Temper

by Nicky Drayden

  The ground shakes. Bookshelves shudder. Pages flap and flutter all about. Steam rises above the stacks. Then I see it round the corner. That yellow machination, a clockwork god, powering forward on three sets of steel haunches, springs and cogs working and grinding together. Red eyes flicker. The tool armory jutting from its undercarriage swivels back and forth, keeping time like a metronome. This close, too close, the armory is definitely phallic in nature, no doubt a resolute “fuck off” to the institutions that repressed knowledge for so long. The machination hunches down in a defensive stance. It was built for breaking rock and chopping down trees, but it definitely looks like it could hold its own in a fight.

  “What you’re looking at is your replacement,” Nkosazana says. “We’re making technological leaps faster than you can imagine. The future won’t need gods. Just blood, sweat, and ingenuity.” Outside, in the distance, the bells of the Sanctuary play off tune, grating to my ears, calling the devout to worship. Nkosazana clears her throat, then speaks over them. “Soon, everyone will trek up Grace Mountain to see one last exhibition. Your deaths, and with them the ushering in of a new age, and—”

  “Nkosazana,” comes a meek voice of a machinist. Nkosazana nearly rips her face off for interrupting.

  “What is it!” she yells.

  “It’s the convoy. The roads to the Sanctuary are blocked with debris, and they can’t get through.”

  “Keep an eye on these fools,” she says to Lwazi. He looks at me the way he had that night I’d had dinner over at his home—overprotective and angry—and desperate enough to do something stupid. I find myself more scared of him than I am of being squished by this giant bug.

  I shift my attention to the mechanical phallus, mesmerized by its suggestive sway. Something clicks. My eyes travel up to the fury of smoke those furnaces put out. A mechanical penis for lechery. Smokestacks for temper. Gilded trim, that’s got to count for greed. My eyes dart to Lwazi and his duplicitous tongue. For a couple years, his whole life had been a lie.

  “Sesay,” I mumble, trying to get her attention.

  “No talking,” Lwazi shouts, swiveling his gun in my direction.

  Sesay looks up from her pouting. I nod at her binder over against the wall, in tattered pieces, then at the metal penis. Jut my head at the steam spouting from the machination’s smokestacks. Flick my tongue at Lwazi. She looks blankly at me for a long moment, then a wave of understanding washes over her. She pulls her doubt signet tucked beneath her ciki’s collar. We still need envy and vainglory to make this work, but it’s a start.

  Sesay may be cute and petite, but she’s got comfy wiles up to here. She calls Lwazi over, mewing like an injured cat. Big brown eyes that are virtually impossible to say no to.

  Her hands are fast, hard. There’s the gnarly sound of ripping flesh followed by a spray of blood. Before I can even process what’s happened, she’s holding Lwazi’s tongue in her hand, and he’s holding his hands to his mouth. Sesay doesn’t even flinch. She’d cleaned up slaughterhouse floors, after all. Last thing she’s afraid of is a little blood. I notice Lwazi’s gun on the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Kasim yells.

  “I know how to get us out of this,” I say. I grab the gun as Sesay boots Lwazi in the ass, and he goes stumbling into a pile of books. Sesay darts for her binder, leafing through page after page, until she finds what she’s after. She pokes her finger through a gaping hole in the page, rimmed by flaky burnt ruin. The stupid machination observes the entire situation, but does nothing. Some kind of replacement god.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s here. Enough of it, anyway. No words missing, just illustrations.”

  Good. I take aim at the machination’s clockwork phallus. Lwazi screams, clamoring toward me. He’s a bloody, frothy mess. I nudge him out of the way and pull the trigger. The kickback sends me careening into the stacks. Books tumble forth, raining down into a massive mound of leather binding and yellowed pages. My hand throbs, the bone in my arm aches something fierce, and the gun is nowhere to be found. When the smoke clears, when my senses congeal, I see the metallic dongle lying on the floor between the machination’s legs, viscous fluid leaking from where it’d been severed. I can’t help but wince.

  “Sorry about that,” I say to the mechanical god as I grab its severed rod. The metal is still hot as I twist off gold-plated bolts and stack my winnings around Sesay’s circle. Bolts for greed, phallus for lechery, Sesay’s doubt signet, a slab of tongue meat for duplicity. And sitting at the center of it all, that machination, steaming . . .

