Kajika smiled again. Her jokes were meant to ease the tension in the air between them, but Desmond knew the face of a lioness ready to tear the meat from his bones to protect her people.
“It’s Lij they want. For you, nature is technology. So it is with Lij. He was grown from the cells of one of our great leaders. If names have power, as you say, let me tell you his name: Lij Tafari Makonnen Woldemikael. He ruled his kingdom as the King of Abyssinia, His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I. Those of my faith believe he was meant to come back after his death.”
“If I understand what you’re saying, you may have possibly adopted the messiah of your faith and are raising him?”
“I . . .” Desmond hesitated. “I try not to think about that. All I see is a little boy who I’m protecting from the people who want him. Who would take him, drain his blood, turn his body inside out, and tease his brain apart. Break him down in parts to divine how he was created. ‘Reverse engineer the process,’ they said. All to figure out what? That he was human?”
“Or more than human,” Kajika said.
“He’s just a boy.”
“So you say. I’ve seen many things. Heard even more. Inteus informs me that some in Albion hope to develop the mind to be able to read or transmit thoughts. Move objects. Kill with mere concentration.”
“Lij would never do that.”
“People fear the unknown. People fear the future. People fear an . . . abomination.”
“Is that how you see him?” Desmond’s voice rose in pitch. He didn’t realize how heated the discussion had gotten or how defensive he had become at the idea of anyone threatening Lij. Inteus took two steps closer to him, the movement alone meant to remind Desmond of his presence and situation.
Kajika held up her hand to halt her chief of security. She turned her head at an angle to further study Lij. He trotted the buffalo along the bookshelves, using it to tap along the ledges, whatever rhythm known only to him. “No. He’s just a boy. But what life can he have with so many eager to pry him open for his secrets?”
“A life of freedom,” Desmond whispered. “That’s all any of us seek.”
“Not all of us get it.”
“So, you’d deny him?”
Kajika walked over to Lij. The cornhusk doll now riding the stone buffalo, he paused his game at her approach. He didn’t turn to her but froze like an antelope that had been spotted by a hyena.
“So, this is our security threat?” Kajika said.
“I wouldn’t get so close,” Inteus said.
“Nonsense.”
“I really must insist.”
“If you insist any more, I’m going to name your son ‘Shits Like Deer.’”
Lij laughed.
She sized him up with a hard stare. Abruptly, her features softened. “My apologies, little one. That was inappropriate.”
“Raasclaat,” Lij said.
“Raasclaat. I’m afraid I don’t know this word.”
“It’s a Jamaican swear word,” Desmond said. “It means . . . um, nothing fit for mixed company.”
“Now that sounds like some raasclaat,” Kajika said. “He has such an odd manner for a boy his age.”
“With all due respect, he can hear you.” The tone had more teeth to it than he intended. “I suspect that it may be an unanticipated side effect of his . . . conception. But he’s still a boy. He likes stories.”
“Well, he’s in luck. We of the First Nations are some of the best storytellers on the planet.” She folded herself down, an awkward tangle of arms and legs. Inteus approached to offer a hand, but she waved him off. While she tried to find a comfortable position, Kajika scooted down close to Lij. The boy said nothing but didn’t move away, either. She glanced at Desmond, who nodded to her. She cleared her throat.
Some stories were only told when words failed. When whatever truth scrabbled about in the dark, in secret places that defined a people, bubbled to the surface and found its voice spoken in a language only known to the wind.
Tree at the Center leveled a cool eye at the piece of mica before him. He burnished its edges with the meticulous care of a father swaddling his child for the first time. When he first sat at his spinning wheel, he could not see the shape in the mica that he would bring out. He feared the voice who sang the music of his inspiration was gone forever. Only in the last few days had he begun to hear a new voice to carry him through.
“What are you doing, Father?” He Interrupts asked.
“What does it look like?”
“An eagle’s claw.” He Interrupts inspected the sculpture. “But I thought that all business was set aside for today.”
“This isn’t business. It’s personal.” Tree at the Center’s mouth curled weakly into a smile as if testing to see if he still could form one. He tousled the young boy’s hair.
“Is it for Mother?”
“It is. Many people wish to honor Whispers on the Breeze. When a family member dies, the entire village mourns.”
He Interrupts knitted his brow, deep in thought. “What can I give her?”
“We have our origins in stories, in words spoke into creation. You must give her part of your story.”
“But I have no story to give.”
“That’s not true. You two had a shared story. That’s what you leave her.”
“What was your story?” He Interrupts pointed to the eagle claw.
Tree at the Center glanced from the boy to the artifact, then back to the boy. He set his teeth as if chewing on an idea. Finally, he cleared his throat to speak.
“One day a long time ago, a woman had wandered far from the Road Much Traveled and gotten lost in the woods. Hungry and faint, she collapsed on the bank of a great river. It was cold and rainy, as both the sun and the moon hid themselves in the sky.
“The Father of Eagles spied her. Keen of eye, wings the span of a village, the proud bird circled her. It took pity on the sight of the young woman dying. The Father of Eagles swooped down, the beating of its mighty wings bent young trees, yet the woman did not stir. It lifted her up gently and searched for a village.
