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CHAPTER 1
The night in New Orleans always got something going on, ma maman used to say — like this city don't know how to sleep. You want a good look, take the cable-elevator to the top of one of Les Grand Murs, where airships dock on the hour. Them giant iron walls ring the whole Big Miss on either side. Up here you can see New Algiers on the West Bank, its building yards all choked in factory smoke and workmen scurrying round the bones of new-built vessels like ants. Turn around and there's the downtown wards lit up with gas lamps like glittering stars. You can make out the other wall in the east over at Lake Borgne, and a fourth one like a crescent moon up north round Swamp Pontchartrain — what most folk call La Ville Morte, the Dead City.
Les Grand Murs were built by Dutchmen to protect against the storms that come every year. Not the regular hurricanes neither, but them tempêtes noires that turn the skies into night for a whole week. I was born in one of the big ones some thirteen years back in 1871. The walls held in the Big Miss but the rain and winds almost drowned the city anyway, filling it up like a bowl. Ma maman pushed me out her belly in that storm, clinging to a big sweet gum tree in the middle of thunder and lightning. She said I was Oya's child — the goddess of storms, life, death, and rebirth, who came over with her great-grandmaman from Lafrik, and who runs strong in our blood. Ma maman said that's why I take to high places so, looking to ride Oya's wind.
Les Grand Murs is where I call home these days. It's not the finest accommodations: drafty on winter nights and so hot in the summer all you do is lay about in your own sweat. But lots of street kids set up for themselves up here. Better than getting swept into workhouse orphanages or being conscripted to steal for a Thieving Boss.
Me, I marked out a prime spot: an alcove just some ways off from one of the main airship mooring masts. That's where the gangplanks are laid down for disembarking passengers heading into the city. Concealed in my alcove, I can see them all: in every colour and shade, in every sort of dress, talking in more languages than I can count, their voices competing with the rattle of dirigible engines and the hum of ship propellers. It always gets me to thinking on how there's a whole world out there, full of all kinds of people. One day, I dream, I'm going to get on one of those airships. I'll sail away from this city into the clouds and visit all the places there are to visit, and see all the people there are to see. Of course, watching from my alcove is also good for marking out folk too careless with their purses, luggage, and anything else for the taking. Because in New Orleans, you can't survive on just dreams.
My eyes latch onto a little dandy-looking man in a rusty plaid suit, with slicked-back shiny brown hair and a curly moustache. He got a tight grip on his bags, but there's a golden pocket watch dangling on a chain at his side. A clear invitation if I ever seen one. Somebody's bound to snatch it sooner or later — might as well be me.
I'm about to set out to follow him when the world suddenly slows. The air, sounds, everything. It's like somebody grabbed hold of time and stretched her out at both ends. I turn, slow-like, to look out from the wall as a monstrous moon begins to rise into the sky. No, not a moon, I realize in fright — a skull! A great big bone white skull that fills up the night. It pushes itself up past the horizon to cast a shadow over the city underneath, where the gaslights snuff out one by one. I gape at that horrible face, stripped clean of skin or flesh, that stares back with deep empty black sockets and a grin of bared teeth. It's all I can do not to fall to my knees.
"Not real!" I whisper, shutting my eyes to make the apparition go away. I count to ten in my head, whispering all the while: "Not real! Not real! Not real!"
When I open my eyes again, the skull moon is gone. Time has caught up to normal too — the sounds of the night returning in a rush. And the city is there, spread out again: breathing, shining and alive. I release a breath. This was all Oya's doing, I know. The goddess has strange ways of talking. Not the first time I've been sent one of her visions — though never anything so strong. Never anything that felt so real. They're what folk call premonitions: warnings of things about to happen or things soon to come. Most times I can figure them out quick. But a giant skull moon? I got no damn idea what that's supposed to mean.
"You could just talk to me plain," I mutter in irritation. But Oya doesn't answer. She's already humming a song that whistles in my ears. It's about her mother Yemoja leading some lost fishermen to shore. The moon is Yemoja's domain, after all. Giving up, I turn back, hoping to find my mark again — but instead, I'm startled by the sound of footsteps.
My whole body goes still. Not just footsteps but boots, by the way they fall heavy. More than one pair too. I curse at my bad luck, ducking back down into my alcove. I chose this spot special, because it's some ways off from the usual paths people take — just near enough for me to see them, but far enough to keep out of their way. No one ever comes this far out, to this part of the wall. But those steps are getting closer, heading right for me! Cursing my luck twice again, I scramble back to huddle into a far corner of the alcove, where the shadows fall deep. I'm small enough to curl into a ball if I draw my knees up under me. And if I go real still, I might escape without being seen. I might.
I'm expecting constables. Rare to see any of them up here, but could be the city's decided to do a sweep for one reason or the other. Maddi grá coming up, and they like to make everything look respectable to visitors — respectable for New Orleans, anyway. Maybe someone's complained about all the street kids up here picking pockets. Or worse yet, could be the city's workhouses and factories need more small hands to run their machines — machines that seem to delight in stealing fingers. I grit my teeth and ball up my fists as if trying to protect my own fingers, not daring to breathe. Damn sure ain't going to end up in one of those places.
