Protector of Children - 2. Chapter 2: Everest

Everest

 

The little boy was soft, smooth, and clean. He smelled of patchouli. The man whose lap the boy sat on was hairy and smelled of lust—of the apocrine sweat that dripped from under his arms and the pre-ejaculate that leaked onto the little boy’s bottom. The boy smiled, and cooed. “I like Yankees best. They have biggest dicks and strongest seed. I make you feel real good, Yankee. I take your dick in me. You fill me with your seed. Your seed make me strong. You like, Yankee.”

 

Morning Bible Institute, Chicago, Illinois

Brown leaves, the last of autumn, crackled under Richard’s feet. A few of the leaves tried to follow him into the student union, but the air curtain over the door blocked both the leaves and the crisp fall air. Once inside, Richard smelled burned coffee and greasy hamburgers.

A manila envelope on the floor caught his eye. He looked around to see who might have dropped it, but saw no one. Richard shrugged, stuck the envelope among the stack of books under his arm, and walked into the cafeteria. Five minutes later, he was sitting at a table with a cup of tea. He opened the flap of the envelope, seeking a clue about its ownership.

A voice from behind him startled him, and he dropped the envelope to the table.

“What have we here? Don’t stop now; remove the contents of the envelope.”

Richard looked over his shoulder. Dennis, a student with whom he had several classes, and their Apologetics professor stood behind him. The voice had been the professor’s. Richard nodded, and slid the papers from the envelope into his hand.

“See, I told you, Professor,” Dennis said. “Just like I said.”

Richard looked from Dennis to the papers: blue ink whose chemical smell overpowered even the burgers and coffee. Mimeographs—of the Apologetics mid-term exam.

“I found the envelope—” he began, only to be silenced by the professor.

“Mr. Brooks, you will hand me the envelope and follow me to the provost’s office. Now.” The professor’s voice was hard and unforgiving. Dennis’s mouth curled briefly into a feral grin before he looked away.

 

The provost listened to the professor, and then looked at Richard. “Mr. Brooks, your expulsion is effective immediately. Security will escort you to your room to ensure that you remove only that which is your property. Your tuition as well as room and board for the remainder of the semester is forfeit. Have you paid for the next semester? No? Then you are due nothing except your Student Union account.”

The man pressed a few computer keys. “That amounts to $18.50. De minimus. We’ll not be refunding that, since it costs us more than $18.50 to process a check.

“You are to be off the campus by 4:00 PM, today. If you attempt to return, you will be arrested for trespassing.”

“But, sir!” Richard said. “I only found the envelope, and looked in it to see who might have dropped it.”

The provost’s voice was terse. “Do not contradict a professor, Mr. Brooks, or I will add slander to the record. It is a record that will follow you no matter where you try to matriculate. You will not be admitted to any legitimate college, ever.”

 

Richard slung a large backpack over his shoulders, and grabbed the handle of a rolling suitcase. They held all that he owned … all that was important, in any case. The furniture, the bedding, many of his clothes, he had left. He could not carry it all, and the campus police had not been inclined to allow him to hire a U-Haul trailer, even had he been able to afford it.

 

In his room, Dennis looked at the copy of the mid-term he’d kept for himself before discarding the envelope. He popped a dexie to keep him awake through the night. He would study the test and maybe pull up his grade enough to pass.

 

Great Lakes Naval Station, North Chicago, Illinois

Richard slept the sleep of the exhausted. Not deep, and not restful, because the exhausted also had pain from muscles challenged by the physical strain of an obstacle course which the Navy preferred to call a “confidence course.” Richard’s sleep was fitful. When he heard a knock on the door, Richard woke instantly.

“Come in,” he called, and then looked to the bunk beside his own. It was empty. His roommate was married, and had the privilege of spending Saturday evenings with his wife in the hellhole of an apartment they could afford on an E-1’s salary.

The door opened and closed. “Richard? It’s Bill. You awake?”

