Rococoa

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Rococoa Page 12

by Balogun Ojetade (ed)


  The captain of the ship calculated his odds. To return home without others to counter their tale was no hardship.

  “I need but one finger to point the way,” boomed Vingree’s voice. Bilo, appearing beside her, scanned the war ship with his binoculars. “I need you,” Vingree said to him away from the cone, “down.”

  “I need to be here,” said Bilo. “They have killed and robbed for no reason. I need to see.” He looked again. Several uncertain hands were raised on the offending ship, raised and pointing. A coastline with an obstructed view, and none of their signalers on land would be fast enough to warn of Vingree’s approach.

  Daazeet Vingree nodded. Astarte and Tanit, on their ships, nodded back. The interceptors followed their mother ship at full speed. “Sting them repeatedly,” Vingree said into her sound box. The interceptors took point. Gunshots rang out on shore: alarm shots from places of hiding. The three eels angled course outward for visual vantage, then brought their speed inward, homing in on the idiot ship. Vingree dropped back out of cannon range. The interceptors, like the animals they resembled, wove in and out at great speeds as they approached the rapidly firing ship. Astarte and Tanit ordered their protective metal domes set in place, then sent their crews below decks. Firearm barrels could already be seen glinting off the high sun. Astarte and Tanit piloted via rectangular slits in the domes. Shells rang off the domes or the hull of the ships. The ships, immortal, cleaved the water toward the great beast festooned with flags bearing crosses and sigils. The ships stabbed the beast at the same time, causing all three to churn the waters. They reversed direction on the wheels and pulled out, zipping backward as Vingree shot forward, arrows and Bilo’s light firing at the same time. No one on the war ship had ever seen the likes of these three devils attacking it. They feared God, and in fearing God were ingrained with the fear of mystery. Seeing their brethren fleeing did nothing for their resolve either. Each war ship had been told they would have time to harm others at leisure; that the ghost ships would enter a certain ambush of unmatched naval power; that even some of the outlying African kingdoms would assist their holy cause, for much gold and other wealth had already been given in exchange for bodies. They had been told of their superiority.

  Their superiority faded as though a flame to a gale.

  Vingree raised the cone. “We intend to board your vessel. If we are harmed there will be nothing left of you that would feed a fish.” She had a dinghy lowered. She and three crew made the brief row over. They threw grappling hooks over the ship’s rail and hoisted upward. When Vingree made the final pull and vaulted over the rail the nervous stares of pale-faced men faced her and her sword. She took a moment to take bearings. The nervous men all calculated the odds between a burning upper hull, three black ships bristling with evils and death, and this dark, bald woman in breeches and long-sleeved tunic striding toward their captain, all pretending that the sound of her boots on the deck drowned out the immediate dangers. She stopped before the captain. She hoped he would not be foolish enough to test her.

  “You have sailed where you should not have,” she said. “You have angered gods. Speak the names of your betters and I will leave you to die at the water’s leisure. Resist and suffer till the end.”

  “They are on land with a garrison.”

  “Show me.” He did not want to point because he knew they were watched. His hand raised shakily. His finger straightened.

  “Die well,” said Vingree before turning to leave. “Water or land. You’ve made no friends here.”

  “This does not end, devil.”

  Vingree stopped. She turned to him. Her eyes narrowed and she clenched her jaw as she spoke. “When I find them,” she said, “they. Will be. As ash!” Smoke wafted upward like the fear settling on each man present. She turned again and took a step.

  “We will bring God to this land and—”

  And a sword pierced his chest faster than his next breath. His eyes widened and froze. Vingree held the sword and waited till his body fell to pull itself off her blade. She looked around her, grabbing the eyes of frightened men and turning them without word or motion to hollow, fragile beads. “THIS ENDS HERE!” she shouted. She pulled her sound box from her interior pocket, one more thing for these primitive men to fear. “Bilo?”

  “Daazeet.”

  “Bring all weapons. We hunt.” She caught the eye of a grimy-faced war man. “What is the name of he who brought you to die?”

