The Black God's Drums

by P. Djèlí Clark

  “You sure you good for what we about to do?” I ask.

  “I doing fine,” the captain says tightly. “It’s nothing.”

  Her words don’t sound convincing.

  “If you try not to fight her it won’t be as bad,” I suggest.

  The captain grimaces. “And let she take hold of me?”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want. Just listen, instead of trying to shut her out.”

  “I can hear she all over the blasted place!”

  “Hearing ain’t the same as listening,” I counter. She’s set to start up again, but I don’t let her. “Stop being so stubborn for once! If you don’t want to let her in, then don’t. But she might have something useful to say!” I pause before saying the next part. “What the sisters said, about you and me, about Oya and Oshun being out here together, might be some truth to that.”

  The captain frowns and I sigh. Might as well tell all of it.

  “The same night this all started, right before I overhear the Cajun and the Confederates in my alcove, I got a vision,” I say. “Oya, she sends me them sometimes. About things to come. That night I see a great big moon but like a skull. It swallow up the whole city. I didn’t know what it mean until the sisters helped me put it all together. Whatever happening out here, Oya knows and she sent me a warning. Could be Oshun done the same for you.”

  The captain gives me a long pondering look, then shakes her head. “I don’t get no visions.” Another long pause. “But sometimes I does feel when something real bad going to happen. Feel it deep, deep inside. Since we come into this Dead City, it come over me strong.”

  I nod, knowing that kind of thing all too well. “There’s a man,” I tell her. “Tall in a black suit. I seen him one time on the streets. He was driving the wagon this morning. I think his face—his mask—is the same as the one in my vision. There’s something about him.” I fumble, not sure how to explain. “Just, be careful around that one.”

  Féral turns to us suddenly, pressing a finger to her lips for quiet. We’ve stopped behind a thick knotted oak that’s pushing up and through a crumbling moss-stained brick wall. The big tree look odd here among the swamp cypress, probably planted when the city was still alive. But it stay strong, still growing and making this land its own. On the other side of the oak tree, maybe about a carriage car’s length from where we crouch, there’s a collapsed building that look like it might have been a big plantation house. Now it sits there in a mound of rotted wood and stone jutting up from the waters like a small island. A set of worn rickety shacks are still sitting on a bank of earth, pushed up against each other and covered in moss. I’m guessing they was once slave cabins that somehow survived better than their master’s house. There’s men standing around there too, dressed in a mismatch of gray and red uniforms. A long strip of cloth hangs from one of the shacks, a tattered thing with a big yellow star in a sea of red, beside red, white, and blue stripes. The old Louisiana Confederate flag. Looks like we found the Jeannots. And that’s not all.

  The captain taps at me, pointing.

  It’s the Haitian scientist—right out in the open! Not hard to make him out. He’s the only black man in the group. He’s stripped down to the blue vest of his suit and wearing a long gray apron that cover him to his ankles. He’s giving directions to some Jeannots who are putting what looks like an artillery shell into the biggest cannon I ever seen: a thing of coal-black iron with a barrel long as a rail. They’re being real careful with the shell too, stuffing it in with a lengthy pole. When it’s done they all step back and four more Jeannots start turning spoked iron wheels on either side of the cannon—two of them at each. A loud squeaking and grinding echoes through the swamp as that black barrel starts to rise, lifting slow, bit by bit, until it’s pointing right into the sky—not straight up, but at a high angle. And I know what’s just been put in that cannon.

  “Shango’s Thunder!” I whisper under my breath.

  “Blasted man gone and make it for them!” the captain seethes, realizing the same. She turns and gives a set of hand signals to the bearded Haitian and the Mongolian. The two take off immediately, setting out in opposite directions through the drowned city. “Francois and Nogai going to start up one set of noise, make these Jeannots think a whole army coming for them,” she explains. “That will get they attention. Then I going to get Duval and smash that damn cannon!”

  I eye her doubtfully, counting over a dozen Jeannots. They hear that noise, chances are they gonna grab the scientist and run. But she pulls out her Free Isles pistol with some strange-looking bullets I never seen before. “You and Féral stay here.” She stops, her face turning into a frown. “Where that girl gone?”