 

Richard and Bill had come out to one another several weeks ago; however, their friendship had been tentative and platonic. Tonight, Bill had come back to the post after a frustrating evening in Boystown, and was desperate. Richard was not desperate, but he was … well, horny. It took only a little pleading by Bill before the two were naked, and entwined in Richard’s bunk.

They were interrupted when the door crashed open. The light came on. A slurred voice shouted, “What the fuck?” and then snickered. “Yeah, fuck, all right.”

 

The drunken sailor who had seen—and reported—Richard and Bill was not disciplined for drunkenness, even though he’d entered the wrong room in the wrong barracks and broken down a door in the process. Rather, Richard and Bill had been discharged. No pay, no benefits, and no chance of ever being a member of the armed forces of the USA.

 

Markham, IL

Richard found his next job through a help-wanted ad for a house painter. Richard responded, and was told the job was his at $12.00 an hour. When he reported, he found out that the job only paid $10.00 per hour; rather, that it paid $12.00 per hour but that he’d have to kick back $2 per hour in cash to his boss. Richard sighed, and agreed. He was down to nothing, and had it not been for the Salvation Army, he’d have had to sleep on the streets until his first paycheck.

 

“Richard? You’re a hard worker,” his boss said. “The Lord God Almighty has need for hard workers, too. How about comin’ to church this comin’ Sunday?”

“Boss, I hate to say this, but Sunday’s about the only day I have to do laundry and put in a little food,” Richard replied.

“You shouldn’t ought’a be workin’ on the Sabbath,” Richard’s boss replied. “You think on it.”

Richard promised to do so, while thinking, You work me six days a week, more than 10 hours a day, without paying overtime, steal from me, and then wonder why I don’t want to go to church with you on the seventh? What are you, some kind of nut?

Richard found out what kind of nut his boss was when, a few weeks later, Richard was once again invited to church.

“Boss, I told you, I don’t have but one day to do stuff I have to do,” Richard said. “Besides, I’m not much a fan of organized religion.”

Richard’s boss got a mean look. His eyes narrowed until they looked piggy in his fat face. His lips tightened until the blood left them.

“I ain’t havin’ no atheists workin’ for me. You’re fired.”

“Um, I have a week’s wages coming,” Richard said.

“Yeah? Prove it,” his boss said. “Now get the hell—which is where you’re goin’ t’ end up—out of here.”

 

Kathmandu

Kathmandu was 1,400 meters above sea level, yet it was only 15% of the way to the top of Mount Everest. Richard stood at the luggage carousel, waiting for his stuff to arrive. He’d hocked everything he owned except his climbing gear. He had just enough money for his plane ticket, including the return ticket that was mandatory before he could get a visa, and what he hoped was enough to get him attached to an Everest expedition. Richard had decided that reaching the summit of Everest would be the culmination of his life. After that, it really didn’t matter.

He retrieved his luggage, and toted it to the Air Nepal desk, where he checked in for the flight to Namche Bazaar.

Qomonangma, “Holy Mother,” Richard thought. The April air was clear, and the summit stood proudly against a cerulean sky. Whatever the outcome, this would be the end of Richard’s journey. He had already decided upon that. His goal was the summit; after that, well, there were many ways to die on Everest. The Pilatus PC-6 bounced twice before settling onto the runway.

 

Namche Bazaar, Nepal

Richard tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and ducked his head into the collar of his jacket. That wasn’t going to be enough, even if he found a sheltered spot out of the wind and out of the sight of the local military police. His luggage, which contained his packet of travelers’ checks, had been lost somewhere between Kathmandu and Namche Bazaar. The Air Nepal people had been useless: they knew little English, and pretended to know even less. The American Express office was closed. The guard at the USA Consulate had been curt, telling him to return in the morning because everyone had gone home for the night.

Richard had nothing but his passport, a return ticket, about $25 in cash, and his lucky carabiner. He wondered if he could sell the return ticket on some sort of black market. Maybe even sell his passport. Not likely, he thought. What do you know about black markets, anyway? You’ve been a goody-two-shoes all your life. You wouldn’t know a black market if it bit you.

