Beasts Made of Night

by Tochi Onyebuchi

  A man stops in front of me to adjust his creaking auto-mail leg, fiddling with the metal gears and knobs in his fake limb. The metal that starts below his knee looks clean and sturdy, but it’s gray and not at all like the precious metals or glittering stones the Kayas wear. Looks sturdy, but it creaks. The half-limbed mostly hail from north of Kos, and I have to admit that the sight of their auto-mail arms and shoulders and knees gives me the creeps. I shouldn’t talk, given that’s the way most people feel about aki, and it’s true that a lot of the gearhead girls who solder the auto-mail are cute. But still.

  The heat’s starting to get that wet, heavy quality about it. I can tell because my puff’s starting to droop. That doesn’t stop the flies. So now I have them to deal with, and the guy in front of me is starting to stink. I’m sick of this.

  I break out of the line and march around the corner till I get to the front. I push past the merchants without a word but murmur some apologies for the old ladies. When I get to the front of the line, I give Nazim’s door three sharp raps.

  Someone grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The merchant’s nasty onion breath practically knocks me off my feet. Jewelry gleams around his neck and wrists. He hasn’t let go of my shirt. Yanks me close. “Back of the line with you, Forum rat.”

  “Oga.” I grin. “You kiss your wife with that mouth?”

  The man’s eyes shoot wide open. The crowd stirs, anticipating a fight.

  A knife comes out, catches the sunlight. The merchant lunges forward.

  I catch the merchant’s knife with my own, then yank his arm behind his back. He falls to his knees instantly. The gems on his rings shine in the sunlight. Gaudy and wasteful. This guy has no taste.

  “Don’t do it to yourself, old man,” I mutter into his ear as he struggles against my grip. A fly buzzes insistently by my nose, and I blow it away. It’s got more heart than the guy on his knees in front of me, that’s for sure.

  A gasp ripples through the crowd, and I look up to see everyone inching away, eyes glued to my arms. That’s when I realize that in the scuffle, my sleeves were pulled farther back, and now the tattoos on my forearms and fingers are in open view. “Look at that aki. I’ve never seen one with so many marks,” one of them whispers.

  I kick at Nazim’s door again and hope I don’t have to wait like this too much longer. The merchant is starting to struggle harder, and the murmurs from the crowd are growing. A couple more seconds, and their shock will turn to disgust and then eventually anger. I pray to the Unnamed that Nazim will open the door. He won’t be pleased that I’ve exposed myself as an aki. There are plenty of folks who won’t patron the same places as aki, but it’s too late for that now.

  “Let go of me!” the merchant shouts, kicking at me. I yank his arm even farther up, and he yelps and falls down again. Two more seconds, then more knives’ll come out.

  Come on, Nazim. Open the door already.

  I’m running out of time. The line has dissolved, and now a crowd of men forms around me. They’re ready for violence. I press my back against the door, holding the merchant in front of me as a shield.

  “Nazim.” I kick at the closed door. “Any second now!”

  More men push to the front. Someone pulls a dagger out from his sleeve. More follow.

  I guess this is how it ends then. Thanks to some Forum flies and my big mouth. I let go of the merchant and kick him toward the crowd. I crouch, pulling my daga free. It’ll be like fighting sin-beasts, I tell myself. Only about fifty of them. At once.

  Just as they’re about to charge, the door opens behind me.

  I fall backward onto the poor money broker, who catches me in his arms. Nazim rights me, his shock turning into amusement.

  “Taj,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

  At the sight of the money broker, the crowd of merchants instantly softens. I wait until they put away their blades before I stand up and sheathe my knife.

  “It’s hot, sir. You know how the weather can sometimes make us behave.”

  Nazim is shaking his head. I know.

  With a firm hand on my arm, he ushers me through the doorway and into his office. I don’t let go of the breath I’ve been holding until I hear the door close shut behind us. Another day in the life of an aki.

  On his desk are neatly arranged piles of parchment with what I can only guess are accounts written on them. Nazim takes a seat behind his desk and motions to the chair opposite him.