  Steaming.

  The sound of the gun blast has brought Nkosazana back into the room. “No!” she screams, ignoring me, ignoring poor Lwazi writhing desperately in pain. “This is our only chance!” She goes to the machination, immediately pulls a slim tool satchel from a pocket in her jacket, and starts her frantic repairs. The leaking white-hot fluid slows, but doesn’t stop. Silently, I slip next to her as she works, hell-bent on fixing the machination. Lwazi helps the best he can, one hand holding gauze up to his mouth, the other handing her tools from her satchel as she demands them. I can see how badly they’re hurting, how badly they want to prove themselves worthy as singletons. So badly that they’d put their lives within reach of a god. That . . . was a mistake.

  She startles when she sees me and stumbles backward, screaming. Enough of my strength has returned for claws erupt from my nail beds. I flex them, sharp as steel blades. “Please, please,” she begs, staring up at me behind those mirrored lenses, trying to scramble out of my reach. Lwazi drives his elbow into the side of my face, but I flick him off like an insect.

  She cowers as I move my claw to her temple. I slice down, and the strap on her goggles snaps. I toss them to Sesay.

  Vainglory down.

  “If you’re squeamish about gouged eyes, look away now,” she says, taking a step toward Lwazi, her fingernails looking more and more like weapons.

  “Sesay, please. Don’t!” I command. I’ve got an idea, probably a horrible idea, but Sesay is so focused on plucking eyeballs that my words barely register. I grab her shoulder, stopping her before more blood is shed. “Can you perform the ceremony without envy? What would happen if we just used six vice talismans?”

  “It’s hard to say. Probably nothing, but maybe . . .” Her eyes go glassy and wide. She sees what I’m getting at. “Ahhh . . .” she says, nodding.

  The large majority of twins are four-and-three in pairing of their virtues and vices. If we put things back together the way they were, minus a vice and virtue, most pairings would be three-and-three, meaning for the most part, there wouldn’t be the means to oppress half the population. Sure, there’d still be four-and-twos and some five-and-ones. And of course, that does nothing to address all the singletons born after the split, but we can’t expect a single incantation to fix all of society’s ills overnight.

  I look Lwazi in the eyes. Then Nkosazana. Maybe I was born with grace, but I have absolutely no need for it now. Taking their lives would be easy. I growl at them, letting the venom of their betrayal drip from my jowls. “Go,” I say. “Go as far from Mzansi as your feet will take you. If I ever as much as catch a whiff of your blood again, I will hunt you down and devour your entrails while you watch.”

  Nkosazana and Lwazi scramble up to their feet, and I gnash my teeth at them, ensuring their hasty exit.

  “Okay, Sesay,” I say after my nerves have steadied some. “Let’s do this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Am I sure? How could I be any less sure of anything? But in my heart, I know it must be this way. It’s the way it’s meant to be. A wrong needs to be righted, but this is going to hurt as many people as it helps. With Aunt Cisse gone, Mother will suffer, go insane, or worse. I think I can deal with that, but then there’s Uncle Pabio, who’s never hurt a soul . . . what will become of him with Uncle Yeboah gone?

  I nod. Barely a nod, but it’s all Sesay needs, and she starts reading off the incantations. He
r words are choppy at first, not just weird in my ear because of the foreignness of the ancient language, but because she’s improvising along the way, editing out the references to envy, I’m guessing.

  There’s a whole lot of chanting, time slips in and out, and for a long, long time, I’m watching Kasim struggle on the other side of the room, the both of us trying to push through the pain. Finally, something changes in the air. There’s dust . . . different than the dust of aged books . . . an ephemeral dust that glows ever so slightly, like embers struggling to catch fire. Instinctually, I hold my breath so as not to extinguish them. They start to smolder, tiny wisps of smoke snaking around the talismans.

  Sesay chants harder.

  I’m dizzy with pain, barely conscious when something clicks. Kasim’s proximity is no longer a burden. But he’s barely there. It’s as if my insides are grasping for him, and he keeps slipping through my fingers like sand. I think maybe it’s just an effect of the improvised chants, but when I look over at him, there’s not much life left. He’s dying.

  “Kasim,” I whisper. I clear my throat and try again. “Kasim,” I say with a rasp that’s no better.

