SOME DAYS FELT LIKE DEATH. The feeling was primal, but thirty thousand years of human history said we were still primitive.
It was hard to meditate when ‘shit, fuck and damn’ kept roiling, but direct contact with Leviathan required a re-grounding of self.
And they’d lost. Again.
The ship was on course for the Blank.
The Battle Ready Bastards were coming along for the ride.
Quicho named them all. “Bob (Ra’asiel). John (Arariel). George (Nakir). James (Shetel). Steve (Lucifer). Lisa (Eloa). Jane (Sereda). Ashley (Ambriel). Raoul (Coupdeviel). Barb (Samandiriel). Bubbles (Vulva). Basketball team, performance artists or sci-fi convention.”
They’d radioed their status to the Fi again with the Fi’s blessing to forge ahead. Then Milo had gone below decks and Ramses sat alone on the prow, sprayed till drenched but not making a sound.
“Does anybody know where we’re going?” asked Lucifer.
“I don’t think it matters just now,” said Desiree. “Give us a bit of time, we’ll figure things out.”
Milo, in his trance, remembered admiring Buford but never loving him. Memory coiled and struck like a snake. His earliest memory was of Buford finding him. He saw his pudgy brown arms reaching out as Buford’s hairy white ones reached down. Two? Three? He didn’t remember where he was or who or what had gotten him there, just the universal precognition toddlers possessed that when they held their arms out big things had to pick them up.
Kids want to be picked up when they’re scared. As a man, Milo often wondered what Buford had done to create that situation in the first place. Even now Milo didn’t like to be scared, and these remembrances badgering his meditative state brought with them very real impressions of fear. The snake coiled leisurely around his skull and squeezed till the memory popped and reshaped into a boy openly defying Buford, six or seven, unleashing a spirit warrior against Buford’s succubus in the Great Shadow Battle With The Mantis using nothing but finger motions, chi and air from having watched the unarmed Kichi do it only seconds before. Afterward, in a real home, both he and Kichi had been sick from the energy drain for days, Kichi only a few, Milo for two weeks plus listless a week more. Kichi had always seemed to Milo to be made of a kind of sinewy, hard chocolate, but had the most comforting touch a child could ask for. Milo’s fitful sleep eased a little knowing Kichi’s eyes were watching over his dreams. The dreams were where things kept trying to get out, sensing a weak bridge to bigger and better worlds. Milo’s own avatar had tried to flee.
He and Ramses would seek Kichi out, thought Milo now, hard on that word ‘Kichi’ to drive away Buford, fear and snakes.
Because the amulet Vrea had given Ramses said quite simply, ‘Come home.’
~~~
The Linda Ann blasted out of the Blank, appearing—had there been anything besides aquatic life to see (and aquatic life was used to it)—to blast out of thin air and continue cleaving the Atlantic like a hot knife through gel.
They called Kichi. His message said only: “I’m in Detroit.”
Then so are we.
~~~
In an alternate reality, much of Detroit consists of farmland neighborhood co-ops started by grandmothers fed up with blight and grocer price-gouging, which then spread to others who realized that after years of a dying local economy the land was literally dirt cheap.
In Milo’s particular reality, Detroit’s crops were started by Kichi Malat, who bought a bag of seed from any hardware store he happened to find and spread them over any empty lot it was impossible not to find. Birds got most of the seed but here and there something would take root. An apple tree at Vernor and Gratiot where they used to make gourmet ice cream. Mustard greens along Montclair.
Even around Kichi’s old home where nothing remained on the entire block but two broken houses on one side of the street and four on the other—his old home had been that empty lot right in the middle—Kichi sprinkled seeds, but only in the early morning, but even then, for a city so fragmented, cars were constantly running everywhere.
And nobody, man, woman or child, was outside without talking on a phone. Cities had long ago become very weird places comprised of a huge monolithic conversation.
Kichi Malat was tall, grey, old and lined—and stronger than anybody living or dead in the city of Detroit, with defenses grown men shielded their eyes from. He wasn’t afraid of being accosted.
