Beasts Made of Night

by Tochi Onyebuchi

  But the kid in my arms starts whimpering, and I have to bounce him a little bit to get him to quiet. We don’t know if any Mages or guards are around. I can’t stop thinking about how unblemished this little boy’s arms and legs are, pure where mine are marked. It makes me feel dirty, and I know I can’t let Mama and Baba see me like this. Mama would avoid looking at my marks, would whisper, “What have they done to you?” and Baba would just stand there, still as a statue, with that look on his face like he knows I’m suffering and he’s suffering because of it, but neither of us knows any other way. No, they don’t need to see me like this.

  It’s not too long before Auntie Sania up ahead motions for us to stop. Auntie Nawal continues down the empty street and looks both ways to make sure it’s clear, then leads us down a dark alley to a wall covered by a wet curtain. She raises the curtain to reveal an opening, and we hurry through. As soon as the flap closes, both Aunties look at me sternly, in that way that makes me feel guilty. Like I should be taking better care of myself.

  Auntie Nawal steps closer to me. “Bo tells us you’ve been getting into fights lately.”

  I look away and run a hand through my hair, puffing out the side because I can’t think what else to do. “Bo talks too much.”

  “I don’t think there are very many people in Kos who would agree that talking too much is Bo’s problem.” Auntie Nawal snorts out a laugh. “You should stop by more often. There is always a warm meal waiting for you here.”

  I nod to the hidden entrance to the marayu, the orphanage. “You have a lot more mouths to feed now. Besides, I can take care of myself.” I shrug. “Whenever I get called to the Palace to Eat, I come back with a full belly anyway.” I wink and turn to leave.

  “Taj,” Auntie Sania calls out. She has chestnut eyes that tug downward at the edges so that even when she smiles, she looks sad. “Your hair’s gotten so long. Do the girls like it?”

  “Yes, Auntie. The girls like it.” The smirk slips off my face. I feel tired all of a sudden. “Auntie, I have to go.”

  “Be well, Taj.” She puts a hand on my exposed forearm, noting the new lion on it.

  Both women vanish into the enclosure.

  I turn and see Bo leaning against a wall at the mouth of the alley. He’s got a small tear on his sleeve, but other than that and a little bit of dust in his hair, he doesn’t have a mark on him. When I get next to Bo, I wrap my arm around his neck.

  “You’ve been talking about me behind my back?”

  I try to wrestle him to the ground. Before I know it, he’s got both of my arms locked behind my back. How he moves so quickly, I have no idea.

  “It’s for your own good, brother,” Bo says. He’s not even breathing hard. I slither out of his hold and glare at him.

  “I’m hungry. Zoe’s?” Bo cracks his neck.

  I nod. “Zoe’s.”

  All around us, people are cleaning up from the Baptism. Pulling precious broken things out from under the rubble. Sweeping the entrances to their homes. Restacking stones.

  “You think I’ll have any luck this time around?” I ask. My back is screaming at me, and my knees tremble with fatigue. “What if we run into girls from Ithnaan? You think it’ll be the same ones as last time?”

  Bo chuckles. “You better hope not.”

  “Well, if they don’t like my hair, at least Auntie Sania says it’s nice.” I start to pluck at it, try to get the curliness to puff out all the way. There’s dust and grit and sweat all in it, so I have quite a bit of work to do if I’m gonna be presentable by the time we get to Zoe’s.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE SOUND OUTSIDE, in the Forum and in the dahia, is sharp. It crackles in your ears. Different languages, the clink of ramzi in purses. Here, at Zoe’s, with the lights low and shadows cast over everything, everything’s dulled. It’s loud, but it strikes the body differently. Maybe it’s just because I’m always more comfortable here than out in the streets. I know the streets, was raised in them. But I’m always on guard, eyeing corners for Agha Sentries, listening for the telltale stomp of heavy boots. Always thinking of where I am in relation to Mama and Baba’s house, how far, how close have I wandered? Here, at Zoe’s, where I can take a pull from a shisha pipe in peace and blow clouds of smoke into the air, it’s like my brain slows down. And the cushions here are soft enough to curl up and fall asleep on.

