Rococoa

by Balogun Ojetade (ed)

  Cadoc’s eyes grew to the size of silver coins, conscious of Moon’s intent. Trapped by the nzambi, unable to shield himself, he cried out to his deity, “Master save me!”

  Moon waited for something to happen, expecting the earth to shake or the heavens to be lit by storm, but there was nothing. “It appears your god, Legba, has deserted you, shaman.”

  “Has he?” Cadoc shot back.

  Without delay he charged at the shaman intending to cut open the man’s throat with the blade. He was within reach when it felt as if he ran into a wall of stone. Moon bounced off of some invisible barrier and then went sailing backward in the air.

  His world went black. After the cobwebs had cleared from his head, he felt dirt and grass against his cheek.

  In the distance, Moon heard the shaman’s screams of elemental fury and triumph.

  Moon searched around. Cadoc and his dead crewmates were gone. He climbed out of the black pit that was his mind, realizing too late that Legba had come to save his loyal servant from death.

  Struggling to sit up, he saw that the bone knife was still gripped tightly in his fist. “I hate magic,” he said under his breath. He wanted to rid himself of the blade, get back to his ship and get sloppy drunk to pretend the last few days never happened.

  ####

  Moon trudged back to his ship in a state that could have had him mistaken for one of the nzambi. Initially, he spoke to no one; he gave the crew vacant stares.

  A few days after they set sail, Moon finally came out of his shock. His captain and crewmates questioned him for hours about Thomas, Roche and Tobias. He told them the truth – a mistake on his part.

  Upon hearing about the nzambi and the retribution Cadoc promised, his crew wanted nothing more to do with him or the bone knife. They provided him a week’s provisions and a boat and set him adrift in the middle of the ocean. He could not bring himself to be angry with them because had the roles been reversed, he would do the same thing.

  The bone knife sat beside him next to his right leg. The raw, malevolent pulsations from the blade were palpable. He fought the urge to drop it into the ocean. The shaman would dog him until he got the knife back. Yet, it was Moon’s only protection against Cadoc, so in the end, he knew the knife would stay by his side for a while yet.

  Cadoc’s words about being a plague to his family echoed in Moon’s mind. Staring down at the enchanted blade, he wondered about other magical treasures that might exist. “All magic can’t be evil,” he said aloud to convince himself. If he was to live out his days and someday bear children, he and they would need some way to safeguard themselves.

  It was then he promised to dedicate his life to finding other enchanted relics and he would pass on the tradition to his children and them to theirs. Cadoc may think of himself as some immortal, but he still feared death, which meant he was not a god.

  For three more weeks he floated in the ocean, surviving a tremendous storm that nearly drowned him. A bit of food and fresh water, and a lot of will, allowed him to survive. Dehydrated and starving, he was not long for this earth.

  He had just about given up hope when he spotted a ship in the distance. The crew of the vessel must have spotted him because it turned toward him.

  He used what little strength he had to sit up. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought the ship floated above the water.

  Moon tumbled backwards, no longer able to keep himself upright. The crew collected him from the small boat. All the while, he clutched to the bone knife like his life depended on it.

  Once aboard the ship, he was give food and drink to recuperate. After settling Moon into a bunk to recover, the skipper stopped by to identroduce himself, “I am Captain Hendrick Van der Decken. I see that you are looking better.”

  “Y-yes. Th-thank you for your hospitality,” Moon strained out.

  “Don’t thank me yet, lad. Recompense for saving your life will cost you time and hard work serving on this vessel.” The man grinned, but his smile did not reach his eyes. “Once you have fully recovered, you will be dispensed your duties.”

  Relief flooded into him. The thought of working on a ship appealed to Moon. He was at home on the sea. One day he would have to tell the skipper about the enchanted bone knife and the coldblooded shaman who would stop at nothing to get it back. But that could wait. He was saved and for a short time, at least, he could forget all about the supernatural.

  “I understand,” Moon replied. “I will do my best not to be a burden to you or your crew.”

