THE VENGEANCE OF KALI

by David Dean

2007 Readers Award winner David Dean, by day the chief of police in a New Jersey resort town, has been writing a lot of stories lately. The protagonist of this latest tale is an eleven- year-old thief whose secret world is observed, from above, by a flock of buzzards. The story’s feathered characters have a counterpart in the real world. “They dwell,” the author tells us, “less than a mile from my house, on a street very similar to the one described.” We’ll have more from this evocative writer later this year.

* * * *

Kieran sat on his bike at the edge of the wood line and watched the new people transfer their furnishings from the van to the house. He had been doing so for nearly half an hour and not been noticed. This did not surprise him. It was in his character, in fact integral to his lifestyle, that he not be seen or remarked upon. Living in his older brother’s long shadow, and dwelling at the lower tier of his neighborhood’s age group, had taught him the art of near invisibility. Even his red hair failed to excite notice, so practiced was he at living in the shadows.

The people that he watched from astride his travel-worn, stripped-down bike, however, could expect nothing but scrutiny. The strange reddish hue of their dark skins and the exotic chirping of their outlandish language guaranteed it in Kieran’s neighborhood, and he found it difficult to take his eyes from them. In fact, he could not have been more astounded at their manifestation had they been deposited there by a spacecraft, as opposed to the Mercedes SUVs and other expensive cars they had arrived in just minutes before the moving van.

Moments before their remarkable landfall, Kieran had been coursing along on the narrow bike paths that bisected the few remaining woods of his neighborhood, traveling unseen from one street to the next as he studied the backyards of the houses within a several-block radius. It was from these observations that he would sometimes schedule return visits under cover of darkness to select and remove objects that he coveted—his bike being an example, hence its stripped-down conversion to avoid identification.

Other thefts lacked such obvious value, but spoke to some inarticulate need, such as his surprising and difficult appropriation of a backyard soccer net. The actual removal of this unwieldy object had been extremely difficult and fraught with the peril of discovery, yet he had accomplished it in the dark of night and somehow dragged it the two blocks to his home without arousing victim or witnesses.

Sadly, as Kieran had failed to secure a soccer ball and did not know how the game was played in any case, the net was left to collect only leaves and debris as it began its slow decline from neglect in his backyard—a monument, perhaps, to something he could not yet articulate. But on this long Sunday afternoon in early autumn no such thoughts occupied his mind, for he had chanced upon the interlopers just as they began their disembarkation.

With cries like strange birds they greeted one another as their caravan of luxury cars disgorged them onto the newly asphalted drive. The men were all quite thin and small, sporting thick moustaches; their clothing running the gamut from somber suits to brightly colored and zippered warmup togs. The women were even more arresting, with long black hair that glistened in the warm sun, while their bodies, draped in diaphanous materials dyed outlandish pinks, purples, and greens, glimmered beneath the soft September sky.

Each person stopped short of embracing the other, instead bringing their hands together as if in prayer and momentarily bowing their heads. Once this had been accomplished, it appeared they were free to hug, shake hands, or kiss. Kieran watched entranced, thinking of the dragonflies he sometimes observed over the lichen-covered birdbath in his backyard, hovering and circling close to one another before dipping slightly in the humid air and racing off.

Suddenly, one of the older men pointed in Kieran’s direction and without any unnecessary movement the boy withdrew several feet further into the shadows beneath the canopy of dry, coloring leaves. It was as if he had simply faded out of the picture—a minute, but possibly distracting figure in the landscape removed with cloth and turpentine.

Yet he needn’t have feared, for the gaze of all rose to the treetops and halted, the faces of the men closing in consternation, even as the women’s pursed in distaste and their large, dark eyes widened in barely suppressed horror. There followed a silence that was, in turn, replaced by a hubbub in the foreign tongue of the newcomers. Several more of them began pointing at the treetops and exclaiming in alarmed tones.

Kieran had no need of a translator to divine the cause of their clamor; he was very familiar with the troop of undertakers that roosted opposite their home site and even now flapped their ragged wings and sidled uneasily on their branches under the hostile gaze of their newest neighbors. Kieran could not recall a time when they had not dwelt there.

As a small boy, he could remember lying on his back in the adjoining field, now long given over to lots for upscale homes, and watching the great birds rustle and flap amongst the branches of the largest trees. On such mornings, clear and dappled with sun, they emerged from the arboreal gloom as dark, shapeless shadows perched singly or in discontented, peevish clusters, shoving and pecking their fellow tribe members.

As the sun’s rays began to pierce their enclave, wings would be thrown wide to absorb the warmth and dry the damp from their feathers; these violent, inconsiderate actions often dislodging a fellow vulture and forcing him to flap wildly as he sought to obtain the next available perch and avoid crashing into the earth.

