Cyril snorts. “Not when you have feelings like mine.”
Seth blinks, and seems to take a moment to digest this. Then he nods. “I have bad feelings sometimes, too. That’s why Mom makes me do martial arts.”
“Kid, what could you possibly have to feel bad about?” This asshole regrets the question the instant it leaves his mouth—because, really, what doesn’t this kid have on his plate? He hasn’t even hit double digits and he’s already had to survive his dad’s death and his mom’s cancer, not to mention a global pandemic and the threat of annual wildfires.
Seth shifts in his chair and looks elsewhere: his milk, the bread, his finger worrying a crack on the edge of the tabletop. “People,” he admits at last, quietly. “I get scared about people... leaving.”
So long ago it’s scarcely worth remembering, Tavis Matheson’s mother ran away with Cyril’s old man. The day it happened—everyone knew—Tavis had looked at him across the third-grade classroom, and he had quickly looked away. When Seth looks at him now, it is with that same mixture of grief and anger and fear.
Dying, is what he doesn’t have to say. His dad is dead, and he’s scared his mom is dying, too.
“Come here.” Cyril lifts his arm, and in a heartbeat, Seth is around the table, burying his head in this asshole’s shoulder. He hugs the boy, too tight. “You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. I’m sorry. It’s shit.”
Seth empties his feelings onto Cyril’s shirt, simple as that, and when he is done, he wipes his face on a kitchen towel, drinks the last of his milk, and allows Cyril to shepherd him back to bed.
After carefully closing the kids’ bedroom door—the last thing he needs is Nora waking up—Cyril stands in the hall, staring at the string of portraits illuminated dimly by the nightlight in the bathroom. In the half-light, Seth’s portrait could just as easily have been his father, at the same age. They are so alike.
At nine, Tavis had already been charming and athletic and possessed of a natural talent for anything he touched. He would not naturally have gravitated toward the sedentary, antisocial loner who spent recesses on a bench by himself, but that cataclysmic intersection of loss had lured him into Cyril’s orbit.
“Hey,” Tavis said, in the hall after school.
“Leave me alone,” this asshole had replied, emphasizing the point with a shove. That was all he wanted, ever. To be left alone.
Nevertheless, they both ate school lunches, and there were not so many children that it was possible to ignore the fact that Tavis had begun to devour everything, including the disgusting slop not even the fat kid would touch. He pocketed soft red apples from the “share” bowl when he hoped nobody was looking.
“Goodness! You must be hitting a growth spurt,” one of the lunch ladies joked. Cyril was not that stupid.
Once a week, he stayed late for science club. When he left, Tavis was often still out on the playground, kicking rocks or hanging upside down from the bars. Alone. Since apparently nobody else was going to do anything, Cyril finally walked over to the fence and said, “You can have dinner at my house.”
Tavis let himself drop into the bark chips and dusted his knees. “Your mom won’t mind?”
Cyril’s mother had spent the better part of his short life pestering him to invite friends over, an annoyance which had gotten exponentially worse since his dad hit the road. She cried. He didn’t exactly want to give her the satisfaction, but he also had an idea that bringing someone home would help take the focus off him.
It worked. She fawned over Tavis like a puppy, tousling his copper-penny hair and offering him firsts and then seconds of all her baked goods and asking him about his favorite subjects in school and laughing with delight as he described the antics which had earned him the scrapes on his elbows and knees and oh, Cyril, why don’t you ever try things like that?
Even the revelation that Tavis was the son of the woman who had stolen her husband hadn’t dulled his shine; in fact, she seemed to feel it was something they had in common. The second time Tavis came for dinner, she had reminisced about falling in love with Cyril’s father, cried, and then pulled out her wedding album.
It was humiliating. But what was Tavis going to do? Blab? That Cyril’s mother was a fat, hysterical mess was obvious to anyone with eyes. If Tavis wanted home-cooked meals—and for all her faults, Cyril’s mother was an excellent cook—he'd keep his mouth shut.
