After a battle they would slaughter every opposing soldier but one or two, whom they released so they could report both the defeat and an unspoken challenge.
Send more.
Please.
“The ol’ ones are with us today,” Frank said.
“You hear duppies, Frank?”
“Not the bad spirits. Only the ol’ people. They wander the woods and look after us.”
He’d heard tales of duppies. Spirits that spoke in high nasal voices and were repelled by salt. If they were nearby, your head would seem full, your skin hot. They could even make you sick, which was why his mother had always asked when he was little—after he’d hurt himself—duppy box you there?
He smiled when he thought of her.
Such a gentle woman, married to such a violent man. But her only child was also violent. Just yesterday he’d killed two men. He wondered if their duppies now wandered through the trees, searching for him.
“Strike the match,” his mother said.
He did as she told him.
“Now, blow it out, say ‘one,’ and throw it down.”
He followed her instructions. They were in the mountain forest high above Kingston. They both liked it here, far away from the frenetic pace of the city. Here, she would tell him about the Tainos, the Africans, and the Maroons.
Tonight it was duppies.
“Do it again,” she said. “And say ‘two.’ ”
He struck the match, blew it out, uttered the word, and tossed it away.
“With the third match,” she said, “blow it out, say the word, but keep it. What happens is the duppy is fooled. It spends the night searching for the third match while you run away.
“It’s there,” Frank said, bringing his thoughts back to the present. “Careful on the rocks. You slip, you slide.”
He spotted a slit in a shallow cliff, just beneath a massive fig tree, its roots blocking the entrance like bars.
“That cave leads through the ridge to the other side,” Frank said. “Maroons once used it for escape. We would attack the English, do what damage we could, then retreat. Soldiers would follow, but we’d be gone through the rock. Good for us the English were not fond of caves.”
Jamaica was like a sponge with thousands of passages interconnected by a highway of tunnels, rivers disappearing underground in one parish, rising in another. Knowing their way around beneath the surface had proven the Maroons’ salvation.
Frank led him to the entrance and he saw how cut boards had been fashioned as a makeshift door, blocking the way about two feet inside.
“Keeps bats out.”
They removed the wood. He spotted three flashlights.
“Easier to keep ’em here.”
They each grabbed a light and entered, the narrow duct requiring them to crouch. He was careful of the ceiling, which was sharp, scalloped limestone, the floor moist clay. At least it didn’t stink with guano.
A few meters inside, they stopped. Frank trained his light on the wall and Béne saw what was carved into the stone.
A hooked X.
“It’s Taino?” he asked.
“Let’s go farther.”
The passage finally hollowed out into a tall chamber, the dark air chilly. As they trained their lights across the walls, he counted four openings that led out.
Then he saw the pictographs.
Maize, birds, fish, frogs, turtles, insects, dogs, and what appeared to be a native chief in full dress.
“Tainos believed,” Frank said, “that their first ancestors’ spirits lived in caves and only came out at night to eat the jobos. One night the plums tasted extra good and they were still eating ’em when the sun rose, which turned them all human.”
Béne had heard that same story of creation from his mother.
“Caves were their refuges,” Frank said. “Taino were not buried. They were laid out in dark places. It’s said their ashes still cover the cave floors.”
He felt honored to be here, the place as serene as a chapel.
“The Tainos hated the Spanish. To avoid slavery they’d hide in caves like this and starve themselves to death. Some went quick, drinking the cassava poison. Others lingered a long while.”
The colonel went silent.
“Columbus called them Indians. People today wrongly call them Arawaks. Tainos was what they were. They came here 7,000 years before the Spanish, paddling over in canoes from the Yucatán. This was their home. Yet Europeans destroyed them in only a hundred years. Sixty thousand people slaughtered.”
He heard the contempt, which he echoed.
“That hooked X is not Taino,” Frank said. “It’s never been found in any cave they painted. It’s Spanish, and marks an important place. Maroons have known that symbol for a long time, but we don’t speak of it. Those who search for the lost mine also search for that symbol.”
Which was exactly what Zachariah Simon had told him, without an explanation.
“So the mine is real? I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”
“The whole tale makes no sense. Tainos did not prize gold. They placed more importance on guanín.”
He knew of the alloy, a mixture of copper, silver, and gold. He’d seen artifacts made from the reddish purple metal.
“They loved the smell when the oil from their skin reacted with the guanín,” Frank said. “Pure gold was yellow-white, odorless, and unappealing. Guanín was different. It became special to ’em, especially since they couldn’t smelt it themselves. They had to be taught by people from South America, who made their way northward. To them gold merely came from streams, guanín was from heaven.”
“So you’re saying they would not have a gold mine?”
“I don’t know, Béne. They definitely used gold. So a source of it might have been important. What I do know is that two hundred tons of gold were shipped to Spain from the New World in the hundred years after Columbus. Some of that came from Jamaica, and tens of thousands of Tainos died because of it.”
Clarke went silent and stared at the drawings revealed by the lights.
Béne was drawn toward them, too.
“They would dip sticks into charcoal mixed with fat and bat droppings.” Frank’s voice had gone low. “So simple, yet see how the work lasted.”
“Who knows of this place?”
“No one outside our community. Maroons have come to this place for a long time.”
He, too, felt a special closeness here.
Frank turned and handed him a scrap of paper. Before they’d started up the mountain, the colonel had disappeared briefly inside the museum.
He’d wondered why.
“That’s Columbus’ signature.” Frank shone his light on the writing. “It’s a complicated mess that says much about the man. What’s important are the X’s.”