The Freedom Race, page 32
* * *
“Good. You have finally decided to resurrect yourself. How do you feel?”
“Okay.… Tired.”
“That is to be expected after a purple exhumation. Your strength is return—”
Ji-ji interrupted: “I thought I saw Tiro.”
“Flight Boy arrived two days before you did. Lie back down.”
“Tiro’s here? Where is he?”
“He has gone on a hunt with the others. Do not fuss. He will be back soon.”
It made sense they would need food, but why go now? Alarmed, Ji-ji sat up and said, “There’s no time for hunting. The Freedom Race! We have to leave now!”
“Lie back. You are not yet ripe for travel. How is your back today?”
“Sore. But it’s been worse. I injured it, in the fly-coop.… Or it could be psychosomatic.”
The old woman looked disgusted. “Riff taught you this word. That young man has spent too long away from his land and his people. He speaks as though body and mind are distant cousins. What is anything if not an idea?”
This was too deep for Ji-ji in her weakened state. She settled for, “You know Doc Riff?”
“I taught him much of what he obviously does not remember.”
“So you don’t think the pain’s in my head then?” Ji-ji asked, unsure of which option would be better, real or imagined.
The old woman pulled her leaf-green head-tie down further onto her wide forehead. “The pain is real,” she said. Ji-ji was relieved. A diagnosis from a female healer-philosopher who had taught Doc Riff must count for something.
“Is it a broken bone, or a pulled muscle, or—I don’t know—a slipped disc or something?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The last one.”
“A slipped disc?”
“No. An ‘or something.’”
Ji-ji couldn’t tell if the woman was trying to be funny. She didn’t want to push her luck to find out. Tiro would return soon from the hunt. She would find out more about her condition then.
“Are you Man Cryday?”
“That is my trickster-name. It is not safe for people like us to say who we really are.”
Ji-ji understood. Man Cryday’s accent and features identified her as Toteppi. No wonder she used a fake name. No Toteppi was safe in the Territories anymore. For the first time, Ji-ji noticed the wall hangings in the cozy cabin. The batik and kente cloth her mam used to speak of showcased a menagerie of animals, circles, squares, ovals, and half-moons, eyes white and ghostly, and eyes that could see, and forests of jubilant greens.
Story-cloths hung from the walls too. Unlike the faded ones Uncle Dreg kept hidden in the treasure hole he’d dug under his bed, these could have been painted yesterday. Shown in painful detail were depictions of the Long Warming, the Water Wars, the canes, the floods, and the Sequel; seeds loaded into planes and onto cargo freighters heading from the Cradle to the Territories, while soldiers with guns stood guard and one tribe betrayed another. Corpses swinging from penal trees, women pyred.… In others, the depictions were much older: Middle Passengers being loaded into sailing ships; Passengers toiling in cotton and tobacco fields while a few lucky ones took to the air, arms outstretched as, wingless, they flew home.
One story-cloth reminded Ji-ji of Uncle Dreg’s Origin Story, though it had none of the fuzzy gentleness she remembered. In the beginning according to Man Cryday’s version, the One was a blind white eye glowering down from on high. When One became Two, the bifurcation rent the story-cloth itself in two. When Two became Three, a woman lay screaming while something—Ji-ji wasn’t sure what—escaped from between her bloody legs. Some of the fishfolk and earthfolk lived in harmony, but others slaughtered each other. In the next scene they aimed their blood-thirst at the Bird tribe, the massacre so real she could hear the birdfolk’s screams. The chief’s wives who didn’t want to help the birdfolk murdered some of those who did, and the few maimed birdfolk who took refuge in the mountains were shadows of who they once were.
“Why is the First Story so…” Ji-ji said, searching for the right word, “so violent?”
“You think beginnings are easy?” the woman replied, angrily. “You think Dregulahmo’s pretty pictures portray the world? We who know suffering must see the past with clear eyes or it will blind us to the future.” The woman’s ire surprised Ji-ji, who didn’t dare say how much she loved Uncle Dreg’s hopeful story-cloths.
“Is this Dimmers?” Ji-ji asked when she felt confident Man Cryday had calmed down.
“Dimmers Wood is close by. This place we call Memoria. It is located deep within Viral Colony Four. It is well protected. The entrance can only be accessed through a maze of caves and tunnels. No enemy has found it. You are safe here.”