  “Please,” he says in his clipped, proper southern dialect.

  I brush the dust off my cloak, run my fingers through my puff, and try to get it nice and round again. It’s cooler in here than it was outside. Much cooler.

  “Taj, I would really prefer if you didn’t make a business of driving away my business.”

  “Nazim, I try. Really, I do.” I sit down and sprawl my legs. The straighter his back is, the more mine wants to curl. The straighter his legs when he sits, the more mine lounge. “But you have some very unseemly customers outside that door. I might have even seen some smugglers. Illegal spices. Forbidden texts. You never know who might come to your door with some dirty ramzi that needs scrubbing.”

  “Now, Taj,” Nazim says, “you know I do not discriminate in my provision of services. I am at the behest of the community.”

  “Sure.” I fish the pouch of coins out from under my shirt and toss it onto his table. It lands with a satisfying thud.

  Nazim gives me a long look, and I can tell he wants to ask where I got that much ramzi from. But his business relies on discretion, so he merely sits back in his chair. “Now, will we be sending all of this home?”

  He wants to know if I want to keep any of it for myself, but I remember the marker in my pouch and the sin I Ate to get it. “Yes. All of it.”

  Nazim dips his stylus into the inkpot, pulls a sheet of parchment from a pile, and scribbles on it in silence.

  I wonder if he ever thinks about how those figures and names he writes on his sheet will turn into money for families to feed themselves. I wonder if he ever thinks of the lives attached to the money he sends and receives. To be honest, I wonder if any money brokers think about that sort of thing.

  As Nazim writes, I close my eyes and think of Mama, and I think of Baba. I try to remember their faces, but other faces swim into view. Smirking princes and preening princesses. It’s getting harder and harder to see them, Mama and Baba. Their faces.

  I never told Nazim about that time Mama got sick and Baba had to hire an aki to cure her. And I never told him about how much it had cost us. But he has probably heard enough stories like it—he would not be surprised.

  Nazim clears his throat. I open my eyes to see that he’s divided the ramzi into small, equal piles. I can’t tell how long he’s been looking at me. I quickly blink away any trace of tears. There’s a gentleness to Nazim’s smile. Like he wants to nurse me to health or something. I shift my eyes away. I don’t need pity. I can’t feed Mama and Baba with that.

  “So, how does it look?” I mutter.

  “It looks fine, Taj.” Nazim slides a piece of paper toward me. “The code.”

  I take his stylus, dip it in too much ink, then scribble a series of numbers. It’s the same series of numbers I’ve been using ever since I started sending money back home to my parents, a code known only to me, Nazim, and my parents. Nazim halves one of the piles and separates it. His commission.

  “Is there anything else today?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks for this.”

  “As always, my son.” He nods, his eyes soft. “Be well.”

  “You know me,” I say as I head for the door. I don’t know if the crowd is still out there, waiting for me to emerge. Part of me doesn’t care. “Have I ever not been able to take care of myself?”

  I wave lazily over my shoulder
and walk outside, shutting the door behind me.

  The line outside is orderly again. There are new people at the front. None of the regulars who were moments away from gutting me. I almost wish they were still there. I’m itching for another fight, and I can’t figure out why. Then I remember the marker in my pouch and how badly I was cheated for Eating Prince Haris’s sin.

  When I get home, a bunch of aki are gathered in a room on the top floor of our dwelling around a massive plate of fufu. Everyone has a small bowl of pepper soup next to them. Dented metal bowls of water for hand-washing ring the table. Bo’s there. So’s Ifeoma. The bear tattoo running along her arm is fading. Jai’s cousin, Emeka, sits next to her, rolling his bit of fufu into a small ball with one hand, then scooping it into his bowl of pepper soup before slipping the whole thing into his mouth. He has a new stud made of coal in his ear, and I remember he was there at Jai’s burial. A couple other aki sit or lie around the room. Sade has her legs stretched out, a snake tattooed around each ankle. She fiddles with the blue jewel on her necklace while Tolu stands by the window overlooking the neighboring dahia, etching ever-widening circles into the clay with his daga.

