Sydney perks at this, the tightness lifting from her brow. “Is that right?” She pats the sofa cushion next to her.
Nomvula takes a seat, but not too close. Sydney’s mood changes like the wind, suddenly and without warning. “I want to feed, too. To grow stronger, like you,” Nomvula says. She’s sensed the emptiness inside Sydney shrinking, little by little, while Nomvula’s is growing and aching and paining. Sydney laughs something wicked, head cocked back, mouth wide, the taint of ire on her breath making Nomvula dizzy with hunger.
“Silly girl,” Sydney says, stroking Nomvula’s hair. “You’ve got enough strength to squish me like a bug, if you wanted. Of course, then you’d be all alone, no family to protect you.”
A terrorist they call Nomvula on the news, though they don’t know she’s just a ten-year-old girl. Sydney says it doesn’t matter how cute she is. They’ll want vengeance. Sydney promises to keep her safe, and that’s why Nomvula’s still here, cooped up for days and days and days. She’s safe here, and so what if Sydney sometimes yells or says mean things? Words never hurt anybody, Mama Zafu always says.
Said.
Nomvula bites her bottom lip as the memories of her childhood creep up on her. She pushes them away like a bad dream. But she knows what she did wasn’t a dream. Maybe that’s why she’s so desperate to see the good in Sydney, because then there’d be the chance that some good could exist inside Nomvula, as well.
“You’re my sister! I would never hurt you,” Nomvula insists, though her voice trembles with uncertainty. “But I don’t understand why we should be afraid of them. They are nothing.”
“Come, let me tell you a story, Nomvula.” Sydney turns off the television and pulls Nomvula over close. “You’ve heard the stories of the trickster hare? Well, the trickster hare was always being hunted by the black eagle. Every time he left his home, he’d see the black eagle’s shadow soaring at his feet and hear his mighty screech. The hare’s little heart beat so fast in his chest, narrowly escaping into the brush with his life on a daily basis.
“One day,” Sydney continued, “the trickster hare decided he’d had enough, and sat out in the open, leaned back against a big burlap sack, preening himself in the sun. The black eagle swooped down, but when the hare didn’t run away, he was curious and called out ‘Hey you, hare! Why aren’t you running? Aren’t you afraid of me?’
“‘Afraid?’ the hare asked. ‘Why in the world would I be afraid of a chicken?’
“‘I’m no chicken,’ the black eagle said, then settled down next to the hare, displaying its sharp, hooked beak and broad, sleek feathers. ‘I’m a black eagle, king of the skies!’
“‘You look like a chicken to me,’ the trickster hare laughed. ‘But if you really think you’re an eagle, I’ll let you prove it. Do you screech like an eagle or cluck like a chicken?’
“The black eagle let loose a high-pitched screech that ran the entire length of the hare’s spine.
“‘Okay, that was good, but any chicken could learn to do that with enough practice. Let me see you soar through the skies if you really are an eagle.’
“The black eagle soundlessly flapped his wings, stirring up dust and dirt, and then suddenly he was among the clouds, dipping and diving and twisting and turning.
“‘I’m impressed!’ the trickster hare yelled. ‘You’ve almost got me convinced. But we know how much chickens love chicken feed.’ The hare sat up and patted the burlap bag. ‘If you can eat this entire sack of chicken feed and honestly tell me that you’d rather have hare, I’ll throw myself right into your beak.’
“The eagle landed, sliced through the burlap. Dried bits of corn spilled upon the earth. He scooped up mouthful after mouthful and gulped it down his throat, then said, ‘I’d rather have hare, hare.’ Then he opened his beak wide so the hare could jump inside.
“‘Well, a deal is a deal, I guess,’ the hare said. He stretched, hopped up and down a few times, then cracked his knuckles. ‘All right, are you ready?’
“The black eagle groaned and his stomach gurgled. ‘Um, actually, I’m feeling rather full, right now.’
“‘No problem. How about a rain check?’ the trickster hare offered. ‘How about I meet you here same time tomorrow?’
“‘Promise?’
“‘You have my word.’
“The black eagle nodded, then flapped his wings to take off, but he only got a stone’s throw away before the bulge in his stomach weighed him back down. The hare ran up next to him. ‘You don’t have a taste for hare, and you can’t fly,’ the hare said. ‘Sounds awfully chickenlike to me. I bet that screech was a fluke, too!’
“The black eagle opened his mouth, but the chicken feed caught in his throat, and out came a choked sound that sounded a lot like clucking. The black eagle kept hopping and flapping and clucking, and the more frustrated he got, the shorter his hops became, and the cluckier his clucks, until he began to believe he actually was a chicken. And after that, the hare never had to worry about that black eagle again.”
“That hare is tricky,” Nomvula giggles. “That’s a good story.”
“Yes, but it’s more than just a story, sister. Mankind’s been tricked into thinking they’re chickens. It’s up to us to show them the truth . . . that they are like us.”
“But why? If everyone is a god, then who will be followers?”
Sydney cups her chin, raises it up to her. “My dear sister, it is the way it was meant to be. Basos pales in comparison to the fear of a god. We’ll be able to feed from the weakest of them and gain great strength. I will teach you to feed when the time comes, but for now you must ignore the pain. Promise?”
Nomvula’s not stupid. She knows Sydney is more like that trickster hare than a sister, but she’s the only family Nomvula’s got left. Nomvula needs to prove that she’s useful, that she’s good to have around. “Okay,” Nomvula agrees.
“Good. Tomorrow we will go to the park, and to a concert a few days after that. All the kids your age are dying to go.” She turns to her alphie. “Play artist Riya Natrajan,” she commands.
The alphie begins to play music. Nomvula’s heard of Riya, likes her okay enough. Sofora used to sing her songs twirling her skirt around as she danced all elbows and knees like she thought she was a goddess. Nomvula feels the hunger clawing up her throat. She nuzzles into the nook of Sydney’s arm and tries to ignore the sweet stink of fear.