Being ignored though was a very different thing. The people who did see him…didn’t see him. Cities were full of poor folks, and it was sad when poor folk lost the ability even to see one another. Granted, Malat was rich as sin, but he didn’t wear his money. One would have thought Johnny Appleseed sowing the city was an everyday thing. Spreading life was unimportant.
At a certain point an old man gets tired of the things he does being deemed unimportant and he decides to put the battle directly in everyone’s face.
Kichi dropped the bag of grass seed when he saw his sons approaching. He smiled despite the foolishness of what he saw: they’d brought angels with them, bold as day and eleven deep on Kercheval Street.
“You look like a gang,” he said, eyes sparkling as he held his arms out to wrap both his boys. “Ra’asiel! You haven’t aged a day.”
“A few months.”
“Lucifer,” Kichi said with an enthusiastic nod.
“Old goat,” said Lucifer.
“How’d you get here?” asked Kichi, studying the eyes of his eldest son.
“Called in some favors.”
“You need to leave the pope alone.” Sereda caught Kichi’s eye. “Last time I saw such a beautiful green woman…”
“You cupped my left buttock in your hand and told me to pardon your spasm. It’s good to see you, Kichi,” said Sereda.
“Good to see all of you,” he said to the ones standing silently. “Where’d you park?”
“Couple blocks off.”
“Doing some chi tracking?” the elder asked proudly. “A fading art.”
“We saw you a couple blocks off and wanted to surprise you,” admitted Milo.
“I used the chi,” said Ramses.
Kichi motioned to the fifty pound bag of seed, which Ramses picked up and toted to an old blue pick up Kichi led them to.
“I’ve never owned a truck,” said Kichi. “I like it. Bought it cash from somebody’s front yard.” Part of the dirty, wrinkled ‘For Sale’ sign protruded from beneath a bag of flower seed. “They even gave me a little bag of treats to go with it.”
Milo and Ramses shared a look.
“They thought you were a drug dealer, pops,” Milo said.
“Well yeah, after I realized it was a bag of weed.”
“Not many people carry around the money to walk up somewhere and pay cash for a car,” said Milo.
“I gave him five hundred more than what he was asking and made him promise to teach his baby to read. Cute little thing running around in the dirt. Climb in,” he told them. “Mind the cooler.”
Milo jumped into the bed. The angels followed suit. Ramses climbed into the cab. Kichi called back to them through the open window. “If the police stop us, speak the old tongues.” Then he pulled smoothly off, stopping at their vans so they could disembark and follow Kichi to Belle Isle, the latter being about a ten minute drive.
Kichi used the opportunity to talk about Milo.
“How’s he doin’?”
“He’s pushing.”
“You as tired as he is?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t want you getting there. Every battle is not ours, and even ours don’t necessarily have to be fought to the bitter end.” They drove silently a bit, Ramses viewing the city for its mysteries, Malat waiting for the inevitable.
“Pop, we can end this.”
“You know how?”
“You’ve known how your entire life.”
“Every warrior knows two guaranteed ways to end a battle,” said Kichi.
“We’re not going out like that.”
“‘With Great Power’ huh?”
“With great power. What’s in the cooler?”
“Sausages, soda, corn and buns. Hope one of you still knows how to set a fire. I forgot the matches and fluid.”
“I’m sure between us we can handle it.” Ramses noticed something was missing. “Where’s your cane?”
“I never told the kids I needed it,” he said.
“Only time you spanked me was when I tried to grab that cane.”
“With good reason.”
“Ms. Boom give you that?”
Kichi smiled a bit, deepening the wrinkles on his angular face. “No,” he said, “but not a fault against her general generosity.”
“You plan on going back?”
“Too sterile for me. Nah. Atlantis is a nice place to visit, and I would love to live there, but I’ve got other places in mind.”
“Some secret place we get to retire to?” Ramses asked.
They drove quietly a few more moments to enjoy the pre-rush hour solitude.
“I’m sorry you never felt like you belonged anywhere,” Kichi said flatly, eyes squarely on the road. He signaled for the turn that would take them over the bridge to Belle Isle.