“In Dimmers Wood I saw terrible things.” Ji-ji didn’t reveal that some of the most disturbing story-cloths reminded her of the dreadful corpses she’d seen in the wood.
“You saw the things you have known, the things you know now, and the things you dread for the future. In Dimmers, time flows forward and backward. Of course it was terrible.”
Man Cryday ordered Ji-ji to turn over and raise her T-shirt so she could apply a cooling balm to her back. Ji-ji realized someone had dressed her in a pale yellow T-shirt and light blue shorts—pastel colors she wasn’t permitted to wear. No black-and-white seed symbol on her chest either. It felt weird. Good, but weird. Her body had never belonged to her that way before.
“Their filthy stain is gone,” Man Cryday said. “We do not wear such desecrations in Memoria. The steaders work very hard to screw with our minds, yes?”
“Yes, they do. All the time.”
Her response seemed to please Man Cryday, who smiled more warmly than before and said, “Dreg was as right about some things as he was wrong about others. You will do. Yes, you will do.”
As Man Cryday applied the balm in sweeping spirals of coolness, Ji-ji knew she’d died and gone to heaven. The balm smelled of rosemary, mint, and a floral fragrance Ji-ji couldn’t identify. As she massaged Ji-ji’s back, Man Cryday answered questions Ji-ji was afraid to ask.
“Chemists would explain away Dimmers Wood. They would say there are hallucinogens in the leaves and mushrooms. Gaseous emissions too. They would not be wrong. Psychologists would sermonize about the power of the subconscious. Priests would insist that you believe they have the power to mediate between you and the Wood of the Immaculates. And storytellers would tell you a tale of unbearable violence and suffering.”
Ji-ji thought for a moment before saying, “An’ what would you tell me, Man Cryday?”
“At last a sensible question. I would tell you to seek out all ways of seeing, child, and then to find your own way. Your mind should be open to new paths. A learned belief can be as stultifying as ignorance. Wisdom follows the blossoming, is it not so?”
Ji-ji deduced that blossoming was Man Cryday’s term for bloodletting. She didn’t want to admit that no wisdom at all had come with her periods, only blood and discomfort. She was relieved when Man Cryday changed the subject and asked her what else she remembered.
Ji-ji told her what had happened—the escape from the planting, Mam’s death (would it always shred her heart when she talked about it?), Lotter’s arrival at the fence, the Bounty Boys, the poor fake Mule in furry ass’s ears, Lucky’s courage, the river crossing. She described how she’d abandoned Lucky but not the stallion—kept circling back to Lucky, filled with guilt because she hadn’t stayed with him, wretched because she’d left her mam behind, cradled in her jailer’s arms.
“Be careful, Jellybean,” Man Cryday warned. “Excessive regret curdles to self-pity, yes? You were right to continue alone. You would be dead otherwise.”
In a tone gentler than before, Man Cryday explained that a search party of Friends had found the scant remains of Lucky’s mutilated body near a live oak. There had been little left. It looked as though the group had been attacked by hungry snarlcats before another posse of Bounty Boys came across them. “Friends buried his remains under the protection of the great oak, alongside the remains of the poor lynched child.”
Though she’d been certain Lucky was dead, the news devastated Ji-ji. She burst into tears.
“Do not weep for him. Far better to be finished off by cats than Bounty Boys. Cats kill cleanly, without vengeance. It is the kind of death all of us should desire—is it not so? Hush, hush. Lucas went on this mission with his eyes open. He knew how dangerous it was when he volunteered.”
“He d-didn’t volunteer. He drew the short straw—t-twice.”
“Is that so? You think people tell you who they are? Of course not. They show you. You think a mercenary would sacrifice himself like that? When I found Lucas he was a mess, but he was not a coward. And before you accuse yourself of cowardice for leaving him, remember that is exactly what the steaders want us to do—paralyze ourselves with self-doubt. You must not follow Silapu’s path. Your mind must be your friend. If it becomes your enemy it will sabotage you over and over again—is it not so? There, the ointment will numb your back for a while.”
“So Lucky wasn’t a mercenary?”
“Of course he was! But he volunteered for the assignment to the 437th. Twice. Peter Dyson, his grandfather, and Dregulahmo were like brothers. I was close to Peter too. It was I who arranged for Lucas to go to Planting 437. Dregulahmo did not know Lucas was 9-0-2 until they met up at Blueglass Lake. I should have let Dreg know earlier and then perhaps…” Her voice trailed off. “See? Regret is not helpful. I must practice what I preach, yes?