“The great bird warmed her body and brought her food. Its heart grew to love her. So it told her stories. The Father of Eagles told her of the secret songs of the birds. It told her of their dances. It told her of the laws of birds. All these things and more it shared with her.
“Then one day, she nestled under its wing while it flew. The earth slept under snow and the wind moaned through bare branches. In the distance, smoke rose. The Father of Eagles flew towards the smoke and found a village of the People before our people, their names long forgotten. It landed on the village’s edge.
“‘You must go with them, for they are your kind,’ the Father of Eagles said.
“‘But I don’t want to. I am a stranger to them,’ she said.
“‘They know the true name of things. They walk with their spirits open. And they will grow to love you as I have. And you shall tell them our stories.’
“‘Will you ever return?’ she asked.
“‘One day I shall come back and carry away the entire village on my back.’
“And so our stories have come down through our mothers, one generation after the next. Passing on our heritage and knowledge to our children.”
He Interrupts shuffled from one foot to the next in thoughtful silence. He studied his empty hands for a moment and then spoke again with a seriousness to his voice much older than his few years. “I’m still not sure that I have a story to offer her.”
“Much can be learned from listening to those with much experience. Maybe it’s time for you to show me the craft you have learned. See how well I have prepared you in our way of life.” Tree at the Center scattered a few blocks of chert around them. “Choose your own. The one that speaks to you.”
He Interrupts cocked his head as if wanting to ask a question but thinking better of it. He rolled a couple of the blocks about, inspecting each of them. If one particularly intrigued him,
he picked it up and tapped it with a stone. Narrowing down his choices to the final two, he chose the one with the higher pitch to its song. Fine-grained, durable, and carvable, the large stone had no fissures in it, nor any bubbles or other minerals.
“You chose well. Now gather your tools.” Tree at the Center stepped away from his table.
He Interrupts approached the table with solemnity, looking over each instrument with great care before picking any of them up. He gripped the antler tine in his hand, weighing its heft. Then he found a hammer-stone which fit snugly into his hand. He sat cross-legged, imitating the posture of his father at work. He held the hammer-stone just above his chosen piece of chert and waited. Tree at the Center nodded.
He Interrupts struck the stone, tentative at first, judging the flaking of the stone. Soon, the stone began to slowly take the form of a blade. He scraped it to further guide its shape. Tree at the Center nodded with approval, only occasionally making a dissatisfied gurgle, which made He Interrupts shift the angle of his flaking. When the boy was finished, Tree at the Center took the bladelet and hafted it to a handle.
“Am I a man yet?” He Interrupts asked, admiring his handiwork.
“Not yet. I’ll let you know.” Tree at the Center smiled. “Come, let’s walk the Road Much Traveled while you remember the blade’s story.”
“Remember?”
“We do not create out of nothing but rather from what has been here before us. You work from a half-remembered idea, and soon the rest of the story will come to you.”
The Road Much Traveled passed through the heart of their hamlet, dividing it evenly in two. The pair trekked by a series of wattle-and-daub walled rectangular homes with thatched-roofs. The road wound along the crops of their people: corn, squash, goosefoot, and maygrass. The Road Much Traveled connected all of the villages like a long, winding serpent stretched across the lands.
He Interrupts made an inarticulate noise, drawing Tree at the Center’s attention. The boy ground his jaw, caught his father’s expectant gaze, then began to speak.
“It is said that the moon connects all life, her beams like threads touching all things like a spider’s web. At times, she cannot stand to see what her children do to one another, so she hides her face from them.
“There once was a young boy, one of the People of the Hill, whose mother and father had died. His father’s brother took him in, but his uncle was not kind. He worked the boy long and hard, yet fed him seldom and little. He was quick to anger and slow to forgive.
“Now, it was the custom for the older men to walk ahead of the rest when a group went off to trade. The boy was relieved, for it meant that he was away from his uncle at least during the day. That night, however, his uncle fell into a horrifying anger. He stormed into the woods and the boy followed, fearing for his uncle. His uncle got into a terrible argument with the moon. His shouts echoed for miles. Finally, he drew his knife, for he sought to end the moon’s unyielding observation of his life. He slashed wildly at the beams, unable to still the moon’s light.
“Finally, the knife slipped from his hand. Fearing that his uncle might injure himself or one of his kinsmen, the boy ran to the fallen blade and threw it into the nearby creek. The uncle dropped to his knees at the water’s edge, clutching after the knife. But each time he outstretched his hand, the moon kept it out of reach.”
He Interrupts closed his mouth as if satisfied and continued walking along the road.
“Wait one moment,” Tree at the Center said. “What happened with the boy? Or his uncle?”
“No story ever ends, but sometimes the telling of it has to. I’m content to know that she is always there, watching over her children. That is what I have to share.”
Veering from the Road Much Traveled, He Interrupts followed Tree at the Center deep into the valley. A quiet settled over them, a curtain of reverent silence, which left them somewhat unsettled. Surrounded by thick groves of trees, they followed the creek. The trees seemed to crowd them, to block them at every turn, unspeaking sentries not wanting to share their secrets. Then the forest opened up. From their vantage point, they could take in the entire earthworks.
