Babylon -- Part 8
by Martin H Slusser

The man gave him a brisk nod, and a garage door yawned open.

“The People of Light go with you, young man.”

Benny’s head jerked up in shock.

“O:Tsi:Yu, Old-One.”

“Dohi:yi, ayotli. Peace, son. Now, please get your ass out of here. The child will be safe with us, Wolf-Warrior Priest.”

Stiffening, Benny wanted to shout, I’m not a priest. I’m not even a man. No man runs out on a pregnant woman.

Instead his head went down in a nod, and the Red Sun eased out into the night.

The old man watched him go, a polishing rag twisting in his hands. He winked at a massive Warrior-Guardian.

Two Swords glared back. He whipped his sword, macana a-Heart-o’-Steel, out of her sheath on his back and drove the protesting blade into the cut stone of the driveway.

‘Heart roared, and a blue sun exploded around them.

Glowering, smoking, her engine rumbling in angry protest at being remade into a motorcycle, ‘Heart growled.

Eyes still on the smiling man, Two Swords threw a leg over the saddle, and they roared away.

Giving a small bow, the man chuckled.

“The God of love and light go with you, too, Warrior Two Swords.” He slung the rag over his shoulder and strode out to the pool.

A GalonV hissed at him from the gray, crooked branches of a magnolia tree.

“O:Tsi:Yu, friend raven-protector,” he whispered. “I’m glad to see you. We all are.”

The raven cocked a cold, golden eye at the man. A baby was in the offing, a grandson for the Wolf-Woman of Sandy Valley, and if necessary he would die for the child. The man grinned and floated upwards on spread wings to join the raven. On his back the rag fluttered and disappeared to become a sword that trilled a greeting to the raven.

Benny roared off into the night. The cops took one look at the kid on the Red Sun and quietly pulled down the next street.

She was middle aged. She stood heavy-set, angry, and above all she was adamant.

Fist on hip, she glared down into the scarred face and cold blue eye and said, “No.”

She took a deep breath, and Benny could almost hear her count to ten.

“Boy, what part of no do you not understand? I said, you can not split that pack, and just buy one tee shirt. Take all three o’ them things, else put ‘em back on the shelf.” She folded her arms under her breasts and leaned on plump hip on the cash register, her light brown eyes glowering.

Her attitude said any punk stupid enough to come in here was gonna get what he deserved. Benny glared back, and recognized that look as one he had seen often enough in his mother’s face. When a woman sets her mind, it is, like, in cement.

Ol’ bim. Maybe he should have used the cathouse charm. God knew he learned his lessons the hard way, with an electronic whip locked around his neck. Her eyes kept straying to the eye patch.

No more glass eye. He had traded it for a beer and cigarette tobacco. Or had Nina kept it? Yo, got a clean hole though. Tempted to show her just how ugly he really was, his hand slipped up. A sideshow freek.

“Screw it.”

Benny slapped down a fiver and stalked away. A sideshow, that was what he was at the Manse. Only now he wasn’t pretty anymore. Nor was he only fourteen and scared half to death.

“Hey! Hey, kid?” the woman called. Benny smashed through the glass door. “Boy, your change.” Running to the door she threw it open and shouted at him, scowling when he refused to look her way.

On an old motorcycle that looked in worse shape than he did, the boy kicked it down and ripped away.

The clerk moved back to register. Slow, angry, she put the five in the drawer. With narrowed, embarrassed eyes she retrieved it.

“I ain’t gonna get in no trouble because of some biker-brat. If I’m over-till, the boss’ll dock me.” Swallowing her unease, she made change and pocketed it.

A slender young woman in the next lane nodded. “Tips is tips.”

The Red Sun pounded behind the mini mall. Benny let her slow near the dumpsters. He watched an old, old man climb out of one, hands filled with prizes like a newspaper and half-eaten food. The man glanced down an autocratic nose at Benny.

Benny shrugged. None of his, how a man made a living. If the dude wanted help, it was there for him. Independent old fart. Benny hid a smile at the old man’s righteous pride. It was an attitude he wanted, if he lived long enough to acquire some gray hairs. Ride free, die proud.

Benny stretched his aching shoulders and shrugged out of the jacket.

He ripped open the pack of tee shirt and donned one.

With a careless toss of his hand, he threw the other two at the old man’s feet.

“Here y’ go, Pop. En-joy.”

“I am not your father, boy.” The old man bared toothless gums and kicked the tee shirts back at Benny. “I ain’t that shameless.”

Benny shrugged. “Have it your own way, old man.” He tipped the Red Sun away and they screamed through the lot and out into the heavy northbound traffic.

The old man winced as horns screamed and alarms shrieked. He hobbled to the tee shirts and snatched them up, ready to throw them into the dumpster. He paused, looked from them to the biker and pulled one out.

Light flashed in his mind’s eye, and he moaned, falling to his knees.

Death rode that boy’s shoulders. A cold, bitter enemy from the dark side flew with bared teeth and a world of hate at the boy. The old man watched in horror as it closed in and hacked a gray sword at the boy.

“Jesus. Sweet loving Jesus, no,” he cried out.

Screaming its fury, the demonic being threw a look of hate at the old man and vanished. With trembling hands he caressed the shirts. He let the ragged wool coat drop from an unwashed, sore-covered body and slipped a tee shirt over him. It was soft, gentle, and he hugged himself.

“The Lord bless you, young man. May He keep you safe, my ayotli waya-kin.”

Tears flooded the red streaked and yellowed eyes, and he knelt there, too wracked by the memory of his own losses to move. It was a new beginning, a healing.

©2003 StoriesByEmail.com

Nolan Chart