Chapter 4, “The Angel”
Roc returned immediately to the Sparrows’ Nest, climbing up stairs and passing through tattered curtains. He needed some time to figure out how to load the gun, something he hadn’t been able to ask about while in the shop. When he finally squeezed through the space between the two walls that served as the hidden entrance, he found four boys there instead of three. None of them looked up at his arrival; instead all four lay on their bellies staring down at the same comic book together, gradually flipping its pages. They couldn’t read, but that didn’t deter them from admiring the pictures.
Just as he had that first day to Roya, Roc barked at them. “Hey! HEY!”
Three of them snapped up. Nat, Rence, and Dane.
“Tir, what the hell?” Roc swore as he marched up to the boys, ignoring the three who had guilty looks and going after the one who kept reading, the one who shouldn’t be there.
Tir just rolled over onto his back, continuing to peruse the comic book he held above him.
“Boys, get back to your lookouts. You all have a job to do if you want to be in this family. We’ve all been eating every day for two weeks, haven’t we?”
“Yes sir,” said Nat.
“Yes sir,” said Nat.
“But that doesn’t mean we’re safe forever! If somebody finds us here, we’re in trouble. That’s why we need you guys to do your jobs and watch for Tyrants and Monsters!”
“Yes sir,” said Rence and Dane, copying Nat.
“Good. Now Tir, what the hell?”
“You already said that,” Tir said in a bored voice.
“And you haven’t answered either time,” said Roc.
“Well it’s not a very clear question, mate!” said Tir.
“Fine,” fumed Roc. “What are you doing here when you’re supposed to be out working a job?”
“Didn’t want to.”
“Then you didn’t want to be in the gang!” said Roc, his fists clenched.
Tir got angry. “Maybe I didn’t!” he shouted as he finally rolled back onto his belly to look directly into Roc’s tiny eyes. “Maybe I just want to go tell the Hawks where this place is right now!”
Roc cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “The Hawks?”
Tir stood up. “The all-bads are grouping up like we did. A big gang of Tyrants. They’re looking for us. They want to kill us. And you can’t protect us from them. But they won’t want to kill me if I tell them where you are.”
Roc staggered. “Why...why didn’t you tell anybody?”
Just then Roya and Christopher showed up in the Nest. They had been on circling duty.
“What’s going on?” Roya said with an interested smile on his lips. “We heard shouting.”
“Tir wants to go tell on us to the Tyrants,” Roc said, a little shaky, both with shock and anger. “He just said he doesn’t want to work and so he’s going to help them get rid of us.”
Tir was frightened now that Roc seemed to be telling on him to Roya. He looked from Roc to Roya wide eyes.
“All right then, Roc friend,” said Roya, that smile becoming more and more fascinated. He turned it onto Tir. “I’ll take care of him for you.”
That was when Tir bolted. He took the back way out, down some stairs to the lower chamber and out through some more curtains.
“I’ll be back,” Roya said calmly, and turned to go when Roc stopped him.
“Roya, wait!”
Or rather, when Roc tried to stop him. Roya was gone before anything more could be said, leaving Roc in slight despair, both over his situation and in whom he had trusted to set it right.
He decided to put all three remaining boys on circling duty with Christopher, to patrol two by two around the perimeter of their base. He would stay inside, alone.
Once they were gone, he brought out the gun and the box of bullets he had been squeezing in his fist. His attempts to figure out how to load the gun were laden with anxiety. His little hands shook as they turned over the gun, examining it more carefully than he ever had. When at last he found the button to eject the magazine, he took a bullet from the box and tried to insert it. But the bullet slipped out of his trembling fingers, and it was quite a long time before he succeeded in filling the magazine. By utter chance he discerned that he would need to flip the safety off, and did so. He then recalled what he had seen others do when firing a gun like this: sliding the top of the barrel back before shooting. But he wouldn’t do that just yet. That was his limit, his barrier, his wall; for he realized the lethality of the instrument he held in his boyish hands, and realized he was actually preparing to kill someone. He could not take that last step. He hoped he could do it when the time came.
