by Paula Guran
“You hand over the coin and you forget the boy,” he says, “and within a week or two you have an unexplained cut or bruise.”
The purple-eyed boy’s name was Tom. He had been with the god for many years. He liked the work. It involved travel, and was an outdoor job. He rose as soon as the sun did, because he slept well. He slept in a broad bed, slept like a starfish, in a dark room. The god did not allow him to have a light in his bedroom.
“Night is for sleeping,” said the god, “and sleep is important.”
But the god’s room was filled with light—it slid under his door like a living fungus, and Tom heard him snuffling and grunting in there all night.
He was an incurious child, turned that way by fear. The god liked to talk about the others who held the position before him.
“Better off not keeping any money for yourself,” said the god. “I had a boy called Richard once, a boy like you. He worried about the money so much he choked on a coin, it swelled up and filled his throat so he couldn’t breathe for all the money in the world.”
Tom did not remember any other life than this. He did not think about the lives of other people. He always returned to the god after his day’s work.
“Freedom is over-rated,” the god told him. “I had a boy who looked like you once. Gerald wanted to talk about freedom but no one tells you anything when you’re locked up in jail. Just the other inmates and all they tell you is how pretty you are, pretty pretty, how they love you and how lonely they are. Do you know about loneliness, Tom?” Tom nodded.
Tom knew the god did terrible things. He went out and did terrible things then came home to rest.
Each time, Tom would have to work hard, on the streets to collect the coins, then in the kitchen to melt them into a liquid the god could work with. He wasn’t to rest during the melting time. Each coin had to be plopped into the cauldron and stirred, plop and stir, plop and stir, and there were thousands of coins at a time. If he paused in his stirring for a moment, the god would roar from wherever he was, and Tom’s ears would burn.
Then Tom could rest for a day or two. Eat and sit in the garden, breathe and sit. The god stayed down in the basement, building his armor.
The god looked very handsome when he left home in his suit made of coins. He had gloves and socks, pants and a full jacket. He had a hat with a flap to cover his face. The whole thing glistened and shivered.
He would come back from a trip with rips and scratches, and give the suit to Tom to throw away. Tom would begin his job on the street again, collecting coins from the people.
It took a lot of coins to make a suit but the god could wait. He had patience.
“Where did that cut come from? You might remember the boy if I describe him to you. The eyes are purple, like the moment before dawn when you haven’t slept, when you lay there all night and begged for sleep. The hair is black as the devil’s soul. The teeth are white, they smile at you with love so you can’t help but hand over a coin.”
The god was very old, and very cruel. He only killed people who were loved. He wanted those left behind to suffer. He killed people whose greed brought them across his path, even if the greedy moment had occurred a long time ago, and the meeting was only a distant consequence. He took risks to complete his tasks—the god was very old, and very cruel—though truly the risks were not great, because he was in no danger, not with his suit on, not with people suffering cuts and bruises for him.
The closest he came to danger was when one of Tom’s predecessors had become lazy and stolen coins from a church charity box. These coins had passed through fewer hands and provided a weak link. He had dived into the water with a little girl and stayed under, his golden fingers digging into her flesh, his eyes seeing well through the mesh of his mask. He watched her face, her eyes, felt her pathetic struggle.
Then he began to choke. The weakened suit only just gave him time to anchor the body into the mud in the bed of the river and rise carefully to the surface.
After he made his new suit, he disposed of his lazy assistant. He told Tom the stories of his predecessors because he wanted Tom to learn from their mistakes. Tom would stay young as long as he stayed loyal.
“He smells like lavender in an ancient closet or of your mother or of whatever makes you feel guilty.”
Tom was a fearful boy and he did as the god told him. He listened when the god spoke and did not ask for food when he was hungry or sleep when he was tired.
The god began to trust him, to want to impress him. So Tom heard how the god spent his hours, then he began to accompany him on his outings.
Tom did not have the stomach for his employer’s job. He did not like other people but he did not hate them either, and the sound of tears made him sad.
The god began to give him presents and more food, and sometimes Tom didn’t have to work, he just wandered around the house, looking at his presents. He began to feel the god loved him, and one day, after an enormous meal of quail, seafood, chocolate, cake, cheese, over and over, the god smiled at him. They were slightly hysterical with food. The god described a moment of great pleasure and Tom laughed at the description of a man trying to resuscitate his wife, when she had a cut throat, she wasn’t choking at all, and his air just blew straight out her neck!
They laughed, blowing and puffing for a while. Then Tom said, “Poor husband, though,” and laughed again. The god did not laugh. He stared at Tom then left the table.
Tom thought of ways to leave the god, to kill him, or leave him dying, or tie him up and run away. He was made of flesh like everyone else, just strangely put together. He would die if you stabbed him, or smothered him. You could poison him and he would collapse and Tom would be the savior of many.
The god invited Tom in to watch the making of the suit, and Tom thought he had been forgiven.
The stuff was poured into a large vat, where it shimmered and steamed. Tom felt his skin burning as he watched, and later, when he looked in the mirror, he saw that his nose and cheeks were softly blistered.
“Now, you see, Tom? Can you smell it? Smell the greedy sweat from those people’s palms?”
