Temper

by Nicky Drayden

  “Huh?” I look down at myself, thinking I forgot to fasten my fly, but I am no longer wearing my ruddy Gabadamosi uniform. Instead, a rich, luxurious lap coat, a deep shade of purple, adorns my body with gold grommets and a wide, pretentious lapel. I run my fingers along wool so fine it makes me shiver. “What?” I say with a defensive shrug. “This entire building is one giant display of vainglory.” I flex my powers, and add a bit of fringed lace to my cuffs.

  “Whatever. We’ll wait for prayers, and when everyone’s eyes are closed, you slip out. Wait ten minutes, then come back in with—” Kasim swipes nonexistent claws at me. “You know . . .” He tugs self-consciously at his Gabadamosi garb, then attempts to press himself into the two vacant spots in the row.

  A man presses back. “Taken,” he grumbles.

  We look around for another option, but within the span of seconds, the few spots left in the Sanctuary are gone. The crowd mills around, hoping to get lucky, but the place is filled to capacity. The stream of destitute worshipers empties from the Sanctuary like dirty dishwater down the sink drain. Kasim and I are left in the aisle, clinging to hope where there is none left. In a fit of thoughtless desperation, I close my eyes and rattle away a little prayer.

  Grace, if you’re listening. Help us out here.

  “Pssst. Kasim!” comes a giddy whisper. I open my eyes and see Sesay waving us over, a few rows up.

  I grit my teeth. I couldn’t be any unluckier.

  “We couldn’t be luckier!” Kasim says to me. He trots over to Sesay, wedges his way into the overcrowded row. When I arrive, it’s clear there is no more room left for me, and not just physically. Sesay smiles brightly. “Hey, Auben. Sorry. We’re pretty pressed in here. But you should get a great spot outside, right up next to the Vice Cardinal. His sermons are nearly on par with Amawusiakaraseiya’s. I think Daki and her crew are out there, too. You should look for them.”

  “If Kasim stays, I stay,” I say, staring into her too-big, too-bright eyes.

  Kasim smiles and leans down into Sesay’s ear. He whispers and Sesay nods.

  “Don’t I know it,” she says. “Okay, Farai, you’re out. Auben, you’re in . . . if you apologize for the way you treated me in the library.”

  “Kasim,” I say through clenched teeth, my eyes demanding a sidebar.

  Kasim steps away with me.

  “There’s no way we can do this with her hawk eyes on us,” I rasp.

  “We don’t have a choice, unless you think you can wait it out until next Tiodoti.” Kasim glares at me, knowing that I’ll be lucky to make it to the end of the day without killing. “I’ll take care of Sesay. You take care of the apology. And act like you mean it.”

  Intense organ music fills the Sanctuary’s dome, echoing to the point of rattling my teeth. We make our way back to our spots. I utter sweet untruths, and Farai sulks her way back up the aisle, toward the exit. I squeeze into her spot.

  A grand procession files in, young children carrying spicy incense flames, a parade of teens—each carrying an eight-foot-tall defting stick, adults carrying one of the Seven Books of Grace. The books are each laid in their cradles as the teens carefully assemble the sticks around the pulpit. Despite their size, they seem easily maneuverable, and are notched so that they stand securely—not the precarious things that defy me so. Incense is swung around diligently and officially, most likely in an attempt to mask the body odor of the masses.

  The organ music settles, and is replaced by that of barely audible chimes. There is a collective gasp as Gueye Okahim enters, looking like a peacock who’d taken a bath in a vat of sequins and gemstones. Layered in three sets of heavily embellished robes, there isn’t a square inch of him that doesn’t scream spectacle. A wave of voices saying “Blessed Amawusiakaraseiya” moves through the crowd. And then there is a vastness of silence. His footsteps fall, one after another, as he struts his way to the pulpit, then takes a dramatic bow. He puts on a good show, I’ll give him that, thoughtfully examining the defting sticks from all angles. Then he reads them in perfectly enunciated Sylla, and translates for the rest of us.

  “My eyes are cast upon you, in shadow and light alike,” he proclaims with ample flourish and hand-wavery. “And so are spoken the words of Grace.”

  “May His Hallowed Hands guide me from vice,” the congregation intones.

