Rococoa

by Balogun Ojetade (ed)

  Rococoa

  Edited by Balogun Ojetade

  Copyright © 2015 Balogun Ojetade

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0991407342

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9914073-4-7

  DEDICATION

  To the authors who submitted Blacktastic works to a Blacktastic anthology. You helped define Rococoa within these pages and now, a fun, original, powerful new subgenre in fiction has emerged and stands proudly between Sword and Soul and Steamfunk as the ‘Holy Trinity’ of Afroretroism.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  i

  1

  Cane by Milton Davis

  1

  2

  Sea-Walker by Carole McDonnell

  26

  3

  Fool’s Errand by Gerald L. Coleman

  49

  4

  Bloodline by DK Gaston

  82

  5

  The Adventure of the Silver Skull by Deanna Baran

  139

  6

  Fury by Zig Zag Claybourne

  154

  7

  Travelers Song: A Pulse Prelude by Kai Leakes

  183

  8

  The Adventures of the Black Star by Jeff Carroll

  205

  9

  The Bandit King and the Island of Tears by S.A. Cosby

  260

  10

  Seven Thieves by Emmalia Harrington

  307

  11

  Mkono ya Mbao by Steven Workman

  325

  12

  The Crafters’ Cove by D.L. Smith-Lee

  345

  13

  March of the Black Brigade by Balogun Ojetade

  363

  **

  An Omnibus Ride in Scarlet by Nat Turner (Bonus Story)

  114

  INTRODUCTION

  During the 2012 Mahogany Masquerade: An Evening of Steamfunk and Film, I inquired about the era that sits between Sword and Soul – the subgenre of African-inspired epic and heroic fantasy that is usually set before colonization – and Steamfunk, retrofuturistic science fantasy, which normally is set between 1837 and 1901. I asked if anyone had a name for that time because it is a time that fascinates me; a time of revolution – in particular, the Haitian Revolution – a time of pirates and swashbucklers; a time of reverence for art and science.

  No one at the event had a name for the era, however, everyone agreed the time possessed that “cool factor” found in Steamfunk and Sword and Soul.

  Curious by nature and a researcher by choice, I immediately began my quest of discovery, fueled by my determination to find a name for this era that fascinated me so.

  After a brief bit of research, I stumbled upon Rococo…and, to my surprise, Rococopunk.

  Rococo is derived from the French word rocaille, originally meaning the bits of rocky decoration sometimes found in 16th-century architectural schemes. It was first used in its modern sense around 1800, at about the same time as baroque, and, like baroque, was initially a pejorative term.

  The earliest rococo forms appeared around 1700 at Versailles and its surrounding châteaux as a reaction against the oppressive formality of French classical-baroque in those buildings. In 1701 a suite of rooms at Versailles, including the king’s bedroom, was redecorated in a new, lighter, and more graceful style by the royal designer, Pierre Lepautre (1648-1716).

  In the world of painting, Rococo style is characterized by delicate colors, many decorative details, and a graceful and intimate mood. Similarly, music in the Rococo style is homophonic and light in texture, melodic, and elaborately ornamented. In France, the term for this was style galant (gallant or elegant style) and, in Germany, empfindsamer stil (sensitive style). François Couperin, in France, and two of the sons of Johann Sebastian Bach – Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Johann Christian Bach – in Germany, were important composers of music in the Rococo style.

  Rococopunk is – like Dieselpunk – a sibling of Steampunk, set in the earlier Renaissance era, primarily in the high-class French community of the time. Participants in this movement wear outlandish makeup and hairstyles and sport bold, brightly colored clothing. Think Amadeus, Pirates of the Caribbean, or The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. For darker Rococopunk – think Last of the Mohicans, Perfume: The Story of A Murderer, Brotherhood of the Wolf, or Sleepy Hollow.

  Okay, I had a name for the era. Now, I needed to come up with a name to define the Black expression of Rococopunk; a name to define the subgenre so that – as author and publisher Milton Davis says of Steamfunk and Sword and Soul – “when you hear or read ‘Steamfunk’ or ‘Sword and Soul’, you know exactly what you’re getting.”

  Before I could come up with a name myself, the brilliant Briaan L. Barron, artist and owner of Bri-Dimensional Images and graduate from Sarah Lawrence College, did it for me with her release of the animated documentary, Steamfunk and Rococoa: A Black Victorian Fantasy. While there is not much talk of Rococo or Rococopunk in the documentary – it is mainly about Steampunk and Steamfunk and features Yours Truly – the spelling, Rococoa, was perfect!

  Thanks, Briaan!

  So, with a smile on my face, I sat down to write my first Rococoa story, Black Caesar: The Stone Ship Rises, featuring the famed Black pirate. Later, I wrote a story about the legendary Jamaican freedom fighter, Three Finger’d Jack.

  Around that time, my wife took an interest in Rococoa, as she is fascinated by all things Revolution and Revolutionary. It is she who suggested I publish an anthology of Rococoa stories.

  Thanks, Iyalogun!

  I sent out a call for submissions.

