LOU
5. THE FRIAR
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world is full of more weeping than you can understand
- W.B. Yeats "The stolen child"
A lone town: the row houses lining its street, nothing but ransacked skeletons; the fanned out windmills, their iron bars rotating and creaking, but without life; road signs, twisted and curled downward, like sun-toasted leaves. Uphill, near the cliff, is a dead Pepsi billboard, cracks fissuring in its middle, resembling splashing tears.
Lou knows this dream, and he's been jaywalking here, every dusk, for what feels like a year. It's usually at this time, when the cold bolts of pain start harrowing his insides. This is no ordinary pain. In his eighteen years, he has mourned before; but not like this.
He's woken up a couple of times, but his lids often feel heavy. Awake, time feels like a seamless sequence of black and white, and the people who walk into the room; just faint ghosts in boots and sandals, to him.
The times he's up, he swears he can't feel his face, the coils of his cropped hair, his arms, or legs. His right leg always feels a tad heavier, and he's conscious that it is because of the injury. There's a snug cast around the leg, the color of alabaster, over which his finger keeps idling. But that's no cause for pain, when his eyes fly open.
Or even, when they stay shut. There is always this thing; a slow, cold liquid, which burns hot like a tear, but thick as honey. He's heard that souls bleed, but he's never understood, that it happens in the literal sense. This has to be it; the bleeding of a soul. Because it trickles down, from under his collar bone, to the pit of his stomach. It bleeds, when he wakes, when he sleeps, leaking icily into the worlds of his nightmares.
He can't remember his first nightmare, in this bizarre room, whose air is always hugged with the scent of incense, clove cigarettes, and leather. But he remembers waking up soaked in sweat, his knee a pack of jelly, and the back of his head banging hard against the headboard of the bed upon which he lay. And now, this morning, he finds himself glaring up the doleful Pepsi billboard again; by the cliff.
He knows it's morning because of the faint shimmers at the backs of his eyelids; a sign that watery daylight is pouring over the restless, white lace curtain drawn across the window.
He knows that if he lifts his leg, to jump down the cliff, he would crash awake. But when he tries, he feels a net of static electricity crackle around his knee, to his thigh. So he just turns around, and stalks back, to the nightmare town.
He arrives at a square, which looks like Fair Square, washed of traffic. Empty apartments gape, nested in a toadstool tower, the huge screen on its curtain wall flickering and grainy. At its foot, where yellow lines lead away into another boulevard, behind a flashing Don't Walk sign, stands a girl.
She wears a golden dress, and by the look of her left shoulder, she's a hunchback. Her hair is tasseled, pieces of small paper skimming the street under her feet, even though no wind blows. Lou travels to her. "Basha?" comes out of his mouth, "what are you doing in this town, buttercup?"
"This is not a town, Lou," she says flatly. There is grime on her face, as though she stormed through sludge. But still, there's something different about her, her gravity, her distance.
"What is it then?" Lou wants to inch closer, but his foot feels heavy.
"This is a garden," she flicks her finger, without turning, at the toadstool tower, its screen threaded with flickering gray ropes.
"A garden?" Lou echoes.
"Yes," Basha flattens her mouth, her facial skin creasing, "a garden of time."
Lou gags, shaking his head, "there's no such thing, Bash. Come ... let's go ..."
"Home?" her expression is more worried, than surprised, "I'm home now." She lifts her right hand, and brushes her misshapen shoulder. The hump moves, it stirs. Lou inspects it. It's a bird, looking away.
"No, you're not, Bash."
"Se wo were fi na wosankofa a yenkyi," Basha cries, philosophically.
"You don't speak ..." Lou trails, "those are not proto-bantu words, are they?" Basha shakes her head. There are stories Lou has read, about high priestesses, or prophetesses, their theatrics and gimmicks, about being street-smart in the metaphysical realm. Something about Basha makes him unwillingly think about those fake priestesses.
