by Rink Wester
He had grown so solemn so suddenly that day in that Korean bbq restaurant, that she had felt familiar bitterness, humiliation, insult and heteronormative defense rise to the surface and begin that slow march to “cussin’ a motherfucker out” before she had realized his response was about something wholly different. He had grabbed her and touched her cheek, fingers tracing her chin bone, contentment playing in his eyes as he whispered,
I continue to choose that which isn’t chosen but surrendered. Neither of us is the boy we were born into. The skin that neither of us asked for. After 32 trips around the sun, I’ve grown into this man. Beautifully dark black, imperfect and fully realized. I was born to be the man I am right here right now. To be present enough in this moment to love you. Every beating inch of you, woman. Did you think I would hear your confession that never actually needed to be one and that my heart would fill our question mark with doubt? As a matter of fact, I’ve never quite understood the concept of “coming out”. There is no trap, no closet large enough to fit and hole the elegant curve of sexual identity baby. Your love is not an animal burrow. More than coming out it’s an “inviting in”. Choosing to invite the world into the intimate fast truth of you. Parents. Family. Friends. Coworkers. The mailman. The guy at the register in McDonald’s. Everyone. Anyone. Choosing who to populate the beauty of your private world with. I’m honored that you’ve given me this invitation Vickie. Honored and humbled. So ditch the label baby. You aren’t just the idea of a woman. You are a woman. My woman. Fuck anything else you’ve heard. Now get over hear and kiss me. Woman.
She had melted right there, becoming a stencil of happiness in that restaurant booth. That big thick solid piece of gorgeous brown man had surprised her beyond reason and shown her the face of a world she had never known. Absolute love and acceptance absolutely.
Ditch the label indeed boo!
She knew implicitly before he had even arrived at the Pörø Society Annex building after she had called and told him to hurry over, that adding this new T to the mix would be a piece of cake. At least on paper, she thought.
Tony, darling, I’m a sorceress. A göddess. I have mantis mågÿck and I just kicked a giant ant-lion monster man’s ass. Oh, and my eyes turn purple and sizzle. How was your day?, she blurted before she could censor herself.
Tony laughed, a loud booming laugh, as his shoulders heaved and he grabbed his sides, he chuckled, Oh baby, you don’t know how confused but happy I am to hear you say that. That makes all the shit I have to tell you soooooo much easier. But you first. I want you to show me. I can take it.
Vickie kissed him on the mouth, deep and hard, the kiss that only true love and deep abiding affection creates, and stepped back. Be careful what you wish for my love. She opened her mågÿck and wrapped him in her göddess power. Tony choked, his breath catching, as he floated with the love of his life and drowned in heat and light.
29
Divåd stood on his Charlotte, North Carolina ranch with his wife and the other Ájøgün. He looked out across his horse pasture and watched his clan of mercenaries, his fellow Myrmecoleon cryptid warriors, hard at work. They were, all of them, the famed and infamous ant lion Myrmidons of Ancient Greek mythology. Created by Ôlörûn, known to them in the time of Aeacus and Ovid as Zeus, from the Pörø men of Thessaly and the Trojan War. Commanded by Achilles, their first Pörøhybrid lord, they were unstoppable. Until Divåd had become a blessed Ájøgün, killed Achilles and became commander of all Myrmidons.
Coptic Manichaean Psalm-books found on long lost papyri by archaeologists in Medinet Maadi, Egypt, described them as demonic soldiers that fought for darkness against the light. They were a rowdy and moody bunch but fiercely loyal cryptiddeities. The English word “minion” derived from their name. They would eat their mothers without question, protest or pity if Divåd commanded it. And savor every maternal inch of it. They scurried to and fro, singing songs of conquest and blood, readying the compound for their five visitors. The Bödhisåttvås would be arriving soon. They were the ruling Chinese dragon lord cryptids of Shanghai. Humans blessed eons ago by Xiao Yu Shizi’s trickster mågÿck and sacrifice, turning them into the bristly bearded, flying blue skinned, cloud riding demigöds of Buddhist lore. In actuality they had neither beards nor blue skin. They could fly and summon sky fire and cosmic wind, however, so the Buddhists weren’t totally off mark.