The strange thing was that Tavis actually seemed to enjoy the attention. Whatever questions Cyril’s mother posed, no matter how personal, he answered without hesitation, flushing a rosy red and grinning ear to ear as he happily disgorged his soul. Maybe if you hadn’t spent your whole life being peppered with stupid questions, it was kind of nice. Or maybe Tavis didn’t know that the confessions he made would be collected and sharpened into barbs that would, inevitably, be flung in his face next time she worked herself into a frenzy of fury and despair. Surely he could not be that naïve.
Whatever. What mattered was that it gave Cyril a chance to slip away into his room and play on his computer. Alone.
Until Tavis came in. He just stood there for a while, looking over Cyril’s shoulder. But eventually he said, “Can I try?” and Cyril couldn’t think of a reason to tell him no. As it turned out, Tavis barely even knew how to use a computer, so Cyril had to show him how to use the arrow keys and remind him over and over that Ctrl was fire, Alt was strafe, and space bar was use item. He got himself killed immediately, so Cyril had to restart the game, and then give him strategy tips in addition to constant keyboard reminders, and—it wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was kind of fun.
By the time Cyril’s mother knocked on the open door to say, “It’s getting dark, boys,” Tavis had gotten the hang of the game, leaning forward so his nose nearly touched the screen.
“Can I spend the night?” he asked, without even looking up.
The sheer audacity of the request—not even discussed with Cyril—was breathtaking. But Tavis hadn’t seemed shy or self-conscious at all. Might as well try, his posture suggested; the worst she could do was say no.
Cyril’s mother blushed. “Of course! We’d love to have you. I mean, if it’s okay with your father. I’ll give him a ring.”
Tavis shrugged. “He won’t care.”
She went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later, looking puzzled. “He wasn’t there, but your sister said she’d let him know. I guess he can always come and pick you up.” She grinned, clasping her hands together in exaggerated delight. “Oh, the two of you look so cute. Do you want some pajamas? You and Cyril are almost exactly the same size. You could be brothers!”
Same height, maybe, but Cyril outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. As Tavis hunched forward to cinch the waist of the oversized Garfield-print flannel pants, his shirt lifted to reveal the pale skin of his lower back.
“Wow,” said Cyril, ogling the stripe of purple across his knobby spine. “What happened?”
Tavis glanced up long enough to see where Cyril was looking. “Got whupped.”
“For what?” Cyril’s dad hadn’t been around much, even before he left, but at least he’d never done that. Cyril imagined Tavis must have done something nigh unforgivable.
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Talking back?”
Sometimes, Tavis stayed for days. Other times, he seemed to vanish for weeks at a stretch. The bottom drawer of Cyril’s dresser was reserved for his clothing, composed of Cyril’s castoffs and the odd jacket or pair of sneakers his mother picked up at a garage sale. Tavis witnessed more than one of her meltdowns, in which she railed at Cyril and his god-damn no-good father for having betrayed her and let her down. Sometimes, when her rage had collapsed into helpless sobs, Tavis crept softly into the living room to hold her hand.
Time passed. They went to junior high, and then high school. Though they operated within increasingly disparate spheres, Tavis and Cyril always made time to grab a couple of controllers and play a game. Having been royally fucked by their respective famil
ies, it was understood—never directly discussed—that they had formed a bond of their own.
When Cyril’s mother died, Tavis was still there, holding her hand.
The next morning, coming out of the bathroom, Robin stops him with a look of stern appraisal. “I don’t know what the two of you talked about last night—”
“He had some worries. It’s fine.”
She opens the hall closet and yanks out a fresh towel. “I’ll take your word for it," she says, squeezing past him into the bathroom. “But just so you know, if you mess this up today? I will gut you.”
“Wait, what’s today?” he asks, just to see the look on her face. With the increase in Robin’s mobility and the decrease of the local COVID rate, plans for D&D had moved from Zoom to out-of-doors; specifically, the barn at the bottom of Robin’s property. Her threats are unnecessary—as much as he may disappoint her, he will not fail the kids.
