WITH THE IRREGULAR JOSTLING, through his groggy haze, Desmond pictured himself strung between two men like a deer carcass on a pole. Though vaguely aware that he was being carried on a crude stretcher, Desmond’s mind swam, unable to piece together his surroundings. His eyes fluttered open for a few moments. Their leader moved with stealthy economy, no wasted movements, gliding through the woods like the shadow of a bird. By comparison, Lij stomped through the undergrowth. Thumbing at berries, he picked up the occasional stick to beat branches back with, before losing interest and tossing it away. The men turned the makeshift stretcher from the woods onto the main road. When they emerged from the last stand of trees, the high walls of a city rose before them.
Desmond’s chest hitched with an anticipatory cough. With their heavy machinery, their spires of smokestacks, the vent of steam through their arteries, most cities vibrated like a distant engine. A pall of engine smoke fouled most large metropolises. The rhythm of the clockwork of the cities sent a thrum through the surrounding countryside. Not so here. The city had a measured breath to it, as if meditating in harmony to its surroundings. Or perhaps the threat of dawning sleep colored his imagination.
The urban sprawl of squat earthen buildings trailed into the woods, layered, unobtrusive, camouflaged by nature, inadvertent interruptions to the greenways. The shapes of the buildings slipped like a groove in the land, adhering to the contours of the landscape. The walls around the city jutted like earthen teeth from a broken jaw. Trees opened up, hiding houses within them. Thick walls enclosed homes, stacked on top of one another like blocks overgrown with grass.
There was a goat.
“Welcome to Wewoka,” the leader said.
Eyelids heavy from the numbing darkness, Desmond’s head pounded. Pressure throbbed from behind his eyes. The buildings canted at odd angles, both gleaming and covered in green, like metallic, striped trees. Glimmers of daylight seared his eyes. His skin was set aflame by fever, as if flensed from his bones with a hot blade. Figures moved about, nameless and shapeless. Turning toward him. Backing away from him. He closed his eyes again.
* * *
Desmond woke to the clank and whir of machinery. A metallic screen loomed in his face. As his eyes focused on it, the smooth countenance of an automaton came into view. Desmond jumped in alarm, his movement cut short by the restraint on his arm. He tugged at the strap before realizing both arms were bound to the bed. An orange light began to flash on top of the automaton’s head as it silently whirred out of the room.
Desmond studied the strange architecture of the room. The entryway was a large arch made of brass. Similar brass archways lined the hallway. A glass partition formed the door, and the main window was a long stretch of thick glass. Many rooms, like hidden compartments, lined the cold, twisting hallways. Automatons rolled through the hallways, occasionally stopped by someone who read their recordings and then peered at Desmond as though he were an exhibit at a zoo.
The wall thrummed with activity. A series of bellows within them, passing air though filters, he presumed, scrubbing the air. Plants lined his outside window, a thick mat of greenery along a ledge.
The man who led the group of people who captured him wandered into the room. His bearing suggested a soldier. His skin a deep sepia, almost matching Desmond’s. He removed his red turban and hung it on a rack beside the door. Two stripes of hair an inch wide bisected his head: one from temple-to-temple, the other at a right angle from center of forehead to the base of his skull; a small braid at each end. Earrings, small silver clockwork gears, dangled from his lobes. A turquoise necklace draped his throat. A series of silver armbands wrapped around his right bicep. His left arm had changed. The appendage had been swapped out and was much more natural in appearance, though made of brass. A small hand pulse had been mounted to his forearm. His belt was ornamented with silver and gears. He focused his intense eyes on Desmond.
“You’re awake,” the man said in his accented English.
“Where’s the boy?” Desmond answered. He drew against the restraints again as he attempted to sit up. With the number of interrogations he had conducted as a member of the Niyabingi, being on this side of the handcuffs felt unnatural.
“What’s your name?”
Desmond remained silent.
“He’s safe. You’ll see him soon enough. Where do you come from?”
Desmond turned away from the man and stared out the large window.
“Not feeling talkative? Just so you know, we are running your fingerprints. The League of Nations has negotiated a shared database of known or wanted figures. It’s only a matter of time before we learn who you are and why you’re here.”
Desmond’s eyes flicked to him.
“That caught your attention,” the man said.
“I need to see the boy. Make sure he’s safe,” Desmond said.
“I can arrange that.”
“And I need to speak to someone in charge.”
“I think you misunderstand the precise nature of your situation. Being shackled to a bed is not exactly a position of strength to begin making demands.”
“You misunderstand,” Desmond turned toward him. “We may need . . . asylum.”
* * *
With a weight pressing against his chest, Desmond’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t been aware that he had fallen asleep. A pressure straddled him. Someone moved their hands along his body. He made out a dark figure as if glimpsed through a mirror dimly. Desmond struggled to catch his breath.
“I can see you. Alone. In the dark. Under the sheets like a small boy afraid of the monster under the bed,” Cayt’s voice said.
“Who dem people you take fe fool?” Desmond said. “Get off me, nuh.”
“No matter what you do, no matter where you run, you will lead me to him. Your time is coming. Some things are inevitable.”
She bent low, as if to kiss him. She stroked his face. Her hands danced about his throat, slowly tightening about it, choking him.
Desmond sat up in bed.
