There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (39 page)

The Son palmed his koulin’s hilt, feeling its weight. He had grown up with such blades. He only thought of them as tools to help make life thrive. He never dwelled on their capacity to do the opposite.

His teeth gritted, he began slashing at the dark. He muttered exhortations. He riled himself from the weariness and exhaustion that dulled his senses.

Kill them

For what they did

End them

So they do no more

The blade was his father’s. It was beautiful in its time-tested wear. Sharp. Faithful. It did not know whether it sliced through stalk or sinew, and did not care. It was an unthinking extension, willing to do its bearer’s will.

The leader lay in the middle of them–eight men in total. He would be the first to go. If the Son could kill others, good. But this one, the head, would be chopped off the figurative body.

The blade arced silver with each cut of the air. The Son’s heart throbbed. His mind clouded.

Jistis,
he told himself.
Justice,
he nearly cried aloud.

He was tackled to the ground. He strained against the tackler’s arms, but they were thick, and powerful. The Son screamed, but a hand clapped his mouth and trapped the sound.

— You will die if you do this! came the harsh whisper. They will kill you! Take it out on us!

The Son knew the voice. Knew it well. The clouds parted. Thought returned.

He rebelled against the lock-set arms out of obligation, but instead of raging, he sobbed.

— The leader’s name is Pascal. The man handed the Son a cup of steaming ginger tea. They warmed themselves by a sheltered cooking fire.

— Mesye Robert, I have to do this.

— I didn’t say I’d keep you from doing the thing. But you’re going about it wrong. He looked at the steaming tea in his cup, swished it around, contemplated something. I’m trying to help you, Robert said. I didn’t much like your father or his ideas–I’m sorry, but it’s truth–though I don’t want to see his son meet the same end.

—
I have to do this.

— As I said, they’ll kill many if you do.

— Then I’ll kill them all.

— That’s nonsense. One blade against half a dozen guns. Robert gave a derisive chuckle. His eyes followed the steam leaping into the air.

— You don’t understand what they took from me.

Robert sipped and snarled. They took my wife in front of my little boy. Violated her. Made him watch. He glared at the Son. I understand a little.

— Join me then. We could get others. We could take them!

Robert sized him up. Revenge–proper revenge–takes planning. They took your father in an instant, but to make them truly pay, to snuff them out, it will take more time. That’s the way these things should be done.

— What then?

A cry came from Robert’s shack.

— Was that your wife? the Son asked.

Robert shook his head. My boy. He doesn’t talk anymore–since the
vyolasyon
. He just cries out.

— Do you need to go to him?

Robert waved his hand dismissively. He’ll learn to live with pain. It’ll make him stronger.

They sat in uneasy silence.

— I ask again, what do we do?

— We will gather a certain group of men, Robert said. I will call them tomorrow night, by the drum. And wherever these villains lay their heads, we’ll cut them off together.

Dimanche awakens late in the morning. Though not one to indulge his body and its pesky need for rest, the prior days have sapped him.

He came upon Picot and Libète and Celestine. Picot scrambled eggs over a gas cooking flame while Celestine and Libète sat at a square table dragged out to the gallery. It was a cool hour. The sky was gray and clouded, and this made the verdant greens of nearby trees and grass pop. He looked out in the distance and saw fields thriving.
The world as it should be. Not concrete and rebar. Not people living on top of one another in filth.
His hands itched for work. If they didn’t have to run, he knew how he would spend the day: working in those fields.

Picot put a mug of piping hot coffee into Dimanche’s hand without a word. The boy returned to his stove and eggs.

— Mèsi, Dimanche mumbled.

— Ah! Bonjou, bonjou, bonjou! Celestine said. He gave a small clap and rose from his chair.

Dimanche feigned a smile.

— I thought you’d died, Libète said plainly.

— I might have wished I had. His lips curled subtly, a genuine smile this time. Slowing down for a bit of rest, my memory caught up with me. My memory and I, we aren’t always on good terms.

Libète tapped the table. Dimanche, Celestine and I were talking. Dimanche blew on his coffee. He told me some of your story, she said. Just a bit. About
. . .
about the loss of your family. I’m sorry.

Dimanche still looked out over the fields. He took a sip of his coffee, cringing at its tang.

— He shared about the men, those evil men, Libète continued. Those who took your parents from you.

— This coffee. It could use some milk, Dimanche said.

Celestine’s eyes widened. Of course. Of course! Picot! Condensed milk! Go for it! He clapped twice.

— But the eggs, the boy protested.

— Now!

Picot killed the flame and grumbled as he slipped out toward the main road.

— Did you
. . .
kill some of them then?

— I tried. It would have been suicide to attack them on my own. My neighbor stopped me. He had another idea.

— Yes?