But the figures that enter my alcove aren't constables. They're men, though, about five of them. I can't make them out in the dark, but by their height and the way they walk they have to be men. They're not wearing the telltale blue uniforms of constables though, with the upsidedown gold crescent and five-pointed star stitched on their shoulders. These men are wearing dull faded gray uniforms that almost blend into the dark. Their jackets got patches on the front that I recognize right off: white stars in a blue cross like an X over a bed of red, the letters CSA stitched underneath. The brisk twangs that roll off their tongues are Southern, but like those uniforms, certainly nothing made in New Orleans.
"Alright then," one of them says. "You can get us what we want?"
"Deal already set up, Capitaine," another voice answers, real casual-like. This one's a Cajun. I'd recognize that bayou accent anywhere. I lift my chin off my knees to risk a peek from under the lid of my cap. The one talking that Cajun talk ain't got on a uniform. He's wearing some old brown pants and a red shirt with suspenders. I still can't make out any faces, but can see a mop of white hair on his head almost down to his shoulders. "Dat scientist be here next day, on a morning airship from Haiti. Gonna see to meeting him myself."
My ears perk up at that. A Haitian scientist? Meeting with these men?
"How long we have to wait?" a third voice asks. This one's impatient, almost whining. "Captain, we don't need all this fuss. I say we just snatch him when he gets here. Put him on our ship and fly off. Have him in Charleston in no time."
The Cajun makes a tsking sound. "Ma Lay! Do dat, brudda, and you get de constables involved. Dey gonna cost you mo dan I do. Not how we do tings down here, no."
"Seems all you folk do in this city is drink and gamble and eat," the third voice sneers.
The Cajun chuckles. "We like to pass a good time. Make music and babies too."
The first voice, the one both men called Captain, steps in then. Sounds like he's trying to keep things from boiling over. I glance to those black-booted feet, realizing I hadn't pulled my sleeping blanket into the corner with me. That was careless. But nothing I can do about it now. My heart beats faster, hoping none of them steps on it or bothers to look down.
"So after this scientist gets here," the captain is saying, "then what?"
"When he get settled, I set up de meeting between the two of you," the Cajun answers. There's a pause. "You got what he coming all dis way to get? You don't deliver, he might run."
"We got his jewel, alright," the third voice says in his usual sneer.
The Cajun claps, and I imagine him smiling. "Den it should work out fine." He extends a hand and the captain offers over a thick wad of something. The unmistakable beautiful sound of crisp bills being counted fills up my alcove.
"You'll get the rest when we see this scientist — and his invention," the captain states.
"Wi, Capitaine," the Cajun replies. "You give him his jewel and he gonna hand over dat ting you want." He stops his counting and leans in close. "De Black God's Drums. Maybe you boys able to win dis war yet, yeah."
The captain dips his head in a nod before answering. "Maybe."
There's some more talk. Nothing important from what I can tell. Just the questions and assurances of men who don't trust each other and who up to no good. But I'm only half-listening by now. My mind is on the words the Cajun said: the Black God's Drums. With a Haitian scientist involved, that can only mean one thing. And if I'm right, that's big. Bigger than any marks I was going to pinch tonight. This is information that's gonna be valuable to somebody. I just need to figure out who'll pay the highest price. Long after the men leave my alcove, I sit there thinking hard in the dark as Oya hums in my head.
* * *
Two nights later, it's all hustle and bustle the Sunday before the Maddi grá. Most times like now I'd be mixed up in all that tumult, getting ready to strut and sashay with the best of them. But not tonight. Tonight, I got a meeting. And some information to sell — or trade.
I cut through the Quarter, to get a glimpse of some of the action — and mostly to do some light pocket-picking along the way. I'm small enough not to get noticed. Just a bit of Oya's wind is more than ample to send wallets or bills flying. The goddess disapproves of my using her gift this way, and tells me as much, tickling the way she do in my head. But she also understands I got to keep my belly full, and lets me do as I need. Makes her grumble some, but I don't pay her no mind.
I change my route when I catch sight of some Bakers though. Their faces are powdered with flour to match their white jackets and pants; only bit of colour on them are the blood red kerchiefs around their necks and the rouge on their cheeks. They swagger about, thumbing the handles of flat wooden paddles fitted into belts at their waists: whole lot of them just itching for a fight. The Guildes of New Orleans are out strong tonight — Bakers, Boilermakers, Mechanics, you name it — and touchy about their territory. Then again, when ain't they? There'll be some blood flowing before the dawn come, you just watch. And that kind of trouble I can do without.