“Wow,” she says, when she realizes he’s joking. “I continue to be baffled that you didn’t get yourself killed in prison.”
Since acquiring the first Dungeon Master manual, he’d continued to place orders for items as they came to mind, accumulating a small collection dice, plastic figures, maps, and reference books. Now he retrieves his stash—kept in a plastic grocery bag in a spare cupboard in the kitchen—and heads down to the barn. Seth is so excited he runs down the hill and then up again, literally doing a lap around the outside of the house. How he can do this with a mask on and not pass out is a mystery.
Robin has already spent time describing the barn setup to the other parents on the chain of emails that has now moved to a never-ending group text, so all Cyril has to do is follow her outline: drag the barn doors out as far as they’ll go, move her table saw out of the way, set up a grid of four sawhorses, and then cover them with a sheet of plywood and a canvas drop cloth. Seating hadn’t come up for discussion, but he finds a couple of folding chairs tucked back behind the hand truck. He flags Seth down and sends him up to the house for more.
There are five kids in addition to Seth and Nora; as they arrive, Robin meets the parents on the deck outside the back door, presumably to assure them that at least one non-criminal adult will be present for the event, and possibly to keep as much distance between them and him as possible.
This asshole had imagined three hours would be more than enough time for the activity, and it is—for him. Thanks to COVID and wildfires, the kids haven’t seen each other or been outside in an eternity, and they spend a good thirty minutes just running around the property screaming. Robin, apparently having sussed out at least one of Cyril's hiding spots, brings down a package of Oreos and some juice boxes, along with paper plates, wet wipes, and a pair of latex gloves with which to hand them out. She stays to make sure everyone is six feet apart before they remove their masks to eat.
And for one blessed moment, as they stuff Oreos into their mouths, the children are silent. Cyril rises, looming large over the ad hoc table, and waits until all eyes are on him before lifting a fist and bringing it down on the plywood with a crash—once, twice, and then three times. One of the kids lets out a yelp, spraying crumbs.
“Wake, strangers!” he booms, and pounds on the table again. “Wake, and come out to face Valnoth, the high cleric of Spinsel temple, and his holy acolytes! We know you have taken the scroll!”
For one long, gloriously silent moment, the kids just stare at him, eyes wide. A little wispy-haired waif, the only girl in the group besides Nora, looks like she might be about to burst into tears until Seth stifles a giggle. She looks at him, and her shoulders relax as she exhales.
He bangs again, loud enough to make her jump. “Miscreants! If you do not come out, we will come in and take the scroll by force!”
Now the kids trade looks with one another. They're so flummoxed—but also transfixed—that they don’t even notice Robin as she circles the table, collecting napkins and empty juice boxes. Finally, a little towheaded boy summons the courage to say, “Um... what scroll?”
“Do not play the fool! The sacred scroll of Soleah, of course! We know you travelers have taken it! The innkeeper has said you are the only outsiders to have frequented this establishment within the fortnight! Will you open the door, or shall I command my acolytes to sully their flaming axes?”
Seth can no longer contain himself. “I open the door!” he crows.
Cyril inclines his head toward the boy. “You have chosen wisely, young traveler.” He lowers the volume of his voice and speaks as though narrating a documentary. “The seven of you file out into the main room of the inn. You find yourselves face to face with a scowling, broad-shouldered man in black robes. This is Valnoth, the high cleric of Spinsel. Behind him are his acolytes, dressed in red and gold, all six of them holding axes with gleaming golden blades.” With a rough clearing of his throat, he extends a hand and switches back to Valnoth’s growl. “The scroll. Now.”
“But we don’t have a scroll!” the little girl protests. She looks slightly panicked, as if she’s forgotten her homework.
Cyril doesn’t break character, but inwardly, he grins. They’re getting the hang of it. “Exactly what a thief would claim. Identify yourselves, ruffians.” He points to Seth. “You first!”
Thanks to a little pre-game coaching, Seth knows what to do. He holds up his character sheet and announces, “I am Dragondude, the dragonborn druid!”
