“Lesser Bezile,” I say with a nod. We connect in the briefest of glances, if only for a slight moment and in a completely artificial way. Then I remember the felled sticks before me.
There is a hard knock at the classroom door. All eyes fall onto Sesay. She gives a humble shrug as Msr. Bankole answers. Ey falls to eir knees immediately, and the students all follow suit. Even Kasim and I have managed to catch on.
“I am humbled,” comes Gueye Okahim’s voice. “Please, return to how you were. I am told that this class possesses a student who is extremely deft at divining the words of Grace. I was hoping that I might have a demonstration.”
“We were about to start our incantations, Amawusiakaraseiya,” Msr. Bankole gushes, arms moving like ey’s not sure what to do with emself. “We would be extremely grateful if you could lead us.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Gueye Okahim clears his throat, inhales deeply through his nose, then makes the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard come from a human—something like a bird call in a high falsetto, interspersed with moaned words in what I can only assume is Sylla. The class calls back in response, the same words and trills. The incantation goes on, back and forth, for a whole minute, followed by absolute silence. After several seconds, the students begin to build. I fiddle with my sticks, pretending as best as I can. Most students’ towers top off at three stories, then they watch Sesay as she begins her fifth. Her structure is more aggressive than her first attempt, less support at the base to allow for greater height.
“The fifth suite is usually reserved for our advanced classes,” I hear Msr. Bankole whisper to Gueye Okahim. “Sesay is extremely gifted.”
Sesay sets her last stick, then exhales slowly. She makes it look so easy, but a bead of sweat on her forehead belies her effortless grace.
But not every student has taken note of her deftness. I look over to Kasim’s group and see him building with borrowed sticks, and not our cheap child’s things. He has completed his fourth suite and is about to embark on the fifth with a half dozen more sticks still lying on their sides.
“No,” Sesay whispers, wind knocked out of her sails. She bites her trembling lip, and her eyes go cross. I feel for the girl. Maybe she thought she was something special, but clearly Kasim is the real prodigy, and my heart bends out of shape from the pride I have for him.
He starts the fifth suite—three sticks come together in a point. He stacks the sixth suite, a single vertical stick from their index.
“Six suites, two holdovers,” Msr. Bankole announces to the class. “From . . . from . . .” Ey has forgotten Kasim’s name.
“Kasim, right?” Gueye Okahim offers. “Glad to see that your defting far outshines your grasp of Sylla. The Slight Traore Build is a suite removed from perfection. I’ve seen even seasoned Men of Virtue struggle with it.”
Kasim doesn’t respond. At first I think he’s being rude, but he’s still examining his stack, second to last stick in hand. He’s going for another suite. His hand rises to place a vertical stick, end to end, upon the last. As he nears, his movements slow to a near pause. He sets it, finds his balance. Removes his hand. It stays.
“Perfection,” Gueye Okahim exhales. “Seven perfect suites. Please, do tell us what words Grace has bestowed upon you.”
Still no response. Kasim takes the last remaining stick. Sets it impossibly balanced upon the last. Sits back on his haunches. “Msr. Bankole,” Kasim says.
“Yes, Kasim?” Ey says the name like ey will never in eir life forget it again.
“Would it be okay if my brother and I take this class period as open study?”
“Oh, um. I don’t have the authority to make such a decision. I’m afraid Elementary Defting is a prerequisite, despite your level of skill. I am thoroughly impressed with your build. If you care, you can share your message with your cohort if you deem it appropriate.” Seeing how Gueye had already made such a request, there was a pleading in eir eyes when ey asked Kasim.
The class and I sit awestruck as Kasim takes his scratchboard and chalk, observes the letter pairings at the defting stick indices, then scribbles down the message. I try to catch his gaze, to get some hint at what he’s up to. He sits back and his eyes finally stick to mine, one brow arched, thin smile hidden behind drawn lips. I know every single one of Kasim’s expressions. This is not one of them.
“Msr. Bankole, would it be okay if my brother and I take this class period as open study?” Kasim says again.
