There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) Read online

Nervousness pricked her skin. This must stop. Before she gave up any information and committed herself to a lie too difficult to keep. Is asking questions all you can do? she said.

  Prosper gave a lopsided grin. Mwen regrèt sa. I won’t ask another. He rubbed the back of his head. You, uh, want me to show you around?

  — That’s another question.

  — Let me show you around.

  Libète thought of Magdala and Dorsinus, trapped inside their own heads. They were more troubled by Félix–the boy who ran–than this one, who had picked the fight. If her pursuers closed in, she needed to be prepared. To know the land. Where to hide. How to escape.

  She exhaled. Dakò. It’s agreed.

  Prosper smiled, but quickly banished it from his face. He proffered a hand to help her up, but she stood without taking it. She winced.

  — You’re hurt?

  The weight on her toes did give her pain, but it was bearable. She walked toward the footpath without a word. Prosper caught up with her.

  — Th-this is my family’s plot, he stammered. One of them. My father, he died a few years back, so my mother and I are responsible for it now. He used his finger to trace invisible boundaries around its perimeter.

  — How can you tell where it stops and starts? The crops – she pointed to them with a weak twirl of her wrist – they just run one into the other.

  — We’ve been on this land for generations. Have small plots like this all over the place, here and there. High up, down low.

  Libète crouched and saw small green buds poking through the dirt. Are these, what, beans?

  Prosper tutted. Beans? Of course not. Where did you say you’re from?

  She had not. The fact was she and her mother had had a small garden on the island of La Gonâve, but that had been in low, inland forest. Goats had been their livelihood. Memories of planting, tending, and picking were distant, burned up in the heat of years passed in Cité Soleil.

  — I’m from far away, she said plainly. Her look turned icy. He turned away slowly and cursed himself; nothing he said seemed to come out right. He pointed down the mountain, toward the homes below. What about Foche?

  — We passed through the town, but by night. I saw very little.

  He came behind her and stood close, closer than she wanted, and used his arm to draw her attention to the mountainside. He must have cleaned since the fight. For me. He smelled of fresh citrus, and that made her think of Jak. Tears rose in her eyes.

  — Down there is the new capped spring, and that big piece of land around it is the common plot. There’s the legliz. It’s our church and meeting hall. And the tonel–did you see it on the way in?–used to heed the spirits. That open ground over there is for when there’s market, and when there’s market, Foche is a different place. Every Monday and Thursday. People come from all over. They did even before the new road was built. But now, with it so much easier for trucks and motos to come and go, the market is double, even triple the size. All because of the road.

  Libète cocked her head. Who built it?

  — The government.

  She chortled. You’re joking.

  — No! It’s truth. I swear! Foche, it’s an important place now. We were struggling, even just two years ago. Move tan yo, the Bad Times, we called them. There wasn’t much rain. Crops didn’t grow. When rain did come, it came like a flood. Washed out paths, the soil, all our seed. But now things are better. The new road lets our food go down the mountain, reach the cities. Lets us bring in fertilizer, more seed. Lets us take loans and pay them back. Foche, it’s like new.

  To Libète this sounded like a recitation of often-heard propaganda. She turned away and looked it all over again. Steep inclines with ridges formed a natural crescent that wrapped around Foche. She could see clusters of small huts and shacks not too far off the main road. The road traced the shape of the crescent except where it forked, not far from where Libète and Prosper stood.

  — But build a two-lane road to the top of a mountain village? For a few peyizan farming their plots? Incredible. Imposib, she said to herself. When she turned to Prosper again, his jaw was clenched.

  — We’re developing, he snapped. An example of progress. For all the countryside. That’s why they rewarded us.

  Her eyes traveled over his shoulder, tugged by something distant creeping up the mountain. It was dark and alien, like a roach, and rumbled up the road.

  A truck, she realized. It was uncommonly large.

