“It looks like it’s coming here,” she said. “A seaplane maybe?” There was a seaplane port in the harbor. Patrice liked to watch them land on the water, like massive metal birds.
“No,” Jackson answered. “It doesn’t look right.”
In the coming months, Patrice would remember this day, wishing she were somehow more prepared for the further crumbling of her already fragile world. Wishing she had seen that little dot on the horizon and known it for what it was: the harbinger of so many things.
But she would come to realize that life didn’t prepare you for the big things. They didn’t announce themselves or watch their feet, mindful of their intrusion.
All big things were rude strangers.
“Maybe it’s a drone or something,” her father said to no one in particular. “These young people and their toys.”
But the dot got bigger than a drone, bigger than a plane. And then she could see it, clear as anything. The thing was still high up, but large. Disk-shaped, a massive floating swirl of a thing, perfect in symmetry, the body of it pearl white with blue streaks that flowed over its surface like waves. The thing hummed so loudly, it throbbed in Patrice’s ears.
She had seen something like this a thousand times. But never in the sky. Never that big. The hum pulsed, and the outer skin of it pulsed as well, the blue streaks moving out from the spiral center.
A giant seashell, Patrice thought. A seashell in the sky, not obeying gravity, humming in her bones. Naming it didn’t make her feel any less afraid.
She looked over at her father. His mouth was open, his chest rising and falling, reminding her of someone blowing into a paper bag. He instinctively grabbed for her and pulled her close.
The words came then. The things she wanted to tell him. That she wasn’t sure she believed in God anymore. That she thought she was in love but was deeply suspicious about whether it was love and whether it would last. That he, her father, was the reason for that suspicion. But the sound of the thing in the sky drowned out everything. There wasn’t any room for her or anything else.
Patrice watched as some people down the hillside came out of their houses, listened as people screamed. She heard dishes fall inside the house and watched as the thing in the sky settled a few feet above the highest hill of Water Island, humming like a beehive. And all her worries pressed against her, building with the noise of the seashell in the sky.
She felt her mother’s trembling hands on her, but they felt small somehow despite being so close. They gave her no sense of safety.
There was a dark shadow now over Water Island where it hovered, and Patrice thought to herself, this was how change occurred: something on the horizon closing in. She doesn’t seem imposing at first, but then she’s close enough for you to see the knife hidden under her dress.
And then the rude stranger tells you her name.
A History of Invasions
When the Ciboney arrived on what would become St. Thomas, they found an uninhabited island, its shores teeming with fish, its hilly terrain populated with small animals, mostly reptiles and birds. The animals stared uncomprehendingly at their new invaders.
The Ciboney settled at Krum Bay and began a life there. They fished along the bay in their canoes, dug out from cedar and silk-cotton trees. They sang songs to no one but themselves and their gods. The constellations above their heads shifted in the night like a large quilt pulled across heaven.
Five hundred years passed. The Ciboney lived and died and buried their dead. They dreamed of worlds beyond them, of things they could not comprehend in their waking life. They listened to the ocean waves’ endless beat. There were others once, they knew. Other people.
When they saw the small canoes bobbing out on the horizon, they recognized that their distant relatives had returned.
The Arawaks were not terrible. When they drove the Ciboney out, they kept many of the women and children.
The Arawaks were luckier, too. They enjoyed their solitude for a thousand years, settling on St. Thomas, St. John, and St. Croix—the names that future invaders would give them.
They fished the ocean around their islands in canoes weighed down with their catch. They scoured the sea floor for conch, clams, and mussels. They cracked the backs of crabs. To the animals, nothing had changed. Strange creatures stole them from their homes to devour them.
The Arawaks planted cassava and corn and peas. They made cassava bread. They modeled little gods from clay, wood, shell, and bone and called them zemis. The zemis had grotesque faces but could control the weather, nurture crops, put babies in bellies.
The Arawaks lived their lives, singing of the places they came from, of the zemi spirits in their hands that helped control their universe. They remembered that there were other people once. But that was a long time ago.
When the Caribs finally arrived, they met the Arawaks living in small settlements. Used to conflict, the Caribs raided Arawak settlements in the dead of night. They ambushed hunters in the bush. The Arawaks retaliated as best they could, their own violence waking from its long slumber. But neither tribe was successful in extinguishing the other.
An uneasy equilibrium settled between the two tribes, the Caribs and the Arawaks coexisting for another one hundred and fifty years.
And then one day, the tribes saw boats bobbing on the sea, with large wings like bats about to take flight and pointed spears at their fronts. Boats much bigger than theirs and infinitely stranger.
• • •
Five years after arrival
Jackson rubbed at his eyes. He got up, stretched, and went to the fridge, pulling out a cold Heineken and popping the top off with the opener attached to the freezer door. He brought the cool mouth of the bottle to his lips, taking a few big gulps as he walked back to the dining room table, nudging away the mess around his computer to make room for his beer.
