by CJ Brightley
There were a handful of reporters waiting when we got off the plane, snapping pictures and shouting things, and just when I realized that one thing they were repeating was the word “statement,” (“Statement! Statement!”), a stream of soldiers in pale green uniforms poured in and swept them all away. Three men in dark suits rode in on another wave of soldiers, and making his way through that crowd came a tall man in a paler suit, an American, maybe—he looked like an actor playing a millionaire in a movie.
“Fredrick Henry, staff aide to the ambassador, US embassy in W—” the movie actor guy said, sticking his hand out at Mr. Dubois at exactly the same moment one of the dark-suit men was saying, “Mr. Dubois, Miss Baptiste, welcome to W—,” and introducing himself, an undersecretary of something or other. He and Mr. Henry both laughed awkwardly. I decided it was time to use the phrase I’d been practicing in the plane.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, carefully as I could, in the national language of W—.
The undersecretary looked startled, then bowed his head a slightly. He said something I didn’t understand, then said in English, “The pleasure is mine.” Then he exchanged a few words with Mr. Henry, and the two of them worked out that somebody would take our bags to the hotel for us, so me and Mr. Dubois could visit the embassy first and then the Ministry of Law and Justice, right away. I’m keeping my diary with me, though, so I can write down everything I see and think.
At the embassy, Mr. Henry said he had to talk to Mr. Dubois alone. They left me in a courtyard with a big fountain that a crowd of sparrows was using as a swimming pool. I tried to sketch them playing there, to show Tammy, but before I got very far, Mr. Dubois and Mr. Henry were coming back out again, both of them with overcast faces. Mr. Henry put on a smile when his eyes met mine. He glanced at Mr. Dubois, then said,
“We’re all set now, Emlee. Just had to talk over keeping you safe. I’ll let Mr. Dubois fill you in on the details—” Flick-flick, his eyes from Mr. Dubois to me and back to Mr. Dubois. “—as appropriate,” he finished. His smile wasn’t looking very comfortable on his face. It constricted into pinched lips and disappeared altogether with a “well then. Here’s to a safe and successful visit!” Then he escorted us to a spot outside where a bunch of cars with dark windows were parked. Idling near them was our taxi. Me and Mr. Dubois got in. One set of gates and then another opened for us, and then we were back on the busy streets of Palem.
“What did Mr. Henry mean, back there? What details was he talking about?” I asked, as the driver wove in and out between the scooters, bicycles, and tiny trucks that crowded the road.
“Everything’s just a little more unstable here than our good government likes, right now. Volcano’s unstable, situation in the mountains is unstable, and seems like Kaya’s maybe not the most stable element in the mix, either. Mr. Henry doesn’t want the government of W— putting you at risk in their efforts to get Kaya to be reasonable.”
“Get Kaya to be reasonable? They’re the ones keeping her over a volcano. How about they be reasonable.”
“Well Mr. Henry says that W—’s State Security Service claims that they tried to take her to safety, but she refused to leave, threatened to jump when they came near her.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. When I get out of here, she said in her letter. She can’t want to stay there. How could she?
“They say she’s staying to encourage the insurgents, and that the insurgents are getting in the way of evacuating people in the mountains from the eruption danger zone.”
“She would never ever put people in danger! The government must just be saying that as an excuse—because they want to leave her there!” I didn’t mean to shout, but it was making me real mad, hearing the things Mr. Henry had said.
Mr. Dubois shrugged apologetically. “Apparently many people in the mountains think that Kaya speaks for the Lady of the Ruby Lake, that she can control the volcano. Even some lowlanders think that. Maybe Kaya’s let herself believe it too.”
“No way! She once told me she wasn’t even sure she believed in the Lady! The government’s just a bunch of liars!”
I would of been happier if Mr. Dubois got angry right back at me, but he just sighed. “People can change,” he said. “Especially if they suffer a lot.” His mouth crooked up a little, not really a smile. “It doesn’t mean the government’s not a bunch of liars. But it’s also possible that Kaya hasn’t told you one hundred percent—”
“Don’t!” I said, covering my ears.