Kuan Yin, Manjusri, Ti-ts'sang, Seishi and P'u-hsein were quintuplets born to the first son of one of Xiao Yu’s concubines and had grown up to become nearly flawless and beautiful men and women of modern day Shanghai. They were one of the few cryptid demigöd species whose beast form was whole and separate from their human form. They could conjure their inner dragon, peeling it from them like ripe lychee and durian fruit, and ride it or have it fly free to protect them and slay their enemies while keeping their human selves aware and present to control their vast黑社会 Chinese transnational crime syndicate empire.
They were pretentious, conniving soulless beings and Divåd didn’t trust them. Trust would have to wait, he thought, he needed their network of mafia spies in the Atlanta underworld if he was to complete his Lord’s task. His Lord and the ruling Cryptid Council, his brothers, would be here soon.
The human woman had bested him and eluded capture. She had used a power against him that he had only felt once before. While her physical form parried and cast spells and hexes, cutting off his every advantage, Divåd could have sworn he saw the faint silhouette of a giant mantis dancing ghostlike and intermingling with that of a phantom gröötslâng mirroring her every move as she attacked him. That power had the unmistakable smell and taste of Sihiosia. Of The Amulet his Lord wore at all times.
He had no idea what any of that meant nor why his Lord was desperate to have her but he would find her wherever she hid and he would deliver her. Bloodied and gift wrapped.
It’s what his Lord Ôlörûn wanted.
It’s what his Lord would get.
30
Somewhere out there was a poet writing out his dilemma. Weaving delusions and organic insult into something small and readable. Such poets, words often empty of psychological significance, sometimes got it right. They sometimes grabbed the truth and made it mouth sized and palatable enough to change form. To become what ideation never intended. Lately it had all become so epistemic, so overwhelming, Örên thought. Since his brothers WeChat chat back in Brazil everything had seemed dipped in LSD. Colored just slightly wrong. Melody slightly high pitched and off key. Never more so than being back here in America, back here with his brothers, he opined.
He made a furtive effort to remain in this country, in its realm, no longer than was absolutely necessary. Mandatory monthly Cryptid Council meetings notwithstanding, he hated the stench of pretension and the amoebic self-ingrained manifest destiny of this nation. He stood in his brother Gærüt’s home, listening to him drone on and on about wards and mågÿck locks and locus and terminal points. Something about busted doors in reality and other dimensions intersecting. Örên listened and filtered and managed to gleen that something had been stolen from his mågÿckal quantum thingamajiggy hiding place. Something deadly enough to end all reality.
Why didn’t you just start with that brother? Way to bury the lead.
What Örên really wanted, watching his oldest brother pace and rant, was a drink, several in fact, and then he wanted to go home. Back to Brazil. In that order. But he promised his other brothers that he would come and stage an intervention of sorts. And so come he had. How one staged an intervention for the most powerful being in the whole of creation however...a bit trickier.
-Gærüt, what really happened between you and Nänå? Why did you lie to us?
-it wasn’t quite..a lie. Look, let’s go. I promise I’ll explain everything in due course. Just know that I’ve fucked things up Òrúnmìlà. All the way FUBAR!.
-That’s why I’m here brother. To help you un-fuck them.
-Shit man. I thought I had it all in pocket
. That’s what I get I suppose for thinking I’m smarter than the instructions on the box. I thought her death would upend that curse and this would all be moot.
-And what is it you had trapped all these millennia that has now escaped brother?
-He was to be my five of swords. Either a beacon of hope. Or a dire warning.
-Five of swords? I can’t with you right now. It’s too early and I’m far too sober for your hippy dippy supreme being of the universe tarot card mumbo gumbo.