  But as soon as I walk in with Bo, I tense up. The place is packed tight tonight, and there’s a different energy in the air. Electric, exciting . . . somebody’s gonna fight before the night’s over.

  Shisha smoke of every flavor hangs thick in the air. Strawberry, lemon, mint, apricot, apple. Gamblers slap dominoes on a table nearby and roar at one another. By the bar, two women with beads in their hair discuss trade routes along seas I’ve never heard of before, while another who has a warrior’s brand running along her left shoulder blade threads her way around tables with a purpose I can only guess at.

  The doors whisk open and in walk the Scribes. There used to be only seven of them in this dahia, but now there are more than twice that. Their shirts, made out of dulled stones pulverized into shining threads, shimmer in the candlelight. Their shirtfronts and pants are painted with colorful sin-beasts. Some of them have scarves wound around their mouths and noses. Colorful paint stains their fingers.

  The Scribes operate at night, tagging parts of the Wall around Kos with fiery paintings of inisisa. But instead of painting shadows, they give them colors so that the creatures loom blue and red and orange and all sorts of other colors over the dahia. Even carrying their buckets of berry-dye and stone-crushed paint, they’re too fast to get caught by the Palace guards or the Agha. But when the Scribes do choose to come out during the day, they do it like no one else. The way they walk, the way they dress, the way they make their own path and don’t follow anyone else’s. Any kid in Kos who, at some point, doesn’t want to be one of the Scribes has something wrong with him.

  One Scribe looks over her shoulder and catches sight of me and Bo in our corner. As soon as she pulls down her headscarf to reveal her face, I smile. Marya.

  In three long strides, she meets us, then pulls a cushion from another table, and we form a loose circle. Her silky dark strands of hair peek out from under her hood, and paint-stained fingertips poke through her gloves. Her shirt is tight over her leathers.

  “To you and your people, aki,” Marya says, sliding her hand out, palm up.

  “To you and yours, Scribe.” I slide my hand over hers.

  We slap our hands together, and it makes the most satisfying sound in the entire Kingdom of Odo. It’s so good we can’t stop laughing.

  “Any new ink since I last saw you, Taj?”

  I pull back my sleeve and show her the new lion.

  “Fresh,” she says, tracing it with a paint-smeared finger.

  I wink at her, roll the sleeve back down, and put the shisha pipe to my lips. “Stay. I’ll order you a pipe.”

  “Eh-heh!” Marya looks to Bo, who smirks and raises an eyebrow. “So, Taj, you are breathing diamonds now? You sneeze and emeralds just fall from your nose.”

  “I simply do not work for free, Marya. Enough with this lahala.” We’re laughing so hard I can barely keep the shisha smoke in. “Really. Stay. It’s been too long-oh. Next time I see you we’ll both have beards.”

  “I can’t. We have some new Scribes who are gonna do their first tags tonight.” She leans in close. “Brought them here to put some oil in their gears. Get rid of that pesky fear.” She winks, then slides off the cushion and stands. With her index and middle fingers together, she touches her head and her heart, then turns and leaves. Obi-njide. Holder of my heart. Something they say in the south. Ask a northerner and they’ll say it’s just dainty, effeminate southern lahala. But there’s no other word for it in Kos. Marya, the girl who ran the streets with me after I left home and before the Mages snat
ched me up, the girl who would use her cloak to shield me from the rain when Kos was flooded and we homeless kids had to sleep on roofs, the girl I stole food to feed. She’s not a blood-sister. And she’s more than a friend. If I had a family stone, I would give it to her to wear. But then everyone would think she was my heart-mate and we’d be forced to marry, and neither of us wants that. It’s not like that at all. I’d rather wear auto-mail than get married.

  Bo gives me that look. That “I know you’re up to something” look, but I just chuckle and take a pull from the shisha pipe. A massive cloud of apricot-flavored smoke billows before my face.

  A medicine man walks by somewhere with his vials, his wares clinking inside his cloak like wind chimes. Halfway across the hall, a young woman with a wrap across her chest and beige trousers heavy with gear pouches sits with another gear-girl. The second one wears her hair in locs, held back by a red head wrap.

