The power of hypnosis helped immensely during this period. I am certain that had we been ordinary men, we would have all been lynched. Although we'd lost the battle, at least we would stay alive through the power of suggestion and the stealth of our existence.
A cloud seemed to hang over our house for weeks after the strange events at the Bernoudy estate. Babarinde hushed us each time we tried to bring it up, saying only that it wasn't our fight.
In March, as we worked in the fields, we noticed a lone figure on horseback trotting his way to our plantation. We stopped our work and waited to see if this was yet another white slave owner looking to harass us about his losses in the German Coast uprising.
As the horse came closer toward us, I could tell its rider was black like us. As it came even closer, I could see who it was:
Rebekah Deslondes.
We abandoned our work and came to the front of the house to receive our visitor. We guided the horse to a post and tied it down. I stretched my hand out to help Rebekah off the animal, but she ignored me, instead using one hand to steady herself as she jumped down. Her cloak fell open and to the ground, exposing what remained of her left arm.
I gasped.
"I suppose you've never seen a woman with one arm before," she barked at me. The words got caught in my throat and I remained silent.
"Fetch Babarinde," she snarled.
"I'm here," he said from the porch. I picked up her cloak and handed it back to her.
"I didn't know there were any survivors," he said.
"If you can call this survival," she retorted.
"What happened?" he asked.
She walked toward him with a slight limp.
"You mean, what happened after you all ran away like cowards?"
Babarinde remained silent.
"Why don't you come in, get some water. Rest for a while."
"I don't want or need anything from you, Bernard. Other than the next five minutes of your life."
"I'm listening," he said, folding his arms.
"After you all left us at Bernoudy, the white men slaughtered us. It was bad enough that our bodies began rejecting your blood, your precious gift that was supposed to turn us into beings like you. We were left quivering on the ground with no one to help us but ourselves, and we were too ill to do anything.
"The men? All dead. Mercredi, Amos, everyone. Shot dead. Executed there on the spot. The women? Stripped of their children and forced to watch as they were thrown into the swamp. Some of the infants were kicked around like playthings until they were black and blue.
"They saved the worst for me and Charles. They took me—dozens of times. They beat me relentlessly. They tried to draw and quarter me to finish me off, but the first horse took off too soon. Rather than put me out of my misery, they let me wander off. I was so confused, so much in a fog, that they thought it would be a fun game to predict where I would walk off to and die. They didn't notice that I was slowly but surely healing. I suppose the last of your blood still flowed in me, allowing me to regenerate enough to stop the bleeding. Obviously, I couldn't grow my arm back. Nowadays, I wonder what would happen if the same happened to any of you. Whether I can pluck one of your limbs and have them grow back in complete order, better than before. That ever happen to you? Hmm? Didn't think so.
"Charles wasn't so lucky. In front of all of the surviving women, his hands were chopped off, one right after the other. Then they shot him in his thighs. He couldn't walk. He couldn't even crawl. Then they shot him in the chest. But before he died, they stuffed him in a sack of straw and threw him into the fire.
"Do you know he never even screamed?"
"Rebekah…I'm sorry."
"Shut up."
She shuffled back to her horse and shooed us away as we tried to hoist her up.
"I hope you enjoy your days on this plantation."
"Rebekah, I'm sorry, from the bottom of my heart," Babarinde began. "We've never tried to make one of our own before. We should have had more time to see if it would really work. Time to train you. Time to initiate you into—"
"You left us! You saw that we were ill and outnumbered and you left us! You were more powerful than everyone out there, and you still left! I will never forget this Bernard! Not for as long as I live. You and your people will never be brothers to me. Ever. One day, we'll be free. No thanks to you."
She whipped the side of the horse lightly and he galloped off toward the horizon. We never saw her again and we were forbidden to speak of it.
~
I cradled Justin in my arms as he gasped and came back to reality. His eyes were wide open, searching for some sort of connection to the modern world.
"It's okay," I said, wiping the sweat from his face with one of the napkins from his lunch bag. "You're back. You're in DC. You're in your own time."
"Why didn't I die?" he breathed in between gasps.
"What?"
"Why didn't I die?! I was supposed to die, but you saved me, just like you tried to save the slaves. They got sick. They died. Why didn't I die?"
"I don't know, Justin."
"The hell you mean you don't know? You mean I still might reject this blood? I could just suddenly keel over and die? Why hasn't that happened to me?"
"Because you're special," I said.
Justin clutched my arm tighter, but turned away from me.
"I don't want to be special."
"Too late," I said. I kissed him on his forehead as he closed his eyes and tried to rest.
The Second Coming
Back at the parkour gym, Justin was sweating once again. It was the end of a long day of running and martial arts. He stood panting before me.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"I want you to run this whole thing in less than 30 seconds," I said.
"The whole thing?" he repeated.
"Yup. I've got a surprise for you if you can do it."
"Aight then," he said. He squared up next to me on a painted line near the door.
"Ready…go!"
He zoomed off to the right, darting between steel barrels like a football star, his calf muscles tightening under his brown skin. His old workout clothes had begun falling off his body, so a steel gray compression top and black compression tights were his new uniform. This was his combine.
