Jonathan watched the television contented, but not elated; reserved - Perhaps too reserved - for a five year old.
Bugs and Daffy danced across the screen in unison, singing "This is It" in their black and white splendor, Mel Blanc's cartoon voice carrying beyond the den to the kitchen where his mother made breakfast.
Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner cartoons were the best part of Saturday.
Only two days earlier the television was buzzing on about the President of the United States of America.
Mr. Linden B. Johnson decided to quit bombing North Vietnam because of negotiations with France, or something like that.
One whole day later, the Air Force stopped what everyone was calling Operation Rolling Thunder.
All the thunder was done.
Jonathan could not figure out what any of that meant; in Driftwood there was still thunder, and it still just kept rolling right across those gray, dirty storm cloud skies.
That was yesterday.
Today, the skies were - well, they weren't blue - but maybe they were less gray.
Less dark.
A whole new day, people were saying.
Was it not true that every day was a whole new day?
Still, mom and dad seemed happier. Less worried. That was most important to Jonathan.
Jonathan half heard, and fully ignored the sound of faint knocking at the door.
The knocking knock, knock, knocked again.
"Honey?" His mother's voice drifted out from the kitchen, just the slightest tone of go answer that door hidden in her motherly affection.
Jonathan sighed, an rolled his eyes. "I'll get it, I'll get it."
Jonathan stretched and stood to his feet, walking with a lazy Saturday morning strut to the front door. He paused at the door, cautiously listening. He could hear someone shuffling around outside. Jonathan open the door, careful to peer around it.
"Hello!" Nadjia waved, her voice inflicting hel-lo with musical quality. She had a bag lunch in one hand, crumpled in her small grip, and salutations in the other, still waiving with an excited happiness to see Jonathan. "Happy birthday, Jonathan!"
Nadjia leaned in and hugged him, her sack lunch smashing into his back. She kissed him on the cheek once, released him, and walked.into his house.like nothing happened.
"Hey, Nadjia. Thank you." Jonathan blushed.
Nadjia turned on her sneakered heel. "Sorry I'm late. My mom wouldn't let me out until my room was clean."
"How long did that take?"
"Forever. Ten minutes. It was the longest time ever."
"Well," Jonathan scratched at the back of his neck. "I'm glad you got done. The Bugs Bunny, and Roadrunner cartoons just started a little bit ago."
Nadjia walked in, and Jonathan shut the door gingerly behind her, taking her hand on the way back to the television.
Nadjia let him lead her to the television. "Do you know what I don't get?"
Jonathan found his place back in front of the television - what his dad would say was just too close - and say down, releasing Nadjia's hand along the way. "What don't you get?"
"How come it's called the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner cartoon, but after they lift the curtain, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck come out and dance?"
Jonathan tried his hardest not to look puzzled, or confused. "I think..." His brow furrowed while he searched inside himself for an answer. "I think maybe the Roadrunner is shy."
"That's probably it." Nadjia nodded. "I mean everyone comes out and sings, right? You have Bugs Bunny, and Daffy Duck, that mouse..."
"Speedy Gonzales." Jonathan nods.
"...you have a hoppy thing."
"Hippity hopper."
"Huh?"
Jonathan nudged Nadjia, pushing his hand at her shoulder. "His name is Hippity Hopper. He's a kangamaroo. They're from Austria."
Nadjia shifted to her side, pointing a finger upward in correction. "That's kangaroo. Kangaroos are from Austria."
"Yeah."
"...but why all these others, the Mousy Gonzales, Hiphopper, the fat pig that speaks badly? There's the rooster, and even the coyote... but no roadrunner."
"Well," Jonathan locked eyes with Nadjia, her eyes both stunning electric blue, deep, and piercing all at once, dark blue rings around the lighter blue. "Bugs Bunny does show him after they sing their song. Maybe he's shy, but Bugs Bunny wants to save the best for last?"
Nadjia shook her head slowly. "I don't think the roadrunner is the best. He's always running from that coyote. He is only lucky... but he never fights back."
"I don't think he is the best for last, either." Jonathan shifted himself closer to Nadjia.
Nadjia shifted closer to him.
"Nadjia?"
"Huh?" Her eyes, large and wide - almost round now - locked into Jonathan's. She felt a little dizzy, the way the green in his eyes were almost like lights.
"The fat pig?"
"Pig?"
Jonathan nodded. "The fat pig is named Porky Pig, and he has a stutter. It's why he can't talk so good."
Nadjia furrowed her brow, and Jonathan unconsciously reached to scratch the back of his neck. "Jonathan Walker, if I wanted to know everybody's name, I would ask you!"
"...but - but - but you said..."
"I said that the roadrunner is not the best for last. The fat pork pig isn't best either. This cartoon is so dumb." Nadjia's usually pleasant voice cracked, somewhere between grief and anger, carrying over Foghorn Leghorn's voice, into the kitchen where their young argument piqued the attention of Emily Walker - affectionately known as mom, mommy, or mother to Jonathan. She listened intently as they argued in the den.