  I look to my side to see Féral’s missing. Both of us spin around searching, but there’s no sign of the girl. A shout from one of the Jeannots turns us back to their camp. The captain curses. I shake my head. Sure enough, there’s Féral.

  The girl is striding out the water up to the Jeannots, like she’s just out for a Sunday stroll. The first one to spot her was the one to yell out. Now there’s at least half of the group running over to surround her. Féral just stands there looking up at them with wide eyes. I didn’t even know she could make them that big. The men crowd about, some asking questions. When one of them reaches a hand she darts back. Another one approaches, this time offering what looks like food. Féral snatches it up and begins ramming it into her mouth, then grins wide—setting the men to laughter.

  “What is that blasted child doing?” the captain hisses.

  I smile as I answer. “Getting their attention.” I point to the Haitian scientist, who by now is standing almost by himself. Even his guard’s eyes are on Féral. The captain don’t waste time. Crouching, she starts forward. I follow—having no intention of being left behind. We creep right up into the Jeannots’ camp and the captain gets a hold of the scientist, dragging him to the side of one of the shacks. He don’t cry out, just stares at us like he can’t believe that he’s seeing us.

  “You going to come with me,” she tells him, “or you going to be dead? Understand?”

  The man’s eyes swerve to where her pistol is lodged at his chest, but he shakes his head.

  “I cannot!” he says through a thick Haitian accent. “Not without my jewel!”

  “I don’t care what they paying you!” the captain growls, pressing the pistol harder.

  But the man keeps shaking his head. And he’s crying now. I frown, remembering from when we met him on the street. I seen greedy men and women before. I know how their eyes light up when they talk about riches. There’s something about the way he says “jewel,” though, that’s different. He don’t say it like he’s talking about money. It’s like something more personal.

  “Moushay Duval,” I ask. “What is this . . . jewel?”

  He turns to look at me, and seems momentarily surprised all over again to find himself staring at a girl. But he answers. “My daughter,” he says hoarsely.

  I exchange a startled glance with the captain. Jewel isn’t a thing. It’s a name.

  “Confederates take her,” the man explains, reading our faces. “Make me work for them. I almost had her back. Then these Jeannots come for me and take her too. If I don’t give them what they want, they will sell her! Into the Confederacy!”

  I grimace. Slave snatching was punishable by death in free New Orleans. But some still did it. You got sold into the Confederate States, and wasn’t no coming back.

  “Where your daughter now?” the captain asks. The man points to one of the shacks.

  “I will not leave without her,” he proclaims. “You will have to kill me first!”

  His voice is wavering, but I think he means it. I also think the captain just might pull that trigger on him if she has to. “I’ll get her,” I blurt out quickly. Both of them look to me with startled expressions. “You didn’t come here just to kill him,” I tell the captain. “And I don’t see him coming with us otherwise. We can’t all
three get back there. So I’ll get her. Just wait.”

  I don’t give them a chance to disagree, grabbing onto and climbing the big oak easy. Like I say, I ain’t get this name Creeper for nothing. I pull myself up and onto a long branch, ambling right over a bunch of Jeannots with them being none the wiser. The knotted bough extends above one of the shacks. I follow it along its length and drop down onto the roof, praying the whole while the rotted wood don’t give way underneath me. From there, I crouch-walk to the ledge and hang my body over for a look. There’s a window, just a cut-out hole with a simple shutter hanging half off its hinges. I can see through a small space and make out a single Jeannot inside: a little squat man who’s leaning against a wall looking bored. There’s one chair in the room. And tied to it, in front of a table with an oil lamp, is a girl. She look a little older than me, wearing a torn-up yellow dress that might have been nice once and a white scarf tying back her hair. Her eyes stare at the burning lamp, big and frightened.

  It’s as I’m wondering how I’m going to go about getting her out that the explosion comes.

  Boom!

