The Black Resurrection

by Nick Wisseman

  Da knew it was a mostly symbolic gesture. Two years’ worth of ingested spores remained inside him, pervasive as ever even though he hadn’t swallowed another dose in months. He could still take new puppets.

  He just didn’t want to.

  “Huancavelica is the only way,” he said after at least a minute of silence. “The only way to cure Jie of her wasting disease.” And the only way to overcome the spores’ flaw—to undo his mistake. “It will work. We will make it work.”

  Chase clasped his hands together. “Then why not take a boat down the coast? Going by water would be faster.”

  “Jie nearly died of seasickness during the passage from Manila. I’m not risking that again. And we won’t stay on this silver path much longer; we don’t need to go all the way north to Nombre de Dios. We’ll veer off in another few days.”

  “Or perhaps you’ll veer off now,” a new voice said.

  Da whirled around to find three men sliding between him and the cart—a Han, an Afrii, and a Nippon. Each held a musket. One was aimed at himself, one at Chase, and one at the cart.

  “You’ve been following us,” the Han noted. He’d been the original speaker, and presumably he and his companions were scouts from the silver train. “For what, three days now?”

  Da flicked his eyes towards Chase. Good: the Anglo had his blunderbuss holstered at his side. If he was quick, he could ash the two scouts facing this way. That would leave the Nippon facing the cart. “We’re no threat to you. We just needed to catch our breath on an easier path.”

  “One we’re clearing for you, free of charge.”

  Da gauged the distance to the third scout. Six steps? Five? But he didn’t want another puppet. “Is it money you want? Your white employers don’t give you enough?”

  “Maybe we should ask your white man for more.”

  Chase hadn’t moved his hand any closer to his blunderbuss, but Da could sense how taut the Anglo was. He’d act the instant he was directed to. “Ask then,” Da murmured, “and see what you get.”

  The Han scout opened his mouth to do just that, but Haru spoke first.

  “Eita,” she called from the cart, causing the Nippon scout to start. “Loth, Mingli—put down your silly guns. We don’t want your silver.” She stepped into the open, her hands in her pockets and her ko-naginata strapped to her back. After adding something in Nippon to Eita, she switched back to Mandarin. “But we wouldn’t mind your company, dubious as it is. How about we join your train for a few days?”

  The Han scout—Mingli?—studied her over his shoulder, his surprise so apparent it curled the visible corner of his mouth up and back down again. “Haru? I thought you were looking after a pack of brats in Metica City.”

  “I’ve new brats to look after.” She nodded at Chase and Da. “What do you say? We add to your numbers through the thickest stretch of runaway territory, then go our separate way?”

  Da watched Haru walk casually towards the scouts. He wasn’t sure he liked her proposal—or her initiative—but the Afrii scout still had a musket trained on him. And even though he could almost smell the fire welling up in Chase’s core, that was no sure thing. Best to let this develop.

  “I’m not sure we need the extra hands,” Mingli said. “There’s talk of peace with the runaways.”

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “I suppose. You still like to flail about with that little poking stick?”

  “Faster than you can fart. But probably not as lethally. Put the gun down, Mingli. We’re on the same side.”

  Eita was already lowering his musket, and Loth did the same a second later. By the time Haru reached the scouts, Mingli had pointed his weapon elsewhere too. “What are you doing this far south?” he asked Haru, slugging her good-naturedly in the shoulder. “I thought you’d guarded your last train.”

  “Come have a drink with me, and I’ll tell you,” she said, hitting him back before exchanging equally playful blows with Eita and Loth. “Then we can catch up to the rest of your sorry crew. Is Tabor still with you?”

  “Sadly. He smells worse than ever.”

  “Ah, so you’ve taught him everything you know.”

  Haru led the scouts to the cart, bantering all the way and pausing only to toss a meaningful look back at Da.

  He frowned.

  Chase snorted. “Didn’t see that coming. Why do you think she did it?”

