Two's Company

There are worse ways to make friends than right before a beating. And this one promised to be brutal. Devon counted six louts surrounding the cowering boy. They were all strangers and not from his community. The boy held tight to his bright orange and blue bicycle.

A ravine was an odd place to find a bicycle. Maybe the recent floods had deposited it here and the boy had found it, the same way Devon had found the bicycle pump. But the boy wore a helmet that was as blue as the bike.

Just let them take it, Devon prayed.

As if the boy heard him, he released the bicycle and stepped back. But he’d obviously never scavenged in a ravine before - he slipped into the shallow stream and caught himself on a jagged rock. His howl of pain earned him more ridicule from his persecutors.

Their verbal ridicule quickly turned physical. Devon withdrew the orange bicycle pump from his capacious shorts’ pocket. It was the same hue as the bike’s flames.

“Hey!” he shouted over the thuds of sneakers against flesh. “Is this yours?”

Devon held the pump aloft, meeting the boy’s bug-eyed gaze before switching focus to the bullies. They relaxed when they realized how unlikely it was that he could spoil their fun. And they were right - Devon was barely larger than the skinny boy.

“Who you?” The tallest and oldest bully asked.

Devon shrugged. “His guardian angel.”

A stunned silence held the peace for a moment. Duppies, angels, and demons all featured in Jamaican culture and were treated with either awe, fear, or a bit of both. These boys, like most children in this locality, had most likely gone to church when they were younger. But by one idiot’s comment, Devon assumed he had slept through Sunday school.

“Angels can’t be so black.”

All except the leader of the group laughed - he was almost as dark as Devon.

The group split, four advancing towards him, while the leader and the idiot stayed near the boy and bike.

“We don’t need to fight. Take the bike.” Devon held out the pump. “Take the pump too. It’s probably his.” He looked at the boy for confirmation.

The boy nodded and winced, clutching his side as he shuffled backward.

“And we’ll teach you a lesson for not minding your own business,” the leader said.

Devon gulped and lowered his arm before they saw the tremors. Transferring his grip from the base to the centre of the plastic tube, he waited.

The air smelled damp and sweet, which would change once his blood started to flow. The pounding in his ears drowned out the steps of the advancing group and the gentle flow of the stream.

Devon could run away. He’d been navigating this ravine since he'd learned to walk. And even though it was still slippery, he would outpace them.

Devon swung the pump at the boy closest to him. The boy dodged but surrendered his balance. Hopping forward, Devon swung at another boy. Plastic and flesh met with a crack. Someone shoved Devon from behind and he fell, twisting to avoid jutting rocks. The pump went flying, splashing in the thin stream which quickly swept it away. Devon felt the punch before he saw the fist. A swift kick followed. Then pain radiated all along his back as they knocked him into the rocky incline.

A demented roar thundered. Devon’s assailant paused mid-kick. They all turned as the boy, snarling and hissing on all fours, slammed into the leader and knocked him over.

Devon felt the smack as the leader’s head connected with a protruding rock. The boy spun towards the idiot while barking like a pit bull. The idiot stared slack-jawed instead of defending himself. Devon tore his gaze away from the fascinating scene.

Reentering the fray, Devon mimicked the boy. He growled and tackled his attacker at the waist. Throwing his head back, he howled like the wolves he’d seen on TV. It was cathartic. The pain in his back, head, and ribs faded. He roared as he launched at another boy, perched on higher ground, but quickly learned his mistake. The boy ruthlessly shook him off. His shoulder and hip grazed a rock before he landed in the stream. But there was no time to register the pain - the boy was still acting demented, so he would too. Well, he hoped the boy was pretending.

He bared his teeth and hissed as he pushed himself to his feet. But the remaining boys simply stared - shifting their gazes between the two, and then taking a step back. Ready to press his advantage, Devon crawled towards the boy, snuffling the air and growling. The two of them grunted while shuffling from rock to rock - backing away from the group, and further down the ravine. The boys, wary of the demented duo, hoisted the leader and the idiot between them.

Devon and the boy continued to howl, and move backwards, long after the bullies disappeared into the forest that lined the ravine. Their snarls became chuckles. Their chuckles became full-bellied laughter. Tears streamed from their eyes.

But soon the pain reasserted itself in pulsing waves, and they fell silent. A gentle breeze cooled their heated skin and burning bruises as they lay beside each other on a smooth rock. The trickle of water flowing over rocks soothed the pounding in their heads. Devon inched his head to the side and spied the river - peaceful and unaware of the violence which had just concluded. Kind of like there was no trace of the recent floods which had deposited all manner of things, including two boys. He smiled when he glimpsed the familiar orange belly of the pump, caught among detritus.

“You really are my guardian angel,” the boy said, and Devon chuckled again despite his burning ribs.

Wincing as he held out his hand, he said. “I’m Devon.”

The boy smiled, opening a cut on his lip, and patted Devon’s hand. “Norman.”