“Paradise should always be a garden.” Bakr the peasant was sure of his theology.
“Witchety, witchety, witch!”
The Island yellowthroat thrashed about in a nearby bush, twittering its familiar and, under the circumstances, entirely relevant song. An excellent omen and it made Bokor grin; but its significance, like the bird, flew right over the heads of Samida and Bakr.
Island Yellowthroat
As the Baron took the east-facing position by the fire, he rolled up his shirtsleeves revealing his impressive radii and ulnae. Bokor had rarely seen Samedi deshabille but had to admit that his powerful aura was not dimmed a whit by the informality.
“First,” Samedi began, “I shall narrate a brief history of zonbi and explain their nature and abilities. The Interlocutrice is certain that the undead you shall encounter will closely resemble our own; but she cautions that because of the difficult nature of your destination, unanticipated situations may occur. You must, therefore, be prepared to improvise, depending upon the context. Flexibility of thought and action during your escort will be critical.
“Once again, I remind you that the majik selected the two of you because your qualities and skills best matched our requirements. That is the beauty of our majik or, as you call it, sihr. I trust that you will deal appropriately with whatever you shall encounter.”
Despite the confidence of his delivery, the Baron felt no little trepidation.
“No doubt,” he went on, “you are both acquainted with those fictional Mainland cinematic ‘zam-bees’ as they are so crudely mispronounced?”
Bakr looked blank but Samida shrugged. “Saw some stuff online. Half dead creatures that terrorize Mainlanders and eat their brains. Tfeh!” She spat contemptuously. “As if they have brains worth eating!” She glared at Samedi. “Ya Barun, we had no need for fictional horror because we’ve got the real thing in our face twenty-four seven!”
The Baron inclined his skull. This might be easier than he had thought.
“Because of their history and current circumstance, Mainlanders have no idea about what is frightening,” Samedi agreed. “They situate their own evils (which they refuse to interrogate) within imagined zam-bees to uh…what’s that word?”
“Project?” Bokor was ever helpful.
“Project, wi,” the Baron approved. “Mainlanders take our zonbi, a phenomenon indigenous to us and exploit them, if you will, to feed their sikoloji.”
“Theft,” muttered Samida.
Ignoring this interpolation, Samedi sketched a succinct history of authentic zonbi. He spoke eloquently and in detail: How Mainlanders had stolen his people, dragged them in chains across oceans to be sold as slaves to other Mainlanders who in the meantime had expropriated the entire Island (as well as vast swaths of the Mainland) from the indigenous souls who once flourished therein and now were gone, almost without a trace.
And when the stolen ancestors began to die in these strange new lands, far from their homeland, some became restless after death.
Death, Samedi explained, was designed to provide rest for the formerly living, that they might sink into the soil where their ancestors were buried and assess their past lives in the world from which they had departed.
But now, deep cold oceans and iron shackles barred any hope of ever returning to the ancestors. It cannot be wondered that certain of these newly dead began to stir. Perhaps from grief, longing, stubbornness or even anger. Whatever the reason, they were unable to relax into death’s embrace as Nature intended.
“Do you understand?” Both recruits nodded.
“So, to continue, around two centuries ago, the first zonbi in the islands were noticed by the Interlocutrice and her panel of…uh…let us call them Arrangers.”
“Are they like gods or something?” Samida interrupted.
“But no! They are shall we say, entities --- benevolent ones, mind you --- who monitor the delicate interstices between life and death, ensuring that its equilibrium remains in working order. Throughout the millennia, this equilibrium suffered no major disturbance, although there were occasionally brief disequilibria.
“Then, several centuries ago, certain among these deceased Islanders began to heed the call of their true home across the oceans. The blessed lands of Guinée”
Bakr perked up. “Guinea you say?” He pronounced the word jinayh.
“Guinea is the land of our ancestors,” the Baron replied, using a decidedly hard g.
