There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (9 page)

— The university people, the ones who gave the seed, Prosper said. They’re studying rocks.

Libète took it all in silently. The truck entered. The gate closed. She frowned.

This made little sense. Her eyes traced the road back to their feet.

— The road. It splits there, turns into a trail, goes by Madanm Magdala’s and up over the hill.

— Wi.

— What’s up there?

He made a dismissive wave. Nothing.

— Surely something.

— Just an old fortress. French. All broken down.

— A fort? Really? She shifted her weight. Her own fort in Cité Soleil–nothing more than an abandoned store shot to pieces–had always been a safe place to retreat.
Maybe just what I need now
.

— Can we see it? she asked.

— No, no. You don’t want to see that. That’s the other reason the road was built.
Moun andeyo
, outsiders. They care about visiting that kind of thing. History. Just rocks on top of rocks.

— But I do want to see it.

— Maybe another time. The path is difficult, your injuries . . .

— All the same.

— It’s, uh, beyond Foche. None of us go near it. No. Nothing there.

She stared at him.

Prosper sighed then huffed, puckering his lips. He picked at dirt beneath his thumbnail. That’s where
he
lives, he said, a streak of bitterness running through the words.

— He? Who do you–

It hit her.

— Magdala’s son? Félix?

He bobbed his head.

— Why were you fighting with him this morning?

He didn’t answer.

— Did you start it, or did he?

Prosper’s face clouded. He did. He started it all.

— Why?

— Félix is a
vòlè
, plain and simple.

— A thief? What did he take?

— What did he
take
? Thousands of goud. Prosper held out his palm and tapped his other index finger into it to accent his words. The community’s money, saved up. Every year, we gather here in Foche for a feast, on New Year’s Day. We all work together during the year, saving and scrimping, pulling our belts tight, putting enough
ti kòb
together for the big day when we don’t have to work in the fields. We don’t have to answer to anyone. We all just eat together, enjoy life. It’s a day where we stand face to face with each other and know we’re human beings, not animals. The money was entrusted to him, put in his care, and he took it. But he didn’t just take the money; he took our
dignity
.

Libète had touched a nerve, that much was clear.

— Why is he free, then?

— My mother, Prosper sneered. He breathed deeply to calm himself. She’s the only reason. If we had our way he’d be strung up to a tree. But she’s a good woman, I’m telling you. Better than most of us.

— Was he returning to Magdala’s home this morning?

— Who cares? He’s not to step foot in Foche during the day. I was just going to our field. My mother said not to get into anything, but when I saw him . . .

She started to walk toward the fort.

He grabbed her arm. I’m not going out there. Not while he’s there. He has to answer for what he’s done and he will this afternoon, in front of the whole community.

Her eyes flashed. She ripped her arm away. Thank you for the tour, she said under her breath. I’ll be going now.

She heard him fume, and felt some guilt–he had been kind. But friendship–with anyone–was out of the question now.

The road continued quite a distance. It dipped and wound and peaked. Farther on, the road led to the foot of another hill where a mass of stacked, weather-worn stone lay. But as she turned around, she saw that the fortress was not what was so grand about the site. The view from this side of the ridge let her see endlessly, toward the heart of Haiti.

—
The Central Plateau
, she murmured. Flowing through it was the Artibonite River. She had seen it up close, at ground level, but from such heights it was beautiful, like seeing a long-told fable come to life.

A sound grabbed her attention: a faint clicking. She slipped behind a boulder, forcing herself to the ground. Her shuddering made her cheeks puff and teeth rattle. She peeked around the rock ever so slowly.

She faced a goat.

She let her head sink, cursing her jumpiness.

— Come along, Bobby, a voice said. She recognized the speaker–it was Félix, trailing a small trip of goats. The goat before her gave a short bleat and jumped off his rock, scampering off to rejoin his family and goatherd. When she was sure Félix was on his way, she looked over the edge of the rock and watched him. He moved slowly, as though his limbs were tired from carrying a heavy burden.

She looked again across the vast plateau. The vision that had instilled wonder a moment before now seemed oppressive. She was all alone. Yes, separated from all that haunted her, but also from everything she held dear.

St. Sebastien’s Hospital is quiet, except for the wailing.

Libète stares at a wall and the aged photograph adorning it. The Central Plateau seen from the air.
Beauty in a dire place
. She runs her toes along the tile grout. Her face is streaked with tears she doesn’t bother to wipe away. Beside her, Jak stares at nothing as he runs a circling hand over her back.

It was meant for me.

She looks to the observation room, its door ajar. Didi’s mother’s cries escape and fill the crowded ward. Libète lifts herself from her chair and drifts toward Didi’s room.

Back under the Sun, at the sports field, when Libète had realized what was happening–Didi on the ground, people crowding around–she had leaped from the stage, tearing through the sea of spectators to reach her friend. The poisoned sweets lay on the ground with Didi.

I should be on that table.

So many of Libète’s memories are vested in these tiles, tucked away in the cracking stucco, rising up among the ward’s rafters and vaulted ceiling. Memories of life preserved, happy reunions, meaningful service, death most cruel. Libète blinks them away.

Bondye, do a miracle.

