Temper: A Novel

by Nicky Drayden

  Now the hard part. Collecting the essences from Kasim without waking him. Lately, he’s warmed to the idea of sporting his fro in a pomade-crusted helmet, so plucking a hair from his head is out of the question. I trim a toenail instead, his body cringing as I pull up the blankets to do so. For a moment, I entertain a thought of the fun it would be to dip his fingers in warm water to make him pee himself. Wu is all about collecting bodily fluids, it seems. Blood, tears, urine, semen. I take the easy route instead, and carefully set about harvesting a touch of drool from his gaping, snoring mouth.

  A soft dab, perfect. I go to place the spittle on the greater doll’s face, but Kasim’s hand catches mine.

  “What are you doing?” he says, eyes still closed.

  “Going to Grace Mountain,” I say, tugging free and applying the water element to the doll. I wave the thing in front of Kasim’s face, certain his impending verbal attack will satisfy both air and spirit.

  But Kasim just yawns. “Go back to bed. It’s way too early for your foolishness.”

  “I’m serious. I need to go. Now.”

  “You’re not dragging me along on another one of your midnight escapades. It’s freezing outside. And that climb isn’t safe, even during the day.”

  “Well, it’s not something you need to concern yourself with, because you’re not going.”

  “Huh?” Kasim rubs the sleep from his eyes, sits up, then raises a brow. “Those are wu dolls, aren’t they?”

  “Yup.” I bring them close to one another. The lesser doll jumps out of my hand, and locks face-to-face with the greater doll. I tug once, and they do not come apart easily.

  “I’m not even going to ask how you got them.”

  “Good. You’ll save me a lie.” I throw on a coat and shove the dolls deep into a side pocket.

  “You can’t use them. They’re not safe. If proximity breaks—”

  “You’re the one who wanted a break, remember? You should be glad I won’t be dragging you down for a change. Besides. It’ll work. If I feel even the slightest tug, I’ll rush back here before either of us can snap off.”

  “So your Plan B is to run down a near-vertical mountain face in the dark with your vices unchecked. Great. And here I was concerned that you hadn’t thought this through.” Kasim rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “What could possibly be so important that you’d willingly put the both of us at risk? Seriously, we just saw what happened to Great-aunt Anenih. Humility did her in. She was literally nothing without Aunt Mensah. She refused to eat, not feeling worthy of even the most basic sustenance. She wouldn’t accept help or condolences. She felt like nothing, Auben. And that’s how you’re making me feel right now.”

  “Get over yourself. They were eighty years old.”

  “I’m not going to let you do this,” Kasim says in a near shout. He jumps down from the bed in that weightless way that he does, feet padding on the floor.

  I feel a shift in the pit of my stomach, right where the queasiness lives. “I’m going.”

  “Then you leave me no choice. I’m telling Mom.”

  “Hit him.” The words slip out of my mouth in a chilled rasp. They are not my words, but I know who they belong to. Temper whips through me, so fast and so hard, not even proximity can quell it. My fist connects with Kasim’s jaw. He backs up, holding the gash on his lip, shock deeply etched into his face.

  I may walk a tough walk, but I’ve never hit anyone, not like that. Not hard enough to draw blood. Now I’ve done it to the person I love most. It takes everything within me to break his pained stare and not apologize a million times over. But I have to do this. I need to do this. Grace may be the only thing that can drive out the evil afflicting me. I have to find Him.

  I timidly step out into the night. Every twenty steps I reassess, waiting for the queasiness to snap back into place, and waiting for panic and whatever foulness follows in its wake. I reach the edge of our comfy, where the wall of brick becomes one of stacked shoes. The stench of weather-worn leather marks the turn, symbols of those who’d managed to leave the comfy life for a better one beyond. Aunt Cisse’s shoes are in there somewhere, same as Uncle Yeboah’s. Same as Kasim’s will be someday, and maybe even mine. Nkosazana once asked why no one ever took the shoes, seeing as there were so many people in the comfy who were in need. It was almost over for us right then, the shock warring with my temper at the stupidity of her question. At the time, though, I was coming off a lecherous high, and so I was able to restrain my anger and told her that taking them would be like stealing our collective dream, erasing the tales of those who trekked through vice and poverty, who persevered and made it out despite the odds. Seeing all those shoes stacked up high, just as formidable as the brick wall next to them, gives us a sliver of hope that we can do the same.