“What’s the matter?” Glancing up from a folder of papers at Desmond’s movement, the man guarded the door.
“Duppy a-ride me.” The restraints cut so hard into him when he jolted awake, Desmond checked his wrists to make sure he wasn’t bleeding.
“Come again? There was no one here. Definitely no . . . duppy?”
“It was nothing. A night terror.”
Rolling over to examine his wound as best he could, given the loosened restraints, he saw a small patch of bandage clinging to his side. Desmond leaned back into the bed, feeling every year of his life. He used to daydream about settling down. With five or six children, a small, olive-colored house with white burglar bars along each window and a large yard. His wife would garden; it’d be their shared passion. They’d grow breadfruit, cho cho, guava, gungo peas, and soursop. They’d live a simple life and it would be everything.
The reflections along the glass window made the two men marching down the hallway appear like an entire troop. They took positions on either side of the outer entry arch. A woman walked behind them, holding Lij’s hand. She had fine, chiseled features. High cheekbones and with a lighter complexion like tanned hide, she carried herself with a regal air but without any of the officious fussiness he’d come to expect from bureaucrats. Desmond wasn’t certain, but he would’ve sworn she brushed hands with the leader before he took his post at the entrance.
“I’ll be right here,” he said.
“You’ve made that pretty obvious.” She opened a box of chocolates, popped a ball into her mouth, and tucked the box away into her purse. She wore a full, floor-length skirt gathered at the waist with ruffles at the knee. Trimmed with a ruffle which came only to the shoulders, her long-sleeved blouse had a cape attached which reached her fingertips. Her blouse barely covered her breasts and left a few inches of her midriff exposed. This accentuated the slight bump of her belly. She crossed her arms in front of the gap due to Desmond’s lingering gaze.
An automaton whirled into the room, accompanied by an old man.
“Place your arm in the sleeve,” a metallic voice commanded from an unseen speaker on the automaton as it released Desmond’s arm restraint.
Desmond ignored it.
“Place your arm into the sleeve or you will be designated ‘hostile’ and we will send someone in to . . . assist you.”
Desmond inspected it. The sleeve amounted to a hole in the automaton with a cloth cuff to it. Desmond slipped his arm into the opening. The cuff inflated until it fit snugly around his arm. The cuff pulsed, as if the automaton were trying to suck his arm through a straw. With a hiss, the sleeve deflated and the automaton withdrew from the room.
The old man busied himself in the corner of the room. Gray hairs sprouted from beneath his black turban. A black handkerchief knotted about his neck. An opened black vest covered his long, draping shirt. Crushing roots in a small bowl, he poured water into it and dipped a cloth in the mixture. He approached Desmond but first held out the cloth for his inspection. Desmond didn’t flinch, only eyed him as the man daubed him about the neck. The cloth was a welcome cool to the touch. The old man murmured to himself, “hear the owl, respect panther, stare with snake’s eye,” in a slight chant barely audible to Desmond. The old man turned Desmond’s face from one side to the next. Satisfied with his evaluation, the man left the room.
The woman circled the room. Her cape draped behind her as if held aloft by invisible wires. She made her way to the foot of Desmond’s bed, making a show of studying his face. She let go of Lij’s hand. The boy glanced up at her and then scrambled up into the bed with Desmond. He grimaced briefly as the boy snuggled into the crook of his arm, kneeing his bandaged area.
“You didn’t worry that our medicine man practiced primitive ways on you?” the woman asked at long last. Her English was less strained than her compatriot’s.
“In Jamaica, we have those who practice obayifo. Obeah. The Science.” Noting that no flicker of recognition registered in any of their eyes, Desmond continued. “It’s old healing. The obeah men comfort, but don’t replace doctors. Or technology. Or medicine.”
“No, the medicine would be the course of antibiotics coursing through your system.” The woman made a show of pouring two glasses of water and offering one to Desmond.
Desmond shook his head, declining the offer. “He reminds me of home.”
“The way I hear it, you’re a long way from home.” The woman took a long sip of her water, maintaining her level gaze at Desmond. Cocking her head slightly, she reminded him of Lij and his way of staring, which made it seem like she read his soul.
“Sometimes, I think that I don’t know what that means anymore.” Desmond shut his eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Come, nuh. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“You asked for me. A person in charge. Trust has to begin somewhere.”
“Desmond Coke. And yours?”
“Now, see, names should be guarded. Your true name has power.” She smiled to let him know she meant no harm. “My friend back there goes by Inteus. That is his calling name. In your language, his name translates to Has No Shame.”
“Calling name?” Desmond asked.
“The name we call him. You may call me Kajika.”
“Perhaps I gave up my name too easily.”
“You don’t strike me as a man careless about anything, Mr. Coke.”
“How long have you been tracking us?”
“We detected your incursion as soon as you crossed our borders. You were monitored the entire time, but then you strayed too near to our maglev lines and became a security risk. We’re under constant terrorist alert.” Kajika nodded her head. Inteus handed her Desmond’s cane. “You have no jurisdiction to carry weapons on sovereign land.”
“Where I come from, I have free license to carry such a weapon.”
“I had noticed the accent. What did you do that gave you such license?”
“Private security. Me and the boy were long overdue for a vacation.” Desmond oddly over-enunciated each word, suddenly self-conscious of his accent. “We thought we would travel as widely as possible.”