 

The sun had long ago moved below the western mountains, yet the sky dimmed slowly. As the light changed, so did the character of the people on the street. The first to disappear were the old ones: gray-haired, nearly toothless, and dressed in traditional garb. Next to vanish were the businessmen: sharp and confident in Western clothes with Burberry coats and scarves. Then, the un-muffled roar of rice-rockets echoed from the close-set buildings as the 20-somethings arrived. Even those on foot wore the ubiquitous slick, colorful pants and jackets of riders, as well as their square-toed black boots with silver buckles. Their eyes followed Richard as he walked cautiously, close to the buildings.

I’ve got to get out of here, he thought. Anywhere—

His thoughts were interrupted when a small figure ran from an alley and collided with him.

“Help me.” Those words and blood bubbled from the boy’s lips. He tried to hold Richard, but slid down his legs. Richard reached under the boy’s arms and pulled him erect, as three yakuza followed the boy from the alley. One held a knife. The blood that dripped from the knife was nearly black in the fading light.

The yakuza who held the knife wiped it on the back of the boy’s shirt, folded the knife, and stuck it in his pocket.

“If you know what’s good for you, …” he began in Nepalese.

“I don’t understand,” Richard replied in English.

The yakuza pulled his lips back to show teeth inset with diamonds. He looked past Richard for a moment; his eyes narrowed. Then, he and his companions slid back into the alley.

Richard knelt and laid the boy onto the pavement. The boy’s throat has been cut! Richard pressed his hand on the gash. Didn’t get the jugular, I don’t think, or he’d be dead by now. Still, he’s losing a lot of blood. He looked around and opened his mouth to call for help, but the street was suddenly empty.

“Hold on, Little One,” he said. “Hang in there.” Then he yelled. “Help! Someone, help!”

Across the street, a door opened an inch or so, and then closed.

Richard called, again, but the street stayed empty. The last daylight disappeared. Now, the only light came from second-story windows: warm orange light from oil lamps; flickering yellow light from candles; and actinic white light from gasoline lanterns. Had there not been a dying child at his feet, Richard might have found it beautiful.

“Please help!” he called again. The boy’s pulse was fading; his breath was shallow. Richard’s voice was choked with tears, and dropped to a whisper. “Please, someone … anyone …”

 

Soft footsteps approached. A figure passed between Richard and the brightest of the lights. It was a man in a robe, belted at the waist. One of the monks, Richard thought. Men and boys in saffron robes, carrying wooden begging bowls, had been ubiquitous earlier in the day, but had disappeared from the streets long ago.

The monk knelt. The man’s hand rested upon the hand Richard held at the child’s throat.

“Give me your pain,” the man said in unaccented English.

Richard felt the child’s body relax. He felt the pulse beneath his hand grow stronger. He heard the bubbling gasps of the boy’s breath become clear and even, and felt the child’s chest rise and fall with deep, regular breaths. Richard felt something else, as well. He felt his own pain drawn from his head, his heart, and … his throat? his tummy? his … penis? his … this was getting really strange. Then, he remembered. The chakras … the sites of power in the body. He’s doing something to the chakras—

“Come,” the monk said. “The child is too weak to walk. Carry him, and follow me.”

Richard obeyed. What choice did he have? He was already shivering from cold, and he held an injured child. He would have followed the monk in any case, but something in the man’s voice compelled him.

 

A spot of light resolved into a lantern, hung over a door. The monk pushed open the door and then stood aside for Richard to enter. The room held only a table and another gasoline lantern.

“Put the boy on the table,” the monk ordered.

Again, Richard obeyed the compelling voice. He gently cradled the boy’s head so that it wouldn’t bang against the table. When the boy was settled, Richard stepped back, and saw the child for the first time.

He seemed to be about 12 years old. In the actinic light of the lantern, reddish highlights in his straight, black hair suggested a mixed heritage. The slightness of his epicanthic folds echoed it. The boy’s eyes, which opened to reveal startling blue irises, confirmed it.

“What is your name,” the monk asked the boy.