"You need to listen Lou; you must believe. Because a key lies within," her face softens, becoming so doughy, dimpled, adorable, "do you realize you haven't stammered since we started talking?"
Lou's hand abruptly flies to his mouth, parting his jawline. He nudges his throat, pulls out his tongue, all in disbelief. A honking noise makes the bird whimper. "I have to go now," she apologizes, and starts retreating, her back brushing past the Don't Walk sign. The loud noise behind her is louder. It's one of those double decker red buses, torpedoed at full speed; a red wind. Basha doesn't seem bothered.
"Bash," Lou starts, lurching forward, "don't cross. Don't ..."
She puts her heel onto the street, then takes another step, completely ignoring Lou. The bus's hone blares. Lou screams a drowned-out warning, and makes to reach for her hand. He's late. With a cruel thump, the red wind clears Basha in one dizzying blur. Lou screams, whipping his head away, bewildered, shocked, hitting his fist at the road sign. He then turns around, sobbing, leaning his back against the pole. Slowly, he starts banging his head against it ...harder, and harder, bawling through his teeth.
"He's having a seizure," it's a distant voice. His eyes peel open. Through the fogginess, he can see two figures looming over his bed. But, from the look of their frightened expressions, he must be doing something weird. It takes him a moment to realize he is involuntarily banging his head against the headboard. It must look worse than he feels, because he doesn't feel anything.
"Oh!," the other figure says, "we should put a spoon in his mouth or something. Or tie him up."
"Spoon really, Yaya," the other digs an elbow into his rib. "hungry already?"
"No. That's gross."
"We should turn him sideways."
"No. I won't touch him. A dying man in my arms!"
"A dying man in your fat arms. Honestly, less than one in a thousand die from SUDEPs in a year. More die from stupidity."
"Isn't it too early for Chess club talk!"
"That makes it a fraction."
"You're a fraction of the chess club!"
"No, are you retarded! I meant SUDEPs! A fraction of a person dies ... never mind. If I were still in the chess club, I'd be the whole, not the fraction. I captain the crystal ball omweso team for Kankan house now."
"Amiti is in the club."
"The stupid club!"
"No! The chess; Jesus, Tatu!"
"Do you mean Jesus, as an exclamation utterance, or a theological conviction?"
"I mean, Jesus as in: stop popping all the party balloons. And I know your secret, you joined chess club because you wanted to see Amiti in a tennis skirt. You were lucky Issa the brute was too stoned. He would've popped your acne, and broken your neck. He likes breaking things."
"You talk of an Amiti? You mean Nina Amiti, the alpha?" Lou, head-banging ebbed, can see that the guy with the dusting of acne on his cheeks and forehead, is spindly, almost wiry; in an awkward way, and tall in the manner of a no-good-at-sports style. A gold chain twirls around his hand, and wrist, dangling something.
"Don't play dumb, Tatu," the squat, plump one, Yaya maybe, covers a chuckle. He has an interesting pie-face. Right now, it's a mixture of concern and shoddy amusement.
The two teenagers are locked in their whiplash conversation; they don't bother with Lou anymore, who's settled uneasily into his pillow. Both teens are in black albs, sort of, mottled white at the collars. "Yes, she's his paramour I know."
"Girls go for alpha males, Tatu. Not annoying goats."
"Issa is an alpha, or Ezana, whatever. It doesn't make him an alpha male. I am captain, crystal ball omweso; that makes me an alpha male. Issa is just a dumbbell."
"Yes." Yaya shrugs a massive shoulder, "an inhumanly handsome dumbbell who kisses all the girls including ..." he breaks off.
"Amiti," Tatu completes, with exasperation, "yes, I know." Yaya suddenly tenses. He goes faintly green like he's seen a ghost. They were so absorbed Tatu hadn't realized the door had
pushed open. Through it, a girl ...or woman, comes quietly, and stands, arms folded.