After a period of this, at what always appeared to be an agreed-upon moment, though Kieran had never heard the carrion eaters utter a single sound, first one, followed by another, then another, would fall forth from the limbs they had been so unwilling to leave but moments before, throw wide their great wings, and begin their ungainly climb into the morning sky.

At these moments, Kieran thought there could not be a clumsier, less flight-worthy bird; yet once they clambered onto that first thermal that would raise them into the heavens on its column of superheated air, they attained the grace of angels. They were no longer the clown princes of the bird world, but an aerial ballet troupe silently wheeling across the heavens in follow-the-leader acrobatics. It seemed to Kieran that they could glide for hours without a single beat of the wing, without the least effort at staying aloft. It was only when they returned to their roost each evening that he was reminded again of what ugly creatures they really were, with their ragged cloaks of dusty wings and their raw, blood-dipped heads—their forlornly comic return heralded by the crash of branches, the scattering of leaves, and a rain of sad, dirty feathers.

Kieran watched as the oldest of the men, the same one who had first noticed the turkey vultures, hurried over to the rear door of one of the Mercedes. Even from across the street, Kieran could recognize the body language of deference, as the man opened the door, made the obligatory prayer gesture, and offered his arm to whoever was within.

Kieran stared in wonder as the tiny figure, wrapped in gold-and-white cloth, was deposited onto the smooth, oily-looking drive and the entire company went silent, brought their hands together as one, and bowed. The ancient woman, who appeared no larger than a child to the eleven-year-old Kieran, returned the gesture, then spoke; her tiny voice carried away in the light breeze. The newcomers smiled without showing their teeth, their heads still slightly inclined. Kieran sensed that they were uncomfortable about something—that they were awaiting the old woman’s judgment.

The older gentleman who stood clutching her elbow (Kieran couldn’t help but think of him as a gentleman due to his age and the fact that he wore a suit) spoke then, and pointed again to the trees, though this time it appeared to be for the old woman’s benefit. His gesture was at once reluctant and dismissive. Then he and the rest returned once more to silence.

Kieran had already guessed that this ancient woman was the matriarch of the clan and the rest, her children, grandchildren, and possibly great-grandchildren. He awaited her judgment with interest—if she disapproved of the vultures, would they simply return to their cars and leave?

She stood within the circle of her large family and tilted her head up to the treetops, shading her eyes with one hand as she steadied herself on her eldest son’s arm with the other. Her hair, uncovered like the younger women’s, fell down her back as a great rope of grey, bound by gold ribbon.

All eyes, including Kieran’s, followed her gaze to settle on the unattractive birds, who shuffled uneasily on their whitened limbs. Several, apparently unable to bear the tension, launched themselves in muffled explosions of discomfort to cant awkwardly this way and that between the trees as they sought the anonymity of the deeper forest. The old woman continued to study them.

Kieran’s interest returned to her and there he found her eldest regarding her with concern and it suddenly dawned on the boy that this gentleman had failed to notice the birds prior to this day, and that this failure might have actual consequences—it was up to the old lady to pronounce judgment.

Suddenly, she brought her palms together and held them aloft as if greeting the vultures and smiled. She spoke several words to the assembled family and laughed merrily; then pointed quite openly to the great birds and spoke once more. Now everyone joined in on the joke, if that was what it was, and Kieran could see, even at a distance, relief flood the features of the eldest son; the lines of consternation smoothed out by hilarity and laughter. This time when they smiled, the entire family revealed brilliant teeth and uplifted faces. They would stay—and with that, the eldest escorted her toward the front door and possession, as the older sons and all the women followed in train, leaving only the younger men to resume the job of unpacking the van.

As the front door closed behind the procession, Kieran was left in the shadow of the wood, his curiosity replaced by a strange longing that felt like a fragile egg within his bony chest. And after several long moments of watching for something more, though he could not say what, he lifted the bike between his legs and walked it in a semicircle to face the way he had come, suddenly aware of the cheap quality of his stolen prize and the dull, faded colors of his jeans and black T-shirt gone nearly grey with washings. Then, like his feathered companions, the boy flew back into the woods, bumping and careening his way into the greater darkness.

* * * *

When Kieran arrived home, his mother stood at the kitchen sink, still wrapped in her housecoat, coffee in one hand and first cigarette of the day in the other, watching the sun sink beneath the western treeline. Her mass of springy red hair floated about her shoulders in an unkempt nimbus highlighted by the fading light from the window. Though she looked tired and dark beneath the eyes, her smile upon seeing him lent her face a plucky, good-natured attractiveness that might be confused with beauty in a younger woman. Kieran sometimes thought that she was beautiful.

She reached out expertly with the hand holding her smoke, and without so much as spilling her ash, caught his long hair as he tried to slip by, leant over, and planted a large, moist kiss on his reluctant cheek. In that brief instant, Kieran was treated to an unwanted glimpse of her ample cleavage, barely contained within the loose confines of her gown.

