The One We Feed (27 page)

There was a
pause while mother and daughter counted breaths and misunderstood the gravity
of what they were hearing. Reesa looked to her mother’s face, to see what, if
any, influence her Gran had on the woman that she had been taught to obey. It
was a sobering moment, even for me, the invader, because my parents had been my
world; and even though I had known my grandfather, I had never seen him correct
my father in front of me. I wondered then if such an occasion would have made me
lose respect for him or gain it.

Finally,
Esther turned back to her grandmother. “It’s my culture, Gran, my heritage. I’m
not gonna set it down and forget it because you say we should go fighting other
battles now.”

Gran picked up
a spatula with a tiny shake of her head. “I didn’ march, didn’ get shot with
fire hoses, didn’ get arrested so that every day you could get up an’ look in
the mirror, and see a black woman lookin’ back at you. I fought so you would
see
you
lookin’ back! Until you know what that means, you ain’t never
free!”

“I know who I
am! I haven’t forgotten!”

“Mark my words,
girl,” Gran said back in a tone so taut I could hear it snap, “before you dead,
you’ll see a black president. Fifty years. Just that much. One generation dead
and gone, and all their thoughts gone with ’em. You mark my words. But how long
till you see a gay president? A handicapped leader? How long till we see
someone who isn’t bought and paid for and does what’s right without thinkin’ ‘bout
what he can get from it? How long?”

She turned
back to the stove; Esther got up from the table, abandoned her things, and
stormed out of the room; but Reesa, thoughtful, quiet, little Reesa got up and
climbed onto the sofa. Next to a lamp, there was a mirrored picture frame. She
picked it up and peered at herself for a long while.

In the
kitchen, her Gran was muttering. “Ain’ gonna be chained by nothin’, not no man,
no law, no country, no god, and least of all a silly little girl who don’ know
the first thing about sufferin’. She want a struggle, I’ll give her a struggle,
sure as shit. Bless me, Father….”

Reesa blinked
at her own shattered reflection, at her distorted frown, and tried to
understand, but she could not. She had dark skin and eyes that contrasted sharply
with her teeth and sclera. She was a girl. She reached up and tugged one of her
braids; her hair was different from Helena’s, the little girl who played with
her sometimes. How was she supposed to look in the mirror and
not
see
those things?

She got up and
walked into the kitchen, picture frame still in hand. She didn’t realize what
was in the picture, not even in the present. It was a grainy black-and-white
photo of her Gran in younger years, holding a sign, the Reflecting Pool behind
her blurred with thousands of other figures. It was the Million Man March and
Reesa’s great-grandmother was at the head of it.

“Gran,” she
said and tugged at the floral apron. The muttering stopped. The wrinkled face
peeked over a shoulder at her. Reesa held up the picture. “I’m a black girl.”

Gran heaved a
sigh and bent over, took the photo from her gently, and patted her head. “You
are what you wanna be. Mirrors are for fixin’ your hair, not readin’ your
future. Now put this back where you found it.”

Reesa went
back to her blocks, but the memory stayed with her, a cornerstone of her
identity. She was what she wanted to be, not a black person, or a downtrodden
person, or an uneducated person, or any of those things people so conveniently
labeled her. It wasn’t stubbornness that had gotten her through the intervening
years of turmoil, of foster homes and dangerous moments. It was a fundamental
difference of opinion. People told her what she was, and she, by virtue of her
first lesson in philosophy, refused to acknowledge their authority.

That’s what
made her so dangerous. She would not compromise. She would not become a
monster.

As I pulled
myself from her dormant mind, and went back to my body, I could not get the
image of the old woman’s face out of my head. She had seemed so soft, but if
she was a Civil Rights activist, if she had marched with Dr. King, then that
softness was deceptive. That softness was what happened when a person was
beaten, tormented, ridiculed but knew that they were righteous. That was the
face of a warrior that had fought to the last, for
everyone.

She had raised
Reesa, cared for her while her granddaughter finished school and worked her
many jobs to support them, and what she had raised was not a weakling or a
victim.

We choose our
battles and our weapons.

And if every
person only ever made one, just
one
spiritual weapon, how quickly could
the war end?

I sat up and
wrapped my arms around my knees.

“Katsu.”

Chapter
20

The Unity of
Opposites

Hours later, Ananda and Devlin
lay in exactly the same position, the vampire’s head atop my friend’s chest,
one of the Arhat’s hands resting across his forehead. The club remained closed,
much to the chagrin of the line of slavering thrill-goers in shades of
charcoal. Whatever the reason, whatever blissful connection they had made, it
seemed that Devlin no longer cared for his little fiefdom.

I got up and
sat across from Arthur. He was reading his book, as always, but broke his
concentration for me once again.

“Should we go
back? It’s time.” I picked up a few
Go
pieces and rolled them around in
my hand—little black and white pebbles that clattered against each other. The
board was still set from the game that had been finished the day before, swirls
and boxes that from far enough away would just look gray, no territory gained,
nothing lost, just a blur of those two colors.

