Battle Hill Bolero

by Daniel José Older

  “You said there were two things, Harrison.” I walk a few steps out of range while the driver continues his curse-out. “What’s the second one?”

  “Oh! River giants are almost extinct.”

  “How can a dead thing be—”

  “Therefore, as per subguideline 91a, they are technically protected entities.”

  Didn’t seem like that a few months ago when we were trying not to get stomped by them on the banks of the Hudson. “Well, damn. Didn’t realize that. So what you gonna do, man? I’m cold, and I gotta be somewhere at two.”

  Above us, the river giant lets out a warbling cry—something like a thousand dying goats simulcast through a screechy megaphone. I scowl. I’d forgotten about that shit. Harrison squints, steeling himself.

  “I’m gonna cut him!” he announces.

  As it turns out, I have my own little set of protocols, and one of them is don’t announce you’re going to cut a gigantic river demon before you do it. It’s too late for all that though; the warbling peaks in intensity and then cuts suddenly short. The giant looks at Harrison.

  Harrison says, “Oh sh—” and then the giant backhands him off the bridge.

  Fuck.

  Then the river giant looks at me.

  Double fuck.

  “You!”

  There aren’t enough fucks in the world. I turn around and run.

  Sasha

  For a dead guy, Juan Flores is remarkably ungraceful. Most ghosts flit around with that edgeless, flowing abandon you’d expect from a being that’s all soul. Even the ones that stride, like Carlos’s friend Riley, strut like walking water in a seamless swirl. It’s a glory to behold, when you stop to take it in, and soulcatchers more than anyone else are supposed to be unflappable, ferocious, and yes, graceful.

  Not Juan Flores, though. He limps along beside me like a busted San Lázaro / Darth Vader mash-up, phantom cane clacking on the pavement as his bum leg drags along behind.

  “Anyway,” Flores says, “the Council is in the midst of a lot of change. Several Remote Districts are in open rebellion. No one knows when they’ll replace the slain minister . . .”

  “I hate the Council, Mr. Flores.”

  “Juan, please.”

  “I want nothing to do with them. Ever. I told them as much when they brought me in to say they wouldn’t be trying to kill me anymore. You said you weren’t here on Council business.”

  The ghost sighs. Snow from a blizzard three days ago still covers the park in pristine blankets. Some kids run around a playground, squealing, and I think of Xiomara and Jackson, wonder briefly if they’ll ever know a life so perfectly simple.

  “You’re right,” Flores finally says.

  “You said you know me, Flores. Out with it.”

  He stops walking, turns to face me. “April nineteenth, Grand Army Plaza.”

  My back straightens without me telling it to. Tiny beads of sweat form along my spine.

  “A rainy night.”

  Even hunched over, Juan Flores’s face reaches a little higher than mine.

  I nod.

  He lifts the visor of his soulcatcher helm. Inside, it’s just a hazy fog.

  “We were seven,” Flores says. “All died. Five survived.”

  It’s the only information Carlos could track down about the night we died—the resident house ghost at the plaza told him before being annihilated by a powerful sorcerer named Sarco, who orchestrated the whole thing. Then Carlos and I killed Sarco.

  “You were there?” I try to make my voice sound unimpressed. It doesn’t work.

  Flores nods.

  “But you . . . you remember?”

  “My passing was less violent than yours. Or the other four.”

  The other four. Carlos and my brother Trevor, who Carlos later killed on orders from the Council. Marie and Gregorio, who formed the Survivors with Trevor and me, and died in the infighting last year.

  My blade is out; it’s pointed at that swirling emptiness where Juan Flores’s face should be.

  “Who was I?”

  “Sasha . . .”

  “Before I died. You said you knew me.”

  Juan Flores nods. “Aisha,” the ghost says in that trembly, soft voice. “Aisha Flores.”

  I lower my blade, raise it again. “I was . . .”

  “My wife,” Juan Flores said. “My dearly beloved wife.”

