There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  To my parents

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  The Prophet

  The Land, Dark and Close

  The One Who Ran

  Chache Lavi

  New Life, New Death

  The Open Question

  In Memoriam

  Part II

  The Peasant

  Rites

  A Failure of the Heart

  Masks

  Crossroads

  City of the Dead

  The End of Hope

  Flight

  Passed through the Ground

  A Split Soul

  The Fallen Seeds

  The Violent Bear it Away

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Prologue

  There was a Land.

  And in that Land was a Boy.

  And in that Boy was a Seed.

  They come in a time of fear.

  In this year, 1994, hope has already stood up to be counted, named itself, and been dashed. The elected government is toppled and scattered as its army turns yet again like a sharpened spear on its own people.

  In this month, September, the retaliatory embargo against Haiti continues to make its markets seize and crops fail to flow down the mountain trails or up from the valleys and into the cities.

  On this day, the twenty-ninth, reports of foreign troops arriving on the island’s shores begin spreading throughout this part of the country.

  And on this day, in this month, in this year, the Son comes up the mountain.

  He walks slowly. Not because he is tired, or lazy, nor because a heavy load presses upon his ever-broadening shoulders. It is because the day is beautiful.

  The Sun’s face is hidden by thick, painterly clouds. Birds loop and dive, reveling in their easy flight. The earth is wet with merciful rain.

  And despite all that is wrong with the world, in this moment, all is well with the Son. He sings songs to himself and plots stories to share, for in these lyrics and words he can forget things as they are–dismal, dire–and dream of what they might be. Infrequent rain means sparse crops, yes. Disease has claimed some from his family who dot these mountains. Hunger, always present, gnaws from within. But he, this Son, has a spirit made to soar.

  When the two jeeps approach bearing men clad in green and holding guns poking out at all angles, his singing stops. He slips to the side of the mountain path, and a cloud of dirt envelops him. Seeing these dark men, these paramilitaries, who come to boss and pry and take, is not uncommon. But he does not usually see so many, not all at once. He tries pushing thoughts of the dark men away, but they linger. He lays his eyes on the green of the valleys below, on distant trees so small they blend into a quilt over the land, on the Artibonite River sliding among them like an aqua serpent. He returns to his lyrics and musings, but it is no good. The fear has slipped beneath his skin.

  His gait stretches. His pace quickens.

  The path from here to home is long. He tries to buffet his fears with thoughts of the curvy girl he likes, the heft of a harvesting blade in his hand, his sister near their kerosene lamp as he delights her with tales. His keen eyes take in much when he wishes them to, and he takes these raw observations and spins them into legends that make the world feel bigger than the mountaintop upon which he passes his life.

  When he comes upon the first lakou, a collection of neighbors’ ramshackle homes, it is silent. He sees curtain doors sway in the breeze and pots left to sit over dying cooking flames. It is as if everyone from the smallest child to the oldest man has hidden as part of a game.

  The fear burrows deeper yet. Those jeeps, those men, those guns; they have claimed him. The Son can resist no more. He runs.

  He takes to the cornstalks on the hillside, as he’s been warned to do by his father. His papa is a local organizer and leader with the Lavalas Party and had helped sweep President Aristide into office, the same president who was swept out not long after. He is a good man, his father. He speaks of jistis and demokrasi as if they are familiar friends, bodied and breathing and coming to take up residence on their mountain. His father is a hero for his vision, and his mother, much loved by all, has helped as much in bringing them here. When news of the coup came, so did violence. Jistis and demokrasi were quick to flee. His parents were not.

  Threading through rocks and spare trees, the Son slides up the hill to gain a view of his family’s house and yard. The sight is surreal. He sees the dark men enter and leave his small home, throwing the family’s chairs, mats, bowls, rice, and seed stores into a pile. He watches them hoist the family’s goats, pigs, and roosters into the jeeps. He gasps at the sight of his father and mother–on their knees, guns to their heads–watching this emptying of their lives with tears.

  Where is his sister? The fear, now at his throat, makes him double over. He forces himself to rise, to look at their possessions, licked by growing flames, and looks away over the stalks of corn and beseeches the mountains and valley, the sky and everything in it, to end this moment.

  The Son watches as the men drag his father to the closest tree, a mapou. They produce a noose and toss it over a branch.

  Suddenly his father is up, dangling, and dying. As the men let his suffering stretch out, the Son’s mother cannot help but scream. Half of the dark men train their guns on her. Half aim their guns at his father.

  The sky shatters.

  The foul cracking sounds bounce from slope to scarp and back in cruel, hollow echoes.

  The Son’s gaze falters. He falls low among the rocks and roots. He trembles, bile churns in his stomach, creeps up his throat, and out.

  And with these murders, the Son, this boy, becomes a man.

  Death surrounds. The cost of living, they say.

  Many deaths mean little when the dead pass and the wide world fails to take note.

