Oka

By Michelle N Persaud

British and Spanish monarchs once sent their best explorers in search of fabled South American gold. Hundreds of years later, evidence of their explorations lands into the hands of an anthropology Professor, but when the ancient coin is stolen and gold fever drives opportunists to kidnapping and murder, his daughter Oka is forced to guide her kidnappers through the jungle interior to the mythical city of gold. Faced with the same mortal race which once entwined Sir Walter Raleigh and Antonio de Berreo, Oka relies on her wits and her father's lectures to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle N Persaud
• Release date: Oct 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370637867

Michelle N Persaud

Born of Indo-Guyanese parents who lived through the civil disturbances, Michelle and her sister were raised in the east end of Toronto where numerous nationalities intermingled, often raising the question of what makes a Canadian and what claims first generation Canadians have on their cultures of heritage. As the first Canadian in an extended immigrant family saturated by traditions, culture and religion, Michelle explores these topics and delivers a unique perspective on Guyana's fragmentation in the first of her novels.Michelle earned her Bachelors specializing in English literature from the University of Toronto and currently lives in Toronto Canada with her husband and children.

Book preview

OKA

Michelle N Persaud

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Michelle N Persaud

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author and copyright owner.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Author’s Note

Excerpt from Celeste’s Song

About Michelle N Persaud

Dedication

For the belief in my pen,

Mom, Dad Cher,

Truth in my word,

Evan, Kori, Thushyanth

And patience in my craft.

And my dearest Enrique

For loading my imagination

The Persaud/Thakurdin Clan

And pushing it beyond all limits.

And my Titanic Hope, Alexis and Alistair

OKA

"We, the proud heirs of the indomitable spirit and unconquerable will of our forefathers who by their sacrifices, their blood and their labour made rich and fertile and bequeathed to us as our inalienable patrimony for all time this green land…"