As she straightened up and caught the focus of his gaze, she popped the cigarette back into her mouth and ran a finger down his short, straight nose. “Boys,” she said wistfully and smiled, “always grow up to be men and men can never get over . . . “ She caught herself and stopped. “All girls have these, you know.” She arched an eyebrow at her son. “They’re no big deal, believe me.”

“I know that,” Kieran mumbled as he tried to slip by once more.

“I’ve got to work tonight . . . you know thattoo, right,” she continued, turning to place her cup in the sink, still smiling.

“Yessss,” he hissed in exasperation and embarrassment. Kieran’s mom worked rotating twelve-hour shifts as a dispatcher at the police department, and he was well acquainted with her schedule—it was while she was on night shifts that he was able to do his best work. Kevin, his sixteen-year-old brother, was supposed to watch him during these absences, but seldom actually did and made little pretense of the matter.

“You smell like pine,” his mom said thoughtfully. “Where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere,” he replied automatically. “Did you know some foreigners are moving in on Palomino Drive?”

“Foreigners,” she repeated. “What makes you say that?”

“You should see them,” he answered.

“There are some barbequed ribs from that takeout you like in the fridge,” she pronounced, suddenly aware of the time; then stubbed out her smoke and sailed down the short corridor to the bathroom and her shower. “I also got that cole slaw and potato salad you love so much,” she called back to him as she was closing the door, “and don’t wait for your brother . . . believe it or not, he called and said he’d be a little late.”

“Good,” Kieran replied, snatching up the remotes for the television and the video games. “I hope he never comes home.”

“What’s that?” His mother’s muffled voice reached him through the door and over the running water.

“Nothing,” Kieran assured her. “I said okay.”

* * * *

It was after one o’clock in the morning when Kevin finally arrived home for his babysitting duties. He awoke Kieran as he stumbled down the hallway searching for his own bedroom, then suddenly retraced his steps back to his little brother’s room and threw open the door. There was a pause as he hung silhouetted in the door frame, reeking of booze and an odd, chemical odor. Kieran tried to pretend he was still asleep by keeping his breathing steady; then, Kevin switched the light on.

“Just wanted to make sure the boogeyman hadn’t gotten you,” he slurred, his long, dark hair framing a lean face that might someday be handsome. His heavy-lidded blue eyes slid over Kieran with amusement.

“There’s no such thing,” Kieran responded automatically, the barbeque sauce now sour in his stomach.

“You better hope not, as much time as Mom leaves you alone.”

“You’re supposed to watch me,” Kieran blazed hotly in defense of their mother and much against his own best judgment.

“Is that right?” Kevin asked. “Wouldn’t that be the job of your daddy?”

Kieran winced at the allusion to their separate fathers.

“I’m not your daddy,” his brother concluded flatly. “But at least I look in on you to make sure you’re alive. Who else would?”

This was a question that Kieran had no wish to dwell on and it hurt his pride that he was, in fact, very glad to see his brother. “Get out of my room, Kevin, I’m trying to sleep,” was all he could think to say.

Kevin chuckled tolerantly and said, “You’re such a tool,” then turned and began to close the door. Halfway out he stopped and asked, “Hey, what’s for supper, little man?”

“Ribs,” Kieran answered, turning his face to the wall. “They’re in the fridge.”

Kevin closed the door without turning off the light.

“Turn off the light,” Kieran shouted.

“Switch is on the wall,” his brother shouted happily back as he made his uncertain way to the kitchen.

* * * *

The following morning being a Monday, Kieran dressed himself in his usual jeans and T-shirt, ate a bowl of cereal heavily glazed with sugar and drowned in milk, and left for school in plenty of time to allow for wandering. His mother, having arrived home just after six a.m., was sleeping the first of what she called her “shifts,” having long ago discovered what most night workers learn—that it is almost impossible to sleep through the daylight hours, no matter how dark the room or silent the house. It’s just unnatural to the human condition. Therefore, she would arise sometime in the early afternoon, putter about the house, then return to her bed once more as the day wore on. In any event, Kieran typically made his own way on such mornings.

As to Kevin, he remained behind the closed door of his bedroom, snoring, snorting, and occasionally shouting incoherently while in the grips of his alcohol and drug-induced unconsciousness. The hour of the day was of no matter to him, and that it was a school day of even less import. Kieran knew that his brother would deal with the consequences of his actions in his typical laconic, amused fashion, because he had, as he confided to Kieran, “an ace up his sleeve”—he did not care if he was thrown out of school. Surprisingly to Kieran, who never brought attention to himself and asked for nothing, the administration went out of their way to keep his brother in school, offering accommodations such as specialized schedules and classes that the average student could only dream of in stupefied envy.

Kieran made a point of kicking Kevin’s door on the way out but was rewarded with only silence for his effort.