“Well, we can’t just let anyone across our borders.”
“Thus we’re your prisoners.” Desmond raised his shackled hands.
“More like uninvited guests. But guests nonetheless.” Kajika motioned to the handcuffs.
Inteus made a face of protest. They exchanged a few words in another language. Kajika crossed her arms and stared at the handcuffs with an air of finality. Though she projected no obvious airs of power, he unfastened the first. She gestured to the second. She turned back to Desmond. “You’re not going to be a problem, are you?”
“No, mum,” he said. “As your guest, that would be rude.”
“Indeed.” She hurried Inteus. “Besides, if you did anything rash, you’d prove Inteus right. And he becomes insufferable when he’s right.”
“But I am still detained for questioning.”
“Of course. How have you enjoyed your interrogation so far?” Kajika possessed a certain charm which both beguiled and disarmed.
Desmond rubbed his wrists; he couldn’t help but relax a bit. “I’ve had worse.”
“My apologies. May I ask, what’s your son’s name?”
“My son?” Desmond let the word roll off his tongue as if truly hearing it for the first time. Lij climbed down from the bed. He moved to the wall and pressed his palm flat against it. As he turned to Desmond, a smile flashed brief as lightning across the night sky. He leaned into the wall, placing his ear against it. The boy closed his eyes, enjoying whatever he heard.
“The boy.” Kajika arched a single, knowing eyebrow.
“He’s . . . my kin. Not of my blood, but family nonetheless.”
“Sounds complicated. I’m sure I’d love to hear the full story of it sometime.” The words came out of her without sarcasm or hint of pressing. Simply matter-of-fact. “Does he have a name?”
“You can call him Lij.”
“You learn quickly.”
“It was the name chosen for him. He has yet to choose his own name. His own way.”
“And you wish to give him that chance?” Kajika studied him with the expert eye of a jeweler making an appraisal.
“Something like that.” Desmond turned away. “At the very least, we hoped to disappear near the border of the Five Civilized Tribes. Maybe blend in among you.”
“Only those who listen to Albion’s propaganda know us as the ‘Five Civilized Tribes.’ We’re more of a collective of independent nations. Think of us as regionalisms that govern ourselves, much like the League of Nations. Officially, Albion deals with us as the Assembly of First Nations. Many among us still refer to ourselves as the Niitsitapi, the Real People. It is the First Nations which negotiates trade with Albion for our drug technology and limited mineral rights. It is the First Nations which is allied with Canada. You are among the Seminole now. Each of the tribes has our own discrete communities. Hide Me. The Woods Lament For Me. Disturb Me if You Dare.”
“Where I come from, we have a long history of taking in those who seek to escape Albion’s bondage,” Desmond said.
“So it has always been true among the Seminole. We’re proud of our heritage. Before Albion landed at Roanoke, before Jamestown, before Plymouth Rock, Lucas Vásquez de Ayllón called his settlement San Miguel de Gualdape. He forced Africans to build the homes, thus launching slavery. Our people moved inland to get away from the invaders.
“Soon, disease and starvation ravaged the colony.
“When Ayllón grew sick and died, the people of the colony divided, taking arms against any who presumed to play leader. So, while their leadership was in disarray, the Africans rebelled and fled to live among our people. We created a mixed settlement. And so it would go. Was this your way of getting around to asking for asylum?”
Desmond sat up as best he could. “Do we even have a case for asylum?”
“That’s what I’m here to determine. People run for a variety of reasons. Criminals. Political prisoners. Scandal. To start over. Fear or hope, which is it? So far all I see is a relatively young man . . .”
“Relatively?” Desmond asked with a wry smile.
“I was being polite.” She returned his smile. “A man with a young boy out camping on the sovereign border of the First Nations. From the looks of your clothes, you spent some time near Tejas. So, either you enjoy camping in areas hotly contested by Albion, or you seek to hide.”
“Perhaps I simply like the sound of armaments at night. I find the shelling rather soothing.”
Kajika pursed her lips. “A man with secrets.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“I’ve no interest in exhuming a man’s secrets, as long as those secrets pose no threat to my people. Do you pose a threat to us?”
“I’m . . . not sure.” Trust had to begin somewhere. The Maroon loved their jijifo, what they called their “evasive maneuvers,” which amounted to lies within agendas meant to confuse outsiders. With Kajika, there was a directness, a certain transparency, which proved no less difficult to navigate. Desmond gestured for a glass of water.
“Intriguing. That’s a dangerously honest answer.” Kajika slid a glass over to him.
“I wanted to repay your hospitality with the truth. As long as it doesn’t endanger us.” Desmond took the glass, relieved to have something to do with his hands.
“Fair enough,” Kajika said. “Your country knows something about fighting off the Albion forces.”
“Cudjoe, Nanny, Accompong, and the other military Maroon leaders fought and expelled the Albion forces from Jamaica nearly two centuries ago. Though we weren’t Maroon, my family lived near a city called Nanny Town, which had been completely leveled during an Albion raid. The Maroon left the ruins standing as a solemn reminder of our fate should we ever lower our guard. People say that the duppies of those who died in the battle still haunted the ruins.”
“Duppies?” She arched an eyebrow.