It's as I'm trying to duck away from them that I end up running into someone. Usually Oya's gift lets me move light on my feet, so that I slip around and about other people like a passing breeze. But this time it don't work for some reason. I hit the other person head-on, so hard it sends me bouncing off him to fall right on my backside. Blinking, I look up to find a tall skinny man in a tight black suit, like what the morticians who run the city's best funeral parlors wear. When I see his face, I almost try to scramble back and away. It's a skull, bone white and grinning like the one in my vision! Only this isn't no phantom. You don't bounce off phantoms, I tell myself, trying to be sensible. Looking closer, I realize his face is really a mask — white bones painted on black cloth.
I breathe easier, feeling kind of foolish. It's a little early for masking, true. But no accounting for when some folk decide to start their Maddi grá. The man tilts his head to the side to peer down at me, with blue eyes like chipped bits of ice.
"Best watch where you going, cher," he scolds playfully, stressing that last word as he takes in my clothing. He extends a suntanned hand towards me, with long spidery fingers and red tattoos painted on the knuckles. I'm about to accept his help when Oya hisses loud in my head. Dammit! It hurts! It sounds like a rising wind in a fierce storm moving through trees, or blasting down a corridor between buildings. I snatch my hand back, just to make it stop. Something in those icy eyes turns hot for a moment, but the man just drops his hand to his side and laughs — a cackle coming from behind that grinning skull that raises up bumps on my skin.
"Suit yourself den, cher." He shrugs. Moving around me where I still sit, he makes his way down the street. He don't walk, though. Instead, he does a funny little soft shuffling dance with his feet while mouthing the words to some tune I never heard before:
"Remember New Orleans I say, Where Jackson show'd them Yankee play, And beat them off and gain'd the day, And then we heard the people say Huzza! for Gen'ral Jackson!"
I shake my head. An unusual fellow, no doubting it. Probably why Oya took a disliking to him. She can be particular like that. But being strange ain't no crime. Not in New Orleans. Could be he got something to do with the vision she sent me two days back. Or she think he do. Only, he ain't the first or last skeleton I'm gonna see at Maddi grá. Can't go off chasing after every one just to figure out what's got her so prickly. My hands full as it is. Picking myself up, I spare one last glance for the odd man then turn and set out again on my business.
By the time I reach Madamesville I can hear the bells at Saint Louis tolling the hour. I stop once to let a mudbug scuttle down Robertson. Its six iron legs clang heavy on the cobblestones while curving pipes on its back belch out black smoke, looking like some big old crawfish what crawled out the bayou. The constable driving the thing squints my way through a pair of bronze goggles. He looks me over once, then turns back in his cushioned seat to continue his rounds without stopping. No time for a street rat like me when there'll be all kinds of mayhem out tonight. I cross behind him and arrive at my destination.
Shá Rouj isn't the best bordello in Madamesville, certainly nothing like the big mansions up on Basin Street. But it ain't one of the tucked away 50-cent joints either, that some say got more rats than ladies. Madame Diouf keeps it nice, with bright cherry red paint and white shutters, all behind fancy iron railings that twist and curve into ivies. A great big cat's head, painted black in a red top hat and a gold monocle, grins down at me from the roof and winks a lazy mechanical eye. I tip my cap and wink back for luck before stepping through the front door.
The stink of cigars and too-sweet perfume hits me right off and I wrinkle my nose at the mix. The house is full tonight, more than usual. There's men sitting on rose-coloured sofas and chairs or standing about — drinking whiskey and rum, keeping up a loud chatter that rolls and echoes about the room. The women on their laps don't wear much beyond stockings, frills, and lace corsets, but their painted faces are always smiling. I see one tug her ear and a server man in a white wig, bright gold breeches, and a long fancy red coat — with tails even — rushes to keep everybody's cups full.
Shá Rouj was built to look like free New Orleans. It lets in men of any colour and offers women just the same — big Dutch gals, scarlet-haired Irish, dark senoritas, midnight-black Senegalese. And like New Orleans, Shá Rouj is neutral territory. Where else can you find Frenchie corsairs making all nice with British Jack Tars? There's Prussians, New Mexicans, Gran Columbians — even some Kalifornians, in their peculiar Russian dress. I count about a dozen black men, all showy and boisterous. Haitians by the looks of it, all gussied up in blue and red uniforms.
I pick through the crowd, searching for one face in particular. My eyes fix instead on some men sitting in a corner and drinking quietly — all in familiar dull faded gray uniforms with the Southern Cross battle flag on their sleeves, the words CSA inscribed beneath in red stitching. Confederate States soldiers. Air Force, by the badges on their shoulders. My heart thumps as I wonder if they're the same ones from the other night in my alcove. Pretty certain no one saw me. But still, I walk the other way, keeping a good bit of distance between us. Funny to find Confederates in here anyway, what with all this open miscegenation. They keep to themselves, their eyes wandering every now and again to a knot of loud-talking officers in unmistakable dark Union blue — New York Bowery Boys by those rough accents and their sheer bawdiness. Any other day these allies and enemies might be at each other's throats. But tonight they share the same space and mind their manners. Because this is New Orleans — one of the few nonaligned territories in the now broken United States.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Black God's Drums"
by .
Copyright © 2018 P. Djèlí Clark.
Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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