There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (8 page)

— But you’ve never had a sister, Jak.

— Still–what a thing to ask, Didi!

— It’s all right, Jak. It’s obvious, I think. Obvious to everyone. Everyone but her.

— Really? Jak was horrified at the thought.

They sat in a new quiet, their attention only slowly returning to Libète’s speech.

— As we fight and struggle, I want you to know something: I will die for you. Would you die for me? Maybe we don’t need to give our lives, not entirely. But to find true freedom, real independence, we will need to sacrifice, just as our forbearers threw off their chains. To die to ourselves. To our selfishness. To the desire for revenge that grows from petty slights as well as serious wrongs.

Jak touched Didi’s arm, squeezed it. His face was set in earnestness. Her own heart leaped a bit.

— Thank you, he said. For telling me. I must be more careful not to let it show.

She gave a sigh and a tight-lipped smile. Wi, she echoed quietly, careful not to let her own feelings show. She reached down to the bag and tore a piece of the sweet, popping it into her mouth.

— So stand with me, Libète proclaimed, in protecting one another, in being willing to lay down your life for that of your friends, maybe even your enemies. This is the only way–

Libète craned her neck. There was shouting now, rising from the stands. She tried to speak louder, but some incident had stolen the crowd’s attention. All eyes turned from the front of the proceedings to the back. Libète swallowed her words. Her own searching eyes landed on Jak, his face set in horror, before she noticed that Didi was laying on the ground, writhing.

Chache Lavi

Chache lavi detwi lavi.

Looking for life destroys life.

Magdala is quiet much of the morning after the fight between her son and Prosper. Libète had observed her from a distance, while seated under the shade of the nearby mapou tree. The woman moves deliberately between tasks: boiling noodles for breakfast, putting water out for her fowl, washing Libète’s dirty clothes. Now she roasts coffee beans before grinding them down with a mortar and pestle for the market. Her pounding echoes the drumming Libète heard in the distance the night before.

— Madanm, can I help you?

Magdala looks up, cocks her head, blinks. She returns to her work. Magdala’s mind is clearly elsewhere–Libète notices she crushes the coffee beans too much.

Dorsinus already knows comforting Magdala is beyond him. For once, Libète wishes he would speak. She wishes to
understand
.

She approaches him as he gives Saint-Pierre some leaves and dried corn stalks to chew.

— What happened here, Dorsinus?

— Eh? He too was trapped inside his head. He simply muttered, Dark things, dark things.

— But what?

He held up his hand to silence her. Dark things have come, dark things are coming.

Libète suddenly wondered if she was safer with this bunch than the vicious dogs and their owners.

She sat behind the shack on an old stump used for extracting cane juice, watching the Sun rise higher and illuminate this new, foreign land. A mother hen strode before Libète, searching for food as its chicks trailed close behind. Libète needed to be away for a bit, to hear her own thoughts, to plan rather than react.

They might not be far off . . .

She shuddered.

Anger and fear grabbed her again, shook her, and seeped through cracks in her heart. She tried to control them and the crowding, terrible memories they brought.
In . . . out
, she breathed.
In . . . out
, she told herself. She closed her eyes, trying to still the swirling memories, but found herself swept away:

Bullets slipping through night-covered flesh

Faces ghoulish, color twirling fast

Silent Didi laid out, empty, flat

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, quelling the tears before they could well up, trying again to plug the breach through which the memories poured.

In
, she breathes
. . .

Endless farewells, tortured good-byes

Water below, above

Cycle’s ceaseless spin

. . . out
, she exhales.

Dieudonné.
I reached them.
I’m safe
, she tried to reassure herself.
I’m safe.

For now
, a prickly voice not her own added from low and deep inside her.

Libète’s hand trembled as she slipped off her headscarf, letting sunlight massage her scalp and rub into her skin. She was grateful for the Sun above: it was the only thing familiar here.

