by E. C. Frey
“I see your point.”
“Things are already beyond my control. Doctors Without Borders is involved, and LAWT considers it a serious story.”
“Is there any leverage you have against AAC?”
“Just the flash drive. Their water business might be in trouble, but their more lucrative computer business isn’t.”
“Does anyone know you have it?”
“My colleague had already sent it out when he died. But he was telling me about it when the phone went dead.”
“That means someone knows and is probably looking for it.”
“I guess so.” Mariah kicks a pebble in front of her. The sound of it hitting stone jars my nerves.
“And I guess they might think you have it?”
“Probably so.”
“Maybe, if you turned it over . . .”
Mariah gives me a sharp look.
“I guess not.”
“I already downloaded it anyway and sent it to my boss, and I have another copy in my safe deposit box. And there’s more, Eve. There are people who might have been buried . . . alive.”
“What?”
“There were people buried alive in Mexico.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Probably not to the satisfaction of my boss. He won’t risk a lawsuit.”
If there is a threat, it’s had plenty of time to reveal itself. Right? Surely something would’ve already happened if it was going to. Maybe Mariah’s wrong.
The mood lightens as we continue our walk without trouble. The mind has a funny way of talking itself out of danger.
I look at Mariah. “Do you think we’re still looking for Heather’s visitor?” I want to ask her if she thinks we’re really looking for hers, but I talk myself out of that line of thought.
Mariah shrugs. “I honestly don’t know.”
We walk further into the ancient cemetery. The light breeze flutters the Spanish moss and the heat dulls my senses. I daydream of crisp white sheets in my cool hotel room. And more than once, I imagine Jerome waiting for me. My eyelids grow heavy.
“Mariah, what time is it? There’s a part of me that thinks I could stay here forever.”
“Well, if you were dead, you would.”
“That’s not funny. That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. It just struck me as funny.”
“Very funny. I guess I meant this is where I would like to call home. I mean Charleston.”
“You said that. I guess you meant it.”
“I do.”
“Well, those are the key words. ‘I do.’ The question is, ‘With whom do you do?’”
It feels good to laugh. “I don’t think I’m going to Darfur.”
“I figured. You shouldn’t feel guilty. Let someone else go. You’ve seen so much horror and hardship already. You’re better off taking care of personal business. You have a lot of it right now.”
“Yeah. I’m beginning to realize that all these years, my life hasn’t been mine. I prided myself on my independence and free-spiritedness, but that was just a lie, a cover-up for the lack of it in my life. I’ve been a prisoner all along. Freedom is far more complicated than catching a plane and changing your address.”
Mariah nods. “I think I’m beginning to see some parallels here.”
“Probably. We’re kindred spirits. We always have been.”
“Yeah. The borders of the Rez are just a line on the map. There’s no one who can keep me in or out except myself.”
“And there’s no one who can keep us in exile without our permission.”
The cool air turns cold. Goosebumps cover my body. Mariah disentangles herself from my hold. I search the dark shadows of the trees and the hanging moss. The graveyard is suspended in timeless space. There is no breeze and no flutter of wings—just absolute stillness. The eerie atmosphere chases away all my previous sleepiness.
Mariah moves first. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the church. We sprint up the steps. I look behind me, but nothing follows. Still, the chill remains.
Mariah whispers. “What do you think that was?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t actually see anyone. I just felt it.”
Mariah leans against the stone wall. “I know. He’s here. We’re supposed to be finding him. Instead, we’re running.”
“How do you know it’s him and not someone from AAC?”
“I think someone from AAC wouldn’t bother hiding. They’d just kill us both, if need be.”
That thought is chilling. “Great. We have two people stalking us. Should we go back out and search for him? Or I mean, them?”
“I’m not sure I want to confront anyone in a deserted graveyard. I had envisioned it happening in a more crowded spot.”
