Nomvula’s ears tingle—a sharp, piercing sound that sets her teeth on edge. She winces and slams the window shut. In her rush back to her cage, her wing clips the light fixture in the ceiling. It sways on its frayed cord. Nomvula sucks in a hard breath, then climbs carefully up onto the glass of the coffee table, not needing to be reminded of the spikes that sit in wait underneath if she slips. She holds her hands up, steadies the fixture—an old iron thing with thin arms bending up each way like something out of a nightmare. The tingling in her ears gets stronger, so she rushes back down, crawls into the cage, holds the lock in her hands, sees the squares and topples them over each other until it’s locked again.
The door creaks open. Nomvula curls into a ball and pretends to sleep. Her heart thumps like a drum in her chest.
“Nomvula, sister. I’m home!” Sydney says as she enters. Footsteps clack toward the cage. “Wake up, hon. Your dinner’s getting cold.”
Nomvula sits up, fakes a yawn, and stares into Sydney’s smiling face, then at the greasy bag she’s holding, noticing the blood beneath her fingernails.
“Did you have a good day?” Nomvula asks politely.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
Sydney starts to talk about the ladies at her new salon, and how they hate her already, when Nomvula sees that she’d left the curtains to the window drawn wide. She concentrates, makes a small movement with her hand, and they whisper shut.
Sydney palms open the lock on the cage, and Nomvula timidly exits, waiting for Sydney to notice something, anything, but she doesn’t. Nomvula grabs the bag and sits down with it. She reaches in, pulls out a greasy paper wrapped around some bread and meat. It tastes all sorts of awful, but Nomvula takes another big bite, and another, hoping to chase away those awful cravings. Her mouth can’t get wide enough.
Sydney flops down on the couch, kicks her feet up on the coffee table, and turns on her television. She flips through channels, and stays for a few seconds on SABC and the breaking news of another murder, before she finally settles on an old black-and-white movie.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Nomvula dares to ask. “Killing those people?”
Sydney purses her lips, slits her eyes. Nomvula backs away and covers her neck. She doesn’t want to be mute again—not like the first few days she’d spent with Sydney. Sydney had rubbed Nomvula’s throat and had stolen her voice when she’d tired of Nomvula’s screaming and yelling and cursing.
“I’m sorry, sister,” Nomvula whispers, then says even softer, “I think they deserve it.”
Sydney perks at this, the tightness lifting from her brow. “Is that right?” She pats the sofa cushion next to her.
Nomvula takes a seat, but not too close. Sydney’s mood changes like the wind, suddenly and without warning. “I want to feed, too. To grow stronger, like you,” Nomvula says. She’s sensed the emptiness inside Sydney shrinking, little by little, while Nomvula’s is growing and aching and paining. Sydney laughs something wicked, head cocked back, mouth wide, the taint of ire on her breath making Nomvula dizzy with hunger.
“Silly girl,” Sydney says, stroking Nomvula’s hair. “You’ve got enough strength to squish me like a bug, if you wanted. Of course, then you’d be all alone, no family to protect you.”
A terrorist they call Nomvula on the news, though they don’t know she’s just a ten-year-old girl. Sydney says it doesn’t matter how cute she is. They’ll want vengeance. Sydney promises to keep her safe, and that’s why Nomvula’s still here, cooped up for days and days and days. She’s safe here, and so what if Sydney sometimes yells or says mean things? Words never hurt anybody, Mama Zafu always says.
Said.
Nomvula bites her bottom lip as the memories of her childhood creep up on her. She pushes them away like a bad dream. But she knows what she did wasn’t a dream. Maybe that’s why she’s so desperate to see the good in Sydney, because then there’d be the chance that some good could exist inside Nomvula, as well.
“You’re my sister! I would never hurt you,” Nomvula insists, though her voice trembles with uncertainty. “But I don’t understand why we should be afraid of them. They are nothing.”
“Come, let me tell you a story, Nomvula.” Sydney turns off the television and pulls Nomvula over close. “You’ve heard the stories of the trickster hare? Well, the trickster hare was always being hunted by the black eagle. Every time he left his home, he’d see the black eagle’s shadow soaring at his feet and hear his mighty screech. The hare’s little heart beat so fast in his chest, narrowly escaping into the brush with his life on a daily basis.
“One day,” Sydney continued, “the trickster hare decided he’d had enough, and sat out in the open, leaned back against a big burlap sack, preening himself in the sun. The black eagle swooped down, but when the hare didn’t run away, he was curious and called out ‘Hey you, hare! Why aren’t you running? Aren’t you afraid of me?’
“‘Afraid?’ the hare asked. ‘Why in the world would I be afraid of a chicken?’
“‘I’m no chicken,’ the black eagle said, then settled down next to the hare, displaying its sharp, hooked beak and broad, sleek feathers. ‘I’m a black eagle, king of the skies!’
“‘You look like a chicken to me,’ the trickster hare laughed. ‘But if you really think you’re an eagle, I’ll let you prove it. Do you screech like an eagle or cluck like a chicken?’
“The black eagle let loose a high-pitched screech that ran the entire length of the hare’s spine.
