by Lee Hayton
In the image, a hand rose, the owner hidden from view. The vicious tongue of a leather belt circled the knuckles twice, buckle end flailing. When it landed, it dug an angry trench across the back of Jason’s vulnerable thighs.
The magic’s warmth transitioned to burning and Nolan swapped it from one hand to the other. The woman snapped her fingers, and it returned to her, swimming into a bracelet to encircle her wrist.
“Did you see enough to understand?”
Nolan looked up at her sparkling green eyes and nodded.
She crouched down, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
He chased the startling cascade of thoughts, slowly voicing them. “If I stand up to Jason, he’ll back down. He wants a victim to take his pain out on, not a battle.”
The woman’s skirts rustled as she stood up again. Her head tilted, eyes gazing into the distance, as though she’d heard an anxious cry beyond his hearing. Then she blinked and smiled down at him.
“You held the light well, Nolan. If you wanted, you could train in magic. Most kids your age can’t keep it longer than a second.”
The warmth moved from Nolan’s palm to light up his cheeks with pride, and he dipped his eyes. “I didn’t know you trained.”
“Everything worthwhile in life takes talent, training, and hard work.” She pursed her lips. “We may not be allowed to earn money any longer, but we work hard all the same.”
A sense of excitement coiled in Nolan’s belly at the new information. He imagined using it as a rebuttal the next time his dad went on a furious rant. Then he shook his head. Picturing it was one thing, doing it was quite another. His mom was the strongest woman he knew, but she’d stand there, frowning in disagreement, too scared to take him on when Dad was in a mood.
“Take care, Nolan. If you need me, just think of me, and I’ll be there for you.”
The woman’s head tilted again, and the magic started to pulse in a quick rhythm. Just before she dissolved, Nolan heard her say, “Make the right choice.”
Chapter Three
The next day, Nolan waited after school again. This time, though, he stood proudly out in the open, not tucked away in fear behind the bike sheds. Like so many other days, his stomach muscles were clenched in anxiety. For a change, the nerves weren't triggered by inadequacy but anticipation.
The brief scene glimpsed deep in the blue fire of the magic woman, granted Nolan a surprising weapon in his arsenal he wouldn't have imagined in a million years.
Pity.
And so, he waited in front of the bike sheds. Waited for Jason and his friends to arrive, trailing a few minutes after the rest of the class as usual. This time Nolan felt confident it would be the last time he needed to worry.
“Oi, oi! This is becoming a habit, Helmond,” Jason said as he rounded the corner of the school and caught sight of Nolan.
“Got a crush on you,” the next boy in line said, elbowing Jason in the ribs and issuing a low snicker.
The nerves twisting and pulling at Nolan's stomach intensified, and he hoped they wouldn't pull at his vocal cords as he opened his mouth to speak.
“I've had enough. You shouldn't be beating on anyone, but if you need to, this is fair warning that it won't be me.”
Jason threw back his head and laughed, a guffaw that tangled the still air into a mess of ill wind. “You don't make the rules around here, Nolan.”
Despite the words, Jason's step forward hesitated. His body angled to one side as though it were changing its mind, independent of its owner.
The information about Jason's father danced on the tip of Nolan's tongue. If he revealed it now, Jason would lunge. His mates would stand still while their slow brains labored to process the new information.
One-on-one. That was a fair fight.
“Leave me alone, or I'll tell everyone what your father does to you.”
Jason's head whipped around, his eyes narrowed, and his chin jutted forward. Fingers, hanging loosely by his side until that point, curled into fists. And yet, his step forward hesitated again.
“What does he mean?” The boy to Jason's right—Kevin something—interrupted his mocking laughter long enough to query.
“You don't know anything about my dad.”
“I know that he beats you,” said Nolan. A flash of anger swept up his body as a thousand unwarranted punches rose in his memory. His lip curled as he lined up an emotional blow. “And I know that you deserve it.”