"Well. Maybe you're dumb." Jonathan folded his arms across his chest.
"What?" Nadjia's blue eyes almost immediately began to brim with tears.
"Jonathan! Nadjia! Breakfast is ready! Go wash your hands and come to the table."
Jonathan stared at Nadjia grudgingly, and Nadjia stared back with her lip quivering. "Do you really think I'm dumb?"
Jonathan wanted to stop, and be nice, but Nadjia was always such a brat sometimes when it came to what she called boy stuff. Cartoons were decidedly not boy stuff. In fact, his dad would sometimes watch cartoons with him when he was home. Sometimes - maybe not a lot - but sometimes his mom would watch, too. She would even comment how cartoons were better when she was little.
That was always funny to Jonathan. Everybody knew they did not cartoons in ancient times.
"I need to go wash my hands," Jonathan broke eye contact with Nadjia, feeling ashamed of himself. "You should do it, too. Mom said so."
Nadjia narrowed her eyes at Jonathan. "I don't want to share the same water as you washing hands, Jonathan Walker. I almost want to go home."
"Well you can't! Your mom, and dad went out with my dad, and Mr. Dean, and Judge Griffin."
Nadjia looked wounded, which made Jonathan feel worse. "You don't even want to try and stop me from wanting to go home."
Jonathan, five years old, on a cool gray sky type of morning in Driftwood, California the morning of November 2nd, 1968 was defeated.
By a girl.
She did not have to hit him, or kick him, or throw toys.
She did not even have to move.
Jonathan hung his head, hiding the evidence of the tears forming in his eyes.
"Nadjia...?" Jonathan weakly held a hand out. "Will you please wash hands with me? I'm bad at it."
From the kitchen door, leaning against it, Emily Lynn Walker watched Jonathan, and Nadjia navigating a friendship - a complicated friendship - at five years old.
Things for children were supposed to be simple, black and white, and never, ever complicated.
Nadjia stared Jonathan down begrudging, what seemed like a long time, but moments later she took his hand, and they made for the bathroom.
A moment after that, the water was running, and she heard Nadjia giggle. Then Jonathan.
Maybe things were less complicated than they seemed.
✟ ☧ ✟
Amir Sharif massaged the palms of his hands, willing away - to no avail - the nervous sweat forming over them. Nida stood behind him, staring over his shoulder only a little less concerned than her husband.
"They arrive." Amir's voice cracked in his throat, as a black satin finish 1968 Oldsmobile Nighty-Eight pulled alongside the curb. The windows were tinted dark as limousine windows.
"Are you prepared to go?" Nida's whisper was steady, and even in Amir's ear; her voice carried strength his did not - could not - and in it he found better solidarity, than despair,
Amir cleared his throat. "They promised no pain, and a successful future for Nadjia, and Suheila."
The car doors opened, and stepping out were three well dressed men whose attire carried with it some sort of inexplicable antiquity, and somehow authority. They wore long, elegant coats over their suits, black as all their attire, as their car, and the fedoras they placed upon their heads in unison.
Amir recognized Clayton Walker immediately, the tallest of the three men, Judge Samael Grifford, briefcase in hand, to his left, and a new man - a man Amir did not know, carrying a briefcase, to his right. The three men walked in step, with a cold, brisk, deliberately efficient gait.
"They are here." Nida's voice was still steady. "This is going to happen."
Amir nodded, and Nida stepped past him, casually. He admired her courage.
Nida opened the door. "Please, gentlemen. Will you not join us inside?"
Nida stepped aside, gesturing their entry. Clayton was first to cross the threshold, clean cut, and dressed impeccably - the sharpest of the three. In followed next the new man, looking vigilant, well groomed, and something else - something like reluctance. Last came Samael Grifford with his gaunt, steel features, and piercing eyes, always searching, always accusing.
Nida shut the door behind them, and Amir startled at the sound as it clicked shut with an echoing finality.
Clayton smiled pleasantly, turning in step. Samael, and the new man stepped around him, and back into their triad formation as though through instinct alone. "Mrs. Sharif, will you please lock your door? This next evolution cannot risk unexpected visitors, or witnesses. Amir, please draw shut the curtains."
Nida, and Amir obeyed, hollow, vacant expressions over their faces.
"My friends," Clayton smiled, spreading his hands apart, palms open. "Please. You have no reason to be afraid. This can easily be a very pleasant, painless experience for you both."
Nida and Amir locked eyes fearfully.
"Enough with the pleasantries, Walker." Nida, and Amir could feel Samael Grifford's voice in the pit of their stomach.
Clayton nodded sharply. "Let us convene in your living room. Nida, put on some tea. We have some... formalities to put underway before the proceedings may begin."
