She’s flyin’ like a goddanged bird! Tick — Oh hell no! What is all that gunk fallin’ outta her? Tock — Baby pops out. That’s you, boy. And she grabbed ya! Tick — Gravity takes over. Yup, there she goes. Tock — Clunk!”

Billy Fox, my first father, laughed his fool head off at the memory of his partner’s body slamming down on the trailer’s floor. I will say this: Calliope Fox, my first mother, held me close, suspended in the air, and protected me during those first fleeting seconds of my life. After that sole instance of forced maternity, she’d had enough.

“Wow,” young me said, humbled, as always, by the story of my birth.

“It was all I could do just to keep the pedal to the metal!” He was usually sweating by now. Intensity drove his pores wild. “I shouted through the truck’s back window, ‘Hey Calliope! How’s that kid of ours?’ And that’s when she told me you had yourself a little pecker and that you was a boy and that I needed to shut the fuck up and keep drivin’.”

“And you went BEEP BEEP!” I exclaimed.

“And I went BEEP BEEP! I laid on that mighty horn all the way to Douglas County! Yeeeehawwww!”

As bedtime stories go, it wasn’t the most appropriate for a young’un. But to my father’s favor, it had a little bit of everything: truth, fiction, comedy, adventure, birth, life, mysticism, a police chase, and animal feces. The only missing element was death. I’d have a lifetime to fill that hole myself.

Billy Fox was comprised of adrenaline, piss, and violence. He lived on the edge. Right there on it. He handled most everything that came at him with a brazen criminality most thugs never dared. By the time he met his partner in passion, he’d already racked up a long list of felonies. He was wanted in a dozen counties for bank robberies and grand theft auto. But none of that fazed Calliope. In fact, she got off on it. She saw Billy’s sinful record as an opportunity for a rush she could really sink her teeth into; he was an aspiration she strived to live up to. They were connected on the basest level of human depravity. In short, they were made for each other, most likely forged in hell.

If he was in fact born in inferno, Billy brought demons, both figurative and literal, up into the world with him. One of his ghouls, in particular, was a moaning, howling ghostly figure of a woman that would visit him throughout his life, whenever death was near. He told me of the time he first encountered his Banshee. She was hovering and crying right outside his window when he was a young boy. The very next morning, he said, his brother tripped and fell down the basement stairs and broke his neck. From that day forward, he prayed he’d never come across the likes of the Banshee again. But she haunted his psyche from time to time, in his dreams and in his life. Hence, she haunted me. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep too well the night he first told me that tall tale, nor ever since.

Was it true? Was anything that came out of his mouth true? Hard to say. My father was terribly proud of his snake tongue. He said that spinning a “false truth” was in his blood, and I guess maybe it was. The genius of his lies, he revealed, was that he never deviated from them. I must have heard the story of my birth a thousand times before they got rid of me, and the damn yarn was exactly the same on time one as it was on time fifty-six, and as it was the last time. Never a deviation. Which means, either my father had worked up each intricate detail of my birth day fabrication prior to the first telling, or every word of it was true. Heh. Yeah. Try living inside that impossible vortex.

He never lied to Calliope, though. At least that’s what he claimed. During the early days of their courtship, he’d confessed his affection for weaving tall tales and told her that if she didn’t like it, she could “ride a bloated seahorse to the moon.” On hearing this, she proceeded to knock two of his teeth out with a nearby crowbar. Once the stars faded from his vision, she was standing over him with an outstretched hand to help him up.

“And that was the moment I fell in love with her,” he told me. Liar?

I will never forget, though, the most graphic occasion I witnessed of her calling him out for what he was. It was during one of their short, periodic bursts of intercourse. They had their awful trysts at least three times a day in those, my formative years. The bed on the other side of the thin wall separating our rooms bang bang banged into my already-brutalized consciousness. When we stayed at those cheap roadside motels, they would always spring for two adjoining rooms so that she wouldn’t have to sleep near me.

“I love you I love you I love you!” he roared with whatever passed for passion in his mind.

“You’re a fucking liarrrrr, Billllyyyyy!” she squawked back. And he plowed her.

Billy and Calliope Fox were known in the media as the “Texas Terrors” because, well, they terrorized Texas from 1965–1973. An eight-year span of thieving and murder. Six of which were spent hopelessly burdened with an unwelcome, unloved anchor — me.

Just when the legend of Billy and Calliope was gaining momentum as a force you would never want to reckon with, she went and got herself knocked up with yours truly.

On one blessed occasion, my father confided in me while the engine of some recently stolen getaway car purred and my mother robbed a backwoods gas station. He spun the charming anecdote of the Lady Calliope who desired to have a back-alley abortion in order to “rid themselves of the buzzkill growing inside her.” Harsh. Billy said she was convinced that a baby would “weigh them down and slop them up.”

I was born in ’67. Abortion didn’t become legal until ’73. But I’m sure she would have found a way to get the job done, had he not put his foot down and saved me from the most premature of deaths. I’ll always hold a special place in my heart for the old man who disallowed some disgraced quack to prematurely cut me out of her. I am living proof that Calliope came to understand that this was the one instance she would not be able to coerce my father into her way of thinking. She resigned herself to carrying me to term and tried not to lend it too much thought. She went about her daily business as if nothing had changed, even though I was an unavoidable reckoning just over the horizon. Four months pregnant and she continued carjacking and robbing liquor stores and delis. At five months, they took three bars and a small-town bank for a sum total of $8,000. The fatter she got, the harder she got. The Texas Terrors were raising havoc from Austin to Houston to some other, lesser-known Texas town and back again. They were unstoppable. Even when she was just shy of nine months pregnant, Calliope insisted on robbing a roadside café. When her water broke mid-robbery, she yelled “Shit pirates!”, accidentally shot a waitress in the foot, and waddled out to the horse trailer they’d just boosted.

“Let’s go, Billy! This son of a bitch baby’s a’ comin’!”

Then I was born on the run. Which I already told you about.

It is a widely agreed-upon fact that we are all, partially or wholly, for better or worse, products of those who brought us into the world. There’s nothing you can ever do to change that. You are who you are. My mother may have been an uncaring tormentor and my father may have been a scoundrel, murderer, thief, and liar. The two of them together could quite possibly have been the worst criminals the state of Texas ever saw … but none of that matters. Because I am not them.

I am not my first parents. I am neither Billy nor Calliope. I am Marcus Fox, reformed big game hunter, renegade getaway driver, your new best friend, and one hell of a son of a bitch.

This is my story. Not theirs.

I’ve got my own problems.

* * *

I can’t say for sure how we got to Madagascar. After all, I was but an insignificant six-year-old boy. Any story I might concoct would be strictly conjecture. So here goes …

My juvenile perceptions blanched to a hazy malaise and I conked out in the back of their boosted Dodge Charger. And sure, maybe some of this fuzzy recollection can be attributed to me being six, but I’m guessing it also had something to do with the drugs.

Yes, drugs. Calliope must have dissolved into my juice a nightmare-maker shadow tab — some hippie-brewed, chemically enhanced/unstable LSD, maybe — but whatever it was was not intended for children and wicked enough to knock me out for days, plural. I would say I was lucky I didn’t die. But if life has taught me nothing else, it is this: Nothing ever kills me.

How can one even begin to process such trauma? Granted, heinous shit was happening on a pretty regular basis. But to poison your own child? You gotta be some kind of jerk, right? Well, believe it or not, it gets way worse.

They boarded a commercial flight across the Atlantic. America’s most wanted criminals relished their ample leg room, for sure. I guarantee they slipped out of the U.S. with no ticket agent, flight attendant, low-paid security guard, or liquid lunch-buzzed pilot ever the wiser. With a sleeping angel in Billy’s arms, their perfectly normal, perfectly average and boring family disguise would have done the trick. Remember, this was 1973. A madman with an unclear vendetta could have blown up the Alamo and hopped a plane to Nicaragua before a rough sketch of his face made it onto the evening news.

Did Madagascar lose a hasty game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe? Was it just the first flight out of the country? Maybe Billy cherry-picked their destination after savoring the way it tickled his tongue? Whatever the reason, I’m sure they didn’t waste any time once they landed. That small, one-engine Cessna sang its Siren song from the same tarmac. It wasn’t going to hijack itself.

You have to wonder, if you’re me, were they trying to kill me? Or teaching some twisted survival lesson? I know I was an ever-present damper on their accustomed lifestyle of days long gone, but they seemed to manage their crime sprees just fine, despite being saddled for nearly seven years (counting the gestation period). It just seems like there would be plenty of humane ways to divorce yourself from your kid. But then again, they were diabolical.

“He’s awake.”

My head lolled to the side, trying to turn from the roar of the engine. It was everywhere. Clouds that were previously in my mind were now directly outside the window of the plane, in the sky, where they should be. So that was something of a relief. Also, being in the air was nice.

“Marcus?” Momma? “Wake up, Marcus.”

I pulled myself out of my happy little drug coma. Had there been a twinge of kindness in her voice? Is that what that was? I’d never heard that tone before. She generally avoided me at all costs.

“Don’t think this is your fault, Marcus.”

“Whaaaaat?” The word felt sweet, like syrup on honey. I didn’t want to unstick it from my lips.

I thought I heard my father weeping in the cockpit, but it must have been something else, anything else. Maybe a loon had hurled himself into the propeller and I was hearing the tortured echo of his final shriek? That would have made more sense.

I tested my facial features. Blink. Yawn. Grimace. They all worked. Good sign.

“It has to be this way, you understand,” the cold-blooded bitch stated. Already this was the most she’d ever spoken to me. A record by a landslide.

“Yeah, OK.” I understood. I always knew it would come to this. Well, maybe not this, exactly.

“Lady, we’re at 10,000 feet.” The pilot’s voice wavered with fear. The poor sap probably only had a couple hours to live.

“What?” Calliope hollered over the engine.

“We’re there,” the pilot went on. “3,048 meters … 10,000 feet, OK? You wanted me to tell you, so I’m telling you. Also, we’re down to half a tank, so we need to turn back now or we’ll never make it back to Madagascar.”

She waved him off and turned her attention back to me.

“OK, Marcus,” she said. “Time to go.”

I tried to stand but I sunk back into the seat. Something was holding me back. Gravity? The impossible sense of knowing what was about to happen?

She reached behind me and pushed on what I thought was my back, but I didn’t feel anything from her touch. She lifted me up and helped me forward. To where?

I managed to turn my head. It wasn’t easy.

“Daddy?” I said. But he kept his face front.

“Leave him be, Marcus.”

Billy slapped himself across his face with such force that I could hear the desperate pang of it over the plane’s constant chugga-gugg-gugging. If I tell you later that I’ve never been scared, don’t believe me.

“You’re going to be fine,” Calliope said. And then she delivered the most unbelievable plot twist of all: She kissed me. To this day, when I close my eyes real tight, do you think I can feel the peck on my cheek? No! I cannot! Don’t be dense.

“Just pull this cord when you see water. Not a second before.”

“Momma. What are you doing?”

And then I shit myself. She smelled it. Even up there at 10,000 feet (3,048 meters, whatever), she smelled it. I suppose a mother always can. No matter how fucked up in the head they are.

“Pee-yew, Marcus!” She wafted her hand in front of her nose, then tugged open the emergency hatch. And I was gone.

Relentless upward air forced my eyes open and my body hit sky. All the world was a swirling cosmos of blue white blue white blue. The wind spiraled me out of control. It plastered against my face and ran up my tiny legs. Falling. Tumbling. Falling. This was it. The end of my short-lived life.

In a way, it was fitting. I was born midair, I was going to die midair. I honestly thought my racing heart would explode before I ever crashed to Earth. It felt like it was beating on the outside of my chest. I dared a glance down. Nope, no heart flying beneath me. This was both good news and bad. It seemed as though I was actually going to survive the incredible fall just to die on impact.

But my heart, my heart my heart! I reached down to feel its uncontrollable beat, and that’s when I discovered the pull-cord. My hand was on it. Pull it or die, I thought. But then my arms flailed outward again as I just narrowly missed hitting a flock of birds. The unfamiliar species flew onward as if I was of no significance. And I wasn’t. Never was.

Water. There was water! It was close. Death was in my sights. My body took another unexpected somersault and I caught a last glimpse of that Cessna flying away.

I sent them a silent curse and my body flipped again to see that the water below was raging. I ripped the cord. WHOOSH. The parachute opened and jerked me backward and upward. I lost my breath. My lungs sucker punched my ribs and my gut swallowed my heart as I struggled to inhale. At last it came, and I had one, maybe two seconds of painful peace. The open parachute yanked me upright so that my legs dangled in their rightful position. I braced for impact as I had my last thought between death’s two plains: I don’t know how to swim.

SHOOM.

I plunged into warm, rushing waters and held my breath as I tried to climb an invisible ladder to where I hoped the surface might be. Not too far above, I saw the shape of my parachute blocking out the sun. I climbed for it. I climbed with all my might! But I was choking. Was dying! I surfaced. I gasped for air and fell back under again. I bobbed there for I don’t know how long, caught in my half-submerged parachute. I struggled. I clawed. I ripped myself clear and pulled myself up again. One horrible breath. Under again. Surface. Air. Under. I climbed. Climbed. Surface. Air. Under. What was the point?

“Do it!” some inner life force demanded. But I was weak and it was hopeless. I let go. I let everything go. I committed myself to drowning. I closed my eyes and sank to my death.

But, of course, I did not die. I told you, I never die. Also, I’m here so that’s proof positive. I did, however, lose consciousness.

The next time sunlight stroked my face, someone or some thing was carrying me, swimming me to shore. The arm around my fragile body was massive and black. I sucked for air. Couldn’t find it. Choked on swallowed water. Then at last inhaled. It was a short breath but it filled me and I coughed and coughed.

“Devil current,” a deep, masculine voice bellowed. My savior, whoever he was, was fighting to save both our lives. He pulled with one arm and held me up by the other. We were making little progress as far as I could tell. There was nothing I could do. My fate was in his hands. From either shock, fear, adventure, or lack of oxygen, I went limp and passed out again.

SLAP.

“Boy!”

SLAP.

With effort, I lifted my head from the solid ground it lay upon and threw up. I fell forward into my own puke. Through the mess, I could feel the hot earth against my cheek.

“Good. You are awake, angel boy! Welcome to this world!”

I lay there for a moment, then rolled onto my back and looked up into the face of my savior. He was but a large silhouette, painted by the sun.

“God has answered our prayers! Oh blessed day!”

He grabbed hold of me and clung me to his chest. His sweat smelled of sweet danger, like hot gunmetal in a late afternoon greenhouse firefight. After just learning how to breathe again, his clutch was too much. He realized he was hurting me and released me from his bear hug.

“Are you all right, my son?” he asked. I took in my new surroundings. Nothing was familiar. The trees, the heat, the river …

“We must go to Shandra-Namba. Oh, she will kiss your feet!” He looked me up and down. I was covered in a disgusting mess of my own making. “But first, we must make you clean.”

He led me back to the edge of the river, where he proceeded to splash water on my face and body. And then, as he purified my skin with the healing power of the river, I experienced my first-ever epiphany.

“They’re gone,” I said. And my savior continued to wash me. “I’m free.”

“Yes, yes, yes, my son! We are all free. It is glorious, is it not?”

I broke down and cried. Six years of negligence and terror flowed out of me. I wailed like a baby in a giant’s arms.

“Cry, child, cry. Go ahead and cry.”

And I did. And I did. And I did.

There, I was reborn. Right there on the bank of the Zambezi River, I became a real boy.

CHAPTER

2

This was Zambia — Zambia, Africa.

The giant who pulled me from the Zambezi River called himself Shumbuto, because that was his name. He was naked, save for a shredded cloth tied around his waist. The purpose of this meager covering was lost on me, as his penis openly bounced to and fro between his legs as he walked.

Shumbuto carried a blade that was bigger than my entire body. When he strayed from the river’s edge, quick swipes at encroaching vegetation allowed him to forge a new path. Pesky shrubs and dainty ferns crumpled at his feet. As the angry flow of the Zambezi faded into the distance, the trees grew much taller, their upper branches forming a broken canopy far above my head. The holy ceiling provided long slivers of shade as we walked. Clearly, this Africa was in a universe unto its own, far removed from Texas.

Shumbuto talked on and on, offering an impromptu tour of my strange, new whereabouts, though he kept getting sidetracked by the happiness in his heart (his words).

“You do not know how long we have prayed for a son,” he rejoiced. Though he spoke about me, he wasn’t speaking to me. On that first walk, he was preoccupied with reconciling his thoughts. The few times he considered me at all were to verify that I was still there, following his fast footsteps and not, in fact, just some teasing dream.

“… and this is where I killed the mighty …”

“… and this spot is halfway to …”

“… and here is a good spot for sitting in rain …”

“… and this is a lizard. Hello, lizard!”

The canopy parted, unveiling a noonday sky. The spongy grass under our feet turned from soft green to firm yellow to hard brown in mere steps. A few more and it disappeared completely — burned away by the harsh sun. Until now, I’d been so immersed in the unfamiliar spectacle of nature that I’d barely registered the loss of my shoes. They, along with my troubled past, belonged to the Zambezi now. Godspeed.

“Come, boy. We are almost to our home.”

Home. It was a word I never knew. Not to get overly sentimental, but the idea of an actual home had always been a fantasy to me. A home was something that only good boys and girls were allowed. Somewhere deep down, I knew that couldn’t be true. It was just one of Billy’s many lies. Probably. Maybe.

Up ahead, sitting in a nowhere land of dirt and sun, there was a single small hut, held together by tree limbs, stones, and hardened mud. It had no physical door in the American sense — no hinges, knob, or even a frame to justify such things.

“Here. We are here! Shandra-Namba! Come!”

Shumbuto bent his bulk down and disappeared through a medium-sized hole in the curvature of the wall. I stood outside, patiently wavering, expecting to collapse. The heat, exhaustion, detoxification, likely starvation, dehydration, and probable shock were getting to me.

“She is out.” He emerged disappointed. “She will return soon. Come!” He beckoned me. “Come, you are welcome!”

Inside Shumbuto’s hut there was nothing. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. There was a blanket made of some animal’s golden fur draped across the ground, a clay pitcher in one corner, and a wood stool in another.

When it struck Shumbuto that he did not know my name, he asked it of me.

“Marcus,” I croaked. My mouth was dry. Parched. Swollen. Dirt. Shumbuto handed me the pitcher, and from it I drank the purest water I’d ever known.

“Marcus,” he repeated, chewing on my nomenclature. “You have a good name. What does it mean?”

“What does it mean?” I repeated. “Nothing, I don’t think.”

“No!” Shumbuto stood taller than before and struck his chest with a proud, tight fist. “All names have meaning. I am Shumbuto. My name means ‘peace by blood.’ I wear it well. It is who I am.”

“Peace by blood,” I repeated.

“In time, you will learn our ways. You have nothing to fear from me.”

He led me back to the entrance with his strong, protective, life-saving arm around my shoulder.

“Everything I have is yours,” he said as he swept his free hand in a high arc to indicate his vast empire of wind. “I am your father now.”

I stood there in the doorway, believing in impossibilities.

“Come, rest,” Shumbuto said. “You have traveled far. You must sleep.”

I lay down. The ground was uncomfortable for a few minutes, but then the soft fur of the blanket took hold. I surrendered myself to sleep, soothed by Shumbuto’s heavy breathing. My savior was taking his own well-earned nap. I drifted as he drifted.

In my dreams, I saw the faces of Billy and Calliope as I’d always wished they could be: shining, full of love, and happy. “You will grow into your name, boy. By your manhood, it will define you,” my ex-parents whispered in tandem, in Shumbuto’s voice.

I slept the sleep of gods and wallabies. When I woke, Shumbuto was gone and someone new was observing me from the stool in the corner.

“Hello, Marcus. I am Shandra-Namba. You have come to us, just as we have known you would. Yet, you are somewhat younger than we expected.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My hands came away covered in river grime. Shandra-Namba came to me with the pitcher of water and washed my face clean with a rag. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think, or how to act, but none of it mattered because this woman seemed to know me.

“It is all right, Marcus. Your old life is behind you now.” She shifted her weight on the stool and I caught sight of her left breast inside her flimsy tunic. Noticing me noticing it, she tucked it back, not in shame but with decorum.

“You are weathered beyond your years. It is OK to forget,” she said. “You are hurt, lost, confused. Forget it all.”

She hypnotized me with her kindness.

“But …”

But nothing. She was right. I’d lived one lifetime and was ready for the next. Everything past was preposterous. Let it fade.

“Shumbuto thinks you are an angel sent to us by God. Let him believe what he wishes. He is a good man.”

“What do you believe, Shanna … Sha …?”

“Shandra-Namba. I believe in many things, Marcus. I believe in my husband. He says you fell from the sky. If he says a thing, it is true. But I also believe you are more human than angel. Shumbuto thinks that God pushed you out of his nest, intending for you to fly. He believes that because you could not, you fell to the earth, to us. And Shumbuto understands it is our duty to help you learn.”

“Learn to fly?”

“In a way, yes. And I believe so too. But I am more practical than Shumbuto. He is a kind soul, but sometimes, perhaps too innocent.”

“I’m no angel,” I reflected. “I am the spawn of devils.”

“Such big ideas for such a small child!”

I blinked hard, fighting more tears. I would forget. I would have to.

“It is OK, Marcus. You will learn to leave it all behind. Just as I said.”

“But … how?”

“Time will help. You will see. And, Marcus.” She came close and held my face in her hands. My heart swelled, and in that moment, I knew I would love her forever. “I believe in you.”

Gently, she pulled me toward her breast and more tears came.

“Cry, Marcus. It is good. Cry to forget, child.”

Somewhere in the middle of it all, she kissed my cheeks. And somewhere in the middle of it all, she stroked my hair. And somewhere in the middle of it all, our unbreakable bond was formed.

* * *

And so, I became their son and learned their ways.

In those first few weeks, I had many questions, the most prominent of which was why they had chosen to make their home on the harshest land around. In every direction, there was suitable forest that would be much more conducive to survival; yet that desolate patch of dead earth, that anti-oasis, was their home.

“The harsher the land, the stronger the man,” Shumbuto preached. “Where not a weed can grow, a true man can prosper.”

“But,” I persisted as we entered the forest path that led to the river, “why not build a hut by the water? We have to walk so far every day just to fill our pitchers!”

“You do not enjoy the walk? How can you not? I love a good walk! It keeps me fresh and appreciative of my body. You should learn, Marcus, that you cannot have everything so easy. Life is full of hardships. You have fought many already, I am sure. But you no doubt have untold hardships yet to come. You will see. Hopefully, your struggles will make you stronger. This is the only way. The alternative is unforgivable. Weakness in a man is shameful.”

He paused in his speech and in his stride. We were about halfway to the Zambezi. I held a bucket in each hand, while Shumbuto carried four. He was an ox of a man, as I’m sure I have already said, but his inner strength was even greater. His resolve to live on his own terms, no matter what, was a thing to be admired. I know that now.

“I don’t understand. Why should anyone want to make their life harder than it already is?”

“That is not my meaning. By appreciating life for its many challenges, you will be amazed when it surprises you with top rewards. Yes, that sounds accurate.”

He sat on the ground and motioned for me to join him. “Take this path, for example.”

I looked down the trail as far as I could see. We’d traversed this long, unlikely route back and forth twice a day since my arrival, and it never crossed my mind to think of how it came to be. I did now, and Shumbuto brightened when he saw my quizzical face poring over it.

“Shumbuto! How has the path come to be?” I asked. Already I was beginning to speak like him.

He was a funny man at times. He would make jokes with his eyes, as he did now. They rolled up in an innocent manner as if to say, “Surely, I have no idea.” And then his pupils darted down to the scabbard hanging from his belt (he was wearing short pants made of hemp that day). Inside that scabbard, I knew, was his blade.

“You?” I said, surprised. “You cut this entire path? How long did it take you?” I looked up. Left. Right. The path had not merely been cut through leaves and bush, but the stalwart trees had been cleared as well! “You chopped down the trees? That must have taken forever!”

“What is forever? I will never know. Will you?”

As funny as he could be with his eyes and as strong as he was with his arms, Shumbuto was equally as confounding with his philosophies.

“What you must know, Marcus, is that everything worth doing is worth doing.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are so full of questions. You will learn, in time, your own answers.”

To this day, I often wonder if Shumbuto was a learned shaman or just a brilliant nincompoop. He would always say that each man is put on Earth for a purpose, but only a select few are wise enough to glean what that purpose is before their time comes. Furthermore, even fewer men, upon knowing their purpose, can approach it with patience, hone it into a practical skill, study it, live it, and God willing, pass it on. Shumbuto’s greatest skill, his life’s purpose and reason for existence, he said, was to hunt.

When I would ask Shumbuto to take me on one of his hunts, his answer was always, “No, Marcus. You are far too young.”

Shandra-Namba agreed. It was the only aspect of life that separated me from them. In every other way, they treated me as an equal.

Each day, I helped prepare the meals. Whether dinner consisted of mushrooms and berries from a recent gathering or fresh meat from one of Shumbuto’s hunts, I would assist Shandra-Namba in the preparation. Cooking came easy to me, though that’s not saying much. All I had to do was get the fire going and toss whatever the meal was onto the metal slab. The heat did all the work. Heat and patience. The only real skill was in knowing when to turn the food. A trained monkey could do it.

We ate meat often. Our greatest source of protein came from Shumbuto’s hunts. His excursions were, on average, biweekly. He would leave, shrouded in mystery, before the sun. At first, I slept through his exits. I was an active boy and therefore slept peacefully as Shumbuto crept out of the hut. When I awoke to find him gone, I asked Shandra-Namba of his whereabouts. She only replied, “Your father is off providing for us. He will return when his bounty is full.”

I watched for him every daylight hour (and a few by the light of the moon). When he finally returned, he emerged from the forest with a giant sack slung over his shoulder. I rushed to greet him, dancing around him in a circle as he walked.

“Shumbuto! What have you got there?”

“Here, Marcus, is enough meat to fill our bellies for a full month.”

He dropped the sack near the fire pit. There, he held Shandra-Namba in a loving embrace and kissed her in a way I’d never seen before. There were true feelings between them. Watching them like that made my arms tingle. Letting his wife go, Shumbuto lifted me up onto his shoulders. I laughed freely, as a child should, as he ran around the hut a dozen times before he stopped the game and put me down.

He set his blade down next to his kill. I stared in awe at that incredible sack of meat. From what animal had it come and how had he killed it? Was it just one beast? It couldn’t be, could it? I imagined the corpses of a herd of buffalo within. The sack was huge!

“Father,” I said. It was the first time I’d called him by the reverent title. “You are truly a great hunter.”

“Hunting, Marcus, is not a thing to admire. Killing another of God’s creatures is no easy work. You should never look at it as sport. It is merely a means to survival. Come, walk with me. There are more sacks to retrieve.”

More sacks! How could it be? Shandra-Namba let on that she was not surprised. I ran into the hut and grabbed one of my very few possessions, a large stick I had whittled into a spear.

“Leave your spear, son,” Shumbuto said. “You won’t need it.”

“But …” I stopped, realizing any argument would fall on deaf ears.

I dropped my meager plaything and followed him into the forest. Immediately, we veered off the path. Up until now, I’d not ventured from it. Shumbuto forbade it.

The sounds of the forest hushed as we passed through. I found myself breathing lighter, listening closer, attuning my body to our surroundings. At times, I swear I could feel the great jackalberry’s roots groaning under the earth as we passed, hear far-off birds muttering in their nests above, sense Shumbuto thinking. Yes, even then, the hunter was in me.

After nearly two hours of walking in silence, Shumbuto at last stopped and turned to me.

“How are you feeling, Marcus?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You have not spoken a word since we left Shandra-Namba. Are you frightened?”

“No.” I wasn’t.

“If you are frightened, that is natural. I have yet to tell you where we are going.” He studied me carefully. I did not twitch or flinch. “Are you not curious?”

“Yes, Father,” I said. “But I know that when we arrive, we will be there.” This wisdom shocked even me, and I betrayed my confidence with an ever-so-brief grin.

“How you are not of my own flesh and blood is a mystery to me.”

It was true. It was a marvel how much I’d learned in our extremely short time together.

“Through there.” He pointed at a grove to the left. “That is where we are headed. You can just about see it.”

I squinted to the spot and could barely make out some object.

“Do you see?”

“I see something,” I said. “What is it?”

“It is my hunting shack, Marcus.”

“What is a hunting shack?”

“Come. I will show you.”

As we came upon the structure, my first thought was that it was much bigger than our hut. It was at least three times the size and constructed of solid oak. The wood should have been warped by years, but there was no moss or imperfection that I could see. There were also no windows, which seemed strange. Size and lack of windows aside, I could tell that it had been built by the same hands that put up our hut.

To the right of the building, a large concrete slab sat atop two sizable boulders. Two questions came to mind but poured out of me as one. “How did you move it what is it used for?”

Shumbuto understood and answered half of my twofold thought, employing his own doublespeak.

“Of the many mysteries in this universe, the weight of a heavy object matters not.”

Brilliant. But as to the use of the slab, I could easily guess. As we came upon it, I could see that it was stained with years of blood.

“Oh,” I said.

“Yes. Oh,” he said. And then he gently led me away from the killing rock.

The shack’s door was a massive thing; it swung on a system of springs and latches. I had not seen anywhere close to this level of mechanical ingenuity back at our hut. Everything there was primitive; we had only the bare necessities for survival. This place, however, was modern by comparison. The door itself was evidence enough. And the fact that it had a lock on it; well, that was just sheer genius.

Shumbuto knelt down and dug his hands into the dirt. Within seconds, he came up with a metal key. Again, the phrase “brilliant nincompoop” flashed through my head. I chased the thought away and waited for him to unlock and open the door.

Once inside, I was again struck by the similarities the shack held to our own home. It consisted of one room that served one purpose. In the center were a stool and a desk. On the desk, there were many knives. Scattered about the ground and leaning against each wall were all kinds of implements of destruction. Bows, arrows, spears, daggers, and the like served as deadly decor. I’d never seen so many weapons in one room, which is saying a lot, coming from my embattled background.

In all the strange killing tools in Shumbuto’s shack, there wasn’t a single firearm. Not a pistol or a revolver. Not a shotgun. Not a tommy gun nor a bobby gun nor a charlie gun. No machine guns or rifles. No dice. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

“Wow,” I said, taking it all in.

Making his way through the shack, Shumbuto was careful not to step on anything. In one of the far corners, he retrieved what he’d come for: a second and third sack. He picked them up and walked back to the front. He walked past me, saying his trademark “come.”

I took one final look at the place. Had Shumbuto made all these weapons? And if not, how did he acquire them? Some appeared awfully intricate in their design. Leaving the shack, I noted again the relatively technologically advanced door. I suppose any man can make anything as long as he has know-how and time.

Back outside, I lost any sense of composure I may have held before. I knew nothing of our surroundings and could only concentrate on spouting infantile questions. In effect, I was a child once again.

“Shumbuto! Did you make all of those weapons? Every one? Do you use them all? What are they called? Do you use different ones for different animals? How many kinds of animals have you killed? Did you build this place all by yourself? With your own two hands?”

I stopped to breathe. Shumbuto was silent. I pressed on, ignoring the futility of my onslaught.

“I know, I know. Too many questions. I’m full of questions. But this is amazing! You have to take me hunting with you!”

“No, Marcus. You are far too young.”

“Don’t say that!” I stamped my feet and crossed my arms. “Why would you say that? Why did you show me this place if not to teach me how to hunt? I want to hunt! I do! It’s not fair! Why would you tease me like this, Shumbuto? Why did you bring me here?”

Shumbuto said nothing. He dropped one of the sacks at my feet. I had my answer. He turned and walked back into the forest. Still furious, I decided I would do better to follow him than be lost here. I was certain I would never find my own way back to our hut. I picked up the sack and dragged it after him.

Two more long, silent hours passed, but this time, I was in tune with nothing. The air between us was heavy, and so was the sack. It hung over my shoulder, mocking me with its weight.

I had myself a very angry walk back. I wanted to be like my new father, but all he wanted of me was a slave — someone to carry his kill back to his woman. It was humiliating, infuriating, and mean.

At last we returned, and Shandra-Namba met us at the edge of the forest. She smiled, and I immediately felt guilty for all my anger. No one could stay angry while in the presence of those happy eyes.

“Did you two have a nice afternoon?” she asked. I couldn’t bring myself to speak just yet.

“Yes,” Shumbuto answered. “We had ourselves a very nice afternoon. Did we not, Marcus?”

What sort of game was he playing with me?

“Yes,” I said. And left it at that.

“Good, then!” Shandra-Namba said. “Dinner is near ready. You must be hungry?”

Not surprisingly, I felt my stomach rumble. I had been carrying some unknown, hefty meat in a sack for quite some time, but this was the first thought I had of hunger. I was grateful to have returned to the prospect of a warm, home-cooked meal. In truth, it was an exciting delight after a full week of mushrooms and berries.

If Shandra-Namba had her own curiosities about our hike, she did not give in to them. She did, however, speak of other mundane matters as I wolfed down three large helpings of mystery meat.

I’d learned by then to refrain from asking what was on the menu. The few times I’d asked, Shumbuto cryptically responded, “You will learn to tell the many flavors different meats have to offer. In time, it will be as easy as knowing the bumps on the back of your tongue.”

The last thing I wanted to hear after this day’s long, frustrating journey was more of his enigmatic bullshit. So instead of asking questions that would go unanswered, I busied my mouth with the task of chowing down.

This night’s meat was much thicker than usual. Not only that, but it was less salty and had a silkier mouthfeel. I ripped into it, shoveling in too much at once. To make up for the blunder, I stored some food in my cheeks for later access. Savoring every morsel, I rolled it greedily over my tongue between toothy grinds.

What Shandra-Namba and Shumbuto spoke of, I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t be bothered with conversation. The scrumptious meal in my mouth, in my throat, in my stomach — oh my God — was a revelation.

When I’d finally come to a point where I knew that if I ate one more bite I would explode, I lay on my back in the dirt and belched to the darkening sky.

“It is good to see you eat so well, Marcus,” Shumbuto said. I attempted to open my mouth to respond, but another burp came out.

“You call that eating healthy?” Shandra-Namba replied. “He’ll be sick before the night is through.”

Shumbuto laughed. I distinctly remember thinking, Is eating ferociously a thing to be proud of? Am I a man now? Then, I felt the unstable ingested flesh move and ripple. I was slow to sit up. My head was swimming with ideas. I felt not gorged, not even full. In fact, it was almost as if I hadn’t eaten a thing. How could that be? I was an alien in my own skin — a foreign being who did not need sustenance to live. And yet I knew full well how much food I’d consumed.

In effect, I was morphing into something else entirely, and I became invincible. I knew it then and I know it now. There was a beast inside of me and I owned it. I wanted the whole world to know the savage creature.

Shandra-Namba cleared the dinner sheet. She moved in slow motion, exuding purple streaks of light behind her. It took about a year for her to do the simple task, then she disappeared into the hut.

My face was warm. My face was hot. My face was cool. My face was not my face.

The night sky was burgeoning to envelop me. Its blistering stars were eager to pierce me with galaxy magic. Beneath them all, on harsh land, my Zambian father observed me, and I turned to observe him right back. What I saw was easier to comprehend than the cosmos’s mind games, but still, he was a tough nut to crack. My hallucinogenic perception of Shumbuto’s inexplicable nature came with an indelible moment of clarity: A person can never know the true being of another.

And with this tragic new knowledge, I released a thunderous roar.

“What was that?” I gasped, suddenly terrified of the animal within.

“What did you hear?” Shumbuto asked.

“I heard … I heard …”

But I could not say what I’d heard, because I was not sure whether I’d actually heard it. Did it come from the forest, or did it come from inside me? Was it anything at all? What was happening? I was taller than Shumbuto and growing to meet the sky. And then I was part of it. I was every star. I was the moon. I was the clouds. I was the wind. I was …

I was myself.

“Easy, my son.”

Shumbuto spoke, but I couldn’t see him. He was way down on Earth somewhere. Out of reach. I’d grown far beyond him and beyond everything. It was too much. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t take it. I decided to let go of it all, fall back to reality, and when I crashed, I vomited in the dirt. I was doing a lot of that back then.

“What did I say?!” Shandra-Namba shouted from the doorway. “I told you he would be sick!”

Shumbuto held me. “It is all right, Marcus. You are all right.” His voice soothed my madness. “The day is done, my young son. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.”

Right before I drifted off into some other dream, I thought I told him my truth (though I cannot be sure).

“I heard the lion roar,” I might have said. “And the lion was me.”

* * *

In the morning, I remembered everything yet understood nothing. Surely, I had been in some kind of delirium from eating too much. But who ever heard of having such an experience from food?

I stumbled out of the hut to find Shumbuto standing not far off, staring into the sun. I left him alone for a moment to relieve myself.

Now, you may have already wondered how we went to the bathroom. Well, not how, obviously, but where. Without going into too much detail (as I’m sure you’d rather I get on to the more interesting, less repugnant parts of my story), there were two pits at our humblest of homes. We had the fire pit out front and the fecal pit out back — way out back. It was right near the edge of the forest, but we never entered that way. If we were headed back there it was for one reason only: to shit in the pit.

A very dirty shovel lay nearby so that we didn’t have to be in the pit while going about our business. During my first week, I’d asked Shumbuto very simply, “What happens when the pit is full?”

“Bury the pit. Dig another,” he answered. It was one of the few times he ever gave me an absolute. His directness, even if it was in response to stinky matters, was refreshing.

Halfway to the pit, I felt the bad juju bubbling inside me. I quickened my pace. At this early point in my Zambian experience, I was still holding on to some semblance of America. I was still wearing the shorts I dropped in with. I’d just barely got them down around my ankles before my bowels emptied a river of disaster. I do remember that it was more painful than it should have been. It was also, as you might imagine, quite humorous. I laughed at the many noises I was making from both ends of my body, and in the brief silences between, I could hear Shumbuto’s deep and boisterous belly laugh from far away.

When I’d finished, I exhaled with gusto, glad to be done. I grabbed the shovel and scooped it up. I stared in brief awe at my waste. What was I looking for? Maggots? Worms? Some kind of alien baby? I was being ridiculous. I flung it into the hole and washed my hands with the water bucket; it was left there for that purpose.

When I returned to where Shumbuto stood, he was still looking to the horizon.

“Did Shandra-Namba go for water?” I asked. Where else would she have gone?

“Yes,” Shumbuto replied. “How are you feeling this morning, Marcus?”

I considered his question and realized that, with my lower system purged, I was doing rather well. I told him as much, and he nodded.

“You had quite your fill last night. Tell me, how did you like the taste?”

Was he serious? Had he not witnessed my gluttony?

“It was absolutely the best meal I’ve ever had,” I said.

“That is good, Marcus. Very good.”

“Shumbuto, what happened to me?”

“What do you remember of your vision?” he asked, and untied the tight rope from the smaller sack, the one I’d carted through the forest.

My vision.

It was a perfect description of the dreamlike experience. Too real to be false, yet too impossible to be true. In an almost detached, trance-like voice, I explained to Shumbuto that when I looked into his eyes the night prior, I grew tall. Taller than him. Taller than our hut. Taller than the trees. Into the sky. Into the clouds. And then I had a revelation.

“Yes, I am quite certain you did.” He nodded. “You can keep that truth to yourself, Marcus. Whatever it is, I hope it will serve you well someday.”

I didn’t want to doubt him, but how could it? A person can never know the true being of another person? What good would that ever do me?

“What did you hear?” he asked politely.

I told him of the roar that came from inside me. Not from the forest or the moon or anywhere in the world. It was in me.

Again, he nodded.

“It was lion,” I said, working out an epiphany worth a damn. “We ate lion last night. Shumbuto, you killed a lion?”

“I am going to show you something now, Marcus. I do not want you to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” said I.

“The lion is our one true enemy. He is the exception to our hunter’s code. Our people have been at war with him since before my father’s father’s father’s time.”

Our people? What people?

Before I could speak my thoughts, Shumbuto reached into one of the sacks and pulled out a decapitated lion’s head. It was snarling, even in death. Dried blood crusted its severed neck. I stumbled backward and fell to the ground. I crawled away, petrified. It was more than the horror Shumbuto held in the air that struck me; it was also the fact that I’d carried the beast all that way, unknowing. It was also the fact that I had eaten its insides, unknowing. It was also the fact that Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba both fed it to me. But more than anything, I was scared near to death from his lack of any emotion. As he raised the lion’s head high above his own, my savior’s pupils turned a shade of black I would not see again for twenty-seven years. His sordid eyes were the very same as those of the sabertooth wolfenshark’s.

CHAPTER

3

If any of this sounds far-fetched — if you don’t want to believe it — that’s fine. But I swear every part is true. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just keep on ramblin’ on. I do appreciate an avid listener.

After the initial scare wore off, I half expected a megaton thunderbolt to rip open the firmament and further emphasize Shumbuto’s fearsome features. To the best of my recollection, that bit of sky magic did not come to pass. I think I would remember a thing like that.

I stood, leveled at his waist, as he handed me the trophy. Holding the dead head in my hands, I forced every ounce of apprehension out of my body. I dug it up from the pit of my chest and expelled it from the tips of my fingers. Cherishing the cleanse, I transferred my many terrors straight into the lion’s skull.

Shumbuto’s eyes were no longer two chilling, black-filled holes — probably never were. They were tender again, as always.

“What will you do with it?” I asked him, studying the lion’s features for any final remnant of life.

“What we will do, Marcus, is bring this prize to our people.”

Shumbuto sat and I got down next to him, placing the grim animal between us.

“What people, Shumbuto?”

“Did you think we were the only ones in Zambia, my son? Our village is one day’s hike west. We shall leave when Shandra-Namba returns with water.”

“I don’t understand. I thought this was our home?”

“When you fell from the heavens, Marcus, we had just arrived here. Two days before that, a lion,” he motioned to the head between us, “this lion, came upon our village under the cover of night. This beast took from us a babe. The child, Kimbaya, did not suffer. She screamed once but no more. The lion was accidentally merciful in its butchering of innocence.

“Kimbaya’s mother and father awoke during the horror. Loquan, my good friend, had his throat ripped out as he was reaching for his blade. His wife, Musala, lost her leg. The village woke and we ran to Loquan’s tent, but it was finished. This devil darted back into the forest as our arrows pierced the darkness in vain.

“Musala bled through the night. She died at dawn.” Shumbuto breathed. “Her suffering would have had no end, had she survived.”

I looked into the dead animal’s eyes and made instant peace with a raw, unadulterated, seething hatred. I wanted to do the impossible: to kill what had already been killed.

“Have you been tracking this lion ever since I arrived?”

“Yes. And no.” Shumbuto hesitated.

“Please, Father,” I said. “Tell me.”

“It is true. Shandra-Namba and I came here because I was tracking the lion. I am our village’s greatest hunter. In truth, on the day you fell from the sky, I sensed him. I knew exactly where to go.”

A shudder went through me.

“At the riverbank, I was certain I had found him.”

Shumbuto stood and walked a few paces.

“I have the best nose for hunting, Marcus. I cannot explain it. I have always been capable of rooting out my prey. But then …”

“But then?” I repeated. And he turned back to me.

“There, on the riverbank, Marcus. I felt the lion’s presence like never before. His life force was all over me. I checked every direction, but he was not there. I knew he was on my scent just as I was on his. I could feel him getting closer and ready to pounce. But he was nowhere. And then …”

“And then?”

“Then I looked up to the heavens, and there you were, falling.” Shumbuto took three great strides back and knelt before me. He held my small hands in his own.

“The lion was not there at the riverbank, Marcus,” he said. “What I was sensing was you.” Shumbuto’s tone shifted. He straightened and spoke in a regal manner. “You will hear the story of our people now.”

And so I did.

* * *

The Shakasantie were a unique indigenous folk. The majority of tribes that populated the region back in the early ’70s lived within a few dozen miles of each other. They formed close-knit social structures and mingled with other villages sparingly. Recognized by the Zambian government, they were allowed certain resources and aid. They paid homage to a king and were awarded bounties for this.

Shumbuto’s people, however, were entirely independent. Shumbuto explained that the Zambian government tolerated the Shakasantie and had allowed them to live outside the general realm for years.

They were at peace. And, by the providence of God, they’d managed to survive, unaffected by rulers or governments. Shumbuto did not know how far back their history went. His people, though skilled at many things, were not, unfortunately, adept at record keeping. The Shakasantie could be traced only as far as their elders’ memories. As Shumbuto noted, even the most adroit elders could pass along but scant recollections of their fathers’ time, and even less about their fathers’ fathers’. Beyond that, it was all kind of a blur.

But the Shakasantie wore their independence with pride. They coupled, raised children, grew old, and died, all in harmony with themselves and the land. They feasted on what the earth provided, cultivating fruits as well as meat.

It was true that Shumbuto was the greatest hunter among his people (or so he said), but most of the other men in the village were also enraptured with the rage of the hunt. After several generations of existence, the people had become masters of the inescapable pastime. Keeping the honor of it all in perspective, of course.

“But,” I asked, confused in so many ways, “you told me this hut was our home?”

“I did. And it is. Wherever we rest our heads is home. This hut is our home now. The forest is our home when we pass through it. Our village is our home, too, when we live there.”

“But,” I continued, wondering if my interjections would reveal any insights or just forestall further frustrations. “You never mentioned any of this. I’ve been with you a whole month and you never said a word about it. You lied.”

“What is a lie, Marcus? Is a lie an omission of truth? I think not. One thing you should know is that Shakasantie never speak falsely. We offer information through casual discussion. If you feel as if I held something back from you, then perhaps I have. But here we are now, and I am showing you the way to truth. By sharing with you the plight of our people, you will know us for who we are.”

“Tell me,” I implored him, “if you are such a great hunter, then why is Shandra-Namba here with you?”

Shumbuto sat very still, waiting for me to complete my question.

“If this lion was so dangerous, were you not leading her into great danger?”

“Ha!” Shumbuto surprised me with his outburst. “There is much you will learn of Shakasantie women, Marcus! It is true they are renowned for being the world’s finest lovers, but they can also defend themselves better than any other women on God’s green earth.”

I knew what he meant by the word lovers. The hut we had shared was, after all, just a hut. And as previously mentioned, I was no stranger to the grunting of sexual gratification. But as to the rest of his claim, I had several reasons to doubt its accuracy. The first was that although Shumbuto believed he spoke the truth in all matters, that didn’t necessarily make it so. For example, in his mind, Shumbuto believed Shakasantie women to be second to none when it came to defending themselves. But what was his frame of reference? Not five minutes earlier, he said that his people were secluded from the rest of Africa, so how many other types of women had he encountered? In this, his notion of truth fell short. Not to mention the woman who lost her family and her leg (and consequently, her life) to the lion now perched, bodiless, by my side. How great a defender was she? I didn’t ask. I knew this question would be disrespectful.

“I can see you are deep in thought now, my son. And that is good. You will learn, over time, that concentrated thought is not only crucial to the formulation of true ideas and a righteous course of action, but is also what makes us human. A man must be able to think, to set forth in his mind how he feels on all matters; he needs to sort his options and choose the best path available. And, if no path is available, he must forge one.”

Shumbuto’s own, literal path came to mind — the path he’d cut from this phony home to the hunting shack. What had his thought process been when forging that?

“True thought separates us from the beast,” he said, and again I looked to the lion’s severed head.

“Father, what is it about the lion?”

Shumbuto reflected on this for some time. So long, in fact, that I nearly opened my mouth to ask something else; something about Shandra-Namba. But at last, he answered me.

“The lion,” Shumbuto said, “is as ruthless as death himself. We have always been at war with him.”

Whatever Shumbuto’s history with the lion was — whatever his people’s history with the lion was — it probably went further back than any living Shakasantie could recall. Now it was my history too.

I can’t say I was thrilled with the idea of being uprooted yet again. Since I’d landed in their world, I assumed I was going to live out the rest of my days on this small patch of dirt in this nothing of a hut, and I was fine with that. I didn’t want to be carried off to some new, foreign place. I was still very much being swept away by this one.

Shumbuto described his village as a peaceful, loving community where everyone made it their business to care for one another. He spoke at length about the harmonious nature of Shakasantie day-to-day life. To anyone less dysfunctional, this would have seemed like an ideal situation. But the prospect of a larger society only threatened to intrude on my newfound family dynamic. Of course, my young mind couldn’t formulate any of these broad concepts in a meaningful way. Instead, when Shandra-Namba returned with water, we made fast work of abandoning our home.

Following my Zambian parents toward whatever fate lay in wait for me at Shakasantie Village, I pouted and stomped my way through the forest.

I knew Shumbuto to be a master navigator, but had yet to witness Shandra-Namba lead the way. She did so now. Graceful in her movements, she turned here and weaved there effortlessly. From what little I could tell, there was no discernible path. There were no footprints in the dirt to show us the way, not even a hint of displaced leaves. Yet, she never faltered in her steadfast sense of direction. It was as if she had taken this journey so many times that the way was imprinted on her brain.

“How often have you made this trip, Shandra-Namba?” I asked her, forgetting I was supposed to be upset.

“More than I care to count, Marcus.” She fell into a reverie, and I realized I’d unknowingly posed a hurtful question.

What little information about the lion Shumbuto had shared was not enough. “This lion you killed,” I began. “This lion we carry in three sacks right now — he was the first in how long?”

“Time is nothing.” Shumbuto gave a bullshit non-answer and quickened his pace. I surprised myself when I halted and held my ground.

“What is it, Marcus? Are you weary so soon?”

“I understand your people have a terrible history with the lion. I only want to know more, to understand your ways.” They were hiding many secrets from me. I knew it as sure as I knew that I was wise beyond my years.

“In time, my son.” He caressed my cheek in what I assumed to be a fatherly manner. “You will understand many things.”

Shandra-Namba smiled and took up the hike again.

We walked most of the day. Just before sunset, we stopped and I helped Shandra-Namba pick wild berries for supper. She had taught me which ones were edible and which ones were poison, knowledge that has saved my life on many hungry occasions over the years.

We ate in relative quiet. We picked and ate so many berries that eventually the smell of the nearby sack of meat became less maddening.

I was still anxious and addled by the lack of relevant answers. As we lay down for the night, I opened my mouth to ask again, but he beat me to it.

“Sleep, Marcus. Just sleep.”

“But …”

“Sleep. Tomorrow, you will meet your new people, your true family. Before the day is done, I promise you, any question you have will be answered.”

I didn’t want to wait, but I knew Shumbuto would be an immovable statue of stubbornness. So, I gave way to my weary body. I fell asleep to the gentle sounds of Shandra-Namba’s humming.

* * *

In the morning, the sun passed our heads as we walked, reenergized, through the deepening forest. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that, at last, the trees parted and we emerged into a green pasture. Shakasantie Village lay before us, a small cluster of tiny huts (much like the one we’d left behind) set around the Zambezi.

Shandra-Namba held my hand. She smiled down and whispered, “This is your home now.”

As we approached, a small boy looked up from a hole he was digging and shouted, “They have returned!” He met us, laughing and jumping about. When he noticed me, he did not waver in his delight. He didn’t even stop to question my presence.

“This is Marcus, Nuhari,” Shumbuto said. “He is your brother.”

Nuhari’s jubilance knew no bounds. He took hold of my hands (practically ripping the right one from Shandra-Namba’s) and led me in a sprightly dance around our elders. All this time he was screaming, “They have returned and brought Marcus! They have returned and brought Marcus!”

Soon, what I perceived to be the entire village came running and cheering. The men pat Shumbuto on the back and the women kissed Shandra-Namba. Many children joined Nuhari and me in our joyful dance.

Until that moment, I had not known true happiness. I lost myself in it.

At last, we settled into a celebratory march. I, the sole white face in a sea of dark ones, was accepted by all, without explanation. At some point, Nuhari let go of me and picked up the sack of lion meat I had been lugging for the past day and a half. Two bigger, older boys lifted the other sacks. With Nuhari, they ran away with them.

When we entered the center of the village, we came to an extraordinary wooden table. It spanned the distance of ten huts and sat as the centerpiece of Shakasantie Village. Symbols and faces were intricately carved into its many legs. As we sat, food was immediately brought out and spread across the length of the table. The entire village dined together on delicious meats and vegetables (there was a bountiful garden past the last hut).

When we finished the meal, Shumbuto told the tale of how he found me. He made a great spectacle of the moment my body crashed into the river. His arms waved humorously to indicate my flailing in the water as he swam to my rescue. He was animated in a way I had not known him to be. The many children laughed at his antics, while the men and women hung on his every word. They often looked at me in amazement, and some of the women took turns stroking my hair. They seemed to think I was some kind of miracle, and they fawned over me. Happily, I let them.

In all, there were thirty-six men and thirty-two women. The children were more difficult to count, as they were constantly moving. I figured there to be approximately thirty of them. They all regarded me as some kind of fallen angel. I was confident I would make easy friends. If only someone could show me how.

Shumbuto came to the story’s end. A man at his side asked about the lion. Shumbuto hesitated. This was what I had been waiting for.

“Before I tell that story,” Shumbuto said, “I must first tell our people’s full history to Marcus.”

The villagers shuffled uncomfortably. A few of the women escorted their younger children back to their huts. Shumbuto went on.

“He is an inquisitive boy, this son of mine.” Shumbuto said. “In the short time Shandra-Namba and I have been blessed by his presence, Marcus has asked repeatedly about our history with the lion. As you all know too well, this is no easy story to tell.” Many of the villagers nodded in solemn agreement. “Come, let us sit by the fire.”

Would the stalling never end?

With my patience faltering near its breaking point, the flames rose high. I sat at my father’s right as his … our people gathered around. The moon, now a small thing in the distance, would grow large by the time he finished.

“The Shakasantie, Marcus, are outcasts.” A hush fell over the word. It was clear that it was one of shame, and as I looked around, no eyes met mine. Heads hung low.

“Decades ago, when my father’s father walked the earth, some of our people integrated into Zambia’s cities. A select few enjoyed some prosperity when they took to honest labor. We wished them well and hoped for the best.”

The people raised their heads.

“What you see assembled here, Marcus, is a tribe, a family. We love our life the way it is, but have always been open to allowing individuals to explore their true nature. But we never forget.”

“What happened?” I asked in a mousy voice. I was not even sure I wanted to know anymore.

“What happened, Marcus, was the lion came.”

I was about to question this when Nuhari, as if on cue, brought forth the lion’s head on a pole. Just outside the fire’s stones, he slammed the pole into the ground — giving the head a most ominous, terrifying look. The orange blaze lit the frozen death face. Smoke caressed its jaw. It was a thing of nightmares, but I was not scared anymore.

“What you must understand, Marcus, is that we are a special breed of people; by that I mean the same blood runs through our veins. True, we are not all directly related, but our blood possesses a quality that makes us unlike any other. We are tainted.”

“Tainted?”

“Our blood draws the lion. It makes him wild with hunger. He can smell it from many kilometers away. No one knows how long this phenomenon has existed. However, when the government became aware the golden-haired beast was stalking and hunting Shakasantie, they began running their tests.

“They visited hardworking Shakasantie who had migrated to the cities. They drew their blood and tested it right there in their homes. At first, our people were willing. But after the initial few were rounded up and taken away, they got wise.

“My father’s father was one of the fortunate. He recognized what the government was doing and realized, just in time, that his people who had been taken were not returning. What seemed for centuries to be just a gruesome fact of life for the Shakasantie — the sporadic lion attacks that plagued our people — was now officially classified as “systematic killings, driven by special blood.” We were classified as a threat to all. And, well, we were. It was true then. It remains true today.

“The unique aroma of our blood is what draws them. It is a smell only the lion can discern. It makes them mad with hunger. The prospect of a Shakasantie meal would cause them to penetrate a populated city, roam streets, enter houses, stalk, track, even organize. During these hunts, the lions would slaughter anyone and everyone who crossed their paths. Yes. It is our blood that makes the lion smarter than he should be — far more brilliant and cunning than God intended.”

