Strays

by Remy Wilkins

  Rodney staggered over some rubble, and the boy looked up. His eyes were slate gray.

  Rodney cleared his throat and asked, “Who are you?”

  The boy’s eyes widened, and he said, “Rodney!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FROM AGE TO AGE

  Out of the hills in early evening, where the foot of Skeleton Mount comes to a rest, a white truck rolled into Twin Rivers carrying a man, his nephew, and a guardian angel. Rodney looked over at Pinwheel, squished between himself and Uncle Ray. Pinwheel was fiddling with his hands, no longer three talons and a thumb, but soft, pink, articulate, wigglesticks of endless fascination. He was splaying them before his face, then slapping them to his cheeks, causing a rosy flush. Rodney laughed at Pinwheel’s antics and introduced the former demon to pinching and tickling, pokes and tousled hair.

  Ray also had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road. Lucasta’s truck had gone through a lot the last couple of days, and it almost went through a mailbox before Ray corrected their course with a jerk of the wheel. There’d been enough destruction for the day, and he didn’t want to add Lucasta’s truck to the list.

  Ray explained to Rodney what had happened after En-ki Ab-zu had flown off with him. A high-ranking Seraph named Barachiel had taken Pinwheel to be transformed into an angel through a process called calcation. Flying into the head of the Prince of Darkness isn’t part of the process, but it seemed an expedient use of it.

  While the angels were dispensing with the last of the demons, Ray had jumped into the truck and had taken the back road up the mountain, avoiding the firetrucks and police that were speeding to his house. The cover story was to be as vague as possible—mention having to pick up Lucasta’s “nephew” who was flying in, and then imply engine trouble.

  “There’s one last problem,” Ray said.

  Pinwheel was jolted out of his playfulness, and Rodney’s face fell quickly into concern.

  Ray grimaced. “We can’t call you Pinwheel.”

  Pinwheel seemed crestfallen. “But that’s who I am.”

  Rodney patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pinwheel, we can just give you a first name. Like,” he paused, gathering names, “Tommy or Billy Pinwheel. That sounds good.”

  Pinwheel made a sour face.

  “No, no,” chimed Ray. “His name is Peter. Peter Pinwheel, the Stone from Heaven.”

  Pinwheel nodded his agreement and practiced a wide-toothed grin.

  Rodney tried it on his tongue. “Peter Pinwheel. Peter. I like it.”

  “Me, too,” said the newly christened Peter.

  “Petey, Pete-ster, Petunia.” Ray spitballed.

  Rodney slapped his forehead. “Get used to it, Pete. Ray won’t ever call you by your real name again.”

  * * *

  They picked up Lucasta and drove to the remains of the Corleonis. Al was still there in conference with the fire chief. Ray only had to mention that he was picking up Peter before Al launched into the minor earthquake and sinkhole explanation. He went into great detail about the tree that had speared his cruiser and that Otis had visited at the moment of the earthquake, but had been thrown to safety. There was even talk of a pocket of natural gas that might’ve been the cause of some powerfully real hallucinations. Ray admitted that he’d had more than a few strange visions lately.

  Rodney’s mom arrived looking haggard and bewildered. She rushed out and hugged Rodney and punched Ray’s arm. Once she surveyed the wreckage of the Corleonis, Rodney had to endure another round of suffocating hugs, but Ray got off with a couple of shoulder squeezes. Both winced over their nicks and scrapes and bruises.

  They all piled into the van and drove to the hospital to visit Otis. He was awake and bandaged, with his arm in a sling. Ray launched into the official explanation, describing the sinkhole and even pantomiming the collapse of his house while Otis nodded in wide-eyed relief. Otis was especially convinced about the pocket of natural gas causing hallucinations. He insisted that Ray was far more affected by it than he knew and forgave him for his oddity over the years. Ray stayed with him that night, and as the others left the two, they were in deep and jolly conversation.

