Ring Shout(33)

That’s a lie. He always knew. This whole thing like a story he been writing.

“Please come up! You arrived just in time! But just you. Don’t need the spare.”

“She comes with me!” I nod to Chef.

His smile tightens, but he waves a hand. “However you want it.”

Together, me and Chef march up the platform steps. If you’re thinking, it must be a strange thing, being who we are, to stand there in front of hundreds of hateful faces, I assure you it is. Some of the Ku Kluxes got their mouths open, drinking up rainwater while the Klans all got that wrongness to their faces. I turn back to Butcher Clyde, the movie behind us playing bigger than life while the flames of that unholy cross lick at my soul. My eyes go then to the others on the platform—six in a row, and colored. Take one glance to find who I’m looking for.

“Michel George!” I call. But he don’t answer, don’t even turn.

“Oh, your beau can’t hear you,” Butcher Clyde says. “None of them can.”

He walks over to pull the sack off Michael George’s head and there’s relief and pain at seeing that familiar beautiful face, unharmed. Except …

“What you done to his eyes?” I demand.

“Oh, that?” Butcher Clyde moves a hand in front of Michael George’s blank face. He don’t flinch. Just stares out with white eyes, no pupils or nothing, as rain rolls down his dark skin. “Don’t fret, he’s just doing a kind of sleeping. But don’t you worry. You do right by us, and we’ll let him back to you, no worse for wear. The others … well, she’s going to be a might peckish when she shows up.”

She. This Grand Cyclops.

I stare into Michael George’s empty face, craving to reach out and touch him, hold him. But that’s what Butcher Clyde wants. I can see it in his grin, delighting at my pain. Clenching my fists to hold back the rage, I turn to the crowd.

“So this it, then? You call me here to see your little revival?”

Butcher Clyde’s smile stretches into a jack-o’-lantern’s grin. And I remember he just some things playing at being a person. “We’ve invited you to witness the grand plan.”

“What I tell you the last time about your grand plan?”

He chuckles. “I believe your precise words were, ‘Fuck your grand plan.’ But we haven’t told you the role you’re to play in it. Wouldn’t you like to know? We’ve been planning your part so long.”

When I don’t answer he goes on.

“As you know, we specialize in that thing you call hate. To your kind, it’s just a feeling. A bit of rage behind the eyes that can drive you to commit all sorts of beautiful violence. But for us, those feelings are a power of their own. We feed on it. Treasure it as life.” He turns to the gathered Klans. “Look at all that delightful hate. We didn’t put it there, was always growing inside. Just gave it a nudge to help it blossom. A few reels of celluloid and they come to us whole and willing. But sustaining as that hate is, it’s not very … potent.”

I raise an eyebrow. Seem these Klans can hate well enough.

“You see, the hate they give is senseless. They already got power. Yet they hate those over who they got control, who don’t really pose a threat to them. Their fears aren’t real—just insecurities and inadequacies. Deep down they know that. Makes their hate like … watered-down whiskey. Now your people!”

His eyes light up, and he steps closer.

“Y’all got a good reason to hate. All the wrongs been done to you and yours? A people who been whipped and beaten, hunted and hounded, suffered so grievously at their hands. You have every reason to despise them. To loathe them for centuries of depravations. That hate would be so pure, so sure and righteous—so strong!”

His body shudders, like he imagining the sweetest wine.

“What I got to do with any of that?”

“Oh, Maryse, you’re our top candidate!”

The confusion on my face stretches his grin impossibly wider.

“Told you we’ve been watching you. We knew those interlopers were going to crown a champion to wield their little magic against us, as they done before. But what if we could guide that choice? Instead of fighting their champion, we could help mold her. Let her see what it’s like to hurt. Let that wound fester. So that she keeps that little seed of hate deep inside. Then we feed it. Water it with our dogs. Let her hunt them, kill them, and enjoy it. And you do enjoy it, don’t you? Why, that hate will keep growing until it’s good and strong, waiting to be harvested, waiting for you to just tap into it.”

The rage in me shakes my voice. “This the part where you make your offer?”

“Indeed it is,” he purrs.

“Well, no need, I know what it is! And I don’t want it! Not from you!” He looks at me funny. And the heat in me rises higher. “You offering to bring back my family! Power over life and death, you said. Give me what I want more than anything. You think offering me that can make me switch sides? Come over to you? After what you done!”

There’s a quiet from Butcher Clyde, which is unusual. All I can hear is my own deep, angry breathing and the beating rain. Then he does something unexpected. He laughs. Real hard. So that he’s almost doubled over, slapping his thighs. And I imagine all those hidden mouths laughing too. He looks up at me, wiping away tears or rainwater.