Jason roared and lunged, his thick head lowered in a bullish stance. Nolan balanced on tiptoe, choosing the right moment to step aside and let Jason smash into the bike shed back wall.
He turned, his stunned face bleeding. Nolan kept his body tilted to one side, the other boys in his line of sight in case they decided to weigh in. “It's time you picked on someone else,” said Nolan.
His voice didn’t shake. His stance didn’t waver.
“At least my dad has the courage to beat me,” Jason said, panting. “I hear your dad delegates that task to your mother.”
Indrawn breaths behind him—oh, no you didn’t—but Nolan turned his back to Jason's companions as he stared his bully down. Anger rose inside him, building into a wave whose leading edge crashed forward. Propelling him as his world tinted red and a battle cry roared from his lungs.
His fist crunched into Jason's face—skin breaking, bones crunching, a shudder running up into the meat of his shoulder until it cried in distress.
A thing of pure beauty.
Once he started, Nolan couldn't stop. Lost in a sea of emotion, raging, engorged with crimson blood—the pounding in his ears mimicked the deafening crash of the surf. Despite the pain, his fist crunched again into Jason's nose, the side of Jason’s face, a karate chop to Jason’s throat.
When the bully fell to his knees, Nolan jumped onto his back. His knee pounded into Jason’s spine until the boy collapsed flat upon the ground.
A moment of clarity. With Jason’s hair bunched in Nolan’s fist, ready to slam his head back into the ground. A moment of clarity, cutting through the red wash of rage like a blue light.
Stop now. Stop now, or you become the bully.
Nolan imagined his father's face. The look of contempt at the bruises covering his son turning to one of pride as Nolan explained the other boy was ten times worse off than him.
He bunched Jason’s hair tighter in his fist and pounded Jason's face into the rough asphalt. Lifting him back up, still gripping him by the hair, Nolan saw the gravel painted red with Jason's blood before he slammed the boy’s face down once again.
Nolan did it until the arms pulling him off no longer belonged to boys, but men. Two grown men rushing from nearby classrooms in response to the terrified screams of Jason's friends.
Grown men struggling to contain him as Nolan wriggled and strained, fought and twisted. His body a weapon wanting to deliver Jason's final blow.
#
Nolan sat on the hardwood bench outside Mr. Prendergast’s office. He held his throbbing right hand tenderly in his left. His buttocks sent up an occasional mutter of complaint until Nolan shifted from one side to another. With any luck, another half hour would numb them into silence.
He closed his eyes, listening to the low murmur of voices. The second teacher who’d pulled him off Jason, giving evidence of what he’d witnessed.
Bad enough, but Nolan knew worse was to come.
His father had been called in from work. The principal had insisted over the phone to his mother that both parents were required because the matter was so severe.
Nolan jerked his head back until it banged against the wall, then did it again. The pain was far less than he deserved.
You’re so stupid.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but Nolan tilted his head back until they dried into nothing. Sitting here, nursing his injuries, would make his dad angry enough. Add tears into the equation and Nolan would build a jail wall for himself he’d never be able to
escape.
“Nolan?”
He turned at his mother’s voice and inhaled her sweet and dark perfume as she pulled him into a hug.
“Let the boy breathe, Laura,” his dad’s gruff voice insisted, then dropped into a lower whisper. “His mates’ll be watching.”
The words opened the gulf between his expectations and Nolan’s reality so wide he teetered on the edge.
“You get beaten up, lad?”
Nolan shook his head, holding out the shame of his damaged fist and jerking his head toward the sick room. Jason perched trembling on the edge of the bed there, a teacher in attendance to ensure he didn’t fall forward in collapse.
His mother gasped. Jason’s hair was matted flat with drying blood. Bruised swelling shut his eyes down to thin slits of inky black. Beside his feet, a wicker basket held a growing pile of crimson-stained tissues.
“Oh, Nolan.”
At the disappointment in her voice, Nolan felt tears sting his eyes again. He sniffed and bit the inside of his cheek, hard, until his mouth filled with the salty tang of blood.