“You’d call them ghosts. Spirits.”
“We all live with the ghosts of our past. And we have had our own ‘Nannys.’ The Seminoles learned much from our experience in Florida. Slaves often escaped one or two at a time. With its thick bush and dangerous reptiles, the land protected them. Seminoles became used to admitting those who were different. With us as their home base, the ex-slaves would sneak into Georgia or Alabama to fetch their families.”
“I can’t imagine that Albion turned a blind eye to this.” Desmond adjusted himself into a new position as Lij climbed back onto the bed with him.
“Albion feared friendship between the African and native peoples. The Giant to the North would never accept an independent, armed, free black community. The very idea of our friendship, a safe haven, threatened to destroy their slaveholding ways. Nor did they want native communities on their borders who harbored blacks. They feared sabotage, revolt, subversion, or any form of haven for runaways. So they tried to drive wedge between the peoples. They went so far as to promote slavery among the native peoples. When that didn’t work as well as they expected, Albion ‘Patriots’ amassed forces in order to prepare to annex Florida. Business interests and government officials made plans to carve up Florida like it was a dessert. They deployed troops prepared to burn down villages.”
“The ‘Giant to the North’ would never let you be.” The story had a familiar ring to Desmond. To this day, Albion harassed Jamaican sovereign territory with air incursions.
“It’s like a young child who wants everything it sees for its own,” Desmond said. “They kept citizens and Parliament in the dark for their own good. Created a situation so fraught that the Seminoles saw no choice but to attack the Giant to the North first. That began the series of conflicts. Regent Van Buren passed their ‘Indian Removal Act.’ They fixed it in their minds to herd us. They wanted to move us to the Oklahoma and Arkansas territories. We knew it would only be a matter of time before they would want to settle there too. Wildcat and John Horse thought about going to Mexico, but Lalawethika of the Shawnee, brother of Tecumseh, had a different vision. He preached that Albion came from the sea, Spawn of the Great Serpent. Children of the Evil Spirit. He knew that Albion dreamt boldly, but their Western Design would take time.”
Kajika paused, considering the best way to continue.
“Lalawethika, too, had a plan: leading the Tecumseh Confederacy and forming a large multi-tribal community. He wanted us to withdraw, not to Oklahoma or Arkansas on Albion’s terms, but travel further west and north. It gave us time to fortify, be away from their diseases. Though it took a while to convince the Plains Nations, the Shawnees and Delawares, eventually the tribes moved. As far as Albion was concerned, one day we were blocking their migration across the land, the next day we were gone. We established the First Nations territory. Albion’s expansion crept slowly westward, with all due caution as they were afraid that they would encounter us and be harried along the way. By the time they reached our border, we were entrenched and fortified. They decided that it was wiser to grant us independence and sovereignty than war.
“The Seminoles, those whom Albion calls ‘Black Indians,’ were more immune to the diseases brought in by those of Albion, so we tend to live on the borders of the First Nations as a buffer zone. Sometimes, we serve as ambassadors.”
“Is that what you are? An ambassador?”
“It’s as good a word as any. We were always seen as experts on Albion, on their brand of diplomacy, their armaments, and their motives. We understand their strengths and weaknesses, their language and defenses.” Kajika was cautious and smart. Not revealing the extent of her diplomatic business with him and leaving no clear understanding of the extent of her power or duties.
“But the wolf is at your door again.”
“Indeed,” Kajika replied. “Destiny is upon us and the wolf is as voracious as ever for resources to plunder. Makes me question any who wish to come here.”
“For they might be the eyes of the wolf.”
“They might. The wolf does so love its innocent disguises.” Kajika cast a long, unwavering glance toward Lij.
The boy pretended not to see her.
Kajika turned back to Desmond. “So I ask again, are you officially asking for asylum?”
“I . . . don’t know. We haven’t made up our minds whether we want to stay or simply have safe passage until we reach Canada.”
“Let me know when you make up your mind. A formal request would put me in quite a bind during these delicate times. And I hate making too many decisions of state before breakfast.”
* * *
For the first few days, Inteus stationed two guards at the door of Desmond’s chickee, a small house with thick earthen walls and a grass-thatched roof. Lij enjoyed the open layout because it gave him room to run. From the porch, Desmond observed the people who walked by. Acclimatizing to its customs and particular brand of bustle, he’d gotten a sense of Wewoka. Without the lens of a fever-induced vision, it proved to be a dense, vertical city of narrow, terraced streets with expansive walkways. Largely devoid of motor traffic, any point could be reached by foot in fifteen minutes. Pictures painted on the sidewalks provided a colorful trail. With a central street lined with shops bustling with commerce, the noise and smell were different from what he was used to. Wewoka had none of the overworked smokestacks from innumerable factories; much of the city was made up by parks. The air had a hint of ozone to it.
A collection of buildings sprouted at the heart of the city. Gleaming green and metallic spires in the distance, the sun reflected from their solar panels. A mushroom-like structure drew in sewer water from its “roots” and funneled it to its dome. Solar energy evaporated the water, which was then collected and released throughout the streets, watering the surrounding green spaces. Photovoltaic panels lined solar drop towers. Titanium dioxide reacted with ultraviolet rays and smog, filtering and dissipating them. They had developed similar technology in Jamaica. Vertical gardens and vegetation covered the steep towers of housing units and work offices. The exterior vertical gardens filtered the rain, which was reused with liquid wastes for farming needs. A deep calm reverberated through the city, quiet preserved like a commodity.
