Renegade Reborn (17 page)

“I’m sorry, I . . . I don’t, I don’t remember anything.” Malik said. Lamik smiled at this.

“It’s all right, son. It’s a new beginning . . . for both of us. Now, get some rest, and let’s see if we can’t take a walk later and try to get back some of those memories . . .” Lamik said, as he turned and walked out of the room.

But Malik couldn’t sleep. He had no idea where he was or even who he was. Malik? The name sounded so foreign, so wrong, and that man . . . the man said he was his father, but, but it felt wrong. Malik got up, and paced about his room. It was nice enough, with shellacked, shiny wooden walls with the black knotholes left in leaving and giving it a natural, rustic feel, and hanging from the walls were colored pictures of warriors clad in green fighting with monsters as well as each other. Malik walked up to one, plucked a picture off the wall, and studied it carefully. The picture was no doubt a child’s version of the man who had just left. There was no mistaking the green uniform, the big black beard, or the eye patch, but beneath it, something was wrong. It read, “By Malik Strife.” In a childish scrawl dated just a few days prior.

No, this wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all.

Malik quickly hung the picture back up, and ran to the desk, pulling open drawers, and upon the third try found a pencil in the bottom drawer, along with a stack of paper. Malik didn’t think, only let instinct take over, as he put his pencil to the paper and began drawing, quickly, and beautifully. As the picture came to be, he heard a voice, rising louder with every new line. The voice was calm, kind, and encouraging him. He could hear the pride in the man’s voice at his obvious talent for art, could feel the warmth of his smile prickle the hairs on the back of his neck. The feeling, it was so powerful that Malik turned around.

There was no one there.

A few minutes later the picture was finished. He held up the picture, staring at it, not even needing to compare it to the childish drawings on the wall. It was almost like looking into a photograph, and suddenly, a name was on the tip of his tongue. His brain hurt ached as he searched for it. It was somewhere in his head, somewhere deep down, and then, it hit him. Quickly, he threw opened the top drawer, and pulled out coloring utensils, and as if in a trance, his hands moved as he grabbed for the blue, and colored in the picture. Upon finishing, he held it up again. He was speaking before he even realized.

“Narroway . . . Renegades . . . Chieftain Narroway, my . . . my Dad! He’s my Dad!” Malik shouted. By saying those two words, Narroway, and Renegade, it seemed to open up a floodgate in his head. It was all coming back to him.

“Where am I? This isn’t my room! WHERE AM I!? WHAT IS THIS!? WHAT’S GOING ON!” Malik shouted when suddenly, the door swung open and in walked Chieftain Lamik.

“YOU! You’re not my Dad! This, this is my Daddy! This is my Daddy! Who are you!? Take me back! Take me . . .” Malik started when suddenly, Lamik moved with the swiftness of a snake, striking him on the side of his head with a sword sheath. Malik went down in an instant.

“Daddy . . . Daddy, where? Where are you? Why . . . why’d you leave . . . me” Malik stammered as darkness overtook him.

Chapter Eight: Vadid the Valiant

Gisbo, falling upon his knees, looked up into a face of legend, of stories, of countless acts of heroism, but also, of family.

Vadid the Valiant stabbed the Phoenix blade into the dirt, leaving it shining without having to touch it, helped Gisbo up to a standing position, and looked him up and down.

“Heard word my grandson was droppin’ by. That you?” Vadid asked in a booming, clear, baritone voice. A pencil thin cigarillo was nestled in the corner of his mouth, and switched from side to side as he spoke.

“I . . . I . . .” Gisbo started. It was so unsettling to see his own eyes staring right back at him, the same hazel, wolf eyes that were passed down to his mother, and then to him.

“Well? Are ya or aren’t ya, Nancy?” Vadid asked, his right eyebrow raised in a devil may care tribute.

“Nancy? I, do you even know what you’ve done for me, and my life? Is it you? Is it really you?” Gisbo asked earnestly.

“Answer the question, Susan. Are ya, or aren’t ya, my grandson?” Vadid asked.

“I, yes, yes I am,” Gisbo said.

“I don’t believe you,” Vadid said, folding his large, hairy arms. Gisbo noticed that the voice was from before had changed. No doubt it was Vadid that was speaking to him in that calm, deep, soothing voice, but now? It had a western Naforian tone to it.

“Um, why?” Gisbo asked.

