Orleans (4 page)

“I’m ready,” she say at last. She straighten her dress and touch her hair one last time. She look every bit the chieftain. Outside, I hear a commotion in the camp. The O-Negs be arriving.

3

O-NEG DAVIS. HE BEAUTIFUL. EYES LIKE AGATE
or river rock, greeny-gray and copper, too. Hair in thick, long dreads, all milky brown, like a lion mane. Hard to take my eyes off him, but I do so I can see what else he brought with him. Ten O-Negs, all decked out for the powwow. They move soft and quick, following Uncle Romulus through our compound, but not so stealthy as they’d be out in the woods. Davis be they chieftain, so he at the front. There be a woman beside him, acting like she own him and the rest of the world, too. Natasha. Lydia done told me about her. Important in the tribe, she older than some, so must be wily. From where I be looking, she seem soft to me, decked out in the same ceremonial vest as Davis—alligator leather and pheasant feathers—over wide homespun pants. She got black and blue beaded bands on her wrist that match Davis, showing they related somehow. The armbands and feathers look regal on Brother Davis, natural even, like he part animal. But not on Natasha. She lean, true enough, but her people be carrying bows (Rom’s got they arrows ’til the powwow be over), while her own hands be empty. They the hands of a fat woman, someone being cared for by others. And she probably think she deserve it.

“Welcome to our place of rest,” Lydia say, clear and strong in her beautiful voice. She could talk the trees into walking if she wanted.

“Greetings, Lydia Moray of the O-Positives,” Davis announce. His voice just as fine as the rest of him, not too deep but not too high, neither. Those gray-green eyes flicker over our group—Lydia, me on her right, Uncle Romulus on her left—so he know we got Lydia’s back, and her ear. Caroline and some of the others fall in behind us. The rest of our tribe be waiting around the cook fires for the feast to begin. “Thank you for inviting us into your place of rest.”

Lydia nod and say some more formal greetings. She introduce us by our skills, and we learn the O-Negs’ in return. “This is Fen de la Guerre, known for her fierceness, and Uncle Romulus, known for his wise council.” In the Outer States, I hear folks be shaking hands when they meet. Not in Orleans. Somebody get a hold of you with one hand, they could have a knife in the other. So we learn about each other instead. Davis say Natasha be the clever one, but he ain’t got no fierce one on his side, like Lydia got me. Maybe Davis fierce enough on his own.

Introductions done, Lydia relax and lead O-Neg Davis to our cook fire as she offer food and rest to his people as our guests. The real talk, about uniting our tribes, won’t start ’til after the meal.

I stay close to Lydia, arms crossed so I look relaxed, but I can still reach the knife in my belt fast if need be. Lydia be the dreamer, but I be the fighter. She got a good dream, too, bringing together not just the Os, but all the tribes. Not for us all to live in one camp—the Fever be what’s preventing that. But she say maybe we can live in peace. No more blood hunting. Freesteader and tribe living in the city without fear. It a big dream, a crazy one, I think. But Lydia done saved me. Maybe she can save the rest of Orleans, too.

Lydia offer the O-Negs a spot to sit beside her on rugs and cushions made of homespun cloth stuffed with feathers. Davis drop down in front of the fire, cross-legged and easy. Natasha take a moment to decide if the seating be to her liking before she join him. I kneel behind Lydia, ready to stand if need be. Caroline and some of the girls bring around a big wood plank piled high with roast pig and mirliton squash stewed with shrimp from the Market, boiled crawfish and slow-roasted wild sweet potatoes. Lydia serve up the food in bowls for the O-Negs and hand them out herself. It be tradition for the head of a household to serve guests. She continue dishing up the bowls ’til the whole tribe been served. Lydia will eat last.

Not every night be a feast like this. The rich smell of pork fat and sweet smell of stew make my mouth water, but I’ll eat when Lydia do.

The air be growing cooler as the evening settles in, but the fire be warm and friendly. It make me proud to see our tribe so strong. I hope the O-Negs see it, too. They don’t got to join us, but they should think twice before crossing us, too.

Our storyteller, Cinnamon Jones, stand up now on the far side of the fire. “In the early days, before the sky got so angry at the sea and went to war, there was a piece of land between them, and they called her New Orleans. She was a beautiful place, a city that sparkled like diamonds, sang like songbirds, and danced a two-step to stop men’s hearts.”

He sway his hips as he speak, and though he a beanpole of a man, the way he wear his robes, made special for times like this, you’d think he the most beautiful woman in the world. The grace of a dancer, Lydia call it. And he can pitch his voice to sound like girl, woman, baby, or man. His daddy name him for the color of his skin, ruddy brown and smooth, and it stick because his stories be like cinnamon, too—sweet, savory, and rare. Uncle Romulus say when he been a kid, folks came running when they smelled cinnamon in the kitchen ’cause it meant something sweet baking in the oven, like it Christmastime. Well, Cinnamon Jones be in the kitchen tonight, and Lydia be hoping he spin a tale sweet enough to make them O-Negs take a bite.

“And the people,” he say. “Lord, the people. They was black, and white, and yellow, and brown, and pink as a lobster sometimes, too, but they was beautiful. Because they could dance like the city, and sing like the city, and love like the city was loved by the sky and the sea. It was the
people
who made the city of New Orleans.”

The rest of the camp be sitting around the cook fire, tamped down now so the flames don’t give us away, just enough light and heat to make it cozy. The O-Negs look satisfied, O-Neg Davis leaning back on a log like he own the place. Natasha sitting next to him, looking even more like a lioness. They be family, all right. I can see it in they lines, the way they both be draping so lazylike in front of someone else’s fire. Brave fools, I think. And that mess run in the family.

