married a Sagan. Marc was your mother’s father.”
He nodded. “I called him Saki.”
The rabbi sat, laying the items he held and Alle’s bag on the table. “I must confess. I never thought I would hear of this subject again.”
———
BENE STAYED SEATED AS THE SHADOW ENTERED HIS STUDY. OUTSIDE, mountain winds continued to stir the night. He’d been waiting for Frank Clarke. A call made earlier had brought a promise that his friend would be at the estate before ten.
“You like the dark, Bene?”
Not a light burned in the room.
“Mother is asleep and the help is gone for the night. Just you and me, Frank.”
He offered the plate of bullas, but the colonel waved him off. He lifted another one for himself before returning the platter to the side table.
“What have you found?” Frank asked. “I could hear it in your voice earlier.”
“The mine is real. I know its location.”
Tre had called after dinner to say that a quick survey of what they’d stolen from Cuba, along with the deed and other items found in the Jamaican archive, had led him to a spot. He’d checked the latest topographic maps the university had on file and confirmed that a cave did exist in the vicinity of where everything pointed.
“And where’s that?” Clarke asked.
He did not have to see the face to know that he would be revealing something that was already known. Which he’d suspected all along.
“Why did you lie to me, Frank?”
“Because that mine must stay lost.”
“That’s not what you said in the cave. You told me to find it.”
“I told you to find the Jews’ wealth. If that still exists, then Maroons could make use of it. The mine? That’s another matter.”
The voice stayed in a near whisper, as if the words should not be spoken. But he had to know, “Why should the mine stay lost?”
“It’s a sacred place. Maroons have so little left. Places like that are ours, Bene. They must be guarded.”
“There’s little left of Maroons, anymore, except stories. Why does it matter?”
Silence passed between them. He listened to the wind.
“The night was once our ally,” Clarke said. “We made good use of it. Victory became ours, in part, because of the night.”
More stories, Bene thought. Not reality.
During the last Maroon war, in 1795, 300 Maroons held out against 1,500 British troops. A truce came only after the Cuban hounds had been brought in to hunt them down. But when everyone assembled at Montego Bay to conclude a treaty nearly 600 Maroons were herded onto ships and deported to Nova Scotia. There they lived in the cold of Canada for two years, then were sent to Sierra Leone. Only 60 eventually returned to Jamaica.
Some victory.
“You still have not answered me,” he said. “Why does this matter anymore?”
He watched the blackened form shift in the chair.
“There are things about us, Bene, you simply do not understand. Though you are of Maroon blood, you’ve been raised different. Poverty is rampant among us. Unemployment high. You live here, on this grand estate, in luxury. You drive whatever vehicle you desire. You never go hungry. You have money. You’ve always had money, Bene.”
“You sound as though you resent that.”
“I don’t. It matters nothing to me. You’re my friend. I’ve always liked you. But others feel differently. They take your money, take your favors. They smile, but never reveal what’s in their hearts.”
“That’s not what you told me yesterday. You said no one cares what I am.”
“I lied.”
He did not like what he was hearing. He’d always felt a closeness with the Maroon community. Like family. He had precious little of that himself. Only his mother and a few cousins. He should marry, have children, build a family of his own. But he’d never met anyone with whom he might want to do that. Was it because of who and what he was? Hard to say. What he knew for sure was that no one was going to tell him what to do.
Not now.
Not ever.
“I’m going to the mine,” he said.
“I feared this was what you wanted tonight.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