Roc slept with gun in hand that night, when he could sleep at all. He was prepared to do what he needed to do to protect himself and his family, or at the very least, he was prepared to react in some way. Fear had driven his life, but not fear like this. This was more like dread than fear. Something out there was searching for him specifically with the express desire to kill. That was different from being unsure when the next random act of violence or stomach pang might strike him. This was the dread of the walls closing in on him. Him and his little band.
The Hawks must have taken his cue, and, perhaps tired of their group defense against their individual roguishness, formed their own gang, their own organization. Were they a family? Roc didn’t know.
To add to this existential uncertainty, neither Roya nor Tir showed up the rest of the day. Roc wasn’t sure what to make of this. The mystery made him squirm all the more.
Whatever had turned out with Roya and Tir, whether Tir had gotten away, or Roya killed him, or Roya joined him, he needed his band to stick together. They would have to go take down the Hawks on their own terms, their own turf. Tomorrow they would troop together, like a pack, the eight of them. And he would lead them to battle with his black, shiny, steel courage in hand.
The Hawks were waiting for Roc and his sparrows---down at the old city plaza, the long-dry fountain in its center. Once that fountain had flowed with blood. A warning in the midst of some gang warfare. The rain had washed it all away years ago, but no one walked the place since. No one but the most desperate of folk. The plaza had a stigma, a ghostly haunting that most of Oshana recognized, and dared not touch. Children, however, didn’t always know. Not every urchin inherited the memories of the previous generation. But some did, and they reveled in it---the older ones, the ones who lived in less fear. Roc knew this would be the place for his first fight. The Roc’s first war. And possibly the scene of their demise.
But he had a gun, and he supposed the Hawks did not. Fire could frighten a tiger; a gun could do the same to an unarmed bully. No Tyrant would be willing to take a bullet for the rest of his crew. A lethal weapon would scare them away, scatter them. That was the plan.
Roc’s scout, Bell, had come running back to where the entire Roc had planted themselves, confirming his suspicion that they’d be waiting in the plaza. Roc and Bell led the gang to the meeting place, and Roc instructed each of them to find some kind of weapon along the way. A brick or stone, wooden club or glass bottle. Whatever might be lying around.
They turned a corner into the plaza and saw the Hawks on the other side of the fountain. They, too, carried weapons. A gang of barely pubescent bullies, of the age the urchins called Tyrants. No one knew exact ages in Oshana because no one kept track of the passage of time. Ages did not matter, only stages of life. The Hawks, taking on the early characteristics and strength of men, were Tyrants. Any older teen who willingly remained amidst the world of children was called a Monster. Roc did not see one among them, but he didn’t quite have the capability to be grateful in that moment. And though the Tyrants all carried weapons, not a one was armed with a gun. Roc still had the tactical edge, if not the brute force.
Both gangs were silent as they formed lines across from each other, the dry fountain still between them. Roc stepped forward. Just as when he first germinated his little gang, Roc had to be the brazen one, the bold one. It did not come entirely natural to him; he knew the part he had to play and he delved into it out of necessity, not identity.
“What the hell do you want from us?” Roc shouted boisterously across the plaza.
One Tyrant stepped forward.
“What the hell do you think?” the leader shouted back sarcastically. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and they blazed. “You’ve been turfing our territory, taking our food, drying up all the good resources around here. You’ve changed the rules, all in just a couple short weeks. And we don’t like that.”
Roc narrowed his eyes and leaped forward onto the fountain. As he landed he struck a pose and pulled out the gun he carried in his waistband. He swept it sidearm across the line of Tyrants, finally resting it on their leader. All of them stepped backwards, almost in unison and including their leader. Roc kept himself from smirking at his accomplishment but was immensely relieved. It had worked!
But then, in the windswept silence that followed, their leader’s blue eyes turned to face someone strolling out of a side street and into the scene. It was Roya. Though a little younger than the Tyrants, he was just as tall. Roc couldn’t guess what Roya’s intentions were, but knew they were nothing good. Roya smiled and started clapping slowly.
“Very good, Roc,” he said with total confidence. “Very good. You’ve managed to scare a gang of fellow children with an empty gun. A fine play to make. Very fine.”
