There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (42 page)

In the time before night fell, Libète and Dimanche had exchanged no other words. They climbed along waterways with gleaming white rock underfoot and along treacherous backwoods paths, up and up.

It was almost as if he could see inside her, her every synapse sparking bitterness, a tainted heart pumping hatred throughout her body. Libète was trapped in a prison-like realm of thought that Dimanche recognized; he’d inhabited the same place for so very long, and still knew no way to lead her out. For her, the villains who had set her on this mountain path were now labeled, lined up in a row like targets at a carnival game, ready to be plinked into oblivion if only she was given the opportunity to end them.

In the past years he’d had hours of solitude to reflect on whom he’d killed and what he’d done. But vengeance helped him trap and eliminate any trace of guilt. Visions of a gun, in his hand, exploding, watching his victims–men, fathers, sons–leak their blood.
They took. I took back.
It was simple transactional thinking. He told himself this over and again. Yet seeing Libète this way spurred change within him. The lies he’d built a life on could no longer stand.

Darkness descended and storm clouds gathered. He stopped. They were not so far from a river. He laid out a blanket for himself. Handed her another, and she took it.

They slept.

Hours passed.

They awoke.

It was the puttering of a dirt bike. The incongruence of its man-wrought engine grated against the woven songs of running water, birds’ nighttime calls, and coded crickets’ chirps.

This sound in this place was an uncommon thing, he knew. Springing from the ground, they gathered their things and hid behind the trees. The bike advanced deliberately down the same path they had traveled, casting a wide light over the forest floor. When the rider reached the ground where they had been sleeping, he paused to inspect the earth. He took out something boxy. Dimanche’s eyes widened. Before Libète understood what was going on he had dashed from the shadows. The rider was already speaking.

— I’ve found them. The man rattled off some other details about his location.

Libète watched in horror. Dimanche ran at the man full bore. Ripping the device from the rider’s hand, Dimanche sent his elbow into the man’s face. The man shouted out in alarm and pain. Libète trailed, her hand to her mouth. The rider, reeling but still straddling the bike, leaned forward and placed his hand on the bike’s accelerator. Dimanche’s fist was midswing as the bike lunged to life and the surge of gas caused the bike to fishtail. Dimanche’s punch landed but the spin of the bike’s back end collided with Dimanche and sent him sprawling. The wheel, twirling fast, finally clenched the earth and shot forward. Dimanche cried out. Libète watched the bike and rider shoot toward a nearby tree. The man slammed headfirst into the trunk. Now in a tangle with the bike on the ground, the rider did not stir.

Libète ran to Dimanche’s side.

— My leg, he whimpered.

She looked down. His left pant leg had been ripped away by the tire’s mad spin. But it was worse than a friction burn. The bike’s back wheel had driven over his leg.

Dimanche’s ankle was broken.

And Maxine, and Dumas, knew where they were.

The Fallen Seeds

Pye bwa ki wo di li wè lwen, gren pwomennen di li wè pase l.

The tall tree says it sees far, the wandering seed says it sees more
.

Nèg di san fè, Bondye fè san di.

Man talks without doing, God does without talking.

Libète stands on the remnants of the fort, looking down over the whole of Haiti. She sees fishermen cast their nets. A child slave cower in fear. Merchant women laughing and laughing and laughing.

She sees couples in love, making love. She attends university graduations. Christenings and first communions, All Saints’ Days. Concerts in stadiums and nightclubs. She walks through streets full of rubble on the day of the earthquake.

She moves further through time, back to the start of her island.

She is able to see the Taíno Indians and watch as Anacoana holds court. She dines with Papa Doc, plays ball with Baby Doc while he is still a toddler, before his innocence was lost. She swims with mermaids, toils alongside slaves. Paints with Frankétienne, reads Jacques Roumain’s first drafts, takes to the stage to play duets with Ludovic Lamothe. She sees the blood shed over many long years. She sees good men devoured, evil men prosper. Mothers give birth, and die in birth.

It has been a long day. She finally returns to the fort and surveys it all, every last thing. A wind blows. Twigs and branches and grass and weed and corn and beans and carrots and leaves swirl together until they make up a body, a living thing.
Didi.

They stand facing one another. I’ve seen it all, Libète says. Every moment. Every detail. There is much good in this land. So much. But the
wrong
of it. Millions of blotted hearts. The pain they cause one another . . .

Didi grabs her shoulder and unfurls her other arm, as if to say, But the Land! The Land is good!

