In Darkness

by Nick Lake

  The wood was warm to the touch, and he smiled. He had seen the ocean before, with his father, and seen the things that swept up on the beach: pieces of polished wood, glass, sometimes even human bones, or barrels of still unperished food and drink. The sea, he realized, was not foreign at all; it behaved like humans. It took things – the driftwood, the drowned – and loved them, but always, like a person who dies and leaves behind their possessions, it ultimately abandoned them, casting them up onto shore, and moving on. Nothing belonged to the sea forever; it would always end up on some beach somewhere, forgotten.

  The sea expels these things, he thought, these mementos of the lost. It does not want to remember.

  He understood that. He did not want to remember, either, did not want to think about his ancestors who had come, suffering, to this land over this shining sea. But what he wanted and what he did were two different countries at war with each other. He wanted to be with Isaac, yet here he was. He wanted to ignore the past, yet he fed on it for his anger, for his impetus in his fight against the slavers.

  He touched the warm face of the wooden lady once more, then walked out into the ocean and let it embrace him. Behind him, he heard Jean-Christophe gasp as he entered it.

  The water was slippery, almost greasy, against Toussaint’s skin. He swam breaststroke, his hands meeting before him like prayers.

  He thought of the fish swimming beneath him, their silvery grace drinking in the light from the moon above, reflecting it with their flashing scales. The taste of salt was in his mouth. He was not a particularly strong swimmer – having only swum in river pools before – but he was stronger than Jean-Christophe. He could hear the younger man struggling behind him, his breathing heavy and labored.

  Ahead, he could see the glow of the ship’s lights on the water. From the hill he had observed a ladder with his spyglass, and he made toward it. He knew himself to be invisible – he was black, and so was the water. Cape Town had a port patrol, but it was over to the east, close to the shore. They were guarding the quays against the men in the ships – it had not occurred to them that someone might go from shore to the ships.

  There was the rope ladder hanging from the side of the first ship. For a moment he simply hung from the bottom of the ladder to catch his breath. The black water tapped against the hull with a soft, rhythmic clapotis. He glanced back, saw Jean-Christophe nearing the ship, and gestured to him to follow. Then he began to climb and soon reached the height of the portholes. Swinging himself from side to side, he gathered some momentum. This was the dangerous part. He caught hold of a round opening and hauled himself up, until he was looking inside the ship.

  His eyes widened.

  In the hold, men sat in row upon row, or slept in hammocks and on the small spaces of planking afforded them by gaps between barrels of powder. All wore some semblance of uniform, although many had taken off their heavy surcoats and draped them over spars and beams. Weapons were arranged in metal pyramids on the floor.

  Soldiers.

  One of the men who was opposite Toussaint, facing toward the porthole he was looking through, paused and frowned. He cocked his head to peer at the space where Toussaint was. Toussaint held his breath. He closed his eyes, hiding their whiteness in the darkness.

  He counted to twenty.

  Opening his eyes a crack, he saw that the soldier had turned his attention to one of his neighbors, and was sharing some tobacco with him. Toussaint breathed out very slowly. Then he quietly rejoined the ladder and climbed down. The sea when he reached it was shocking cold and as bracing as a baptism.

  He swam to the next ship and climbed its barnacled hull. Inside, arrayed in rows or lying in sleep like discarded toys, not in use at present, were hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers.

  The third ship was the same.

  It was what he had expected, but it was still terrible to see. The number of them! A host such as Haiti had never seen, the country having relied upon fear and intimidation more than military force to subdue its black population. He and the other generals had overcome the commissioners, but how could they hope to overcome such as these?

  By pure chance, he was clinging to the side of that third ship when an officer entered the hold where the soldiers were sleeping, or playing cards, or drinking from small bottles of rum concealed about their persons. He rapped his sword against a beam, and the soldiers scrambled to attention.

  — The commissioners defy us, he said. Therefore, tomorrow, before dawn, we invade by force.

  — Vive la – began one of the soldiers, amidst the hubbub of voices.

  — Hush, said the officer. Do you wish them to hear us?