Stacks of books lay everywhere around him, forming helical towers all along the table and rising from empty chairs. Copies of old maps hung on the walls, while others lay rolled up and scattered on the floor. Between the spiraling towers, a few empty green bottles stood as guardians.
He should straighten up, he told himself. Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.
He pulled his phone from his pocket instead and looked at it. There were no new messages.
He texted his daughter. How is everything? He watched the screen for a moment and then put the phone back in his pocket. He wouldn’t be hearing from her anytime soon.
He could go back to writing? No. The computer screen was messing with his eyes again. Maybe he could take a walk. No, too hot out. He took another swig of his beer and stared at the maps on the wall.
Since his retirement, he had been doing research for this stupid book. He struggled with what the book was actually about. It was definitely a history book of the Virgin Islands, he knew. A chronicle of invasions. First the Spanish and then the Danish and then the Americans. And finally, the Ynaa. Beyond that, well, he wasn’t sure. The book had no soul.
He’d been reading about everything. Taking exhaustive notes. The book had taken over his life, stretched itself out in every room, leaving little space for anything else. He was pinned at the edges of his own existence, gasping for air.
Since retirement, he had moved out of his home and into this small apartment. Why had he done that again? To avoid uprooting Patrice from her life? She was gone now. Off to college for three long years. He barely ever heard from her.
So why was he still here? Why not just leave?
Jackson reached under the large stack next to his computer, to a folder filled with printed pages. He flipped through, finding the page he was looking for. At the top was the title of the most important chapter of his book: “The Immortal Witch.” As he read the title, he reminded himself that he was not crazy. When he finished the book—if he ever finished—he would reveal something that w
ould affect the entire world.
• • •
Jackson taught Postinvasion Fiction at the University of the Virgin Islands on Wednesday nights. It was the only class of its kind at the university, so he got students from every major, though English majors still filled most of his roster.
The class was about fiction that directly or indirectly referenced the Ynaa invasion. Unsurprisingly, there were a lot of examples. The literary community, struggling to keep up with the change, was finding it increasingly difficult to make distinctions between conventional and speculative fiction in a world where they had collided so completely. It was giving rise to interesting discussions in literary criticism.
The class coupled those discussions with thematic exploration of several works that ranged in their treatment of the Ynaa. In truth, the term “postinvasion” was overly dramatic. The Ynaa did not invade, exactly. Not in their eyes, at least, and certainly not according to the stance of world governments. But the term had weight, and so it stuck in the academic community and in the general public at large.
Of his students, Derrick was the most engaged. It wasn’t the first time Jackson had taught him. Derrick had taken his English class in high school before the Ynaa arrived. Since then, Derrick had attended two of his classes, the first a nonfiction seminar with the same focus. Jackson had the suspicion that Derrick signed up for the course mostly to ask him questions before and after class about his research. Jackson talked vaguely about his research into Virgin Islands history, and they often had heated debates about the Ynaa, but Jackson stayed off his more controversial theories—well, his most controversial theory, to be more precise.
On this Wednesday night, Derrick came late, so there was no preclass discussion. Jackson launched into his lesson. He noted, however, when Derrick slipped into the room ten minutes into his lecture and sat at the back of the class.
They spent most of the two-hour session discussing the film adaptation of one of the first examples of postinvasion fiction they had discussed as a class: a short story called “The Night After.” The movie of the same name followed a young couple in the days before and after the Ynaa’s arrival. The movie had no aliens in it, only referencing them through news footage—a common strategy used by literary types to separate themselves from the emboldened genre writers. But the connection featured prominently in the story’s progression as the couple grappled with the end of their relationship while the world around them panicked under the existential presence of the Ynaa.
“I liked it,” Derrick said, leading the class discussion. “But I wish they had dealt with the Ynaa more directly.”
“Only you care about that,” said Jacob from the front row. “Everything don’t have to be about the Ynaa.”
A few members of the class gave silent nods of agreement.
“I agree,” Derrick said. “But then, why bring up the Ynaa at all?”
“If you love them so much, ask them to take you with them when they leave,” Jacob said, turning back to face Derrick in the back row. “I tired arguing with your stupid ass, dehman.”
A few students chuckled. Derrick started to speak, but stopped when Jackson clapped his hands. “Watch your mouth, Jacob. And I still waiting for your last paper.”
“It coming, Dr. P. I promise. It just so much work dealing with Derrick stupidness that I forget to write it.”
More laughter.
“You all shouldn’t be laughing. The next paper is coming up next Wednesday. Don’t start looking down at your desks. It better be in my hands on Wednesday or there will be points off.”
Moans. Half-mocking gasps of horror.
“That means you, too, Jacob. With all the mouth you have in class, you’d swear you passing.”
An extended “Oo-o-o-o-o” from the whole class.
