The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  “I know, darling, but please, for your daughter’s sake, just leave it be for now. Just stay away from him as much as you can, be pleasant to him whenever you see him, and soon he will be gone.”

  Felicia sighed. “Okay papa. Where is mama and Rachel?”

  “At the river, washing.”

  “I think I’ll join them.”

  “Good idea.”

  With an angry glance back at my hut, Felicia started off towards the river.

  I went back to work, digging out weeds in the small cornfield.

  The three girls came back an hour later, Mangela and Felicia carrying baskets of clean washing on their heads, Rachel leading the way, a bucket swinging by her side.

  “How’s our guest doing?” Mangela asked.

  “He woke up earlier. Briefly. He had a drink and then fell straight back to sleep.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Told me his name is Marcel.”

  Mangela sighed. “I don’t like this, Jacques. Not one bit.”

  Felicia took the basket off her head and placed it down on the ground. “Come on Rachel, nap time.”

  “But mama...”

  “Come.” Taking Rachel by the hand, Felicia pulled her daughter over to their hut and vanished inside.

  Mangela looked at me and shook her head. “Your granddaughter’s been asking all about the man. Who he is and why he is wounded.”

  “That’s natural. She’s just inquisitive.”

  “Felica’s not happy about this,” she said, “not happy at all,” and then she turned and walked inside our hut, leaving the second bundle of washing by my feet.

  Marcel slept for the rest of the day. He woke again while the three of us were having dinner—Felicia was again resting in her house, begrudgingly agreeing to let Rachel sit with us for dinner, but making it clear that afterwards, she was to come straight back home.

  “My shoulder hurts,” the caco said, sitting up. “Give me some more rum.”

  I considered not giving him any, but I figured it’d be best for all of us if I did. I just hoped he didn’t remember what I had said earlier about the bottle being empty—which, with the two cups Mangela and I were having with our dinner, it almost was. I hopped up from the table and poured him a cup.

  “Well hello,” Mangela said, putting on her most pleasant face. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m Mangela.”

  Rachel was gazing at him, her round eyes wide.

  I handed Marcel the drink. He downed it in one mouthful.

  When he was done, he placed the cup on the floor and gazed up at Rachel. “And what’s your name, little girl?”

  “Rachel,” she said in a small, shy voice. She started giggling.

  “Rachel, huh? Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  Rachel giggled some more.

  I sat back down.

  “I think you’re gonna grow up to be as beautiful as your mother.” He looked over at Mangela and winked.

  Immediately my wife gave me a look.

  “She’s not my mama, she’s my gran,” Rachel said.

  “Oh, well, apologies miss. Your mama must be something special, then.” His gaze turned cold as he looked at me. “I’m hungry.”

  Mangela grabbed another plate and on it put some chicken, millet and beans.

  “You forgot to say please,” Rachel said.

  “Did I?” Marcel said, rubbing his shoulder. “Well I’m sorry, little one. I’ll remember for next time.”

  Rachel laughed.

  “Eat your dinner,” Mangela said to Rachel.

  Pouting, Rachel turned back around and picked at her food.

  Mangela walked over and handed Marcel the plate.

  “Thank you.” He looked up at Mangela with hungry eyes. I knew what was on his mind. It made me furious.

  “Mmmm,” Marcel said, stuffing his face with the chicken. “I haven’t had food this good in a long time.”

  I could only imagine what he had been living off up in the mountains.

  Mangela sat back down.

  We ate the rest of the meal in silence.

  Marcel slept for most of the first week. He only ever woke to eat, drink, go to the bathroom, or when Mangela tended to his gunshot wound.

  Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night, screaming. I don’t know whether that was due to the injury, or some bad dream, memories of what he had seen and done up in those mountains.

  But the wound got better. Mangela continually cleaned and dressed it, using her basic knowledge of medicinal plants and herbs to stave off infection—her knowledge of such things was nothing compared with Papa Louis, but we had been given strict orders by the cacos not to involve any houngans. By the end of the second week he was up and walking around. He never helped out, mind you. He ate our food and drank our clairin and coffee, but he never once helped out with any chores.

  Felicia, as requested, stayed away from him as much as possible, but she couldn’t avoid him completely, and the times their paths crossed, I noticed the lust in the caco’s eyes, and the hatred in Felicia’s.

  It was a Saturday when it happened. I had planned on doing some general clean-up around the house that morning—the three girls had left early to walk to Pignon for market day—but I was tired, and the thought of working on a Saturday didn’t particularly appeal, so I decided to walk over to one of my neighbors and play cards, something I often did, and enjoyed very much. Marcel was up, drinking our coffee, and since the girls were out and would be gone for the whole day, I thought it would be okay leaving him by himself. I told him where I was going, suggested it would be wise to keep indoors—he half-heartedly agreed, I think he was growing bored sitting around, not being able to do anything—and then left. It was a hot, humid day. The path to the nearest village was muddy due to some recent rain, but I enjoyed walking. It was work I loathed.

  I must’ve been gone a few hours. I lost most of the card games; Pierre, an old friend, was in fine form. It didn’t rain on the way back, so the walk was just as pleasurable as the one earlier. When I arrived home, I headed for my hut.

