The Boars walked through the neighborhood with a lawnmower. It was probably stolen, but it was the start of him attempting to make an honest living. Wayne measured progress in baby steps. Sometimes a client smoking weed instead of crack counted as improvement. And cutting lawns definitely was better than working a corner.
"I know you made it to church," Rhianna said.
"I didn't see you," Wayne said.
"Yeah. I'm on sabbatical."
"That's what you call it now."
"Yeah, we'll be back next week. Up in the pulpit."
"You may want to ease into it first. Maybe make it to a pew."
"You know, some people running around here saying King ain't dead…"
"Come on now, he ain't Tupac." Though the thought warmed Wayne. "What do you think he's doing?"
"You need a unicorn that body surfs on rainbows. Along with a mule sidekick that is the keeper of all of the secrets of the universe. We need an enchanted castle with a moat full of Skittles because that's what the rainbow turns into once the unicorn gets home." Rhianna gestured wildly as if painting the picture in the air. "Picture it: King rides the unicorn after consulting with the mule on exactly where he needs to go and what mission to pursue. And no one can eat the Skittles except for the three of them, because everyone else who tries spontaneously combusts."
"Are you high?"
"It's been months and I've done nothing but talk to a one year-old. It's okay to learn to smile again eventually." Rhianna studied the sidewalk. "And I just miss Merle, too."
"Yeah."
"Girl, where you been?"
"Around. Got my GED. Plus I got a little one to look after. Can't be running the streets with you all. I heard you and Lott took over Youth Solidarity."
"Seemed like the right thing to do. The place looks nice. Got some government grant money and everything."
"You and Lott look happy."
"Yeah. Got our own place."
"He'd be happy for you both."
"You think?"
"Well, eventually. Man was still human."
"Yeah."
"Hard to believe it's all over."
"It's never over."
"They got Noles on the Lyonessa thing. Then they started pinning bodies on him. Fool took credit for all kinds of mess including Rok, Prez, and Fathead cause the cameras were rolling. You know those detectives thought they hit the lottery."
"Makes sense though. If he going away for doing the little girl, he's gonna want some bodies on him."
"You hear about Tristan? She up, too. Wanted to take the full weight for Mulysa. Walked up and confessed to the police. I told her I would walk beside her through this as much as I could. I spoke on her behalf at the hearing. Special circumstances and all. Asked for leniency, for the system to not give up on her."
"What the judge say?"
"Judge Rolfingsmeyer still gave her five. Three suspended. Plea with a self-defense angle. She almost got off entirely, except most ladies don't defend themselves with Riddick blades."
In a lot of ways, Tristan reminded Wayne of La Payasa. The last thing she said to him was "Don't worry about me. I get by." She never asked for anything. She earned it or did without.
They gathered at King's final resting place at Avalon Cemetery. At the top of a large rolling hill, steep like a green pyramid in the heart of the cemetery. One of the highest natural points in Indianapolis, it was crowned by a lonely mausoleum reminiscent of a ruined abbey. Beside it stood a tower. They called it the Isle of Apples. The image of a tree etched into the glass on the tower was Lott's idea. An eternal flame burned in its heart.
The chairs were reserved for family. Nakia and her mother. Big Momma. Lott. Wayne and Esther. Lady G. Percy. Had. Most of the neighborhood turned out. Folks from the barbershop. The Boars. Even members of the police.
"I was invited to say a few words because I knew King from when he was little. He was like a son to me. A fine boy who grew into a fine young man taken from us too soon." Pastor Winburn's black suit rippled in the slight breeze. He had performed dozens of funerals in his years. None were easy. This dedication was even more difficult for him. He paused and put his fist to his lips. A chorus of "come on now" broke out among the crowd, which strengthened him to continue. "King, like all of us, was called to a royal priesthood. He was an everyday pastor in ritual and routine. A prophet interrupted, who shook up the spiritual lives of all those he came in contact with.
"He wasn't a perfect man, but who among us is? We could all pray 'Lord help me to discover the self-deceived and self-persuaded Pharisee within myself.' Iffen we feel the need to sit in judgment. But I'll tell you what he did right. He took this command seriously: 'whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.' He walked what he believed. No one was invisible to him. Every life meant something to him. And no one, not even himself, was beyond redemption.