“Kasim, I told you that—”
Kasim holds his scratchboard up to Msr. Bankole. Eir lips go pale and fumble for words. Ey takes the scratchboard and compares it carefully to the structure. “Impossible,” ey says. Msr. Bankole shows Grace’s words to Gueye Okahim whose brows rise up to the holy brand upon his forehead.
Gueye Okahim clears his throat and reads from the scratchboard, “‘Msr. Bankole, would it be okay if my brother and I take this class period as open study?’”
“Yes, Kasim,” Msr. Bankole stammers. “I think that it will be fine.”
The remainder of our day passes much less spectacularly, though Kasim has gathered a small audience of curious onlookers determined to witness his next live performance. He leaves them disappointed as we finally retire for the evening to Soyinka House, a building conveniently located close to absolutely nothing. It’s practically in the wilderness—the front lawn an outcropping of manicured weeds surrounded by knee-high fine bush, medicinal varieties mostly that give the air a musky, astringent bite. The rotunda itself is cold gray stone with tall thin windows built before fire regulations existed. As we near, we hear the disturbing sounds of teenaged ruckus and roughhousing within.
Inside, Soyinka House is one overturned couch away from being declared a national disaster. The few pieces of upright furniture in the foyer are threadbare and/or broken. The large Soyinka House banner hangs from the wall, completely skewed, with a cluster of odd stains near the bottom which I’m pretty sure are urine. In a collective effort to keep the place tidy, nearly all of the spent beer cans have landed within five feet of the trash bin. These are the most endearing things about this place.
“Mtuze boys! Welcome to Soyinka House!” a student breathes into our faces, the sting of alcohol grossly apparent. “Here. We want you to feel at home.” The kid sticks dented cans of tinibru into our hands. I am so relieved to see something familiar here that it takes a long moment for the offense to sink in. A small group of boys and andies snicker into their hands, pointing at us and our comfy ale. For the first time today, the true brunt of my anger brews within me.
“No, thanks,” I hiss at the jerk—the bottom of the barrel, as far as Gabadamosi students go, and yet still, his favored status would allow him to stroll through life without a hitch, without a slipup or a step gone afoul. Spite roils within me, and I squeeze the can tight in my hand, squeeze so hard that foam starts to gurgle out of the seams at the top. Kasim lays his hand on my shoulder, and takes the can from me, then lets it drop at our feet. As we take our leave down the curved hallway, I loosen the muscles I’ve been so mindful of, channeling the cold to the tips of my fingers. I touch a wall as we pull away from the laughter and mocking behind us. Tendrils of ice creep along the old brick, down to the packed dirt floor, and the thinnest sheet of ice forms beneath the toes of our tormentors. Seconds later, the laughs become a chorus of “Oh, shit!” and “What in Grace’s name . . . ?” Seven thuds follow, the sounds of their thick skulls striking the ground, and I allow myself a brief laugh with Icy Blue before tightening the reins. His brusk laugh continues, though, and I have a sinking suspicion that it’s directed at me.
Kasim’s eyes are focused on the room numbers, which are ascending and not descending like we need them to. A quick chat with a guy on the way to the showers points us in the direction of “supplemental housing,” which we learn is a polite term for the basement dungeon.
Our “room” is spacious and damp, with a horrid draft. Sparse furnishings consist of four empty
bunks pushed along one wall, two ratty couches that make the ones upstairs look like they are fit for nobility, and a circular coffee table that takes up the rest of the space. An ominous red light seeps from under a locked door labeled Boiler Room, only adding to the room’s natural ambiance.
“Welcome home, Auben,” Kasim says to me, trying hard to find some sideways truth that will make me feel better. He fails and the silence stretches thin between us, punctuated by groans and knocks from the boiler and the squeal of water running through cold pipes. He picks the closest bunk and slings his satchel up on top.
I take the bottom, sitting upon a brown blanket purposely engineered to be the roughest, scratchiest material in the entire existence of man. I unpack my few belongings and scatter them about, trying to forget where we are and why we are here. It doesn’t come close to working.
“How’d you do it, Kasim?” I ask, late into the night when it becomes obvious that neither of us is going to get any sleep.
“The thing with the defting sticks?” he says. “I can’t even say. I was in a trance, like I was only an observer in my own mind. You ever get that?”