Kieran’s ride to school would not normally have taken him through the woods, but this day he bumped along the narrow path, veined with exposed roots, until he popped out at his vantage point of the previous day and braked to a dusty halt. The two-story, yellow-and-green house appeared just as anonymous as its neighbors—only two of the cars from the previous day remained, and all the blinds were drawn. There was nothing whatsoever to distinguish it from its bland, modern counterparts and Kieran felt a pang of disappointment.

He allowed himself to roll down the slight incline and into the street, turning as he reached it to pedal slowly past the front of the house. He had almost completed this pass when he glimpsed something in the shadows between the front door and the wall of the garage. Almost hidden amongst the fronds of a voluminous green plant with long, slender leaves, pointed and sharp-edged, a carved figure peeked out at him, and even at a distance, Kieran’s young eyes easily took in the unmistakable curves and voluptuous proportions of a tiny naked woman. He looked away and then back again in astonishment—did they have a naked dancing woman on their front porch? And did she have four arms?—his front tire scrubbed the curb and wobbled dangerously before he was able to regain control of his bike.

At the nearby bus stop, an overweight, pimply kid, two years his senior, laughed and shouted something obscene at him, but Kieran paid no mind, so enthralled was he at his extraordinary discovery. Turning for another pass, he saw a slat in one of the blinds near the statue lift to reveal a triangle of darkness, then fall once more into place, and sensing a trap, he reversed himself—further reconnaissance would have to wait, though he knew it could not wait long, for the desire to possess was hard upon him.

* * * *

Kieran’s school day was interminable and his distraction so great that he was twice called to account for it. Worse still, his English teacher caught him in the midst of a feverish attempt to recreate with pencil and paper what he had only glimpsed that morning. Her sudden intake of breath at the generous proportions he had endowed his sketch with had been his only warning, and as this was a young teacher, whom he found especially attractive and nice, he was particularly mortified. Though clearly shocked at his depiction, she had nonetheless simply ripped the page from his notebook, wadded it up, and without word or comment consigned it to the trash basket. Even so, her gasp and his own blazing face told his classmates all they needed to know, and for the rest of the day he was treated to the nickname “Perv.”

But with the ringing of the final bell, all of these trials were forgotten and left behind, as he rocketed out of the schoolyard ahead of the rush. So great was his hurry that he stood on his pedals, pumping madly down the streets until he made the turn onto Palomino Drive, and even then he drove on, desire replacing reason and stealth with boldness and inspiration.

Still riding at breakneck speed, Kieran aimed at the curb he had collided with earlier in the day; then, at the last possible moment, jerked the bike into the air and leaped the barrier to resume his juggernaut across the soft green of the strangers’ new lawn. The facade of the house remained unchanged, its windows still blinded to the outside world. The figurine that had danced in his mind all day hove into view as he turned to parallel the veranda, and her naked exuberance instantly burned away his earlier imaginings. She was like nothing he had ever seen before!

She did, indeed, have four arms and was as black as the space between the stars of a winter’s night. One of the arms wielded a scimitar, its blade curved and cruel as a shark’s mouth, while another brandished the head of someone, or something; Kieran had not drawn close enough yet to determine which. The remaining arms appeared to have been captured in graceful motion, in keeping with the thick, shapely leg seemingly raised in the act of a merry pirouette. Kieran applied the brakes just short of the porch and twisted the handlebars to execute a sudden, sliding stop, intending to launch himself onto the veranda and test the weight of the prize he must surely possess, and if it were possible, make away with it at that very moment. That was when his front tire flew off.

His collision with the soft, new fill of the lawn drove the wind from his lungs, but saved him from breaking any bones, and he rolled once before coming to a stop, splayed out on his back with his head at the feet of the sword-wielding goddess. From this vantage he could see that her enormous, blood-red tongue protruded at him in derision and that she sported a necklace of grinning skulls; whilst round her waist was strung a belt of human hands. Perhaps more ominously, she did not dance, but stood atop the body of a prostrate male. As his vision grew dark with the lack of oxygen, her form appeared to loom ever larger over him in triumph and he could see now that her allurements included a third eye on her forehead.

Suddenly, his lungs inflated, and his sight cleared like the passing of a squall line. He leapt to his feet, all action and resolve once more, and clambered onto the porch to seize his prize. He did not recognize himself in this newfound boldness and hurried to complete his task before his current incarnation abandoned him.

Even as he took hold of the slick, cold stone of the statue, he could sense its solidity. Whatever it had been carved from was incredibly dense and heavy, and it only took one attempt at lifting it to convince him that he would require assistance for this task. The old woman appeared at his elbow as if for just that purpose.