"We believe in an author behind the story. We believe in life everlasting. We believe that relationships are forever. We believe in resurrection. We believe in hope eternal.
"Here lies our once and future King."
There was a young boy in an old man's body and an old woman in a young girl's body who sat in the twilight, locked away in a cave of their own making. No one would ever find them, for they had imprisoned one another. She believed she had him trapped, not realizing she was bound to him. Forever intertwined. They regaled each other with stories, of kings and queens, knights and quests, monsters and fairies. There were adventures and nobility and sadness and death. But that was the point of stories.
"It is finished," Nine said.
"I know."
"The age is almost over."
"The Wheel of Fortuna turns again."
During twilight, the veil between the worlds grew thinnest and they could watch as if sitting on a lattice window gazing out into the world. From their perch they could spy into the world of man or into the world of fairy. A grand vista churned away in silence, with all of the delicate colors of life on resplendent display. In time they would be forgotten. Only the best stories endured. The sun was nearly set and it was time for mysterious creatures to scamper about.
"You're sad."
"Endings always make me sad. The end is goodbye."
The lovely Nine pursed her lips. Not wanting her good mood spoiled, she snapped her fingers. An elf returned with a golden chalice. Sprites handed Merle a chalice. "We have mead, but rather than drink that, a duke of this age gave me a delightful bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite, which was once the property of Thomas Jefferson."
"You are delightfully full of random," Merle smirked.
"I propose a toast. To family, even in their absence."
A brown and black squirrel, with a gray streak along its back, darted up a tree with drooping branches overlooking King's grave. Resting on its haunches, its head turned left and right on the watch for predatory eyes. It sniffed the air once, twice, then fiddled with an acorn.
And waited.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maurice Broaddus is a notorious egotist whose sole goal is to be a big enough name to be able to snub people at conventions. In anticipation of such a successful writing career, he is practicing speaking of himself in the third person. The "House of M" includes the lovely Sally Jo ("Mommy") and two boys: Maurice Gerald Broaddus II (thus, he gets to retroactively declare himself "Maurice the Great") and Malcolm Xavier Broaddus. Visit his site so he can bore you with details of all things him and most importantly, read his blog. He loves that. A lot.
Maurice holds a Bachelor of Science degree from Purdue University in Biology. Scientist, writer, and hack theologian, he's about the pursuit of Truth because all truth is God's truth. His dark fiction can be found in numerous magazine, anthologies and novellas.
www.mauricebroaddus.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing comes at a cost.
The cost of creation is usually time, as one has to squirrel themselves awa
y in an office, a locked room, a basement in order to get into that mental space, undisturbed, to perform the tasks of their craft. The ones who pay that price first and foremost are the artist and their families. With that in mind, I thank Sally Broaddus, Reese Broaddus, and Malcolm Broaddus, for dinners missed, television not watched together, and balls not tossed. I thank them for their patience, their love, and their understanding.
Because writing comes at a cost, it's important to have friends who support you in such an endeavor.
The ones who understand what you are going through, the stress, the frustration, the solitary and singular madness that comes with nursing at the bosom of one's muse. And they encourage you to carry on. The Indiana Horror Writers, Brian Keene, Wrath James White, Gary Braunbeck, Lucy Snyder, Daniel and Trista Robichaud.
Writing can be a spiritual endeavor. As one, created in God's image, joins with the Creator in order to likewise create. So I thank those who remind me of the spiritual journey I take, my church family at the Crossing; the pastors of Loving Accurately Ministry; and the tireless, selfless workers of Outreach Inc.
Writing can be fun. And it's important to have folks who share those fun times with. Jason Sizemore and Jerry Gordon.
And Chesya Burke. Lord knows, where there's a will, there's a Chesya.
To my family, and my friends (who are the family that I choose), I thank you so much and love you from the bottom of my heart.
ANGRY ROBOT
A member of the Osprey Group
Midland House, West Way
Botley, Oxford
OX2 0PH
UK
www.angryrobotbooks.com
Dragonfall
An Angry Robot paperback original 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Maurice Broaddus
Cover art by Steve Stone at Artist Partners
Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.
All rights reserved.
Angry Robot is a registered trademark and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
ISBN 978-0-85766-130-2
eBook ISBN 978-0-85766-131-9
Printed in the United States of America
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