She smiles sunnily, watching the boys. She's quite tall, for a girl; and light, nearly as light as caramel, or toffee. Her hair is bronze, tipped strawberry; dye perhaps, Lou thinks. It's the first time he's thought of something else but death. Even the two boys; the gawky and plump, have provided some cheesy drama. But the girl is a rainbow in a velvet sky. She drops Lou a theatrical wink. For the first time, Lou feels his lips part.
"Tatu ...Tatu ...Tatu... Amiti," Yaya is clapping his friend's shoulder, trying to draw his attention to the door.
"Yes ...Amiti, and Issa, I know," Tatu drawls with obvious despair, and turns. He freezes. The container dangling under the chain crashes on the floor, in a messy puff. His mouth too falls open, and he scrubs his head. Only now, does Lou realize that the scent of incense is clogging the space.
"I heard my name being chanted about," the girl rolls darkish-olive eyes, whose tint must come from the half-light shafts from the stained glass window, "a dozen times. I thought, it must be a witch-hunt."
So, this is Amiti. Lou now understands the fuss. He can tell why Tatu has fallen silent, looking around for a sinkhole to plunge himself through. Amiti is gorgeous, with a purring, bittersweet acid voice.
"H-hi," Tatu stammers. Lou has traveled this road all his life; the life of words always being in a clogged pipeline. Soon, from their awkward interchange – well, awkward only from Tatu's side – Lou learns that the gold container is a thurible, an instrument for burning incense. But no one's told him how he got here. What he's doing here. Questions stream to his mind. He feels his thoughts drift away from the room. Darkness is a drug. It can't keep its arms away from him for long; or drain out of his veins. Even a second switched off human interaction is enough to invite him in: darkness.
He even has a face, a look. He takes a seat on the blue plastic chair under the window; cross-legged, a suit without a tie, it's collar button undone. He grins, oh, darkness grins; even though his head is an orange jack-o-lantern. His breath steams; like a shimmer over a frying pan. Lou always sees it travel, but it's cold to touch. It goes straight through the linen sheets, into his chest, slowly driving him into a painful stupor. Then the cold liquid starts dripping, just like an intravenous drip, chilling his chest, his heart. He must say something; fight it.
"W-w-where am I?" he blurts.
Yaya halts his sloshing speech. He whirls, heavily. He should be immaculate in his priestly cloth, but somehow, his size won't allow.
Amiti, sunniness not leaving her face, comes and sits on the quilted bedside. She puts her hand on his. They are so supple. "That depends," she flicks a finger, drawing a circle upward the painted ceiling, "this, for instance, is St. Benedict's monastery. And, these two goofballs," she indicates Tatu, and Yaya, "are altar boys."
"Altar servers," Yaya corrects, crinkling his blobby nose. Amiti waves him off.
"They are juniors," she makes play with her eyes again. Lou can see that Tatu is devastated, "juniors are like elementary scholars in schools."
"And y-you?" Lou asks.
Her smile spreads some more, "I'd rather talk about you. For instance, I've been coming in here, bringing you painkiller and antidepressant pills for the last couple of days. You've also been asking the same questions, and I give you the same answers, every day. You remember?
Lou, flushed with embarrassment, shakes his head.
"You're a survivor of white cathedral bombing. Lucky, I say," there's a warm gentility to her, making Lou feel comfortable, "and as such, the church permits us to take you under the wings of our auspices."
Yaya makes a noise, between a chuckle and a cough, "she said wings."
Amiti slews him a mischievous look, then brings it back to Lou, "don't mind him. He's at the onset of his teenage blues. Also, he only ditched bed wetting recently."
Lou doesn't have the energy to laugh anymore. Mr. Darkness has already sneaked into the room, and now his drug is in Lou's veins; herbal ecstasy without the fun. He mutters, "M-m-my s-sister. I l-l-left her, at W-w-white cathedral. I n-need to go back f-f-for her."
