by Ted Oswald
— Yes?
— You cannot be so apart.
— What do you mean?
— The tongues will stop their wagging in time. But you mustn’t give these gossips more fodder.
— I never tried, Libète said glumly.
Magdala nodded, rolling the thought around in her head. You . . . you need to be a performer. You need to be who you aren’t. Can you do that? Can you slow down and play a part, Sophia?
The question’s irony made Libète cringe. I think I can, she said.
— Be as one of us. Magdala rubbed the words into Libète’s back like a salve. Be one of us. Set yourself apart, and you’ll be so. Come into the fold, and you’ll be safe.
Libète thinks on what this means. An acceptance. A defeat. A loss. She pushes the thoughts aside. For now, it is a relief to take herself off, fold up the old skin, make sure the creases are smoothed out, and put herself safely into storage.
Until they come for me. Just until they come.
Part II
Good, as it ripens, becomes continually more different not only from evil but from other good.
—C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce
There was a Land.
And in that Land was a Boy.
And in that Boy was a Seed.
Long before the Boy was the Land.
Full of crafted spires and flowing rivers.
The Land was blessed, and planted with Goodness.
This Good, it grew out of the ground in budding green.
The people tended it, knowing their lives depended on the Good.
And then the Good was harvested, plucked from the trees.
They took it and beat it and crushed it and cooked it.
And the Good entered them, passed through them.
It gave them life.
And all that came with living.
No one told the people how to live.
No one took what was not theirs.
And this is how they lived in that Land.
Years and years passed.
And with them came more blessing and more heartache than can be known.
It was in this same Land the Seed was planted in the Boy.
And He grew.
Into a strong tree.
A tragedy befell Him and his family.
And the Good was no longer enough for Him.
With great effort, He pulled up his roots.
He left the Land and all that it was.
He sought the opposite of the Good.
And He withered.
On his long journey He found darkened places.
Places that seemed to have never known the Good.
He passed from such place to such place.
Never to lay down roots.
His branches became gnarled and His body warped.
And He thought this was His destiny.
One day in such a place, He came upon a Girl, curiously on fire.
She laid on the ground, and Her burning never ceased.
Her fingers of flame kept Her from ever planting herself in the ground.
All others of good sense had fled far from Her.
Because to approach was to risk catching her Fire.
Please, She cried out to Him.
Help me quit this flame!
For I am tired of it.
So very tired.
And there is no one who will help!
Like the others, He passed her by.
He knew what fire would mean to Him.
And His wooden limbs.
But Her cries moved Him.
They stirred something He had lost long ago.
And He returned.
He came close.
He touched the flame.
He took the flame.
And He burned till he was consumed.
In Her new freedom, She rose.
And She wept.
His burned trunk and limbs lay before Her.
She found the air was filled, but not with ash.
The Fire had done a wonder!
Long-absent fruit on his boughs flourished and opened.
More Seeds were freed!
And the Girl-Who-Had-Burned gathered them up.
The Girl knew what She should do with the Seeds.
She should plant one.
She should plant many.
In thanks for what He had done.
And what He had given.
But the Girl stood there, looking into the Land She did not know.
She saw Her life stretch out before Her.
And a heavy question rested on Her lips.
She knew that which She should do.
But could She?
The Peasant
Tan ale, li pa tounen.
Times goes, it doesn't return.
Four months later
Come join us, come on, you’ll see where we are
Hoe meets earth, and the motion feels good.
Come join us, come on, you’ll see where we’re heading
Strike! in turn, Strike! in time, Strike! goes the dance.
Come join us, come on, you’ll see what we need to do
Time in the field empties Libète. In the row of corn that climbs above her eyes, she disappears: a straight path behind her, a long line of clear purpose before her. She sings along:
When we look at the country, we see division
When we search for hope, we find the blows of batons
When we gather to talk, we discover togetherness
Let’s put our shoulders together and see if we can arrive
They reach the finish of their gold-green rows.
It is the end of the trance. The end of the dance.
Libète crouches, lays her hoe down. Her torso heaves to catch and hold breath. She takes stock of her body and its hard, aching muscles. She has a small puncture wound in her heel from a sharp rock. It bleeds. She hadn’t noticed.
— Are you well? Magdala’s head pokes through the line of corn. Libète looks up, blinded by the hanging Sun but comforted by the voice, and lifts her hands. She smiles, biting her cheek, inhaling. Mwen byen, she says. I’m well. She holds her palms up and to the light. They’ve blistered again.
— Ay! Sophia! Magdala takes the hands in her own and inspects them closely. You must protect yourself! Magdala removes rags from her hands and gives them to Libète. Your hands still aren’t yet ours, she whispers.
She does not tell Magdala that this very difference is why she lets her hands rip, mend, and callus. Magdala means nothing by the remark, but Libète resents it. This passes. She can harbor no ill will toward the woman. Soon, maybe, they will be, Libète says.