A warm arm stretched around his shoulder, and Nolan jerked in surprise at his father’s touch. Usually, he wouldn’t even make eye contact, but now his large hand squeezed Nolan’s upper arm in support.
“Got what was coming to him, then, did he?”
Ignoring his mother’s whispered reprimand, Nolan smiled up at his dad, earning a conspiratorial wink in return. Warmth flooded to fill the emptiness Nolan held inside his chest and energy buzzed through his arteries.
“Mr. and Mrs. Helmond?” The principal stood in the doorway, and Nolan’s heart rate sped up. “Come on through.”
All three walked inside, and though Mr. Prendergast’s eyebrows raised at the inclusion of Nolan in the room, he didn’t make any comment.
“Has your son filled you in on what he did?”
His parents nodded, and Nolan felt the blood pulsing through his head, filled to bursting.
“Well, first things first. We expect your son to make a formal apology to his victim.” Mr. Prendergast cleared his throat, confidence fading under the stern gaze of Duncan Helmond. “What do you say, boy.”
Nolan opened his mouth to speak, but his Dad shook his head and looked away, tapping one large forefinger on the ornately carved arm of his chair.
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Nolan!” his mother gasped. “You apologize at once.”
Instead, he checked his father’s face and saw the curve of an approving smile. He sat back in his chair and shook his head, pulse thumping loudly in his ears as the silence extended out.
“Well.’ The principal cleared his throat again. “Until Nolan can bring himself to apologize, we can't have him back in the school. At the very least, this unwarranted assault demands a week's suspension as punishment.”
The principal looked at Nolan, who crossed his arms and stared back in open defiance.
How many times had he been beaten? And he'd never seen Jason dragged in here, never been offered so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. When Nolan received an apology for each assault handed out over the years, then Jason could have his one. Not before.
In the corner of his eye, Nolan caught his mother’s concerned stare. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a deep frown as she tried to puzzle out the change in her little boy.
“Far as I can see, the boys had a scuffle, and one of them came off worse. Wasn’t a crime when I was at school,” his father said. He gave Nolan a nod of recognition, a smile of pride.
“Hardly a scuffle,” the principal rejoindered. “We've had to call in help to treat the boy. He was on the verge of unconsciousness.”
Nolan turned in the direction that the principal jerked his head. He saw through the open doors into the sick room. A magic woman, his magic woman, kneeled in front of Jason whose hands were cupped to hold gleaming ray of cyan light.
Nolan swallowed past the lump in his throat. He jerked his head back around to face the principal, his heart beating tremulous and quick.
Thought you were special? Don't be stupid.
His dad turned to look as well. “Didn't realize you let cockroaches in here.”
The principle winced at the derogatory term. “The boy's injuries were that severe, we needed to.”
“They have painkillers now, you know,” Nolan's dad said. The deliberate provocation was even louder than his voice. “Give the lad a few of those and send them home. No need to let them be treated by a cockroach—especially female—when he could walk home like a man.”
“Duncan,” his mother said, her voice caught between horror and shame.
Nolan's dad snorted and shook his head. He crossed his arms over is chest and stared with hard disapproval at the principal. “We done here? I didn’t give up work for the day to sit and listen to this rubbish. You gonna punish my boy, go ahead. You ain’t getting no apology.”
“Two week’s suspension. One month of detention when you do return to school.”
Nolan stared at Mr. Prendergast, his mouth dropping open at the severity.
“Come on, boy. You heard the man. Two week’s of holiday coming your way.”
His father stood and leaned his hand on Nolan’s shoulder as they walked out together. His mother followed behind after fluttering a mouthful of apologies in their wake.
As he passed by the sick room, Nolan heard the woman whispering to Jason. “You held the magic well. You could train if you wanted.”
A cold wave of nausea rose in his stomach as his cheeks burned hot with blood. Thought you were special?