“Why? Well, just look at yourself. Any grandson of mine wouldn’t have wandered about these past few years, drinkin’ himself into a damned pity party every night. Would he? Nah, no grandson of mine would do that. No son of Falcon or my daughter would ever turn out to be such a little fairy ass,” Vadid scoffed, spitting on the ground. Gisbo, at first, was speechless, then, he felt his anger rise, and let the man before him have it.

“You know what? SCREW YOU! What I do with my life is none of your damned business! Vadid the Valiant? Pah! I knew it. I knew you were too good to be true. Never meet your legends, never meet your heroes in person they say, you know why? ‘Cause they end up being big old, giant pricks! Let’s turn this back on you! See how you like it! Where the hell have you been, huh!? Where the hell is here? And, why, WHY didn’t you stop him!? Why didn’t you stop him from coming back! You could have! You could have been there! Everything, everything I’ve done . . . could have been stopped, you, you could have stopped me! Could have saved, Dad . . . could have saved, Kennis, oh, Kennis . . . WHERE WERE YOU!? WHY DID YOU RUN OUT ON US!? YOU COULD HAVE SAVED EVERYONE!” Gisbo screamed, suddenly out of breath, thrusting a finger forward.

Vadid stared at him for a long moment.

“Think you got something on your face. Right about here,” Vadid said, fingering his own chin.

“Huh?” Gisbo asked, taken aback, when suddenly his jaw exploded with pain and he felt his head jerk back to the right, so violently, his body followed with it. He felt a weightless sensation, and then, had the wind knocked out of him as he fell to the ground hard upon his back. The night sky above him was spinning, and one by one, the stars seemed to be going out. He had to fight for consciousness, and blinked furiously until finally, the stars came back into focus. With much effort he rose onto shaky feet, stumbling a little to the left before righting his balance.

“You, you hit me?” Gisbo asked, bewildered.

“Reckon’ so,” Vadid said.

“WHY!?” Gisbo demanded.

“Because only someone from the McCarley line could take a punch like that, and get up for more,” Vadid said. He spit out his cigar and the corner of his mouth stretched into a wry smile as he took a few steps and stood before Gisbo. “I think you and I, we have a few things to get off our chests. Don’t you?”

Gisbo opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came.

“Well, don’t start all at once or anything.” Vadid said, folding his arms. Gisbo could only stare, dumbfounded. His mind flashed back to Vadid’s golden statue, and how he felt upon seeing it his first day in Heaven’s Shelter. Back then, it was larger than life, but now, standing before the real man, it seemed as if something big was all around him, pressing down. It was something dangerous, raw, and wild. It was something that didn’t apologize, gave no quarter, but above all, it felt . . . good. Gisbo knew that if this man was on your side there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect you, and all you stood for. He was like a walking sanctuary, a real live Heaven’s Shelter, and suddenly, the giant golden statue made sense. It wasn’t there for vanity’s sake. It was there to inspire, and cast that same feeling of protection, and safety.

“I’ve read about you, and the Renegades, my whole life. Your stories, everything about you, they, they brought me out of dark places, I, gah, my head is spinning. I feel like my heart is . . .” Gisbo started.

“ . . . Beating like a teenaged girl?” Vadid asked.

“Yes! I mean, NO!” Gisbo exclaimed. Vadid laughed a deep, hearty laugh and Gisbo, felt the top of his head being ruffled.

“You’re an even bigger fool than your old man, Jenny, and coming from me, that’s a compliment.” Vadid said.

“I think you have an odd way of saying compliments,” Gisbo said. Vadid gave Gisbo a hard stare, making him uncomfortable and again, Gisbo got that weighted feeling all around him. A few long moments later, Vadid sighed.

“I think I’m gonna need a few beers to loosen my tongue. Why don’t you come inside, help your Granddaddy out,” Vadid said.

“Hey, wait! Did you not just say I spent my life drinking it away?” Gisbo asked.

“Reckon I did, only because you’ve been doin’ it wrong.” Vadid said.

“Doing it wrong? How have I been . . .” Gisbo started.

“A man drinks whiskey to forget, and beer to remember.” Vadid said.

“Um,” Gisbo started.

“Or another way to say it, a man drinks whiskey to escape the pain, and beer to face it.” Vadid said.

“I think there’s a few recovering alcoholics out there that would disagree with that statement . . .” Gisbo said.