  “Instead of letting them fire on us? I don’t know. I didn’t tell her to. Maybe she’s more ‘purpled’ than I realized.”

  “Well, I’m not complaining.” The Anglo grinned and tapped Da’s shoulder, much as Mingli had Haru’s. “That could have ended badly.”

  Da glanced at where Chase had touched him. “Indeed.” He’d ceded control for a moment, indulging in weakness and doubt, and disaster had nearly been the result. Be stone, Da. Be hard and strong. “Chase, will you do something for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “Forget everything I said after I coughed.”

  For a second, Chase’s eyes brightened with hurt. But then they glazed over, and the Anglo nodded. Like a good puppet.

  Because sometimes you had to have strings to pull.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jaxat

  The soldier batted her hand away, snatched one of her braids, and yanked her onto the bed. He laughed as she struggled, and laughed harder when she stopped …

  Isaura was trapped in a hut again.

  The architecture was different, and there were decorations on the wall instead of stains. But the size of the humid one-room structure was almost identical, her head ached from familiar injuries, and the scent of unseen flowers drifting in through the gap beneath the door was eerily similar.

  She was also bound.

  In LaFlorida, it had been manacles. Here, it was a rope braided from a fiber she didn’t recognize. The effect was the same, though. And it felt every bit as claustrophobic as she remembered.

  The scout unclasped the manacles. But not to free her. He just wanted to chase her around the room, leveling his dagger to match the near-horizontal angle of his other “blade” while chanting a hunting song …

  Isaura raised her arms as much as her bonds would allow and gingerly inspected her temples. The blood from where the bola had struck her was dry, but the sides of her head still hurt to the touch. She was woozy too. Sitting up had set the room spinning, and she didn’t think she was ready to try walking yet.

  The cook motioned for her to sit beside him while he talked about his day. Someone had stolen the pig he’d been saving for a special occasion, and he was ever so sad about it. He needed comforting, yes he did, and no one eased sorrow like his pretty Isaura …

  She hadn’t been able to quench then, though. Not until the very end. But now, eight years later, she should be able to soak the rope until it turned to mush, or freeze it to the point of brittleness, or desiccate any bastard who came through that door with a shit-eating smile.

  The cartographer knelt on her naked back, pinning her so he could re-ink the longitude and latitude lines he insisted on marking her with before he “navigated to her equator …”

  Yet she couldn’t channel so much as a drop of water—she could barely even cry. She’d had trouble focusing after Chase knocked her out in Metica City, but nothing like this. This was more than a concussion.

  This was helplessness.

  The priest opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind him. Isaura looked at him hopefully—until he loosened his robes …

  “Let me out,” Isaura called in Espan, directing her words at the darkness behind the lone window. “Let me out!” she tried in Anglo, then Franc, then what she remembered of Rowtag’s tongue. “LET ME OUT!”

  She stared at the door, willing it to stay shut, to never open, to leave her in peace. Yet part of her—a tiny, shrieking part—wanted it to open. Wanted it to end the waiting. Because at a certain point, the hours and hours of dread became the worst thing of all …

&nbs
p; But no one came that night.

  * * *

  The next morning, the door opened and Isaura nearly screamed.

  Yet it was just Amadi, and he had food.

  “Where have you been?” she asked after he’d set a gourd of milk and what looked like a steaming orange potato in front of her.

  “Getting my bearings.” Amadi gave her an awkward hug.

  In any other setting, she would have gladly fallen into his arms. But here, after the night she’d had … No. Not yet.

  “I also had to wait for you to wake up,” he added. “How’s your head?”

  “Not good.” She took a small bite of the potato, found it surprisingly sweet, and took a larger bite. “Everything’s wobbly, and I can’t quench. Why did you leave me here?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. The Cimarrons—that’s the runaways’ name for themselves—hate Espans. With good reason: they’re harsh masters in Panma. And on top of that, the scouts who took us convinced the rest you’re a dangerous shaman. They carved all sorts of patterns on the outside of this house to help it ‘ward your witchcraft.’”