I didn’t believe it. He was putting me on. Had to be. There was nothing in a person’s blood that could attract a lion. Was there?

“So you see, Marcus,” Shumbuto said, “the lion has always hunted us. We, as a people, have always known this. It wasn’t until our elders ventured further inland that the reason for the lion’s hunt was identified.

“The Shakasantie are bound together by special blood. It is our bond. When my father was very young, his father gathered as many Shakasantie as he could before the government could take them away, for once they got their hands on them, they were never heard from again. My grandfather and my father — who was about your age at the time, Marcus — returned to the village with 300 like-blooded men, women, and children, for it is better to face the predictable, bloodthirsty beast you know than the terrible whimsy of man.”

Everyone nodded.

“The government allowed our people to leave the cities. There was no massacre. They vacated of their own free will. They left to save the non-tainted Zambians from senseless slaughter. They left to save themselves from the unconscionable government. They were heroes, Marcus. They were heroes and they were outcasts. Do you understand?”

I could not find the word yes, so I nodded. I did the math in my head. If this all happened when Shumbuto’s father was around my age — if 300 people left the city during that exodus and there were only 68 adults left today, what unimaginable horrors had they survived in the past eighty or so years? Shumbuto understood my realization and spoke to it.

“The lion hunts us, always. I am saddened to say he is winning this long war by leaps and bounds. We are the last of our people.”

A few of the women began to weep. I looked to Shandra-Namba. She was struggling with her own tears. I had to search the ground for another place to look. I could not bear witness to her pain.

“Now you know our story and understand, Marcus. There is much more to be recounted. The Shakasantie are an extremely complicated people. But I think you will agree that we have had enough sadness for one evening.”

Before I could think of a response, Nuhari spoke up and the melancholy mood was miraculously lifted. “Tell us of your kill, Shumbuto!”

The tribe raised an enthusiastic, unanimous agreement and Shumbuto, though surely parched from the telling of his first tale, stood up tall and began yet another.

CHAPTER

4

Perhaps you’re wondering, “Marcus, how can you recall such vivid details of your early childhood?” To that I would answer: I had no childhood to speak of. Given my incredible circumstances, I was wired to be older and wiser than I had any right to be. When it came to the Shakasantie, I knew, even when I first arrived, that I needed to pay close attention to all that was happening. I can’t explain it, but I understood that every moment was a gift, and I filed them all away in the most accessible part of my brain. And here we are now. Turns out, I was right to hold on to all those precious memories.

Much like all else, I remember Shumbuto’s story of the lion hunt well. It was full of danger and intrigue and told by a masterful orator. In a nutshell, my father tracked the lion to an area near his hunting shack. He proceeded to spoon feed the beast a heaping serving of grim death, thereby claiming revenge for his murdered friend’s family. The intimate details of this righteous kill are his and his alone to share. But worry not, if it is gore-speckled adventure you seek, it will come. Don’t fly away just yet.

Eight months fell away. When times were good and there was nothing to fear, life was rich and full. I was taught to savor the peaceful spirit of those days and make the love last because, as it was explained to me repeatedly, the overabundance of joy would not remain.

The Shakasantie had formed a fairly accurate, albeit gruesomely named, “Blood Calendar.” They enjoyed their time of placidity immensely, though they always knew that, with each new dawn, the cyclical season was spinning ever closer to the “shadow days.” To be sure, the prospect of being mauled in their sleep was appalling, but they always did as much as they could to prepare. When the weather turned cool and dry, the doomed would hone their skills and ready themselves for war.

My father, as it turned out, was more than the village’s greatest hunter; he was also a top-notch instructor. Three times a week, he held class for all the village children to attend. Though I often requested private tutoring sessions, he never gave them. When it came to learning how to kill, I was regarded as just another pupil. The fact that I was his magic angel boy who had fallen from the sky didn’t grant me preferential treatment. In fact, he was harder on me than the rest. On a number of his small game hunts, I was ordered to stay behind and help Shandra-Namba with some menial task or other. The first time he slighted me, I was hurt. The second time, I was mad. When it happened a third time, I exploded.

“Father!” I confronted him, my face red with fury. “Why do you force me to stay behind?”

“You are not the only one, Marcus. Do you remember last week when I asked Ruply-dee to stay behind and help with village chores?”

It was true. Ruply-dee had missed the previous week’s hunt at Shumbuto’s command, while I and the rest of the children had gone. It was a great adventure, in fact. I bested my first beast — a lamb Shumbuto had set loose the previous day. It was a good kill. A child’s first always is.

“But I have been left behind more times than anyone, Father! Let me come today. Some other child can stay behind.”

“I have my reasons.”

I stood there, dumbfounded, and watched him lead fifteen Shakasantie children into the forest. I stormed back to our family hut and slammed myself in. Shandra-Namba was down at the river washing clothes, and it was my duty to go to her, but I was fuming and needed to release my anger first. I looked around for something to smash, but of course there was nothing. Just dirt on the ground, a few sheets, and a water pitcher. It was all any humble Shakasantie hut contained. All our possessions — our pots, our pans, our clothes, our gardening tools, our few weapons — were kept in the communal hut three doors down.

And that’s another thing! I thought, not ready to put my mind at ease. Why, if we’re in such danger from the lion, do we barely have enough weapons to protect ourselves? It’s maddening! The whole community is flawed! It’s no wonder our numbers have dwindled to nearly nothing these past 100 years! We’ll be extinct in no time!

I was pacing like a madman. I had to break something, but there was nothing to destroy. In a desperate act that probably would have seemed comical had anyone seen it, I picked up the water jug and flung it outside. This paltry show of anger did nothing to alleviate my rage, and that only made me angrier. I clutched my hair in fists and screamed at the thatched roof. How long I yelled, I don’t know. What I yelled, I don’t know. However, when I was finished with this futile act, I looked to the door and saw Shandra-Namba’s displeased face.

“Your father has his reasons, Marcus,” she said. “Now come to the river and help me wring the village clothes dry.”

I complied, embarrassed for having been discovered in the throes of such an infantile temper tantrum, and followed her to do the menial task of the day.

And so it went. Some days I learned the intricacies and nuances of hunting, but more often, I did women’s work. I wish I could report that after that third snubbing which prompted my hissy fit, I managed to compose myself, have a man-to-man talk with Shumbuto, and be allowed on all subsequent hunting trips. But that was not the way of it. I was quite a dutiful son and, somehow, I managed to respect his wishes and do as I was bid. In retrospect, it was pretty wishy-washy to wholly submit to his rule. But what were my options? I was just a kid.

When the season changed and the air turned sharp and biting, the Shakasantie people also became cold. They traveled in packs back and forth to the river, even more so than before. No one left the village alone. No one ventured into the forest, not even in pairs or groups. Fear was on the underside of every smile, though no one would unveil it.

In Zambia, the seasonal shifts are subtle. Winter begins in May and lasts until August. The wind, when it picks up, is not brisk, but gentle. It blows through you like a sweet friend whispering hello. It is the most refreshing time to be alive — which makes the knowledge of the coming terror all the more unlikely.

No longer were we enjoying our happy communal dinners. The village was on high alert. We knew an attack was imminent; it happened again and again, year after year. It was only a matter of when and who would fall victim to a bloody, terrifying end.

The children told tales of horrors they had known, seen, survived. They were preparing me for the worst. Every night I counted my blessings. Being the sole person in the village without Shakasantie blood, I was the safest. Regardless, I prayed the lion would not take me.

I would have been scared beyond every wit had Shumbuto not been by my side. He and Shandra-Namba never let me out of their sight. It was a nice gesture, sure, but pointless. Because when the lions come, even the best-laid defenses are not guaranteed to protect you. In the end, as always, the beasts are brutal and unapologetic.

There were three of them that first year, stalking us in the most impossible realm of uninhabitable night. All male. They made quick work of our own three — night watchmen on the eastern post. Three thin blood trails leading off into the forest were all that was left of those men. Those heroes. Three widows wept. Despite our loss, we considered ourselves lucky that first year. The guards were all the lions took.

And then, peacetime.

The next year — the year of the invisible lion — those three widows were eaten. No one could figure how the beasts penetrated our line of defense or how they singled out the wives of the men they’d destroyed the year prior. But it happened. As sure as I stand before you, it happened. There were rumors that the women banded together to sacrifice themselves for the good of the village. Nobody knew for sure.

And then, peacetime.

When I was eight years old, four families were murdered in full. Nineteen lives. Gone. And then, peacetime.

When I was nine, we lost half a dozen great men to the jaws of the beasts. And then, peacetime.

When I was ten, it was considered a fortunate year as only one was taken: a newborn. How is it fortunate to lose a baby? I wondered. How?!

We trudged on through peacetime.

Every year, it continued. Like a recurring nightmare you can never shake.

At thirteen, I had a growth spurt and my voice changed. I was told this was the onset of manhood (though I had secretly considered myself a man since I bested the lamb, years before).

When the crackling sound from my throat cleared and I could speak with deep, tonal authority from my gut, I made up my mind. Enough was enough. I was going to be a goddamned lion hunter and I was going to be the best. I would go into the forest with my bare skin and hands and I would find my own way to kill the giant-pawed sons of bitches that were eradicating my tribe.

In the summer of my first teen year, I was ready to kill ’em all.

“Marcus.” My mother approached me as I stood in the shallows of the Zambezi on the morning I planned to leave. “Marcus, don’t go,” she pleaded. I couldn’t face her or her tears. They were falling like the fucking rain.

“You know I have to,” I said, my voice cracking one final time from the puberty (not the pain). “There is more to protecting our people than Father has shown me. He knows so much more and he’s just … he doesn’t respect me.” I swallowed. “He doesn’t love me.”

She crashed through water, storming toward me at the river’s lapping mouth. She planted herself in front of me, her finger in my face.

“That is not true. Never say that. Never think that. Never believe that. It is just not true.”

“Then why, Mother? Tell me why. Why do we allow the killings to continue every year? Why does he … why do our entire people take such an amateur approach to the protection of our own lives? Years go by, one after another, with so much joy in peacetime and then, on nature’s whim, always the same thing, and no one seems to care. When I came to Shakasantie, we were near one hundred strong. How many are we today? Twenty? Twenty-five? It is too depressing to count. I have lost too many friends. I am beginning to forget their faces. Is this how we should live? Forever in the cursed shadow of the lion? Are we to be doomed? Are you? Is Father? Am I? I cannot bear it any longer. Listen to my voice, Mother. Soon, my face will be bearded. I will be a man. I say I am Shakasantie. And if Father won’t save our people, I damned well will.”

“You are right.” It was him. My father. He, too, was making his way into the gentle-flowing Zambezi now. “You are Shakasantie. In some ways, you are more Shakasantie than us all.”

I turned to face him. He stood there, dripping in sunlight, looking so old, so tired, so beaten by terror.

“Shumbuto,” Shandra-Namba said, attempting to stop him from telling me what I’d always wanted to know. I wouldn’t let her stand between us.

“What are you saying, Father?” I dared not break eye contact with him.

“Shumbuto, don’t.”

“What do you mean?” I implored him.

“Shumbuto, I need to discuss something with you.”

He paid her no mind, though she was right by his side. I had him locked in my gaze. I was going to hear this.

“Tell me, Father. Tell me what you have always wanted to but could not. Explain why you have never taught me the way to kill the lion.” I had him ensnared. “You say the Shakasantie never speak falsely. Then speak true now.”

“Shumbuto …”

Mother was not well. She was dizzy. I pretended her distress was not real. Because this was real. This moment was everything.

“Father, tell me now!”

“You are to be the last of the Shakasantie, Marcus!” he shouted back before regaining his composure. “None of us will survive the lion. Only you. You are the one who will tell our story. The one who will help us live on, throughout history. So it has been written.”

My mother’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell forward. I released Shumbuto of my imprisoning glare as Shanda-Namba landed in his arms.

“Shandra-Namba?” he asked stupidly as he held his passed-out wife and love.

Shumbuto rushed her up the slope, past the caged cattle, and to the women. When she was laid out in the cool shelter of Yesshara’s hut, it was established that Shandra-Namba was breathing and that she was “resting her mind with calm dreams.” She was all right.

Shumbuto and I sat alone together, quiet with our thoughts. All other Shakasantie (what remained of our feeble tribe) were gathered around Yesshara’s hut for support. We watched them from a distance as they hovered with good intentions.

“Father,” I said, when his breathing settled to a reasonable pace. “Surely you don’t believe the Shakasantie will be completely wiped out?”

“Our story has been passed down for generations, Marcus.”

“Two. Two generations. That is the complete history of the Shakasantie.”

“Yes. And as the legend goes, someday …” He faltered, as if he required one final push.

“It’s OK, Father. Go on.”

“Someday,” he continued, “a Shakasantie boy will be born and he will bear the mark of the lion.” With uncharacteristic flair, he stood from the stoop so I could admire the back of his leg. I’d seen it before, but never paid his birthmark much mind.

As I have surely mentioned, Shumbuto was dark as night. There was just one patch of gold above his left calf. It was the size of a large walnut and freckled with what appeared to be silver, but couldn’t be. It took a moment until my focus revealed the beady, moonlight eyes of a lion on Shumbuto’s skin. Now that I saw those terrible eyes on my father’s flesh, I could not unsee them. The whole image took shape and it became apparent that, yes, there was in fact a razor-toothed snarl and mane.

“Now you can see,” he said and sat back down. “I bear the mark of the prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” I said, trying to figure what the word could mean. “But you were born with the mark so it is you who are chosen. What for?”

“The prophecy is clear. It states that he who bears the mark will be father to the chosen one. It is you. You are my only son. You will, one day, bring the Shakasantie back. After we are long gone, we will live again. Through my son. Through you, Marcus.”

I did not blink or breathe. The Shakasantie tell no lies.

“We,” Shumbuto continued, indicating the Shakasantie who were still gathered in front of Yesshara’s hut. “We will all die. But you, Marcus, you will live. This is why we exist at all. It was written that our people were meant to be exiled. It was written that I would spend this life walking and hunting and waiting for you. That I would protect you at all costs. That I would keep you from the impossible danger of the hunt.”

“But I am not from here.” As much as it pained me to say it, it needed to be said. “I am not your son.”

He leaned. He would tell more. He would tell how I was his son, the only son he would ever have. He would explain who he thought I was — some savior of the tribe. Some big fucking deal.

But I would have nothing of it.

“Save your breath, Father. I don’t want to hear it.”

For the better part of the next hour we sat, returning to worry for Shandra-Namba.

At last, Yesshara emerged from her hut, supporting my mother as she walked out. Cheers arose and blind joy was instantly restored. She was all right.

Shumbuto smiled as he went to his wife, taking over Yesshara’s careful job of holding her steady.

I put aside my feelings of hopelessness for the Shakasantie and confused ire for my place in their world. I started toward them, my true parents. My heart was filled with eternal love for them both. They were holding each other so close. It was as I had known them at our first home years before. In their embrace, I saw there was nothing else in the world that mattered to them, nothing but each other.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. There was one other thing.

“I am pregnant, Shumbuto,” my mother said. With those words, my eternal destiny altered.

* * *

Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba had been trying to get pregnant since they first met and fell in love. Shumbuto always knew he would father the chosen one, but no matter how many times he tried, how much effort he put into the cause, he just couldn’t get the job done.

According to Shakasantie children, before I fell from the sky and into their lives, Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba would intertwine incessantly. In other (American) cultures, it might have seemed perverted to listen in on their ever-present lovemaking sessions. But in Shakasantie culture, such escapades were more than tolerated; they were encouraged.

Over the years, I heard many stories of my parents’ near-mythical acts of coitus. The stories did not bother me as much as the sad knowledge that, since my arrival, they did not seem to have that insatiable spark for one another. Yes, they held each other often for long periods of time, but those were innocent embraces. Very rarely did I hear them slam into each other like animals.

And of course, before that fateful day, no one had ever shared the ridiculous prophecy. It is remarkable how a secret that big could have been kept from me. In retrospect, the Shakasantie were looking me in the eye day in and day out, thinking to themselves, Marcus will tell our story to the world. Marcus will bring us back from the dead.

It was no wonder they accepted me into their fold so easily in those first few weeks. It was no wonder my safety came first and foremost, and I was rarely allowed to hunt with the rest of the group. It was no wonder I was fawned over, given more helpings of food than the rest, allowed to sleep whenever I liked, and assigned the biggest shelter.

These people who I called my brothers and sisters were weak-minded fools, following some word-of-mouth horseshit to the letter. They believed they lived only to prime me for the role of resurrector. If the lions ate them, they thought, so be it. It was I who was the important one.

I was disgusted by their apathy. I was torn apart by their blindness. In effect, I was embarrassed to be a part of it any longer.

Then again, maybe Shumbuto was the only true believer. I had no proof that anyone else subscribed to his crackpot philosophy. Was there really any substance to my cruel opinions? Had I ever felt anything less than love and acceptance from my extended family? These thoughts were too heavy for my child’s mind. An hour ago, I knew nothing. But now, I knew all. All those years of being coddled by my Zambian parents, being treated as if I was different. It was because I was different, in their eyes. Any other details of their madness they could keep to themselves. I was getting gone. After all, that was what I had set out to do that morning.

Even if I had stayed …

I’m sorry.

I’m getting very close to the part where all hell breaks loose. I’m going to need a minute here.

Fuck.

OK. Not yet.

The horror is coming. But not just yet.

He called me his son. And I was. And I am. And I always will be. But I would never be his flesh and blood. How fitting that news of their baby should come to Shumbuto mere minutes after he spilled the prophetic news to me.

That child was coming. God bless him. God bless the poor, doomed child.

I recall Shandra-Namba standing in the river, trying to get Shumbuto’s attention right before she collapsed. I believe she wanted to tell her husband their true child was inside her; to stop him before he revealed his screwy soothsaying fiction. I have every reason to believe that she, too, believed I was the one. But when she finally got pregnant, she must then have understood that what grew inside her was real. Not me. Never me.

On that day, I learned who they thought I should be and how fast that knowledge spun on itself. I stood there, watching my father and mother hold each other in their trademark embrace.

I knew they would never look at me the same. All that time, I thought they were loving me, when really they were just buttering me up for what they thought was —

Ah, what does it matter? The whole of it was senseless in the end.

I gave one last look and turned from them. I turned my back on them all. I ran as fast as I could into the heart of the forest. And though I regretted every step that took me farther away, I could do nothing to stop myself from pushing forward.

Although I’d known an entire village of friends and family, I realized it had all been as much a grim facade as my previous life. I was as alone in their company as I ever was in that faraway land of dust and shootouts.

I was forsaken. Always. Such was my inescapable fate.

So be it.

CHAPTER

5

Darting north through the forest, my stride was mad with sweat and sadness. With the help of my fit, fast legs, I found the path that led me where I needed to go.

I was sure Shumbuto would come for me. Sure as lion meat tastes like every dark color never drawn. I imagined his heavy breathing and his body barreling through the trees. He was coming for me, all right.

He’d be remorseful for having unwittingly chased me away, scared to death he might lose me. He’d want to explain further. He’d want me to come home. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was wrong to leave them — Shumbuto, Shandra-Namba, my soon-to-be-born brother, all of them. But I didn’t care. I tell you, I did not care! I was thirteen and ready to be forever alone. It would be easier that way.

Or so I thought.

I ran on while traitorous thoughts wrecked me.

This whole time, the Shakasantie had considered me a useful outsider — someone who could carry on their legacy long after they were gone. They kept me around only as long as was necessary to serve their purpose. I knew how that story went. Billy and Calliope taught me the rules of abandonment, all those years ago. I would not allow anyone to forsake me again.

I ran hard and rested short. It had been years since we made the journey, but my retentive quadriceps knew the way. I recalled how it took all day and a good chunk of the following one to travel with Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba from our first humble home to Shakasantie Village. Now, without sacks of lion meat weighing me down, I channeled a cougar’s speed and reached that old hut on desolate land in a trifling few hours. I allowed myself meager moments to soak in the warmth of the place before my body rattled with objection. I wasn’t interested in those perfect memories, those lies of love. I would not allow my gut to wrench itself for phony sentiment. I had better things to do. A better person to be. A man to become.

I ran on.

I ran into the night, stopping only a handful of times for stray puddled water, then once to kill and eat a frog. It was so simple. I didn’t even pause to think before the act. He said, “Ribbit.” I croaked, “Bad move, frog,” and boom bam! My stomach acids were boiling him alive. To hell with Shumbuto’s considerable lack of morality lessons. I’d make up my own law of the jungle as I went along.

At long last, when the moon was full and directly overhead, I arrived at Shumbuto’s hunting shack. I wasn’t even out of breath.

I dug up the key (oh, Shumbuto) and unlocked the door to a stunner: The place was gutted clean. Empty, save for the magnificent weapon that was Shumbuto’s machete and a pitiful note lying on the floor. One vertical line down the center of the parchment paper conveyed the message clearly.

The sight of Shumbuto’s blade fastened to the wall would have been message enough, but the “1” on the page solidified it. My father had bested me, passed on his strength, and reinstated his firm belief in the Shakasantie prophecy, all without saying a word. He’d somehow arrived at the shack first, cleaned out all the weapons, and left only his blade. He left it there for me. The fact that he now had his own child on the way didn’t seem to shake his belief. He still believed I was the one.

I dislodged Shumbuto’s machete from the wall. Unprepared for its tremendous weight, I boggled and dropped it. I jump–skirted out of the way, so close to lopping off several of my toes. I hefted the machete again as best I could and dragged it behind me. Back outside, I tried to raise the weapon over my head. I fell over backward for my effort. It became clear that although my will was strong, my body was in no way up to the task. In order to brandish this weapon in any menacing manner, I would have to bulk up.

I made camp by a quaint little stream about half a mile north of Shumbuto’s hunting shack. I cleared a small area to lay my head on, built a fire pit to cook my amphibians and mondo snails in, and found some downed tree limbs that worked well as training weights. My goal was simple: build up my arms, carry my father’s blade. That was all.

It didn’t take long. When you set your mind to accomplishing just one thing, you can get good at it right quick. After a month of lifting those mighty tree limbs, throwing them haphazardly around the camp, and even jogging with them, I was massive. If I’d worn shirts, my hulking muscles would have torn them to shreds. In other words, mission accomplished. Not only could I hoist Shumbuto’s machete high over my head, but I could also wield it, and wield it well.

Before departing the campsite, I spent a few days learning the machete’s power and maneuverability. Standing still as a baobab tree in a windless fog, I would elevate the blade to a ninety-degree angle, imagining a terrible foe before me. Were I to drop my eyes or my weapon, my make-believe enemy would pounce. And that would be the end of me.

I remained in that stasis pose for hours before the deadweight finally outdid me.

But of course, not all adversaries will retreat simply because you stare them down and hold a threatening pose. With dutiful practice, I became skilled at swinging, slicing, and stabbing with the hefty machete, just like this! And this! And how about a little of this?

My fictitious attackers fled for their lives. Knowing they were no match for the likes of me, they scurried away with their droopy faces between their legs to exist another day.

My feet trained themselves to complement my upper body exercises. They parried and shuffled in small, concentric circles to and fro. My limbs, separate from each other, did their own thing while all the while aware they were cogs in a precise mechanism greater than themselves.

Shumbuto’s blade and I became one. I could lean on it, raise it high, cut it low, jab it, stick it, and hold it steady. During the hours I kept it at eye level and parallel to the ground, fantasizing some unimaginable danger (be it man or beast), I often fell into what I can only describe as a zen-like trance. There were times when I was so tuned in that I would stare down a hallucination, never blinking, back hunched and ready to pounce. I’d trained myself to stop breathing. At times, I even believe my heart would cease beating. In the face of these nonexistent predators, I, myself, became an unseen shadow to them.

I know how it sounds. But my technique worked. I owned a special kind of madness. I was comfortable with it. I could control it. This super-evolved understanding of how to reach my ultimate potential molded me into a perfect specimen.

I trusted my arm only as far as my outstretched fingers. My appendages had their limits. However, Shumbuto’s blade extended my reach. It became a part of me; my own flesh and blood lengthened another four feet into space. I had learned to use (become) the blade so well that I forgot where I ended and it began.

When I was ready to vacate Shumbuto’s hunting shack, I left strong.

I was in no hurry. I had nowhere to go but inward, evermore. I wandered north with no intention other than to hunt, be hunted, live, or die. I’d already mastered the art of frog and toad poaching. These menial adversaries never put up a fight, and there were plenty of them everywhere to sustain my diet. But every great hunter worth his salt must challenge himself or risk becoming obsolete. So, with the final warty-skinned land hopper’s juices still fresh on my lips, I began calling to the birds.

Maybe you don’t want to hear about this. Are you the squeamish type? Tell you what, you can go ahead and avert your ears if it gets to be too much for you. I’ll understand. But I’m not about to edit my past by omitting the nasty bits. And it only gets more appalling from here on out.

I will never pretend to be someone I am not. Stay or go, I proceed.

As I’m sure you are aware, birds of all kinds of feathers are tricky to catch — they have quite an obvious advantage over man: flight. If it had been in my power to soar, I would have done so, all the time. But alas, it was not meant to be. The closest I ever came to flirting with flight was when I plummeted into the Zambezi. That can hardly count for much.

The birds, they squawk and they squeal. They give themselves away so easily. One can hear a finch or a wood thrush from a great distance. Making up that distance before the animal flutters away is the key to this elusive game.

Creeping. The world has never known a better creeper than me.

Hush now, little songbird. I crept along the forest floor and navigated a jumble of motivational inner dialogue. Your time has come. The grey-headed bushshrike hopped from branch to branch among the low brambles. He buried his beak under a wing and pecked at something — an insect or a parasite, perhaps. I allowed him his last feast. Having stalked so silently, I was as unknown to him as the existence of God to a water slug.

The chirper sensed me. He looked up. Horror flashed in his eyes. He foresaw his own death in the reflection of my father’s blade. It was the last panic-free thought he ever knew.

WICKERTHUNK.

The airbeast went down, crashing violently in a heap of his former self.

I inspected the crime scene, for it could be called nothing else. My first aviary kill was sloppy, amateurish. I’d sliced only halfway through its head and needlessly severed one of its wings. His bird blood rushed out of his skull and corroded his feathers. Blinded by his own sticky juices, he made a few last pathetic attempts to take to the air. His good wing beat the dirt, causing his body to turn in a terrible, limping death circle. Around and around he went. His face shrouded in a terror mask. His tiny heart beating to explode. I could stand by no longer. I delivered mercy.

The next will be cleaner, I vowed.

I must admit: As I recall these events to you now, these stepping-stones that eventually would lead to my mastery, I am wholeheartedly disgusted by my early, primitive skills. I never desired to cause any animal (save for the villainous lion) to suffer. I reviewed that first kill a hundred thousand times before heading back into the fray. Weeks passed. I went over and over it. The answer at last blindsided me in the middle of a hike. The revelation came from out of fucking nowhere, as revelations sometimes will.

I’d hesitated.

It was only a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second, but the pause between commitment and action had been real.

I eased myself onto a rock and reined in my thoughts. Now that I knew what had occurred, the new mind scrambler was: Why? I’d been intently focused on the bird. I’d envisioned my movements clearly prior to the strike. I’d unleashed Shumbuto’s blade, strong and true, with precision and purpose. I’d done everything I could to bring the bird a clean death. So why the split-second delay?

My brain was slow to teach itself, but soon enough, it came around to the hidden culprit, buried in a rusty well of cruddy emotion: I still possessed empathy for living creatures.

Bah! I would just have to overcome sentiment, then! I would grind my feelings down and squash them cold. The slim compassion I’d felt for the damned songbird was the flaw, so I would just have to practice on something blacker — something as undemonstrative as night.

I stood and jogged the rest of the way to the top of the hill I’d currently been ascending. At its peak, I awaited darkness. When it came, flaring out from beneath night’s celestial blanket, the bats arrived.

I don’t know how many bloodthirsty hell suckers dove near, flew by, and swooped round me — had to be thousands — but I can tell you exactly how many lost their lives. By the light of the moon, I counted 235 carcasses littering the mountaintop, not one of them left twitching. Pristine kills, all.

I now refer to this, my first true battle, as the “Slaughter on Satan’s Hill.” It transformed me into a no-holds-barred, callous killing machine. When you can take that many lives in that short a time, you’re bound to harden.

On the other side of my pride was Shumbuto’s voice, nagging my perceptions, as it was prone to do: “There are but two acceptable kills, Marcus: the kill for food, and the kill for revenge.”

Though it is true a person must practice to become good at a thing, I wondered if I had crossed some line? There was no vengeance nor supper upon that hill. Only a greedy heaping of malevolent rehearsal.

I lay with the dead for hours, until dawn. Nauseating though it was, I ate as much bony flesh as I could stomach. Dozens of leftovers remained for the buzzards, but by morning, I was overstuffed with what was probably tainted meat (it wasn’t) that would surely infect me with rampant rabies (it didn’t).

I emerged from that lofty battleground covered from head to toe in the sticky black blood of my winged enemies. My own blood was pumping on newfound adrenaline. Fueled by fury and flutterstruck bat energy, I imagined my insides were deliquescing into magma. I harnessed the bizarre power. Held it. Became it. This lone beast.

I was something else entirely now — a thing without a name.

I’d mastered the fine art of precision, yes. My aim was true. Good for me. I had honed my mental acuity and eradicated my empathy. I was hesitant no more. Bravo. I’d taken the necessary first steps toward becoming something great, something worthy.

But one can’t simply go about taking down insignificant vermin. It was high time to up the ante.

* * *

In Zambia, there are untold numbers of animal species. Some you may know, perhaps, and some you surely will have never heard of. From the slow, shell-shocked pangolin to the speedy spotted cheetah, a hunter’s options are boundless. The way to best your prey varies from animal to animal. If there is some unwritten Shakasantie knowledge passed down from generation to generation, I wouldn’t know. In my younger years, my Zambian father deliberately withheld information. This was a matter of contention for me (as I have faithfully recorded); but in pursuing my own education, I wound up being grateful for Shumbuto’s slight. To be taught a trade is one thing, but to learn by your own trial and error is a wondrous achievement — it is a gift that never stops giving.

Now, it would be rather ridiculous to say there is any danger in hunting our good friend the pangolin (who resembles the equally harmless armadillo, though they are, as far as I know, unrelated). About the worst he might deal is a nasty jolt to your ankle with a whip of his spiny tail. Beyond that, there is not much fight in him. Flip him over and you will find unprotected muscle beneath his keratin scales. Pangolin meat is chewy.

The one learning curve I faced with this guy was how to overcome a shortcoming in Shumbuto’s blade. The pangolin taught me that my sharpened steel was not the end-all, be-all, superpowered instrument of destruction I originally imagined it to be. Its sharpened tip was so far from the hilt that to pierce the pangolin’s underside, I had to lean on the blade’s handle from an undesirable, awkward height. Using my full weight to push down on it was not much trouble, and the pangolin suffered not at all.

One of the utmost qualities a hunter can possess is that of grace during the chaos of conflict. I knew I would pit myself against larger beasts later in my adventures. I was consciously working my way up the food chain, so to speak. In building toward grander conquests, I would need to kill not only with swiftness but as much fluidity and elegance as possible. There was nothing fluid about plunging your blade into a pangolin’s underbelly. It became clear that I would need to fashion other weapons.

I was beginning to also appreciate the valuable lessons I’d learned by staying behind with Shandra-Namba when Shumbuto took the other children hunting. I knew to locate stone quarries by following the river’s lead. When I came to them, I sifted through the shallow waters for shale rock. Shale rock, you see, holds three excellent qualities for forging a respectable knife: (1) The rock is thin, (2) it is agreeable, and (3) much like myself, it is sharp as a motherfucker. Extracting the shale from the riverbed can be difficult, as it can be buried rather deep. But once you pry it out, it’s quite easy to break down to whatever shape you want (within reason).

Using Shumbuto’s blade to carve the first shale knife was an arduous task, like shucking bamboo with a giraffe’s leg. I’ve never done that, of course, but you get the idea.

With the initial stab-jabber sharpened, the next ones came easier and easier still. I assigned them numbers based on their size and deadliness. After a few strict, focused days of bobbing for shale and shaping my cutters to perfection, I had myself a halfway decent arsenal — all lined up perfectly, glistening in the late afternoon sun. I leaned in to better heed the whisper of the blades; they made solemn promises of blood and carnage, food and triumph, peace and pain.

As I was minding my own business there in the Zambezi shallows, a suicidal catfish swam up and brushed his ghastly whiskers against my defenseless big toe. Ba-boom! Zero hesitation! I defended the honor of my left foot’s general and flung blade #3 at the water harpy. It pierced his eye and he died ugly, bubbling some nonsensical fish-speak. “Fup-oo ant oor muffer,” it could have been.

That night, stewing over catfish stew, I admired my knives. There were thirty-three in all, not counting Shumbuto’s machete. As content as I was with my collection, a realization reared its ugly head.

How the devil will I carry them all?

I surveyed the open land and realized it was, in actuality, a nonissue. This would be my new home. Here, where the Zambezi could touch my feet every morning, noon, and night. Here, where I had both the quiet I desired and the solitude I deserved.

I made camp one hundred paces from the river in the hollow of a mountain cave. I traversed what I now figure was probably around a ten-mile (sixteen-kilometer) perimeter around what I considered to be my territory, and (oh yes!) I marked it well. Any animal who dared enter my home circle would get a whiff of my powerful urine blasts and know who was king of this domain.

There were wolves that barked and howled when the night gave birth to more vile night in the dead of night. There were lunatic, drooling hyenas scavenging, always scavenging for their next meal. If the unscrupulous vultures didn’t pick off the rotting carcasses of beasts who met their maker by way of natural causes or foul play, the hyenas sure as hell did.

Truth be told, I can’t say how many long hours I spent meandering, you know, inside my head. But I can relate at least one time when I nearly succumbed to a rare form of, for lack of a better term, isolation mania.

The heat was beyond oppressive on this particular day in question. My skin was melting like slow sap. I don’t know what I was doing when I witnessed a curious pair of aardvarks doddering from one anthill to another, just a stone’s throw from my cave-home. (Come to think of it, my hair, if I remember correctly, was getting long. I may have been busy braiding it.)

Hundreds, nay, thousands of army ants scattered, with no sanctuary to go to. The aforementioned aardvarks, strangely enough, were roaming during their normal sleeping hours, throwing the harried insects for a loop.

Baring their grotesque proboscis teeth and flicking their lizard tongues in my general direction, the aardvarks reminded me very much of the departed pangolin, minus the armor. I responded to their war grimaces by boiling my own eyes up and firing fair warning.

“Don’t mess with me, boys,” I articulated. “I’ll take you to town. I’ll take you to town and I’ll drown you down.” But there is no reasoning with insane beasts. That is a fact I know all too well.

By this time, I’d spread my thirty-three blades at random intervals within my piss-radius domain. I knew (as well as I knew the lines on my palms) where each of the thirty-three lay hidden. During this unreal fight, #17 was nearby. I could reach it, if need be. I did not believe it would be necessary.

The mad aardvarks rushed me from either side. Such was their folly. Had they charged head-on, they would have acquired the advantage of driving at my center of gravity. With two of them gnashing my gut, I don’t know whether my arms could have bashed both of them with sufficient force. But as fate would have it, they chose instead to flank me. With each mighty unclenched fist, I grabbed them by their silly snouts and smashed their aardvark noggins together.

CA-CHUNK.

The sound, whether imagined or real, was satisfying.

I dropped the beasts to the ground and then, for a laugh, tied their snouts together in an impossible knot and launched them into the stratosphere. So much for Shumbuto’s snooty rules.

I was right about one thing at least. I had not needed blade #17.

* * *

As the days bled into one another, individual rites of passage continually presented themselves. My skills and kills progressed. Though I can’t pinpoint exactly how each new achievement contributed to my rock-solid character, I can edge close. I do revere the animals I hunted — I know their names. Every one is forever a part of me.

Being alone for that extended period of my life did great wonders for my strength, growth, and cunning, though it may arguably have done some damage to the way in which I perceive the world.

Case in point: The quagga doesn’t exist. Not now nor when I was traipsing my way around southern Africa. They say he went and got himself extinct during the late 19th century. Heck of a thing for a species to do. Not that the poor guy had much say in the matter. If he had his druthers, he’d have opted to carry on the simple life of grazing the peaceful plains and not being eaten. But, much to his disappointment, he was hunted to extinction by Dutch settlers and Africans. That was history’s story anyway. So imagine my surprise when I came upon the gentle creature while going about my daily activities.

You’re shaking your head like you don’t know what a quagga is. The quagga, for your information, looks like a zebra from the neck up, though his stripes are white and brown. The bottom half of his body is all brown, and that’s where he most resembles a horse.

Not much is officially known about the quagga’s social behaviors because I guess folks back before the 1900s didn’t keep very good notes. But, having encountered a group of them for sure, I’ll let you in on the scoop.

The quagga were a bunch of sluggish, careless lazybones — at least, the pack I came across were. When I learned later in life they’d gone extinct, I wasn’t at all surprised. Any species that lollygags out in the open like that is just asking for someone to come up from behind and KA-BOP.

Sorry, quagga. Sorry, world. If I’d known he was already extinct, I might have spared him. But then, would I have been sparing a ghost? That’s crazy talk, right? You ever heard of a ghost quagga? No, of course not, how could you? Before now, you’d never even heard of a quagga quagga! I’ll tell you what, though, the animal I ate that night had more meat on his lazybones than any ghost would. And even when I was roasting the dumb son of a bitch over my fire, his mates were still loping about, munching leaves and occasionally bumping into each other. Don’t mind us. We’re just here.

I swear, if a pack of lions charged ’em, they might’ve mustered the energy to blink and raise their necks for slaughter. How did these numbskull, nature defiers survive? If they were real (and, like I said, the quagga I ate certainly tasted real), then they were right smarter than anyone ever gave them credit for, including me.

You want to hear about leopards? Here’s an animal everyone can agree is very real and very dangerous. Little known fact: They are also a traitorous bunch. To hunt a leopard, all you have to do is pit them against one another. To cause this great distraction, you simply throw the carcass of any lesser animal into a leopard circle. Any old carcass will do. I used to favor rabbits as bait. Leopards go particularly apeshit for a bunny’s fluffy purities.

If you can get two leopards to tussle each other, the others will either watch in earnest, or, if they themselves are also hungry (which is likely), they will join the fight with gusto. The lot of them will rip the carcass limb from limb, scratching, clawing, and gnawing each other all the while. When the free meal is gone, spent and exhausted, they will count their numbers, and before long it will dawn on them: Wait a tic … has anyone seen Leopold?

By the time they realize he’s no longer among them, hapless Leopold the leopard will be roasting on my spit.

Wild dogs and wolves are the most sinister among this middle-range class of animal that I classify as fast food. Feral canines are impressive creatures, howling at the moon and whatnot. I’ve often tried the bare-naked moon yelp myself and, to be fair, it does a dose of good to the soul.

In the taking of any undomesticated animal’s life, you have to be merciless. This is what I was getting at earlier. In many ways, a great hunter must become stoic, emotionless; nothing can faze him. Not even those great big puppy dog eyes. You know what? I’m not in the mood. Let’s skip that one.

You know the old joke: How does a man take down a monarch elephant? It’s certainly a humor I never understood. The punch line is: Very carefully.

Well, no shit! A monarch elephant weighs several tons! You’re not going to approach something that large without careful planning.

I crafted a mighty bow out of bamboo. I skinned the barks off trees and made shafts. I carved more shale into arrowheads and fashioned fletching from various birds’ wings. I practiced my burgeoning archery skills daily with the goal of taking aim at nature’s biggest game.

After weeks of tedious bow time, I had my skill down to a perfect science and shifted my focus to speed. You can’t best the monarch elephant with one arrow alone. You need many. They are slow runners, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that they can trample you to death. As soon as your first arrow pierces his coarse skin, you can be damned sure he is going to immediately turn his massive body your way, stare you down, and charge. At that point, you’re going to be looking down the barrel of a crushing death and your only escape will be to let loose as many arrows as possible.

Voom! Voomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoomvoom!

Nine arrows off with no hesitation and the bastard kept coming. From my crouched position behind some shrubbery, I had been aiming at the fleshiest part of his neck. All nine had gone in. I was a hell of a shot. But the mighty lepidopteran pachyderm was unfazed and enraged. He punished the earth with his heavy hooves. For the first time in my education as a great white hunter, I had failed by a massive degree. Mere arrows were not going to take this creature down.

I bolted. I don’t like to admit it, but I did. (If I’d stayed my ground, I would not be here today to tell you the story.) I looked back to discover the elephant was, unbelievably, still following. And not only that, but he was gaining on me.

There was a stone-covered embankment within reach. I dashed up it with the beast at my heels. I turned to see him try and climb, but he fell backward with each heavy step. His incredible weight was too much for the unyielding incline. I was safe. I recovered as my prey (turned predator) below me panted and panted. The difference between us was that I alone could catch my breath. With the thrill of the chase now over, he seemed to resign himself to his coming demise. The arrows were having their impact.

Looking down, I pitied him. This emotion could not be allowed — never allowed. I pushed it aside. From my carry-on holster strapped to my back, I retrieved another arrow. I fastened the weapon to my well-strung bow and took aim. This would surely end him. I pulled back with such incredible force that the sinews in my forearm throbbed. The sun beat down and I tried to ignore the sweat building on my brow.

Focus, Marcus. Focus.

The monster’s eyes were heavy. He was slipping away. This final arrow would alleviate his suffering. I could picture it penetrating his great skull from close range and exploding out the other side. It would be a quick death. Or rather, it would have been a quick death, had it not been for the lions.

There were two of them driving hard toward us. The epitome of stealth, they seemed to have materialized from some unknown universe where sound has no sound. They moved in slow motion and regular time all at once. Their mad sprint was regal. Their golden beards danced in the light. They sniffed the air. They owned it.

Entranced, I let loose the tension on my bow. It fell to the rock under my feet. I hardly noticed.

The monarch elephant moaned. He could not know his fate was coming as the lions approached noiselessly from behind. Surely, he was aware he was dying. He now lay at the foot of the rocks with blood oozing out of his nine fresh piercings. Nine wounds — each deeper than the last. Yet he was stubborn about dying and determined to continue staring into my very soul for eternity, or at least until the lions reached him, whichever came first.

I was done admiring their game, their stealth, their hunt. What I first misdiagnosed as respect for the lions’ cunning prowess was now pure and untainted hate. I would kill these princes of hell and I would do it not for the dying elephant before me, but for the sake of the endangered Shakasantie I’d left behind.

I thought I moved forward, slid down the rocks a little. But I did not.

I thought I unsheathed Shumbuto’s blade. I thought I held it in my hand. I thought I heard myself scream a warrior cry and leap down to meet them. But I did not and I did not and I did not.

What I did do was freeze in place and watch as those two wildcats pounced. They dug in with their teeth and their claws. The sound of leathery rawhide being ripped to shreds filled my ears. The monarch elephant let out a final cry and expired as the first vulture circled over our heads. I noted, in my sad, sorry state of immobility, how these two lions did not even glance my way. Not at first. As they mauled the wounded animal, they were either oblivious to my presence or considered me such a non-threat that they didn’t deign to acknowledge me. I imagine they were right to ignore me. I am embarrassed to say that I was as worthless and unimportant in that moment as a wingless fly on shit.

When the horror show ended, when the lions had their fill, they stayed and rested their big, furry heads. Once I perceived them to be napping, I made my move to go. As soon as I stood from my crouched position, the alpha lion perked up and shot me a soundless snarl. His blood-soaked jaw formed into what could only be described as a maniac’s grin. He put his head back down, rested it on his brother’s leg, and closed his eyes. That lion knew I was nothing, and he wanted me to know he knew it.

And I did know it. I know it still.

Very well, lion. I will wait till you go deeper.

Night fell and they slept hard. I escaped with my life and my limbs intact.

Ashamed of the things I’d done and not done that day, I walked away. This humbling hunting lesson was over.

CHAPTER

6

I am full of pride and venom, that’s for sure. It’s my nature to boast to the point of braggartism, and for this I am not ashamed. Whether I knew it or not, I was neither physically nor mentally capable of challenging those lions. That, plus a part of me was still a frightened boy. I admit this freely too. I’d grown up fearing the accursed lion. Hearing rustles in every bush. Snarls round every hut. I’d seen far too much of my kin’s blood, and I was barely yet a man. I was bound to harbor some sense of everlasting fright.

My next mission was to overcome my one disability. I ceased hunting (lest you call the occasional fish for protein’s sake “hunting”) and I ate little. To conquer my weakness, I practiced the art of relaxing my inner self. I brought my core persona to a tepid state of passiveness. In effect, I was sitting long hours in deep states of meditation. Mind you, Shumbuto’s blade remained by my side. As a precaution, I would occasionally force myself back to consciousness at a moment’s notice, pretending an enemy was daring an approach. I would not be caught with my subconscious pants down.

Attempting to free myself of the lions’ mind games was incredibly difficult. Whenever I thought I’d made a little headway and could picture myself sinking my teeth into that grinning lion’s neck — at the moment my canines brushed his fur, the unreal beast would whip his head around and devour me. I would wake from these psychedelic trips screaming, my hot, white fists balled up, punching nothing. Mostly what I envisioned was his bloodstained, pleased-with-himself, shit-eating lips pulled back into a fuck-you grin. My worst fantasy lived to mock me.

Sometimes, he growled ferociously, while other times he tore me limb from limb. No matter how deep into concentration I went, the ghost lion always got the best of me. For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why my own brain allowed this. And then, one rainy evening, I was standing in the Zambezi shallows, watching the fish swim by, allowing them to pass, choosing my dinner carefully. I had not been in a state of meditation all day — I was taking a break. I needed a respite from that madness. But alas, the mind is a tricky thing to trick. I’d been shutting it down and exercising it on fumes and bare-naked instinct for so long that, when it did not receive its proper daily introspection, my brain had different ideas.

Through nature’s primordial curtains, I peered. Lo and behold, the mighty vision-lion emerged from the Zambezi. He raised his head slowly so that I could see his hungry eyes fall upon me. The river beads trickled off his head as the rain marched heavy upon his brow. The water made the beast both terrible and magnificent to behold. When his jawline broke the surface, I could see, very clearly, that this was not the same lion who had feasted on my monarch elephant at the base of those stones. This was not the one who mocked me with my fresh kill’s flesh in his maw. This was the ruthless ghost of the animal I carried in a sack long ago, on my first journey to Shakasantie Village. The very same who, once devoured, delivered unto me the news that a person can never know the true being of another.

His mighty, floating, disembodied head made its way dreamily toward me. It did not matter that this was a hallucination; all I could feel was fear — pure, viable, self-shattering fear.

The lion’s head cocked his magical whiskers to the left and spoke in thunderous roars, and I understood him.

You know why you are afraid, he stated.

“I do not.”

Look into my eyes, Marcus. What do you see?

“I see,” I said. “I see,” I said. “I see …”

You see yourself.

“I see myself.”

You see yourself.

“I see myself.”

You are the blood of the lion. You are me and I am you.

“No!” I screamed at the thing and grabbed at its ears. I pulled him to me and chewed out his eyeball. It popped in my mouth and I swallowed the stringy juices. If you must know, it was akin to eating a handful of newborn salamanders. But as I carried on, the lion remained calm. I let go of his ears and stepped back a few paces. He looked at me with his one remaining eyeball and grinned. His visage morphed into the form of the last lion who had mocked me — the elephant eater.

You had better hurry back to your body, Marcus, he said. We have much work to do.

He pierced the world with an epic, ancient roar and I fell forward into the river. As I splashed in the shallows, shaking free the fear, the unreal lion’s last words beat like Shakasantie drums in my head.

… work to do …

… work to do …

What did it mean to have the blood of the lion when the lion sought to drain the blood of my people? What work was there to do? And was I really trying to make sense of a fiction? I don’t claim to be a learned man, but I do know you should not change your life based on a fantasy.

Regardless, I felt strangely new. As if something that had been missing was about to reveal itself.

My overworked imagination had drained me.

“Until tomorrow, lion,” I whispered to nothing and no one.

The world turned out its lights and I slept, but without peace. My dreams were haunted by the terrible moans and cries of a howling soul. I hadn’t given any thought to my first father’s bedtime Banshee stories for some time; for that matter, I hadn’t bothered to think of Billy at all. But for the first time in a long time, my subconscious turned to him. In my dream, he wore an indistinct face made of vibrating lines and swirling cosmos. He whispered something in my ear that was impossible to hear over the persistent wail of some tortured woman. She hovered in the air just above and beyond Billy’s messed-up head. She was the epitome of sadness.

When morning came, the lion’s warning persisted.

Missing something. What?

Work to do. What?

I needed to move on, but to where? I busied myself walking the perimeter of my camp and collecting my thirty-three blades. I tried to forget the pending question, hoping that some silence in my head would answer it. But as the old saying goes: Try not to think of the severed lion’s head. It’s impossible.

The long day passed, and still I was no closer to an epiphany. In the evening, I picked pieces of catfish from my teeth. I wished I could just leave the unknown alone and carry on. I stood. I paced round my fire. I made agitated hand gestures that surely would have read as crazy had there been anyone to witness them. I fought with myself, shaped some shale, swung Shumbuto’s machete in graceful arcs. Sunlight caught the blade and it shone into my eye. Clumsily, I dropped the weapon. It made a WOOMF when it hit the dirt. I bent low to pick it up and a current of chilled air brushed past my face. It smelled of … of …

“Shakasantie.”

Your blades, gather them all!

Quickly, I threw my thirty-three possessions into my sack. I kicked dirt on the fire and picked up Shumbuto’s blade. I did not bother to take a last look at the Zambezi or my camp. Time was not a luxury. I’d let too much of it slip away. Stupid, selfish ignorance!

As I dashed through the forest, I recounted the months in my head. But time, of course, meant nothing to me then (it means even less now). What mattered was not that it had been an unbelievable seventeen months since I’d left, but that I’d missed an entire killing season. I was so wrapped up in honing my own hunting skills that, in my absence, the lions had come and gone from Shakasantie Village. Who had they murdered while I was away? I couldn’t bear to think on it.

What was done was done, and now the soft winds were drawing the beasts back to my home again. How could I have let the time slip by? How could I have forgotten? How had the winds and cooler air escaped me? My mind kept returning to blame the thrill of the hunt for my folly. But the master of my destiny was only me, after all. I’d received what I deserved: total loneliness and fragmental madness.

Amid my harried haste, I lost my way. Fear held my heart and squeezed. The severed lion’s head echoed his cruel laughter in my own. I don’t know for how long I ran aimlessly through the forest. But when I came to my senses, morning light had returned, and my skin felt the sting of a thousand scratches.

Focus.

I had to pull myself together for the love of my people! What, if anything, had I been doing out on my own for the past year and a half?

Smoke rose in the distance.

A fire, I thought. Good, they are cooking. Where there is food, there is vigilance. Shandra-Namba will wet my forehead, and Shumbuto will kill, skin, and cook the fattest warthog in my honor.

But the closer I got, the blacker the smoke appeared. This was no dinner blaze.

Ashes.

Shakasantie Village was in ashes.

There was blood everywhere — blood, but no bodies. Long trails of blood (animal or human I could not tell) went off in every direction. But the smoke was still fresh, raw, and urgent. That, if nothing else, was a beacon of cruel hope — that I might not be too late to save my family.

I heard a wailing in the distance. Dazed, I rushed toward the sound, which was coming from the garden. The tomatoes were plump and unpicked.

“Father! Mother!” I called out in desperation, but the only reply was more tiny screams. And now that I was close to the source, I knew it to be the sound of a traumatized baby.

I weaved in and out of the rows of squash and corn until, at last, I came to it. I picked up the child and held him at arm’s length. The boy had not been shrieking out of fear after all. His noise was a siren, a call for me to come find him. I wiped dirt from his face and saw that he had not shed a tear. With the grime cleared away, his bold features revealed his identity. Here, in my strong hands, I held my father’s son.

“Marcus.” My name drifted up and over the garden. It was him. I knew it was him.

“Father!” I hollered, clinging the child to my breast.

“Marcus.” I bolted at the sound of his weak voice and found him dying in the dirt just a few rows over. I knelt, holding the child still.

“Father, I —”

“Where is your mother, Marcus? Where is Shandra-Namba?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

He coughed, and what came out of his mouth was black, vile bile.

“Oh, Father … I abandoned you, and look at what has happened.”

“Stop, Marcus.” He coughed again. “What’s done is done.”

“The village is burned, Father. Where is everyone? Did the lions take them? How is the village burned?!”

“They came. They came and they took them all.” He coughed more of his life away. “The poachers, Marcus. The poachers.” Again that wretched sound came out of him, and this time, it was hollow and lasted too long. I didn’t think he would have another inhalation in him, but the strongest man I ever knew would stave off death for as long as a man could.

“I will find them,” I told him. “I vow it to you. I will find them and paint the earth with their blood.”

“It is too late, Marcus. Our people are gone.”

“But Mother …”

“Your mother is dead, Marcus. They will use her for lion bait and kill her when they are through.”

“There is still time, Shumbuto. You will be well. We will hunt them together and we will save our people.” Even as I spoke the words, I knew them to be untrue. The shell of the man before me would not live to see one more sunset. And I would have to face a new enemy alone.

“You are our people now, Marcus.” With every ounce of strength remaining, Shumbuto rose up on his elbows and clutched my shoulder with his giant, bloody paw. “We resign ourselves to our fate. You are the Shakasantie. You and your brother, Kuwajii.” He let go of me and with one finger caressed my brother’s face. “Take care of him, Marcus. We are the dead. You must tell our story. You are the one.”

And then my savior, my true father, chief of the Shakasantie tribe, fell back and died in the garden of his people, with his two devoted sons by his side.

I stayed by Shumbuto’s body and mourned him. The smoke from the ashes of our village hovered over us.

My brother. Kuwajii. A child. A baby who needed me to keep him alive and show him the way. How? I could hardly tend to myself and I certainly didn’t know my own way. What I did know was that no matter what my father’s dying wish, I was not going to leave Shandra-Namba or any living Shakasantie to suffer in the hands of murderous poachers. I wasn’t going to allow the only family I’d ever known to be wiped from the face of the earth. Not without a fight. But how could I save whatever remained of the Shakasantie when I was saddled with an infant?

One step at a time, some voice within me answered.

I walked with the boy to the Zambezi to bathe him and give us both a drink. Behind, the village smoldered. I turned and viewed the disaster of my own making. If I had not been so pigheaded, I could have been here to protect them.

“Oh, Shumbuto,” I spoke softly into the wind. Kuwajii slept soundly in my arms. “Father, I swear to you. I will watch over this boy, your son. The true chosen one will live to carry on your name. Kuwajii will be Shakasantie’s storyteller.”

And with that, my resting orphan brother and I set off into the world together.

* * *

Kuwajii didn’t eat much, but what little food he desired needed to be chopped into a puree. If he’d still been at Shandra-Namba’s breast, he was incredibly good at weaning himself. He didn’t have much choice, did he? Mostly, I sliced up mushrooms for the boy, and he was grateful.

“In this world, brother, you do or you die. Get used to it.” He understood me to some degree because, though he didn’t thrive in those early days, he didn’t die either.

We weren’t making much forward progress, for as agreeable as Kuwajii was when we were standing still, he did not travel well. The boy would sleep in my arms, but only while I was stationary. With the slightest movement, he would wake with an alarming, monosyllabic “wah!” and then be restless, cranky, and immobile for hours. He never cried full on (which, having been around Shakasantie babies before, was unusual), but he also never shied from voicing his loud opinions about the trek. It seemed that some part of him knew he was leaving his family’s home, and this he found unacceptable, despite what he’d witnessed.