Nida obeyed, moving absently, shuffling to the kitchen as Amir led the three men to their living room.
"These conditions are barely livable." Samael made no attempt to disguise his displeasure. "Aren't you people supposed to be wealthy? You Musselmen are reputed for your success as doctors, and such... but your home is so... shabby."
Amir shrugged as they entered the living room. The unexceptional furniture, and furnishings told the story of a middle class family of blue collar workers. There were certain telltale signs of extraordinary circumstances - nothing seated in secular wealth, or belongings - but certain displays of the unordinary; artistic depictions hinting of Nida, and Amir's practice in Sufism.
Nida appeared shortly, a tray with tea, and three cups.
"Only three? Will two of my associates not have tea?" Clayton's voice kept it's already too pleasant tone.
"I did not believe..." Nida found herself choking back tears, and swallowed. "What I mean to say is, it would be very little use to My husband, and I."
"Nonsense! Please." Clayton moved toward Nida, steadying the rattling tray, and carefully taking it from Nida's shaking hands. "Why don't you go and get us two more cups. After all, this is in a way a celebration of sorts, is it not? Your daughters futures are secured. They will never know hardship. We should be toasting this with spirits, but for what circumstances permit as they are."
Nida nodded, "...yes, circumstances, as they are." She turned briskly, and was gone, and back quickly with two more tea cups in hand.
"Good!" Clayton smiled, clasping his hands together. "Let us get business underway, then, shall we? This gentleman here behind me, to my right; this is Solomon Dean. He's a new, and welcome addition to our enterprise. Solomon Dean is a genuine doctor. Medical, yes?"
"That is correct."
"Right." Clayton's smile faded. "Nida, Amir... if you please. Will you two be seated? Better that each of you take separate arm chairs. These things go far more smoothly like this. If you'll please lift your sleeves - not you Nida, you tee-shirt is fine as it is I think - the good Doctor can get to work, and we can get past all this."
Nida, and Amir obeyed.
As they sat down in their separate chairs, each across from one another. Amir rolled up the sleeve on his right arm. Nida, in her light blue tee-shirt, did nothing. Solomon placed a briefcase on the coffee table. He opened it to reveal two IV bags, tubing, IV needles, some rubbing alcohol, and sterile cotton balls.
Solomon immediately went to work.
He drew latex gloves over his hands, and doused a cotton ball with the rubbing alcohol. He cleaned Amir's arm first, prepping, and then Nida's. "You'll feel a little pinch, but after that, you'll be fine."
Solomon set an IV bag at the top of the armchair above Amir, set the tubing, and the needle. Amir winced only a moment. It was uncomfortable, but as the doctor promised, not painful. Nida was next, and she gave out a small cry of surprise when the needle found its way into her vein.
Solomon clamped the tubes to the IV bags shut, and nodded to Clayton Walker, who looked all too pleased.
Judge Samael Grifford only watched impatiently in stern silence.
"Good, good." Clayton sighed, smiled, and began pouring tea. "In the past, we discussed a bargain for your Daughters Nadjia, and Suheila. You are well aware of who we are, and we know almost everything there is to know when it comes to who you are."
Amir nodded.
"We have with us a number of documents to insure this transaction is legal, and painless as possible."
Amir leaned in suddenly, slamming his hands onto the coffee table, shaking the tea tray, and spilling a few drops from his glass with the sudden jolt. "Either you have come to kill us now, or you have not! All these games were not apart of this agreement!"
Clayton was fast.
Faster than Amir could expect, and in the glint of polished steel, and light, Clayton was standing behind Nida's chair, her head firmly grasped in his left hand, pulled over hard, the blade of an ornate dagger pressed against the delicate skin of her neck. A single bead of blood swelled from beneath the center of the blade's length, and dribbled clumsily down her throat. Clayton's eyes were calm, and fixed on Amir. He smiled politely. "Amir Sharif, I am well aware of the parameters of our agreement. This could be how it ends, if you like. I could cut your wife's throat, and as she bleeds out in front of you, and dies, I could snuff you out like a match, your blood soaked corpse of a wife the last thing you ever see."
Amir's hands were still pressed flat against the coffee table, knuckles pale; he did not dare not move.
Clayton released Nida's head, drawing his ornate dagger away from her throat. He twirled it in a fanciful flourish, and sheathed it somewhere in his coat. "...or, we can make this whole ordeal much more pleasant, and so much less violent."
Judge Grifford cleared his throat, and set his briefcase next to Solomon Dean's. He opened his only a moment, and withdrew a folder, and closed it. He placed the folder on top of his brief case. "My name, as you know, is Judge Samael Grifford, IV. Retired. I am acting as legal council for Clayton Walker. The papers in this folder grant custody of your daughters Nadjia, and Suheila Sharif to Clayton Walker. Once this transaction is completed, your daughters will be considered the adopted daughters of the Walker family. They are guaranteed health, education, and inheritance thereafter."