  I scramble back onto the roof and look out into the swamp to see a fireball lighting up the dark, making the buildings of the Dead City shimmer like ghosts. Another one goes off on the other side. Boom! Then there’s the pat-pat-pat of gunshots, coming from out in the swamp. The Mongolian and the Haitian, I remember. Got the Jeannots running back and forth now like a kicked-over anthill. Probably got them to thinking the whole New Orleans Guard is out there. They start shooting back into the dark, yelling and shouting at what they can’t see. None of them know what to make of the canisters that come flying at them. The first one just falls into the waters. The second and third ones though reach the patch of land and send off big clouds of bright green vapor that almost glows in the dark. Drapeto gas!

  I remember the gas mask I’m carrying—another gift from the sisters—and strap it on quick, breathing clean air through the filters as I watch the drapeto billowing about. The Jeannots who get a whiff of it start choking, coughing, and rubbing at their eyes while swearing. Then they go dead quiet, standing with their guns held slack at their sides and staring out at nothing. That sends the rest of them into even more disarray, trying to see through the haze of green mist and stumbling over the ones that won’t move, all while trying to fight at the same time. I have to admit, it feel good to see the drapeto work on them. But it still makes my skin crawl.

  The door to the shack swings open and I duck down quick. It’s the Jeannot that was inside. He comes out with a rifle and is swept up by a band of other Jeannots, running out to join the fight. He left the girl alone, unguarded! This the best chance I’ll get.

  I creep back to the window, stretching and angling my body to open it. With a push the shutter gives way and I swing down, slipping inside. It’s just the girl in the shack now. She jumps in the chair and screams at the sight of me, just as another boom goes off. If she was scared before, she’s terrified now, and is talking in a stream of Haitian creole I can barely understand. When I move closer, she only screams again. It takes me a minute to realize it’s the mask. I undo the straps and pull it off so she can see my face.

  “Jewel!” I snap sharply. “Jewel Duval!”

  That sends her quiet and she stares at me blankly behind a set of weepy brown eyes.

  “I’m here to get you out!” I say, bending down to loosen the ropes about her wrists and ankles. “Your father sent me! You understand?”

  She nods but still looks confused, licking a set of parched lips before speaking. “Wi. It is just . . . you?”

  I scowl up at her. I happen to think I’m plenty.

  “Come on!” I bark, once I’ve gotten her out of the ropes. “We have to go before they come back! Only got one mask. So get something to wrap your face. You don’t want to breathe in what’s outside.” I rush to the door, pulling it open—to find it blocked. Jeannots. Three of them. Two are armed with rifles. But the guns they holding aren’t what makes my stomach feel like it wants to empty. It’s the tall skinny man in the middle: the one in a black mortician’s suit and wearing that frightful skeleton mask. His blue eyes swivel to glare down at me from behind that skull, and there’s the sudden surprise of recognition. I don’t give him a chance for more.

  I call on Oya. This time, there’s no reluctance or fickleness. She’s there, bristling and ready to fight. A gust of wind picks up, strong enough to blow all three men out my way. Or at least it should be. It picks up the two armed men right off their feet, sending them spinning into the night. But the tall one in the mask, skinny or no, must be sturdier than the rest. He crouches low down and somehow keeps his footing in the blast of air even as his companions fly away. His head cocks to the side like a crow as he looks me over.

  “So you got dem old powers on your side, cher,” he remarks almost playfully. “Dat nice. Real nice. Except I got me somethin’ to protect from witchery.” His hand moves up to pat a small red pouch on a thin cord about his neck. I curse. A mojo bag! How hadn’t I seen that before? That explains why he seems so strange. Just my luck to run into a Jeannot who knows some Hoodoo. In my head Oya growls her distaste. She’s kind of touchy about the folk magic.

  Standing up, the tall man steps into the room and I immediately back away with Jewel clutching behind me.

  “Oh don’t go nowhere now, cher,” he mocks. “Come all this way just to see me. We can get to know each other a little better. Darkeys like a good song and dance, no?” His feet begin an odd sweeping shuffle across the floor as his voice picks up a familiar tune:

  “If Jackson should be President,

  We’ll borrow guns of Government,

  And you may load and I’ll tend vent,

  Then touch her off and let her went,

  With huzza! For Andrew Jackson!”

  In a blur, he pulls a curved knife from inside his suit and darts right for me.

