As a multiethnic kid, Keon Wesley has always had to straddle two worlds. He just never expected that metaphor to become a literal reality.
Ever since his dad left five weeks ago, he's struggled to adjust to life in a single parent household. When a...
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Keon stood before Wellworn, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, unsure whether to look him in the eyes or stare at his feet. One by one, Wellworn gently unclipped, unsheathed and withdrew an assortment of swords, daggers, knives and blades hidden within every orifice of his well-worn jacket. He placed them neatly, side by side, on the table; his stare never leaving Keon for a second. The guy had enough knives to dice two elephants! He seemed amused at how Keon's eyes bulged with the addition of each new blade to the set. At that point, Keon decided, perhaps foolishly, that he would try to break the ice.
"So... what's cooking?" he said, scratching the side of his thigh.
Wellworn cocked his head to one side like a dog deciding whether to pounce on a cat.
"It depends."
Keon swallowed, glancing around for someone, anyone, to shield him from the penetrating stare of this human monolith. He felt—undone by it. The One Millionth and Fifth milled about, busying themselves with various tasks. Some reclined on the stone benches, others repaired tears in their garments. Zahara stood by the cliff edge, staring out into space.
As Wellworn traced his hand across the line of weapons, Keon's skin tightened. He started running through scenarios in his head, wondering how long it would take for Wellworn to close the gap between them. Stupid! Some of those weapons were clearly throwing knives. He could pin him like a dartboard and he wouldn't need to move an inch.
How fast could he duck or roll out of the way? Was he fast enough to get behind the table and grab a blade? He was short and nimble. He did a pretty good job outrunning those things earlier—until they grabbed him with those whips, anyway.
Choosing a small, six-inch knife, ornately decorated from the hilt to the blade, Wellworn began chopping the leaves Zahara had presented.
"Come," he gestured to a stone bowl filled with water, "First, your hands."
Keon almost didn't hear him. He'd been wondering whether he could blind him by tossing the water in his face. Bit by bit, he inched his way towards the table and dubiously dipped his hands into the bowl. His eyes lit up. Whatever was in the water, it was soothing to the skin, and it smelt great.
"Lavender and eucalyptus, with a dash of lemon... if you were wondering."
Keon blinked.
"So. Where have you come from?"
"Uh... Plaistow?..."
Wellworn nodded like a bobble head.
"You know it or something?" he said, arching an eyebrow.
"I walk her streets once in a while."
Keon mouthed an 'Ok then.' Like this guy would go unnoticed in Plaistow.
Wellworn scraped the chopped leaves to one side and took a fat, red onion from a pouch at his side. He put down the knife in exchange for something like a small machete. The bang of the blade hitting the makeshift cutting board made Keon jump.
