Malaika by van Heerling Page B

mouth and pressed against the ember. She yelped loudly and hissed, bouncing backward. “—ot,” I finished. She shook her head angrily in my direction, as if to say, how about a little warning next time . . .
    “I tried to tell you but—” This was when I realized I was talking to a lion. I’m not sure why, but I do know that she didn’t eat me. Her composure came back somewhat as she began to cautiously pull her body forward. She was proud. Head high, shoulders and back straight. Really just a marvelous creature. The muddled russet coat was truly brilliant to behold, especially so close up.
    I held my hand out palm up because I’m an idiot, I know, but it seemed like the proper thing to do at the time. I was right. She tentatively pressed the crown of her head against my knuckles. I wasn’t ready for the sheer power. It didn’t hurt because her push was a “gentle” push. She pressed her body against my pant leg, nearly knocking me to my butt. I pressed my hand against her fur. It was surprisingly soft, but thick and rugged—if it is possible to be these at the same time. She circled me two times. I didn’t move much. Then she treaded her footsteps back to my chair, sniffed at the coffee-sodden ground again, and trotted back into the jungle.
    I felt ashamed about wanting to take her down. Although I’m sure it crossed her mind once or twice, so maybe we were even.

 
     
    By the time Absko showed up, it was late morning, coming upon noon. He was a strong boy. His body well into the advances of puberty: that awkward period where you’re not sure where or what is growing. He approached shirtless. It wasn’t hot for him and truth be told, vanity was setting in these days. His upper body was now able to bear two heavy bundles of tobacco with little effort.
    My door was always open, more or less. It wasn’t like I had a dead bolt or anything, or even a lock. Anyone coming out this far would be intending to see me, and I haven’t as of yet made any enemies that I know of. The screen door yielded its familiar whine as the coiled metal spring flexed—subsequently slapping the door shut as Absko entered. He set his books on a small table accompanying a worn book of Emerson, headed for the icebox, and popped open an A&W. I had just gotten them in. My favorite.
    “Absko,” I said, “what did you learn today?”
    “At school or in life?” he replied, anticipating my answer.
    “In life, my boy, in life!” This was routine talk between us; somehow, it hadn’t run its lot yet.
    “I learned today that I could lie to my father and get away with it.” He waited, testing me to see if I’d approve or rebuke such a discovery.
    “Hmm, I see. Yes, very good—learning the art of deception. However, don’t be surprised if that doesn’t come back to haunt you one day. Especially if your father never finds out.”
    “Don’t you want to know what it is about?”
    “And there it starts . . . nope, Absko, I most definitely do not want to know about it. That is yours alone.”
    “What ‘starts’?” he questioned.
    “You’ll find out soon enough. I’ll give you a hint, though. Deception is a wicked instrument, and when used against the ones we love . . . well, like I said, you’ll one day learn a new lesson.”
    “Are you going to tell him?”
    “No, Absko, but you might.” He took a sip of root beer as he brooded over this. As a bright boy, I knew he basically understood my warning, but the full circle of understanding wouldn’t hit him until life pressed it on him.
    “Nah, I don’t think he needs to know, not about this one.”
    I pulled a root beer for myself and traded a wry smile with him. Abasi was my best friend, but only if it were dire enough would I break the confidence I had earned with his son. I had a feeling Absko’s deceit in this case was child’s play (I was wrong). I grabbed my tobacco pouch and some papers and headed to my dilapidated but trusty chair just out front. Absko followed