Ashes stared.
Breeze glared back, a small shyness now breaking out on his cheeks.
‘Howyuh come to think that?’
Breeze shrugged. ‘I ent know. Everyone think so. I does talk to alluh de men, everyone in the compound, they say he the real Leader of the country.’
Ashes steupsed. This was bad talk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The Leader is not head of the country. You making no sense at all.’
‘Then who he is?’
‘The Leader is himself.’
The young boy’s eyes went hard and dark; suddenly he looked all boiled up and vexed. Like this was all the wrong information.
‘He lead his followers, like us.’
‘So how the Prime Minister get to be so important? I figure he an old man. I never figure he so important they go blow down this whole friggin place.’
‘Well, yes . . . he is important. He is the most important and powerful man alive in Sans Amen.’
‘Only now you telling me this.’
‘You didn’t know what a Prime Minister is?’
‘No. Is only now I figuring it out.’
‘Only now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who you figure the Leader is?’
‘I figure the Leader is the Prime Minister.’
‘No,’ Ashes sighed and wanted to weep. ‘You have to be elected to be Prime Minister. Votes and elections. Official things must take place. The Leader, you know he doing his own thing. Freestyle. He is . . . well . . . he is spiritually inclined.’
‘Why you follow him?’
‘Same reason as you. He a good man. Spiritual.’
Breeze steupsed.
‘He just make a mistake is all.’
Ashes looked at the young boy and it was then he saw himself, his fifteen-year-old self, the young boy who followed his brother around, who followed River everywhere. River his hero-brother. River who was cunning and smart, who ran off to the hills to take up arms. Breeze looked like River but he was as foolish as Ashes was at his age and even now. Breeze was like the two brothers melted into one, a young innocent boy with a gun.
But Breeze wasn’t finished yet. Something else was stored inside. Now Breeze looked different, softer. Like a tear might fall and he was keeping it back.
‘I want to tell you something.’
‘Oh?’
Breeze looked down and said, ‘I shoot someone.’
Ashes felt bad. Hot and dead in his arms and legs. He had wondered if this might be the case. He nodded but he didn’t know what to say or do. Unlike the PM and the Colonel, he didn’t know how to act in these circumstances. River had also shot people. He knew that, but River never talked about it.
‘I shot the woman in there,’ Breeze pointed to the room behind, now blasted to pieces, the room where Ashes had bent down and seen the woman’s body slick with blood; she had still been alive then. Then he remembered what she’d said to him.
‘I sorry, yes,’ said Breeze. ‘I sorry.’
‘You shot the woman?’
‘It was an accident. It happen in the first ten minutes we get inside here. I was running and she appeared and I was shooting up the place. I shot her. She fell down. She was in the room trying to get out of the window and I doh know how it happen. Everyone was shooting everything. I doh know what I was doing. I shot her. She was trying to escape. I sorry.’
Tears fell down his face.
‘I like the women inside here. Mrs Garland, she a good lady. She kind. I almost shoot she as well.’
Ashes felt his heart thunder around inside him.
‘I have a bad feeling,’ said Breeze. ‘Right here,’ and he relaxed one arm and let it hang free and with the other hand he patted the area around his groin.
‘Come,’ Ashes said.
‘What?’
‘I taking you to pray.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere quiet. Away from here.’
He put one hand on the young boy’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Come with me.’
Ashes took Breeze down along the blasted, blown-up corridor, past all the smashed-up rooms where clerical support staff had been going about their business only Wednesday last, past the cases of unused guns and ammo the brothers had brought with them, past the room with the last telephone line, now dead, past the broom cupboard where Mrs Gonzales had been hiding, past the room with Liquid Paper graffiti about God, and then down some mahogany stairs in the middle of the building, down two flights to the cool terrazzo ground floor of the House of Power where there was a fountain in the centre but the water had stopped its flourishing dance. Although down there was quieter, the signs of the mayhem above were evident: broken glass and planks of wood were strewn across the floor. They had to go carefully so as not to be seen through the wrought iron gates by the army encamped on the streets. They were unarmed and couldn’t return fire. They both looked upwards and gazed at the vaulted ceiling.