Kieran cried out, he was so surprised at her appearance. How had he not seen her? The front door stood wide open; she had obviously made no attempt at stealth. He stood slack-jawed in her presence, both due to her extraordinary appearance and the fact that he had never, in all his thieving, been caught in the act before now. He simply did not know what to do. Would her sons rush out, seize him, and call the police?

She shuffled toward Kieran, her hands raised in what was now a familiar gesture, even as he began to back away towards the edge of the porch. She was once again garbed in vibrant colors, though this time of gold and green. Up close, Kieran could see that her arms, face, and exposed midriff were networked in wrinkles; her dark countenance sunken and dried-looking; any resemblance to the abundant and curvaceous statue long since sloughed off with great age. She continued to advance on Kieran, gently shaking her pressed hands as if in supplication and speaking all the while in her lilting birdsong language. Kieran stumbled backwards off the veranda and only just managed to keep his footing. He glanced nervously at the open door. The old woman stopped at the edge of the porch and pointed to the statue of the goddess. “Kali,” she whispered happily; “Kali.”

Kieran looked to the statue as well. “Kali,” he repeated.

The old woman smiled broadly, revealing surprisingly good and numerous teeth, then laughed. “Chop-chop,” she said, “chop-chop.”

* * * *

Kieran sat in the blue glow of the computer screen in the silent house and read the words he had conjured up from the ether. “Kali, the Dark Mother, is the fierce and fearful form of the mother goddess and is adorned with awesome symbols,” it began. “She was born from the brow of the Goddess Durga during a great battle with evil forces and became so enraged that she began to kill not just the enemies of Durga, but all things. In order to stop her, Shiva threw himself under her feet. So shocked was she at this, that she stuck out her tongue in astonishment and ceased her homicidal rampage.”

“Shiva,” Kieran said softly, trying the word on for size. He made a note to look him up as well, then read the article through. It explained that Kali’s black complexion symbolized her transcendental nature, whatever that meant, and her nudity showed that she was beyond false consciousness, while the garland of human heads stood for the letters in the Sanskrit alphabet and symbolized infinite knowledge; the severed hands represented liberation from karma, her sword the destroyer of the eight bonds that bind man, her three eyes, the past, present, and future—the sum total of which meant very little to Kieran other than to endow the object that he desired with yet greater power and allure. Hadn’t his bike been knocked to pieces by merely approaching?

He turned away from the screen and looked across the dim, empty living room. From somewhere in the walls, a pipe knocked several times as the water within it cooled; then all went silent once more. His mother was still on night shift and he could count on Kevin to be either absent or disinterested in his whereabouts. Slipping on a black vinyl jacket with a ripped seam at the cuff, he searched through Kevin’s room until he located his woolen navy watch cap and pulled it down to his eyebrows. Then he took several towels from the bathroom closet and went out to the aluminum shed in the backyard.

The shed leaned drunkenly against the chain-link fencing and it took him several attempts to force the warped door and locate the beach wagon he had stolen the summer before from the Richardsons. Several minutes of frantic effort followed, as he struggled to free it from the towering accumulation of eclectic, rusting property he had appropriated over the past several years. When he was finished, he didn’t bother to try and restore the items he had strewn onto the patchy lawn, but left them as they lay, exposed and newly worthless.

He lined the bottom of the wagon with the towels and as soon as he felt it was dark enough, began to tow it toward the street, passing his crippled bicycle as he did so. His “new” bike stood propped against the back wall of the house, out of sight of the neighbors. The chubby kid at the bus stop who had laughed at his near mishap the day before was the unwitting “donor,” as this had seemed just. Kieran entered the woods before moonrise and made his certain way to Palomino Drive.

Though it was not yet ten o’clock, the neighborhood appeared empty and lifeless; the workaday world had locked itself in for the night and the street belonged to the stealthy and feral. Kieran crossed the silent street pulling his fat-wheeled wagon behind him. He did not hesitate or think any more on what he was doing, as it was only through calm focus and deliberate action that he achieved the cloak of invisibility he required. This was a skill he had taught himself long before, and it had been his mistake to have abandoned this the day before in his excitement—this was how he had been caught by the old woman. He quietly pulled the wagon onto the lawn and made directly for the darkened corner of the porch where Kali dwelt.

As he neared the alcove, the moon began to peek over the treetops and its first pale light glistened on the statue’s black skin, revealing her raging, three-eyed face and sword-wielding upraised arm. Kieran paused, his concentration momentarily derailed by the vision; then he brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head—he hoped that this might placate any resistance over her transference to his keeping. After several moments, he stepped up onto the porch, seized the statue, and began to walk it, by ever so carefully rocking it on its base, to the edge of the porch. Other than his breathing, it was accomplished in remarkable silence. Leaving her at the edge, he stepped down to the lawn and centered the wagon beneath her—this was the dicey part.