  “On this day of dirt, Grace’s message will come from the book of Chastity.” Gueye pauses to let the appropriate book be placed on the cradle in front of him. With both hands, he opens the tome, turns delicate pages, then raises his hands. “First, let us pray.” Hands are raised all around us. Kasim and I play the part and raise ours, too.

  I clench my eyes shut. Gueye’s voice is soothing, almost like an instrument in itself. His pitch rises and falls, his words are spoken with deliberate cadence. I almost get caught in them, but then remember what we are here for. I open my eyes. Seven thousand heads are bowed. I stare at Sesay for a long moment, sure one of those big brown eyes is going to pop open and catch me, but she’s deep in prayer. Kasim’s deep, too. His hands are no longer up, but pressed at his temples. His brow is bunched in obvious pain. I nudge him, and an eye opens and falls upon me. A tear has budded in its corner.

  Are you okay? I mouth.

  Kasim shakes his head. His lips tremble like he’s holding back sick.

  Do you want me to stay?

  He shakes his head again. Closes his eye.

  The voices are plaguing him. It’s getting more frequent, more intense, but Kasim is too humble to let me know how much he’s hurting inside. We have to get this right.

  I duck under the rope railing, and walk quickly to the back, and then slink sideways when I see how many guards are now posted at the main doors. Just my luck. Or maybe it has something to do with the pair of naked boys who’d gotten inside. I bite my lip. Stupid. Stupid. After a bit of searching, I find a side exit with only two guards and excuse myself, hunched over and complaining of stomach pains. I find a quiet spot outside, lean up against a statue of some mythological beast overlooking the city bowl and the ocean beyond. The caracal won’t work. No beast would be mighty enough to burst through those heavily guarded doors. At least not without taking blood. I flex my claws in and out, searching for ideas.

  Then one shits on me.

  “Coooo,” says the pigeon from above, perched on the statue’s beak.

  I wipe the warm, white spackle from my forehead and move back in time to avoid the splat from a second release. I chuck a rock at the bird. It flaps its wings, then settles again in one of the Sanctuary’s high, thin windows. Unguarded windows.

  My eyes fall on the statue before me, a frightening mix of a lion-maned rhinoceros, with vulture’s wings. This. This is what I need. Spectacle to match Gueye Okahim’s. Wings. I concentrate, willing my bones to dust, then forcing them into the massive, bulging mold my mind has mapped. My hands and feet puff out into formidable hooves. My skin goes gray and stiff, and bristly hairs erupt, causing me to itch all over. When I shake my head, the luxurious frock of my golden-red mane sweeps across my shoulders and back. Finally, I press my shoulder blades back, expecting to sprout equally impressive wings . . . but they’re two pathetic things, like those on a plucked chicken.

  They flap futilely, nowhere near what I need to get my girth off the ground. I press harder, and the action comes easier this time. Wings unfurl, large and luminous, and slowly they bloom with iridescent plumage. I stomp my hooves, and wave my horn too enthusiastically, nicking my stone counterpart and causing the left side of its face to crumble. Yes. This. Scary as all hell. But the real question is, can I fly?

  I take several swooping flaps. Nothing. I hollow out my bones, and double my wingspan. With quite a bit of effort, my front hooves finally leave the ground. My rear hooves follow. It’s working. Hard work, not the natural fit of the caracal. But I’m doing it. With focused deliberation, I maneuver to the front of the Sanctuary. The maddening crush of people below roils like a wave as they see me,
theirs screams as discordant as they are penetrating, like a choir without a conductor. I’m too busy fixing on my target to pay them much attention, the open window ahead just wide enough to accommodate this form. Nothing stands in my way, but I’ve failed to take into account the way the wind wraps briskly around the building up here, and I find myself thrown off by a sudden gust. I try to course correct, splaying my flight feathers, but nothing stops me from careening toward the image of Chastity set beautifully in stained glass, her modest robes made of shards of every single shade of blue. The centuries-old window smashes, and my momentum sends me tumbling, tumbling, tumbling down the wide center aisle of the Sanctuary.

  There are screams, but mostly there’s stunned silence. I stand up on all four hooves, trying to reclaim a smidgen of pride, and let loose a ferocious roar in Gueye Okahim’s direction.