"...and we must sign these documents for this guarantee?" Nida's eyes, like Nadjia's, that strange stunning blue, stared into the steely eyes of Samael Grifford. "When we are gone, what guarantee do we have then? What if our daughters becomes your daughters, Mr. Walker, and you find them intolerable?"
"...that matter has come up, now that you mention it." Clayton returned to his place between Judge Grifford, and Solomon Dean. "You see, the primary purpose of this transaction is to take authority over how Nadjia comes up. Not to raise them myself."
Nida looked alarmed. "...you will not raise them? Then who?"
"A child needs their parents, Mrs. Sharif. Naturally, this means you - and Mr. Sharif, of course - will have to raise Nadjia. Best we start now, and normalize this arrangement."
"...and we live?" Amir tried to hide the whimper in his voice.
Clayton laughed. "Live? I've never heard of dead parents raising children. Yes, you two fine Sufis will raise my daughters. I will provide private education, health, and religious upbringing as needed."
"...what do you get from this?" Nida reached cautiously for the folder on top of Judge Grifford's briefcase.
"Wives." Clayton grinned. "Oh, not for me. My sons."
Amir slowly drew his hands back from the coffee table, placing them on his lap. "Arranged marriages? This is not remotely legal in the United States."
Judge Grifford tilted his head. "Aren't they? I think you are confused, Mr. Sharif. You see, so long as the bride and groom have the right to consent, it is fine. Were they not allowed to consent, the bride or the groom - or both - it is called a forced marriage. Arranged marriages are perfectly legal, and come time for such a thing, after developing a life, and taste for a certain lifestyle, it is more than certain that young Nadjia will find the marriage amicable."
"...and if I should refuse to sign?" Amir frowned, seeing Nida's signing before his question left his mouth.
"Well, Mr. Clayton is a relatively well known philanthropist. I'm certain he would see to it that your orphaned daughters were well attended, and did not end up in the system." Judge Grifford's tone was final. Amir signed.
"Excellent." Clayton's voice was genuinely happy. "Here's the good news. I can't have my little girls being raised up in this hovel. Effective today, immediately, you will live at this address," Clayton handed a small card to Nida. "This is your new home. All the modern amenities. Fully furnished. I think you'll agree it is the best home to raise your family, and of course you can Sufi away all you like."
"...Sufi is not so much a verb, Mr. Walker." Nida said, staring at the address on the card in disbelief.
"Whatever. So long as your daughter is brought up in the faith I deem appropriate, Sufi away. Just make certain for your own sake, no one ever be harmed in whatever it is you do, when you do whatever it is you do. That brings about other consequences."
Silence, for a long time in the soon-to-be-former-home of Nida, and Amir Sharif.
Solomon Dean carefully removed their IVs, and cleaned the areas. As the three men were leaving, Clayton glanced back. "I am truly glad we could come to this agreement. My son Jonathan is very attached to Nadjia, and both of you. I would have hated to upset him with the news of your passing."
"The things we do for our children." Nida muttered, rubbing the small, sore hairline cut along the left of her throat.
"Right?" Clayton folded his hands together pleasantly. "Welcome to our family, Nida, and Amir. Do not disappoint me."
After that, they were gone. Nida, and Amir sat in shocked silence a while longer, and then Amir stood. "Let us go to our new home."
✟ ☧ ✟
Solomon Dean drove quietly.
"Would you have cut her throat?" Grifford's disapproving tone cut the silence in the car.
If Clayton cared whether the judge approved or not, his voice did not indicate. "If I had to? Sure."
"It takes a lot of resources to clean up a mess like that, Walker."
"Your honor," Clayton nodded. "It was a necessary risk. We want what is best for our children."
Grifford shook his head solemnly. Always with the Walker line. "We want what is best for The Order, Clayton Walker."
"With respect, your honor: it is a tenuous existence for the fractured remnants of The Order. It is not enough to simply reestablish position. We need foundation, solidarity, and respect."
"...and if they should refuse to show respect?"
"Then fear, your honor. Where respect in The Order falls short, the fearful will obey."
"Or they rebel."
"Not remotely." Clayton held a finger up. "Demand respect. Incite fear. Reward cooperation. Destroy insurgency."
"Almost textbook." Grifford frowned.
"Absolutely textbook. The church has become wary of us. There is talk of the dissolution of our Order."
Samael Grifford clenched his teeth together. "Such a betrayal would be unforgivable."
"Your honor," Clayton hushed his voice, the grave tone haunting in Grifford's ears. "Trust me when I say we need to amass our wealth, and build as many allies as possible. If ever the need arises, we will have set for ourselves a stronger foundation here, in Driftwood."
"You've too long been away from Salem, Walker." Grifford shook his head. "We are an old order, in no more danger of dissolution than the church itself."