Kieran took hold of her two upraised arms and tipped her forward; gravity did the rest. With an audible thump, she landed amongst the towels and then the night was still. Yet, all had not gone well. The tiny hand clasping the grisly head remained clutched within his own, even as the dispossessed statue glared at Kieran in frozen rage from the bottom of the wagon, the scimitar still within her possession and poised to strike. He shivered and stuck the broken hand into his jacket pocket. “Superglue,” he whispered nervously.

Even with this setback, no lights had come on in the house, and it only remained for him to make away with his prize. He began to tow the wagon to the street and the safety of the woods beyond and did not see the boy waiting at the head of the path that was to be his escape route.

The punch to his chest knocked Kieran to the ground, and for the second time in as many days, he suffered the sensation of having the air driven from his lungs. The half moon, which had now climbed well above the trees, threw his assailant’s face into shadow as he leaned over his victim, yet Kieran recognized him—it was the boy from the bus stop.

“You little loser,” he chortled. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t know it was you who stole my bike? Everybody in town knows you’re the biggest thief there is. You must be retarded to think I wouldn’t—you sure look it.”

Kieran gasped a lungful of air at last.

“And sound it,” the boy added. He reached down and placed all his weight on Kieran’s narrow shoulders and breathed a stench of meat and gravy into his face. “Does your mom do retards, too? She does everybody else, my dad says.”

Kieran struggled to rise, but it was useless. “Screw you, fatty,” he hissed.

The fat boy abruptly sat on his victim, then calmly and lightly punched Kieran in the right eye; just enough to cause sparks of pain to dance in his occluded vision. “You shut up. I’m gonna take this statue . . . thing,” he waved his hand carelessly at the wagon, “and you’re gonna bring my bike back first thing in the morning—get it? And it better be in one piece, moron. Do . . . you . . . understand . . . me?” he asked brightly. “I sure hope so . . . for your sake.” He stood up and took the handle of the wagon in his pudgy hand and began to saunter down the moonlit street with Kieran’s prize in tow. “If my bike’s okay, I might . . just might, I said, give this statue of your mother back to you.” He never bothered to look back.

Kieran hauled himself painfully up from the dewy weeds and dirt, tears of shame, more than hurt, running over his sallow cheeks. “Chop-chop,” he sobbed at his assailant’s broad back, “chop-chop.”

* * * *

The sirens wailing through the neighborhood awoke Kieran even earlier than usual, and he hastened to the window—a dark, oily column of smoke rose in the near distance. It was not yet fully light outside, and so he knew his mother wouldn’t be home yet. In fact, it was probably she who had dispatched the police and fire departments to the scene, he thought with some pride, even as he gingerly probed the swollen, abraded flesh around his right eye.

He didn’t dare take the bike and so had to run the three blocks to the scene of the fire. He arrived panting and out of breath, and felt his knees go wobbly and his vision swim as he recognized what was left of the fat boy’s house.

Only the lower floor remained, its blue vinyl siding drooping as sadly as melted icing on a cake; the windows now gaping, scorched eyes sporting schizophrenic mascara. Charred and broken timbers commemorated the second-floor bedrooms, while the odor of liquefied plastic almost masked the greasy, sweet tang of what could only be—must be—burned pork.

Kieran glanced about in near panic at all the neighbors that had gathered at the awful spectacle, sick with an unreasonable feeling of complicity, and fearful that others might sense it as well.

A fireman whom Kieran thought his mother might have dated at some time, spotted him and called out, “Get back from there, kid . . . don’t make me tell you again!”

Kieran did as he was told and scurried off to the far end of the property line and nearer the separate garage. There, he came upon two young men in blue jumpsuits, almost hidden behind a screen of ambulances, struggling with someone, or something, on the ground and cursing between gasps of held breath. As Kieran shifted closer, without leaving the sharply edged shadows of early morning, the scene revealed itself in unwelcome clarity—they were struggling to sheath the charred and uncooperatively contorted figures of what must once have been people into black, zippered bags. One of the corpses awaiting their ministrations was not much larger than Kieran and he felt the blood drain from his face and wondered if he were about to faint, then forced himself to look away. It was then that he spotted his wagon next to the back door of the garage, a tiny scimitar raised in triumph from its depths.

Without thinking, he walked directly to it, took it by the handle, turned, and began to haul it behind him down the street. In spite of his fears, no one took any notice of him, and he walked slowly home without challenge.

* * * *

“Where in the hell did you get that thing?” Kevin asked breathlessly. “It’s wicked!”

Kieran had been so engrossed in gluing on the broken hand that he had failed to hear his brother approach. He jumped to his feet, placing himself protectively between the statue of Kali and Kevin, all his plans to keep her hidden amongst the clutter of their tottering, one-car garage instantly dashed by his brother’s unexpected appearance.

“She’s mine!” was all he could think to say.