Taking in her body helped defy the past and ground her in the moment:
here, now
. Her broken feet, wrapped toes, and ashy knees; her clothes just barely concealing her shoulder’s unsightly scar from the bullet wound suffered those years before. She was glad she was spared seeing her face’s sad reflection and her eyes devoid of fire.

She longed to be the version of herself that existed in days gone by–elegant braids, lovely clothes, even modest jewelry passed on to her by Stephanie. But it wasn’t just the external things. She longed for the inner adornments that had also been abandoned these past long months. Her courage. Her certitude. Her faith.

Shit.
She ran her hands through her short hair. Her scalp itched terribly.

She looked to the mountains, Haiti’s natural towers. Her vantage point offered the same vistas as the prior day’s climb up the country road, but now she was closer to the fields and saw the narrow terraces where every inch of arable land was cleared for planting. Even tiny bits of earth where only desperation could cause anyone to expend seed. Small, dark shapes dotted the landscape. They were people, of course, cultivating the land, cooking near homes perched on hazardous roads, all with their own worries and fears and families.

What if . . .

She looked to the distance. She could see the glint of a blade, a row of people working a single square of the patchwork earth.

I could . . .

She viewed them dispassionately–they were not her fellow neighbors, not friends. No, simply objects of curiosity to be studied, their lives stores of facts she might need
. . .

— Sophia, is it? The question made her jump.

— Wi? she sputtered, shielding her eyes to look up and take in the asker’s face.
Prosper
.

— I don’t know you, he said. You’re not from here.

It was a dumb thing to say. So very obvious. She simply nodded.

He wore a cap now, and long shorts that nearly met the tops of his well-worn rubber boots. His shirt seemed nice for passing a day in the fields; that appeared to be where he was going, attested to by the machete extending from his hand. She cringed at memories of young men in Cité Soleil with their own blades, sharpened for decidedly different ends. His lip was split and swollen from the fight.

— When did you arrive? he asked.

— Last night. Libète’s mind raced. With Dorsinus, she added.
How much can I share?

— Are you one of his?

— His what?

— His children.

She swallowed hard. She hadn’t concocted a reason for being in Foche. Only a name. She’d need more than that!

— No, she said. We’re not related. She cringed inwardly.

— And your home, then? Where are you from?

Nervousness pricked her skin.
This must stop
. Before she gave up any information and committed herself to a lie too difficult to keep. Is asking questions all you can do? she said.

Prosper gave a lopsided grin.
Mwen regrèt sa
. I won’t ask another. He rubbed the back of his head. You, uh, want me to show you around?

— That’s another question.

—
Let
me show you around.

Libète thought of Magdala and Dorsinus, trapped inside their own heads. They were more troubled by Félix–the boy who ran–than this one, who had picked the fight. If her pursuers closed in, she needed to be prepared.
To know the land
.
Where to hide. How to escape
.

She exhaled.
Dakò
. It’s agreed.

Prosper smiled, but quickly banished it from his face. He proffered a hand to help her up, but she stood without taking it. She winced.

— You’re hurt?

The weight on her toes did give her pain, but it was bearable. She walked toward the footpath without a word. Prosper caught up with her.

— Th-this is my family’s plot, he stammered. One of them. My father, he died a few years back, so my mother and I are responsible for it now. He used his finger to trace invisible boundaries around its perimeter.

— How can you tell where it stops and starts? The crops – she pointed to them with a weak twirl of her wrist – they just run one into the other.

— We’ve been on this land for generations. Have small plots like this all over the place, here and there. High up, down low.

Libète crouched and saw small green buds poking through the dirt. Are these, what, beans?

Prosper tutted. Beans? Of course not. Where did you say you’re from?

She had not. The fact was she and her mother had had a small garden on the island of La Gonâve, but that had been in low, inland forest. Goats had been their livelihood. Memories of planting, tending, and picking were distant, burned up in the heat of years passed in Cité Soleil.

— I’m from far away, she said plainly. Her look turned icy. He turned away slowly and cursed himself; nothing he said seemed to come out right. He pointed down the mountain, toward the homes below. What about Foche?

— We passed through the town, but by night. I saw very little.