The drive home was fraught with silence, the air hanging heavily between his parents. Nolan cupped his swelling hand as the pain grew more severe.
His dad tossed him a couple of painkillers and tousled Nolan’s hair after he swallowed them down first go. “That’s my boy.”
Lying in bed later that night he rolled over, and the pain was so intense he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from crying out. For a second, his heart ached for the easy relief of magic. The complete healing it offered—one moment pain, the next none.
In the dark, Nolan felt the imprint of his dad’s arms around his shoulders, the squeeze of his upper arm better than a thousand of his mother’s enveloping hugs.
The throb in his knuckles lessened, the burn of his grazed skin faded into warmth.
Chapter Four
Nolan’s speech faltered to a stop. His old-man vocal cords were giving out on him. So too, was his belief that his tale would help Ciaran in any way. A flush of frustration ran up the side of his neck, coloring it deepest crimson. The heavily self-edited story he’d carved from the truth wasn’t going to stop his grandson being bullied. Not the way he’d just fumbled it. The poor boy just looked more confused than ever. A frown creased Ciaran’s forehead, cleaving it in two with doubt.
“Bullies aren’t any tougher than you,” Nolan added, then sighed and looked at his gnarled fingers. Scarred from battles, scarred from bar room fights. Knuckles twisted with arthritis in a lost tussle with old age. The remove between the man he was and the boy he’d been, weighed upon his shoulders.
Does everyone have this disconnect? Or is it just because of her?
“Pain is awful. Sometimes it seems unbearable. But it’s better to stand up for yourself now and take a bad beating than it is to suffer lesser harm for months or years.”
The glibness of the answer shamed him. As a boy, he’d heard the same words from his father—fight back for goodness’ sake—and they’d never imparted any meaning.
The sun glistened in his grandson’s eyes, and Nolan looked away, not wanting to hurt Ciaran further by catching him weeping. He looked out upon the meadow where the skeletons of the unarmed men and women he’d slaughtered had been burned white in the sun.
So many years between then and now. The decades had gnawed away at Nolan’s bones, leeched the strength from his muscles. At times, it seemed his internal organs must be flaking
into dust.
Yet every morning he woke. Every minute of every day his smoke-damaged lungs drew in breaths. His heart kept its beat, his stomach grumbled for food, his mind turned in ceaseless replay through the painful mistakes that made up his life.
“The magic the woman gave me, was partly insight, partly courage from the thought I could be good at something.” Nolan slipped his arm around Ciaran’s waist and talked into the hair on top of his head. “No one had ever told me I could be good at something before.”
“Mom tells me I’ll make a good accountant,” Ciaran said. Where there should be pride, there was resignation. Nolan heard the undercurrent of his tone, see – people already tell me these things, and I’m still picked on.
“You will be. A head for numbers is a talent you can earn a lifetime of money with. But a mother or a granddad telling you things isn’t the same.”
The clouds began to drift across the sky, chasing each other, puffed tight and bright white with the wind. A sliver of sunshine pierced through a gap, then another. In a few minutes, Nolan and Ciaran were bathing in its light.
“The pain you feel after a beating, shouldn’t even belong in this world. It isn’t the natural way of things, no matter who tells you otherwise.”
Nolan’s voice cracked, and he bent over coughing, tears soon streaming down his face. They caught the sunlight, refracting the world into a thousand different colored beams. His grandson’s tentative thump upon his back, better medicine than the cough syrup he sometimes swigged straight from the bottle.
When his breath grew even, he lay back on the warming concrete and closed his eyes. The sun on his eyelids printed red and magenta shapes in the darkness. He opened his mouth, groping for the words that had been lined up to speak before his scarred lungs coughed them away.
“The magic treated pain, physical and emotional. When my mom was little, you could buy a layer of protection if the other kids picked on you.”
His fingers mimicked tying a knot at his throat. “You would wear it like a cloak, and the bullies would have to sort their shit out elsewhere.”