‘Beware the Boomslang,’ I read from a sign on the stairs halfway up. ‘There are snakes here?’
‘A snake, honey,’ Junebug says with a nervous grin. ‘Just the one.’
Dream sweat may be sparkly and multicoloured, but it sticks to you just like real sweat, and I use my forearm to wipe it off my face and then on to my jeans.
We get to the top of the ziggurat and I put Chester down. He barks happily and runs back and forth on the flat platform.
‘So,’ I say. ‘Where’s this False Ego of mine?’
Tyrone taps my shoulder and points to the other side of the platform. A huge jewelled snake slithers across to us. It stops and rises up, swaying back and forth, eyes swirling and spitting like pools of hydrochloric acid.
‘Boom,’ it says. A bass like a tsunami of titanic Tibetan gongs rattles my bones. My eyeballs vibrate in their sockets.
‘That’s the False Ego?’
‘Have you ever heard that biblical stuff about the serpent rising up … yada yada … number of the beast, et cetera and so forth?’ Tyrone says.
‘Yeah.’
He taps me on my forehead. ‘Well, those holy mofos were talking about what goes on inside people’s heads.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
‘Dangerous?’ Tyrone rubs his soul patch. ‘Well, only in the way that YOUR OWN PERSONAL SATAN is dangerous.’
‘Right.’ I eye the jewelled serpent nervously. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We need funk,’ Tyrone says. ‘Stat.’
‘He’s right, honey,’ agrees Junebug. ‘A unified psyche will drive it away.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Knock yourselves out. I’ll stand back and watch.’
‘I said “a unified psyche”, honey.’ Junebug primps her beehive hair. ‘That means the Conscious Self.’
‘You want me to play in a funk band?’
‘No, no,’ Junebug says. ‘That’d be ridiculous. You’re the Conscious Self. You have to be the lead singer.’
‘You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.’
They’re not. Musical instruments appear out of thin air and they begin strapping them on. Tyrone has a red Flying V guitar that he plugs directly into the spongy organic material of the ziggurat. Richard is on drums, Cabales on bass and Junebug has a set of keyboards that look like the controls of a spaceship. Even Chester has a shaker in his mouth.
‘I don’t sing,’ I protest.
‘Well that’s strange, honey,’ Junebug says. ‘Because you sure look the part.’
I look down to see that my clothes have changed to a white jumpsuit with a red lightning bolt down the middle that ends at my crotch. There are tassels hanging from the arms and the shoulders are heavy with sequins.
An old microphone appears on a stand in front of me.
The snake watches us, those terrible eyes swirling, then without warning it lunges forward. Tyrone raises his guitar and sends a chord at it like a flight of shurikens. It recoils, furious, and turns to hiss at us.
‘Any time now,’ Richard says, raising his drumsticks. ‘We can’t hold him indefinitely.’
I sigh and step up to the mike. The band breaks into a funky riff, all bouncing bass, psychedelic wah-wah guitar and spacey keyboard effects.
‘Get on up,’ I mumble into the mike.
The snake strikes again and Richard sees it off with a wild drum solo.
‘Come on,’ Tyrone urges. ‘We need a wall of sound. It’s going to keep attacking harder.’
‘Boom,’ says the Boomslang, and it collides with the music. I feel myself shaking with the G-force of a space shuttle flight. Reality itself rattles.
So I sing. I sing half-remembered lyrics and TV theme songs. I sing jingles from commercials, bits of poems from English class, and parody songs from YouTube. I sing rock, hip hop, pop, reggae and, yes, funk. I scream like a death-metal demon and wail like an opera soprano. I sing with everything I have. I pace up and down with the mike in my hand. ‘Is everyone having a good time?’ I scream from the edge of the ziggurat. Tyrone puts his back to mine and shimmies, ripping a jagged speed-metal chord across the ziggurat. ‘Let Cabales finish him off,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘When he slaps, the motherfucker SLAPS.’
Cabales slides on to his knees, his head back, the bone through his nose shaking. A bass chord like a phalanx of armoured lions leaps from his guitar and slams into the snake. The Boomslang shudders violently, whips around, catches its own tail in its mouth. It solidifies and forms a perfect circle of gold on top of the ziggurat.
