There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery)

by Ted Oswald

  — What the hell was that? Maxine finally asked as she drew a pistol. No answer came. Those were shotgun blasts. These peasants wouldn’t have their hands on them. She barked at the man next to her, Drive up the mountain with your squad and see what’s going on.

  The leader and six other men piled back into the second pickup and set off, kicking up dust in their wake. Maxine turned to Janel. Woman, if there are problems here, everything is off. You understand?

  Janel fidgeted.

  — Get these two in the back, Maxine ordered. The men laid hands on Libète first, and Magdala flared up in a furor. Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her! She pushed one man away and pivoted back toward Maxine. Though the men reached to restrain Magdala, she let lose a wild round of blows against Maxine. Caught off guard and shielding herself with her wrists raised, Maxine fired her gun reflexively.

  Magdala collapsed.

  — No! Libète screamed. It was a piercing, anguished sound and made all pause.

  The men pulled Libète from Magdala’s side as the woman clutched her wounded chest and shook, her mouth gaping and afraid. Maxine backed away slowly.

  — I didn’t mean to, Maxine said, so quietly no one could hear her words.

  Libète cried and cried, Magdala! Magdala! Maxine, you bitch, you devil, you–

  — I didn’t mea–

  — Janel! Libète roared. Take Délira’s child at least! She thrust out her hands and held the frightened and confused boy in the open air. Take Delivrans!

  Janel didn’t respond. She couldn’t comprehend the horror unraveling before her. She looked away as Libète was forced into a truck bed.

  — Magdala, Libète cried. Mag-da-la! she shouted.

  Already, the dear woman was gone.

  Maxine trudged slowly toward the truck’s bed, slipping her pistol back into its holster and fastening it with a snap. With the help of one of the soldiers, she climbed into the bed, and the truck started down the mountain.

  Through tear-clogged eyes Libète saw Prosper run into view. He held a machete in his hand. Sophia! he shouted. He dropped the blade and went to Magdala’s side while his mother hovered with her hand held to her mouth.

  — All for numbers, Libète moaned. All for some damned numbers! Her lip trembled. What makes them worth killing and . . . and . . . destroying?

  Maxine looked emptied. She chose her words with care. A new, old Haiti. That was all she said.

  Libète could not ponder riddles now. All she could comprehend was despair and the child screaming in her arms.

  A new, old Haiti. A Haiti I don’t want to live in.

  Libète looked at the world rushing past: the road and its narrow shoulder, and just beyond, a vertiginous drop to lower ground. In the blur of color and emotion, she had an epiphany of such tremendous clarity it staggered.

  This could end.

  Her muscles tensed throughout her body.

  Just a leap. All it would take. The Numbers would be no more. My sacrifice. For Haiti . . .

  This was how it would be. She flexed her legs, ready to push herself backward over the side fender, hoping that her collision with the ground might snap her neck before experiencing that terrible, terrible fall.

  But the child in her arms–would she take him with her? End his life too?

  There is a Land

  The thought made her tremble. Her shoulder, through which a bullet passed long ago, ached anew with phantom pain.

  It is here

  She was entrusted with his fate, this babe of today, boy of tomorrow, man of not yet. Could she leave him behind with these villains? Could she throw herself toward her end when a life of such unknown potential and hope pulsed in her arms? Could she?

  And it is coming

  She could not. New tears slipped into Delivrans’s hair, and she held onto him and all that he was and all he could be and all that Haiti could be.

  They sped past the market’s plane. She glimpsed hundreds of eyes on them, and half as many faces turned up, wondering what new curse was descending on their mountainside. Libète felt Maxine’s hollowed eyes locked on her. Libète shifted, and Maxine’s hand sprung toward her like a lunging serpent, her fingers coiling about Libète’s wrist.

  She does not know I have no fight left in me. None at all.

  The careening truck rounded a bend and skidded to a halt. Everyone in the back was thrown in a crush toward the cab. The baby cried out among curses. Libète craned her neck to see what obstructed the road.