The boy looked around, felt his throat, shuddered, and then whispered, “I am a Child of the Dust. I have no name. Why did you not let me die?”

Richard felt as if his heart would break. Children of the Dust—bastards, sired by westerners: soldiers and tourists. Castoffs of the child sex trade, outcasts from both oriental and occidental society. Reduced to poverty and prostitution, doomed to perdition. No wonder he wants to die, Richard thought. But, that is so wrong!

“Wrong for him, but not for you?” the monk asked.

The light in the room seemed to focus on the monk; Richard had lost his peripheral vision. He saw only through a black tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, he saw nothing but the monk’s face and the knowledge that the monk knew what Richard had planned for himself once he had reached the peak of Everest.

“That’s different!” Richard said. “He’s young—he has his whole life in front of him!”

The monk chuckled. “Is your life so much more worthless than his? Are you so much more worthless than he? Is that what you think, Richard Carlin Brooks.”

“How do you know my name?” Richard choked out. The tunnel had disappeared. He and the monk stood across the table from one another. The boy’s eyes were closed; he was unconscious, again. Richard touched the boy’s throat and felt a strong pulse. He’s not in shock … weak, perhaps from loss of blood. Then Richard realized: there was no blood. Anywhere. Not on the boy, and not on him.

“I have waited a long time for you to come to Namche Bazaar,” the monk said, pulling Richard’s eyes back to him. “I am Asclepius, god of healing, son of Apollo, and you are my successor.”

Before Richard could understand what he had heard, the monk reached across the table and touched his index finger to Richard’s forehead. A flash of light overpowered the gas lantern. The monk was gone.

 

Moments later, the boy woke. “Who are you?” he asked. “Are you my new master?”

Not understanding, Richard replied, “I am Richard. I am … I guess I am your friend, although I’m not sure what good that will do you.

“I think we need to look around,” Richard added.

The monk acted as if this place were his. I don’t know if there are other monks, but we both need a place to stay, tonight. The boy is wearing even less than I am; he’d die of exposure if we had to sleep outdoors.

 

In a second room, they found a pallet, and crawled under its blankets.

After Richard shut off the lantern, he felt the boy cuddle close … and then he felt the boy’s hand fumbling at the fly of Richard’s jeans. Richard jerked away.

“No!” he said. “No!”

The boy cooed. “Oh, yes. I know you like it, Yankee boy. I like Yankees best. They have biggest dicks and strongest seed. I make you feel real good, Yankee boy. I take your dick in me. You fill me with your seed. Your seed make me strong. You like, Yankee boy.”

Richard sat up. He took the little boy’s shoulders in his hands and lifted him until he was sitting beside Richard.

The little boy quivered. “Please you not hurt me! Please! I make you feel good but you not hurt me!”

“I will never hurt you Little One,” Richard swore. “And I cannot call you Little One. What is your name?”

The boy’s voice dropped. “I am a Child of the Dust—” he began.

“No!” Richard said. “You are not! You are a person. You are a person in your own right. You are a little boy who has been hurt. That is over. Now, you are mine to protect. You have a name. Please tell me what it is.”

The boy shrank away from Richard, and then said. “Once, I was called Zhang. But you call me anything you want. What name you want me to be?”

“If Zhang is your name, I will call you that.” Richard marveled at what he had said. I said he was mine to protect. How can I know that? I love him, but how can I love him so quickly?

“You not hurt me?” the little boy whimpered. “You love me? You not let me suck you? You want fuck me?”

“No,” Richard said, hoping the boy wouldn’t see the lie. I want it, but I can’t!

It did not occur to Richard to wonder why the boy asked if Richard loved him. He cuddled the boy, and held him until they both fell asleep.

 

The next day was bright, and the sun had cleared the eastern range by the time Richard and Zhang left the monk’s home. Zhang held tight to Richard’s hand as they entered the USA Consulate.

The Marine guard was abrupt: “You can’t bring your little sex toy in here,” he said.

