Buffalo Soldier

by Maurice Broaddus

Desmond’s face flashed hot again. Clamminess settled along his skin followed by queasiness. A fog clotted his mind. He grew nearly faint with a sudden wooziness. At his peak, he’d cuff the man senseless, but with his spreading sickness, he had his doubts. His hand slowly extended toward his cane.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. We might get the wrong impression and think that you were being . . . inhospitable.” The man’s left arm remained down, stiff and deliberate. The man slowly turned it. A glint of metal reflected from it. A pulse cannon had replaced his forearm. The man nodded toward the camp. Figures emerged from the woods, stepping into shafts of moonlight. The shadows of leaves dappled their faces. They each wore similar blue shirts over red leggings, with their own maroon print shawls draped about them. The man held out his good hand. Desmond passed him the cane. The man examined the handle, gave it a slight turn, and, with a flick of his thumb, freed the sword of its scabbard. Returning the blade to its place, he kept hold of the weapon.

  “Me and the boy were just out camping.” Desmond hoped the sweat that sealed his shirt to him and glossed his forehead would not be interpreted as suspicious. His mind spun, dulled by his muddle-headedness, slowly sinking into a dizzying sleep.

  “In sovereign territory? During a border dispute?” The man didn’t bother to hide not believing him.

  “We figured we were far enough from the conflict.” Desmond tugged at his pocket square. He paused to allow the surrounding men to measure his movements, before daubing his head.

  “Well, it’s about to storm.” The man turned to Lij and smiled warmly. “Why don’t you come back with us as our guests? We’ll find you some proper accommodations.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Desmond asked.

  “We are all free agents. You have nothing but choice.” The man squinted. “My friend, you do not look well.”

  “I’m fine. The boy is my charge. He must be . . .” Desmond’s eyes turned upward into his skull. His world blurred and darkened as he collapsed.

  IV. : Untold Stories

  WITH THE IRREGULAR JOSTLING, through his groggy haze, Desmond pictured himself strung between two men like a deer carcass on a pole. Though vaguely aware that he was being carried on a crude stretcher, Desmond’s mind swam, unable to piece together his surroundings. His eyes fluttered open for a few moments. Their leader moved with stealthy economy, no wasted movements, gliding through the woods like the shadow of a bird. By comparison, Lij stomped through the undergrowth. Thumbing at berries, he picked up the occasional stick to beat branches back with, before losing interest and tossing it away. The men turned the makeshift stretcher from the woods onto the main road. When they emerged from the last stand of trees, the high walls of a city rose before them.

  Desmond’s chest hitched with an anticipatory cough. With their heavy machinery, their spires of smokestacks, the vent of steam through their arteries, most cities vibrated like a distant engine. A pall of engine smoke fouled most large metropolises. The rhythm of the clockwork of the cities sent a thrum through the surrounding countryside. Not so here. The city had a measured breath to it, as if meditating in harmony to its surroundings. Or perhaps the threat of dawning sleep colored his imagination.

  The urban sprawl of squat earthen buildings trailed into the woods, layered, unobtrusive, camouflaged by nature, inadvertent interruptions to the greenways. The shapes of the buildings slipped like a groove in the land, adhering to the contours of the landscape. The walls around the city jutted like earthen teeth from a broken jaw. Trees opened up, hiding houses within them. Thick walls enclosed homes, stacked on top of one another like blocks overgrown with grass.

  There was a goat.

  “Welcome to Wewoka,” the leader said.

  Eyelids heavy from the numbing darkness, Desmond’s head pounded. Pressure throbbed from behind his eyes. The buildings canted at odd angles, both gleaming and covered in green, like metallic, striped trees. Glimmers of daylight seared his eyes. His skin was set aflame by fever, as if flensed from his bones with a hot blade. Figures moved about, nameless and shapeless. Turning toward him. Backing away from him. He closed his eyes again.

  * * *

  Desmond woke to the clank and whir of machinery. A metallic screen loomed in his face. As his eyes focused on it, the smooth countenance of an automaton came into view. Desmond jumped in alarm, his movement cut short by the restraint on his arm. He tugged at the strap before realizing both arms were bound to the bed. An orange light began to flash on top of the automaton’s head as it silently whirred out of the room.