  Yes, thought Toussaint. Yes, I do.

  Galvanized, he entered the water once again and struck out for shore. He swam with a sure, swift stroke. The moonlight still made a path on the water that looked as if it must lead somewhere for anyone brave enough to follow it. Toussaint had been to enough vodou funerals to know that the adherents of that hybrid faith often floated their dead down that road to sink them into the ocean.

  For a moment he considered that luminous road, but then he thought of something. Even with the help of the commissioners, he wondered how they could vanquish the army that France had sent. But not all of my men are free yet.

  — Are you well? asked Jean-Christophe, drawing level with him.

  He smiled.

  — Very well, thank you, he said.

  He swam back to the land, the scented and beautiful land, nourished with the blood of his people, rising like the curves of a woman above the night-black water.

  Now

  The week after Dread Wilmè died they had his funeral in the Site. They drove his body through the streets on the back of a pickup truck, and everyone went and sang songs against the government:

  — Grenadye alaso, sa ki mouri zafè a yo!

  Grenadye alaso, sa ki mouri zafè a yo!

  Nen mwen papa, nen mwen mama, sa ki mouri zafè a yo!

  They sang that they were going to war and they were prepared to die. Well, a lot of them died, but they never went to war – except against each other. A lot of those chimères who worked for Dread, they ended up joining Boston, or other gangs, and they shot each other and cut each other to pieces.

  But right then, they were together. It was the last time the whole Site was together, I guess, like a big party.

  Me, I had to beg Manman to let me go, cos my leg was bandaged from being shot, and I had crutches. She wanted me to stay in our shack, said it would be safer for me there. She said I was lucky the UN had paid for my treatment; me, I thought maybe they shouldn’t have shot me in the first place.

  I wanted to see Dread, who had saved my life.

  I begged and I begged, souplè, Manman. Eventually she said, OK. We went out and it wasn’t hard to find where the funeral was, cos anpil people from all around were heading in the same direction. We came to the wide street that led to the sea, the one where Marguerite and me found the baby, and we saw the pickup truck carrying Dread’s body, and the people following behind it, singing.

  We heard that there was no power for lights or music – the UN had cut off the electricity to the Site, so there could be no funeral.

  But someone went to see a guy called 50 Cent; he had a diesel generator that he let out, only this time he gave it for free, cos it was for Dread. Then there was power, and light, and a beat to walk to.

  A man was beside us. He had a machine gun in his hand, but it was pointing at the ground. There were no MINUSTAH anywhere. People said they were too scared to come near the Site on this day.

  — I heard he isn’t dead, said the man. I heard he’s a zombi, so he only seems to be dead. I heard his houngan has arranged it all. Some moun, they say that he cannot die, cos of the babies that he eats.

  I stared at the man. He had a scar that ran down one side of his face, like someone had tried to cut his mouth out. I knew about zombis. I knew they were rare. Like, if someone wanted to be a houngan, th
en they would have to become a zombi first, or sometimes if someone had to be punished they would be made into a zombi. What would happen is that a houngan would give you some drugs, make you seem like you were dead. Then they’d bury you, two days, or three, before digging you up again. Moun said that they saw Baron Samedi in that time, that they were able to communicate with the lwa, that they were never the same again when they were reborn. Manman, she said it was why houngans had these eyes that looked very far away, cos they’d been dead and had come alive again.

  — Dread’s not a zombi, said Manman. He’s dead. I saw him die.

  — You saw it? said the man. He touched Manman, like it could give him luck.

  — Yes. It was in the street outside our shack. There was this army truck, it was going to run over my son here. Dread pulled him out of the way, saved him. But he was all bullet holes in the end. No way he’s coming back to life.

  — But his houngan –

  — No. He’s dead.

  The man was smiling. I noticed then he wasn’t as old as I thought at first.

  — He saved the boy, though. That’s strong maji.