  Other deaths are grand in significance, marking the stop of one thing and the start of another. They are premature reapings, and their sadness staggers.

  You might think these deaths are the former. But you would be wrong.

  These deaths on a quiet mountain in Haiti are a long-term loan taken out by Fate. Though the victims will be mourned by few and forgotten by most, they have shaken the foundations of what is, so that at just the right time and just the right place the course of things might change–irrevocably, impossibly, and for forever.

  Part I

  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

  Psalm 121:1

  Deye mòn, gen mòn.

  Behind mountains, there are mountains.

  The Prophet

  Kouri pou lapli, tonbe nan gran rivyè.

  Run from the rain to fall in the river.

  There are souls lingering in these woods, these hills, these mountains.

  The black, brewing storm keeps the Moon’s light at bay, barring it from the good it might do. Candle
flames dance until a powerful gust rises up, extinguishing lights throughout the land. The dark hides what it hides. Until the broken girl, soul and all, must flee.

  I would do

  She thrusts herself against the tree, hoping the others had not heard the twig snap, the branches rustle, her breathless curse. Her mind, unstuck in time, careens between past fear and present danger. Convinced that if she stalls, if she does not move, she will die.

  Her eyes dart from left to right. She scans the field of trees before her and their monstrous tangles of limbs. Nothing there.

  I would do anything

  No sound. No light. But then, a flash fills the wood, a crash steals her gaze.

  Is it them?

  The drops are heard, then felt, filtering down through the foliage above. Her senses are lost in the new downpour. She shields her eyes, a futile effort to keep the falling water from claiming her sight. Shuddering in the cold, she hazards a deep, long breath. Did I beat them?

  Another flash. The fleeting light gives a glimpse of three shifting forms. Prowling in formation and oblivious to the sheets of rain, they move straight ahead. Straight toward her.

  She snaps back behind the tree and stifles a whimper. Her body trembles with a power previously unknown, claimed by the thought of their fangs entering her flesh, rending her apart. Such a horrible end! Teeth clenched, she looses a wordless, aspirated prayer.

  She reaches for her remaining shoe–the other lost in her sprint through the woods–and flings it as far as she can.

  She watches. Hopes the beasts will run away and afford her a moment to sprint the opposite direction. But they are not taken in. They have her scent. It is now just a matter of how to best claim her.

  I would do anything for you

  She steels her mind, pushing the wisps of words aside with the branches that hover before her. Sodden, she pulls her book bag from back to front, unzips it, feels around, and sobs in frustration. Was it gone? Had she lost it?

  Her desperate fingers close.

  This is it then.

  Just as she’d been taught, she pounds the flare’s cap. It bursts into flame and smoke, bathing Libète and the beasts in a light both flickering and red.

  The light flashes. Red. A warning.

  — We’re coming back on, Gerry says.

  Libète pushes Jak, who sits next to her, and laughs at the boy’s just-told joke. He smiles too. They are dressed in their best, though none of their listeners can see them.

  They put on their headphones and squint to take in their pale reflections in the glass between them and Gerry. Libète sits taller than the boy, but he is catching her up. Her plaits glisten in the studio’s low light.

  — You look ridiculous, she mouths, pointing out the headphones swallowing Jak’s head.

  — So do you, he mouths back. His smile is wide.

  They each feel a hand on their shoulder to still them. Libète turns. Stephanie frowns, but the girl sees a smile itching at the corner of the woman’s mouth. Libète pats her guardian’s hand reassuringly and swivels in her chair.

  Gerry speaks. I want to welcome you all back, dear listeners, for this special New Year’s Eve program . . .

  With a deep breath, Libète exorcises the last trace of playfulness. Her face is set. The restraining hand slides away. She fixes her eyes on Gerry as he greets the audience, smiling at her through his words. She nods back, sitting straight as a pole.

  — For those just joining us, we have two special cohosts with us to herald in 2014, some of the boldest voices of a new generation, Libète Limye and Jak Alcide, two children–

  — Young adults, Libète corrected.

  — . . . refined in the brutal crucible that is Cité Soleil–

  — Among many kind and loving people there, she added.

  — . . . who have given us an example of courage beyond their years through their activism.

  Libète offered a small bow in her seat. Thank you for the kind words, Mesye Gerry.

  — Thank you, Mesye Gerry, Jak parroted as he slid his flat hands from the shallow desk before him to his lap. Wet palm prints remained, soon vanishing in the studio’s cool.

  — By now many of you are familiar with this pair’s story, Gerry said. Based on the YouTube video’s view count, it’s likely you’ve even watched as these two stood and accused the villain Jean-Pierre Benoit of conspiracy to kill a mother and child and lead a prostitution ring.

  Libète piped in. And I’ll remind our dear listeners that this . . . man, if I can even call him this, has skirted the law and still walks among us innocents, as free and careless as the day he was born.