“Do we have a choice? Assuming it’s the Sunny Hollow guy, since the other one would’ve probably killed us by now. I’m not sure he’ll let us call the shots on this one. After all, he thinks he’s stalking us, not vice versa.”
“True, but I’m not going back out into that graveyard.”
“We can’t let this continue,” I say. “We have to find resolution here, in Charleston—for Heather’s sake, for all of our sakes. I want to know if he’s real or if we’re just chasing some boogeyman.”
“You’re right,” Mariah says. “Just not in a graveyard.”
She has a point. “Okay,” I say. “Not in a graveyard.”
We move toward the door. My muscles turn to jelly. I instinctively reach for Mariah’s hand and squeeze it. If I hang on tight enough, nothing and no one can separate us. At this moment, I would promise the remainder of my life to Jerome. I wish he were here now. I will tell him that if we get out of this alive.
Mariah opens the door. Stagnant warmth hits us in the face, and the traffic on the other side of the church is now audible. The terror dissipates. Even the breeze has returned, and the birds chirp from the trees.
Still, I shudder. “We didn’t ask permission of the inhabitants before entering the yard. There’s bad juju here. I don’t care how much better it feels.”
Mariah looks at me. “Juju? Now you’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry. Africa stays with me. We should get in touch with Espy and Fiona. Did you bring your cell phone? I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Hold on.” She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and dials Fiona’s number before handing it to me. She drifts toward the shade near a large brick mausoleum. She peeks around the structure.
“Hello.”
Fiona’s voice is garbled. I move toward the headstones to get a better connection.
“Fiona. We’re in the cemetery at some church on Meeting Street. We think we sensed him. We didn’t actually see him. If that makes any sense.”
“What do you mean, you sensed him?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but he was here. I don’t know if he is now, but he was here. I just feel it.”
“Do you want us to come there? We haven’t seen anyone. We have been enjoying the sights, though.”
“How far are you from here? I’m a little spooked in this cemetery. So is Mariah.” Speaking of whom . . . I turn to find her, but I am alone.
“Hold on, Fiona. I don’t see Mariah.”
“What do you mean, you don’t see Mariah?”
“Mariah? Mariah? Mariah!” I move toward the mausoleum, thinking she must be around the corner, but the only movement I see is the rustling of the trees and the tendrils of Spanish moss. I am utterly alone.
“Eve! Eve!” Fiona’s voice is disembodied and far off.
“Oh my God, Fiona. Mariah’s not here.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was here when I called you. She was right in front of me. She was looking around the mausoleum. When I looked again, she was gone.”
“What mausoleum?”
“There’s a big brick mausoleum here. No, there’s a row of mausoleums. She’s gone, Fiona.” I begin to sob. “I’m telling you, she’s gone. I told you he was here. Now he’
s got her. Or someone has her.”
“Eve. Stop crying.”
“Oh my God, Fiona. I let go of her hand. Why did I let go? I never let go, but everyone dies anyway!”
“She’s not dead.”
I turn around and around. The gravestones mock me. Silent and foreboding, they reveal nothing.
“Hold on. Don’t go anywhere. Wait there for us. We’re coming.”
“Come quick. He’s got her. They’ve got her. I know it. She was right all along. I should’ve believed her.” Tears fill my eyes and the gravestones morph into menacing shapes. Unearthly evil surrounds me. The bad juju from the Congo has followed me.
Time is not on our side. I cannot bear to wait. Every minute is a minute he can travel farther away with Mariah. But I cannot bear to move, either. Every step is a potential step away from Fiona and Espy being able to find me. I need them. Three of us are better than one. We are always better together.
In the back of my mind, I pray it is him. The threat of AAC goons is more than any of us can handle. Our man from Sunny Hollow is simpler—he has to be real. There can be no other choice.
I pull at the mausoleum door, but it is sealed against the world. There is no sign that it has been opened in years. Where else could she be?