I hoped the one shelter I knew of (that had a roof and felt like home) would allow Kuwajii some comfort. And, let’s be honest, I also needed the familiar warmth of the place to clear my head and figure out my next move.

We arrived at Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba’s humble hunting lodge (my first Zambian home) to find it had not weathered over time. I made a decent bed of crisp leaves and hardened mud for Kuwajii. He settled into it and closed his eyes. I could tell the boy wouldn’t need much in life to be happy. He was, after all, Shakasantie. I left him sleeping peacefully and sat guard just outside the door.

What had happened in my seventeen-month hiatus from Shakasantie Village was a horror I could not understand. My initial fear that the lions had returned and murdered everyone was not what had come to pass. Shumbuto had been very clear. Vile poachers were to blame (this year, anyway). It didn’t make any sense; I never knew any outsider to stumble upon our tribe. We were independent refugees who bothered no one and were forever left alone by human intruders. Until now, it seemed.

Kuwajii made a sleepy coo from inside the hut. I would never leave him. He was far too fragile — would be for years. But our people did not have years. Shandra-Namba did not have years. According to Shumbuto, it was already too late. I refused to accept that.

I thought it over as Kuwajii dreamed of whatever it is babies dream. He was fortunate, I supposed. Not only for surviving the raid, but also to be so young that he would not remember.

* * *

Every hour that passed was an hour I was not taking action. How many days had gone by? Four since the raid? In the morning, we would have to move. In the morning, we would have to — my thoughts were interrupted by a pack of lions. I spotted them cutting stealthily and in single file through the darkness, about 100 yards away. Their war-crazed eyes sparkled with determination. The great hunter within me sprung to life. It was good to have him back. He shut down every muscle in my body and flicked my survival mode switch to on.

I counted silently as ten of them promenaded by. Another six. More. They ignored the sweaty stench that emanated from my limby meat sack. The sleeping baby boy in the hut would have made a measly appetizer, but my great physique would have filled the bellies of at least half a dozen of them. They walked with their noses sniffing the air; they were acting like they didn’t know we existed.

But they knew. I knew that they knew, and they knew that I knew too. But they were intent on a much more substantial feast.

One by one, the lions ignored us as they marched their slow path through our part of the world. When the last fiend had finally passed (I counted him at twenty-seven), I felt a stirring in me I’d ignored for days. It was my vision-lion come back to embody me. He overtook me and we became one. His chant echoed in my head: You are me and I am you. My months of meditative preparation would bear fruit. As I let go and gave into the mind-meld, I could now smell what those lions were after. Deeply, I inhaled the scent of the Shakasantie people. I could taste it on my inner lion’s lips. I could feel the intensity of the lion’s hatred and desire, but the part that was Marcus was still in control. I was the one driving this overgrown pussycat machine.

I snarled and sprang into action. Out beyond the shit pit, I climbed the highest nearby tree, fashioned a baby’s crib out of twigs and branches in seconds, scrambled back down, grabbed the boy, hauled him up, placed him safely in the nest, scrambled back down, and made after them. I caught their trail easily and followed at a safe distance. But they were twenty-seven cats lined up, head to toe, moving slowly through the forest toward their goal. If they should find my people alive, I would have little time to get to the head of the pack before …

I jutted out, giving them a wide berth and approaching the lead lion from a safe distance. The sun was rising and I could see just how long this terrible pride’s procession was. I dared to get closer. They’d known my presence back at the hut and ignored me, but now they were entirely unaware as I expertly assumed their form. My aura was that of a jungle cat, and I blended so well. I heard their one thought over and over in my head: Shakasantie, Shakasantie, Shakasantie, Shakasantie. They were driven mad by the word and their instinct. The blood of my people was special, in all the wrong ways.

The torchwood trees leaned away from the pack. The yellow-throated sandgrouse and Senegal coucals twittering and cooing about on the ground took to the high branches. The very sun burned uncertainly, as if it were apprehensive to shed light on its own new day.

And then came the screams.

I raced forward as the pack raced forward. The earth shook under 108 clawed paws and my two bare feet. Try as I might, I could not reach the front in time. But it wouldn’t have mattered, even if I had.

The first lion fell into a deep, deep hole, and that was the beginning of the end. From all around us, rifle shots wreaked havoc on the morning’s virgin ears. The poachers were everywhere. It was the best-laid trap in history, and the lions who did not succumb to the pit were slaughtered like lambs.

My running arc had been wide enough that I was on the outskirts of the men hiding behind the trees. My feet skidded to a halt, and one of the hunters saw me and aimed his gun.

“Who the fuck are you?” he shouted, and my vision-lion propelled me through the air toward his conspicuous position. He fired blindly and I came down upon him as the bullet whizzed by my head. I snapped his neck and his lights went out.

I was fourteen years old and had never truly known my own strength. It bothered me not a bit to take this man’s life. I did not give it a second of thought. Not then. Not now. Not ever. I hope he is burning in hell.

Another nearby louse turned and pointed his rifle at me. He fired. My vision-lion flung my body to the ground and saved me from death a second time as the shot ricocheted off the sandgrouse’s perch, high over my head. The bird escaped with his life, hurling off to safer skies. Anywhere but here.

I reacted with impossible speed and before I could feel the hardness of the rock in my hand, its jagged edge was lodged in that villain’s chest, piercing his heart. He fell dead too. Join your soulless friend in hell, asshole.

Lion carcasses were scattered everywhere; though they were the Shakasantie’s natural enemy, no creature deserved to die like that. I witnessed the horrific holocaust as both a man and a beast. I felt the pain and suffering of both animals and Shakasantie, because in that pit where the first lion fell, my kin lay in pieces. Whoever remained was dying down there, and I was too late to save them.

The poacher scum closed in on the remaining few golden warriors. Bullets and white smoke and the smell of rapid gunfire filled my existence. Somewhere in the midst of all this unspeakable violence and chaos, I heard the last screams of my people calling up from that hole in the ground — that trap, that lion’s pit.

I tried to tune out their voices, but it was impossible. It is impossible still.

I knew Shandra-Namba was down there with them, wailing, suffering, dying. I know it still. With every breath I take, I am murdered by the unforgiving knowledge.

The last sound I heard in this living nightmare was the dozens of savage victors celebrating over their dishonorable victory.

I ran from them all, into oblivion.

PART TWO

I AM

CHAPTER

7

I was hunted.

The men tracked me wherever I went. Even with Kuwajii strapped to my chest in a harness made of boiled bamboo, they couldn’t find me, unless I drew them in.

I killed more of them.

The toughest and smartest never saw me. I used the boy’s short bursts of baby noise to draw my attackers, and when they were near, they got the blade.

I didn’t actively seek my enemies out. I let the few who chose to stay away continue their meaningless existences. I would have slayed them all if I didn’t have my little brother to look after. Without me, he wouldn’t survive a day alone in the forest.

So I let them live. God help me, I let them live.

Six months went by. A year. They stopped coming. I guess they finally got the message.

Kuwajii grew to the size of a pumpkin and started to walk. That was neat.

As he aged, I constantly expressed the importance of staying close. I made pains to instill in him a great fear of the lion. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t fair to scare the shit out of a child, but I had no other choice. He had Shakasantie blood flowing through him — that meant he was a target to be stalked and slaughtered. In later years, I would teach him to protect himself and to hunt; but for now, it was best to keep him afraid for his life. It was the only way to stay alive.

Before I knew it, Kuwajii was old enough to ask questions. The older he got, the more questions he posed.

“Where are my mother and father?”

“Why are we alone in the world?”

“What else is out there?”

“How did we get here?”

“Where do we come from?”

“Is there anything else?”

“Marcus, is there anything else?”

Given that I did not have all the facts concerning his parents’ demise, I was forced to concoct a plausible story for him that could pass as the truth. I told the boy that his people had been used as bait (they had; Shumbuto told me as much before he died). I told him that I tried my best to save them (I did, I know I did, even if I didn’t). And mostly, I told him again and again about what a great and powerful man his father was. How he saved my life. I told him of his mother’s beauty and her laughter and warmth. I told him they loved him like no parents had ever loved a child before and he was the luckiest boy on Earth to have been born with that special ancestry. I told him he could be all the things his parents were. Even though he would never know them, he could honor them by being true to himself and to his very nature.

“If they loved me, why did they leave?” He was four years old when he asked this.

“The world is an unfair place, Kuwajii. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make your mark on it. And know this: Your parents never meant to abandon you. That was never their choice.”

I was his brother and he respected me. He grew up trying to please me … for a time.

As the years flew by, the boy became restless for change.

“How can you be happy here, Marcus?” he asked. He was fifteen. An entire decade and a half had caked my pores with dirt and age.

“Why can’t we leave? Go to a city? Meet people?”

“You know why,” I muttered.

“There has to be more to life than this.” There certainly was. Everywhere else in the world there was death and estrangement and pain. This hut, this home I’d built with my own two hands, just as my father before me, was our shield from the world. As far as I was concerned, we would never leave. We would live out our days here and be happy.

“Eat your food,” I told him.

On this particular evening, we were roasting a sable antelope over a tight fire. The boy was exaggerating about our seclusion. Of course we strayed from the hut. I had taken him on a hunting excursion two days prior. We hunted all the time. It kept our minds sharp and our bellies full. In this respect, I was quite unlike Shumbuto. The farthest from home I’d ever allowed us to go was when we bagged this delicious feast. Perhaps it was that trip that got Kuwajii’s explorer blood boiling.

I would not give him higher ground. Our hut was the safest place for him.

“I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, Marcus,” he said. “The lions don’t even know we exist.”

“Maybe,” I said, sharpening Shumbuto’s blade. “Maybe not.”

Kuwajii made as if to leave. He knew better.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to let you out of my sight?” I felt for the boy, I did. His entire life, he had known no one else, had never even seen another human being. It was no way to live. I knew that.

“What else is out there, Marcus?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” I said.

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe any of it.”

“The Shakasantie don’t lie, Kuwajii.”

“There are no Shakasantie! We are all that is left! You tell me every year!”

“Do you need to hear it again?”

“No, I …”

“What?” He needed a father. Everyone needs a father. I didn’t play the role well. I was his brother and constant protector. That was all.

“I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense.” He was right. “If Shumbuto was such a great man, then how could he allow his entire tribe to be slaughtered?”

“It is a mystery, Kuwajii. One that haunts me to this day. Though I suspect that Shumbuto, Shandra-Namba, and all of the Shakasantie resigned themselves to being a bigger part of the universe’s story … somewhere beyond this earth.”

“Well, that may be good enough for you, but it’s not good enough for me.”

“Listen to me, Kuwajii.” I spoke in the most caring way I knew how. “The moment we let our guard down — that is when it will end. We cannot underestimate the cunning power of the lion.”

“It is just a fucking animal, Marcus!” he shouted, quite unexpectedly. Kuwajii was not one to raise his voice in anger. “And since I’ve never even seen this ferocious, snarling beast you claim once hunted Shakasantie, you’ll forgive me if I think you might be out of your fucking mind.” He caught himself then, lowered his head, and stared into the fire. “I apologize for shouting, brother.”

“I should have never taught you to curse in English,” I said, and he stormed away.

The boy was right. The lions weren’t coming. Not anymore. Since that fateful day, there were no more lions, which was very strange, very strange indeed given Kuwajii’s special sauce. We never ventured further than our little patch of land, and the big cats never showed their faces in our territory.

Maybe it was true. Maybe I was out of my fucking mind. The passage of time and the ever-present memory of history’s horrors played their unsubtle tricks. There were days (bad ones) where I could not even remember my name.

Later that night, under cover of darkness, Kuwajii slipped away. I suppose he’d been working up the courage to leave for some time. I taught the boy well. He surpassed me in the art of stealth.

Though I’d not slept a peaceful night’s sleep in fifteen years, I would occasionally find bliss in unconsciousness. The experience many westerners know as REM sleep visited me on the rarest of occasions and only for a very brief time — an hour at most. But somehow, on this night, Kuwajii knew exactly when I went deep under. He seized his golden opportunity and ditched me.

Despite the boy’s cunning ability to recognize my weakness (I venture to guess it had something to do with a slowing in my breathing), he would not get far. I had trained my brain to do oh so many things — one of which was to recognize when danger was afoot and spring my body into action. My senses, even in the deepest sleep, were agitated when Kuwajii’s feet silently grazed the ground. Though my conscious self was too far gone, there was a bit of me that recognized something was amiss. My synapses ran circles around my subconscious, kicking up dust storms and riding lightning in my head. Wake! my mind screamed to me, and I did.

“Kuwajii!” I yelled. But it was of no use. He was gone.

I rose and embodied expedition. Shumbuto’s blade, never far from my hand, burned in its sheath. I could feel its essence. It pulsed, wanting to be drawn.

How long had I been unaware? I pondered as I pursued my father’s son through the forest. Kuwajii’s scent was easy to trace.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour. One hour. Such an infinitesimal amount of time. Not much damage could be done in one hour. Right?

I knew better.

When I exhausted my worry and the soles of my feet bled, I stopped. I had come to the crossroads of our world and theirs.

Popaltree was a sinner’s town. It was filled with the devil’s brood — displaced criminals, crooked government officials, warlords, and whores just itching to waylay you with their wiles. The worst of the flock (as I soon came to know them) called themselves the Doom Squad. They had no morals, no redeeming characteristics, and certainly no souls.

The men of the Doom Squad were, in essence, the meanest, foulest, most despicable sons of bitches that ever existed. I felt the evil surround me as I rapidly approached the town with caution. Villainous eyes watched secretly from behind closed shades and malevolent horses snorted demon snot through their nostrils as I passed. None of it fazed me. I was unafraid. I was here for Kuwajii, and nothing would defile my love for the boy. My mission was clear, had always been clear: Keep him safe, keep him whole. He is chosen. I wasn’t about to let up now.

There was no other town like Popaltree in all of Zambia. The rest of the region was a sprawling mixture of forest, grassland, river, and desert. All my life, I had avoided entering this place, but I suppose I always knew it would one day find me. Now, here I was, in the thick of it, all for the love of a foolish, self-centered child. If we survived the ordeal with our skins, I would kill him.

“What you doin’ there, hot stuff?” asked a whore from the porch steps of what appeared to be the first of the town’s many dens of ill repute. “Looking to get fresh now, are you? Come and take a piece of Charlotte, sugar. Charlotte’s got your business right here.”

I turned to her as I walked past. She lifted her mangy, muddy dress and revealed her mangy, muddy cooter. I had seen women’s privates before, in Shakasantie Village, but until this moment I had never officially been offered one. I did not allow myself the luxury of surprise.

“Thank you all the same, whore, but I am only passing through.” I thought it was a cordial enough response, but she didn’t approve. She spit a rocket of phlegm my way. It hit the ground an inch from my left foot.

“Fuck you, cuntmonkey!” she ejaculated and headed indoors. I was beginning to feel unwelcome.

At my side, I could feel Shumbuto’s blade pulsating again. “Easy, boy,” I whispered. If the time came, I would wield it with honor. But for now, I was looking for a peaceful resolution to this unfortunate escapade. All I wanted was to collect Kuwajii and leave.

There was a ruckus coming from the tavern in the middle of town. The sounds of drunken revelry filled my ears as I approached.

I pushed through the double wooden doors and was instantly blasted with the scent of scum and degradation. It was everywhere. Men playing at cards and swigging large draughts of beer had the facial hair of goat-footed devils and wicked, burnt-red skin to match. At a table in the corner, I found Kuwajii sitting among them. He was laughing loudly, unafraid. I wondered how a child could be so brave yet so stupid.

“Kuwajii!” I called, but he didn’t hear me over the din. I spoke his name again and still nothing. His attention and his energies were focused elsewhere.

Unforgivable, I thought. If a lion charged in here, the boy would be digested before he ever knew he was being chewed on. Had I managed to teach my brother anything?

I took one step toward him when some cigar-smoking monster of a man blocked my way.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded. I had to crane my neck to look into his ugly face, at least a full foot above my own.

“I am of no concern to you. I suggest you clear my path.”

“You suggest?!” The human granite chortled. He raised his eyes as he laughed, and I seized the opportunity. With a speed I had not unleashed for quite some time, my arm shot up, plucked the burning cigar from the monster’s mouth, and rammed the lit end into his left ear. He went down screaming, and the rest of the filthy establishment quieted. Kuwajii looked up from his shameful business. I certainly had his (and everyone’s) attention now.

“Come, Kuwajii,” I said to him in the fatherliest manner I could muster. Given the awkward circumstances, I imagine my voice was more forceful than I intended. The boy rose drunkenly from his chair.

“But Marcus, I —”

“Now,” I shot back, ignoring my tender side. With reluctance, he began to move toward me. Someone sitting at Kuwajii’s table had not been amused by what he’d witnessed. He tried staring through me with his black, soulless eyes, but I had my glaze on. I revealed nothing of my insides.

“What’s the rush, kid?” The man directed his words to Kuwajii but intended them for me. “You always go running when daddy calls?” He sat there stewing in arrogance as Kuwajii slowly made his way to me.

“You don’t talk to him,” I said. “Do you hear me?” I had control. “The boy has nothing to do with you.” I glanced around at the many faces in the bar — bastards and bitches in every chair and every corner. “He has nothing to do with any of you.”

“Oh, I doubt that’s true.” The man spit on the floor. “He’ll be back. Won’t ya, kid?” He stood then, and Kuwajii shared a knowing look with the miscreant. That look wrecked my core.

“We’re leaving,” I said. The manmeat with the singed eardrum was still squirming on the ground. A half-naked whore with a wet cloth attended to him. Kuwajii’s eyes flashed anger when he passed me, but that was fine. He was safe and in my care once again. As I edged my way back outside, I warned them, “The boy is not my son. But he is special. And if I ever get the notion that any of you foul creatures have been plaguing his brain or his heart again, I will come back here.” I made sure they felt the power behind my oath. “I will burn this town to ashes. And then I will burn the ashes.”

It wasn’t until we were under the forest’s natural cover again that their laughter at last began to die away.

We walked home in silence. I did not chastise or berate him, but kept to myself (while keeping a safe-enough closeness in case of true danger). He knew how I felt about the situation. He knew he’d put himself in harm’s way. He had been so reckless, so foolish, and for what? A few hours of carousing with the devil? The whole idea was disgraceful, but taking him to task would have done no good. The way he marched with his uptight shoulders demonstrated that there would be no way to pierce his impossible teen angst.

We reached our hut and the silence broke. I gave in to the ghosts of the Shakasantie begging me to speak my mind.

“Kuwajii,” I started, and he glared at me. What could I tell him that he did not already know? I’d told him countless tales of our people but always withheld the part about how he alone was the one destined to carry on the Shakasantie name; the one who would make his people’s story known throughout the world. No one should have to shoulder that burden; I certainly never wanted to.

“Kuwajii,” I spoke his name again, still unsure of what would come next. Beneath his fumes, he was waiting — waiting for me to scold him. But I would not. It would do no more good to yell than it would to kiss a scorpion.

“What?” he asked of me, seemingly on the verge of tears.

“Your stealth has surpassed my night’s eye.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to think I am proud of you for sneaking off. You disobeyed me and put yourself in great danger. But yes, it is true,” I relented. “You bested me when you escaped tonight. I always knew this day would come. I just never expected it to arrive so soon.” I sighed openly and went to him. “You have outsmarted me, Kuwajii. Me, Marcus Fox, Zambia’s greatest hunter. You have proven yourself worthy. Today you are a man.”

“Marcus,” he started. “I’m sorry I deceived you. But those men, they said …”

“Whatever they spoke with their devil tongues is of no consequence. Those men are not true men. Do you hear me? Do you understand me?”

“I hear you. I understand.” He wavered, but I believed I was getting through.

“Please just tell me you will never stray again. And abide by your word.” I reached out and held him by the shoulders. I repeated to the boy the words I had heard in a vision, long, long ago. “We have work to do.”

“What work?” he asked. I realize now that he did not promise to stay put. He did not give his word.

“I am going to teach you how to hunt an unimaginable beast,” I said, and the boy’s face brightened. It was what he had always longed to hear. “The gargantuan tree-toed sloth is second in potency only to the lion. Or maybe now he is the most fearsome of beasts. I don’t believe the lion exists anymore in this godforsaken place.”

Kuwajii recoiled. He was not expecting a penultimate opponent. His demeanor collapsed into disappointment. For the first time in our long life together, I understood what mental atrophy had made of us both.

I shuddered.

* * *

The next morning, we began our work. Kuwajii took to it easily. His unrefined skill was a dry sponge waiting for me to douse it. He was eager to learn, so very eager. Once we got going, he came to life in a way I’d never seen. It was almost as if he’d been asleep until now. The enthusiasm he brought to each lesson was borderline psychotic. When I spoke of skills he would possess, his eyes bugged out of his head. I could feel the heat of anticipation beating off his body in waves. I marveled at how he was able to contain himself inside his own skin.

“Until now, you have hunted only nature’s easygoing prey,” I began. “The able antelope that still digests in your belly was but a child’s plaything.”

“Sable antelope.”

“What?”

“You said able antelope.”

“I know what I said. The sable antelope is as able as any other.”

“Not anymore,” Kuwajii said, and belched.

“Don’t be crass. Respect the dead. And don’t interrupt the lesson.”

“Sorry.”

“Before you can even begin to fathom a true hunt, you must first know your body.”

He gazed down at his slender, bony cage. To say that Kuwajii had any muscles would be like avowing the cape dwarf gecko lizard can sprout iron wings — a preposterous notion, for the record.

Up and down his eyes fluttered, then they fell back on me. Taking in my awesome structure, the boy manifested inferiority.

“I am so scrawny,” he said. I pitied him.

“Perhaps. But your advantages are many. True, you may not be able to defeat a gargantuan tree-toed sloth with your bare hands, but you could use your body to out-dance him. Observe yourself.” I bulked up, roared like a great sloth would, and bore down on him. Kuwajii expertly sidestepped my attack; before he or I knew it, the boy was behind me. “Do you see?”

“But how can I use quickness as a weapon?” he asked. I shook my head in disgust.

“You have so much to learn. Come with me. I will show you the sloth.”

He followed me through the forest to where the thickets grew thickest.

“Stay close,” I said. “Stay close or die.” And further into the thick of it we marched — two soldiers heading off to war. Bring it.

Kuwajii was right about one thing — he would need more than speed to best a great beast. Of course, I was not about to tell him anything that would soften his instinct. Hunting is all about power, pride, perseverance, and ego. These were the lessons that would make or break him.

“Stop. We are here.” I crouched behind a large rock, and Kuwajii got down behind the large-and-in-charge me. About twenty-five yards away was a cave. I knew what lurked in there. I had left him in peace all these years, but now the time was nigh.

“Why are we stopped?”

“Your great sloth rests in there,” I said. “He is deep in hibernation, but we will wake him.”

“What?”

“Turn your stealth on. Let’s go.” Forward we went, into the enemy’s lair. The cave was deep and slanted downward. Of course it does, I thought, it slants down to HELL!

“Can you see through the darkness, Kuwajii?” I asked, mainly so I could get a read on his fear meter.

“Marcus, I can see just fine. And so can you.”

He was right. I had long ago trained my ocular globules to shine light out from the back of their nerve endings.

The pit was bright despite its blackness. The fact that Kuwajii could also see in that pitch-dark space spoke multitudes about his rapidly evolving abilities.

“Shh!” I halted and rested a hand against the slick cave wall.

“Marcus …”

“SHH!” I shushed him too loudly. It was premeditated. In my mind’s eye, I knew exactly what notes would play in precisely which order before the scene reached its natural crescendo. And this is how it went down.

The gargantuan tree-toed sloth clomped his way up out of the cave’s bowels. His mighty, rushing, guttural noises echoed off every slippery wall. He issued forth his war cry.

“Kuwajii, my brother, prepare to dance!”

I leaned back on my haunches and assumed the position. I was prepared to fight or die.

“Are you crazy?” Kuwajii asked from behind me. His precipitous judgment did not make for a good omen. With those three words, I knew the boy was not ready. I’d misread his enthusiasm for preparedness. Luckily, I’d foreseen every step of this battle, even his shirk.

“Leave if you can’t handle it, Kuwajii. Here he comes now!” I unsheathed Shumbuto’s blade and rushed forward.

“Shakasantieeeeee!” I screamed and met my foe head-on. He was huge and he was pissed. I’d fought gargantuan tree-toed sloths before, but this was the first I’d purposefully woken to do battle with.

The sloth swung his mighty clawed hooves and I ducked and slid away from them in expert fashion. I felt the breath of his swipes but never their sting. When he swung his thorn-tail at my throat, I didn’t spare a moment for awe. I threw my body under his tail’s arc and, looking up, saw that his belly was presented before me. Quickly, I threw my arms up and punched his slothy gut with both fists.

One two! BA-BAM.

The effect was more than I could have hoped for. Though I’d desired only to knock the wind out of him, the force of my incredible strength did much more than that. My enemy was launched to the wall nearby where the boy stood, motionless.

Kuwajii! I ran to him. Sure enough, Kuwajii was staring at me, dumbstruck. He didn’t realize the supreme danger he was in.

“Move, Kuwajii!” I shouted. Thankfully, he did.

The sloth regained consciousness. He shook his head, dazed, then stood on his hind legs. Before the beast could get a read on the boy’s many weaknesses, I lunged and plunged Shumbuto’s blade deep into his mud-crusted chest. The monster screamed for a full minute and twenty-two seconds, then fell forward farther onto my father’s blade. I held the beast steady there with my stupendously venous arm. When I was sure he’d ceased breathing, I knelt before him, ripped out his dead, putrid heart, and took a big bite. His black blood smeared my face.

“Yes, Kuwajii,” I answered his unasked question with ventricle dangling from my lips. “There are monsters here.”

The boy walked out of the cave.

“Where are you going?” I called. He ignored me, so I chased after him.

When I came into the light, Kuwajii was sitting on a stump with his head in his hands. This, I had not anticipated.

“All right,” I said softly. “You weren’t ready. I pushed you too soon.”

“Marcus, Marcus, Marcus,” he said, shaking his head. He wouldn’t look at me. “I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t.”

“Next time you will triumph,” I assured him. “You’ll see.”

“You are an animal,” Kuwajii said. “And you are insane.”

“I have the blood of the lion in me, Kuwajii,” I tried to explain, but he was uninterested. He just sighed, stood, and sadly walked away. “Where are you going now?” He just kept walking. “Kuwajii!” I caught up with him and he turned fast to face me.

“Do not follow me,” he said.

“Kuwajii, I must keep you safe.”

“No, Marcus. I will see you at home tonight. Stay here and …” He paused. I could tell he was searching for words that would make sense. “Clean your kill. I promise I will wait for you at home. All will be well.”

“What makes you think I’m going to leave you alone for even one second? There is more to your story, Kuwajii.” It was time. Time to tell. “I must tell you now.”

“Tell me later, Marcus. Tell me tonight over a warm fire. We will cook your sloth and we will eat and talk. All will be well.”

I noted that was the second time he used that phrase. My keen powers of intuition were flaring up. Why was the boy so calm? What was he playing at? How could I let him wander off on his own?

“It’s OK, Marcus,” he said, and caressed my blood-caked face with his fingers. The act of tenderness was eerily familiar. “I know now that I can never be as great a hunter as you. But it is OK. Let me be on my own for just a few hours. Let me prove to you that I can survive without your protection for this minimal amount of time.”

He was right. The boy was a man now, and I was going to have to start allowing him some freedom. A few hours were not going to kill him.

“Very well,” I said. The gargantuan tree-toed sloth’s corpse was calling to me. “I will see you at home. And we will talk. But Kuwajii, please be safe.”

He turned and walked away. I went back into the cave, back to the beast, to cut the bitch up.

* * *

When I arrived back at the hut, towing a sack packed to the brim with sloth, the fire was already blazing. Kuwajii poked at the burning cinders with a stick, his face a pensive wonder.

“There.” I dropped the meat at his feet and walked to the opposite side of the fire. “This is but one-tenth of the prize that awaits us back in the cave. Coupled with the leftover antelope, I’d say we have a full season’s worth of food.” He continued staring into the fire. “Do you see something that interests you in the flames, Kuwajii?”

“No,” he stated simply. “I see nothing.”

Whatever was bothering the boy, I didn’t dare pry it out of him.

“Very well,” I said. “Let’s eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you are.”

“No. I am not.”

“Kuwajii, don’t consider today’s fight a failure. Think of it as a learning experience.” He snorted at this. “You think this is funny?”

“Far from it,” he said. “I think this is tragic.”

It was time. I made up my mind. The boy must know.

“Kuwajii, there is no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. You are the chosen one.”

“What?”

“For many years, our father thought it was I, but it is clearly meant to be you.” At this, Kuwajii released himself from the fire’s trance and gazed upon me. His eyes were the eyes of a lunatic just coming to realize he was nuts.

“I have told you many times about our people, about Shakasantie, about our father and our mother. I have told you all about the lions, the killings, and the dual genocide. We are indeed a tragic breed, you and I. But you have handled the painful truth of our roots well.”

“I never knew any Shakasantie,” he said. “I never knew any Shandra-Namba and I never knew any Shumbuto. But you have always called yourself my brother.” He stood, and his scrawny muscles bulked unnaturally. “If you are truly my brother, then tell me once and for all how it is that your skin is tanned sallow, like the day’s first light upon the ground, yet mine is as black as the darkest part of a moonless night?”

“This again?”

“Yes, this again.”

“I have explained to you, Kuwajii. I have lived more than one life.”

“You fell from the sky.”

“I was pushed.”

“By your mother?”

“She was not my mother. Though she did birth me.”

“You are unbelievable,” he said, meaning it not as a compliment.

“Do not doubt me for an instant, Kuwajii. We are Shakasantie, and Shakasantie never lie.”

“Tell me more about being chosen.” His tone was one I couldn’t bear to hear. I’d been wrong to take him on a true hunt for an incredible beast. He wasn’t ready. I’d also been wrong to disclose the prophecy. He wasn’t ready. What was happening to me? How could I be so wrong about everything?

“It’s obvious that you are in a foul mood and you’re mocking me. I think we should save this talk for another night. When you are more open to the truth.” On that word, Kuwajii kicked the fire logs and shouted through the resulting sparks.

“Will you ever shut the fuck up about the truth?!” His words flew heavy and slammed into me. “You want to know the truth, Marcus? Do you? Do you?”

“Tell me. Tell me your truth, brother.”

“The reason I could not kill the sloth,” he said, walking over to me, “in that cave today was because I saw no sloth. And the reason I saw no sloth is that there was no sloth. Just as there are no lions. Just as there have never been any lions. Just as there was never any Shumbuto or Shandra-Namba or Shakasantie.”

I slapped him so hard across his face that the ghosts of our departed ancestors winced. The forest echoed with reverent abhorrence.

“Don’t you dare disgrace the memory of our people again. If there was no sloth, then where did all this meat come from?” I indicated the sack on the ground.

“I don’t know, Marcus. Maybe you killed another antelope.”

“An antelope? Look at the size of this sack! Have you lost all your senses, Kuwajii? Just because you didn’t see the sloth doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. Just because you don’t feel the danger doesn’t mean it isn’t coming for you. And just because you don’t believe in your history doesn’t make it a lie.”

“You say I am chosen.” Kuwajii rubbed his bruised, swollen cheek. He spit, and the ground turned red with his saliva. “I tell you I don’t care. I choose my fate. Do you understand? Me.”

Shumbuto’s son was headstrong in forging his own path. Whatever his future held, the boy was not going to sit idly by waiting for it. His destiny was pleading with him to move forward. In that moment, I made up my mind to let him lead the way. It was either that, or lose him forever.

“Very well, brother,” I said. “At dawn, we will seek whatever fate you choose.”

A chill passed between us.

It was the beginning of Kuwajii’s sixteenth winter.

CHAPTER

8

At first light, Kuwajii delivered his ultimatum. “Show me something real or I am leaving,” he said.

“If you don’t believe in monsters,” I told him plainly, “I will prove to you what is real.”

We hiked into the forest in silence.

Upon arriving at Shumbuto’s hunting shack, Kuwajii remained unimpressed. I don’t think he believed one man could have built such a thing. I don’t think he believed anything I said anymore. I figured he would come around eventually. It was imperative. Kuwajii was the chosen one. He was the last of the Shakasantie. The only true one who could carry his family’s history into the world.

We spent the better part of three weeks improving our game. The more time passed since the sloth encounter, the more Kuwajii was willing to accept the possibility that the monster existed. You see, that’s the thing about gargantuan tree-toed sloths — they are masters of deception. To a novice, they can appear unseen (which is to say invisible). It was foolish of me to overlook this simple fact. My anxiousness to train the boy had put him in supreme danger. I vowed to not let it happen again, and he slowly came around to believing such incredible things as behemoth bradypodidae and lions that hunt you for your Shakasantie blood.

“I just don’t understand, Marcus,” he said on a tiresome afternoon. “If my blood is tainted, then why have the lions never come for me?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe they don’t smell you until you’ve reached a certain maturity. Or maybe the lions have, in fact, been wiped out.”

I was thinking of the Shakasantie slaughter. I never did have the courage to look into the pit. Maybe I could have saved them? One of them? Shandra-Namba? No, not with the beasts down there, feasting. Not with the scores of poachers with their guns and their wild ambitions. If I’d attempted a half-baked rescue, I’d be just as extinct as the rest of them, and little baby Kuwajii would have lived the rest of his short, short life suffering and starved.

Kuwajii arranged his blowdarts on the killing stone. One by one, he held them to the sunlight, squinting and searching for imperfections imperceptible to the untrained eye. If he found any alignment flaws or detected the slightest hint of the onset of rust, he would discard the subpar dart without hesitation. Only the finest would do.

His skill with the blowdart was entirely self-taught, and, as his teacher, I found his mastery of the weapon inspiring.

To determine their worth, he would press the tips of his fingers to the dart tips. He pushed, punctured, and bled. I’d impressed upon him the notion that one could never trust a weapon lest it had first been christened with its owner’s life force. He liked that.

Kuwajii licked his fingers. The boy had the hunt in him, yes, but there were times when his compulsive countenance fed my concern for his supple mind.

Once his flawless darts were chosen and the runts of the litter discarded, Kuwajii assembled two dozen deadly (but dead) Yuchan toads before him. Their lifeless bodies lay on the stone slab as he set forth extracting their poisons like a pro. Lately, he’d done little but track the vile creatures down and kill them for their tainted juices.

When each arrowhead had been dipped in Yuchan blood, his weapons were as ready as he.

I wish I could claim responsibility for the boy’s steady hands, his keen eye, his nimble movements (the way he edged so subtly through the forest), his polished killing style. I wish I could proclaim, “I taught him everything he knows!” But I merely laid the groundwork. Since arriving at our father’s long-abandoned weapons shack, Kuwajii had become a product of something divine. A higher power was tapping into and magnifying his skillset.

“I can’t sit idly in limbo any longer,” he said, tossing a used-up toad carcass to the trees. “If lions exist, I want to find them. Now. Today.”

“You aren’t ready, son,” I let slip.

“Don’t you call me that, Marcus. Don’t you ever.” His usual detached visage was spite incarnate. He turned from me to hide his heat.

When he finished loading his darts, Kuwajii looked up from his work. He was going to go, with or without me.

“I am ready,” he said. And so was I.

* * *

In the heart of the Zambian jungle, you can be killed by pretty much anything that runs, jumps, slithers, flies, crawls, climbs, stings, or stalks. It is a perilous place. If you aren’t 100 percent aware of your surroundings at all times, you could fall victim to any number of deadly creatures — from a hunger-crazed, double-faced boa constrictor to a mega-venomous vulture mongoose. But this was my backyard. This was where I grew up. In danger country. There wasn’t anything here I wasn’t hip to.

About ten yards ahead, Kuwajii scuttled like a ravenous black widow panther through the trees. He’d developed a penchant for a minimalist hunting style — he was naked save for his groin pouch, and his dart bag was slung over his shoulder for easy access. With the murderous Yuchan blood congealed on the tips of his weapons, the young buck was confident he could take down a ferocious mountain lion with just one dart. But we weren’t hunting mountain lions. We were hunting lion lions. So the boy would probably need at least two.

I ogled at Kuwajii’s laser focus. He was a killer. Though all he’d ever taken were toad lives, the hunt was in him. Pit him against a 600-pound gorilla and the boy would wring its neck before the big ape could say “Uncle.” Well, maybe that was pushing it. 600-pound gorillas are pretty strong. But oh, did the boy have rolling thunder in his belly!

Together we journeyed to the deepest part of the forest. I was as invisible as a thing that is not there, was never there, will never be. We’d been marching for less than an hour when Kuwajii, without warning, stopped cold in his tracks. The air chilled by three-and-a-quarter degrees. Over our heads, low branches bent lower; slowly, they succumbed to the camouflaged weight. Enemies by the dozens perched on their haunches there, a general’s croak away from attack. I found good footing. Kuwajii did the same. It was obvious now. We’d stumbled into a quintessential, covert trap. The attack of the Yuchan toads had begun.

They were an impressive and organized faction, for amphibians. Driven by rarified vengeance, they sprang forth from their hidden-in-plain-sight positions. I ducked, jumped, and raced through the spaces between their airborne bodies, reaching Kuwajii’s side before they could sink their grossly serrated fungal lips into him. I chopped through the Yuchan, left and right, delivering the goods they’d asked for. Only when the boy was safe did I turn, in near-impossible, rapid-fire motion, and relieve the remaining toads of their puny lives. They went to meet their maker with not one sweet taste of our precious, glistening skin. The battle was finished before it ever began. That’s just how these war games sometimes go.

Their warty limbs and pieces befouled the ground and decorated the bush a toad hellscape. I wiped Shumbuto’s long blade clean, careful not to touch the deadly blood. I counted the many darts sticking from green and brown body parts here and there. Kuwajii managed to hit ten of the diseased fuckers; this act, of course, had been fruitless.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m fine,” I said. “Though I can’t say the same for your friend the Yuchan here.” Kuwajii frowned. “You do realize that you cannot kill a Yuchan toad with poisoned Yuchan darts, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, “of course.” But his disappointment read otherwise. He began the quick work of retrieving his many weapons from the dead toads. “But now these dart tips are doubly poisoned!”

I let the asinine comment go and observed the corpses at our feet. The mess was already beginning to resemble the natural decay of time, like rouged, rotten leaves along a path.

“We should keep moving while there’s still some dayli —”

“Look out!” Kuwajii shouted as he, all in one motion, reloaded his blowpipe, brought it to his lips, and puffed. His aim was true. A rhinoceros bumblebee exploded in mid-air, just behind my left ear. The thing had been hovering so dangerously close to my head that I had felt his prehistoric bee breath buzz my ear hair. I’d wrongly assumed it to be a tender breeze. Chalk it up to being dizzied on endorphins from the kill of the toads, I suppose. No excuse. I was off my guard and would be as lifeless as the fated Yuchan insurgence if it hadn’t been for Kuwajii’s agile ability. It was then that I saw clearly: We were an unstoppable team — the boy and I. Unfuckingstoppable.

“That thing had my death written all over it,” I said, thanking him without thanking him. Kuwajii nodded and stepped cautiously into further unknown danger.

Morning soon gave way to mid-morning and mid-morning soon folded into to pre-afternoon. Then actual afternoon came, my impeccable internal clock’s measure marking the arrival of 12:01. We sat down and ate what the earth provided. Slugs, bugs, and tree bark. To be part of a true hunt, you have to ingest a sampling of the life around you. We drank water from a nearby mud puddle and were thankful for it.

As night drew on, we decided to head back to the hunting shack. There would be no lions today. Not this day. Maybe the next.

That’s another thing about being a hunter worth your salt. You absolutely need an unlimited supply of patience. Without it, you’re just another sorry sack of shit with a short temper and no skills. And then what?

Then what.

* * *

The next day it rained.

“No hunt today,” Kuwajii observed.

“No. No hunt today,” I answered.

The lions, if there were any, would be taking refuge in their caves. Only the most foolish of hunters dare attempt to take down a lion hollowed out in a mountain grotto. If you were to come upon just one lion in a cave, then sure, no problem. But that would never happen. For lions rarely sleep alone. They are territorial creatures and won’t stand for intruders in their deep, dark homes. A smart hunter knows this and stays away.

For argument’s sake, can you fathom how it would be in such a place? I am not so self-indulgent to believe that I would have much chance of surviving such an encounter. I’m certain I would be torn to shreds like any other. But I know I could at least hold my own for longer than the average jerk neophyte on a daredevil safari.

Picture this:

Lightning crashes as I make my way through the forest. The tree cover is plentiful, but no match against the sheets of rain. The leaves leak and the branches drop a downpour in thin, long drips. When the wind blows, the water comes from every direction, even up and out of the ground to slop and attack my feet. I trudge on through the weather until I see the cave entrance ahead. It is concealed naturally with hanging moss, but is still recognizable to my clever eye. I approach it. I enter. It is blacker than black death inside. I come down to the ground and crawl like the animal I am. I unsheathe my blade and clasp it between my teeth. I’m a croc. I’m a leopard. I am every predator’s inherent desire. I am Marcus Fox. Hunting.

I enter deeper into the cave. It’s so dark that a lesser man could lose his mind. But that’s not me. All my faculties are sound.

In a flash of impossibility, I see the lion. He leaps from the depths of the shadows’ shadows. His massive paws THA-CLAP my chest and knock the wind out of me. I fall and roll with my knife still clenched fast in my teeth. I taste my own blood as I spit out the blade. My sure hand catches it and SWISH SWISH the lion goes down, half decapitated.

Immediately, I feel an unbelievable pain in my leg. Another lion has his jaws on me and is just about to whip his head back and forth to rip off my limb when I stop him cold by driving my short but reliable, razor-jagged blade deep into his skull. It is dead. And the howling, crunching noises stop. It is only then that I realize the first lion must have ripped open my chest before I turned him into the world’s most gruesome Pez dispenser. I try to fix my guts back in, but it is a worthless effort. I submit to my fate and die happy in the dead, dead dark.

My morbid fantasy runs out of steam and I am back, crouching in Shumbuto’s shack, gazing at the rain.

It has always been my contention that when outside forces beyond your control (such as this particular day’s storm) limit your abilities to live up to your full potential, playing pretend with your mind helps to pass the time.

I’ll be honest here, because you want to know. Could I survive a multi-lion hunt in a cave? Probably not. But the adrenaline rush just before the end would make it all worth it.

When I finally put my head down to rest, I listened to the ceaseless pattering of the rain outside. Eventually, it dissipated into a soothing drizzle sonata and I allowed the weaker half of my consciousness to sleep. I awoke, mid-night, to the sound of the wailing Banshee. Her cry was …

I’ll tell you what. I’ll regale you with this story another time. Remind me when we get to the swamp.

In the morning, the sky was clear.

“Rise,” I told Kuwajii. “Day three.”

* * *

On the hunt, you learn to become a dense forest shadow. You are but a rustle of wind. Each step you take should equal the sound of your breath, like slim whispers. You hold everything in — your fear, your hate, and your desire to kill especially. No trigger-happy hunter ever comes home with the prize. Most come home dead — which is to say that they don’t come home at all because they remain inanimate corpses wherever they drop.

Your excitement needs to be checked. Your impulses are what will save you.

There is no fatigue. Fatigue is the curse of the damned. You train yourself, as young as you can, to be awake, even in sleep, to continue firing neurons, even after days of restlessness. Mind over body, mind over mind.

Slipping through the forest, Kuwajii made not a sound. However, his piping hot pheromones cascaded off his body. At sixteen, this was, for the most part, uncontrollable. Nature has a way of screwing young bucks in this regard. The intensity of the hunt coupled with the heat of the sun brought stink beads to Kuwajii’s surface. I could smell him from my slight distance. And if my human nose could pick up on his adrenaline, what other creatures smelled my brother? What else was out there? On this day, whether he knew it or not, Kuwajii was live bait. In the end, I imagine we all are.

In American cartoons, animated characters will emit smoke plumes from their drenched, sun-sweated heads to express the presence of extreme temperatures. In real life, it’s nothing like that. At 115 degrees Fahrenheit (or 46 Celsius, if you prefer), your lips begin to bake. A long-brimmed hat can shade most of your head, but your lips have the disadvantage of being lower on your face. To shade them, you have to lean into the sun when heading into it. Duck down so your hat’s shadow covers your mouth as much as possible. You’ll save yourself (temporarily) from skin cancer, but you’ll also open yourself to an attack. Bowing to sun rays allows only one view: a close inspection of the ground at your feet. This limited perspective leaves you vulnerable from every other angle. The best protection for your lips during a sweltering Zambian forest hunt is a liberal application of aloe made from guano. Let it sit on your pucker for at least half an hour before exposure. Trust me, you’ll go batshit crazy without it.

Back in the game, it’s 118 degrees and I know it because regardless of the heat, my neurons are still firing. Uncensored devotion to the hunt is a solid infestation within. Plus, it’s not even that hot. Not really. Could be worse. Could be hell.

“Kuwajii.” My voice traveled as a strong utterance on a low frequency. It was a pitch indiscernible to most big game. My only concern was the monsters.

Kuwajii turned.

“They are coming,” he announced. He’d yet to master the proper frequency; his volume was an iota too harsh. However, if he was right, it wouldn’t matter. When a pack of lions zeroes in on your scent, the volume of your voice is irrelevant. Even less so if you are speaking while Shakasantie.

I hopped a small cluster of forest fern and came up behind him. We created a two-man perimeter. This involved a continuous circular path in motion — an orbit of ourselves. In our village, this technique was called “Gopahielow scalamanpit.” Roughly translated, that’s “Scaling the goatfish solemnly.” The motion itself looked nothing like the name it was given. The moniker was but a mystical tease.

My focus was unyielding. I was picking up on what Kuwajii had previously reported: the sound of a dozen or more giant paws slapping the ground. They were close. I held the boy’s eye contact as we solemnly scaled the goatfish.

Kuwajii was the first to break.

“We must go, quickly,” he said. “There is only death here.” In a heartbeat, he’d turned from a ferocious, fearless hunter to a scared little boy.

“Kuwajii!” I called, but he heeded me not. His swift feet carried him east. Having assessed the situation, he’d decided it was hopeless: Two men against six (possibly more) big cats was a sucker’s bet.

He was fast and he was determined, but I had no difficulty keeping up with him.

He bolted because he knew the odds and calculated they were against us. If I hadn’t been responsible for the boy, I would have taken those odds and fought those beasts to the death — theirs or mine. Yes, the smart hunter lives to see another day. He abandons hope in the face of hopelessness. But for glory, the time-honored hero of epic poems stays and fights by tooth and nail. He’s the one they sing about in watering holes across the world. Hell, he’s the protagonist of every adventure story ever written.

I chased after the speedy Kuwajii. We reached the forest’s edge and he burst forth onto an open plain. I was right by his side as the lions closed in behind us. I could sense they were gaining distance and I wondered at our chances. Zero, if they attacked our fleeing backs. For any hope of victory, we would have to make a stand. But not here. Not out in the open like this. If only there were higher ground, we could gain an advantage.

The pursuit continued and the lions got closer and closer. Whereas my race was being run with a clear sense of survival, Kuwajii seemed driven by shame or fear, perhaps both.

The ground shook. I dared another look back and saw the first cat burst through a thicket like a fucking bullet from a fucking gun. The savage beast flicked thick saliva from his fangs. Close behind the alpha were four of his equally vicious companions.

“Kuwajii!” I screamed, running for my life. “On my mark, stop, drop, turn, and fire!”

Ahead of me, the boy slowed. I felt my whole body convulse as I hastily retrieved my five trustiest blades from my satchel. I gained ground and was once again on the boy’s heels.

“NOW!”

Kuwajii’s skills were true. He dug in his heels and I dove into a graceful roll. The two of us spun and lay face out in the dirt. Expertly, side by side, we took quick aim and fired. Kuwajii’s first dart hit the alpha male square in the neck. He crash-landed just fifteen feet away and labored his dying breaths as my own blade drew past him and entered his companion’s jaw. That lion too went down as the blade sliced through his face, tearing off the lower half of his mouth. With a speed I had not known for some time, my second blade was at once in my hand and out of it. Three were now dead and three more fast approaching. Kuwajii jumped up and ran straight at them, bellowing a war cry as he went. “YAHHHH!”

“NOOOO!” I roared, and refocused my efforts on the monsters.

I let loose one final blade and downed another. But there were still two advancing faster than fury, and Kuwajii was lined up and set on a collision course with certain death.

I watched in slow-motion disbelief as Kuwajii maneuvered a graceful, fully accelerated slide between the two remaining hellcats. They were just far enough apart in their raging charge to give the boy the perfect amount of space he needed to squeeze through. The one on the left saw what Kuwajii was doing and threw his massive head at him. With the incredible speed at which they were traveling, the lion could not deliver the death bite he intended. Instead, he misjudged the distance and his teeth hunkered down on Kuwajii’s leg. The boy yelped in pain as the she-bitch howled and shook its razor teeth back and forth.

The lion on his right was sprawled on the ground in front of them. The kill had been so quick, I’d missed it. Nor could I see where Kuwajii’s Yuchan-poisoned dart had entered her.

One final tiny, shiny, deadly weapon now appeared in Kuwajii’s steady hand; in zerotime it was jammed in the last lion’s esophagus. The thing died with the taste of my brother’s meat in his mouth.

I was on my feet and moving before my brain thought better of it. Shumbuto’s blade rang jealous and unused in my hand. Though it hadn’t been invited to the party, it still wanted a piece of any of the spiritless corpses.

I knelt before my brother. With the dead lion’s jaw attached to his leg, Kuwajii was a terrible sight to see.

“Kuwajii.”

“Get this thing off me.”

The Yuchan poison had worked so quick that the beast probably never felt a thing, other than the last pump of its giant, loathsome heart.

I took the top of its head with one hand and the underside of its jaw with the other. I pulled.

“Nnnnnggggggg!” Nothing. It was a death grip — impossible to release by human hands. I looked at Kuwajii and he knew.

“You must cut off the head,” he said.

It was true. Kuwajii had, at most, ten minutes before the poison in the lion’s body worked its way into his terrible fangs and, consequently, into the boy’s blood. And then … well, I had seen plenty of times the instant effects that Yuchan poison had on big game.

“All right,” I said. “Hold still.”

He nodded. And there, I saw that look again. That look of shame and fear I could not place, but this time, it was mixed with … abhorrence?

I raised Shumbuto’s weapon high, ready to strike the foul monster’s neck. But then the world ended with two deafening gunshots. I slammed backward onto the ground. Looking up at the clear blue sky, it was impossible to understand what had just happened.

Kuwajii was screaming in agony. There was a pain in my shoulder that was unbearable. I’d been shot. Only of this was I certain.

I crawled to the boy through all the mess and confusion. A pistol lay just out of his reach. It had flung-hurled away from him when his second shot misfired and exploded.

A never-ending cascade of red horror spewed from what used to be Kuwajii’s hand. Now it was just a bloody nightmare thing.

It must be the poison of the Yuchan, I thought. It worked fast in the lion, seeped from its mouth juices into the boy and drove him mad. It wasn’t a plausible rationale, and it didn’t explain where the firearm had come from.

“I have dishonored you, my unknown father!” Kuwajii declared to the heavens. “Your murderer walks free!”

My shoulder, too, was screaming, but for now, I ignored it.

“Kuwajii, Kuwajii, what have you done?”

“You ask me what I have done, Marcus?” he grunted. His arm was now a mangled flesh volcano ejecting impossible amounts of blood lava. “It is what you have done that should plague you!”

I took hold of his face. The lion’s cold, coal eyes fixed on mine from their place near the boy’s leg. Even in death, the colossal cat was menacing.

“What are you saying, Kuwajii?”

“I know you slaughtered our people, Marcus! I know it all! You’re a murderer, a traitor, a man without a country, a snake without a nest, a devil without a cause.”

Poison and treachery!

“Who has deceived you, Kuwajii? What deplorable villain has filled your head with these falsehoods?”

I shook him. More blood poured out of him, and he was drifting. I couldn’t help myself. I snatched his firearm up and brandished it before his face.

“Where did you get this pistol?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, fading. “Nothing matters.”

“You have been betrayed, my brother.” I spoke softly now, as if a raised voice would bring the grim reaper near.

“You killed us, Marcus. You killed all of us.” He was slipping away, and I had no choice but to come to terms with the scene for what it was.

“No,” I whispered. “No!” I screamed.

This whole time I’d been holding the boy’s twisted, hooked arm deformity tight against my own body, trying to will his soul to stay put. I knew nothing of medicine then. I know little more now. But all the drugs in the world could not have saved him.

“Don’t let this happen,” I said. “Please, Shumbuto!”

I looked deep into Kuwajii’s eyes. They were wet, but it was the dry season. The heavy downpour of days gone by had gone by. Yesterday would never be today again.

Kuwajii was passing into the next world. He was looking beyond me into some other place or plain or existence. This young, perfect boy that I’d raised was on his way out.

I couldn’t do it. Despite all my incredible gifts, in the end, I couldn’t protect him. I held him and froze that moment in my mind. I became every piece of it. Though my tears were fogging up the whole fuckery, I caught a glimpse of our father in Kuwajii’s dying stare.

“Shumbuto,” I said. “I’ve failed.”

With Kuwajii’s last breath, he spoke two words that were, at first, unintelligible. But after a never-ending moment of heartache, I understood.

“Doom Squaaaad.”

And with that, his life was over. Kuwajii joined our people in the great beyond.

* * *

I buried him. Right there on the plain. Side by side with his last, best kill. It was appropriate. It was fitting. Every hunter should be so lucky to spend eternity with his final foe. Having ended each other’s lives, this lion and Kuwajii had become one. And I placed the star-crossed brothers in the earth.

When it was over, my hands were cut in a thousand places, my heart torn all the more. My wounded arm was numb and useless. I took one last look at the terrible splatter.

“Kuwajii,” I said. His name was the only eulogy I could muster.

Call me callous if you will, but I recognized the necessity to be hard, move on, seek vengeance with a clear mind.

Hiking back was not easy with a damned bullet lodged in my shoulder. That said, it wasn’t challenging either, not at first. I’d been wounded before. Pain sucks, but I can handle it. Just like I handle everything. Just like I always have.

I trudged through the forest, cradling the wound. Putting pressure on it. Squeezing. Causing more pain. Why I sometimes enjoy the fresh sensation of daggers is a mystery I’d rather not unravel.

There was real blood, though, running and sticking all the way down my arm. It was dark, jungle dark.

Kuwajii’s mysterious pistol was in my hand. Unbelievably, the boy had managed to conceal it from me. For fuck’s sake, had he been hiding it in his jockstrap?! And how long had he been planning to use it on me? Where had I gone wrong?

I tried lifting the thing. Just an inch. Just a dumb fucking inch. It was pointless. The dual burial scene had used up the last of my appendage’s worth. I shifted the gun to my good hand and kept walking.

As night wore on, my stride slowed. My brain swam laps around the inside of my skull. Everything was heavy and unstable. I had to stop.

I leaned against a tree and panted. I breathed rapid and shallow, rapid and shallow. I sat. I did not close my eyes. I just sat. And I thought. I knew I couldn’t sit for long. But I had to. It was the first time since I was a child that I’d felt vulnerable. Just a minute. Just one minute more. Just a minute. Just one goddamned minute more.

Kuwajii had died.

Kuwajii is dead.

Those two truths, present and future, were (and are) too much to bear. I would deal with them later.

Focus.

Did Kuwajii try to kill me? Had that really happened? Maybe I had it wrong. I went over it again.

My back was turned to him, after all. I didn’t see the shot. Maybe he was aiming at some airborne predator as I was about to sever the lion’s head? Maybe Kuwajii tried to kill a vulture-mongoose that was diving from the sky? Maybe that was it. Maybe he missed and the shot scared the thing away? Maybe he hit me accidentally. Yeah. That could be it. If Kuwajii had wanted to kill me, he could have done so easily. Anytime. Anywhere. Well, maybe not so easily. After all, this is me we’re talking about. I don’t die for anyone.