‘This place huge, man,’ Breeze gasped.
‘Yeah.’
‘It haunted, no arse.’
Ashes looked at him. ‘Maybe,’ he said. He thought of the burial ground under the House which had appeared to him in his dream. Could there be Amerindians buried beneath?
‘Why they build this place so big?’
‘So everyone can see it, nuh.’
‘Who build it?’
‘The Queen.’
‘What Queen?’
‘The Queen of England. Victoria. She dead long time. Is in her style.’
‘Well she had good style. Fancy.’
‘Yeah, but she have plenty power. And they stick one big dragon up there on top this place. To defend it. That dragon serious, no arse. Is why this all go wrong. Like this place cursed.’
‘A dragon?’
Ashes said, ‘Yes. Come.’
They walked along one of the corridors and Ashes pushed open the wooden door to the library and behind him Breeze let out a low whistle. There was his nest on the floor made of some curtains taken from the window and the cushions from the old leather armchairs. Ashes felt awkward; now the library had an intimate feel, like he’d made it his own bedroom.
They shut the door behind them and stood there on the deep blue velvet carpet and for a few moments it was like the world was normal again. None of the other brothers had been down here. No one else had thought to snoop around this far away from the action.
‘What is this place?’ Breeze asked.
‘Is a library, nuh. For books.’
Breeze looked around, his jaw set in a held-in wonder. In the window Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross and was gazing up at the skies. Ashes had found himself talking a lot to Jesus on the cross. Mostly he had gone over the rights and wrongs of fighting for freedom and its cost. Now he stood there with Breeze and he felt self-conscious. Breeze was inspecting Jesus.
‘That is Jesus Christ?’ Breeze asked.
‘Yes.’
‘The prophet?’
‘Yes.’
‘He not looking healthy.’
‘No.’
‘He get his arse killed in a bad way.’
‘He get executed.’
‘Howyuh mean?’
‘The Romans, they punish him by death.’
‘For what?’
‘For what he preach. It was treasonous.’
‘Shit, man. Why you bring me here?’
‘To be quiet.’
‘You ’fraid to die?’
‘Yes. Course I ’fraid. The doctor tell me is natural to want to live. Is like a rule. We all want to live.’
‘I only ever want to die. Since young.’
‘Since young?’
‘Since I was very small. Mih mother, she had too many of us. She always telling us so. She tell us if only God would take some of us away. If some of us dead, then she could be happy. So I run away.’
Ashes didn’t reply.
‘Mih mother’s name is Mercy. Mercy Loretta Green. Ten children. Ten different men. Ten
fathers. I never go know who mih real father is. But mih mother is called Mercy Green.’
‘And you? What your real name?’
‘Joseph. Joseph Green. I get mih nickname on the street.’
Ashes said nothing. The City of Silk was the City of Nicknames. Everybody had one, including him.
‘You want to know the truth?’
Ashes turned to look at him. His face was serious and full and sad.
‘When I shoot that woman upstairs, it was like I shoot mih mother dead. I shoot she for . . . not wanting me. I shoot she in a fury. Something come over me.’
Ashes said, ‘Come, nuh.’
He knelt down in front of the stained glass window and waited. Breeze followed his example.
‘Jesus won’t mind if we pray here?’
‘No. None of them God fellers care who praying to who, really. They all friends up there and none of them are like . . . casting for votes. Is just good we pray anyhow.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
Ashes relaxed his chest cavity and he closed his eyes. Tears fell. ‘I sorry too,’ he said.