"Salem may not always stand. All I ask, your honor, is we prepare."
"Advice, Mr. Walker, I'll take into consideration..."
✟ ☧ ✟
"Twelve'o'clock, and all is well!" Clayton lounged, his feet up on an ottoman, polished shoes covered in a fine brown-orange dust.
Ambient melodies wafted from the high ceiling of The Huntsman's Retreat Lodge.
Seated at the highest point over the city, Driftwood Heights, The Huntsman's Retreat Lodge was a privileged place of rest designated to those who served The Order.
It was a place of meeting, and refuge, of rest, and celebration; it was a place where formalities were cast aside, where only the best was made available to those who were the best, of the best.
Grifford drank down the last sips of his stout. "I'm still not certain, Clay. It's an awful gamble."
"I implore you, Samael. Please, trust me. We've a foot in the door, two new allies, betrothed wives to continue a line, and insight into precisely how much of the filth is corrupting Driftwood. We want a solid foundation, yes? A stronghold."
Grifford regarded Clayton with a nod, and cast his iron gaze on Solomon, humble Solomon Dean. New-to-The-Order-Solomon-Dean, who until now did an incredible job practicing silence.
"I couldn't presume to say, your honor."
Grifford held up a hand, sharply. "Divinae!" Grifford shouted, his raspy voice carrying across the lodge hall, echoing off the Nordic style log walls.
A regal looking woman with brunette hair, and a pretty, forgettable face appeared. "Samael. It's been a long time. You forget about me, or did you find someone better?"
Grifford cracked brief smile. "Who could ever replace a dolesom beauty like you? Divinae, this gentleman here is Mr. Solomon Dean! Newest edition to the family. Sol here just addressed me formally, so I'm going to need a round of your finest bourbon for everyone in the hall. Go ahead and put it on his tab."
"Wait - what?"
"Sorry, darling." Divinae favored Solomon with a smile, but was already on her way to the bar. "Tradition."
"You'll find tradition has an enormous role in our society. We are everywhere, and we are in everything. Clay here, he insists we're on the precipice of dissolution. What he hasn't said - not out loud - is that both his family, and mine have been in service to The Order since before the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock. He's failed to voice that both our lineage were first to set foot in the new world. The Order - our Order - yours now, too... it dates back before the inquisition."
Solomon's eyes were wide. "The inquisi - which inquisition?"
"Pick one. We were there. The most recent on record occurred in Salem, Massachusetts."
"In the history of the United States there has always been a Walker, and a Grifford." Divinae rolled her eyes as she set doubles of bourbon across the table, at each Clayton, Grifford, and Solomon.
Grifford sipped from his glass. "Enough with exposition. Tradition. Like Tevye said. Without our traditions..."
Solomon Dean examined his glass, cleaning the rim with a sleeve. "Zero Mostel, or Chaim Topol?"
"Topol of course, Mr. Dean. Drink up. It is your treat, after all."
"L'chaim." Solomon Dean raised his glass, and drank it back in a single drink.
"Welcome to The Order, Dean-o." Clay sipped his bourbon, and made a face. "If Samael's correct, you'll never know what it means to want."
✟ ☧ ✟
At his table, all too often, they ate in silence.
Clayton's concerns, and doubts over stability of The Order created tensions in his own household. Their young Jonathan seemed to respect the often silence, except when Nadjia was over for dinner, and tonight - thankfully - Nadjia was over for dinner.
The chatter was a welcome distraction from the day-to-day realities in serving The Order. Wealth, and prosperity were not the equal to living a life free of want, or worry. A good selling point to newcomers, investors, and recruits... but not an absolute fact.
Emily, and Clayton were smiling. Jonathan, and his blue-eyed Nadjia were smiling. As the children prattled through their supper, Emily pulled her chair closer to Clayton's. "How was work today?"
"You never ask anymore."
"Come on, Clay. Look how happy we are tonight. Don't be this way."
Clayton sighed. "It was a little rough. The negotiations started out well enough... I hit a rough patch about two-thirds of the way in, but you know me. I'm cutting edge when it comes to pushing the point across."
"...did anyone get hurt?"
"I think more pride and feelings than anything physical, if that's what you're asking."
Emily looked relieved. "I'm glad and, Nadjia?"
"Yes." He nodded, smiling at his son, and Nadjia. They were chattering on about Bugs Bunny. She kept calling the fast mouse Mousy Gonzales, and Jonathan would correct her. After three, or four times, Clayton realized she was doing it on purpose. Keeping his boy's attention.
"Jonathan was a little untoward with our guest this morning."
Clayton lifted an eyebrow.
"I don't think she really cares too much for cartoons." Emily watched Clayton watching the kids.
"...so what, does she prefer the morning news? Or is she more interested in the sixty-minutes coverage of Nixon, and Humphrey?"