  — And be that as it may, Gerry answered, I must confess that at the end of another long and hard year, I tire of discussing Benoit and our broken justice system. We could cover such things all day. But on this evening, on this New Year’s Eve, I’d rather discuss Haiti’s hope–which to my old and tiring eyes, appears to be its youth. It appears to be you, Jak and Libète, and your work.

  Jak spoke first. Oh, our work’s really not that special–

  Libète slapped the back of Jak’s head. Our work is not only special – she gave the boy a cutting look – it is one of the most vital social movements of the last decade in Haiti. A comprehensive youth congress to organize Cité Soleil and demand full social, economic, cultural, civil, and political rights for the underclass. Jak and I are honored to be the original conveners and delegates of this democratic congress.

  — And you have a large rally planned for Independence Day tomorrow, no?

  — Wi. Yes. That is correct. We will mark it as a day of independence from unjust markets that rob us of our dignity, from an abusive political system that makes a mockery of the word democracy. Tomorrow is a day for us to gather and focus on what makes us poor, and to then rejoice over what makes us rich!

  — A tall order! Gerry gave a patronizing laugh, though Libète didn’t mind. I, as one of the old guard in this fight, look forward to hearing more! So in this next half hour, to pass the torch and begin tomorrow’s celebrations today, I’ll hand over the microphone to these childr–young adult–hosts. They’ll be taking calls from you. And these two–well, maybe just Libète–have let me know that all topics are on the table. Gerry poked at the control panel before him. First caller!

  A small yellow light on a sound board before Jak turned green.

  — Wi, hello? the voice said. Am I on? A squawk of feedback followed, making the children cringe.

  — Yes, dear friend and caller, you are on, Gerry said impatiently. Please, turn your radio off in the background.

  — Oh, yes. Of course, of course. They heard the caller, an elderly man by the timbre of his voice, shuffle off. On the way back to the phone, they could hear him clear his throat and spit. Libète smiled at Jak.

  — Children, the gentleman said, I understand you have made a commitment to justice?

  — That is right, dear sir. It is our birthright and lives’ pursuit.

  — And then why does it not bother you to do a grave injustice by slandering one of our most successful and generous businessmen, Monsieur Jean-Pierre Benoit? Does it not bother you that the tiny bit of notoriety you now exploit comes from dragging his good name through the mud with these tired, baseless accusations? Have you no shame?

  Gerry cut off the call with the flip of a switch.

  — Ah, I’m sorry for that. We screen our callers, but bad eggs can’t always be avoided. He cast a glance over to the show’s producer to his left. The man gave a shrug.

  — It’s all right, Libète said. We mustn’t silence debate. The Truth defies all silencing. Right, Jak?

  — Um. Right.

  — Unfortunately, in this battle of accusations, Benoit’s attacks go beyond just the verbal. He employed thugs and murderers to do his dirty work before, and he does so now. As we came into the studio this evening, there were protesters outside. Threatening us, and the radio station. Pull their pockets inside out and you’d find a f
ew goud from Benoit’s bank account deposited there. No matter the amount of money, no matter what Benoit might do through his minions, here is the thing he still doesn’t understand: he cannot kill the Truth as long as we are willing to speak it. Yes, his example is yet another mockery of our laws, but we have already seen that our esteemed prezidan-pou-lavi Jean-Claude Duvalier walks about the streets of Port-au-Prince unconvicted by the courts. This is the ultimate insult to those who suffered in his regime’s grip! Why should we expect that Benoit, an amateur villain next to Duvalier, would face justice unless we, the sovereign people, hold Benoit to account?

  Gerry was smiling widely. Libète, the strength with which you speak! At what, age fourteen?

  — I turn fifteen tomorrow.

  — Ha! I should simply abdicate my place behind the microphone to you. Anything to add, Jak?

  — No. Yes. I . . . I mean . . . no.

  A frown slipped across Gerry’s face. Every tap of the host’s index finger signaled his disappointment. Stephanie patted Jak on the back and whispered, It’s okay.

  — Next caller, then. Who are we speaking with?

  — I’m called Madanm Honoré. I have seen the video taken the night you children confronted Benoit. Of course, the police officer–what was his name?

  — Dimanche, Libète said.

  — Wi, Dimanche. He is at the center of the camera’s attention. But we hear your voice and see you two small children standing up. This officer, the one who arrested Benoit, I’ve wondered what’s become of him. In a way, he is an equal hero, non?

  Libète and Jak looked to each other. Libète could not speak this time. Jak filled the gap. Of course he’s a hero. All I ever did was figure out what Benoit’s crimes were. Officer Dimanche, he is the one who took my thoughts from the air and made them action, as only an adult could. Without him, there would have been no attempt at justice.

  — And he is gone, Libète added sadly. For speaking truth, he was silenced. Fired from the police. Forced into hiding. That’s all we know.