  They came in slowly. So slowly, I thought the anthology was not going to happen, but little did I know the authors were quiet because they were busy crafting their stories. Milton Davis was the first to send in his submission which opened the floodgates and submissions poured in. I reached out to a few great authors for stories. They showed up and showed out.

  Now, nearly a year later, you hold a miracle in your hands. A work I am immensely proud of. A work I have full confidence you will enjoy from cover-to-cover.

  Dear reader, I present to you a new and oh, so cool subgenre that marries science fiction and fantasy to historical fiction and alternate history.

  I present to you Rococoa!

  Viva la Revolution!

  Viva la Resistance!

  Viva la Retrofuturism!

  CANE

  Milton Davis

  The merchant ship Chrysalis sat low on the ocean waves, her cargo hold packed with the fruits of a generous Mythrian harvest. Thaddus Lean, her owner and captain, did not usually trade for grain; it was perishable and usually low profit. But the Winds had conspired this Cycle and created a once in a lifetime opportunity he couldn’t pass up. While the farmer folk in Mythria complained of low prices because of the bounty, the hapless folks of Gebrel suffered from their third year of drought, their fields barren. The mountainous nation had wealthy gold reserves, but what use is gold when there is nothing to eat? With a pound of grain trading for the equivalent of a pound of gold, Thaddus Lean was about to become the richest merchant between the Spires.

  He was about to let loose a laugh when the voice caught his ear. A chill ran from his cheek to his spine. For a moment he considered ignoring it. It was probably a bird in the distance, a stray graywill pushed too far from shore by callous winds. But then he heard the melody, the soft sweet words drifting over the gentle sea like a lover’s call.

  “Siren,” he whispered.

  “Siren!” a sailor shouted from the crow’s nest.

  The merchant ship exploded into activity without one word from Thaddus. Any sailor worth his money belt knew what the song meant, even if he did not
understand the language. Musketeers climbed the sail ropes then took their perches. Cannon ports were opened and the guns rolled into position. They were a merchant ship, which meant they would be outgunned. But they had to be prepared. Thaddus Lean was not going to lose his fortune without a fight.

  The ship waited in silent tension as Siren’s schooner approached. It was a small ship, but it was armed to the teeth with cannon and men. The masts bristled with musketeers and the deck seethed with armed men. As she sailed closer Thaddus saw her, sitting like a princess out on an evening jaunt, her beautiful brown face tilted toward the sky as she sang. Despite the desperate situation he found himself entranced, listening to her voice as she sang of love and loss.

  The spell was broken by the call of his name.

  “Thaddus Lean!”

  Thaddus blinked. Siren no longer looked into the sky. Her eyes were locked on him.

  “I’m sure you think we have come to steal your cargo,” she shouted. “But that is not so. We have come to buy it.”

  Thaddus’s first mate, Kelan Gould, appeared at his side. The tall, bronze man was also the senior guildsman and had a personal stake in the cargo.

  “Don’t listen to the wench!” he said. “She’s here to steal our cargo and end us!”

  Thaddus looked at the man as if he was a giraffe.

  “And what do you expect me to do, fight?” he said.

  “Of course!” Kelan replied.

  “Let’s hear your offer,” Thaddus said. The ships were now close enough for Thaddus to see her smile.

  “Twenty gold crowns!” she shouted.

  It was far less than Thaddus would receive if he delivered the cargo, but much more than he would have received under normal circumstances. Add his life into the deal and it was well worth it.

  “We refuse!” Kelan shouted. “I am Kelan Gould of the shipper’s Guild. Twenty gold crowns is an insult. We can get three times as much in Gebrel!’

  Siren’s smile faded. “Thaddus, does this fool speak for you?”

  “No,” Thaddus said quickly.

  “Kelan Gould, apparently you have mistaken this as a negotiation,” Siren said. “It’s not. Brak!”

  A musket barked and Kellen jerked then fell to the deck, a musket ball in his forehead. Thaddus looked up to see a burly bare-chested man in Siren’s crow’s nest lowering his musket to reload.

  The ships were close enough for boarding. Siren and a dozen pirates swung over on ropes. Siren sauntered to Thaddus then pulled a leather pouch from her waist belt.

  “Half your payment,” she said. “You’ll get the remainder when we reach port.”

  “Which port?” Thaddus asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she answered. “My men will take the helm. Go to your cabin and rest Thaddus. We’ll handle it from here.”

  Siren was walking away when Thaddus called out.

  “Why pay me?” he asked. “You could have taken it.”

  Siren turned then smiled. “Fighting would have damaged the cargo. I need it intact.”

  Thaddus watched her swing back to her ship, a song on her voice. He looked at Kelan’s body on the deck and realized that it could have been him lying there instead.

  “I’ll be in my cabin,” Thaddus said. He would take Siren’s advice. He had a bottle of rum that needed his attention.

  Siren watched Thaddus until he disappeared below then set about securing his ship. She had waited months for him. Her plan would fail without his cargo. Now that it was secure she could go about working on the next part of the plan. She had a good, brave and hardworking crew but she needed more. She was not the trustful sort, but circumstances drove her to push the limits on her ways. There was no better time than now, and time was of the essence.