  Desmond studied the strange architecture of the room. The entryway was a large arch made of brass. Similar brass archways lined the hallway. A glass partition formed the door, and the main window was a long stretch of thick glass. Many rooms, like hidden compartments, lined the cold, twisting hallways. Automatons rolled through the hallways, occasionally stopped by someone who read their recordings and then peered at Desmond as though he were an exhibit at a zoo.

  The wall thrummed with activity. A series of bellows within them, passing air though filters, he presumed, scrubbing the air. Plants lined his outside window, a thick mat of greenery along a ledge.

  The man who led the group of people who captured him wandered into the room. His bearing suggested a soldier. His skin a deep sepia, almost matching Desmond’s. He removed his red turban and hung it on a rack beside the door. Two stripes of hair an inch wide bisected his head: one from temple-to-temple, the other at a right angle from center of forehead to the base of his skull; a small braid at each end. Earrings, small silver clockwork gears, dangled from his lobes. A turquoise necklace draped his throat. A series of silver armbands wrapped around his right bicep. His left arm had changed. The appendage had been swapped out and was much more natural in appearance, though made of brass. A small hand pulse had been mounted to his forearm. His belt was ornamented with silver and gears. He focused his intense eyes on Desmond.

  “You’re awake,” the man said in his accented English.

  “Where’s the boy?” Desmond answered. He drew against the restraints again as he attempted to sit up. With the number of interrogations he had conducted as a member of the Niyabingi, being on this side of the handcuffs felt unnatural.

  “What’s your name?”

  Desmond remained silent.

  “He’s safe. You’ll see him soon enough. Where do you come from?”

  Desmond turned away from the man and stared out the large window.

  “Not feeling talkative? Just so you know, we are running your fingerprints. The League of Nations has negotiated a shared database of known or wanted figures. It’s only a matter of time before we learn who you are and why you’re here.”

  Desmond’s eyes flicked to him.

  “That caught your attention,” the man said.

  “I need to see the boy. Make sure he’s safe,” Desmond said.

  “I can arrange that.”

  “And I need to speak to someone in charge.”

  “I think you misunderstand the precise nature of your situation. Being shackled to a bed is not exactly a position of strength to begin making demands.”

  “You misunderstand,” Desmond turned toward him. “We may need . . . asylum.”

  * * *

  With a weight pressing against his chest, Desmond’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t been aware that he had fallen asleep. A pressure straddled him. Someone moved their hands along his body. He made out a dark figure as if glimpsed through a mirror dimly. Desmond struggled to catch his breath.

  “I can see you. Alone. In the dark. Under the sheets like a small boy afraid of the monster under the bed,” Cayt’s voice said.

  “Who dem people you take fe fool?” Desmond said. “Get off me, nuh.”

  “No matter what you do, no matter where you run, you will lead me to him. Your time is coming. Some things are inevitable.”

  She bent low, as if to kiss him. She stroked his face. Her hands danced about his throat, slowly tigh
tening about it, choking him.

  Desmond sat up in bed.

  “What’s the matter?” Glancing up from a folder of papers at Desmond’s movement, the man guarded the door.

  “Duppy a-ride me.” The restraints cut so hard into him when he jolted awake, Desmond checked his wrists to make sure he wasn’t bleeding.

  “Come again? There was no one here. Definitely no . . . duppy?”

  “It was nothing. A night terror.”

  Rolling over to examine his wound as best he could, given the loosened restraints, he saw a small patch of bandage clinging to his side. Desmond leaned back into the bed, feeling every year of his life. He used to daydream about settling down. With five or six children, a small, olive-colored house with white burglar bars along each window and a large yard. His wife would garden; it’d be their shared passion. They’d grow breadfruit, cho cho, guava, gungo peas, and soursop. They’d live a simple life and it would be everything.

