by Dan Newman
But the news didn’t stop there. On the third day Cornelius French arrived unannounced at the house in Cap. He was fat and sweaty and dressed in a two-thousand-dollar suit, and produced four copies of a thick document from a briefcase along with his business card. He represented the De Villiers, and the documents were the title to Ti Fenwe estate in Dennery.
With the passing of Vincent the estate would cede to Tristan, but with Tristan also now dead—and this time officially—and no children, the property would fall to his next of kin. And, having been blocked in her efforts to divorce Tristan, this meant that Rachael was now the sole remaining heir.
To her surprise, the De Villiers offered no resistance to the inheritance. It seemed they wanted to be rid of the place, and of the scandal that Vincent and Tristan had brought on the family. The documents would be signed and filed with the court, and Rachael would become the new Master of Ti Fenwe estate—the first woman to hold that title in the family’s history. More royal scandal for The Word.
That same evening, on the heels of Cornelius French’s departure, Ma Joop arrived. She sat with Rachael in the living room and talked in serious tones, while Nate sat outside by the pool largely out of earshot. It seemed Ma Joop was counseling Rachael on some level, and from her body language it was apparent that whatever the large woman with the booming voice was saying, it was being carefully weighed by Rachael. From his spot by the pool—and thanks to Ma Joop’s strangely baritone voice—Nate could hear snippets of the conversation, words that his ears seemed tuned for. He heard Ti Fenwe, he heard freedom ritual, and he heard Bolom. He would not ask her about it, it was really none of his business, but he was left with a feeling that things, at last, were being put right.
• • •
Nate closed the door on Rachael’s Beemer and the two stood facing each other in the parking lot of Hewanorra International Airport. It was the main tourist gateway in Vieux Fort at the south end of the island, and the day was another postcard-perfect tropical scene. The breeze was warm and light, and the bright sunshine made the carefully landscaped flower beds pulse with color.
Rachael started for the terminal, but Nate put his hand gently on her shoulder. “Let’s say our goodbyes here,” he said.
Rachael smiled and it hurt. Then she pressed herself to him and hugged him tightly. “I’ll miss you, Nate.”
“Me too,” he said, fighting a rising lump in his throat. The strength of his reaction surprised him; he didn’t want to cry and so he gently pushed her away, and then, to change the subject, “You know, I still don’t know what happened back there at Ti Fenwe. Why did Tristan drop the gun? His hand just…I don’t know, it kind of jerked down.”
Rachael slipped her sunglasses on. They had had this conversation more than once over the last four days; there was nothing new here. “Who knows,” she said glibly. “Maybe he had some kind of fit, maybe it was karma. Payback for the past.”
Nate smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, I guess I need to get over it.”
Rachael kissed him lightly on the cheek, opened the door and slipped into the car. She looked up at Nate and shaded her eyes against the sun. “Nate, do you know what Ti Fenwe means in patois?”
“I just thought it was a name.”
“It means daybreak, the beginning of a new day.” She smiled at him warmly. “Goodbye, Nate,” she said sincerely, then put the car in drive and slipped away without looking back.
Nate recognized another part of his past had now been properly and finally closed. It was painful, but it was right.
And then it struck him.
What had she said? Payback from the past? Something in that was familiar, and as he considered it a series of thoughts aligned and snapped together like a shaken box of magnets. In his mind he suddenly saw Augustine, there at her chipped blue table, speaking those cryptic words as he left her lean-to: Calm yourself, chyle. Favors from de past will be repaid. And then his mind leapt to another time and place altogether, and in it he saw himself as a child. There was a gun in Vincent’s hand and Nate remembered swinging his arm and crying No!, striking Vincent’s arm and forcing the shot to run wide. And he remembered seeing the bushes move—leaves shuffling, branches swaying—as if someone or something had scurried away. Had he really seen that?
And then there was the movement he had seen in the clearing only four days ago. Was there something there as well? He remembered the way Tristan’s arm had twitched, as if, well, as if something unseen had struck it hard, just the way Nate had with Vincent all those years ago. Was there really something there in the bush that night? Vincent had said it was the Bolom, and if it was—if it was real—had Nate’s actions saved it? Calm yourself, chyle. Favors from de past will be repaid. It sent a chill up his spine that made him physically shudder.
No, it couldn’t have been. Tristan must have simply had a fit, a convulsion at just the wrong moment. All those strange happenings at Ti Fenwe? Just the result of a creepy, dark forest and the wild imaginings of a kid. Obeah, black magic, Boloms. It was all nonsense. It didn’t really exist.
Did it?
Maybe. No. It was the stuff of stories. It was fodder for a good book, or a bedtime story in the glow of a nightlight. And with no small amount of sadness he thought of Cody, and though he knew there would be no more bedtime stories, no more cuddles and tickles in his warm, darkened room, he felt that his boy would understand. And with that understanding, he could start again.
He slipped the old Wayfarers over his eyes, scooped up his bag and turned toward the airport terminal. Ahead of him was the return home. Behind him lay events that had unfolded at the old plantation house so many years ago. He would leave them there now, finally. He would leave this island and Ti Fenwe far behind him, and he would start anew. What had Rachael said Ti Fenwe meant?
That’s right: it meant daybreak, the beginning of a new day.
Acknowledgements
The novel, when it’s first born, is an unwieldy, legless beast that needs to be physically pushed around from place to place by people who care about it. And it’s bloody heavy—so moving it takes the efforts of quite a few folks. This novel was no exception, and those who leaned in and put their shoulders behind it are people who will, from here on in, always be able to count on me for a cold beer. Maybe even two.
To my editor, Randall Klein—thank you for your unique and insightful perspective. You saw elements of the manuscript that were quiet, underserviced and begging to be teased out, and you were right. To Sarah Masterson Hally and Chris Mahon—thanks for bringing a sense of humor to the sometimes mysterious ways of publication, and for all the great advice along the way. To the rest of the talented people at Diversion Books, thanks for taking this project on and breathing a second life into it. I’d also like to thank my agent, Carrie Pestritto, whose infectious positivity and great book-sense are invaluable attributes. The way I see it, if Carrie’s not your agent, you should probably keep looking.
And finally, I’d like to thank one of the most intelligent and brave people I know, and someone who has taught me something new every single day since I first met her: my beautiful wife, Laura. How I got so lucky as to have a fiery Irish lass like her in my corner, I’ll never know.
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