The illusion, Sunil asked. What are you talking about?
Eugene smiled, a cruel peeling back of the lips from the teeth. Your myth, Sunil. I mean that you have yet to find your myth. When you do, you’ll be free like me. You will be a pure angel of purpose.
As much as he hated it, Sunil realized that Eugene was right. He hadn’t found his myth. What he didn’t know was what kept him from it.
He looked at Fire and shivered when he saw his lips peel back in a smile not unlike Eugene’s. Were the twins the gatekeepers to his myth? Was that why he was chasing them in a pointless game of bait? Something an intern could handle for him? The twins weren’t the killers from two years ago, but he didn’t know what they were. Two years ago he’d been clear about why he was helping, or pretending to help, Salazar. Now he had lost track of what the charade was about. Was he stalking himself, or Brewster? Or was Brewster stalking him? He remembered something Eugene had said. If a hunter ever loses track of his prey, he becomes prey.
You okay, Doc?
Yes, Fire, I’m fine, Sunil said.
Are you sure? Because you don’t look so good. You look like you’re suppressing something, something unpleasant, like, say, a sad truth?
The truth shall set you free, Water said.
Perhaps you’re projecting something onto me? Something you’d like to share, Sunil said.
Classic evasion, Doc. Very good, Fire said.
Why don’t you leave the psychiatry to me, Sunil said. You may be a little out of your depth there.
You know I’m right, Doc, you know you’re holding us because somewhere deep down you think we can help you with this truth that’s burning a hole in you.
Did you make your call to Fred, Sunil asked.
No, we didn’t and we want to, Fire said.
Fred will come for us, Water said.
And where is Fred right now?
Fred is in the desert, Water said. I love Fred. Fred is whom I love.
Can you tell me where to find Fred, Sunil asked.
Water was drinking his coffee, but Fire was just twirling the cup in his hands, not drinking. Sunil made a note about this, wondering if Fire could actually ingest anything. In spite of his earlier protestations to the contrary, he was looking forward to the results of the MRI that Brewster would be performing.
Why do we have Styrofoam cups and you have a real one, Fire asked.
Institute policy, Sunil said. Patients can’t use breakable crockery.
It’s not like we are terrorists, Doc. That’s apartheid, Fire said.
You never answered the question. Where can I find Fred.
Does it matter? Like Water said, Fred will come for us.
But what if I wanted to see your circus act, Sunil said. Where would I go?
Sideshow, Fire said.
I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Sunil said. What’s the difference?
Circuses are about entertainment and juggling and animals and all that shit. Sideshows are about freaks, about people and the limits of acceptability. We push those limits. If a circus is an escape, Fire said, a sideshow is a confrontation.
I see, Sunil said, writing. And you feel empowered by this difference?
Damn fucking right we do, Fire said.
“Circus” comes from the Latin for “ring” or “circle,” Water said.
What does a fire wizard do, exactly, Sunil asked.
I can show you, Fire said.
You’re not going to burn the building down, are you, Sunil asked.
Fire just glared at him. Watch, he said.
But it was Water who moved, not him, reaching for a piece of paper. With quick but graceful movements, he shaped it into a white origami moth with an eight-inch wingspan. Water held it up to Sunil and cupped his hand around the paper moth.
Fire began a mesmerizing incantation, and as Sunil watched, Water opened his hands and the paper moth fluttered into flight for thirty seconds. It hovered over his palms for another ten seconds and then burst into flames, the ash falling into Water’s cupped palms. He rubbed them together and once again held up the white origami moth.
Smiling, he passed the paper moth to Sunil.
How did you do that, Sunil asked, turning the fragile paper moth gingerly over in his hands.
We are the witchdoctor, Fire said.
Impressive, Sunil said.
Water got up and walked toward the wall of photos. What are these, he asked.
They are photos of cows, Sunil said.
A cow stands up and sits down fourteen times a day, Water said.
I would like to meet Fred, Sunil said.
Well, we all like what we like, Fire said. Did you take these photos?
Yes, a very long time ago, with a dinky old Kodak camera. I was seven or eight. They are Nguni cows. They remind me of home.
Ah, home. More nostalgia than memory, Fire said.
The Nguni name all their cattle, you know? This one here, Sunil said, pointing to one of the cows, is called Inhlakuva, sugar bean, because its markings resemble a sugar bean; and this one is Imfezi, the spitting cobra; and this creamy speckled one is called Amaqandakacilo, egg of the lark, Sunil said.
For real, Doc, Fire asked.
Sunil explained that each beast in a Nguni herd was an individual that carried its uniqueness in its color patterns, horn shapes, and gender, which bestowed on it a status and even a history. With the respect accorded to family, the cows were classified according to what symbols or landscapes the color patterns of their hides resembled. And while the monikers were used primarily for identification, this system of naming was part of a highly sophisticated philosophical worldview.
This one, Sunil continued, is Insingizisuka, the ground hornbill takes to flight. These ones here probably have a compound name, Sunil added, pointing to a group of cows under a thornbush tree. Izinkonwazi Ezikhula Zemithi, I would guess. It means the cows which are the gaps between the branches of the trees silhouetted against the sky. And this one is Inkomo Ebafazibewela Umfula, the women crossing the river.
You’re making that last one up, Fire said, laughing.
No, I’m not. See here? It’s because the cow has white legs and belly and a colored body with this wavy line here separating them. The wavy line looks like water lapping the legs, see?
And all the cows are named, Fire asked. Strange, don’t you think, that the Zulus were so good at classification, and then the Boers came along and used it against them.
Sunil shook his head. It was too much to consider. All empire is about classification, he said. For the Zulu it was cattle, for the Boers, it was blacks. The Boers perverted everything.
They had help, Fire said.
Sunil turned his attention back to the photographs. With his index finger he traced the horns of one of the cattle.
There is a whole other nomenclature associated with horn shapes, he said.
Yeah, Fire asked.
There is a beautiful saying that refers to the first light of dawn that makes me think about cattle horns silhouetted against the byre sky. Kusempondozankomo, I think it is, which means the time of the horns of the cattle, Sunil said.
What’s that one called, Fire asked.
That one is called Umndlovu, the elephant, because its horns are curved down straight like the trunk of an elephant. I can’t really release you if I don’t think there is someone who I trust to vouch for you. I need you to tell me how to find Fred.
You’re not going to release us anyway, Doc, Fire said. Why would you when you can keep us here and study us? Now, tell me more about the cows.