Desmond wanted to investigate Wewoka more, visit its shops, dine at its eateries, explore its trains, but Inteus forbade him. While Kajika pondered their case, he was on virtual house arrest. So, each morning, he rose and climbed to the roof of his chickee under the early morning rays to perform the forms. The gentle martial movements didn’t tug at his stitches as much as he feared.
A mechanical eagle circled in ever-widening loops before disappearing behind a wall of low-lying clouds.
“What do you call those?” Inteus asked, indicating Desmond’s actions.
“You have a disturbing habit of sneaking up on me.” Desmond continued with his movements.
“A strange name for them.” Inteus kept out of reach.
“We call them the forms. The Maroon teach bangaran from one generation to the next. When I was being taught, my instructor told me to think of them this way: just as we tell our stories over and over to preserve and pass them along, the forms are like a dance meant to reinforce and transmit the techniques. I remember the first time I saw someone full-on in a fight. I thought to myself, ‘Me neva wan fe romp with dem boy deh, suh! Jus like dat, dem break wan man foot.’” Desmond smiled at the memory.
Inteus studied him for a few minutes with a scrupulous eye on his technique. “Kajika is ready to see you.”
“You two seem . . . close.” Desmond wound down his routine.
“Only fitting, with her being my wife.”
“I can imagine such an arrangement complicates matters of state.”
“She has her duty; I have mine. At home, our duty is to one another. It’s not so different, I imagine, between you and the boy.” Inteus nodded toward the chickee.
Lij watched from the entryway.
“As I said, duties of the heart sometimes complicate duties to the state.”
* * *
Inteus led Desmond and Lij’s escort group through the streets of Wewoka. Women strode along the cobbled sidewalks in their patchwork skirts displaying bands of alternating colors. Strings of beads wrapped around and around their necks until they were completely covered. Men wore foksikpayahkis, simple-cut, smock-like shirts which went down to their knees, black applique work sewn onto their front plackets. Some wore vests or felt hats rather than turbans, a bit of appropriation of Albion fashion.
The group passed a maze of buildings arranged like stacked puzzle boxes, until they reached a low-slung building with heavy wooden doors. Inteus escorted Desmond and Lij to a large office. Gaslit fixtures lined the wall, incongruous to the décor of the room. A glass-fronted grandfather clock contained a rotating cylinder winding gears, almost like a concession meant to make Albion visitors feel more comfortable. Bookshelves and a desk with two chairs in front of it dominated the room. The shelves lined one wall of the room from ceiling to floor, filled with books and artifacts. Biographies and histories nearly monopolized the topics, though books on religion and philosophy occupied their fair share of shelf space.
“Do you like books?” Kajika asked.
Lij all but froze. Only the slightest movement of his head in her direction acknowledged her at all.
“As you can see, I like books a lot.” She gestured toward the shelves.
“I like to read,” Lij said.
“A boy your age who loves to read. What kind of books do you like?”
“All kinds. James Baldwin. Toni Morrison. James Joyce. Shakespeare.”
“Those”—Kajika glanced toward Desmond—“are awfully adult books.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. It’s just . . .”
Lij turned away. He no longer met her eyes, no matter how she attempted to put herself in his line of vision. Lij busied himself with a cornhusk doll and a stone carving of a buffalo taken from one of the shelves. He tapped the buffalo then held it to his ear to listen.
One of his men moved to take Lij to a different room. Desmond tensed. Inteus waved the man off and gestured for them to leave. Then he took a position near the door.
Kajika padded back to her desk, circling it with extra accommodation given to her belly. Neat and orderly, with the only personal object on it a framed photograph of a much younger Kajika and Inteus. Relieved to be off her feet, she sighed as she sank into her chair.
“Who are you, Mr. Desmond Coke?” Kajika opened one of her desk drawers. She popped a chocolate ball in her mouth, but didn’t offer one, and slid the drawer shut.
“I’d guess you already have an answer.”
“By now you’re quite acquainted with Inteus, our chief of security.”
“Your husband.”
“Indeed. Well, he’s quite good at what he does. Resourceful, too. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions about how he gathers his information. Especially so quickly. He spins quite a tale about you.”
“I’m not at all that interesting,” Desmond said.
“Perhaps it’s just rumor, then. He’s heard that a member of a Jamaican dissident group, the Order of the Niyabingi, became an aide to a prominent family. Later reports indicate that he disappeared with a young boy. The boy was considered of great importance to Jamaica’s ruling class. Many interests, both within and without Jamaica, pursue them to this day.”
“It’s complicated. In Jamaica we have a saying: ‘Trust no shadow after dark.’ These days, our world is full of shadows.”
“Again I ask, who are you, Desmond Coke? More shadows we don’t need.”
“I am Jamaican by birth, Rastafarian by faith, and Niyabingi by mission. We organized to fight imperialism wherever we found it. Even if it meant our own mad leaders. Some consider the Niyabingi terrorists, though the irony is that most of the Niyabingi consider me a traitor for abandoning my mission.”
“For the boy?”