  Carlos

  I shove through a gaggle of tourists—German, I think. I grunt an apology without stopping. None of them mind too much—apparently assholes are just part of the local flavor. One even snaps a picture, but then the river giant is on them, which must feel like some huge, invisible tornado just dropped out the sky. They collapse, screaming.

  The river giant doesn’t apologize; he just roars toward me with those humongous strides, crashing along the walkway like a deranged oak tree. I turn back to look where I’m going just in time to see the cyclist I’m crashing into.

  For a few seconds, everything is a tangle of gears and sudden aches and the biker’s cursing. Then I’m right side up again and still running—my odd, lopsided gait even more slanted.

  “You can’t goddamn just do that, man!” the guy yells. “I mean! I mean!” And then he too is swept aside with a yelp. The whole fence shivers, the cyclist grunts and collapses, and me? I run.

  I’m only halfway across the bridge when I start running out of breath. Blame the Malagueñas. But I still hear the thing clambering along behind me, even if a little less enthusiastically now. I steal a glimpse and then stop entirely, leaning my hand against one of the huge concrete support pillars to catch my breath.

  The giant’s wild flush forward has slowed to a pathetic, uneven clamor. He keeps stopping to wipe his eyes like he has something in them and then hock giant ghost loogies into the river below.

  The bumps-and-bruises carnage we caused is far enough back not to trouble us, and besides the gridlocked traffic and passing seagulls, we’re alone on the bridge. The giant stops a few feet away from me and just breaks down sobbing. One hand clutches the tension wires above him, the other massages the center of his wide face, right between those two beady eyes.

  “Ay,” I say. My cane unsheathes to reveal a blade, and it’s a blade that deals the Deeper Death to spirits like this with a quickness. Plus my breath is back, mostly. I take a step toward the river giant. “You alright?”

  He snorffles and sniffles, wipes the two slits where his nose should be, and looks up at me. For a second, I think I’m gonna have to make a break for it again. Then he says, “Ookus,” and goes back to sobbing.

  Man, I’ve had days like that. More than a few, in fact, especially since I murdered the brother of the woman I love before I’d even met her, and then fathered her children. And then found out she murdered me. I just usually stay in my apartment instead of terrorizing a major throughway, though.

  I don’t know what “ookus” means, but I know what I do when I’m sad. “Ookus,” I say, retrieving two Malagueñas from my inside pocket. “Ookus.”

  He looks up again, wipes his eyes. Then the river giant reaches those long fingers out and daintily accepts the gift. I’m wondering if I’ll have to explain what to do with it, but he just puts it right into that big ol’ mouth and leans forward, putting his face all up in mine, for a light.

  —

  “And then she showed me her memory,” I say, two hours and six Malagueñas later. “The one memory she had of her life before she died. And it was me, Ookus. It was me. My final moment. She . . . she killed me, man.”

  Small, gated-in enclosures line the upper level of the Manhattan Bridge. Empty forties, crumpled paper bags, and cigarette butts cover the ground, and graffiti commemorates the many exploits each alcove has witnessed. But the view is unparalleled: the shimmering towers of Manhattan’s Financial District st
are down Brooklyn’s newly converted warehouse apartments as the East River swirls between toward the scattered islands of the open bay.

  Ookus looks down at me, aghast. We’ve cleared the trash out the way and sit facing each other, backs to the colorfully cursed-upon stone walls of the enclosure. At some point during the conversation, God or the orishas or Nuyorican Jesus sent one of those foodcart guys past on his way to catch the late lunch crowd and I snagged two coffees for us.

  “Ookus barabat kimbana shok,” Ookus says, glumly.

  “Right?” I don’t know what that means, but it seems genuine. He’s probably been in a similar situation and feels my pain. “Thanks, man.” I shake my head, sip the now-cold foodcart coffee. “I was pretty mad. I am. I mean, I walked away, never looked back. Sorta. Sorta never looked back? Is that a thing? Look.” I pull a scrap of folded, lined paper from my pocket and pass it to Ookus. Then I relight my cigar while he reads.

  “Baseena pos prana koolesi,” Ookus says.