  “His excellency Inquisitor Boniface.”

  “Again,” she said, nostrils flaring. The man was looking at her sound box. “Again!” she shouted.

  “Hell! He is called Hell.”

  Vingree frowned. Clearly this was a name used among the lessers as an insult. She had only wanted his actual name spoken again to assure the ancestors marked it. She made for the rail. “Bring him,” she ordered. Her people swooped on the man, scooped him by his arms and legs, and swung him over the edge. When they reached the dinghy they fished him out of the water. Somewhere on land there were men heading inward, knowing what was coming for them. Fools hoping the bush would conceal them. “You get to see,” she told the wet, gasping man, “your Hell face to face. There will be no more ships taking my people. There will be no raids against my people. I will eradicate your navies. I will give you fires like you have never known. Daazeet Vingree Ramsee is now protector of this land. You will tell Hell you learned of this first.” As far as she was concerned, this Boniface Hell was already dead.

  Her three ships, dark and shiny, bobbed with the ocean’s consent. She was not Yoruba but she wondered if their Orishas worked favorably with her this day. “We hunt Hell,” she told them, then used the sound box for Bilo again. “Use the hoses, my love,” she said. “Help them.” She angled the dinghy toward shore.

  “We hunt Hell,” she told her treasure again. “And will broke no further evils. This Daazeet Vingree Ramsee promises all ancestors and spirits. Mark it.”

  Without even thinking about it Bilo pulled the notebook from his back. He jotted the date and three quick words before tucking it back, his mind already racing toward ways to improve their hose system for land-based emergencies.

  She is vengeance, he had written. That seemed appropriate. That seemed right for these crimes. She was goddess of this ocean. What was fire to water but pale, useless smoke meant solely for the wind to pull it apart, blow upon it, and make it drift into nothingness. Away.

  She was the fury.

  She led the way.

  TRAVELER’S SONG: A PULSE PRELUDE

  Kai Leakes

  A slight, thudding pain made Fanta aware that she was still alive. Its intense pressure drummed at her temples. She had been in an accident, she was sure of it.

  The sound of a loud, “Bah!” made her jump. She sat bolt upright, suddenly becoming aware of her surroundings. Her eyes fluttered, clearing her vision. As she moved, she felt dirt under her. She was deeply relieved that she could move without pain, but her vision was milky. Something nudged her. It nudged her again. A moment later, she felt something tugging on her twisted braids. She wiped at her eyes until she could see what the culprit. She let out a shrill scream as she stared into the black beady eyes of several peculiar animals. Leaning back, she blinked again until the hazy things in front of her took shape – a goat and a wolfhound.

  The sharp, salty scent of pungent fish accosted her nose. Light water sprinkled over her face and with it she felt her body rock back and forth, making her stomach clench. Back and forth it went. Her hands flew to her mouth to push back the bile rising in her throat. What had felt like grass was filthy, excrement covered straw, complete with plump, buzzing horseflies.

  Startled, Fanta pushed herself up to stand, feeling the weight of a bag around her shoulders. A sharp whistle sounded. The wolfhound ran past her. Fanta turned a half circle, following the dog’s strides.

  “No, damned way,” she gasped. “This has to be a dream!”

  Crystal clear, turquoise water surrounde
d her. She was onboard a massive, immaculately carved, dark wood ship inlaid in gold, copper, and shiny steel. Twin, copper gears towered before her, rotating slowly.

  Away from her was a large entryway that blocked her view from the rest of the ship. Above her were large, stark white balloons. They were folded together, held by a gilded copper geared belt and thick gold ropes.

  She stepped forward in disbelief, then felt herself abruptly snatched backward.

  “I’d stay right where I was if I were you,” someone behind her said. “Wiggling in a bush only draws bees.”

  What the hell? Fanta thought, wondering to whom the deep, authoritative voice belonged. The voice was thickly accented in a way that reminded her of her mother. The sultry baritone sent a chill of pleasure and uncertainty down the side of her neck and kept her in her place. She sucked in her breath, too petrified to turn.

