Max put the whole incident from his mind after a few days, the routine of plantation life taking over once again. He was so worn out from the heat and the backbreaking work that it took all his determination just to eat supper and drag himself back to his hut in the evening. His life seemed to be one never-ending workday, interrupted by naps. Anything that had been important to him before had been eradicated from his mind, replaced by a need to survive. Having lived a life of privilege, Max sometimes marveled at the way all the trivialities of a modern life could be stripped away in a matter of weeks, leaving in their place a human being who was but one evolutionary step above an animal. Gone were the vanity, ambition, and greed. In its place were just the basic needs: food, water, shelter, and physical health. What Max lacked utterly was hope. Hope was an integral part of survival, but whatever hope he’d felt while still awaiting trial back in England was long gone, replaced by bitterness and fatalism. Max went through the motions, but in his heart, he no longer believed that he could ever regain that which had been lost.
It was in the late afternoon several days after Max witnessed the Voodoo ceremony that the clouds began to gather, mercifully blocking the blazing sun and bringing with them a sudden wind that rippled through the sea of sugar cane and promised a welcome coolness. Fat drops of rain began to plop onto the parched ground, soaking the field in minutes. Max took off his hat and turned his face up to the sky, enjoying the downpour. The rain felt wonderful on his face and body, washing away months of sweat and dust. The slaves looked around with some uncertainty, but Johansson yelled at them to keep working, as he took shelter from the storm in the hut at the edge of the field where he and his minions whiled away the afternoons, drinking, playing dice, and keeping an eye on the laboring slaves.
It wasn’t long until the wind escalated from a strong breeze to a howling, raging, force of nature, and the rain lashed against the ground, coming down almost horizontally and creating rivulets of water that pooled in the hollows and ran down any elevation in the otherwise flat ground. Rainwater ran into the workers’ eyes and made the stalks slick and hard to cut. Johansson eventually acknowledged the futility of making the laborers remain in the field and allowed everyone to return to their huts, locking in the slaves until supper.
As Max watched him slide the heavy bar into place, he finally understood why Johansson locked up the Negroes and not the whites. He wasn’t as obtuse as he appeared to be and had some experience of island life. A runaway black slave would simply melt into the jungle and never be found once he lost himself among the native population of the island. A white man, however, wouldn’t survive long before being either captured by a search party, or perishing of whatever got to him first. He’d have no money to pay for a passage back to England, nor would he be inconspicuous enough to avoid notice for long. Few whites bothered to escape.
John called to Max to come inside, but Max pulled off his wet shirt and stood in the yard, enjoying the drenching rain. He’d have loved some soap to wash with, but this was the closest he’d had to a shower in months. He washed his hair and then pulled off his loose trousers and washed them together with his shirt in a barrel of rainwater. What he wouldn’t have given for a razor. He hated his beard; it was scratchy and probably crawling with lice, but the slaves weren’t given shaving implements which could become weapons in their hands. Max managed to keep the length in check by simply slashing away a few inches at a time with his cane-cutting machete on the way to the field.
The storm picked up, and Max briefly wondered if they might be in the middle of a hurricane, but had no way of knowing. None of Johansson’s men were around, having gone back to their own lodgings to wait out the storm. Bits of dried palm leaves blew off the roofs of the huts, leaving unprotected spaces where the rain got in and dripped onto the heads of the men inside, but although awesome to behold, the storm wasn’t wreaking too much destruction. Some repairs would be required, but nothing that couldn’t be done in one morning. By tomorrow afternoon, there would be no trace left of the fury tearing through the jungle at that moment. Max would have never been grateful for tropical rain before, but now he relished a few hours of cooler weather and a break from cutting the cane. He sat on the stoop of the hut and watched the horizon, wondering which way led to the sea.
A figure draped in colorful fabric detached itself from the slave quarters and braved the downpour to run toward him. Dido was soaked by the time she reached him, the fabric of her tunic clinging to her ample curves and glistening in her thick eyelashes. She’d never spoken to him before, but now she bent down to his ear and whispered, “Come with me.” Max glanced back at the door of the slave barracks, knowing before he even looked that the heavy bar would still be in place. He had no idea how she got out, but aside from being wet, she didn’t appear to be dirty or disheveled. Her escape had been easy enough.
Max rose to his feet and followed the woman without question, driven by sheer curiosity. Whatever she wanted with him was well worth exploring. If she wanted a quick tryst in the bushes or a heart to heart, it was more female contact than he’d had since being arrested back in September. He would oblige her in whatever way she pleased.
Max was surprised when Dido led him into the jungle behind the slave barracks, and pushed aside some thick vegetation to reveal a trapdoor in the ground. So, that was how they got out to perform their rituals, leaving Johansson none the wiser. Why would she want to bring him here? Max felt apprehensive, but obediently followed Dido into the tunnel, which was lined with palm leaves to keep it dry. It wasn’t that long, but having earth all around him gave Max the feeling of being entombed, so he rushed the last few feet after Dido, eager to get to wherever they were going. They finally emerged. The hut was tightly packed with bodies, people sitting, lying, sleeping, or just staring into space. One woman was singing softly as she rocked a child to sleep. A single candle burned in the corner, illuminating the priest who was sitting with his back against the wall; eyes closed, his breathing shallow and even. He appeared to be asleep.
