She nodded, and he sat beside her.
• • •
Following protocol, Mera had sent regular updates to the Ynaa. Physical and genetic descriptions of the planet’s diverse life, human cultures, and a few of their languages—everything she could gather about the world, along with her own thoughts about the creatures living on it. Mera had spent most of her time in the Caribbean, particularly in what would become the US Virgin Islands, but she had sent dozens of stealth probes all over the planet to monitor other locations and collect biosamples. As a result, she knew more about the world than any human living on it. She was familiar with the humans’ defenses, knew many of their secrets.
Something Mera had sent to the Ynaa—perhaps many things—had piqued her people’s interest. When five hundred Ynaa arrived in a midclass research ship, Mera was just as surprised as the humans.
Of course she had asked why they came, but the answer was unsatisfying.
“To make sure you don’t betray us,” Ohoim had said.
“Why would I betray you?”
“Time away has a negative effect on some Ynaa.”
As expected, he did not explain what he meant, but Mera understood the danger of seeming too attached to the humans. She had her fears confirmed when she learned of Okaios tailing her the other night. Their conversation today had made it clear.
When Mera knocked, Jackson took a few minutes to open the door. She could hear movement inside the house—two pairs of feet rushing back and forth, the soft closing of a door.
The door opened, and he seemed genuinely surprised to see her. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t expecting anyone. Fell asleep on the couch.” He smiled, a bead of sweat moving down the side of his face.
Mera smiled back. “No problem.” She watched him coolly.
“Oh,” he said, “come in.” He made space for her to pass through the doorway. She did, and he closed the door behind her.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” he said, motioning her to the couch. There were empty beer bottles on the table, and two that still had beer in them, the outsides of the glass sweating with condensation. “You know how it is,” he said, and then laughed. “Well, maybe you don’t, but my house is always cleaner when I know in advance that I will be entertaining.”
Mera smiled and sat on the couch. “I understand. Don’t worry.”
Jackson sat on a seat across from her. He looked nervous. “I wanted to apologize about, well …” He trailed off, looking at her.
She gave him a smile. “It is okay. You didn’t hurt anyone.” Even better, you didn’t hurt yourself.
“I’m sorry anyway,” he said.
Mera kept the smile but offered no further reply.
“So what brings the ambassador to this lowly doorstep?” he said, easing back in his chair.
“I was looking for Derrick.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I know him. Wonderful young man. Good head on his shoulders. But what brings you here?”
Mera looked at the two bottles on the table. She also let her eyes wander to the dress shoes against the living room wall, and the bedspread on the arm of the couch. “He told me he was staying here,” she said finally.
She watched what he would do next. He couldn’t deny that Derrick was staying here; the evidence that he’d had company was everywhere. Nor could he challenge her on her statement. To do that, he would have to acknowledge that he had talked to Derrick about her, knew why she was here, and had prepped for her visit.
“He’s out at the moment,” Jackson said, a resigned shrug punctuating the words.
“Okay,” Mera said. She got up. “Well, when he comes in, can you tell him I need to talk to him? He’s not been answering his phone.”
“That’s weird,” Jackson said. “I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.”
Mera walked to the door, Jackson following. She lingered, looking down the hall to the closed door at the end. Jackson took the bait, turning to look. When he saw the door still closed, he looked back at her, relief on his face. He twitched a little when he saw that she had been watching him.
Not giving him a moment to catch himself, she leaned in. Jackson twitched again like a cornered mouse. Her voice low, Mera said, “When he is ready to talk and not hide, he knows how to reach me.”
Jackson jerked his head up and down in overeager acknowledgment. Mera left, not wasting any more of either his time or hers.
Twenty minutes later, while sitting at a stoplight, she got a text.
Where are you?
She smiled. Finally, Derrick had retrieved his good sense. She texted back.
By Emancipation Garden
Okay. I’ll meet you there.
• • •
Siba woke up in a cold sweat. Mera reached out to touch his face, his sweat dampening her fingers. Even in the dark, she could see his wide eyes.
“What are you?” he asked.
Mera noted the what, not who.
She had been intrigued by the superstition of humans. Something strange came into their periphery, and they were ready to get on their knees and worship it—or run screaming. Apparently, Siba tended toward the latter.
Mera looked at him for a long time, not knowing what to say. What could she say? She couldn’t talk away superstition. She couldn’t reason with a mind unready for reason.
She smiled. “I am someone who cares about you.”
Siba didn’t say anything. He stayed frozen in place, his wild eyes staring at nothing. Only then did she realize that he was sleep-talking. Nonetheless, he seemed comforted by her words. His eyes closed, and his body relaxed. She put her hand on his chest. Some warmth had returned. She gently nudged him back to lying down. They had put pieces of cloth over the wooden slab to provide more softness. She bunched up some of the cloth and placed it under his head.