“Hold on Mariah. We’re coming.” I whisper the words into the fragrant air. It does not answer me. But I know Mariah can hear. She can hear the wind.
27 Mariah
“We’re coming.” The words are plaintive.
There are so many of them—so many wraiths. The leader sways and wrings his hands.
I move, but my head doesn’t. Leaden and shooting with pain, it is dead weight. My head is attached to the hard ground. Everything shifts in and out of focus. “Who are you?”
“We’re coming.” The voices, soft, whispered, are tethered together, in unison. The smell of earth, cold and mildewed, mingles with decay and, filling my nostrils, travels deep into my chest and claws at my heart.
“Coming where?”
“Shhhhhhhh.” The wraiths bind me.
“Stop it!” I struggle, but the bindings tighten. “Please. Stop!” The sound of shredding cloth fills me with terror. Is it mine? The wraith leader shimmers in tattered white cloth. I struggle more but the bindings refuse to budge. “Please let me go.”
“You were warned.”
“Yes. Warned.” The wraiths sway in unison.
The sound of skin on skin . . . a sharp pain across my mouth . . . the taste of iron . . . spinning vertigo . . . there’s no world of edges. Why can’t I move my head? A piece of shroud is stuffed in my mouth and the sound of tape terrifies me. I’m being mummified.
Oh Spirit, I’m going to die. I sob, but even that is silenced as I am thrown on my stomach.
“You were warned.”
“Mmmmmmm.”
A searing pain in my side follows a muffled thud. I struggle, my breath jagged, my lungs flounder against the confines of my flesh.
“Mmmmmmm.”
“It’ll be over soon.”
I sob through the gag and stretch at my restraints. He hits me again, hard. He enters me then. He is hard and angry and uncaring and brutal and inhuman. He turns me over like a piece of meat on the grill. He balls up his fist and cracks it against my face. Blood flows into my mouth and I struggle to swallow, to not drown. He enters again until he is wasted. When he is done, something hard and not human plunges deep inside of me. He is close and he watches me. He laughs as I climb into the blackness.
Cold and wet hits me.
“Wake up. I’m not done.”
I must survive. I am Ho-Chunk . . . I am Dakota . . . I am Lakota. Hear me, my relatives. No matter what horrors were unleashed upon us, we survived. We are here. We walk back. We are walking. I walk to survive. Please, Grandfather, tell me how to do it. Tell me how to walk.
A gentle hand caresses me from the darkness.
I do not struggle anymore as pieces of my life are picked from me, bit by bit, until there is nothing left. My innards are pulled and deposited outside of me. I am a watcher. I watch as everything moves outside the prison of my flesh, now flayed and rotting in the must of the sarcophagus. And then the wraith moves to leave. A glint of silver appears at my throat, hesitates, and moves to the tape around my head.
I shake my head, but he laughs.
The wraith pauses and straightens. He slices at the tape until it releases.
“Scream all you want. Only the dead can hear.” He laughs. “Your friend died the same way. Like the animal he was. Now you’ll know what it is to die of thirst. To die like the animal you are.” He laughs again. But am I not already dead? He hits me again and my cheek burns with fire. He hits me again. The pain is too much to bear. I roll over to avoid the next beating.
The sliver of light that has illuminated those around me diminishes slowly until I hear stone scratching on stone. The bone man leaves with them.
Darkness.
And there is a deep cold.
“Help me please. Somebody help me.” I spit blood onto the cold floor. The answer comes in whimpers. “Mother, please help me.” Not all of the wraiths have left, but they don’t move to comfort me. Their chill seeps into my bones.
The darkness creeps, twisting and burrowing, until there is nothingness and I float along its breath.
And still the spirits watch.
Time and space are nothing. I hover along the boundary.
28 Paul
It had been a long exile—too long to go home. But then, home was something that existed in my heart, not my head. Solitude was the grace given by God. Man couldn’t give it to me, it had been taken from me by a man-made war, a war that had no reason, no meaning. Fear was the demon that stoked the fires. Fear was the monster that reduced man to something ugly. But it was a girl who set me free.