“As you say. And many intend to capture us, him, for their own purposes. Borders mean nothing to some people.”
“You are a far-blown leaf from a forest a good way away. Though long removed from your roots, you are still part of the tree.”
“I feel like I’ve been on the run ever since I left Garlands. From the time of my father’s death, the Niyabingi claimed and trained me for their secret missions. I still live for the mission; it just now includes a young boy in tow.”
“One thing I’ve surmised is that whoever is after you won’t forget you.”
“With the life I chose, wherever you lie your head, you go to sleep with the fear of waking up with a knife to your throat. I don’t want that life for Lij. It’s like dying. Every day. I’d hoped that in Albion, things would be different.”
“Albion loves the breadth of its shadow too much. Their people love or at least indulge the rule of their kings,” Kajika said.
“Or queens,” Desmond said.
Kajika smiled at this. “Or regents. Or senators. No matter how benevolent the ruler, the military drives the empire. Armaments feed the beast. And soldiers who train for war need a war for purpose.”
“It’s all the same. Be it the Obeahists wresting for the control of the spirit of our people. Or the Kabbalists working out the Tree of Life and the mysteries of the Divine Throne, all of which amounts to a cabal of Albion’s business interests draped in mystical nonsense. Or simply governments with their rulers. And soldiers.”
“Our warriors are for defense,” Kajika said.
“A beast is a beast,” Desmond insisted.
“Not so. Some beasts have their teeth pulled. They prosper by building and innovating rather than destroying and conquering. And warriors can choose to live by a code of peace.”
“A beast by any other name . . .” Desmond wondered if he pushed her too much. Debating the philosophy of rules and empires indulged time he didn’t have to spare. He grew frustrated, not seeing the point of all of this talk. He couldn’t help feeling as if he were failing a test he didn’t understand the rules of. Almost as if she tried to paint a picture for him or, rather, figure out a picture of him.
Kajika pushed away from her desk and got up. She paced back and forth a few steps. “Let me try it this way. It’s about priority. Soldiers are necessary when faced with an enemy who wishes to bully or overrun their neighbor. Sometimes violence, as a last resort, is the only language a mad dog understands. Is it so different in Jamaica?”
“We let others keep their dictators, kings, and political games. We content ourselves with ambitious fools who love gamesmanship and arguments, vying for power and respect. As long as our people prosper and are safe and . . .”
“. . . the trains run on time?” Kajika arched one of her eyebrows in that annoying way of making him feel like he’d walked into a rhetorical trap.
“Something like that. We’re content in our isolation to argue amongst ourselves.”
“And when the argument comes to your door?”
“Then a beast is a beast is a beast,” Desmond conceded.
“See? We’re more alike than you may think.”
“Excuse me, Kajika, but I don’t see where any of this is getting us.”
“I just want you to see what you’re stepping into before you commit. And I want a better understanding of what we’re getting. We’re proud of our history, even the blemishes. The Assembly of First Nations won the Three-Day War, which Albion dubbed a breakdown of diplomacy—‘a tragic misunderstanding’—where they had their asses handed to them, in other words. Yet here they were, on the verge of another one.”
“The border skirmishes?”
“Skirmishes? Thwarted incursions is more like it. With one hand they try to negotiate very publicly for limited mineral rights. All the while, they spy on us, violate our borders, and continue to test us.”
“The trade negotiations are pretext?”
“Perhaps. Which is why we have heightened security. You come at either the worst or most convenient of times. I need to understand any threat you bring to my people. You could be the diplomatic equivalent of a flaming bag of shit left on our porch. Hear me now: I don’t want to stomp out shit. Not in these shoes.”
Kajika smiled again. Her jokes were meant to ease the tension in the air between them, but Desmond knew the face of a lioness ready to tear the meat from his bones to protect her people.
“It’s Lij they want. For you, nature is technology. So it is with Lij. He was grown from the cells of one of our great leaders. If names have power, as you say, let me tell you his name: Lij Tafari Makonnen Woldemikael. He ruled his kingdom as the King of Abyssinia, His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I. Those of my faith believe he was meant to come back after his death.”
“If I understand what you’re saying, you may have possibly adopted the messiah of your faith and are raising him?”
“I . . .” Desmond hesitated. “I try not to think about that. All I see is a little boy who I’m protecting from the people who want him. Who would take him, drain his blood, turn his body inside out, and tease his brain apart. Break him down in parts to divine how he was created. ‘Reverse engineer the process,’ they said. All to figure out what? That he was human?”
“Or more than human,” Kajika said.
“He’s just a boy.”
“So you say. I’ve seen many things. Heard even more. Inteus informs me that some in Albion hope to develop the mind to be able to read or transmit thoughts. Move objects. Kill with mere concentration.”
“Lij would never do that.”
“People fear the unknown. People fear the future. People fear an . . . abomination.”
“Is that how you see him?” Desmond’s voice rose in pitch. He didn’t realize how heated the discussion had gotten or how defensive he had become at the idea of anyone threatening Lij. Inteus took two steps closer to him, the movement alone meant to remind Desmond of his presence and situation.
Kajika held up her hand to halt her chief of security. She turned her head at an angle to further study Lij. He trotted the buffalo along the bookshelves, using it to tap along the ledges, whatever rhythm known only to him. “No. He’s just a boy. But what life can he have with so many eager to pry him open for his secrets?”