He leapt up twelve feet into the air and grabbed onto the bottom of iron chains suspended from the ceiling. He swung to the far wall, where he easily climbed the bricks to the ceiling, then swung from pipe to pipe until he was over a pit of cardboard boxes and rubber blocks. He fell gracefully into the pile and almost immediately popped up, running toward piles of wooden boxes. He hopped on one stack, then a higher one, then the highest, landing on the far edge of the wall with less than ten inches to walk on. He kept his balance—on his tiptoes, no less—and jumped down onto the floor. He ran at full speed at that point, flipping his way over more barrels until he landed inches from my face.
I looked down at my watch.
"Twenty-five seconds," I said.
"Let me do it again, I can get it down to twenty."
"You don't need to," I smiled. "Want your surprise?"
He nodded and smiled.
"Christiana? You can come out now."
A tall, brown girl with thin braids halfway down her back emerged from the shadows behind me.
"Who are you?" Justin asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel he had nearby.
"This is Christiana. She's a new initiate of Iota Theta Beta. She's in a trance. She won't remember meeting you."
Justin approached the tall, young, dark brown coed. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was attracted to her.
"I didn't know Iota took black girls," he said.
"They all bleed red," I said. "Now…do you remember the words?"
He nodded vigorously.
"Well…spit 'em."
"I greet thee in the spirit of Dominique Bellanger," he said.
"I welcome the
e in the spirit of Dominique Bellanger," Christiana replied.
"I have traveled across burning sands and dangerous savannahs to be here today," Justin continued.
"And I have waited patiently for you."
"I have survived the middle passage and decades of danger."
"Yet I never doubted that you would return to me."
"I am your protector, forever and ever."
"And I offer myself to you, the living legacy of Dominique Bellanger. I present myself to you: one body, one flesh. Iota Theta Beta: in the blood."
Christiana lifted her chin and turned away from Justin, exposing her neck to him. He bared his fangs and buried his face deep into the girl's neck, careful not to spill a drop. His hands gripped her slim waist and she held him in return.
"She's a meal. Not a date."
He moved his hands to her back, in a far less sexy area. I laughed.
"You're doing well," I said as I watched him drink. "You know, I guess I should tell you now…this whole series of events…you know, teaching you how to fight. Getting you in shape. Showing you how we garden. All of that? That's not just to protect you against nightwalkers. And it's not just necessary for your survival. I mean, sure, you need all of this training. But it's leading up to a fight. The fight of your life."
He ignored me as he drank.
"You hear me?" I asked. "I said you're going to have to fight. It's your initiation. You don't just become a Razadi. You have to earn it. You earn it by fighting when you're ready. And you're ready."
Justin suddenly stopped drinking and he pushed Christiana away. His knees buckled and he stumbled to the ground. I went to Christiana and whispered instructions in her ear as I pricked my finger and healed her puncture wounds with my blood.
"Drive back to school. Tell anyone who asks that you were tutoring. Take a nap and forget everything. You understand?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"Fare thee well, my darling sister."
"Fare thee well, my darling brother." She hurried away and I heard her car speed off. I then tended to Justin, whose eyes were fluttering back into his head.
"Justin, what's happening?" I asked, touching his temples with my hands.
"It's hot."
"Where are you? Go deeper."
"New Orleans. The French Quarter. A long time ago. It smells like shit. Horse shit."
"Horse shit?" I laughed. "Welcome home!"
~
New Orleans, to me, has looked the same for over a hundred years. At least, the good parts do. All that's really changed has been the people. Except for the remaining Razadi who still live there, of course. They are the city's constant.
In 1899, the daywalkers had been living in the Pontalba buildings in the French Quarter for over 30 years. As the city grew, so did its population of free black people, so Babarinde grew more and more comfortable with letting us mingle, in spite of the terrible shame we felt after the failure of the German Coast rebellion.
Baba became more and more reclusive after those events. Even today, I'm not sure that he fully forgave himself for deserting our friends; but what choice did we really have when Obatala himself tells us to leave?
It was Eşusanya who came to Baba with the idea of buying some apartments in the city.
"So what do you say, Baba? We can get some of those buildings the Baroness is renting out. Make a colony like the one we have here, but closer to the action. Get real jobs."
"Tending this land is a real job," he grumbled.
"Yes, yes, I know it is. We pick the cotton, we operate the cotton gin, we spin the thread, we weave the fabric. And we've done it for a century. And we're wealthy because of it! But let's strike out on our own and diversify our strengths and talents."
"Why do you want to go so bad?" Baba asked.
"I'm restless, I can admit that. But I want to learn new things, too."
"Don't you think it's dangerous? Going out there among the world? You can pretend to be just like everyone else for a while, but it's going to become obvious that you're not aging."
"I've got that worked out, too. We create new identities and give them expiration dates—say, fifteen years. Longer if we can find good disguises to make us look aged. And we just live, work, and move on back to the house when it's time."