  “They haven’t seen anything yet.” Isaura held up her tightly lashed wrists. “The potato is excellent, but what I’d really like is for you to untie me.”

  The Afrii hesitated.

  “Amadi, untie me.”

  “I will, but you can’t leave. Not yet.”

  Isaura closed her eyes in a vain attempt to suppress yet another terrible flashback. “I’m not staying.”

  “I’ll get you out,” Amadi said quickly. “I swear it. But if you can’t quench, we can’t force our way clear. Archers are watching the door. And I don’t want to harm these people.”

  She opened her eyes and locked gazes with him. He couldn’t meet hers for long. “Neither do I, but they hurt me. And we’re running out of time to get to Huancavelica. Untie me.”

  Amadi winced. “While you eat,” he agreed after a lengthy pause. “But I’ll have to put the rope back on you—loosely—when I go.”

  The house felt smaller again. Hotter, tighter, darker. “You’re going to leave me again?”

  “I have to. That was their condition for letting me see you. But it won’t be long. The King’s Proxy will hear your case this afternoon.”

  To calm herself, Isaura took a deep breath and another large bite of potato. “And if they don’t like what I have to say, what then? Will I become the ex-slaves’ slave? Kindling for a pyre?”

  Amadi shook his head. “It won’t come to that. This place is … a revelation. There are hundreds of runaways here. Maybe thousands. Original people too, some Han, even a few outcast Eropans. All living together. And they have real buildings here. Not as grand as in Metica City, but sturdy, with formidable defenses.” He clasped his hands. “It’s a community, Isaura. A free community. They call it Bayano.”

  Understanding dawned on her. “It’s what you wanted Omnira to be.”

  He chuckled ruefully. “It’s more than I ever dreamed for Omnira. But it’s not just this place. The Cimarrons say there are similar havens throughout Panma. They refer to them as palenques. Their King lives in one closer to Nombre de Dios. And there are others further south. Supposedly there’s something in Brasil that dwarfs the rest.”

  “Good for them. Truly.” Isaura swallowed another mouthful of potato, washing it down with half the milk. “But did you know they branded me?” She held up her right hand and nodded at the back of it, where an eight-pointed star had been tattooed in red dots. “They must have done it while I was unconscious.”

  Amadi’s faced turned solemn—even more so than usual.

  “If you’re wrong about them, and they try to keep me in this hut for another night …”

  “Then I will show them how they are wrong.”

  There was no doubting a promise from him. “Thank you.” She held up her arms again. “If you please? I’m almost done with the potato, but I’d still like to enjoy a few bites with free hands.”

  “Of course.” He undid the knots, then let her eat in silence.

  Once Isaura finished, she quizzed him about Bayano. She wanted to learn everything she could about the palenque before crafting her argument for the “King’s Proxy.” An argument that had to be good enough to get her out today.

  Because Shoteka needed her, and another night in this hut would be worse punishment than anything these Cimarrons could devise.

  * * *

  True to his word, Amadi returned that afternoon. This time, he was accompanied by the leader of the scouts that had ambushed them on the coast.

  “Bataru here will take us to the King’s Proxy,” Amadi said by way of introduction.

  Isaura nodded, steeling herself for the coming walk. Her head still ached, and the light coming through the window looked absurdly bright. But she’d had enough of lying around. Dizzy or not, she wanted to move again, to make progress.

  And this would be progress. There was no other option.

  Bataru undid her rope, making no comment about Amadi’s loose knots, and motioned toward the door.

  Initially, the light outside was every bit as blinding as she’d feared, and she stumbled before catching herself on what felt like a post. Then Amadi’s hand gripped her shoulder, and she leaned into his support. After a few steps, her overly sensitive eyes adjusted enough to let her see where she was going.

  It was as impressive as he’d described.