“Did you eat yet?” Lydia ask me quietly. I shake my head and she hand me a bowl. She take the last bowl for herself before Caroline take the serving board away. The leftover wild boar and sweet potato will fry up into cakes for breakfast. Lydia eat slow, and I know she be studying Davis as much as she be listening to Cinnamon’s story.

I bolt down my food, push my bowl away, and whisper into Lydia’s ear. “Got to check on them boys around the perimeter, make sure they be working like they should.” Lydia nod and squeeze my hand when I rise. She look real tired tonight. That baby be weighing down on her something awful. If we ain’t lucky, she be giving birth before we move camp again. But there be no profit in worrying like that now, so I squeeze her hand back and head to the edge of the light.

Cinnamon’s story be reaching the point where the sky and the sea can’t live without New Orleans being they own, so they start to fight over her, sending they daughters and they sons to wreak havoc. I be too far away to hear him naming the storms that tore the city down, but I know the names: Rita, Katrina, Isaiah, Lorenzo, all the way up to Jesus, or Hayseus, like Cinnamon say. And that be the end of New Orleans. She love that last storm so much, she run off with him and leave only Orleans behind.

The woods be dark and deep tonight. I smell pine needles, fresh after yesterday’s storm, musty and sharp at the same time. The air be cooler here, away from people and the fire. I look behind me and be glad to see we built this place right. Ain’t no fire seen from here, the way we shaped the hogans, wove them tight, blocked the view. It been Romulus who taught us to build camp in a spiral so there be rows enough to block the light, but it be my daddy who show me how to dig a fire hole deep enough to cover real quick. Uncle Rom be surviving in a group, but Daddy show me how to survive on my own.

I reach the edge of the clearing and wait for my eyes to adjust. To my right I hear an owl screech. I hoot soft and the owl don’t answer, but some of our boys do, off to the left.

Then the wind pick up from another direction and I hear something else. Rustling from deep in the woods. I hoot again. This time there be no response. Whoever it be, it ain’t our boys.

Then I see torches. Headed toward camp.

“Allez! Allez!”
I scream the alarm, warn everyone to flee. I pull my knife and run back to camp. To Lydia.

4

WHEN I GET TO CAMP, EVERYTHING BURNING,
like the sky be on fire. But I run into it. I got to find Lydia.

The smell tell me they be blood hunters, come to harvest our camp. But they ain’t just taking, they killing, too. It don’t make sense. I keep running, looking for Lydia.

A shadow move in the light and I see the crazed eyes of an AB in front of me. ABs got it bad when it come to Delta Fever. It kill off all they good blood, so they need more. Now they trying to take it from us. This one rise up in front of me, six feet tall and wiry like the green trees we use for tent poles. He grin real wide and I smell blood on his breath, see scars on his arms in the firelight, thick like mine, but made from needles, tubes, reeds. He got a sling in one hand, loaded with a rock, but I be too close for that, so he pull a short, ugly club out his waistband and swing at me.

ABs need what blood they got, so they use blunt instruments, no blades or arrows—nothing that cuts a body, ’less it be for one of they transfusions. But I can dodge a club. And throw a knife. My cuts heal.

My knife catch him in the gut and he go down. I take the AB’s club, wipe the knife on his pant leg, and keep going.

Lydia ain’t at the fire, but I see Uncle Rom done gave the O-Negs they arrows back. I hear them split the wind like giant mosquitoes and I flinch. In the light of the fire, I see my people go down, hit by clubs and bolos—rocks tied to rope that wrap around they legs and drop them to the ground to be taken by drug-fueled ABs. Peyote, cannabis, scavenged drugs from before the Wall—the ABs shoot, swallow, and smoke anything to forget the pain of living with, but not dying from, the Fever. Lydia been trying to stop all that, but that ain’t nothing but a fool’s dream now.

I dump nearby buckets of sand on the fire to give the hunters less to see by. We OPs know our camp, we can run it just as well in the dark. But the ABs been busy. Our hogans be on fire, burning thick with smoke as the green leaves catch light. It hard to see much without burning my eyes.

I got to find Lydia. I swing the club at shadows I don’t recognize and move on.

She not in her tent. Not in the talking circle. I run to the latrine. Not there, either. Everyone be running and running. Children brush past me, getting snatched up by strangers and parents alike. My vision gone narrow as I hunt for Lydia.

I finally find her, crouched like a possum, behind the scrap heap where we collect things for trade on Market Day. She look beyond me when I say her name. Proud, beautiful Lydia. She so tall and calm most days. But not now. I take her arm and she shake her head, moaning. I look down and see why: She squatting in water. Her own baby water. She been betrayed by that baby. It coming right now, whether she ready or not.

“No,” I tell her. “You got to walk.” But she don’t move. “Stay there, then,” I whisper. I run back to my hut and it be burning. I duck inside anyway to grab my emergency pack—but it already on fire. Instead, I grab the sheet off my cot. At least it still in one piece. Then I hear voices. I freeze, even though the fire be rising around me. I hear a woman cry out for O-Neg Davis, and I think it must be Natasha.

Suddenly the leaves of my hut flare up. The voices move away. I slip out and ’round to the salvage bin, trying not to look at what be happening to our homes. I got Lydia to care for, and her baby, too.

I come around the salvage heap and thank the Ursulines’ God Lydia still there. She be moaning again, but now the fire be roaring so loud, you can’t tell. “Low and quick,” I hiss at her and grab her hand. She pull back, but I pull harder. We stumble forward and now she be moving with me as I steer her left and right, around the groups of men, none of them our own. We lucky they ain’t got hounds. Hounds can sniff out blood, round folks up by type. Small blessing, but I’ll take it.