“Easy, my little psycho . . . who said any differently, huh?” He advanced on Kieran’s prize, unable to take his eyes from it. “Oh yeah, my man, you have scored big with this. She’s Hindu, right? Goddess of something, right?”

Kieran held his ground, suddenly uneasy. Kevin did not sound right—the rapid-fire speech and questions were unlike him. If he didn’t know something, he would usually act as if it were unimportant or trivial; it was out of character for him to show enthusiasm or undue interest.

“Don’t touch her,” Kieran warned.

Kevin was standing over both boy and carving now, scrutinizing the amazing figure, his face a rapacious mask, his eyes all dark pupil. “What does somebody pay for something like this?” he asked aloud. “That’s what I’d love to know. A few thousand wouldn’t surprise me . . . maybe more.”

Not once did he actually address his little brother. Kieran felt as if Kevin did not see him at all, and he didn’t like the odor that seemed to pulse from his brother’s sweat-sheened skin. It reminded him of hospitals and industrial disinfectant. He took a step back involuntarily and collided with the statue of Kali. Even as he spun about he could hear it totter on the loose wooden planks of the garage floor, and only just caught it in time. The newly reattached appendage flew off with his clumsy embrace and skittered beneath a bench.

He turned and shouted into his brother’s face, “Get out of here, Kevin! And don’t touch her, you stupid crankhead, she’s mine.”

Kevin took a surprised step back, his face pale and blank. “No one said different . . . I hear you. Whoa . . . what has gotten into little brother? You gone all schizoid or something? Just came in to check on you—Mom’s a little worried, that’s all . . . what with the black eye and all, and you being more of a psycho than usual, that kind of thing. I could give a rat’s ass myself.”

He took another step back and his face grew crafty and bold. “But if I did want . . . that,” he pointed at the voluptuous warrior, “I’d take it . . . hear me?” He stuck his tongue out in unconscious imitation of the object of their dispute, then withdrew it again.

“No, you won’t,” Kieran blazed back.

“You’ve got to sleep sometime,” Kevin teased. “Not me, though. I can stay awake for days.” The next step back took him out the door and Kieran was left with only the medical stench that trailed his brother like a following ghost.

For the next three nights, Kieran slept on a pallet in the garage at the foot of Kali.

* * * *

The morning of the third night, Kieran was unexpectedly greeted by his mother when he came into the kitchen from the garage. He knew instantly that something was wrong; she stood between him and the cereal boxes in the cabinet, still in her housecoat and smoking nervously.

“I need to know what’s going on,” she began, “why you are sleeping in the garage, for God’s sake, and where is your brother?” Her words were rapid and urgent, and her anxiety frightened Kieran.

“It’s stuffy in my room because that window still sticks. . . . “

“Stop that,” she demanded. “I don’t have time to listen to that nonsense just now. Where is Kevin? Did you know he hasn’t been here—or at school—for three days? When is the last time you saw your brother?”

Kieran was stunned into silence by his mother’s vehemence, even as he struggled to understand the situation—Kevin was missing? Her fear entered him like the wet, charred smell that still hung over the neighborhood. Tears stood in her eyes.

“I don’t know . . . “ Kieran began weakly; fearing that somehow he might be held responsible, that somehow he might be responsible, though for what, he wasn’t certain. “Three nights ago,” he whispered. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Three nights ago,” his mother repeated in a near wail. “Oh God,” she cried. “Then it’s true, he has been gone that long! When the school called, I thought he had just been playing hooky; it never occurred to me that he wasn’t coming home at night. I just thought I was missing him ‘cause of the shift work.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Kieran? And why are you sleeping in the garage? What’s been happening around here . . . can you please tell me?”

Her pleas cracked that fragile thing that he carried about in his chest, and tears began to leak from his eyes. “I didn’t notice he wasn’t here,” he confessed, feeling suddenly very ashamed. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry. We had an argument and . . . “ He trailed off, uncertain how to proceed without revealing his secrets.

“An argument about what?” she asked, sensing a clue, a thread that might lead her to her eldest son. “Tell me.”

“Over something of mine,” he hedged. “Something he wanted, but I said no, that’s all. I don’t think I should have to . . . “

Suddenly, he recalled his bike flying apart on his first attempt at possession of Kali and the words of the old woman, followed by his pummeling at the hands of the fat boy on the night of the actual theft and the inferno that followed, and lastly, he remembered Kevin approaching his hard-won prize, greed and avarice etched into his features, and it was suddenly clear to Kieran what must happen next.

His mother’s words finally pierced his thoughts and he looked up to find her crying openly. “I want you to go out, right now, and talk to everybody you know and find out if they’ve seen Kevin. Are you listening, Kieran? I mean everybody.” She clearly gave little weight to his story of the argument and this relieved him of having to lie about its object.

“Yes, ma’am . . . okay,” he agreed, already turning for the door.