-Haha. I love you brother. And I have missed you.
They teleported together to Divåd Nërrip’s ranch, to a chamber 3 stories beneath his prized Stetson stables. His brothers greeted them with the Cryptic Council chant as soon as they had materialized and Gærüt had taken his seat at the head of the large marble round table filling out that space.
As they individual mågÿcks mingled in that subterranean cha,bee they said in perfect unison, crushing each syllable into the silk of song,
Okobio Hikorim, awana bekura mendo! Nunkue itia Ororol Kandé efri Kebuton! 00 Ekpé Ôlörûn!
Gærüt pushed back his chair and rose, preparing to open his mouth and mind to give his brothers what they had all gathered to learn. At that same instant one of the Chinese mafia Bödhisåttvås males, Seishi, his dragon self towering over him, not at all reading the room or even paying attention to anything other than his iPhone screen, decided to loudly hawk every morsel of phlegm from his throat and spit if right there on that Council room floor.
The whole room froze as everyone looked first at the clueless Seishi and then immediately, as if in sync, directly at Gærüt. Xiao Yu looked at his brother, pleading in his eyes, and then just lowered his head in defeat and the inevitable to come.
Gærüt’s eyes bled reptile as he raised his hand and every molecule in Seishi’s human and dragon form expanded and exploded, creating a crimson Rorschach where mere moments ago a man and dragon stood.
Gærüt stared at the remaining Chinese Quadruplets, his power bathing them, searching their faces for any sign of retribution or response. He found none. Smart kiddies.
He tuned back to the room, eyes returning to human normal, his power refoldimg its Sihiosian tent, and smiled. Sitting down, lacing up his Nikes and whistling like a sinister Mr. Rogers, he pronounced to them all,
Now. Lets begin.
The room visibly stiffened and apart from disintegrated Bödhisåttvå and shredded and juiced dragon entrails, Gærüt thought it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. A beautiful day for neighbors. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?
#SkyFatherDontPlayThatShyt
31
Nänåstood outside that beautifully manicured ranch in NC clutching the Pendant of Ëhiå and drawing from it the latent riotous mågÿck she had secretly planted there over billions of years ago in Hiklorim’s end. Her own secret blend of magriculture.
She heard water burbling off to the left and walked until she came to a lavishly pebbled brook. Tadpoles and dragonfly nymphs played under its surface as she crossed it and came to the western edge of the property. She spread her fingers, palms pressing against powerful wards and a force shield of woven mågÿcks meant to protect and deter the unwanted. Netted mågÿcks across which most interlopers stood no chance of crossing. Most. But not her.
She was the göddess Ÿêmøjá. The gröötslâng empress of the dawn. All mågÿck obeyed her. The wind played in the dogwoods, chasing a pair of red cardinals around its white flecked branches as she pursed her lips, kissed that mågÿckal barrier and blew. Her breath broke like a hurricane across its surface shattering it into a million bits of pixie dust and star flecks.
She felt its mågÿckal alarm release across that early North Carolina morning and knew it was only a matter of time until the master of these lands would mount up to meet its cri de coeur.
As she waited for his folly in her plan to arrive, her mind wandered across that wide flat plateau to an earlier painted time. Back when she and Gærüt would ride together, holding hands on the backs of great wildebeests and zebras in long ago prairies. Wildebeests the size of elephants and in a time clean of humankind’s urban filth.
Gærüt had loved her best then. And she had loved him. They had abandoned all but one another and had sewn deep passions like weeds through the millennia. Needing no one but the other, they would make love in wild and free release on those hills. Orgasms lasting for days. Months. Years. Unrivaled Tantric pleasures of body and heart. She loved it when he touched her pussoir, peeling back her gröötslâng essence, spilling the limit of his mågÿcks deep inside her. In her long life before death she had suffered no other being to touch her but him.