“It sounds like a garden, this land of yours.” Bakr was thinking. “Was your Guinea a garden?”
Started but pleased, Samedi exclaimed, “Men wi! Our Guinea is a garden, our paradise! We were free in that garden, unstolen, unowned. Our ancestors from the beginning of time repose there in peace. Nature dictates that we should be buried there so that our remains--- like theirs---might enrich the soil, ensuring that those coming after us in life can pour out a drop of spirits when they gather, to honor us and refresh us in our sleep.”
“Janneh! But that’s our word for garden!” Bakr was beaming. “Almost the same!”
“So it seems.” The Baron was thoughtful.
“It’s also our word for paradise! Paradise should always be a garden.” Bakr the peasant was sure of his theology.
A providential connection, so Samedi expanded on it. “You may be interested to learn that while escorting zonbi, I have visited a city called Djénné deep in the hinterlands of Guinea. Many of the zonbi I have escorted were born in that district and I have heard your language is spoken there. So, Mesye Bakr, the walls between us are not so thick. Perhaps they are not even there.”
Samida was only half listening. She had closed her eyes and found herself again under the ghosting hood, counting the walls beyond it that suffocated and killed. Mainlanders and their correlates fucking love walls. All she had ever wanted to do was to clamber over them, then smash them to bits. But too soon…too soon...she was dead.
Murdered.
* * *
Bakr was smiling. The euphonious similitude of Guinea, jinayneh, Djénné, Guinée, jinayh and janneh was poetry to his ears. He felt inexplicably content.
“Before today,” Samedi continued, “zonbi were to be found only on the Island or on the Mainland where numbers of Island folk now reside. And, of course in our Guinean homeland, their true home. Zonbi arose in our culture so it was to be expected that they should manifest only in places touched by Guinée.” He paused.
“So, you may imagine my surprise when zonbi were discovered in….” The Baron hesitated, fearing to set Samida off again.
But she had mastered her emotions. “Yeah, Baron. The Sector. Makes sense they’d show up there. Strange they haven’t shown up sooner. It’s been seventy years now. Two centuries, if you include the prologue,” she added cryptically.
“Your Guineans were pulled,” Samida said almost to herself. “We were pushed. I suppose, like us, everything you left behind was stolen --- houses, lands, orchards, water.” She paused, momentarily lost in thought. “Why have zonbi only appeared now in the Sector? Do you know?
“The Interlocutrice believes that modern chemicals--- toxins, san dout--- found in the bombs and gasses from recent depredations caused the Sector’s soil to be altered in unanticipated ways which led to this historic appearance of zonbi among non-Islanders. Moreover, Madam fears that these are only the first of many.”
Samida was beginning to understand what the Baron wanted them to do. “So, go on,” she said encouragingly. A spark of excitement niggled at her.
Samedi described the intrinsic gentleness of zonbi and, how, despite an occasional lapse into agitation, melancholy, or fury (sometimes all three at once), what they wanted beyond anything was to be near to where their ancestors were buried.
As sorcerer, Bakr’s role would be to summon them from their suspended, muddled state, revivify them, and determine each zonbi’s goal; and finally, to prepare them for their journey. Samida would then take over and lead them safely, each to their proper destination.
Their heart’s desire.
Thus far the Arrangers had located only five zonbi in the Sector. A manageable number, Samedi assured them, for their first job. Their journey might be perilous, but he had every confidence (he said) that they would perform splendidly.
The Baron decided against warning them against the occasional zonbi, the kind hell-bent on revenge. It had not taken him long to learn how to control them, turning their thoughts in a proper direction. Samida’s quick intelligence, he felt, would see her through any such difficulties. She had already moderated her own quick temper.
“I shall personally be instructing the Baroness,” Samedi was summing up, “in her leadership role and responsibilities. But first let us all listen as Bokor imparts to Mesye Bakr the wisdom and experience he has accumulated over the past centuries as my sorcerer.