But these thoughts were not correct, and I knew it. I heard the boy’s damnation with my own ears. He was, at the end, all tied up in knots and misled and used — an agent of evil. I made up my mind then and there to never fault him for what he had done. There, I sainted him, justly.

Stand.

I did.

Now walk.

I did. I had to.

All the way back to Shumbuto’s weapon shack, I heard low growls about me. They were watching. The lions. Behind every bush and in every tree. Hiding. Ready to pounce. I was so weak.

The goddamned lions.

Yellow eyes blinked in the shadows. I didn’t care. Let them come and take me. Those fucking lions and their servile minions — the kimono dragons and prattlesnakes, the fanglizards and pip eagles — every Zambian animal, from every corner, their slanted sinister eyes were hellish nightlights lining my path.

“Come and take me,” I taunted, and then louder. “Come and deliver me to my family!”

But they stayed their attack. I could hear them drooling.

“Do you think this is the end?” I shouted, and then softer, “I have no end.”

A few more blinks from either side. Then nothing. They were gone as if they’d never been there at all. They simply drifted into the ether.

Kuwajii.

By the time I arrived back at the shack, I was dizzy from exhaustion. I climbed up onto the concrete slab — the same slab that, just days ago, Kuwajii had laid his darts upon.

My mind was an uncontrollable wreck. It went back and replayed every moment of Kuwajii’s pointless life: how he learned to cook, to sew, to hold a knife, to cut his food, to gut a Cimmerian squirrel. Every memory of the boy fought to get to the front of my mind. And it stymied me.

I fell forward. My head conked the edge of the slab, hard, and I tumbled off. Now the world was one bright light, now stars.

I shook with helpless vigor. I slapped my face. I slapped it again.

“Kuwajii!”

I slapped myself a third time. I was lying on the forest floor. Had I been unconscious? Perhaps. I can’t be sure. Time wasn’t real. The world wasn’t turning. My head was a throbbing nightmare. I sat up and examined my shoulder. The gaping entry wound looked like a dying heart when you cut it from a Finistrain leopard.

Using my left arm, I pulled myself up. I took one of my thirty-three blades from my satchel. I was delirious and knew not which one I chose. In the end, it was the right one. The one that would do the job.

“No,” I said. There was no way.

“Yes.” I tried it. I screamed.

I dug into my shoulder, seeking out the bullet. I stopped on a tendon.

“Do it!”

I dug again. Deeper. Through muscle I rooted. My arm sang sweet songs for Satan. I stopped. My balls crawled up into my belly.

“Again!”

I buried the blade in my flesh. My arm wailed. And then, I hit upon the culprit. I popped it, flicked it up, caught the bullet in my teeth, spit it out, and laughed like a maniac mouth-fucking a ball python.

I stared hard into the eye of my storm. It was covered in so much blood that I had to spit on my arm to see. I wiped the area. Razor-sharp icicles stabbed me from the inside out.

“Granta Digbloc!” I cursed in my native tongue.

Kuwajii.

No time for that now.

Kuwajii.

I bent over and washed my arm with water from a bucket. Kuwajii had filled that bucket just this morning. Kuwajii was dead.

Kuwajii.

As I sewed the bullet hole shut, a glimmer of Kuwajii’s ghost floated among the trees. In a blink, he was gone, along with any senses I had left.

Somewhere, a Jupiter Prick gator emitted a war cry. I shuddered. Actually shuddered. I was falling apart.

I somehow managed to build a fire, and stared blankly into the flames.

Kuwajii.

I know I’ve skipped over Kuwajii’s entire life in this telling. There were many good years there, I assure you. We were happy. But that is all I can say of the precious time we spent together. If I were to speak of it, as if it meant anything, I would crumble and die.

Instead of reflecting on his life, cut short before he could fulfill his birthright’s destiny, I looked back on the past few weeks. Had he been distant? Had he been angry? When had he escaped from my watchful sight? When had he returned to Popaltree? What had become of him?

Baby Kuwajii always asked questions. He asked about the sky. He asked about the stars. He held my hand with his perfect baby hand and wondered at why the plants grew and the fish swam.

I couldn’t be part of the emptiness anymore. I lay my head down and closed my eyes. I needed sleep. I needed to sleep and then I needed to eat. I needed to regain my strength. And then … then I would hunt down the bastards who poisoned my darling boy. I would send them all to hell, or die trying.

For Kuwajii.

CHAPTER

9

The pain was gone. Poof. Vanished. I willed it away in my sleep.

Now, more awake and aware than ever, I stoked the fire and boiled some water. I observed the superficial bullet hole. It was crusting into some sick version of yellow that had no business being a color. I didn’t fancy the look of it, so I grabbed the bucket from the fire with my bare hands. Was the handle scalding hot? Probably. I wasn’t fazed. Instead, I poured the searing water over my shoulder. That did the trick. That cauterized the shit out of it. Steam fizzled from flesh and I breathed it in — the stank of my own hot skin. With the blood cleared away, my shoulder was akin to an unblinking eye. It looked at me and through me.

What are you looking at, wound?

A smirk dressed my face. I knew that this scene had to play itself out in order to get to the next one. I relished what was to come. I hungered for it. It was like I was that eager child again, preparing for my first hunt. It was glorious.

Soon, death will reign.

A glimmer of something behind the shack caught my eye. I made my way over to it — an inch of metal poking out of the dirt. Using my hands, I dug around. As I excavated the thing, I was immediately reminded of the digging I’d done the day before. Then, I’d buried Kuwajii; now, Kuwajii’s machete was unearthed.

I gave Kuwajii the weapon when we celebrated his twelfth birthday. I shaped it out of iron, fire, and sleepless nights. When I handed it to him, I lectured the boy that the gift did not make him a man. I explained that the machete represented manhood, but to unleash that ultimate gift, the boy would have to first learn to wield the massive weapon, and wield it well.

When young Kuwajii tried to lift it with his small hands, he was, of course, unsuccessful. The thing probably weighed more than he did. I refrained from laughing at the humorous sight. It would have crushed the boy. But it was a blessed thing to witness as Kuwajii flexed every muscle and every hope he had to raise his gift. I allowed him his struggle for a couple minutes and then, tenderly, reached for it. He let the machete go and I raised it effortlessly, high over my head. I slam-stuck it into a giant log by the fire. I used such skilled force that the log did not split but rather, swallowed the blade up. Just as I intended.

“When you can remove the blade from this log,” I told him. “Then will you be a man.” And he immediately went to it. Bless his soul. He yanked on that handle like it was the reason he was born. The veins in his neck popped out and sweat poured off him. The machete did not budge an inch.

At last exhausted, Kuwajii collapsed back to the earth.

“What you need, my boy, is incentive,” I said. “It is incentive that gives a man his strength. And it is strength that makes a man a man.”

He had his breath back and he sat on the log between me and his stubborn birthday present.

“That’s enough for tonight,” I said. “Happy birthday, Kuwajii.”

As I lay down on my bed of straw that night, I once again heard Kuwajii’s ineffectual grunts outside. I drifted off to sleep pondering the man he would one day become.

That was a good day — the day when Kuwajii turned twelve. Or at least, the day we’d designated as his birthday.

How did we ever get from there to here?

I sniffed the air. It smelled of early August. I would be turning thirty soon. A few days after that, Kuwajii would turn sixteen.

No.

Kuwajii would never turn sixteen.

I repeated the heartbreaking facts in my head.

Kuwajii told me I had no right. Kuwajii was an infant. Kuwajii shot me. Kuwajii was a boy. Kuwajii held my hand. Kuwajii. Kuwajii. Kuwajii. These memories I have shared with you. They run together. They are distorted. This is the heart of it.

I was hungry. I wanted to get up and go, but I had to eat. I needed my strength to make the trek to Popaltree. I pulled some random meat from our stash, chopped it up, ate it raw, washed it down with half a gallon of water. My body was replenished. I was lucky that it never went into shock, depleted and emotionally wrecked as it was.

The proof of Kuwajii’s manhood lay before me. Somewhere along the way, he’d finally managed to remove the machete from the log and then, for some reason, had hidden it in the low dirt.

I tried to recall the last time I’d seen his machete stuck in the log. It could have been days or months prior. When you are used to seeing a thing time and again, it can, in a way, always remain there in front of your eyes.

I spoke softly to his ghost, wherever it may be.

“You are a man, Kuwajii. Forgive me for not noticing.”

I picked up Kuwajii’s machete and felt its raw power pulsate. I supposed I would never see our humble home again. I took a last, savoring look and then left it all behind.

It was a half-day hike to Popaltree. I moved swift, like a black panther late to a warthog feast. When I approached the outskirts of the damned town, I encountered an old hound dog chained to a post, standing on his haunches. He peered me over, displaying his worn gums behind withered teeth. The poor thing was attempting to appear menacing, but was really no more dangerous than a beetlebug without wings. I admired his gumption.

“Good doggy,” I said, allowing him to smell my groin. In under a minute, I had him in the palm of my hand — literally. The old hound slobbered my fingers and I let him. When he was quite satisfied that I wasn’t going to cause him any harm, I took back my hand, shook off the goo, and rubbed his head.

“Stay here, pup,” I said.

I walked slowly into town and found the same tavern I’d caught Kuwajii in weeks earlier. I ascended the three rotting stairs to the porch. The machete I held in my hands was a thing of beauty, stained with my own dried blood.

The doors parted and I entered. There was no piano to stop playing, no din to cease, no jukebox to be silenced. This was Zambia. There was nothing. With that said, the handful of scumbags in that bar definitely took notice. They hushed and slurped their drinks. The bartender was the first to speak.

“You leave your weapon at the door. This is a peaceful place.”

Yeah, right. If it was so peaceful, then why did a group of six broad-shouldered men all lower their hands to their waists?

“I know what this place is,” I said. “It is a pisshole for vermin to shit their piss and lap it up like feral dogs. And then ask their dicks for seconds.”

The biggest of the six men exploded out of his seat. This was him. The man I was after. Had to be. The five vagabonds with him didn’t move a muscle but just looked up at the standing man, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

“Who you calling vermin, you bastard son of a bitch?” Good. So he knew me. My instinct to come here had been dead right. This was the man responsible for Kuwajii’s death.

The bartender finished cleaning a stein and motioned for me to sit down at the bar.

“First one’s on the house, son.”

The poor, well-meaning fool thought there was a way he could stop what was about to happen.

“That first drink will be your last, Marcus Fox.” My enemy spit in my direction. Kuwajii’s maniac machete grew warm in my hand.

“You killed Kuwajii.” It was not a question.

“I always knew you’d resurface,” he said. “I saw you on the day we killed your whole damned tribe. We made a fortune off those lion skins, you know. You were just a boy then, but you somehow managed to kill many of my men. You did me a favor, Marcus Fox! You left me with fewer men to split the profit! I should be thanking you! Hell, I wish you’d killed more of ’em!”

He had himself a big, portly belly and his joke made him laugh from his fat gut up. His good humor moved the same way I envisioned Kuwajii’s machete would slit him open. His five henchmen also laughed for a moment, but only for a moment, as slowly it dawned on each of them that their leader had just wished them dead.

“I always wondered why you didn’t come for me,” the talking dead man continued. He seemed quite disinterested in his coming apocalypse and even dared to saunter up to the bar and help himself to another pour from the tap. The bartender minded not.

“At first, I was sure you would seek your revenge. But time went on and I never saw you again. And honestly, I stopped giving a diseased rat’s asshole about you. I had all the fortune I needed to last my entire life in this shit corner of this shit world. So I figured, fuck you, and I got on.” He took a big swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with a sweaty arm. I kept my silence a little longer and allowed my rage to swell.

“And then, holy shit, guess what happens fifteen years later? Some dipshit kid comes around looking for trouble. Well I gave it to him, didn’t I? I gave him the business and he was none the wiser. I poisoned that dumb twat’s mind, just for fun.”

The excrement sack’s mouth flapped on and on. He was antagonizing me with his sad truth — that he existed only to spread poison and to get rich from death. I took his sour bait. His words had the opposite effect of what he’d intended. Rather than egging me into a hurried mistake, his idiot drivel fueled my strategic acumen. I bit my lip and bided my time.

“Do you know how long I have manipulated your people? The Shakasantie were the dumbest breed of humans on the planet.” He laughed. “Wait, no, I take that back. Seeing as you, Marcus, believed in those weak puppets and believed the boy you raised was anything more than a growing weapon of my design … well, that makes you the dumbest breed of human, doesn’t it?”

“You slaughtered them. You killed them all. For what?”

“For a cool two mil on the black market, son.”

“I am not your son.”

“You’re not much of anything, are you now? Never were, by the looks of you. Why don’t you tell me, tell yourself in fact, just what the fuck it is you are doing out here in the wild, Marcus Fox?”

I did not blink. The man standing before me was responsible for every hatred in my heart.

“I have long wondered,” he went on. His words never stopped pouring out of his abhorrent, pockmarked, bulbous face. “Why did you do nothing to stop their extinction? How do you live with yourself?”

He was going to die soon. That was certain. I answered him only to help find the answers within myself.

“It was too horrible to be real,” I said, mostly to my own conscience. “I never fully believed in my own memories. The Shakasantie — they were almost too beautiful to be real.”

Shumbuto. Shandra-Namba. I love you. Forgive me.

“Also, there was the boy to consider. I had to look after the boy.”

The dead man before me laughed wildly, and his five companions joined him. I allowed them their final merriment.

“The boy!” He spit on the dirt on the ground where he would soon lie. “And how did that work out for you?” he asked.

“Kuwajii,” I said. “Why turn him against me?”

“You turned him yourself, you dumb fuck! That idiot boy came wandering into town looking for answers. Do you think it mattered what the answers were? He just wanted someone to blame. All his life, he’d wondered about his parents’ murderer. According to him, you never gave him any bit of a truth. You made it too easy, Marcus! He needed very little prodding. All I did was point him in the direction of his home.”

“I did not kill Shumbuto. I did not kill Shandra-Namba. I did not end the Shakasantie.”

“No, but you didn’t keep them alive either, did you? You’re not very good at keeping anyone alive, it seems. Least of all yourself!”

He was fast, but I was faster. I raised Kuwajii’s machete one half of one microsecond before he freed his gun from its holster and fired. Sparks flew when the bullet ricocheted off the mighty blade and lodged into the wall, six feet behind him. Clutching his throat with pudgy, blood-soaked fingers, the man who took my family became acquainted with his end.

The rest of the soon-to-be-forever-forgotten Doom Squad stared stupidly into the gaping crater of his gurgling trachea. He danced around for a few seconds, staring into the void of wherever he was headed and then collapsed at my feet, face first, in his own choked, red spit. He was still. He was dead. Everything had happened exactly as I planned.

“Behold the power of Kuwajii’s blade!” My voice boomed off every wall, bringing forth dark, suffering shadows. The remaining five men trembled before me as I waved the maniac machete in tiny arcs and spirals, captivating the damned.

“Kuwajii, son of Shumbuto, was the chosen one — the one the Shakasantie had long foretold would restore them to glory.”

I paused, reflecting, choosing my words wisely for those who might retell them someday.

“This beast of a man who was your leader was right: I allowed the Shakasantie to perish. Every last one of them. They are all dead because of my intrusion, my disruption upon their humble existence. I could save not a one.”

I lowered Kuwajii’s machete. In that moment, I knew I would never kill, hunt, or know joy again.

“I will spare the rest of your lives, so that you may carry on with your worthless miseries. But heed what I tell you now: Marcus Fox is not a murderer. Marcus Fox is an accidental exterminator. I, Marcus Fox, am the greatest nobody Shakasantie ever knew, the falsest kinsman Zambia ever saw, and the fiercest, most insignificant hunter Africa ever had the poor misfortune to host. But now, now I am no more. Now I am as dead as my father and mother and brother before me.”

I was finished. There was nothing else.

I looked down at the man I’d killed. I felt nothing.

The bartender made a noise behind me. “I think you should have that beer now,” he said.

I walked over, accepted it, and drank it in one, large gulp.

“No law here in Popaltree,” said the bartender. “But if there was, you’d be innocent. I saw what happened. Don’t believe that I saw it. But I know that I saw it. And I’ll swear to it, just as I saw it. God be my witness. Why, that was God’s work there!” He pointed toward the floor where the Shakasantie slayer lay.

“Wasn’t God’s work,” I grunted. I finally understood a truth I must have known my whole life. “There is no God.”

I placed Kuwajii’s blade on the bar and walked on out of there. I figured I would go somewhere quiet and hang myself.

Outside, I sensed something skulking nearby, unseen, around the corner maybe, behind the western wall of the bar? Figuring it was yet another member of the Doom Squad I hadn’t accounted for, I sat on the front steps and let him come for me. Everything was nothing now. There was nothing left for me to do or be. My story was over. I deserved whatever end I had coming. Let it come.

And then, I was wet with slobber.

It was the hound dog, licking my face, unafraid. His chain was nowhere in sight.

“Now how in the hell did you get free, you rascal?” I asked him. He barked and ran away from me, signaling me to follow.

My new four-legged friend led me to a dock hanging over the Zambezi. My sense of direction must have been on the fritz, as I didn’t even realize we were that close to the river. Halfway across the dock, the dog looked back and barked again, begging me to keep up.

There was a seaplane tied to the two pillars. On the side, in big, bold, blue letters, it read “Safari Hunter.” I figured this to be the property of the man I had just expertly killed. Was the dog his, too?

The hound dog howled, nipped, and leapt, clearly trying to tell me it was time for both of us to escape this place, once and for all.

“All right,” I told him. “If you’ve got a death wish, too, we might as well finish it out together.”

I opened the seaplane door and the happy mutt jumped inside. Once settled in the surprisingly comfortable cockpit seat, I started randomly flicking switches until one of them started the engine.

“Well that’s a bit of good fortune,” I said. My companion barked his approval.

Having no idea whatsoever what I was doing, I flicked another couple of switches until the propeller started to turn. I then grabbed hold of the wheel and pushed it forward. Water spouted up behind us like an upside-down fountain. The plane didn’t move an inch. I eased off the throttle and thought it over.

“Of course,” I said, then opened the pilot side door. The dog barked again, and as I stepped back out onto the dock, I made a mental note to name him. I inspected all four corners of the plane and found the ropes that were holding us back. I untied and tossed them aside. Once released from its mooring, the plane started to move.

“Fuck,” I exclaimed, and the hound dog barked a “fuck” back.

The seaplane slowly picked up speed as I rushed back to the pilot’s side, opened the door, and dove in, to be greeted by more perturbed yawps.

“Yeah, Charlie, I’m sorry,” I said. And with that, the fleabag had himself a name.

As we sped downriver, I tried to recall any helpful memories from the last time I was in a plane. Since that brought to mind nothing but pain, I decided to just wing it.

Heh. Wing it. Get it? ’Course you do.

I grabbed hold of the wheel once more and pushed, harder this time. The plane shot out even faster.

This flying thing is easy, I thought. Then I saw the big rock. It stood out about 500 meters ahead. I tried to turn the wheel left and then right, but it seemed to be locked in place. We were on a collision course with an immortal boulder.

“Tell me what to do, Charlie!”

He growled at the imposing monolith as it drew closer. Also, I don’t think he was very much enamored with his name.

Given that I was still quite keen on suicide, you might imagine I would welcome this turn of events. I did not. Mind you, I very much intended to die, but it would be on my terms. I wasn’t interested in having my brains splattered across the side of this bitch-stone. No, I wasn’t gonna go out like that. I’d much rather dive nose-first into the middle of the great blue yonder and go out in a hail of ocean spray. But to do that, I first had to get airborne over the river.

Leaning all of my weight on the wheel only resulted in forcing the plane to accelerate more. So I attempted the reverse. I pulled back on the wheel, and the front of the plane edged up. My co-pilot continued his rhythmic barking as I drew out more wheel. The death rock was looming dangerously close now, and it was larger than I originally thought. But the plane was rising. It was! It was not wishful thinking. She was lifting.

Just as we were on the brink of smashing ourselves into a million little pieces, I closed my eyes tight and jerked the wheel out as hard as I could. My homemade shoulder stitches popped, and just like that, we were flying.

The seaplane rocked from side to side, propelling us forward, away from the setting sun’s kaleidoscope of color and light. As we gained altitude, the Zambezi River grew small below us. Our seemingly endless path stretched out new horizons and the night sky soon snuck up from the unknown. The water’s surface never faltered; it just faded in and out of view. We flew over sparsely populated land, areas I’d never traversed before. The Zambezi, ever strong, ever righteous, kept reappearing in bits and pieces. For the most part, we followed the river’s path. I’d followed it for so long that I didn’t need the light of day to show me where it flowed. It weaved its menacing way through that unchartered land, then expanded and poured its life force into the Mozambique Channel.

Once she steadied, the plane turned out to be a peach of an easy vehicle to control. Pull the wheel to go up, push it in to descend, left goes left, right goes right. Flying was child’s play.

The deep cloud cover parted and the stars made their way through. These same stars I’d grown so accustomed to appeared strange from this height. On the ground, they were always so distant, unreachable. Here, they were still very much out of grasp, but I felt more of a kinship with them. They twinkled brighter, as if they were speaking to me in some ancient Egyptian Morse code. I wanted to share the moment with Charlie, but my faithful co-pilot was sound asleep. The view was mine and mine alone to behold.

There were at least a hundred dials, gadgets, and gauges in front of me. Maybe there was more to the whole flying thing than mere steering and yanking and flicking.

My eyes lit upon something called an altimeter. It sounded enough like altitude and it read 1,500. I experimented by releasing my grip on the wheel. It instantly shrank back toward the console, and the altimeter started dropping off rapidly. Could it be feet? Meters? Neither seemed plausible. Maybe the damned thing was broken. Or maybe it stood for something else. I figured it best not to concern myself with things I could not control. I pulled on the wheel again, and the nose of the plane tilted upward. The altimeter clicked to 2,750, and I decided to ease off there. I held the wheel steady at that number and took it all in.

The moon was full and I was speeding toward it. Its dizzying, kaleidoscopic light bedazzled me with possibilities. Something about the impetuous way that moonlight slam-sashayed my visibility was reminiscent of the ofttimes merciless, hypnotic, rampaging cradle and flow of the Zambezi. I’d grown to fear and respect that embodiment of Mother Nature’s untamed strength. I never imagined I would meet her up there too, that close to the cosmos.

How glorious it would be to live forever within the surge of the unforgiving river! I thought, not for the first time. How wonderful to become a constant fluid state. To be anything else but myself. To swim out to the vast ocean and become a blue whale or a shark or …

No, those were both hunters. I was done with hunting. I knew it was an irrefutable fact. That part of my life ended when the man responsible for the genocide of my people spent his last, choking breath at my feet. And yes, one could argue that I should have wiped the faces clean off his companions’ faces with my bloodsport, as well. But I recognized the shame and gutless fear behind their baby blue eyes. They were mere, incapable minions through and through. Hard to say if they’d been following Captain Doomdick nigh on these past sixteen years. Chances were good they’d just hitched to his wagon this past year. No doubt they’d done their share of misdeeds, but likely none I was responsible to cure. Besides, I’d had it up to here with death. Death could go ahead and fucking die already.

The gas gauge read “full.” In fact, it was more than full. The needle was resting atop the top rung of the F. I flicked a switch that read “autopilot” and eased off my control of the plane.

Charlie made a peaceful whimper in his sleep. I leaned back in my seat and shut my eyes. The steady roar and hum of the plane’s engine lulled me. It was like a lion’s purr after a full three-course meal of zebra, antelope, and boar. With the promise of false heavens swirling around us, I traveled backward in my mind. The years flew by with the stars.

Like Shakasantie spirits, we flew on into the night, undetected by the world.

* * *

“Fuck, it’s the fuzz!”

I woke to find myself in a pool of my own sweat. My birth mother’s voice bellowed through the wall of the adjacent room at the Paradise Inn. The sound of Billy and Calliope blasting their mouth cannons at each other never surprised me. However, this time, the urgency in her voice was real. It was not her typical, I’m-so-angry-I-don’t-even-know-why-I’m-angry voice. This time, she yelled with fear. I tried to ignore it. I grabbed one of the five pillows from the motel bed and squished it up against my ear. I had a vague impression of hypnotic blue and red lights behind my closed-tight eyes.

“WILLIAM AND CALLIOPE FOX … THIS IS THE POLICE. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”

I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. The closed, unimpressive beige curtains were now drenched in color.

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!” my father sang. I could hear him pacing back and forth behind our adjoining door. He was like a madman. A feral, trapped beast.

“COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED.”

The authority in the cop’s voice was unwavering. I shuffled out of bed and walked to the window. I pulled the curtain back just to peek. Outside, there were a dozen police cars, maybe more. The motel parking lot was jam-packed with cops. Countless guns were drawn. I let the curtain go and rubbed some distant, free-fall dream from my eyes. In this moment, I understood. My parents were more than just dime-store criminals. They were truly a special breed of asshole.

“Marcus!” my mother hollered, but she was not addressing me. She was speaking to my father. “We have Marcus! They don’t know about Marcus!”

Before I knew what was happening, my father had kicked open the midway door and barreled into my room. The act of violence was certainly unnecessary, as I’d seen him open and close it in a normal fashion, earlier that day.

“Get up,” he said. I stood and went to him. “Marcus. They don’t know about you. OK? Do you know what that means?”

I shook my head, and my father crouched to my level.

“It means that we’ve got the upper hand. We can get out of this. All of us, as a family.” It was the first time I’d ever heard that word. What could it possibly mean? Whatever the connotation, it sounded good coming from his lips.

My mother stood behind him. The look of disgust she always reserved for me was now focused on dear old dad.

“YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP OR WE’RE COMING IN, GUNS BLAZING!”

“We don’t have time to baby him, Billy, come on!” She disappeared back into her room and then bellowed so loud the walls rattled. “FUCK YOU, COPPER! WE GOT A HOSTAGE!”

Silence rang out in my crazy world. The word “hostage” had a completely different meaning than “family.” Of this, I was sure.

“Don’t you worry, ace.” My father winked at me. “It’s all just a game, all right? Just you remember that and you’ll be fine. Don’t you ever forget. It’s all just a game.”

I was crying now. I loved my father in that moment. “OK, Dad,” I said, and he pulled his gun.

“YOU’RE FULL OF SHIT, CALLIOPE!” the cop replied. “WE’RE COMING IN!”

“You come in here and I’ll splatter this kid’s brains all over the rug!”

This I understood. My mother was serious too. I looked at my father and he shook his head no.

“She’s bluffing,” he whispered to me, and winked.

“SHOW US THE KID!” the cop demanded. My father walked me into their room and unlatched the door to the outside.

“All right,” my mother bargained. “Don’t shoot!”

“Remember Marcus, it’s just a game. And you’re gonna help us win. OK?”

Sure, I was afraid, but now I was feeling important. Like I held the key to whatever the final outcome of this terrifying situation might be.

Billy turned the knob and pushed open the door a crack. He held tight to the back collar of my shirt as I poked my head out. A blinding light shone in my eyes, and I recoiled back into the room.

“Oh fuck,” I heard one officer proclaim before the door shut tight.

“Now here’s how it’s gonna go down!” Calliope commanded. “You’re all gonna move your pig cars outta the way and clear a path! We’re gonna get in our Impala and drive on outta here. You got that?!”

Silence echoed from the outside. And then, the sound of all those police cars moving out of the way, obeying her. My parents are brilliant, I thought.

When the noise of the retreating vehicles ceased, the officer in charge got back on the bullhorn. “OK, YOU CAN COME OUT NOW. JUST DON’T HURT THE KID!”

My mother gave me a look that chilled my blood. She said, “Not one peep out of you, Marcus. Not one!” And then she pulled me away from my father and pointed her gun at me.

“What are you doing?” a titmouse with my father’s voice asked.

“We both know you don’t have the balls.”

“To do what?”

“Whatever needs to be done. Now march.”

I looked up at my father for reassurance, but he seemed to be busy trying to read my mother’s crazed face. In his eyes, I saw recognition as he studied her. He knew she meant business. He’d always known.

“Your mother and I aren’t the winners of the game here, Marcus.” He winked. “You are.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder and opened the door.

“I’m not armed,” he lied. I could see the bulge of his gun tucked under his shirt clearly, just above his belt in the back. “Shoot and Calliope does the kid!”

“You hear that, Marcus?” my mother whispered as she pressed her gun to the back of my head. “That’s freedom your father’s preachin’.”

With one arm wrapped too tight around my neck, she pushed me forward. We stepped out into the light, following my father.

The getaway car was just a few feet away in its cozy parking space. My father was already arranging himself behind the wheel. His was the only figure I could see through the endless rays of headlights beaming on me. He got the car started, and his rugged expression held my focus. Out there, in the sea of white-hot light, there were maybe a million cops watching him, watching me, watching my mother walk me slowly to the car, holding a gun to her only child’s head and getting off on the adrenaline. Her heart was beating through her sweat-stained shirt.

“Babe, let’s go!” my father said, and we rushed into the backseat. She slammed the door behind her and threw me to the floor. Her window was open and she hung her head out of it. She knew she was a target for any over-enthusiastic, trigger-happy cop. She didn’t care.

“If we catch sight of you in the rearview, the kid dies!” From their lack of response, I gathered they believed her. My father backed up slowly, then our getaway car made rubble of the pavement. “Nice knowin’ ya, fuckos,” Calliope cackled as we left nothing but dust in the parking lot of that roadside motel.

A minute later, I looked up and she was smoking. The gun was in her lap. I could have grabbed it and shot her dead. I knew I could have. She wasn’t even paying attention. She was gazing out into the distance as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And really, had it? Just another day in the life of young Marcus Fox. I got up off the floor and sat next to her. She didn’t move or say a word. I chanced a glance out the back window and didn’t see a car for miles. The lonely desert road went on and on and on.

“Well that was almost too easy, wouldn’t you say?”

My father drove on, ignoring her for now. He was steady, trained, like a robot doing exactly what it was designed to do. I looked from her to him, then back to her again. She was looking through me, like I was nothing, insignificant, a worm. I cringed into the nook where my seat met the door and she leaned down at me.

“The first chance I get,” she whispered, “I’m throwing you back to the wolves.”

But we are Foxes! I thought. Not wolves!

“Bah!” She dismissed me with her yellowed cigarette hand and climbed over the front seat, taking her rightful place next to her man.

“Good thing this piece of shit car still runs,” she said.

“Piece of shit, my ass! We’re doin’ a buck twenty. Put your belt on. Marcus, you hear me?”

I did hear him. I clicked my belt tight.

You know, for safety.

* * *

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP BEEP.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

BEEP BEEP BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.

BARK BARK BARK!

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBARKBARKBARKBEEPBARKBARK.

“What?!”

My eyes flashed wide and I was yanked back into the present. I remembered everything about my dream, about my past. I’d let it go for so many years. I hadn’t thought about my early childhood horrors in forever. But that part of my life was back. All of it. Out of the clear blue sky. In my head, trying to hurt me. I wouldn’t let it. Not now. Something else was happening.

Charlie was barking his head off and the airplane was beeping its gadgets off.

“OK, shut up, dog! I’m up.”

I checked the gas gauge. The needle was well below E. The inevitable had arrived. The engine would choke out, the propellers would stop turning, and we would crash and die in the middle of the Mozambique Channel.

As if the hopeless thought willed it to happen, the engine sputtered and belched. A loud mechanical pop was the last sound I heard as the propellers slowed to a halt. Briefly, we rested there on a plateau, sailing in a straight, perfect, serene line. In those few precious moments, the entire universe bowed to me. I was the ruler of all. Then, our slow descent began.

There was nowhere to land safely down below. There was no land! Only water as far as the eye could see. But how? When we’d made the flight in the opposite direction all those years ago, the pilot had flown from Madagascar to Zambia on half a tank! Maybe I’d misremembered that insignificant detail of my life. After all, I was six and drugged.

BEEP BEEP BARK.

My heart, risen to my throat, had the flavor and mass of a sour six-toed hedgehog.

The altimeter dropped 100 feet (or meters or whatever it was) per second. There was no time to think. I surveyed the small cabin and saw nothing that would help us survive. What I was looking for was a miracle. And I did not believe in miracles, so I guess I was looking for nothing.

900, 800, 700; the altimeter was crashing and so were we. I looked to Charlie and apologized without words. In that moment, I saw in his big, sad dog eyes a look that clearly said, “You are an idiot, Marcus.” He dropped his head under his seat and snapped something out with his teeth. It was a strap. He dragged it further and tossed it into my lap.

“Genius, Charlie!” I praised him, flipping the parachute bag and escorting it over my arms.

600, 500, 400. The water was there now. I could see it just below us in the moonlight. It gleamed with hundreds of thousands of wavy, broken-glass shards. They were rising their way toward us. Pulling us to them to rip us to shreds.

I leaned to one side and kicked out the door. It flew open and I grabbed Charlie and hurled us both out. The moment we were free, I pulled the cord with my good arm and held tight to Charlie with the other. The chute flew open and caught the wind. We were launched upward at the very last possible instant. The force was so great that my arm jerked away from me and I lost Charlie.

I lost him.

The plane crashed not far at all from where I hit. The last thing I saw before the warm waters surrounded me was a fireball splash. But none of that mattered. The poor mutt that saved my life was gone. Yet another casualty of war in the life lived by yours truly.

The sea surged to drag me down. I fought, at first, against its fury. I climbed the underwater ladder rung by rung and broke the surface to view the desolation and destruction once again. The seaplane, The Safari Hunter, was aflame and going down without a fight of its own. Black smoke swirled high into the air, drifting toward where Madagascar should be.

I did not care for my life anymore. I suppose instinct and the desire to save Charlie had given me the strength to jump out of the plane. But I did feel terrible about my new friend, and I decided to stay conscious and alive for a couple more hours, just to tread water in hopes that I might find him.

The more I swam, the more hopeless it appeared to be. There was no way Charlie could have survived the crash. He died because of me. Nothing new there.

Full of self-pity, impossible sadness, and too many shitty fucking memories, I let my limbs go limp in the current.

“Take me,” I spoke softly to no one in particular. Death, perhaps. “Take me now.”

Before I swallowed a world of water, I imagined that Shumbuto, mighty and alive and well, was wrapping his blessed arm around me and pulling me to shore.

Sadly, my savior was but a beautiful memory in my diseased and drowning mind.

The fucking end.

CHAPTER

10

But of course, it was not the fucking end, now was it? How could it be? How could it ever?

My saviors this time were American — deep sea fishermen from New York who were wrapping up a six-month expedition. When they netted me free of the waves (the captain later explained), I was “dead like disco.” One of the crew administered mouth-to-mouth and brought me, coughing and spewing seawater, back.

Who knows how long I was on the other side? Truth be told, I don’t remember visiting a heaven or a hell or any midway ghost realm. It could be that I did either burn or ascend and then kicked Lucifer or Gabriel in the nuts and came screeching back to Earth, sans any recollection of the hereafter. If such were the case, I tell you, I cannot vouch for it. So let’s just let those mysteries lie forever in secret, as they most likely should.

Speaking of Lucifer, there were times, back in my first year in Zambia, when Shandra-Namba would refer to me as her “perfect fallen angel.” Though I don’t hold any belief that I was a perfect anything (besides hunter), I was recently informed that a fallen angel is not a good thing. In fact, it’s about the worst thing you could be. But she didn’t know that.

If you have a hard time believing that I’ve not once but twice fallen from the sky into a large body of water, only to be serendipitously rescued, here’s another whopper for you. You ready for this one? The dog lived! The sailors rescued him, too! Caught us both in their net, I was told. Lifted him and me together, right out of the ocean.

Once I got my bearings and sat up, I saw Charlie barreling toward me. He leapt, full speed, and I caught him in my arms. I didn’t have any choice in the matter, did I? The lovable mutt licked my face twice and then ran away again. Yelping with his big dumb tongue flapping out the corner of his mouth all the way down the length of the long trawler.

If you are wondering (as I certainly was), what in the bloody fuck a bunch of well-cut, broad-shouldered sailors were doing so far from home, all I can relay is what the captain, a strange box of a man called Scruggs, told me: “The fish out here just taste better to a certain class of people. Do you know which class I mean, Marcus?”

I did not.

“The farken black card class!” The whole crew shouted their response.

“OK,” I said, caring nothing for whatever nonsense this was about.

The captain went on to tell me that the black card class was an elite group of super-rich Manhattan snobs who had so much money that they had to spend it on the most ridiculous things in life. The exotic, incredibly rare, pink-tailed Thresher sharks that inhabit the Indian Ocean near Danger Island … oh you’re perking up now, I see … the Thresher sharks swirling Danger Island, he said, were a goldmine for these crusty men, and they’d captured and killed nearly 200 of the sea beasts before they fished Charlie and me out of the sea.

Danger Island, the captain said, was uninhabited by humans and only about a mile long.

“The Brits went on an expedition to explore the Great Chagos Bank region about twenty or so years ago,” he discoursed. “They discovered the coral reefs there to be thriving with sea life — especially around Danger Island. The fish themselves weren’t a problem for the explorers, but the coral atoll took a sore toll on their ships. The reefs jutted out so far that they had to pull back and send small, lightly manned, inflatable lifeboats to shore. Those few men who ventured out soon found that the waves crashed like the devil on Danger Island. Their lifeboats were torn to shreds, and they were lucky to crawl onto solid ground with their lives intact. They were stranded for two days before helicopters flew in to rescue them. In the meantime, all they discovered on Danger Island was coconut trees and red-footed boobies.”

“Boobies?”

“Birds. Moronic-looking things with faces that appear to have been painted on by Picasso. Long beaks that make up their whole heads. The island itself isn’t dangerous, once you’re on it. It’s just getting in and out that can tear you to shreds. So why go there at all? Unless you have a penchant for coconuts and boobies.”

The captain snickered, but it sounded like paradise to me. I believed I could live the remainder of my days eating tropical fish, drinking coconut milk, and being utterly alone. It was about all I deserved, if even that.

“What about the sharks?” I asked, interrupting my man-stranded-on-an-island fantasy.

“Ah, well, you see, I got a reliable tip a little over six months ago that the pink-tail Thresher was cozying up to the coral atolls that surround Danger Island. Couldn’t get out there fast enough!” He smiled down at the cargo hold. “By God, we cleaned ’em outta there and made the reefs a safe place once again for its true inhabitants — the wee little fishy wishys.”

A runaway, childish twinkle in the captain’s eye seemed to convey: Be nice to me; I’m a lunatic.

“So what? You’re some kind of Father Nature figure?” I asked.

“I am father to nothing,” he said. “Fathers are nothing. You are who you make yourself to be. That is all.” His twinkle was gone. I probably should have stopped right then and there, but I pressed him on a previous subject.

“When you get home and sell those rare sharks, won’t your newfound riches initiate you into that very same black card class you despise?” I was picking a fight and hoping to be tossed back into the sea. However, my words had the opposite effect on the captain; he just laughed and laughed.

“Maybe so, Marcus! And maybe when I’m dining on my very own pink-tailed Thresher in the finest restaurants, I can pick my teeth with my very own black card!” The crew had a fantastic row at that. So much so that I managed to steal away from them all and slip into the lower bunks. That was where I spent most of the remaining trip. Most of the time, I was alone. Occasionally, Charlie lay by my side. And we traveled on in peace and relative silence until we reached New York harbor, two weeks hence.

* * *

I had no feelings whatsoever about returning to the country of my birth. No joy, no wonder, no apprehension, not even an iota of anticipation. As it turned out, I didn’t even feel indifference. The word “hollow” doesn’t begin to describe my state of being.

I was a thirty-year-old shadow of a man with counterfeit roots and a meaningless future. My life, in its entirety, was a miserable sham. All that had happened was, at best, just a ridiculous story.

I should have been cut from this world’s womb a hundred thousand times. I may have been breathing, but I was far from alive. Maybe I died when I hit the Zambezi River all those years ago. Or maybe I was never even born. Maybe all the trials I suffered were just part of one ceaseless, perpetual punishment for some unremembered other life. Maybe the Marcus Fox I knew was just a miserable, damned soul, passing each day through the halls of hell. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil.

“When we dock,” Carlos, one of the oil-stained crew, was saying, “keep your head down and work like we. Sometimes the customs men stop us. Sometimes no. If they do, show them Pepe’s papers. You look like him enough. Same crazy hair, anyway.”

Pepe, I’d been told, was a crew member who had died off the coast of Danger Island two weeks before they fished me out of the water. The poor bastard got caught up in one of the nets while they were raking in a particularly irate Thresher. By the time they’d managed to kill the shark and retrieve poor Pepe, all they had on their hands was a couple of bloody limbs and a head. Carlos nearly vomited his lunch when he told that tale. If I recall correctly, I may have blinked.

“If they no like the look of you, they fuck you,” Carlos continued. “Send you back to the ship. Tell you, ‘Get the fuck out my country or go to jail!’ It depends on the day, and your luck. You lucky man, Marcus? Cuz if no, you gonna go to jail. Ain’t no way El Capitan gonna escort you back to Africa.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with what I am,” I said. “If anything, Luck wishes it were me.”

“Si. You tough as tits, Ocean Man. No doubting that. But if the customs man asks you when you last shit, you tell when and how much and how many kernels of corn were in it! You tell all! Comprende?” My blank stare explained to Carlos that I would never bow to any man. “Well then, you just be on your best behavior. If they take you, don’t fight. Don’t resist. Just go limp, in mind and spirit. I tell you true: If they no like the look of you, they lock you in cell and throw away key.”

“Good. Let them.”

“Well, then. You one badass motherfucker, dude. That is sure!” He slapped me on the back and walked away, laughing.

I watched as he untied a long rope and the ship pulled up slow to dock. Three men, pretending to seem strong, walked up and down the dock, holding clipboards and intent faces. As we drifted closer to them, I thought, for the first time: What the fucking fuck am I going to do here?

We docked, and I went up onto the boards to tie one of the many knots, just as the captain had taught me. Other crew members were doing the same, all the way down the line, and soon, the ship was secure, moored.

Charlie came darting from out of the bowels of the ship. Once on the dock, he gave me a wink and a bark and then ran fast into the city.

“So long, mutt,” I said. “See you in another life.”

“Papers?” one of the clipboard men asked me, and me alone.

I reached into my pants pocket (a pair of Pepe’s hemp trousers) and retrieved the dead fisherman’s passport, ID, and whatever else there was — fishing license, maybe? I had never bothered to look. But the customs man was staring hard at me and at those counterfeit documents.

“Pepe’s OK, boss!” chimed in Carlos from behind me.

“I’m not talking to you, am I?” the customs man spouted. “Move it along, all of you.”

Carlos and the crew filed past me. A few of the men gave me a hopeful look as they passed. The captain’s eyes wished me well on my journey, wherever I may go.

“So I am to believe this is you, Pepe Gonzalez?” The customs man held the ID right up to my face and compared the picture with the man.

“You can believe whatever you want to believe,” I said. “America is still a free country, is it not?”

“What you got on the ship?”

“Thresher shark.”

“How much?”

“96.4 tons.”

“Is this your current address? 14 West Crafton Street, Eerie, Indiana?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“It’s not where I live.”

“Are you a wise guy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where do you live now?”

“I’m staying with my mother in Astoria,” I lied. Forgive me, Shumbuto, but since I was out of Africa and, technically, I was not born Shakasantie, I was free to tell untruths. No, it was not your way, but I figured I could try it on for size.

“What’s your mother’s address?”

“2814 Twenty-third Ave.”

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Margaret.”

“What’s her full name?”

“Margaret Ann Gonzalez.”

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Margaret Ann Roychovich. She was born in Poland in December of 1932. She is five feet, six inches tall and weighs 165 pounds. She has dark brown hair and blue eyes, just like me. She is a widow of twenty-two years. Would you like me to introduce you? Maybe you would like to fuck her? Because I can tell you right now, I will not allow that. As sure as my name is Pepe Gonzalez, I will kill you where you stand before I let you stick your withered, Irish pecker inside my blessed, sweet mother’s yam yam.”

The customs man swallowed his certainty. He handed me back Pepe’s papers.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he said. And with that, I was back in America. Lying is so easy.

As soon as I was out of there and on the street, I crumpled up Pepe’s papers and tossed them in a trash can. Having successfully entered the country, I would no longer use the dead fisherman’s identity. After all, I was an American citizen. I was born on this soil, so to speak. If I was caught, they couldn’t imprison me for being a foreigner, if that was, in fact, what they did here. When all was said and done, I belonged in the home of the brave, I supposed. It was all the “said and done” that I did not want to get involved with. I imagined there would be endless red tape and possible news coverage if my lineage were revealed. “Son of the infamous Texas Terrors returns!” I didn’t need the headache. That wasn’t me anymore. It never was. I would keep my name, but never explain it.

As I made my way down the streets of New York, I passed through hundreds and thousands of people. I was a ghost in their world, and them in mine. So, at least in that sense, they passed through me too.

I had a bag full of Pepe’s “street clothes” (as Carlos called them) and was wearing some — dirty jeans, a pair of worn, tight black boots, and a beat-up collared flannel shirt. The outfit seemed to do the trick. It was good enough camouflage that no one bothered me.

As I mowed through the throngs of the shadows of these people, the buildings swallowed them up. They were going to any number of places — to restaurants or bars, to work or to see a show. I passed them, a solitary man with no purpose among others with too many purposes. All the bright lights of this new world reminded me of an extremely fast-paced and disorienting Shakasantie fire dance.

I moved slowly through the sea of strange. I had no intention of entering any doors, but I peeked in through the windows and wondered once again: What would my next move be?

My stomach rumbled, and the answer to my question posed another. I hadn’t eaten in over eight hours. I needed food, but how to get it? The smell of it was all around me. It originated in lavish steakhouses and burger joints; it floated out of coffee shops and skipped away from street vendors selling pretzels, something called “shish kebobs,” and richly roasted peanuts; on every other corner there was a formidable fragrance of smashed, cooked tomatoes that floated out of pizzeria windows by way of thin, oily, cheese-dripping slices; there were ethnic restaurants on every block that let loose an infinite number of mystifying spices whenever their doors were opened. Illustrious, savory food was literally everywhere, and the lifeblood of it all swirled toward me on hot, New York steam.

The city’s aromatic perfection tackled and overwhelmed all my 1,660 senses. My stomach roared for me to find the source, any source, and capture it. Back home, when I was hungry, I would hunt, kill, skin, cook, and eat. Simple. It was how nature had intended man to live. Here, though, in this strange, urban setting, man acquired his sustenance through meaningless green papers. At least, that was what I first assumed. In the years that would follow, I would come to understand that paper currency was, for the most part, a thing of the past, a relic of a not-so-ancient civilization. In the world of 1997, Americans gathered their food, purchased their homes, and even clothed their children with the undeniable power of credit. What a concept. What a non-thing.

Regardless, whatever money was, I had none. I was a stranger in a strange land. I was dirty, disheveled, and crazy-eyed. As I walked among the city’s millions of mouthwatering smells, trying to ignore the angry hunger within, I once again became self-aware. Survival in this place was going to be a challenge.

But was that even what I wanted to do? Survive? To what end? What goal? I had established, in my mind, the truth of who I was: a non-entity in a rough and tough body, trudging through a nothing of a life toward nowhere. So why bother?

I walked for hours. I walked from one end of the island to the other. And then I walked back again. Countless streets, shops, windows, people, and cars all glared at me, questioned me, and left me alone. No one spoke directly to me, but I could see in some of their faces that they wanted to. Because I was different. Because I was something they’d never encountered before.

That first night in New York, I ate garbage. There were dumpsters everywhere and I had my pick of whatever discarded food I could stomach. I ate well. Well, not well, but plentiful. When the sun came up the next morning, my belly was full, but my head and my feet were exhausted. Where was I walking? What would become of me? Who was I now?

By mid-afternoon of that second day, I found myself wandering through the heart of Central Park. Though there weren’t any podry yaks skulking in warm mud and damp leaves or rabid, vampiric harpy vultures looming high up in the trees, when I looked beyond the well-manicured park’s design, that weak, man-made jungle still reminded me of home.

The cave I stumbled into wasn’t a cave. Anyone who has ever visited Central Park will tell you that a cave in New York City would be as out of place as a falafel vendor in the Zambian bush. No, this cave was simply a tunnel, or, more to the point, it was a small, crescent-shaped, moss-covered hill with a wide gaping hole passing through it. I crawled into this pseudo-shelter and lay down to rest. People passed cautiously as I slept. I could sense their ceaseless scuffles (old habits die hard). The two worlds of waking and sleep lay forever juxtaposed in my consciousness. It is the value of a great hunter to be able to do this. When you are in the hunt, you are also being hunted. To survive, you must control your sleep. You have to keep one foot in both the real and the imaginary … have I mentioned this before? I feel like I have.

Unimportant.

I was no longer a hunter. The evidence of this was clear as I woke to the unmistakable sound of the sun setting over my head, over the moss-covered hill, far beyond the trees of this foreign land. What does the sun sound like? At night, when it goes to bed, it makes a steady shhh sound. It’s the fizzling of its fire being dipped in the cold breath of the mountains, far, far away.

I sat up and leaned against the cave wall. I had no creaks or soreness in my bones or muscles from sleeping on the ground. I was immune to such things. A ragged man was studying me with interest across the way.

“Good morning,” he said, and exploded with laughter. His outburst came out hard and staccato; that full, streamlined force, I thought, would bring the cave crashing down on us. “There’s nothing morning about it, huh? Sun goes down. Sun goes up. Same old shit. Same old shitty shit shit.”

From his jacket pocket, he plucked a small plastic bag containing a brown lump of clay. I watched as he removed a few fingertip-sized balls of a sticky-dry substance, crumbled them softly onto a metal spoon, and set that spoon on fire.

“What are you doing?” I asked him as he pocketed his lighter and drew a needle from his sleeve.

“Going to heaven, man. Wanna ride?” I considered this. I had nothing better to do.

* * *

I am not here to tell you about the wasted hours, days, weeks, and months that followed — partly because I can’t remember them, but mostly because it was, simply put, the worst part of my life. Ha! Imagine that!

You’ve borne witness to how messed up I’ve been from the start. But at least during all those hopeless tragedies, I wasn’t willingly inflicting the hurt onto myself. At least I wasn’t intentionally giving up and giving in to something weaker and more pointless than me. I’d never done that before I resigned myself to drown to death in the Indian Ocean. It wasn’t in my character to let go. So why now? Why here? I wish I had an easy answer to those questions. The closest I can come is to say that when a man is something, that’s all he is. And when that thing is taken out of him, well, what’s left? Just a dim outline of what he might have been.

The moments of clarity were few and far between. I lived in the park among junkies and thieves. Every new day brought fresh arguments and bum fights. For a while, no one would mess with me. I was considered to be an insane, unearthly entity of unpredictable strength. My instincts were still sharp in those early days of heavy drug use. I’d take out the biggest of dudes with one swing of my meat hook. But it didn’t take long for my reflexes to slow and my muscles to turn to goo.

I lost track of so many days. A good amount of time must have gone by, because the weather began to turn cold. The world was upside down. The seasons were switched. Winter was now summer and vice versa. Oh, how I missed the Zambian heat.

There’s a point in every addict’s career when they hit so-called “rock bottom.” Mine was when I awoke atop a pile of garbage on some unknown street outside the park to find myself covered in piss and shit. There was no way of knowing if it was mine. As I stared down at my feet through drug-addled eyes, leaves blew past me and into the faces and feces of other homeless junkies nearby. I couldn’t remember one thing about who I was or how I’d got there. I couldn’t remember my blessed-be-cursed name. There was no sunshine in the world, and there was no me in my body. I cupped my hand into a claw and dug it into my ass. There, I found a knotted baggy containing my last shitty clumps of heroin. I’d hidden it up there so none of my upstanding companions would rob me of it while I jolly popped away. This, I remembered. The skag, in place of my name. Everything I’d become was encapsulated in that tied-off bag. It was my essence, my entire self. With shaking hands, I pulled out the crumbly ball of paradise and lit it the fuck up. And then I just melted.

* * *

ZAP.

“He’s stable,” I heard. “But I don’t know for how long. Come on! Move this hunk of junk!”

I tried to sit up. There were tubes coming out of me and everything was white. I couldn’t speak.

“Take it easy, friend. I’m going to give you the help you need.” The voice was dull over the ear-piercing siren. “Come on, move it!”

I’d heard the wail of ambulances many times in the few months I’d been in New York. But the one blaring now was louder than all those sirens combined. It was coming from every point in the universe as well as pouring out of my every pore.

I needed a hit.

“You’re gonna dry out, my man. As God as my witness, I will save you!”

“You can’t save everyone, Charlie,” called another voice from up front. “He’s just some bum, anyway.”

“Every life is sacred, you son of a bitch! Don’t talk! Drive!”

“Wherearewegoing?” I mumbled. And then the man’s wild face was my entire world, bipping and bopping just inches above mine. He was young and had bright blue eyes; a long, blonde, unfurled mustache; and a nervous tick that made his dimples dance.

He shone a bright penlight in my eyes and flicked my forehead with his finger. “Pupils dilated, forehead unresponsive to pain.” He clicked off the pen and smiled. “Do you know what day today is?”

“Saba-day?” I ventured a guess.

“No, my friend. I’m afraid that is neither a day nor a word,” he said, and proceeded to slap me hard across the face. “This is the first day of the rest of your life. My name is Charlie McManus, and I will be your savior today.”

“Charlie? The mutt?” I asked.

“Well, in some circles, yes, I imagine I am considered quite a mongrel. A scoundrel! A cad. Nonetheless, here I am and here you are. Welcome, with respect, to my mobile help unit.” His eyes sparkled with starlight. I blinked. And then we crashed.

I was all over. My guts were spilled out on the floor of the van. But no, that was impossible. I was hallucinating. This was an ambulance. It only looked like a van. I was so confused. My guts were inside me. Had to be. Unless I was dead. No. I was just a crumpled heap of rags. I still had a body, and a head. I knew this for sure because every inch of it was aching. The man who called himself my savior was unconscious, lying next to me. I crept over to him. His eyes were closed. I opened them for him.

No response. He was dead. So I slapped him back. He screamed and jumped up. Alive.

“What?” He acted quick — faster than I would have ever given him credit for. In zerotime he leapt into the front seat, what was left of it anyway.

“Frank!” he yelled. There was nobody up there. Frank, presumably the driver, had ejected through the windshield. The body-shaped, blood-soaked hole in the glass was proof enough of that. “Oh fuck. Frank!”

We both saw him lying in the road about twenty feet in front of the van. I was sure it was a van now. Not an ambulance after all. But there definitely had been a siren. It was still wailing.

My savior was kicking at the windshield. He’d tried both the doors and neither budged. Outside, there were live wires sparking and dancing wildly with assuredly deadly electricity in the street. The imminent danger didn’t faze him. He was all adrenaline. I would recognize that drug anywhere.

The windshield gave way. It exploded outward and Charlie McManus hurled himself out after it. I crawled closer to the front and watched him approach the crumpled man.

“He’s not breathing,” he said. “No pulse.” He looked back, panting. “Bring me the paddles!” Was he talking to me? What paddles? Dazed, I looked around. I turned back to him and shrugged. “There’s no time!” Charlie yelled. From a distance, I could hear more sirens approaching. Normal sirens of appropriate volume. A crowd had formed safely outside the range of danger, gawking at the jumping live wires in the street.

What happened next was so unbelievable that if our roles were reversed and I was listening to you squawk this next part, I’d call you a fucking liar and be sure to inform the world of your veracity crime. But I am not you, am I? I am me. And this is what happened. I guaran-fucking-tee it.

The van had crashed into a utility pole, and the resulting electricity was firing out in all directions from a downed wire. Charlie sprang away from Frank’s mangled body and scurried over to the wire.

