Who Shapes the Shaper

by Chad Banks

The dark man rang like iron when I threw him from my house. Picking himself up from the mud, he glared past my head at the lintel and twisted back and forth slowly to work the tension out. Finally, he stooped and swiped up his cap with one mangled, worm-pale hand. "Principles are rarely more than inconvenient, Miss Clay."

I crossed my arms against the cold. The drizzling rain was already jumping back from him in curling wisps of steam. "I have cast you out."

"Thank you for the coffee." He flexed his jaw languorously. "When the time comes, I will take my payment in heat." He seethed out the gate and down the lane. The day was gray. He was not.

I turned and walked back inside, easing the screen door shut behind me. Isaiah was standing just inside the parlor and staring at a space between him and the door. I squatted down next to him and pulled his coat back up where it had slipped off his shoulders. "Isaiah, honey?"

He didn't answer, only stared blankly over my shoulder. There was song in his eyes again. I smoothed his bangs back from his forehead and dropped my voice to a slightly lower register. "Isaiah. Look at me."

He blinked and met my eyes serenely. "I was listenin', Mom."

"I know, sweetie. Just ... be careful, okay? Ready for school?"

"Where did that man go?"

"I sent him away."

"What did he want?"

I hesitated. "He wants to take you on as a student."

"In what?"

"I'm not precisely sure." I shuddered inwardly at how true that was.

"I don't like him."

"Me, neither.," I grabbed up my things from the bench inside the front door and handed him his sack lunch. "Your daddy's going to pick you up after school and take you for dinner to celebrate your first day back, okay? Got your key?" He nodded absentmindedly, and I gave him a gentle nudge toward the door with my hip.

After dropping Isaiah off at school, I took my time driving to Joanie's. It was that sort of day where you want to snuggle up to your routine for warmth. Claire sat me at my usual table by the window, and I ordered two eggs on toast and the morning's second cup of coffee. Behind me, the door jingled, and I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter.

He slid past the lip of my vision and spilled his long, broad frame into the chair opposite me, sloughing his mud-spattered overcoat off his shoulders and arms so that it hung over the chair's back. I gave him my best blank-faced stare. He smiled like a kick in the teeth. Claire came over, set my coffee down in front of me, and then paused while rummaging in her apron pocket for her order pad. Looking up, I found her studying the diner and the view through the windows with a puzzled expression. When she noticed me looking, she shrugged apologetically and gave the dark man her patented what'll-you-have expression.

"Just coffee, please," he almost purred. Claire flinched a little, then looked surprised she'd done it and went to get the coffee.

"Your son needs guidance, Miss Clay. You have no idea what's in store for him."

I reached for the salt shaker. "Don't I?"

"Certainly not. How - " Claire set his coffee in front of him and moved on. "How could you?"

Having screwed the cap off the shaker, I eased myself out of my chair and knelt down next to it. I was careful to take my time as I drew the circle, making it as thin as I could so that it would be big enough to encompass my seat, and still I barely had enough. Finally, I sat back down and set the empty shaker back next to the pepper. Across from me, the dark man had turned to look primly out the window. I noticed a slight flush to his cheeks and suppressed a smile.

"I know plenty."

He snorted and clasped trembling hands around his coffee mug. Over his shoulder, I could see Claire fussing with the blinds all along the diner's bank of windows. She opened them as wide as they would go, which apparently wasn't enough, as she went for broke and raised them.

He lifted the scalding hot coffee and gulped it down in a few greedy swallows, spilling a trickle out the corner of his mouth. With a satisfied sigh, he pressed the mug to his forehead and reached up steadily with his other hand to knuckle away the spillage. His voice came out a throaty croak. "Superstition isn't a substitute for education."

I shot him an innocent look over the rim of my mug, "My son is in school."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Let's not be coy. The boy needs instruction. His gifts must be channeled in the proper direction. I would be his teacher."

"His master, you mean."

He shrugged. "Call it what you like."

"Hardly," I said. "I'm calling it simply as I see it. I've no dealings with ghilan."

His nostrils flared, but he maintained his composure. "Wiser heads than yours would be careful with the names they toss about, Miss Clay. It wouldn't do to call unwanted attention to yourself." He paused. "I'm trying to help."

I laughed out loud before I could stop myself. "Yeah, you're a real stand-up fella. I mind if you smoke."

He paused with his hand inside his coat pocket, gave me a scornful look, and pulled out a fountain pen. "I'll leave you the number where I'm staying in case you decide at some point to take this seriously."

"Actually, I prefer to treat our little chats with the disdain they deserve."

"I'm not sure I take your meaning."