  “Very good, lad.” The captain said, folding his arms behind his back. He then turned and marched away.

  Before he exited the cabin, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Welcome aboard the Flying Dutchman.”

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE SILVER SKULL

  Deanna Baran

  From ten until close, with a short break for la sieste, Louis Cailloux was Monsieur l’Horloger, the finest clocksmith of Cap-Français. But although he kept his doors tightly locked and his windows closely shuttered, regardless of the stifling heat and humidity, from dawn until ten he was at his workbench as M. l’Mécanicien, in the employ of the most infamous buccaneer in Les Caraïbes.

  Today, however, there was an urgent knock at his door. Cailloux tried to ignore it, but the rapping continued. He swept his project aside into a secret cupboard – an experiment in brass and wood and lethal-looking steel blades – and moved to the door.

  “Good morning?” he inquired politely through the solid wood, beginning the complicated process of releasing the elaborate system of locks which secured the premises.

  “Bonjour, M. l’Horloger,” came a youthful voice from the other side of the door. “It is I, Ismael.”

  “It’s rather early, child,” said the free man of color, opening the door to admit the boy. At sixteen, Ismael was hardly a child; indeed, there had been very little of the child about him at the age of six. “My condolences to you upon the death of your father.”

  Ismael slipped in and found a stool upon which to perch. “Things are growing uncomfortable at the estate,” he said. “I’m surprised I haven’t been sent off to Aux Cayes to lay the rails. There has been talk.” He spoke casually, but Cailloux knew it was a deadly serious danger. The colonial administrators of Saint-Dominigue desired to somehow link the scattered coastal settlements. Heavy losses to privateers and pirates made the shipping lanes unreliable. Forbidding mountains, thick jungles and marauding Taíno made the travel through the interior hazardous. Cailloux, despite his protests and distaste for the work, had personally been tapped to develop the draisienne prototype that would soon reduce a week’s hard journey to a day. In the meantime, countless lives on the rail-laying teams were devoured by yellow fever, poor sanitation, and extreme working conditions. The grieving widow of the Couvent Estate would not have hesitated to sacrifice her husband’s bastard son to the costly dream of the gleaming silver track.

  Cailloux expressed surprise. “You mean, your father didn’t arrange for your manumission upon his death? But he always told you…”

  Ismael held up a grinning silver skull, with a large key fastened to the chain. “This was what he left me before he died,” he said, his voice glum. “After the accident, he was barely conscious enough to speak.”

  “It’s quite a fine dial,” said the clocksmith, with a forced show of cheer. “Not bad at all. Few can afford a watch, let alone one of such a fine caliber. I’m familiar with it. I’ve handled it before, when M. Couvent had a difficulty with the spiral balance spring last year.”

  He flipped open the jaw of the skull, which served as a cover for the dial face. Possessing only one hand, in the fashion of the last century, the face was a delicate confection of gilded brass and steel, adorned with Roman numerals, the half-hours being marked with fleurs-de-lis.

  “Ah! But he’s made a change to it since I saw it last. He’s given it a motto,” said Cailloux. “‘Vigilate et Orate.’ Very nice touch.”

  “What does it m
ean?” asked Ismael.

  “It’s Biblical,” explained Cailloux. “It means ‘watch and pray.’ It’s a reference to the Garden of Olives.”

  “I see,” said Ismael, who didn’t. “He always told me to visit his grave and pray for his soul.”

  “Have you?” Cailloux asked absentmindedly. “Hum. The mainspring is in need of a bit of winding. Allow me. Eh…what’s this? The key doesn’t fit,” said Cailloux, with a frown. He pulled the key from the chain and examined it more closely. “It’s far too large.” He pocketed the mismatched key, set the watch aside on his workbench and pawed through a drawer in search of a key or crank that might be of similar size to what was needed.

  At that moment, the door to his workshop flew open, without the courtesy of a preliminary knock. Isaac Couvent – the free-born son of M. Couvent’s lawful wife – and a pair of friends entered the shop like a trio of young, wild wolves.