  Ruckus. Mayhem. I smile my rhino’s smile, then bare lion’s fangs—my own touch.

  “G-get back, b-beast!” Gueye Okahim says, words a-stutter and feeble compared to his usual intonations.

  Kasim, our brave hero, squeezes his way between Gueye Okahim and me. We play out our rehearsal mostly to plan. Kasim waves his arms, chants nonsensical throaty words that seem real enough to convince me of ancient mystical powers, so I know the crowd will fall for them as well. I feign fright, back up on trembling hooves, let loose a pained roar, and even with me being several times larger than agreed upon, our concessions make our spar seem plausible. Finally, Kasim says the words to cast me away. I flap my wings to make my retreat, but I am drained, both physically and metaphysically. There’s no way I’ll make it back up to the windows . . . and no way I can go back up the aisle without killing dozens. Unintentionally, and intentionally. I catch a whiff of Gueye Okahim’s fear, taste its richness upon my tongue, like fresh buttered biscuits. Hunger shoves our dutifully laid plan back into the recesses of my mind, and instead of focusing on retreating, I take a step closer. Then another. The great Amawusiakaraseiya cowers and shivers like a newborn pup. My tongue wets my ravenous maw.

  Kasim knocks me across my snout, and shouts the words at me again. Shifting again will put my cravings over the edge, but I can’t risk staying in this form either. I release my concentration. My wings revert to chicken wings, and the rest of me goes a-fowl as well. I’m small. Agile. Nonlethal. Then I run, for lack of a better phrase, like a chicken with its head cut off. Daring hands try to grab me as I navigate between legs, around shins, over shoes, but I squawk and peck them away. Feathers fly. I still manage to draw sweet blood, but nothing anyone will die over. Finally, I see my salvation in one of the narrow windows. I jump once. Twice. And I’m on the sill, looking back at the disaster I’ve left in my wake. But there’s something good, too. Kasim and Gueye Okahim are talking. And through the fear still lingering on his face, I can see our Blessed Amawusiakaraseiya is definitely impressed.

  “A caracal,” Kasim says to me, as we stroll across campus back to our basement dorm room later that evening after things have finally calmed down. His voice is hoarse from answering a million and one questions, from defending himself against the accusations of witchcraft, from hooting and hollering during the following spontaneous vice parade celebrating the miracle with a loosening of morals, and the subsequent three-hour circle chant to call Grace back into everyone’s hearts. “I asked for a caracal, and you give me a—what did Gueye Okahim call it?”

  “Zekwenusi,” I say with a firm smile that I cannot shake from my face. Yes, it was Kasim they were celebrating, but he would be nothing without my ingenious improvisation.

  “I asked for a caracal, and you give me a zekwenusi!”

  “I’m not hearing a thank-you in your voice.”

  “Thank you? Have you even noticed how everyone is looking at me now?”

  “Um . . . like you’re the most amazing thing to ever step foot on this campus?”

  “They’re looking at me like I’m a freak. Like a magical misfit who could pull a rabid penguin out of his ass at any moment. Gueye Okahim confided in me that was the first act of Grace he’s seen in eighteen years. That anyone has seen.” Kasim stops, and grabs me by the shoulders. Pulls me in close. “He thought Grace had abandoned us,” he whispers. “Or worse, that He was dead.”

  “Cry me a river, Kasim. Maybe people are looking at you like a freak, but at least they’re looking at you. You can’t even imagine how much that stunt took out of me, when all you had to do was stand there and say a few words! And now you’re blaming me for something that got us exactly what we were trying to accomplish. Gueye Okahim took you into his confidence, did he not?”

  “He did.”

  “And until today, exactly how many secular-raised comfy boys has he taken into his confidence?”

  “None.”

  “We went big, Kasim. And together we did the impossible.”

  “We did,” Kasim says, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for that.”

  “Sarcasm, but I’ll take it.”

  We continue to make our way to the dorm, and Kasim is right. People are staring at us. At him. It’s eerie as hell. Just when I think we’ve hit the privacy of our own dorm, we’re intercepted at the entrance by a small group of students. One of them is Chiso. The two others hold duffel bags. Our duffel bags.

  “Cousins!” Chiso says, pulling Kasim and me into a warm embrace. “I am so glad to see you both.” Chiso being cordial? This is the second miracle we’ve seen today.