Magdala wipes her brow with the back of her hand, catching the beads of sweat that escape her headscarf. They have been in the fields since before the Sun deigned to show itself.
— Ay, it’s a dry day, Magdala says. Too, too dry. Why does the rain just decide to stop when we need it? The little drops, they just stay at home instead of making the leap. They should do their part!
— God must be busy elsewhere, Libète says. Too busy to make them jump.
Magdala bends to stretch her back. I suppose so.
There were fifteen others working alongside them to cultivate the common plot, and the woman and girl rejoined the rest. They circled around a deep bucket of water, taking turns scooping out a drink with a small, cut gourd floating on top.
— You’re getting good, Sophia! said Agustin. He was the elder sanba there, calling out the song and setting the konbit’s tempo.
— And fast, said Klesyis. I checked your work. I wanted to find fault – he cracked a smile – but found none!
Libète blushed. Mèsi, she said quietly. Magdala beamed, patted Libète on the back, and took a draught of the water. She passed the gourd to Libète.
— Maybe she can do all our rows. Prosper said this, walking up from his own line while rubbing his coarse hands together. Whether he was praising her or ridiculing her seemed lost in
his flat tone. Her smile slipped away. He took a drink of his own before adding, Klesyis is right. She did do a good job. Her eyes met his before leaping back to the ground.
Through his spare teeth, Klesyis let out a laugh. Like you’re one to judge, Prosper! Maybe she can help you out! Your rows look like you needed to take a leak and had to hold it. He zigged his hand through the air. Remember–straight, son! Straight!
Libète lifted the gourd and opened her throat, taking in the water in one gulp.
— All right. Everyone good? Everyone ready? Agustin asked.
The group panted a combined “Wi.”
— Well then–line up! Agustin started pounding out a beat, a familiar rhythm, and it animated them anew despite their empty stomachs, aches, and weary limbs. They grabbed tools that had been laid on the ground.
— Sophia–since you were last to drink, you can refill the water, eh? Klesyis asked. It’ll give us old hands a head start too. He winked.
— Of course, she said, offering a meek nod. She lifted the bucket. The scraps of cloth in her hand dulled the blisters’ pain.
She headed up the steep slope toward the top of the plot where women queued up at the cistern filled by the university’s capped spring. With their own buckets and jerry cans, their laughter and gossiping could be heard from all over.
— Eskize m, Libète said. I was asked to get water for the konbit and want to get back before they leave me behind.
— Of course, of course, Sophia! said Ketteline, a large and boisterous woman who stood halfway down the line of ten women. You work for us in the common plot, we work for you!
Libète gave a grateful nod and put her bucket on the ground. She tied the line to the bucket’s handle and sent it down into the cistern’s dark. She braced her legs at the cistern mouth, clenched her teeth, and tugged the bucket back up.
— I remember when you first came–you could only lift a thimble at a time!
— Yeah, made us wait all day! Ketteline shouted. They burst into a fit of cackles. Libète couldn’t help smiling too, nearly losing her grip on the rope.
— Look at you now!
Libète’s muscles flexed as the bucket climbed in smooth, fluid motions. When she got it up, she gave a small bow. With Ketteline’s help Libète hoisted the bucket high on her head and carried it back down the slope. She felt light despite the load.
Agustin’s fist was bouncing fast against the taught drumhead now, forming a low rumble. Libète put the bucket down in its original spot. The others had just begun, having defied Agustin’s orders and stretched their rest to the limit.
— You’re over here, Sophia, Prosper called. He signaled to the row next to his own.
— Map vini! She let the bucket touch earth and was careful not to spill. Taking up her hoe, she walked toward Prosper. He stared as she approached, and she tried to ignore him, biting her bottom lip.
— Hey–where’s my pick axe? Klesyis called out from several rows over. I left it over here.
— Take mine, you ass, Agustin called. You’ll have to look for yours while you work! We’re starting. No more delays!
She took up her place and looked down the row. She breathed long and deep, as if she stood poised at a race’s starting line. Her mind soon slipped into gear, parts churning, thoughts accelerating until they were lost in the whir of it all.
Can you play a part, Sophia?
Her memory flitted to Magdala’s question posed several months before. Unsure how to answer then, she was no longer. It had changed her in an instant, flipping Foche from a foreign place to her own.
— What’s on your mind? Prosper asked.
— Hmm? she said, pulled from there to here. Not a thing, Prosper. My mind, it’s empty. Like an open field.
Come join us, come on, you’ll see where we are . . .
Libète dreams in shadows.
Surreal from the beginning, the dreams’ meanings are lost in vague imagery. Each is drenched in water and shrouded in black. Full of falling, and running, and worry. She awakens.
It is only a few hours since Stephanie left. Libète moves to the bathroom, lets the water run over her hands, cups it and brings it to her face to wash away the thick layer of age that has accumulated in the course of the last day.
