by Derry Sandy
He found however that he was unafraid. There were soldiers at his command who would heed his will even unto their own destruction. Besides, with every breath his own strength increased, he could feel power infuse his bones and muscles. He ascended slowly, arms outstretched ahead of him until he touched a wooded surface that he assumed was a door. He banged on it with a fist and waited knowing that if he had to he could probably tear through it himself. There was no need. He heard the unmistakable clinking of a bunch of keys. The door opened and blinding light entered riding a wave of cool fresh air.
A small hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the doorway. The door slammed shut behind him. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light. He was in the hallway of a house. The door through which he had come, now closed, looked like part of the wall. There was not even a seam to indicate that a door might be there.
There was a girl. She was a year or two older than Fifty-seven yet thin in the pre-pubescent way of Caribbean children. She was Indian and quite pretty. Her long dark hair lay in a Cascadu braid over one shoulder. Her narrow face was brown, sun-kissed to copper. She had large dark eyes that slanted upward slightly at the outer corners and were bordered by eyelashes that were long, dark and lacy. She was well on her way to becoming a striking woman. She wore a crimson sari trimmed in gold draped in the Nivi style. She and Clarence stared at each other for a moment. The girl seemed unfazed by his nudity.
“What’s your name?” Clarence asked.
“My name is Ghita. Follow me.” She turned and left without waiting for him to respond. Her sari followed in her wake, fluttering like a gold and red butterfly. The house was simply yet richly furnished in the architectural and decorative style of the east. Each item of the decor appeared to have been selected with an eye for quality and detail. Clarence followed Ghita across a room with a floor that was tiled a deep glossy amber and seemed to glow from within. The walls were painted in coral yellow. Along the hallway were alcoves housing pedestals upon which stood statuettes of various deities from the Hindu pantheon. Clarence recognized Kali dancing with her necklace of skulls, Ganesh with his elephant’s head, Narasimha the lion-man the fifth avatar of Vishnu, Hanuman bearing a mountain aloft. An ivory statuette of Lakshmi caught Clarence’s eye. The eyes of the many limbed goddess seemed to follow him as he passed by, shaming him for his nakedness, judging him for his choice.
“Where are we, Ghita?”
“We are where we need to be,” the girl responded without turning around.
The pair exited the room and continued across an outdoor bridge connecting the upper floors of the house and spanning a garden below. A waist high wall ran along both sides of the bridge and at regular intervals there were arches the inner edges of which were masoned to look like the silhouettes of lotus flowers in bloom.
Clarence inhaled deeply. This was the first time he had been outside since the night he was kidnapped. The setting sun cast long shadows and the air was perfumed heavily with incense and the exotic scent of frangipani flowers. Below them lay in a lush green lawn and flowers of all kinds were blooming. Bougainvillea climbed the walls like ivy but bore a riot of purple, peach and white blooms, white Bermuda lily stood next to the orange peach of the Barbados lily. The borders of the lawn were hedged in Alamanda bushes with their waxy green leaves and trumpeted yellow blossoms.
Crickets chirped to herald the coming night and, in the distance, a crapaud croaked. Clarence followed Ghita in silence. They entered the section of the house to which the bridge led and continued a short way down a hall until they came to a dark wooden door. Ghita held the door open and Clarence peered inside.
“Go in,” she said, and Clarence obliged. The door closed quietly behind him and in a brief panic he fumbled for the handle but found that it had not been locked. He re-opened the door but Ghita had vanished. He closed the door, opened it, and closed it again, a neurotic repetition to ease his doubts about being trapped.
The room was spotless but, unlike the rest of the house, utilitarian. There was a full-length mirror and Clarence inspected himself. He found that he looked remarkably different. The dark circles under his eyes were gone. His cheeks had filled in and his body was now lean rather than gaunt, his hair thick and healthy. The bones that had been broken in Lucien’s assault had healed and he was sure if he was administered a blood test that he would pass with flying colors.
