"We have grown stagnant," said Malcolm. "We have managed to avoid the culture of violence and absent fathers that so plagues our brethren in the American colony.
They are a people broken by the sting of the plantation and the lash. But the poison that afflicts their souls seeps onto our soil, like a virus searching for a host. Still, we have our obayifo. "
"Obeah?" August asked.
The Rastafarian movement had grown to encompass all of the dissident wings. The Niyabingi fancied themselves as secret soldiers ready to put into action the will of the people. The Obeahists were more political, choosing more "practical" methods. Rumors abounded about the powers of obeah men and obeahmas. Some said they could separate their soul from their body. Could change a man's heart. Could make harm befall an enemy.
"So you know of the old religion?"
"I know that when the social order is maintained, no one turns to 'The Science.' But when things deteriorate, become chaotic, people return to the old ways."
"You make our arguments for us."
"Arguments for what?" August asked.
"We know of their plots. Most of them are little more than con men. But true practitioners of 'The Science,' their power lies in their ability to poison. Wouldn't you agree, Ninky?"
"I wouldn't know." Ninkey straightened and turned to him without a smile. "I pay as much attention to them as I do tales of duppies."
" 'Duppy dead out' in the age of reason, but not for those of 'The Science.' "
"Surely you're being paranoid," August said.
"Perhaps. But you know the mark of a skilled politician? To make allies from enemies." Malcolm sipped from his drinking horn.
Desmond had heard the rhetoric before. No politician ever came out and admitted that many of the street level gangsters worked at their behest, thus creating the very problems they could come in and solve. Profiting at both ends of the situation. It was quietly feared that the colonel was in his heart a neocol, a tacit supporter of the movement to join the Albion empire, pining away for the rule of British law and order. Nostalgic for imperial glories, the colonel reminded Desmond of a former slave who didn't know what to do with his freedom, so desperate to retain his master's "protection" and attention.
"But we are Jamaicans. We're well off. We're free," Ninky said.
"We have a poverty of values. We have a poverty of caring. We have a poverty of education. We have a poverty of responsibility. We have a poverty of time. We're not free until all of us are completely free. And Emperor Selassie shall point the way."
"Colonel, if I may," August said. "I still don't see why we are here. And my apologies, but the ways of the Rastafari hold little interest to..."
Malcolm raised his hand to cut off August. A young boy stood in the doorway. Not like other pickney, his skin was dark as midnight and his eyes the palest of green. His white collared shirt and black slacks had the appearance of a uniform. He moved with a quiet elegance. Malcolm studied their reactions to the boy.
"And who might this little one be?" Ninky asked.
"Lij," Malcolm said.
"Lij? What an unusual name," August said.
"Names have power."
"You sound like a Kabbalist. Is he your nephew? A child of your staff?"
"No. Lij is our guest of honor." Malcolm's voice grew throaty, with a hint of gloating
"I still don't see..." August said.
"Talk and taste your tongue. You have a decision to make. We can end dinner here having enjoyed some pleasant conversation..."
"Or..." Ninky said in a wary, but curious tone.
"Or we can go deeper. We can show you things you may not be ready for, but which can take both you and our people to a whole new level."
"What is it?" August asked, a foolish grin plastered on his face as the prospect intoxicated him. "Anymore we cannot say. In fact, words cannot do justice to it. What we have to show you must be seen and experienced to be understood. But once you have seen it, your lives won't be the same. They may even be forfeit." "Forfeit?" Ninky asked.
"That's the wager. Knowledge, power, and wealth are all possible. The choice is yours."
Desmond couldn't name what woke him. Despite the whir of the fans blades, the night was sticky with a cloying humidity punctuated by his own sweat. The buzz of mosquitoes irritated his ears. He rolled over in bed, unable to get comfortable, as if an ill-placed spring poked him in the back. When he did drop into sleep amid his fitful tosses, he suffered nightmares, dreaming of fire.
The air had changed. The pressure in the room dropped, maybe from a door opening down the hall. The creak might have been an old floorboard settling. However, August paid him to indulge his paranoia; heeding his uneasiness was a professional hazard. The palace prohibition disallowed him from walking about the grounds dressed, but there was undressed and there was undressed. Desmond grabbed his cane.
Wearing only his white undershirt and hastily donned breeches, Desmond crept along the hallway barefoot. The strange quiet of the house put him on edge. The entire guard had disappeared, as if he'd wandered into a deserted duplicate of the palace. It couldn't have been coincidence. It would explain why the colonel had his own personal attendants on top of palace security. Anyone could be reached. Paranoia meant life.
At the end of the colonnaded balconies, the palace grounds led into shaded groves. Many considered it a modern marvel with its hanging gardens of genetically enhanced plants, species that existed nowhere else in the world. Put together with an artist's eye, the explosion of vibrant color was visible even from the byway. The gardens were world renowned. They had been constructed in the 1860s, and their cinchona plants were cultivated for their quinine, an antidote for malaria. This became a key export to Albion. Malcolm had hundreds of exotic palms from around the planet planted. Fan palms from Mauritius, hurricane palms from the Maldives, all against a landscape of red African tulips, lilac-colored hydrangeas, blue azaleas and the like. An artificial stream coursed through the gardens to the melody of birds of paradise.
