Whispers in the Night (19 page)

Was it time to dial the magic number? Gail's vision blurred and she saw the monstrous nuns of her childhood, vaguely recalled the things that one of them had done to her with kitchen utensils—spoons, forks, in one case the handle of a rolling pin.

When Gail's eyes refocused she saw that she'd been right about the flies. Dozens were milling about, laying their eggs in the shit-smeared sheets. Only now did she see the filth that covered the boy and the linens, even his pumping hand. Then she spotted the roaches, silent and stealthy by comparison to the flies, and far more numerous. There were at least two hundred of them, up from the cracks and dark spaces, feeding on the boy's feces and spilt semen, and drinking the sweat off his lopsided body. They scattered in the light now, at least a dozen of them scurrying by and over Gail's bare feet, the little antennae probing, tickling. She did not jump or even stir.

Martin reared his body up toward the door and moaned. It was nothing intelligible, just a guttural sound, but to Gail it said Mommy.

Down syndrome coupled with mental retardation and a severe sensory disorder had made her fine boy into this puffy-eyed monster, and not a day went by that she didn't wish she could take the affliction away even if it meant carrying the burden herself, or that he could simply have been born ordinary, or if none of those options, then not born at all. She hated herself for some of the things she thought, but how could she help but to think them?

How much more could she take?

Just then, Martin raked his man-sized hand across the wall at the head of the bed and left a series of brown streaks that a fresh set of flies swarmed toward.

In the corner, the movement of other flies captured her stare. Her bucket was there at the center of the flurry, the washrag slung over the lip of the pail, soiled already from the last change. Gail's eyes glazed over before spilling salt sorrow, and then she shut the door. She thought of the place she'd grown up, of the nightmares she'd endured. She thought then of the room in which Martin lived, of the bed he was tied into at night, of the window that offered no light and the stench and the shit and the roaches and the flies.

Hell
was
for children.

Gail went to the card that was taped to the refrigerator, and next to the phone hung from the kitchen's west wall. Spanish music invaded this room, seeped through the cinder block.

“I can't take this anymore,” she said as a female voice filled the line. “I've tried and tried to be a good mother, but I can't do no more. I'm all used up. All used.”

When Gail was done on the phone she went to the hall closet and then out the front door.

 

 

She knew where to find Karl. He never went far, just far enough not to have to hear the mongoloid's crying. This was usually no farther than the lobby or the back steps where it was easy to score cheap weed. Gail found him in a corner, on the floor smoking some herb. He'd already been to the back steps and come out to the lobby proper to relax and enjoy his smoke.

“I did it,” she said, eyes red and runny, nose running as well.

Karl looked up from where he was perched on the linoleum, his back to the wall of silver mailboxes.

“I called about Martin,” she said. “They'll be here to get him in under an hour.”

A grin broke across Karl's face as he made a move to come to his feet. Perhaps he was going to strut over and hug her, maybe he was going to cheer. Whatever the case, Gail's robe came open; her nude skeletal body was glimpsed only in the snatches between flowing fabric as the hunting rifle came up and out of the shadows there. Karl's smile slipped, the thinly rolled cigarette dropped from his lips, and before he could scream or even speak his terror the trigger was pulled. The lobby shook with the sound of thunder as the gun blast hit him squarely in the chest, aimed at blowing his lungs out his back it would seem. Rivers of blood from places so deep that they were black washed down his chest, and at the same time the silver mailboxes at his back were spatter-painted red. All this happened before his husk had even slumped to the tiles, and Gail was back on the elevator well before the dark puddle had spread from his cooling corpse.

 

 

Gail went then to her son, to his nonsensical wailing, that to her sounded so much like “Mommy, help me.” With the smoking gun in the lock of her arm she ripped down the boards at his window. Using her fingers and teeth she undid the sheets that bound him to the bed. And there, in the mess of his excrement and other excretions, she held him and kissed his brow, and when he was calm and quiet she put the gun up under his chin and settled him down once and for all.

The last bullet Gail kept for herself.

Returning to her bed, she let the robe drop into a pile at her feet as she sat wide legged on the edge. Turning the gun upside down so the trigger was facing up, and hunching over a bit, she pressed the still steaming barrel to her vaginal lips and pulled the trigger. It was something she should have done long before she'd ever let Karl inside her, something that would have prevented there ever being a Martin.