  Manman frowned. She pulled me away and we fell into a different group, all girls chanting and crying. Eventually, we came to the sea. There was no beach, just a row of shacks and some fishing boats, a stink of fish in the air. There were gulls doing circles overhead, screeching. Behind us, the other Port-au-Prince rose on its hill up toward heaven, all clean and bright, but we were down in the trash heap, down in the Site, and Dread Wilmè was dead.

  Everyone stopped chanting.

  This old man, he stepped up beside the pickup truck where it had stopped, gestured for the men around him to take down the coffin. Someone lifted me up then, so I could see better. It hurt my leg, but I didn’t mind cos I was above the heads of most of the people. The coffin was open. Dread Wilmè was lying inside in a suit, looking totally indemne, like you wouldn’t believe that he had a thousand holes in him.

  The old man, he was obviously a houngan. Dread Wilmè’s houngan, I guess. He had a bone rattle and a gourd, an ason and a clochette; he was shaking them. He called out:

  — I need Baron Samedi!

  He called out:

  — I need la Sirene!

  A couple of volunteers stepped forward to be ridden by the lwa. I recognized them: they were soldiers for Dread Wilmè. The houngan nodded and made a motion with his hands for the people around the pickup truck to back away. Then he and the two men lifted the coffin and put it onto a little boat. The houngan took a canister and poured what was in it all over the boat, all over the coffin.

  A stillness came on the crowd then, a hush. They knew that was petrol the houngan was pouring; they knew what was going to come.

  Then the houngan picked up his cane and he began to draw in the sand. I couldn’t see everything, but I guessed he was drawing veves to bring the lwa down. People stepped forward and put offerings on the ground – cakes and sweet things for la Sirene, rum and cigars for Baron Samedi, who loves anything that reeks of death. There was a bucket of water, too, for la Sirene, cos she can’t be out of the water for too long, else she dies.

  The houngan arranged the offerings, then he raised a hand. Everything went quiet. He began to sing, first the song to Papa Legba, to open up the gates.

  Vodou, yeah: it’s complicated. Some of the lwa we brought from Africa, some we found on this island, took them from the Indians. And some of them – we call them the Gede family – are the spirits of our dead ancestors.

  You die on Haiti, you become a god. Me, I try to tell myself that, as I lie here in the darkness. I tell myself, if Manman is still alive and I die, I can still talk to her – all she got to do is visit her houngan.

  These lwa can come down and possess a living person, ride them like a horse. For an hour, or whatever, that person is the god, speaks the god’s words. But it’s not easy. First, you got to open up the gate between our world and the world of the lwa, and for that you need Papa Legba, the lwa of the crossroad. He’s, like, the phone line between humans and the lwa.

  So, first thing you do when you have a ceremony is you invoke Papa Legba. Then you can call on other lwa: Baron Samedi, maybe – he’s the one who takes you to the land under the sea when you die; or la Sirene – she’s the one who looks after you there; or Ogou Badagry – he’s the lwa of war, but you don’t want him unless you’re crazy; no moun wants to be ridden by him. See, a person is like a horse and a lwa is like a rider. Ogou Badagry, he’s a rider who uses a whip. A heavy whip.

  So, yeah, the houngan, he called on Papa Legba, and I guess the gates got opened, cos suddenly it was raining, in the middle of summer, and then the houngan was stomping in the wet sand and singing again, this time to Baron Samedi. The guy who was holding me on his shoulders, he tightened his hands on my legs, and I knew he was tense about this part. Baron Samedi, he may not be Ogou, he may not be that badass, but he’s still some dark vodou. You got to be afraid of the lwa of war, but if you’re not a cretin, you’re afraid of the lwa of death, too.

  — Papa Gede, nou moun nou cè

  Nou moun nou cè, c’est rond ago yè!

  Papa Gede, nou moun nou cè

  Nou moun nou cè, c’est rond ago yè!

  The houngan sang, and he was shaking the snake tail bones in his ason, and dancing, dancing.

  Suddenly one of the men who volunteered – he was kind of skinny and short – went stiff, then he laughed, big and loud, like a boom box. He didn’t seem so skinny and short anymore.