  The reflections along the glass window made the two men marching down the hallway appear like an entire troop. They took positions on either side of the outer entry arch. A woman walked behind them, holding Lij’s hand. She had fine, chiseled features. High cheekbones and with a lighter complexion like tanned hide, she carried herself with a regal air but without any of the officious fussiness he’d come to expect from bureaucrats. Desmond wasn’t certain, but he would’ve sworn she brushed hands with the leader before he took his post at the entrance.

  “I’ll be right here,” he said.

  “You’ve made that pretty obvious.” She opened a box of chocolates, popped a ball into her mouth, and tucked the box away into her purse. She wore a full, floor-length skirt gathered at the waist with ruffles at the knee. Trimmed with a ruffle which came only to the shoulders, her long-sleeved blouse had a cape attached which reached her fingertips. Her blouse barely covered her breasts and left a few inches of her midriff exposed. This accentuated the slight bump of her belly. She crossed her arms in front of the gap due to Desmond’s lingering gaze.

  An automaton whirled into the room, accompanied by an old man.

  “Place your arm in the sleeve,” a metallic voice commanded from an unseen speaker on the automaton as it released Desmond’s arm restraint.

  Desmond ignored it.

  “Place your arm into the sleeve or you will be designated ‘hostile’ and we will send someone in to . . . assist you.”

  Desmond inspected it. The sleeve amounted to a hole in the automaton with a cloth cuff to it. Desmond slipped his arm into the opening. The cuff inflated until it fit snugly around his arm. The cuff pulsed, as if the automaton were trying to suck his arm through a straw. With a hiss, the sleeve deflated and the automaton withdrew from the room.

  The old man busied himself in the corner of the room. Gray hairs sprouted from beneath his black turban. A black handkerchief knotted about his neck. An opened black vest covered his long, draping shirt. Crushing roots in a small bowl, he poured water into it and dipped a cloth in the mixture. He approached Desmond but first held out the cloth for his inspection. Desmond didn’t flinch, only eyed him as the man daubed him about the neck. The cloth was a welcome cool to the touch. The old man murmured to himself, “hear the owl, respect panther, stare with snake’s eye,” in a slight chant barely audible to Desmond. The old man turned Desmond’s face from one side to the next. Satisfied with his evaluation, the man left the room.

  The woman circled the room. Her cape draped behind her as if held aloft by invisible wires. She made her way to the foot of Desmond’s bed, making a show of studying his face. She let go of Lij’s hand. The boy glanced up at her and then scrambled up into the bed with Desmond. He grimaced briefly as the boy snuggled into the crook of his arm, kneeing his bandaged area.

  “You didn’t worry that our medicine man practiced primitive ways on you?” the woman asked at long last. Her English was less strained than her compatriot’s.

  “In Jamaica, we have those who practice obayifo. Obeah. The Science.” Noting that no flicker of recognition registered in any of their eyes, Desmond continued. “It’s old healing. The obeah men comfort, but don’t replace doctors. Or technology. Or medicine.”

  “No, the medicine would be the course of antibiotics coursing through your system.” The woman made a show of pouring two glasses of water and offering one to Desmond.

  Desmond shook his head, declining the offer. “He reminds me of home.”

  “The way I hear it, you’re a long way from home.” The woman took a long sip of her water, maintaining her level gaze at Desmond. Cocking her head slightly, she reminded him of Lij and his way of staring, which made it seem like she read his soul.

  “Sometimes, I think that I don’t know what that means anymore.” Desmond shut his eyes.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Come, nuh. You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “You asked for me. A person in charge. Trust has to begin somewhere.”

  “Desmond Coke. And yours?”

  “Now, see, names should be guarded. Your true name has power.” She smiled to let him know she meant no harm. “My friend back there goes by Inteus. That is his calling name. In your language, his name translates to Has No Shame.”

  “Calling name?” Desmond asked.

  “The name we call him. You may call me Kajika.”

  “Perhaps I gave up my name too easily.”

  “You don’t strike me as a man careless about anything, Mr. Coke.”

  “How long have you been tracking us?”

  “We detected your incursion as soon as you crossed our borders. You were monitored the entire time, but then you strayed too near to our maglev lines and became a security risk. We’re under constant terrorist alert.” Kajika nodded her head. Inteus handed her Desmond’s cane. “You have no jurisdiction to carry weapons on sovereign land.”

