The Angels of Our Better Beasts

by Jerome Stueart

  She said Brazos had kissed her. It was really slobbery. She smiled.

  “What do you expect from a river god?” I winked at her.

  She had plans to go to Purdue. We’d talked about it. I was going to help pay her first three years. She promised to get a scholarship to help out, and a job in her senior year, and I said that was great. But she glowed when she talked about him.

  “He liked me, Dad.”

  “A lot of guys like you.”

  “But he’s a god.”

  “Which means he’s trouble.”

  “But it means something else, too.”

  Still, she didn’t write him or call his waterproof cell. The last few weeks she wouldn’t really leave her room except to go to school. I looked at her face. She was afraid of everything, as if we lived on a frozen lake and every step might cave the whole thing around her. She needed someone. Sure, I wanted to give her a river god. He had the power to protect her if he wanted. But would he protect her from himself?

  I remembered all my myths. Nobody came out unchanged.

  >?

  His dad—and I didn’t really know what god he was, except that he could make little lonely butterflies—stood in front of me and gold coins appeared out of his palm, one after another, dropping to the ground on my side of the fence.

  “College is expensive these days,” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Two good schools on the Brazos: Baylor and Texas A&M. Susan would do well at either—two of the best schools in Texas. I’d make sure she got her medical degree.”

  “Susan doesn’t need your help.”

  “You do.”

  The coins slapped each other on the ground.

  He said, “You expect to afford a good college on what you’re making? You know you can’t, that she’ll have to take out loans, work when she should be studying. I wish you could see that this is an opportunity. Brazos loves your girl. He’s smitten. Just last week, he was so distracted thinking about her, he ran backwards for three hours! She hasn’t called him. It’s been a whole month and he’s just feeling tortured. Some of his forks and bends are drying up. As a father yourself, you must know how hard this is, to watch your kid going through this.”

  The coins made a pile at my feet. I looked down and back up, and he smiled at me.

  “They met for a weekend,” I said. “That’s puppy love.”

  “Maybe so. But you could drive Susan down there and meet him for yourself. See if it’s a weekend fling—or if it has the potential to be everlasting.”

  Now he offered immortality. He was getting desperate. I knew the stories—and the immortality often ended up being a constellation in the sky, something too far to ever visit. Funny that you have to give up life to become immortal. I look up there and see everything this world has lost. And I don’t want to see Susan.

  “No. I have a better idea. Why don’t your boy come up?”

  “He can’t—as you’ve so boldly pointed out.”

  “Well, let’s see. He’s a god without the powers to go get the woman he loves. That’s pretty tragic. Lowly, powerless humans would sacrifice anything to be with the ones they love. And your kid’s a god?”

  “Your point?” he asked. The coins had stopped falling from his palms. The sky above us clouded up and it looked like another storm was coming.

  I figured this was him.

  “When I think of a good match for my daughter, I think of a hardworking boy. Someone willing to stick with her when the going gets rough, not someone who’s used to calling in dad for a favour, or turning her into a tree or a rock or the Possum Kingdom Dam.”

  “That was a journalist.”

  “It doesn’t matter who it was. It’s behaviour that I don’t think makes for a good husband.”

  The grass on my side of the fence began to turn brown and wither in a half-circle around his feet. I was playing with fire, I knew it. I remembered Tammy, who became a drive-in theatre, and her family transformed into Dairy Queens all along Interstate 180. They popped up overnight, even as her family disappeared. My daughter needed stability, not power.

  A wind kicked up over the caprock, rushed at me.

  He opened his arms wide, much like I figured the boy did for Susan when they first met. It was a magnanimous, easy gesture. “Where I come from,” he said, “there are whole forests—tall blackjack oaks and willows, bright yellow flowering dogwood, huge pines, and in between, there are secret prairies covered in wildflowers. We got lakes stocked with fish—largemouth bass, crappie, and catfish. You can see chickadees darting from tree to tree, waxwings singing cantatas, whip-poor-wills calling out from the forests of the night. It’s beautiful and lush. We’re offering the better side of the state.” He sighed. “Forgive me for being honest, but your side has always seemed like a dirt floor to me, more for sweeping—” He looked through me, behind me, and the vision of West Texas scorching behind me made me turn, just to reassure myself that it wasn’t all gone “—than for growing anything.”