  I jump back. Nobody should be able to move that fast, but he do. Oya’s wind is there again, pushing hard against him, so hard the whole cabin shake—and I fear for a moment it might fall in about us. But the man twists his lanky body like a sidewinding river snake, sliding around the gust of air easy as ever.

  I’m still backing up, hearing the heels of my boots on the wooden planks, my mind warning me there’s soon going to be nowhere to go—and I’ll just be trapped in here with him. But there’s no time to think as he suddenly bounds forward in one big leap, that curved knife flashing silver in the flickering lamplight like a serpent’s fang. I throw up an arm to protect myself, all I can manage to do to as the blade comes close to slicing my face.

  There’s a sharp sting, followed soon after by a powerful burning up and down my forearm. I glance to see the sleeve of my coat sliced open, and there’s blood soaking through the tear and into the fabric, warm and wet and running down to drip from my fingers. The pain is enough to make me stumble back, lose balance, and slip awkwardly to one knee. The tall man takes his time now, back to doing his shuffling dance and humming his damn tune. Behind me Jewel is shrieking in my ear, and I’m reminded how much I hate to hear folk screaming their fool heads off. What good that going to do? I want to turn and tell her to hush up, to let me think, but my eyes are locked on that skull’s face that’s coming for me. I don’t even think I can move. I feel trapped there and held in place. He’s twirling that knife between his fingers, the edge of it red with my blood, grinning his skeleton grin the whole while.

  “Come see, cher,” he croons, beckoning with a finger. “Don’t be scared. Don’t run. I just want to cut you open. See what a witch insides made from. Maybe pull them out, and play with them some. I let you watch too.” He laughs and does a little hop and slide. “I can’t lie to you though, cher. It gonna hurt. It gonna hurt a lot. Real, real bad.”

  He goes still for a moment—then moves all at once, coming at me quick as a shadow, that blade glinting as it shoots forward. I inhale, bracing for it to bite into me, knowing this
time it’s gonna dig deep. But my attacker stops short, crying out suddenly instead. Something’s latched onto him, a small shape with teeth buried into his knife hand. I blink in surprise. Féral!

  I got no idea how the swamp girl got here so fast, but she’s there and biting hard. The tall man tries to fling her way but she’s holding on tight. She must clamp down even harder or chew or something, because he looses one loud howl of pain and drops the knife. Only then does she let go. He curses, pressing his injured hand to his chest and lashing out to cuff her with the other. But she’s too fast—scurrying back and forth and then coming at him again and again, a small fury of wild hair, digging fingernails, and those blessed teeth!

  I don’t waste time, grabbing up the closest thing to me—the lamp. The eyes in that skeleton mask turn just in time to see it swinging hard for his head. There’s a crack once. Twice. Then something big breaks over him, sending a shower of broken and splintered wood flying in every direction. I turn in surprise to see Jewel Duval holding what’s left of a chair. She’s looking down at the tall man, who’s laid out at our feet. Screaming something in Creole she kicks him hard in the head. That grinning skull jerks to one side, flopping like a melon. But he don’t move. I smile and she nods back in satisfaction, the anger in her eyes saying she wants to hit him again. Girl got more in her than I thought. With my good hand, I smash what’s left of the lamp on the shack floor. Fiery fluid spills out and moves quick across the rotted wood that goes up like kindling.

  “We gotta get out now!” I shout. The three of us run, stumble and trip our way from the shack. It’s not pretty or graceful, but we get out. The Jeannots barely pay us any mind. The ones with a head full of drapeto just stand there swaying, like strange looking trees. The rest had sense enough to bundle their faces up with whatever they could find. They scamper all around, yelling and carrying on, in a shootout with what they think is an army they still can’t see. I let Féral take my mask since she seem to have lost hers. Me and Jewel use torn-away parts of her dress to keep our noses and mouths covered. Not much of the gas left, just faint airy wisps. But I think I can taste it on my tongue—remind me of licking metal. We thread our way between the shacks to where the captain and the Haitian scientist are waiting. There’s two crumpled up Jeannots laying in a heap who must have come looking for the man—either unconscious our dead, I don’t bother to check too close.