Roc froze in his perch on the fountain rim. The scenery around him seemed to have fled as his heartbeat soared. Roya continued his stroll over to the fountain.
Roc swallowed. “Weren’t you supposed to take care of Tir? Keep him from spilling it?”
“I did,” Roya said, still meandering over to Roc. “I did take care of him. But I didn’t keep him from spilling it.”
In an instant something small and shiny sprang from Roya’s hand: a knife. He brandished it casually as he talked and walked.
“And then I went ahead and told these kids where you were, and what you’d do. You wouldn’t stay hiding in the Nest. You’d come looking for them. Right here.”
Roc couldn’t think of words strong and foul enough to spew at Roya. The same for himself, for trusting him. So no words fell out of his trembling lip.
“You didn’t tell us about the gun, Roya,” the leader of the Hawks said sternly as he approached Roya at the other side of the fountain. “That it was empty.”
Roc psychologically seized on that misperception. They didn’t know he had a loaded gun. He could still get out of this yet.
“So I didn’t,” Roya said, annoyed.
“What do you want?” Roc shouted.
“I want something like what you want. I’ve been surviving for a long time, but I want to do a little more than survive. I want to thrive. To live forever and do whatever occurs to me. And I don’t quite need a children’s gang to do that. I don’t need much food, and that’s all you can offer me. I’ve lived a long time without much food at all. I have higher ambitions. But first...I’d like that gun.”
Roya flashed his golden eyes and grinned at Roc as he started his way around the circular fountain over to him. The Hawk leader reached for his shoulder.
“Wait, Roya, you with us? We got a place for you if you---”
“Hell no,” Roya said, and with a grunt, stuck his knife into the leader’s gut. “I don’t need you or want you.” He tugged it out and stabbed the boy in the heart, too. Then he shoved the leader’s body to the ground. And for a moment, no one in that whole plaza moved or even breathed but Roc and Roya.
Roc brought up his weapon with a burst of adrenaline and placed it squarely on Roc’s face.
“Oh, please,” said Roya. “I saw you run away from that crazy protecting his sacred little trash can. That gun isn’t loaded, and even if it was, you don’t have the stones to pull the trigger. I’ve been watching you. I know you. If you give me the gun, I won’t kill you painfully like that Aryan kid on the ground there. One nice clean shot to the head. No bleeding out.”
Roc inched backwards, still holding the gun as steady as he could. “Why’d you join my organization, then, Roya? Why do you even care about all of us?”
Roya’s face brightened and he stopped. “I guess I just wanted to see if I wanted friends,” he said thoughtfully. “It’d been so long without them. And funnily enough, I do. But not you. And not them.” He jammed his thumb towards the Hawks. “I can’t respect children. Can’t see them on the same plane. It will be nice to rule over them, though. Your gun might help with that.”
He was closer now. Blood-covered knife held tight in his right hand.
“But...why set this whole thing up? Why have us square off if you’re going to just interrupt?”
“One purpose was to practice my manipulation skills. Not to develop them but to see if I had them. That, and after taking your gun, I’d like to see both of you tear each other apart.”
His golden-eyed grin was bearing down on Roc, reaching for him, grasping at him---
Roc pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Roya’s face lit up with glee. His theory had been proven. He rushed at Roc without fear. Roc, in a panic, pulled back the top of the barrel with all of his minuscule but adrenaline-fueled strength and pulled the trigger again---
A boom like thunder. Roc stumbled backwards. The shot missed Roya’s face...and hit his left ear. The lower half of his ear was blown straight off, and blood burst out in a spray. Roya looked more astonished than pained. The knife dropped from his hand as he felt frantically where his ear had been. He stumbled backwards against the fountain, falling over the rim and into the dry concrete pool. Blood flowed in the fountain again.
Roc didn’t have the presence of mind to fire again, so rattling and resounding the first shot had been. But it set Roya running from the scene, swearing nonstop under his breath. He disappeared down the same side street he had emerged from.
Roc, regaining his bearings, turned to the rest of the Hawks. He could think of nothing to say, so he only waved the gun around, just as he had done when it was empty and he was confronting some of these very bullies, now with members of his own crew backing him up. It seemed to be the same situation now.