As the thunder rumbled a final time, the bullet ripped through Gail's body, first mangling her uterus and then lodging deep inside her, rupturing organs along the way. She was dead even before her body pitched, before her head fell upon her pillow. A tear rolled from her left eye, over the bridge of her nose, and into the salty pool that was forming in the right.

Rap music oozed through the wall at the back of her head, muffled but thumping, making her brain ache. This was not the sound, however, that was eating away at her insides, at her heart and her soul. Somewhere near, in her own apartment, a sound like the howling of a wild dog swelled.

“It ain't right,” she said, strands of saliva and tear water connecting her lips. “It just ain't right.”

There was movement then in the bed beside her, a body turning, a man's shoulder coming into view beyond the slope of her silhouette. Then a three-inch Afro and a wrinkled brow and at last a drowsy pair of arterial eyes emerged as he hoisted himself onto one elbow to look down on Gail's dark contours.

“Haven't you heard?” he said. “Hell is for children.”

A fresh tributary of salt water broke across Gail's face, dropped off her cheek, and stained the pillow. How many times had she asked that question? How many times had she gotten that stupid answer?

Hell was for children, and for mothers and fathers, too.

Somewhere in the bowels of the apartment, a cry broke through the hazy dark, clearly human, clearly the sound of never-ending pain.

Lawana James-Holland

 

J
ean's eyes flew open as he sat up abruptly, his breath coming in quick, heavy bursts. His entire body was covered in sweat. He lay under an animal hide, naked except for a breechcloth. Shapes loomed near him in the darkness, flitting in and out of view.

“Good, good. Your fever has broken,” a soothing voice said with relief. Jean's eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he saw a smile on the face of his Inoca wife, Kilswa. She cradled his head in her lap. Her knee-length, red deerskin skirt was soft against his skin. He managed a weak smile and reached up to touch her smooth ochered face, her cheeks marked with tattoos. Trailing his fingers along her side, he began to trace the lines of the geometric tattoos on her arm.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“A long time. We were all very worried and thought for a moment that you would not make it. I asked a healer to come and treat you. You were calling out in your sleep.”

“My love, I had a dream that I was a hawk being chased by a winged creature with skin tougher than animal hide. It was so fearsome, but it was not able to catch me.”

Kilswa's eyes widened. She gently laid his head down and got up.

“Wait. I will be right back!” Her long braid bounced along her back as she rushed away.

Jean looked at the small, reed mat dwelling they had put him in since his illness began. He missed the comfort of the longhouse they shared with another family. He smiled at the talisman that the healer had hung above him. Protection? Better health? Jean didn't know which one it was for, but he was glad for the extra help. A clay pot filled with water sat nearby, and Kilswa had been busy making clothing. The unfinished garment lay neatly folded, and he realized that it was for him.

How long had it been since he had come to live with the Inoca? Four years now? Five? The Inocas of this area had taken him in as one of their own, and he thrived in the freedom—freedom being something he had not known in a very, very long time.

Jean closed his eyes. In his mind, he could still hear them screaming....

When his master had proposed leaving Martinique, Jean had no choice except to go with him to New France. What else could he do? Father Cormier and the Jesuits were determined. Jean saw it as the possibility for an adventure. How had their missionary expedition gone so horribly wrong?

It was with great nervousness that his party of ten had started passing through the lands of the Seneca—the westernmost nation of the great Iroquois Confederacy. They came across a band of warriors en route to the lands of their enemies on their border. The warriors' heads were shaved bald, with dark locks of hair hanging down their backs and bristling porcupine hair roaches with a feather that mimicked their motions. Jean noticed that every warrior, with his black-painted face, could not take his eyes off him.

In his travels with the missionaries, Jean had been in contact with the native people of these lands whose laws, beliefs, and understanding he knew the French did not comprehend. As they traveled through the wilderness, Jean recognized it as a chance to try to learn their languages and more about the communities they encountered—something that did not interest the others. He had flinched when the Frenchmen called them “savages.” Wasn't that what they had called his own people whom they had taken him from as well?

