Sister Mother Warrior Read online

  Dedication

  For mothers in Africa,

  For sisters in the Caribbean,

  For the women warriors of Haiti,

  For girls everywhere,

  Like the mountains rise.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  Fort Madame

  Part One: The Time Before: The Prophecy 1: Adbara

  2: Adbaraya

  Part Two: To Make a Choice: The Prophecy 3: Sainte

  4: Adbaraya

  5: Adbaraya

  Part Three: To Find the Good: The Prophecy 6: Marie-Claire

  7: Toya

  8: Toya

  Part Four: To Test the Limits: The Prophecy 9: Marie-Claire

  10: Toya

  11: Toya

  12: Marie-Claire

  13: Toya

  Part Five: To Lose a Soul: The Prophecy 14: Marie-Claire

  15: Marie-Claire

  16: Marie-Claire

  17: Toya

  Part Six: To Raise the Dead: The Prophecy 18: Marie-Claire

  19: Marie-Claire

  20: Toya

  21: Marie-Claire

  22: Toya

  23: Marie-Claire

  24: Marie-Claire

  Part Seven: To Remember the Old: The Prophecy 25: Toya

  26: Toya

  27: Marie-Claire

  28: Marie-Claire

  29: Marie-Claire

  Part Eight: To Change a Mind: The Prophecy 30: Toya

  31: Marie-Claire

  32: Marie-Claire

  33: Toya

  34: Marie-Claire

  35: Toya

  36: Marie-Claire

  Part Nine: To Live Truth: The Prophecy 37: Toya

  38: Marie-Claire

  39: Marie-Claire

  40: Toya

  41: Toya

  42: Marie-Claire

  43: Marie-Claire

  44: Toya

  45: Marie-Claire

  46: Toya

  47: Marie-Claire

  Fort Madame

  Fort Madame

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Also by Vanessa Riley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Maps

  Fort Madame

  June 8, 1805

  It’s on my heels again, making me pace, tripping my feet. I fall against the freshly whitewashed wall and allow Death’s passage.

  The dark angel won’t stay away from my life. From the beginning, it pursued my bloodline, everyone of African descent, swiping at the harbors, huts, and homes. Now it stretches a wing to a protected fort high atop a mountain.

  I’m filled with fear, not merely for me but for the emperor and the new nation.

  The bright red-and-blue madras scarf wrapping my braids has come loose. My hair drops to my shoulders. I focus on the wrinkles in my yellow muslin dress and smooth the pleated train falling at my back. I don’t look the image of a dutiful wife, a regal empress, or anyone’s proud sister or friend. What prayer does one offer the Virgin Mary for intercession or St. Louise for energy, when the heart is full of regret?

  Wanting to be anchored, wanting to be right, I embrace the wall. My fingers feel the roughness of the joints the plaster tries to hide.

  The truth always reveals itself and demands its pound of flesh. And I’m tired of being left to scrape the bottom of the soup pot and lifting an empty ladle.

  Can’t pretend anymore.

  Can’t forget the sins of others, or mine.

  A large window in the outer wall of my fort allows the air to enter. The breeze is scented with pine and fresh earth excavated for the last fort to be built, La Fin du Monde, the End of the World.

  Calming, I force my eyes to acknowledge it’s not a thick window but a large loophole for firing a cannon. The sixteen-pounder that’s been brought here mirrors the many that lie about the island I’d known as Saint-Domingue. Forged in bronze, the long barrel uses its strong shoulders, the trunnions, to balance on a cartwright’s carriage. The wooden structure must be strong to bear a ton of weight. It’s underappreciated how it helps the weapon aim and perform its calling.

  Craning my head in the direction of the cannon’s bore, I wonder what it targets. This high in the sky, will its lead balls or grapeshot blast clouds or ghosts?

  Finding my strength, I move to the barrel and let my fingers thumb its worn cast crest.

  Can’t read the Latin. I’m unsure which king could claim it or if his army tried to seize our land. Regal men rose and fell or changed alliances too quickly to remember, too quickly to trust.