“Why did you bring me here?” Max asked as Dido beckoned him inside. She just smiled and gestured for him to follow. The rest of the slaves seemed to shift without being told to do so, leaving a space around the priest, who was now seemingly awake and watching Max with those jade eyes that were so like Dido’s.
“Please, sit down, Lord Everly,” the man said indicating a space across from him. Dido poured something from a clay vessel and handed it to Max without speaking. It smelled pleasantly familiar, but Max couldn’t quite place it.
“What is that?” he asked warily, suddenly afraid. What did these people want with him?
“It’s pineapple juice mixed with coconut milk. It’s quite delicious,” the man said as he took a sip of his own drink. “Do try it.”
Max took a sip and closed his eyes in unexpected pleasure as the sweetness flooded his mouth, reminding him of all the things he was missing on this godforsaken plantation. The juice tasted like ambrosia, and Max gulped it down without spilling a drop, feeling like a thirsty man in a desert. Dido instantly refilled his cup and then melted into the corner of the hut.
“My name is Xeno,” the man introduced himself. His voice was melodious and pleasant, a smooth baritone which seemed to suit him perfectly. Max stared at him, wondering if he was having him on. “Xeno” meant foreigner or alien in Greek. Would he know that? Had he been given the name at birth, or had he chosen it for himself as a symbol of his captivity? And “dido” meant prank, although it wasn’t a frequently used noun. Max was about to ask but thought better of it, instead waiting patiently to hear what the priest had to say. Xeno seemed to be in no rush to state his purpose, instead choosing to tell Max something of how he came to be at the plantation.
“Dido is my twin sister; you might have noticed the resemblance between us,” he said, talking slowly, as if in a dream. “We were captured in Ghana when we were hardly more than children and brought here as slaves. We didn’t know it at the time, but w
e fetched a higher price than the rest of the slaves we’d come over with due to our mixed lineage. Our father was a white man, a Dutch slaver, who kept our mother aside for himself. We’d like to think that he loved her, but that’s not very likely, is it? After all, to him she was nothing more than a pretty plaything. He lusted after her, and she submitted to him willingly in the hope that he would take care of us. He protected her, and us, for as long as he lived, but he was carried off by a fever, leaving us powerless to defend ourselves.”
Xeno took another sip of his juice and momentarily closed his eyes as if reliving the events of his youth. “Dido and I were taken when we were out alone playing in the jungle. It was our father’s brother who snatched us, our own uncle who’d viewed his brother’s liaison with our mother as shameful and unholy. His only act of kindness was to allow us to stay together, for the sake of his late brother’s memory. We don’t know what happened to our mother or the rest of our family, but this is our family now, and we must protect it.”
Max nodded, unsure of what response was expected of him. It was a sad tale, but not a unique one. Many families had been torn apart, the children separated from their parents, siblings sold separately, never to see each other again. The fact that Dido and her brother had been sold by their uncle wasn’t surprising either. A white man would never acknowledge a pair of Negro twins as family; if anything, he’d want to eradicate any reminder of a connection between his own bloodline and that of some lowly Negro woman, who was probably dead by now or pining for her children on some other island, some other plantation.
“I’ve been watching you since you got here, Lord Everly, as has my sister, and we’ve decided that you are the one to help us,” Xeno said, still watching Max with that uncanny stillness.
“I appreciate your confidence in me, but I can barely help myself these days,” Max replied, curious as to what the man had in mind.
Xeno just studied him patiently, waiting for Max to ask the inevitable question. “What is it that you need my help with?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Xeno said, smiling for the first time. He had strong white teeth, and the smile transformed his face from forbidding to strangely appealing. “Three slaves have died unnecessarily in the past several months due to Johansson’s cruelty. Unfortunately, Jessop Greene will not address these deaths until a white man dies,” he replied calmly. Max felt cold fingers of dread walk up his spine. What the hell was the man suggesting?
“The death of a white man will cause Greene to either rein in his attack dog or replace him altogether. You see, you are worth much more than any of us, so it would be a financial loss to the owner, not to mention a source of gossip and censure among the plantation owners on this island. The governor turns a blind eye to most things that happen here, but if a white man is beaten to death for a minor infraction, word gets around.” Xeno leaned against the rough wall and folded his hands in front of his stomach, looking as relaxed as if he were sitting on the sofa, watching a film with a cold beer in front of him and a bag of crisps nearby.
“Are you proposing to kill me, Xeno?” Max asked carefully, his mouth dry with apprehension. Had there been something in the juice that Dido had given him? Was he already a dead man? Xeno smiled indulgently as he saw Max’s eyes dart to the carafe.
“Killing you would serve absolutely no purpose, my lord. You have to die at the hands of Johansson in order for it to benefit my people.”
“So, what is it that you want of me?” Max was terribly uneasy, but he couldn’t leave this hut without finding out exactly what Xeno had in mind, so that he could be prepared for whatever came next. Would they invoke some kind of Voodoo curse to kill him and blame it on the overseer?