  “Excuse us, M. l’Horloger,” said Isaac, brandishing a silver-topped walking stick. “I apologize for your having been intruded upon in this manner. He has other tasks that have brought him to town this morning. He has no business bothering you in your workshop. I see he has shown you my father’s watch,” he added, snatching it up and secreting it in an inner pocket, where it bulged unattractively. “It should never have left the house. It was dishonest of him to remove my family’s possessions, and he will be punished for it.”

  Ismael’s eyes snapped with fire but he was master enough of himself to remain silent. Freedom was difficult to obtain on the French side of the island. He had hoped for something far more valuable than a mere bauble from their shared father, and yet he found himself suddenly deprived of even that memento.

  “Your errands in town did not extend to bothering M. l’Horloger,” reprimanded one friend. “Don’t act as if your time is your own.”

  “There is no room for a slave who cannot be trusted with time or with goods,” agreed the other, like a Greek chorus.

  Ismael stood up and gave a stiff bow. “Thank you for your time, M. l’Horloger. I must tend to my duties.”

  “Vigilate et orate,” said Cailloux cheerily, pulling some of the draisenne plans towards him in a pretense of activity. As the door shut behind Ismael’s retreating form, he turned towards Isaac. “My condolences on the loss of your father. I attended his funeral. What a rare honor to be buried beneath the floor of la chapelle de Saint-Rémy. There is no art to match it on the island.”

  “Yes, he was its most important patron,” said Isaac. “He financed the construction of the chapel and commissioned almost all of the artwork within from the finest artists of Paris. His passing was a great loss to everyone, but he left them a stipend in his will for its continued maintenance.”

  “What a considerate man,” murmured Cailloux. “I usually attend the services at the mission nearby, but I will have to stop by Saint-Rémy and admire your father’s generosity with new eyes.”

  Two weeks later, Cailloux found himself on the Couvent Estate to tend to the mechanisms of a clockwork carriage. The gear assembly had gone awry, and it had taken the better part of the afternoon in getting it disassembled and reassembled. Ismael had been tasked with assisting him and had been given permission to carry the great man’s tools back to his shop.

  The boy’s hands trembled a little. “I will be sent to Aux Cayes tomorrow,” he said in a low voice. “They think I do not know. But I will not go. I will hide in the mountains and join an outlaw encampment before I permit myself to be taken to Aux Cayes.”

  “Let us go tell your father goodbye,” suggested Cailloux kindly. “We will pass Saint-Rémy on the way back to town.”

  It was a small little church, its bright whitewashed walls nestled in the vibrant green hills. The windows were thin and narrow; they would not have survived hurricane season otherwise. But the interior more than made up for it in a riot of bright color: saints and angels and Biblical stories richly illustrated the walls and ceilings in vibrant golds, heavenly blues, and rich crimsons.

  M. Couvent was buried beneath the stern gaze of St. Rémy, off to the side in the transept. As Archbishop of Rheims, he stood with mitre, balancing a floppy red cap upon his crosier, carrying an edifice securely in his hands. Roundels illustrating vignettes from his life surrounded him: the fire of Rheims, the resurrection of the woman, the baptism of Clovis and his army. Ismael knew nothing of St. Rémy; slaves were not encouraged to attend services or seek a greater Master. He threw himself on the smooth, cold marble of the floor, a cross and a name indicating the spot of his father’s interment, and cried quietly. Cailloux wandered through the church, admiring the art and politely ignoring the muffled sounds of sorrow and distress.

  He eventually made it back towards the image of St. Rémy once more, and spent a few minutes staring hard at it. By this time, Ismael had controlled himself and sat back on his heels, rubbing his red, swollen eyes.

  “Ismael, tell me. These paintings – everything in this building – were commissioned by your father?”

  “Yes,” said Ismael. “He had very specific ideas as to what he wanted within the church. The priests had other wishes, but they went along with his ideas in the end. He even dictated his own burial-place.”

