The Lamb and the Gray Battle

October 28, 2022

Brantley couldn't stand. He couldn't move. He had hands, but they were helpless mitts dead on the floor.

Lights played, displayed and followed her, highlighted her form, radiated around her. In case there was any doubt, she flew into the air, swam a circle in the sky, moved so that any passerby could see her dancing up there.

Brantley's heartbeat thumped in his head. It was too fast. He couldn't count it. Maybe he could. One, two, three.

"Not possible," he murmured.

Evie pounded to him, a foot away. Her lips and brow puckered and she crouched in front of him. Age pervaded her eyes and a weariness that Brantley could never understand.

"I am Banrion Aoibh, wife of Ao Guang, mother of Nianzang," she said. "I was born of Siofra an Mhor, out of Bronagh an Mhor, whose mother was Caoimh an Mhor," each an Mhor growing in volume until she shouted, "Quinn an Mhor!"

Brantley's temperature dropped another twenty degrees and that night was still and warm for October. Most of the names—well, he'd read them but to hear them pronounced, he didn't recognize them. But Quinn an Mhor. He knew that one.

"Abe an Mhor," Brantley said. "My father wrote Her Story for you."

Evie batted her eyelashes in that annoyed way Brantley had grown familiar with.

"It's pronounced EE-f."

Then she ranted in Irish about the stupidity of everyone around her. "Like speaking Irish is evil. No one in Ireland is evil because of the language. The language didn't creep out of Hell," her accent dripping off of her tongue.

Brantley pushed himself up, stood. His body was a recreant kite flapping in a tree. He took deep breaths, his lips dry, his tongue and throat too.

"My father loved you."

The fire in Evie's eyes smoldered and died to embers. Her hair relax on her shoulders. "I'm sorry about that." Evie put a hand to his cheek. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I forget how powerful I am sometimes. I've never been good at controlling my gifts." She kneaded her hands in one another, the color of her flesh a warm pink. "You should go. Everyone should leave. The police will bring flame throwers and God knows what else. I can't protect anyone or save them. We're too far from a border."

"Evie—"

"Please, Brantley. Don't hurt your mother. She's been through enough."

Evie switched to the crowd. A wave of energy hit Brantley. The whole group wandered toward the exit. The urge pushed on Brantley too, but that kite he was was stuck firmly in the branches.

He gasped, "What did you do?"

"The only thing I can do. Safely. Tomorrow, maybe some of them will see the news, remember being here and wonder how they woke in their beds. Maybe some will be smart enough to migrate to USW or Canada. Go to Canada, Brantley. That's the safest place."

"My mother will never go to Canada."

"Maybe she would follow you," Evie muttered.

Evie gave his cheek another pat. But this time, she snapped the kite string loose, ignored the torn paper. Like the other zombies, he trudged to an exit, wove back and forth until it was his turn to leave.

Evie released her wings, watched for police sirens. But the news crew wasn't airing live footage. And the bystanders who had seen her shoot into the air, well, some of them would have taken video and pictures. Some would even be stupid enough to post it to the web. But that would take a while and the police would have to pinpoint her location.

When the football stadium was empty and locked up, she shot high into the air and flew home.