“Don’t!” some bystander shouted, but Charlie heeded his own call. He took but a few seconds to calculate a way to subdue his prey. The electric wire was jackrabbiting like a thicket full of bumblesnakes in heat. Jet black and deadly, the African bumblesnake has the ability to not only slither at incredible speeds, but also pounce and jounce this way and that, unexpectedly; its snakeskin is coated with electric feelers, an anomaly of nature. Trying to wrangle the bumblesnake takes years of practice, and only the most focused hunter can predict its erratic movements. Also, they taste like chicken.

Charlie attacked at the precise right moment. He was a thrill to watch. Landing perfectly atop the harmless, rubber-coated part of the wire, he held it down with his body weight. I saw now that he was a superior specimen as he wrangled that wire to a halt and harnessed its power for his own use. He didn’t seem to have a lot of muscle, but when called to action, his body responded. Having full control of the fire-breathing spark-beast, Charlie walked it over to Frank. He knelt down before the driver and parted the cloudy night sky with his thunderous roar.

“CLEAR!”

I watched in awe from the van as Charlie touched the business end of the wire to Frank’s chest. The driver’s body exploded off the ground — an easy two feet up into the air. He came back down, landing hard.

“Live, goddamn you!” Charlie screamed, and Frank heard his plea. The driver awoke screaming.

Charlie worked tirelessly. He still held the live wire in his hands. Clutching it tightly, he led it to the side of the street, then shoved it down between the gutter grate. With his other hand, he lifted a nearby garbage pail and slammed that down on top of the wire. It was trapped now, under the city.

Some people applauded, while others just stood there, mouths agape. Frank sat up and ripped his burning shirt from his body.

“Go on, get out of here, Frank!” Charlie yelled. “You’re fired.”

Sore as I was, I managed to crawl out of the van through the windshield. Charlie was right there, arms outstretched to me. “You believe this shit, man?”

“No,” I said. “No, I do not.”

And then, as the first real emergency vehicles approached, we took off running through the streets of Manhattan.

* * *

“Who are you?” I asked him.

“Who are you?” he shot back.

We were sitting at the end of a bar, hunched over a couple pints. The place was a dive in every sense of the word. The only other patrons were a businessman who seemed to be deeply engrossed in thought as he repeatedly rolled a toothpick across his knuckles and a beat-up elderly man with a comb-over and a sourpuss. The bartender was busy wiping glasses clean with a dirty dishrag and glanced suspiciously our way every thirty-five seconds. I guess he figured that we were his most dangerous customers. I didn’t know anything about Charlie, but if even a small percentage of my wits were returning, the bartender would be right to fear me.

“I used to know who I was,” Charlie started. “Thought I did, anyway.”

The beer was warm and tasted vaguely of soap. I drank it anyway.

“You hungry?” Charlie asked. He pulled out a wad of cash.

“I could probably eat.”

The half a rat I had digested the day before (or two days ago, or whenever it was) was hardly a feast fit for a king. At the prospect of nutrients, my stomach began to growl.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t craving heroin. Could the trauma of the scene I just participated in have kicked the habit for me? No, but that reminded me — I reached down to my pocket and felt that it was empty.

“I tossed your tar,” Charlie said. “You didn’t have much left anyway.”

I was too surprised to be mad. I was also wondering if this man had really saved my life or just prolonged it a few days.

“I’ll get more,” I spoke halfheartedly. It wasn’t that I wanted to continue down this path; I just didn’t feel like there was anything else for me. Charlie shifted on his barstool and held my gaze.

“No, you won’t. You’re mine now. I told you. I’m your savior.” He signaled to the bartender and ordered a meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I would have taken off, but the desire for real food was too great.

“I don’t need a savior,” I said. “I had one of those once before. Didn’t work out.”

Charlie turned back to his beer and chuckled.

“You need a new pair of pants, Shit Stain.” I looked down. Well, he was right about that.

The food came and I devoured it, not even caring how this crummy dive bar also maintained a fully functioning kitchen. Charlie sat in silence next to me, drinking. The loaf of meat was delicious. The potatoes, exquisite. When I finished licking my plate clean of every morsel, I pushed it away. Charlie ordered another and I ate that too. It was even better than the first. When I finished the second helping, I stumbled to the bathroom, where I proceeded to throw it all up.

“Yes, go ahead and puke. Purging is good.” Charlie spoke to me from behind the partially closed stall door. “Cleans out your system.”

There was vomit coming out of my nose and eyes. What was spewing from my mouth felt like a rotted lung. I flushed the toilet and looked up to a small, partially opened window. I could get through it with a little bit of work.

“I ordered you another,” Charlie said from outside the bathroom. “When you’re ready.”

It was starting to rain outside and the streaks on the windowpane seemed pure to me. They were washing away the dirt.

After that third helping (or first, depending on how you looked at it), I sat waiting for Charlie to speak. I was starting to feel gratitude, but for what, I wasn’t sure. The food? The beer? The shock back to life? The show with the live wire? The ambulance ride? But it wasn’t an ambulance after all, which meant that this guy sitting next to me was some sort of …

“You’re some kind of renegade?” I asked.

“Ha! To be a renegade, you have to believe in something first and then rebel against it. Not me, brother. Don’t put no label on me. I’m just doing what I’m doing, is all. Here, let me explain it like this: Some people save coupons. I save lives. That’s my business. More specifically, today I saved yours.”

“Did you?” I was still trying to piece together how I ended up in Charlie’s van.

“You’re a work in progress.”

The bartender cleared my plate away. “You gonna keep that one down?” he asked, then walked away before I could answer him with an uppercut to his filthy jaw.

“Whose van was that?” I asked Charlie.

“Mine. Frank’s. Society’s. The world’s. New York City’s. Whoever’s.”

“So you’re a criminal? A car thief? What?”

“There’s nothing I am not, friend. And everything is what I am.”

I found that statement to be profound as fuck. There was a time, long ago, when I felt the same way about myself.

“My name is Marcus,” I said, extending my hand. “Marcus Fox.”

“I know.”

He shook my hand and smiled. I saw now that he was much younger than me. But the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth told a different story. This young man had lived.

His handshake was forceful, stronger than mine. I felt weak in his presence. God, what has happened to me? In that moment of weakness, I knew I had to get back to, at the very least, being a man.

“If you know what’s good for you, Charlie, you’d leave me, right here and now, and never look back.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because everyone I’ve ever been close to has died messy.”

“Huh. Interesting.” He thought it over, and for a moment, I believed he would heed my advice. “Well then, I guess I’d better not give you the friendship bracelets I made for us.”

“Friendship bracelets?” I asked.

“Shut up and finish your beer.”

I did.

Charlie stood up. He dropped a couple twenties on the bar, proclaiming, “Let’s go get you clean.”

CHAPTER

11

Charlie was a likable enough fellow, for a psychopath. He lived in the bowels of a broken-down building in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn, just two blocks from the 3 Line. Upon entering a tight alley through a wrought iron gate, he led me down a short path to a pair of heavy, rusted red doors protruding out of the ground.

“Are you coming?” Charlie asked, unlocking the giant doors and throwing them open. I followed him down the stairs into the dark. The smell of mold was everywhere. Charlie flipped a switch, and the room filled with light and noise. It took a few seconds for my sixteen senses to adjust. (It was going to take some time to rebirth the other 1,644.)

“Welcome to the bat cave,” he said, all traces of humor lost.

“What is all this?”

“This, my newfound friend and companion, is my control center.”

It wasn’t terribly impressive. Several walkie-talkies lined up on a shelf were tuned to emergency channels. A small television set was tuned to News 12. The weather was on.

“Looks like no storms for at least a week,” he said. “That’s good.”

He went to the ratty, broken couch in the corner and took a seat. He didn’t offer me one.

“Why is that good?” I asked him.

“Less accidents when the skies are clear. Safe weather doesn’t necessarily mean safer drivers, mind you. But on sunny days, folks’ angels can watch over them better.” He winked. “Catch my meaning?”

Was he saying he was my angel? First he was my savior, now he was a soldier for the Lord?

As whacked out as I still was, I was at least able to see now that the man before me was unstable. I turned to go. I didn’t make it far.

“Where you going, Marcus?” Charlie crossed the room and impeded my path. I sensed a danger. Late. But at least there was still a part of me left — a glimmer of the hunter’s sharp acuity.

“Clear the road,” I said, ready to strike.

Charlie was too fast for me. At that point in my life, anyone would have been. He swung his left as a diversion and it worked. My fist shot up and stopped his punch. But as my better half struggled with his worse, his good arm flew out and wrung around my neck. He managed to twist me around and clasp me good.

“You need help,” he said as I withered away to nothing under his sleeper hold.

When I woke, I found myself a prisoner in a cage. It was immediately clear that my splitting headache was boss, and the boss was unrelenting. Pieces of my skull were throbbing to an unheard tune, and I felt every last thwomp.

I stumbled, slowly, to my feet. The bars held my balance. Through them, I saw my captor, sitting on a stool and smoking, not five yards away. Through the haze of pain, I tried to calculate how I could kill him. No plan came.

“This is your idea of help?” I asked. He was unmoved.

“It’s detox, Marcus. Phase one. You’ll thank me.”

Would I? Fat chance. Whatever I told him in confidence and under extreme duress shouldn’t be used against me. That wasn’t fair.

“I imagine your head feels like a bowling alley right about now. Balls dropping on lanes. Pins crashing. Children screaming. Lights flashing. Pretzels churning. Everything is hot. Am I right?” He leaned forward through the smoke and studied me as I studied him right back.

“I know pain, Charlie,” I said to him as I brushed my hair back and glared. “This is nothing.” And by the power of self-healing, it was suddenly true. The pain of a thousand horses’ hooves retreated to the back of my broken head and then vanished. Charlie watched them go, through my eyes.

I stood up and grasped the bars.

“You are truly a unique specimen, aren’t you, Marcus? What I wouldn’t give to know your story!” He wasn’t crazy. I sensed that now. He was just lonely. “Where have you been hiding out all your life?”

I considered my options. Shut up, fade away into the corner, and give him nothing, or woo his trust with words. I chose the latter. The right choice is always the one opposite of backing down.

“Zambia, mainly,” I answered.

“Fascinating,” Charlie said, and turned from me. “You’ll be sure and tell me all about it sometime.” And he walked away, flipping the main switch and locking the door behind him on his way out.

In the darkness, I found my claws again. The throbbing shot back. And not just in my bowling ball brain. This time, it struck all over. I fell to the ground and kissed it, accidentally, with my gums and some teeth. I spit blood and clutched my stomach. The nausea swept over me and my groin was … inverting? The razor-toothed claws of my inner savagery burst out. I screamed, I howled! I was an animal encaged, and all of my paws were pricked by pins and needles. Who was he? How dare he? But the worst thought came next: How dare I? How had I fallen so low I couldn’t even spot a predator? My heart clanged in my chest and I rolled over. I rolled again. I rolled again. I rolled up onto a raggedy mattress, one of only two items Charlie had placed for me in my cell. The other thing (besides myself and the pain) in that steel-barred cell was a foul-looking aluminum bucket.

I don’t know how much time passed as I tossed and turned on that filthy mattress. My legs kicked and flailed to no end. At one point, my foot struck the pail and sent it flying into the bars. It struck and crashed to the ground with many loud, metallic clangs. These were the sounds that split my brain open.

The next hours were dark.

The next hours were very, very dark.

And then Charlie was there, holding me as I vomited a universe of disgust into his damned bucket. I tried to land one mighty punch across his jaw, thereby crushing his demon face. But I was too weak and empty. The punch was a non-thing. It never happened. It was just an illusion. My whole life was just an illusion.

The single-engine jet plane roaring high through the sky.

It was a clear blue day.

Some small thing was falling.

I was standing on the beach. I was Kuwajii, watching the plane. Looking up, it spouted forth a golden egg — no! It was a golden boy! He fell fast and his parachute wasn’t working. I, Kuwajii, ran, all dark-skinned and doomed, headfirst into the water. The golden boy was still falling, and falling hard. I wouldn’t reach him, not before he crashed to the river. And then he plummeted more, always more, always falling. He never hit. Instead …

My eyes splashed open and I was Marcus Fox. Was I not?

Charlie paced outside my prison. He stopped to offer his hand through the bars. I spit and curled back into bed.

The next hours or days were frightening. I thought I was through it. I thought I was coherent. Charlie had to change his shirt because, as he told me somewhere along the way, I had thrown my own excrement at him. I smelled my hand. It was possible.

“I’m good now.”

“No, you are not.”

“Why do you think …?” I trailed off. A large cockroach was scurrying up Charlie’s pant leg, onto his belt, up his chest, and into his face. It burrowed there, and Charlie didn’t move a muscle, not even when the cockroach ate his eyeball from the inside out.

I crashed to the floor and became one with the unfathomable.

This is the life of a wasted specimen, the dead all said. This is the life you deserve.

“No,” said Charlie, answering some question I may have uttered but did not know. “Try some water.”

His arm, through the bars, held a small wax cup with butterflies on it. They transfixed me. I could have broken my captor’s arm. It would have been so easy. He was practically begging me to do it. This man was a fool. But instead of pulverizing his bones, peeling the pieces out of him, and using the splinters to pick the lock, I reached out and accepted the water.

“Thank you,” I said, and poured the contents over my face. A few drops went into my mouth and I swallowed. Those were all I needed. Even though I was parched.

Then I was sleeping. Or maybe hallucinating again. Maybe a little of both. But if it was a hallucination, it felt much dreamier than the past ones. There was my original bitch mother, glowing, right there in my cell. She had wings and she was weeping. Was she begging my forgiveness? I’d never seen her like this. Never anything like this — all pristine and shining within her sadness. She shook her head and told me to “shush.” For a moment, I thought I’d make amends, for no other reason than to see what would come of it. To see if any weight might be lifted. To see if forgiveness mattered. But instead, I closed my eyes and she was gone.

The next hours, I think, were restful.

When I woke, the cage door was open, the lock was on the floor, and Charlie was dead in the far corner. No. That was a final mirage.

Charlie doesn’t die. Charlie saves.

The basement was empty.

I didn’t feel anything, which was better than feeling pain. I sat up slowly. Evidence of my detox was everywhere. I had turned my cell into a self-mocking bulimic artist’s life’s work.

Slowly, I shuffled through the basement, noticing more than before. On a small table next to the ratty, broken couch lay several magazines. Men with rifles. Interesting. On the heels of this visual discovery, I realized that I was able to see. Charlie had turned the lights back on. Charlie had left the cage door open. Charlie was up to something. A moment of panic was replaced by my body’s desire to survive. Another natural instinct returned. Maybe Charlie had helped me.

There were weapons everywhere. A shovel, pieces of lumber, a walking stick, a glass bowl, rocks of all sizes, table legs, broken glass in the corner, dark, discarded light bulbs in the mesh-wire trash container, the mesh-wire trash container. I grabbed the shovel by the handle and headed toward the light that was streaming down the stairs.

At ground level, the doors were flung wide. Charlie was sitting outside on an overturned bucket, looking out toward the front gate, the street, and the world beyond.

“Welcome,” he spoke without turning. I had the shovel raised high to strike. “Good to be back in the land of the living?” I lowered my weapon. “You are very welcome,” he said.

I sat down on an upside-down bucket beside him.

“You’ve been sleepwalking your entire life, Marcus. But you’re awake now. I’m sorry you had to go through that bit of unpleasantness down there. It wasn’t too bad, I imagine? Not for a great white hunter like yourself?”

He turned toward me and then reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. I wondered how much I had divulged during my cleansing and confinement.

“I told you,” I said. “I have known pain before.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes of course you have, yes.” He was shaking for emphasis. Some hot ash flicked from the tip of his cigarette into my lap. I minded it not. “You’ve known the pain of abandonment. We all have. Everybody leaves.” He was speaking the truth. I knew it all too well.

“What makes you think I was abandoned?” I asked, wondering if my detox babbling delved that far into ancient history. “My pain has always been physical. That’s the only pain I allow myself to know. I turn my emotions into rotting open sores, and I feed off them.” Liar. “Can you imagine the excruciating pain of taking a bullet in the arm? What if you were to have to dig that bullet out of your own arm with your bare hands? That is the sheer, physical anguish I have felt. For starters. Nothing more. No emotions.”

Charlie’s face revealed that he believed none of it.

“Can you fathom this?” I shouted, and ripped off what was left of the ragged shirt I was wearing. I turned my wound to him. “Do it.” I said, indicating his cigarette. “Burn it into my scar. See if I whimper.”

Charlie called my bluff without a flinch. His thin torch seared my flesh. I let this new terribleness settle. Feeling water bubble up behind my eyes, I held in the screams. At last, he relented.

“Well that was a wasteful, baseless experiment,” he said. “Look at you. Now you’re burned.”

My eyes left his and followed the tracks up my arm to the place where Kuwajii had shot me. The old scar was charred with tar.

“It’s obvious you can handle any amount of physical pain. It’s everything else inside you that is seriously damaged. And that is going to take some serious healing.”

“I’m not even a person anymore.” I hung my head. “I’m not sure I ever was.”

“I doubt that’s true. But I’m not one to judge. Look, in my book, everyone has the potential to be something great, even if they believe themselves to be nothing at all. I can help you, Marcus. I can help you help yourself by helping you help others. Do you follow?”

“Get to the point.”

“Do you want to be my first mate?”

“First mate of what?” I asked.

You are the one, Marcus. Shumbuto’s damned prophecy rang in my head. But it wasn’t a prophecy about saving the world. It was limited to, as far as I understood it, preserving the Shakasantie name. Telling their story. But all I knew was my own and how it fit into theirs. What an egomaniac!

“We live and we die and all we can hope is that, along the way, we make a few minor differences,” he said. Crazy or not, Charlie did want to help people. He didn’t seem to have any personal gain in the matter.

“What about your last partner? Where’d you dig him up?”

“Who, Frank? Ah, that was a mistake.”

“You certainly risked your own life to save that mistake.”

“That 50,000-volt, electric wire stunt? Bah! That was nothing. Child’s play. I did it for the kicks. And he walked away. Actually, he ran, didn’t he! All thanks to me.”

“How long have you been at this? How many drivers have you been through?”

“They all lived, man! All right? Jesus Christ! Do you want the job or not?”

“I’ve killed men,” I said.

“Who hasn’t?” he said.

“What’s our next move?” I asked.

“Wheels.”

He flicked his cigarette and we rolled out.

* * *

By nightfall, Charlie had sold me on his entire philosophy. He explained in meandering detail his multitiered mission to save the world, one soul at a time. He said he’d saved Frank from a life of crime and shown him the way. He was just the last in a long line of recruits. I was the latest. If I stuck with him, Charlie reiterated, even if for just a while, I would be quick to learn that helping others can help you help yourself. Charlie said he was living proof of that. When I asked him how many people he’d helped, he answered with an unbelievable number.

The New York streets, of course, were lined with cars. Charlie passed them by, giving pause only when he neared the vans. He peeked inside windows, kicked tires, assessed, reassessed, and diagnosed each automobile’s value. He dismissed van after van after van after van before finally cozying up to the right one.

“This is her,” he said, beaming with anticipation.

While he was busy picking the driver’s side lock of this particular, newer streetwise model, I asked him how stealing someone’s means of transportation fit into his philosophy. How could turning a person into a victim save them?

“Don’t be smug,” he answered, scanning our area for pedestrians. “This is a war we’re fighting, Marcus. A war against fate. People are supposed to die. That’s just God’s way.” The lock bent to his will and he cracked the door. “But God also wants us to challenge him. He wants us to give him a run for his money and stand between life and life everlasting. It’s all one big, crazy power trip, and God plays both sides. You see? He wants us to help others because he made us in his image and he wants us to evolve. And by stealing this innocent guy’s van, we are helping the poor victim to evolve too. He doesn’t know it, and he probably never will, but his van is going to help us help a lot of people. And in that way, Marcus, we are helping him too. Do you see? He’s now a part of it.”

I nodded. As self-serving as the justification was, it did make a few ounces of sense — if you looked at it in the right, deranged light.

“Hop in,” he said. “You’re driving.”

“What makes you think I can drive?” I asked.

“I have an instinct for such things, Marcus. I feel it in my bones.” I climbed into the van and he shut my door behind me. He walked over to the passenger side and got in. “Plus, you told me during your detox you flew a fucking plane over the Indian fucking Ocean.”

“Not the entire ocean. Just part of it. Mostly we soared high above the Mozambique Channel.” I named you up there. “You don’t remember?”

“What? You lost your senses again, man? Why would I remember a thing like that? A thing you did? I wasn’t there.”

Weren’t you?

“Forget it, Marcus,” he said, unfazed. “It’s all in the past, brother. All behind you. Your true life begins now.” He leaned down under the wheel, ripped off a panel, and tweaked some wires. In zerotime, the van purred to life. “Like candy from a baby, baby! Now let’s see if you can drive as wild as you fly.”

The déjà vu was so strong that for an instant, I thought I saw that old mutt Charlie sitting there in the cockpit. But it was a new mutt named Charlie in his place.

“Gas is on the right, brake on the left,” he instructed as I eased into the job. “You know how to read, don’t ya? Well, that’s not important, as long as you can see that the D is right there on the shift. Put your foot on the brake and ease the stick to that spot.”

“I can read, motherfucker,” I said, jamming it into drive. I pounded the pedal to the floor and the vehicle took off like a leopard after a bunyoro rabbit.

“Marcus! Jesus!” Charlie shot his arm straight up, but with nothing to hold on to, he pressed his palm firmly against the roof.

“Not so fast!” he shouted.

“You wanted another renegade, didn’t you? Well this is what you get.” I kept my eyes focused on the road. We were on a straightaway at night and the driving was easy. Having never done it before, I didn’t see what the big deal was. Then we came to a bend in the road and I did at last have to brake a little. But I braked too much, and the van jerked forward so fast it almost jackknifed on itself. Almost.

I slammed the gas again.

Some crazy old lady with no business being out at this time of night nearly got her death card punched when I sped past her at ninety-two miles per hour. Missed her by mere inches.

Charlie shot his head out the window and looked back to see the elderly woman I just nearly annihilated.

“She’s fine,” I assured him as I checked the rearview. She was shaking her cane at us from the sidewalk. The van plowed onward and the old woman disappeared into the past, as people do.

* * *

We’d been at it for four months. Eat, sleep, save — that was our motto. Words to live and die by. At first, a CB radio was our guide, but it proved to have its own faults. The CB was hot-wired to provide us with immediate rescue calls. It was our burden/prerogative to arrive at the scene before any paramedics, police, firemen, or caped crusaders. And not only did we have to be the first responders, but then Charlie would, more often than not, administer FIRST first responder life-saving tactics to whomever needed his help lickety-split, so that we could make our swift exit before any true authority arrived.

“The CB system is flawed, Charlie,” I said as he futzed with its dials for the millionth time that fateful night. “We only manage to get to about a quarter of the victims we hear about, and then only a couple of minutes before the EMTs and cops show up. And that’s being generous.”

“I wish there was another way, but there isn’t. At least I’ve got you, Marcus. I swear, I have never seen a better, faster, or more recklessly accurate driver in my life.”

Ignoring his praise, I drove on, as always, either toward danger or fleeing from it. The roads were slick from a fresh rain, but my steady control held our wheels to the ground.

“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in this profession,” he said. Charlie always acted like saving lives was a real career. If only it came with a paycheck and health insurance. The CB continued to emit unrecognizable squelches.

“Have you ever tried listening to the city from within?” I asked. He turned off the squawk box; it was giving him nothing but irrational static.

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?”

I had his attention. Good. I aimed to keep it. All those years in Zambia had to have taught me something, right? Despite all the horrors I’d faced and family I’d lost, I was sure I picked up something that could be beneficial to mankind. I could sense that there was reason in all of this. I could just feel it.

“Just feel it,” I said. “Feel the beating heart of the city. Just breathe. Breathe it all in. You’ve got the lion’s blood in you, Charlie. You’re a predator. Just like me. You seek out your prey and you fix them. Let your life’s quest guide you.”

His eyes were closed and he was doing it.

“What do you see?” I asked softly.

“I see a thousand people dying tonight if I can’t get this damn CB working again,” he said, snapping out of it. But he was there — he was in it — for a brief moment.

I pulled the van over to the side of the road. I ripped the CB out from under the dash and chucked it out the window. It bounced under an oncoming car and smashed to pieces under its tires. The driver just kept on driving.

“What in the blue fuck did you do that for?”

“We don’t need it. It’s a crutch. Think it through, Charlie. Start at the beginning. Why do you find it necessary to be on this mission? If you look at it from an outsider’s perspective, it’s insanity. Where did you get your training? Huh? How do you know the things you know? Did you go to medical school? No. Were you ever an EMT? No. Do you have any education whatsoever? No. You’re a high school dropout. So what does that qualify you for? It certainly doesn’t make you a certified lifesaver by any stretch of the imagination. Have you ever asked yourself how it is that you can do the things you do? No. You haven’t. And I’ll tell you why. Because you’re scared to death of what the answer might be. You’re terrified that you just are the way you are and there is no answer. You are a gift from God, Charlie. That is the answer. You bring people back from the dead. You heal those that have no right being healed. You healed me. You saved me when I was unsavable. I was done. I know that now. After what I have seen you do to others — to Frank, for fuck’s sake! — I’m telling you, man, from one renegade to another, what you have, my friend, is not talent. What you have is a gift. There’s a difference, an insurmountable difference between those two things.

“Me? I’m just the driver. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be anywhere. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I have to convince myself that I even exist. It’s impossible to imagine that I do. But then, it’s even harder to conceive that I don’t. So that’s what I come around to every single godforsaken day. I arrive at the more plausible truth. I believe in me. I believe in everything I have seen and done. And I believe in you too, Charlie. I believe in this incredible power you have to save the ones who, by all rational counts, should not be saved. And when I see you perform your miracles, I don’t think, ‘Hey, this guy is making miracles happen,’ I think, ‘This guy is a fucking miracle.’ Do you know that, Charlie? Do you understand? You are an honest-to-God miracle. I can’t explain it any better than that. And if a true-to-life miracle needs a goddamn CB radio to help him find our next person to save, that to me is insane. Use your gift, Charlie. Explore it. Feel the life forces all around us. What are they telling you? Where do we go from here?”

It was the longest, most impassioned speech I’d ever given in my life, and it seemed to have an effect. Charlie opened his door and stepped out into the street. He closed his eyes and sniffed the air. He followed his nose around to the front of the van and he pointed to the sky above lower Manhattan.

“Up there, Marcus,” he said, smiling at me deliriously from in front of the van. “That is where we will find it. That is where the true danger lies. In the heavens.”

He put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. If he had ten more seconds to live, he might have unfurled some hidden cape and flown away.

“Let’s go save ourselves!” His declaration boomed out to the sky beyond the skyscrapers.

In that, his last moment, I know Charlie found his inner bliss. Lucky bastard.

* * *

When I came to, I was laid out on a stretcher. Some real EMTs were hoisting me up into an actual ambulance. At least, I think they were real. Hard to say if there were more phonies like us out there.

I couldn’t move. My entire body was numb.

“You’re all right,” a woman said. And then her gorgeous black face was my entire universe. She was Shandra-Namba. “Can you tell me what day today is, please?”

“Shandra-Namba?” I asked.

“That is not a day, sir. What is your name, please?”

“Mother?”

I was overwhelmed with emotion. My blood-soaked face was washed clean by my tears. My Shakasantie mother was alive and well, and she was taking good care of me. Everything was going to be OK. I hoped that tomorrow I could go hunting with Shumbuto.

I went back to sleep and dreamed of the great Zambezi.

* * *

When I woke, chained to my hospital bed, some nurse explained in a not-so-soothing bedside manner that I was lucky to be alive. The driver of an eighteen-wheeler had lost control on the slippery road and crashed his two-ton rig into the back of our van.

The police interrogated me endlessly. I gave them nothing. I was done. Yeah, yeah, I know I’ve said it before, but this time, I meant it. Life could go get fucked.

After three days of not talking, I decided to give them some minor thing to gnaw on. When Sergeant Dickface asked me my name for the hundred-thousandth time, I gave it to him.

“I am Marcus Fox,” I said. It was this and this alone.

“What did you say?” Dickface asked and then turned to Doctor Fuckstick. “Did he say something?”

“I think he said his name.”

“Is that right? I thought I heard it too.” Dickface came up close to my bed and put his dickface in my face. “Say it again, boy. Tell me what you said.”

“I am Marcus Fox,” I repeated.

“That’s good! Now we’re talking! OK, then, Marcus, let’s try this again. Can you tell me what you were doing driving a stolen van?”

Dickface had no idea about anything, and there was no reason to give him any insight into my world. Other than …”

“I am Marcus Fox.”

“Yeah, we got that, Marcus. Look, we just want to help you now. We can make things go easy for you. Easier, anyway. Just tell us what we want to hear. We’re on your side.”

What did he want to hear? And why was he calling himself “we”? There was no one else in my room. Doctor Fuckstick had left, and it was just us two.

“The van belonged to a man named Cody Bryant. Did you know Mr. Bryant, Marcus? Did he owe you some money, maybe?”

It went on like that for infinity. Mostly I drowned out the voices with my mantra: I am Marcus Fox. Sometimes I spoke the words. Other times, I thought them. But that was all. During all the dark times I’d lived through, I always had a (mostly) sound mind and rock-solid body. Neither was the case anymore. It came to a point where the phrase I kept repeating, those four words, lost all meaning.

Word 1 — “I”: a standalone descriptor as impossible to comprehend as nipples on a female platypus. (Fun fact: Neither the male nor the female platypus have nipples. The female secretes milk for her babes through her skin. When I look at my own nipples, sometimes I think of the doofy platypus and wonder whether either the male or female look at other species and have nipple envy. Also, there are no platypuses on the continent of Africa, as far as I know. I just happened to come across this juicy tidbit somewhere along the way. I’m not sure why it’s always stuck with me.)

Word 2 — “Am”: “to be,” “exist,” “occupy space.” Of these three definitions, I suppose I embodied the latter. There was no existing anymore. In a shell of myself, I was not to be.

Word 3 — “Marcus”: a nobody at best. A non-entity in a world of entities. My name meant nothing and I was named for no one. Shumbuto boasted long ago that his name meant “peace by blood.” My name probably shamed him with its frivolousness.

Word 4 — “Fox”: You know that sorry story.

In articulating these four meaningless words, in thought and in speech, over and over again till my mouth and my mind went dry, I was training myself to embrace the sheer nothing of what I’d always been. The inane nature of the self-deposing declaration appeared prideful when spoken in my robust voice; clearly, it was anything but.

There was no record of a Marcus Fox in any database. Of course there wouldn’t be. My parents never fingerprinted me or got me a birth certificate or registered a social security number. I was an American ghost, off the records, off the map. I was a non-entity. A nobody. A crazy person.

After six months of physical rehabilitation, there was a trial and I was charged with seven so-called crimes.

1. Destruction of public property.

2. Interfering with police business.

3. Endangering the lives of others.

4. Impersonating emergency responders — for the record, we never did that. We were entirely up front with every wounded person we came into contact with (the ones who were still conscious, anyway).

5. Being a public nuisance.

6. Operating a vehicle without a license.

And the final and irrefutable blow:

7. Unintentional manslaughter caused by illegal parking.

Yes. Believe it or not, I was being held partially responsible for the truck driver’s death. That was fine. Everything was just sunshine and fucking lollipops for me. I was definitely guilty of killing many others, both man and beast. I would do the time for this poor bastard’s wrongful death as my punishment. Like I have probably said before, I’ve never been alive anyway. Not really.

I was brought up on no charges for Charlie’s untimely demise. In fact, he was never even mentioned at the trial. After all the good he’d done (or tried to do, anyway), the poor bastard didn’t even receive an honorable mention. No one gave a good goddamn about his life or death. It was too depressing a thing for me to process. All I could do was file his sad history away in the back of my mind, in some deep, dark, inner void where I would not be able to access it. Goodbye, fair friend.

As chance would have it, a court-appointed forensic psychologist declared me non compos mentis (not of sound mind). The world at large saw me as a drooling idiot who could do nothing more than repeat four words on an endless loop. And I guess, since I had no identity on the books, in the law’s eyes, I was a John Doe. A John Doe with a Marcus Fox mentality.

I might as well have been brain-dead.

PART THREE

I AM MARCUS FOX

CHAPTER

12

Here’s where it gets a little weird.

I was committed to the Kensey Psychiatric Center on Randall’s Island for ten years. I’ll repeat that because I’m not sure you understand the full weight of my sentence.

Ten.

Damn.

Years.

Early in my tenure as an adjunct whackadoodle, I became acutely aware that something sinister was afoot — that some nefarious force was messing with my head. Each morning I woke in the booby hatch, I felt like I was rebooting, like it was Day One every day. I was physically incapable of processing my disassociation with time, though I knew it was there.

“I am Margawks,” I said to the group assembled near me, on my last first day (which also turned out to be my first last day).

“I’m a mox.” My tired verbal declaration faded into a slurry bit of nonsense. “I … aieeeee.”

“Hey! The stiff is stroking!” A 412-pound diaper-wearing behemoth to my right leaned in and clapped his sweaty meathooks 36.24 millimeters from the tip of my nose. This empty, juvenile gesture had no effect. Well, no outward effect, anyway. Inside, I was affected by 0.0015 emotions.

“Hey buddy,” he pressed closer. “What’d you say your name was again? ‘Mucus’ something, right?”

He threw his head back and made a sound I can only assume was intended to be laughter but instead held a rarified similarity to a swirl of vampiric beefer bats, all fang-banging in a Zambian nether-cave. I rolled my eyes to the linoleum, where I spotted a middle-aged horsefly regurgitating a miniature, unappetizing meal on a wing. The fly slopped up its twice-baked brunch and then, content for the moment, flew up to repeat its disgusting, animalistic behavior on the dusty, barred window above the sturdy card table supporting dozens of scattered self-help pamphlets.

The rec room floor sparkled; a fresh coat of Mop and Glo adds a nice touch to otherwise dismal confinements. Did the custodians clean up every morning before dawn? Having just awoke in this place as if for the first time, I had no memory of yesterday to compare to today. But the polished shine sure smelled nice.

A dark and familiar body slid up like a shadow and sat in the chair left of me.

“Look man,” he said, and my untapped senses perked up. “I am not Kuwajii, OK? Know that above all else.”

I looked to the new figure sitting by my side; despite what he said, I was in the presence of the boy I’d loved and killed. I was instantly drenched by a heartfelt bliss cascade. I would have shrieked, cried, died, or fallen headfirst into his lap, except that he held me back with whispered words.

“They’re watching us,” he said. “Swallow your pain. Don’t give in. Shit’s about to get real. Trust me. Stick to your mantra. You’ll come out of this all right and I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Kuwajii?” I said.

“Hey. Just your mantra,” he said. And then two big guards were on him, lifting him by his armpits and forcing him away. The boy didn’t resist (exist?). He went willingly, leaving me alone with infinite questions. Before I could ask any, an inmate across the dazzling white tiles called out.

“Hey, ‘I am Marcus Fox’! Any relation to these two fools?”

He was pointing toward a boxy TV set high in the far corner of the room, above his head. The program being broadcast was one that was surely a construct of my own psychotic delusions, considering the show’s main characters were none other than my dear old ma and pa.

Swallow your pain. Don’t give in. Shit’s about to get real. Trust me. Stick to your mantra.

I somehow managed to keep my mouth shut to the new development, heeding the advice of Kuwajii/Not-Kuwajii.

The true crime show was nearing some conclusion as it zoomed in and froze on a picture of Billy and Calliope being arrested at an airport. The sound was low, but due to a persistent, tingling screech in my ears, I wouldn’t have been able to hear it even if the volume was at max. I didn’t know much, but I figured that incessant, droning ping between my ears was the squawk of shock. Prior to that moment, I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of my birth parents in maybe three decades. But up there, on the small screen, they looked exactly as they had when last we’d parted.

The camera panned to my mother’s face. Her mouth was upturned in a hideous howl as the arresting officers escorted her through a crowd of photographers toward their police car, idling on the tarmac.

“Billy was found guilty of all his crimes and was set to be executed in nine months. But the grim reaper just couldn’t wait. Sitting on death row, William Fox was killed by an unknown assailant just three months later. As for Calliope, she threw herself on the mercy of the court and turned state’s evidence against her husband. For that, she was granted a lenient sentence of twenty-eight years. She is set for release in March of 1995.”

Father, dead. Mother, free, I thought. Maybe that should be my mantra.

“You the son of the Texas Terrors, Mucus?” asked the belching baby bumpkin. A ripe foulness emitted from his oversized diaper, effectively ruining the clean floor’s pleasant scent.

“What?” The need to question my entire existence outshone Kuwajii/Not-Kuwajii’s warning to keep silent.

“You say somethin’?” the fat baby posed. “Hey! I think Mucus is saying somethin’ that ain’t his name!”

“What year is this?” I let loose. It felt like 1995 happened long ago, but of nothing was I sure.

A lanky, suave man in a smart brown suit sauntered over, leaned down, and studied me with a twitch of his mustache.

“It is 2000, Marcus. It is the year of our Lord,” the man said. “Welcome.”

The selfsame guards who dragged off Kuwajii/Not-Kuwajii returned and lifted me to my feet. They manhandled me out of the rec room and down the hall, then tossed me into a small room like a sack of stankfish. I scrambled to my feet just in time to have the door slammed in my face.

“Kuwajii!” I hollered, damning his warning entirely. On the other side of the door, the guard observed my delirium through the slotted window and gave me a fierce, red-eyed iris fucking before marching on. I don’t know how many times I shouted the boy’s name before a new, bearded face appeared in that tiny window. It was that of the man in the smart brown suit.

“Hello Marcus,” he said. “I see you are talking again.”

“Kuwajii. He’s here. Let me see him.”

“OK, Marcus, OK,” said Beard Face. “First, you need to settle down. Can you do that for me?”

I would not. I refused to allow calm to own me. Some part of me knew (perhaps a large part) that Kuwajii could not be alive and well in the sanatorium. But I suppose I also felt indebted to living the fantasy for as long as I possibly could. So, having no other logical recourse, I bashed my fists repeatedly against the door, howling Kuwajii’s transcendent name over and over until my voice went hoarse and flew the coop.

I know now (and probably did then, too) that I was focusing on the Kuwajii lookalike to an extreme extent because I refused to deal with the other revelation staring me in the face.

Father dead. Mother free.

To his credit, Beard Face waited out my misplaced temper tantrum. His countenance never faltered, even when my knuckles bled rivulets on the glass. I must have resembled a caged wildebeest slowly coming to terms with his fate. The stoic man on the other side knew full well I’d have to either relent or kill myself raging.

Spent, I suppose I sat down on the floor, because that is where I found myself when I came back to some semblance of me, breathing deep, meaningful breaths. They were the breaths of the living, and the air was mine to inhabit. Some sense of serenity did make its way through, and as it did so, my rational mind (whatever was left of it) returned: Of course the boy who claimed not to be Kuwajii could not have been Kuwajii. I’d held his failing body in my arms as he passed on. But then, how would he know Kuwajii’s name to be able to tell me he was not Kuwajii?

“I’m going to open this door now, Marcus.” Beard Face tried to reason with me. “If you attempt anything dangerous, there is a guard by my side who will subdue you. Do you understand?”

I understood nothing.

“I need you to acknowledge that you understand, Marcus.”

I imagine I nodded, because the knob turned and two men entered. One wore a beard on his face, the other a scowl. Neither was Kuwajii. That was good. If the dead boy started popping up everywhere, I don’t think I would have survived the mental onslaught.

“Now, let’s talk about what just transpired, shall we?”

I considered him. I considered freeing his head from the rest of his body. But that would have been counterproductive. So I made no move to destroy him. Though I could have done it easily by tapping into my boundless reserves of adrenaline and magnificent malice.

He had the gall to sit next to me, there on the floor. He had no notion as to the incredible danger he was in. I was on motherfucking tilt.

“Marcus, I am happy to inform you that you have experienced a breakthrough. True, it came with an unfortunate bit of violence, but I believe it was a breakthrough nonetheless. Can you please share with me your version of these recent events? If necessary, you may take your time. I have nowhere else to be today.”

I studied the face behind the beard and found no recollection of any man I’d ever known.

“I don’t know you,” I admitted.

“That pains me to hear. As of our meeting yesterday, we’ve had well over 500 sessions together.”

This news was distressing. It also put more of a time stamp on my stay here.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then let me tell you, you haven’t missed much. Up until just yesterday, you’ve only ever spoken four words to me — to everyone in this facility, in fact.”

“I am Marcus Fox,” I said, knowingly (and yet unknowing).

“Indeed, you claim to be.”

“Why …” I began, but didn’t know how to finish.

“Is that all you have? Why? Mercy me, perhaps I should be the one asking why? More specifically: Why have I hitched my wagon to your horse? Perhaps I am a glutton for punishment. But I believe my interest in you goes much deeper than mere ego would suggest.”

“Who are you?” I asked, lost in the man’s incessant babble.

“You know my name, Marcus. You know me. Would you care to tell me my name?”

I looked to the guard for help, but there was nothing to read off that statue of a man.

“Don’t ask him. Look to me, Marcus. What is my name?”

Out of the quintessential blue, I ventured a guess.

“Dr. Sopras,” I said, immediately knowing a thing that wasn’t previously there.

“Yes. Yes, Marcus. I am very pleased to meet you … again.”

My paisley days locked up in that lunatic cage were quickly unraveling themselves in my rearview. My mind’s eye looked back, and I could see shades of nondescript memories revealed, on the edge of 535 sunsets.

“A year and a half,” I said, making myself known to time.

“Yes, that’s nearly right. Now how about you pluck yourself out of the mire and tell me more about what you’ve just experienced. What was it you were screaming to my doughy-eyed, new fellow?”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense, Marcus?”

“It’s Kuwajii.”

“What is Koo-wa-gee?”

“My boy.”

“You have children?”

“No. Not exactly. Not anymore.”

“That’s a very interesting name. Am I pronouncing it right?”

“Huh?”

“Koo-wa-gee? Is that right?”

“You know who he is.” I was growing all the more certain that this entire thing was a ruse — some kind of elaborate mind-fuck to tear me apart from the inside out. Sopras was mine enemy as much as the able-footed desert goat was the ever-elusive arch rival of the treacherous Yuchan toad.

“Where are you from, Marcus?”

The absurd question lingered in the air.

“From nowhere you would find appealing,” I answered.

“What woke you today? Why are you talking to me now? Was it something you experienced in the rec room? Something beyond whatever a Koo-wa-gee is?”

“Do not mock him. His name is more precious than your soup-stained tongue can dribble.”

“I’m afraid that I am now the one who is at a disadvantage. I misunderstand you. Marcus, you’re going to have to start speaking to me with sincerity if we intend to get anywhere with your progress and well-being.”

“You think I have any chance of being healthy? Any aspirations at all to be well? Clearly you have no idea who I am or what I’ve done. What I’m still capable of doing.”

“I do think you’re a person who is very confused and owning, perhaps, an overly damaged heart. I think you’ve been punishing yourself for far too long on account of events that were probably beyond your control. In fact, you may have been self-flagellating your entire life. You are like no other person I’ve ever met, Marcus. And yet, you are no stranger. Not to me. I am more familiar with your troubles than you may think. No, I may not know the specifics, but your entire story is written all over your weathered face. Mostly in your eyes.”

Sopras snapped his fingers, and the guard passed him a small, handheld mirror. The doctor held it up for me to see. What the reflection revealed was nothing short of horror.

“What do you see, Marcus?”

“Myself,” I said. “A monster.”

“You can’t be both,” Sopras said. “So which is it going to be?”

I stared deeper and attempted to wash the beast from my face. My shifty eyes narrowed and expanded, revealing nothing more than the man I already knew. What I also knew to be true was the glass held within that mirror could be used to slit, puncture, carve, and undo the two men before me. It would take very little effort for me to free that glass from its framework and use it to enable the first stage of my escape. What would two more deaths on my hands be? The beast in the mirror cringed and withdrew, unexpectedly. He fled, hiding behind my own eyes, which now appeared sad, lonesome, and brown.

“Pathetic,” I muttered.

“Well, at least now we’re getting somewhere,” Sopras said, returning the handheld mirror to the guard. Neither man had the slightest clue how close to being slop suet they’d been. I suppose I’m the only one who ever knows that base reality.

“At any rate,” Sopras continued. “Today’s carefully planned experiment has been tainted. We will have to reset for another day. But in all honesty, I don’t know how I can ever get a genuine reaction from you now. Half the ward was in there today. They all saw the tape, er, program. They saw you flip. They’ll be talking about it. The entire study is likely invalid now.”

He stopped himself. His fingers pushed through his curly, unfettered hair.

“For three years now, the woman you claim to be your birth mother has been living free as a bird, somewhere back in Texas, I presume. But then again, what do I know? She could have hung herself or died of natural causes or burned alive in a motel fire or … I’m off topic. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to find another way to get through to you. I’ll have to dig my way through some other wound. I know you’re in there, Marcus. Whoever you are. Truly.”

He then revealed, through a microtwitch of his lip, the kind of crazed sanity you never see in the real world.

“What is this place?” I asked, expecting and receiving no believable answer.

“All you need to know, Marcus, is that you are at a crossroads. You are at the intersection of truth and lies. And I am the God of your soul.”

“Oh give me a fucking —”

I never saw the cattle prod coming. But sure enough, I beheld the intense blue spark as it jigged and jived all over my chest. The full breadth of my body convulsed as a million separate but fractured elements. When it was finished, a cluster of small, gray smoke wisps piffed off me and became air.

“Marcus?” Sopras whispered. “I’m feeling generous. You may have the rest of the night off. Cherish your newfound memories (whatever they may be), while you still can. Tomorrow, we will go deeper than before. Tomorrow, we will discover your true frontier. Rest up!”

If I hadn’t been certain before, I knew now. This creature posing as a “Dr. Sopras” was nothing short of a fiend. They all were. Every last make-believe puppet in existence.

* * *

Back in my padded room, later that night, sleep would not come. There were no stars to gaze upon, only my crusty, crooked ceiling. The provided mattress was dressed in clean sheets, but I never could get used to a soft cushion. I lay on the floor and tried to work shit out.

He is not Kuwajii, I thought. He said so himself.

But how would a man who looks exactly like the boy know his name at all? I argued. You at least owe it to yourself to know for sure.

“Shut up,” I spoke to the voices in my head, both of which were 100 percent mine. “Kuwajii is dead and I am well. I just have to get out of here before Sopras decides to turn that shock juice up to eleven.”

“Bravo, buddy,” Charlie spoke to me from the opposite corner of the room. He was crouching, full of vigor and possibly vinegar, penetrating with liveliness.

“Charlie?” I asked. It was the dumbest question fathomable, but I posed it anyway.

“In the flesh,” he said. “I’m here to spring you out!”

“Spring is sprung?” It was the closest I think I’d ever been to feeling giddy.

“Jesus, you sound worse than when you were detoxing. What are they doing to you in here, brother?”

I shook my head in an effort to quell this new phantom. It didn’t work. On the tenth or eleventh shake, my vision happened upon the door, which was open wide.

“Sorry I couldn’t break you out sooner. These things take time, you know? But just wait till you see what I’ve got in store for us.”

“This is some trick,” I said. “Charlie is dead. They’re all dead. Everyone I’ve ever known, except …”

“Except that bitch who brought you into this world. Am I right? Well, all those other poor bastards may be worm food, but I’m here, chum. Do I look dead to you? Could a dead man do this?”

He didn’t do anything. He blinked.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing, man, I told you. I came to get you out. You wanna be free or not? It’s your choice. But hey, I’ve probably overstayed my welcome already. The guard at the end of the hall could wake at any moment. So I gotta split, with or without you. I don’t have any notion to be your roomie here in the booby hatch.”

Charlie stood and crossed the short distance between us, his arm outstretched.

“Last chance,” he said, blinking again.

All manner of men and monsters blink, except for fish and snakes and probably some other long-extinct creatures I know not of.

If I thought it would do any good, I would have blinked too. But blinking would only cause me to miss it — everything that came next. The veritable, plaid madness of it all flashed by in the flicker-flurry of a bare-faced, grey loerie’s eye.

CHAPTER

13

Fun fact: In South Africa, grey loerie birds are commonly referred to as “go-away-birds.” This is due to their nasal, drawling calls that sound as if they are forever declaring to those nearby to “Go away! Go away! Go away!” In the unlikelihood that they understand English, they are most likely telling it to nearby, unwelcome humans in their territory. And sometimes we do. Sometimes, we have no choice but to go the fuck away. Not me, though. Not anymore. I’m staying right here with you until the very end of my tale. And I thank you once again for remaining by my side. You are truly a bird of a different feather, so to speak.

Charlie, dead or alive, had fled the scene. Being the helpful soul he’s always proved to be, he left my cell door wide open for me. Without further ado, I followed him out.

When I’d last seen my friend, he was sprawled all over the street in a puddle of guts. He had a caved-in head and grotesquely bent leg, and his otherwise neatly combed hair was slightly tousled. Just imagine my surprise to find him returned, unharmed, and undead before my very eyes, a shining specter of perfect health.

“I know what you’re thinking,” my soon-to-be twice-savior said. “But fuck all that.” There was no sense in arguing with his logic, so I rose to follow Charlie’s convincing ghost toward uncertain freedom.

Outside the walls of Kensey Psychiatric Center, the sun crested the eastern horizon. There was no mortal reason I should know this. The section of the floor in which we were held had no windows. But with the excitement of a great escape pulsing in my veins, my internal clock and other long-resting faculties were kicking into gear.

Charlie walked at an irate inchworm’s pace, carefully creeping past the sleeping inmates. Obedience and trepidation were on his side; he moved as if a hive of mustachioed grass warblers were lying in wait within the few distinct cracks in the linoleum. Not that any warbler had the bone density (or brain power) to do such a thing.

At the end of our block, we headed up a set of stairs to a brighter, more friendly environment. Here, there were windows. Large ones that acted as fresh eyes to the outside world. The sun, by my deduction, was a fraction higher than it should have been in the sky, and it was rising much faster than it should. Or maybe we were just traveling in super slow motion? Whatever the answer, the day’s new light was slithering like quick dead moss off a snail’s back. Despite anyone’s best efforts, the light would not be ignored.

The door at the end was partially blocked by an unconscious guard. Charlie gave an innocent shrug and removed a set of stolen keys from his own pocket.

“Sleeping on the job, I see,” he said. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

As he unlocked and pushed the door open, the snoozing man on the ground reminded me not to be overly concerned about other guards that may be lying in wait on the other side. There weren’t many clocked in at this hour.

(A sidenote: If you’re wondering how I had access to certain memories of the guards’ comings and goings, your guess is as good as mine. Stumbling across those helpful memories was like unlocking a buried treasure chest full of golden information. I still could not recall any of my time spent in the psych ward prior to this day of all days, though I did have bits and pieces of knowledge that helped my current situation. Take this as you will. All I can do is relay the facts as I remember them.)

So, as I remember it, none of those soldiers of misfortune I was about to face would be carrying any weapons. Not officially, anyway. The state of New York disallowed it. It was because of this major safety malfunction that minor uprisings among the inmates occurred, often daily. The guards themselves were strong and a few had picked up minimal combat training or amateur martial arts know-how.

Unofficially, due to hair pulling, snide shin kicks, groin punches, etc., some (most) of the guards were known to bring in their own switchblades, pepper spray, or brass knuckles. These paltry defense mechanisms were no match for the great hunter now 85 percent awake in me. Even so, I’d rather face an unassailed stroll to the exit than an army of pissed off, overlooked, glorified security officers harboring concealed bike chains and personal vendettas.

Charlie stepped back, holding the door open for me.

“Crazies first,” he said.

I stepped past him, into the front foyer. There, as shit luck would have it, a host of half a dozen morning watchmen were entering the building. Every one of them was teeming with dejection and defeat, before their shift even began. One sported a Wallachuck beaver-sized, yellowing bruise on his right cheekbone. It couldn’t have been more than a few days old. This sorry sack of measly measles would be no match for —

“Hey! You can’t be out here!”

The pock-cheeked intake nurse revealed my uncloaked position from behind her shield of protective, tempered glass. She rapped a palm against that see-through wall, drawing the bleary-eyed attention of the guards. Their sunken faces unveiled that they were too groggy to process the danger that lay before them.

The nurse, momentarily abandoning her impersonation of a bonobo mime with a high-five complex, shifted her attention to the alarm on the underside of her counter. Upon pressing some hidden button, the world filled with ragged noise. It was an audio reckoning the likes of which Charlie’s various mobile help units would certainly bow down before. It was a goddamn resounding tsunami, and it shook those downtrodden guards to action more effectively than a cocaine cappuccino.

“Jesus Christ, already?” the bruised man complained beneath the blare. Regardless of his piss-poor attitude, he placed the duffel bag he was carrying on a nearby table and charged toward me. The others fanned out, forming an impressive semicircle impasse.

“Hold ’em for a minute, Marcus, I’ve got an idea.” Charlie let go of the door and hauled ass back into the asylum. Perhaps he was going to make himself at home, after all? Hell, he could have my room.

I planted my feet on nicer, softer, prettier linoleum. Its pattern — galaxy swirls within small, oblique boxes — was something to behold. The fucking floor was more sedating than the medication cocktail they’d been force-feeding me with every lunch.

Pick your head up and face forward, Marcus. I feigned a half-assed pep talk. At this rate, it was hard to pinpoint exactly why I even wanted to escape. Surely some fresh, scathing torment was waiting patiently for me out there, hungry for a wrangle.

Still stupidly stargazing at the design by my bare toes, I felt Alpha Guard’s hand on me before I saw it. He held my right arm with brute force and shove-swung it backward. Nuanced pain shot through my entire system. The old bullet wound flared and the memory of Kuwajii’s death, always present, burned brighter than ever. My face slammed. The ground swirled beneath my cheekbones. My only saving grace was the feather touch of the lazy linoleum. Like slick cork, it grated with care.

I was subdued.

Cheap, plastic cuffs were applied to my wrists as the alpha’s pack of subordinates waltzed closer. The weight of the guard on my back and the tightness of his restraints paled in comparison to my embarrassment over having been conquered without a lick of a fight.

“Shut off that cocksucking alarm, Beth!” Alpha screamed. Nurse Beth obeyed and suddenly, the hum of the world was back to its yawn-worthy, humdrum existence.

The beast who bettered your less-than-humble orator yanked me to my feet, causing yet another surge of fire to shoot through all points of my arm.

“I’m not even clocked in yet, asshole,” he said, now slipping his sweaty hand to my throat.

He didn’t squeeze. Not yet. For the moment, he just held me there, not twitching one digit, not cinching an inch. It was a power move I’d witnessed before, among the Serengeti nomads. When executed properly, it can reduce a foe to quivering smithereens. It’s less about the promise of a choking and more about activating the fear pulse in your fingertips. The goal is to deliver unwavering warning shots to the scarespots in an opponent’s carotid. When executed with elegance, the move can temporarily paralyze even the most fearless of warriors. However, this guard (who was no wandering Serengetian) demonstrated awful technique. That said, his jugular snatch, amateurish and unpolished, was not nearly as offensive as his breath. The six-foot-tall human stinkbug didn’t know his best resource was his own putrid air. His exhalations were filtered by cheap booze, cheaper mouthwash, half-cooked bacon, and subtle hints of an erstwhile orgy. I was over-fortunate the man did not harness his own smelly strength for war.

“Hey, let him go, Ralph,” one of Alpha’s lackeys spoke up. “You win, OK?”

“Win?” he said. “I ain’t even begun to play.”

That was when the squeeze came, and, frankly, I thought it never would. I was taking a blessed moment of thanks that he’d relieved me of his raging halitosis when Sopras came to the party, disrupting the whole scene.