“Lord Everly, by all accounts you are a brave man, a man who risked his life to follow his conscience, not someone who’d been sent down for a crime against a fellow human being; this is why I came to you. If you were to annoy Johansson in some way and be sentenced to a flogging, your death would serve a higher purpose.” Xeno was gazing at Max in such a self-satisfied manner that it left Max stunned. It’s as if he were offering for Max to be crucified so that he could be compared to Jesus.
Max suddenly felt laughter bubbling up inside his chest. He hadn’t laughed since the day he’d found the key to opening the secret passage that led him to the seventeenth-century, but he found himself convulsing with mirth as he looked at the surprised face of the Voodoo priest. He was laughing so hard that tears began to run down his face and his stomach muscles contracted painfully, but he couldn’t stop. It took Max some time to catch his breath, but he finally got hold of himself and faced the man.
“You expect me to provoke Johansson into flogging me to death just as a little favor to you?” Max chortled. “Are you completely mad, man? What kind of a fool would I have to be to agree to this mad scheme? I might have hit rock bottom, but I’m not ready to just give up and die, not even for a good cause. Thank you for the juice,” Max added as he got to his feet. Xeno just watched him until Max turned away, then his voice stopped Max in his tracks.
“You haven’t heard what I’m offering in return, Lord Everly. Freedom.”
“If you mean that I will be free of this life then I think I’ve got the point,” Max threw back over his shoulder.
“No, I mean freedom –- and life. Won’t you hear me out?” Xeno’s voice sounded like warm honey as it drew Max back. He was like a snake charmer and Max was the snake, unable to resist the lure of the siren call.
Max reluctantly sat back down and faced Xeno, his face all hard angles and lines. This man was playing games, and Max was no man’s fool. However, something in Xeno’s voice held him captive, and he needed to understand what was really happening here. Dido seemed to be hovering behind him, listening, and silently willing him to agree, but he ignored her seductive presence, focusing instead on her brother.
“Lord Everly, as I’m sure you already know, since you followed us a few nights ago and watched our ritual of blood sacrifice, we practice the ancient art of Voodoo. Many people believe this to be black magic, but it has nothing to do with that. Voodoo is about the connection between all living things and a devotion to each other. We summon spirits to help those who are in need of guidance, and we offer sacrifice which symbolizes the cycle of life,” Xeno began.
“That’s very illuminating, but what has this got to do with me?” Max asked rudely.
“My sister is a priestess who has extensive knowledge of plants, herbs, and poisons. She uses her skill to heal, but there are other, more potent potions which can also be useful in our situation.”
“You are still talking in riddles, Xeno,” Max replied, growing more annoyed by the moment. What did any of this have to do with what Xeno had suggested?
“All right, I will come straight to the point. Johansson never flogs the white indentures as severely as the Negro slaves. There’s no chance of you actually dying from a flogging. The only way you could die is from festering of the wounds which could be a result of the flogging. Once dead, you would be buried in the graveyard on the plantation and forgotten about, but your story would live on, at least for a little while,” Xeno stated.
“Sounds about right, so I’ll be on my way if you don’t mind,” Max retorted, angry for having allowed himself a tiny seed of hope.
“Dido can make a potion which would slow down your heart and cool your body, making you appear dead for several hours. You will be declared dead and buried, which will serve our purpose, but then you will wake up. My men will dig you up and take you through the jungle to the port where you will board a vessel bound for France. The La Belle will be docking in a few days, and will be ready to return to France after it’d been unloaded, re-provisioned, and reloaded with cargo for the return voyage. You can be on it.”
Max just gaped at the man. He had to be stark raving mad to propose what he just had. “Let me see if I understand you correctly, Xeno. You wish me to get flogged, pretend to die of infection, and then consent to
be buried alive in the faint hope that you might dig me back up. And, if that actually happens, you claim that you can get me off the plantation and onto a French ship? I have a few questions, if you will,” Max said forcefully. He was getting really bloody fed up with this charade.
“If you have the power to drug people, why not drug Johansson and his minions and escape yourself? You could all escape into the jungle one night and no one would find you. How on earth could you know about the French vessel, and why would anyone allow you to bring me on board, even if you could smuggle me out? And even if I got as far as the French ship, I have no money to pay for my passage, and I assume, neither do you. And, why would you help me escape once your objective had been met? You could just leave me buried alive, which would suit your purposes just as admirably. Why bother going through this charade of helping me escape to freedom? You must think me a real fool, Xeno,” Max spat out.
“You have every right to be suspicious, but I will answer your questions one by one,” Xeno replied. He didn’t seem in the least annoyed or offended by Max’s ire. Instead he inclined his head in acknowledgment of Max’s concerns, almost eager to speak further of his plan. “We’ve given Johansson a small amount of Water Hemlock every time we needed him out of the way, but to actually kill him would have severe repercussions since we would be instantly suspected of the crime. We need him reined in, not dead. A new overseer could be even more brutal, so we’d be right back where we started,” Xeno explained.
Sins of Omission Page 10