“Hey,” Mr. Dubois said, putting a hand on one of my arms and gently pulling it down. “I’m not saying she set out to mislead you. But think about it: anything she wrote to you, she had to hand over to the State Security Service before it could get mailed, right?”
The taxi slowed to a stop in front of more gates, which opened to let it drive right up to the front of a grand brick building painted butter yellow, with white columns and arches: the Ministry of Law and Justice.
More men in green uniforms appeared, opening the doors of the taxi for us, speaking to the taxi driver and leading us inside. I was feeling too stormy to pay much attention to what my eyes were showing me. There was too much stuff going on between my ears—mainly replays of the things Mr. Dubois had said about Kaya.
Maybe she didn’t tell me everything. Maybe she left stuff out. If I knew that someone like Ms. Tennant was going to read everything I wrote to Kaya, I wouldn’t of written my letters the way I did. The stuff I wrote about Jiminy, or about Mr. Ovey dying—I wouldn’t want Ms. Tennant’s eyes on that.
Okay. So she didn’t tell me everything. But the part about getting in the way of evacuation plans—that couldn’t be true. What Kaya cared about most of all was people not getting hurt. There’s no way she’d do things that would make people get hurt.
What if people are going to get hurt anyway? If people are already being hurt?
Where’d that thought come from, burning its way into my mind like a piece of hot ash?
“Em?” said Mr. Dubois.
We had arrived at a room that was almost entirely filled up by a long, polished table. Another Em and another Mr. Dubois looked up at us from within it as we came near. Their faces were solemn and nervous-seeming. Two men in uniform and the dark-suited undersecretary from the airport were already at the table. The undersecretary rose and motioned for us to sit, then introduced us to the officers: Lt. Sana (chest like the hull of a boat, hard face) and Lt. Den (a lot thinner, salt-and-pepper hair). Someone brought in coffee for the grown-ups and a cold, fizzy drink for me that had a flavor like coconut mixed with something sour-sweet.
The undersecretary cleared his throat and said what a remarkable young woman I was, and how my parents must be proud, and that he and the government of W— extended their heartfelt thanks to me for agreeing to offer my assistance and how, nevertheless, he wanted to reassure Mr. Dubois and, by extension, my parents and the whole US government that I’d be kept safe and sound. Then he looked to his left. “Lt. Sana, why don’t you review the situation,” he said.
Lt. Sana opened a folder and spread photos on the table: bodies sprawled on the ground, a burnt-out building, smashed cars. He didn’t look at me or Mr. Dubois, just kept his eyes on the photos, and spoke in a monotone—well, mainly a monotone. Sometimes something treacherous-sharp would show up in his voice, like the edge of a broken bottle revealed when the waves pull sand and pebbles out, and sometimes his lips twitched a little as he described “separatist violence” goaded on by “insurgency ringleaders.”
The room was air conditioned, but sweat was beginning to prickle under my arms and on my forehead. I felt like he was accusing me of the things he was describing. Maybe he was.
I caught Lt. Den looking at me with friendly eyes. “Don’t be distressed,” he said. “You could not have known about all this, when you were writing to Miss Matarayi—Kaya, as you call her. She wouldn’t have admitted to it.” He sighed. “She took advantage of your friendship.”
She didn’t, I wanted to say, but a tiny worm of doubt wriggled up through my mind. Did she?
Lt. Sana was speaking again. “Since the Jarakasan Lake massacre, it’s become impossible—”
“Whoa, hold on a moment,” Mr. Dubois interrupted. “I thought I read that the deaths at the lake turned out to be from a natural disaster, not separatist action.”
It was one of Lt. Sana’s glass-shard moments. “Yes. The initial deaths were from a bubble of carbon dioxide that escaped the lake,” he said. “But then, then the insurgents exploited the situation.” He jabbed one of the photos with his finger. “These people died from bullet wounds, not asphyxiation.”
“Ah, I see,” said Mr. Dubois, nodding, his eyes on the photo. Then his brow wrinkled. “I apologize for my ignorance, but aren’t some of the people in this photo mountain folk? Why would the separatists kill their own people?”