— This Land? It is barren. Dying. Just another sign this country is forgotten, forsaken.

Libète turns back. Why doesn’t he
speak
? If he’s there? If he’s love? All of her pained memory comes forth, and she is nearly crippled. Didi is there to support her. Why is God silent in the face of it all?

Didi cups her knotty hand and brings it to her ear.

Libète does the same.

And in it, Libète listens.

She inclines toward the storm and hears nothing.

She inclines toward the quake and hears nothing.

She inclines toward the fire and hears nothing.

And then finally, she stops, turning away from all the furious sound and inclines toward the quiet, and it is there she hears a gentle whisper.

She awakens on the floor to a banging outside. The Sun has arrived for the day, and she can see its rays like tendrils reaching through the narrow gaps where the daub has fallen away from the wattle. She registers her surroundings. The bucket. The flies. She’s in the jail.

She winces. Her head rebels against thought–
such pain!
–and her body falls into shivers and weak coughs. She tries to speak, but words are vaporous things.

So thirsty.

The pounding on the door continues.

— Libète? The voice is familiar. A man’s. The call is followed by shallow breathing.

—
Wi?
she chokes out.

— I brought this for you. He walks around to the side, slides a squat brown bottle through a hole chipped away at the level of the jail’s floor. Dlo, he says.

Across the floor she goes, desperately. She grabs the bottle, lifts it, drains it. She catches the last drops on her tongue and slides back down onto the ground, nursing her aching temples. Her thirst remains unquenched.

— Mèsi, she croaks.

— You’re welcome.

She cracks her eyelids, and looks at the eyes prying through the hole. They are Lolo’s.

She feels new pain.
Why . . . why . . . why
. . .

— Libète, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I had no choice.

She cannot speak.

— Maxine’s coming. On her way. Whatever you know, whatever they want, you must give it to them.

Libète gives him no reaction.

— Benoit wanted to kill me. I had to do what he said or I’d be dead. I didn’t want to . . . to do any of it. Then Maxine came, like a miracle. Promised me protection from Benoit. Promised me new drugs to treat my disease. But they said I had to look for you. These two guards, they heard from their bosses to keep their eyes peeled for a girl like you. They thought you might be here and Maxine ordered me to come, all the way across Haiti. Like some sort of scout or something. To make sure it was you. In that moment, I refused. I said I couldn’t hurt you anymore. They, they hurt me, Libète. Hurt me bad. They took my medications.

She looks away and curls into a ball. Her sympathies are unstirred.

— They will level Foche. I’ve seen enough of them to know. This, all of it, will disappear. Just give them what they want so that all the suffering–yours, Foche’s–
ends
.

Coughs overtake her, a furious bout, and the blood, it comes. Lolo cannot watch. He cannot stand to see his condition reflected at him. He departs, staggers away, down the hill and soon down the mountain, pulling the tears from his eyes and cursing the storm that gathers.

Libète fashions a splint for Dimanche. He endeavors to tolerate the pain.

He winces as Libète wraps a branch to his fractured ankle.

— Ahh
hhh.

— It will be okay, Dimanche. She bites her lip. All will be well. She speaks as Dr. Françoise, her nun friend, would to a patient.

— Check the bike, he groans. See if it can run.

— Right. She ran the fifteen feet to where it lay. The rider lays mangled, unmoving.
No helmet
.
Not good.
She examines the bike’s front wheel, but the fork is bent and wheel misshapen.

—
Li kase
, she says as she shakes her head. She pries into the man’s backpack. There are foil-wrapped things, military rations by their looks. Two flares. There must have been a weapon too, but it was lost in the dark.
He didn’t expect to be out searching for us for long.

She hustled back to Dimanche, sliding the food and supplies into his duffel bag.

— Maybe if we hide someone will pass and they can help us. You said this path leads to a mountain road? Someone with a mule might come through–we could get you on that, go up the mountain and down its other side.

— Yes, he sighed.

— All right! It’s decided. Yes, we’re in good form. Let me help you up. Libète strained. It was like lifting a boulder. He let his good leg bear most of his weight.

He took a step, or at least tried.

He bit his bottom lip and grabbed Libète to regain his balance. He reminded her of an injured street dog.

— It’s all right, she said. It’s all right. Plenty of time. No rush. You’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, when we get to Cap-Haïtien there will be a hospital. Here . . .