There was so much he didn't know about those whom they encountered, but what Jean
definitely
knew was that the Iroquois were the ones they wished to peacefully deal with, most of all.

The Senecas had been surprised to come upon them, but after much examination of Jean, they were willing to let the party go on their way and offered to share food with them, first. Jean shared some beads with them in exchange. Father Cormier and the others thought stopping would be fine, as they needed a rest anyway. As night fell, Jean walked with Father Cormier to where one of the warriors lay on the ground, sick and in pain. One of his colleagues was with him, squatting beside him.

“I do not believe he is going to make it,” Father Cormier said, shaking his head as he looked at the ill man. “This is an opportunity for God's work. We must do whatever we can do to convert these savages.”

“Father, I do not believe that is a good idea. I believe we should go on and let them be,” Jean said. The other warriors nearby watched him intently.

“Just who do you think you are to question me? You are but a slave!” the priest said, sniffing at him dismissively. Jean's lip curled and he threw his hands up in disgust. He was sure the warriors didn't miss that either.

Father Cormier stepped over to the sick man and made the sign of the cross over his body. The warrior beside him sprang up, shouting, and the others who saw him instantly became angered as well. Jean's eyes widened, surprised by the sudden reaction. He understood only one word of their language:
Curse
.

Oh no. They think that the Father has hexed him
.

Before any of them could react, there was a loud
crack
as Father Cormier was struck with an ax, a look of surprise on his face as it split open. The blood spurted out onto Jean. He jumped back and watched the priest's body fall onto the ground before him. The rest of the warriors went into a frenzy, pulling out their knives, ball-headed clubs, and axes. Screams pierced the air as some of the other Frenchmen met the same fate. Jean could only watch as the men in his party were bludgeoned with the heavy clubs, their skulls crunching and splattering brain matter.

One of the men ran to Jean, face covered in blood, holding his stomach.

“Jean . . . Jean, help me.” It was the man whom Jean recognized as their interpreter. Jean looked on in horror as the man removed his hand from his stomach and his intestines rolled out of the wound.

They had unwittingly become part of something bigger than their mission. They were caught up in the middle of a war in which being French meant you were in league with their enemies—especially the Inoca.

Easily outnumbered, they were rounded up. Jean listened to the pleading and shrieks of the French missionary party as they were tortured and put to death one by one—Jean's former master included. Despite his terror, Jean somehow felt liberated by that action.

He watched as the warriors severed or burned the men's fingers and bodies, taunting them as the Frenchmen screamed. The warriors seemed to take particular pleasure in stabbing a smoldering stick into the eyes of a very large trapper named Jacques, and were disappointed when he finally cried out. Jean was sickened when they cut open the man's chest. The same warrior who had killed Father Cormier reached into Jacques, and with one motion, snatched out his heart and bit into it with a relish. The others began to chant and sing.

When they got to Jean, they tried to burn him on the hands and feet. The pain was searing, but at least he was still alive. If this was the way they did things, then he would die with pride. He was resolute, looking the warriors in the eyes as they taunted him, shouting and trying to get a rise out of him. They wanted to see him flinch, and he refused to give them that satisfaction. Years of dealing with ignorant white Frenchmen had taught him how to repress the desire to fight back, no matter how much he was seething inside. Something in him knew that this was not the time to repress how he felt. He stared down the warriors with contempt, as if daring them back.

This was his life. He was a man, and a man would not die crying out with pitiful wails as his master had. He saw something change in the way his captors viewed him from that moment on. What was it?
Admiration
?

They tossed him to the side near their camp, and he realized that only he had been spared from the execution that had followed for everyone else. Jean was certain that it hadn't been just his defiance, but also his chocolate-colored skin that had saved him.

Everywhere his party had traveled, he had been a star attraction. The men were certain that he must be brave, the women certain that he was handsome. Everyone wanted to touch his skin, certain that if they rubbed hard enough it would come off like the paint they wore.

