The huge, oily yellow sun hung malevolently in the purple-clouded sky. Tall, glittering buildings of steel and glass pierced the clouds like giant blades. The big dogs of the corporate world looked down from their towers like a Rapunzel too arrogant, or perhaps too afraid, to let the earthly prince climb her golden rope. They gorged on power and money and greed, letting their world rot from beneath their ivory towers, as they luxuriated in all the glory good breeding would allow.
While the Earth rotted, so did her children; the ones who tread upon her, anyway. Those sensitive to it could feel her dying beneath their feet. Those not, cared only to survive. No matter what it took, each successive generation vowed that they would carry on, would carve their place in history, even if it was only a paper trail of birth, school, arrests, and death. They could not see how futile their struggle was…
He walked the streets, as he did every night, with a black, calf-length leather coat wrapped tight around his young, lean frame, silver-mirrored wrap-around shades shielding his eyes from not only the sun, but the filthy world around him. His short, black curly hair was tossed by the wind, and his old, faded blue jeans flattened to his legs as the gust passed by. He seemed huddled into his coat, with hands jammed into the pockets, hunched over and collar turned up against the biting cold of the wind. He walked stealthily in black boots which looked as if they'd clunk with each step.
Others stared at him as they passed, taking in coat, glasses, and boots with the first glance, his age coming as a surprise with the second. The stance, the stalk, the sullen, bad-assed expression comprised solely of the lips, they all spoke of a predator. And passing by, they unconsciously made sure they could be as far from him as they could get.
He noticed none of it, and yet he absorbed it all.
He saw each brick of the front of each old, slowly fading building he passed. Each crack in the sidewalk that let forth a bit of green, proving that the Mother could be smothered, but never fully forgotten; each creature that found a home and a life amidst the depths of human depravity; every child lurking in the shadows, watching people who passed by with the eye of a desperate scavenger, waiting to beg or steal whatever they could; young mothers with screaming infants who sold the only thing they had night after night on street corners, in alleys, on park benches, to feed their children or their unsavory habits…all these things told him that no matter who created Man, it was a big fucking mistake.
A flicker of movement behind him and to his left, someone was trying to sneak out of an alley, come up behind him. He listened, noting each move his stalker (fine twist of irony, there; the man would soon see who stalked) made. His ears also told him the man's story…heavy tread, a big man, possibly not too fast, but don't underestimate him; a rasp of labored breathing he tried hard to hide, a smoker, or maybe he delved a bit too often into his Set bottle; he was also perhaps overweight, which would also impede his agility and speed; scrape of metal on glass, a weapon. He could also be wired on some sort of barbiturate, making whatever usual physical disabilities he had null and void for the next hour to the next few days.
The man approached, quickening his steps slightly. Instead of tensing in readiness, the boy loosened, letting his step slow, pulling up to his full height of just under six feet. His hands came out of the coat pockets and fell to his sides, fingers curling slightly. His head came up proudly, the set of his jaw determined, but not arrogant. He was ready.
The footsteps quickened. He felt the exact moment when the man decided to attack, heard the length of metal whistling through the air.
Suddenly, the sole of his left boot slammed into the man's stomach as he executed a swift, clean, powerful back kick. A three-foot length of pipe rang hollowly as it fell to the cement-coated ground. The air whooshed from the man's lungs, his bloodshot eyes widening in surprise at the speed of his young adversary. Then the black pupils contracted in fury, and with a wheezing, half-assed bellow of rage he launched himself at the boy.
He side-stepped the clumsy attack easily, having pulled quickly back into a half-stance that seemed more casual than it was. He even managed to block the first beefy-fisted punch, as the older man recovered quicker than would have been expected. But the second blow caught him on the chin, snapping his head around, unsettling his mirrored glasses. They wound up askew on his face, revealing one mildly annoyed cobalt blue eye. Two quick punches to a fat-shielded sternum, and his attacker was wheezing even harder, clutching his chest, fighting once again to draw air. One steel-enforced toe to the groin, and he clutched his crotch as well, fighting dry heaves.