Richard briefly wondered why the guard thought Zhang was a sex toy, but simply said, “My name is Richard Brooks. I am a citizen of the USA, and a distressed traveler—”

“Mr. Brooks?” A man who had been walking across the lobby, spoke. The man wore morning clothes: a cutaway coat, striped pants, starched shirt—that looked utterly ridiculous in this backwater village.

“Yes, sir,” Richard answered. “Richard Carlin Brooks.”

“My goodness,” the man said. “We’ve been getting messages about you since midnight. Quite overwhelmed our code room. Let me see.”

He reached into the folder he was carrying.

“One requiring that we issue a passport for your step-brother, Zhang Brooks. That’s from the State Department. Very high level. One with a voucher for Zhang’s travel with you to Chicago. Orders to issue cash. And a message marked private. Of course, I had to read it since I decoded it. It’s from your father.”

Richard’s stomach lurched, and he thought he would throw up. My father? My father threw me out of the house five years ago, screaming ‘fag’ and ‘queer’ and threatening to cut my nuts off with a spoon if he ever saw me again.

The man handed a piece of paper to Richard. In the all-capital letters of a code machine, it read, “Good work, son. Will meet you and Zhang at O’Hare airport. Love, Dad.”

I’ve never called my father, ‘Dad,’ Richard thought. Who can this be? the name on the message header was Caden Hopkins. Richard stared, and shook is head.

Richard turned to the diplomat. The man smiled, and said, “I’m not supposed to say this, but we’re all rather happy when one of these children is claimed by his family.”

 

The best flight schedule the consulate could arrange required a 24-hour layover at Tokyo. On the other hand, they had given Richard enough cash that he could afford a change of clothes for Zhang and for himself, and a room at an airport hotel.

Richard took Zhang’s hand and led him into the room. He set the bags of clothes they’d bought—the only luggage they had—on the bed. “If you will take off your clothes, you may shower first.”

“What is shower?” Zhang asked.

“Bathe? With water raining over you?” Richard replied.

“Oh, then you must pump—” the boy began.

“You’ve never seen a shower, have you?” Richard asked. Zhang shrugged.

“Undress, please,” Richard said. “I’ll show you.”

Zhang removed his clothes, and then manipulated his penis until it was hard. Even the men who only fucked him had wanted to see him hard. It excited them to see so large a penis on so small a boy. None of the men realized that Zhang was not the 12 years or so that he appeared. Zhang rubbed his smooth pubic mound and tummy from which all hair had been removed, enhancing the fiction that he was a ten-year-old with a seven-inch penis.

Richard blushed, and averted his eyes. He gestured for Zhang to follow him into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and set the temperature, and then gestured for Zhang to step in.

“Be careful. Soap will make the floor slippery.”

“You must wash, too,” Zhang said. “Will you shower bathe with me?”

“Um, I probably shouldn’t,” Richard said.

“Please? I not sure what to do. I afraid of slippery.”

Richard laughed. “You are a minx, you know that?”

“Is minx good thing? I think so because you laughing. You happy. Please, you wash me? I wash you?”

Richard sighed, and then undressed. He kicked his clothes toward the door and stepped into the shower. “No sex stuff,” he warned.

Zhang looked at Richard’s face. Richard’s mouth was set in a straight line; his eyes, hooded. Richard was serious.

“Okay, Yankee boy, no sex stuff.” He giggled.

 

Zhang kept his word—sort of. Richard had bitten his lip to keep from cumming when Zhang repeatedly and accidentally brushed Richard’s penis, which—unmindful of Richard’s sternest mental commands—had hardened until it stood at a proud 45-degree angle above horizontal.

Richard had helped the boy by washing Zhang’s hair and back, and had to bite his lip again when he ran a soapy washcloth across the boy’s bottom. Zhang then spread his legs as wide as the shower stall would allow, and Richard carefully ran the washcloth between the boy’s nether cheeks.

The rush of water could not mask the boy’s gasp nor his soft cries as he came. Richard saw Zhang’s body stiffen and muscles pop into bold relief as a second spasm struck him. Sight, sound, and smell overpowered Richard, and he watched in amazement and horror as his own sperm shot from his untouched penis to land Zhang’s back before being washed away by the water.