I think of my time backstage with Ruda, and the room’s temperature drops a few degrees. “Yeah. I didn’t like it at all.”
“Me neither. But at least we have a dedicated two hours to spend in the library each day.” His voice trembles against the cold. I pull the scratchy blanket from the bunk next to us and toss it up.
“Thanks,” he says. He’s always hated the cold. When we were small, and the coke piles in our furnace were smaller, Kasim would come down from his bunk and we’d huddle under my covers, face-to-face, our breath keeping the other’s nose warm. I miss that.
I touch underneath the top bunk with all five fingers. The queasiness swells within my gut. Pressure builds until I go icy cold all over, and can no longer stand to hold back the reins. I release, fully. Completely. My fingertips go blue, and frozen crystals arc out across the spring support in the most beautiful pattern and then creep up into the mattress.
“Auben?” comes Kasim’s pained voice.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I could come down there with you?” Kasim asks, his voice ripe with sentimentality. “You know. Like when we were kids.”
I bite back my smile. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”
Face-to-face, he cringes at the chill on my breath, but smiles a content smile nevertheless. My heart warms over.
“Do you think we made a mistake coming here?” I ask him.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he says through chattering teeth. “Ask me again in the morning, after I’ve had a chance to thaw out.”
I watch him after he drifts off. His body flinches and jerks. He mumbles incoherently, but the worst are the stifled screams. I wonder about the demon inside him. What is it saying to him that brings so much pain?
I realize that in my eagerness to draw Kasim into my bed, I’ve forgotten to put Icy Blue back in his. I make a mental move to contain him, but his presence has already spread like an infection. I feel him at the points of my teeth, and behind my eyes—staring out like they’re drafty windowpanes. I feel him in the soft press of my lips against Kasim’s forehead.
Kasim’s nightmares recede. He trembles once more before going as still as a corpse.
We have work to do, Icy Blue bids me.
As much as I wish to deny him, in my bones I know that blood must be spilled tonight. It was foolish of me to wrap myself in the cloak of the devil before first checking the price tag. The cost for wielding my powers is steep, and now it is Icy Blue who wears my skin like an animal’s pelt, ill-fitting and unforgiving. My limbs move all the wrong ways within my own body. It’s like my legs have too few joints, my hands too many fingers, my jaws too tight for the cram of fangs, but Icy Blue is adaptable if nothing else. Up on the main floor, my hand touches upon every knob I pass. A silent twist. I pray with all my might that each is locked. I smell them all—the sweetness of their breath, the raw stink from the pits of their arms and the crux of their thighs, the tang of iron seeping from their pores. My mouth waters at the thought of warm flesh slipping down my throat.
Finally, a knob turns. Two occupied bunks. Heavy snoring. The most wicked arousal whips through me, and I go hard and heavy as Icy Blue plots which he’ll have first.
With all the good I have left within me, I drive my hand into my pocket, break my mirror, crunch glass against my palm until it’s a bloody pulp, but the pain is no longer enough, and while my mind panics, my other hand tugs at the scratchy covers of the bottom bunk, eager like a child tearing away the foil wrapper of a proper chocolate. My cravings both repulse and implore me. Gooseflesh rises upon the student’s long, lean legs. Up his thighs. Nipples pucker through the fabric of his sleep gown. His throat bobs as he swallows.
There. The throat. Vulnerable, exposed. I get closer. So close, I can already taste him. I try to close my eyes to the ensuing massacre at least, but they remain peeled.
“Don’t do this,” I strain against my vocal cords. If I cannot stop Icy Blue by force, perhaps I can reason with him. “If you leave him be, tonight is all yours. Do whatever you want with me. I swear I won’t resist.”
I’d like to see you attempt to resist me. My index finger runs along the student’s neck, my nail leaving behind the thinnest scratch.
“Tonight and tomorrow night then.”
The scratch deepens, draws blood. The scent of it hits me harder than a brick to the face. My will to resist is waning. I have to bargain with everything I’ve got. Now or never.