The unity of
opposites.

He put down
the book and began dividing the pieces almost as if making a point. “Did you
mention me?”

“No, but
something tells me it wouldn’t take much for him to figure us out. He did call
me ‘one of the three.’”

My pile of
white was growing. I released the ones captive in my hand and traded them for a
few white.

“It cannot be
avoided,” he murmured.

I frowned his
way, darkly enough for him to notice and smile at me reassuringly. “So do you
know
what’s going to happen? Is that what you’re
actually
telling me?”

His smile
grew. “
Should
not be avoided.”

“‘Should not’
because it will lead to something you’ve foreseen? I thought omissions were
still lies.”

His smile
faltered. For a moment, there was the glimmer of the old, talkative Arthur who
had explained everything to me, whose voice echoed in my thoughts like a
squawking parakeet. He leaned forward and took my hands in his, for one instant
looking as though he wanted to say something. I met his gaze expectantly, and
in response he retreated.

“The only
reason I guided you at all was because the path was so far from anything in
your experience that you would be helpless to find it, otherwise.”

I pulled away
and slumped back in the chair, hurt. “I see.”

He took a deep
breath and shook his head, saying nothing, but I knew what he wanted to say. Again,
I heard his voice and knew it was right.

Of myself.

I couldn’t
help it though. He had said we’d be a team, but somehow I was feeling more and
more alone with each passing day. He had predicted that we would not always be
together, but deep down I didn’t want to accept it.

“Ever since
that night,” I whispered, sure he understood what I meant but wincing even as I
said it, “you’ve been so quiet. I know you have to leave at some point. I can
accept it, but...are you shutting me out because you can’t say goodbye?”

He smiled. “There
is no goodbye for us, my dear.”

I propped my
head up on my hands and looked him in the eye. “And here I was just getting
used to the idea of being a loner again.”

“You have
never been a loner. That is a myth you created.” He walked over to Jinx and
tapped the young man on the back, while I stared after him in silence.

I got up and
went outside to the truck. We piled in and drove to the coven house. Jinx
seemed remarkably relaxed. I found a space along the side of the country road
close enough to the gate so that he could wave at Ulrich as we got out. The
somber man was busy insisting that the clubbers crowding the guard box go home
and call the switchboard to find out when the place would be reopening. I was
about to interrupt his heated conversation, just to hear his accent, but he
took one unhappy glance at us and leaned on the buzzer.

As we
descended into the pit, I turned to Jinx and grinned. “He didn’t seem happy to
see us.”

“Ulrich’s
never happy to see anyone, especially when they want him to buzz them in. Every
visitor is just one more act of attrition he has to perform.”

“It’s a
button.”

“It’s a
symbol,” he mumbled in commiseration. “When you’re meaning on this earth is
reduced to the importance of a mindless robotic arm and you have to push
something as small as a
button
for centuries, soon the idea of the act
festers until you come to believe that that fucking button is pushing
you.
That fucking button is laughing at you. Pretty soon, that fucking button is god
and you are in hell.”

“That how you
feel about your keyboard?”

He rolled his
eyes. “My keyboard allows me to express my ideas. That fucking button makes him
look like a mindless shmuck. How would you feel?”

At the bottom
of the stairs, the secondary post was deserted, likewise the front desk. The
lights were dimmed, and, unlike the last two times we had been there, the world
was not drawn in the vibrating lines of thumping bass. The dance floor was
empty, the bar vacant; and for the first time, I actually took the time to give
the place a good once over. It was a natural cavern, hung with lights instead
of stalactites, and what had seemed like arches leading to other parts of the
compound were tunnels that had been only partially decorated and concealed.

“They really
like reveling in their own mythology, don’t they?” I said. “I’m pretty sure
that once a day a guy in the back lets out a swarm of bats, just to keep up
appearances.”

“Bats are too
cute for them. More like a bag of king vipers. You said they were in bed?”

I cleared my
throat, “I said they were lying down.”

He shrugged
and made a sound in his throat. “Same diff. They’ll be back here then.”

He sauntered
by me with his hand in his pockets and led us to the left corridor. I glanced
at Arthur. He was staring at one of the platforms. I nudged him with an elbow.

“You okay?”

He sighed. “This
place has echoes.”

“No kidding. I
actually
saw
it. I think it burned into my eyelids. I’m trying
not
to
see it again.”

His lips
curved into the tiny smile of the weary soul. “They are learning something, I
have no doubt.”

“More creative
ways to….”

“Their
limitations,” he said with another glance at the platform. “The loss of pride,
the cessation of shame, the embracing of the things that cause pain, whatever
form they take, are useful lessons.”

“Everything
means something, huh?”

He turned a
blink my way. “So I am told.”

“Is it true?”
I asked with a dubious laugh.

He shrugged
almost comically. “The opposite could also be said. A man who seeks to rarefy
his character does not look for the answer to everything, only to some things.”

“So says the
man who discovered the oneness of
all
things.”

The smile
grew. “A tiny thing.”