  Prosper continued, as much for his own sake as for hers. The road, he said, that’s an outside accomplishment. But this land, you see all these beans, this sorghum and cowpeas? Growing so well? That’s our biggest achievement.

  The truck was close enough now for Libète to see MACK emblazoned across its rattling grill. To hear the engine’s roar, observe its covered bed and deep black exhaust spinning up and into nothing. Libète hated it instantly.

  — It’s my mother’s biggest achievement, this land, Prosper said. She’s a leader here, you know. A grandon, a big land owner. He chuckled to himself.

  — What’s so funny?

  — Except she doesn’t own the plot. We all do. So we’re all grandon now. She pulled the community together to make it happen.

  Libète cocked her head. Her eyes lit up with a hint of genuine curiosity.

  His lips split in a smile. He had finally said something right!

  — We realized that if we farmed the corn together, made a crop for ourselves rather than for selling outside, we could protect ourselves by having our own seed supply.

  — Yeah?

  — Yeah. A university gave us the seed to start, once my mother got everyone to agree on pulling the land together. Ever since, we farm it all, grow our own food, store seed for our own plots. We’re bosses of our food. Our own lives. He held out a guiding hand. Step back.

  They moved away from the road’s shoulder and planted their feet in the plot’s dark earth. The truck lumbered past, shaking the ground and raising dust. Prosper cupped his hand over his nose and mouth. Libète did the same.

  The truck reached the road’s end and came to a large iron gate. Curious. Libète shielded her eyes to get a better look. The gate was painted brown and built into the earth. It lay in a cut in the ridge; whether it was a natural formation or carved or blasted from the rock, Libète couldn’t tell.

  — What’s that? Libète asked.

  Prosper shrugged. It’s a gate.

  — What’s behind it?

  — The other side of the ridge. A small plateau. Nothing really. The trucks come occasionally, bring supplies. For syans. Science.

  The gate opened and a man came out. Though the scene unfolding was far away, she saw that the man wore a dark uniform and had a dog on a lead. The sight of the creature made her shrink.

  — The university people, the ones who gave the seed, Prosper said. They’re studying rocks.

  Libète took it all in silently. The truck entered. The gate closed. She frowned.

  This made little sense. Her eyes traced the road back to their feet.

  — The road. It splits there, turns into a trail, goes by Madanm Magdala’s and up over the hill.

  — Wi.

  — What’s up there?

  He made a dismissive wave. Nothing.

  — Surely something.

  — Just an old fortress. French. All broken down.

  — A fort? Really? She shifted her weight. Her own fort in Cité Soleil–nothing more than an abandoned store shot to pieces–had always been a safe place to retreat. Maybe just what I need now.

  — Can we see it? she asked.

  — No, no. You don’t want to see that. That’s the other reason the road was built. Moun andeyo, outsiders. They care about visiting that kind of thing. History. Just rocks on top of rocks.

  — But I do want to see it.

  — Maybe another time. The path is difficult, your injuries . . .

  — All the same.

  — It’s, uh, beyond Fo
che. None of us go near it. No. Nothing there.

  She stared at him.

  Prosper sighed then huffed, puckering his lips. He picked at dirt beneath his thumbnail. That’s where he lives, he said, a streak of bitterness running through the words.

  — He? Who do you–

  It hit her.

  — Magdala’s son? Félix?

  He bobbed his head.

  — Why were you fighting with him this morning?

  He didn’t answer.

  — Did you start it, or did he?

  Prosper’s face clouded. He did. He started it all.

  — Why?

  — Félix is a vòlè, plain and simple.

  — A thief? What did he take?

  — What did he take? Thousands of goud. Prosper held out his palm and tapped his other index finger into it to accent his words. The community’s money, saved up. Every year, we gather here in Foche for a feast, on New Year’s Day. We all work together during the year, saving and scrimping, pulling our belts tight, putting enough ti kòb together for the big day when we don’t have to work in the fields. We don’t have to answer to anyone. We all just eat together, enjoy life. It’s a day where we stand face to face with each other and know we’re human beings, not animals. The money was entrusted to him, put in his care, and he took it. But he didn’t just take the money; he took our dignity.