— We spread the word. That the murderers–they were paramilitaries, members of FRAPH–were dispatched to break us as a reprisal for our politics. The neighbor used his drum. Men gathered. I knew these men, but did not know them like this, not by night. We discussed and argued over what to do. In total, we had eight willing to attack them. We matched their number. We gathered our weapons and set out for their camp.

— Yes? Libète was sitting on the edge of her chair.

— They were gone.

Glad to hear he hadn’t been forced to kill, Libète sighed unconsciously. Dimanche saw her. He wanted to both tell the truth and hide it.

— Gone? she asked. But to where?

— Pascal–that was the leader’s name–and his pack of dogs fled. Slipped back to whatever foul place they’d come from. We thought they’d been warned we were coming. He chuckled. They were afraid, we learned, but not of us. It was the American soldiers come to liberate us.

— You lost track of them?

The words gave him pause. I never lost them. They’ve never left my thoughts.

Picot returned, slamming two small cans of condensed milk on the table. He struck a match and relit his flame.

— What manners, Celestine muttered under his breath. He reached for a bottle opener and pierced the cans, pouring the milk into both Libète’s and Dimanche’s mugs. The white swirled until it claimed the black.

Libète had a thousand questions but respected Dimanche’s quiet. Picot soon came out with three plastic plates and placed a mound of eggs and a piece of bread on each.

— You should see the road, Picot said. Everyone is out. There’s a truck–

— So what? Celestine said abruptly. Trucks always pass through.

— But the men in the truck. They have guns. They’re asking all around. Looking for some man and some girl who have done something–

Libète dropped her mug. It cracked and shattered and spilled.

Their faces are pink, their fatigues are green, their guns are large.

They speak a language the Son knows is called ‘
Angle
’ but that he’s never heard uttered on that mountaintop he calls home. He watches them from the roadside. His few possessions are stuffed in a
djakout
bag slung over his shoulder.

The paramilitaries’ disappearance consumed the Son. The desire to see them dead overwhelmed him.

Two days passed. Every moment he spent attempting to return to life as it was before his parents were taken he heard a nagging whisper fill his ears:

“
They got away. You let them get away
,
you fool
.
If only you had acted instead of letting fear and Robert keep you from killing them . . .
”

But the paramilitaries had left nothing behind. No clues. All he knew was a name–Pascal–and that the eight men who had ruined his life were not where he was. If he was to kill them, the conclusion was obvious: he could not remain here.

After nearly a day of walking down mountain paths, he reached an uneven road. He had heard gunshots, and when he did, he rushed toward them.

He found their source. The pink-faced men in green were parked on the roadside in a jeep. He watched them laugh as smoke climbed from their cigarettes, as smoke climbed from their gun barrels. Lying at the vehicle’s wheels was a corpse, a black man, a paramilitary. He had a gun clutched in his lifeless hand.

After the cigarettes were spent, the Americans reluctantly got down from the jeep with a black body-length bag and prepared to use it to swallow up the dead man.

This man was one of the eight. The Son knew it. This was his only chance. He knew it.

From out of the shadows he sprang, shouting, Bonswa!

Guns leaped to the soldiers’ hands. He dropped himself and his things to the ground and raised his hands high.

— Souple! Souple! he shouted, Please! Please!

One of the soldiers stepped down with his gun drawn and moved toward the Son. The American let loose a flood of gibberish. The Son trembled. The soldier lowered his gun and turned back around. All breathed in relief.

But the Son followed on his hands and knees. Souple, he said again. Souple.
Pèmèt mwen
. He reached out and touched the soldier’s boot. The soldier spun and yelled another command, but the Son could not understand. He also did not care to understand.

— Souple.
Souple
. He gestured to himself and the dead man. Pèmèt mwen.
M ka ede ou
.

The soldier frowned and gave a sharp wave. The Son could not be so easily dissuaded.

— Souple. The Son ran to the dead man, picked up the body bag, straightened it. He looked up, nodding, forcing a smile. Pèmèt mwen, he said again. Pèmèt mwen. He saw the paramilitary’s face up close. The bullet wound was on his forehead. It was small, above his right eye. His stare was vacant and his mouth pursed, like he died with a question on his lips.

The Son slipped the bag over the dead man’s ill-fitted boots. He kicked the gun aside. He gave a servile smile as he ran his hands into the man’s pockets and pulled out his effects: a photo of a white nude woman, some money, cigarettes, some hand-scrawled notes, a picture of a child. He stuffed them into his pockets. The three soldiers watched him, bemused.

The body bag was zipped, and the Son hoisted the dead man into the back of the jeep. He let the soldier handle the gun, and the Son eyed it, wondering if it was the one that ended his parents. The soldier in the back of the jeep with him gave a sort of smile, and the one in the road climbed into the driver’s seat.

—
Anba
, the Son said.

— Huh? the driver said.