Although he had been spared, Jean was uncertain of how long that status would last. As soon as night arrived, he escaped. He regretted his heavy footfalls, certain that he must sound like a loud, large animal barreling its way through the forest. Each step on his injured feet felt like the fire that burned him, but he knew he had to keep going. Calls rang out to the others in alarm, which only urged him more. He ran through the woods with no idea of where he was going, the branches and thorns tearing at his skin.
Will I be fast enough
? he thought as he ran blindly in the dark. Soon, he heard the roar of rapids in the distance. As the warriors closed in on him, he continued toward the sound of water.

Mon Dieu
, he thought, reaching the dark roiling water.
What other choice do I have?

The warriors cried out when they reached him, stretching out their hands to grab him and pull him back. He saw their mouths open in horror as he leapt into the water instead.

The coldness almost knocked him out. Jean could not see anything as he was buffeted about against the rocks, their sharp edges tearing his skin. The waves rolled over him, and he struggled to stay afloat.

The swift water swept his exhausted body along, and he soon lost track of time. At dawn, as the sun rose, he was spurred to action and used the last of his strength to grope at anything he could possibly cling to. He barely grabbed on to a large branch that had fallen, and tried to pull himself up and out of the water before he collapsed.

With the daytime came feminine voices. He could hear the women speaking to one another, one more forcefully than the rest. He heard footsteps coming closer to where he lay on the shore.

The dominant voice issued an order to the others—who he could hear were now running away.

Jean couldn't help but think that her voice was sweet even as she poked him with a stick. He understood nothing she was saying, but he could tell she was trying to calm him. She poked him again and he coughed, his eyes opening.

She laughed, and the first thing he saw was her beautiful smile.

 

 

Years later, that woman who had discovered him was now his wife. Kilswa had returned to him—this time with the chief, a few of the other elders, and Keemoraniah, the head of the warriors.

“Chief Wataga,” Jean said, trying to sit up to acknowledge the older man properly. He stood before Jean dressed as if for a special occasion in a breechcloth and leggings decorated with red, triangular stone pendants. He also wore long necklaces of white shell beads and ones of woven bison hair decorated with feathers. His headdress was a garlanded crown of multicolored feathers. As he smiled at Jean, the worn lines in his face relaxed.

“No, no, do not get up. You need your rest. I wanted to hear more about this dream Kilswa told me about.”

Jean repeated it to him and the other men looked grim.

“What is wrong?” Jean asked.

“That beast you dream of is a thing of flesh. It is very real. I encountered one the first time as a young warrior, and we were successful in our mission to eliminate it. We did not realize that there was another one as well until recently. They have probably been spawning all along. This is a menace that has been threatening us for eons.”

“So you are saying that this monster is
real
?”

“It is the
piasa
and it is a murderous thing. This storm bird is not something to be respected as it has terrorized us for long enough. It feasts upon whoever is unlucky to come across it and I am certain that its lair is filled with the bones of too many of my people. Something must be done about it.”

Kilswa was now kneeling beside him. Jean reached for her hand.

“There is more,” Chief Wataga said. “It has to do with the hawk that you saw in your dream. This fever allowed you to envision your manitou—your protector spirit. We Inoca believe that Kitchesmanetoa the Creator watches over us all, but we all have manitous that are our own. They help to guide us and give us the strength that we need in our lives. As a hawk is a sign of a warrior, I want to select you as the final one who is to accompany me on a mission.”

“What mission is that?” Even in the heat, Jean felt a chill as he asked.

“As one of the warriors who is to travel with me to end this. We are going to kill the
piasa
.”

 

 

All were quiet as they made their way toward the high bluffs overlooking the river. Jean looked at the warriors silently walking with him, their nervousness palpable. Even in the midst of knowing that they were all walking toward a destiny for good or bad, he took comfort in the peacefulness of the woods surrounding them.

Chief Wataga walked with him at the rear of the group. He laid a hand upon his shoulder. Jean noticed the way the warriors flanking them gripped their weapons. These men were fearful just as he was, yet he knew they were not going down without a fight. Their bows and arrows were slung across their shoulders. Their hair hung long, dark, and shiny on the sides of their heads, the tops cut short and bristling. All of them were tattooed with triangles and lines and interlocking crosses—markings that never ceased to interest him, as they all were marked in much the same way.

“If you are to join us as a warrior, you must look like one as well,” they had told him as they painted him with ocher that morning.