Ramses answered the same, without looking at the other, eyes on…outside. “It’s not your fault, pops.”
“Your tone says you think it’s yours.” They passed a row of dilapidated apartments. “This used to be a better city,” said Kichi. “Not good. Not perfect. But better.”
“So goes the world. Nostalgia?”
Kichi nodded.
“Past can’t piss us off as thoroughly as the present,” said Ramses.
“East Grand Boulevard,” said the old man, a hand indicating every city in every world there ever was. Concrete, decay and ennui. “They never got the knack of naming to create. Obfuscation. Obfuscation.” He sighed. Waste was an egregious thing. “Nothing grand about divisiveness. I miss people who wanted things to be better rather than settling on not getting worse,” he said.
“There’re never more than five people out of a thousand who feel like that at one time on this earth,” said Ramses.
“You still count your brother and yourself as two of them?”
“I’m not sure, pops. I’m not sure what we’re fighting for.”
“Yeah you are.”
Ramses studied Kichi’s profile. Kichi stared straight ahead, eyes on the road.
Ramses turned away to stare at the bright diamonds flickering on the surface of the river before them.
“Used to be a tunnel under water that led to the island,” said Kichi. The pickup rode the gentle upward slope of the island’s bridge. Fishermen sailed under the bridge, old men angling for bass or bluegill first thing in the morning.
Seagulls chased after bait, dive bombing the lines.
“You’ve got the heavier burden than your brother.”
“I’m cool knowing you know.”
“I do know.”
Joggers ran the length of the grey bridge. Early morning on the island was paradise for those with a purpose. It wasn’t until afternoon and evening that those without purpose took over.
A woman jogged toward them, ponytail bouncing like a baton marking her steps. She was tall and beautiful in grey sports bra, grey shorts, and red bandana. Both men said silent prayers of protection for her.
“You’re a protector. You’re a stronger man than you credit yourself, Ramses,” said Kichi.
“Many thanks. I know when you use my name you’re leading up to something.”
“Nothing that won’t wait. Let’s find a good spot so we can talk without this metal beast interfering with our thoughts.”
They parked near one of the inner ponds. Fat city geese were everywhere, regarding humans as vending machines. Kichi threw several handfuls of seed into their midst, causing a brief flurry of wings and squawking.
Elderly drivers, fitness bikers, and joggers stared at the odd gathering of uber folk, particularly the green chick, trying to memorize details so they could tell friends or family later. Probably a movie or video shoot. Local rappers were always trying to make low-budget videos on the island.
Milo scraped ash and leavings off one of the island’s standing grills into a metal bin.
Kichi arranged the dry coals under the grate then walked to the pond’s edge. It smelled like water and moss there, and invited all kinds of contemplation.
Milo joined him. They talked privately a few minutes before Milo returned to the milling group around an aromatic and smoking grill.
Milo frowned at it; frowned quizzically at Ramses lining the grill with foil for the sausages and corn.
Ra’asiel was bent forward blowing on the coals.
“How’d he get that fire started?” Milo asked Ramses.
“Stared at it.”
“He didn’t.”
“The man is bad.”
Ra’asiel straightened, looking Milo dead in the eye and grinning that slight grin of his that sent pleasurable shivers down most spines.
“Barbecue Ready Bastard?” Milo questioned.
“It’s how legends are made,” said Ra’asiel X. “Kichi tell you where Buford’s at?”
“Didn’t talk about him.”
“Y’all looked deep, brother,” said Ramses.
“Pops told me everything would be all right.”
“Already is,” said Ramses.
“Desiree?” Milo inquired of their captain.
“You’ll never hear me say, ‘No worries, mon.’ The old man’s getting maudlin. Maudlin perturbs me.”
“Everything perturbs you,” said Milo.
“Perturbing world,” said Desiree and left them in favor of Sereda, who now leaned on the hood of Kichi’s truck away from casual eyes.
“You don’t think we’ll attract too much attention?” Ramses asked Milo. This wasn’t their usual plan of action.
Milo shook his head. “Kichi says there’s a Navy post not far from here.”