  He turned to the houngan, and he sang back at him. His voice was deep and dark and sounded like something echoing in a grave.

  — Sonnin cloche là, Papa, moin Gede!

  M’apè vini tout en noir joind houngan!

  Ti wa we Gede vini tout en noir joind houngan!

  Ti wa we!

  Ring the bell there, Papa, I am Gede, he sang, cos Baron Samedi is also father of the Gede lwa, the lwa of the dead, so he is Baron Samedi, but he is Papa Gede, too.

  I am coming all in black to meet the houngan, he sang in his deep voice. Little ones, you will see Gede coming all in black to meet the houngan. Little ones, you shall see.

  — We see! said one of the children there.

  — We see! said another.

  — We see you, Papa Gede, Baron Samedi!

  Papa Gede, Baron Samedi, whatever you want to call him, picked up a cigar from the ground, and he put it in his mouth. He lit it with a flame that just appeared in his hand – that’s what it looked like from where I was watching. Then he took the kleren, which is like a moonshine kind of whiskey, and he bit off the top and tipped the bottle upside down and drained it. He turned, and saw a pretty girl in the crowd. He walked up to her, picked her up in his arms, like she was a doll, and kissed her, long and deep. Baron Samedi loves girls, man.

  Then he let her drop.

  — Nen zam pou mwa? he asked.

  A guy, one of Dread’s soldiers, handed him a gun. Baron Samedi, he pressed the release and the clip fell out. He caught it smooth with his other hand. He popped out a bullet, put it in his mouth, and swallowed it.

  — Ah! he said.

  Gunpowder is one of the symbols of Baron Samedi, one of his objects – you want his protection, you carry it with you always. Don’t say I don’t tell you anything useful.

  The houngan walked up to him.

  — Will you take him? he said. Will you take Dread Wilmè into death?

  Baron Samedi looked at Dread, lying still, those massive dreadlocks fallen around his chest like a great black octopus. Then he threw the empty kleren bottle into the coffin.

  — Dread Wilmè is a hero of this country, a soldier. I never took him before, the times he got shot. Now the whites have killed him so bad I have no choice. I will take him.

  The crowd fucking erupted; they were cheering and jumping. I nearly fell off the shoulders of the guy who was holding me, he was so happy.

  Then the houngan was singing again, and dan
cing. He sang:

  — La Sirene, la Balene, chapo m tombe nan la mer,

  La Sirene, la Balene, chapo m tombe nan la mer,

  Map fou kares pou la Balene (chapo m tombe nan la mer),

  Map fou kares pou la Balene (chapo m tombe nan la mer).

  That’s a song to la Sirene. It calls to her and tells her our hat has fallen in the sea – I don’t know why. It calls to her and says that we caress her, that we caress the mermaid, that we caress the whale. She’s a mermaid and a whale, too, this lwa; she’s the embodiment of the sea.

  The other volunteer, he was in the circle with the houngan and Baron Samedi, and he went stiff; it was like there was a wire running down through his head and his spine, and someone had taken hold of it at both ends and pulled it taut. He gasped, finding it hard to breathe, and he stumbled. The houngan caught him under his arms, held him up. La Sirene, she has the tail of a fish and she lives underwater, so when she rides someone, it isn’t easy for them to stand. This guy, he was big, strong, with a beard and a big chain around his neck, but suddenly he looked smaller, weaker. He turned to Baron Samedi.

  — Ah, handsome Baron, he said – and his voice was high and like music.

  — La Sirene, said Baron, la Balene, you are beautiful as always.

  The men stepped forward, the houngan supporting la Sirene, and embraced with a passionate kiss. The weird thing was that no moun thought of it as weird, cos it was Baron Samedi and la Sirene, not two of Dread’s soldiers, kissing like movie stars. I turned to look at Manman – she was staring at this scene with, like, rapt attention, as if it was beautiful. Me, I thought it was a charade, the whole thing. I didn’t doubt that the men had been paid to do this, or had agreed to do this, cos it was a good send-off for Dread.

  There was no such thing as a lwa, that was what I thought then.