I added some cream to my coffee and gave it a leisurely stir, "Can you honestly think that there's anything you can say to change my mind?"

"I hold out hope that you may eventually see reason."

"I hold out hope that you may eventually get hit by a bus."

His jaw visibly clenched at that point, and I had to stop myself from shrinking back. I thought of the circle of salt at my feet.

"Flippancy is the last tack you wish to take under the circumstances, I assure you. If you are incapable of taking seriously the issue of your son's gift, then at least be aware that I view it with the utmost gravity. I am, in the face of your reticence, entirely willing to take matters into my own - "

"If you come anywhere near my son I'll have you arrested so fast it'll make your head spin!" I started to jump to my feet, but he took a step forward to block me and I fell back into my seat.

He placed one hand on the back of chair behind me and leaned in so close that I could feel his breath., "You and I both know that that would not be the best course of action." A strange, gurgling wheeze had started up in his chest and sounded in time with the puffs of cool air in my face. I tried to sit up straight, but it was difficult with him looming so close. "You have my number," he murmured liquidly, "Please consider what will be best for your son."

Behind him, someone cleared his throat. "This guy botherin' you, Tish?"

The dark man straightened slowly, and, behind him, I could see Paul staring balefully at the back of his head. "I was just leaving, actually." He smiled at Paul and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. "Excellent coffee." He nodded to me. "Miss Clay."

And he was gone. Paul took a minute or two to talk down, finally returning to the kitchen when I inquired after my breakfast. It was still early, so I went home after Joanie's and called the police. Officer Hodges showed up later but merely shrugged and told me that there wasn't anything the police could do if the guy hadn't made any direct threats. I thanked him sarcastically and he got back into his squad car and drove away.

I was distracted at work that morning. People kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn't know what to tell them. Folks generally don't understand when you try to explain to them very seriously that a monster is after your son. I took a long lunch and went to have a talk with Isaiah's father. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I didn't know what else to do.

I haven't seen much of Nate in the past few years. We don't have a lot to say to each other since the divorce, and he takes a characteristically passing interest in Isaiah's life. I didn't really know what to expect when I rang the bell at his house, but the young woman who answered the door came as a surprise. Or maybe she didn't. She was young, maybe twenty-three or -four, dressed in a sweatshirt and pajama pants. I hesitated, unable to think of what to say to a stranger, and she stifled a yawn behind apologetic gestures with her hands. "Hello?"

"Uh. Yeah. Is Nathaniel here?"

She looked uncertainly over her shoulder. "Yes. Umm ..."

"I'm his ex-wife."

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, "You're Tish! Wow, I'm ... Sorry, come in!" I followed her inside and down the hall, "I'm Angelina. Angie. I'm really sorry. I didn't know you were coming over."

"No, it's okay. It's kind of a spontaneous thing."

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Please."

She sat me down at the kitchen table and poured me a cup, "Just brewed it." She stifled another yawn behind emphatically apologetic hands, "Geez, I must look a mess. Just woke up. I'll go see where Nate's at."

I watched her go, somewhat bemused at how flustered she was. I sipped at my coffee and tried to think what I was going to say. A rangy tabby hopped up onto the table to sniff unabashedly at my hands, and I scratched him behind the ears. He let me for a second, then hopped down and sauntered over to the screen door that let out into the backyard. I opened it for him and he was gone.

"Hello, Patricia."

My breath caught in my throat, and I hated myself for it. I turned. "Hello, Nathaniel."

The sight of him still set my heart racing, and I hoped desperately that I wasn't visibly blushing. He came into the kitchen like he was filling the Nathaniel-shaped hole that had been there all along. Disheveled as always, he was wearing just jeans and an undershirt, both spattered here and there with paint. His hands and arms were streaked with it, too. He'd been working.

I caught myself staring and jerked self-consciously. He was giving me one of his vacantly curious looks, eyes a million worlds away. I cleared my throat. "How are you?" It sounded lame, and I suppressed a wince.

He answered in a mellifluous drawl. "I'm good. You?"

"I'm okay. Well, wait. No. That's what I came here to talk to you about. I've got a problem." He didn't say anything, so I went on. "Someone has been coming by the house. He first showed up about a week ago, and he's been showing a frightening interest in Isaiah."

"Interest?"

"He claims he wants to teach Isaiah. To tutor him."

"In what?"

"Well, your kind of stuff I suppose."

"Hey, that's great." I gaped at him and his smile lessened a little. "Isaiah's never had a master before. Why isn't that great?"

"This guy isn't some benevolent old sage, Nate. He has his own agenda and sees our son as a means to an end. Isaiah's a very unique child, you know. He's got a lot of you in him."