  “Exactly. I just feel like, they should know something about their father’s life. Half-life. Whatever. So I pass ’em along with the old Cubano guy that babysits ’em. But I know that what we did before we died—us halfies, I mean—we can’t be held responsible for it, not really. I have no idea what I did or who I was before that night. I coulda been a hellish human being. What matters is what we do now. And in the now? I’m the one that was in the wrong more than Sasha. And I mean . . . when it comes to those letters, they’re nice, I guess, but really and truly? I ain’t shit for it. I know, I know I gotta suck it up and face them . . . her . . . soon.”

  Ookus peers over the lined paper at me. Nods. “Ookus.”

  “I know, man, I know. I’m gonna.”

  He passes the paper back.

  “But I keep seeing that night, the night I killed her brother. And I really think she forgives me, to be honest. I just don’t think I do. And you know what’s really fucked up about it?”

  “Ookus?”

  “Behind everything that went wrong in my life, starting with that single night, lurks the motherfucking Council of the Dead.”

  Ookus’s brow furrows.

  “The Council sent me to kill Trevor.” I relight the Malagueña and pass Ookus the lighter. “And when I did, the Council sent me to kill Sasha. Which I didn’t, of course. The Council backed Caitlin Fern, whose fucked-up cockroach cult almost turned my babies into demon insect hives. My babies, Ookus. And when my best friend Riley had finally had enough, the Council wanted me to kill him too. And his ass already dead.”

  Ookus shakes his head.

  “Hell, the Council sent me to kill you. You know what, Ookus? Fuck the Council. Fuck ’em in the face.”

  Ookus nods. “Fraang pa Konseeli.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Lareeni.”

  “Anyway, that’s my story. What’s got you so upset?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Krys

  There’s a new girl working at the botánica when Jimmy and I stop by on the way to the meeting. She’s all dressed in white, head to toe, and got a million beaded necklaces round her slender, dark brown neck, and it takes me like point eight seconds to fall in love. I mean: look at her! Eyes sleepy, mouth an unimpressed pout. Her hair’s all hidden away beneath a white head tie, and a white Kangol sits on top, perfectly crooked. Besides all that, some kind of ethereal glow pours off her like she’s just emerging from some divine seashell and the holy light of God is awakening all around her.

  Also, she sees me.

  To her, I exist. She says “Hey” to Jimmy first, barely taking note of his tall-as-hell but truly flesh-and-blood alive ass. Then her gaze rests on me, floating translucent and fat: the dead black girl beside him. Still mohawked, still fabulous and unfuckwithable. But very dead.

  And invisible to most.

  Jimmy waves at her, and his voice cracks when he says “Hi,” poor dear. She nods, ever so slightly, at me, and then she’s back in the glow of her laptop, and I want to be that glow, to bathe her face, receive her undivided gaze.

  “You coming to the secret meet up, Baba Eddie?” Jimmy yells. So much for the secret part.

  “Baba Eddie’s giving a reading,” the girl says without looking up.

  “Oh,” Jimmy says. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you here before.”

  She turns to him, and those big eyes narrow to vicious slits. “I built this place.”

  “Oh, I didn’t . . .”

  She assesses him and then seems to decide to be merciful, returns to her laptop. “I’ve been away.”

  “Well, welcome back. I’m Jimmy.”

  “You’re not gonna introduce your friend there?” She nods at me. My face catches fire. I manage a smile through the flames.

  “Oh, you—” Jimmy starts.

  “I’m Krys,” I say.

  The girl lets loose a wide, adorable smile. She’s got a gap: two front teeth just fully doing their own thing, side by side but not touching. “You can call me Iyawo.”

  “Ayo?” Jimmy says.

  “Yee,” she pronounces.

  “Yee,” we echo.

  “Ah.”

  “Ah.”

  “Whoa. Iyawo.”

  Jimmy puzzles his face. “I’ve never heard that na—”

  “It’s not a name; it’s a title.”

  “Oh!” He’s doing the thing he does: the thing where he’s just oblivious to all that shade. It’s either charming as hell or frustrating as fuck, depending on who he’s dealing with and how much coffee they’ve had. The Iyawo seems to be softening to him, though. I’m just hovering in a corner amidst herb packets and dangling necklaces, trying to catch my breath.