  “Where I come from, I have free license to carry such a weapon.”

  “I had noticed the accent. What did you do that gave you such license?”

  “Private security. Me and the boy were long overdue for a vacation.” Desmond oddly over-enunciated each word, suddenly self-conscious of his accent. “We thought we would travel as widely as possible.”

  “Well, we can’t just let anyone across our borders.”

  “Thus we’re your prisoners.” Desmond raised his shackled hands.

  “More like uninvited guests. But guests nonetheless.” Kajika motioned to the handcuffs.

  Inteus made a face of protest. They exchanged a few words in another language. Kajika crossed her arms and stared at the handcuffs with an air of finality. Though she projected no obvious airs of power, he unfastened the first. She gestured to the second. She turned back to Desmond. “You’re not going to be a problem, are you?”

  “No, mum,” he said. “As your guest, that would be rude.”

  “Indeed.” She hurried Inteus. “Besides, if you did anything rash, you’d prove Inteus right. And he becomes insufferable when he’s right.”

  “But I am still detained for questioning.”

  “Of course. How have you enjoyed your interrogation so far?” Kajika possessed a certain charm which both beguiled and disarmed.

  Desmond rubbed his wrists; he couldn’t help but relax a bit. “I’ve had worse.”

  “My apologies. May I ask, what’s your son’s name?”

  “My son?” Desmond let the word roll off his tongue as if truly hearing it for the first time. Lij climbed down from the bed. He moved to the wall and pressed his palm flat against it. As he turned to Desmond, a smile flashed brief as lightning across the night sky. He leaned into the wall, placing his ear against it. The boy closed his eyes, enjoying whatever he heard.

  “The boy.” Kajika arched a single, knowing eyebrow.

  “He’s . . . my kin. Not of my blood, but family nonetheless.”

  “Sounds complicated. I’m sure I’d love to hear the full story of it sometime.” The words came out of her without sarca
sm or hint of pressing. Simply matter-of-fact. “Does he have a name?”

  “You can call him Lij.”

  “You learn quickly.”

  “It was the name chosen for him. He has yet to choose his own name. His own way.”

  “And you wish to give him that chance?” Kajika studied him with the expert eye of a jeweler making an appraisal.

  “Something like that.” Desmond turned away. “At the very least, we hoped to disappear near the border of the Five Civilized Tribes. Maybe blend in among you.”

  “Only those who listen to Albion’s propaganda know us as the ‘Five Civilized Tribes.’ We’re more of a collective of independent nations. Think of us as regionalisms that govern ourselves, much like the League of Nations. Officially, Albion deals with us as the Assembly of First Nations. Many among us still refer to ourselves as the Niitsitapi, the Real People. It is the First Nations which negotiates trade with Albion for our drug technology and limited mineral rights. It is the First Nations which is allied with Canada. You are among the Seminole now. Each of the tribes has our own discrete communities. Hide Me. The Woods Lament For Me. Disturb Me if You Dare.”

  “Where I come from, we have a long history of taking in those who seek to escape Albion’s bondage,” Desmond said.

  “So it has always been true among the Seminole. We’re proud of our heritage. Before Albion landed at Roanoke, before Jamestown, before Plymouth Rock, Lucas Vásquez de Ayllón called his settlement San Miguel de Gualdape. He forced Africans to build the homes, thus launching slavery. Our people moved inland to get away from the invaders.

  “Soon, disease and starvation ravaged the colony.

  “When Ayllón grew sick and died, the people of the colony divided, taking arms against any who presumed to play leader. So, while their leadership was in disarray, the Africans rebelled and fled to live among our people. We created a mixed settlement. And so it would go. Was this your way of getting around to asking for asylum?”

  Desmond sat up as best he could. “Do we even have a case for asylum?”

  “That’s what I’m here to determine. People run for a variety of reasons. Criminals. Political prisoners. Scandal. To start over. Fear or hope, which is it? So far all I see is a relatively young man . . .”