  I crawl over to him, dragging myself, inch by inch. Carefully, I pull him into my arms, kiss his forehead. My kiss doesn’t kill him, doesn’t make him stronger either, but it lets him know that I’m here, and that I love him, and that if he holds on just a little longer, we can survive this together.

  He slowly pries his eyes open, and I flinch at how red they are. “You look like shit,” he says. “Please don’t go dying on me.”

  “Me? You’re the one that looks like he’s about to take his last breath.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll have that written on your tombstone then. ‘Here lies Kasim Mtuze. He was fine.’”

  Kasim laughs a phlegmy, painful laugh. Eyes close. I shake him, trying to rouse him again, but there’s nothing but slow, shallow breathing. Sesay joins us, nearly doubled over from the pain of her own broken proximity. “Is he getting any better?” she asks, though clearly, he’s not. It’s just a lot easier to say than “Is it too late?”

  I shake my head, but Sesay just stares at me, like she’s expecting me to do something. Like I know how to fix this.

  Kasim inhales. It’s not loud, but I notice because it’s the first breath he’s taken in a while. Nearly thirty seconds pass before he lets the breath go with an unceremonious heave. His last breath coalesces before me, a swirl of silver dust. I’m both shocked and mesmerized. I’m seeing things. Maybe that means my last breath is drawing near as well.

  Please, Grace, do something, comes Sesay’s voice. But it buzzes oddly in my ears. Like her words were stretched upon the wings of a gnat, and released directly into my mind.

  I look at her. Her eyes spark. Please, she says again, but her lips don’t part.

  “How—” I start to ask, but then I notice the swirl of Kasim’s breath is dissipating. I rake my fingers through the air, balling the wispy tendrils back together like tussled yarn until I hold it all in the palms of my hands. I concentrate, strengthening it with every spare bit of energy I have left, before pouring his life force back into him.

  He’s breathing. I’m breathing.

  Sesay smiles, though the pain of broken proximity rims her eyes. “I wasn’t sure it would work.”

  “What did you do, Sesay?”

  “I wanted to fix things between you two, to put it all back the way it’s supposed to be. And then I got to thinking about how the six virtue-vice pairs would help even out things among a lot of twins, but not pairs where the lesser twin had envy, and not twins like Daki and me. So I improvised a bit with the incantation, and switched the greater/lesser twins in the pairing. I figured having walked in each other’s shoes would offer more insight into our relationships.” She shrugs, as if she’d decided to experiment with a new herb in a favorite dish. She taps her fingers, and smiles again. “Would it be okay if I leave, now? I really need to find my sister.”

  “Of course,” I say, holding Kasim even closer. His breathing grows stronger. He’s going to be okay.

  Before I can start to process what’s happened, Sesay’s out the door, her battle-worn binder still lying splayed open where it’d fallen.

  “Kasim,” I say, nudging him. “Kasim, it’s me. It’s over.”

  His eyes flutter once, twice. Then they pop wide open. It takes him a good minute to finally focus on me, but when he does, his gaze softens with relief. He smiles, and starts to say something, but then his mouth goes rigid. Bulges. He keeps his lips pressed together until it becomes impossible to contain what’s growing inside. Fangs erupt, and a muzzle presses itself out of his jaws to accommodate them.

  “Blood,” he says, nearly a howl. Muscles pop and tense. His maimed arm straightens out with a spine-scraping snap. Joints turn inward, tawny fur erupts from his smooth brown skin, glistening like gold all over. My once frail and injured brother pounces onto all fours, sniffs the air. Growls. He’s caught Sesay’s scent. I move to restrain him, but he’s already slipped away. I follow him as fast as I can, but it won’t be fast enough. To make matters worse, more and more prayers buzz in my ears. I keep swatting at them, dozens now, and it’s only slowing me down further.

  When I catch up outside the library, Kasim’s got Sesay pinned to the grass. She screams, bashing his snout with her fists. A long strand of drool hangs from his muzzle.

  “Kasim!” I command like he’s my dog. He doesn’t heel, but if he hasn’t devoured Sesay already, there must be some part of him left that’s open to reason. “I get it. The need for blood. But there are other ways. You don’t have to kill.”

  His jaw shifts back and forth, like he’s trying to get a good sense of exactly how big of a bite he could handle. The need is real.