  “This has to be a nightmare,” she muttered.

  A deep rumbling laugh traveled through her. Heat radiated from the person behind her.

  “I might be a bearer of wicked news, but no, ‘tis not a nightmare,” the man said. “Alas, bella, it can be one, if you make yourself known.”

  The man laughed.

  Fanta felt a chill. She trembled. She glanced down at the long bourbon brown fingers that held her waist. On his index finger was a stunning gold ring, with a ruby stone. An insignia was engraved into it.

  The man’s grip loosened. Fanta turned. A flash of sun washed over a young face that was very familiar to her. It was the man from her dreams; dreams that had visited her for weeks.

  His thick afro bristled in the wind. He sat casually, studying her while still holding her wrist with an amused grin upon his face. A mango lay in his lap. In his other hand, he held a knife, which he used to slice the juicy fruit. He was dressed in a sleeveless kaftan that matched the ships mast. The tunic revealed the man’s dense, striated chest. He also wore tailored trousers and black boots. The brother reminded her of a casually dressed dandy in his late twenties.

  Fanta scanned him up and down. She noticed that he wore several wheel-lock pistols in his belt and a musket was strapped diagonally against his back. His knife had a jagged, curved blade engraved with intricate carvings on its smooth surface. His handsome face was lined in white stripes that formed angled shapes, horizontal lines, and dots – war paint.

  Fanta pressed a hand against her temple. Where the hell am I and how did I get here?

  “Is this some joke? Did my cousin set this up?” she asked. “Come out, Mikayla!”

  “Psst! Tis no joke and stop drawing attention to yourself,” the man said. “I must change you out of these peculiar garments before our enemies settle eyes on you and you be strung up.” He popped a piece of mango into his mouth.

  “Change me out of my clothes? Excuse me?” Fanta said, frowning. She was not about to let this strange guy come anywhere near her.

  Licking his full lips, the man gave a slight nod of his head, popped another piece of mango into his mouth, chewed, and then smiled. “Si…and don’t echo what I’m saying again. You’re like a cockatoo.” He chuckled.

  “Alas, you crossed over at the wrong time,” he went on. “We’re in the midst of a battle, Traveler. Whenever you people pass through, battles always occur or come to a halt.”

  “Traveler? Who are you? Why do you speak to me as if you know me and why am I soaking wet?” She asked.

  Tossing the rest of the mango behind him, the man slid his blade into the side of his boot, then wiped his hands on his trousers.

  “I go by many names,” the man replied. “The Afrikan Aztec; the Kemetian; the Senegalese Runaway Rebel, or Captain Mbaye. But in private you may call me Akil Mbaye Nahuatl.”

  Akil offered his hand. “Welcome to my ship, the Octavian. We are in the middle of the Caribbean and I do know you. You tumbled into this world at the wrong hour. See, we sorry lots are being sought for bounty as runaway slaves. This was once a slave ship that carried many Africans to the Americas. We liberated it and alas ‘tis ours now.”

  She could not believe this man’s words. This was not her time. This had to be a dream.

  She turned and then made a dash for the edge of the boat. She stopped dead in her tracks. Before her was, trudging toward them on the bright, blue water, was an even more opulent ship with towering, multiple white masts. She staggered backward, bumping into Akil’s hard body.

  “What year is this?” she croaked.

  “You believe now, eh?” Akil said. “You were but a dream to me, also. A strange dream, that followed me from my village overseas to Brazil. Bokonon – High Priests – told me to find you and wait and I did. ‘Tis not happenstance that I found you floating adrift on a tree branch covered in odd flower petals…”

  His warm words drifted off.

  An iron ball whizzed past them.

  “Ey…forgot about that,” he sighed.

  How in the hell could someone forget they are in the middle of a battle? She thought. Is this man crazy?

  Leading her away, Akil kicked crates to the side with his boot, then stopped near a large door.

  “’Tis the year of our Lord seventeen eighty-nine. Now, Senora, you must do as I say…quickly!”