“A life of freedom,” Desmond whispered. “That’s all any of us seek.”
“Not all of us get it.”
“So, you’d deny him?”
Kajika walked over to Lij. The cornhusk doll now riding the stone buffalo, he paused his game at her approach. He didn’t turn to her but froze like an antelope that had been spotted by a hyena.
“So, this is our security threat?” Kajika said.
“I wouldn’t get so close,” Inteus said.
“Nonsense.”
“I really must insist.”
“If you insist any more, I’m going to name your son ‘Shits Like Deer.’”
Lij laughed.
She sized him up with a hard stare. Abruptly, her features softened. “My apologies, little one. That was inappropriate.”
“Raasclaat,” Lij said.
“Raasclaat. I’m afraid I don’t know this word.”
“It’s a Jamaican swear word,” Desmond said. “It means . . . um, nothing fit for mixed company.”
“Now that sounds like some raasclaat,” Kajika said. “He has such an odd manner for a boy his age.”
“With all due respect, he can hear you.” The tone had more teeth to it than he intended. “I suspect that it may be an unanticipated side effect of his . . . conception. But he’s still a boy. He likes stories.”
“Well, he’s in luck. We of the First Nations are some of the best storytellers on the planet.” She folded herself down, an awkward tangle of arms and legs. Inteus approached to offer a hand, but she waved him off. While she tried to find a comfortable position, Kajika scooted down close to Lij. The boy said nothing but didn’t move away, either. She glanced at Desmond, who nodded to her. She cleared her throat.
Some stories were only told when words failed. When whatever truth scrabbled about in the dark, in secret places that defined a people, bubbled to the surface and found its voice spoken in a language only known to the wind.
Tree at the Center leveled a cool eye at the piece of mica before him. He burnished its edges with the meticulous care of a father swaddling his child for the first time. When he first sat at his spinning wheel, he could not see the shape in the mica that he would bring out. He feared the voice who sang the music of his inspiration was gone forever. Only in the last few days had he begun to hear a new voice to carry him through.
“What are you doing, Father?” He Interrupts asked.
“What does it look like?”
“An eagle’s claw.” He Interrupts inspected the sculpture. “But I thought that all business was set aside for today.”
“This isn’t business. It’s personal.” Tree at the Center’s mouth curled weakly into a smile as if testing to see if he still could form one. He tousled the young boy’s hair.
“Is it for Mother?”
“It is. Many people wish to honor Whispers on the Breeze. When a family member dies, the entire village mourns.”
He Interrupts knitted his brow, deep in thought. “What can I give her?”
“We have our origins in stories, in words spoke into creation. You must give her part of your story.”
“But I have no story to give.”
“That’s not true. You two had a shared story. That’s what you leave her.”
“What was your story?” He Interrupts pointed to the eagle claw.
Tree at the Center glanced from the boy to the artifact, then back to the boy. He set his teeth as if chewing on an idea. Finally, he cleared his throat to speak.
“One day a long time ago, a woman had wandered far from the Road Much Traveled and gotten lost in the woods. Hungry and faint, she collapsed on the bank of a great river. It was cold and rainy, as both the sun and the moon hid themselves in the sky.
“The Father of Eagles spied her. Keen of eye, wings the span of a village, the proud bird circled her. It took pity on the sight of the young woman dying. The Father of Eagles swooped down, the beating of its mighty wings bent young trees, yet the woman did not stir. It lifted her up gently and searched for a village.
“The great bird warmed her body and brought her food. Its heart grew to love her. So it told her stories. The Father of Eagles told her of the secret songs of the birds. It told her of their dances. It told her of the laws of birds. All these things and more it shared with her.
“Then one day, she nestled under its wing while it flew. The earth slept under snow and the wind moaned through bare branches. In the distance, smoke rose. The Father of Eagles flew towards the smoke and found a village of the People before our people, their names long forgotten. It landed on the village’s edge.
“‘You must go with them, for they are your kind,’ the Father of Eagles said.
“‘But I don’t want to. I am a stranger to them,’ she said.
“‘They know the true name of things. They walk with their spirits open. And they will grow to love you as I have. And you shall tell them our stories.’
“‘Will you ever return?’ she asked.
“‘One day I shall come back and carry away the entire village on my back.’
“And so our stories have come down through our mothers, one generation after the next. Passing on our heritage and knowledge to our children.”
He Interrupts shuffled from one foot to the next in thoughtful silence. He studied his empty hands for a moment and then spoke again with a seriousness to his voice much older than his few years. “I’m still not sure that I have a story to offer her.”
“Much can be learned from listening to those with much experience. Maybe it’s time for you to show me the craft you have learned. See how well I have prepared you in our way of life.” Tree at the Center scattered a few blocks of chert around them. “Choose your own. The one that speaks to you.”
He Interrupts cocked his head as if wanting to ask a question but thinking better of it. He rolled a couple of the blocks about, inspecting each of them. If one particularly intrigued him, he picked it up and tapped it with a stone. Narrowing down his choices to the final two, he chose the one with the higher pitch to its song. Fine-grained, durable, and carvable, the large stone had no fissures in it, nor any bubbles or other minerals.