"I think she's more a Mike Wallace girl." Emily laughed - she really laughed - and it was not some mad masquerade put on to impress 'important' guests, or other members of The Order; it wasn't some mask to make other members of The Order believe their marriage was more than a charade; Emily laughed, because somewhere beneath the stress of being a Walker, or the wife of a Walker, or a wife of The Order... she felt the selfsame connection with Clayton as she did they day they first met, when her great uncle - Clayton's father - first introduced them.
Her musical laughter was not lost on Clayton, either.
Clayton realized what was happening, that all along he was correct. It was not wealth, or property; it was not baubles, or new toys that made for true happiness.
Perhaps he was accustomed to that lifestyle Grifford went on about, but the happiness he felt in this moment, in this very moment, was found in the laughter of his wife, and the joy of his son, and newly adopted - secretly adopted daughter. Not since he really got to know Emily Walker, had he been this happy, and looking back to that time, the time before her, he recognized once more how empty his life had truly been.
"No!" Jonathan shouted. "That's not true!"
Nadjia, a mouth half full of food turned her attention on Clayton. "Would you please tell Jonathan that the Roadrunner is faster than Mousy Gonzales?"
Jonathan's cheeks were red.
Emily looked at Clayton, her face imploring an answer.
"Well... my father and I used to argue the very same thing. Of course there is an actual answer. Have you ever seen The Wild Chase?"
Nadjia, and Jonathan both shook their heads slowly, eyes wide. Nadjia closed her mouth, still half full of food, and began to chew, as she and Jonathan waited for an answer.
"Alright." Clayton said, gesturing with his hands. "So, there's this question on whether Speedy Gonzales - the fastest mouse in all of Mexico - is faster than the Roadrunner - The Texas Roadrunner... but there's a hitch."
"What is it?" Nadjia, and Jonathan in unison. Nadjia finished chewing, and swallowed her food. Emily sat beside Clayton, her cheek propped in her hand, watching him with starry eyes, as though they were teens once more.
"Well, you see... Speedy Gonzales, and Roadrunner, they have an arch nemesis. Both have enemies, and Speedy Gonzales, his enemy is Sylvester the Cat. He's also Tweety Bird's enemy - but that's neither here nor there, because Tweety's not in the race. Roadrunner, as you both know, is mortal enemies with Wile E. Coyote... and this race between Speedy Gonzales, and Roadrunner? Pfffpt. It keeps getting interrupted by both Sylvester, and Wile E. Coyote."
Jonathan began bouncing in his seat, raising his hand. "Yeah, but who wins?"
"...that's just the thing. In their repeated attempts... and failures... both Sylvester, and Wile E. Coyote need a fast enough means to capture their prey, but neither are fast enough on their own... so they get a rocket car..."
"...and?"Nadjia's wide blue eyes bore into him.
"You two are bossy, you know that? Well, Wile E. Coyote and Sylvester in their rocket car are so fast, that they accidentally speed past both Speedy Gonzales, and Roadrunner, and take first place." Clayton looked excited, and elated.
Emily looked like a school girl in love.
Jonathan, and Nadjia looked bored.
Jonathan raised his hand again. "So wait. Nobody won?"
"Well, Speedy Gonzales, and Roadrunner lived to run another day. I guess you could say it's a tie?"
Jonathan looked at his mother. "Can Nadjia, and I be excused from the table please? We're going to go and play a board game."
Emily nodded. "Of course."
As they left, Emily drew Clayton's hand into her own. "I forgot what family felt like."
"Me, too." Clayton nodded, watching his son, and Nadjia leave the kitchen. "Em?"
"Yuh-huh?"
Clayton felt his cheeks warm. "Did I tell the story badly?"
"No, darling. You told it just right. Kids want a winner. They want to win. If it's a draw... nobody wins. Now, they're both right."
"Can't have that, can we?"
"Oh, I don't know." Emily stood, and pulled Clayton to his feet. "If it means a little peace, and a little quiet? I could deal with a draw. Dance with me, Clay? Like you did at prom..."
✟ ☧ ✟
"It's about time for Nadjia to get home." Clay's whisper brought a frown to Jonathan's face.
Nadjia was curled up on the couch, cuddling a pillow. Her blue-black hair was in a thick pony tail, dull from a day of an excess of outside play.
"Can't she stay over?"
"Sorry, boy. Not tonight. That's not really the sort of thing girls and boys do unless they're married."
Jonathan's brow furrowed, and at first, Clayton wondered whether or not his son was going to pout, or worse, begin crying.
Instead, "...well, Me'n'Nadjia are just friends, but if it means she can stay over and play more tonight, then we can be married."
Clayton hoped his surprise did not show on his face. "Your logic is inspiring, son... but no. Besides, aren't girls supposed to be gross?"
"Nah." Jonathan shook his head. "Mom's a girl, and she's your best friend. Mom's not gross. Nadjia's not gross, either. We've been friends since I was a little kid."