He smiled and I felt my pulse quicken. "He's got a lot of both of us in him. Really, that's what makes him special. It's not the most common quality in a boy."

"Exactly. And this guy knows it, and he's hanging around trying to worm his way in."

He frowned. "Do I know him?"

I gave him a flat look. "He runs in similar circles."

"So what's the problem? Eventually someone's going to have to teach him about these things."

"You could teach him."

His face went blank, and I felt a sadness creep over me. "I've had experience with that sort of thing. I don't care to try it again."

"It doesn't matter anyway. Isaiah's not ready to learn, and I'm not ready for him to. If I had my way he'd never be exposed to that sort of thing."

"That may not be a possibility."

"Then his schooling is going to be on my terms. And it won't be from this guy or any others like him. He may move with your crowd, but he's not like you, Nate. He's...well, he's different."

He went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. "Different how?"

There was an airy tone in his voice that I recognized. I was starting to lose him already. "He's ... I guess he's unpleasant. Adamantly so."

He didn't look at me as he poured himself a glass. "Well if he's of that sort, you're protected there at the house, and it's not like he's going to try anything in public."

"I don't know. That's what I'm worried about. There's a sense of desperation about him. Like he needs Isaiah somehow. Or wants him too badly to give up. I cast him out this morning and it barely phased him."

Nathaniel stiffened. "It didn't work?"

"No, it worked fine, but it didn't seem like he cared. Like it didn't matter."

He waved his hand. "There you go. I mean, you cast him out. He's out. You've nothing to worry about."

I shook my head wearily, "You're not listening to me. He's after our son. He's not going to take no for an answer. Like I said, he's ... hungry. Desperate."

He shrugged, "Okay so he's desperate. There's always some of that going around. It's how it works. I really think you're blowing all this out of proportion. Just because some drifter - "

"HE'S AFTER OUR SON!" He set his glass down and gave me a blank look, "Our. Son. Nathaniel. Yours and mine. I'm coming to you for help because I am scared, and I don't know what to do."

"You've already done all you need to. I'm telling you, you're perfectly safe. If he's cast out - "

"What if he won't let that stop him?"

He spoke softly as though trying to calm a crazy person. "That's the stress talking. That sort of thing would have repercussions. It's not done. Trust me. You'll be fine."

"Have you seen this kind of thing when it involved a boy like Isaiah?"

"No, but - "

"So you admit that there might be something going on here that - "

"Look, Tish." He held up his hands to forestall me. "I know you're scared, but there's really nothing I can do that hasn't already been done. Doing anything more would be costly in ways I don't want to think about."

"So you don't care that your son may be in danger?"

He rolled his eyes. "He's not in danger, Patricia. I love Isaiah very much, but you've made it clear you'd be happier if he was out of my world."

"That would make me wildly happy, but your world does have a tendency to suck people in, doesn't it?"

He picked up his glass and shook his head as he held it in front of his mouth. "You can't saddle me with the blame for that. I never led you anywhere you didn't already want to go."

I grabbed up my purse. "That's nice. That's real nice. Thanks for nothing, Nate. Good to know you'll always be there for your son."

In the hall I passed by Angie standing in a doorway. "Thank you for the coffee," I said, then stormed out the door.

And that was that. I don't know what I'd expected, really. Nathaniel had never been the guy I could count on. He never said it outright, but you could tell he was loathe to tangle himself in the affairs of lesser beings. His kind were like that. Well, most of the time, anyway.

The drive home that evening was a difficult one. Pulling up to the curb out front, I sighed ruefully as I saw the house was dark. Isaiah had been enforcing his own bedtime since he was four. When I got to the door, keys jingling, the door swung in with its characteristic creak – already open. I stood looking at it for a fraction of a second, heart suddenly in my throat, and then pushed it open the rest of the way. The house was dark.

Steeling myself, I reached up to brush my fingers against the horseshoe nailed above the door and found it was missing. The wood had been ripped right out of the door frame. My breath caught in my throat, and I was inside before I knew what I was doing. I just managed to stop myself short at the foot of the stairs. He'd thrown caution to the wind to have forced his way in like this. Rushing in blindly would be a bad, bad idea. Heart pounding so hard it was hard for me to think straight, I moved as quietly as I could into the kitchen. I'd been dreading this moment since the dark man had first approached me. I frantically yanked the old heavy-duty flashlight out of the drawer by the sink and, shielding it with my hand, turned it on to make sure the batteries still worked. Satisfied, I flicked it back off and started back toward the stairs. The light's weight felt reassuring in my hand.