The table descends into chaos as the kids demand to know what that means and to see what’s written on his sheet. Cyril slides a blank character sheet towards each kid, withholding pens and pencils until he’s had a chance to explain the races and classes they can choose from, along with the process of rolling dice for stats. None of them listens to anything he says to the others, so he’s forced to explain the entire character creation process six separate times. One little punk, Kai, asks the same exact question three times in a row because he stops listening the instant Cyril begins to explain. He's about two seconds away from tearing up the kid's character sheet and kicking him out of the barn when Robin places her hands on his shoulders from behind, leans forward, and whispers, “They’re having fun.”
Her hands feel rougher than usual, and when he glances at her he realizes she is wearing leather work gloves. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just tidying up.” She waves his attention back to the kids.
He keeps one eye on her as the children assemble their ragtag band of adventurers, and Valnoth the high cleric renews his demands for the scroll of Soleah, threatening violence if the travelers don’t submit to a search of their belongings. All but “Flamey the wood elf ranger” agree to the search, and Flamey’s attempt to sneak out of the inn undetected fails when he rolls a measly 5 on his stealth check.
Robin sweeps off her workbench, uses a pocketknife to sharpen a couple of pencils, and then begins assessing her stock of wood, pulling out lengths of pre-primed trim and two-by-fours. She makes some notes for herself, writing directly on the barn wall, and then returns to sorting planks.
Valnoth is not thrilled when his search for the scroll turns up empty. He’s contemplating carting the travelers off to the local dungeon to see if a little torture can convince them to give up the location of the scroll when one of the acolytes pipes up with a suggestion: “Wait, your holiness!” Cyril says, in a whiny falsetto, “While our fair city has surely never seen a more suspicious, dirty group of wanderers, it is possible that they may not be responsible for the stolen scroll!”
“We totally didn’t do it!” Dragondude exclaims, echoed by Flamey and Prince Bubblehead.
“You question my judgment?” Valroth booms.
“No, your holiness! I only say it is possible! And since we cannot determine the truth, perhaps we could... motivate these ruffians to find the scroll for us.”
Valroth strokes his long beard thoughtfully. “Yes. If they claim that the scroll is not in their possession, then they must find it for us!”
“Seriously?” says Prin
ce Bubblehead. “How is this our problem?”
“The scroll,” the acolyte informs him, “contains the spell which we use to bring water to this land. Without it, our city will be consumed by the desert which surrounds us. Without the scroll, none survive. Not us, and not you.”
Cyril hasn’t exactly left them much choice in the matter, so after a brief discussion, the adventurers agree to try and find the scroll for Valroth. Once they’re out of the inn and wandering around the town square, however, they can’t decide whether to start their search in town or follow the acolyte’s suggestion to consult the soothsayer living in a tent outside the city walls. They organize a vote, but it’s a tie, with three in favor of each option. When Nora—to whom Cyril has assigned the role of magical cat familiar—is designated tie breaker, the most specific answer they can get out of her is the declaration that she wants to be invisible and fly. Cyril is on the verge of roaring it doesn’t fucking matter what you pick, choice is an illusion and you're going to end up in the diamond minds either way, when he looks out the barn door and see’s Kai’s mother pulling up next to the house.
Though all the parents show up promptly, it takes considerably longer to round up the children. Anna, Jake’s mother, comes down the hill to thank Cyril profusely, confesses it’s the first time Jake has been out of her sight since the lockdown in March, and begins to cry. He looks at Robin, who shrugs, declining to rescue him.
Finally, they’re gone. Even Seth and Nora have made themselves scarce, apparently sensing that cleanup duty is imminent. Cyril plants his hands on the makeshift table, expelling a long breath as he shoves himself to his feet. “The collective noun for grade-schoolers should be ‘an asylum.’”
Robin starts collecting character sheets, wincing as she squats to pick one up off the dirt floor.
“Don’t do that. Come on.” He snatches the papers from her hand, sorts them into a coherent order, and slips them into the Dungeon Master’s manual along with the maps. Robin just stands there, watching him. “What?”
Cyril in the Flesh Page 25