“But they don’t have the Drakeness flowin’ through ‘em do they? Just as the cigars helped your father cope, the beer will help you.” Vadid said, raising a finger. “But only if you follow these simple steps. Unlike your father, who saw his father destroyed by the drink, he hardly ever touched the stuff, but you, you’re a little different. Ain’t ya?”

“You could say that . . . so, say I believe you. What are these steps?” Gisbo asked.

“Rule one, no hard liquor, ever, ever again. Rule two, never drink alone. Rule three, no beer funnels or shotgunning. Stick with that battle plan, add a few cigars into the mix, and I feel your Drakeness will be a great deal easier to manage.” Vadid said.

“So, you’re telling me that as long as I forget the liquor, and stick with the beer, I can keep on drinking? It’s, it’s ok?” Gisbo asked excitedly.

“You’re an adult. You do whatcha want. I ain’t offerin’ answers, only advice. Now, get in there and help your Granddaddy slay a few beers. Hell, I’ll even throw on a few steaks. Wadaya say?” Vadid asked as he smacked Gisbo in the back.

“So, that’s a yes? I can have a beer?” Gisbo asked. Vadid gave him a bored look.

“Do you want a beer?” Vadid asked.

“I . . . you’re goddamned right I do!” Gisbo said, smiling, as he followed Vadid inside who tossed him a cold one from his icebox, then, pulled out some steaks, threw them on the indoor grill, and began cooking.

Gisbo did his best to drink the beer slowly, but before he knew it, it was dead, and he was ready for another, but before he could ask a familiar smell of mixed ingredients hit his sinuses hard. It was a smell that immediately transported him back to countless nights in Heaven Shelter where he, Rolce, Falcon, Moordin, and Foxblade would sit about eating Falcon’s famed marinated steaks.

“I know that smell, it’s his recipe . . .” Gisbo said. Vadid turned around, true surprise upon his face.

“HIS recipe? Well, I’ll be damned . . . you mean to tell me your bonehead father began passing off MY recipe as his own?” Vadid asked.

“Um,” Gisbo stammered.

“Hrmph,” Vadid grumbled. A few minutes later, Vadid turned around with two plates, one for each of them, and placed them down upon the table. Gisbo sat down and stared at his steak and green vegetables, and picked up the steak between two fingers, holding it up, spinning it from side to side.

“This thing’s black as an asshole . . .” Gisbo said.

“Quit your bellyachin’! It’s fine! Go ahead, eat up, I . . . ok, fine, listen, between you and I, Sally, thing is, yes, I did come up with the marinade, but I was never good at the execution. I had your Daddy do all the cooking for me. Grilling a steak just right, well, that is an art form in and of itself, and it’s beyond my talents. You’d figure with all the time I’ve had here I’d have perfected grilling by now . . .” Vadid started.

“Stay right here,” Gisbo said, getting up.

“’Scuse me?” Vadid asked.

“I said, stay right there. Give me these hockey pucks,” Gisbo said.

“Hockey pucks!?” Vadid asked, offended, as Gisbo picked up their plates, and tossed the black steaks into the garbage.

“What do you think yer doin’ there, Mary?” Vadid asked.

“Grilling. And the name’s, Gisbo, not Mary, not Susan, not Sally, and not fairy ass.” Gisbo said.

“I wondered if you’d ever speak up. I never called you fairy ass though. That’s rightfully hurtful.” Vadid said.

“A man who can’t grill is rightfully hurtful,” Gisbo said, cocking his eye toward Vadid.

“Hrmph,” Vadid grunted, folding his arms and trying to shoot Gisbo a stern look, but beneath it all, Gisbo could tell he was fighting back a smile.

Gisbo opened the icebox, pulled out two new slabs of marinated meat, and went to work searing each side for about three minutes, then, after giving the steaks five minutes to breathe, he presented his delicacy to Vadid for approval. Vadid looked down at it, inspecting it carefully.

“This grill line here, it’s crooked,” Vadid said, poking the steak with a big, sausage finger.

“Eat it, then I dare you to try calling me Nancy again.” Gisbo snapped. Vadid grunted in reply and cut into the meat, surprised that it hardly needed any effort. It split like butter, and moments later; he popped a piece in his mouth. First his eyes went wide, and then they closed, relishing the taste, the taste that transported his mind back to some of the best days of his life.