  It was one of the miners’ large Mack trucks. Inexplicably, Jeune’s son Junior stood toward the vehicle’s rear.

  The men with guns streamed from around Libète like hornets from an injured nest. They yelled and let loose a shout of bullets, but Junior ducked, ran around the side of the truck, and avoided the deadly spray. Maxine kept a firm grip on Libète. Libète kept a firm hold on the child.

  The paramilitaries advanced toward the dump truck with their guns still drawn. In their haste they failed to notice the small flame brought to life by Junior as it subtly climbed up a cloth and into the truck’s gas tank.

  The truck erupted in shock and flame, and all became chaos.

  New and poorly aimed gunfire spilled out from behind boulders above. The soldiers caught in the open fired up at the concealed shooters above, but they had wasted too many bullets on Junior. Soon they were robbed of life.

  The pickup began a mad reversal. Libète, in a rush of adrenaline, tried to pull away from Maxine, but the woman was stunned and refused to let go.

  Shots pierced the pickup and its cab, and suddenly the vehicle’s course no longer tracked the contour of the mountain road–the driver was hit! The pickup began to push backward on a path that would take it straight off the cliff.

  — Let go! Libète tried again to rip herself from Maxine, this time with success. Maxine finally stirred, and both fell from the truck bed haphazardly.

  The tumble was all sharp pain and spin and a hollowing of breath. Libète rolled and rolled, enveloping the child to soften the blows he might sustain. Maxine landed even harder.

  The pickup slid off the road and plummeted.

  Libète was stunned. She sucked in dirt and dust in her attempt to trap breath, her every cough making her newly bruised body shout in pain. The pickup collided and rolled, and black smoke began spiraling into the sky. Libète cried out as sense of herself and her injured body finally returned.

  Delivrans. Dear God!

  She feebly lifted her neck to examine the boy. He did not cry. He did not blink.

  Oh God! Oh God! Magdala. Didi. Laurent. Dimanche. And now him!

  But then, he breathed.

  And Libète cried out:

  Mèsi

  Mèsi

  Mèsi

  The Violent Bear it Away

  Sa ou plante se sa ou rekòlte.

  What you plant is what you harvest.

  Moments after her landing, the men with guns – the men from Foche – were upon her. One took Delivrans. With their help, Libète stood, but just barely. As soon as she could, she reclaimed the child.

  After taking Maxine’s weapon, the men tried to force the woman to stand, but she could not. She collapsed, and two men had to lift and carry her by the arms as her whole body hung limply like a broken reed.

  Jeune, weak as he was from his heart attack, acted as the group’s leader. A cane in hand, he led the assembly’s march back up the road to the bustling marketplace with his hand clapped proudly on Junior’s back. Libète noted the faces of these other men: they were those she had toiled alongside in the fields, sold mangoes to in the market, sat next to in church. All members of the Sosyete, Libète realized.

  But how could that be? They had just fought with her against Dumas’s private security and paramilitaries. She now knew that at Janel’s leading they been aligned with the miners all along. What had changed?

  In the moment, Libète couldn’t help but think of the Maroons, the bands of slaves who had taken to the
mountains and defeated the French and British troops sent to put down their rebellion. These men in the Sosyete shared blood with the rebels who likely laid waste to the mountaintop fortress years ago. Libète felt a swell of pleasure at the retribution meted out against those who had come to steal her away. That feeling passed as soon as she saw Félix.

  They came upon a second group of Sosyete members. Félix stepped down from among their ranks with a smile on his face. He rushed to her, enveloping her in his arms. Libète could not help but cry.

  It was him. He organized this. After she had been taken from the mine, he must have sought the Sosyete out and convinced them to act. The distant gunshots heard while at Janel’s home were this troop dispatching Cinéus and Wilnor. They stole the dump truck, drove it into place, planned the roadblock. They used their weapons on the soldiers in the second pickup sent to check on the disturbance and stole their guns. It was him.

  He pulled back from the embrace confused.