Amiti's mouth flops. "I'm sorry, but we've been through this. We sent a search party. You'd cried out her name through nights. The search party found no trace. Some charred bodies were discovered, but hard to ID."
"No," Lou protests sharply, "no. N-n-not buttercup." He whips his hand, throwing off the cream duvet. "Not m-my Basha." Amiti grabs his hand, and pins it against the pillow. Lou parries with the other. Tatu, and Yaya, flung the bedside, and hold him in place. They are all strong for him, in this condition. "aarrg," he groans, his veins standing out at his arms, like electric cords.
"Hey. Hey," Amiti says to his face, soft and kind, minty breath stirring his eyes, "it's okay. Just breathe." She looks at the door, "I brought you crutches. Tatu and Yaya will take you out, tour the campus. It'll be hard, but try to make some friends. You'll get a meal card to the canteen. Eat something."
She turns to look at Yaya, who's panting, "but, at three, you should take him to the council room. The Friar has arranged to see him."
"T-h-he Friar," Lou wonders. The Friar sounds like a not-so-friendly person. "Who's he?"
"It's not a 'he'," Amiti smiles saucily over him, "it's a them. The leaders of the monastery."
***
"Can I get you a samosa with the coffee?" Yaya bends his beefy neck back at Lou.
"W-what's a samosa?" Lou is fed up. He's been green about almost everything, and his own questions are nagging him too.
Yaya's shaggy eyebrows arch in disbelief, "the tastiest, spiciest thing, like ever."
"He also says the same thing about," Tatu sticks out his fingers, and starts counting, "mandazi, chapatis and rolex. He's a food slut." He's seated at the top of a canteen bench, his feet on the bench itself; the way people sat at Flea Stone street, on Game night. Even though it's only the three of them under the blue awning, Lou wonders whether Tatu and Yaya's wretched jokes are appropriate in this campus.
At first glance, it occurred to Lou, that the airy yards, and fresh groves, and the towering brownstone buildings imposed a sense of quietness. Every building's front is wedged with a polished, burgundy cross. Others have plaques seated at their fronts, bronze angels unfurled divinely on them. In the distance, from a place Yaya called a chapel, light sweet sounds float, slow thought-provoking melodies. They seemed to tell Lou there's an eerie sweetness to the sadness of death. It's so tremulous, and fractured, and alien. Back at Flea Stone, church was once a year: no more, no less.
But here, otherworldliness seems a daily thing. And not just in the design. From here, a matrix of thin, gray paths cable within, and without. On them, stalk men and women, boys and girls; some in navy blue, olive green, and a few in black.
"Those are the domini," Yaya had pointed at a pack of guys in black. There was a girl among them; with a tight, inky ponytail, and a face as fresh as dew on a frozen coke bottle. "She's Osas. She's one of the domini. The domini have mad respect around here. They don't even flacking talk to us," Yaya had chortled, as though the idea of being ignored amused him. Lou had concluded that Yaya was a gossip king. But he enjoyed his chattiness. He was funny. And for once, someone could talk without making fun of him.
He doesn't mind gawky Tatu, too. Tatu kind of reminds Lou of himself: awkward, and stiff, but informative. Also clumsy. Apparently, they are stuck in altar boy clothes because they both forgot their room's keycards inside, and that, someone stuck chewed bubblegum on the iris scan, so it won't work.
"A cup of coffee, and a pair of samosas," announces Yaya, returning from the coffee machine, "keeps the doctor away." He's holding Styrofoam cups, waddling narrowly in concentration. "And, I've heard some of the docs are alt folk. Those guys are pervs. I hear they undress you, and check your koo-koo-cha."
Tatu kicks him at the shin, "that's not true."
"First of all, Ouch," Yaya cries, as he sets the cups down, hastily, dousing some coffee on his thumb. He turns back with a goofy expression, looking back at the canteen attendant, "secondly ..."
"You're being insensitive," Tatu cuts him off.