  * * *

  By the end of summer, Ray had already made plans for a new house, something boatlike with a circular dome and some sort of lighthouse tower on top. They were clearing out a space for it in front of the sinkhole, which was slowly filling up with water. At the rate it was going, it would be a pond before the end of the year.

  Ray had quickly converted the shed into a loft where he showered and slept. For his meals he hiked down to Lucasta’s.

  The rabbits returned, as well. Jerome and Ebenezer first, then Thundertrump with a brood of eight—and a sleek, light-gray cottontail soon named Skylight. Peter was hard at work naming the eight babies.

  Virginia decided to quit her job in Tennessee and move back to Twin Rivers. She found a nice house around the corner from White Pine Baptist church and began constructing a website to expand Ray’s woodworking business. Rodney rode out to Ray’s every day to help him clear land or construct rocking chairs.

  As August was drawing to a close, when the hemisphere had gone as far into heat as it could and was beginning to slip into cooler weeks, Ray had everyone over for a groundbreaking ceremony. Lucasta and Peter, Virginia and Rodney, Al and his wife, and even Otis. They’d become close again now that Ray was done talking about demons. Plus, Gerald had called his father to let him know he was doing better and that he’d visit sometime soon.

  Ray stood up from the newly constructed picnic table and raised a glass of crisp apple cider, crooking a thumb into his denim overalls. He wore a bright new tie-dyed shirt underneath. “Friends, family,” he paused as though aligning a constellation of words. “We gather here today to break bread and break ground on a new home.”

  He paused and gestured toward the pond where his house had once sat. “We bid goodbye to the Corleonis, the Heart of the Lion, also known as the Honeycomb House. It was a worthy home.” He bowed his head, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I name the pond in its place my own Little Galilee.”

  He lifted his eyes and gave a wink to Rodney. Rodney hopped off his chair and ran over to grab the shovel leaning against the shed. He handed it to Ray, who placed a foot upon it and set its edge to the earth. He then looked up at the crowd.

  “Today is the beginning of my new home. Of course this means it must have a new name. You’ve all seen the plans, you’ve seen the point like a prow cutting the sea, you’ve seen the dome rising like a forecastle of a ship and the marvelous lighthouse on top. Therefore I name her,” here he stuck the shovel into the ground and eased up a wedge of earth, “the Argonautica. May she sail atop this planet for many years. I look forward to riddling her walls with my ancient glyphs and symbols.”

  Rodney rolled his eyes, his mother shook her head, Otis frowned, and Al looked over to his wife and shrugged. Lucasta and Peter, however, gleefully clapped their hands. He tossed the dirt to the side and then held out the shovel to Rodney. “Rowdy Roddy, wanna dig a hole?”

  Rodney made two quick thrusts into the dirt. He held out the shovel, but Peter erupted in a high pitched “wheeeee!” and dove into the hole hands first to add his own efforts to the project, throwing scoops of earth between his legs. They all laughed at his exuberance.

  “Peter, honey, try not to get every speck of dirt on yourself,” cautioned Lucasta. In her lap she petted a puppy, his skin like a pile of fuzzy laundry. He was a black lab named Darius who had learned to hop like a rabbit.

  Otis took the shovel from Rodney and took three furious stabs at the earth. Otis passed the shovel to Al who jostled his broad shoulders and set his jaw.

  Suddenly it had become a competition. He hefted four loads of soil and flung them wide. He held the shovel up to the three ladies who each in turn declined. Otis snatched it back and stood on the foot rests, c
ausing the blade to sink into the ground. Roots popped and cracked as he leaned back and wiggled up the dirt edge. Al sucked his teeth and flexed his hands.

  As the digging duel continued, Ginny came up behind her son and draped her arms around him. She put her lips near his ear and whispered, “How are you, Rodney?”

  He leaned back into her embrace and replied, “I love sunshine, I love sunshine, I love sunshine.”

  Ray motioned him to follow with a tick of his head. They walked around the shed, where they’d dragged the remains of Ray’s car, a burnt-out metal husk.