A lone light illuminates the scene in the observation room. Didi’s mother and father keep watch beside her bed. The mother, large and round like her daughter, rattles with sobs. Her father holds his head in his hands.

Bondye, hear my prayers.

Didi had been near death when she was brought to the hospital.

Bondye, take me instead.

Now, hours later, Didi’s hope and optimism and joy are gone. She is gone.

Bondye, Bondye, Bondye . . .

Libète weeps fresh tears while standing outside the room. Under Sister Françoise’s supervision she had learned how to assist at the hospital. The Belgian nun was the primary physician and called Libète a
ti infimye
, a junior nurse
.
Libète could monitor patients as they took a cocktail of pills to treat TB. Monitor blood pressures. Change IVs to rehydrate patients with cholera. It might have been unorthodox to allow Libète this latitude, but the marginal hospital was always short of hands, and Libète had two.
Blessed hands
, Sister Françoise had called Libète’s as the girl’s fingers helped tie drifting souls to their ailing bodies. Libète looks now to her hands’ tensing muscles and sneers. Didi did not need a junior nurse. She needed a real doctor like Sister Françoise, and Sister Françoise was gone on a rare trip for the holidays.
If only she’d been here . . .

The hospital doors swing open, and Mr. Brown enters.

Libète wants to scream at him.
Out! Out! Don’t you profane this holy ground with your presence! You haunt the school, those classrooms, those walls; that’s your domain. Not here! Not this place!

— Good evening, he says softly.

—
Bonswa, she says.

He looks in on his dead pupil, mutters something. Looks at Libète, thrusts his chin toward the corner, once, twice. She and Jak follow him and sit. Libète looks to the wall, clenches her skirt’s hem. Jak looks at the man.

— You’re all right. His tone peaks at the end of the last word but she doesn’t know if it’s a question or statement.

Jak shakes his head forlornly. No, we’re not.

— What happened? Brown says as he removes his glasses.

Libète will not answer. Jak does. Sweets, he coughs up the word. Poisoned. Left for Libète at the school.

Brown nods several times. Any idea who left them?

Jak’s answer was silence.

— I’m sorry. Truly sorry about this whole mess–but I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

Libète nearly retched.
What?

— You’re reaping what you sowed.

She was out of her seat, standing inches in front of Brown, her hands balled. Jak lunged between the two and pushed her away.

— Who are you? she spat. Who the hell says such a thing?

Jak clapped his hand over her mouth.

— I am responsible for the school. His voice remained calm. For the protection of its students. My first days at this job and you bring this, this–
shame
–on us all.

Her eyes widened. She pushed against Jak’s restraining grip, but he held her tight.

— Do you have any idea what a dead child means? Brown asked. How many parents might take their kids away? How the money from donors will just – he made a sucking hiss – dry up?

— You, you
beast!
What kind of monster, what kind of ass, what kind of–

— You must come back with me. To the school. Right now.

— I will
not
.

Didi’s father poked his head out of the doorway, trying to understand the commotion interrupting their grieving.

— Come back, or you will be immediately expelled, Brown said. Both of you. Finished.

Libète met Jak’s worried eyes, closed her own. A new tear fell down her cheek, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. She grabbed her book bag and stormed out of the hospital, but not before catching the hard, blame-filled stare of Didi’s father.

Libète had wandered the trails after parting with Prosper and leaving the vista behind. She had not trespassed closer to the fort–she had no desire to speak with Félix–but instead followed the dirt road back toward Magdala’s home.

She cursed herself for the fear that had gripped her–terrified by a goat! But it was not merely a goat–it was those snarling dogs, the pursuing men, and the bitter separations they had hastened. She had already faced so much in her few short years–why could she be made to tremble so easily now? So much that thoughts could scarcely form? So that her legs felt like flimsy reeds? Where did this weakness come from?

She hid among kayimet trees lining the road until the waves of anxiety crashed and dissipated. She inspected her dirt-covered feet. Her splinted toes hurt, yes, but there was more than that. Sharp rocks had torn the soles of her feet. She already had two fresh cuts joining those sustained the night before. Her calluses from padding about Bwa Nèf barefoot had clearly softened in the years since she’d adopted shoes.

Soft singing filtered down the road. Libète watched a lone woman pass by, a girl really, with a bulging belly. Libète’s mouth dropped. Despite her very pregnant state, the girl carried a woven basket brimming with sweet potatoes on her head. Sweat dotted her hairline. She sang a simple melody to herself that sounded improvised:

Why is it left to me?

No one here to help

Like a one-fingered hand

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Falling to me

Falling to me

Always, always, it always falls to me

Libète watched her disappear down the mountain.

When Libète finally rose, she stayed off the road. She strode through the fields, careful where she stepped. She tried to recognize the budding plants, but she hadn’t cultivated anything for seven years. Carrots were obvious, as were beets and cabbage. She began to notice where adjoining plots stopped and started. Some were carefully laid out in cultivated rows. Others looked like seed had been scattered and left to grow where it might. In one plot she saw weeds springing up all over, a cancer choking out life from the beans they were overtaking. Her fingers itched to set to work pulling the intruders up. The size of the plot was overwhelming and the weeds many. She resigned herself and went away.