"It could work," I interjected. "I mean, look at everything that's happened. The Civil War. Slaves are free. Things aren't perfect, but they're better. Resources are out there for us. We just have to grab them."
"Resources? We have everything we need here. Food. Commerce…"
"Baba," Eşusanya said flatly.
"Yes?"
"Baba."
"What?"
"Baba, really?"
"What?"
"We have everything we need, sure, but what about everything else? Music. Art. Sports. Laughter. Living on this plantation is no better than living in the woods of Dominica. Of course, nothing would be better than home. But if we're here, then let's be here fully, living among people. Not just our people. Any people."
"You know what, fine. Do whatever you want, Eşusanya. Just count me out. Organize the men how you want, buy whatever you want. The coffers are open to you. Just leave me out of it—me and anyone else who wants to stay here."
And we did. The first fifteen years went so well that we were loath to come back to the plantation, but we had to in order for the whole thing to work. Babarinde stayed at the plantation and literally everyone else went to the Pontalba apartments for their turn at a real life in the real world.
By 1899, my cohort was back at Pontalba. We happily said farewell to agricultural life and looked forward to ingratiating ourselves in New Orleans' thriving urban culture.
Ariori and I shared a room in one of the Pontalba houses right on Jackson Square. I found work as a blacksmith in the Quarter, while Ariori chose to study medicine at New Orleans University. We were now the brothers Forestier. He was Armand and I was Augustin. Our story was that we were descendants of New Orleans' gen de couler libre, or free people of color—a story that was not entirely untrue. The main difference was that our lineage was not from revolution-era Haitian refugees.
Our family—our fellow Razadi brothers—had, by this time, established itself in enough markets that we were able to spend our own money on our own businesses, whether we needed food, clothing, or services. Ariori and I walked to the French Market early one Saturday morning to pick up some groceries from our family's carrel.
"Classes going well?" I asked.
"Absolutely," Ariori said. "I'm learning so much every day."
"And what about this nutrition thing you're working on?"
"It's amazing. We've only hit the tip of the iceberg with what we know about the power of plants. These scientists out here are working with chemicals, trying to make us believe a pill can cure everything. But I'm telling you what I know: we can make a difference with things that grow right in the earth. And now that we have easier access to herbs from the Far East, there's no telling what we'll be able to do next."
"Wow. You know, it amazes me that they have colleges for Negroes. And that you can actually get the same jobs as the white men now. You're going to be a doctor."
Ariori smiled. "It's truly a blessing. We don't have to pick cotton anymore."
"Leave it to Baba, that's all we'd be doing," I laughed.
"Yeah, we'd be…picking…"
Ariori froze in his tracks. We were feet away from a cluster of white women who were inspecting some fresh fruit at one of the stands. That's when he saw her, the beautiful olive-skinned woman he fell in love with.
"Dominique!" he gasped. The young woman in the white blouse and long, slate gray skirt turned to us, pleasant looking but startled. She looked just like Dominique, from the cascade of brown curls to the slender nose and brown eyes. Even her skin seemed tan, as Dominique's skin had looked on the last day we saw her.
"Yes, sir?" she replied, looking up at his tall frame.
"It can't be her,
" I whispered. "That was a hundred and seventy-five years ago!"
"I'm sorry, Miss," Ariori said, his eyes threatening to well up with tears. "I had you confused for someone else."
"But my name is Dominique," she affirmed. "Do I know you?"
"No. Not at all. We must be going now."
"Sir, please…" Dominique grabbed Ariori's hand. Immediately, her eyes fluttered closed, as did his. I touched Ariori's shoulder and knew at once what was happening.
They remembered.
Scenes of Dominique Bellanger and Ariori's short life together replayed in my head as it did in theirs: secret visits on the beach; stealing away through the forest to visit each other; their wedding; the day she was stolen away from him.
"I know you…" Dominique said finally, as her eyes opened.
"What did you do to her?" Dominique's companion asked. Her round face tightened into a scowl.
"Nothing," Ariori whispered.
"I'm fine, Carmen. I'm fine." A tear rolled down her face and they stared at one another for what seemed like years.
"We should be getting back to school," Carmen said to Dominique.
"Yes, we should," Dominique agreed.
"Can we…walk you to your carriage?" Ariori asked.
"By all means," Dominique agreed. Carmen scowled harder.
We walked the women to the corner of St. Ann and Decatur, where their carriage awaited them on the edge of Jackson Square.
Like a gentleman, Ariori assisted Dominique into the carriage. I tried to assist Carmen, but she snatched her arm away and insisted that she could do it herself.
"Thank you, mister…?" Dominique said.
"Forestier. Mr. Armand Forestier. Soon to be 'Doctor.'" Ariori said. "And this is my brother Augustin."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said.
"Mademoiselle, begging your pardon, but I was wondering if I could see you again someday."
The carriage began to pull away.
"Yes!" she called back.
"Then meet me at Congo Square on Friday afternoon, if you please!"
"I'll be there! Three o'clock!" she called back.
"It's not her," I said. "It can't be."
"She touched me. It's her soul. I know it."
"She can't come to Congo Square. No white woman goes there unaccompanied."
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