  It was only then that one of the other men came to him and whispered the terrible news about Magdala. The word was soon whispered among the other men.

  — Bondye!

  — Not her!

  Jeune went to Félix and laid his hand on the back of the boy’s neck. Félix tried to dam the tears as he looked at Maxine, who still hung feebly between two men. The exertion made him tremble. For the first time he lived in a world in which his mother did not.

  Their assembly continued toward the market with a crippling sense of sadness.

  There were sounds of mourning in the marketplace as they approached. People made way so that Jeune could walk to its center. To Libète, it was a sea of eyes and gaping mouths she could not meet. She felt exposed, as if all her secrets had come to light. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that men from the mining encampment sat on the ground, each with their hands tied behind them. Dorsinus was there too, staring into space. His eyes were clouded and his senses dimmed, but at least he had been pulled from the edge of that maw in the ground that had seemed ready to devour him the night before.

  Children everywhere clung to their parents, and their low crying hovered over everything. Délira approached and slipped the infant from Libète’s arms. Tears traced the lines of her cheeks. Other neighbors propped up Libète as she hobbled toward the market center, or consoled Félix. Maxine was bound with ropes around her hands and neck and was led as if she were a beast. Some spit on her or struck her as she passed. Prosper watched it all, his face a tangle of inscrutable thought. He stood while Janel sat on the ground beside him, hiding her face in her hands. Before them both lay Magdala’s body, covered with a blood-stained sheet.

  In the bustle, Libète didn’t notice the chair set on a seller’s cleared table. A man took Jeune’s cane while three others helped hoist him up and into the seat. He tried to speak to all, but he could summon little more than a rasp. The members of the Sosyete looked among themselves, before each one’s stare landed on Junior. Knowing their intent, he shook his head, but they prodded him on. No, his whole body said. They lifted him to stand next to his father anyway. Jeune whispered something to his son, and his son, the mute, opened his mouth.

  — This is not a time for lies, Junior said, repeating Jeune’s words.

  And with that Libète knew all. There he was, Papa Legba, the head of the Sosyete. And beside him stood the brilliant dancer with the powerful voice.

  Many gasped at the minor miracle of his speech. Junior proceeded timidly before his words surged in confidence. He continued parroting Jeune’s words: they were a confession. They announced Magdala’s death, Janel’s terrible bargain with the miners, and the Sosyete’s complicity in handing over Dorsinus to be a slave. Yes, the Sosyete had been involved, but, according to Jeune, had been used by Janel. She was the town’s leader and the Sosyete’s higher authority. They trusted her and believed the community’s interests were served by the men who came from outside.

  — The Sosyete was meant for the protection of this community, Junior repeated. That was its purpose, going all the way back to the beginning. But we failed. We saw it corrupted. And we stand before you. Though I cannot speak for the others involved, I lay down my leadership, and would call for its abandonment. Its secrets have divided us, cost us dearly. Jeune’s stare lingered on Félix, whose own gaze was locked on Maxine.

  — We must decide how to deal with our sins, Junior said. These miners surrendered without violence. They were employees doing a job. But this woman – Jeune signaled to Maxine – she is different. She is the sole survivor of those who brought guns to use against us. We must go and tell the police, tell the country, what has happened here. We must make it known that the digging was taking place. And we must even be prepared for more trucks filled with more men carrying more guns. Jeune turned to Libète.

  — And Sophia, it seems you are known by these people. Somehow wanted by them?

  Libète was not prepared to speak. I . . . I am so, so sorry for my part in this. They have been after me for a long while. When they come again, they will be after me, and . . . I won’t stay in Foche any longer. I’m sorry for bringing this on you all. Her chin quivered. On Magdala . . .

  She buried her face in her hands, and everyone respected her quiet tears. When Libète finally looked up, she expected to see harsh stares. Instead she saw sympathy. Kindness. Compassion.

  — And yet, this one remains. Jeune pointed to Maxine, who seemed nearly catatonic. She is guilty of making war against Foche, and now Foche must decide how she will die.