He handed Tom a coin.
“The special ingredient,” he said. It was an ancient coin, dented by the centuries—a Roman coin.
“Don’t find many of those on the street, hey, boy?” said the god. Tom preferred him to be silent. This joking, this camaraderie, was terrifying.
The god told Tom to drop the coin into the vat and short flames burst out, reaching for Tom. He jumped back.
“It’s very hot,” he whispered. “Very hot.”
The god threw off his robe.
He was naked beneath. His skin was vast and white, his stomach distended as if from some huge feast (though he had not eaten, Tom was certain of that). His penis was engorged. Tom laughed at its hugeness. It couldn’t be real. It was stuck on.
The god turned to face him.
“Can’t have that,” he said. The erection shrank into his body.
He climbed two steps to the rim of the vat.
He tested the liquid with one toe, playing the fool for Tom’s benefit.
“Just right,” he said, and he sank into the bubbling metal.
For one moment, Tom thought he had been released. He thought the god had killed himself, to free Tom because he loved him like a son and didn’t want him to live like this anymore, and Tom could have cried for that love, because no one had loved him like that. He stepped closer to the vat and stared over, hoping for a glimpse to remember the god by.
The metal was drawing together and shaping.
It shaped a face, legs, a stomach. It shaped arms. And the god rose from his bath.
Tom whimpered now, because he knew he would die. He knew the god would not let him see this and live.
The god shook like a dog and drops of hot metal flew from him. One landed on Tom’s cheek, and he smelt burnt flesh before he raised his sleeve to brush it away.
“Off to work,” said the go
d, his voice molten, not strident or mean, but seductive, beautiful. “Why don’t you come along?’
Tom hated to go out with the god. He watched things he could not stop without risking his own life.
They went walking through the city streets where Tom had done his best work. The god watched him collecting for a while. He amused himself while Tom worked. He passed his hand into the stomach of a woman who intended to sell her baby once it was born and he gave a squeeze. The mother barely felt a thing. She would not know until her baby was born dead.
Tom collected the coins and watched his god.
They found a blind man, standing on the curb of a road busy with cars but empty of people. He was puffing in an effort not to weep.
He could not see the purple eyes or the golden suit, he only heard the soft, seductive voice.
“Are you okay?” asked the god.
“I’m a bit lost,” said the blind man, “I’m a bit stupid. I told my family I would be fine on my own, but I’m lost now. I can’t cross the road.”
“There’s plenty of cars coming. Now, a break—no. Wait, after this car then—go.”
Tom watched as the god led the blind man directly into the path of a bus. Both disappeared under the wheels. The god rolled out the other side, scratched and leaping with excitement.
Tom was not brave, but he was not happy to die, either. As he stirred the pot for the next suit, he thought and remembered and planned.
He heard every tale the god had to tell, and remembered much the god had forgotten telling him.
He had a little money of his own—paper money the god had no interest in.
He bought new coins, coins encased in plastic, never touched by human hands.
On the day he meant to leave the god, Tom tried to keep the excitement out of his step as he descended to the kitchen. The god never rose before afternoon. His business went late into the night and he slept in. Tom lit the large stove and set the cauldron ready. He began to drop the coins and watched each melt, watched the liquid spread, each coin becoming part of the golden fluid.
He waited till the pot was half full. He dropped more coins and more, then he heard the heavy footfall of the god pushing his body out of bed.
Tom’s whole body shook as he took the plastic folders from his pocket and, still stirring, tore them open with his teeth. Being careful to keep the rhythm perfect, he plopped the brand new, untouched coins into the pot and stirred.
The plastic he shoved back into his pocket.
The god moved silently, and Tom smelt him first. A smell of metal and a smell of heat.
“When will the material be ready?” he asked, though he saw for himself. Tom thought the mixture smelt different, and hoped the god wouldn’t notice.
“One more hour,” said Tom. The god bent over the pot and sniffed deeply.
He nodded and went to sun himself.
It was hot in the room.
The god made a new suit and went out. He didn’t talk to Tom. Already, Tom barely existed.
The god did not return.
Tom’s limbs began to ache, his hair grayed, fell out, his fingernails grew long and ragged. He couldn’t see well. He couldn’t hear. He breathed loudly through his nose.
He received back the fifty years stolen from him and he knew the god must be dead.
He took nothing from the house. He wanted nothing. He went to a hostel where, until he died, he swept floors and cleaned up vomit, in exchange for food and the freedom to come and go.
“You probably haven’t had an unexplained cut or bruise for a while now, have you?” Tom asks everyone he sees. He cannot stop thinking how he never saw the god die—perhaps there is a new purple-eyed child. He asks everyone he sees, “How did you get that cut? Do you remember where you got that bruise? Have you seen a black-haired child with purple eyes, large teeth?” If Tom ever, receives the answer he fears, he has no plan but terror.
Two-time World Fantasy Award nominee and Shirley Jackson Award winner Kaaron Warren has lived in Melbourne, Sydney, Canberra, and Fiji. She’s sold more than two hundred short stories, three novels (the award-winning Slights, Walking the Tree, and Mistification) and six short story collections including Through Splintered Walls. Her latest short story collection is Cemetery Dance Select: Kaaron Warren.
