MIDDANGARD (A Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction)

Chapter 7: Father/Godfather

The two proud fathers climbed the stairs together.

Wil’s father, Berto, entered the Reception Hall beside SnowXX. Suddenly, Bloomfield, just in front of them, stopped, turned and whispered something that put the Black Muslim leader on edge. Snow Double X quickly gathered his entourage of Manhattan Muslims, Bedford Stuyvesant leaders and Puerto Rican allies. They huddled in a secluded corner table located on the extreme right of the hall, not far from the front door. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Berto turned to Bloomfield for information, or an explanation. But GrayBeard, Bloomfield to the Italians of Bensonhurst, had silently slipped out of sight. The old man often did this, in times of imminent danger. His timing was uncanny.

Many of the guests had already arrived: Jewish dignitaries from BoroPark, flashy Irish charmers from BayRidge and RedHook, big Russian “bears” from Manhattan Beach and Canarsie, a few Scottish highlanders and Dutch lowlanders from the Flatlands Ave. area and, of course, the important Brooklyn Black contingent from Bedford Stuyvesant/Bushwick/East Prospect Park/Brownsville/ Upper East New York and North Central Flatbush. Berto looked around and sighed. He missed the confident strength of his older brother Alfredo, Tomaso and Bobio's father.

Meanwhile Fredo, the family’s present leader, stood by a large bamboo column a little to the left of the entrance area. In his plain brown-hooded monk’s robe, Fredo looked calm and tranquil, belying the constrained power and the fire now contained within. He too had sensed that something was amiss. Berto saw his brother’s hidden tension, sighed again, and headed back outside. This was beginning to look like a very precarious situation.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped to scan the parking lot. His son Wil, dressed in black, smiled at his father from below. Wil's sturdy black horse Domino stood calmly, as an attendant took the reins. Berto's stallion, Raven, held by another attendant, was also black and even faster than Domino. Unlike his younger brother, Raven did not sport white socks on his front ankles or the splash of white on his forehead and muzzle. Both horses were remarkably relaxed for dominant stallions. Berto proudly framed this picture in his mind...

Of his son, of the horse, and of the throng of people intently watching the boy.

How did I ever rate such a beautiful child? he thought happily.

Wil, drenched in sweat and oblivious to the crowd around him, watched as his father quickly descended the steps.

“How you doing, Son?"

“Fine, Dad."

“You sure? You look a little on edge."

“I’m OK, Dad. Really."

Berto sighed again. Why was it always so difficult for him to communicate with his son? He would have liked to have had a more relaxed relationship, free of the self-conscious barriers that seemed to hamper both father and son. Nothing was more important to him, yet the right words, the right tension-free moments seldom seemed to come. They were too alike, too often caught up in conflicting emotions and embarrassing silences.

“Something strange is going on in there, Wil. The Manhattan delegation has formed a tight ball on one side of the room. Fredo and our family and friends are showing signs of concern. Bloomfield has slipped out of sight and nobody seems to know where MasterPoe is, or if he has even arrived as yet.”

Wil looked inquiringly at his father, but said nothing, so Berto continued.

“I don't like the looks of it. Be on your guard, just in case, and keep a close protective eye on Snowflake. From what we have heard, the girl can handle herself but she can not be vigilant in all four directions. Also, be sure Luke is informed of the situation. You two make a very formidable team. I've seen you young fellows in action."

“You really think there is a chance for trouble, Dad? I know Snow Double X has brought some of his heaviest hitters along, just in case.

Besides, this is neutral ground."

“Son, I don't know what is going on. But if trouble comes, it won't be from either side of the Wedding Party.

Have you noticed how few Chinese hosts there are? Take a close look at their eyes, first chance you get. They look like deer frozen in place by bright lights, at midnight.

I'm going to confer with Uncle Fredo. You get your young bucks in a tight group, weapons at the ready.”

Berto saw a familiar figure headed towards them.

“Malcolm is walking this way, up from the lower parking lot. Ask him to join your defense unit, please. He fought and Rangered with Fredo and Snow, as you know, and he is greased lightning with that Samurai Sword."

“Fine by me, Pops. Malcolm may be the only Black Godfather in Brooklyn, but he's mine, thank goodness!

But Dad, I thought metal swords were too brittle, since "Day One", to be of much use - except for the new silver stuff being forged by Ian’s crew at the Brooklyn Navy Yard."

“Those Samurai swords are the exception, my boy. They were made exceptionally well and are extremely pure. There are no heavy metals in them to undermine their effectiveness. The silver alloys the Irish have come up with are good for arrow tips and short swords, but they can't compare with the deadly efficiency of the classic Samurai Sword. Only the best, most accomplished fighters can hold on to one of them. The sword itself is a target, and a statement of deadly ability. When battle lines are drawn, beware of the men wielding swords! Malcolm, you may be interested to know, is the best of the Bedford Stuyvesant Rangers. You couldn't ask for a better godfather and friend to watch your back."

“How come you haven't got a sword, Papa?" Wil asked with a sly smile.

“Don’t be a smartass, young man. The only way you get one of those is by defeating its previous Master. Your dad has a high regard for all of his limbs, so naturally he avoids extremely sharp objects wielded by expert swordsmen. I am perfectly happy with my 'slow-fired', Louisville Slugger, 34 inch wood baseball bat, with a tapped handle and with the label facing away from any screwballs..."

“Understood, Sir Cautious. May your trusty club be immortalized and eventually bronzed above my fireplace."

“Thank you, Son. But not any time soon, OK?"

Wil looked back over his shoulder and waved.

"Malcolm!"

As Malcolm approached, Berto walked back up the steps.

"Remember, Son. Stay close together. See you inside."