Only some of the Tyrants on the other side still looked angry---angrier than they had before. They seemed ready to fight for their fallen leader, to stand up for themselves. They wanted to kill.
And Roc didn’t know what to do.
But just at that moment, a roar sounded, reverberated around the plaza, filling the empty space with a near spiritual, perhaps monstrous presence. It was the roar of a powerful, surging motorcycle, charging in through the side street opposite from where Roya had left.
The man riding the motorcycle had black hair and a scarred, unshaven face; he wore a black leather jacket that rippled in the wind like a cape. An eyepatch covered the empty cavity where his right eye should have been. A gold chain lay hidden under his white shirt, a shirt stained in places with dried brown blood. On seeing the two gangs facing off, he slowed his motorcycle to a stop and got off. As he stood upright Roc could see the two gun-filled holsters that were draped around his waist. This was a man who clearly knew how to use a weapon.
The action had stopped. All eyes were on him. All waited with bated breath. None knew what to feel. None knew how to react.
After a silent moment of observation between the two child gangs, he approached the Tyrants and took out his thick and weighty wallet.
“If you want money in your hand you’re going to have to drop the weapon that hand holds,” he said, in what to Roc was an uncharacteristically mild voice, like a butterfly in a swirling storm.
At first outraged that the aggressors were being given money, Roc opened his mouth to protest until he realized what, exactly, this enigmatic man was doing. He closed his mouth and let it happen.
When each and every one of the Tyrants had disarmed themselves and were subsequently paid, the man told them to go home, to feed themselves and those they cared for, and if they didn’t have anyone to care for, they should go find someone.
“Leave these kids alone,” he said to them in a forceful yet still mild voice. “They’re fighting just as hard a battle as you are.”
One by one the Hawks dispersed and went their separate ways. Then the dark man shifted his gaze.
When he looked at Roc it was like a lighthouse turning its beam of illumination on him. Roc noticed for the first, and certainly not the last time, this dark man’s remaining left eye. It was blue, far bluer than the eyes of the Hawks’ leader---a sky blue through which one could divine the totality and sentiment of that man’s soul, and by that very same metaphysical portal, see into one’s own.
He looked from Roc to the fallen Hawk leader, slumped against the fountain wall in a pool of blood. He knelt down at the body, turned it over, and perceived the fatal condition. His sky blue gaze turned angrily up at Roc, who was closest, and still holding the gun.
“Did you do this?” the man said in still-surprising but perfect mildness.
“No...no,” Roc said hurriedly, aghast. “It was...it was someone else. A boy we all knew. Roya. It was Roya, sir. He had a knife. He did it. I scared him away.”
The dark man looked into Roc’s small, birdlike eyes and nodded in belief. He stood.
“I can help you. I can help your family. You and they don’t have to be afraid anymore, or live in this world.” He said this last bit as he motioned to the plaza, to the dead boy lying in his own blood right next to them. “But you’re going to have to give me that gun for now. The life I can help you live won’t require it.”
Roc nodded, gulped, and easily handed him the gun.
“Thank you,” Roc said without thinking. Afterward, he couldn’t believe that’s what he said to this imposing figure, this dark enigma, for taking away his one instrument of self-defense. But it seemed right. And Roc the child, not Roc the gang leader or Roc the warrior, not even Roc the comics hero, had finally felt something touch his soul: the love of a tender parent. From this man of all people!
He didn’t cry, but he wanted to. Wanted to be hugged and taken care of like the child he truly was, the child he never had the chance to be. But he swallowed it back down. He had to be tough for his crew. They had to know he was still the same.
“My name is Roc,” he said, his unsteady breathing threatening to give rise to tears. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Salvane,” he said, his blue eye shining like a jewel. “But you can call me Salvare.”