“Stop!” he demanded, coming out from around the corner and passing through the string of guards. Alpha Ralph released me and, if he expected me to fall again, found himself dumbstruck.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sopras asked. Then he looked past me. I followed his gaze to see the slump of the guard I’d defeated was now acting as a human doorstop, prying the entrance to Crazy Town open with his torso. I smiled, knowing Charlie must have positioned him there for easier access to the front upon his return. Now would be as good a time as any, Charlie, I thought.

“Tsk, tsk,” Sopras scolded. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Marcus. I have to say, I am quite disappointed. You didn’t have a breakthrough after all. Sadly, it appears you’re just broken.”

“Would a broken man have been able to get this far?” I dared. Then the sleeping giant within me — the killer — awoke to mock Alpha Ralph through my gritted teeth. “I haven’t yet begun to play.”

Sopras shook his head, tsking for an eternity. “What are we to do with you, Marcus Fox?”

The question was rhetorical, so I stayed silent; I needed my mouth free from making words anyway. If I couldn’t employ the use of my tied hands to do the deed, I’d end him with my teeth. Yes, I felt that other me, the repressed slayer of men, peeking out from behind my own forbidden shadows.

That’s it, Sopras, the dichotomous hunter inside taunted. Come here and let Marcus give you a kiss.

“You must think I’m the stupidest person alive,” Sopras said. He read the face behind my face, yet still had the audacity to come within a yard and a half of mandibles’ reach. “You’ve lunged at me before. Would you like to know what sets you off? Would you care to feel it?”

Sopras was faster than he should have been for a man of his advanced age and shrinking stature. I can only surmise that he must have concealed the electric prod in a sheath by his side, beneath his pearly white jacket. I heard and smelled the sizzle an instant before I felt it. For four seconds, my veins existed solely to transport electricity throughout my body. It awoke pain receptors I didn’t even know I had and spoke to them in some ancient language I could only interpret as Ow.

Still, I stood.

“Maw. Grocks,” I think I said.

Ralph (no longer the alpha apparent) joined his companions. They now stood closer together, behind Sopras. Many cast their eyes downward or away, as if to disapprove of the shrink’s actions without having to vocalize their dissent. The nurse behind the glass vanished. Perhaps she was never even there at all.

“Hey!” Sopras leaned in — still a mere hare’s hair away from being undone. “I’ve been gentle with you, Marcus. I have been kind. Up until now, you’ve only known my prod’s sweetness. But did you know he can also be sour?”

Sopras adjusted a small knob, making his prod angry. It was chomping at the bit, at the air, at the promise of a full belly, and emitting a byzantine blue surge that meant business.

“You don’t remember, do you? That’s your story, anyway. Allow me to enlighten you.

“In group, day in and day out, you sit in a puddle of your own drool, occasionally ejaculating your four-word self-declaration. But then, in the afternoons, we meet, just you and me. And there, you talk. Oh yes, you better believe it. I make you talk.”

He brandished his prod back and forth in a dizzying manner. I refused to fall under its hypnotic spell.

“You have recounted many whoppers, Marcus. Each more preposterous than the last. Don’t get me wrong, I do find you immensely entertaining — the way you dramatically weave the versions of events in your life is a thing to be applauded.”

“You’re a sadist,” I said, only beginning to piece together this new horror-show puzzle.

“I suppose I am. So be it.”

“Um, should we still be here?” Ralph asked, revealing the true beta fish beneath his scaly alpha exterior.

“Get to work!” Sopras roared. Then, regarding the guard on the ground, “Get that man some medical attention. When he wakes, tell him to clean out his locker and never come back.”

They fell into line. Two men picked up the fallen guard and carried him out the front door. The rest, Ralph included, headed into the nuthouse to begin their day.

“Alone at last,” Sopras said.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t dare be alone with a monster like me. You’ve got a set of balls on you, Doc. I’ll give you that.”

“It’s not balls that make a man strong, Marcus. It’s power. And between you and me, I’ve got it all.” His electric prod backed Sopras’s absurd claim with as yet unchallenged authority.

“Every patient in this sick place has a story to tell,” he continued. “Each more mundane than the last. No one has much to offer in terms of originality. A third of your fellow psychopaths blame their shitty existence on drugs; another third claim their negligent parents, society, or circumstance for their pitiful station in life; the rest, well, let’s just say they hold varying degrees of chemical imbalance that renders them, for lack of a better term, predictably disposable.

“But you, Marcus. You are a unique species. For the longest time, I categorized you as belonging in the herd of the hopeless, brain-battered third group. And then, one day, you shocked me. Pardon my pun.” He twitched his hand slightly, making the electricity at the end of his prod shimmy. “I’d been experimenting with electricity for years, but no one ever came to life because of it, not like you. This knob here goes up to sixty. Right now I have it set at thirty-nine. This is the number that most agrees with you. This is the jolt that inspires you to talk — to fantasize, rather. So curious that everything below thirty-nine just pisses you off. That last bit you experienced was a mere fifteen.”

I opened my mouth wide and released my pent-up boredom. While he was distracted by my exuberant yawn, behind my back I was busying my dexterous hands with the shackles. My fingernails were worn down, and a few of my fingertips were on the verge of bleeding. But the progress was progressing.

“Yes.” Endlessly (yet to my advantage), he went on. “I suppose you bore me now too. I’ve heard your story more times than I’d care to recall. It never changes. Your outlaw parents, Shumbuto, Shandra-Namba, the disastrous end of the Shakasantie, your life on the hunt, and on and on and on. Even Kuwajii.”

On hearing his name, my concentration shifted.

“Oh yes, I know all about him too. Of all the tragic stories you’ve shared (thanks to trustworthy level thirty-nine), the Kuwajii tall tale strikes me as your deepest character build. You’ve always described him with such passion! I really felt like I could have picked the boy out of a lineup … or at least someone who looked exactly like him. Tell me, how did I do?”

How did he do what?

“Well, none of it matters anymore, does it? I’ve given away the game. I was hoping that, when confronted by your dead-as-disco Shakasantie brother, you might break down, break through, or break out with your honest-to-God true life story. I’ve wanted to know the real you so desperately that perhaps I went a little overboard in trying to find you out. That’s on me. Because even when presented with your imagined ghost brother in the flesh, your story remains unchanged. I will just have to write you off, sadly, as my greatest failed experiment to date. I’ll just have to chalk your entire life up to one sorry fact: You, Marcus Fox, are nothing but a liar.”

Sopras jabbed the business end of his prod into my chest. I darted backward, lost my balance, and toppled to the floor. There, the galaxies swirled quite conventionally.

“Some hunter you are,” Sopras said, massaging the prod’s knob to full blast. “Let’s see what truth we can zap out of you at maximum potency.”

He reached back his arm like a Shaksantie huntsman readying his spear for flight. I believe he would have loosed his prod, too — javelined the flaming spear directly into my heart — if it weren’t for the blather of revolting voices that came rumbling from behind the closed asylum door.

“What the devil is that?” Sopras lowered his electric manipulator, and I seized the opportune moment. Leaping up, in one swift motion, I freed my heels from the linoleum cosmos. In supreme, nimble fashion I vaulted over my restraints, bringing my hands back to the forefront of my body, where they belonged. In zerotime I was righted, allowing my muscles their God-given merit, once again. My mighty biceps bulged and my plastic captor held me no more. Those poor man’s handcuffs exploded outward, with one sharp end nailing Sopras in the eye, exactly as planned. He stumbled, tilting his prod upward. I snatched it from him, successfully turning the tables, and watched as he sputtered wildly, clutching his now bloody wound, trying desperately to hold his pupil in.

The obscene weapon, now in my command, cowed under my firm grip. Feeling its phony power only amplified the fact that it was a ridiculous invention, intended for ridiculous persons.

Speaking of ridiculous persons, just then, the wusspuss formerly known as Alpha Ralph came barreling back through the asylum door. With the din behind him growing ever more ominous, he didn’t stop to acknowledge the topsy-turvy scene. This was probably the bruised guard’s most impressive feat of the morning — turning a blind eye to me (the spitting image of Zeus, clasping a mighty thunderbolt) and Sopras (bleeding profusely through his finger webs).

“MAYHEM!” was all he shouted, breaking fast for the exit. “THEY’RE COMING!”

Charlie, of course, led the pack. Naked and hairless from the waist up, he burst into view wearing scraps of his tattered T-shirt around his forehead. The long-forgotten, unconscious guard’s keys still dangled from his belt. He held a bullhorn by the strap in one hand and clutched a fire extinguisher by the handle in the other. He halted when he saw me.

“What’d I miss?” he asked.

“What’d I?” I asked back.

Charlie’s face was lit with the unabashed joy that can only come from collective madness. “It’s a good day to be dead,” he declared.

A wave of inmates then plowed the asylum door clear off its hinges. Some of the mentally infected continued straight for the exit, following Ralph, out to seek whatever it was that freedom meant to them. Others lingered, momentarily assessing Sopras’s weakened condition before deciding on their mob mentality’s course of action.

The demented shrink never had a snowball’s chance in Zambia. The usually sedated human throwaways tore Sopras to shreds, leaving far less than a lion’s share of flesh and maw for some wet-behind-the-ears forensic examiner to jaw about for decades to come.

So long, Sopras. The devil inside me approved and withdrew. I’m certain he felt cheated of the kill and only retreated into hibernation due to lack of prey. He’d be back, I knew, if ever needed.

“Well that’s fucking disgusting,” Charlie said, dodging crudely strewn doctor bits. When it was over and the whole host of murdering inmates had fled the building, Charlie dropped the bullhorn and extinguisher with a thump and a clang. I wondered briefly how he’d made use of them, but didn’t linger on the thought; our escape, messy as it was shaking out to be, still required a few crucial yet delicate final touches.

“What now?” I asked.

“We make like naproxen and uhh-leave! Come on!” Charlie sprinted toward the hallway to the left. It was clearly marked “Employees Only” in obnoxious, block-font, red letters.

“Charlie! The exit’s right here!” I said, pointing to the obvious route.

“That’s what’s expected, man! You think I’d break you out without a plan? Now lose that lame electric boogaloo and let’s go! Try not to slip in the mess.”

The prod, still active in my hand, was losing all power, puttering out and shutting down. Perhaps, in its own way, it was dying of a broken heart, hoping for nothing more than to join its maker.

“Be with him, then,” I whispered at the dying thing’s faltering, jaundiced singe and then smashed it over my knee. Still not realizing the extent of my returned strength, I imagined it would snap into two equal pieces. Instead, what remained of the prod was but hundreds of quadrillions infinitesimal particles of particles. They settled lightly upon their patriarch.

Dust to dust.

* * *

Charlie led the way, out of oblivion and into something new. The alarm was called to arms once more by some unseen nurse or doc or guard. As he continued making haste through the long, narrowing corridor, my deceased companion minded the noise not.

The hall sloped downward, ever downward. Before reaching the end, we turned left into another endless expanse. My legs raced toward an unknown conclusion with reckless abandon (no part of me knew an understated way to be). The sheer length and empty depth of the building seemed wasteful and indulgent. We passed by a small sampling of open-door rooms on either side, none of which justified the architectural idiocy of it all.

They must have cleared the joint when that first alarm rose. We had the whole place to ourselves to run freely through. And then, just when I thought we’d be going forever, Charlie stopped.

“Down here,” he panted as he kneeled to lift a hidden hatch in the floor.

“Charlie,” I said. I was overcome by a gracious feeling.

“No thanks necessary, Marcus. Remember? I save people. It’s what I do.”

Fully relieved of the terrific, awkward emotion, I was now free to climb down the rusty ladder that, almost magically, appeared below. Four steps down, I plunged into darkness. The corroded metal rungs assaulted the already-raw parts of my palms. If the descent also wreaked havoc on the soles of my feet, I cared not. They were hardened by a lifetime of jungle grazing.

At the ladder’s bottom, I dropped a yard to splash in knee-deep water. Charlie touched down next to me and stretched his hand toward something hanging on the wall behind me, past my ear. Three seconds later, that moist darkness all around was lit on fire. My eyes adjusted with impressive speed (even for them) as they observed, guided by torch glow, Charlie pocketing a Zippo.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “No spoons or crank today.”

Charlie held the torch aloft to reveal a long, underground channel. And just at the brink of perception, there floated a rowboat. And in that rowboat, there was a man, gagged, blindfolded, and bound by strong, unyielding chains.

“Insurance policy,” Charlie said. “Gotta have one.”

“Fucking fuck,” I iterated. Despite the shitty source of light, despite the distance, I recognized that beautiful black face for who he wasn’t.

“You know him?”

If I could have answered his question in a way that wouldn’t result in an imploding brain aneurysm, I would have.

“I caught him late last night,” Charlie explained. “Been down here ever since. Couldn’t help any of it, really. Come off it already. Don’t look at me like that, Marcus! I’ve been down here with him, feeding him and such, biding my time till escape o’clock. I only just left him to come and get you. Had to gag and blind the fucker, didn’t I? Now stop acting so innocent and let’s keep moving. No doubt the fuzz is all over the front, rounding up your ne’er-do-well cohort as we speak.”

As if to emphasize Charlie’s point, several shots, loud and muffled as an underwater potato cannon, echoed eastward, over our heads. Kuwajii … nay, Not-Kuwajii, shook with fear in the dumpy rowboat’s bow. As swift as could be fathomed in that slurry, I waded my way toward the boy.

“So what’s the plan, then? We going to row ourselves to freedom?”

“Oh, ye of little faith!” Charlie said. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Uncle Charlie’s thought of everything.”

Judging by the terrified angle of our captive’s brows, I highly doubted it.

CHAPTER

14

“Are you going to k-kill me?”

De-gagged, the charlatan in the rowboat stuttered with a thick New York accent. He was good, this one. Together with Sopras, the two had managed to put me in a bonafide tizzy the likes of which even the hottest, sun-spoiled Zambian afternoon had never achieved.

The evil doctor had disclosed something about cherry-picking this Kuwajii doppelgänger from a lineup. It didn’t make a lick of sense, none of it. But at the very least, the boy’s entire character was suspect. I would tread lightly upon his discourse.

I removed his blindfold.

“Marcus,” he recognized me under torch glow. Immediately, in that moment of iris reveal, I saw the boy for what he truly was: Underneath whatever sheen Sopras had covered him with lay a frightened, innocent babe, lost in youth, searching for a path through his forest. Exactly like Kuwajii. Bravo.

“These chains, Charlie. Where did you get them? Never mind, just give me the key.”

“He’s our ticket out of here, Marcus, slow down.”

“Just give me the fucking key, Charlie!”

Charlie patted down his pants, his bare chest. He shook his ears like a big, shaggy dog trying to get water out.

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me,” the boy said.

“Charlie, quit fucking around. Where’s the key?”

“I thought you had it.”

“Why would I have it?”

“Didn’t I give it to you?”

“NO!”

Charlie suppressed a laugh. I didn’t understand how he could find any of this amusing. But then again, I’ve never fully grasped the notion of humor.

The boy, perhaps also guilty of being tortured by Sopras, probably didn’t deserve to be squeezed by iron. Summoning my strongest strength, I took a deep breath and held his chain tight by two links. They were solid, forged in fire. But I was solider, forged in hell.

Clink went the worthless links, breaking like peanut brittle in my palms. The rest of the chain dropped from the boy’s shoulders, chest, and waist. He looked down, a non-believer of what he’d just witnessed.

“How did you do that?”

“Marcus is magic!” Charlie said. “Houdini ain’t got nothin’ on …”

The boy was fast. Before Charlie could finish his thought, Kuwajii/Not-Kuwajii stepped past me, crossing the length of the short vessel in two quick, wobbly steps. He ceased Charlie’s jabbering with a fist to the chin. My dead friend’s head flung back and cracked against the side of the boat.

“OK, maybe I had that coming.”

Charlie picked himself up to a sitting position and pretended to reset his jaw. Satisfied for now, the boy carefully stepped out of the rowboat and into the shallow waters.

But something about it all just wasn’t right.

“Wait,” I insisted. “Hold on.”

He continued trudging his way back toward the ladder.

“Wait!” I repeated myself. I’ve always despised repeating myself. He was at the base of the ladder now, working on his own escape, reaching one arm up to grab hold of the first rung.

“He knocked you down,” I regarded Charlie. I was trying to align the world in my head with the one unfolding before my eyes.

“Well, the fucker sucker punched me, didn’t he?” Charlie made excuses. An elderly, invalid orangutan with a heart condition could have successfully dodged the boy’s jab.

“You’re alive?” I asked Charlie. The words were almost too impossible to be true.

“When have I purported to be otherwise?”

“Back there! In the psych ward! You said it was a good day to be dead!”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I was just fucken with you, man.”

But I saw him. His body had smattered the windshield of our mobile help unit before he rolled off and onto the ground, quite ungracefully, to join his insides. I’d been behind the wheel. I was responsible for his death. That’s why I was in this nuthouse to begin with. That’s why … all of this. Everything.

“OK, you process, I’ll row,” he said, situating his butt between the oars.

“No. Wait,” I said, repeating myself. The torch burned in a convenient holster at the back of the boat. Charlie did that. He’d carved the notch to fit it perfectly. He’d thought of every last detail, right down to the grooves that synced with the torch’s individual ridges. He’d fashioned the torch, and the boat, and the ladder, and the escape hatch in the floor above. I knew it all in an instant — Charlie’s master plan. He’d secured a lowly, unnoticed position, perhaps night janitor. He’d blocked off the long hallway with “Caution, Wet Floor” signs so any guard with a one a.m. rumbling in his tummy would avoid it, opting to take a shit somewhere else. And when he had his stolen moments, Charlie worked. He’d cut a perfect manhole in the soft linoleum — probably used a blowtorch and chisel. How long had it taken him? How long had he been cultivating the plan?

“Five hundred thirty-five sunsets,” I mumbled.

Of course he could do it. Of course he did do it! Charlie had a mind like no other species, animal or man; he embodied a rugged determination that equaled (if not surpassed) the Marisol dung beetle’s. His mobile help units were spellbinding feats of engineering, well ahead of their time. I should have known he had it in him to achieve even bigger, impossible things.

It would make sense that Charlie was alive. At my trial, there was no count of manslaughter because there had been no slaughtered man. Well, save for the dumb bastard truck driver who’d hit us. Let us not forget him.

If Charlie was alive, then I’d lived his part of my story wrong. And if I’d flubbed that important detail, then anything else was possible. Shumbuto, Shandra-Namba, all of the Shakasantie could still be living peaceful lives on the bank of the Zambezi River. Even Kuwajii.

“Kuwaji!”

The rowboat swayed and flipped as I lunged my body from it. I was a human rocket propelled on hope propane. I traveled fifteen yards and yanked the mystery man down from the second rung of Charlie’s ladder.

“Marcus! Make up your goddamn mind!” my resurrected savior hollered from the rocking boat. I heeded him not. If ever I could fathom being whole again, the restructuring would begin here.

Struggling with Kuwajii/Not-Kuwajii was more vexing than arduous. By the time we scrabbled back to the rowboat, he’d conked himself out from the persistent thrashing. I tossed him back in and resumed my place at the stern.

“Insurance policy,” I echoed Charlie’s earlier words.

“You think this is Kuwajii?” he asked. My upturned disarray of a face held all the answer he required. “I suppose anything is possible,” Charlie forfeited.

Charlie rowed us through the underground channel. Curious as a magpie shrike as to what fresh adventure might reveal itself next, I decided there were more pressing thoughts to apprehend.

Sopras over-explained much about his own sick intentions. He claimed he wanted to know my true truth. He imagined there was something deeper going on below my surface story. What a quack! Though I can’t recall any of our sessions together, it’s obvious, based on what happened, that I did reveal my full history to him over and over and over again. What else had Sopras been searching for? He’d found me a fascinating case study, that was certain. He also admitted to electrocuting me on a daily basis, hoping my story might evolve. Was he seeking some personal enlightenment through my words? Sad sacks for him; I never wavered.

Each day I spent as a victim to the doctor’s sick, homemade shock therapy erased the previous days’ memories. All he’d done, essentially, was blot out my time at the asylum and strengthen my perception of everything that came before. It was completely within my character to tell the only version of my life that I knew, and if a slight embellishment occurred here or there, what of it?

Having never had any direction whatsoever in my life, my current trajectory was no different. Facing front, I spotted dim daylight ahead.

“You just wait till you see what I’ve got waiting for us at the end of the tunnel,” Charlie said. “You won’t even believe your eyes.”

The boy stirred in his crumpled unconsciousness. Was he dreaming of his life here in New York or of his past life in Zambia? Maybe that was the answer. Maybe he bore a striking resemblance because he was Kuwajii reincarnated? Some quick and easy year-math brought that solution to zero, so I dropped it.

We emerged from the underground route, and, as soon as my pupils adjusted, my first sight was green, soggy grass blowing back and forth on both sides. Approximately twenty kilometers west was the north side of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. Straight ahead, our little waterway looked to be spilling directly into the open flow of the East River.

Charlie brought the skiff to a natural stop just before channel met river. I got out and yanked the stern of the boat up and onto a man-made landing pad composed of hundreds of thousands of small pebbles, rocks, and dirt. Observing our mode of transportation in natural light, I could fully appreciate the amount of care that went into the creation of it. It was made of strong pine that, if given the chance, would not bend under decades of water pressure. Along a quarter portion of the starboard side, in gorgeous, steady calligraphy, the ship’s name was carved: S.S. Save Marcus.

“Yeah, I know,” said Charlie, reading my read. “You’re supposed to name a seaworthy ship after a beautiful woman. But A, I don’t know any beautiful women, and B …” He pointed to a great big shrub behind me. “The S.S. Save Marcus was just a stepping stone to her.”

Concealed to a pitiful degree, an enormous beast of a vehicle lay idle. For an inanimate object, it contained a hungry, perhaps nefarious, spirit. Made of bumpy, crudely fused, corrugated metal, the machine was a dark shade of forest green. Its wheels were round casings of shredded steel, no rubber, and they spiked out at ominous angles, promising sharp consequences. A strip of tinted, black glass made a U-shape, extending outward from the upper anterior to both sides, obscuring a view of the cabin within. Even so, the exterior was a sight to behold. The raised front panel gave the impression that any driver would be riding high, in order to have a clear, unobstructed view over the bulge. Marveling at the pivotal frontispiece, I could only surmise what a massive, nasty engine nestled under the hood. But there was no crack or opening for any hood that I could see — no seams from which a person could pop her open and tinker.

“Seamless,” I muttered.

“Ain’t she, though?” Charlie replied.

The intake manifold jutted out of a protuberance midway up the front. Clearly an aesthetic choice intended to intimidate, this misplaced hood ornament was placed too far back, toward the glass, as a dangerous exclamation point on an already uniquely unnerving specimen.

Low down in front, an upturned obsidian grille dared anyone to get in the vehicle’s way. Two headlights (one red, one blue), perched atop the grille, shining bright and new.

As I made my way around to the back, I made a conscious effort not to comment on the exhaust pipe protruding out from where I expected a passenger-side door should be. I also held my opinions (of which I had a few) of the two large antennae pointing skyward from the … rudder?

“Is that a propeller?” That was the kindest question I could pose of the roadside abortion.

“Gotta propel somehow,” Charlie said. “Check this out.”

He clapped his hands twice in rapid succession, and suddenly the beast came to life with a mighty roar. A third slap of his palms caused a mysterious steam to rise from the bellows; subsequently, two hidden doors unsealed, freeing themselves of the green demon and lifting skyward like dragon’s wings, revealing a larger than expected interior.

“I rigged her so she responds only to the sound of my hands. No one else on Earth has the key. It’s literally at my fingertips.” He showed me his calloused hands, worked from strenuous, dedicated labor.

Despite his goodwill, I doubted Charlie’s latest brag and brought my own hands together thrice — the vehicle’s propeller came to life, blowing dirt and weeds a dozen yards back.

“Goddamn it,” Charlie said, defeated. The wind laughed.

“Nobody’s perfect,” I said. “Charlie, what the fuck is it?”

“What is it?! Why, it’s the world’s first carmarine, of course! Now help me load the kid in before my beautiful creation draws the attention of those approaching choppers. She may be ugly, but she’s got drawing power, if you catch my drift.”

I didn’t, not entirely. Nonetheless, I needed no assistance in dragging our dozing beauty from the rowboat to the, um, carmarine.

Inside, there were two seats up front, riding high, just as I’d thought, as well as a padded bench with ample room for a body to lie down in the back. I set Kuwajii/Not-Kuwajii gently on the plank and positioned him on his side.

Charlie was making his way in and I made room for him, sitting in what I presumed to be the co-pilot’s chair, passenger side.

“You don’t get off that easy, bud,” Charlie said, buckling in. “I built the control panel to be 100 percent symmetrical from either side. You see?”

One hundred and thirty-three buttons, lights, levers, wheels, and herzogs were mirrored on each side of the arm’s-length display.

“If one of us expires when we’re underwater, the other won’t have to waste time moving the corpse to get to the controls. Genius, right?”

“Sure, sure.” Though there was nothing sure about any of it. I wasn’t sure what to make of the heightened obsessive-compulsive nature of Charlie’s character. Nor did I know what to do with the idea he presented of a maybe-already-dead man “expiring.”

“So, it floats?” I asked.

“Floats? Fucking balls, Marcus, it’s a goddamn subcarine!”

“You called it a carmarine,” I corrected.

“Jesus Christ, can’t one thing be two things? It’s the same thing, anyway. I’ll drive, for now. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Outside, a chopper was hovering nearby. Inside, our hostage was waking.

Charlie pressed three buttons, pulled two levers, and turned a key (all of which, I noted, had identical partners on my side of the panel). This seemingly random progression opened a floor panel below him, and a steering wheel on a rod shot up between his legs. It stopped at chest level and he held it there. Rotating a couple knobs and flicking a switch above his head prompted the sheen of the dark glass in front of us to lighten, revealing a perfect vision of the outside world; a blueprint map and targeting system overlay our surroundings.

“This thing fully loaded?” I asked knowingly.

“You bet your sweet bippy,” Charlie answered. He gave a shrill whistle and the beast gave a jolt. He whistled again, this time much louder and lower in pitch, and the carmarine/subcarine took off. The battering grille plowed through the bushy lowland, making it a trampled, disheveled version of its former self.

We’d made it not twenty-five yards when a massive explosion of sound and heat rocked us from the left. I put my hand to the seamless passenger side door and felt it burning on the outside.

“They’re bombing us,” Charlie spoke drably, as if a seasoned weatherman delivering a partly cloudy forecast. I craned my neck upward, trying to spot the culprit. He hovered in and out of airspace directly over our heads. The overlaid map claimed he was 20.28 feet above us.

“What’s happening?” the boy asked, waking from his slumber hold.

“Welcome back, kid. Looks like they don’t know (or don’t care) that we’ve got you. Some insurance policy you turned out to be!”

“What?” he said, shaking his head. But before he could grasp any part of the situation, another massive explosion flanked us on the left.

“Shit, that one was close.” Charlie was concentrating on the lack of road ahead and driving us straight for the river, not minding the vegetation composed of infant trees and erratic shrubbery.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” the boy-who-would-be-Kuwajii exclaimed. I heard the click of his seatbelt and followed suit.

“Hold on, boys!” Charlie instructed. “The S.S. Shandra-Namba’s going on her maiden voyage!”

“Maiden voyage? Sandra who?” the boy, dumbfounded, demanded an explanation. It would not come. Not now.

I was robbed of the appropriate opportunity to appreciate Charlie’s dedication to my long-lost Shakasantie mother, for he unapologetically plunged the metal beast into the East River. Immediately, she began to fill with water from the ground up.

“I don’t want to die!” the boy cried. What a pussy.

“Nobody’s going to die,” Charlie said, tweaking some knobs. “Not this mañana.”

“Mañana means tomorrow!” the boy corrected him.

“Oh, then maybe somebody will die today, chica. Better watch yourself.” He snapped his fingers and the stank water, which had risen to about ankle level, rushed toward the back and flushed out beneath some hidden panel.

The carmarine’s spiked wheels rolled and pulled as best they could, at a slow but steady pace, digging up the riverbed, due south. The readout on the windshield showed a depth of 30.22 feet.

Charlie futzed with some more buttons, and the targeting system went full red on screen. It zeroed in on a direct point above the surface of the water and lingered there.

“That’s the chopper right there, Marcus. Hit the diamond button marked FIRE right by your knee there and blow the shitbird to hell.”

I stared at the beeping, blipping dot on screen. That was all it was. It was just a dot. Not a chopper. Not a person. Not an enemy. Not a friend.

“Let him live,” I said. And that was that about that.

Charlie, appearing ambivalent about the decision, switched off the targeting system and continued the job of pushing the beast forward along the sodden riverbed. The boy relaxed into some heavy, careful breathing to try and stabilize himself as best he could.

“I can’t open her up till she breaks ocean,” explained Charlie, after a short while. “It’s too narrow to chance it. There’s Roosevelt Island dead ahead, so its gonna get even tighter. Port or starboard, Marcus?”

“Does it matter?”

“Nope,” he answered, then maneuvered left of the land. Soon, the blinking red dot in the sky flew off in another direction. We were free. Truly and finally free.

“Excuse me,” Kuwajii’s own voice clicked in my ear. “But what exactly are your intentions? I thought you were going to let me go back there in the sewer.”

“That was no sewer, friend,” Charlie said. “You ain’t been in the sewer till you’ve been in the sewer. If you’re smellin’ what I’m sellin’.”

I wasn’t smelling what Charlie was selling, not entirely. But I also wasn’t the intended procurer of his waft.

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, you can just drop me off here and I’ll —”

“Who do you think you are?” I decided I’d been a passive passenger in the conversation for too long, and so chose this moment to come to life.

“Excuse me?”

“Sopras told me he found you. Who are you? A patient? A dead boy? What’s your story?”

He shrugged, dropped his shoulders, and lifted the dim veil of his wishy-washy personality.

“Hey, I’m just an out-of-work actor, OK? I never meant any harm. My name’s Terence. Terence Lowry.”

“What do you know about Kuwajii?” I asked, not buying any of it.

“Nothing, really. Sopras picked me up off the street, just about three days ago, I’d guess.”

“You’d guess or you know?”

“I know.”

“What else do you know? Do you know Sopras was actively torturing his patients?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I mean, he wasn’t torturing all his patients … just you.”

“Just me.”

“Yes.”

“And you were fine with that?”

“No. I told you. I just started working for him. And he’s a doctor, right? I assumed he had good reason to be doing what he was doing.”

“You’re a coward.”

“Maybe. Probably. Look, I’m certainly not proud. But I was desperate. You know how that is, right? I wasn’t getting anywhere in the acting business. Then one day, this taxi rolls up next to me, right there on Sixth Ave, and this dude leans out the window and waves a franklin in my face. He says, ‘I got a proposition for you, young man.’ And all I had to do was just get in the car and listen. And you know, in a perfect world, I’d never trust some funky dude like that, but it’s tough out there, man! Besides, the guy was in the back of a yellow cab. What was he gonna do? Cut me into little pieces while the driver watched in the rearview?”

“I’ve seen stranger,” I said. “Go on.”

“Right, so I got in, didn’t I? I pocketed the hundo, and the cabbie kept the engine and the meter running. Sopras talked my ear off, and I only understood maybe half of what he was saying. He said I was the spitting image of some dead African kid and he wanted to know if I could play pretend. Christ, you should have seen him light the fuck up when I told him I was an actor. It was like his birthday and Christmas and a blowjob all at once.

“He kept saying, ‘You’re the one. You can unlock him!’ It was creepy as fuck, but he was willing to pay large, so I went along with it. Fucker still owes me $500.”

Charlie snickered.

“What?”

“That money’s gone, chief. Hasta la pasta.”

I shot him a look and he shut his trap.

“Why the ruse?” I asked, bringing Terence back on track. “What was Sopras trying to gain?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he was on you like ham on eggs. He claimed you only said ‘I am Marcus Fox’ over and over again till it made his nose bleed. Over time though, his technique … I guess he made you talk. He figured out how to zap it out of you. Your story. But he never truly believed it. He kept saying it was all gross exaggeration and tall tales. That’s what he told me anyway. I don’t know how long it went on like that before he met me. He was obsessed with breaking you and finding out what parts were true and what parts were false. He thought I looked exactly like your description of this Kuwajii person. He thought that if you could think Kuwajii was in there with you, that maybe you’d open up to me. It was a half-baked plan if you asked me. I never thought it would work. I gave it two days. Pretending like. You woke up out of your ‘I am Marcus Fox’ bit, sure. But you were only telling the same story Sopras had heard a thousand times before. And he kept shocking you. I hated that.”

“But you didn’t try to stop it.”

“I did! I did try! I decided I wasn’t gonna play the part no more. Two days was enough! So yesterday, in the rec room, I tried to warn you. But before I could even get started, the guards dragged me away. They tossed me out of the facility. Out into the rain. That’s when your friend here clobbered me over the head and brought me down below. Down to the sewer.”

“It wasn’t a sewer,” Charlie reiterated.

I thought about how Sopras used his prod on me in the asylum’s entrance hall. How he’d admitted to shocking me senseless for months, maybe longer.

“You worked for blood money,” I said. “The man was a sadist prick. He got what was coming to him.”

“Sadist? Yeah, sure, I buy that. But he did want to help you. Even if his methods were animalistic. What do you mean ‘he got what was coming to him?’ Did you … did you hurt him?”

“He’s dead.” There was no sense in holding the boy’s hand. After all, he was Sopras’s accomplice and, therefore, guilty by association. “I didn’t kill him. Maybe in a roundabout way. I wouldn’t shed a tear for the bastard. And I don’t see how you think you’re innocent in the whole ordeal.”

“I just thought it was some modern, newfangled electrotherapy. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have allowed it. I should have done more.”

“That son of a bitch hooked you up to one of those machines?!” Charlie was pissed. “What fucking year is this?”

“Charlie,” I said. “You saw the prod. I destroyed it into a million little pieces.”

“I saw you try to smash his ledger over your leg. It was thicker than the Manhattan yellow pages. Must have smarted pretty good, too, cuz you dropped the thing on your foot and started hobbling around. It was damn comical, actually.”

“Sopras is dead?” Terence asked, still rolling the idea around in his head, trying to make sense of it.

“Well,” Charlie conceded. “They fucked him up good for sure — the other patients.” He leaned over and whispered the next part to me. “I don’t think they killed him, though. I mean, maybe?”

“I think you’re still hallucinating,” Terence said. “Sopras pumped you so full of drugs. He insisted hallucinogens would play a vital role in getting to your core. He refused to believe you were a real-life Paul Bunyan riding a blue ox.”

“Blue ox?” I said. It was the only thing I could rein in that made a lick of sense.

“He researched everything you told him. He never found any record of Shakasantie.”

“No, that he wouldn’t,” I said. “The corrupt Zambian government wiped their memory from the slate of history.”

“Yes, well. Then there’s the question of your early years.”

“What about my early years?”

“Your parents — your birth parents — you claimed you were the son of Billy and Calliope Fox, better known down south as the Texas Terrors?”

“What about them?”

“They’re not a fiction —”

“Of course they’re not!”

“— but they never had any kids.”

Bullshit.

“Not to mention the fact that a small Cessna plane could never fly from Madagascar to the Eastern Coast of Africa, let alone Zambia. And what kind of berries did you eat in the forest? He was certain there weren’t any edible ones. Sopras was obsessed with these and so many other details. He claimed they were all false memories and …”

The Kuwajii imposter rambled on. He didn’t know his ass from a Hebaji Moon Rascal. Just as the annals of the Shakasantie tribe had been purged, so had any record of Billy and Calliope Fox’s lovechild. They effectively ratified that omission by dropping me out of existence, out of a low-flying plane. And though Terence didn’t say so, I knew that Sopras’s so-called research did not extend all the way to the Bay City, Texas police. But if Billy and Calliope were arrested, then there must be some old-timer cop or shopkeep who recalled a small boy being used as a hostage on numerous occasions.

Bullshit and titmouse turds.

What did I have to prove to myself, anyway? That I existed? That my life was my life? That my memories added up to more than egregious lies and delirium?

Maybe, the sage voice of Shumbuto spoke to me. Maybe it is time you learn what your name truly means, Marcus Fox.

We passed under the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges undetected, skirted west of Governor’s Island without incident; according to the exquisitely detailed holographic map, the Statue of Liberty was approaching just ahead. Charlie steered the S.S. Shandra-Namba out of her sight. Not even she had the faintest notion of our whereabouts.

“It won’t be long now,” Charlie said. “We’ll be able to crank it up ten notches and see what this baby can do.”

“Where are we going, Charlie?” I asked, plaintive.

“Yeah, that’s an excellent question,” our captive seconded.

“Do you really have to ask, Marcus? I’m taking you back to Zambia, man! I’m taking you home!”

I sank low in my seat. It was the destination I’d been dreading. Charlie should have known there was nothing left for me there. Or perhaps he did know and was using me as an excuse to claim a piece of African adventure for his own.

“Um, beg your pardon?” Terence began, politely enough. His tone quickly inverted. “I am not going to motherfucking Africa. Turn this magnificent, innovative heap of junk around!”

He made two preposterously awkward moves at once. I’m not sure if he was attempting to punch Charlie in the elbow or seize control of the controls. Either way (maybe both), he failed and wound up looking like a half-melted toy soldier in a frying pan. He wiggled and wormed between our two seats. I’d seen enough. I grabbed him by the flap of his neck and forced him backward. His head hit hard against the upper casing, just above his bench.

“You try something like that again and I will kill you,” I said, half meaning it.

“Right on,” said Charlie.

“We aren’t going to Zambia, Charlie.”

“What are you talking about? You know I just want to help …”

“Yeah, Charlie, I know. You want to help anyone and everyone by removing physical and emotional slivers from their skin. Well all my slivers are baobabs, Charlie!”

Nothing.

“It’s a fucking tall tree in Africa, for fuck’s sake! The fucking baobabs! See? How could I know about the baobabs if I’d never lived in Africa? You don’t know about the baobabs, do you? You’ve never seen a baobab. Right? RIGHT?! How about you, Terence, if that is even your real name. You ever see a baobab?”

“No, but now I kinda want to.”

“Easy buddy, no one’s saying you were never in Africa. I’ve always admired you for the shit you went through over there. But listen, the kid does have a point. Your grasp on reality is a little … obscure. So just take a deep breath and relax, all right?”

“Don’t tell me to take a breath, Charlie. I’m always breathing. Maybe that’s the fucking problem.”

I didn’t mean it. He knew that. I’d been through too much to stop now. There were too many unanswered questions that could, potentially, reveal the true nature of my being.

“I’m not going back to Africa,” I repeated for perhaps the tenth time. “Maybe someday, but not now, for Chrissake.”

“That’s fine, man. No problem.”

Charlie pressed an oval, burnt-umber-brown button in the middle of his side of the console. Outside, in the dark of the river, lit by the subcarine/carmarine’s lights, a lengthy rod extended out and upward. Charlie pulled the wheel toward him and we rose, close to the surface. There, the periscope broke through the plain and gave a clear vision of Lady Liberty.

I should have been impressed at her overwhelming height, or the fake glow of her bright and shining torch, or the moral beliefs she represented, but all I could focus on was that crown of thorns resting atop her head. It gave her the appearance of being both divine and inflamed with ethereal pain. Yet she hid both extremes to near perfection — they welled forever, behind her copper eyes.

“So where do you want to go, then?” asked Charlie, interrupting my God-given, native retrospection.

“Texas,” I said point-blank, as if from somewhere deep and far away.

And just like that, we headed south.

On the advice of my trusted counsel, I tried to sleep. But sleep would not come. Understandably, my mind was a steel-jaw trap filled with roadblocks and detours. Signs reading “Wrong Way” and “Marcus City, Infinity Miles” sprouted up everywhere. I would have tossed and turned if that were my nature. But I didn’t even trust what I thought my nature was.

More obstacles. No escape routes. At least my seat reclined. That was cozy.

I focused, for the moment, on the inconceivable man at my side — the miracle of Charlie McManus. When all else failed (and it had), Charlie was my constant. Charlie was not a ghost and Charlie was not a lie. I was sure of it. Charlie was flesh and blood and sitting right beside me, navigating his creation, an unparalleled sub-aquatic rover, toward the choppy waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

With Brooklyn in our rearview, Charlie (the man, the myth, the legend) yanked a cord made of nylon rope once, a second time, then a meaningful third. The fourth pull had the strength of his entire mass behind it. With a pop and a whiz, the rear propeller started up, blowing the past behind us in wisps of fizz and bubbles.

CHAPTER

15

Twenty-two hours later, we had Georgia in our sights.

For the duration of the trip, we’d stayed relatively close to land in our underwater garbage monster. Despite originally setting off for Africa and planning to span a diagonal run across the North and South Atlantic Oceans, Charlie grew more nervous each time the tides swayed the carmarine further offshore. For this reason, he insisted we cling tight to the coast like a mother giraffe necks her calf.

In the above world, a new day was dawning. I’d spent most of the night manning the ship, so to speak. Charlie gave me a crash course before he himself crashed. He efficiently taught me how to steer, adjust speed, rise and fall, and employ a few emergency maneuvers, if necessary. As it turned out, those maneuvers proved unnecessary. Charlie had built such an exquisite piece of ugly machinery, it practically piloted itself. The easygoing feeling of being behind the wheel of such a gentle, agreeable giant was a nice change of pace from the mayhem I was used to. Often, a school of fish or stray dolphin would eye our vehicle with interest, only to swim away, unimpressed. There was no danger whatsoever in these calm waters. It might very well have been the first time in my life I felt undeniably safe.

Terence, asleep on his bench, let loose a violent snore and woke. Startling himself, he fell off his bench and hit his head on the back of Charlie’s seat, thereby stirring Charlie to wake as well.

“Shit!” Terence exclaimed.

“What happened?” Charlie asked.

“Good morning,” I said, then pulled up the subcarine’s diagnostics. “All’s well and nothing much to report. Gas gauge is only down to half a tank —”

“And it looks as if we’re six miles northeast of Tybee Island, Georgia,” Charlie interrupted with his own fresh-faced analysis. “Excellent. I can take it from here, Marcus.”

I gave over control of the vessel. Terence picked himself up off the floor and slunk back to a semi-upright position on his bench.

“Are you going to let me go once we get to Texas?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, that sounds like a fine idea,” Charlie said. “Though I’m afraid it’s going to take a bit longer than expected.” His eyes were zeroed in on a blinking blue sphere in the southwest corner of the map. “That twinkling orb indicates a strong naval presence blocking our entrance to the Gulf of Mexico, just around the horn of Florida.”

“Bullshit!” Terence called. “How could your system possibly detect U.S. military forces? To do that, you would have had to hack into the —”

“I will not reveal my techniques to you or any other man! If they fell into the wrong hands, my data sourcing tactics could have calamitous consequences! Just trust me when I say they’re there. Whether or not they are looking for us, I don’t know. They could just be trying to stop Cuban refugees before they reach Key West. But I’m not willing to chance it. We’ll have to anchor ship earlier than expected. We can drive the rest of the way to Texas. Marcus, you cool with this?”

I nodded approval. My faith in Charlie did not waver. If he claimed the waterway was no longer a safe passage, I believed him. There was always another way.

“OK, then it’s settled. Houston is pretty much a straight shot west from Jacksonville. Then Bay City is just a hop and skip southwest of there. We actually won’t be eating up too much time on land, as opposed to sea.”

“What are you gonna do, hitchhike your way to Texas?” Terence asked. The boy had no idea of Charlie’s superior carjacking skills. You’d think he would have at least had some hint of it, based on what he’d already seen the man accomplish. I believe the silence that followed his asinine question supplied him with that knowledge; he harrumphed, sighed, and closed up.

As far as the S.S. Shandra-Namba was concerned, we couldn’t just roll her up onto the beach. Charlie, in his infinite wisdom, had planned a fine-tuned carmarine exit strategy that reeked of perfection. Once we got within 500 yards of dry Florida sand, he stuck his finger in a hidden dashboard hole and pulled some trigger. This caused an anchor to drop from the bottom and hold down the vehicle. As soon as the anchor struck the ocean floor, the subcarine rattled once, then settled.

“Better unbuckle, boys, for safety.”

We did, and the roof opened up, pouring seawater in.

“Char — !” was the only syllable I got out. I had to shut my mouth to stop from drowning. I pushed off the seat with my heels and kicked for the surface. It was not far away.

Above water, Charlie was laughing. “Everyone remember where we parked!” he said.

Terence was the last to show his wet face, and he breathed deep the air of the living. Coughing a little, he quickly regained his composure, which just so happened to contain quite a bit of anger.

“Give a brother some warning, man!” He flailed his arms against the waves for emphasis. “I could have drowned! What if I couldn’t swim, huh? You didn’t even ask!”

“I didn’t want to appear racist,” Charlie answered honestly.

“Fuck you, lunatic.” Terence’s rightfully placed rage was fuel for Charlie’s glee. He was eating it up.

“All right then, so you can swim. So you’re fine. So what’s the problem? Come on, I’ll race you to the beach. Last one there’s a rotten egg!”

Charlie’s crawl stroke was just about the worst thing I’d ever seen, but it moved him. The waves certainly helped.

A new wave followed the last and pushed Terence closer to me. He searched my face for validation. Was I foe or friend? He looked away, toward the beach; there, he saw hundreds, nay, thousands of sunbathers on the sand and swimmers in the water. A knowing smirk painted his face and he disappeared. The next time I saw his head bob up, Terence was far ahead. The son of a bitch had swum past me underwater, and he was super-fast.

“Fuck,” I said to some stray seaweed, and shot off after him.

It was impossible to judge how far we were from shore, but the one thing that was certain was that Terence had a huge head start and was pulling away with every stroke. At thirty-three years old, I was surprised to find that I was not the elite athlete I once was. Even when I spoke directly to my muscles, ordering them to tighten up and kick some ass, they only halfheartedly obeyed.

And then I got a cramp.

“Wildebeest cock!” I profaned. It didn’t help. All my words did was halt my forward movement and fill my mouth with more saltwater.

“Ahem, what’s up, brother?” Charlie asked. In my hot pursuit of Terence, I hadn’t even noticed I’d passed him by.

“Charley horse,” I choked out.

“Nah, just got a little frog in my throat. Hey, how great is this? It’s like a sauna in here!”

He turned and continued his politically incorrect impression of an epileptic paraplegic waving down a taxi. I tried grabbing hold of his foot as I went under, but the bastard’s whipping legs escaped me. The idiot still didn’t realize Terence would be giving us up to the first group he came across on shore.

That problem would have to wait. I had a bigger one on my hands, er, leg. I was drowning and, in abject disobedience, my gastrocnemius was gastroc-pissius! I rubbed the mutinous muscle hard and fast. But in that drenched environment, it was like trying to start a fire by smushing two melted ice-pops together.

I knew from experience that I could hold my breath underwater for as long as four minutes, thirty-two seconds. I was nearing that threshold when two things happened: (1) the awful cramp subsided just enough to allow for a sinewy kick, and (2) an ornery sabertooth wolfenshark brushed my big toe.

I managed to breach the surface and took a deep breath of savory air before plunging back down to see the back of the shark’s pestiferous tail speed out of sight. The bastard was headed straight for Charlie.

“Hey!” I shouted over the waves. My voice, mighty as it was, only attracted another shark. I caught it out of the corner of my eye and was able to make a swift move to the left to avoid its deadly jaws. Moving fast but thinking faster, I grabbed hold of his dorsal fin and went for a ride. We careened through the ocean at a speed I’d never known possible. My wolfenshark was much faster than his friend, and we caught up to him in just under three juiced-up heartbeats.

By now, we were close enough to the crowds for the first swimmers to spot the terror that was coming their way. Cries of “shark!” spurted and then flowed up and down the coast. The unsettling irony of it all was that these two terrible, dead-eyed beasts would inevitably save Charlie and I from Terence’s tattling tale of a most unfortunate kidnapping. For the sharks were far more interesting than he. Even the kid saw it.

The shortfin sabertooth wolfenshark can reach speeds of up to seventy kilometers per hour. I’ve even heard tell of one such creature who spent some time off the South African coast (though it may have been a mako) — it was said he’d been clocked at eighty. Being impossible to calculate how fast we were traveling in that given moment, I do remember this: I didn’t have the time to blink. And that’s saying a lot, considering the high amount of ocean spray that was assaulting my eyeballs.

The first wolfenshark was twice the length of the one I rode. His expansive body held back his speed. Even so, he was cruising. When we caught up to him, I hopped off and grabbed the big one by his own sinister fin.

Once I had the prehistoric demon by his Achilles’ heel, I hauled him back and up. His course changed trajectory, and together we broke free of the underwater plain and skipped along a breaking wave. The beast tried to shake me, but my grip was firm. His next jump was high and menacing. He was wrong in thinking he could buck me off — dead wrong. The fresh sea drizzle below us spread out in slow motion. I dodged every globule and brought the wolfenshark back down. My aim couldn’t have been more perfect. Just as his snout was reintroduced to the wet, I let go of his fin with my right hand and fisted him so hard in the neck that the force of it broke skin. The beast opened his mouth wide, claiming wordless, unthinkable pain. He tried to scream, oh yes, but what with his voice box being held prisoner in my clutched hand, he met his silent agony with considerable difficulty. His teeth, now fully exposed, came down squarely on the smaller shark’s own neck. In this nanosecond, I let go with both my hands and the beast (forever now my bitch) cinched his powerful chops on the other. Watching the littler one die, I came close to having an iota of pity for him. Almost, but not quite. Wolfensharks are the dicks of the ocean. If hell opened up and swallowed them all, it would be too good for them.

The two former mates thrashed each other senseless until their failing bodies folded into the mild undertow. Their thin, red juices intermingled and swirled around me in a reverent manner. The lifeblood of my freshly defeated enemies had better sense than to attach to my body. Spoiled, defeated, and destroyed, the sharks’ fluids dispersed and became one with the sea.

“Hey,” Charlie said. How long he’d been treading water by my side, I did not know.

“Where’d the kid go?” he asked, searching. Then he spotted him, as did I, standing at the water’s edge, very close to countless cheering bystanders.

“What’s got them all in a frenzy?” Charlie asked, oblivious of the entire death dance that just ensued.

Wading into shore, it was obvious that our hopes of setting foot on Florida soil undetected had flown the coop. Every man, woman, and child as far as the eye could see were cheering us (well, me).

“Seriously, what the hell?” Charlie insisted.

“They’re just all happy to see you, Charlie,” I said, wading in his perplexity.

We pushed our way past grown men in swim trunks as they patted me on the back, grown women in bikinis fawning over my physique, and children (the only wise lifeforms among them) who questioned, “Why are those men wearing clothes?”

Charlie was still shirtless, which at least made some sense. But, having just emerged from the water like the goddamned lady of the lake, there was no passing off his ragged and torn jeans as some hip, new summer fashion statement. My aquamarine, asylum-issued sleepwear was apparently also deemed entirely inappropriate beach apparel. In retrospect, it was a veiled marvel that the flimsy material had stayed on at all, given everything that just went down.

“How did you do that, guy?!” a broad-shouldered meathead asked of me. “Dude, you rode a fucking shark!”

“Wolfenshark,” I corrected him.

“What’s that now?” Charlie’s head swiveled round.

“Where’s Terence?” I said, choosing to ignore both Charlie and my new admirer. I jumped straight up, ten feet in the air, to gain a better vantage point. Above the fray, I spotted our captive-no-longer shuffling toward the boardwalk, as if he had a fresh load of poo in his own aquamarine, asylum-issued clothes. In his saturated lie of a wardrobe, Terence was proving to be a much less adept sprinter than swimmer.

“C’mon!” I yelled to Charlie as I pushed through the hordes of beachgoers, in hot pursuit of my mark.

I caught up to him on the planks, just outside Funtime Arcade. He was bent down, hands on his knees, panting for breath. I circled him. Charlie arrived. There were dozens of people here too. Some were not shy about their stares. It was difficult to get a good read on what would happen next.

I edged closer. I put out my hand.

“Don’t!” His tone was that of a man who wanted to yell but only had the breath to speak at normal volume.

“Marcus, forget him, we should split.” Charlie turned every which way at the same time, looking for cops, looking for trouble, looking for ways out in case either (or both) came to play.

Terence, with considerable effort, stood up straight and stepped to me.

“You,” he said. “You.”

“Marcus! We don’t have time for this, man.”

“You,” a third time. “What you did out there. I saw you do it. It’s not possible.”

“Look,” I began, not knowing how to explain it. “It was nothing.”

“I was on the beach. You were in the water. And the sharks … you … you …”

“Wait, there really were sharks?” Charlie asked, leaning in.

“Wolfensharks,” I bothered to clarify a final time.

Suddenly, I became hypersensitive to an oncoming presence. Our fiddling little chat was drawing attention from some nearby fuzz. Charlie saw them too. There were two of them, low-paid security guards to be accurate, making their way out of the arcade. They strutted with a purpose, laser-focused on our overwhelming vibe: Does not belong was written all over our faces and clothes and manner. One of these pimply boys tilted his lips to his shoulder. He spoke unknown words into a toy, a walkie-talkie. His eyes were hard-lined on mine.

“OK, Charlie. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Terence said. I didn’t have the luxury. And yet, for some reason, my feet stayed put. In truth, I know the reason now as well as I knew it then. Even though he called himself by a different name and carried himself in an entirely different manner, the boy, goddamn him, was a perfect replica of Kuwajii. And I just couldn’t leave Kuwajii. Not again. Not ever again.

The faux cops saw the intent to run in my eyes and their pace quickened.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel like …”

“What is it, son?”

“I should come with you.”

My emotions betrayed me. I smiled and took his hand. That was weird. He shook it away. And then, together, we ran.

Charlie was the fastest, but only because I had to hang back and allow Terence to run in my draft — a feat that is never easy, but even more difficult when weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic.

The guards were gaining, and with every step they were all the more intent on catching us.

“Go with Charlie, I’ll catch up,” I pushed Terence forward to keep his momentum going. I saw Charlie slow down for him and then together, they exited the boardwalk, two streets up.

“You must have a real guilty conscience running from us,” one of the security guards was saying as he approached. The other one was huffing and puffing right behind him.

“Frisk him,” the huffer and puffer said.

“All right, buddy. Where you hiding the drugs?” He put his hands on my shoulders. He patted my chest and searched my pockets, making his way down to my waist. I was very aware of yet another crowd being drawn to the safe perimeter of our scene, watching me, judging me, not knowing a thing.

“Hey!” The guard still catching his breath pointed a finger at me. “Make one fucking move and I’ll pepper spray you.”

I obeyed. I didn’t make one fucking move.

I made seven.

1. My right knee came up hard and clocked the guard fluffing out my pant legs. I knocked him square in the chin. He went down.

2. At the same time, with my right hand, I snatched the latecomer’s stubby index finger and bent it backward. His other hand went instinctively to his broken bones, entirely forgetting the pepper spray attached to his belt.

3. I stepped on the downed guard’s back and used him as a launching pad to tackle the howler with the owie.

4. I punched the already-defective guard with the deformed digit right in the eye, successfully knocking him out.

5. I grabbed hold of his pepper spray.

6. I sprayed them both.

7. I ran.

A number of random do-gooder civilians took up the chase, but I was too fast for every last one of them. When I reached the bottom of the boardwalk ramp, two streets up, Charlie quite nearly flattened me with the bright orange Dodge Viper he’d expertly filched.

“Not exactly incognito, is it?” I said, hopping in through the sun roof. Before my ass even hit the passenger seat, he peeled out again.

“He’s right,” Terence said from the back. The fact that he chose to sit back there, leaving the front for me, spoke volumes of his budding respect. “This thing screams stolen. It doesn’t help that you’re doing seventy-five in a thirty!” His head whipped to the side as Charlie took the next turn at breakneck speed.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Charlie said. “I’m only doing seventy. We’ll ditch this cherry ride for something more sensible as soon as we’re outta sight. How’d you escape the cops, man?”