  It took three weeks to sail to Bracken’s Cove, one week longer than she anticipated. No person rules the sea; the saying went, a quote proven true during their journey. But she would not dwell on what she could not change. It was time to work on the second part of her plan.

  Malik, her blood brother, sauntered up to her. He was shirtless as always, his pantaloons gathered around his waist with a wide belt. He wore his sword, which was rare. He hugged her waist and she smiled.

  “You’re wearing your sword,” she said. “You never liked the Cove.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t trust it. Too many of us here.”

  “They are not us,” Siren said. “Remember that.”

  Malik laughed. “We’ve been at this for ten years. I think it’s safe to say that we are the same as them.”

  Siren gripped the bulwark, her arms trembling. “We’ll never be the same as them.”

  “So you’re mad at me,” Malik said.

  “And I don’t want to be,” she replied. “Everything we’ve done has been according to plan, even coming here.”

  “For a moment I thought you’d forgotten our plan,” Malik said.

  In truth, she had. So many years wasted running away from a promise, but they were not all wasted. She was a captain now with a reputation that resonated far beyond her territory.

  “I’m back now,” she answered. “I could never forget the cane.”

  The ships eased into the docks closest to the tavern district. She was to meet a man, one who would support her plan for his own reasons. Siren went below to Thaddus’ cabin.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  “So you’re to kill me now?” he asked.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry to die,” she said. “I need your company.”

  “I knew you’d succumb to my charms,” Thaddus said.

  Siren was surprised Thaddus’s words made her smile.

  “I was told you were a humorous sort,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Siren led Thaddus back on deck.

  “Brak! Knife! Malik!” she shouted. “Come with me. The rest of you stay with the ship. We’ll only be in dock for one night.”

  She ignored the groans of her crew as she and the others debarked then made their way to The Cradle. The streets teemed with men and women, most drunk and the rest lurking with serious intent. She hated the Cove as much as Malik, but these types of hovels had been their life ever since they escaped. Anything was better than the cane. Anything was better than slavery.

  The Cradle’s entrance was filthy and crowded as always.

  “Brak, stay here and keep a lookout for him,” Siren said. The hulking man nodded then positioned himself beside the dilapidated door. Their group caught the attention of the Cradle’s patrons as they entered. Siren received more than a few leers and lewd comments as they made their way to an empty table near the rear of the crowded tavern. A thin man in a flowing shirt, leather pantaloons and dingy apron followed them.

  “Welcome back, Siren,” the man sang as they sat.

  “Barron,” Siren said. “You’re still alive I see.”

  Barron, owner of the Cradle, smiled.

  “This place hasn’t killed me yet, although many of my patrons have tried.”

  “Keep your pistols loaded,” Malik said.

  “That I do,” Barron replied. He cut a mean glance at Thaddus.

  “So you’re hanging with merchants now?”

  “For the moment,” Siren replied.

  Barron waddled away then returned with a steaming cup of coffee that he placed before Siren. He was about to put down a cup of sugar then stopped.

  “I almost forget,” he said, a hint of fear in his voice. “Forgive me.”

  Siren grinned. “No worries. It’s been a long time.”

  “I’d like some,” Thaddus said.

  “No you wouldn’t” Barron said.

  He took the sugar then hurried away.

  Thaddus was frowning when he looked at Siren.

  “So you don’t like sugar,” he said.

  Siren sipped her coffee. “It tastes like blood.”

  Realization came late for Thaddus.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “How i
nsensitive of me.”

  “Ha! There she is!”

  The lean man pushed his way to the table then sat before Siren without an invitation. Knife and Malik rose from their seats but she waved them down.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I want to sail with you,” he said. “Name’s Mattew Jan.”

  “I have no need for more crew,” she said. “Be off with you.”

  “I spent six years on the Griff under Captain Braddock,” he said. “They don’t come any tougher than him, or me.”

  Siren smirked. “You ever worked the cane?”

  “Yes!” he said.

  “Brak!” Siren called out.

  Brak entered the tavern, pushing aside people and tables as he made his way to Siren. Mattew eyes widened and his mouth went slack as the hulking black skinned man came closer.

  “I’ll leave you be,” he said.

  Siren unsheathed her machete then laid it on the table.

  “You’ll stay where you are.”

  Brak stood beside her, his sword scars heaving with his chest. He stared unblinking at Mattew for a long moment.

  “Brak, this man says he worked the cane,” Siren said.

  Brak laughed hard and loud for at least a minute. He grabbed Mattew then pushed him down face first into the table with his right hand. With his left he ripped of the man’s shirt. Siren stood then looked at the man’s bare back.

  “I thought so,” she said.

  She turned her back to Mattew then lifted her shirt. Ragged keloid scars marred her dark skin. Brak grabbed Mattew’s hair, pulling back his head so he could see the gruesome sight.

  “This is what the cane does to you,” Siren said. “There is nothing harder than the cane.”

  She dropped her shirt then walked back to her seat.

  “You can go now, Brak,” Siren said.

  Brak shoved Mattew’s face into the table before he walked away. Mattew’s nose bled as he lifted his head.

  “Every man and woman on my ship has worked the cane,” she said. “Hell is a relief to us, Heaven a place we’ll never see”