Chapter 5, “The Other Angel”
Yes, Peter Smith sold and built guns. A business, a skill, an art he inherited from his father. As a child being taught the craft of gunsmithing, he had loved it. Working side by side with his father, piecing together parts metal and steel with his father’s hands guiding his own, watching his father sketch out plans for customized firearms and trying his own hand at designing something new, something never before seen. Most of the time his father had to inform him that what he was envisioning had already been done before. In later years, Peter realized that he had thought he was producing a fresh design when really it had no doubt originated from something he had seen somewhere and consciously forgotten about, but his father made him feel like he was discovering things the great ones had, working parallel to their achievements. Even as a child, Peter admired the ingenuity of man in creating such a beautiful instrument, complex but simple at the same time. He savored the sense of accomplishment at every successful test-fire in their basement shooting range.
He had once loved it. That was before he really knew it.
He had once let it bloom within him. That was before his father had been shot, and his mother taken away.
Peter rarely saw the business side of things. He was too young and enthusiastic to notice the worry lines slowly being carved into his father’s face. The tense meals, the anxious looks out the window, the excuses to leave, the many men coming to their door in suits and speaking in low, sinister tones.
Peter never thought to question who they sold their guns to, the reasons people purchased the products of his labor. He never thought to question the fine home they lived in, the elevation of their lives above the slums of the city.
He never did understand the intricacy of his father’s business deals, or why his father was killed and his mother taken. Only that it had to do with an organization he had thought since sheltered childhood was called ‘the C.’ It was a while before he came to know what the Sea really was, and why his father needed their business, and why firearms and ammunition were such necessary commodities in Oshana.
By the time this happened, however, gunsmithing was already a part of his soul. It couldn’t be excised, surgically extracted, carved out with a scalpel; it was him, and it was the only thing he knew how to do. He had even been told to do it. They had left him a handwritten note on the table:
We have no need of your end. Go out there and live your life. Be a good citizen and continue in your father’s trade. We will keep in touch. And remember, we’re watching you.
-Stephen
Peter didn’t know who Stephen was. He didn’t even know what the note meant. It wasn’t until he walked into the other room that he saw his father’s body. Lying there, on the recliner, bullet hole in his forehead. His mother was nowhere to be found.
Looking on his father’s corpse, the only thing his mind could do was calculate the exact kind of gun that had killed him, a Titan25. It was a rare weapon, directly exported from the outside world. Somewhere called Greece. For some reason those exact words were being said in his brain.
Then, as if in a dream, he found himself back in the dining room, staring down at a small leather briefcase. He opened it up and found it full of cash. He closed it again, and saw the words scrawled in black marker on the case: the remains of your father’s fortune.
He never cried about it. He just stared catatonically at the corner of the kitchen for four hours, not moving, not thinking any conscious thoughts after “Greece.” His mind had broken, and could not face reality, so it was performing a complicated maneuver of folding in on itself, an attempt to make sense of horrible, nonsensical things.
In the end it produced a new, clear canvas of a mind and moved him to action. When at last he moved, he took the cash-filled briefcase, found his father’s notebook full of contacts, collected all the tools and instruments from the shop, and went about looking for somewhere new to live, somewhere new to do his work.
As said before, Peter never knew why they killed his father, or took away his mother. The trauma of that ignorance produced an effect like denial in his brain. It became something of a subconscious obsession to him, his life forever blackened, his potential tears suppressed, but purpose surfacing out of his life’s ashes like a phoenix. He would do as he was told in the note. He would do what his father had done. He would continue that work, and create a family of his own. A family just like the one that had just been destroyed. The path was clear in his simple, damaged, but good, kind mind.
He was seventeen then, and wore nice, clean clothes.
Now he was twenty-nine, and wore nice, clean clothes.
Knock knock, knock knock.
It was past midnight. Peter went to the door. He opened it a crack, as far as the chain-lock allowed him. Outside was a short man in a cap and a brown leather jacket, a cigarette in his mouth. His jacket matched the color of his sparse, curly beard.
“You got it?” said the man.
“I do,” said Peter. “The money unlocks this door.”
“I’ll give you the money when you get me the gun.”
“Pass me through half of it right now and the door opens all the way.”
The man in brown did so after making very visible the gun in his other hand. Peter took it.
“Good,” said Peter, and he closed the door, undid the chain-lock, and opened the door a few inches. “I’ll bring it outside.”