  Grasping the knob at the back, the rings that reinforce the heavy trunnions, I understand better that with all its power, the costs to maintain its strength overwhelm the soul.

  The scent of gunpowder lingers in the empty chamber. If I close my eyes, Death will remind me of the faces lost, those I’ve tended and fed and still lost.

  It could all start again—sin, war, murder—that’s the prophecy the duchess will use to coerce my agreement.

  I don’t think she’s wrong, but I’m loath to promise anything.

  “Ma’am.” My servant, my friend, has found me in the hall. “Ma’am, are you well?”

  “Yes, just a little warm.”

  Turning away from her clear eyes, I step closer to the loophole and see the Artibonite Valley below. Houses on the hillside look small, even happy with their coconut palm roofs. It’s not Le Cap or Léogâne or any of the places I’ve known. Still, this valley has a quiet dignity, a unique peace.

  My husband’s Marchand palace is below, with a smooth, tiled roof, gingerbread in color. He’s not here. Another part of the country needs him.

  He named this abode Fort Madame. It’s a gift to me. I’ve made this instrument of war my palace—my refuge . . . from him.

  My friend taps my shoulder. “Madame, the duchess is worse. She’s asking for you.”

  For me?

  The battles we’ve endured say it’s not me. I’m not her first choice. She’s looking for repayment, a pound of flesh—mine.

  Remembering my station, my duties, I tie up my braids. “Let us go to her.”

  The young woman with her straight posture leads me down the hall. It’s a passageway heading in the direction of the powder magazine. Tallow candles sit in sconces along the wall, burning their good fire to show me the way. Each step draws me nearer to the barracks, the duchess’s quarters.

  A servant running fast like a musket ball intercepts us. His dark face holds a frown that could block the sun even atop this high hill.

  I squint at his uniform, the rich red and the bleached white, and take pity. Journeying to the top of the mountain can wind the greatest athlete.

  “The emperor is delayed in Le Cap, madame. I sent soldiers to hurry him.”

  Delayed.

  Another euphemism. “He’ll find his way home.”

  Head shaking, I dismiss the officer and refuse to think of what excuse my husband will have this time—politics, another widow to woo?

  This wasn’t how things used to be. We once had no doubts about each other.

  Unwilling to turn the corner, I clasp my sleeves right at the gathers of the cuffs. “Perhaps we should try again to get the duchess something to drink. Fetch some asowosi tea with a pinch of salt. That will cut the harshness. Then she’ll not say it’s the bitter alomo broth her king refused.”

  “Asowosi? Oh, the crawling ivy with berries. Your knowledge of plants amazes, madame. Oui to the salt. The duchess hates pungent taste, no matter how tough she is. I’ll get the tea at once.”

&n
bsp; My friend nods and runs toward the building with the kitchen.

  She disappears around a corner like smoke from a dying flame.

  Now that I’m alone, the cloven hand of Death grabs my ankles. I can’t shake free. Nor can I lead the dark angel to the duchess. Toya deserves better.

  Singing hymns, my aunt’s songs, renews my peace. Freed, I float to the barracks with the grace of my grand-mère and hum all the way to Toya’s bedchamber. Like my maman, I’ll see what I want and pretend that Death is not coming, not now.

  All will be well. The sands of time should be infinite for us—the duchess and me. Our grains in the hourglass should fall forever, not be measured and wasted and soon gone.

  My chest gongs beneath my airy bodice. The soft soles of these lilac slippers slap the stone floor in my retreat.

  “Marie-Claire? That you?”

  I stop and turn back. The duchess’s voice is low. The vinegary smell of medicine reaches the doorway.

  Lying on the mattress, Toya has her eyes closed. Sheets rustle about her diminished form. Her lungs struggle with noisy breaths.

  “Asowosi tea will let the good air in.” That’s what my botanist prisoner once said. “I’m having some made.”

