Human for a Day (9781101552391) (12 page)

“Time has passed,” he said. “I have spent it in contemplation, and I have not found what I sought. Have you?”

The Master recognized the reedy voice from long ago.

The Rival.

He looked to where he had hurled the Soulsword, and had risen half to his feet before he realized it was gone. His eyes traced the empty shrine. Had the Rival reclaimed his sword?

“Why are you here?” the Master asked. “Have you come to answer the dishonor I've given? Have you come to face me at last?”

“You summoned me, but not in the way you think,” said the Rival. “Not through blood, as you were called, but through compassion.”

The Master looked down at his hands curled into fists. The blood of the men he had killed had dried upon his skin, coating his hands black.

“Why couldn't I kill the boy?” he asked without knowing.

The Rival sat unmoving. “Ten thousand cold nights have passed since we faced each other beneath the cherry blossom trees—many times that,” he said. “And in all those years, the world has changed and left men of war behind. They have no place in this world—you and I do not belong here.”

“I am a
sword,
” the Master said. “I am a tool by which men kill other men.”

“You were,” the Rival said. “But now you are a man, and you feel as other men do.”

“What does that mean?”

Silence spread between them. The Rival sat in stillness, the Master in shivering unease.

Finally, the Master could stand it no longer. He jumped to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “You dishonor me with your silence,” he said.

The Rival remained placid. “I do you honor by my silence,” he said. “You know the answer in your heart, even if you will not hear it.”

He wiped sweat from his brow. The Master stood over the Rival, quivering with the urge to fight. His nails dug into his flesh, and fresh blood traced gleaming channels through the congealed stains.

More candles appeared out of the darkness, lit by no apparent cause.

“Face me,” said the Master. “Face me, and finish that which we began. Or in the end, after I have desired this so long, do you prove a coward?”

The man looked at him, at last, and the Master drew back. The Rival was old—ancient beyond reckoning. His hair and beard extended to the floor as he knelt, and the furrows on his face plunged like canyons into his flesh. His eyes gleamed white as the Master's burned red.

“Our fight is ended,” he said. “It ended that night under the cherry blossoms—that night when our finest masters clashed—but it has taken both of us all this time to see it. We needed to walk as men, and so we have.”

The Master wanted to rage. He wanted to spit in the Rival's face and deny him. He wanted to wage this war unto eternity. He
hungered.

And yet.

The Rival rose and gazed out the window, where light spread into the world like a growing tide. He breathed a long sigh. “The night ends and the day begins,” he said. “Will we continue this battle, or will we make an end of it?”

They stood facing one another as they had that night—as they had faced each other many times before and many times since. They had fought a battle that had never sated them, and now he saw that it never would. He had seen this when he stood over a foe and failed to slay him. He had seen this in the old woman's sadness, when the thirst for death had left him.

The Rival held out his hand.

The Master took it.

 

The next day, when the searching villagers came upon the old shrine, they found the body of an ancient monk inside, lying in a pool of congealed blood. They buried him beneath the cherry trees. The blossoms fell on the fresh earth of his grave.

A single candle guttered on the altar, and none could say who had lit it.

They found two swords in the shrine, lying on the floor side-by-side, like companions. The men hesitated to touch them, knowing the legends of these blades, but a sense of peace surrounded them. The wounded boy, still coughing and shaking in his step, knelt to claim the black-hilted blade. He breathed easier, soothed by its touch.

The villagers returned the swords to their place of honor in the old shrine.

Then they knelt and prayed.

Dylan Birtolo

 

 

 

 

“Y
ou have been chosen.”

The words came to Deniel in his mind—a disembodied voice that filled his entire being with calm, happiness, and unquestioning loyalty. “How may I serve?”

“From sunrise to sunrise, you shall exist on earth and live as a man. During this time, you must not lose faith. Be an example for all who have lost their way.”

“Thy will be done.” Deniel bowed his head.