  “It grew the girl your son loves. Now, that’s ironic.”

  He stayed calm. The world around him bubbled and thrashed. He knew I knew where it was all coming from. He smiled, laughed a little. Then he paused and breathed out, reworked his pitch. He opened his palm again and this time water poured out. “Your side is such a dry, dry place. A family married to a river god could pull some weight on Mount Locke. You wouldn’t have to bargain with the water-hogs of West Texas, the ones you rent from to irrigate. You know what they say about West Texas—the rich ones are the ones with water, not oil.”

  I was tired of him. I grabbed his palm, stuck a finger over the stream of water. It splashed against my hand. I was fast. He didn’t know what to think; he didn’t strike me. “See this palm—it’s got no marks on it. Things come out of it, but nothing marks it.” I opened my own palm and placed it in his. “Now, mine is different. See the cracks, like a map with rivers in it. I stuck my hand in this land and pulled out what I needed. Wound barbed wire fences. Hauled mesquite. Planted cotton and maize and sorghum. I created these hands, mister, and these hands created life—my life. What have your son’s hands done? I’d like to see them. I know he has arms to reach out and grab my daughter, but what do his hands look like?”

  “My son doesn’t need to work with his hands like you do. It is the privilege of being a god that I offer your daughter—and, by association, your family. You won’t have to work that hard again.”

  “That’s too easy. I ain’t selling my daughter for some time off. Your son’s going to have to work harder than that if he wants Susan.”

  “I can approach Susan, you know.”

  “You can try.” I pulled on one of the boards of the fence, the fence I built, and by moving that particular rail, the one he’d been leaning on fell down, nearly got his foot. It was mechanical magic. I meant to show I was a threat. Even if I ended up being the next strip mall on the Lubbock Highway, I wasn’t going to let him near Susan.

  Thunder in the distance.

  “But,” I said firmly, “he can come up and see her.”

  “He can’t do that and still be the Brazos.”

  “So he wants her to do all the sacrifice. If he wants her—if he truly loves her—he’ll find whatever way he can. As a god yourself, I’m sure you know of some way.”

  Clouds swarmed, blanketing us in black.

  He said, “To leave the river, he would have to become human.”

  I nodded. “There are worse fates.”

  “He was meant to be a god.”

  “My daughter was meant to have a normal, stable life.”

  “He loves her.”

  “How much?”

  “You have no right to ask.”

  I leaned back, made like I was going to my truck. “Maybe you can see this as a window of opportunity. I ne
ed some help on the ranch. All we have is irrigation, as you pointed out, but he’s welcome to come help out this summer. Let me meet him. Let him get his hands dirty. Dry. He’ll learn a lot about Susan seeing her here, seeing where she came from. That should be important to him.”

  “You would expect him to give up everything on the chance that it may work out? What’s he supposed to do if it doesn’t?”

  I got back into my truck, rolled down the window, escaping the raindrops falling around us, a whole sheet of it above me, ready to descend. I rested my hand on the steering wheel, getting ready to start the truck, make a slow getaway. The band of paler flesh around my ring finger was almost the same tan as the rest of my hand.

  “Live. He’s supposed to live.”

  Awake, Gryphon!

  By candlelight, the monks roused Prince Lha from sleep, slipping on his sandals, even as the palace walls shook around them. They tossed a robe on him; one of the monks had a crown in his hand, another a cylinder of sketchings, and, as a flock of swallows turned in the air, they flew with him out of the prince’s bedroom and into the dark marbled hallway.