  I pause at the doorway, taking in the familiarity of it all. When I make my way into the room, all heads turn.

  “Taj!” Sade shouts and pulls something out of the bag next to her. It’s an auto-mail arm.

  “Ewoooo,” Ifeoma pleads. “Put that away-oh. We are eating, na.”

  Sade jumps up and walks over to me. Everyone shifts out of the way, plates rattling as they do. Bo catches the platter of fufu just in time to move it back to the center. Tolu has stopped carving the clay windowsill and only stares, tense. Sade’s holding out the metal limb, practically thrusting it in my face. Everyone waits for my reaction.

  Emeka sucks his teeth. “You do not know who that thing has touched, Sade. Put it away.”

  “I found it in the Forum,” Sade says, excitedly. “Just lying there. It’s a little rusty, but it moves just fine.” She twists it at the elbow. Bits of dust and rust fall away, and Ifeoma lets out a yelp and scurries away from the plate of fufu. “It’s not a snake,” Sade chides.

  “You know how they bang metal up north, Sade,” Ifeoma shoots back. “They are heretics up there. Unbelievers. Right, Bo?”

  Bo silently picks a small ball from the mountain of fufu and rolls it. He has his back to me, but I can tell he’s smirking, so I chuckle too.

  “The arashi won’t find us and burn down our home because a half-limb left his arm in the street for us,” I joke. I’m afraid to touch it, but I do anyway, because I can’t let the others see me scared. Besides, like Sade said, it’s not a snake. The metal is supposed to be cursed, Unbalanced. Man’s attempt to replace what the Unnamed has taken out.

  It’s cool to the touch. And except for the grooves where dirt has caught, it’s as smooth as our water bowls. I run my fingers along its fingers. The joints feel weird to touch, but it doesn’t bite or burn like I half expect it to. “See? It’s nothing.” I toss it to Tolu, who lets out a shriek and covers her head.

  “TAJ!”

  Everyone bursts out laughing. Emeka falls on his side, clutching his stomach. Fufu stains his shirt because he couldn’t wash his hands in time. Bo’s shoulders shake as he tries to hold in his chuckling. He calmly washes his hands, then gets up and walks over to where the auto-mail arm lies on the ground. He picks it up, turning it around in his hand.

  “It balances just fine,” he says, joking. “Back home, most of the men are miners. It is common to lose an arm or a leg in an accident farming metal for the Kayas. Is it wrong for those from the north to make us gifts like these?”

  And that’s when I notice that little aki in the corner. Omar. That kid I saw after Jai’s burial. He hasn’t moved this whole time. He’s so distraught he can’t even be bothered to be scared of a little auto-mail.

  Ifeoma glares at the metal limb from across the room. “Eh-heh, when misfortune finds you, we shall see. Keep that thing around and pretty soon we will all be wearing extra coal in our ears.”

  Bo walks over to me, but then the little aki in the corner climbs to his feet and tugs the back of Bo’s shirt.

  “What’s arashi?”

  His voice is so soft, it’s almost like he’s never used it before. Everyone turns to look at Omar, and I can sense them all softening. Nothing like a homeless little kid who’s just discovered he’s aki to get all of us to forget our differences.

  “Arashi,” Bo starts. “They’re . . .”

  “They’re the reason we have work,” I butt in, and everyone’s all smiles again. “Speaking of which . . .” I fish my marker out of my pocket and hold it up to the light. “It’s time for us to get paid. Costa’s shop has to be open by now.”

  Bo throws his hands up in the air. “But we were eating. Let us at least finish our fufu.”

  “Eat as much as you want,” I say, heading for the door, “but you know what they say: Make hay while the sun shines.”

  Sade follows me. “Time and tide wait for no one,” she shouts, grabbing her armband and daga on the way out.

  The others get up and gather their things, but Bo sits firm.

  “I have not eaten all day. If this spoils, may the Unnamed punish you.” He nods in Omar’s direction. “I’ll see you in the Forum later.”

  I nod and look over at Omar. His eyes are wide.

  “Let’s go, little one. Time to get some fresh air.”