“I rendered them ineffectual,” I answered, not much in the mood to deliver details. However, a quick look at Terence’s concerned face in the rearview guilted me into offering more. “They’re fine.”

“I believe you,” he said.

“Fantastic. I can die a happy man.”

“No, I mean … I believe you. I believe everything you told Sopras. Your entire life story. You’re the real deal, Marcus Fox. That’s why I’m gonna stay. That’s why I’m not gonna run unless I’m running with you. I ain’t ashamed to admit I got nothing going on back in New York.”

“Sheesh, kid,” Charlie said, slowing down to a reasonable ten miles over the speed limit. “I think it usually takes a couple weeks for Stockholm syndrome to kick in.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Terence said. He wasn’t the only one. “But I know what I saw, and I want to see more. Hell, maybe I can use it to further my acting career when it’s all over.”

A silence fell over the three of us. I think we were all thinking the same thing: When would it end? And how would we know it’s over? Charlie died. Then he was back. Would he croak again, for the first and last time? Would Terence? Would I? Anything was possible.

“Here,” Charlie said, slow-rolling into a supermarket parking lot. He parked next to a slick, black van with a bit of rust around the tailpipe and hubcaps. It took him half a minute to unlock the door. In the back, there was a suitcase full of men’s clothes.

“Jackpot,” Charlie said. “She’ll do.”

* * *

Charlie estimated it would take about twelve-and-a-half hours to drive to Bay City, Texas. Of course, that would only be feasible if we were (a) traveling dangerously over the speed limit, and (b) not driving a stolen vehicle. Because neither was true, we had to account for many stops where we would ditch one vehicle (a van, nine times out of ten) for another. All these interruptions made the journey exhausting, and I had to wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to hitchhike. But Charlie wouldn’t have it. He said the only way to see the countryside was to do it of your own free will. And that, I guess, meant procuring someone else’s wheels. We stole a lot of them. I lost track after fifteen.

There wasn’t much conversation to be had as we went from hotwire to hotwire. Tensions were high with every jumpstart. As soon as we got a few dozen miles under our belt, Charlie would insist I pull over and filch another ride. Yes, I was back behind the wheel, but not enjoying it. Something was missing from our old dynamic. It probably had something to do with the fact that this time, the only lives we were saving were our worthless own.

When we were maybe two hours away from Houston (which is maybe two hours west of Bay City), the engine under the hood of our newly acquired van puttered and coughed. With every jerky jerk of the dying beast, Charlie’s grimy sailor vocabulary became more and more ribald.

“She’s fucken dyin’, man!” And indeed she was. Billows of black smoke rolled out from under the hood, followed closely by timid fire.

“Abandon ship!” Charlie announced, opening his door and flinging his body out of the creeping crawler. Terence and I chose to sit calmly for the remaining seven seconds until the van came to a natural stop on the side of the road.

It was night, and the glow of the engine fire lit a double signpost up ahead. The larger one, indicating a further straight course on Interstate 10, read “Texas State Line: 8.” The other sign, smaller and more discreet, told us that Sabine Island Wildlife Management was 1.4 miles to our right, off Steward Rd.

“Smells like a bayou,” Terence answered the question no one asked. My face must have given away my ignorance of the word.

“Really?” Terence continued. “Wow, I would’ve thought if anyone was born in a bayou, it’d be you, Marcus.”

“No doubt you have heard the story of my birth.”

“That’s true,” he capitulated.

Being the late hour that it was, there were no cars passing us by. Not yet, anyway. It was in our best interests to get off the main road.

“We can’t hike the interstate into Texas,” said Charlie. “We’ll have to take our chances on the bayou.”

“How do we even …”

“Have faith in your Uncle Charlie,” Charlie told him. “And, more importantly, in Marcus.”

A pair of headlights crested the hill. Without further discussion, we sprinted right, directly into the cover of the woods on the side of Steward Rd.

The ground quickly turned to muck, and soon we were sloshing very slowly through knee-deep waters. Sensing a familiar danger in this strange environment, the hunter in me took control. There were predators here, I could feel it.

“Should we be worried about crocs?” Terence asked.

“No,” I answered. “Crocodiles tend to hang out by salt water. We’d more likely be killed by alligators in these parts.”

“OK, good to know, thanks.”

A low rumble, naked to the untrained ear, swept down from the bank on the left. The moon, being near-full and bright, peeked out behind swarms of loose, whirling fog to reveal a massive, uprooted tree trunk at the water’s edge. Twisted branches stuck out in every direction, clawing hopelessly, dead over the swamp. Upon one of those thick roots lounged an unmoving horror. It was indeed a solitary, sleeping crocodile, snoring in relative peace atop the wreckage of an ancient cypress, now the lizard’s cradle.

Without flinching, I nodded toward the creature on the mound and my companions, each in their own way, analyzed the threat.

There were only two reasons a croc would be this close to freshwater, and neither were good. Either he made this bog his home because of the big fish/small pond rationale, or he was deranged. If he considered himself king of this jungle, he would fight tooth and nail to defend his territory. If he was bonkers, he would be unpredictable in his movements and near impossible to defeat. In order to outwit a crazed halfwit, you have to throw the Predictive Species rule book out the window.

“That sure looks like a croc to me,” Terence whispered. But of course, his feeble attempt at communicating in relative silence was a bald failure. The sleeping dinosaur awoke. His eyes snapped open and his nostrils flared. Smelling us from his perch high up in the air, he gave us a slim opportunity to get the fuck outta Dodge. But that was just what he wanted. Daring us to run, to swim, to fly if we could, he grinned and showed off his mangled rows of never-flossed teeth.

“Why isn’t he attacking?” Charlie asked, still frozen in place, holding his breath for the inevitable death match that would ensue.

“He wants us to know him before he springs,” I said. “He wants us to quake at his feet. He’s waiting for the praise that only comes from fear. We will give him no such bounty.”

The Swamp King recognized the sober tone of my voice. He may not have understood my words, but he knew the authority and bravery behind them. My very existence insulted his station and soiled his dominion. The grin escaped his lips and, in a flash of sheer reptilian speed, he vaulted from the remains of the deceased cypress and flew to meet his maker.

The battle was over before it began. Tied up in all his rage, the croc (insane or no?) possessed a fatal flaw: Though he was mightily built, he was but mere vermin trespassing in the world of Marcus Fox.

He’d judged his leap well and would have done significant damage to my skull if I hadn’t anticipated his landing trajectory to perfection. All it took was one small push forward in the water. The croc observed my movement from above, but, already being airborne, had no reverse thruster to modify his descent. When he came down, clamping the air with huge, wasteful snaps, he discovered his folly too late. I reached up (rather nonchalantly, I might add) and snagged his bony, leather tail. With an easy flick of my wrist, I whipped the dummy around and around in lasso fashion and then chucked him back at the cradle of dead wood he loved so dearly. The last thing that croc knew was six sharp root impalers piercing his crusty skin and one thick, thorny branch in his brain.

“Fuck yeah, motherfucker! YEAH!” Terence exclaimed. “Are you kidding me? I mean!? Did you see that shit? Did you fucking see that fucking shit, Charlie? Shut up!”

The fog fell low and gummy upon us then, as if to mourn the passing of the Swamp King. Its viscous nature obscured the look of disapproval my face would show the boy.

“You shouldn’t cheer for death,” I spoke respectfully. “Or death may heed your call and come calling.”

“You’re damn skippy,” Charlie agreed. He’d made his way over to the harmless carcass bleeding from the branches. “Who else is hungry?”

* * *

Raw crocodile tastes exactly like what you would think — like shit. For fairly obvious reasons (or so I thought), we couldn’t chance a fire. If law enforcement or rescue teams weren’t already trudging through the bayou, they certainly would be if they spotted plumes of smoke rising from the treetops. Even so, Terence’s grunts and moans about the croc’s gooey texture (surprisingly more persistent than his bitching about its acrid, dry-heave-inducing flavor) alluded to the fact that he just didn’t get it.

“Hey, dumbass,” Charlie said. “Even if we wanted to build a fire (which we don’t), even if we could get one going in this soggy wasteland (which we never could), it would likely burn down the entire swamp. Is that what you want, kid? You wanna go out in a vicious firestorm? Is that your idea of adventure?”

“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” Terence said, then reluctantly swallowed another half handful of flesh. “I wasn’t expecting a Michelin four-star dining experience, but ugh. And another thing, you don’t have to keep calling me ‘kid’ or ‘boy.’ I get it. I’m young and noticeably way under-experienced compared to the two of you. But it’s insulting. And I know that’s the rude point you’re trying to make, but if we’re gonna be outlaws together …”

“You hearing this happy crappy, Marcus? The boykid wonder over here thinks we’re outlaws! Heh-ha!” He slapped his knee and swayed backward in faux laughter. It was such an intentional overreaction that he nearly fell out of the cradle.

“If we’re not outlaws, then what would you call us, Charlie?” I asked.

“Well, I guess I still like vigilante best. Don’t you? And besides, the kid ain’t one of us and never will be.”

I picked some gristle from my teeth and kept my thoughts to myself. Yes, in many ways, Charlie and I were cut from similar cloth. But in infinite other ways, he and I had more dissimilarities than a fire ant and a sugar ant. Can you guess which one I am? Fire ant, you say? Nope. It was a trick analogy, you feeble featherbrain! I’m no fucking ant.

“So, Marcus,” Terence started up again after we’d had our fill of sour innards. “What makes you think your mother is in Bay City?”

Had I mentioned this was my intention? I must have. It was an honest question and one that I had to mull over for a moment and a half. As it turned out, I didn’t have an answer. All I knew was that Bay City was the last place (on land) I’d seen her.

Over the soft trickling of the marsh water, an owl made his presence known to anyone who would listen. Terence was keen to it. Charlie, whether he heard or not, was relaxing as best he could in the thorny wood.

“How many people you killed, Marcus?”

“Maybe one less than I should have,” I said, deep in thought.

“How many animals?”

“Man, you just don’t know when to quit, do you, boy?” Charlie asked, then closed his eyes. “Wake me if the fuzz comes knockin’.”

“I figure you’ve killed hundreds of animals out in Africa,” Terence continued. “I mean, that’s what I gathered from the stories you told Sopras (the ones I heard, anyway). Do you? I mean, do you know how many there were?”

Of course I knew. Every hunter worth his balls has got his number tattooed in blood red blood, right on his heart.

“I know,” was all I offered on the matter.

“I get it,” Terence said. “None of my business. That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting an answer anyway.” He sighed, and in that depressed exhalation, I felt something. I was letting him down. Of course, he would never say so, but it was obvious that his impression of me as this mighty, almost godlike hero had suffered a dent, minor as it was. I felt like I should placate him with a tale.

“You ever seen a ghost, Terence?” I asked. Charlie, alive or not, was inexplicably snoring already.

“You called me Terence.”

“Well, that’s your name, right?”

That drove the kid over the fucking moon. I’d given him enough to feel closer. In doing so, some inert broken thing inside me screamed out to throw him back out. Because, simply put: The close get dead.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a ghost, no,” he replied. “Though I suppose I have dreamed up a phantom or two, as a young kid. Why?”

He awaited my story with the unanticipated patience of a bison-stalking puma. It was a whopper of a tale I’d never shared with Sopras. At least, I think I never shared it with Sopras. Those memory lines, repeatedly shocked into submission by the doctor’s electric prod, were still blurry. But as far as I could recall, until this very moment, I’d never dared to reminisce about the haunting dead woman who ruined me for life.

Do you remember before when I teased my story of the Banshee? Well, here comes the heinous bitch now. And then. And hopefully never again.

“It was uncommonly quiet that night in the jungle,” I began. Terence leaned forward as much as a person could sitting atop an uprooted mess of tree trunk. “All the animals — every one of them — were suddenly silent. Or gone. Maybe they knew what was coming and got somewhere safe. Maybe they got out. But I never heard their rustling exodus. I did not know they were leaving till after they’d left. It was uncharacteristic of me to miss such a thing. Back in those days, I had my wits about me at all times. I always knew the subtle movements of the beasts within my realm. But once they’d vanished from my perception, I did have the wherewithal to sense something new and uncanny rippling through the air. There was a presence, you see. It was near. It smelled like apples and honey and moon shadow. This unfamiliar scent that was at first faint and inconceivable became stronger and more insistent by the second. Just when I was about to submit to being led by the nose through the trees, an oppressive wailing began.

“Can you imagine, Terence, the sound a mother might emit were she to lose her child to a raging river? You can’t, can you? Because the notion of a woman wicked enough to endanger her child in such a callous, careless way is virtually inconceivable!

“Only after her babe has been swept away by the terrible current does she realize the unforgivable thing she has done. Accident or not, the infanticide hits her hard. Unrelenting torment brews and becomes her everything. It encompasses her entirely. There is no way to ever take back what she’s done. There is no way she can go on. And so, this remorseful, agonizing sound escapes her. It is a grating lamentation, grotesque in design because she is its sole cause. She is now nothing more than the mother of pain.

“If you can, try to imagine you are standing off to the side, somewhere close, but at first you can’t hear her because the river is so loud. The river owns all sound just as it owns her child. And suddenly, you feel it too, and now you know her screams, intrinsically — they are all over your insides. The river is secondary. Everything in existence is fatally unimportant as this woman’s grief, her shrieks, become the whole of the swirling cosmos.

“This is what I heard that night, Terence. And God help me, though I was wild with black adrenaline and sorrow, I ran toward her. The trees were identical to each other, and yet, this was my home. It was where I had lived the bulk of my life. I knew every cranny of that jungle, but on this night, I recognized none of it. I had a vision of this make-believe woman in my head — this mother mourning the loss of her child. If I didn’t reach her soon, she would drown herself in the very same river. I knew it as well as I knew my own name. But the Zambezi was far from where I was — at least 100 kilometers away. So who was this woman I so clearly imagined? Her cries were real. I felt them in my bones.

“I tripped and fell in a narrow ditch that was populated with recent rain and slugs. I looked up. There, a red-haired woman in a gray cloak hovered and screeched. Her eyes, hollowed by tears, were busying themselves, trying to figure me out. She regarded me as a side dish to her ultimate sadness. I reached up and took her hand. But it was made of no more than mist and folklore.

“I stood up and held her in my arms, and at long last, her screams quelled. I wanted to ask her about her lost child. Perhaps there was still a chance to save it. But, of course, she had no child. And there was no river. That was my own misinterpretation, my own conjuring. It wasn’t real. The child never was. Do you understand?

“She was beautiful, Terence. She was the most beautiful, terrible creature I’d ever encountered. And though she had no physical features to speak of, other than her flowing, youthful, red hair, I had to have her. And she was willing. And so we did.”

“Wait. Whoa. Did what?”

“You understand, Terence.”

“Are you saying you fucked her?” Terence asked. His eyes were as wide as a karamajoo’s at first dawn.

“That is crass,” I said.

“You had sex with a ghost. That’s what she was? That’s what you’re telling me? You saw a ghost in the jungle and you nailed her. Holy shit.”

“Not a ghost, Terence. A Banshee.”

“What’s the difference?”

I looked to Charlie. He was sleeping soundlessly on his crag pile.

“When I first came to America, I was in a bad way. Then I met Charlie. He helped me heal, in a way.”

“Yeah, I know that story. Dude, what the fuck?”

“Soon after I got sober, I asked Charlie how I might obtain knowledge about a thing that could not be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did he. But he brought me to the New York Public Library and I spent a whole day searching through ancient tomes, looking for any mention of a wailing specter. I finally found it. I found her. Her story was buried in Irish Specters and Spirits. The same mist-made woman I made love to was sitting on page 432 of that book. She was right there in black and white and red. The anthology named her: Banshee. My theory was confirmed.”

“So you’re saying you had sex with some ancient Irish spirit … in Africa?”

“Yes. The same spirit who cursed my father with death when he was young. You see, as the story goes (or as my father and the Irish Specters and Spirits book would have one believe), the Banshee appears as a precursor to death. The reason she moans is because she is giving those she meets a warning of impending doom.”

“And you banged her.”

“Yes. We were together, as one, up until the moment she vanished. I thought if I gave her some warmth, some good feeling, she would be at peace, and leave me at peace as well. Needless to say, I was wrong. I returned to my campsite where Kuwajii was sleeping soundly.”

“Oh no.” Terence connected the dots. “Kuwajii.”

“Three days later, Kuwajii paid the ultimate price. My ultimate act of love did nothing to tame the Banshee’s true desire for death.”

Terence inserted a reverent moment of silence for my lost boy.

“Kuwajii’s tale came to an abrupt and premature end. But he’s been gone a long time. Washed downriver, so to speak. And here you sit, Terence. And you could be him. But you’re not. And who am I but a constant lamenter?”

Story time was over. The swamp was eerily silent. The stray owl had even stopped hooting. There were no crocodiles, no birds, no fish swimming in the marsh.

“They’re gone,” I said.

“Huh?” Terence asked.

“Do you hear that?”

“What? No. What?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Exactly.”

And then, from over the murky swamp tabletop, she wailed.

“Marrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcusssssssssssssssss Foxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.”

“What the fucking fuck!” Terence shrieked. Whatever his next words would have been were drowned by the shrill call of the Banshee. She was out there. Somewhere. Impossible but true. I’d brought her back to life by recounting her story. I suppose, in remembering her, a part of me had hoped she would come crying.

I got my wish. The horny Irish bitch was back and keening for me.

Whether or not she was responsible for Kuwajii’s death, she was going to, at last, get what was coming to her: absolution. And if not, I would die trying to give it to her.

Either way.

CHAPTER

16

The boy trembled like a cassava leaf under the influence of rain. Even so, he insisted on accompanying me into battle. I respected his misplaced bravery, though it was merely for show. Anyone with half a nose for detail could smell the fear exuding from his pores.

Through all the Banshee’s wailing, Charlie snored on. How he could sleep through the spirit’s otherworldly moans was a greater mystery than the she-bitch herself. Despite my best efforts to rouse him (shaking his arms, slapping his face, etc.), he refused to wake.

“We can’t leave him here alone,” I told Terence. “Any number of bloodthirsty predators could return to devour him. Will you stay with him?”

Terence held his relief in check, accepting his new charge like a man.

“Good,” I said and then the Banshee decimated our eardrums with another of her pitiful, devastating moans.

“Wha — wu — dah — do — ih — ah — bagaradah?” Terence’s words drowned in discordance.

I nodded. Then left him and his question unanswered.

The marsh was a sticky entity hell-bent on holding me back. These murky waters didn’t have a dog in the fight, so why protest my actions? I chalked the inanimate earth barf’s perceived concern up to either my own overwrought imagination or, more likely, the reality that it was just a mundane mud consistency issue. The soil itself was dispersed unevenly throughout the entirety of the spongy bog. It was just the way of it. I tried not to overthink the issue.

As I continued toward the inconsolable demon with the forlorn pipes, the bayou changed. The soiled water unclung from my knees, calves, and ankles. It spread out, leaving me a clear path of actual earth below. If I were a religious braggart of a man, I’d say I quite felt like Moses, but the truth is, I had nothing to do with this parting. The elements chose to ease my way — perhaps they saw it as a final gift to the damned.

The trees faded into oblivion. The swamp grass, debris, and stray bushes all dissipated. The land became as it was a hundred thousand years ago. The earth cracked into the wrinkly newborn it once was, before man or beast ever cursed it. I kicked off my stolen boots and the ground pulsed along the soles of my feet. It hummed for me. And still the Banshee called.

Ahead, there was nothing but arid desert to be conquered. I quickened my pace a few hurried steps, then burst into sprint mode. Though my earthly surroundings had transformed, the night was still the night; upon that I could rely. The moon hung low now. The stars trebled their luster. Observing the universe as I hadn’t since I was a newfound child stoned on lion’s flesh, I found myself effectually blinded by the raw impressiveness of it all.

With my guard down and my ears filled with the relentless, chaotic dirge, I never saw her coming. The Banshee was nothing if not cunning. To allow myself the blame for falling into her accursed trap would be akin to faulting the lovesick, ruby-throated hummingbird for resting his tired wings upon the golden silk orbweaver spider’s silken golden orb … er, web. (The deftest snare always comes when prey is otherwise absorbed.)

I shook the ancient sky from my consciousness and peeled free of false ground. I remained stuck in the muck of the hot Louisiana wetlands as my arch rival descended. She floated down from a tall, lean tupelo tree. Once a pretty-looking ghoul, the passage of time had not been kind to her.

Her flowing red hair was long gone; in its place was a mess of moppy silver threads. She still wore the same light blue tunic, but it contained sliver shades of faded lasers made of snot green. Her sunken, tear-flooded eyes were no longer embedded deep within her head. As a matter of fact, she had no head to speak of. Beneath her ghostly hood was but a dark, black hole of nothingness attached to her old lady hair.

Furthermore, she lacked both arms and legs. I daresay she had no body. Just a cloak, rat’s nest, and absent face accompanied by ceaseless sobs. It was impossible to recognize the lady ghoul I once pity-bedded.

“M’lady,” I said, half in jest, hoping to ironically possess a sassy greeting. The swamp held me still.

“I knowwww youuuuu, Marcusssss Foxxxx …”

“And I you,” I dared. “Probably better than any other man ever has. So why don’t you lay off the spooky ghost vibe and call off your mud dogs.”

She hesitated before releasing me from the mire. Free at last, I chose to stand my ground rather than attack. I needed to better evaluate the situation — assess her weak spots. Hell, I didn’t even know if she could be killed.

The wailing continued, sharper and more poignant than ever. Her sorrow was now specifically directed at me, for me, and quite possibly about me. The sad song made me cringe.

But something about the way she hovered was comforting. She made me feel like I could unload my troubles — troubles I was only half aware I’d been holding on to.

“Look, first I was a kid, then I was a parent, then I was … gone. I never had any inclination for the funny business. I’m not even sure how you seduced me. Maybe my whole life I’ve just been aspiring for a hard death.”

The Banshee drew close. Deep within the infinite space that lay where her face should be, I saw flashes of her own mournful past. In an instant, she showed me every sad outcome she’d ever known. It was a damned miracle she didn’t howl down the heavens.

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I am to blame.”

“One more, Marcus,” she whispered hot breath in my ear. Fresh tears fell from her nonexistent eyes to my already-sweaty neck as she took up a new lamenting mantra: “One more one more one more one more …”

The urge to kill, shockingly, did not return. I’d shared my history with catastrophe, but my life and my woe were blips in the cosmos compared to her all-encompassing vocalization of human despondency. It was a blessed miracle I was not driven insane by the boundless sadness.

Without another word, thought, or grief, the elderly specter drifted away. Unblinking and contemplative, I watched her go into the sky. She washed into stardust and became one with nature’s splendor. My lonesome nature was loathsome no more.

One more.

The day’s first light rose, revealing yet another rushing river beneath my feet. Before I could say “Shumbuto,” I found myself wading in near-immaculate, shallow waters. Terence and Charlie stood by the water’s edge, motioning for me to come forward. When I did, my companions each extended a hand to help me out.

“Welcome to Texas,” said Charlie. “Yeehaw.”

“Right after you left, Charlie snored so loud he woke himself up,” Terence explained.

“I’m the only man alive who can wake me,” Charlie further explained.

“When he saw that you were gone, I pointed him in the direction you went. He jumped out of the croc’s tree, and we took after you. We didn’t get far though. Marcus, you’re not going to believe this. Well, maybe you will. We smacked into some kind of impenetrable force field. It was like an invisible shield that went all the way around the bayou. We ran the entire perimeter of it until we came to this side of the river.”

“That does seem implausible,” I said. “But based on what I’ve seen and known, I’ll allow it.”

“So, how was she?” Charlie asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t believe the kid when he said you went off in search of a Banshee. Not until I smacked into that big, blank wall. I guess that’s when I kinda came around to accepting a few things I cannot understand. Did you really get down and dirty with a ghost?”

“No. Not this time. She’s much older now.”

“Gross,” Charlie said.

“I think she’s dying.”

“She would be after meeting up with the likes of you, eh?” Charlie punched Terence playfully on the shoulder, just to get him going. The boy took his bait and lightened his manner with a mollified laugh.

They are children, I thought. Not just Terence, but Charlie too.

And then …

They aren’t just any children, they are my children. I am the voice of the imagined woman standing at the edge of a river, bemoaning the loss of her wee babe. I am the screeching lament in the darkness.

THWUNK.

The unmistakable sound of an archer plucking his well-strung bow carried over the water. With zero hesitation, I leapt to protect my brood. For my troubles, I got the pointy end of the arrow; its shaft planted firm in my chest. When my body hit the ground, I held on to the happy piece of knowledge that my heart had not been pierced. I closed my eyes to the pain and tried to ignore the Banshee’s fatal promise: One more.

* * *

“… the hell is that?”

“It’s a soothing agent of my own making — part salve, part calcified butter, part numbing alcohol, part —”

“All right, all right, just give it to him!”

They hadn’t noticed I was conscious; I took the advantage to silently gauge the temperature of the unknown voice. From his few bizarre words, I gathered he was nervous and off-center. Two qualities that, when mixed together in one human, had the potential for either disaster or lifetime kinship.

“Huh,” the stranger spoke again. “I was sure that would have brought him out of it.”

I could steal myself in false shadows no longer. I blinked into focus the drained faces of Terence and Charlie, juxtaposed by a well-structured man wearing pale skin, an orange vest, and extra-long waders painted with camouflage swirls of brown and dark green.

“Hey partner,” he said to me. “That ointment sting much?”

I propped myself to a sitting position. My asylum-issued shirt had been cut off and the back half of an arrow was sticking out of my chest.

“I think I’m immune to pain now,” I said, surprised it was true.

“That’s the magic of the balm. Good magic. Pure, I swear. I don’t delve down into the dark depths of black arts. Course not. Course not. But that’s also not to say that I’m such a fool what believes in magic at all! That goo is right science as best I can manage, being an amateur chemist and such. I’m glad it’s working for you there, though!

“Hey, listen, I shot you. And that’s my bad, for sure. But I swear, I SWEAR, I saw the three of you boys all standing together there, but I didn’t see you as you were. You get it? I thought I was looking at the biggest damn elk I ever saw! It weren’t no trick of the mind either, though, it was real. Real as you’re sitting there now with my arrow stuck in you. How I can account for what I’m accounting, I can’t right say, but hey, you know I wouldn’t never shoot a man now, don’t you? Crud, I’ve heard stories of loads of hunting accidents, but you never imagine it’ll happen to you. Cuz you’re careful, right? You gotta be careful out here, you know what I mean? I’m always so careful, this shouldn’t have happened to me.”

“It didn’t happen to you,” Charlie said. “It happened to Marcus.”

“Everything happens to Marcus,” I heard myself say. Terence laughed at that, which was fine. The room needed a bit of levity after the hunter’s mad soliloquy.

“We have to get you to a —”

“Hospital?” I interrupted. “You’d have a better chance turning Earth upside down and shaking out Uranus.”

Was that another joke? I wasn’t sure and didn’t stew on it. Instead, I snapped the back half of the arrow, leaving the bit nub protruding just right and upward of my left nip.

“Oh no, you don’t want to do that,” the hunter instructed, too late.

“Charlie, pull it,” I said.

“You sure?” he said.

“Pull it now.”

With one foot planted on the floor and the other pressed to my back, he yanked the remaining shaft out and then handed it to me over my shoulder.

“Hello, you beautiful bastard,” I said, then chucked the wretched thing into the corner.

Mouth agape, our host had forgotten he was still holding a mason jar full of his homemade potion. It fell from his clumsy hand and I caught it mid-air.

“Thank you kindly,” I said, gooping a handful and proceeding to smear it all over my chest.

“That’s too much,” he said, almost remotely.

While my front smoldered, Charlie applied a generous portion to the wound on my back. It seared the flesh and sealed the hole, keeping my goddamn blood inside, where it belonged.

“Are you a god?” Terence asked when I stood up under my own strength.

“No,” I answered, then reconsidered his question. “Maybe,” I said, tiptoeing on the edge of various cultures’ blasphemy.

God or no, pain or no, my legs wobbled unsteadily as I moved toward a cheap card table by the window. With death held at bay for the meantime (however long that might be), I sat in a folding chair and regarded our surroundings.

They’d taken me to a one-room cabin somewhere near the river (I could still hear its fine-toothed warble in the distance). Presumably, this was the hunter’s lodge, such as it was. A cooler in the corner was open, showing bags of ice for meat (as yet unclaimed). In front of me, on the table, lay half a dozen serrated blades of varying sizes. Leaning against the wall by the door were three bows accompanied by quivers filled with shiny arrows. One sad pin-up of a nude woman sprawled out on a bearskin rug hung from the adjacent wall next to a closed cabinet.

“Is that where you keep your potions?” I asked him.

“Huh?”

“You’re some kind of witch doctor, yes?”

“I don’t …”

“Your salve,” I said, exasperated. “It has miraculous healing abilities.” He nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Hey, I don’t want any trouble?”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have shot at us,” Charlie offered.

“Name?” I repeated, second-guessing my restraint.

“Pratchett. Peter Pratchett. My buds call me Pratch.”

“You alone out here, Peter Pratchett? This your cabin?”

“We kinda share it,” he said. “Me and three other guys. They couldn’t make it this weekend.”

“What’s a weekend?” I said. This tickled Pratch’s fancy.

“No, I’m serious.”

“How you feeling, Marcus?”

“Don’t use his fucken name, kid!” Charlie chastised Terence. “Jesus Mary!”

“I didn’t hear nothin,” Pratch claimed. “Look, like I said, I’m terrible sorry I shot you. My vision is always spot on. I just don’t understand it. You were an elk. Sure as I’m standing here talking to you, you was all a big fucking elk.”

“You probably saved the kid’s life,” Charlie told me. “That arrow was headed straight for his eye before you stepped in.”

This information wasn’t particularly breaking news. “One more,” she’d prophesied. Perhaps I’d saved Terence’s life this go around, but to what end? Once the Banshee cries, sooner or later, somebody (maybe an entire tribe of your loved ones) pays the ultimate price.

“Regardless of your hallucination,” I said to Peter Pratchett whose friends call him Pratch, “you’re a pretty good shot. You hit me from the other side of the river. That’s 1,000 yards if it’s a meter.”

“Ppbbtthh, 1,000 yards? You’re making with the yuk-yuk again, right?”

“I wonder how much of your skill lies in the construction of your arrows? Bamboo, as I’m sure you know, is soft and light and flies well over water. Lucky for me, it also breaks easy. I’d gather you couldn’t make the same shot again if you tried. Though I would someday like to see your secret bamboo forest. I didn’t think it grew in this part of the world.”

“Um. No,” Pratch said. “It doesn’t.”

A cobalt black pickup truck sat under an old elk tree, just outside the cabin window.

I beg your pardon? … Oh. Of course, I meant elm tree. I’ve been talking for so long now, I’ve gone and confused my elms with my elks. Heh. Funny that. At any rate.

“Well, Pratch, it was a pleasure getting to know you. I’m sorry we don’t have more time to trade war stories, but we have to be going now.”

“Please don’t kill me,” he babbled. “I’m pretty sure I have kids.”

Peter Pratchett whose buds call him Pratch never saw Terence coming. The kid hit him over the head with his very own mason jar of salve, and Pratch went down. Thankfully, the glass did not break and the chemicals within were contained, where they belonged. I’m not sure what that shit might have done to the hunter’s skull, were it to get on him. Or, for that matter, how it might have eaten away at Terence’s hand. Fate was on our side, for once. I was feeling it. The three of us stepped lightly around what I presumed to be my own body’s blood streak trailing out the door.

I left the able-though-somewhat-unstable hunter his bows and his arrows and all of his knives, save one. Charlie seized Pratch’s keys from one of his wader’s many pockets, and, in zerotime plus five, we were out and rolling on to greener pastures.

Charlie insisted he drove while I rested. It was a fine idea indeed. The truck bed was exactly what it advertised as, though not very comfy. I felt every bump and pit in the road, while Terence most likely had a much smoother ride in the shotgun seat. Once the deserted dirt road turned into broken asphalt, my body got a bit of respite while my brain took the reins of the erratic assault.

Dozing while awake, my thoughts wandered. Had the Banshee truly foreseen Terence’s death? And if so, had I successfully stopped his demise with my heroic leap, or merely prolonged the inevitable? History begged to validate the latter. Or perhaps, in saving the boy, I had unwittingly doomed Charlie? The darkest of dark arts could now be coming for the renegade paramedic. Could “one more” refer to one more death for the one who’d already died? On the heels of that nonsense logic, Kuwajii had already died too. And yet, here he was again. Same form, different soul. And now I was back to “one more” toll for Terence. How could I protect them both? For all I knew, Charlie could be driving the stolen truck head-on into a tree as I lay there in the back, doing nothing to prevent it. Death could claim its one more easily enough, with a simple jerk of the wheel.

I should leave them both, I thought. It could be the only way to keep them safe. But then again, I didn’t know the Banshee’s rules, if she had any, or if they were hers. She was a harbinger of the great beyond, not the bringer of it. There is a difference in the details.

My beef should be with some other, higher power.

We continued on I-10 for about two hours. It was the longest stretch we’d gone in any vehicle. Even if Peter Pratchett woke up within an hour of our departure (which he might have), it’d take him another forty-five minutes, easy, to do the wobbly, skull-damaged amble to the nearest domicile; and then who knows long before the local authorities were called in and an APB was put out. If anything, the miles we allowed ourselves to clock in his well-oiled clunker were conservative, by a measure.

In a town called Cloverleaf, just outside of Houston, we stopped to refuel. And by that, I mean, of course, snag a new van. Charlie was, if nothing else, a creature of habit. Though Peter Pratchett’s truck was practical enough (for a borderline jalopy), Charlie still needed the comfort of a good, oddly shaped mini-bus to soothe whatever it was that ailed him.

“You know where you are yet?” he asked, ducking under the driver’s side panel. The familiar sparks flew, the engine roared, and I climbed behind the wheel.

“I should,” I answered. “In a way, everything is familiar and nothing is. We bounced all over this state, but Bay City is the only place that holds any resonance. It was our last holdup before …” I trailed off.

“Before you woke up in a plane flying low over Africa,” Terence filled in.

“Yes,” I said.

“And the rest is history,” said Charlie.

“You mean legend,” Terence corrected. I didn’t offer any thoughts on the matter. The word legend does have certain, non-verifiable connotations I’d rather not address.

We traded up once more, at an RV park in Chenango. In the end, after romping through the sparsely populated grounds for the better part of half an hour, Charlie opted for the most nondescript van of our entire western pilgrimage for the final leg of the trip, because, according to him, “This old girl’s got chiseled distinction in her tires.”

“OK, Charlie,” I said, thinking (but not suggesting) that his penchant for this particular vehicle probably had more to do with the fact that it held the fullest tank of gas out of half a dozen other vacant vehicles in a secluded wood on the far side of the lot.

“Go for a walk, lose your ride. Sorry chum. Better luck next time.”

And off we went again.

It was mid-afternoon when we ditched the Chenango wheels in a K-Mart parking lot two miles outside of Bay City. We huffed it from there, walking in silence, trying not to look as vagabond as we felt.

The final leg of our long journey came to an abrupt end as I stood and stared in unimpressed bewilderment at the Paradise Inn. This crappy, albeit memorable, motel from my first youth was sandwiched between a Days Inn on one side and a Super 8 down the street. It was a marvel the dump was still standing.

“So this was it, huh?” Terence said. “It’s a lot smaller than I’d imagined.”

“Funny,” I said. “I was thinking the opposite.”

A wee copper bell dinged over our heads as we entered the main office. A girl in her early twenties appeared from a small room in the back. Wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded T-shirt advertising some cryptic band, she blew a bubble with her gum and snapped it before the thing ever had a chance to dream big.

“Well lookee what the cat dragged in,” she said. “Aren’t you the saddest sack of birds I seen all week. You look like you just fell off a turnip truck! And since we ain’t got no turnip farms in these parts that I know of …” She leaned her head forward and looked through the office’s front window. “You ain’t got no car?”

“We’d like a room,” said Charlie.

“Uh huh. Sure you would. Just one for the three of you? Is that right?” She studied us up and down and then up again. “Don’t look like you got a nickel between you. Why don’t you just get the fuck up on outta here, then? Stop wasting my time.”

Though she certainly seemed in a hurry to be somewhere else, she didn’t move a muscle in any direction.

“No vacancy. I get it,” I said. “Then maybe you wouldn’t mind just answering a few questions for me?” I flashed her what I thought of as my winning smile. She recoiled.

“What the holy hell is that supposed to be? Are you flirtin’ with me, mister? Cuz you know I got a boyfriend who’s twice the size of Montana. He could squash all three of you scrawny dudes and not be late for dinner.”

Whether her boyfriend was real was anybody’s guess, yet, still, she did not move away.

“Of course a pretty girl like you has herself a boyfriend,” I said. “I never would have presumed otherwise. Please forgive me — forgive us all for the intrusion. You have a nice day.”

I made as if I would turn back toward the exit. I didn’t get one foot toward the door before she stopped me.

“Well hold on, ya big jerk. You’ve piqued my interest now, haven’t you? Jesus wept! Do you think anything remotely interesting ever happens in this shit dang town? Let alone this deadbeat motel?”

“It seems like a perfectly fine establishment,” Terence offered. “Plenty of nice things to look at in here, for sure.”

The girl took his well-intended compliment and shot him an untrusting stare for his kindness.

“What you want to ask me, cowboy?” She redirected her warming attitude back to me.

“You’re young,” I said.

“That a question?”

“How long you been here?”

“What you mean? Here on this planet? Here in Bay Shitty? Here in this roach motel?”

“Oh hell no,” Terence interjected. “Terence don’t play with no roaches. No way, man. No way.”

“The latter,” I said, and when her face cinched as if she were about to short-circuit searching for another meaning for ladder, I moved things along. “How long have you been working here?”

“Why you want to know that, mister? You been here before? We ain’t got no lost and found. Read the sign.”

She pointed to the wall behind her, and sure enough, someone had tacked a plaque there that read: Management Not Responsible For Your Shit. Don’t Lose Nothin In The 1st Place & We’ll All Be Just Fine.

“My dear,” I started over.

“Save it,” she said. “I only been here three years. You wanna talk to the owner. His name’s Simon but he ain’t here. Don’t ask me where he went cuz I sure as hell don’t know. Maybe he told me. Maybe he didn’t. Doesn’t matter, right? That all you got? You’re disappointing.”

A cheer rose from the back room, and the girl turned her head slightly.

“We just got cable,” she explained. “I watch the Game Show Network all day long. You got a problem with that? You pissants ain’t even more interesting than the goddamn Game Show Network. Fuck off.”

Forever still, no moves.

“All right,” I said, no longer interested in charming her. “Here’s the truth of it. I was here before. You were right about that. It was the summer of ’73. I was six years old.”

“Pshaw! You’re joking, right? I wasn’t even born yet, Mister.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” I said. “But maybe you’ve heard stories?”

“Stories!” she shouted and then addressed my companions. “Is this guy for real? You think anything has ever happened here in the past 100 years that was worth retelling? The only thing Simon ever talks about was the time two outlaws were holed up here and the cops and the FBI and I think even SWAT showed up in full force to get ’em. But you know what? Those twats got away! Now how the hell do you think they pulled that off with hundreds of law enforcement swarming all over this godforsaken town?”

“Maybe they had a kid with them,” Terence offered shyly and slyly. I kept my mouth shut and watched as the girl’s face shifted from bored to astonished to confused to some state of hard-earned recollection.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “That’s right, they had themselves a hostage. Some kid. Simon says he never saw what happened to them after they left, but the cops and the FBI and the SWAT followed them out and they never came back. Why you askin’ about this shit anyway? That was years and years ago. Before I was ever even alive.”

“Summer of ’73,” I repeated. “I was six.”

“Huh?” She was real slow on the uptake, this one. “You saying that was you, mister? You’re the hostage? You’re the kid?”

“In the flesh,” I told her.

“Holy Poo, Peggy Sue! That is messed up! I guess you got away from them creeps then, huh? When was they arrested? What were their names again?”

“Calliope and Billy Fox,” Charlie said, and somewhere out there a goose led a gander to copulate over my grave.

“No, that ain’t it. Simon, he calls ’em —”

“The Texas Terrors.” A grizzled old man spoke as he came out from the back room. He walked with a hunch in his back and a slide in his leg. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips. I regarded him with subtle respect based on his years alone.

“Dad, you don’t have to be out here, I got this. They’re just playing games. Never heard this one before, though. Whatchu think you can get a free room by lying about who you is or isn’t?”

“You’re the kid?” the old man asked, ignoring his daughter.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m the kid.”

“You got older,” he said.

“Yessir.”

“Humph. Well I suppose that does happen to the best of us.” He regarded the girl with subtle (but noticeable) regard. “You know, I told anyone who would listen about you, but no one believed me. They caught up with those two psychos about three weeks after the whole dustup. Found ’em trying to cross into Mexico down in Big Bend. But there was no kid with ’em. So you see why no one believes me when I tell the story. The cops never released that info to the public — that there was a child hostage. I always assumed they thought you’d been kilt, and they never found your body.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Terence said. “There would have been charges if there was any suspicion that they killed a kid.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. But of course, you know, the Terrors had so many charges — they had charges coming out their pores and cornholes. The cops had ’em dead to rights on dozens of burglaries and at least half as many murders. They had enough to give ’em the chair ten times over. Or so everyone thought.”

“But they didn’t get the death penalty, right?” Charlie asked.

“This is Texas, boy! Most every crook who ever shoplifted as much as a stick of gum used to get a one-way ticket to ride the lightning. Back in the day, we doled out death like Mallomars on Halloween. But back in the early ’70s, the Texas government was facing spastic years of transition. The Terrors got caught up in all kinds of bureaucratic red tape. In ’72, the Supreme Court deemed capital punishment ‘cruel and unusual.’ Texas took a breath. We didn’t kill no one for a whole year. In fact, everyone on death row in late ’72 got their sentences lightened to life in prison. Lucky bastards could go on living off my taxes! Sons of bitches. Then the Terrors came round and tore the state to shreds. It’s quite a thing, you know — they got themselves arrested just at the tail end of Texas’s leniency. In fact, it was their total sum of heinous crimes that influenced the state’s mind back to its original, er, state, I guess. To make a long story short, the Terrors singlehandedly put death back on the table.

“The man, William, he was the first to go back on death row. Also was slated to be the first to get the needle. We retired the chair, you see? That was like Texas’s way of saying, ‘Yeah, you’re right, America, the way we been killing the scum of the earth was pretty medieval. So all right, from now on, we’ll hold their hands while we stop their hearts.’ But William Fox never made it to that chair, now did he? He was on death row about six months when he got himself kilt by another inmate. I’m surprised he lasted that long.”

I don’t know why I was feeling what I was feeling. Of course, I always knew Billy would’ve been killed somewhere along the way, either in prison or in some epic shootout. But this final validation — this irrefutable truth spilling from the old man’s lips — hit me harder than it probably should have. I could hear my first father’s sob once again, as a low hum in the back of my head. It was clear and sorrowful over the plane’s single engine.

“What about the woman?” I asked from far away.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“His wife. Where’d she wind up?”

“Oh her. Yeah well, she cooperated, didn’t she? Told them everything they wanted to hear, I guess. Pinned everything on William. Practically dug his grave herself with her own bare, treacherous hands. So to speak. I guess he probably loved her. Maybe even to the end. Though I could never imagine why. Men and their women, I suppose. Tale as old as time.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, suddenly aware that Terence’s hand had been resting on my shoulder for a while. His comforting gesture was a welcoming strength to lean into.

“He didn’t help his case any, did he? He copped to all of it. He even went so far as to say that he’d brainwashed the woman … what’d you say her name was?”

“Calliope.” The daughter spoke my mother’s name, unsettling the very nature of the world again, burning plague and hell’s worms in my ears again, bile and burden treading in my bloodstream again.

“That’s right. They went real easy on her, if you ask me. Bitch cried on the stand. The jury pitied her, I guess. Gave her twenty-five years, if I remember right. Come to think of it, she’s probably out by now. Don’t that beat all? If she didn’t get herself killed in lady’s prison, that is. Or get any time added to her sentence.”

“I heard she did get out,” I said.

“For your sake, kid, I hope you’re wrong. I hope they did kill her in there. I can’t bring myself to imagine the horrors you must have faced when you were with them.”

He slid a couple keys across the desk.

“I probably told hundreds of folks about the day the Terrors came to Paradise Inn. Mostly they just rolled their eyes when I brought up the boy. I imagine they probably called me a liar when they got to their rooms. But what did I have to gain by lying? Nothing! I doubt anyone ever believed that part of my part of the Texas Terrors’ ghastly story. And hey, I don’t know you from Adam. Maybe you heard about the boy from someone I told. Maybe you’re laughing on the inside right now cuz you think I’m gullible enough to fall for your scam. But you know what? I see people for who they are … on the inside like. It’s sort of a gift of mine, I suppose. Maybe it’s a curse. I don’t quite know. But I see you, kid. I see you exactly as you were back in ’73. You’re still that same scared little boy, and I don’t blame you one bit.

“The rooms are on the house — numbers eight and nine, same adjoining ones you had before. I guess that’s what you’re looking for, right? Some kind of closure?”

That was exactly what I wanted.

“Closure, yeah,” I said. “That would be something.”

CHAPTER

17

“You sure you’re going to be all right in here?” Charlie asked.

He was standing in the connective doorway between our two rooms. His warmhearted question struck me as odd. I wouldn’t have expected such concern from, well, anyone, let alone Charlie McManus. In addition, when you took into account the absurd decadence of the stately quarters, Charlie’s words were all the more out of place. It was difficult to imagine anyone not being OK in a place this spiffy.

Knowing what little attention Simon had paid to the outside of his motel in the past quarter century, the inside was all the more impressive. Without getting bogged down in details, I will say that, from what I remember, back in ’73 the Paradise Inn was one step shy of being an upscale crack den. To my underdeveloped mind, the numerous stains on the shag carpet read as human excretions of some debased form or other. At all hours of the few days and nights we spent hiding out here, regardless of temperature or relative humidity, the then-dilapidated walls sweated lead-based paint. The unnatural melting gave the effect that the room itself was constantly panting and closing in.

One might argue that we had been on the run for so long that I, as a child, allowed my mind to invent such unsatisfactory particulars. Or perhaps now, as an adult returned, I was exaggerating all the sleazy dives we’d frequented and melding them into one execrable conglomerate. I might be inclined to agree with either of these assumptions if only this roadside motel were not the staging ground for what essentially turned out to be my family’s last stand. I’ve never admitted to having a picture-perfect memory, and I suppose perspectives can change over a lifetime, but I do know that rooms eight and nine were a thousand times nicer in 2000 than they were in 1973. Of course, that’s like saying a stubbed toe hurts less than a slit throat.

“It’s not so bad, huh?” Charlie said, lingering.

“It’s immaculate.”

“Well, that might be a stretch, but it’s a lot swankier than I expected.”

“I’ll be fine, Charlie,” I answered his previous question.

“We’ll find her, you know. It won’t be hard. We’ll start in the morning. We can call the women’s penitentiary. We can speak to the warden, or at least his assistant or someone. And we can get the information. But they might not believe you’re blood related. If that’s the case, we can drive out there. We can ride some hot van right into ladies’ prison and show them who you are. I mean, you’re entitled to know your mother, right? They can’t keep the bitch from you. Not if that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want,” I said, almost dreamlike. It was more of a detached echo of Charlie’s words than any declaration of my own desires.

His plan seemed doomed to fail at every turn. Of course they wouldn’t just hand out prisoner information to some stranger over the phone. What’s more, a meet and greet/how-do-you-do with any official at the big house would surely yield requests for identification and endless interrogations about my life. I would be able to produce no papers. I would have no proof. I was a ghost in the machine called America — little orphan Marcus, forever alone.

“If all else fails,” Terence called, poking his head over Charlie’s shoulder, “I’m sure luck will light your way to her.”

The two of them left off to figure out the sleeping arrangements on their side of the mirror image rooms. With one king bed and a fold-out couch, they had plenty of options. Well, two anyway.

I chose a third option: the floor. Maybe before morning I would crawl into the sheets that were soft as a bunyoro rabbit’s fur; for the time being, I was comfortable leaning against the foot of the majestic bed, staring up at the low-hanging, glass-paneled mirror that was attached to the ceiling as if by magic. Whatever purpose that mirror served was a mystery to me. I could only surmise that its intended effect was to welcome overnight guests with a vulgar charm. The aesthetics of the thing was quite unmatched by anything I’d ever come across. But initial awestruck reactions aside, once you took the whole of it in, the mirror very quickly began inspecting you from the bottom up, so to speak.

No, there are no cracks in my ceiling, the mirror pretended to say. There were many, yes, back in the day. Your memory serves you well, Marcus Fox. But that was so long ago. Those grandiose imperfections have been repaired. Unlike the hurt lines on the soles of your feet, the sallow fissures in your cheeks. You’re thirty-something, I gather? That’s not old at all. You carry yourself with not only the weight of the world but also an air of superiority. I’m not at all convinced you deserve either.

“You don’t know me,” I hushed.

I know plenty. I see you sitting there, thinking you are who you think you aren’t. A bit over the top, if you ask me. Why so tired, Marcus? Why so blue? Your life is extraordinary and it’s only just begun. Oh. Maybe that’s what you fear the most? An ordinary life at the end of the erratic rainbow? Or are you hoping to go out in some self-fulfilling, full-circle blaze of glory? That would be best for you, don’t you think? Better to die large than to fade into some misshapen configuration that resembles your own obscurity.

“I am Marcus Fox,” I pleaded.

You were, once. I’ll give you that. Given your current circumstance, I wouldn’t dare name you. Are you William’s son? Or Shumbuto’s? Can it be both? Or neither? Or maybe just Callio —

“Dare breathe her name and I’ll smash you, devil mirror! I’ll slice you up with your own shattered corpse.”

You are talking to an inanimate object, you dumb shit. Can’t you see that only means you are talking to your —

“Myself.”

The girl from the front desk was standing in the open door with an armload of fresh towels. Her legs, which were previously hidden by the counter in the front office, were long and quite pleasant to behold. Here, in open view, I could see just how magnificent they were. The glimpse she’d offered before, when she sauntered out of the back room, was, in retrospect, just a tease. Her short shorts fully exposed exactly how daring she thought she was — or, at the very least, desired to be.

“What are you doing down on the ground, mister?”

“Taking in the view,” I heard someone from inside me, someone even more daring than her, say.

I stood and went to her. Placing one hand not even on the small of her back but in the air that lived immediately behind it, I ushered her to me. Then, in a swift movement neither of us acknowledged, my other hand ushered the door closed behind her. The latch nestled in its hole with a seductive click.

“Oh,” she said. “Is it like that, then?”

“You are quite stunning,” I offered what sounded like an apropos compliment.

Her teeth, now free of gum, chewed on this disputable response. “You’re a fucking liar.”

Never hesitate in battle. This I knew. It was presumptuous, but a good guess, to apply the same logic to intimate merges of the flesh. The space about the small of her back radiated warmth; my palm counted those nervous vibrations emanating off her and pushed back. The towels hit the floor in a crumpled heap, and when I kissed her plush mouth, that tongue of hers went ahead and penetrated my face hole. I fought back, using my own oral salamander to joust and swirl. In the end, neither of us was the victor (though we both slurped a shared way to palatable triumph). She tasted like evergreen trees and the color blue.

We fell to the bed. Rather, I slowed gravity, leading her gently down and through space and time. We bounced once, then settled, and I slid into the softest, sweetest cushion known to man. The mattress had top-notch squoosh as well.

She moaned much, but was careful not to make a show of it. When I allowed her to take command of the lovemaking (to essentially take command of me), I found myself in awe of her natural ability to please. She turned me onto my back with the ravenous grace of a starved raptor flipping a Gila monster in search of meatier flesh. Properly mounted, I took notice of imperfections in her face and breasts. They made her all the more perfect. When my gaze caught the attention of the magic talking ceiling mirror, I suddenly understood its true purpose.

“Oh,” I muttered.

“You like that?” she asked. She was speaking rhetorically, so I kept my “yes” to myself. But as the mirror watched, I watched back. Its sexy reflection undulated unadulterated banality.

Know thyself, it mocked.

I ignored the mirror’s constant stare as best I could and rejoined the blessed moment, until the moment ended.

When it was over, the afterglow wore thin. With no intention of revealing she’d been my premiere human mating encounter, we went outside so she could smoke. As habits go, this was a lowbrow pastime that should have appealed to me, but never did. She offered one of her harsh fire sticks, but I declined, opting to sit next to her on the curb and take in the rough coolness of her secondhand menthol. I got a sick buzz that soon dissipated.

“So that was … something,” she said, grasping for another word but settling on “something.” She was referring, I assumed, to the masterful sex we’d just had with one another. “Something” was as all-encompassing and benign as any other descriptor she could have conjured.

“Your twice-the-size-of-Montana boyfriend would likely disapprove,” I said.

“Oh, him,” she snorted and choked an inhale. “Honesty time, then. I may have made part of him up.”

“Which part?”

“The part where he exists.” She smiled and blew.

The warm night air was tame and hushed between us. Her smoke curled around our heads, escaping out and up, combining with the atmosphere and the future of Earth. The motel girl’s silence spoke volumes. It was clear she was sitting on a subject but didn’t know how to broach it. Rather than force her thoughts in whichever direction they were headed, I got her talking with a simple query that had been on my mind.

“You got a name?” I asked, disregarding proper English for some reason.

“Charity.” She turned her eyes my way and smiled.

“That’s pretty,” I said. “What does it mean?”

“My name? It means I don’t like being called by my real name.”

“You should,” I said, quickly coming to terms with the idea that a person would even want to change their name. “Your given name is who you are. You should be true to it. You should be real.” She wasn’t buying whatever I was selling, so I changed tactics. “What’s your real name, anyway?”

“You’re asking too many questions, mister. What’s your name mean? Say, you didn’t even tell me what it is.”

“Marcus,” I said and then added the “Fox” for good measure. Her eyes lit up and she flicked her cigarette stub halfway across the parking lot.

“You mean … oh my God. You weren’t kidnapped. You were their son! Oh! The levels of fuckery just got more fucked! What happened to you?”

“Zambia, mostly. Also, I got addicted to heroin in New York for a few years. Then spent some time in a psychiatric hospital. That’s about it.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She pouted until she realized it wasn’t adorable. “I’m sorry that, you know, you had to grow up that way, with that shit on your back.”

“Everybody’s got some shit on their back.” I shrugged, not divulging anything profound. “Some just have more than others.”

“Nobody gets out of life alive,” she said, which struck me as a pearl of wisdom that was probably light years beyond her mortal experience. “Jim Morrison said that … or maybe it was Jimi Hendrix. Either way, powerful stuff, right?”

I considered sharing how many times I gnashed against death’s snarl and won. But what purpose would that serve? This would not be a lasting relationship, so why worry her?

“Charity,” I started, but she interrupted with a jaw dropper.

“I think I know where she is, your mother,” she said.

My face was stoic, comprised of the hardness of ages.

“OK, so this was a couple years ago,” she went on. “I’d just started working for Simon.”

“He’s your father. He is a good man. Know that.”

“Yeah. So anyway, Simon — my father — he had a stroke and was in a coma for three months. When I say I had just started working for him, I mean it was literally the same day. He was showing me the logbook when he started repeating one word over and over again: important. ‘This is important important important important,’ he said. And then his right cheek kind of melted down into his dimple and his ‘important’ became ‘poor tent poor tent’ then just one word: portent. And then he collapsed and then we were in an ambulance and he was just dead asleep. I stayed at the hospital with him that night, but when morning came and he was still a zombie, the doctors told me to go home, get some rest, blow some blow. I don’t know what they said, exactly, but that’s what I did. I went home, got some rest, blew some blow. But the motel guests kept arriving and leaving and the rooms needed to be turned over and the maids who came in every Friday needed their checks and all these bills needed to be paid and before I knew it, I was running this place. It wasn’t that hard, just exhaustive busy work. It never ends. I guess in all those years of rebelling and doing my best not to pay any attention, most of the ins and outs of maintaining this place seeped in and stuck.