  I make the turn, sure that this is as far as Kasim and I have ever been apart all seventeen and a half years of our lives. It seems like the proximity hitch is working. I don’t feel a strain in my gut, and all my vices are holding steady. No flaring temper or lecherous desires or crippling doubts. I pat my pocket and start to run, overcome by my secondary concern of getting back home and into bed before Mother wakes up to go to her morning job.

  I breathe the cold air in through my nose, out through chapped lips, keeping a steady rhythm in my run, and trying to look as inconspicuous as I can out here in the middle of the night. Hardly anyone is up this late, and those who are probably want to remain inconspicuous themselves. Either way, I encounter no one and finally reach the base of Grace Mountain, where the city’s cobbles ease into scrubland sprawling with all varieties of scratchy-leaved fine bush and invasive pines tough enough to withstand the harshness of the Cape’s southeasterly winds. I take a rest, bent over, hands on knees, looking at the trek I have before me. My eyes are quick to adjust to the light of the half moon. The stars themselves seem brighter and more abundant.

  The slope is manageable for the first few hundred paces, then becomes more treacherous as vegetation gives way to sheer rock face. I take my time, planting my feet, double-checking my holds before continuing. I hear the scurrying of small wild things taking cover beneath clumps of foliage, like I’m some kind of predator and not a mere boy risking his life to find Grace. I consider what I might say to convince the animals that I am no threat, but then I hear the choppy bark of a caracal. We get them in the comfy sometimes. Sickening what those claws can do to an unsuspecting street dog—a few hundred centuries’ worth of pent-up feline frustration being released until all that’s left are bloodied tufts of fur.

  I hasten my climb.

  The summit welcomes me nearly two hours later. It’s dizzying up here, staring down into the bowl of the city spread out before me—a dozen comfy walls like little moon crescents encircling canopies of trees and tarred roofs, the choppy sea battering the shipping boats in the harbor, clouds bunching in the distance threatening to drop bucketfuls of cold rain. I fall to the ground in a heap and look up to the heavens, taking it all in. But I didn’t come here for the view, as spectacular as it is.

  “Is anyone out there?” I yell. “Are you watching?” My voice echoes hollow against the night. “If you’re real, give me a sign.”

  Then I wait. When you’re desperate to find meaning in something, you can find meaning in almost everything. A stiff wind blows past me. A star shoots across the sky. An owl hoots in the distance. “Whooo? Whooo?”

  “You! Grace. I’m on your mountain. I’ve met you halfway. Now it’s your move.”

  But nothing happens. Nothing other than ordinary nature. Maybe this is the sign I needed. A sign that there’s no such thing as Grace. I flush warm against the cold of the narrow season, feeling foolish for even attempting such a thing. What did I expect? For Grace to show up in the flesh before me, welcoming me into His arms? Whispering into my ear that I am really a good boy, despite the inadequacies that stir my heart?

  I peel myself from the ground, then shout to the heavens, “There! You’ve had your chanc
e, and you missed it!”

  A chilled wind blows past me again, though this time it feels more . . . significant. I brace myself against it, turn my back and squint my eyes. Something white litters the ground. I kneel down. Thousands and thousands of delicate white flowers have pushed through the ground where I’d lain, forming my silhouette. I stand up, take several steps back, rub my eyes. Yes, it’s there—the stature of a young man, perhaps a little thinner and shorter than me, but there I am.

  “Okay,” I say, eyes wide. “This is a sign I can work with.”

  Mother is wrong. Grace is real. In the morning, I’ll press her to enroll me in a city school, where I can start my religioning by whittling down my vices into tiny nubs that no longer exert power over me, and honing my sole virtue, charity, until it’s the sharpest tool in my arsenal. And I, myself, will be a tool in those Hallowed Hands.