He was ûmÿèni ökö. Her husband of skin and embers. He had loved her with dirt and rock. With baobab and river music. She had rubbed his body with palm oil and eaten down that love in great bolted mouthfuls like the manna it was. But river did not keep him. The rock and soil did not keep him.
When did you decide to betray me my ûmÿèni ökö? What stripped your heart from our union and cooled your embers? You denied me parlay but I will have an answer. Now come to me.
Nänåslowly went to her knees, floating inches above the floor of that green earth and reached deep into the soil feeling it’s moist flint as the earth began to shake with the power of Ëhiå. The buildings and tractors and animal pens on that ranch shook with the ire of her earthquake, and like earthworms they materialized. Her brothers stood there before her. Gærüt stood there. Surrounded by his Ájøgün and legions of henchmen all come to the slaughter. Poor little lamb meat.
She looked Gærüt full in the eyes, her attack willing his dare as her earthquake raged and shook loose the world around them.
If the soil no longer sings our love ûmÿèni ökö, she roared, her Pendant shimmering, steaming that early morning tarheel dew, it will croon my rage.
32
Grynn was unsure if she was doing the right thing. Regret had begun to erode her confidence and become its all too familiar carbon negative. After a century long wanderjahr the mantis had returned. Decidedly inconvenient though it had been It was an unbidden but welcomed part of the prophesied curse.
She walked around the armory in the command wing of their building and mobilized teams of Pörø clansmen to her purpose. She urged caution as she sent her scouts out to gather information on the current whereabouts of the Cryptid Council and more importantly their leader, Gærüt Lång. Their eternal gröötslâng Lord. The tale Detective Mozee had shared had only corroborated the riddle whose answer Grynn had suspected for centuries. Grynn was over 500 years old but the mantis, unbeknownst to even herself, was far older. Thousands of years so. Neither Grynn nor any of the ancient Pörø leadership had been told from where the mantis had come to them nor why the Pörø was tasked with protecting and creating a mågÿckal grid around it but protect it they had done. Religiously. For millenia beyond memory. Until their leader, Grand Dutchess Carrie Tyree, had broken her vow to the Pörø oath council and in a still misunderstood act of rebellion over a century ago disappeared with the mantis göd. Their best dreamweavers and wizard circles had searched and searched but turned up nothing. Not a snit nor shred of them. Until 3 days ago.
Grynn kept the secrets of the Pörø as its current Grand Dutchess but Vickie’s arrival had heralded the one secret she hoped her scouts would help disclose. When her ancestors had first been tasked with guarding and training the mantis göd thousands of years ago, she could never have expected this turn of events. That the mantis “göd” would suddenly and conspiratorially return to them as a “göddess”.
For thousands of years the mantis göd had lived as the human göd, Victor Basse. Every century his human flesh would melt away and his Sihiosian essence would expand and flex like a crab renewing its shell, and then it would shrink back and be
reborn in the flesh of its infant self. Its phoenix cycle of power complete, the Pörø were tasked to care for him, warding his mind and training him to live as a human. To hide the mantis under layers of hex mågÿck and psychic barriers, tethering Victor to his human self until his next renewal. There were secrets to the mantis göd that only the first of the Pörø had known. Secrets that this new awakening had unslaved.
Grynn now wanted to know the truth. Needed to know it. What had happened to unseat the mantis göd, awakening it in the body of this woman who wielded foreign mågÿcks frighteningly greater than anything born to any mantis göd incarnation of the past. Grynn felt an overwhelming foreboding the longer her mind lingered on Vickie, The Cryptid Council, Gærüt Lång and now the return of the gröötslâng Queen. These events and their joint inference froze the air in her blood. Her Oracular Coven of Pörø Soothsayers, crystal balls and runes of power searing the air were all blinded by some unknown invisible hand but were each of them, in mågÿckal and dammed concert, unanimous in their dread. Something malicious stalked. It was coming and it was, beyond all palpable doubt, attached to that prophecy and the being sitting in the other room.
