We St. Christinians are so good at recognizing the fear in tourists’ eyes. We see you looking in the alleyways, under the palm trees—is the blood still there? Then you look at us with that apologetic smile, like guests pretending you don’t smell the stench in our house. Is this where they died? Did we lose anyone to the Storm? Is it true that he’ll return one day? The Storm is long gone, we assure you. We are so thankful for the World Council’s intervention. Thank God things are different now—that’s what we say, like “amen” after a prayer.
We show you the patches on the walls where his portrait used to watch us eat, sleep, and whisper.
We show you the ruins of his palace, a rotten brick carcass in the rainforest.
We show you the Memorial, where we used to gather every year as the Storm demonstrated his awesome, frightening power. We St. Christinians walk past it everyday without looking twice, but for you it is humbling to stand there and feel the weight of where so many people met their end at his hand. The plaque says: In loving memory of the ten thousand souls taken by the Storm. The plaque doesn’t mention how many were Returned. But we, the people of St. Christina, did not write the plaque.
Then you tourists, burnt and burdened by the horrible history of our island, smile and thank us for the tour. But not just the tour. Behind that smile is another thank you, a thank you for cooperating, for not resisting, for not making a martyr of him.
Now you can come to our island and not worry about the resurrection of that strange black magic.
Now you can sunbathe in peace, having paid your respects to the pitiful dead and our long-gone dictator.
Now you can go back and tell your friends, “It’s really not so bad. But you should go in the spring, when flights are cheaper.”
It is impossible to hate us, because we are so good at smiling back. But, now, I am drunk, and you are drunk, and we are no longer subservient to our roles as bartender and bartendee. That equation can only add up to pure honesty. I am feeling chatty. If you are willing to stay awhile and see past the mirage of our island, I will tell you our truth.
We, the island of St. Christina, received a Gift on April 17, 1834. Madeline Dupont, enslaved on the Dupont banana plantation at the time, released a scream so loud that every being in the universe heard it. The scream defied all concepts of time and physics—the dinosaurs turned their heavy heads to the sky, some thirty-second-century skeptic mistook it for the trumpets of the heavens, and even today, we can still hear it on crisp, clear nights like this. Listen…
She lost her last child. Four were sold to other plantations across the islands. She was allowed to keep only one—Phillip. He had been trampled under the hooves of their master’s spooked horse, and his mother’s shriek is what shook the cosmos and started all of this. Are you nervous? White people always look so anxious when we mention slavery. But this is not a story about slavery. Believe me, for St. Christina, this is not a sad story at all.
That night, after she buried him, she returned to her hut alone. She glanced at a razor, tucked into a small basket of clothes in need of patching, and considered joining her baby in the dark.
But before she could, something touched her.
We, the people of St. Christina, have been philosophers since the first of us were brought here in chains. We have taken the last two centuries to understand the Gift. We explain it like this; the universe is a sprawling market of exchange. Dead stars become galaxies, comets become dust—one form of energy is always turning into another, so nothing is truly lost. And nothing truly dies. The universe simply gave our Madeline that power, to exchange one energy for another.
Our Lady Madeline went into her master’s house. She ignored his screams and threats, reached into his chest, and pulled out his soul before his own eyes. He collapsed into it, a floating smear of yellow, and there was no trace of his physical self afterwards. Madeline aimed the soul at the ceiling and sent it right through. Her fingers felt amongst the stars for the spirit of her baby—warm and innocent. She grabbed him tight and pulled him back down to earth. Her baby plopped into her arms with a whole new body, like nothing ever happened, wet, confused, and shivering. The Returned always came back wet. We still do not know why.
Madeline put her Gift to work immediately. She traded the souls of the master’s wife for her mother and an overseer for her brother. When surrounding plantations heard about the frightening witchcraft that had infested the Duponts’ farm, they mobilized to stop her. Madeline and her fellow slaves fought against them for three days. The plantation owners saw the oak-colored woman sending their men into the sky and pulling back endless ranks of resurrected dead. It was enough to discourage them. Madeline, her son, and her army went across the island to free others in bondage, and traded any leftover owners to bring back the many lost to slavery. She is our country’s greatest hero.
Her statue used to stand over there. When the World Council came, they tore it down.
Madeline was the first Leader of our nation, guiding us through fifty years of justice and prosperity. The European nations deemed us savage wards of black magic, but they could not touch us, thanks to her. She passed her Gift and title down to her resurrected child, Phillip. Her son used it to right senseless wrongs around the island, people murdered over stolen things or babies taken by fever. Then he passed the Gift and title down to his son, Ezekiel, “The Storm”. His ten-year Terror ended when the World Council invaded—I mean, intervened.
The World Council says they gifted us democracy, but we already had it. We used to vote for who to trade and who to bring back. Over there, where the Memorial is now, the Storm would raise his hands and claim the souls of the people who had robbed or raped or cheated or killed, and bring back from the universe the murdered, the sick, the suicidal, the gone-too-soon. Yes, he did several times trade a hundred random men to bring back a hundred others without any electoral or judicial process. Yes, he did hold the souls of his subordinates’ mothers hostage to ensure that arrests increased. Yes, he was planning to invade our neighboring island and introduce his powers to them, and that was what enraged the World Council to action. It was his Gift—but it was also our island’s Gift. You tourists, your Council, you all insist that there was no right for him to decide who should live and who should die. But it was we who decided, you see? And if we did not decide—if Madeline did not decide—then you would have made the choice for us. Perhaps the Gift was a curse, but it was the only way to make things right. It was our dignity.
We have not seen the Gift since. But there are rumors that one day…
There’s that look in your eyes, again! Do you worry that if the Gift returns, we will use it against you? You and your timeshares, your cruise ships, your ignorant questions? You have nothing to worry about. The Storm had no children, and as far as we know, that is the only way to share the Gift.
Our more hopeful citizens claim that the universe finally recognized our pain when it gave Madeline the Gift. Some think the Gift was abused, and that the Storm and his Terror were meant to be our punishment. Others say that the universe would not have cared whether we stayed in chains forever or not—it simply wanted to restore the eternal silence that Madeline had disrupted.
What do I believe?
I believe it truly was a Gift. Things were not perfect, but they were better then. And if I had to pick between my nation’s dignity and serving you your fourth glass of rum, well…
Yes, history is rather boring, isn’t it? Especially when it doesn’t affect you.
Of course, cheers, to lighter topics, to you and your health, and your safe trip back to your cold country, and to me and my useless memories. Thank God things are different now, yep, you’ve got it.
Yes… Thank God things are different now.
• • •