Several years later, Richard turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

“Zhang, I’m sorry!”

“Why you sorry? You make me feel good,” Zhang said. Then, he giggled. “I think you feel good, too. So, why you sorry?”

“Zhang, I’m an adult, a man. I’m 20 years old. Twice your age. That’s why it’s wrong.”

Zhang giggled, again. Then, he stood facing Richard. The boy’s face changed, hardened. It was if he were a different person.

“I am older than I appear,” he said. “My former master made sure I looked as young as possible. When boys are six, he sends us to a hospital in Bangkok where things are done … hormones, surgery. When it appears, our body hair is permanently removed. We are starved so that we remain small. Many men paid him a great deal of money to have sex with what they thought was a child. Many more paid for the movies that were made …”

“I’m sorry,” Richard cried. “I should have known! I should have asked. I should have understood.

“Was your master the yakuza who cut you?”

“No, they had stolen me from my master. They just wanted to fuck me. Then they would have killed me. I kicked one in the balls and tried to get away. Another grabbed me, and cut me. I kicked him, too, before I found you.”

 

Chicago, Illinois, USA

 

It was twenty-eight more hours before the international flight landed at O’Hare. With no luggage other than plastic bags of dirty clothes, Richard and Zhang quickly cleared customs. Immigration looked at Zhang’s passport only long enough to see the State Department stamps, and then waved them through.

They stepped into the public area to find a boy about Zhang’s apparent age holding a hand-lettered sign reading, “Richard and Zhang.” Before they could move toward him, he pushed the sign into the hands of a man standing beside him, and rushed to Zhang. Zhang tried to cower behind Richard, but the other boy was faster. He grabbed Zhang in a hug, and then said, “Zhang! I’m your cousin, Nemesis! Welcome to Chicago. Welcome to the USA.”

Nemesis released Zhang and held out his hand to be shook. “Hello, Uncle Richard. Welcome home. Come on, your father is here, and Gary. You don’t know him, but he’s your uncle.”

By this time, Gary had reached them. “Slow down, Nemesis,” Gary said. “Richard, I’m Garreth Walters. Please call me Gary. Zhang may prefer to call me Uncle Gary.”

Gary lowered his voice and gestured to Caden, who had followed him. “This is Caden. He’s sort of your father, and Zhang’s. We’ll explain.”

Both Richard and Zhang looked pale. Gary noticed. “Sensory overload? Too much at once. Will you come to my home? You can rest, and we’ll explain everything.”

 

Richard

He was right. Sensory overload. And pain. Zhang was crushing my left hand in his grip. Something told me I could trust these people … something I believed. I nodded. The boy who said his name was Nemesis grabbed my hand—and we were no longer at the airport, but in … someone’s kitchen?

Gary appeared beside me. His lips were pressed together and his eyes flashed. Really. It looked like sparks. When he spoke, his voice was flat and without emotion.

“What is it about sensory overload that you did not understand?” he asked Nemesis.

The boy looked horrified, as if he’d eaten an insect.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “Richard, Zhang, I’m so sorry. Will you please forgive me? Please?”

“I think it’s Gary you should be asking,” I said.

“I have to ask you first,” Nemesis said. “I know Gary will forgive me, even if you don’t, but I have to ask you, first.”

“I forgive you,” Zhang said … his first complete sentence since we’d landed. “You said you were my cousin? I’ve never had cousin, before. What is cousin?”

“I forgive you, too,” I said.

Gary smiled. “Thank you, both. Now, Nemesis, would you take your new cousin to shower and change, and I’ll show Richard to—”

“No!” Zhang cried. He gripped my hand and pressed against my side.

“Zhang’s been through a lot, recently,” I said. “I really don’t think …” And then, I blushed at what they must be thinking.

“It’s okay, Uncle Richard,” Nemesis said. “Gary and I shower together, too. It’s cool.”