Yaya licks the spilled coffee off his thumb, and the edge of his crucifix, which had dunked in the hot stuff. Lou is about to be annoyed, that he's missed another joke. He scans the canteen attendant; maybe there's cobweb in her face or something. But there's nothing funny. She's coconut brown, short pixie hair, streaked gold, and lilac. She looks a dimwit, but nothing off-putting. "Alt folks are dim-wits," Yaya waves him off, digging his teeth into a veggie samosa, "they have the sense of humor of ... Stairmasters."
Tatu sprays the soda in his mouth. Lou also, can't help but grin around his samosa.
The sugar and salt lifts Lou's mood a bit. It's noon, but Yaya's rollercoaster jokes haven't run out. People come, and go, but once the pack of domini throng the canteen, Lou tenses. They seem chilled, and saintly, but a wicked danger lurks in air. Even Osas, who's not in black, but robbed in red-lined albs, has that – in Yaya's cute words – "flack off" look. One of them; tall and ripped, with spiky, nubby platinum hair, even politely asks them to push up. As he sits, Lou notices a tattoo at his shoulder blade, as his t-shirt rides to his shoulder. It looks like two diamond shapes interlocked. At that, Yaya's amusements stop.
"That's Halera. He's a former Inconnu." Yaya whispers to Lou, long after the domini goes, "rumor has it, he's the reason the Solicitor General is crippled. He totally beat security, and put a knife to his back. Now the bastard is on a wheelchair."
Tatu shoots Yaya a glance of wry contempt, "that's enough Yaya." Lou is left at large to his dark wonderments. He can't get the logic. What on earth gets a dangerous-looking scholar of priesthood to beat up a government figure?
His thoughts are cut short by a loud rev. It's a motorcycle. It comes through south gate. It's not an ordinary one, Lou can tell, as it winds a path, circling a fountain at the admin block. It's a power cruiser. Its color is jet-black, with a dim, gun-metal glow, catching bright afternoon light, as it comes to a halt next to a curious van, in the parking lot.
When life was normal, – well, as normal as it could get for a crypt boy – Lou, like most native teens fantasized about cars and bikes. But since riding, or driving was a wild dream for them, the next best thing was taking pictures, and stashing them under one's pillow.
This is precisely the kind of power cruiser he'd like to photograph. Sadly, life is a far cry from normal now. And his only fantasy is Mr. Darkness, and his jack-o-lantern head, courting him when pale moonlight comes.
The lanky fellow who lopes off the bike puts the sour grape in his already filled up bowl of hell. He's graceful; liquid graceful – a gazelle on a runway. His head is mostly down, but he tilts it skyward as he ducks under the stripped awning, just enough to show you he's better-than-thou.
"An apple, a bagel, and a pack of cigarettes, please," he tells the canteen lady, who's suddenly blushing pink. But he exquisitely ignores her.
"Flavored or straights?"
"Straights," he coos, stuffing his hand in his zip-lined pocket, for a lighter maybe. He must have heaped some sweet-nothing flattery on the canteen lady, because he walks away, leaving her blissfully confused.
But Lou is spared no idle moment to ponder. Because the guy stops right in front of them, and suddenly his mouth pulls back in a rakish grin. His head turns, and his bladed eyes slide over Tatu, linger on Yaya, and finally rest on him. They are dark, and smoky in the gray spirals rising from the cigarette.
"You're looking at me, Bwana," he tells Lou, "didn't Piggy and acne-donkey here," he points his cigarette at Yaya, and Tatu, "tell you that's a dangerous thing to do?"
Lou, not trusting to speak, only shakes his head. "Are you dumb, hmm?" The guy's lips lift at the edge.
A sudden weight leaves the bench. It's Tatu, Lou realizes, from under his lashes. "C-come on man. H-he," Tatu mutters timorously, "he's not dumb. He's grieving."
"He's what!" the fellow frowns.