A shadow darted between the trees. If the figure were after the colonel, he couldn't be allowed to succeed. Not when Desmond was so close to finding out all of the colonel's secrets and the Rastafari so close to ending his threat once and for all. Desmond chased after him. The figure hoped to elude him among the trees, but Desmond had spent his share of time around the Cobena Park estate. The snapping of branches and the scurry of dead leaves gave away the would-be assassin's position. Eventually he realized it too, and he whirled on Desmond in a sudden lunge. Dressed in all black, his goggles glowed a dull green. A series of canisters were slung across his shoulder, like a shotgun ammo belt. The man had some acrobatic training. He danced about with incredible grace, a springiness to his steps as he rolled to his feet. Desmond leapt out of his way, dodging the first thrown punch.
Desmond tugged his cane, freeing the metal core from its sheath. He clutched the sword in one hand, but held the shaft of his scabbard with the other as if wielding two long sticks. He struck no vital areas as the dull thumps he landed battered the man's side.
Desmond parried the next blow using his scabbard and then ducked in what seemed to be a carefully choreographed dance. The assailant fought high, most of his attacks directed at Desmond's chest and head, with little power behind them. Crouched low, weight on his right knee, Desmond swung the sticks. The man raised his left leg, frozen like a resting crane, while fending off the blows. The two were fairly matched, neither man seemed to be able to press his advantage over the other. The clash of batons clattered in a flurry of wild swings.
His life was not his own. Desmond had been claimed and trained by the Niyabingi from the time of his father's death, another weapon in their war. Falling back on his training, Desmond spun in a clockwise kick that swept the man's legs. He allowed the momentum of his attack to carry him through; his cane and scabbard batted the man's arm and thigh. It was like hitting steel reinforced enough to hold off a dreadnought. Desmond dodged the wide
arc of his assailant's next blows.
An abeng blew, alerting the guards. Ceramic automata whisked along the pathway. The man glanced around, then sprinted toward the outer wall, clearing it with short, agile leaps. On the other side lay a low drop off into the thick of the grove. The assailant knew his exit strategy.
Desmond slid his cane back into its case. A glint of metal drew his eyes. A fallen canister slick with moisture. He daubed his fingers and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Oil stained the grass.
"Well met, sir." Malcolm, escorted by his personal attendants, applauded as he approached.
"I suspect he was a Kabbalist agent. He had training," Desmond said.
"As have you."
"I am August Cobena's personal attaché. He wouldn't have hired me if I had not been. The man also dropped this." Desmond opened the canister before Malcolm could protest. "A gel of some sort. What is it?"
"Don't." Malcolm warned and continued in a tone that didn't invite discussion. "All will be explained. As we probably won't find slumber for the rest of the night, perhaps we should start our day a little earlier than we'd planned. Anything else you'd like to ask?"
"No, suh." Desmond stopped just short of falling into patois, hoping for the right measure of reserve and deference.
Malcolm's grin widened, a lolling crocodile smile.
III. Jah Live
The palace limousine—a brass engine the length of a train car whose pistons stammered and hissed as steam escaped—drove through the ruins of Nanny Town. The symmetry of the surrounding houses probably went unnoticed to the untrained eye, but Desmond knew their history. In shouting distance of one another, the houses formed a natural relay of communications should power, or technology, fail them. It was the way of Cudjoe, Nanny, Accompong, and the other military leaders who had fought and expelled the Albion forces.
Nanny Town had been completely leveled during an Albion raid, but the Maroon left the ruins standing as a solemn reminder of their fate should they ever lower their guard. People said that the duppies of those who died in the battle still haunted it.
Though the vehicle hit every bump in the poorly kept roads, the jarring movement barely jostled Malcolm. He locked his regal stare on August as he addressed him. Ignoring Desmond.
"We're almost here." A leather strap draped like a gun belt over the shoulder of corded epaulettes on yet another blue uniform. Medals in the shape of baroque crosses adorned his chest, though what war service he'd actually seen was unclear. Gold braids wrapped at his cuffs and wound up to his elbow. A plumed hat nested between him and one of his attendants.
"Old Town?" Flanked by Ninky and Desmond, August sat across from Malcolm. He tried to match the mood of the occasion; his full-length leopard print robe flowed to his ankles. He passed his gold staff from hand to hand, never quite getting the proper position for it, and appeared uncomfortable under his necklaces of beads.
"In the shadow of Cudjoe's tomb. Rather fitting, don't you think?"
"Malcolm, I don't wish to speak out of turn, but all are forbidden to be here. This area, it's... sacred."
"Another most fitting description, August. Come, you are among the first to see the wonders that await."