“When Dregulahmo met up with Lucas, he discovered he was Peter’s grandson and asked him to be your escort if it became necessary. Though he did not know the boy, he bet on the notion that the fruit had not fallen far from the tree. He was right. Lucas Dyson had his grandfather’s courage, is it not so?”
“So you hired Lucky?”
“Yes. I hired him. I needed clear eyes on the 437th. Dregulahmo did not always see the trees for the forest. His quest was peace and brotherhood.”
“What’s your quest?”
“Another good question. My quest is justice.”
As Man Cryday spoke, something stirred in Ji-ji. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“You met me once, when you were a little girl. I wanted to see you. I needed to know if Dregulahmo’s suspicions were right.”
“But how did you get on and off the planting?”
“I do not venture onto plantings unless it is to raid them. You were with Lotter at the Salem Outpost. You stopped there during a hunt. You bought—”
“—one of your bonbons!” Ji-ji exclaimed.
“So. You remember.”
She’d bought five bonbons. One for her, one for Mam, one for Charra, one for Clay, one for Luvlydoll—even though Luvlydoll had been too young to do much except suck on it.
“I called the bonbons angel turds.”
“Yes, you did. And Lotter laughed. I considered slitting his throat then, but I thought it may cause a disturbance so I restrained myself. I am still not sure if that was a grave error.”
Again, Ji-ji couldn’t say whether Man Cryday was joking or not, but she thought it best not to inquire further. Instead she said, “I called my little brother Bonbon.”
“Yes. I know. Dregulahmo told me.”
Ji-ji had never tasted anything sweeter in her life than those bonbons. They’d sat in a circle and eaten them slowly—all except Clay, who’d stuffed the whole thing into his mouth cos he could never wait for anything. Years later, the word sprang to her lips again when her brother slipped out from between her mam’s legs. By that time, all her other siblings were gone. The evening of bonbons abided in her memory as a time of pure happiness.
“Were the bonbons magic?” she asked.
“What a ridiculous thing to say! They were bonbons. Dregulahmo has created a cult of nincompoops.” Man Cryday sounded a lot like Silapu.
The old woman got up briskly, walked over to the window, and looked out. “The black stallion has been caught. He is in a pen in the far clearing. He is not happy, of course. What Free Spirit would be happy locked inside a fence? But he cannot roam alone in The Margins. It is too dangerous for a creature as splendid as he—is it not so? I have your saddlebag and Lucky’s bag, with your book, your map, and Flight Boy’s letter. The boy’s spelling is appalling. What was he doing in that legacy school? Getting high? Zyla would be heartbroken if she saw it.”
“The stallion an’ the saddlebag—they’re not mine. I stole them.”
“Another ridiculous statement. The stallion stole you. The saddlebag is his gift. Hasn’t the poor beast been carrying it all this time?”
Ji-ji liked that idea. “You knew Uncle Dreg?”
“Yes. I knew him for as long as he lived. Dregulahmo was my brother.”
Ji-ji stared at Man Cryday. She saw it now, not only the resemblance between the two—same proud dark skin, same mischievous black eyes, same broad nose and generous nostrils—but the way she spoke, as though her words could nourish or scold you back to health. All those years ago, when she was only six years old, it must have been this resemblance to Uncle Dreg that had subconsciously drawn Ji-ji to her at the market in the Salem Outpost. And now it was as if Uncle Dreg had come back to her. Ji-ji felt a deep contentment, but her mood changed abruptly when she saw a shadow in the doorway. The striper from Dimmers Wood!
“Do not be afraid,” Man Cryday said. “Musa is a Friend. Stripers are underappreciated. Their distinct odor should not be a catalyst for prejudice.”
The mutant plopped down on its behind and scratched its flea-bitten coat of dirty stripes. A cloud of dander flew into the air and sifted down in the sunshine.
“Come, Musa,” Man Cryday added. “Introduce yourself to your sister.”
Ji-ji tried not to be offended by the term sister. Like most people who managed to survive into old age, Man Cryday was very eccentric.
The striper heaved itself to its feet and loped across the cabin. When it approached the bed, Ji-ji shied away from it in revulsion. Over four feet at its hunched shoulder, it was almost as large as a snarlcat, and by far the ugliest creature she’d ever seen. It stank—a nose-accosting odor of boiled eggs and manure. Hard not to be prejudiced under the circumstances.