"He's mourning his dead sister," Tatu scratches his neck, and looks down. "You're the one who brought him here, Issa, remember? This is Lou" No, Basha is not dead, Lou's mind screams. Why does everybody keep saying that? Also, wait, this is Issa! The guy that brought him here, unconscious! Is he that invisible that Issa can't even remember him?
"What's he doing here?" Issa growls, pushing back his coal-black dreadlocks.
"He's to see the Friar," Tatu slouches, his hands traveling nervily, "at three."
Issa mutters something under his breath – something to the effect of "not these meetings again". He bites his lip, clearly discarding his issue with Lou, "you, Piggy," he snaps his finger at Yaya, "did you get my clothes out of the dryer."
Yaya shakes his head. Issa fumes, "get them. My boots too. The machine's broken, but that's no excuse. Get going, chap chap. We don't have whole day."
***
Lunch gets done, and Lou leaves the cafeteria with his uncool friends – a stark contrast. Because, here in this campus, even the sun seems to burn a cool shade – a blue cinder. They pass the chapel, and get inside a storied library. Through a column of shelves, Lou spots a gilt-lined cage, meshing off what must be an elevator. He's about to ask Yaya the prattler about it, when –
"Here," Yaya says, pushing an ornate doorjamb into the immediate carved door, near the librarian's desk.
The council room is one like no other he's ever seen. It's circular, a dozen hexagonal windows shining like sunlit rainbows at intervals; each outlined with pale blue curtains, woven to loose knots. The walls in background are of backsplash tiles; warped and spackled here and there with rubbed off glitter, and hectic patches. The oval, Maplewood desk in the center has fluorescent rims, and within the rims lie strange marks and designs, which remind Lou of Halera's tattoo.
There are high-backed chairs around the desk, and on them, sit clever-looking people in cassocks; each, as sophisticated as the tapestries drawn on the vaulted ceiling and walls.
Yaya leads Lou to the back seats, to the row of padded conference chairs. They take the left flank, far away from Issa, whose hideous locks veil a face sculptured to perfect boredom. He's reading an issue of Ultra Chics look-book, Lou notices. Just like the sophisticated men, he doesn't look up from it.
So Yaya gratuitously tells Lou everything essential – which is like, everything. The feeble looking, old man, with a cane is Kofi. He's kind, he confides. The pallid albino, with the blotchy face is Deluca. "He's the smartest cookie here," Yaya warns, as he pours his bulk onto a chair, which might as well be a potty to him, "he knows what you're thinking ... before you even think it."
The Friar, as Yaya called them, confer with each other. Whispered purrs swap, cautious notes are taken, secret glances are thrown at Lou. Lou lingers his gaze on his crutches, laid on his lap, hating the attention.
Finally, a man wearing a travel suit, and with a walnut complexion, rises. "He's Shaka," Yaya squeezes Lou's hand. He steps away from the circle, an expensive cologne radiating from him like jet-wash; hair carefully gelled so much it could be oilslick.
"I won't accept this," he flares, "the boy must go."
"He can't," the man with the cane, Kofi maybe, refuses, "he's injured. And still mourning. We are bound by duty to protect."
"I agree with Shaka," puts in a lady with a mole on the left cheek, "I don't like this. Besides, he's come from the Crypt. That's bad luck, friends."
"Don't be dramatic, Ibi," dismisses a mousy, small-faced woman, "that superstition dates back forty years."
"Uranta you b-" Ibi swears.
"Quiet, ladies," Shaka cuts her off.
Lou's mouth flops open. Even Tatu is just as shocked. Issa, in the corner, is leaning forward, watching the quarrel with a spark of bright amusement. "The boy should stay," Kofi insists, "if for nothing, at least for the fact that he could be of help. That's what you people want, don't you? Someone who can offer you something."
"What is he offering?" Shaka inquires, his grimace unapologetic. Deluca, the smart cookie albino, is watching the proceedings with bemused concern, hands steepled.