“So we’re the Village People?”
“Boys,” Kichi called. They trotted to him. He regarded both with his steeliest, most penetrating gaze. The men before him had been fighting this battle nearly their entire lives on fronts the world over. “What are your guts saying?”
Ramses answered first. “He wasn’t expecting it either.”
“Leviathan, teleporting, kidnapping and Atlantis. You come home with a helluva show and tell,” said Kichi.
“I don’t think it’s the Thoom,” said Milo.
“Just because you don’t like them doesn’t mean they can’t be clever,” said Kichi.
“We haven’t heard about anybody else getting this close to him,” said Ramses.
“Who’s gotten close to you lately?” the old man asked.
Milo and Ramses studied one another’s expression to see if they were thinking the same thing.
A couple of bikinis, magnificent chess games, smiles that were the very definitions of human.
“What is it?” asked Kichi.
“We met two ladies last time,” said Milo.
Kichi smiled. “Oldest tricks in the book get their own special chapters for a reason.”
“We find them, we find Buford?” asked Ramses.
Kichi shrugged. “Somewhere along the way.”
“Ms. Boom gave me something to give to you,” said Ramses. “I’ll give it to you later.”
“Eh, once you go black,” he said with a playful snort, then he was immediately more serious. “Is it poetry? Burn it. Burn it before it gets you. You know how many warriors have fallen to poetry? Nobody reads a bad poem without feeling pity, and pity’s the first evil.”
“You bound it in singularity hide,” said Ramses.
“Needed something strong to keep that stuff in.”
“What made you carve ‘Come home’ after leaving the Mount?”
Kichi took their knowledge of his having visited the Mount in stride.
“Prescience isn’t random,” said Kichi. “Subconscious directs and shapes it inasmuch as the All shapes everything else. I doubt those ladies have anything to do with Thoom, Buford, Leviathan or spirits, but they will lead you.”
“Lead us where, pops? Enigmas aren’t helping,” said Milo.
“I’d agree if I was presenting you with one,” said Kichi. “Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be,” he said.
“I know,” said Milo.
“Handed down from god itself,” said Kichi.
“Praise the multiverse,” both brothers said in unison.
“Praise something in this idiot age.” Kichi Malat nodded toward the group around the grill. “You brought angels?”
“We’ll tell people Sereda’s a performance artist,” said Milo.
“You meant to fight in the streets,” said Kichi.
“Buford’s not the head of a hydra, he’s the heart. We could have ended this,” said Milo.
“This portion of it,” said Kichi.
“That’s not what I want to hear, pops,” said Milo.
Kichi looked at him hard-eyed for a second. He expected better of him; then he remembered the inescapable truth of the Warrior: battle was a crucible of evolution, and evolution followed no moral imperative. Kichi was spending his elder years fighting the battle on a much smaller scale, following the wisdom of Anansi’s lesson that the story one thought one was telling was never the one that was being told. He was an old man who spoke to children or he played guitar, and only occasionally did he summarily dispatch one of the many evil djinns of the marketing age.
“Send the angels to find Lolita,” said Kichi.
“Smoove’s already searching,” said Milo.
“Bring Smoove and Carel back. Don’t get goofy the closer you get to a goal. Check the coals.”
Milo protested. “Desiree can see the grill.”
“Check the coals.”
Milo left.
“He’s too distracted,” said Kichi.
“What do we do?”
“You’ve got the gift of the fye. Use it.”
“I’ve never smacked the fye out of him.”
“He’s got a lot built up,” observed Kichi. “Worry about it if and when.”
Milo pulled long sausages from the cooler.
“You didn’t bring your guitar,” said Ramses.
“I’m gonna buy an acoustic and wander the streets with it.”
“All about the seeds, pops.”
“Life grows from inside or beneath. Consciousness. Slice mine Toronto style,” he called out to Milo. “Bag of condiments beneath the front seat.” He nudged Ramses. “You think he’s thinking ‘slice ‘em ya damn self’?”
Ramses laughed. Kichi clapped him on the shoulder and led off.
“Come on, let’s see if we can figure out where your ladies are.”