  Blasts rocked the palace; heavy shouts came through every window. The prince could see firelight and smoke ripple the air, climbing and twisting like vines outside the window.

  “My father is home?” the prince asked as he ran. He was only nine. Two of the monks flanked him in order to hide him from view, a third followed close behind.

  Vedic Buseil told him, his face pitying and long. “Your father is dead. Your brothers and sisters are dead. All of them were killed on the plains of Solobar, by the Horde and the Varidian Army.”

  The Vedic continued before the boy could react. “We are taking you to the catacombs for safety. The Horde is outside the gates of the city; the Varidian Army is not far behind. When they come together, the city will be taken and sacked, and they must not find you or the Wisdom you now carry,” and he looked at the boy again, “O King.”

  Lha stumbled when he heard the words. “I’m not king.” He began to cry. “I’m not king. I have eight brothers and five sisters—” he wept. His palms were cooled touching the marble floor. He laid his forehead against it and cried.

  Where was the Wisdom? If his father were truly dead, if all of his brothers and sisters had perished, then the Wisdom would come to him, but he didn’t feel it. “You will feel sure about every decision because eight generations of kings’ knowledge will be in your head,” his father had told him. “But you don’t have to worry about this because you will probably never be king.”

  The monks surrounded him, their dark blue robes like the curtains of his bed, leaning down, perhaps wanting to carry him. The Vedic pushed through them and knelt in front of him, softly cupping his chin and raising it. A tear ran down the Vedic’s face. “I know. I know this is hard. But you’re the last of the king’s children, and we have to get you to safety. We can mourn below. We can’t stop now.”

  >?

  They would hide him in the catacombs under the Holy City, catacombs that led back into the mountains behind them. The monks would stay and guard the temple for as long as they could. The boy archers would launch a flurry of arrows, all they had until they were gone.

  The Wisdom had not come to him yet.

  He was sure of that. He would know more, know what to do right now. He wouldn’t be frightened. He’d be able to command the armies. Tell people what to defend. What strategies to use. He would lean across a map with little dolls and know where to place them.

  “You won’t ever have to worry about this,” his father had told him. “But if the Wisdom comes to you, you will have the memories of all the kings before you, all their Wisdom in your head. Each king is wiser than the last, and nothing is ever lost. You are suddenly sure—of all decisions.”

  Lha was not sure of anything.

  They raced out into the raucous main courtyard, a brown surge across the stones. Smoke. Fire. Everything became louder.

  There, he saw the archers, boys, hurrying into their armour, clanking, scraping. Their thin arms shackled in the metal; faces just waking, wiping sleep from their eyes. Long torches stood around the courtyard, flickering as the boys scattered, unprepared. They yelled to one another. If Lha looked over the wall, would he see a line of fire, the face of the Horde?

  A catapulted stone flew over their heads as they ducked, and it smashed into the courtyard, opening it to the floor below. The whole courtyard rumbled and swayed. The Vedic rushed him back into the kitchens, the paths masked in smoke and dirt and debris. He heard the high sharp whine of arrows being released. Would he be able to take a bow as these boys did? One boy turned to fill his quiver, and caught the king’s eye. His expression flat, lips set, eyes following the new king, and the king could not break the stare, like a flash of lightning had burned the boy’s expression into his eyes. As the sounds of metal arrows rattling in metal buckets receded,

  and boys’ shouts faded, Lha felt separated from his kingdom, headed for safety.

  As they entered the hall behind the kitchens, a strong voice called from behind them. “King!” and then, “Lha!” The monks could not stop. It was Kargas, Lha’s tutor. He ran after them, catching up to them as they ducked down a stairwell. Lha ran his hand along the stones just to keep his balance.

  Vedic Buseil scolded, “Where have you been? He’s been alone.”

  Kargas ignored everyone but the young king. At the bottom of the stairs, they ran into a passageway that would lead even further into the catacombs. They stopped to catch their breaths.