“Punishing government collaborators, I suppose,” Lt. Sana replied, a sneer in his voice.
“There may have been an exchange of fire; that’s still under investigation,” Lt. Den admitted.
“But that’s a gunfight, not a massacre.”
“A gunfight that wouldn’t have happened if the insurgents hadn’t taken advantage of a natural disaster to attack a US company,” Lt. Den said, and now there were barbs in his voice, too.
“Terrible,” Mr. Dubois said, shaking his head. I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, and I guess Lt. Sana couldn’t either, because he was glaring at Mr. Dubois. Lt. Den carried on with the talking, explaining that one of the insurgents, a “confederate of Ms. Matarayi,” was now helping the State Security Service work out a peaceful solution.
“It’s hard, though, with Ms. Matarayi continuing to stand in opposition. And now, with Abenanyi on the verge of erupting, and the possibility of loss of life, it’s more important than ever that we remove her. From the Lotus on the Ruby Lake.”
Remove her. The way he said it made me shiver.
“This is where you can help,” said the undersecretary, smiling at me like Granny Ikaho trying to coax her cat back into the house. “Our State Security Service would like you to make a … little film?” he looked questioningly at the men to his left. Lt. Den nodded.
“We’ll do it with a cell phone. Very short. We want you to ask her to come away from the Ruby Lake, to come to safety,” he said.
“Can’t I … Can’t you just take me there? Can’t I ask her in person?”
“It’s too dangerous for you to go to the Ruby Lake,” Mr. Dubois said swiftly, before anyone else could answer. “That’s one of the other things Mr. Henry said, when we talked. I meant to tell you in the taxi. I’m sorry.” He sounded like he meant it, too.
I’m this close, but still as far away from Kaya as everyone else in W—. A Ruby Lake away.
“I do want her to come away from the Ruby Lake. I do want her to be safe,” I said.
I want it with all my heart. So why is there a but bubbling up in me?
“Excellent! Then I’ll leave you with Lt. Sana and Lt. Den,” said the undersecretary. “Mr. Dubois, Miss Baptiste.” He bowed slightly, said something quick to the lieutenants, and left the room.
“Just sixty seconds should be enough,” said Lt. Den. “You’re waiting in the capital, you want to see her, you want everyone to be safe: say those things.”
They’re always using people to get other people to do what they want, I realized. Before, they wanted Kaya to read their statement so the people in the mountains would do what they wanted, and now they want me to say things to get Kaya to do what they want. It’s okay, though, because what they want and what I want are the same—Kaya away from the Ruby Lake, and people safe.
Right?
The but in my mind was growing bigger. Is that really what they want? Kaya’s made all this trouble for them—and they still care about what happens to her? The people in the mountains are fighting them, but they want them to evacuate to safety? Either they’re lying, or … Or they’re not as bad as Kaya said?
I realized the room was completely silent. Everyone was looking at me expectantly.
“Okay,” I said at last, and then, for reassurance, “And I’ll really get to see Kaya? She’ll come here?”
“Yes,” Lt. Den said.
“And she’ll be all right?”
Lt. Sana’s jaw tightened, and he muttered something I couldn’t catch. Lt. Den laced his fingers on the tabletop.
“Kaya has committed—is accused of committing—several crimes, some serious. But W— operates under the rule of law, just like your country. I can’t promise a particular outcome for her, but I can promise justice. And leaving the Ruby Lake voluntarily will work in her favor. It will be a sign of cooperation.”
Not much comfort there! But what could I say or do? It was all they were willing to offer.
“Okay, then,” I said. “I’m ready.
16
The Ruby Lake
October 23 (Em’s diary, second entry)
We repeated the filming over and over again before the officers were satisfied. The words I was saying stopped seeming real—it was like I was an actress playing myself, and even the myself I was playing wasn’t real. It was just a me-shaped piece of bait, and the officers were perfecting their casting technique. I wonder if they’ve ever gone fishing for real.