  The close growl of a caracal snaps me from my reverie. It’s a lean beast, all muscle and attitude—tawny coat, those oversized ears and their furry tufts that look like the horns of some greater beast. The false smile on its face draws back, and pointed teeth become my primary concern. I take a stance, and pull a knife from my pocket. I didn’t come here completely vulnerable. It’s a smallish caracal, just an oversized housecat, really. I can take it.

  Then I watch as the ground goes to ice under its paws, spreads toward me. My concern turns to terror as the man-shaped field of flowers frosts over and wilts away into rotten mush. The ice is at my toes when I look back up to the caracal, but another beast stands there instead. Same feline form, but now my size, with fierce and cunning eyes, whiskers like blades, fur a ragged steel blue, row upon row of nightmarish fangs . . . and what once were questionably ears are definitely horns. There’s no such thing as demons, I try to tell myself, but then it gnashes its fangs at me, and those definitely aren’t figments. It bolts into the air, claws aimed in my direction. I don’t waste time, only taking a second to get traction on the ice before scurrying to dry ground. I run, fast as I can, in a near free fall, pushed by gravity and fear. Down the mountain I go. Sharp rock jabs at me, slices up my coat, my hands, the soles of my shoes—and all I care about is the thing behind me. The growl isn’t getting any farther away, but it doesn’t seem any closer either.

  A sudden cramp stabs my stomach, so hard I retch right there on the mountainside. Seconds later, my sick slicks over with ice. My hand darts to my coat pocket, ripped down to the seam. One of the wu dolls has fallen out. One remains. I look frantically for the missing doll. Under the moonlight, I catch the gleam of golden twine fifteen feet back up the mountain. Fifteen feet beyond that, the demon pads down toward me. Without Kasim here to temper me, my vices bubble up, and boil over. Thoughts cram to the front of my brain, toxic thoughts I can normally rein back. I can slay this demon, my vainglory whips me. My temper flares out of control. How dare this beast threaten me? I brandish my knife and go for the kill.

  The demon laughs in my face as it pounces. Its breath chills the air between us, and I go rigid with cold, frozen over, unable to move. It’s not just any demon, is it? It’s the demon. The one Uncle Yeboah is always warning us about. Maybe I should have listened a little harder.

  Claws extend like sickled blades, slash at me. They catch me in the throat. I go down hard. I struggle against the frozen confines of my own body as Icy Blue pries open the flesh at my neck, but nothing is as severe as the pain of missing Kasim. The demon digs deeper, his gnashing, ravenous maw disappearing into my throat, then his head, his body, and finally his seductive feline tail with a final whip.

  He fills me, every bit of me, a cruel, cold pleasure that makes me shiver all over. He whispers sweet nothings as the stars spin high above, promising me that this is only the beginning.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, I recognize the voice.

  I wake up in a cold sweat, grasping at my throat. I’m in my room, in my bed, safe as safe gets. I heave a ragged sigh, and try unsuccessfully to shake off my nightmare. I slip out of bed bleary-eyed and pad into the bathroom.

  As I empty my bladder, a fog of white mist manifests on the surface of the water, tendrils slowly rising out of the bowl. I stagger backward, rush to the mirror, drag my finger along the fresh scar at my throat. I try to cry out to Mother, to Kasim, but my voice rasps. In my reflection, my index finger moves to my lips and a sustained shush prickles my skin all over.

  I stumble back to bed, take a seat, shivering as tears turn to miniature icicles on my lashes.

  “Glad you made it back safely,” Kasim says from above. “I told Mother everything. She’ll have it out on your hide when she gets home from work.” The top bunk creaks as Kasim rolls over. White petals flutter down past my face, graze my cheek, give me hope.

  Uncle Pabio once spent a few months in a whackhouse, so I’ve heard the horror stories. If I go around telling people that I’ve been possessed by Icy Blue, I’ll end up in one in no time flat, and not the kind that drugged-out thespians frequent when their careers fly north. I have to be subtler than that. I need answers, but Mother has kept all traces of religioning materials (propaganda as she calls it) out of our house. No Holy Scrolls, no defting sticks, no virtue charms.