Siba woke up like this sometimes, but this was the first time that his blind horror had been directed at her specifically. Usually, he woke and screamed out the name of his wife and son. He had lost them back in Great Accra when the Akyem, Ga, and Kyerepong tribes took the city.
The Akwamu had risen to prominence as middlemen between the Danish and the other tribes. As their power grew, they abused it more and more, selling members of weaker tribes into slavery for more wealth and influence. They made enemies. Eventually, their enemies gave back to the Akwamu in kind, sacking their city, beheading their king, and selling their prince, Aquashi, to slavers. Siba and his family were sold, too. Siba and Prince Aquashi survived the journey to St. John. His wife and son died on the passage. Mera never asked the details of their death.
When Mera heard Siba begin to snore, she answered his question. She told him where she came from, about the bone pits and Ynaa Sky. She told him why she was here, that she had come in search of the one thing: Yn Altaa. And she told him her true name. After she was finished, she listened to his breathing.
Physically, Siba was a slender man. A gentle man. Mera could have destroyed him in an instant. It seemed a little odd that she was attracted to him. It was how whole he felt, how complete. A deep world inside him, more important than any outward strength. She watched him for a time, observing the quiet movements of his body. When she had taken in enough of him, she lay down next to him and went to sleep.
Over the next few months, a lot changed. A crushing drought passed over the island. St. John had had trouble with maroons for years, but the drought made it worse. Slaves were running off into the bush to fend for themselves. Every night, Mera could hear the tribal drums, announcing the comings and goings of maroon groups.
Many of the maroons lived at the abandoned Vessup plantage on the northwest side of the island. Another camp had been established at Waterlemon Bay Estate to the northeast.
At first, Siba showed no interest in joining the maroons. But then Prince Aquashi escaped his enslavement at
Estate Adrian and disappeared into the bush. One night before bed, Siba told Mera of Aquashi’s escape. He said it in such a way that she sensed some significance to it, the beginning of something, though he didn’t say what. When Siba started hoarding food and sneaking out at night, she didn’t ask why, because she knew the answer.
Then the proclamation from St. Thomas came to the ears of the slaves: runaways would be punished severely. Most maroons would lose a leg, but the ringleaders would be broken on the wheel, each bone of their body crushed by the executioner’s hammer.
Word traveled to the plantations of St. John and then to the maroons in the bush. They beat their drums endlessly. And then everything changed. Siba argued with Mera every night. He wanted to leave for the bush. She urged him to reconsider.
“You’re asking me to betray my king.”
“Your king is dead. You don’t owe his son anything.”
“He is king now.”
“No, he is not. The land you once ruled is far away from here. He rules over nothing now but water-starved bush.”
Siba glared at her. He sat up and moved away from her. “You have no right. You are not one of us.”
Mera could see him staring blindly in her direction. The crickets and night birds played their songs to the darkness outside.
“Siba …”
He didn’t let her finish. He got up and left the hut. Outside in the crisp night air, he stood alone, staring into the trees and darkness beyond them. It was late. No drums played in the distance. Mera watched him from the stooped entryway of their hut. She didn’t approach.
A few days later, the drums played for Siba—a summoning by his king.
“Will you come?” he asked.
Mera shook her head.
Siba didn’t bother trying to convince her. He nodded, tears in his eyes, genuine hurt on his face. Then he left. He walked into the darkness, and the drums carried him away.
• • •
Emancipation Garden wasn’t very big, but it had history. On one end of the park was a copper statue of a shirtless black man, a conch shell to his mouth, his puffed cheeks blowing. On the other end was a replica of the Liberty Bell atop a base of mortared stone. A bust of Danish king Christian V stood at the center of a bed of red flowers. Etched into a commemorative plaque was the date of emancipation: july 3, 1848.
The park, located across from the Legislature, was frequented by young people, tourists, pigeons, wild chickens, and the island’s homeless. On this afternoon, schoolchildren were still hanging around in the park, their uniforms still on, though many of them had untucked their shirts from their pants and skirts.
“I was upset,” Derrick was saying. They sat on a bench, Derrick’s body tilted toward hers. He wore a plain blue T-shirt, which seemed a little jarring to Mera since she had only seen him in dress shirts.
Mera didn’t say anything in response to the confession. She knew he had been upset.
“It’s difficult,” he continued, looking down and then away from her, “since you have all the power here.”
“Do I?” Mera asked. She considered the statement, not entirely sure what he meant by it.
“Yes,” he said, not seeming to realize that his words needed more clarification.
“I don’t understand.”
“A symptom of your power.”
Mera felt something rile up under her skin. The words chafed against her, waking her from her numbness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have agreed to go out with you to begin with. It was inappropriate.”
Derrick laughed bitterly.
A feral chicken pecked at something in the dirt near Mera’s feet. She let it get close. Over the long years, she had raised a few chickens for their eggs. She remembered her first chickens, from the garden she shared with Siba.
“What am I to you?” Derrick asked.
Mera cycled through a few answers to the question. Finding no good response, she settled on a terrible one. “A valuable assistant.”
