FOUR - Apex Agrestic

“Ricci,” I said. It had been days since our last vision of Arous and I could get Ricci out of my head. I was alone on the porch. Remembering . . .



Years earlier, I stood half-asleep on the front porch when the car snaked down the road to the main house. I wasn’t expecting anyone. At least, visitors hadn’t entered my mind-sight. The hairs on the back of my hand tingled as I watched the car pass the weeping willows and come up the oak-lined drive.

The Diofe appeared beside me.

“Miguel, it’s the bright one.”

He always called him that.

“I didn’t want you to be alarmed, so I kept the mind-sight from you,” the Diofe said.

“Why’s he here?” I asked as I closed and opened my fist.

“It’s not to take Arous. He just wants to see her.”

“You are in control,” I told him.

The Diofe exhaled. “Always.”

A curtain rustled just behind us. A small round face stared out, jutting over the window ledge. A fat, two-and-a-half year old, greasy finger traced a shape on the condensation before it was led by Priscilla’s hand into the kitchen.

“Snacks won’t impress him,” I said to the Diofe.

The Diofe smiled and moved inside to his Willing Room and waited.

The long, wheeled vehicle pulled up at the front of the house: the driver, looking more like a jockey than a footman, helped a distinguished looking young man out of the car. He was Amalgamese to a T: honey skin, amber eyes, the joy of his mother and community. I knew him because he’d once spent nine months in our midst, learning from the Diofe with five other Amalgamese boys. He was a few years older now. He was tall, almost lanky, but short for an Amalgamese. His wide smile dwarfed his large almost orange eyes and his hair fell in short ringlets around his jaw line. He was stunning to watch.

“Good morning, Mr. Ricci. We’ve been expecting you. I’ll take you in to see the Diofe,” I said.

“Expecting me? My mother sent you and VIH-dot? That woman -”

“No, Mr. Ricci, your mother didn’t send us any message. No Voice or Voice Image Hologram Dots.”

“I know. I know. I was only joking. Lighten up, Miguel. You’re . . . special. I bet you don’t even use V-dots.”

He just stood there grinning at me.

“I’ve really togged up, haven’t I? Compared to the ragamuffin boy you used to know?”

“You certainly didn’t have to on our account.”

He laughed and slapped me on the back as if we were old friends. “Stuffy-Miguel. Just like I remember.”

I opened the door and walked in behind him. I heard the kettle sing in the kitchen and detected Pricilla’s Yuhiketuh’s harmony as we passed into the Willing Room. The Diofe stood to receive Ricci, motioning to a chair across from him. A few coals popped in the fireplace behind him, adding a rhythmic gentleness to the welcome of the room. The further Ricci stepped into the room, the more he disarmed: arms uncrossed, smile relaxed and the lines on his forehead disappeared.

“Ricci,” said the Diofe.

“I’m here for her,” he said still standing.