  “Come in, my empress,” she says. “I have something to ask, something to say. There’s little time.”

  Non. Stalling, I trace an imagined line on the floor. “When the tea comes, it will have a little salt. Just for you, Duchess.”

  Nothing but a groan is uttered.

  She knows I haven’t crossed her door. Like a coward, I stand at the ready, clutching the frame that separates her side from mine.

  The tall woman looks small with her spine curled, shoulders hunched, head low. I miss the days when she stood erect and swung a cutlass with abandon. Toya twirled a bayonet better than any man.

  Her brown eyes stir. She waggles her index finger. “A mango. Find me a mango. Slice it for us. Let’s share and agree. Like sowing a seed.”

  Us agree? The jealous part of my broken heart wonders if my sleep will ease when her soul leaves and Death wins again.

  “A mango, Marie-Claire.”

  “If that is what you wish.”

  Her lips are drawn, and she nods, then turns deeper into the pillow.

  “Get up. Reign again. Claim the power. I won’t fight.”

  Hands lifted in prayer, I beg the Virgin Mary and St. Louise for her life, then whisper to the duchess, “Don’t leave him—not now. He needs you.”

  Toya’s movements still, but her yellowing eyes are on me.

  I’m ashamed but draw upon the strength of my blood and vow to break its curse. “I’ll get the mango, Duchess, even if I have to yank it from the tree myself.”

  With all the peace I can muster, I search for a glimpse, a sparkle, the tiniest oui—an agreement that an offering of fruit will pay my debts.

  Part One: The Time Before

  The Prophecy

  One day gods from heaven came down.

  The earth shook, dancing from the sound.

  All knew they arrived to loose the bound,

  And this hope made the world feel new.

  —Anonymous, styled in the form of Utenzi

  1

  Adbara

  1750

  The Outskirts of Gbowélé

  The strange warriors looked at me as I stood on the side of the road. Their harsh gazes burned into my chest, searing holes into my soul, which had already escaped. Everything I knew, everything I wanted was dead.

  The day was overcast. The air felt hot and dry. Dipping my chin, I glanced at the ground, the thick red clay beneath my feet. The oppressive afternoon sun that hardened this mud must surely dry my tears.

  The enemy had destroyed peaceful Gbowélé—all the huts burned, our growing grounds trampled. All the villagers, my neighbors . . .

  My father had led us from the north to Gbowélé two years before. He wove baskets. My mother made medicine. When he died in a hunt during the last rainy season, the elders asked us to stay. In our mourning, we found home. Now it was gone again.

  Nose wrinkling from the haze lingering in the air, I wished it smelled of the seasoned stew my mother, my iya, had started before dawn. She’d cook down sweet yams and onion with bush meat, letting it simmer all day. In the evening each morsel melted on the tongue.

  We didn’t make it to dinner. The Dahomey came. Like my iya, the kettle burned, the hut became ash, all the food and our dreams dissolved to soot.

  Foreign words surrounded me. Different and angry and impatient commands echoed. They rumbled in my head like my iya’s last moans. Why did she let the fire take her? Why didn’t she fight?

  Movement, fast and precise, fluttered in the distance. When I lifted my gaze, I saw guards draw spears and force crying girls down the red road. Some I knew. Some were younger than my twelve years. Why were they going? Why was I not with them?

  Soldiers carrying muskets looked in my direction, toward me and the young ladies who stood nearby. Ashamed of the dirt on my bared bosom, the blood staining the kente silk of my wrap, I let a shiver overtake my limbs.

  Leave me to mourn.

  Don’t say another foreign word to my face.

  Yet what was I to do if they did? Nothing but comply, like I had as I watched them rape Gbowélé of her treasures.

  I wanted the tongue of my mother. I wanted her. Wish she had wanted me, wanted me enough to fight.

  Heavy tears tracked dirt down my thin cheeks. I sniffled, then held my breath, as if that could subdue the pain swirling inside. These people had stolen enough, even ripped away my beads, my family’s generational wealth, from my neck.