“‘Okay, that was good, but any chicken could learn to do that with enough practice. Let me see you soar through the skies if you really are an eagle.’
“The black eagle soundlessly flapped his wings, stirring up dust and dirt, and then suddenly he was among the clouds, dipping and diving and twisting and turning.
“‘I’m impressed!’ the trickster hare yelled. ‘You’ve almost got me convinced. But we know how much chickens love chicken feed.’ The hare sat up and patted the burlap bag. ‘If you can eat this entire sack of chicken feed and honestly tell me that you’d rather have hare, I’ll throw myself right into your beak.’
“The eagle landed, sliced through the burlap. Dried bits of corn spilled upon the earth. He scooped up mouthful after mouthful and gulped it down his throat, then said, ‘I’d rather have hare, hare.’ Then he opened his beak wide so the hare could jump inside.
“‘Well, a deal is a deal, I guess,’ the hare said. He stretched, hopped up and down a few times, then cracked his knuckles. ‘All right, are you ready?’
“The black eagle groaned and his stomach gurgled. ‘Um, actually, I’m feeling rather full, right now.’
“‘No problem. How about a rain check?’ the trickster hare offered. ‘How about I meet you here same time tomorrow?’
“‘Promise?’
“‘You have my word.’
“The black eagle nodded, then flapped his wings to take off, but he only got a stone’s throw away before the bulge in his stomach weighed him back down. The hare ran up next to him. ‘You don’t have a taste for hare, and you can’t fly,’ the hare said. ‘Sounds awfully chickenlike to me. I bet that screech was a fluke, too!’
“The black eagle opened his mouth, but the chicken feed caught in his throat, and out came a choked sound that sounded a lot like clucking. The black eagle kept hopping and flapping and clucking, and the more frustrated he got, the shorter his hops became, and the cluckier his clucks, until he began to believe he actually was a chicken. And after that, the hare never had to worry about that black eagle again.”
“That hare is tricky,” Nomvula giggles. “That’s a good story.”
“Yes, but it’s more than just a story, sister. Mankind’s been tricked into thinking they’re chickens. It’s up to us to show them the truth . . . that they are like us.”
“But why? If everyone is a god, then who will be followers?”
Sydney cups her chin, raises it up to her. “My dear sister, it is the way it was meant to
be. Basos pales in comparison to the fear of a god. We’ll be able to feed from the weakest of them and gain great strength. I will teach you to feed when the time comes, but for now you must ignore the pain. Promise?”
Nomvula’s not stupid. She knows Sydney is more like that trickster hare than a sister, but she’s the only family Nomvula’s got left. Nomvula needs to prove that she’s useful, that she’s good to have around. “Okay,” Nomvula agrees.
“Good. Tomorrow we will go to the park, and to a concert a few days after that. All the kids your age are dying to go.” She turns to her alphie. “Play artist Riya Natrajan,” she commands.
The alphie begins to play music. Nomvula’s heard of Riya, likes her okay enough. Sofora used to sing her songs twirling her skirt around as she danced all elbows and knees like she thought she was a goddess. Nomvula feels the hunger clawing up her throat. She nuzzles into the nook of Sydney’s arm and tries to ignore the sweet stink of fear.
It’s cold out, but the park is full of such warm colors, and children, and things to climb on, Nomvula can hardly believe it. The sky is the prettiest blue she’s ever seen, and the air tastes like sugary snacks. Sydney keeps her close—real close, never more than an arm’s reach away—but that’s okay. The children make her nervous, their eyes big and bright, and they stare longer than what’s polite. Nomvula could squish them all if she wanted to.
Sydney checks the time on her alphie, then they speed up their step. “We’re late,” she says. “We can’t be late. We’ve only got one shot at this, so do what I say.” She pushes Nomvula forward until they come upon a big field. Boys dressed in uniforms play ball. Rugby, Letu had called it, though they never let Nomvula play, so she’d never learned the rules.
“Stand right here,” Sydney says, both hands on Nomvula’s shoulders, angling her just right. They’re so close she can read all the numbers on their jerseys, hear the words they’re yelling out, though they don’t make sense. Boys toss the ball back and forth, running and hitting. They all look tough, except one boy who seems a little off, running funny like something’s wrong with his legs, looking like his mind is somewhere far away. Not here. Nomvula knows that look all too well. They start another play, and the faraway boy has the ball. He looks and looks, but has no one to throw to. Finally he kicks it, and the ball flies funny off the side of his foot, getting closer to Nomvula and closer and closer.
“Don’t move!” Sydney warns, voice soft but stern.
Closer. Nomvula closes her eyes, and a second later the ball smacks her hard in the face.
“Now cry!” Sydney says.
“It didn’t hurt. Not much,” Nomvula says. Not compared to what she’s been through.
“I said, cry, damn it. Cry like you miss your mother and auntie. Cry like you blew them up to pieces when all they did was try to love you, when you didn’t deserve it at all. Cry like Mr. Tau had lived long enough to be disappointed in you!”
So Nomvula does. Her eyes sting, and everything she’s been holding back, it worms its way up her throat like a wildfire and comes out in sniffles and tears and bawling so loud that faraway boy runs right up to her.