  “Chiso. I’m glad you are well,” Kasim says with a grumble. “Six days on campus now, and I was beginning to think you were going out of your way to avoid us.”

  “Nonsense! Why would I ignore my much-favored cousins? I’m so sorry I haven’t had the chance to welcome you, but I’ve been so busy trying to get things set up for you two. I have good news. We’ve found room for you in Kalukenzua House!”

  “K-House!” call the hulking guys carrying our duffels. They grunt, slap their elbows, and stomp a foot in unison.

  If there’s anything worse than living in a cold, damp, dank basement, it’s living under the same roof as Chiso. “We already have a House,” I say. “Right, Kasim?”

  Kasim nods. “We already have a House.”

  Chiso lifts his nose to Soyinka House. “This hovel? The only reason they haven’t demolished it is because of its historical value, and even that is debatable. Kalukenzua House—”

  “K-House!”

  “—doesn’t even compare,” Chiso continues without missing a beat. “Full-size beds with plush mattresses. Private baths. Maid service. On-call tutors. Quiet rooms—”

  “Quiet rooms?” Kasim says.

  “Dead quiet. Surrounded by eighteen inches of concrete on all sides.”

  “Can we have a moment, dear cousin?” Kasim says to Chiso.

  The K-House crew shuffles off, leaving Kasim and me alone on the stoop of Soyinka House. “I know we’ve got our pride, Auben, but this sounds too good to pass up. Besides, it’s not like we’ll be actually rooming with Chiso. I’m sure we’ll barely even see em.”

  “Munashe is still working on getting us a real room. Just give her a couple more days. You know we can’t trust Chiso. Since when has ey done something for our own good?”

  “Maybe ey’s turning over a new leaf. I don’t know. What I do know is that my headaches are getting worse. Today, during the prayer, I heard voices.”

  “That’s not exactly news.”

  “Thousands of them, all talking over one another. It’s better when I isolate myself. I just need my quiet, and I’m afraid this is the only chance I’ll get to find it.”

  “It can be quiet here,” I say.

  The House’s worn and splintered doors burst open, and a few dozen Soyinka residents spill out onto the weedy lawn. They each hold two enormous mugs of golden ale.

  “Soldiers of Soyinka House, are you ready for battle?” someone calls out, that same jerk who’d offered us the tinibru. The Soyinka residents bark back in affirmation. Drinks are mightily guzzled, and sur
prisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, despite all of the sloshing, very few drops of ale fall to the ground. Eyes go wide and glassy. Smiles go rabid with foam. “Body shots and you’re out for three minutes. Head shots and you’re out for the rest of the round. Soldiers, ready your weapons!” Zippers are downed. “The Seventy-fifth Annual Piss Wars will commence in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  “Yeah, we need to get out of here,” I say to Kasim.

  Kalukenzua House is restrained luxury. Not ornate or showy, but judiciously well taken care of. Not a scuff to be found on the floors, not a single notch in the woodwork, and brass doorknobs polished to a high shine. Windows are wide, hallways are ample, lighting is sufficient enough to ensure that no corner goes unlit, but dim enough not to break the studious mood.

  Chiso leads us into the foyer. I pass my hands over the backs of one of the maroon leather chairs arranged in a circle, the grain like a cool whisper across my fingertips. Each is branded with a scripted K, and looks capable of lulling even the most high-strung students into a state of peaceful bliss. The air is crisp and sweet, the smiles wide and genuine—which is why I stay guarded, waiting for Chiso’s promises to start unraveling.

  “Kasim! Welcome to K-House,” one of the students says, a big bandage covering his forehead. It’s that welshing idiot who’d almost brained us with his brass balls.

  “Phila, right?” Kasim says. He nods at the bandage. “Welshing accident?”

  “This? No, no. I’m not in the welshing club anymore. Bunch of high-class snobs, if you ask me. But I’ve taken up a couple of new hobbies.” He picks at the end of the bandage, slowly peels it up to reveal a puffy mess of blue-black ink and inflamed skin. “It’s a K, can you see it?”

  I knew Chiso was up to something wicked. I gnash my teeth and grab eir arm. “What is this, some kind of sick K-House initiation? If you think we’re next, then—”