“Be strong, my child.”

After hearing those words, Deniel was ripped away. He felt as if unseen ropes wrapped around his entire body and yanked him through the sky. They burned as they pulled, scorching his skin though leaving no marks. He wanted to scream, but clenched his jaw shut. He would be strong. He was worthy. The burning grew to an almost unbearable level.

As he fell, he imagined ghostly hands reaching into his body, gripping his heart, and tearing it out of his chest. Deniel shut his eyes, clenching them tight against the pain. He could feel the air rushing past him, and it offered no solace from the fiery intensity. Then it all stopped and he only felt air rushing past.

Then he hit the ground.

A large crack echoed in his head as Deniel collided with the pavement. A groan escaped from his lips as he finally released the tension in his jaw. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and kept them squinted against the light of the afternoon sun. Rolling onto his back, he forced himself to look around. He was in an alley, near the back of it. Thankfully, it was abandoned.

He saw he was in a small crater. Inching his hands behind his back, he pushed himself up to a sitting position and let his head hang. The impact hadn't hurt him, at least not as far as he could tell. But he was sore; a sensation that was unusual. With another groan, he pushed himself up to a standing position.

He regretted the motion as his legs buckled and he had to put out an arm to catch himself on a nearby wall. Deniel looked down at his legs and their sudden betrayal. Putting his second hand on the wall for balance, he shook out one leg and then the other. It was almost a minute before he felt stable enough to stand up straight. Even so, he stumbled on the first step and put out his fingertips for balance. After that small mishap, he was able to walk towards the mouth of the alley.

The street beyond was a busy city street; cars inched along in traffic while they were passed by people walking on the sidewalks. Stores were open, some with wares available for display on the street. At the next corner, a man wearing three coats held a cardboard sign and a cup that he shook back and forth. The people on the street passed Deniel as if he were a normal part of the scenery. Being at the same level as so many humans made Deniel look at himself for the first time. He had been given suitable clothes: jeans, a shirt, a jacket, and a pair of shoes. The clothes felt confining, hugging his skin as he moved.

Taking a deep breath, Deniel stepped out into the stream of people and moved with them. He wandered down the street, looking around. He was not sure what he was looking for, but he knew he needed something. He needed to do something. As his mind stumbled over this, his body responded with its own answer; his stomach grumbled. It made Deniel stop in midstride and reach to his abdomen. The sound was followed with a sudden pang of hunger. To his left, he saw a street vendor selling hotdogs out of his cart. Deniel's mouth watered. He walked over and watched as a customer bought a hotdog and added a generous amount of toppings.

“Want a dog?” the vendor asked.

Deniel nodded.

“Two bucks.” The man reached into his cart and pulled out a dog with a practiced motion. Before Deniel had a chance to check his pockets, the vendor had the hotdog sitting in a bun and napkin in his hand. Deniel checked all of his pockets, but found nothing.

“I'm sorry, I don't have any . . .”

“Then get outta here.”

“Please, sir . . .”

“No dough, no dog. Beat it.” The vendor turned his shoulder so that he no longer had to face Deniel and could offer his food to the woman standing on the other side of the cart.

Deniel continued to wander down the street, following the gentle flow of foot traffic. It seemed that with each step his stomach became increasingly insistent. It had passed beyond discomfort and crossed into pain. But with no money, how could he get food? Stealing was not an option. When he appealed to people for charity, most ignored him. Those who didn't, looked at him once, and then passed him by.

Up ahead, Deniel saw the towering spires of a cathedral, and it brought him comfort. Without realizing it, he straightened his spine as he altered his course in that direction. When he rounded the corner, Deniel saw it in all its majestic glory. It was a beautiful cathedral with a large central tower housing four bells. The doors stood open and even from this distance, Deniel could see into the nave. Warmth filled him, diminishing the awareness of his hunger.