"It's what he knows," Kofi says, throwing a slow glance at Lou. Lou wishes for the floor to open up, and swallow him. "He knows about Eriya."
Shaka jolts back, as though he's been slapped twice. He murmurs, "Eriya, that traitor." The poison doesn't leave his eyes, as he looks straight at Lou, "what else?"
"He's in shock," Kofi wheezes, "and he needs our help to look for his missing sister. He might also be of help unraveling the conspiracy of the Helcros."
"And," Ibi starts, her lips pouted scandalously, "I also wish I owned a private volocopter, and went shopping in one of the classic cities – Milan, perhaps. Wishes aren't horses, Kofi."
Issa laughs, sharp but light; and leans forward, lank strands of locks slipping to cover an eye. Issa, Lou decides, is the kind of guy who's jaded by normalcy, and thrives in chaos.
"I'll have him stay," Kofi speaks through grit teeth, wobbling on his cane as he stands, the trinket on it bouncing colors, "the law is the law. And, if some of you remember the past, you'll know there are wars worth making. I'll keep him."
"Oh, okay," Ibi's drums her very full lips, "perhaps you should put all of us at risk of exposure. Blow our cover. Go get him a copy of the Uhuru genesis if you like, go murder everything we've built for decades. Let everybody go crazy. Tell him ... tell him St. Benedict's diocese is a lie; that we're actually secret mutineers; that we're Orenda Bureau."
"Enough," Shaka's voice rings out. In truth, whatever these people are talking about, simply sounds Greek to Lou. Shaka's tone drops, becoming very measured, "Kofi, if that's your decision, who's going to watch him ... handle him –"
"That's not a problem," a musical voice says, as the carved door to the room slides open. Heads turn, watching a woman come through, well, a girl, really.
She walks in, hands clasped behind her, but she's as gracious as a breeze. She's shy, Lou thinks, at first glance, before realizing she's a contradiction on heels. She moves in a braceleting circle, keeping a respectful distance from the Friar table, face hidden behind a black, crusted net, but her gown is red as a pool of raspberries.
Yet, when she stands by the window, Lou realizes she's a thing of striking unearthliness – a razored kind of cold-wild beauty, crackling beneath the red dress, even when just standing, or innocently clasping hands.
"Mutesi Takal," Shaka clears his throat, "what are you doing here?"
"This is home," she says calmly, "the door is always open here. Isn't that what you told me? That home is always yours, Tesi, like Egypt to Cleopatra; even though she gave it away for a night."
Lou can't stop gawking; even though staring at such dreaminess simply hurts; from the full lips, to the delicate cheek bones, hooded eyes, blue-black spill of hair, compacted slender body. So whatever Ibi says now, really sounds Greek to him. "True, a door never closes against the children of a home. But you're a Purge Mistress now. You are no ordinary child."
"Or," Tesi replies, with velvety sweetness, "you think, a home which welcomes back a gone child, soon wakes up to find its house burnt to ashes. Maybe, you're right. I'm behind Kofi on this."
Deluca, the smart-cookie-albino finally looks up, and remarks for the first time, "they say democracy dies in darkness. But we're nothing, if not a delicate mix, of light and darkness. I think we should take a vote."
***
Lou lies in bed that night, wondering what a strange people he's found himself tangled with. Even Issa, who spared nothing, but hateful eyes for him, and the goddess in red were both eager to vote, to have him stay. They were both denied; Issa, clearly, for shattering rules the way freezers break bottles, and Tesi, perhaps, for an enchanting crime of unfrosted beauty.
So Lou lies on his back, gazing up the room's gloomy ceiling. Brother Darkness, or Brother Lantern – being as close to an old friend as he has now, he'd to give him a nickname of gaping familiarity – creeps to his seat, finding Lou's thoughts roaming elsewhere, but not by the dead Pepsi billboard. Brother Lantern is a jealous brother, and as he draws Lou into nightmare town, Lou knows ... he's made him mad.