Sin du Jour: The First Course by Matt Wallace

Author:Matt Wallace
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-03T00:00:00+00:00

THE OBSTINANCE OF ANCESTORS

The six-foot reptile wearing what’s left of Darren’s formerly fresh and fitted Sin du Jour smock is suspended three feet off the ground over an elaborate sand painting.

The lustful creature snarls and thrashes against its invisible bonds, but whatever force has bound it there in midair holds tight.

Orbiting the creature in staggered spirals, small wisps of milky white energy undulate and pass through one another, creating cymbal crashes of sound and bursts of light each time they harmlessly collide.

Little Dove takes in the sight from the corner of the sand painting, arms folded and brow furrowed.

She looks down at her grandfather, seated cross-legged in front of the large square frame holding the sand. He chants absently as he hand-rolls a cigarette he’s laced with weed stolen from one of Pacific’s many stashes around the building.

“So . . . these are our ancestors?” Little Dove asks the old man. “Their spirits, anyway?”

White Horse nods, sealing the tightly rolled wrapping paper with an envelope lick of his tongue.

“Yep.”

Little Dove is dubious. “For real?”

“Yep,” he says, perching the cigarette on his bottom lip. He motions to one of the white wisps with one hand while the other searches his elk-skin jacket for his lighter. “That there is your great-grandfather, Long Knife. And that other one there is Aunt Margaret. And that there is your third cousin, Lloyd.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so fucking with me right now.”

“Yep.”

Little Dove curses under her breath while her grandfather, having located his light, sparks it and burns the end of his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.

He coughs, with immense relish.

The door to their offices stands wide open.

When the chaos erupted, rather than barricading themselves inside White Horse simply moved his sand painting board in front of the door and set to work on a design his granddaughter had never seen before.

Darren was the first creature to sniff them out, and as soon as he rushed inside he was caught, rapt.

It’s been more than enough to ward off the other creatures their coworkers have become.

“They are the spirit of your ancestors,” he says seriously. “But you have to think of it as a pond of energy to which we all return. There’s no discerning or separating. Their energy protects us when called upon. We’re connected, by blood and by our spirits. It’s their instinct. It’s really not complicated.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I can just Google it.”

“Probably.”

Little Dove paces in front of the sand painting, watching the Darren-creature flare its nostrils in frustration.

“So can you change him back?”

White Horse exhales a long trail of smoke and leans back against the floor, propped up by his elbows.

“It wasn’t my power that did this to him, or the rest.”

Little Dove stops pacing and glares down at him. “That’s not what I asked, Pop. Can you fix him?”

“Probably.”

“Then do it!”

White Horse frowns. “They pay me to help conjure and cleanse their crazy bilagáana food. They don’t pay me to clean up their messes. We’re safe back here. Let the rest of them figure it out.

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