“We’ll send for you when we have her here,” Lt. Den reassured me, when they were finally satisfied and me and Mr. Dubois were getting into our taxi. The sky had gone all shades of crape myrtle, turning Mr. Dubois’s white shirt pink and the ministry building orange. The air smelled a little like oranges, too, or anyway, like something you could peel and eat, and my stomach growled.
“We can get a meal back at the hotel,” Mr. Dubois said, once the doors were shut and we were on the road again. They’d brought in food while we were filming, but I’d been too wound up to touch it. Now I just leaned back in the taxi and pulled my knees up against my stomach.
“Do you think it’s true, that stuff about people getting shot by the lake?” I asked, thinking about Mr. Dubois’s argument with the officers. Something Jiminy had said once popped into my head: Maybe your friend has things to own up to.
Mr. Dubois tapped knuckles against his lips. “Hard to say. Those photos were definitely of people with bullet wounds, but we don’t know how they got them, or even if they really died there by the lake or were brought there afterward. On the other hand, the separatists did put a flag there, like they were claiming it after a battle. So I don’t know.”
That didn’t help my stomach much.
“Least nobody can say that Kaya was shooting people,” I muttered.
“But Em, you know she doesn’t have to shoot anyone to still be involved.”
Mr. Dubois! I know that’s true, but why’d you have to go and say it?
I kept that thought in my head. Instead I said, “I know. Like with Jiminy and his friends. In the end it didn’t matter who had the gun. They were all in trouble.” By then, I wasn’t even feeling hungry anymore. I just wanted to close my eyes and not see anything or think about anything for a while.
“Well now, about Jiminy. I’ve been doing a little poking around, and I found some information about an interesting program that he’d be just right for.”
My eyes flew open. I looked over at Mr. Dubois.
“You were poking around for Jiminy?”
That lopsided grin of his washed up on his face, then ebbed away. “I remember when he was your age. He didn’t have the head for schoolwork that you do, but he’d come out with the most interesting ideas sometimes. And he’s what? No more than eighteen, right? And never been incarcerated before—he deserves a chance at rehabilitation. There’s this work release program—”
The hope Mr. Dubois’s words had lit inside me flickered out.
“He already tried for a work release program. He lost his chance because of getting into fights,” I said.
“This is a different program, so
mething he has a special skill for, growing up in Mermaid’s Hands. It’s volunteer work restoring coastal salt marshes. Wouldn’t he be good at that? Finding and protecting sea turtle eggs and pelicans’ nests?”
I giggled a little. “He might take a couple eggs to eat, if he got hungry.” Then, quickly, “not really. Never sea turtle eggs; they’re our cousins. Gulls’ eggs, though. We used to collect a basketful, get Gran to make omelets. Sometimes Ma would make pancakes.” I was back to hungry again, but a happier hungry. I leaned toward Mr. Dubois and gave him a quick hug. He grinned again, a longer-lasting grin.
“What’s that for? Don’t you manhandle me, Em; you know delicate dry-landers like me aren’t used to your rough ways.”
At the hotel, he ordered us some food that got brought right to the room, spicy and delicious, but no sooner was the edge off my hunger than I found myself swamped by sleepiness, head bobbing like a buoy in the bay.
“We can save the rest of this,” Mr. Dubois said. “Why don’t you change into PJs and get to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.” He headed for the door.
“Where are you going? You’re not staying with me?”
“No, I have my own room, 412, right across the hall. I’m going to send some emails home, and then I’ll go to bed too. Don’t look so worried! You’ll be fine. You’re a young lady now; you need your privacy.”
He coudn’t know that I never slept alone before in my life, that there’s always been the sound of someone breathing nearby, to lull and settle me. But there’s gotta be a first time for everything. I nodded and let him turn on the TV to keep me company. It looks like it’s doing The Voice, W— version. I need to brush my teeth but I’m so sleepy. More later.
October 23 (Em’s diary, third entry)
Trying to get this all down. So scared, but it’ll be all right. It’ll be all right. I got the Seafather behind me and the Lady ahead of me, and Mr. Dubois next to me. It’ll be all right.