  I notice the girls, and I can tell that Bo notices me noticing them, because he’s got that warning look in his eyes. That “Taj, don’t make me have to rescue you again” look.

  “Bo.” I nudge him. “I have a plan.” When he doesn’t respond, I nudge him one more time, and I can see the annoyance on his face.

  “Please, Taj. Not now. My entire body is sore.”

  “Whose fault is that?” I shoot him a murderous glance.

  “My apologies for saving your life.” He puffs and exhales a cloud of shisha smoke so thick it hides his face for a second. “Again.”

  “This’ll be your reward.” I shake his knee. “C’mon.”

  He closes his eyes again. “No.”

  “Why not?” I know Bo sees the girls. And I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t mind the way his muscles fill out his shirt. Bo’s quiet, but he does all right for himself. “C’mon, at least give me a reason.”

  He raises a hand and beckons me close until my ear is right by his mouth. I lean in.

  When Bo belches, it’s like he’s spitting fire up both my nostrils. I topple backward into my cushions, hands over my nose and mouth. “Uhlah! What did you eat?”

  “A gum I put together. Made from the resin of an herb I bought from a western trader.” He chews as I look at him in horror. “For my stomach.”

  “By the Unnamed, Bo.” My nose still burns.

  “Better out than in.”

  “Always something with you,” I mutter. Eventually, the burning in my nose stops, and I can breathe again.

  As I grumble and settle back into my cushions, I see her. A girl in a drab black robe. Her hood is pushed back so that her black-brown hair is visible. Spectacles sit unfastened on her head, holders wrapped behind her ears. I watch as she scatters dried dates over her table, then appears to count them.

  “Don’t worry, Bo,” I tell him, not bothering to look his way. “I’ll handle this one on my own.”

  I place the handle of the shisha pipe on the dish that catches the falling coals and straighten my clothes. Run my hands through my hair to puff it out and get it just right. I might smell a little bit, but so does everyone else here. She won’t notice.

  I head her way, weaving around tables and in and out of clusters of people ready to flash daggers if the wrong person says the wrong thing. When I get to her table, she’s still got her head bent over the dates, moving them around and whispering beneath her breath.

  I snatch one up, pop it in my mouth, and sit down in the seat next to her, as smooth as anything.

  Her head darts up. “Hey! I was using that.” She almost reaches for the date I’m chewing, before realizing she doesn’t really want it back.

  “If you weren’t eating it, you weren’t using it.” I spit the date pit in my hand, then stick my hand out to her. A peace offering.

  She scowls, then her eyes widen in shock. I’m about to ask her if she’s seen an inyo when she lunges forward and grabs me by my forearm.

  “Ow!” I struggle to get free, but if I move the wrong way, my shoulder’ll pop out of joint.

  “By the Unnamed,” I hear her murmur. “You’re an aki.”

  The way I’m pinned down, I can’t see what she’s doing, but I can feel her fingers running up and down and around my forearm. Tracing my tattoos. Despite what the other aki might think, I’m not used to girls touching me like this, and my cheeks burn.

  “Ah, a lion here. Yes. And here, what is this?” She twists my arm to get a better look. I yelp in protest, but it’s like she doesn’t even hear me. “A lynx?” She gasps. Suddenly, she lets go of me, and I fall back into my chair, massaging my arm.

  Meanwhile, she reaches into the satchel at the bottom of her chair and pulls a parchment sheet out on the table. She’s scribbling furiously.

  “Hey.”

  Still scribbling.

  “Hey. Lady!”

  She looks up, then says, “What does it feel like when you Eat?”

  “What?”

  “Do the marks burn? Is that how they appear on your skin?”

  I can’t keep track of the questions. She doesn’t even give me a chance to tell her she’s speaking too quickly. I’m starting to think I should’ve stayed with Bo and his poisonous breath.

  “Lady, I’m happy to answer your questions, but how about some tea first?” I take some ramzi and toss them onto the table. They land among the dried dates.