“How you gon’ call me out like that, Dr. P?” Jacob looked so wounded, it could only be pretend.
Jackson sighed. “Get out of my class. All of you. I’ll see you next week.” As they got up, he added, “With your papers in hand!”
A few students fussed as they walked out, but most of them would have their papers in on time. Jackson was accommodating, but also hard when he needed to be. Jacob would likely fail the class, but that didn’t seem to bother him much. He was the first one out the door.
As expected, Derrick lingered. “Why you didn’t jump in for me?”
“I jump in for you too much. The students are going to jump on you worse if I keep that up. Besides, my words can’t change their minds if yours won’t.”
“You still could support me.”
“But I’m not always sure I agree.”
“How you mean?” Derrick looked affronted.
“Sometimes, I wonder if equal is really fair. It is our Earth, not theirs.”
“But it is a good place to start.”
Jackson reached into his bag and handed Derrick a sheaf of pages. “It has already started. And no one is seeing things your way. Especially not the Ynaa.”
Derrick glowered, but he took the pages without a word. He skimmed the first one and then carefully read a few paragraphs on the second. “What’s this?”
“A theory I have.”
Derrick watched Jackson. “Seems far-fetched.”
“They knew so much from the get-go. How else could they know so much? Speak our languages? Know who to contact on arrival?”
Derrick laughed. “You been hanging out with me too long.”
“Or I’m onto something.”
“And if I ask the ambassador about this?” Derrick handed back the pages.
“Tell me what she says.”
“More likely to get my head ripped off than anything. If this is true, I doubt she’d want it getting out.” Derrick gave Jackson a good long look, and Jackson felt suddenly as if he had given something away, though he didn’t know what. Something like concern passed over Derrick’s face. “You okay? With everything?”
“What do you mean?”
Derrick folded his arms, eyeing Jackson. He was a man now, wide shouldered and tall. Taller than he, Jackson had just realized. Derrick’s hair was short and well managed, unlike Jackson’s bushy gray beard and Afro that he only absently tried to maintain. The years between them could not be more apparent—at opposite ends of their adult lives, with different concerns, both brought together under this singular interest. Before all this, Jackson had hardly held a conversation with the boy. That had been Aubrey back then. She was the one who took a liking to Derrick immediately. “Such a good kid,” she used to say.
“I’m fine,” Jackson said, looking away from the young man. “Really. Just this damn book.”
“Okay.” Derrick patted him on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”
The feeling of Derrick’s palm remained even after he turned to leave—a phantom presence, an echo of touch. He had felt so apart for so long, the little bit of contact actually made him feel substantial instead of how he usually felt, as if he were slowly fading away into nothing at all.
Jackson’s phone buzzed, and he took it out expecting to see his daughter’s nonchalant reply to his earlier text. But that was not what he got.
How you been, Jack? Want to
meet up?
• • •
Jackson had tried to reach out to Lisa a few months after Aubrey.
As all such mistakes began, he had been drinking. When he called her, he asked her, slurring through the words, whether she wanted to come over. He was sprawled on the living room floor of his apartment, unpacked boxes scattered around him.
Lisa told him she would be over in an hour.
Her knocking woke him from his drunken sleep, still lying where he’d made the call. When he answered the door, her expression immediately changed.
“I want you,” were his first cringeworthy words to her.
; She looked him up and down but didn’t come inside. “You sure about that? You even know who you talking to right now?”
Jackson kept nodding long past what could ever be construed as normal. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t let my appearance …” He trailed off, losing the thought.
“What happened to not wanting to get involved?”
“I’m single. And you single.”
That was not the right thing to say. Lisa turned and walked away.
Later, Jackson had apologized a few times via voicemail and text, sent her a message once or twice asking how she was doing. He received no reply.
Jackson watched the message on his phone for a few seconds before responding with a yes.
You busy tonight? I know you
teaching at UVI.
Class is over. Where do you want to meet?
Bella Blu. Already there.
Having an after-work drink.
Bella Blu was a restaurant in Frenchtown. When Jackson walked in, he immediately saw Lisa at the bar.
“How you been?” he asked her as he sat down.
“Okay. And you?”
He smiled, watching her. She had cut her hair short and was wearing a long-sleeved shirt tucked into tight-fitting jeans. “I’m okay,” he said.
“I didn’t like how things ended with us,” she said. “I wanted to apologize.”
“It was my fault.”
“We both could have handled it better.”
Jackson nodded, his shame easing a little. That was a very diplomatic answer.
He ordered a Cruzan rum and Coke, and they talked on, catching each other up on their lives. Lisa told him about her stories. She had submitted a few to Callaloo, a Caribbean magazine, but hadn’t gotten any acceptances. She was still waiting on a response to the latest story she sent out. Jackson told her about his project, his book about invasions.
The Lesson Page 4