  There has to be a way to drive that wicked devil from me, but I have no idea where to start. Visit a sanctuary? Talk to a Man of Virtues? A counselor at a city school? The scrolls are ancient, and I can’t be the first one in all this time to be accurst by evil in this manner. There must be precedent, some sort of incantation or prayer that can cure me . . .

  My planning stops dead in its tracks.

  Can Icy Blue hear my thoughts?

  My throat constricts painfully against scar tissue.

  I am your thoughts.

  Well, shit.

  The proximity dolls sit atop the dresser, bound together once more, but I’m not going that route again. My stomach is still sore from our proximity break. With Kasim and me caught so far apart, with so violent an onset, there hadn’t even been time to call upon my vices and virtue to soothe the pain. Besides, I have a feeling that walking into a sanctuary, alone, mind full of lecherous and deceitful thoughts, would only invite more trouble. Whatever my plans, they will have to involve Kasim from the get-go.

  “Are you awake?” I say up to Kasim, my voice still a knotty rasp. I know the answer. The lack of snoring is evident.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  The silence stirs. “Yes . . .”

  “Well, I’m sorry I hit you. I was out of line. Maybe out of my mind.”

  “It’s okay, I forgive you. Though it was nice to see you show a little diligence. Even if it was misdirected.”

  My guilt eases, and I pop out from under my covers and scramble up onto the top bunk to join Kasim under his, like we used to do when we were kids, back when vices and virtues were imaginary concepts that neither of us really understood. The bed used to hold the both of us fine, but now we’re pressed close out of necessity. Yes, I realize I’m more man than boy these days, but I can’t deny, absolute proximity soothes me like nothing else in this world.

  Kasim smiles at me, split lip not all that bad after all. “Did you find what you were looking for?” His breath smells faintly of sick. I wonder if he’d felt the break as hard as I had. I wonder how close we’d come to it being permanent.

  I nod. “And something I wasn’t looking for.”

  “That’s the way it always is, isn’t it?”

  “Hands to Grace, I hope not.” My breath goes cold. Kasim recoils.

  “You sound like Uncle Yeboah,” Kasim laughs, then his finger traces along my neck at the ridge of my scar. “When’d you get this?” he says.

  I shrug. A lie can’t come between us. There’s no room when we’re like this. “Grace.”

  “Huh?” he asks.

  “That’s what I was looking for. Up on the mountain.”

  “And you found Him?”

  “In a way. I think He’s been with me all along.”

&nb
sp; “Now you really sound like Uncle Yeboah.”

  “He’s full of shit. But what if he’s right about religion and Mother is wrong? We’re old enough to figure this out for ourselves.” We’re nearly nose to nose now, and I have Kasim’s undivided attention. “I want to go visit a sanctuary. And I want you to come with me.”

  “Oh, Auben,” Kasim says. He puts his hand to my forehead.

  “I’m not sick,” I hiss. Suddenly, I feel cramped and wrong next to him. I pull away, but he holds me tight.

  “I’m kidding, bro. Of course I’ll come with you. It’s only natural that our interests will vary, but I’ll support you and you’ll support me. Just as we always have—for the most part. You can leave me out of your wu doll escapades from now on, though.” Kasim throws the covers off us, jumps down to the floor, and disappears into our closet.

  My mind flips back to the evening we’d had the girls over. I can still taste the earthy grit of the versa wu on my tongue, the hot spice of the chicken feet we’d snacked on, the tang of the can of expired tinibru I’d sipped. But there is one taste I’d failed to partake of. One that Kasim had—his lips dutifully upon Ruda’s, eager to make up for a chaste adolescence. I cringe, thinking of what would have happened if Nkosazana and I hadn’t walked in on them.

  “Maybe we should have taken the girls up on their offer to join them in Nri,” Kasim calls out like he can read my mind, tossing an old pair of swimming trunks my way. “Warm weather. Less drama . . . More skin.” I can practically feel the lecherous arch of his eyebrows. We’ve had this kiss-and-tell conversation dozens of times, but I’ve never been on this end of it.

  “Yeah, like you could get me on an airship. And besides, I thought you hated the beach,” I say, tossing the trunks back. Summer seems like a bleak improbability this deep into the narrow season.