Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(21)

No, she didn’t want it. She couldn’t want him. Because tomorrow, she’d have to do her job, be Echo again. There was no room for Cortland Baxter in her world, or any world, because the Tribe had decreed his dispatch. And Echo was the one assigned to carry it out.





16


BEFORE


When I come to, my stomach heaves, but nothing but bitter bile comes up. I turn my head, spitting out the slimy mess so I do not choke or vomit even more.

Maybe I should choke and die. Death would be better, so I am not forced to live with what these men have done to me. Nor do I want to live with what I have seen: the death of my brothers, the dissolution of my father, the destruction of my home and everything I know. The destruction of me.

My body is ablaze from the insects scurrying across the ground beneath me. It burns from the inside; the molten lava between my legs liquefies every part of my insides. I do not need a doctor to tell me something in me is ruined. I know my body well enough to know it is broken beyond repair, somewhere inside, somewhere down there. Never again healed, and I, never again whole.

Someone—I do not know who, nor do I care—eventually cuts me loose from the tree. They do not attempt to make me walk, hoisting me up roughly upon their shoulders and tossing me into the bed of a truck already teeming with girls of various ages. Whoever drops me among them does so with no care, and my body is again awash with new pain. But I cannot give up here. I must see to Papa. I must see what has become of N’nkakuwe in my absence. With effort, using the sides of the vehicle to assist me, I pull myself to a sitting position, ignoring the whimpers and squeals of the girls around me.

The sky is the blackest night stretching like a canvas above us, dotted with white blinking stars that are as clear as if we were standing on the cliff. There is no moon, for even it does not want to bear witness to this genocide. There are bodies strewed everywhere in the square, the bulk of their extermination done. Paul’s men drag the bodies into homes with no ceremony, as if yanking the carcasses of dead warthogs. The homes are then set ablaze, illuminating the blanket of thick, tall trees that covers us. Paul’s end goal takes shape. There will be no autopsies. With the right amount of money and threats, no real investigation will take place.

The girls in the truck wear hollowed expressions I likely mirror. We do not speak, fearing we will call more attention upon ourselves. We have had enough attention to last a lifetime.

“Michael.” Paul’s voice pulls my attention away from the other girls.

A flutter of hope blooms in me. Papa still lives! I locate Paul, maybe ten meters away, standing amid a circle of his men. Papa sways on his knees in front of Paul. His shoulders are hunched, his hands tied before him. He lists heavily to the left, and each time his body falls too far, Bena tugs him up viciously.

“Kwabena,” Paul says. “Easy, o.” I will never forget it, or him. Behind Papa is Attah Walrus, who brandishes a large machete, larger than I think I have ever seen, coated with dark, thick, sticky residue I can only imagine to be dust and gore. The blade is so long it drags on the ground when he lets it. My eyes widen.

Paul removes a hunting knife from his belt and uses its curved tip to clean beneath his fingernails. His actions, his tone, belie everything going on around him. It is his preternatural calm that renews fresh fear in me. Paul has no soul. I know this now like I know my name is Aninyeh Ama Asym.

“Michael, our time has ended. Any last words?” He speaks as if asking Papa to quote a final price at market after hours of haggling.

“Brother, Paul, haven’t you done enough? Haven’t you taken everything from me? My children? Please release the people in the trucks.”

When Papa says “brother,” Paul flinches as if stricken. I am stricken as well. For the briefest second, I hate my father for his stoicism, his duty to save the rest of the villagers. What about his duty to save me?

And then a deep chasm of shame erupts in me, for my evil thoughts, for my anger at Papa—because he still tries to do what is right despite all he has lost.

Briefly, Paul looks unsure. Maybe Papa’s words hit their mark and have reminded Paul of his humanity. Perhaps Papa has removed the veil from Paul’s eyes, showing him all the horror he has inflicted like a movie reel. But the next instant, I see I am wrong. Paul’s moment of doubt is so fleeting no one catches it except me.

“Brother,” Paul repeats incredulously. “I haven’t heard you say it in, what, ten years? Never thought I would again.” He gathers himself, shaking off all remnants of nostalgia.

“Was I your brother when you left me behind for university after my father beat me so badly I couldn’t properly take the entrance exam? You swore you would never leave me behind, and yet you did. Was I your brother when you thrived and prospered abroad while I wasted away here? Did my brother remember to come back for me? Remember when we were boys, planning how you would become chief, and I would be on your council of elders? You returned from uni, took a bride, and became chief here, forsaking your own village and people.”

“I didn’t,” my father replies. He raises his head to look at Daniel’s crumpled form. “You have forsaken them. You killed their chief.”

Paul follows my father’s gaze. “Who, that boy?” He scoffs. “Was I still your brother when I came to you just last month, palms out”—he splays them before him—“asking you allow me these trade routes? This mountain serves as great cover against the government. If I am your brother, is N’nkakuwe not my home as well?”