He looked at himself for a long time, eventually breaking into a smile, at which point he noticed his teeth were clean and his gums were healthy and pink. He was a lovely man. In a closet he found clothes, slim black jeans and a black tee shirt, both fit as if they had been tailored for him. Under the bed was a pair of desert boots. In a drawer he found a gun and a wad of blue hundred-dollar bills held together with a silver money clip. He slipped the money into his back pocket but left the gun where it was. He then lay on the bed and stared at the wooden ceiling wondering what would be the next step in this new life. Eventually he dozed off. Lucien’s voice in his head jolted him awake.
Clarence, I trust that you are enjoying your return to the land of the living.
Yes. Who is the girl?
Ghita? She’s just a girl.
I’m not talking about Ghita, although I doubt that Ghita is just a girl. Who is the other girl, number Fifty-seven? The one in chains.
Clarence was surprised at how quickly he had grown used to conducting mental conversations.
She is yours to command just like the rest.
She is different.
She is what I say she is, Clarence.
Lucien spoke those last words with a finality that brokered no further discussion.
Answer the door, Clarence.
There was a soft knock. Clarence opened the door. It was Ghita of the red and gold sari. In her hand she held a manila envelope which she offered to Clarence. He took it and wondered why they had not just put it in the room before he had arrived.
He looked up from the envelope meaning to ask Ghita, but she was gone, no footsteps no rustle of fabric. She’s just a girl, right. Clarence went back to the room and closed the door again. He sat on the bed and opened the envelope with a fingernail. Inside were four pictures of the same woman, obviously taken without her knowledge. She was small in a womanly way, petite, well-dressed, Caribbean girl-next-door pretty. She looked like a business woman perhaps, or a lawyer’s secretary. There were no descriptions or dates included with the images. In one picture she was smiling, the display of even white teeth and dimples making her even lovelier.
Her name is Lisa Cyrus. She has taken something from me and I need it back. Your first task is to bring her to me alive.
Clarence wondered how Lisa had managed to steal something from Lucien and his ugly chauffeur-Igor-lackey. He was relieved that he only had to snatch her and not to kill her, though he suspected being kidnapped by Lucien was only mildly less pleasant than being killed. Clarence had no talent for kidnapping, but he knew exactly who the accomplished kidnappers among his group of Myrmidon were.
I will need Nathan and Damian, they are in cells, free them. Send Rebecca too, my former cell-mate.
Done.
I will also want number Fifty-seven.
No.
She will make an excellent decoy, besides, I’m the one executing, and I’m requesting her.
If you need a decoy use Ghita.
Ghita weirds the shit out of me. I want Fifty-seven.
Your stubbornness is already becoming taxing Clarence. Why do you persist in calling her Fifty-seven? Don’t you know her name?
Clarence knew Lucien was mocking him. Surely the man knew he was unable to extract anything from the girl.
No, she refused to tell me.
She refused your compulsion and you still want her along? Fine, Fifty-seven is yours to use on this mission. But let me warn you, if the target is killed, broken, or despoiled you will suffer far more than you have already suffered. Ghita will give you further instructions. With those words Lucien’s pre
sence winked out of his consciousness again.
Clarence was not eager to interact with the strange Indian girl again but he made his way back to the garden bridge to look for her. Night had fallen and hundreds of fireflies drifted over the lawn and among the flowers and plants. Above it all a harvest moon rose, fat, low, and yellow.
The intra-floor bridge was about two stories above the yard, but Clarence felt that he could jump down without harm. He vaulted the wall, landed lightly without incident and continued searching for Ghita. In the distance he heard soft singing and he followed the sound.
Behind the house was a hill, and atop the hill a group of people surrounded a funeral pyre. They were observing Antyesti, the Hindu funeral rights. A male mourner walked around the pyre sprinkling water. Atop the pyre lay a small person, their feet pointing southward so they could walk into the land of the dead. From that distance at the base of the hill Clarence could not make out the features of their face but the person lying atop the pyre was clad in crimson and gold. Ghita?