“Midnight to sunup. Tonight, tomorrow night, and every night. No restraints. No restrictions. But you can’t harm him, or any of the other students at Gabadamosi.”
The finger lifts.
Deal, Icy Blue says coolly, coyly across my lips. I realize in my desperation I have given him too much leash. The conditions of our arrangement are set, but I hope Icy Blue takes pity on me and is open to make one amendment.
“Can I ask that I not witness any of it?”
At my words, I recede into a small cage held in the space an inch behind my navel. Icy Blue locks me away for the night, and the last thing I remember is the breaking of a narrow glass window.
I awake in bed the next morning, body sore and satisfied, Kasim’s breath still in my face . . . and a mouthful of soured blood pressing at my lips. I run upstairs to the restroom and puke my guts into the toilet. It’s like a massacre in the bowl, but I am careful and neat, and it all slides away with a single flush. When I stand up, I feel like myself. My old self. I know that it is only because Icy Blue is in a limbless stupor, sleeping off his binge, but I allow myself one happy moment of normalcy before my panicked thoughts come crashing down around me. Coming to Gabadamosi to control these demons was a mistake. They’re getting stronger by the day, and I doubt even a decade studying here would give us the means to tame their meddling. If there’s ever been a time for drastic measures, it’s now.
“We need to go to the Sanctuary and beg them to exorcise us,” I say to Kasim as I shake him from the grips of sleep with one hand and pull my uniform on with the other. “Gueye Okahim can do it himself, I don’t care.”
“What time is it?” he groans.
“A quarter to six, and we’re already wasting daylight.” I yank the covers off him, and he crunches into a pitiful shivering ball.
“Please. Just ten more minutes. I slept awful last night.”
“Voices?” I dare to ask.
He shakes his head. “Nightmares for a change. It was gruesome.” Kasim winces. “On second thought, maybe more sleep is the last thing I need.” He rolls out of bed, stretches tall, then rubs his abdomen as if he’s sore from a proximity break. “How’d you sleep?”
“About as well as can be expected with a demon clawing about inside. Come on, let’s go. Munashe will know how we can get in to see him.”
“See who?” Kasim yawns.
I growl at my brother, throwing his sch
ool ciki at him, and stare him down until he’s fully dressed.
Besides the broken window and the expense of replacing two-hundred-year-old glass, it seems like business as usual on campus. Whatever Icy Blue’s dealings were last night, they took place far enough from here. Still, I can’t stand the guilt of knowing I’d killed. It is my only hope that it’d been animal blood, like those hogs from the library book—and not like what came after. Whatever else happens, we can’t let another midnight pass. We need to perform the exorcism before midnight.
When we enter the administration building this time, the air is much sweeter and the smiles much more genuine. “How may I help you, Mr. Mtuze?” the fem kigen at the reception desk offers, speaking directly past me and looking dreamily into Kasim’s eyes.
“We’re here to see Munashe,” I say, waving eir attention back my way. “Is she in?”
“Sure, she’s in her office. I’ll tell her you’re here. Can I get you any water while you wait?”
My tongue is still tacky from the night’s diversions. “I’ll have some, thanks,” I say into eyes that have failed to acknowledge my existence.
“Water would be wonderful,” Kasim says. The receptionist perks, eagerly jumping from eir seat. “Two glasses,” Kasim specifies sheepishly. Better to be clear now, than to deal with the embarrassment later when ey shows up with one.
Whispers and stares come soon after, and the whole business of the office grinds to a halt. We are told repeatedly that never in the two hundred sixty years of Gabadamosi’s history has a student made eight defting suites. It has been rumored over the centuries that Men of Virtue have accomplished such a feat, but even those were few and far between.
Finally, Munashe’s little door opens. She exits quickly, though a broom handle escapes with her, and she shoves it back in. “Kasim, Auben . . .” she says, standing taller than our first encounter. Yesterday she’d drawn the short stick and had gotten stuck with the job of orienting a couple of comfy rats. Today she is the envy of the entire office as she advises the young defting prodigy that had impressed their beloved Amawusiakaraseiya . . . and his tagalong brother. “I am so glad to see you this morning. How can I be of assistance?”
Temper: A Novel Page 13