“I went to see him as much as I could, but like I said, the demands of running Paradise came first. I kept telling myself it was what he would have wanted me to do. So that kept me going. It was his life’s work, you know? I couldn’t just let it fall to shit in his absence. At the same time, though, I should have gone to visit him more. Don’t you think?”

“I would not presume to know,” I said, awaiting her teased reveal with unparalleled patience.

“Well, three months flew by, and I was starting to find some comfort in the daily drudge.” Charity stopped to light another cigarette. She took a deep, dramatic drag and exhaled that dizzying, minty smoke into my air again. “I guess I was getting comfortable with the work because I found myself talking to the guests more. It wasn’t just about the particulars any longer. ‘Nice weather, here’s your key’ grew into idle chitchat about where they were from and what they were doing in my neck of the woods.

“One goddamn day before Si — my father woke up, this petite lady with frazzled hair and a unibrow came to rent a room. She was alone and nervous as a country hamster with a city rat. She was all jittery-like and she kept looking back over her shoulder while she was forking over crumpled tens and fives. She said she just needed to stay the one night and she asked me if the locks on her room door were deadbolts or those slider chain thingies? I told her we had strong security bolts on our doors, and the key shook out of her hand when I gave it to her. I came around the counter and picked it up for her. I was guessing she was running scared from some abusive man. I’ve known girls like that — escaping hell and hidden bruises.

“I walked her outside and tried to calm her down. I said something like, ‘I’m not much for sleep and the local sheriff is a close personal friend of the family. If there’s any trouble, he’ll be here like that.’ I snapped my fingers a bit too forcefully, I guess, cuz she spooked and broke down right there in the parking lot, near her faded beige Corolla.

“I told her, ‘You’re safe from him tonight. You can rest assured on that.’ And she laughed and repeated ‘him’ through her tears. ‘Honey,’ she said, at last lightening her load. ‘I ain’t never been afraid of no man on earth. They’re weak creatures, darlin’. Don’t you ever let one pretend to be otherwise.’ Or some stupid inverted-sexist shit, I dunno. It was what she said next that concerned me. She let me know she’d had a good job working as a short-order cook at some zoo. Said she’d worked there coming up on nine years. But she had to run. Said they had a new employee that just started there a week prior. Said it was an older woman. And she said this older woman was only there as part of some work-release program from jail. ‘Her parole officer is blind to her ways,’ she said. ‘Maybe the whole system is. But let me tell you something, she’s manipulative as the devil himself and dangerous as daggers, right down to her core. But I see her. I know her. And I had to get out before it was too late. Before she got to me. She was one of those Texas Terrors,’ she said. ‘And I’m pretty sure she had it in for me.’ ”

I puffed out bad fumes. I don’t know during which part of her story I’d accepted one of her cigarettes; no more than I know which part I’d figured where her tale was inevitably headed.

“Of course, I knew who she was talking about,” Charity continued. “Dad didn’t have a more favorite subject. But why this woman would go bolting from her life and gainful employment of nearly a decade just because some washed-up, ancient ex-con was standing next to her frying burgers or whatever — that was beyond my comprehension. I wanted … no, I needed to understand more. I helped her into her room and would have pressed for more details, but her legs couldn’t even support her. She was exhausted from terror, I suppose, and the road. So I helped her into bed and turned out the light. She was asleep before I closed the door.

“The next morning, the hospital called to tell me Simon was awake. It caught me by surprise, you know? I suddenly realized that three months had zoomed by amid boatloads of minutia. I rushed to his bedside and (somewhat regrettably) poured my relief onto him. He was glad to see me and, I think, probably even more happy to hear I’d kept the motel afloat.

“It took him a few weeks to fully recover and return to Paradise, and by that time, of course, the woman was long gone. I never did get her whole story. Maybe that’s why I never told him about her. Maybe I felt that half a story was no story at all? Or maybe it was because I think that if he knew, the shock of it would’ve killed him for good. Can you imagine? The unbelievable coincidence of someone staying at his motel the night before he woke from his coma, someone who had direct contact with the once-upon-a-time fugitive he occasionally obsesses over? Jesus Phoebus! Even I’m a little woozy just thinking about it.

“I dunno. Maybe she was meant to come here? What do you think about that, Mister Marcus? Maybe she was a … what do you call it? A …”

“A portent.”

And the wind whispered Charity.

“Oh no you didn’t!” She stood and flailed her long limbs like Pinocchio first coming to life and realizing he’s got two arms and this is how they move. “Oh no no no no no! You did not just blow my mind in two!”’

“I didn’t?” I asked, not sure why she should be the one embodying bewilderment. After all, was it not I who had come so far in search of answers, never quite believing I would find them and not the least bit aware of what I would do if I did? Only to come to a good, solid lead within mere hours of arriving in my birth state? Furthermore, what were the chances this girl ever would have shared so damn much with me had I not spent my manhood in her honeypot?

Charity went on spinning like an ancient Shakasantie Infinity Top. She was convinced that it was all connected, that everything in her life had been building to this. She was saying that we, together, could drive there in the morning. We would go, she proffered, just the two of us, and confront Calliope in the zoo’s eatery.

“Oh shit.” She halted. “What was the name of the zoo? It was so average and forgettable!”

“The Texas State Zoo,” I said. I knew it from various road signs spotted on the way in. “Come Visit The Texas State Zoo,” they read. “Where Wildlife Meets You With A Ferocious ROAR!”

“Of course that’s it!” Charity said, then she read my face. “Oh, you don’t want the company. I get it. It’s something you gotta do on your own. What about your friends?”

“They’ll understand. Can you do me a favor? When morning comes, can you tell them where I’ve gone? Let them get a good night’s sleep. They’ve earned it.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem. What about you, Mister Marcus Fox? Why don’t you spend the night? You’ve waited this long to confront her. What’s one more night?”

“What’s one more night.” I repeated her question as a statement, signifying nothing.

“Well, be sure and come back to tell us how it went. I know Si — my father will want to hear all about it.”

I kissed her on the forehead and thanked her for all her help. She stopped me cold in my tracks.

“You fixin’ on killing her? Your own mother?” she asked. I turned and delivered the truth, as well as I could figure it in the moment.

“I’m no animal,” I said, and left her.

With a final destination boiling in my brain, I crossed the parking lot and headed toward the busy diner up the street by the Super 8 Motel. After witnessing Charlie hotwire close to two dozen vans, I was confident I could do the deed with any one of the vehicles readily available at that roadside greasy spoon. Choosing the biggest and baddest of the bunch, I hesitated before climbing up into the cab of an unlocked eighteen-wheeler.

I owed him much more than this — sneaking off in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. But saying goodbye just wasn’t an option. Charlie would have insisted on coming. Terence, too. If ever there was a time to be selfish, it was now. Sorry, Charlie. This was my story. The very root of it. He would just have to understand. And if he couldn’t, well then, I would be making every effort to see him again soon, after the business, to explain my reasons. I just had to hold out hope that the Banshee’s final prophecy could wait a little longer.

“Stay safe, friends,” I told the air that drifted back toward the motel. An answer I was not expecting came back in the form of approaching footsteps and a gruff, displeased voice.

“You wanna back the fuck away from my rig, Pacho?”

Beneath the glow of the lot’s artificial streetlamp, I saw that the man moving toward me had tree trunks for legs and a solid oak barrel (possibly recently drained of distilled whiskey) for a chest.

“You aren’t Pacho,” he stated the obvious.

“No,” I answered, choosing my next words carefully. “Pacho split.”

“Figures,” the man said. I stepped out of his way and he climbed the three small steps up and into his cab. “Pacho never was one to linger. The asshole.”

He started up the engine and it roared like a motherfucker. He stepped on the gas three times to emphasize some unknown point and then leaned out his open window to drink me in.

“You need a ride or somethin’, boy?” he asked. I couldn’t believe my luck. I might not have to commit grand theft auto this evening, after all.

“Going west?” I inquired.

“Only as far as San Antonio,” he answered. “Where you headed?”

“Texas State Zoo.”

“What the fuck you wanna go there for this time of night?” He laughed. “Eh, just get in, pal. You can sit in for Pacho and tell me your story along the way. Hope you got a good one. Anything to keep me from falling asleep. The zoo ain’t far. About seventy miles, I’d guess. Well, what are you waitin’ for, a goddamn written invitation? Get in and start talkin’! And fuck Pacho, am I right?”

“Yeah,” I said. He was right, all right.

Fuck Pacho.

* * *

When we arrived at the zoo’s front gate, the clock on the dashboard read 3:17 a.m. and my new friend and avid listener, Gary Berhardt, reminded me it was ten minutes fast. I’d earned my fair passage by talking the miles away. Gary was engrossed by my story. He never interrupted while I rallied on, though he did nod, grunt, and gasp in all the right places. I’d only arrived at the Banshee’s first prophecy when we had the zoo in our sights, precisely ninety minutes after we’d left the Paradise Inn and All-You-Can-Eat Barbecue behind us. He pulled slowly up to the side of the road, about 100 yards past the zoo’s front entrance.

“Banshee, huh?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“What came of all her complaining?”

“Maybe a story for another time,” I said, eager to exit gently and respectfully into the good night.

“Why don’t you just tell me now, you cock tease,” he said with a coquettish smile and wink. I sighed and prattled through it.

“Three days after that encounter, my entire tribe was killed by a pack of bloodthirsty lions who were themselves acting at the behest of some bloodthirsty humans, poachers to be exact. They used my family for bait, and it worked.”

“I just have so many questions,” Gary said. “But you look like you’re ready to blaze on outta here, so I’ll pose just one: When’s the book coming out?”

“The what?”

“It’s a book, right? You’re some kind of writer and you made it all up? Look, I’m not saying it’s not fascinating stuff, it is. But if you’re gonna pass it off as a memoir, you should probably leave off some of the screwy bits.”

I hadn’t even brushed the surface of “screwy” with this man. In fact, I’d left a lot out of my retelling and changed a few other things, just so he wouldn’t ask too many questions. For instance, instead of saying what really happened when I was shoved from the airplane, I told Gary that Billy and Calliope abandoned me in the middle of the night while we were camping by the edge of the Zambezi. Same story, basically, with less pizazz.

“It’s not a book,” I stated. “It’s my life.”

“OK then, Marcus Fox, son of the Texas Terrors, whatever you say!” He laughed and slapped the wheel with a happy hand. “Well you oughta write it someday. Hey!” He stopped his jovial manner in remembrance. “You never told me what the hell you’re doing here? You got some long-standing beef with those African lions? If that’s the case, well I know they got some here, but I seriously doubt they’re your Shakasantie blood searchers. Ho-ho!”

“They have lions here?” I said, doubting such a thing could be real.

“Of course! What do you think a zoo is? Lions and tigers and bears, oh Marcus!”

I shrugged it off. I was not here for the lions.

“I told you about my first mother,” I said. “I got a tip that she’s here.”

“Holy hell, you actually believe your own bullshit! You really do think you’re the son of the Texas Terrors? Don’t that beat all? Well I got news for you, sailor. I heard that Foxy lady got the chair years ago. Lone Star justice don’t mess around. I also never heard they had any kids. So why don’t you get on up outta my cab and go get yourself fucked?”

“Like Pacho,” I said.

“Yeah, fuck Pacho,” Gary said. But he said it with a grin. “Hey, you’re all right, Marcus. Whoever you are, I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, for real. Good luck to you, brother.”

He put out his hairy-knuckled hand and I shook it. For an instant, I felt him half-trying to pull me in, or maybe he was just feigning male dominance. He closed his eyes and puckered his mouth, or maybe he just blinked too slow and stifled a yawn. I retracted my hand and exited his eighteen-wheeler of skeptical sexual tension.

“You be good now, Marcus. Don’t go chasin’ waterfalls.”

A low-hanging crescent moon lit the gate. Gary Berhardt blew his horn three times as he pulled away. From behind the wrought iron bars, several hundred dissonant beastly voices answered the trucker’s savage call with their own blare of the wild. The trucker’s shrewd noise had awoken and angered many animals within. The soulful, pre-morning howling began. Among the din, I heard not a lion’s roar.

The gate was at least a giraffe-and-a-half tall and was flanked by sturdy walls of brick and mortar, sixty-five yards in either direction. The easy, arguably sane thing to do would be to camp out nearby and wait for the park to open. I could mingle with the crowds and try sliding in among a big group without purchasing a ticket. But the risk was too high. I didn’t know what kind of security they had during the day, but at night, walking the perimeter, I easily spotted the half dozen video cameras strategically placed around the vicinity. One such camera was perched atop a pole directly behind the rear entrance. There, the gate was a trifling thing and the wall reaching it shrunk down. I studied the eye in the sky, strategically out of range. It swiveled from left to right, clearly on some auto timer. When it turned from my location, following its programmed axis a third time, I knew my window had come. I raced, leapt, clung, then sprung from the top of the wall and landed cleanly on the other side. I ducked and rolled and hid behind a cardboard cutout of a smiling zebra before the camera tottered dumbly back again.

I was in.

The irritated voices died down as I walked among the imprisoned animals’ kingdom. The sole complaint that remained was the shrill hooting of the aptly named screech owl. There were two of them, standing at attention side by side along a moss-dampened branch in their cage. Their raised eyebrows further emphasized their faces’ rigid peaks, giving them the appearance of inquisitive old men (though one was clearly female).

“Who?” the male asked. “Who who?”

“You’re goddamn right,” I said, walking on.

I passed a pair of leopards lounging in vast, manufactured grass. Behind their metal bars, they snoozed on.

The white-nosed coati and ring-tailed lemurs were hidden somewhere within their man-made huts, as were the bobcats, ocelots, spider monkeys, and jaguars. As I passed by their separate-but-equal cells, I began to imagine they were heralding my arrival with respectful disappearances. Perhaps they’d gotten word through the universal animal pipeline that Marcus Fox, the greatest Zambian hunter who ever lived, was prowling their premises. If that was the case, then they didn’t get the memo re my retirement.

Or they might have just been asleep.

The so-called “Lion’s Lair” was, appropriately, the largest of all the “exhibits.” By the white glow of the sliver moon, I read with interest the sign explaining the lady within.

Malaika Mlinzi, a 25-year-old African lioness, arrived at the Philadelphia Zoo in 1978, at the age of 4. Purchased from a Tanzania game reserve, Malaika Mlinzi was transported here in 1985 as a mate for Shujaa, our then ‘male lion in residence’ and pride of the Texas State Zoo. In her lifetime, Malaika Mlinzi has produced 12 cubs, all of which have been distributed to various zoos around the world.

In 1993, Shujaa succumbed to old age, at 19; his passing was complicated by feline panleukopenia (distemper). It was somewhat of a miracle Malaika Mlinzi (whose name means “guardian angel” in Swahili) was not infected by the highly contagious disease. At 25, she is the second-oldest African lion in captivity.

When I came to this country, I was supremely self-involved. Somewhere along the way, I had heard mention of the concepts of zoos, aquariums, animal-based theme parks, and circuses. It is difficult to discern my exact first impressions upon learning that animals were held in captivity for what passes as “family entertainment.” On the one hand, I understood, perhaps better than anyone, the irresistible appeal. To behold a creature of the wild up close is a gift unmatched by anything else in this world. But to do so at the expense of the creature itself — it didn’t seem right. Then I learned how well cared for the animals usually were, and how they tended to live much longer behind bars than they did out in the free air. This, coupled with the amount of love and attention they generally received from their handlers and onlookers, swayed my opinion back to, it’s all right. But was it?

Poor Malaika Mlinzi, who was nowhere to be seen in her cage, had lived her life as a whore and a cub maker, only to have her babes ripped from her protective care when they were old enough to be on their own. Even her name, Guardian Angel, seemed a cruel irony to bestow upon her when she repeatedly experienced the unbearable loss of those she watched over — those she birthed and bathed with her own tongue.

A shiver coursed through my body. What was I doing here? What, in the sacred name of Shumbuto, did I hope to find? What was anything worth in this defective existence? And why was I, a man with no ties to fairer emotions, weeping like a … like a … I can’t even summon an appropriate animal metaphor. Because beasts don’t cry. Some bawl. Others bemoan. But none cry.

Somewhere between withdrawal and electrotherapy, I’d become a shell of my former self. I had become weakness incarnate. At least I was finally owning it.

I hopped the low rail and walked the few yards to sit with my back against the outer, chain-link walls of the lioness’s lonely home. In deep despair, I awaited some psychotic familial reunion, knowing it would never come. I was on a fool’s errand. The likelihood of Calliope still working here was, at the very least, unlikely. I didn’t even know what I would say to her, were I to face the bitch.

For the second time that evening, footsteps approached me. No, that’s inaccurate. What I heard was the deliberate promenade of a woebegone elder cat.

Through the fence, she sniffed my hair, my neck, my torso. I remained still — not from fear, but high esteem. After minutes, years, eons, zerotime, she accepted me; her analysis was complete. I turned to face her through the cage. She was frail but not withered. Sickly but not sick. Definitely nearer to the end of her life than the start, sure, but she still possessed a strength and a wisdom that would never be crippled by time. Her being was written all over her whiskered face. Malaika Mlinzi. She might very well have been my soul mate.

I leaned in, pressed my face against the mesh. She showed me her tongue and then proceeded to lap my weathered countenance.

I had no words for her. Nor she, me. No speech nor roars when I picked the simple lock on the zookeeper’s entrance and let myself into her domain. No grunts nor feeble discourse, not even when I trespassed on the tracks she’d tread. She welcomed my presence and invited me to join her upon a large granite slab, the centerpiece of her home.

The lone stars in the sky all joined to make pretty, twinkling pictures. And we lay there, staring off into the swirling cosmos, side by side on her rock, separated by species and significant life experience. Soon, we nodded off into slumber, one after the other, safe in the mutually guarded comfort of a natural mess of hairy arms and padded paws.

CHAPTER

18

Morning snuck up among thickets of man-planted trees and natural fog. I came alive, awake and fairly glistened by dawn’s new dew. Refreshed in Texas. Who could have predicted it?

A cursory study of my surroundings told me everything I needed to know. I was alone in the lioness’s lair. The light of day revealed a small building that was both inside and out of the great cage. An access door, attached at ground level, led toward the inner structure where (I assumed) Malaika Mlinzi could enter several smaller cells. There, her keepers would likely feed her, bathe her, or otherwise give her care. But the door was currently shut and there was no human activity to be seen. It was still early.

I scanned every centimeter of that place before, at last, I landed upon my most egregious error. In my stupid stupor, I’d carelessly (purposefully?) left the cage door open. The spry, old girl was loose. I enjoyed a brief moment of catharsis, picturing what her well-earned freedom might look like. But those hopeful images were quickly shredded by dread. How far could a feral animal like her make it in the real world? From what little I’d pieced together from TV shows and magazine ads, one should never “mess with Texas.” By every degree, America at large assumed that the majority of law-abiding Texans carried handguns and weren’t afraid to use them. Should one trigger-happy cowboy cross paths with a specimen such as Malaika Mlinzi …”

It took a significant amount of self-restraint to shake from my head the sickening (imagined) sounds of gunfire, the rancid smells of coiling sulfur (unspent), (false) sightings of the lioness’s blood staining the ground, the dirt, the leaves, the endless screams.

She couldn’t have been gone long, I judged. The memory of her fur bristling my face came back to me. Was it but a gentle dream easing my mind before I woke?

I stood atop the monumental slab, harboring every intention of sprinting out to find her when, as if she’d somehow sensed my concern, Malaika Mlinzi returned. She waltzed right through the open door, bearing a gift. The great and able hunter opened her jaw and dropped a very fat, very dead pigeon at my feet. With her nose, she nudged the bird closer, then retreated on her haunches to savor my reaction.

I crouched down to meet her at eye level — to let her know I appreciated the thoughtful gesture. Slowly, I unsheathed Peter Pratchett’s concealed blade from my boot. She feared not its sharp, shining threat, for she knew that edge was not meant for her. Our mutual stare did not falter, not even when I chopped the pigeon’s head clean off. I tossed its blood-soaked body back to Malaika Mlinzi, and the big cat swallowed her breakfast whole.

“Malaika,” I said, confident to be on a first-name basis with her. “Those things are rampant with disease, you know?” I pocketed the decapitated head so as not to appear rude. “I’ve no appetite right now.” And then I told the very first lie of my life (to the best of my recollection). “But I will savor this later.”

Satisfied, she stretched herself on her rock and patiently awaited the crowds that would inevitably be arriving soon.

I kissed the lioness’s head and riffed softly in her ear. “You are the tender beast who bridges time and space. You are my kingdom come. Incarnate.” My words, comprising some implausible muse’s wishes, weakened Malaika to the point of drowsiness. Lazy, old girl.

On my way out, I secured the latch and the lock. I checked it twice, then a third and even a fourth time to make doubly doubly sure.

With my mind no longer tethered by the previous hours’ surprising kinship, I set my sights on the nuanced art of disguise. Upon entering a section marked “Employees Only,” I came to discover a workman’s toolshed at the back end of a muddy lot, near a petting zoo.

A zoo inside a zoo, I thought. The marvels of modern man never cease. Could there also be animals inside animals? The answer to that riddle, of course, was yes. But only if the animal was with child.

Inside the shed, I located the few items I would need to pass myself off as your average, clock-punching Joe. I snatched a pair of overalls that were hanging from a hook and stepped in. I doubted the tag that read “one size fits all” but soon discovered the farming jumpsuit matched my body to perfection. Still, purely for argument’s sake, I didn’t see how it could possibly also cover someone as big as my dear departed Shumbuto.

I loaded up a wheelbarrow with shovel, rake, and pitchfork and then headed into the shit-covered grounds. Goat pellets and cow pies were everywhere, lightly covered in places by random strands of loose hay. A deep, smelly bucket lying in the dirt seemed appropriate for the task; I scooped poop into it, up to the brim. Next, I brought the animal excrement to a large hole behind the rear fence. A wooden sign claimed the spot as a “compost deposit area.” I chucked the dung into the pit and went back to get more. By the fourth trip, other overall-wearing men and women were filing in. For the most part, they minded their own business, though one woman came over to me with a questioning gaze.

“You new here?” she asked.

“That’s right.” My phony demeanor completed my foolproof disguise. “Thought I’d get an early start on doo-doo detail, just to, you know, make a good impression.”

“Well, I can certainly appreciate that! I’m Darla.” She removed a glove and extended her hand.

“Hi Darla, I’m Pacho,” I said, unnecessarily masking my real name. “Guess I need a pair of work gloves too.”

“You’ll have to see Johnny about that. He runs pretty much everything here. He didn’t tell you about the gloves in orientation? Huh. That’s peculiar.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, covering a forgivable misstep; though another might give me away. “I forgot. I guess I’d forget my head if it weren’t stitched on.” Was that funny? Darla gave my pedestrian quip a half-drawn smile.

“Well, as I’m sure he told you, Johnny makes you sign out the gloves every dang day. The tools and the overalls you can just take. No one gets what his deal is with the gloves. And don’t question him on it, either. He has this weird hang-up about them. If you press him, he gets all serious and then makes your life hell. Gloves are like, his thing. I dunno.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. Eager to change the subject, I took my friendly man-of-the-poo act to greater heights. “Say, Darla. You wouldn’t happen to know what time the grub shack opens, would ya? I was so ready to start my first day that I plumb forgot to eat breakfast.”

The prospect of breakfast reminded me of the sorrowful pigeon head. Without a second thought (or first for that matter), I’d transferred it to the front pocket of my overalls when I slid them on. It was ridiculous. I should have tossed it then and there. But I just wasn’t ready to disregard the gift from my magnificent new friend.

“Well, sure thing, Pacho,” Darla said. How would she react if she knew what I was carrying? “The zoo opens at nine sharp, but the food court doesn’t start serving till ten. To the public, that is. They should be there now, setting up. Just mention you’re the new guy in custodial, and they’ll whip you up an egg and cheese bagel or something simple. You want me to go with you? Introduce you to folks? Things are pretty lax around here, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Oh yeah, I’d noticed, all right.

“You don’t have to go to any trouble. I’ll find my way. Thanks. I’ll be back in two shakes of a …” What was the fucking phrase? “ … llama’s cock.”

Darla burst out laughing.

“Oh man! That’s a pisser!” she proclaimed. “You’re gonna fit in just fine with all us wackadoodle dunderheads!”

“OK then!” I said, trying, and failing, to match her level of enthusiasm. I put down my shit shovel and left the zoo within the zoo.

Along the path, I passed half a dozen peacocks strutting their stuff freely, appearing as if they had no particular place to go. They hadn’t the slightest clue how fortunate they’d been to have survived the brief lioness hunt.

A flock of pigeons took to the skies. They were one brother shy of a family.

A red fox nodded knowingly my way when I sauntered by his coop. I acknowledged him with an understated wave. He went back to his very important business of licking his coat clean.

Just beyond the bald eagle’s enclosure, the walkway came to a roundabout. A long, strong brick wall grounded the foundation for a granite monolith that jutted up from its center. At its peak, a conspicuous clock’s face mocked all who gazed upon it. Two large, black hands pointed at what would easily be perceived as 9:15 upon any other timepiece; but here, every five-minute increment read “nigh.” It seemed such a peculiar thing to be displayed in a zoo. But then again, with this being my first visit to such an institution, perhaps it was commonplace. Notwithstanding, the time was nigh.

To the other side of the world’s most threatening clock lay my destination. A dozen scattered and umbrellaed picnic tables stood as the final sentries between me and my destiny. As food service employees moved to and fro, opening carts, firing up grills, sweeping the front walks, or, as was the case of three women, just milling about, I wasted zerotime in my approach.

“Hi there,” I said, sticking to my genial, exuberant, Pacho demeanor. Could one of these women be Calliope? Two of them looked like they could be the right age, lazing about in front of a closed hot dog emporium. “What are today’s specials?”

They regarded me as if I’d just asked where a fella could get a pigeon pot pie. Yes, the godforsaken thing was starting to peck my thoughts. Inside my overalls, the dead head shifted, and its dagger-like beak jabbed me in the side.

“We don’t have specials,” sputtered the most likely suspect of the three. She was gruff and tough and the spitting image of what I imagined Calliope to be. I resisted my baser instinct to murder her where she casually leaned.

“You new here?” she asked.

I went through the whole ruse again.

“Pacho, eh?” the probable Calliope continued. “Funny, you don’t look Mexican.”

“Jesus, Susan,” the younger of the three said and then turned to address me. “I’m Frankie. Don’t mind her. She’s awful. And racist.”

“How can it be racist if he’s not Mexican?” the former Calliope-candidate-turned-Susan asked. “You aren’t, right? A beaner, I mean? We got plenty of ’em on the job round here is all I’m saying. And you don’t look like ’em, not from what I seen. That’s all I’m saying.”

“So what if he was Mexican?” the remaining possible Calliope offered.

“I might be. I don’t know.” I embraced this untruth, just to end the madness. “My parents gave me up when I was very young. So your guess is as good as mine, I suppose.”

“Don’t Pacho mean pussy in Spanish?”

“Jesus, Susan!” blurted Frankie, this time in a mortified tone.

“No,” said the last holdout for Calliope. “I think it means free.”

“I like to think you’re right about that,” I said, searching the lines of her face for any long-lasting familial familiarity. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Bettina. But everyone calls me Betty.”

Strike three.

“Well, now we’re all acquainted like birds and fucken bees,” Susan said. “So welcome to the animal house, Pacho. Hope you like shovelin’ shit. Smells like you already got a taste of it.” She glanced at her watch.

“We gotta get going. Nice to meet you, Pacho,” smiling Betty said.

“The time is nigh!” Frankie cooed, and the other girls moaned.

“Hey, what’s up with that clock, anyway?”

“Nobody knows,” Betty said. “And Frankie’s the only one of us who still laughs at it. See you later, Pacho.”

“Actually.” I held them up. “I’m wondering if you might be able to help me find someone.” This stopped the ladies in their tracks.

“Go on,” Susan prompted.

Having dug myself in, I chose to backtrack slightly. Lying with a cause.

“I heard an older woman named Calliope was working here. Any of you know her?”

“Why?” Susan demanded. “The bitch owe you money?”

She knows her! I thought.

“No, no, no, nothing like that. It’s just … I know who she is. You know?”

They knew. They all knew.

“My own, own m-mother,” I stumbled and stuttered and, having nearly lost the thread, had to backtrack again. “My adopted mother, I mean. She was kind of a nut for the Texas Terrors. She used to write Calliope Fox letters, back when she was in prison. Lots of letters.”

The bullshit was flowing freely and landing with ease. These women may have known Calliope in the present, certainly knew of her nefarious dealings in the past, but had nothing when it came to the intimate details of her release. Of course, neither did this pretend Pacho I was portraying. Nor I.

“My adopted mother died before Calliope got out. I lost track of her … Calliope, I mean.” The lies were coming so easy now. I was a natural. “She was released and that was all I knew. Until today. I met this nice woman over in the petting zoo. She told me you’ve got a famous felon over here in the food court. ‘Calliope Fox,’ she says. Can you even believe it? What are the chances? So anyway, I just wanted to come see if she was around so I might introduce myself. I guess she’s reformed, right?”

“Let me stop you right there, Pacho,” Susan said. “First of all, that crazy bitch don’t work here anymore. Sorry. You’re shit out of luck. If that’s how you want to look at it. Personally, I think you lucked out. Her last day in the food court was just … two … days … ago.”

Did Susan really draw that last part out? I believe she did. Or maybe my brain was just terribly slow to process the information. She continued.

“We don’t have any fucking idea where she went. Tuesday, she came to work, same as always. Her and Johnny were making sickening googly eyes at each other, same as always. And she was spouting her fucking lies and telling her fucking stories. Same as always.”

“What kind of stories?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know, man. With her, it was impossible to tell what was truth and what was fiction. It was all scary shit, though.”

“When she first started working here, she wasn’t so bad,” Betty said.

“Then she started workin’,” Susan continued. “Workin’ us, if you catch my meaning.”

I didn’t.

“Bitch just had a way about her,” explained Susan. “It wasn’t even what she said or what she did or how she acted or moved her body. It was everything. I can’t explain it.”

“Why’d she leave? She get fired?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Susan said. “Johnny’s been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. We’re pretty sure he was fucking her. Dumb bastard. All I can say is good riddance to bad rubbish! That woman is poison. She should’ve stayed locked up forever. Then maybe poor Vanessa wouldn’t have hung herself.”

“What?”

“That’s right. Vanessa Lannigan. She worked here for like ten fucking years or some shit. Everybody liked her. She pretty much ran the food court. Then one day, Johnny introduces this Calliope character. He says she’s part of some work-release program and he has to tell us that cuz it’s the law or some shit. That ex-con comes in here and is sweet as candy to everyone for a long time, just like Betty said. But then, Vanessa, she starts missing shifts here and there. It’s not like her at all. And she’s coming to work late, and we start to notice her eye is twitching. Next thing you know, she’s gone. Poof. Vanishing Vanessa. She turned up a week later in some fucking field in Nebraska, swinging from an oak tree. Naked as the day she was born.”

Bettina shook her head. It was obvious that this was one of the worst things that had ever happened to her. And it hadn’t even happened to her.

“You think Calliope had something to do with it?”

“We know she did,” Frankie said. “She picked Vanessa out early and started whispering in her ear. No one ever knew what the two of them saw in each other, and we mostly kept away. I, for one, was afraid of her. Calliope, I mean. Not Vanessa. She was so sweet — I’m sorry.” She turned and rushed into the hot dog hut. Betty followed her in.

“Way to make friends, Pacho,” Susan said. “Anyway, the bitch is gone, like I said. Two fucking days ago. Count your lucky stars you didn’t have to meet her.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting on the bench outside Malaika Mlinzi’s lair. And once again, she was MIA. Her cage door was wide open.

I retraced my steps. I’d never been surer of a thing than this: I secured her enclosure. The heavy iron bar went down and my hand, steady and sure, fastened the steadfast lock to itself, around the latch. The cage had been sealed shut. The beautiful beast was secure when I left. This I know to be true.

But the truth in front of me told a different story. And now the lioness was loose again. This time, I welcomed her freedom — wherever it may take her.

“Godspeed,” I whispered to the morning air.

The bench moaned as a woman in a cheap, loose-fitting security guard’s uniform sat by my side. I didn’t bother to meet her face, but I noted her steady hand when she passed a shiny, silver flask my way.

“You look worse than I feel,” she said. “Go ahead, have yourself a nip.”

I want to be crystal clear about this. Alcohol was never my problem. Some say it is a gateway drug, but for me, my gateway drug was drugs. Booze never stained me. All said, I hadn’t had a drink since Charlie cleaned me out. It would be rude to the gods if I didn’t accept their gift of ambrosia at this most appropriate of times.

The liquor bit hard, but my gullet had the last laugh and forced it down. The warmness filled me almost immediately, and my head, though caught off guard, approved.

“Go ahead, have another,” she said. Who was I to argue? Mouth met drink again, and I began to relax. “It’s 125 proof, if you can believe that. A tank that big is illegal here in the states. But I know a guy.”

I handed the flask back to her.

“You take it on the chin, you do. A cohort of my own ilk. But you know, I wouldn’t be worth my salt if I didn’t ask myself: Why would a tough sort like you be sharing a stranger’s elixir in a family-friendly place such as this? And before the park opens, no less? Hmm?”

The more she spoke, the more the sounds she made tasted like melting iron. It could have been the whiskey affecting me, but I was certain my senses weren’t working as well as they should. My ears had shut down, and it was my mouth that was taking over the task of hearing her voice — a voice that spat like rattlesnake venom and filled in the cracks between my teeth. There, it settled into the flesh of my gums and resonated, becoming a part of me.

“Opening the gates,” a man’s voice sounded from a walkie-talkie at her waist. “I got a hot one up front. Red van. Been blowing his horn for the better part of the last hour.”

“Send ’em in,” came the answer from some other disembodied voice over the squawk box. “Tell him he’s on our list and if he causes any trouble we’ll eighty-six him faster than —”

My drinking buddy turned a small knob and cut the conversation short.

“I’m off the clock now,” she said. “But let me tell you something, friend. In my wildest fantasies, I never would’ve dreamed up a more fascinating first night on the job. I still can’t believe I talked that dumb prick Johnny into promoting me. What with my lack of education, extensive criminal record, and … well, Johnny’s failure to judge a person’s character is beside the point.

“I’ve been watching you, you see? All night long. I saw you hop the back wall and duck camera forty-four. Guess what, jackass? Forty-four is a decoy! Camera forty-five is hidden in the bushes and it captures everything! Right over there. Yeah. That’s right. We got eyes all over this motherfucker. I watched you, you tricky monkey, and I saw what you did. Look. There.”

She pointed upward, to a cluster of trees just right of the lioness’s den. Sure enough, there was a tiny lens seeing all from the crook of a branch.

“Sneaky peaky lemon squeaky, right? I don’t like to brag, but that one was my suggestion and holy shit did it pay off! And on my first night as watchman! Watchperson. Whatever. We’re still working out the particulars.”

I’d heard enough. I made a move to stand.

“Hey,” she said, and I felt a poking that was not a decapitated bird’s beak in my side. “Not so fast there, bucko. You see this here? This is no decoy, boy. Speaking of number forty-four, this here is a .44 Magnum. You feel it? A dirty cop once called this the most powerful handgun in the world. Well maybe it ain’t just that anymore, but I can tell you from experience that it will carve a hole in your gut so big that your blown-apart body will become a greater tourist attraction than the Grand Canyon, you dig?”

I nodded, despite my doubts anyone would pay to see that sort of thing.

My head was woozy from the drink. Two gulps were all I’d indulged, but it was enough to sour my game. Even though I was not myself, I did still have the clarity to see the situation for what it was. My exhaustion and pitifully low tolerance commingled with my utter disappointment at falling flat in the estranged mother department. It was the ideal recipe for an incapacitated hero, and I saw no salvation forthcoming to make a win of the day. Or the life.

“Now,” she droned on in her self-important manner. “You may be asking yourself, ‘If she was watching me all night, then why didn’t she intervene? Isn’t that her job?’ Well yeah, technically the night watchman — FUCK! — night guard. Yeah that could work. Technically, a person in my position is tasked with catching prowlers, criminals, thieves, vandals, and scumbags. Well, I got a secret for ya, boy-o.” She leaned closer and whispered in my ear. “Ain’t no one worse’n me.”

I yawned. It was a move that was both necessary and purposeful, intended to piss her off. I figured that, in my wretched condition, the only way to escape this gun-wielding, power-hungry psycho was to agitate her enough to throw her off her game. That might at least even the score.

“Save it,” she said, unimpressed by my sardonic gesture. “You aren’t tired. Men like you don’t get tired. Men like you go on. And on and on and on. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen better men than you go on forever.” She considered her last statement a beat too long, then switched gears out of the moment.

“So look, I did you a favor, right? I watched you, but I didn’t act. You know I could get fired for that, right? I mean, it’s like, my one job. But hey, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, right? What I want to know is, how’d you tame the lioness? Are you some sort of, whaddya call it, animal hypnotist? I saw one on a program once. I didn’t understand the point of it then and I sure as tits don’t get it now.”

My attention remained on Malaika Mlinzi’s empty cage. The night guard was so abysmal at her new job, so oblivious, that she hadn’t even noticed the door was open.

“What is with you and that lion? Were you two lovers in a former life or something? Hey, here’s an interesting tidbit to scratch your noodle: Did you know that the lady lion is, more often than not, the prime hunter of the pack? It’s a fact, motherfucker. The lazy male sits around with the kids while the female goes out and brings home the bacon. You believe that shit? No, you don’t seem to be the kind who believes much, do you? What is your endgame here, boy?”

I turned toward her, pushing the barrel of the gun further into my stomach.

“I’m no one’s boy,” I spoke softly. “I’m just your average animal enthusiast.”

“Well ain’t you just the biggest disappointment I ever seen?”

“That hand cannon of yours wasn’t issued to you by the zoo.”

“You think I could legally get a gun? Johnny wouldn’t even give me pepper spray.”

“Go ahead and take your best shot. See where it lands you.”

“I ain’t afraid of jail if that’s what you’re barking about. Jail’s afraid of me.”

“You want to kill me? Go ahead and take your best shot. You can’t kill me. Nothing kills me.”

“Well that’s better! You’ve got some spunk in you, after all! Boy your mama must be proud.”

“Shoot me if you have to, you crazy bitch. I’m sure I got it coming.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Do it and be done, then. I’m going to stand up and walk away now.”

My actions met my words and my legs found some strength. The world spun mysteriously.

“You don’t look so hot.”

She pocketed her gun and rose to meet me. I think we were both a little surprised to discover that we were the same height. In her eyes, I saw the reflection of my own. As I was mindlessly searching for stars in her pupils, her right palm came up out of nowhere and slapped me hard across the face. My body would have gone all the way to the dirt had it not been for her left hook — it came immediately up to meet my other cheekbone. The funny thing about it was that the palm hurt just as much as the fist.

“Easy there, tiger,” she said while I wobbled like a punch-drunk baboon.

I found my footing and realized three truths: (1) The night guard had spiked the whiskey; 125 proof be damned, no whiskey on earth could fly me that high, (2) I was experiencing the world in slow motion, thanks to truth one, and (3) I did not understand the special breed of fuckery that was going down. Was it a scuffle? A death match? Either way, Pratch’s blade would solve the tricky riddle. Together, we would escalate the scrap or meet our foe in proper war. I reached down.

“Yoo-hoo,” she whistled. “Looking for this?”

In her hand she brandished the blade of Peter Pratchett, whose friends call him Pratch. She looked left. She looked right. But as fate would have it, she never looked back.

“What’s it gonna be?” she asked, advancing. “And don’t think I won’t kill you. I’ve already started the job, as I’m sure you can feel. Finishing you off will be child’s play.”

She was smart — for a geriatric asshole — she’d studied her enemy well. Her vulpine features never strayed from mine.

Despite the drug cocktail coursing through my veins, I was not about to shuffle off this mortal coil without a proper bloodbath.

“The time is nigh …”

“… nigh time!”

The night guard advanced just as dual flashes of unparalleled beauty raced to my rescue. Appearing at equidistant, opposite sides of my adversary, my authentic soldiers converged on the battleground. One was dark, one golden. Each entirely unaware of the other. Both held but one concern: to save me.

A determined breeze lifted loose leaves and scattered them about the path. It blew south to northeast, from Terence to Malaika. The old girl’s nostrils flared and she pivoted on a dime, turning absolutely rabid for the boy. Just as Kuwajii before him, Terence had the blood of Shakasantie flowing through him. It was as much an impossible thing as it was real. Terence proved himself to be my brother, my son. His scent unhinged some vital section of the lioness’s brain. There was no other rational explanation for Malaika’s madness. Terence was Kuwajii.

The unemployed actor blazed toward us with tremendous speed, but of course, Malaika was faster. Her legs unleashed the strength and muscle of a hundred generations. Terence, wide-eyed, saw her coming for him, but it was too late. Malaika was driven by white-hot bloodlust. Nothing could settle the beast’s raw desire to kill. I’d seen this calamity play out before. And before. And before. And before.

The big cat leapt, and the night guard dropped to the ground. I shook the poison from my head and got my lazy bones moving. But I would never make it in time. Malaika was airborne.

Terence’s face was owned by his lack of a future. He wore his fear like a death mask. Between beast and man, the anguished wind submitted to the intimate notes of my lamenting Banshee.

“MALAIKA!” I nearly popped a lung. “HEEL!”

The lioness crash-landed, crushing Terence under her weight. Foaming at the mouth, wild in the eyes, lost in her brain, she consciously willed herself against the primal urge to rip his throat out. God love her, she obeyed me. She heeded my word and exorcised the madness.

The beast within the beast lay at bay. My Banshee receded into sky. The loving lioness I knew the night before was returned. She nuzzled her new friend’s face, and Terence’s ultimate terror began to cool.

The night guard stood and raised her gun. She pointed it at the two harmless souls who’d just found each other’s embrace.

“KUWAJII! NOOOOOO!”

Malaika spread her entire body over the boy, essentially covering every inch of his ghostlike features. Her purely selfless act was likely unnecessary, as the night guard was apparently aiming at what she perceived to be a very dangerous, very feral animal. Not Terence.

In the wink of a Mascaran mosquito’s eye, I drew my only remaining weapon from inside my overalls. I held it in my hand no longer than a quadraspec of a millisecond before letting it loose in its final flight.

The gun fired. The .44 caliber bullet’s line was true. It would have decimated Malaika Mlinzi’s heart had it not first met the hard shell of early-onset avian rigor mortis. The pigeon head burst into a modest sprinkling of unimpressive blood and itty-bitty birdbrains. The bullet ricocheted and wedged itself harmlessly into a nearby tree.

I was there now, standing over them, ready to hurl myself before a fresh hail of bullets to save them both. But it would not come to that.

The night guard swayed, unsteady. The revolver fell from her hand. The rogue pigeon’s beak jutted from a red puss hole that used to be her left eye. Whatever vision remained she used to focus on the stench of her past misdeeds.

“Stool pigeons! Spotters and rats!” she cried, then sniffed some rotten stench on the plain between our world and the next.

“What is that awful smell?” she said, stumbling. “Pee-yew.”

Still clinging to Peter Pratchett’s blade, the night guard made no effort to protect herself from it as she fell forward in quite an unceremonious fashion. The hunter’s knife sliced through her in all the right places.

We all make our choices, don’t we? And some are blessed to fashion their own deaths. I surmise that this one — this failed monster of a woman — had worn out her life long ago. She most likely would not have succumbed to her beak-in-eye wound had she not defied all logic and essentially offed herself. Indeed, the night guard met her gruesome end, I would argue, most willingly.

People from all sides were running toward us. I feared only for Malaika. If she were caught out of her cage, what cruel fate would befall her? Carefully, Terence slid out from beneath her; the great beast allowed it. I helped him to his feet and gave the boy an unrestrained hug.

“Where’s Charlie?” I asked.

Just then, a smoky red van with brown-and-white-streaked highlights came barreling toward us. The rushing mob parted as it tore through.

“How’s my timing, boys?” Charlie called from his open window. He screeched to a stop, allowing Terence to jack open the side door and hop in. The security guards, police, fire marshals, ATF agents, FBI, CIA, and zookeepers’ union were nearly on us. Some were drawing their weapons. Yet I hesitated.

“You go,” I said. “I have to protect Malaika.”

“You left me twice … no, wait.” He counted in his head, working out a number that conveniently did not address the times he abandoned me. “Three times, you dick! Bring the kitty if you have to. As long as she’s had her shots.”

Not bothering to disguise my satisfaction, I allowed Terence to help me up and into the van.

“Malaika, come!” I said. The lioness obeyed and jumped. Once her tail was clear of the door, Terence slammed it shut.

Having fully regained my composure, sobriety, and self, I went to sit at Charlie’s side. Immediately, I felt the van’s full power rumbling in my core.

“Marcus,” Terence said as Charlie barreled us toward the rear exit. Harmless bullets made insecure dents in the back doors. “Who was that crazy bitch?”

“No one,” I answered truthfully. “She was no one.”

We zoomed off zoo property and struck the smooth, open road.

“I take it you found what you were looking for,” Charlie said. And somewhere deep inside me, I confessed my sins and made peace with all my beasts and demons.

From the back of the van, Terence hummed a melody that was both upbeat and melancholic at once. The lioness poked her head forward, into the cab. Keeping one hand steady on the dash, I reached down with my free paw and roughly ruffled her smooth head. She purred along to Terence’s song, heedless of the jerks and jolts the road proffered.

The righteous hymn moved Charlie to bark his own off-key baritone contribution. Their shaky, unconfident notes soon snapped to a surefire chorus.

The lyrics reminded me of Shakasantie Village during rainy season. On the wettest of days, I would frolic in puddles and mud pools with the other naked children, dancing dangerously close to the raging Zambezi. The smell of salvation, as yet unclaimed and embryonic, would waft my way through the raindrops.

The distant memory faded and changed, as memories often do, and I was pulled back to our renegade present. The sun would take her final bow much later in the day, making infinite space for the swirling, untamed cosmos to begin its own strange, nightly dance. But for now, she shone with dominant wonder, lighting and blinding our clear path to freedom.

We four misfits, traders to a realistic world, reveled in our mad odyssey toward unborn stars. I rolled down the window and sopped up free blasts of air. When that heart-pounding chorus came around a third time, I roared along with my friends.

It was a glorious, malformed harmony.

EPILOGUE

You don’t believe me. Which part? Don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. Every word I’ve spoken is true, to the best of my recollection.

You are a patient listener, I’ll give you that. Despite your doubting look, beyond your beak, it’s clear you fear me — an astute reaction, my fine-feathered friend. You needn’t, though. My killing days are over. A fish a day and I’ll be content. Honestly, I don’t even have any interest in the Thresher sharks circling the island. From this distance, they seem about as harmless as … well, as you, I suppose. Unless you’re hiding some inner beast as well? Are the infamous red-footed boobies of Danger Island withholding untold secrets of untapped wrath and carnage?

“SQWAAAK!”

Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought.

I am parched, my friend. I’ve been talking for the better part of the day. My only hope is that I can be forgiven my sins. But by whom? By you? By Shumbuto’s ghost?

Oh, sweet Shumbuto. You claimed I was the chosen one of the Shakasantie. You said I would bring you all back one day. “After we are long gone,” you said, “we will live again. Through my son. Through you, Marcus.”

Well what of it, then? Now I’ve lived my story and retold it, and still, the Shakasantie are no more. Truth doesn’t set you free. It only turns you to dust.

“SQWAAK?”

You know, booby, your name suggests you’d be a lot less bright than you are. You might consider changing it. How about … Norman? It’s as good a name as any, I suppose. Doesn’t have to mean anything.

Then again, I imagine there’s always been some selfish part of me that wanted the world to know my own worthless name, my harrowing story.

Can you fly, Norman? Can you fly far from here and spread the word that Marcus Fox, only son of William and Calliope Fox, existed and drew breath? That the so-called Texas Terrors did have a baby boy and that baby boy did grow out of shit and tragedy to become … to become … whatever I became.

I am so tired, Norman. How did I get here? Did I tell you that part? I don’t remember.

There was the night guard. And then the police chase. And sweet Malaika Mlinzi. She lived well beyond her years. Yes, she did. We had great adventures, she and I and Charlie. Terence returned to the City. I told you that, right? The boy went on to seek out his own life, free of all my mad makings and trappings.

I don’t believe much, Norman, but I do believe this: In some parallel universe, Terence and I know each other much better. In some unknown existence, the two of us are one and the same, and there, there is no suffering.

“Sqwaak.”

I’m allowed a bit of melodrama, am I not?

“Sqwaak!”

What are you squawking about, Norman? Are you trying to tell me your truth?

“Sqwaak sqwaak Shaka sqwaak Santie!”

Oh. I see.

These images are but a figment of your imagination, Norman. I wish these ghosts approaching us from unsteady waters were as real as you and me. But the sad truth is, they are but remnants of my long gone past. The Shakasantie live no more.

See? See there, Norman? Young Ruply-dee has vanished beneath the surface. And there goes the rest of the tribe. They follow him under. It is but a mirage, Norman. It is as much a mirage as life itself.

Marcus.

No. No, Norman. I won’t.

Marcus.

I mustn’t.

Marcus.

Maybe I never was Marcus Fox. Not really.

Turn to face me, Marcus. Turn and face your father.

You are a fiction. Untrue, Shumbuto. I cannot.

Your name, Marcus. You know what it means now.

Out of fiction bursts truth.

Out of fiction, truth bursts, Marcus.

I don’t want it. I don’t want my name.

No! A man’s name is who he is! Wear it well! It is who you are, Marcus!

I must rest. The night is high and the memories are too painful to bear any longer.

I am here, my son. Shandra-Namba too.

Watch over me, Norman.

And Kuwajii.

In the morning, I will build a home.

Shakasannnntie.

Tomorrow, we shall start anew. Just you and me, Norman. We will live ordinary, peaceful lives.

I suppose anything is possible.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As authors more eloquent than I have admitted on countless occasions, the act of writing a novel is as much a massive undertaking as it is a labor of love. Though the physical act of putting words to screen is chiefly a lonesome, solitary endeavor, the final product never comes to fruition without the selfless assistance of others.

I Am Marcus Fox began as a far-fetched concept. Nearly a decade and a half ago, I floated the beginnings of a character outline by close friends. Richard Gore, a once-upon-a-time colleague and like-minded companion, was my protagonist’s biggest cheerleader during early developmental stages. Thank you Rich, for pushing me to explore Marcus’s implausible traits, for championing his egocentric nature, and for partially inspiring (and occasionally embodying) Charlie McManus.

“Clear!”

After taking multiple multi-year hiatuses, I would not have found the impetus to finish Marcus’s tale without the aid of my lifelong friend, Evo Rondini. Growing up together, Evo and I challenged each other’s creativity with our shared off-beat humor and adventures in amateur filmmaking. Before there was ever an Internet or a YouTube, some of the first stories I ever wrote were for Me & Him productions. Those home movies from our teenage years, ridiculous as they were, hold a huge piece of my heart. Today, Evo and I continue to push, inspire, and challenge each other’s writing. For reading my many drafts and putting up with my incessant concerns, Shaka, I am eternally grateful.

To Fred Weston, Lisa Wright, Sandhya Nankani, and Kit: thank you for being my beta readers. Your comments and opinions gave me the confidence and strength to kill some of my darlings and develop and grow others.

And while I’m on the subject of confidence and strength, thank you to Diane Nell for putting certain fears to rest. I am grateful for you and my other Marist professors (Tad, Don, and Rose) who nurtured in me a positive writing attitude many moons ago.

A big XO and a plethora of other Scrabble tiles to Grammar Goddess Christine Ma. Thanks, Christine, for helping me navigate the underground world of copy editors to find Augustin Kendall.

To Augustin, thanks for doing a bang-up job with my unnecessary ellipses, rogue commas, and general grammar faux pas. How do you pluralize “faux pas?” I’m pretty sure it’s just “faux pas.” Is that right, Augustin? Regardless, I could never do what copy editors do. It takes a special breed to spend his or her days cleaning up the nitty-gritty slop soup of an author’s klutzy words. I commend you and thank you for your work in the trenches.

To Bobby Treat, thank you for helping me format this into a readable tome!

Thanks also to Ben Hale for making my face presentable and professional in my author photo. You deserve kudos and ice cream donuts galore for airbrushing out my many hideous pockmarks, warts, horns, and third eye.

Hey Megan! I am in love with your cover, Megan!

My cover design, by Megan Dorazio, exceeded my expectations by leaps and bounds. In this strange and wonderful new age of self-publishing and digital media, the phrase, “Don’t judge a book by its cover” no longer holds the weight it once did. Where did that phrase even come from, anyway? Everyone judges a book by its cover! That’s the first thing a reader sees! For that, I suppose I’m lucky. Because the cover design Megan created should surely attract eager, curious readers in search of a wild ride. For sharing your generous talent, Megan, I thank you.

To SunCore: Mwah! I kiss you!

I have dedicated this book to the Shakasantie, a fictional people by all accounts. I’ve done so because, imaginary though they may be, Shumbuto, Shandra-Namba, and their clan represent what I view as an inspirational, close-knit familial community. In a big way, I strive daily to count the many blessings bestowed upon me and my own family. I give thanks that the lions (either real or imagined) have yet to seek us out.

So, thanks to Mom and Dad for instilling in me a prime example of what a family can be. Thanks to Emily, Corey, and Bobby for being the only siblings I ever had. I do miss you guys and wish we could spend more time together.

To my captivating wife, Holli, I count and acknowledge all the ways you allow me to pursue my curious ambitions: one hundred forty-five thousand, six hundred thirty-two! Ah, ah, ah! For being my partner, my best friend, and for giving me the greatest gifts known to man, I am forever blessed. (FYI, I’m referring to our beautiful offspring. But you knew that. KIM.)

Last, though I do intend on writing many more novels for readers of all ages, we all know the cliché, brutal saying about the nefarious roads that are paved with good intentions. Should I never publish another word, I would like to thank everyone and anyone who has ever contributed to my love and appreciation of a well-crafted yarn. You all are part of my swirling cosmos.

Quoth the Shaka, “Evermore.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bryon Cahill is a self-proclaimed author for all ages. A stay-at-home dad by day and night, he writes by proverbial candlelight in the wee, strange hours of pre-morning. I Am Marcus Fox is his debut novel for adult readers.

In the not-so-distant past, Bryon was an award-winning writer and editor of literary publications for middle and high school students. His stories, influenced by weird and whimsical classics such as Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, do often steer off-course, alighting upon the fantastical.

Novels steeped in magical realism for young adult and middle grade readers are forthcoming, as is more fiction for adults.

When he is not writing or dadding, Bryon sleeps. In the summers (and all seasons) he can be found on the sunny beaches at the Jersey Shore, where he lives with his loving family.

LASTLY, FOR NOW …

Please consider posting an honest review of

I Am Marcus Fox on Amazon.com.

Additionally or alternatively or any which way but sideways, feel free to take a jaunt on over to my author website. There, you will find updates on upcoming works as well as a curious, meandering, self-aware bloggy.

At bryoncahill.com you can also sign up for my mailing list and, for a limited time, you will receive a FREE short story:

The Commingling of Billy and Calliope: A Fox Tale.

If you are reading this in the distant future and the aforementioned story is not available, feel free to email me at author@bryoncahill.com. I will be happy to send it to you.

Happy reading!

Fiction is stranger than truth,

Bryon Cahill

May 7, 2019