“Clarence.” A voice behind him spoke his name. He spun around and Ghita stood there. He glanced back over his shoulder in time to catch a last glimpse of the body on the pyre just before flames leapt to consume the crimson and gold sari of the person laying there.
“Is that you on the pyre, Ghita?”
“There is a white panel van at the front of the house. Pick up the people you requested then kidnap the woman. She is not to be harmed. Once you have her, you will be given further instructions.” Ghita ignored his question.
Clarence stole another glance at the hilltop. The pyre was now completely engulfed in flames. He could feel the heat all the way down at the bottom of the hill he turned back to Ghita but she was gone.
He walked to the front of the large house. The panel van was there as Ghita had promised. He opened the door to the van and got in. The keys were in the ignition and a sheet of paper taped to the steering wheel. Written on the sheet was an address.
Clarence started the van and pulled into the roadway. He headed to pick up Rebecca, Nathan, Damian, and number Fifty-seven, all of whom Lucien had set free from their cells. He needed no directions because he could tell where they were through the psychic connection they shared.
As he drove away, a realization settled in his gut like sack of dead grave worms. He remembered that when he and Ghita were walking across the house-bridge, the setting sun had cast long black shadows off the decorative concrete blocks that made up the low safety wall and even off the leaf-cutter ants that scurried along the top of the wall. Ghita however, had cast no shadow.
She is just a girl. Yes, a girl hanging around to witness her own funeral, Clarence thought. Antyesti was meant to allow a Hindu’s soul to enter the land of rest. Clarence suspected that Ghita would find no rest as long as she was within Lucien’s clutches.
Chapter 12
Rohan had never been as happy to return to Stone House as he had been that morning when they finally pulled into the driveway. The meeting with Kat, the jumbie fight, the interrogation of the woman, the shadowy assassin, the glob Kat had thrown to slay the shadow, and Kamara’s marking, all of it had made for a very long and exhausting night.
The sun was already setting when he finally woke. He and Kamara lay in the same position in which they had fallen asleep that morning. He disentangled himself from her web of arms, legs and hair, pausing briefly to inspect the elephants marching up the back of her palm and wrist, before slipping out of the room to stretch his legs and clear his mind.
He walked past the adjacent bedroom. The door was ajar and a partially-undressed Lisa lay diagonally across the bed as if she had fallen asleep in the process of disrobing. He pulled the door closed.
The original Stone House was large and had been very old, until about three years before when a soucouyant had attacked inside the house triggering a fire that had razed old Stone to the ground. After the fire Stone house had been rebuilt in a modern style. The men of Stone had solicited designs then voted on the submissions. The Order’s wealth was old and substantial and the new building was one of the most beautiful homes in Trinidad.
As Rohan walked along the corridors he recalled the voices of his grandfather and fellow Ordermen that had filled the halls all too recently. He stopped when he came to the large airy room that housed the martial arts sparring and practice areas. The sparring mat was a safe place to release some of the stress that had built and was continuing to build over the past few days. The mat was also where he and his chaptermen had spent countless hours. He felt close to them here. Physical exercise will help clear my mind.
He was not in the least surprised to see Voss in the room practicing a form with a katana. An odd weapon for someone in the Caribbean, Rohan thought. The razor-sharp blade cut through the air with precision as Voss gracefully and powerfully executed an elaborate sequence of slashes and parries against an imaginary foe.
The sword itself was a work of art with an ornately engraved blade and red tsuka-maki that contrasted with the ebony of its handle. Rohan did not recognize the sword and he knew every sword, knife, gun, and dagger in the armory, the only room that survived the soucouyant fire. That room was the size of a modest house, boasting a double wall of cinder block laminating a solid half inch thick plate of steel, and a fireproof door. It housed their arms and ammunition, as well as ancient handwritten documents and irreplaceable texts.
Rohan waited until Voss had finished his routine before entering the room.
“Did you sleep at all?” Rohan asked as Voss lovingly slid the blade into the red lacquered scabbard until it locked with a click.
