Dragonfly by Jax Hill 

The summer had been golden — the trip to the shore, the fishing trip, even those gorgeous sunflowers that showed no signs of drying up and dying in front of Sully’s building. We were living almost under and enchantment, everything was so right.

Which was crazy, because everything wasn’t right. Angel was still a crack addict. Most of the guys Torstein befriended were still drunks or homeless people with no future. A few drugs addicts, too. And the Dunker, if anything, had come under worse fire for the way he was carrying on down by the water. His followers, also called Dunkers, had been causing a stir wherever they went, preaching that same “turn or burn” message he’d started preaching a few weeks back.

One Friday afternoon while we were congregating in the park for Story Hour, the bus on the other side of the street paused to let off a giant with dreadlocks and several crew-cut surfer punks. Duncan and the Dunkers had come to join us! Torstein ran over to greet his cousin and came back to the plaza in the center of the park, arm in arm with the Dunker. He introduced him around, and Duncan introduced the young men he’d brought with him. Then he told them to be on their way. I guess he’d brought them downtown to preach.

They all took off up various streets. Our downtown had government buildings, businesses, law firms, and even three or four of hotels — one of them had a convention center attached, so from time to time the area was overrun with conventioneers. There happened to be a big gun show that had opened earlier in the day. Lots of vendors, exhibitors and attendees were crowding the streets. Mostly the vendors were legitimate folks who sold guns per the laws already in place with background checks and whatever else ... but they attracted the other kind of gun vendors who had a sort of no-waiting policy when it came to any arms, legal or illegal. I wondered if the Dunker had brought his posse here to preach to them, and what kind of reception they would get.

Duncan had a cut over one eye healing, and Torstein asked him about it.

“That hired muscle Nikolai sends after us,” the Dunker grunted. “We’ve had two more run-ins with them since that day you came. When will he learn that I’m not to be stopped by a threat of physical violence?” The Dunker himself looked practically indestructible, but his followers looked like beach-blond boys by comparison, and I was pretty sure the threat of physical violence meant more to them than to Duncan.

He sat with us through Story Hour, and he was certainly appreciative of the Story Ladies’ interpretation of Seven Chinese Brothers.

“Swallowed the ocean?!” Dunker laughed. “I would love to have that power.”

Story Hour had become a major event for folks downtown that summer. A lot of kids came from the projects not so far from downtown, sometimes with their mothers or babysitters, sometimes on their own. A lot of the homeless folks who stayed in the park or wandered the downtown streets would come, too. Torstein charmed everyone. Each day after Story Hour, he would move from group to group of those who remained after the story, speaking with each person, offering sunflower seeds, shimmering like a dragonfly in his green coat.

As he moved away from our group after Story Hour to go greet our other guests — as he called them — the Dunker stood up and said, “You’re doing something good here, Torstein. But you’re not being bold enough. You want to make an omelet, you have to crack some eggs.”

“Did you just make that up?” Torstein said, laughing.

“You’re not making enough noise. You’re not cracking enough eggs,” Duncan said.

Torstein smiled at his cousin, the big man with the great voice, the wild man with the gnarly dreadlocks, the strong man with the cut over his eye. And Torstein’s smile was full of affection, his eyes shining with love. “From the beginning of time until now, the world’s been groaning for the kingdom to come. The violent take it by force. The wise beguile it with love. You have your methods, and I have mine, Duncan.”

“The ends are the same,” the Dunker said. “And my way is speedier and more satisfying. Come with me, Torstein. Not a mile from here there are death dealers plying their trade with no interference from the authorities or the people. We can cramp their style.”

He grinned, and I thought, he’s looking forward to getting in a fight with a drug dealer or a gun runner.

He turned to Pete and Bruiser and said, “What about you two? You don’t look to be afraid of a fight. Come with me.”

Pete stood up to go. Torstein cleared his throat and gave his cousin a loaded glance. The Dunker seemed to reconsider, and said to Pete, “No, no. You’ve found the true way here, with Torstein. I won’t take you away from it.”

Pete turned to Torstein who said, “You can choose for yourself, Pete. But Duncan’s way isn’t my way.”

“I’ll go see,” Pete said. He and Bruiser stood and followed the Dunker as he strode away out of the park, toward the hotels and the convention center.

“Pete!” I called. “Be careful!”

He looked back at me and grinned. “I’ll be back!” he called.