There was a horrible stink in the air, like gasoline. Isaiah's door was slightly ajar, and I tried desperately to hold the flashlight steadily in front of me as I crept up to it. In the silence, I could clearly hear a strange, high-pitched wheeze coming from my son's room. The door, when I put my hand to it, was cold to the touch, and I shivered as I pushed it open silently.

It wasn't easy to forget how big he was, but I'd managed it. He crouched atop the bed, feet on either side of Isaiah's legs, one hand planted next to his head and the other held a short distance from his face. It was a horrible sight. His coat was missing, his shirt untucked and hanging half-open. He crouched almost jackal-like over my son. Isaiah wasn't moving.

I sucked in my breath at the realization. The dark man's head snapped up. In the moonlight coming in through the window, I could see his mouth gaping, black, his shoulders and ribs heaving in time to the grating wheeze I'd heard from the hall. Fish-belly white and sweat-slicked, his stomach almost shone. I stood upright and thrust my hands forward.

"Know me! You are unwelcome!" I flicked on the light.

The room went up like noon, and the dark man snarled and threw his arm up to shield his eyes. Knowing how little time this bought me, I lunged forward and swung the flashlight as hard as I could. It connected with the side of his head with a satisfying thud, and he pitched over the foot of the bed and into Isaiah's workbench. The shelves above the bench gave way and a multitude of paintbrushes and tools and half-built model airplanes came crashing down onto the thrashing, hissing form on the floor. I slipped my arm around Isaiah's chest and dragged him off the bed and toward the door. It struck me randomly that he was getting heavy.

I hauled him out of the bedroom and to the top of the stairs. As I started down, I tripped over one of his legs and would have sent us both crashing down the staircase if I hadn't instinctively dropped the flashlight and grabbed onto the banister. When I finally reached the bottom of the staircase, Isaiah starting to stir in my arms, I bent to try and retrieve the light. But it was too late - roaring and hissing like an overworked furnace, the dark man lunged out of the darkness and clouted me across the side of the head with the palm of his hand. I felt Isaiah tumble out of my arms as I lurched sideways into the living room and crashed against the table behind the sofa.

Having spent a frightening amount of time cataloging all the things in my house that could serve as weapons, I instinctively grabbed up one of the candlesticks my mother had given me so long ago and swung it wildly. He was ready this time, catching the blow on his arm and moving inside my reach. Before I could recover, he clamped one of his frighteningly big hands around the lower half of my face and forced my head back in one violent push, bending me painfully backward against the table. The strain on my back as I bent farther than I really should, his fingernails digging painfully into my cheek, and his other hand rising to strike were becoming unbearable. Everything rushed in at me. I was about to black out when a quiet, earnest thought that crept into my head.

My. House. My. SON.

The clouds left the edges of my vision for just the briefest of moments, but it was enough. I reached over to the second candlestick, pulled off the taper and tossed it aside, swung the candlestick up and around, and drove the exposed spike into the side of the dark man's neck. He reared back, hand leaving my face, and I straightened up with him. I put all my weight behind the taper and drove him back into the hall until he slammed against the side of the staircase and fell heavily to the floor.

I turned wildly to find Isaiah lying a few feet away down the hall reaching out with his hands and calling for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the dark man reaching up to pull the spike out of his neck. I scooped up my son and ran for the front door. There were lights flashing through the windows in the front of the house, and as I burst outside, I saw a squad car pulled up to the front curb. Shrieking for help, I ran toward the policemen approaching the front gate. Behind me, the screen door splintered as he exploded out of the house.

I fell, sprawling myself and Isaiah across the lawn. I could hear the officers shouting at the dark man to freeze. I looked back to see his mouth open in a howl so low that it was almost beyond hearing. For an instant, I imagined I could feel the blast of cool air on my face and neck, and then there was a flash and a crack and something slammed into the dark man's shoulder, bringing him up short. He made a curious grinding sound, deep in his chest, and then there was another flash and crack. And another. And another. And he was down.

The quiet that descended was heavy after the previous mayhem. I could see my neighbors' light on across the street, and the two of them standing on their porch looking on. One of the policemen went to inspect the body while the other came over to me and Isaiah. I met his eyes and found I recognized him. My jaw clenched. "Officer Hodges," I said curtly. "Thank you."

"Ma'am, I..." He didn't seem to know what to say.

I turned my back on him and went to my son.

---

©Chad Banks

Chad Banks lives in Dallas with his cat and an internet connection. He tries to make a point of looking at the stars when they're out. He can be contacted at Chad.E.Banks at gmail (dot) com.