  Sinking to the ground, I wrapped my arms about my bosom. My wrists crossed where strings and strings of carnelian beads had once hidden me.

  Was it not a week ago when they were given as part of my purification ceremony? I was pristine. My mother had sung to me. Her little Adbara, she said as she made my skin soft with her special creams. Didn’t she know her daughter couldn’t live without her?

  The pots she labored over for her medicines combusted when the fire started. All my years on this earth, I’d been jealous of her work, everything she did for others. I watched the fire destroy them. I cried as she chose to burn with her jars instead of hiding with me in the woods.

  My eyes grew weak again, then the tallest woman I’d ever seen stopped in front of me. She wrenched me up by my shoulders and bellowed more stiff-sounding words. With her spear, she knocked my knee and made me bow.

  My palms covered my face. My bony arms rattled like wind chimes.

  “Axɔsu! Axɔsu!” She pointed to a man in rich royal robes. “Axɔsu Tegbesu!”

  Their king? The Dahomey’s leader, Tegbesu, was here and coming my way. The warrior woman jerked my chin lower. She wanted me to greet this man, this king of the killers.

  The Dahomey army gathered the remaining Gbowélé men, the young and strong, the ones who weren’t wounded, and made them march along this red clay in the same direction as the crying children. The rumors must be true. The Dahomey sold their vanquished enemies to the white devils. This was under the direction of Axɔsu Tegbesu.

  I wanted to fight. I was twelve, but I’d performed the blessing ceremony with the white strips of calico on my head, with the leaf pressed between my lips. The elders had sanctified me as an adult, a woman.

  The girl behind me grabbed me and kept me kneeling. “You must submit,” she said. “It’s the only way to live.”

  The tall warrior, with cockle shells dripping from her hat and a glorious jet tunic covering her, nodded and moved to the next girl.

  I tried to turn to see who whispered at me, but she slapped my cheek forward.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But don’t get me in trouble. I’m only trying to keep you from being sent to Ouidah. All those not wanted are sent there. They’ll be boarded on boats and sold.”

  This language was not Kwa or Yoruba, but close. I understood what the girl me
ant and was happy it wasn’t what the Dahomey spoke. I made my voice slow. “Tell me what is to happen to us if we’re not sold?”

  Silence was my answer and then the small sound of teeth chattering. She was scared, too. She didn’t know our fate.

  “Move them out,” a commander, a thick-muscled man, shouted in my language at their prisoners, then waved his large hands. “Lead them forward!”

  He and other armed men drove what was left of the people of Gbowélé down the red clay road, right past me and the girls kneeling. I was glad our heads were bowed, offering a parting sign of respect.

  When I looked up, I saw that the last person in the line was the son of a neighbor whose father had been beheaded hours ago. This young fellow with hands tied with jute rope about his wrists locked his black eyes to mine. This look was more than fear, more than loss or even grief.

  It had no name, this feeling, but I knew it in my soul. It had visited me watching my mother die.

  The chief warrior woman, with her bulging limbs, poked at me with a spear. “Sit up straight. Raise your chin now.”

  Her tight voice enunciated my language. It rang with authority. She dropped the weapon in front of me as if I’d be stupid enough to grab it.

  The warrior drew her cutlass to my chin. “I said lift your face. Axɔsu Tegbesu, the king, is coming.”

  This woman was in charge. My iya would say her shiny cowrie shells were of great value. She was the only warrior to wear such beading.

  Pebbles I had scooped from the clay swirled in my palm. If I tossed them at her, she’d cut off my head. Then I’d join my mother and my father.

  Yet Death was fickle. It might not unite us. It might send me somewhere angry orphaned girls, girls with fury at their mothers, spent eternity.

  I lifted my face. My vision became soggy. The sobbing wouldn’t quit.

  “Stop it, stupid girl. Stop it, for your own good. Smile so he’ll choose you. Then you’ll know life.” Her tone wasn’t as angry as before. It almost sounded kind.