  I entered, and noticed there was no sign of Marcel. He had been sitting at the table, slurping his coffee when I left earlier. I checked the small room usually reserved for vodou worship, currently mine and Mangela’s sleeping quarters, but that was empty.

  Strange, I thought. I hadn’t seen him in the fields on my way back from Pierre’s. Had his caco brothers come and retrieved him while I was gone? In many ways, I hoped so. I knew that Mangela and in particular Felicia would be happy if that was the case.

  I headed back outside. Standing by the hut door, I scanned the farmland. Around me chickens squawked, cows mooed, but there was something else, another sound.

  I listened closely. It sounded to me like crying. But not a gentle weeping; more like a pained sobbing.

  I started towards the sound. My heart started beating harder when I realized I was walking towards Felicia’s house—which I thought was strange, considering Felicia went with Mangela and Rachel to Pignon.

  The crying grew louder; my footsteps grew faster.

  By the time I arrived at my daughter’s hut, I could hear a second voice, a man’s, grunting.

  I flung open the door and charged inside. And there was Felicia on her back, dress crumpled around her waist, face squeezed shut and sobbing. Marcel was on top of her.

  I raced over and grabbed him around the throat.

  I threw Marcel off my daughter. He fell hard to the earthen floor. He cried out when his wounded shoulder hit.

  I may have been an old man, but I was strong, owing to many years of hard labor.

  I rushed over to Felicia, now curled up against the wall. Her face was streaked with tears. I put an arm around her. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  I kissed her on the top of her sweaty head and held her. She cried some more into my chest.

  Marcel was still on the ground, breathing hard.

 
When Felicia’s crying eased some, I let go of her, stood, strode over to Marcel and kicked him in the stomach. “You bastard,” I growled. “How dare you.” I kept on kicking until a voice in my head screamed: “Stop it, Jacques or else you’ll kill him!”

  Though I desperately wanted to, I knew what it would mean to kill a caco, so I stopped.

  Sweating and breathing harshly, I went back and helped Felicia to her feet. Once standing, she fell into my arms and cried some more. I tried to comfort her. But I knew that was impossible.

  I was stroking her hair when my head was pulled back and I felt a cold, hard object press against my throat.

  Felicia pulled back. “Oh god,” she cried.

  “I ought to kill you, old man,” Marcel said, his breath tickling my left ear. “Nobody attacks a caco and lives. Nobody.”

  I stood still, hardly daring to breathe for fear of the blade slicing my throat.

  “You were raping my daughter,” I said, speaking gently. “We fed you, kept you warm, gave you a bed to sleep in. And this is how you repay us? What else was I supposed to do?” If I was going to die, I wanted to die with respect. Like a man.

  “I was only taking what I wanted. I am fighting for you, you stupid old man. For our country. I deserve to be compensated for that. You’re just lucky that little girl wasn’t here.”

  “You bastard!” Felicia screamed and stepped forward.

  I felt the blade press harder against my skin. Blood trickled down my throat.

  “I wouldn’t, unless you want that pretty dress sprayed with your papa’s blood.”

  Felicia halted. Though her face was dirty and tear-streaked, her eyes held fire, a burning hatred. Her nostrils flared.

  Finally, Marcel took the knife from around my throat. He pushed me forward. I stumbled, fell to the floor. Felicia crouched down, helping me to sit up.

  I sat and glared up at Marcel. Blood was running down his face. There was a cut on his forehead. Blood was seeping through the palm fronds on his shoulder. As much as I wanted to do something, I knew he would just as soon slit my throat if I tried. And then he would be left alone with the three girls. I felt sick at the thought.

  So what was stopping him from killing me? Believe it or not, it was respect. He couldn’t kill another black man that had housed and fed and looked after him. Not unless the other man was directly threatening to kill him.

  “Just get out of here,” I said to him. “Leave.”

  Marcel shook his head. “Have to wait for my brothers. Besides, I like it here.” He winked at Felicia. Then he slipped his knife down the back of his pants and left the hut.

  “I want to kill him,” Felicia said after he was gone.

  “Don’t you touch him,” I said, getting to my feet. I touched a finger to my throat; it came away bloody. “Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you again.”

  “I just wish he was gone,” Felicia muttered, choking back a few gentle sobs.

  “I’m sure he won’t be here for much longer. His caco brothers will come and get him soon.”

  “But what if they don’t? What if they’re dead?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Instead, I said, “I thought you were going into Pignon with Mangela and Rachel?”

  “I was going to, but at the last minute I decided I wasn’t up to it.”

  I nodded.

  “But I think I’ll head there now. I don’t want to be around him.”

  I nodded again, and just before Felicia left, I grabbed her and hugged her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ll live,” she said, and then sauntered outside.

  When I arrived back at my hut, I saw Marcel asleep on his mat.

  I looked down at him, snoring, a stupid grin on his face, and thought about grabbing a knife and sticking it into his throat.

  I wanted to so badly. It would have been so easy.

  But I left him be. I wasn’t a murderer. Besides, I knew what would happen to me if the other cacos ever found out I had killed one of their brothers. I would just have to keep an eye on him at all times until his friends came and took him away. Never would I leave my girls alone with him.