  “When’re you gonna get a new car, uncle Ray?”

  “I don’t need one, really. Lucasta lets me use Eggy whenever I need.”

  “Eggy?” Rodney scrunched his nose.

  “Yeah, ’swhat I call her truck.” Ray squinted and scratched his beard. “Or maybe I should call it Embryota, like embryo and Toyota.”

  “Lucasta’s truck is a Ram, though.”

  Ray frowned. “Like I said, Eggy. Anyway, my point is, can you believe she didn’t name her truck?” He chuckled to himself, then added, “But that’s not what I brought you back here for.” He walked behind the wreck, the tall grass shushing against his work boots, and lifted a wooden bat that was leaning against the shed. He patted the barrel against his palm then held it out to Rodney.

  “Made you a gift. Ray of Hope bat company is back in production for a limited time only.”

  Rodney accepted the shaft. The weight caused his arms to dip before he adjusted to it. “Cool.” It was smoother than Libra and weighted more perfectly up and down the shaft.

  “It’s a bit heavier,” Ray said as Rodney appraised the wood. “You might not realize, but you’ve gotten stronger.”

  Rodney rolled it over in his hand to read the inscription. Written in a swerving font was the word Ophiuchus followed by .

  “O-few-choos?”

  “O-fee-yu-kiss, I think,” Ray said. “Means, snake-wrangler.”

  Rodney sighed, running his fingers over the groove of the letters. “Everyone has a special name . . . ” His voice trailed off without finishing. His mother had told him that she was going back to Lauter, stranding him with Niemand. His father had put off seeing him until Christmas. He still felt like he was a burden, burdened with a name nobody wanted.

  Ray seemed to read his heart, and gestured to the field. “A name is like a house, Rodney. It takes time to build, but the both of us are building on a firm foundation. We got a lot of work ahead of us, and even when the house is built, it won’t be finished for many more years after that.”

  “What happens when a name is finished?”

  “A good story never ends.”

  They turned back to look on the little gathering. Lucasta had Peter in her lap and was trying to clean his face while he squirmed. Darius was down in the grass and nipping at Peter’s flailing heels.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . ” Ray paused and looked at the ground before finding Rodney’s eyes again. “I couldn’t have done this without you. I mean the whole higgledy-piggledy with Hell, not the destruction of my home. I coulda done that on my own.”

  Rodney laughed.

  “Lucy Skyskipper over there has been on my case to apologize for dragging you into it all, but I’m not so sure you shouldn’t be thanking me?” He gave Rodney a squinty-eyed smirk.

  “Thanks, Uncle Ray,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “I couldn’t have nearly died many times without you.”

  Ray laughed again and slapped Rodney on the back. “Rod Ness Monster, we make a pretty good team. Now go save Peter. I think Lucy is about to lick her thumbs and go after his eyebrows.”

  Rodney looked back to see the angels still tussling, Peter bobbing and weaving his head while Lucasta moistened her thumb. “Too late,” he said.

  “Eh, might as well enjoy the show.”

  Peter squealed as though hot irons were being applied to him.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Rodney and Peter took up bat, ball, and glove, and made their way into the field on the other side of the pond. They’d spent the summer throwing and hitting. In this time Peter had developed quite a home-run trot. After a big looping swing that often sent him corkscrewing into the ground, he’d flip the bat, take a running skip, and stretch out his arms to airplane around their imaginary basepaths. The final stretch to home included cartwheels, but he filled the rest of the run with pirouettes and spins to keep Rodney laughing.

  Rodney lost three rounds of paper-rock-scissors, so he won the right to serve up gopher balls for Peter to smack into the darkening woods.

  After several home-run trots, when the ball was becoming too hard to find, they retreated to the rabbit pen. Peter began reciting the names of the baby rabbits skittering around. “Robin, Graystoke, Blackberry, Boaz, Maggie, Iggy, Gypsum, and Butterscotch.”

  “Where did you get those names?”