  “Well, nice to meet you, Iyawo.” He pronounces the fuck outta it, and she seems to appreciate that, right up until he reaches out a hand.

  She frowns at it. “I can’t shake your hand.”

  “Oh, my bad.”

  “It’s alright. It’s a iyawo thing.”

  “Iyawo!” Baba Eddie calls from the back.

  The Iyawo cocks her head and raises her eyebrows. “Awo?”

  “Bring me some efun, por favor.”

  She grabs two little cups of chalky white stuff—the million bracelets on her wrist jangling a song directly into my heart—and then she heads to the back.

  “Fuck,” Baba Eddie says. “Make it a lot.”

  She whirls around, rolls her eyes.

  “Know what? Just bring the whole bucket of ’em. This shit gonna need a real . . . yeah.”

  The Iyawo retrieves a plastic container and heads back through the aisles of sculpted saints and elaborate pots.

  “The Iyawo is fine as fuck,” I say.

  Jimmy nods. “She aight.”

  “I heard that,” the Iyawo calls from the back.

  I cringe, then cringe deeper, then just give up because she didn’t seem to mind, and anyway: it’s true.

  “I dunno if she’s my speed,” Jimmy says.

  “Do you even have a speed?” Mina Satorius was the only girl I’ve known Jimmy to have dated. She was a wee little white chick, and her satanic, doll-collecting grandma went MIA after Carlos busted her trying to steal Jimmy’s soul. They messed around a few times after that, but really, that’s a tough hurdle to overcome for a dweeby high school relationship. Jimmy and I check out ass on the street together, but his tastes have no rhyme or reason.

  Jimmy shrugs. “I’m equal opportunity when it comes to the booty.”

  “You would be if you ever got any.”

  He’s about to zing back when the front door opens just as the Iyawo reappears from the back. A tall bald-headed dude with a ridiculous goatee stalks in, smile first.

  “What it do, my Iyaweezy!” he yells, crossing the store in a single stride and offering a fist bump to the Iyawo. “Dap? Ha! I’m
kidding—don’t touch me.” He whisks his hand away, chuckling, then crosses his arms over his chest and bows slightly.

  The Iyawo, who’s been standing perfectly still with one eyebrow cocked and one hand on her hip, does the same, shaking her head. “Whaddup, Rohan?”

  “Picking up Baba Eddie for the thing. You coming?”

  She slides back behind the counter and pouts. “He says I can’t cuz I’m a iyawo.”

  “Aw, man. Ah!” Rohan whirls around like Jimmy crept up on him. “What’s up, my man. You mad tall! You almost as tall as I am, my dude. I’m Rohan.”

  “Jimmy,” Jimmy says. They shake and Jimmy flinches.

  “Ay, ghost.” Rohan waves at me, smiling brightly.

  “What it do?” I give him a salute. “I’m Krys.” Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that folks in a botánica can see spirits, but it still catches me off guard. Invisibility formed a habit with me.

  Baba Eddie strolls in from the back. “Well, I see everyone’s met.” Jimmy and I call Baba Eddie the Puerto Rican Super Mario. He’s short and shaped like a fire hydrant with a mustache. I’ve never seen him mad, but I have a feeling it’s a terrifying sight—he’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and the ferocity hides deep in his eyes, but trust me, it’s there. “Rohan, Krys and Jimmy are gonna roll with us to the thing.”

  “Fantastic,” Rohan says.

  “Iyawo.” Baba Eddie pulls his jacket on and takes a cigarette out. “Baba Gene is gonna need a minute. He’ll be along shortly. Just make sure you charge him for the efun and make a note we gotta restock.”

  “Already done,” the Iyawo says. “Have fun at the secret meeting.” She flashes a wicked smile at me, and even though it’s a snowy winter day, for a second, everything is sunlight.

  —

  I’m still tingling with it when Baba Eddie leans over the front seat of Rohan’s Crown Vic and says, “Listen, you two: do not under any circumstances fall in love with the Iyawo.”