“I’m gonna get on the phone to the department,” she continued, sniffling. “I know Kevin’s been a handful and maybe some people think he’s delinquent or something, but he’s my boy and I’m gonna . . . “

“Wait,” Kieran demanded, alarmed at the thought of the police entering into the matter. Once they arrived, his freedom of movement would be severely curtailed. “Just let me try and find out something,” he pleaded. “Once the cops get involved, no one will say anything.”

His mother said nothing, but studied him warily.

* * * *

Now that his mind was made up, Kieran could not return the ominous black carving quickly enough, though he did exercise caution upon lowering her once more into the wagon. His repair of the broken hand was barely visible and it was his desire to return the Dark Mother without further damage.

Kieran didn’t bother to wait until night, as he felt certain the old woman knew quite well who had stolen her property in any case. He paused only at the foot of her driveway in order to gather his courage for the last leg of his penitent journey. The house awaited him with the same blank countenance as on his previous visits.

As he hauled the heavy wagon up the smooth drive, the front door silently opened and the old woman, dressed today in scarlet, and accompanied by her eldest son in his grey suit, stepped out onto the porch. Kieran thought they appeared to be expecting him.

Swallowing the knot of fear that threatened to choke him, he completed the final few steps and brought the wagon to a halt at their feet; stopped, brought his hands together, and bowed. They responded in kind. Then the old woman laughed delightedly and pointed with some excitement at the contents of the wagon; even as her son stepped down and carefully lifted the statue of Kali from within and returned it to the spot from which Kieran had taken it. They appeared well pleased altogether.

The son extracted several bills of large denomination from his wallet and offered them to Kieran, who stared at them in bafflement. He backed away, dragging his now-empty wagon with him. “Thank you,” the man said in heavily accented English. “Thank you very much.”

“I just want my brother back,” Kieran said softly, still backing away.

The man appeared puzzled, as if he were having trouble interpreting Kieran’s words. “Your brother?” he repeated. “Yes, I hope so. Good luck with that, my young friend.”

“We need him back,” Kieran said once more, as the vultures across the street began to launch themselves into the air in their clumsy morning ritual, and the old woman placed newly picked flowers at the feet of Kali.

* * * *

When Kieran returned home, the police had already arrived—his mother had not been able to wait. Kevin was still missing and there was no light he could shed on his brother’s disappearance. His mother did not go in to work that day and allowed Kieran to remain at home as well, and after the officers had departed, they spent the entire day together watching old movies on TV wrapped in a comforter on the couch. The phone never rang.

That evening Kieran heated up canned soup and prepared tuna fish sandwiches for their supper, but his mother barely tasted hers, and at some point he must have fallen asleep. The sound of his doorknob rattling brought him instantly to wakefulness and he sat up in bed, puzzled as to how he had gotten there, and switched on his bedside lamp.

Kevin, looking drawn, haggard, and years older than he should, peered at him through fingers raised to shield his tender eyes against the light. “Hey, loser,” he said, his voice sounding dry and unused, “why’s Mom asleep on the couch? I miss somethin’ around here?”

Kieran vaulted out of his bed and threw his arms around his bewildered brother, causing him to stagger. “Kevin,” he said hoarsely into the folds of his jacket. “Kevin.”

Kevin pushed him away to arm’s length and stared blearily at his younger sibling. “I must have,” he rasped, “I must have missed something all right, for all . . . this.” He grinned at Kieran. “Hugging me and all.”

“Where have you been? Mom’s worried sick about you. Where have you been?” Kieran whispered urgently.

“Been?” Kevin repeated, as if really trying to remember. “Out,” he concluded.

“For three days?” Kieran asked.

“Three days,” he stupidly repeated Kieran’s words. “You sure it’s been three days, Lil’ Bro’?” He could see from Kieran’s expression that he was. “Oh, huh. How ‘bout that? Do you know I have no earthly idea?”

“I thought she had you,” Kieran suddenly sobbed.

“She . . . who?” Kevin asked, puzzled and alarmed at his little brother’s unusual display of emotion. But Kieran remained silent.

Kevin knelt down and took his hands. “No, K-man, there’s no ‘she’ . . . not that I remember, anyway,” he joshed. “But I’ll tell you something, freaky boy, wherever I was, it wasn’t good, that much I do know, and I’m not ever gonna go back there again. I mean that, little brother . . . I’m turned inside out.”

“Me too,” Kieran agreed, dragging a sleeve across his running nose.

From the darkness of the living room they could hear their mother stir and call out in rising tones, “Kev, is that you, Kevin, honey?”

“Is she gonna rip me a new one?” Kevin asked with a lopsided grin.

“Oh yeah,” Kieran assured him. “She loves you, Kevin . . . me too,” he added quietly.

“I know that,” his brother replied, then turned to face their mother as she thundered down upon them, screaming his name.

Copyright © 2010 David Dean