  Kargas stood, silhouetted, as much shadow as man, his long sword in a sheath on his back, beard masking his face. Lha ran to him and put his arms around him—a boy, really only a boy, not a king, not now. Behind Kargas, Vanel, the boy’s nurse, stood in the shadows. She reached out and touched his bare hand, the one wrapped around Kargas. Surely Kargas would know what to do. Surely Vanel would have a plan.

  Kargas held him for only a moment. “Your majesty, I had to assess the danger,” he said, pulling the boy from him and kneeling to look him in the face. “The Variden and the Horde are attacking together. Our armies were overwhelmed. I’m so sorry about your brothers and your father.”

  “The king put you in charge of his life!” Buseil roared.

  Kargas spoke slowly, without breaking eye contact with Lha. “That king is dead. I am here with the king.” And then to Lha, “Do you have a plan?”

  Lha could tell that Kargas was searching for the Wisdom in his eyes. Yes, it should have happened while he was still sleeping. The great spiritual consciousness, the Wisdom that his father carried, that had been carried for generations. It should have come to him. He could see they all looked for it. He began to weep again—tried to hold himself back, to be stronger in front of Kargas.

  How could he tell them that the Wisdom of his father had not come to him? That he felt no wiser than he did the night before, when he had been drawing images of soldiers in battle, imagining war. Those drawings had come to life, raced now like water across the land.

  “We should,” the young king began, choking, seeing if he could find the Wisdom, “bring all the people in the Holy City into the catacombs.” He remembered the young archers on the wall. “We will save everyone.”

  Kargas looked surprised. “Will you leave no one in the city to defend it?”

  “Everyone should be saved.” It was a boy’s voice that came from his mouth.

  Kargas looked at him, then back at Buseil. “Could a brother be alive?”

  “No, we know they are—we know. The Wisdom will come to him.”

  Kargas smiled weakly, brushed back Lha’s hair. “You’re still asleep. King Lha, let the archers protect the city, the monks defend the kingdom. If we all run, who would save the city?”

  The boy looked up at the great orange mosaic that ran the length of the ceiling, down the halls of the
Holy City, colour so far out of reach. “The Gryphon,” he said suddenly. “The Gryphon will defend the city.”

  As soon as he said it, he knew it must be the truth. Surely, the Gryphon would choose to help them this time. Was this the Wisdom finally come? Yes. This was the insight that would save his people.

  When he thought of the Gryphon, he imagined walking to it, and the great Gryphon would fold his wings around him. He would say, Nothing will harm you, son.

  Kargas shook him. “No, that is not Wisdom speaking.”

  Buseil touched Kargas’ arm. “Remember, the boy is king. There will come a moment when you have to decide—” The palace shook. Dust came down above their heads.

  “Waking the Gryphon is not Wisdom,” Kargas told the Vedic. “This city’s kings have an obsession with that creature. That corruption of a holy gryphon! Breathing sunlight, judging souls. You know he can’t be trusted.” He turned to Lha. “Remember your history, your majesty—all that I taught you about your fathers and grandfathers, the kings of the Holy City. Every time a king tried to rule with the Gryphon at his side has been disastrous. He turns on us in battle. He judges whom he wants to judge. Every king has made that mistake once, but you, you are not going to make that mistake.” He touched the boy’s face.

  Lha trembled. “What if the Wisdom is telling me I should wake the Gryphon?”

  Kargas paused, looked at the Vedic. “It doesn’t make sense for Wisdom to repeat mistakes—your father would know that.”

  “We will lose the City!” the king said.

  “We may lose the city, yes. But cities can be rebuilt. We cannot lose the Wisdom.”

  The monks looked at Kargas. He gestured for several of them to leave, and with a thunder of moving robes the monks ran down the hall, their reflections on the marble floor flapping like a flock beneath their feet. With them ran all of Lha’s hopes of saving anyone else.

  He cried out, “Am I king or not?” His voice echoed in the hall.