The boy straightened his glasses, then took the one step to where the metal bar lay on the cracked sidewalk, stooped, and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, and with the right strength and angle, could have caved in his skull. He never would have known what hit him. It had a good balance, and even though he rarely used such a crude weapon, he tucked it inside his coat. He might be able to find a use for it later….
As he walked by the man still curled on his side in the middle of the sidewalk, he gave him another strong kick in the gut, just for good measure.
He seemed to transform into something else, something less sure and able as he tucked himself back into his coat, the collar up, hands in his pockets, eyes once again shielded behind the silver of his shades. He walked the streets as he did every night, with the wind tossing his hair and flattening his jeans to his legs.
The ancient, African chimes above the door jangled as it swung in, one of the only doors left that actually had hinges and had to be manually opened. The shop itself was ancient, situated in one of the oldest parts of town.
It was dark and musty, smelling of herbs and incenses, of a strange odor, one not readily recognizable in this "modern" day. It was subtle and rich, strangely invigorating, strangely empowering. It was the smell of old magics.
Cat-like crystal blue eyes regarded the boy with a hint of humor, a dash of wariness, and a sparkle of anticipation. Long, midnight black braids clicked with a multitude of beads as her regal head tilted in readiness, while her mouth and bearing spoke of indignance and defense. She waited behind her counter, watching.
He scanned the store, taking in the old African instruments made of smooth, patterned wood; masks with despairing faces carved deep into the dark, hard wood hung from the walls and the low, bare rafters; dolls set eternally in inumerable poses, from standing to sitting to lying, dolls in the figures of humans, wild boars, African dogs, wildebeasts, lions, pronghorns, zebras, and creatures no living soul could name. Rainsticks were leaned in corners, along with rolls of vibrantly colored and patterned bolts of cloth, and long walking sticks with feathered fetishes attached upwards from the middle.
He took it all in as if he had never stepped foot in the tiny, over-crammed shop, but a teasing grin quirked at his lips when his mirror-shaded eys fell once more on the regal shopkeeper. He lifted one long-fingered hand and waved. She saw it as it came out of his mouth, and her brows drew together in the manner of a mother whose child simply refused to mind.
"Hey there, Seafoam!" His voice was tinged with an almost child-like glee. He watched as her mouth set, her lips almost disappearing as they formed a thin line, looking almost like an angry slash just above her beautifully pointed, hautily lifted chin.
"My nem," she began, her thick Jamaican accent musical and indignant, "is Aqua. Geddit right, or ged outta my store." She jerked a thumb toward the door he'd just passed through; then she tightly folded her arms below her breasts once more, one eyebrow cocked and seemingly waiting for his next move.
He lifted his arms in a surrenduring gesture, hands up and level with his head, palms out, and said, "My mistake, Mistress Aqua." Then he covered the eight feet that separated them in three steps, took one fine, long-fingered brown hand in his own, and bent over it, kissing the soft skin reverently. Her lips softened, as did her eyes, and she couldn't hold back a smile. Her mouth really was pretty when she wasn't pretending to be angry.
"Boy, you gotta be da most infuriatin' t'ing I ever laid dese two eyes on." She was rubbing the back of her hand with her other thumb. She glanced down, and saw bright blood smeared there, just a bit, but enough to startle her. She quickly looked up. "You bleedin', boy." Her gaze centered on his bottom lip. "Joshua, what you been up to?" Her voice was angry again, and more than a bit worried. "You sit down, I fix you right up." She pointed at the stool behind her counter, then swept - surrounded by a billowing cloud of bright, patterned yellow linen -- through another small, hinged door into a tiny storage room.
Joshua put a finger to his split lip, then scowled at the blood that lightly coated the tip. He pulled off his sunglasses, useless and hindering in the small, dark shop, then sighed and strode around the counter to park his butt on the stool. He sat there, absently massaging his bruising cheek, waiting for Aqua to come back. Tucking his glasses into an inside pocket, he reached up with one finger to his ear, and gently stroked the small, round MuzikEmitter hidden just inside the ear canal. He was in a jittery mood, and needed music to help him cope with the rush of energy that had come from fighting that street-thief. The sudden rush of growling, angry synthitars and pounding percussives fit his current attitude just right, and he began banging out the beat on the scarred wooden counter with his fingers.