Darkness covers all. She fumbles down the stairs, hoping Laurent will be absent. He sits at the dining room table with Jak. Jak shoots up on noticing her, and his chair flies back.
— The ogre stirs, Laurent mutters.
Libète squints, running her hand down the bannister. She pauses at the bottom step.
— Food.
Laurent purses his lips. I cooked, he says.
She sniffs and scrunches her nose, taking in the wafting scent of char from the kitchen.
— It didn’t go so well, he says. The cleaner will be back by tomorrow.
— Food, she says again.
— Fortunately the restaurant around the corner was still open. I went out.
She sneers.
— I’ll get you a plate, Jak says. He moves toward the kitchen.
She slinks to the table and sits, shielding her eyes from the nagging fluorescent light overhead.
— We don’t need you, Laurent. Jak and I are mature. You can leave.
— Steffi said you needed to hide. Something else about adult supervision? I protested–I have a book to write, I said. I can’t handle the distraction, I said. He huffed. Steffi didn’t seem to care.
Libète noticed a cocktail glass drained of its spirits, leaving two melting ice cubes. I’d have preferred Steffi, she said.
— I’d have preferred Steffi, Laurent said.
Libète sighed.
— She took my car, something I’m none too pleased about. She left that green rust bucket in the drive.
Jak returned with a heap of rice bedecked in steaming sos pwa, chicken, and fried plantains. He had given her extra sauce–her favorite.
— The computer. In my room, she said. Can it get on the Internet?
— It can, Laurent said. But I think we need to have a talk about what you do online while here. It’s hardly a secure–
She took the plate to her room and left them.
— Sophia–you can’t leave without a farewell. Magdala stands with hands on hips. You owe me as much, she says.
Libète rolls her eyes. Back at their shared home, she has just rinsed off and is halfway out the doorway. She moves toward Magdala, whose forced frown turns to a smile. Libète hugs her, kisses her on each cheek.
— Orevwa, auntie, orevwa.
She stepped out and saw Saint-Pierre standing in the wide shadows of the old mapou. She went to greet his sad, long face. A dull day for you, Pierre, no? She stroked him and caught her small, distorted reflection in his unblinking eye. We’ll put you to work soon, she said, checking the strength of the knot tying him to the tree.
Libète’s limbs felt deadened. Loose and wobbly, she finished each day in the fields having pushed herself harder than the day before. No one else cared that she progress in such a way, but the discipline was important to her. Their acceptance of her was important.
In her other hand, she carried a large square of crinkled brown paper, carefully folded. It was the soft kind that wore easily along its creases and threatened to fall to pieces if not shown proper respect. Libète had asked a vendor for it at the market; it had cushioned a glass pitcher up from down the mountain, and was otherwise fated to kindle a fire. The vendor handed it over. Inside the pocket of Libète’s sundress was an even more valuable possession: a pencil, carefully sharpened.
The road was peaceful. Libète greeted several residents coming in from tending their own carreaux and hectares spread throughout the mountain. Peering out, she couldn’t spot any trucks or jeeps crawling up the mountain. Their rumble and the strain of low gears were familiar sounds these days. Moto taxis had proliferated too, with the improved road; return-trips from Foche down the mountain had become a brisk business. Riding the bikes used
to mean you had money or were sick, but not anymore. The oldest member of the community, a spry ninety-four-year-old woman, had made the trip down the other day to visit a younger brother down in St. Marc who was ninety-two. They hadn’t seen one another in at least sixty-five years.
The peace along the road was broken before long. She heard shouting from among the corn, and saw Ossaint, Vernard, and Jezula.
— You’re harvesting my crop! Taking my work for your own! Jezula shouted.
— Shut your mouth. My land starts there, between that rock – Ossaint pointed to a larger stone along the roadside – and that stump. Always has!
The woman flew in front of him and jabbed a finger into the man’s chest. If that stone happens to move by your own hand it doesn’t let you claim the earth! You’re acting like . . . like an . . . American!
His nostrils flared. He did not appreciate the insult.
Land ownership made for a complicated patchwork of parcels. Large plots had been divided and inherited and sold and subdivided and traded. Written titles meant little; often neither party in a dispute could read the frayed papers produced to bolster a claim. Blurred lines between plots were dangerous, Libète had learned. They led to flared tempers and thrown fists.
— You have no right!
— We’re out here all the time! Ossaint said. We never see you at work. So you want to redraw the lines and claim our crop. Getting fat off our sweat!
Libète walked past the marker stone often. She knew its location well, and also knew it had not moved. It was deep in the ground, and if it had shifted it would have left a noticeable indentation in its former place, or the ground would show evidence of tampering.
She felt the impulse to intervene turn over in her stomach.
She took one step toward them, but then returned to the center of the road. Best not to get involved, she whispered under her breath. She let their shouting drift and fade away as she continued her climb.
When the road’s two tines forked, she took the trail toward the fort. Partway up, she came upon Junior, Jeune’s mute son.