Then that feeling came, the wingbeat thrum of a hummingbird, or a quiet, gentle feeling from outside passing in. The world seemed to change colour; it became brighter and he felt light and clean, and then came the opening, the porous feeling of another part of him, the part which was soul. He connected with that part of himself, the part which was like God, all Gods, any God, with the divine soul of the world. He sensed that part of him swell and he put his hand on his heart. He looked across at Breeze and saw a sullen face, silver with tears. In Breeze he saw another soul, another boy who had replaced him and his brother River. Breeze, who had shot his mother dead, would somehow live. He felt sure of it. And with this Ashes felt an old anguish lift upwards and he said Praise be to God.
SATURDAY EVENING,
THE HOUSE OF POWER,
THE CITY OF SILK
In what used to be the tearoom, Hal and Greg Mason and two of the other men had set themselves up as a band. Hal was using his gun like a base cello, balancing the butt on the floor and playing an imaginary bow across the slim neck of the gun. Greg had the butt of his gun cocked against his chin, the nose pointed outwards. He was playing his bow like the gun was a violin. The two other men, two fellers from the compound Ashes barely knew, had balanced their guns across their knees like guitars. They were laughing and singing and Ashes thought that seeing Hal behave all jokey like this was so very disappointing. For the first time since it all began, Ashes felt let down by him. Maybe Hal wasn’t a cut above. Maybe he was just a common man. The four fellers sang an old American song . . . baby, baby, baby . . . rock and roll or something, and they laughed and Ashes could see that Breeze also looked disappointed.
Hal and some of the brothers closest to him knew the game was now completely over. It had been over within twelve hours of the revolution. Things had dragged out. Now they’d really given up. No army convoy had come that day to pick up hostages. The army were now demanding ‘unconditional surrender’ through the megaphone. Lay down your arms and come out one by one, that was the only deal now available to the brothers. They weren’t going to start shooting anyone in there, no bodies thrown over the balcony on Day Four. The place was a wreck and the gunmen and the hostages were all exhausted. The brothers were too demoralised for anything so dramatic. Besides, if Hal now issued such a command, he faced resistance. Ashes had had enough. He wanted to go home now, back to his old life. The stench in the place was the worst part. Everyone now wore a handkerchief over their mouth and nose. It wasn’t possible to be inside of there without this protection.
The sun began to go down and as it did the wind picked up. The City of Silk was a city which had grown itself on the swamp flats of a curved lip of a wide bay. Now and then it was possible to smell the sea in the gulf, even from the hot, busy streets. On Saturdays he would go down to the vegetable market on Chanders Street to buy yams and patchoi and pumpkin and he would stand for a few moments with his head raised so he could catch the scent of the sea not so far away. Now Ashes could tell it was going to rain by the sound of the ruffled up wind and the slight saltiness in the air. The sea in the gulf would be getting a little churned up. Finally, some rain. The pain in his thigh would start up again.
He thought of his wife Jade and their sons and he imagined the possibility of slipping out of the House of Power and past the army outside to pay them all a visit. Or maybe he should just give himself up and walk out. He had split himself from his family. His soul had followed the Leader and the part of him that was man had put his family second. Now he’d lost his family and his Leader was trapped in the television station and Hal was playing his gun like a cello.
Maybe a strong political conscience runs in the family, the doctor had said. He wondered about this. He remembered how River had infected him with his stories about black power in Sans Amen and ideas of a New Society; how, in America, black people had marched, had been changing everything. He and River had stacks of Phantom comic books under their beds. Mostly they admired his Oath of the Skull, an oath which Phantom had inherited from his father, to do battle with the forces of evil forever. That was the Phantom’s job. Every son of Phantom inherited this position, to be a fighter for freedom and justice. It was like a line of spiritual freedom fighters, the mission of fighting for social justice handed down generations from father to son. Ashes and River had talked a lot about where and how to get a Phantom costume, if they could ask their mother to sew one for them in purple silk. But then there was the problem that they both wanted to be the Phantom. There couldn’t be two of them. So they agreed that as River was older, River would get the costume first, if they ever made one; they agreed that Ashes could borrow the costume now and then.