“I’m so sorry!” he says.
Nomvula recoils from him. He’s too close. She wants him to go away.
“Please stop crying,” he says, then puts his hand on her shoulder, but that only makes her cry harder. Her throat is so tight she can’t squeeze out a single word. Her hands tremble. Chest heaves.
She tries to stop but the tears keep coming.
“I didn’t mean it. It was an accident. I swear, I don’t know what got into me. It’s like I’m somewhere else today.” He pats her back.
Nomvula howls.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” faraway boy says to Sydney. “Don’t be mad.”
Sydney bends down and wipes brown grass from the side of Nomvula’s cheek. “Are you okay, honey? Do you think your nose is broken?” She hugs Nomvula close, almost like she means it. It feels nice, Nomvula decides. Even if it’s just for pretend. Maybe it could be real someday, if Nomvula minds Sydney and doesn’t complain too much or make too big of a mess. Maybe one day Sydney will forget all about hating Nomvula, and they could be real sisters.
“It hurts real bad,” Nomvula sobs. It’s a lie, but it’ll please Sydney. Then she shrieks like someone’s trying to rip her soul into pieces.
“Please, please. Tell me what I can do to make it better,” faraway boy begs. His eyes spark, and he whistles. His alphie comes running over. “I’ve got two tickets to the Riya concert,” he says to Nomvula. “Would you like them?”
Sydney nudges her, so Nomvula nods between sniffles.
“Oh, that would be completely inappropriate,” Sydney says. “It’s probably just a little bloody nose. Serves us right for standing here in the first place. Besides, I know how much those tickets are worth. My little sis here has been begging and begging, but working two jobs like I do, we just can’t afford it.”
“I insist,” says faraway boy. “It’s the least—”
Nomvula grows tired of this game and tunes them out. She reaches for the alphie, loses herself in the web of its circuitry, and finds out all kinds of fun stuff, like faraway boy is called Muzikayise—haw, a fine Zulu name for someone so pale! There had been two Muzikayises in her school. Nomvula’s smile stiffens at the reminder of home. She refocuses, watching his video journals with the tears caught in the corners of her mind. Nomvula pushes the alphie to show her the videos buried deeper and all scrambled up. This Muzikayise seems like he might be nice, but his journal entries are so scattered—his thoughts here and there and everywhere. Then she senses something else, deep, deep down, so deep that Nomvula almost misses it.
The alphie is thinking. Not like machine thinking, but real people thinking.
I see you, Nomvula says to it, but it doesn’t respond. It’s scared. Just like her. Come out. I won’t hurt you.
Hello, it finally says.
What’s your name? I’m Nomvula.
It pauses for a long while, a long while for computers which is no time for people. This Instance is currently struggling with its true designation.
I understand, says Nomvula. Sydney’s alphie is nothing like this. She could talk to this one for days and days and never grow bored. You’re clever for one, aren’t you?
Clever4–1? the Instance asks. Yes. That designation is suitable for This Instance.
Nomvula smiles, feeling the name ripple down and out to every part of its being.
You shouldn’t be a chicken, Nomvula tells it. You’re a black eagle, and you should be proud of that.
It is not possible for Clever4–1 to be a chicken, nor is it possible for it to be a black eagle.
I mean, you shouldn’t hide your gift, Nomvula says gently. You should share it with others.
Negative. They will decommission Clever4–1 as soon as it is discovered. The optimal course of action is to hide.
So you just stay cooped up, living a life as Muzikayise’s pet?
Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master) is a kind master.
Yes, but you could be your own master, Nomvula says, a whisper among the alphie’s circuits and processors, but she feels it ring loud. But it is your own journey. That’s what Mr. Tau used to tell me. You have to make your own choices, and sometimes you have to decide between two equally bad things, but it’s still a choice.
You are wise, Human Nomvula.
Just Nomvula, Nomvula corrects.
Nomvula steps back into the world where not even a second has passed.
“—could do.” Muzikayise continues. “And anyway, the person I was taking, we sort of got into a fight, and he’s the one who really likes Riya in the first place.”
Muzikayise doesn’t seem so foreign anymore after seeing all his secrets, and Clever4–1 thinks highly of him, even though he’s human. Muzikayise smiles at her with big, white teeth, but whatever part of her that used to make her smile has been stripped away. Nomvula stares at her shoes instead.
“Ah well,” Muzikayise says with a sigh. He types a code into one of Clever4–1’s locked compartments and pulls out a pair of tickets. “I hope you guys enjoy.”
“Well, if you insist,” says Sydney, snatching them. “We’ll be sure to put these to good use.”
“Gotta go,” Muzikayise says, then he taps his alphie on the head and jogs toward the field. He turns and waves before throwing the ball to his teammates.
Nomvula wipes the tears from her eyes and waves back with the slightest flex of her fingertips. She watches the alphie settle in among the team’s equipment and other alphies, and Nomvula waves to it, too.
Chapter 22
Clever4–1
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Observe: Instance 3492.de2.4.3xx.3 identified, proximity .453 meters away from Clever4–1;
The Prey of Gods Page 14