  Peter looked over and smiled. “From all over. I’ve been reading books.” He crouched down next to Rodney and plucked a bit of tall grass with his fingers.

  Rodney looked into Peter’s slate gray eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask what’s going to happen to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re an angel now. Don’t you have, like, angel things to do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what are you doing? Has Lucasta told you yet?”

  Peter’s voice dropped as he spoke in raspy eagerness. “I’ll be doing what I’ve been doing.”

  Rodney’s face flashed with puzzlement. “What’s that?”

  “Ever since, well, as Birthless, I was without anchor and goal. I was lost. A stray before I strayed.”

  “I’ve felt that way, too.”

  “But then I was summoned by Ray to Twin Rivers.”

  Rodney snorted and smiled. “That happened to me too.”

  “I was given a mission, to watch over you. That was not my job from Murkpockets or the Old Master. My job was given to me by the Name. I was and I am your guardian angel.”

  Rodney’s eyes went wide and he let his mouth drop. “But, but . . . ” His mind rushed over the events of their adventure, Pinwheel’s role, his help and protection every step of the way. How everything was leading them to this point.

  “I think we’re stuck together, Rodney.”

  Rodney swung his hand around and clasped Peter’s. “Peter Pinwheel, it’s great to have you on board.”

  He shook Rodney’s hand. “Rodney Niemand, we make a great team.”

  They were both startled by a burst of dust in front of them as Thundertrump landed with a deep thud. She knelt down and raised her haunches, wiggling her tail. Without warning she jutted side to side.

  Rodney looked over at his guardian. “Up for a little rabbit wrangling?”

  “Yeah, whoever catches her gets the other’s ice cream on his apple cobbler.”

  “You know Lucasta will give us as much ice cream as we can eat.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” They both stood.

  “Okay, new deal. Whoever catches Thunder first gets to bat for the rest of the week.”

  “Then you better save up your energy for chasing my homers.” He gave Peter a shove.

  Thundertrump juked and bolted into the open field. Peter and Rodney stumbled and clambered after her.

  In the shadow of that great mount—wearing the crushed stone serpent like a crown—and in the darkness where the Snake wended its way toward the Wine to be usurped, the city of Twin Rivers found rest, and as night descended the stars came out to watch the rolling earth.

  AFTERWORD

  CAN DEMONS BE SAVED?

  Strays was born out of a little fairy tale that I told my young sons called “The Little Lost Demon.” It was about a boy who convinced a lost demon that sunshine is glorious and baseball
is fun. It was a tale meant to teach my son about the transformative nature of love and the fun nature of baseball.

  As this was scaled upward into a novel, the mechanics of plot required a form of realism that a fairy tale ignores; therefore, the demon of “The Little Lost Demon” could no longer be an allegory for the unloveable and unenlightened among the world, but (seemingly) a minion of Hell who sides with the angels. The question is then raised: Could this be a true story?

  As I see it, there are three possible answers explaining how Pinwheel could be among demons, but be Rodney’s guardian angel.

  The first is, Yes, demons can repent and be saved.

  Obviously the Bible is not concerned with giving this information, but I will say, without delving into deep theological discourse, that evidence given to the contrary is greatly exaggerated. The only definitive response to such a question is that we don’t know. Every treatise on the matter that I’ve read is too quick to assume that angel in the Bible means Divine Being. The word translated as angel in both Hebrew and Greek first and foremost means messenger, and any time you see it in Scripture, you ought think of a human being until it becomes absolutely clear that there is no possible way it can be a human being.

  This answer is very pleasing to me and is the simplest explanation for the novel.

  The second answer is, No, but Pinwheel is not a demon; he is an angel among demons.

  While resolving one sticky theological aspect, it raises its own questions and it would, I imagine, require its own book to explain.

  But it also pleases me, because, obviously, I love stories about the gulling of the devil. This new story would have the marks of a spy thriller: deep undercover alias, amnesia, crossings and double-crossings and maybe even triple-crossings. Good stories seem to climax with three crosses.