Deniel entered the cathedral and walked towards one of the pews. Getting down on his knees, he prayed, losing himself in the words. He could not say how long he had been lost in prayer, but he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It's late, my son. Time for you to go home.”

Deniel lifted his eyes and looked into the face of an elderly priest. “I can't go home.”

“Oh, it can't be that bad.”

Deniel stood up with a weak smile. “It's not that I don't want to go, I can't. Not yet.”

Again, Deniel's stomach betrayed him and let out an audible rumble. This made the priest smile.

“I think you'll find that it's easier than you think. But let's at least get you a meal before you go. The sisters run a soup kitchen next door.”

The priest escorted Deniel out of the cathedral, locking it up once they were outside. Deniel was surprised to see that night had fallen. He followed the priest to a small squat building next to the cathedral that was well lit. Several people were taking advantage of the sisters' hospitality and enjoying a warm meal. The priest brought Deniel up to get a meal and sat with him until he finished. They talked very little, but the priest insisted things were not as bad as they seemed and told Deniel to have faith. When he left, Deniel's stride was quick and strong.

Still not sure where he was going or what he was doing, Deniel wandered the streets following his instincts. With each passing hour, more buildings closed their doors and fewer cars appeared on the road. As he passed a small side street, Deniel heard something that made him stop.

“Gimme your money! And that briefcase, too!”

Deniel tensed and turned down the side street. Behind the corner of a building he saw two men. One of them cowered in a corner and fumbled in his pocket while the other looked on. The onlooker pointed a gun at the victim. Without hesitation, Deniel strode around the corner and advanced on the mugger.

“Leave that man alone!” Deniel shouted, making his voice as imposing as he could manage.

The mugger turned and snickered as he brought his gun around to point it at Deniel. “Or what? You ain't a cop. Gimme your money, too!”

Deniel jumped to the side, bursting into a run as soon as his feet hit the ground. The mugger fired his gun, but the shot went wide—straight through the space where Deniel had been. The mugger continued pulling the trigger as he swung his arm around towards Deniel. Another bullet soared well clear, but the third bit into Deniel's arm. He was dimly aware of a sharp burning sensation as it ripped through his skin. By then, they were within an arm's reach of each other.

The mugger tried to bring his weapon around and point it at Deniel's body, but Deniel shot his arm out and caught both of the mugger's hands in his one. He lifted up while still charging in and a fourth bullet soared into the sky. Deniel's knee came up and slammed into the mugger's side right in the ribs. The man expelled all his air at once and dropped the gun so that it clattered to the ground. He tried to stumble away, but Deniel kept a death-grip on his hands.

Ducking under the mugger's arms, Deniel spun around and drove his elbow into the mugger's back. He let go of the man's hands at the same time so that he stumbled forward and landed on the ground on his face. Deniel stood over him with his fists clenched at his sides. The mugger didn't even look at Deniel; he ran off so quickly that for the first few steps he staggered on all fours.

“Yeah! You better run!” the other man screamed as he ran up beside Deniel and threw a rock at the retreating criminal. “Get out of my neighborhood!”

When he turned to face Deniel he was beaming. He held out his hand. “I can't thank you enough! You saved me. Thank you.”

“I'm glad I could help. I was only doing what anyone would have done in the same situation.”

The man let loose a short barking laugh. “You haven't been here long, have you? What's your name?”

“Deniel.”

“Nice to meet you, Deniel. I'm Julian Blake. I owe you one.” As he spoke he clapped Deniel in the arm where the wound was. Deniel hissed and brought his hand up to the wound. “Oh god, I'm sorry! I didn't know you were shot. Let me take a look.”

Deniel complied, sitting down on the ground so that Julian could look at his arm. Julian helped Deniel take off the jacket and then lifted up the sleeve of the shirt. Deniel looked at his arm. He was bleeding. He couldn't stop staring at the blood as it slowly trickled down his arm. Those drops were his blood. His
human
blood.