  “I remember my first time,” I say hurriedly. “I’m not going to lie, it was decadent, completely overwhelming. And that taste never goes away. But neither does the look on your victim’s face as they take their last breath, as they utter their last words. Do you really want this moment to be with you for all eternity?”

  Kasim breathes deeply, like he hears me, like he’s trying to compose himself. He rears back, enough for me to reach for Sesay. She sees the opportunity, and scrambles over to me, but the sudden movement catches the predator’s instincts. Kasim fights them and pulls back, but his claw catches her skin just right. Blood blooms through her shirt. No words could convince him to bite back his instincts now. Hell, I’m practically salivating over the memory of the craving.

  I pull Sesay into my arms, yank her bloody sleeve off, and toss it directly into Kasim’s gaping maw. He doesn’t bother to suck the fabric clean, just swallows it whole.

  Sesay’s bleeding badly, but she’s going to have worse problems if Kasim decides to sink his teeth into her. Instead of pressing at the wound, encouraging it to clot, I let the blood dribble freely into my cupped hand. Kasim stares me down. Those big caracal ears like horns. Fangs bared. Maw trembling with hunger, salivating. I stare back, as petrified as I was that night I’d decided to scale Grace Mountain alone.

  But I’m not alone, now . . . for better or worse, I’ve got my brother with me.

  I extend my arm toward him. A peace offering. The blood in my hand is gone before I can blink, then Kasim wedges his way closer to us, like a feral critter looking for a handout, lapping gently at Sesay’s skin. I lay aside my worry, having faith that he’ll stop before he’s taken too much. Sesay’s lost consciousness by the time he’s finally done, but I press my hand to her arm, mending the wound and willing her body to flourish with a simple thought. Kasim purrs contently. It’s all I can do to stop myself from petting him between the ears and asking him “Who’s a good boy?”

  “Will you come to Akinyemi?” I say to him instead, an invitation not just meant for him, but for all the people left here in the Cape. This place is too close, too broken.

  “Of course,” he says, his gaze still distant. His bloodth
irst constantly demands his attention, but after a moment, he nuzzles underneath my arms and purrs a deep purr that winds itself into my soul, and we settle into this connection that is our brotherhood redefined. “Look,” he says, his half paw, half hand pointing up at the sky.

  A meteor shower, hot streaks of white searing the atmosphere. The prayer gnats start swarming again, but I embrace them. No rest for weary gods. I pull myself up from the comfort of Kasim’s proximity and begin to answer them. They appear like dust motes in front of me, thousands of them, shimmering in the air. I touch one, and instantly, I am connected to a middle-aged man, and through his eyes, I see his son lying upon his bed, wrapped in layers of blankets, feverish and delirious. With Hallowed Hands, I reach out and touch him with the light that resides within me. Soon, his fever will break and the child will be running the halls, whooping and hollering and tormenting his thankful parents once again.

  The act does not drain me in the slightest, but instead, fills me with invigorating buoyancy. After a few more, I find myself caught in the air, a few inches above the ground, and for nearly an hour, I play my fingers across the motes, answering every single prayer, virtue- and vice-ridden alike. I take special pleasure in crafting inspirational vagaries, and balancing those words upon hundreds of sets of defting sticks, whether they’re made from ivory or the cheapest of splintering woods. Many of my followers, nearly the entirety of the city, are making their way up Grace Mountain, called by Nkosazana’s false bells. Their prayers are full of excitement, anticipation as the bells ring, as my tears continue to streak across the sky above.

  So many tears . . .

  The meteor shower hasn’t slowed. It’s intensifying. The ground trembles in the far distance, and before I can register it as an impact, a meteor slams into the Cape. The entire mountain quakes, and the city bowl becomes a blaze. It’s not a meteor shower . . . it’s pieces of moon crashing down upon us. Immediately I flex my gossamers, hoping I have enough power to stop the destruction. I let my mind unfold to the cosmic scale. I brace myself, steady my nerves, then concentrate with all my might, folding my attention on the rocks and dust decaying in Earth’s orbit. My gossamers sprawl out like a spider’s web, vibrations of silken threads drawing my attention to each and every fragment. I move slowly, meticulously, gathering the pieces, rolling them like a soft bit of clay between my fingertips, until the moon is whole and beautiful again.