  Jeune forced himself to speak the next sentence himself: Who will kill her?

  Libète’s heart leaped. And though she hated the thought, she knew what she must do.

  — We will, she said. Félix and I. Félix looked up at Libète in surprise, seeming to shrink from the responsibility. Libète’s eyes stayed trained on Maxine. She walked up to Prosper, her stomach fluttering, and took the machete from his hand. It’s his and my right, Libète said. This woman took his mother and was trying to steal me. We’ll take her to the mine pit. Drop her in. And after she’s gone, I’ll leave Foche for good.

  Félix, resigned, took Maxine’s gun from her guard, the same gun that had killed his mother. The guard handed over Maxine’s rope, and Félix yanked it hard. She choked and winced, but rose. The two children led her away from the crowd.

  It was a long walk up the mountain, and no one spoke. Strangely, the ghostly improvised music emerged again, its notes rising and falling with Libète’s own breathing. Finally, Libète knew what this symphony was. Emanating from deep within her, it represented powerful yearnings beyond the boundaries of conscious speech. They were, simply put, prayers. Libète let the music play even as she proceeded toward a moment not long from now when she would do the previously unthinkable.

  Maxine said nothing. Her expression floated between anger and resignation.

  Félix trudged without speaking. Libète noticed his finger did not leave the gun’s trigger.

  — Where are you from, Maxine?

  The question caught Félix and Maxine by surprise. She looked up at Libète.

  — I’m from Léogâne.

  — Do you have family?

  — A mother.

  — Does she love you?

  — I hope.

  — Will she mourn you?

  They walked in silence as they passed Magdala’s home. Its open door creaked in the breeze.

  — How did you start your work?

  Maxine didn’t answer. Félix gave a stiff tug on the rope, and she choked her reply.

  — I had a gift. For putting things together.

  — Did you always work for criminals?

  — Not always, she murmured. Not always.

  — What will you miss?

  Maxine’s face tensed.

  — When you’re dead–

  — I understood the question, she said icily. My dogs.

  — Not another single person?

  — The ocean. Waves coming in. Th
e thrill of the chase.

  — What else?

  — My body.

  — Do you believe in God?

  — No. I . . . hope he’s not there.

  — And what about regrets? Have any?

  — I . . . do. The woman. Magdala. Magdala’s son, I want you to know I’m sorry for her. I’m . . . not who I want to be. Félix refused to look at her. He was set upon the land ahead.

  Maxine’s face clouded. Stop torturing me with these questions, she whimpered.

  The quiet returned.

  They walked through the large iron barrier that had kept the mine obscured from the community for so long.

  — What are the Numbers?

  — They’re nothing . . . not now.

  Félix pulled her to the edge of the principal pit. The network of plastic sheeting had been pulled down, allowing all of the injuries to the earth to be seen. By day, the deepest penetration was even more ghastly. It had been Dorsinus’s prison and very soon would become a tomb.

  Libète tapped Maxine’s kneecaps with the blade’s tip. On your knees. Now.

  Félix crouched low and watched.

  — Can you – Maxine trembled – make it quick?

  Libète did not answer.

  — What. Are. The. Numbers? Libète repeated the question, lifting her blade to Maxine’s throat.

  Maxine stared into the pit and contemplated its depth, its darkness. They’re the location of money, money that Pascal hid away from Dumas, right before Dumas had him killed.

  — How much? What’s the price for all this misery you’ve handed out?

  — Nine million. But it’s not just money. It’s what it buys. These men. Their food. Their guns. You’ve kept Dumas from his private army.

  — Why would he want an army? Nausea came in waves at what the man, the one with whom she shared blood, was after. A new, old Haiti. The words played through Libète’s mind. What was he going to do with his army? Libète asked.

  Maxine’s eyes tightened into slits. Please. Just end this.

  Libète loosened the rope about Maxine’s neck.

  — Put out your hands.

  Maxine doubled over. Please, don’t take my hands–just a bullet. Please, don’t torture me. I know I deserve it, I know, but please, please . . .