  “Then tell me,” said Cailloux. “Why does Saint-Rémy have two hats? He has a mitre, which you’d expect on a bishop, and that red thing is a Phrygian cap, which has quite a different meaning. And normally, when you see a bishop holding a building, it’s an image of his cathedral. But that’s not a church in his hands. Tell me if that building looks like a building you’ve seen elsewhere?”

  Ismael scrubbed his eyes one more time with his knuckles and stared blearily at it. “It has three red doors and that funny roofline. It makes me think of that one building – it’s on la Rue des Trois Chandeliers – doesn’t it look like that one building? With the three red doors?”

  “The middle door is marked with a star,” said Cailloux. “Do you suppose your father is asking you to visit that building, and perhaps see what is behind that middle door?”

  “I don’t believe Father ever had any business on la Rue des Trois Chandeliers,” said Ismael.

  “Let’s go see,” urged Cailloux. “We watched, and we prayed, and this is our answer. Let us investigate further.”

  They paused only to drop off his tools at the shop in la Rue Saint Simon. The premises were securely locked and bolted, as he had left them – but something was amiss. Cailloux froze, trying to place his finger on whatever it was that should not be. Had one of the authorities come to ask after the draisienne prototype? Had someone come snooping and discovered certain projects that should not have been discovered?

  He heard a step above his head. Someone was in his private chambers. Cailloux reached for a long-barreled pistol, winding it up as he moved cautiously towards the stairs. At a cue from the older man to remain still, Ismael moved only enough to pick up a sharply-pointed clock hand from the workbench, the best substitute for a dagger in a pinch.

  Surely the intruder would have heard their noisy entrance and was ready for them. Cailloux moved stealthily upstairs, bypassing the boards that always creaked in this weather. It was important to know who had the audacity to commit such an intrusion.

  The curtain at the top of the stairs swung aside to reveal a tall, dark, elegant figure dressed in dramatic orange silk. “Good morning, M. l’Horloger,” drawled a feminine voice. “Please don’t shoot. I’ve come to check on the status of my clock.”

  Cailloux discovered he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a gusty whoosh of adrenaline and sank down to sit on the stair-step to compose himself. “Madame Saya! Please don’t ever do that again. And when the door is locked, it means, ‘Come back later.’ But I appreciate your pointing out the flaws in my security. If you have any advice, I would be grateful.”

  “But I was ever so anxious,” she pouted, descending the steps and twirling her matching orange parasol by its wrist strap. “And you keep your comfy chair
upstairs. Surely you wouldn’t expect a lady to sit at your workbench.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a lady to be inside my workshop when it was locked and closed,” he returned. “I will be happy to help you with your, um, clock in a short while, but M. Ismael has precious little time left to him, and I have promised to help him see a certain project through elsewhere. I should be back within the hour.”

  “Certainly not,” said Saya. “One thing leads to another, and you’re sure to get distracted somewhere along the way. I’ll come along to remind you of your obligations to your paying customers.”

  “As you wish,” said Cailloux, shaking his head and suppressing a smile.

  They locked the workshop securely behind themselves – how had she gotten in? He must remember to make her tell him – and made their way at a quick pace to the building which was their destination. Cailloux used the opportunity to sketch out the sequence of events to Saya; Ismael was not pleased at having the woman drawn into their confidence, but as Cailloux seemed to know her quite well, there was nothing he could do about it.

  The sun hung low on the horizon and the sky was streaked in gold and raspberry as they stood before the building with the three red doors and the unique roofline. In life, the middle door was not marked with a star, but the door still stood open at this late hour, and Cailloux led their small contingent inside. It was an apothecary shop; the walls were lined with crockery jars filled with various ointments, syrups, and powders.

  Cailloux found the chemist who ran the shop. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I was told you might have a parcel from M. Couvent for my young friend here.”

  “That may be so,” said the man gruffly, “M. Couvent was a good friend. He left a box with me a few years ago. He said someone would be by someday with a key.”

  “M. Couvent had a great faith in his puzzles,” observed Saya, arms folded, watching the scene with glittering dark eyes. “He obviously puts more time into planning them than he does in explaining them to others.”