  She’d emerged onto a clean, straight main road. Several cross streets ran off it, each lined by sturdy-looking houses, all bigger than the one she’d exited. There must have been at least a hundred. Ringing Bayano’s outskirts was a mud wall, thick and tall—maybe twenty feet high. One of the gates swung open as Isaura watched, revealing the staked pit beyond the wall.

  Formidable defenses indeed.

  “They’ve held off several Espan raids,” Amadi explained in Anglo as several archers with arrows nocked fell in behind them. “Their best assets are the jungle and the mountains. It’s murder to hike up here. Thin air.”

  Isaura didn’t doubt it. She was already short of breath.

  Squinting to minimize the sun’s glare, she followed Bataru to the palenque’s center, an open courtyard that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Eropan settlement. In it sat Cimarrons from all the races Amadi had mentioned, dressed in clothes that wouldn’t have stood out either.

  “Do they trade with Panma City?” she asked.

  “Some. They use the silver they seize from Espan caravans to buy goods and pay informants. That’s how the palenque knows when raids are coming.”

  Isaura studied the Cimarrons as Bataru led her into the courtyard and toward its center. Amadi had explained that many slaves were soldiers in their homelands, captured during Afrii warfare and sold into a Eropan model of slavery far more brutal than they were used to. That military background proved handy when it came to planning escapes and defenses. For years, Espans and other colonial powers been importing foreign armies without realizing it. Tribal hostilities still had to be overcome, but that usually wasn’t difficult when the feuds and rivalries of the past were a continent away.

  And these Cimarrons looked the part. Many were armed, and even those who weren’t looked capable of defending themselves at a moment’s notice. Especially the King’s Proxy.

  He stood alone in the middle of the courtyard, dressed in plain but well-made Espan clothes that did little to hide his sinewy frame and hunter’s mien. Isaura couldn’t imagine such a man being subservient to anyone, much less a white master. She knew who he was—Jaxat, Amadi had named him—because of the eight-shell necklace adorning his chest. Apparently no one else but the King could wear more than seven.

  As they approached, Isaura stopped leaning against Amadi and took the last steps unsupported. The courtyard swam around the edges, and her balance wavered like a candle flame, but she wanted to finish on her own. And she did, barely. Hopefully this would be a short hearing. Or trial, or whatever it was. She wasn’t
sure how long she could stand alone.

  Amadi took a position a few steps to her right, and Bataru sat in the crowd, finding space on a rough-hewn bench next to his enormous companion from the coast—Fara, the boulder-thrower. He wouldn’t be easy to get past if things went south.

  “You are Espan,” Jaxat said, in Espan, once everyone else was seated.

  “Yes,” she answered neutrally.

  “Your people enslaved many of ours.”

  This was blunt, but there was no denying it. “Yes.”

  He acknowledged her honesty with a grim smile. “We would still be your people’s slaves if Demba hadn’t led us to freedom and helped us found this palenque. He is our king. I’m Jaxat, his humble proxy while he’s in the north. I will judge your case.”

  Isaura inclined her head. She would only accept a particular judgment from him, but now wasn’t the time to say so.

  “Amadi has already vouched for your character,” Jaxat went on. “And I see no reason to doubt his word: you are not a slaver.”

  She clenched her stomach muscles to avoid sagging with relief. She’d been prepared to make a heartfelt argument about how her experience in LaFlorida—a memory that was all too fresh today—had informed her anti-slavery principles, but it sounded like it wouldn’t be necessary. Which was welcome, because the tale didn’t tell easily. She’d never shared it with anyone except Rowtag and Amadi. “Thank you.”

  “He also described your current quest to save your son, a journey we wish you well on.”

  More good news. Perhaps this would go quickly after all. “I appreciate that.”

  “However,” Jaxat said, tempering her hopes. “We also know you are a powerful shaman. And we require proof that, should we let you loose, you will not use your powers against us.”