A large square of platted ground was attended by a smaller one conjoined with a massive circle. Within the vast circle were a series of connected earthen mounds. A wall, nearly two men high, bordered the carefully measured earth. Just beyond the northern wall were several pits of excavated earth.
“We build together. One people coming together in shared purpose,” Tree at the Center said as if answering an unasked question. “No matter where we go or how we spread out.”
Tree at the Center led He Interrupts to an unfinished mound. He set his mica eagle claw within it. His heart ached, still missing the familiar voice who spoke beauty into his world. He closed his eyes, his lips moving though without sound. When he opened his eyes, he stepped aside to make room for He Interrupts.
“A prayer?” He Interrupts asked.
“There are stories we share and stories we keep to ourselves,” Tree at the Center said.
He Interrupts nodded. “Whispers on the Breeze.” His set his bladelet alongside the eagle claw and closed his eyes. “Some things can tell when their name is spoken,” he said as if answering his father’s unasked question.
Tree at the Center stepped back from the mound. “One day, all that will be left of us is our stories. When our tribe has become little more than a faded dream with only our tales left to shape our children and our children’s children. But a story only needs a teller for it to be remembered. At night, when the road is free of travelers and the villages are silent, the dream of us will fill the land. There is no death, only movement between worlds.
“Our stories live on after us.”
The last words hung in the air like the last notes of a concerto with the audience pausing, too nervous to applaud. Lij said nothing. He glanced at Kajika from the side of his eye, then went back to playing with the cornhusk doll astride her buffalo. Before Desmond could warn her against it, Kajika reached out to pat him on the back. Lij didn’t so much as flinch.
There was a knock at her door. A young man entered the chamber and handed Inteus a note. In turn, he went over and whispered in Kajika’s ear before handing her the note. She read it and reread it as she returned to Desmond’s side.
“It appears that we have captured another guest.”
V. : Here Comes the Hotstepper
DESMOND FOLLOWED Kajika and Inteus down a series of stone steps deep beneath the building. Two guards came to attention at their approach. They passed through a set of double doors, then proceeded down a long, winding hallway. Kajika moved with a different air. Her lightness of spirit and casual veneer had been replaced by a hardness. She moved with a determination that dared anyone to bar her way. Inteus marched in step with her, neither behind nor ahead. As he walked, he checked the pulse weapon attached to his arm.
While Desmond wanted to leave Lij with one of the attendants, the boy would have none of it. He clung to Desmond’s leg fastidiously. In the name of saving time, Kajika simply allowed him to come, and Desmond suspected that she wanted to keep the pair of them in her sight. Her invitation for him to join her and Inteus fell far short of a request.
They arrived at a large bay window. In the room, a woman sat in a chair, her arms shackled behind her. Wrapped in layer after layer of clothes, Cayt seemed much smaller. Draped in an ankle-length rifle frock coat, her double-breasted gold leaf vest folded over an open-collared black bib shirt. The gold chain of a pocket watch hooked to a button on her vest and disappeared in the right vest pocket. An empty black tooled-leather buscadero holster was strapped to the left leg of her canvas-colored divided leather skirt. Her black gambler hat and matching fringed gloves were piled neatly in her lap.
“She had these on her.” Inteus handed Kajika a hand pulse modified from a Colt Mustang along with three charge cartridges and what appeared to be a man’s billfold. Inside was an identification card from t
he Pinkerton National Detective Agency for a Cayt Siringo.
“The Pinkertons? A bit outside of their jurisdiction, aren’t they?” Kajika asked.
“They are a private security guard and detective agency. They have their fingers in a lot of military and corporate intelligence pies. They provide security services to the Albion government on a contractual basis. The ID checks out. We’re running a full background check.”
They spoke in English. Most times when the two spoke and needed privacy, they shifted to their native tongue. Creek or Miccosukee, Kajika once explained. She spoke five languages and could read a couple more. So, Desmond knew that they wanted him to hear what was going on.
“She’s not speaking. Do you know each other?” Kajika asked. “Don’t worry; she can neither see nor hear us through the glass.”
“‘Know’ is a strong word,” Desmond said.
Cayt chuckled, her head lowered, her blond hair obscuring her face.
Inteus hit a button on the wall. His voice carried into the room. “Is something funny?”
“I introduced myself to him in Tejas but missed.”
At the sound of her voice, Desmond tensed. He flattened his palm against the glass to steady himself.
“You two sound like you have history, Desmond,” Kajika said.
“She was the one who shot me. Before that day, I’d never set eyes on her.”
“There’s something else.” Kajika stared at him with those knowing eyes of hers.
Desmond leaned closer to the glass. “It’s . . . This may sound strange, but I know her voice. In my dreams. In my mind.”
“Borders mean nothing to them; why should walls?” Kajika opened the door and went in, followed by Inteus. “You were caught in violation of First Nations sovereign land.”
“I heard tell that you all were accepting all types of folks these days.” Cayt met her eyes. Her face a series of hard angles, her skin taut, baked by constant sun. Her eyes dark, with the allure of secrets.
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