  I look to Bo and grin. He rolls his eyes but smiles back.

  I can’t pull the same trick I did in the Forum when I go to redeem my marker: show a little sin-spotted skin and scare people out of the way. Because now I’m standing in a line of aki. And, well, sin-spots are nothing they haven’t already seen.

  Most of the aki in line are closer to my age, which is nice because then they’re not staring at how many tattoos I have, or fawning over me. Omar is next to me. I pretend not to notice how he follows me closer than my shadow.

  The boy looks up. “Sky-Fist,” he whispers.

  I wince, but it’s better than Lightbringer. “Omar, right?”

  “Yeah.” He sticks his hand out, palm up. “May the Unnamed protect you, Sky-Fist.”

  I slide my hand palm-down over his.

  When Omar pulls his hand back, eyes glowing, I can see the fresh mark of a snarling rat on the inside of his wrist. I hadn’t noticed it before. A small sin, maybe a theft or a vicious bit of gossip. He doesn’t have an armband or even a daga yet. I can’t imagine how he managed to finally kill the inisisa. It must have exhausted him.

  “Congratulations.” I nod at the mark. “Your first?”

  He nods, suddenly shy.

  “How was it?”

  “It?”

  “Killing it. Eating it, you know.” I can barely remember what it was like when I was in his shoes, but I do remember it wasn’t fun. “You look like a tough kid. I bet it was easy.”

  “It was right before I met you.” Omar stares at his sandals, shuffles back and forth. “The beast was fast. But once I got past my fear, I knew what to do. The hard part was after, when I had to Eat the sin.” Omar looks up at me and fishes a marker from a pouch inside his shirt. “The Mage gave me a chit and told me to come here to collect my money.”

  I can see from the marker’s etches that he’s only gonna get a couple ramzi. Hopefully, he doesn’t have to worry about sending money to anyone else for food. Hopefully, he just has to worry about himself. He goes back to scratching the life out of that tattoo, and my heart kind of breaks for the kid.

  “You can’t scratch it like that. You’re gonna hurt yourself bad if you keep at it.”

  “It hurts,” Omar whispers through gritted teeth. “How . . . how do you make the feeling stop?”

  “Stop scratching.” I shrug.

  “No.” Omar hesitates, then taps hi
s finger against his temple. “In here. I feel bad, like I did something wrong. Only I know I didn’t.”

  I grab his hand, close my fingers over his tattoo so he can’t get at it anymore. “That’s not your sin to worry about. Those feelings? They’re not yours. Just think about yourself. Nobody else.”

  I flex my free hand so he can see the tattoos that wind around my fingers. “We’re supposed to carry the guilt, and the more we think of our sins, what we did, what we thought, the more we are supposed to hurt. But these aren’t our sins. We didn’t do this. So these aren’t ours to think about. Make sense?”

  I can tell from the look on Omar’s face that it doesn’t, but someday it will.

  “Don’t think about the people who sinned. Don’t think about the sin and who it was done to. Just think about killing the sin-beast and getting paid. What’s the only thing in the world you should ever think about?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “You.” I let go of the kid’s wrist. I can tell Omar doesn’t quite buy it, which makes me kind of glad in spite of myself. He’s skeptical by nature, like me.

  The kid looks around at all the aki gathered here. With the coal or the jewels studded in their ears. With the stones in their necklaces or bracelets or anklets to remind them of their pasts. With their sin-spots to remind them of their present.

  “We can’t ever go back, can we?” His voice is small, but there’s a new edge to it. He’s learning how to be angry. “We can’t ever go back home?”

  “Once our eyes change? No.” I can’t remember the last time I saw Mama’s and Baba’s faces. This kid is gonna have to get used to that.

  “My sister’s Jeweling ceremony is soon.” He sniffs, then balls his fists at his side. “I can’t go now because I’m aki.”

  I’m not good at this. Usually, Bo handles this part. Whenever aki get homesick or mourn the life they’ve had to leave behind, he’s the one who takes them aside and cheers them up. He’s the one who helps them adjust. Me? I’m just the handsome big brother they’re all supposed to want to be like.