Though he seemed like he concentrated solely on the music, he was deep in thought, the sound-bytes stimulating half-formed ideas that had passed through his brain during the day. He only vaguely thought of the guy who'd tried to mug him, and the minor injuries that had come from the small skirmish. He never turned Aqua's help aside, even if it was tending to small wounds. She had a motherly soul, no matter how hard she tried to hide it; Joshua let her mother him, for he'd lost his own mother so long ago…he had forgotten what a loving touch felt like, having experienced only the caress of a fist, the stroke of a metal pipe for so long….twelve years. A mere nanosecond to the proverbial gods, perhaps, but more than half a lifetime for him.
This was how thoughts bloomed in his head, everything attached to something else, a trail that twisted and wormed it's way through his brain, making sense to him, if to no one else. It was all connected, and it all flowed in it's own pattern. In places the pattern wove intricate, in others delicate, profound simplicity, but it held, and it served him.
The ancient African chimes jangled once again. Joshua barely heard them over the music pouring into his ear, but he caught the movement. The shop was small, after all, and the situation of the counter in the store gave him a view of almost the entire room.
He had strange, milky eyes that seemed to stare straight into and through whatever they touched, though Joshua knew they saw nothing. His skin was old and wrinkled and very black, the gray beard a striking contrast. But not as startling as the bright white robes that were wrapped around him. The material looked so soft, Joshua wanted to reach out his hand and beg for the man to let him touch the hem, just the hem, he didn't need to feel it all, the hem would be fine, but please, just, please….
Joshua jerked his head, a sharp shake to clear his mind. A thump accompanied the old man's entrance into the shop, and Joshua suddenly noticed he carried a walking stick, wrapped with a fetish at the top. It could have been the twin of any in the shop, but he saw that it was much older, perhaps ancient. Joshua's vision blurred as he looked upon that length of wood, and he could almost see overlays, many many multiples to this very same man, all lined up behind and beside…even some before. He shook his head again, thinking perhaps he'd taken a harder blow to his head than he'd previously thought.
The milky eyes suddenly landed on him, and he found he could not look away, that to do so would somehow make him seem less to this man, though he wouldn't know if Joshua dropped his eyes, or turned them to the side. Somehow, the old man would know, he would just know. And even though Joshua was not normally one to care what anybody thought about him, he felt that he needed this man to see him as strong and capable. He did not want to look weak. More importantly, he did not want this blind man to see the weakness he feared resided in his soul.
Suddenly, the ancient black man nodded, and opened his mouth to speak. Joshua noticed he had strong, white teeth. He never even entertained the thought that they could be fake. "You have your mother's eyes." He had a slight accent, as if he'd once spoken a different language long ago, but it was long forgotten. Only a whisper of it remained. Then the chalky orbs shone their light elsewhere, and Joshua no longer felt he was the one blinded. He blinked a few times and manually closed his jaw, which had gone slack at the man's revelation. He did not even attempt to question the man. A stupid question it would have been, "How do you know?" Of course he knew! He knew everything!
In the wake of this man's path, Joshua fell to questioning himself instead of the ancient. How do you know he knows everything? Such was this man's power, such was the force of his presence.
Aqua re-emerged just as Joshua was working his brain around the mysterious question suddenly put into his head. She stopped at the threshhold, taking in the scene. The old man, shining in his purity-colored robes, Joshua looking exceedingly confused; she could almost see the tapestry of his mind unweaving, trying to find the break or flaw. She could almost read his thoughts: How do I know he knows everything? How do I know? She shook her head sadly. The poor boy, trapped in this world of technology… he had no concept of the notion of magic. Everything here worked with machine-like perfection, including the boy's brain. Throw a wrench into the works, and everything would come grinding to a halt until the flaw was fixed.
"DelaCroix," Aqua stated stiffly, formally. "Why have you come?" She knew perfectly well why the old man had come, but Joshua didn't, and she did not feel like confusing him further. He would need all his mental capacities in order to absorb all he would be told this night.