That idea of a costume died because River soon took to the hills; he got swept up with the likes of Greg Mason and his band of men. Greg Mason was the only member of that gang still alive. During the last few days Ashes had come to understand that he himself was a revolutionary in spirit only. He had been afraid of his own gun. Unlike Breeze, he hadn’t shot anyone, not by accident or on purpose because his gun hadn’t even been loaded. Only now Ashes knew that he would never make a good Phantom or wear a purple suit. That was all childhood rubbish. His brother was dead and many years later he had got himself into a hell of a messy situation.
It began to rain. A faint velvety roar from the dark skies over Sans Amen. Rain always made him feel guilty and aware of his sins, the nafs, the way he could be overrun. Rain made his groin sear with pain. The wound he had received as a teenage boy ached, the pain of the death of his innocence. His desire to be alone with his thoughts was overwhelming. He could no longer tolerate the claustrophobic conditions and the stench of the chamber. When no one was looking, Ashes quietly slipped away and headed to the ground floor of the House to sleep. It wasn’t safe descending to street level but the solitude was worth the risk.
In the library with the blue velvet carpet he lay himself down to sleep. His thoughts drifted to his own mother and father; they had been wise parents, happy with each other, fair. He had been lucky; they had been good to him and his brother and kind to each other. There was a contentment in their lives together, as though they had chosen right and had been pleased with their lot in life; that ended when River was shot.
Ashes drifted off. In his dreams he saw a car, a big, stately, official-looking limo with the Prime Minister inside. It was travelling down a dirt track past a green field. A flock of big black birds were attacking it for some reason. The driver got out and tried to shoo them away, but the birds kept pecking at the windscreen and the driver said aloud, ‘Something terrible is going to happen today, Mr Prime Minister.’ Then he saw his wife, Jade. She was climbing up a ladder and waving goodbye to him. She had his sons with her and they were waving goodbye too. They climbed all the levels of the ladder up to the sky and disappeared, waving. And then the dream was filled with trees, silk
cotton trees, and he saw thousands of them, and from each one dangled a purple suit. The silk cotton trees had spun these purple suits of their own accord. They had sprouted the suits, and then Queen Victoria came into the dream and she cut all the suits down off the trees, harvesting them, and saying, ‘This won’t do.’ She threw the purple suits into the gulf and said, ‘Now let’s drink some tea.’ She began to drink tea with Hal and the Leader and then the three of them were painting the House of Power red and then Queen Victoria said, ‘This colour won’t do either’ and the Leader shot her crown clean off her head. The Leader said, ‘Ha, you see I know how to use a gun.’ Queen Victoria looked stupefied and then the Leader said, ‘Tea? I can bake a cake too. Let’s have tea and cake.’ Then the silk cotton trees appeared again, thousands of them along the banks of the City of Silk, and from each one hung the body of a man. The men’s bodies were dangling in the breeze coming in off the gulf. In the hands of each of these men was a long, slim violin.
SUNDAY MORNING,
THE HOUSE OF POWER,
THE CITY OF SILK
Rain. A moody, grisly rain had moved in over the City of Silk. Rain like millions of needles in the air, steaming up the place. It was everywhere, rain swarming across the city like bees scouting for a new home to settle on. The clouds were smoky and dark. The City was empty now except for the army; streets upon streets of blackened, shelled-out buildings, sheets of galvanised tin pelted on the ground. It was as if barbarians had sacked the city, but instead the city’s own residents had risen up and gorged themselves on the everyday items they couldn’t afford: beds and tableware and microwave ovens and toasters and groceries. They had debased their own city. No one had joined in the efforts of the gunmen. Not one citizen had so much as paused to throw a stone or sing out a cry in solidarity for their bravery and their courage or their ideas. It was apparent to Ashes that people weren’t as oppressed as he’d imagined. They were just poor. Maybe that was different to being oppressed. Maybe he would have to read more books about the subject of poverty. The poor had risen up, indeed. But only to grab what they thought they needed.
House of Ashes Page 13