  Libète had touched a nerve, that much was clear.

  — Why is he free, then?

  — My mother, Prosper sneered. He breathed deeply to calm himself. She’s the only reason. If we had our way he’d be strung up to a tree. But she’s a good woman, I’m telling you. Better than most of us.

  — Was he returning to Magdala’s home this morning?

  — Who cares? He’s not to step foot in Foche during the day. I was just going to our field. My mother said not to get into anything, but when I saw him . . .

  She started to walk toward the fort.

  He grabbed her arm. I’m not going out there. Not while he’s there. He has to answer for what he’s done and he will this afternoon, in front of the whole community.

  Her eyes flashed. She ripped her arm away. Thank you for the tour, she said under her breath. I’ll be going now.

  She heard him fume, and felt some guilt–he had been kind. But friendship–with anyone–was out of the question now.

  The road continued quite a distance. It dipped and wound and peaked. Farther on, the road led to the foot of another hill where a mass of stacked, weather-worn stone lay. But as she turned around, she saw that the fortress was not what was so grand about the site. The view from this side of the ridge let her see endlessly, toward the heart of Haiti.

  — The Central Plateau, she murmured. Flowing through it was the Artibonite River. She had seen it up close, at ground level, but from such heights it was beautiful, like seeing a long-told fable come to life.

  A sound grabbed her attention: a faint clicking. She slipped behind a boulder, forcing herself to the ground. Her shuddering made her cheeks puff and teeth rattle. She peeked around the rock ever so slowly.

  She faced a goat.

  She let her head sink, cursing her jumpiness.

  — Come along, Bobby, a voice said. She recognized the speaker–it was Félix, trailing a small trip of goats. The goat before her gave a short bleat and jumped off his rock, scampering off to rejoin his family and goatherd. When she was sure Félix was on his way, she looked over the edge of the rock and watched him. He moved slowly, as though his limbs were tired from carrying a heavy burden.

  She looked again across the vast plateau. The vision that had instilled wonder a moment before now seemed oppressive. She was all alone. Yes, separated from all that haunted her, but also from everything she held dear.

  St. Sebastien’s Hospital is quiet, except for the wailing.

  Libète stares at a wall and the aged photograph adorning it. The Central Plateau seen from the air. Beauty in a dire place. She runs her toes along the tile grout. Her face is streaked with tears she doesn’t bother to wipe away. Beside her, Jak stares at nothing as he runs a circling hand over her back.

  It was meant for me.

  She looks to the observation room, its door ajar. Didi’s mother’s cries escape and fill the crowded ward. Libète lifts herself from her chair and drifts toward Didi’s room.

  Back under the Sun, at the sports field, when Libète had realized what was happening–Didi on the ground, people crowding around–she had leaped from the stage, tearing through the sea of spectators to reach her friend. The poisoned sweets lay on the ground with Didi.

  I should be on that table.

  So many of Libète’s memories are vested in these tiles, tucked away in the cracking stucco, rising up among the ward’s rafters and vaulted ceiling. Memories of life preserved, happy reunions, meaningful service, death most cruel. Libète blinks them away.

  Bondye, do a miracle.

  A lone light illuminates the scene in the observation room. Didi’s mother and father keep watch beside her bed. The mother, large and round like her daughter, rattles with sobs. Her father holds his head in his hands.

  Bondye, hear my prayers.

  Didi had been near death when she was brought to the hospital.

  Bondye, take me instead.

  Now, hours later, Didi’s hope and optimism and joy are gone. She is gone.

  Bondye, Bondye, Bondye . . .

