The Prey of Gods by Nicky Drayden
Dedication
To my wonderful parents, Bill and Pat,
for giving me a loving space
to stretch my wings
and fly
Part I
Chapter 1
Muzi
His birth certificate reads Muzikayise McCarthy, but nobody calls him that except his grandfather and anyone looking for a busted lip. Though right now, you could curse his name a million times, and he wouldn’t hear you.
He’s too busy mourning the fate of his dick.
It’s not that he’s overly sentimental about his foreskin. It’d be nice not to be so self-conscious in the locker room at Clarendon Academy, since all the guys on his rugby team have parents who are living in this century and had the decency to do the big snip right after birth. That’s Papa Fuzz for you, hanging on to age-old Xhosa traditions tooth and nail, never mind that Muzi’s three-quarters Irish and could pass for white on an overcast day like today. But Papa Fuzz and Mama Belle had all girls, and as the firstborn grandson, Muzi’s been the object of Papa Fuzz’s living legacy since the day he popped out of his mother’s womb.
And now, the neighbors can’t be happy about Papa Fuzz slow-roasting an entire goat out in the front lawn. The smell of cooking flesh goes on for blocks, and it’s enough to make Muzi want to vomit. Then again, he’s already been a nauseated mess worrying over the fate of his manhood these past few weeks. He swallows back the urge and frowns at the charcoal pit that has to be some sort of fire hazard, especially with the dead fronds from the neighbor’s palm tree hanging so seductively close. But every time anyone from the Richmond Hill Civic Committee says anything to Papa Fuzz, he’ll start ranting about how important it is to protect the practices of his ancestors, and that’s an argument that nobody’s about to win.
“Come here, son. Let me show you something,” Papa Fuzz calls from across the yard, beckoning Muzi with a slender finger. Sweat glistens against Papa Fuzz’s wrinkled brown skin. He’s worked hard to make this weekend perfect.
Muzi leaves the comfort of his shaded porch and ambles over with both hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s having second thoughts.
And third thoughts.
And fourth.
But it’s too late to call the party off. His aunt Lindi and cousins are already driving down from Joburg, and four dozen of Mama’s to-die-for deviled eggs are crammed into the fridge, along with enough potato salad to feed the entire South African Army . . . well, obviously not including the robot infantries.
“Gotta keep her moist,” Papa Fuzz instructs as Muzi approaches, giving the baster bulb a little squeeze. Melted herb butter squirts out, rolls over the goat’s hindquarters, and sizzles as it hits the coals of the pit. A tacky plume of garlic-scented smoke wafts right into Muzi’s face. “That’s the secret. A good goat you can’t leave unattended, not even a few minutes. It’s a labor of love, but people will be talking about this nanny for years to come.”
Muzi nods and stifles a cough. Papa Fuzz hands him the baster, then points Muzi at the goat. Muzi’s too drained to start up another argument. It’s pointless since Papa Fuzz can’t even grasp the idea of being a vegetarian.
Besides, it’s sort of comforting knowing he’s not the only meat being cut up this weekend.
“You know I’ve invited Renée.” Papa Fuzz nudges Muzi in the ribs. “I’ve seen the way she makes eyes at you. Such a pretty girl.”
“Great,” Muzi mumbles. Why not just invite all of Port Elizabeth while he’s at it?
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Muzikayise. You’ll be a man soon, and that’s something you should be proud of. Sing it from the rooftop!” Papa Fuzz raises his fist into the air and yells something in Xhosa, of which Muzi can make out the words chop and axe, enough for him to get the gist of this ancestral chant. He cringes.
His alpha bot chimes like church bells being played by a certified maniac. Muzi smiles at the hectic blare of the ringtone. It’s Elkin calling. A distraction is just what Muzi needs right now.
“Sorry, Papa Fuzakele, but I’ve gotta take this.” Muzi hands the baster back to his grandfather, taps his alphie on its sleek, domed head, then they both scamper back toward the house before Papa Fuzz can object.
The alphie’s screen blinks a couple times as encryption protocols are exchanged, then Elkin appears among the backdrop of limited edition rugby union posters, some of them even signed. He’s at home in his room, eyes glazed over from a lazy Saturday afternoon smoking dagga and grazing on junk food.
“Hey, bru. Howzit hanging?” Elkin says with a smooth grin. He scratches his nose, then rubs his hand over cropped golden-blond hair. A hopelessly permanent tan line runs across his forehead from where his rugby scrum cap sits.
“That’s not funny,” Muzi mopes.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to come off like a prick.”
“Elkin, is there something you want?”
“Come over. I’m bored.”
“I’m not smoking dagga with you. Not today.”
“Not dagga. I’ve got something new. This stuff is prime!” Elkin extends his arm and stares at it like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it. He cackles—yes, actually cackles—then pulls his alphie up so close that the camera only captures his gray eyes and most of his crooked nose. “Seriously, bru, they could cut your whole dick off tonight and you wouldn’t give a rat’s puckered ass.”
“Seriously?” Muzi has to admit the offer sounds tempting, better than watching a goat turn on a spit for the next few hours.
“Check this. I think I’m turning into a . . . a fucking purpose, man.”
“A purpose?”
Elkin leans back and flaps his arms. “Ja, you know. With a bottlenose and fins. Like a dolphin.”
“A porpoise, you mean?”
“Damn it, Muzi. Stop correcting me and get your quarter Xhosa ass over here.”
They bump fists when Muzi arrives, and their alphies bump heads, like a pair of shiny black footballs with spindly, meter-long spider legs. They chirp back and forth like they’re happy to see each other, but it’s just the exchange of data, ones and zeros—basic information that could prove useful to their respective masters.
“Look at them. They missed each other,” says Muzi.
Elkin frowns and kicks his alphie in its head. It whimpers and retreats to its dock in the corner. “Piece of shit,” Elkin mutters.