He came behind her and stood close, closer than she wanted, and used his arm to draw her attention to the mountainside.
He must have cleaned since the fight. For me
. He smelled of fresh citrus, and that made her think of Jak. Tears rose in her eyes.

— Down there is the new capped spring, and that big piece of land around it is the common plot. There’s the
legliz
. It’s our church and meeting hall. And the
tonel–
did you see it on the way in?
–
used to heed the spirits. That open ground over there is for when there’s market, and when there’s market, Foche is a different place. Every Monday and Thursday. People come from all over. They did even before the new road was built. But now, with it so much easier for trucks and motos to come and go, the market is double, even triple the size. All because of the road.

Libète cocked her head. Who built it?

— The government.

She chortled. You’re joking.

— No! It’s truth. I swear! Foche, it’s an important place now. We were struggling, even just two years ago.
Move tan yo
, the Bad Times, we called them. There wasn’t much rain. Crops didn’t grow. When rain did come, it came like a flood. Washed out paths, the soil, all our seed. But now things are better. The new road lets our food go down the mountain, reach the cities. Lets us bring in fertilizer, more seed. Lets us take loans and pay them back. Foche, it’s like new.

To Libète this sounded like a recitation of often-heard propaganda. She turned away and looked it all over again. Steep inclines with ridges formed a natural crescent that wrapped around Foche. She could see clusters of small huts and shacks not too far off the main road. The road traced the shape of the crescent except where it forked, not far from where Libète and Prosper stood.

— But build a two-lane road to the top of a mountain village? For a few
peyizan
farming their plots? Incredible.
Imposib
, she said to herself. When she turned to Prosper again, his jaw was clenched.

— We’re
developing,
he snapped. An example of progress. For all the countryside. That’s why they rewarded us.

Her eyes traveled over his shoulder, tugged by something distant creeping up the mountain. It was dark and alien, like a roach, and rumbled up the road.

A truck
, she realized
.
It was uncommonly large.

Prosper continued, as much for his own sake as for hers. The road, he said, that’s an outside accomplishment. But this land, you see all these beans, this sorghum and cowpeas? Growing so well? That’s
our
biggest achievement.

The truck was close enough now for Libète to see
MACK
emblazoned across its rattling grill. To hear the engine’s roar, observe its covered bed and deep black exhaust spinning up and into nothing. Libète hated it instantly.

— It’s my mother’s biggest achievement, this land, Prosper said. She’s a leader here, you know. A
grandon
, a big land owner
.
He chuckled to himself.

— What’s so funny?

— Except she doesn’t own the plot. We
all
do. So we’re all grandon now. She pulled the community together to make it happen.

Libète cocked her head. Her eyes lit up with a hint of genuine curiosity.

His lips split in a smile. He had finally said something right!

— We realized that if we farmed the corn together, made a crop for ourselves rather than for selling outside, we could protect ourselves by having our own seed supply.

— Yeah?

— Yeah. A university gave us the seed to start, once my mother got everyone to agree on pulling the land together. Ever since, we farm it all, grow our own food, store seed for our own plots. We’re bosses of our food. Our own
lives
. He held out a guiding hand. Step back.

They moved away from the road’s shoulder and planted their feet in the plot’s dark earth. The truck lumbered past, shaking the ground and raising dust. Prosper cupped his hand over his nose and mouth. Libète did the same.

The truck reached the road’s end and came to a large iron gate.
Curious
. Libète shielded her eyes to get a better look. The gate was painted brown and built into the earth. It lay in a cut in the ridge; whether it was a natural formation or carved or blasted from the rock, Libète couldn’t tell.

— What’s that? Libète asked.

Prosper shrugged. It’s a gate.

— What’s
behind
it?

— The other side of the ridge. A small plateau. Nothing really. The trucks come occasionally, bring supplies. For
syans.
Science.

The gate opened and a man came out. Though the scene unfolding was far away, she saw that the man wore a dark uniform and had a dog on a lead. The sight of the creature made her shrink.