 

Although it was mid-afternoon, Gary offered breakfast after our shower: bacon, sausage, and blueberry pancakes. I watched as he and Nemesis preparing it, and realized that there was something more to this breakfast than simply food. There was something of ritual in it, and something of celebration.

When the meal was over, I sat on the couch with Zhang cuddled beside me. My arm rested on Zhang’s shoulder. Zhang had snaked his arm between my back and the sofa. Gary sat in an easy chair. Nemesis stood in the doorway and looked from Zhang to Gary and back, until Gary gestured to him. Nemesis scampered into the room and sat in Gary’s lap.

Caden sat in a second easy chair. He began the conversation.

“Richard, we know that Asclepius, the Greek god of Healing, gave you his Attributes and Authorities and then—died isn’t the right word—rather he left this place for another. Have you noticed any … differences in yourself or in how you interact with people around you?”

I was clean and fed, but still a little groggy from fitful sleep on the plane. I was also confused. My reply was maybe a little more belligerent than I really intended.

“Look, I saw a little kid who was bleeding to death, healed in an instant. I saw a guy, a Tibetan monk and not some Greek god, disappear in a flash of light. You are apparently the people who figured out a way to get Zhang out of Nepal, and the two of us back to Chicago. I owe you—a lot, including a bunch of money. I don’t know how, but somehow I’ll find a way to pay you back.

“Please, what’s really going on and why does … Caden … why did Caden sign the telegram as my father? My father hates me.

“I think I should trust you, but you must know this: Zhang is my responsibility. I will protect him with my life, if I have to.”

Gary smiled. “I understand. Truly, I do. Nemesis is my responsibility. I would protect him with my life. I love him so very much.

“Your love for Zhang is known and respected among us. We would never ask you do give that up.

“On the other hand, we have responsibilities that are greater than any of us; responsibilities that require that we be ready to sacrifice ourselves and those we love in an instant. It’s a dichotomy I have a great deal of difficulty thinking about.”

 

“I’m more afraid, now, than I was before,” I said. “I’ve been alone since I was fifteen, and my father kicked me out of the house. I’ve tried—desperately tried—to make a way for myself in the world. Everything I’ve tried, everything I’ve touched, has turned to sh—, sorry, turned to crap.

“Two—no, three days ago, a little boy came to me for help, help that I could not give him. Then, someone came to both of us, and gave the help that I couldn’t give. I can’t tell you what that meant to me. He told me that I would take his place … but, so far, I’ve not done anything. You guys? You’ve done everything.”

Caden looked at Gary, who picked up the conversation.

“Richard, the Greek gods are … were, in some cases … real. Not many of them are left. Zeus, Athena, Mars, Poseidon, Pluto and one very special one, Dike—goddess of justice. Besides the gods, there are spirits with specific responsibilities. There are also—minor gods—with their own areas of responsibility. There is an avatar of death, a spirit of law, a patron of lawyers, and others.

“The old gods were created by humanity in its search for understanding. As new gods and science came along, many of the old gods have—disappeared.

“Not long ago, a god of retribution, Nemesis, decided to move from this world to another, and gave his Attributes, Aspect, and Authorities to our Nemesis. Sometime after that, Apollo, one of the elder gods, gave his powers to Caden, but reserved some for me. Apollo was the father of Asclepius, which is why Caden was able to claim that he was your father.

“A few days ago, in a Nepalese village, Asclepius, the son of Apollo, gave you his Attributes and Authorities. You are one of us.”

 

Zhang

When I woke up, Richard was carrying me to a bedroom. I had fallen asleep. Richard saw that I was awake and bent down to kiss me on my forehead.

“Hey, sleepy head! You fell asleep. I almost did, too.” Richard pushed the door shut with his foot, and set me on the bed.

“They gave us a room with one big bed,” he said. “Um, is that going to be okay?”

I sat up and put my arms around Richard’s waist and rested my head on his tummy.

“I love you, Yankee Boy …” I felt him stiffen, and I realized I’d said the wrong thing. I started over again.

“I love you Richard Carlin Brooks, and I know you love me.”

I felt Richard relax, so I said, “And I want to feel you inside me.”