We step through it to the other side of the platform.
‘Now that’s what I call funk,’ Tyrone says, putting his arm around my shoulder.
I wake up in the back seat of the Cortina with my face squished into the pages of an old magazine. ‘Whaa …’ I say, wiping the drool from my lip and squinting into the bright light.
‘Morning, sparky,’ Ronin mumbles. He has his beanie perched on the top of his head and is sucking at a cigarette. His eyes are bloodshot, he’s still a horrible grey-white, sweat drips from his face and the rings around his eyes are so dark that he looks like he’s been punched. The glaring red scar from where the Halzig tenderised his face is bright against his pale skin.
We left Hexpoort the previous night in a rush. I walked down to the Draken pens with Nom to say goodbye to Gigli. Gigli pushed his head against mine and emitted a series of hisses and growls.
‘He says he should be going with you,’ Nom said. ‘He has a duty to protect you.’
‘Tell him he’s done enough.’
Gigli responded with a growl and ripped a piece of my hoodie off with his teeth.
‘He says it’s in case he needs to find you,’ Nom said.
‘Crazy bastard.’ I hugged his thick pink neck.
‘You OK?’ Ronin says. ‘You were making some weird noises back there.’
‘Yeah.’ I rub the sand out of my eyes and sit up. ‘Just dreamt I was in a band.’ I look out of the window. ‘Where are we?’ We’re hurtling past empty scrubland. ‘And aren’t you going a little fast?’
‘The open road, sparky,’ he says and slams on the brakes. The car fishtails on to the side of the road and I’m flung against the seat.
‘Fuck.’ I rub my neck. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘We need to find Squirrelskull,’ he says. ‘How’s your brain mojo feeling? Think you can find them?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I haven’t done anything like that since Basson.’
‘The Witch says you have some kind of magical block?’ He turns around to look at me.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m not exactly rocking my magical education.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he says. ‘You’ve got the ability.’
‘Remember what you said about magic having a genetic component? That your genes can determine what type of magic you’re good at?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘I think the Siener part of me and the Crow part of me are trying to figure out who gets a say in that. They’re just so different. The stuff I saw during the bonding ritual …’
Ronin looks at me warily. He knows I’ve seen his history and he doesn’t like it. ‘You need to figure out who you are, sparky,’ he says. ‘Nobody can do that for you.’
‘Find my True Self. Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps telling me.’
He claps his hands together. ‘So you going to give this a try or what?’
I nod and reach for the beads in my mojo bag. I pull them out, start weaving them between my fingers and then fumble them on to the car seat.
‘Jesus Christ, it’s like watching my mother trying to send an email,’ Ronin says.
‘You have a mother?’
‘Never mind about the days of my life,’ Ronin says. ‘Magic us some GPS coordinates.’
I weave the beads through my fingers and focus on finding the Squirrelskull clan. I repeat the word over and over in my head. Squirrelskull. Squirrelskull. Squirrelskull. I hit a
kind of invisible barrier. It’s like penetrating a giant bowl of jelly. I’m breathing hard and sweating but I can’t push through.
I open my eyes and shake my head. ‘Some kind of barrier.’
‘Enchantments,’ Ronin says. ‘Probably pretty rudimentary, but you’re not strong enough to get through them.’
‘And now?’
Ronin smiles. ‘We do this the old-fashioned way.’
It’s a relief to get away from the dark walls of Hexpoort, but Ronin is even worse company than usual. It doesn’t help that he’s cagey about what I saw during the bonding ritual. I can feel the bond hanging between us like a length of magical fibre-optic cable. His presence is a tangible feeling; it occupies a certain part of my mind and nothing I do can get rid of it. It’s there, both of us can feel it, and neither of us knows exactly what to do with it.
Ronin responds by barely talking during the time it takes us to drive the hundred kilometres to the small town of Eenkuil. We coast through the town’s high street. The place is a drab, pebbled wasteland of vibracrete walls, dry lawns and deserted petrol stations.
We turn off the high street and pull up outside a shebeen plastered with Coke signs.
‘You armed?’ Ronin turns off the engine.