“It’s real … big,” Ji-ji said, searching for an adjective that wouldn’t be offensive.
“He is a full-grown striper! What do you expect? A Pomeranian?”
Man Cryday reached up and stroked the mutant’s head, warning Ji-ji to avoid the antennae that adorned his skull like coral polyps. “He likes you. See? He licks your fingers. Be grateful. Musa does not like everyone. Sometimes he gnaws on them instead. We found Musa as a cub, half dead inside a box trap. We brought him back here and reared him. Other trapped or abandoned cubs we have found and reared too. Eight stripers live with us now. They guard Dimmers Wood and the entrances to the caves; they accompany us on hunts. Two of them—Kuru and Amay—are with Tiro and the others.… Now it is time to rest. If you wake with a nightmare and I am not here, you may pet Musa. But remember, do not touch his tiara. It is very sensitive.”
* * *
When Ji-ji woke again, it was evening. Man Cryday rocked back and forth in a wooden rocker. Ji-ji didn’t need to ask who’d braided the twigs into a chair fit for a queen. Only Uncle Dreg was skilled enough. Man Cryday didn’t look up, but she must have heard Ji-ji stir.
“Is he—” Ji-ji began to ask.
“No. He is not back yet.”
“Do you think—”
“No. I do not think the Bounty Boys have ambushed him. He is with Bently and Germaine, two of our most experienced hunters. Kuru and Amay are with them too, as I said. It is not possible for humans to ambush stripers. Tiro will return. With luck, he will not be empty-handed.”
The concern in Man Cryday’s voice indicated how short of food they must be. Ji-ji resolved to eat only small portions of whatever food was offered. Less than an hour later, after Ji-ji had eaten her first real meal in days (a scrumptious vegetable stew with thick slices of warm bread that forced her to abandon her vow not to eat much), Ji-ji heard the sound she’d been dying to hear: Tiro’s voice calling her name. Man Cryday caught her arm in a ferocious grip to prevent her from rising to greet him as Tiro burst into the room like a tornado. He whooped with delight when he saw that Ji-ji was fully awake, rushed over to the bed, and hugged her.
“Stupid boy! Watch her back!” Man Cryday told him. “I told you it would be very delicate. You remember nothing.”
“Sorry,” Tiro said.
Man Cryday raised her eyes to heaven and said she had to step out but would be back soon.
Ji-ji felt as if she would burst with happiness. After so much pain and so many trials, they had finally dreaminated themselves on the path to Freedom, just like Uncle Dreg said they would.
They talked and laughed and told each other their stories. Tiro said how sorry he was to hear about her mother. A Friend embedded on the 437th had got a message to them saying Silapu hadn’t made it over the fence. Tiro refused to reveal the Friend’s identity but said he was sad to hear about Lucky too, especially after he learned how much he’d done for Ji-ji.
“Never liked the guy,” he admitted. “Looked way too much like Lotter. But if he really did all those things you said, he was a hero in the end, I guess.”
Tiro explained how he’d hidden out in Shot Tower until the Last Supper was underway, which meant he’d only been a few hours ahead of her. Ji-ji explained how Lucky had carried her much of the way, so it had taken longer than anticipated.
“We’d almost given up on you,” Tiro said. “Man Cryday said you must’ve crossed the river on that stallion out there?” She nodded. “Damn, Ji! Impressive.”
He told her about Memoria, said there were upward of three dozen Friends who called the place home—a dozen more who used it as a layover as they made their way through The Margins. Some Friends slept in cabins, some in tents, some in huts, and some in tree houses. Most of the Friends were black or Latin like Germaine Judd, and about half a dozen others were white. He warned her not to use the words dusky or fairskin around the Friends. Some of them had been botanicals once and they were real sensitive about it. Others had come all the way over from the Cradle or the Caribbean to serve in the resistance, while a few of the Spanish-speaking Friends had traveled on foot from below the southern border. “There’s lot of Indigenous in the resistance, ’specially African Americans. That’s what they call themselves. No hyphen neither. They’re real sensitive ’bout that too. You can say black and brown but not dusky. An’ it’s white, not fairskin. Don’t forget. They have a hissy fit if you get it wrong.… Man Cryday said anything to you yet?”