She helped him hobble toward a tree. He leaned against it and exhaled. Maybe a cane, he muttered.

— Right! Of course! She scanned the ground for a hearty branch, finding nothing suitable. She saw a low-hanging bough and hopped up and let her free weight tug it down.

Crack!

It and she fell to the ground. Once in hand, Dimanche tried using it as a sort of crutch. He took a few labored steps. It held.

— Let me get your bag, Libète said.

— It’s too heavy for you.

—
Give it here!
Her composed veneer cracked. He handed it over, and she slung the strap over her shoulder. He was right. She wondered how long she could manage to carry it.

They got off the main path. The sky remained grim, filled with swirling clouds that foretold rain. Dimanche struggled with the uneven terrain.

— They’ll be following. Probably on bike. Or something similar. Dimanche said the words between winces. A truck couldn’t come along this way.

— Put them out of your mind.

— The flares you grabbed. Light one.

— Won’t that show where we are?

— I need the light to see the ground. They’re trailing us. Time is short and we need to make the most of what we have.

She withdrew a flare from the bag. She pinched one of its ends and held it away from her, as if it was a stick of dynamite. How do I light it?

— The tab at the top; pound it hard. Be careful! Keep it away from yourself.

She yanked the tab, and it burst into a red flame.

— Good. Now, hold it close to the ground for me.

— Like this.

—
Parfait
. Perfect.

— Dimanche . . .

— Yes, Libète?

— Are we going to be okay?

Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered: Yes.

They walked without speaking for some minutes. Dimanche focused on the ground before him, grunting with each step. The recovered walkie-talkie chirped and cracked periodically. They must have changed the frequency, he said. Or are keeping quiet.

The burden on Libète’s shoulders felt like a thousand pounds. She let her gall fuel her as her other reserves of energy were depleted. The feelings of hatred for her enemies gave her new clarity and sharp focus. Words seeped from her mouth.

— Justice demands it . . . when I get the chance . . .

— What are you saying, Libète?

She muttered more, but Dimanche couldn’t hear the words.

She stopped. I’m going to kill them. Those who sent me down this path. Just like you did.

Dimanche nearly tipped over. No.

— I’ll do it. I’ll hunt them down. And I will hurt them. I will make them bleed. Benoit, Maxine, Lolo – she shuddered – Dumas.

Lightning arced through the sky. Dimanche glimpsed her twisted features. He was terrified.

— I . . . need to rest, he said.

— We have to keep going.

— I need to rest! Dimanche roared. To hear you say these things . . .

— Hypocrite.

He collapsed to the ground and rubbed his face. He dripped sweat. He spoke.

— The night I nearly ran at those who killed my father with a machete, Robert, from my village, warned me they would kill me if I killed them.

— And?

— He was right, but in the wrong way. No matter what I want to believe, I see now: killing them did kill me.

She listened with arms crossed. Her nostrils flared with her every breath.

— That kind of justice costs, so very much. I know what you’re feeling, I do. You think hatred is the cure for your pain. But it’s a poison. One you take, thinking it will kill another.

Lightning flashed again, closer.

— My life could have been different. There could have been happiness. I could have lived on the land, in my home. I could have healed there. Instead, I ripped myself away from what was good–

— I’ve already lost everything good.

— There is a further cost! And you will pay it!

She sneered. You would go back, then? Undo what you’ve done!

— Yes. Yes! God as my witness! His own words surprised him.

— Then you’re a
kapon
. A coward. I can’t join you there, Dimanche. My loss, it has no answer, at least not that you can give.

He could not speak. The thought of her following in his steps sickened him. Oh God! The waste . . . Oh God. He covered his face with his cupped hand and trembled. Oh God.

Libète disdained seeing this tower of a man brought so low. She turned away from him.

The clouds rumbled, or so Libète thought. They heard the sounds at the same time. More engines. Like dust in a swirling wind, fear was whipped up anew.

Dimanche snapped to, wiping his tears. Up ahead, he said. Those rocks. We can hide there.

She strained to take up the bags again and trudged to a place where they could watch the road. He continued sweating profusely.

— Libète.

She didn’t answer.

—
Libète.
Dimanche seemed himself again. Steely. Resolved. You trust me? he asked.

She nodded.

— We’ll survive this. We’ll get you to Cap-Haïtien. We’ll get you across the water. You’ll be safe.

She nodded again. Don’t lose sight of this, he said. Now, we need to have a talk. It’s a difficult subject–