“I napped,” Voss responded. “Nice place you guys have here. The butler gave me a tour, but he refused to let me into the armory, faithful servant that he is.”
Rohan knew that the butler Voss was referring to was Jonah. Jonah was the housekeeper, repairman, chauffeur, grounds’ man, emergency medical technician, repository of sage advice, and general all-round Man-Friday. Jonah had been with the Order for as long as Rohan could remember and knew all the company secrets. He would cringe at being referred to as the ‘butler’ or ‘servant.’.
The other member of the Stone house staff was Imelda who was Jonah’s wife who also functioned as their cook. She was a tower of a woman. Built like a tank, she stood a full foot taller than Jonah. Where Jonah was mild and easygoing, Imelda was fiery and mercurial. She was their brood-mother and was taking the deaths of Rohan’s comrades very poorly.
Stone House belonged to Imelda and Jonah more than it belonged to Rohan. The elderly couple spent far more time there than he did and they ensured that the house ran smoothly. They paid the bills, tended the gardens and grounds, ensured that the fridges were stocked and the cars had gas. Without Jonah and Imelda, Stone would probably slowly starve.
“He’s not a butler per se,” Rohan responded, declining to explain the full extent of Jonah’s functions. “Nice sword. Didn’t know you practiced.”
Voss looked slightly offended. “Nice? Practice? I have forgotten more sword techniques than most masters will ever know and this sword is a priceless treasure.”
“Aren’t you a portrait of humility,” Rohan said sarcastically, “In that case you would not mind a friendly match. We can use bokken,” Rohan said, motioning to a rack of the wooden practice swords affixed to the wall. The hardwood swords were carved to resemble and perform like katana.
“Bokken? Why not shinai?” Voss responded glancing at the rack of bamboo practice swords that were far safer than the hardwood bokken.
“Are you worried Voss? You were doing pretty well against that invisible samurai just now.”
Voss looked mildly amused, “It’s you I’m worried about, Le Clerc.”
“Good, it’s settled then, go pick one out, and I’ll change into my ass-kicking clothes.”
Moments later Voss and Rohan faced each other across the practice mat. Rohan adopted a stance from Musō Shinden-ryū a battojitsu style of fighting w
here the sword starts in the scabbard unlike other techniques where the fighter draws the sword to begin. Rohan’s preferred bladed weapon was a machete. He was competent wielding two as done in Escrima or one in the Tire Machete Haitian fencing style. But he missed practicing Japanese sword techniques against competent partners.
Voss adopted a stance Rohan did not recognize. The man held the sword overhead in a two-handed grip, his right foot ahead of the left, the muscles of his torso straining in anticipation of the violence to come. They stared at each other searching for some opening that could be exploited. The room was cool, but Rohan felt a single bead of sweat roll down his back. A mosquito buzzed past his ear and he thought about how often Isa had expressed the wish that all mosquitoes would spontaneously self-combust.
Voss seized Rohan’s momentary lapse in focus and was upon him in an instant. The man moved like lightning. He took one step forward, closing the distance between them and bringing the bokken down with the full power of both arms. Rohan stepped to the side allowing Voss’s sword to cleave the air where he had just been standing and executed a blindingly fast batto-jitsu cutting draw. He had moved so fast that Voss’s sword was still travelling downward while his was travelling toward the back of Voss’s head. He was already coming up with some sarcastic comment to use after he knocked Voss on his backside. Voss however had other plans.
The man ducked Rohan’s wooden blade shifted his weight and struck at Rohan’s gut with the pommel of the bokken. Rohan managed to position his other arm between the butt of Voss’ blade and his stomach but the blow was powerful enough to knock him back a step. With that move Voss proved himself a worthy opponent. Rohan pressed the attack more technically, stepping forward and slashing three times in rapid succession. Voss danced backward so gracefully it was almost like he floated away, his feet barely touching the ground as he dodged each of Rohan’s three strikes.