Desmond couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd eaten. As attaché, he ate after his charges did, before them if they suspected an attempted poisoning. All told, it wasn't as bad as when he was a child and his belly grumbled worse than a field hand without chiba. He exited the car first and stood at attention, allowing the length of his black jacket to fall to his knees. He wore charcoal colored trousers, his light gray gloves matched his shoes and tie. An orange and yellow boutonniere was pinned to his lapel. For a moment, he closed his eyes against the heat, as if force of will alone would prevent his sweating. Malcolm nodded his approval before donning his hat.
Malcolm's attendants lined each side of the door to escort them. A gravel path veered from the road toward a stand of trees, one of which stood apart from the others. Ninky wandered toward them and stopped before the Kindah Tree. A sign at its base read "We are Family." She genuflected and knelt. "You recognize this tree?" Malcolm put a gloved hand on her shoulder. "It's Cudjoe's tree." Ninky kept her eyes closed. "Only the high ones are allowed to pilgrimage here once a year. But the sign... it's unmistakable."
"This is where Albion sued for peace," Malcolm told August, though he seemed just in need of an audience. "Albion's Colonel Guthrie, as a sign of friendship, switched hats with Cudjoe. It's where we began the tradition of dubbing our rulers Colonel. Come, we have just a little further to go now."
This was the Jamaica Desmond knew. Not the megapolises, not the kings' houses, not the tourist traps as people arrived to gawk at their culture like some sort of zoo exhibition. But this, the earth beneath his feet, the measured breeze. The memories of scooting up coconut trees and dropping fruit down to the waiting arms of his brothers. Sipping the barely sweet milk under the shade of banana leaves. Of swimming in underground caves where the town drew their water.
He was of the people left between the politicians and the wealthy and the Maroon. He hated that sewage trickled along the streets of his hometown, that so many of them had been crammed together and forgotten, treated like second class citizens by their darker brethren. He was the hate that hate built, fired by neglect, and patient as the ocean.
They continued down a path that led from the secluded area deeper into the bush. Royal embroidery trimmed Ninky's bright red Raija Kaftan and matching head scarf. Embellished with small mirrors, a print of shadow people, each carrying their own burden, trailed up the Kaftan. August took Ninky's hand, steadying her as they walked. Their sandals weren't made for treks through the fields and their ankles often buckled over the unsteady terrain. But they uttered nary a wince as they walked, as if not wanting to give satisfaction to Malcolm, who made his way as surefooted as a goat.
"You are about to enter Peace Cave," Malcolm said. "From this location Cudjoe launched his attacks against Albion. Over the years, we have made... modifications to it."
The mouth of the cave was hidden from the casual observer. A cadre of soldiers patrolled a clearing. Recognizing Malcolm, they saluted. A lone guard escorted them into the cave mouth. He relieved Desmond of his cane and August of his staff. They wouldn't need such affectations, they were informed. Gaslit glass bowls burned to life at their entry, illuminating their path. The sounds of rushing water echoed from off in the darkness down an unlit side path as they made their way toward the rear of the cave. The path wound around crags of jutting stone until they reached an alcove. A hidden door slid out from the rock, closing them off. The pit of Desmond's stomach leapt as the room dropped.
"Colonel?" August reached for a handhold along the wall.
"It is all right. We're simply plunging deeper into our story. It's still not too late to turn back."
"We've come too far for that now."
Ninky said nothing, but met Desmond's unerring gaze with her own steely one. Desmond turned away.
"We'd rather hoped you'd say that, August. We know you have long had an interest in our technology," Malcolm continued.
"I... yes."
"This is a place of questions. And wonders. Within these confines, our research follows two areas, the physical and the biological, yet manages to meet in the realm of the spiritual."
The platform stopped before a twin set of doors.
"I don't understand."
"The forces of 'Babylon' array against us," he said.
"Now you sound like one of the Rastafari," August said.
"They are one of the many groups we are called to govern over. One of the many bedfellows we have had to build relationships with. So many disparate voices with no greater vision uniting them beyond our rule. We've held off Albion for centuries. We battle not against just Albion, but all of their principalities. Colonialism. Classism. Imperialism. Materialism. These are the things that threaten us. Things from which we need liberation."
"But these are... ideas."
"Ah... now you see the crux of the matter. How do you fight an idea?" Malcolm donned white gloves. "With a bigger idea. We need a return to old ways. Simpler ways. We've lost our moral compass. Our task isn't to take on Babylon, but to free it.
Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands unto God."
Desmond had seen this too often before: politicians using the religious beliefs of their people as propaganda to further their agenda. He bided his time. Dressed or not, he would find a way to solve the problem of the colonel once and for all.
"Colonel," August said in a deliberate tone, as if not wanting to disturb an ill-balanced mind. "Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning. Where does all of this come from?"
"You weren't there on that day. April 21, 1966."
"When Haile Selassie visited Jamaica?" Ninky asked. "You were there?"
"When he visited, when he first stepped from his airship, oh the joy, the love in the air. The first African head of state to visit our shores. The Roaring Lion. So quiet, but radiating such... power. Like a balm on the people, draining the poison from our souls and casting a vision for a new Jamaica."
Desmond perked to attention at the mention of the name and the blessed day.
Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 Page 10