The man on the other side waited. Peter retrieved a gun case from the highest shelf in his makeshift office. He joined the other man outside his apartment door, crouching down in the dimly lit hallway.
“I suppose it’s useless to ask you your name?” Peter said as he opened the case on the ground.
“Guy van Guarde,” said the man with a smile that revealed a set of brilliantly white, near shining teeth. “What’s yours?”
“I’m the Smith,” said Peter. “That’s enough for you to know.”
Peter wondered what ethnic heritage Guy van Guarde descended from. The accent gave nothing away. At first Peter had though Russian, then after hearing the name, some combination of French or Dutch. Then again, the man could have made it up himself. That was the most prevalent naming system in the city.
Peter shook his head. He was about to make more money than he’d seen in months, and he was worried about that?
Inside the case, lying in gray foam, was a very powerful weapon, fashioned after the archaic revolvers of the Old West, six-bullet chamber and all. It lay amidst ammunition samples and a state of the art silencer.
Guy van Guarde crouched as well, and reached forward to handle the gun, but Peter drew it away.
“It’s yours,” he said, “once you give me the money.”
Guy van Guarde once again flashed that brilliant smile, and said, “Right.” He produced another handful of bills. Peter followed them from Guy van Guarde’s hand to his own. That was quite a bit of money...enough to pay for everything for the new baby, for Spinosa...
He handed over the case and the two men shook hands. Guy van Guarde made his way down the hall, presumably toward the stairs, and Peter turned back into his apartment. He re-hooked the chain-lock, sat down on the couch, and counted out the cash. After sifting through the bundle several times, he hid it in a thick fake book. Normally this trick would have been obvious; not only were there very few actual books in Oshana, but as a strategy it was from another age. But Peter actually had a collection of books. Poetry, mostly, but some of ancient history, history of the mythical world outside Oshana. Books that his father had once owned. The fake one hid among the real ones quite well.
Peter then walked slowly, quietly to his own room. He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, to watch his angelic wife and infant child sleeping together in the small bed, illuminated in part by the light of the moon through the window. Moments like these were the only time Peter would, or could, smile, his family the only realm where he could find peace. He treasured these intimate, moonlit moments, and hid them in his heart.
But then two successive shots rang out. Peter was jarred from the doorway, his wife from sleep with screams. Little Spinosa began to cry loudly and Peter quickly descended on his little family, wrapping his arms around them. He called out, “Rene! Toulouse! Are you okay?”
“Yes, Papa!” cried Toulouse, the oldest, from the other bedroom. “What happened, Papa, what happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Peter said, first loudly to his two other children, then again more softly for the presence of Selula and Spinosa. “I’m not sure...”
After quickly ensuring the safety of his family, he ran to the front door, undid the chain-lock, and leaned outside to see what had happened.
Coming out of the door of the apartment to the right was the Russian, the Dutchman, the Frenchman, whoever he was. Guy van Guarde was just closing the door with his left, gloved hand. His other hand, also gloved, held the revolver Peter had just sold him. He smiled at Peter, his white teeth just as brilliant as before, and waved hauntingly.
Three days later, another knock sounded at the door. This time, Peter wasn’t expecting anyone.
Once again he went to answer it. He hesitated, his hand on the knob, until the knocker knocked again. He asked who it was through the door. They just knocked again. His heart racing, he turned the knob and pulled it open till the chain caught it. He peered out and saw two men dressed in dark suits and hats. Their faces were almost identical. Perhaps they were twins. They were smiling pleasantly, the corners of their mouths at precisely the same angle.
“May we come in?” said the one on the right.
“We have only peaceful intentions,” said the left.
Their smiles still registered as sincere. So it seemed to Peter. Regardless of his fears, he decided to let them in. If he refused, he knew they could easily force their way in, and they could very well pose a danger to himself or his family. Better to appease them and reciprocate their good natures.
He undid the chain and opened the door all the way without a word. They held out their hands for him to shake. Like when he shook Terry’s Rose-adorned hand, their fingers touched in different places.
“Hello” said one.
“We’re from the Sea,” said the other.
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