"Kind of like a sister, huh?"
Jonathan shook his head sharply. "No! Now that's gross."
"Well, why is that gross?"
Jonathan blushed immediately, and scratched at the back of his neck. "I'unno."
Clayton had the answer he wanted. Of course, Jonathan was only five, and things were always changing... cultivating the relationship did not mean controlling it. There would come a time where he would sit down with the both, and explain betrothal. Of course, Nida and Amir would have hands in encouraging the development of their relationship. They could never know the full truth of things, the contracts, and deadly reality looming over Nida, and Amir.
...and, so long as they did their job, and he did his, that unpleasant business would never come to pass.
"I have a surprise for you. Wake Nadjia, and bring her to the car. She can sleep on the way home."
"What is the surprise?"
"You'll see. You'll both see."
✟ ☧ ✟
"What is that?" Nadjia's eyes were large, and round.
"Not tired anymore?"
"Mr. Walker-I-was-pretending-to-be-tired-what-is-that?"
"That Nadjia, is a BMW 2002. Blue."
"Like mom's eyes!"
"Like your eyes, Nadjia!"
Jonathan sat beside Nadjia in the back seat, awestruck. "Where are we?"
Nadjia gasped, taking in the long driveway, and the big house.
"Well, that's the surprise. Your mom, and dad are waiting to show you your new room."
"I live here?" Nadjia was struggling to unbuckle, and scrambling to open the car door.
"Easy." Clayton carefully caught Nadjia by her sleeve. "Slow down. Don't you want to show Jonathan your new room?"
Nadjia nodded, her ponytail flopping on her head as she did.
"Well, wake him up!"
✟ ☧ ✟
"They are up there a long time."
"They've been up there ten minutes. She's excited. New room. New toys. New clothes. All those gifts. All addressed to her from dear old mom'n'dad. They're five, Amir." Clayton waved a dismissive hand, and then doubled back on the gesture. "You know what? You're right. Your house, your rules."
Amir was quiet a moment, and put two fingers up before Clayton could call for Jonathan. "You, and I, Walker. We are not good."
"Some thanks."
"Some thanks? You put a blade to my wife's neck! You were going to kill us!"
"Was I?"
Nida stood quietly to the side of her husband, eyes cast to the floor. "We were connected to a death sentence, tubes and needles."
Clayton smiled. "It was a show. Yeah, I needed your signatures... but I swear on the lives of my family, you were never once in any danger from me."
"Then why with the doctor, and the judge?"
"Amir, I wasn't lying when I said you're like a brother now. You're family. Your wife is family. We have common daughters, and one day we will have common sons. In very many ways you are now a part of The Order. Do you understand The Order?"
"Balaa. This Order of yours is Witch Hunters. Religious persecution."
"Our Order, Amir. Yours, and mine as well. It isn't about religion, or persecution."
"No?"
"It's about protecting the weak from those who would prey on them. It is about the natural order, and maintaining a balance to it."
"...and who put your Order in charge of such a task, hm? From what authority does yours derive?"
"We are all servants of God, are we not? You, and Nida, you two do your Sufin'..."
"Not a verb, Clayton." Nida locked eyes with him.
Clayton smiled. "We're going to get along very well. I promise. There's only two conditions to that, and they're easy conditions, guys. Come on, I mean... look: keep true to your part of the contract. We raise Nadjia in the way of The Order. You can teach her all the Musselman pillars, and virtues you like, but understand, she will follow our faith. The faith of The Order."
Nida kept her eyes on Clayton's.
Hers were that same powerful blue he grew so fond of in Nadjia; his were hazel. Not nearly the deep phosphorous green of his son's, or the amber-hazel of his wife, Emily. There was silence between them a long time. "What is the other condition you demand, Clayton?"
"La nadeu lah biaismih!" Amir exhaled, an expression of panic over his face. He sounded like a deflating balloon.
"If Nida wants to call me by my first name, she may. Or Clay. My friends, and family call me Clay for short."
Nida half smiled.
Amir looked betrayed. Nida was going to be an easier convert to the philosophy, and ideology of The Order. "That second condition?"
"For the sake of all our lives, you can never become involved with the heathen pagans that dwell in this city. In time they will come to you. They will sense your practice, and come bearing promises of wealth, power, and prestige."
"We all want to be successful, Clay."
Amir gripped Nida's arm in both his arms. "Lys makanik lilttafawud mae hdha alrrajul!"
"You understand that I understand what you're saying, right? I may not speak it well, but I always understood." Clayton put his hand on Amir's shoulder. "Please be calm. Today has been a good day today, Amir. It was a little scary for all of us at first, but change is often scary. I need you to understand something, though."
"What is it I should understand?"
"This is your house, she is your wife, and it is not my place to tell you how to behave in your marriage... but if you do not release my sister's arm this instant, I will have to break yours. Do you understand me? Let her arm go if you understand."