  Libète weeps fresh tears while standing outside the room. Under Sister Françoise’s supervision she had learned how to assist at the hospital. The Belgian nun was the primary physician and called Libète a ti infimye, a junior nurse. Libète could monitor patients as they took a cocktail of pills to treat TB. Monitor blood pressures. Change IVs to rehydrate patients with cholera. It might have been unorthodox to allow Libète this latitude, but the marginal hospital was always short of hands, and Libète had two. Blessed hands, Sister Françoise had called Libète’s as the girl’s fingers helped tie drifting souls to their ailing bodies. Libète looks now to her hands’ tensing muscles and sneers. Didi did not need a junior nurse. She needed a real doctor like Sister Françoise, and Sister Françoise was gone on a rare trip for the holidays. If only she’d been here . . .

  The hospital doors swing open, and Mr. Brown enters.

  Libète wants to scream at him. Out! Out! Don’t you profane this holy ground with your presence! You haunt the school, those classrooms, those walls; that’s your domain. Not here! Not this place!

  — Good evening, he says softly.

  — Bonswa, she says.

  He looks in on his dead pupil, mutters something. Looks at Libète, thrusts his chin toward the corner, once, twice. She and Jak follow him and sit. Libète looks to the wall, clenches her skirt’s hem. Jak looks at the man.

  — You’re all right. His tone peaks at the end of the last word but she doesn’t know if it’s a question or statement.

  Jak shakes his head forlornly. No, we’re not.

  — What happened? Brown says as he removes his glasses.

  Libète will not answer. Jak does. Sweets, he coughs up the word. Poisoned. Left for Libète at the school.

  Brown nods several times. Any idea who left them?

  Jak’s answer was silence.

  — I’m sorry. Truly sorry about this whole mess–but I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

  Libète nearly retched. What?

  — You’re reaping what you sowed.

  She was out of her seat, standing inches in front of Brown, her hands balled. Jak lunged between the two and pushed her away.

  — Who are you? she spat. Who the hell says such a thing?

  Jak clapped his hand over her mouth.

  — I am responsible for the school. His voice remained calm. For the protection of its students. My first days at this job and you bring this, this–shame–on us all.

  Her eyes widened. She pushed against Jak’s restraining grip, but he held her tight.

  — Do you have any idea
what a dead child means? Brown asked. How many parents might take their kids away? How the money from donors will just – he made a sucking hiss – dry up?

  — You, you beast! What kind of monster, what kind of ass, what kind of–

  — You must come back with me. To the school. Right now.

  — I will not.

  Didi’s father poked his head out of the doorway, trying to understand the commotion interrupting their grieving.

  — Come back, or you will be immediately expelled, Brown said. Both of you. Finished.

  Libète met Jak’s worried eyes, closed her own. A new tear fell down her cheek, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. She grabbed her book bag and stormed out of the hospital, but not before catching the hard, blame-filled stare of Didi’s father.

  Libète had wandered the trails after parting with Prosper and leaving the vista behind. She had not trespassed closer to the fort–she had no desire to speak with Félix–but instead followed the dirt road back toward Magdala’s home.

  She cursed herself for the fear that had gripped her–terrified by a goat! But it was not merely a goat–it was those snarling dogs, the pursuing men, and the bitter separations they had hastened. She had already faced so much in her few short years–why could she be made to tremble so easily now? So much that thoughts could scarcely form? So that her legs felt like flimsy reeds? Where did this weakness come from?

  She hid among kayimet trees lining the road until the waves of anxiety crashed and dissipated. She inspected her dirt-covered feet. Her splinted toes hurt, yes, but there was more than that. Sharp rocks had torn the soles of her feet. She already had two fresh cuts joining those sustained the night before. Her calluses from padding about Bwa Nèf barefoot had clearly softened in the years since she’d adopted shoes.

  Soft singing filtered down the road. Libète watched a lone woman pass by, a girl really, with a bulging belly. Libète’s mouth dropped. Despite her very pregnant state, the girl carried a woven basket brimming with sweet potatoes on her head. Sweat dotted her hairline. She sang a simple melody to herself that sounded improvised:

  Why is it left to me?

  No one here to help

  Like a one-fingered hand