Even as Philo sashays down a street in Lagos, Nigeria, Rain is trying to right a wrong she’s caused by mixing juju with technology. There is witchcraft in science and a science to witchcraft.
Hello, Moto
Nnedi Okorafor
“African women in general need to know that it’s okay for them to be the way they are—to see the way they are as a strength, and to be liberated from fear and from silence.”
—Wangari Maathai, Kenyan environmental activist and Nobel Laureate
This is a tale you will only hear once. Then it will be gone in a flash of green light. Maybe all will be well after that. Maybe the story has a happy ending. Maybe there is nothing but darkness when the story ends.
We were three women. Three friends. We had goals, hopes and dreams. We had careers. Two of us had boyfriends. We owned houses. We all had love. Then I made these . . . wigs. I gave them to my two friends. The three of us put them on. The wigs were supposed to make things better. But something went wrong. Like the nation we were trying to improve, we became backward. Instead of giving, we took.
Walk with me. This is the story of How the Smart Woman Tried to Right Her Great Wrong.
Dawn
With the wig finally off, Coco and Philo felt more distant to me. Thank God.
Even so, because it was sitting beside me, I could still see them. Clearly. In my head. Don’t ever mix juju with technology. There is witchcraft in science and a science to witchcraft. Both will conspire against you eventually. I realized that now. I had to work fast.
It was just after dawn. The sky was heating up. I’d sneaked out of the compound while my boyfriend still slept. Even the house girl who always woke up early was not up yet. I hid behind the hedge of colorful pink and yellow lilies in the front. I needed to be around vibrant natural life, I needed to smell its scent. The flowers’ shape reminded me of what my real hair would look like if the wig hadn’t burned it off.
I opened my laptop and set it in the dirt. I put my wig beside it. It was jet-black, shiny, the “hairs” straight and long like a mermaid’s. The hair on my head was less than a millimeter long: shorter than a man’s and far more damaged. For a moment, as I looked at my wig, it flickered its electric blue. I could hear it whispering to me. It wanted me to put it back on. I ran my hand over my sore head. Then I quickly tore my eyes from the wig and plugged in the flash drive. As I waited, I brought out a small sack and reached in. I sprinkled cowry shells, alligator pepper and blue beads around the machine for protection. I wasn’t taking chances.
I sat down, placed my fingers on the keyboard, shut my eyes and prayed to the God I didn’t believe in. After all that had happened, who would believe in God? Philo had been in Jos when the riots happened. I knew it was her and her wig. A technology I had created. Neurotransmitters, mobile phones, incantation and hypnosis—even I knew my creation was genius. But all it sparked in the North was death and mayhem. During the riots there, some men had even burned a woman and her baby to death. A woman and her baby!
I didn’t want to think of what Philo gained after causing it all. She never said a word to me about it. However, soon after, she went on a three-day shopping spree in Paris. We could leave Nigeria, but never for more than a few days.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I meant well.” I opened my eyes and looked at my screen. The background was a plain blue. The screen was blank except for a single folder. I highlighted the folder and pressed Delete.
I paused, my hands shaking and my heart pounding in my chest.
“If this doesn’t work, they will kill me,” I whispered. Then I considered what they’d do if I didn’t finish. So many others would die and Nigeria would be in
further chaos, for sure. I continued typing. I was creating a computer virus. I would send it out in a few hours. When they’d both be busy. Then all hell would break loose . . . for me, just me. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.
My name is Rain and if I didn’t get this right, the corruption already rife in this country would be nothing compared to what was to come. And it would all be my fault.
The Market
I am beast. I am lovely. I am in control. I was born beautiful.
All this Philo thought as she walked through the fruit and vegetable section of the open-air market. Around her, women slaved away. They sat behind tables and in booths selling tomatoes, peppers, plantain, egusi seeds, greens, yams. All those things that they’d have to cook at home for their families after a long day. Philo didn’t live that life. She’d chosen better. She was above all of them.
Philo was tall and voluptuous, as she sashayed past women and men in her pricey high heels and a brown designer dress that clung to her every inch. Her foundation makeup made her skin look like chocolate porcelain. Her eyelids sparkled with purple eye shadow. Her lips glistened bright sensual pink. Perfect. Sexy. Hot. And her wig was awful. A washed-out black with auburn frosted tips, it looked as if it were made of colored straw and it sat on her head as if it knew it did not belong there.
“Here,” a woman said, running up to Philo and handing her a roll of naira. “Take. You will make better use of it than me.” The woman paused and frowned, obviously confused by her own actions and words.
“Thank you,” Philo said, with a chuckle. She grabbed the money with her long-nailed painted fingers and stared into the woman’s eyes. Philo felt her wig heat up and then a dull ache in the back of her head. Then she felt it behind her eyes, which turned from deep brown to glowing green. Philo sighed as the laser shot from her eyes into the woman’s eyes. The woman slumped, looking sadly at her feet. It always felt so good to take from people, not just their money but their very essence. Philo quickly moved on, leaving the tired, sad-looking woman behind.
