The Black God's Drums
Page 8
The captain looks ready to answer. But instead she frowns and straightens, remembering who she is. Within moments her usual stiff face is on.
“About our bargain,” she begins.
“You promised to let me be crew,” I interject.
“No,” she corrects flatly. “I say I will think on it. You believe I doesn’t know my own mind?”
I fold my arms. It was worth a try. “So? What now?”
“So,” she repeats, “what I say before hold true: you too young to be on any airship.” Her face is set like a mask that won’t give. But then, to my surprise, it softens. “Still, you show me you not just any, any girl. Might be smarter and braver than most grown women I know.”
I can’t help smiling at the compliment, even if I feel silly doing so.
“But grown women should know their writings and their maths!” she goes on, that firm mask coming back. “And I not going to have any dotish girl on my ship! So, I write a letter to those two obeah women who call themselves nuns. You going to start attending school at the convent.” I make a face, ready to gripe at this, but she holds up a hand. “Madame Diouf going to make a donation to them that should take care of you. I see to that myself, for your mother sake. You going to stop sleeping on the blasted streets like a vagrant. And you going to stop stealing. It’s damn immoral!”
“You’re a smuggler!” I point out, extending my arms to take in the airship.
“But not a thief!” she retorts evenly.
“The name of your ship is Midnight Robber!”
She pauses at this. Shrugs. Then says evenly: “It’s satire.”
I open my mouth to ask what that’s supposed to mean, but don’t bother. She’d probably just say I needed schooling again. I’m ready to catch a fit at the list of rules. But truth is, my heart isn’t in the fight. After last night, I’ve come to realize just how much I’m attached to this city. Not so sure anymore if I’m ready to leave it just yet. Don’t know if Oya’s ready either. So, maybe I can bide my time at the convent. The nuns can’t be so bad. There’ll be plenty of food. And a warm bed. Might be the two will even let me take part in their odd dealings. Maybe I can do something about Féral’s hair. I won’t miss stealing—much. Though I’ll probably sneak out every now and then to my old spot up here, just to look out. Definitely not wearing any frilly dresses, ever!
I nod to accept our arrangement and hold out my hand like I seen gentlemen do when they make a deal. The captain arches an eyebrow but puts out her own hand for one firm shake. I give a sharp yelp. She squeezes hard! Is that how handshakes go? Why would men do that to each other? When it’s done, we sit back again.
“What about Doctor Duval and his daughter?” I ask.
“We have them below,” the captain replies. “And guarded.”
“Will he be in trouble? For what he did?”
The way her face sets, I’m thinking the doctor is in for a world of trouble. But she only says: “Not for me to decide.”
Fair enough. “And the drapeto?” I ask. The captain gives me a blank gaze and I stare back at her plainly. “The sisters gave you four canisters. One went into the swamp. Two blew up. I never saw the fourth.” Did the woman really think I didn’t notice?
She don’t answer me, but there’s that impressed look on her face that annoyingly makes me blush inside. “We sailing to Port-au-Prince today,” she says instead.
“Today?” That puts thoughts of drapeto and all else out my mind. I’m kind of disappointed to see them go. “You’ll miss the Maddi grá!”
The captain shrugs. “It’ll be here next year. I’ll see it then.”
Good, I think. The thought of seeing her again next year is something to look forward to.
“When you come back, I’ll show you around,” I offer. “You ain't even got to see any of the fancy krewes. Or the second-line parades put on by the colored benevolent societies with their brass bands. Best dancing and music in the city.”
“Alright then, Jacqueline,” she accepts. “Maybe one day I take you to see Carnival in Trinidad. It bigger even than your Maddi grá.”
I almost laugh. Bigger than Maddi grá? I doubt that.
I don’t reprimand her for not using my nickname. Not this time. We both turn to look out on the city. Free New Orleans, who don’t know how close it came to destruction. Who gets to breathe just a little while longer with no storms on the horizon. Somewhere in my thoughts, Oya starts up humming a song. I think I can hear Oshun join in.
Acknowledgments
Lots of people helped in making and inspiring this story—in more ways than I can count. Thanks to everyone who saw this tale through from spark to finish: Kirk Johnson, for listening to me babble on about worlds I’ve created and never once saying “shut up already;” Christee Thompson Lewis, who was one of the first to read this story and gave her hometown perspective; Nzinga “Oyaniyi” Metzger, who painstakingly took me through the Black Gods that lay at the heart of this tale; Justina Ireland, who offered her advice and encouragement; Chaz Pitts-Kyser, my long-time muse who goes over every story with a fine-toothed comb; and Diana M. Pho, who took a chance on this story and urged me to make it “more.” I want to thank the copy editor and proofreader ahead of time—you guys are magical creatures from Fillory or something, I’m certain. Thanks to my sister, Lisa, who always believed I could do this writing thing. The warmest of thanks goes to my wife, Danielle, for all the love and support.
And finally, thanks to Marcus, who first took me to Bayou Classic back in college—and introduced me to the wonder, cultures, and magic of the Crescent City. Thanks also to NOPD who pressed a loaded pistol to the back of my head as I lay facedown on a posh French Quarter hotel floor in a case of “mistaken identity”—you introduced me to the city too.
To the Creepers out there—keep climbing.
About the Author
Born in New York and raised mostly in Houston, P. DJÈLÍ CLARK spent the formative years of his life in the homeland of his parents, Trinidad and Tobago. His writing has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Lightspeed, Tor.com, and print anthologies including Griots I and II, Steamfunk, Myriad Lands Volume 2, and Hidden Youth. He currently resides in a small castle in Hartford, Connecticut, with his wife, Danielle, and a rambunctious Boston terrier named Beres.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE BLACK GOD’S DRUMS
Copyright © 2018 by P. Djèlí Clark
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Chris McGrath
Cover design by Christine Foltzer
Edited by Diana M. Pho
A Tor.com Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
ISBN 978-1-250-29471-5 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978
-1-250-29470-8 (ebook)
First Edition: August 2018
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