“Be careful,”
I said with a smile, “that was nearly egotistic.” I took his hand, banishing
for one perfect moment the idea that we might part. We walked, arm and arm,
into the tunnel and followed it farther back into the mountain. At the
antechamber, Jinx cleared his throat.

“Shave and a
haircut,” he called. Without an answering response and finally unafraid of
Devlin’s ethical distinctions, he stepped into the room and through the door
opposite. I made to follow, but something at my left caught my eye.

I halted in my
tracks and stared at the painting, wrapped in its golden frame, slightly hidden
behind folds of the thick velvet, and suddenly knew why Devlin had seemed
familiar to me and what his entire story to Ananda had been about.

“Fucking
cockmongers.”

Jinx snorted.
“Told ya.”

It was a
portrait of a man. Long, curly, auburn hair. Aquiline nose and pointed chin. Aristocratic
finery and a stylish skullcap-like hat. But what truly caught me was the
expression in the eyes. It was distant, cold; and the artist had captured it
perfectly.

“I hate that
painting,” Devlin said from behind me. I turned. He was barefoot and still
wearing his clothing from the night before, though his shirt was ruffled and
undone, the green blazer discarded. His arms were crossed, and he was watching
me carefully. “It’s not my best side.”

“Vlad the
mutherfucking Impaler?” I gasped. “Shut
up
!” I couldn’t help it. I
turned to Arthur, still standing in the hall and pointed. “Dracula was real!”

Arthur nodded
and, with a stern expression, stepped in and locked eyes with our host. “Devlin,
I presume,” he said, as if he certainly understood a man who abandoned a
previous incarnation of himself.

I spun to
catch the micro-expression on Devlin’s face. It was almost invisible, a
momentary tick of awe. Then it was replaced by a cool and even stare. “My
goodness! May I say I am stunned. If I’d known, I would most certainly have
insisted upon meeting elsewhere out of deference to your lifestyle.”

“Unnecessary,”
Arthur said quietly.

I looked back
and forth, certain the universe was about to implode, while they just stood
there looking at each other. What were they thinking? Was Arthur offended, for
the first time since I’d met him, or was he about to say something profound? Or
was Devlin about to admit defeat, curl up his toes, and slink back to Ananda
with his tail tucked?

I licked my
lips.

“Do you play
chess?” Devlin asked Arthur.

“Yes.”

I looked at Devlin.
He was just barely smiling. “Would you like to have a game? I have an antique
set over here.”

I almost threw
my hands up in anti-climactic defeat until I realized that it was not
anti-climactic. It was perfect. Two mighty strategists meet, and what do they
do? Of course.

What better
way to take each other’s measure?

I was trapped
in a Milton-Bradley commercial. They sat facing each other across a large chess
board of inlaid stone. It was a beautiful set, complete with smoothly curved,
snowy white pieces and jagged volcanic shards that, of course, Devlin
preferred. I sat down on a nearby wing-backed chair and tried not to smile as
Arthur made the first move.

“So let me get
this straight,” I said loudly, interrupting Devlin’s pensive silence with
absurd pleasure, “you
are
Vlad the Impaler, the guy who ate dinner in
the killing fields and drank corpse juice out of a cup?”

His eyes
rolled upward from the board with an almost audible grinding and a sharpened
glare. “All exaggerated, I can assure you.”

“But you
are
that guy.”

“Yes.”

“The guy who
murdered whole villages of people, poisoned wells, and salted the earth to keep
his enemies from winning?” I searched Ananda’s face to see if he heard me. He
seemed to have gone deaf; he smiled at the chess table and pointed out to the
mass-murdering dictator a possible move. Devlin waved him aside patiently and
picked up another piece, which he set down with a satisfied smile.

“The very
same.”

Arthur made a
second move. Devlin frowned at the board and crooked a finger around his chin.

“It would have
been unnecessary, if not for certain difficulties.”

“And whose
fault were they?”

“The effing
pope’s,” he replied dryly. “As loathsome as the infidels were, he did not want
anyone of my house to play the hero. If I had had the troops I required”—he
picked up a pawn and moved it forward—“I would have retaken the Holy Land, and
the landscape of today would be very, very different.”

“You sure it
wasn’t the forest of thirty thousand bodies on spikes that bothered him?”

“It was fifty
thousand,” he growled, while Arthur made yet another speedy move. “And that was
after
he refused me. That bastard would not have cared if I had raped
the virgins and drowned the infants in the river. Crusaders had done as much
for centuries.

“All things
are justified in war, except actually believing in your cause. It makes a
warrior terrifying, uncontrollable, and marvelously effective. Normal people
never really believe, because men who have seen death know that we are all the
same in the end, no matter how much we dehumanize each other. Believers do not
see it that way. To believers, the ends justify the means.”

I glanced at
Jinx with a raised brow. The hacker was setting up his several laptops at the
desk against the far wall and trying not to remark upon Devlin’s lucid
self-examination. I wanted to believe Devlin was a villain, to resent him for
all the things he’d done in his long lifetime, but I could not.

Sometimes the
machine moves without the man.