  “Bastard,” I said and then walked over to the bottle of clairin.

  It was a few days later. Marcel was sleeping, Felicia resting in her hut, and Mangela had taken Rachel over to one of the neighboring villages to play with the kids who lived there. I was sitting in a rickety old chair outside my hut, casually feeding the chickens, when I saw a group of six men walking in my direction. I stood, and even from a distance I could tell they were Gendarmerie.

  At about forty feet away, the group speared off into three pairs; two of the groups started searching nearby bushes, the third pair kept on coming towards me.

  I noticed, as the two men grew closer, they were blancs, I guessed American soldiers, the leaders of this rag-tag army. They were wearing khaki uniform, wide-brimmed hats and thick boots that were caked in mud. They were carrying modern rifles and walked extremely tall and straight. Typically proud marines.

  “Bonswa,” one of the marines said, giving a small nod.

  “Bonswa,” I replied, wiping my neck with a handkerchief.

  “Pale...ah...?” The marine sighed. “Pale...um...pale...?”

  “Angle,” the other marine said, and then looked a touch sheepish.

  The first marine nodded, then asked me, “Pale Angle?”

  I shook my head. I would’ve thought it obvious by then I couldn’t speak English.

  The first marine muttered and looked annoyed. He turned to the other marine and pointed to one of the groups of Haitian gendarme searching clumps of bushes.

  The second marine spoke in English to the first—the only word I recognized was “Creole”—and the first, and I presumed senior, officer nodded.

  They turned back to me. “We look at cacos,” the second marine said in rough Creole. “You know anyone?”

  His grasp of Haitian Creole may have been rudimentary, but I understood what he was asking.

  I started sweating greatly. I didn’t know what to do. This could be my chance to be rid of Marcel, but I struggled with my decision: betray my country, or betray my family? “I haven’t seen any cacos,” I told him reluctantly. “Sorry.”

  Just as the second marine started relaying my answer to the first in English, a voice shrieked: “No, no, there is a caco here. He’s inside that hut.”

  It was Felicia.

  The marines eyed me long and hard. “Is true?” the second marine asked.

  I sighed. Glanced back at Felicia, standing by the door of her hut, a look of expectation on her pale face.

  “Yes, it’s true,” I said. “I took in a man a few weeks ago. Two men brought him, he was injured, had a gunshot wound on one shoulder. They were cacos.”

  The second marine told the first what I had said.

  They both eyed my hut.

  “So he still inside house?” the second marine said.

  “Yes. He’s currently sleeping. And he’s unarmed, except for a knife.”

  The marines looked at each other, and when the first was up to speed, they nodded and raised their rifles. “You stay here, sir, you too ma’am,” the second marine said in Creole.

  I nodded. I watched them advance towards my hut.

  I was scared. We were turning over one of our own to foreigners.

  With guns ready, the marines entered my house.

  Soon I heard shouting, a struggle, then the marines came out with Marcel, hands clasped around the back of his head, the rifle of the first marine pointed directly at his thumbs.

  “Jacques!” Marcel cried. “Tell them they’ve made a mistake. I’m your nephew who was wounded in an accident.”

  “Is he my nephew?” the second marine asked.

  Marcel looked shocked at this blanc speaking Creole.

  “No!” Felicia cried, standing just inside her hut. “He’s a dirty caco!”

  The marines looked at me.


  “No,” I told them. “He’s not my nephew. I hadn’t seen him before last week.”

  “You fools!” Marcel screamed. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “We thank you,” the second marine said. “You have done your land a great service in identify this man. He is animal and killer, and will be dealt with approvingly.”

  The marines led him away from my hut.

  “You will pay!” Marcel yelled. “And your daughter has a big smelly cunt!”

  The second marine thumped Marcel in the gut with the butt of his rifle, putting an end to his ranting.

  I watched the marines round up the rest of their gendarme patrol and soon they were gone. I wondered what Marcel’s fate would be—based on the stories I had heard, I shuddered to think.

  Felicia came up to me. “We did the right thing. Don’t worry, papa. Everything will be okay. We did a good thing, an honorable deed. Le Bon Dieu will be happy.”

  I didn’t feel like I had done an honorable thing. I felt rotten. Why, I wasn’t sure. I was glad to be rid of the man. Maybe I was just scared.

  Scared of what was to come.

  Mangela and Rachel arrived home just before dusk. I was clearing away some of the junk that had piled up around the house.

  “Hey papa,” Rachel said, chewing on a sugarcane. “What ya doing?”

  “Just clearing away some of this old junk. Did you have fun?”

  “Yeah,” she said, grinning.

  I looked from Rachel to Mangela. “I’ve got some good news.”

  “What?” Mangela said.

  “Marcel is gone.”

  A big smile bloomed across her face. “He’s gone?”

  “Yes. For good.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Mangela said, clapping her hands together. “Did the other cacos finally come and get him?”

  “Uh, no. A gendarme patrol came by.”

  Her smile dropped. She looked down at Rachel. “Go to your house darling and tell your mama all about your day.”