Amir slowly released Nida's arm.
"We all want success, Nida... but with our Order, you'll never have to sell your soul for it."
Nida nodded.
"Amir, I promise you. If you ever need anything - ever - you call me." Clayton placed his right hand over his heart as though he were going to pledge allegiance. "You're a part of my line now. House Walker. Only good will come your way. Be good to one another and to me, too. I'll keep the others far away. Perhaps in time you will forgive this morning's transgressions, and we can truly be friends. I pray for that."
Amir stared, afraid; angry; confused. Hurt. Nida, however was far more receptive, as usual. It showed in her eyes, those deep, electrical eyes. "Have a good night, Clay."
Clay nodded, and called up stairs for his son. "Jonathan, load up! Time to go!"
✟ ☧ ✟
"Tonight was perfect, Clay." Emily toweled off, stepping out of the shower, and into her bath robe. "It couldn't have gone better."
"I agree."
Emily was quiet a little while. Contemplative. "Do you ever think about her anymore?"
"Who?"
"Her."
Clay rubbed his forehead, massaging the space between his brow, massaging away a lifetime of furrows. "Who, Julie? Em, she's long gone."
"It's stupid, I know... But wife, mom, woman - I'm still a girl, you know. Girls think of things like that. Does he love me? If he loves me, why did it take so long? What if, what if, what if? You know?"
"Nope."
"Liar."
"Not even. I don't waste a lot of time on what-if. These days, okI'm perfectly glad with what-is."
Emily shuffled up to Clayton, and took his hand in her own. "There was only ever you, you know."
"...and Gabriel Stanton."
"I say one guy has pretty eyes in high school, and suddenly he's an ex-boyfriend!"
"Well, there it is. We're even. Bygones."
"...but do you still think about her?"
"Every day." Clayton pulled his wife's hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. "Every morning, the first thing I think when I wake is how I should have stopped her from getting on that bus. Every night before sleep finally takes me, I think I should have broken that bus driver's arms. I think about her every day. She died, and I know I could have prevented it. I think about her, and the thirty-eight other students on Francis Briar's ill fated route."
"...do you still love her?"
"I love you. I love my wife, the mother of my son. Do you know what Jonathan said tonight?"
"What did Jonathan say tonight?"
"He was trying to bargain for Nadjia to spend the night."
"How did that go?"
"I told him that girls don't really get to spend the night unless you're married to them."
"He said he should marry Nadjia, then she could spend the night. I asked him if girls were gross."
"What did he say?"
"He said girls aren't gross. He says his mom's a girl, and how mom and dad are best friends, and also married."
"We're best friends." Emily smiled, letting go Clayton's hands, and falling onto the bed, her hands crossed over her heart. "Oh, Clayton. Will you carve a valentine in the floorboards, and put our initials into it?"
"Um... is that what you want?"
"No, silly. It's enough to know you love me, and that you love me more than her."
Clayton sat down on the bed next to his wife. "Today was a good day, Em. A couple hiccups, I suppose, but today could not have gone better."
"Do you know what I learned today?" Emily was grinning.
"What's that?"
"Life is so much less complicated than I thought. You can argue about anything, and then wash hands, and be fine by dinner."
"Huh." Clayton nodded once. "We need to listen to our kids more often."
✟ ☧ ✟
It's always dark here - always so cold...
I'm (always) afraid.
I'm (never) afraid.
That tree.
Oh no... that tree.
(How it reaches, solid, liquid, tendrils, branches, ever still, ever reaching)
Daddy says this is just a dream.
Momma says there is no tree.
(there is no tree, there are no monsters, but how it reaches, and how they snarl, and gnash)
...but it is there.
Right there.
(it sees me - they see me - they know, they always know)
My head hurts. My head hurts so much.
(...boy)
(...just a boy)
(...not a boy)
(...then what?)
(...then what is he?)
(...just a boy)
(...just a boy)
(...just a boy)
"Shut up!" Jonathan's voice echoed across infinity.
(...silence us then.)
(...if you can.)
(...a challenge?)
(...a challenger...)
(...just a boy)
(...just a boy)
(...only a child)
No.
Not a child.
(not a man)
More than a boy.
"Shut up!"
More than a boy.
A vessel.
...My vessel...
Come, boy.
Meet your end.
"Shut up!" Jonathan clenched his small fists, eyes bright green - furious - his face stern, and serious.
From the tree, the seven Emim gripped to their branches, black razor talons holding them to their twisting, winding leafless perch.
(...once we were eight)
(...now we are seven)
"I will exist again."
Jonathan Walker, five years old, stood facing the tree, staring into empty space, eyes defiant, fists tight. "Not while I do."
Muted laughter echoed through Jonathan's mind as the world around him began to fade.
"We will see, boy."
We will see.
(...we will see)
(we will see)
(we will see)