“You chose well. Now gather your tools.” Tree at the Center stepped away from his table.
He Interrupts approached the table with solemnity, looking over each instrument with great care before picking any of them up. He gripped the antler tine in his hand, weighing its heft. Then he found a hammer-stone which fit snugly into his hand. He sat cross-legged, imitating the posture of his father at work. He held the hammer-stone just above his chosen piece of chert and waited. Tree at the Center nodded.
He Interrupts struck the stone, tentative at first, judging the flaking of the stone. Soon, the stone began to slowly take the form of a blade. He scraped it to further guide its shape. Tree at the Center nodded with approval, only occasionally making a dissatisfied gurgle, which made He Interrupts shift the angle of his flaking. When the boy was finished, Tree at the Center took the bladelet and hafted it to a handle.
“Am I a man yet?” He Interrupts asked, admiring his handiwork.
“Not yet. I’ll let you know.” Tree at the Center smiled. “Come, let’s walk the Road Much Traveled while you remember the blade’s story.”
“Remember?”
“We do not create out of nothing but rather from what has been here before us. You work from a half-remembered idea, and soon the rest of the story will come to you.”
The Road Much Traveled passed through the heart of their hamlet, dividing it evenly in two. The pair trekked by a series of wattle-and-daub walled rectangular homes with thatched-roofs. The road wound along the crops of their people: corn, squash, goosefoot, and maygrass. The Road Much Traveled connected all of the villages like a long, winding serpent stretched across the lands.
He Interrupts made an inarticulate noise, drawing Tree at the Center’s attention. The boy ground his jaw, caught his father’s expectant gaze, then began to speak.
“It is said that the moon connects all life, her beams like threads touching all things like a spider’s web. At times, she cannot stand to see what her children do to one another, so she hides her face from them.
“There once was a young boy, one of the People of the Hill, whose mother and father had died. His father’s brother took him in, but his uncle was not kind. He worked the boy long and hard, yet fed him seldom and little. He was quick to anger and slow to forgive.
“Now, it was the custom for the older men to walk ahead of the rest when a group went off to trade. The boy was relieved, for it meant that he was away from his uncle at least during the day. That night, however, his uncle fell into a horrifying anger. He stormed into the woods and the boy followed, fearing for his uncle. His uncle got into a terrible argument with the moon. His shouts echoed for miles. Finally, he drew his knife, for he sought to end the moon’s unyielding observation of his life. He slashed wildly at the beams, unable to still the moon’s light.
“Finally, the knife slipped from his hand. Fearing that his uncle might injure himself or one of his kinsmen, the boy ran to the fallen blade and threw it into the nearby creek. The uncle dropped to his knees at the water’s edge, clutching after the knife. But each time he outstretched his hand, the moon kept it out of reach.”
He Interrupts closed his mouth as if satisfied and continued walking along the road.
“Wait one moment,” Tree at the Center said. “What happened with the boy? Or his uncle?”
“No story ever ends, but sometimes the telling of it has to. I’m content to know that she is always there, watching over her children. That is what I have to share.”
Veering from the Road Much Traveled, He Interrupts followed Tree at the Center deep into the valley. A quiet settled over them, a curtain of reverent silence, which left them somewhat unsettled. Surrounded by thick groves of trees, they followed the creek. The trees seemed to crowd them, to block them at every turn, unspeaking sentries not wanting to share their secrets. Then the forest opened up. From their vantage point, they could take in the entire earthworks.
A large square of platted ground was attended by a smaller one conjoined with a massive circle. Within the vast circle were a series of connected earthen mounds. A wall, nearly two men high, bordered the carefully measured earth. Just beyond the northern wall were several pits of excavated earth.
“We build together. One people coming together in shared purpose,” Tree at the Center said as if answering an unasked question. “No matter where we go or how we spread out.”
Tree at the Center led He Interrupts to an unfinished mound. He set his mica eagle claw within it. His heart ached, still missing the familiar voice who spoke beauty into his world. He closed his eyes, his lips moving though without sound. When he opened his eyes, he stepped aside to make room for He Interrupts.
“A prayer?” He Interrupts asked.
“There are stories we share and stories we keep to ourselves,” Tree at the Center said.
He Interrupts nodded. “Whispers on the Breeze.” His set his bladelet alongside the eagle claw and closed his eyes. “Some things can tell when their name is spoken,” he said as if answering his father’s unasked question.
Tree at the Center stepped back from the mound. “One day, all that will be left of us is our stories. When our tribe has become little more than a faded dream with only our tales left to shape our children and our children’s children. But a story only needs a teller for it to be remembered. At night, when the road is free of travelers and the villages are silent, the dream of us will fill the land. There is no death, only movement between worlds.
“Our stories live on after us.”
The last words hung in the air like the last notes of a concerto with the audience pausing, too nervous to applaud. Lij said nothing. He glanced at Kajika from the side of his eye, then went back to playing with the cornhusk doll astride her buffalo. Before Desmond could warn her against it, Kajika reached out to pat him on the back. Lij didn’t so much as flinch.
There was a knock at her door. A young man entered the chamber and handed Inteus a note. In turn, he went over and whispered in Kajika’s ear before handing her the note. She read it and reread it as she returned to Desmond’s side.
“It appears that we have captured another guest.”