The flare of anger on Derrick’s face confirmed whatever he had been thinking.
“A tool,” he sneered. “I’m a good tool.”
Mera said nothing.
“And now you’ve closed off any possibility of me being more.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“You’ve told me that already.” Derrick stood up, spooking the chicken. A homeless man sitting on a bench stared at them.
They had been lucky so far. Except for the homeless man, no one was really paying attention to them. Now Mera saw the schoolchildren look their way. They recognized her at once. One of the kids, a tall boy, actually took a couple of steps back. A girl’s eyes went wide before she caught herself and looked away.
The group of five started whispering, careful to keep their eyes and faces averted. Mera could hear them even from this far off. “That’s the ambassador.” “We should go.” “Who that with her?” “The traitor. Yeah, that him right there.” “How she letting him raise his voice to her like that?” “I heard they kill people for shit like that.”
One of the kids caught her eye. “She looking. Oh, no. We should go.” And then they all left the park.
As all this happened, Mera had said nothing to Derrick. When she returned her attention to him, he was watching her.
“There are people who might hurt you to hurt me,” she said. “We have to restrict our relationship to the office.”
“You said that already, too.”
“Some of the Ynaa see my weakness. They might decide to teach me through you.”
“Without provocation?”
“We’ve been known to interpret abstract threats as concrete ones.”
“My life is mine,” Derrick said.
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you throw it away.”
Derrick folded his arms. An impasse. Mera let the silence rest.
The day before, Derrick had asked her again to go out. She had refused. When he responded with “maybe next time,” Mera clarified. No, she would never go out with him again. He hadn’t said anything then, just gathered his things and left, looking wounded. She felt bad about it, but not enough to change her mind. She reserved the right to make that decision. She had never agreed to anything beyond that one night.
When Derrick spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “I have feelings for you. Do you have feelings for me?”
He met her eyes so intensely, she almost looked away. When she didn’t say anything, he stepped a little closer to her and repeated the question, his voice even lower than before. Mera was still sitting, so she had to crane her neck up a little to look him in the face. A crown of leaves shifted above him, the wind spurring them to life. The park had all but emptied while they talked, even the homeless man choosing to move on to a safer locale. The chicken had drifted back over toward them, however, pecking at the dirt again, clucking quietly to itself.
Derrick waited, his expression not angry or prodding. He just looked resigned, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He maintained a respectable distance, choosing not to step any closer to her.
“I don’t,” Mera answered.
Derrick nodded, his face unchanging. “Okay,” he said, sitting down beside her. Again, Mera let the silence rest between them.
Minutes passed without either of them saying anything. Mera watched the chicken peck at bits of discarded orange peel. In her nose, she smelled coppery blood. In her ears, the ocean crashed.
Derrick’s phone rang. He looked down, checking the name, and then answered.
“What’s up, sis?”
Mera tried not to listen to what Lee was saying.
“Grams know about this?”
Derrick’s face hardened for a moment. His shoulders tensed. Mera watched.
He let out a sigh. “All right, what time?” he
asked. He paused and listened. “’Kay, see you in a bit.”
Derrick hung up. Then he turned to Mera. “I got to pick up my sister for this thing.”
She nodded. “I figured that out.”
“Will you come?”
“What?”
“Will you come with me?”
Mera blinked. “Why?”
“There’s something else I want to ask you.”
Mera tried to read Derrick’s face, but he gave nothing away. After a moment, she relented. “Okay. Just this last time.”
• • •
The insurrection began with Sodtman’s plantation, in the early morning hours of November 23, 1733.
Sodtman woke at the yell of a slave. The Dane rushed outside with his gun, only to be seized from behind by several maroons. They disarmed him and dragged him back inside. They all gathered in the dining hall and set Sodtman on top of the strong mahogany table at the heart of the room. The maroons ordered the house slaves to light candles. Two maroons held his stepdaughter. Heat hung all around them, the air ripe with the stench of unwashed bodies and terror.
The maroons asked him to dance. When he refused, they sliced at his legs with sharpened cutlasses. His blood leaked all over the mahogany table. Enlivened by his screams, they crowded in, hacking deeper into his legs, his arms, his sides. His young stepdaughter watched his blood paint the room. She screamed and fainted.
Finishing him off was only a formality. They removed his head. Quietly, the two maroons held their hands to the stepdaughter’s mouth, pinning her body to the floor. She woke up kicking. It didn’t take long for her to stop.
At the same time, several maroons approached the island’s military outpost, disguised as bearers carrying bundles of firewood. The men at the outpost, not suspecting a thing, let them in. The maroons took cutlasses from their bundles and went to work on the soldiers.
On the north side of the island, the maroons followed the path from plantation to plantation, killing every white person they could find. A mother was hacked to death, a newborn in her arms. Someone lifted the screaming baby from the bloody mass and swung it by the feet against the stone wall, the wet thud ending the baby’s cries.
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