  She felt the boat rise then quake. A loud explosion followed. Fanta covered her ears. Akil dragged her into his quarters.

  “Before you on the bed are several garments,” Akil said, pointing at the African garments on his bunk. “Change into them, then stay here. If trouble comes, I’ll send someone to you, si?”

  She didn’t want to die today in this strange waking dream.

  She bobbed her head. “Si…I mean okay.”

  “Dandy, now act swiftly,” Akil said. “Keep your bag with you and stay hidden.” Akil took several strides to the door, then paused. “What is your name?”

  “Fanta Awadi,” she muttered.

  “That is a pleasant name,” Akil said. “You are from the same region as my people, I see. Fula.” His eyes ran over her in appraisal. “Si, I see it in you; interesting.”

  Akil swung open the door to his cabin. A loud boom sounded and the ship shook again.

  “Keep hidden and tell no one you are a Traveler!” He ordered.

  “Why?” Fanta shouted over the clamoring noise.

  “Because our people are no longer chattel to be taken,” Akil answered. “The Continentals have a standing order that Travelers are to be killed at once or captured. The Travelers are a gift to us and witches and devils to the rebel Colonists. I will protect you, but do stay quiet.”

  With that, Akil was gone, closing the door behind him.

  Fanta snatched off her wet top. The clothes on the bed were rough and scratchy, but they were dry and warm. Sighing, she pulled off her wet dress and slid into a pair of trousers that were somewhat snug against her curves.

  Fanta sat on the bed. The shouts from outside continued. Something crashed into the boat over and over.

  Fanta stuffed her feet into boots that, thankfully, fit her perfectly. She crawled the bed toward a double pane window. She peeked out.

  Before her, were several men and women, of every shade of brown and black, running to and fro, firing weapons powered by gears and pulleys.

  Sailors from both sides engaged in masterful hand to hand combat. A petite young woman with low cropped, natural hair, tumbled across the floor. She popped up onto her knees and then whipped her leg in a wide arc, taking down an angry Continental.

  The young woman then drew twin copper and wood fighting sticks from the sash tied around her waist. With fluid motions, the young woman blocked blows then advanced, whirling the sticks before her.

  A bullet blasted through the window. Shards of glass flew everywhere. Trembling, Fanta hunkered low, covering her head with her bag.

  Clinking in her bag drew her attention. She dug into it and found a beautiful knife and a wheel-lock pistol.

  Her fingers brushed against something smooth; something that felt like glass. She w
rapped her fingers around it and then withdrew a large, pear-shaped object with copper and silver inlaid filigree and coils wrapped around the tip.

  “Lotus bulb,” Akil’s voice came from behind her.

  Fanta scrambled to her knees. Akil stood in front of her. His towering shadow draped over her. She noticed that he sweated profusely. Red droplets and soot were splattered all over him.

  “You and the lotus bulb are precious to us,” Akil said. “In my dreams, I was told it will help us mine the Pulse.”

  “What is going on?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I want off this boat.”

  “Si, I know you do. Alas, you can’t.”

  “But why?” Fanta asked. “It’s crazy for me to stay here. Your enemies could storm in here at anytime!”

  “Aye, that’s true, but they won’t,” Akil replied. “I’m keeping you protected as the Bokonon told me to do. If you leave here, you will die. The Colonists will take you and the bulb and that cannot happen. We haven’t learned any methods to prevent stray bullets from harming Travelers, so keep clear of the windows.”

  Akil chuckled.

  “Funny,” Fanta said with a smirk.

  “The goddess Mami Wata says that the world is awakening because of you Travelers. Tethers of natural power that connect us – Pulse, we call it – are drawing all timelines and all worlds within this world together for some grand purpose. You will see and understand soon.”

  Akil bowed and left the room again.

  Fanta’s face reddened. Her brow furrowed. “I am done with this madness and this madman! Just sit here? Mami Wata?” She vaguely remembered her mother mentioning Mami Wata, but she could not remember what she said or why she said it.”

 

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