‘No,’ I say. The Boer was meticulous in making sure our assault rifles and handguns were returned to the armoury.
‘Well you’re going to have to get something of your own,’ he growls. ‘I’m not lending you weapons every time we go somewhere.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll put “handgun” on the list of things for my parents to get me next term.’
‘Well it’s the sort of thing you want to choose for yourself,’ Ronin says. ‘The bond between you and your weapon is—’
‘I was joking. Jesus, I’ll get a gun, OK?’
He opens the glove compartment and pulls out the same heavy gun he gave me when we were searching for Basson. I don’t remind him that I shot him with it and he doesn’t say anything. I stuff it into the back of my jeans and pull my hoodie over it, then follow him into the shebeen.
Bright fluorescent lights highlight the blue plumes of cigarette smoke that hang on the low ceiling. There are several long benches running the length of the room where groups of men drink beer and watch soccer on a small TV. Everyone ignores us except a burly guy at the bar. He wears a tweed flat cap, a sleeveless Kaizer Chiefs T-shirt and a revolver tucked into a belt with a huge dollar-sign buckle.
He puts his hand on the revolver. Ronin whips back his coat, shows him the Blackfish and shakes his head. I try to nonchalantly put my hand behind my back on the handle of the gun.
‘I’m looking for Hoxie van Rooyen,’ Ronin says to the burly guy. ‘Hoxie van Rooyen,’ he repeats.
The guy does a quick mental calculation and decides that he’s not in the mood for a gunfight. Which suits me fine. He jerks his head towards the back door.
‘Good call, bud,’ Ronin says.
I follow him through the door. The back room is packed with people, and it smells of sweat, blood and dog. Pit bulls tear at each other in a frenzy of blood, teeth and saliva. The savagery of it stops me in my tracks, but it doesn’t take long before one of the dogs limps away a few steps and then drops to the floor, shivering and mewling. A guy in a suit and tie with a floppy green felt hat accessorised with an orange feather taps his cane against the ground and clenches a jubilant fist.
‘Hoxie,’ Ronin says.
‘Ronin.’ Hoxie flashes us a smile full of gold teeth and menace. ‘Well, well. This is a surprise.’
Hoxie looks about sixty, his long grey hair augmented by colourful braids. A pointed ear sticks out from behind his hair, and his forest-green eyes are widely set and almond-shaped. He leans on his cane and watches us like a spider.
‘A reunion of old friends,’ Ronin says. ‘So heart-warming.’
‘Old friends, is it? I don’t seem to recall any friendship between us.’
‘Friends, enemies, I can never remember which is which.’
‘Funny, I’ve never had a problem with that,’ Hoxie replies.
‘I need to know where Squirrelskull is,’ Ronin says. ‘You’ve been known to trade with them.’
Hoxie nods slowly and looks across to where two more dogs are being set at each other. ‘So I have, so I have. The thing is, I’ve got worries weighing on my mind and I don’t think I’ll be able to remember where they are until those worries are laid to rest.’
‘You always were so unbelievably subtle,’ Ronin says. ‘Please, by all means, tell me your worries.’
Hoxie leans in and whispers, ‘My people are concerned. This Muti Man is stirring up the younger crowd and there has been violence.’
‘You’re supposed to keep your community under control,’ Ronin says. ‘That’s always the way it’s been.’
Hoxie snorts. ‘Tell the younger generation that. They smoke their tik, chew their khat and wave their fucking guns in the air like they’re cowboys. They’ve had a few run-ins with the Dwarven Legion and there’s talk of open rebellion. That’s not going to be good for us, Ronin.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Dwarves and elves have never exactly seen eye to eye.’
‘Azikem, please,’ Hoxie says. ‘The Legion may have embraced human mythology in their relentless PR campaign over the last few hundred years, but we still have a little dignity.’
‘So what do the Azikem want from us?’ Ronin asks.
‘Speak to the Blood Kraal,’ Hoxie says. ‘Stop the Legion from hounding us. If I can get the young ones to calm down, perhaps I can stop the bloodshed that’s coming.’
‘I’ll try. But you know humans are supposed to stay out of Hidden affairs.’