In reclaiming the freedom of another, I had mended my polluted soul. The choices made that led to that corruption weren’t options at all—not, at least, of my making. Destiny is funny that way: it leads you to a path with several possible courses of action, but the reality of it is illusory. Free will is woven into the story of mankind, a product of the human condition, his consciousness, but then so is destiny. When your CO tells you to blow all the VC to hell, it’s not really a choice. Did I choose to be there when all my options had been exhausted? Did I choose to dehumanize another human being so I could survive? Surely, the alternative wasn’t to die. The choices weren’t spontaneously born in a cataclysmic big bang of free will. Destiny blew them into existence. In the end, life is nothing more than a road of choices, destiny rooted in and defined by those choices, the choices spawned by destiny. It’s a fucking Catch-22. And maybe the possibilities are a great big mind fuck and we’re just puppets reacting to all the randomness in the universe.
I used to believe that being in country was purgatory. The leeches, banana grass, and mosquitoes were the devil’s brood, napalm its elixir. But being in country is much more: it’s the prison of flesh and bone. The Freedom Bird was deliverance but that was never more than leaving one hell for another. Home was an illusion, an oxymoron for the guileless. You could never truly get to home from being in country. But I had to find my home of four safe walls, the shelter of something more than remorse. It eluded me until that fateful night. I found shelter in that single act of humanity. Redemption. Redemption is home, forgiveness its hearth. It took me so long to find it, to find myself. But in the end, it found me. It was a little bird that sang me home.
I had to run that night. Freedom demanded it. I never stopped. I had to keep one step in front of the Viet Cong, with an eye out for the punji stakes. There were enough booby traps and land mines to fill a continent.
My brothers were gone but Papaver somniferum kept pace with me. She followed me into the darkest corridors of night; she wandered with me through the longing of days. Always by my side, spawned from the loveliest of flowers. I chased the Asian opium poppy. Gossamer petals dressed the blackness of her he
art. The years dimmed her loveliness, but she chased away my fears and my binding pain. Ever present, I was Heros, and she was heroin.
But she betrayed me in the end. My lungs consumed, I sank into a coma and she left me for dead. I woke to a stranger.
“Mr. Marist? Are you awake?”
“Huh?”
“You’re in the hospital. Someone found you in a park. You overdosed.”
“Overdosed?”
“Yes. You’ll feel better soon. We’re here to take your vitals now.”
They pushed and pulled on me. I prayed for my mistress’s return, but there was no going back. She was gone.
The doctor came and sat with me several days later.
“Mr. Marist. This is difficult. The overdose should’ve killed you, but you were saved.”
“Thank you.”
He held his hand up. There was more. “No need for thanks, Mr. Marist.”
“Paul.”
“Paul.” He shifted uneasily in his seat and looked me squarely in the eyes. “We believe you have lung cancer. We’ll know more once we run some tests. We can’t define what type or stage it is until then.”
I didn’t respond. What was there to say? I had been dying my whole life.
I thanked him. I dressed and left before anyone saw me, before anyone could stop me. It was a trick I picked up in ’Nam. The Viet Cong moved and disappeared at will. They were crafty pests, but I learned their ways. They had cut me before. I couldn’t let them cut me again. A jungle rat belongs in the jungle—that’s its home. But I preferred the birds. They were mine.
I had to find my bird.
She had sung me home.
She had to know that before the Freedom Bird came again to take me in country. The nesting period over, it’s time to fly.
29 Mariah
Stone scraping on stone and a blinding light shreds the blackness. I cannot welcome it. My voice, committed to the darkness, has withered in its depths. My mouth is sealed with dry blood. The taste of stale iron makes me heave, but my stomach convulses in pain and nothing comes up. I can’t even cry. There are no tears. It feels better to pull myself up into a little ball.