  “No, please, allow me,” she says excitedly. “What are you having?” Before I can decline or even tell her my favorite kind of tea, she’s already gone.

  I sit there, my mouth slightly open, until I feel Bo lumbering up behind me. I wave him off. “Don’t worry, Bo. I have this under control. You’re gonna ruin it.” He ignores me, reaching over my shoulder to snatch up a date.

  “Sure, Taj. All right.” He pats me on the shoulder, turning to leave.

  The girl reappears with a tray of tea, most of it already sloshed out of the cups. When she sees Bo, she gasps, and the tray topples. I reach out and catch it just in time, but scalding tea still splashes onto my hands. I manage to set it all down nicely, arranging the small saucer of milk and the teapot and glasses and the bottle that holds the honey. But when I turn around, the girl doesn’t even notice. She’s already tracing the marks on Bo’s arms just like she did with mine. It’s tough not to feel at least a little jealous.

  “Another aki,” she says. Gleefully.

  Meanwhile, I’m trying to get the honey off my hands. My fingers have already gotten sticky.

  “Do you know this one?” She gestures to me, and already I’ve become “this one.” I can’t even be angry at Bo. He could not have planned to thwart me so expertly.

  “Yes,” Bo says, trying not to laugh at the expression on my face.

  “Here, sit, sit.” She puts out a chair for him, then sits back down. She leans forward and stares at both of us intently. I slouch, because what’s the point in even pretending I have a chance with this girl now?

  “You’ll have to pardon me,” she says, catching her breath. “I just . . . I don’t come across too many aki and—”

  I put my hand out and look around. “Please, umm . . .”

  “Oh!” She puts a hand to her chest. “Aliya.”

  “OK. Please, Aliya. Not so loud.” She’s got a question in her eyes, so I elaborate. “The rules are a little lax at Zoe’s, and people feel free to mix more than out in the Forum, but we aren’t exactly the most popular types in Kos.”

  “What he means to say,” Bo says, now the suave translator, “is that we aki aren’t welcome here. Officially. It is not glorious work, what we do.”

  “Oh, of course,” Aliya says. “Even though I haven’t completed my Mage training yet, and I’ve never met one of you in person, I know all about aki. We know your work—”

  “Of course you do,” I mutter. “We make you rich.”

  “Taj!” Bo glares at me and kicks me under the t
able.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “Forgot my manners.” I reach over and pop a date in my mouth.

  “He gets like this sometimes,” Bo tells her. “Moody.”

  “Is that a side effect of the Eating? All the guilt and torment of others?”

  “No, this torment is all his own.” He laughs.

  If my skin weren’t so dark, I’d be bright red by now.

  “Well, you aki may be looked down upon, but what you two do is necessary. Important.” Aliya hasn’t touched her tea. And she hasn’t taken her eyes from either of us.

  “Thank you for the encouragement.” I smile blankly.

  Bo gives me a warning look but lets it slide.

  Aliya starts to play with the scattered dates on the table. “I’m sorry. I spend so much time down in the archives I forget what it can be like here, that there’s a particular kind of order and that some people should be treated one way and some should be treated another. In the archives, I forget that some people are born to be hated. I’m sorry if how I’ve been speaking has hurt you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say quickly. If some people can afford to stick their heads in the sand and forget what it’s like for the rest of us, good for them. I want to point out her ignorance, but I don’t have the heart to anymore.

  “I should explain myself.” She sits up, straightens her back. “I’m studying to be an algebraist, and I’m still trying to understand how everything is connected. It’s wonderful. The ways the tau function can be applied to identify the composition of the minerals that make our gemstones is connected to the charting of star patterns. And if you input values for the theta function and subtract mock-theta values from that, you produce the number of sides of the shrine in each dahia and . . .” She stops. “I’m sorry. . . . I spend so much time in the Ulo Amamihe, the Great House of Ideas. And . . . well, I forget that not everyone speaks this language. It’s just that . . .” She gets excited again. “The formulas, they’re written everywhere. They’re written in the shape of our city, the dahia, the shrines, the sin-beasts covering your bodies—”