Hoxie pulls back his hair and shows us his other ear. The top has been shorn off, leaving an ugly mess of scar tissue. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve experienced humans “staying out of our affairs” first-hand.’
Light brown, dark brown, beige, cream. We drive through the uninspired palette of the empty scrubland. I try to call Kyle and Esmé a couple of times, on a spare phone that I had to beg Ronin to let me borrow, but neither of them picks up. With each stupid, stuttering voicemail message I leave, my mood darkens a little more.
I’m in good company. Hoxie pointed out Squirrelskull’s location on a map, but it hasn’t improved Ronin’s state of mind at all. He chain-smokes his way down the highway, swearing to himself and pounding relentlessly on the steering wheel.
‘You OK?’ I say.
‘Sure, sure,’ he replies. ‘Hand me a stick of gum.’
I pass him the packet and he takes the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to stuff in a few sticks.
‘You look different,’ he says, his voice muffled through his gum and cigarette.
‘Yeah. Must admit I never thought I’d be doing push-ups on my knuckles,’ I say, looking down at the scars on the back of my hands from training with the Boer.
‘Wait until they make you do knuckle push-ups on broken glass,’ he replies.
‘Can’t wait,’ I say. I look at his craggy, hardened face trying to smoke and chew the pain away and I can’t help but think about the fresh-faced young guy I saw. ‘Ronin, listen, I’m sorry.’
‘Why, what did you do?’
‘I mean about the Border … what happened to you.’
He’s silent.
‘I mean, it was—’
‘Shut the fuck up, sparky,’ Ronin says viciously, spitting smoke and gum from his mouth. He brakes hard and I’m thrown forward against my seat belt. ‘It’s part of the initiation, OK? It’s part of the fucking burden of magic. You get to see parts of your master’s life, stuff that you should never have access to. It doesn’t mean you get to play amateur fucking psychologist.’ He retrieves his cigarette from the dashboard and shoves it back into his mouth.
‘I was just—’
‘You were just sticking your nose into my business,’ Ronin says. ‘I don’t need some teenager trying to explain to me
why wiping out entire villages was actually OK and that I just need to forgive myself and sing “Kumbaya” and go frolicking through meadows.’
‘Well, it is in the past,’ I say.
‘No.’ Ronin raps on his temple with his knuckles. ‘It’s in here and it’s not going anywhere. I drink to keep it away and now I’ve stopped doing that, so the last fucking thing I need is a little punk like you going all Dr Phil on me.’
‘Fine,’ I say, sitting back in my seat and crossing my arms sulkily. ‘I hope you and your post-traumatic stress disorder are happy together.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Ronin grunts.
‘Right back at you,’ I reply.
All in all, I think my first day as a magician’s apprentice has gone pretty much as expected.
We pull off the highway and follow a series of bad dirt roads until we land up in front of a hotel called The Zulu Regent. It’s a monstrosity of a building, an ancient Gothic mansion complete with gargoyles and peeling paint. Basically it screams ‘murder dungeon’ to anyone with any kind of common sense. Ronin obviously likes it.
‘We’re not seriously staying here, are we?’ I ask.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘We’re safer here than we’d be camping outside. The guy who runs this place is an agent.’
A muscular black man in a faded pair of jeans and a white T-shirt walks down the steps and pulls Ronin into a bear hug. The sangoma beads on his forearms rattle as he shakes the bounty hunter from side to side.
‘OK, OK,’ Ronin growls.
‘Oh come on, Ronin,’ the guy says in a deep, pleasant voice. ‘How many years has it been?’
‘Only five or six.’
‘Five or six?’ He laughs as he puts Ronin back down. ‘It was sometime in the nineties.’
‘Yeah, well, time flies.’
‘I’m sorry, but I refuse to accept that as an excuse. Never mind, it’s good to see you anyway.’
‘Good to see you too, old man,’ Ronin says. This is my apprentice, Baxter. Baxter, Sandile.’
Sandile raises an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t think anyone would EVER be stupid enough to become Ronin’s apprentice.’
‘You underestimate the stupidity of the kids of today,’ Ronin replies.
Kill Baxter Page 16