- Constitution of the Co-Operative Republic of Guyana

OKA

Michelle N Persaud

~~~~~~~~1~~~~~~~~

I was on the verge of waking when I willed myself back into my nightmare, descending flights and flights of steps cut into the earth of a dark cellar, feeling that whatever waited at the bottom was far less disturbing than what waited for me in the waking world. I lost my footing and tried to regain my equilibrium, confirming my gut feeling as the involuntary jerk in my arm spiked pain as real bindings cut into my wrist.

My eyes shot wide open. I blinked several times before accepting that my vision was not the problem, but rather, this place in which I was anchored about my waist by thick rope hadn’t enough light to outline any shadows. It was a dark canvas on which images from the moments before I lost consciousness flickered, and I now knew why I preferred my descent into the vast cellar. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to return to the soft earthen steps, but each footfall was interrupted by a new memory.

I surrendered to the onslaught of images. That last voice pierced through the dissonance and echoed in hollow cheeks before I passed out, and through the darkness, I could see nothing. And now I woke here. A stale must rose from the earthen floor.

This is taking too long. Put down that bottle. Reds, if you don’t get that cord wound up, I’ll have it wrapped around your neck.

Vazio, I would love to see you try.

Yelling followed a dull clunk and cut off all other voices. I strained to hear the emerging whispers.

Let him go, Vazio drawled. I grow tired of you, upstart. Try my patience again and I’ll leave you in worse condition than you left that girl’s family.

An axe chopping wood. A metal clatter broke the quiet.

Hello? I called. Can you hear me? Let me out, it’s pitch black in here!

The chatter died. Pain in my shoulder pinned me. It was that monster out there, Vazio, I know because I recognized his voice. He twisted my arm as I tried to get back into my bedroom. Poor Anjali, so much blood spilling over my bed sheets…

Cousin? I can’t see you. Can you see me? Called the most comforting of disembodied voices.

Rowan? I called back, is it really you? How did you find me? I’m so glad you’re here! You have to save me, these men, you can’t imagine what they’ve done! How did you manage to slip past them?

Are you hurt?

My shoulder. That gaunt one out there, he twisted it. He wouldn’t let me help Anjali. She’s dead you know. They shot her on my bed. They got everyone. Even Papa.

Why did they take you?

I don’t know! I wish they didn’t. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just glad you’re here. Papa always said family looks out for each other.

I could feel the heat of his breath the longer we spoke. The accidental clink of a bottle was surprisingly close to my ears. I had a good idea he was close, and his eyes were trained in the direction of my words.

Rowan, we’re getting out of here, aren’t we? It was more doubt than confirmation in my voice. Cousin?

The heaving sour breath gave warning of the bottle swinging in the air. Ungrateful wretch, he panted near my ear. He exhaled a slow, methodical chuckle. It was one I had heard before, last night, pushing past me, sounding so familiar. I’m the reason you’re still alive.

You’re the reason my family’s dead. I said the words as I realized them. He didn’t wonder why they took me, he wanted to know what I knew. How could you do this to your family? We loved you, and you get these men to raid our house…

Oh, it’s not my idea, no, but I made sure it was you who was taken alive. They’re all dead, and there’s nothing you can do for them.

You could have let Anjali go, she’s not family.

"The maid? No, she eats, sleeps, and even shits with you. She shares life with you.

Vazio didn’t hold you back for your own good. I didn’t want you in the room with me. I can’t see you cousin, but I feel your surprise. You didn’t recognize the hand that pulled the trigger?"

I scrambled backwards to the wall and ran my hands along the planks as far as the rope would allow me, even stretched my fingertips, but I found no comfort in their expansive length. I could hear the swig of liquor in the bottle, and it was just as close as the sour breath had been. It intensified the cardboard grit of my tongue.

What have we done to you? What do you want with me?

You made this happen, you know, confiding in your pauper cousin of all the gold your Papa was going to dig up from the jungle. What were you thinking? That I would be happy, watching your wealth grow while I go home to dhal and rice every night of my life? It didn’t even occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you roused the bit of hope that I thought was dead, the possibility that even I could live as well as you.

I never knew you…

Never knew what, that our blankets are worn thin, or that our floor splinters underfoot? You would know, if you bothered to visit. I put up with parading around your castle, listening to your father lecture me on life, tasting pity in each mouthful of duck, or goat, or mutton, all so you and your brother never stepped foot in our yard. But now, cousin, you can make us rich.

You’re going to sell me?

Ha, turn a house upside down for a simple slave girl, don’t flatter yourself.

You didn’t have to kill them.

Your father would never help us. As for your brother, Aditya would never let me get away with it. Besides, he didn’t follow his father’s footsteps in archaeology like you did. But you, you’re not as stubborn as your father, and a small girl is easier to control than a strong man. Your future depends on how well you help us.

I’ll never help you.

Oh, but Oka, you will.

His reeking words lingered. By the time I heard the sloshing bottle it was too late, catching me off guard and knocking me down on my ass.

Get a good night’s sleep. Don’t mind the roaches and the spiders. We can’t afford netting out here.

I scrambled to my feet, flailing my arms towards the sloshing, where his smile burned through the darkness. The rope chafed my abdomen well after I heard the thud of the wooden door.

Time has no measure when you’re alone. I learned this by counting out the seconds and feeling an hour when only a minute had passed. After the counting, my mind began to wander along disturbing paths, imagining the bloody details that I hadn’t fully seen, remembering those I had, and evaluating all the several methods in which I could possibly die.

The voices outside continuously yanked me back into the present. I strained to hear what they said, but it was usually too low or too muffled. One word I did make out was ‘rich’. They were all so very interested in getting rich. Our last dinner at home, Papa had invited a fellow colleague and friend, Professor Morgan Williams of the faculty of history. I wish those men out there could have been at the dinner table when Aditya asked why he fell into a lifelong study of history.

The whole family would sit, every evening in the family room, and my father would read to us. He painted such vivid scenery that you could swear it would surround you if you only opened your eyes, down to the pots they used or the sandals they wore, and I wondered what were they made of and how they were made. I wanted to know about the people, where they lived, what they did, their societies, their politics, their civilizations.

But what jobs are waiting for history graduates? It’s not like a doctor, or a banker. What kind of living can you make by learning the past?

A fulfilling one, my boy. Aditya, one day, you’ll wake up, scalpel in withered hand, and ask yourself: where did life go? Money cannot be life’s only driver. Passion – with it, you excel, no matter what your field. Money follows passion. Only emptiness can follow money. But if you really are passionate about a career in medicine, then by all means, I’m happy for you. We need more enthusiasm if this country is ever going to stand on its own two feet.

Historians study what has decayed while we doctors hold off decay, Aditya countered. Do you know the life expectancy of a man in our country is forty-one years? If this country is ever going to stand on its own feet, we have to raise that standard of living. I have dedication, but it’s not for free.

Professor Williams extended his cup for Anjali to pour some more tea. Few students ever speak to me with such courage. I hope your vow is as constant in the dusk of your career as in its dawn. Oka, why do you not share your brother’s passion? Why have you chosen to follow your father?

She was always the bright one, Papa teased. Aditya will make a fine doctor on his own, but I can’t think of having a better archaeological assistant than Oka. In fact Morgan, I think she may be ready to join the next excavation.

Her essays in my ancient languages class leaves no doubt that she’s ready.

Professor Williams is interpreting some requisite documents for this project. He may even join the excavation.

I beamed from across the table, and Anjali couldn’t help but smile back at me as she finally tipped the pot to my cup. She knew my excitement from the first time I saw Papa return all dusty and sweaty from one of those long absences, having to pull me away, crying and kicking, because I couldn’t join him on his adventures. I now knew that it was more painstaking than stumbling on treasure. Papa and I had spent months discussing his research. Testing me.

Something scurried past my leg. I pulled my knees close and strained to separate sounds in the saturated darkness. I focused, but it must have known I was listening and now stood frozen, watching me with nocturnal eyes, waiting for me to either grow bored or attack. What if the noise was the shifting of my feet, or something from outside? What if I hadn’t really heard anything at all? Surely what I felt had been real? I chided myself for my paranoia when I heard it once more.

A muted patter slowly approached. I glared, but it had figured me out and was no longer afraid. It brushed my skin. It nibbled at my toes. I thought of kicking, but I could not run far, and I could only imagine the torment of agitating a mobile set of teeth. It waited for it to finish probing and be on its way, but those hopes were dashed when it nuzzled my ankle and settled in for a nap. At least it wasn’t able to cuff me in the face.

My face, my arm, both throbbed and gave way to a dull ache. The siege that orphaned me ran through my mind. I didn’t understand; Rowan was at my side from the day I was born, our fathers were brothers, his family had lived with us while we were young, he spent every moment possible with my brother and I; what could have happened? Surely it was more than greed.

My cellmate shuffled further under my leg. ‘He scares you too?’ and it responded by growing still. At least it could run, the little runt. It was fooling itself. My leg provided no real protection. I could feel tiny rubbery lips against my skin. It was disturbingly soothing enough to allow my exhaustion take hold of me and throw me into a much needed sleep.

I woke with a jarring feeling, having had exhausting dreams that I couldn’t remember and was glad of it. If I was alone, my thoughts would have wondered back to those disturbing places, as they usually do if I’ve had terrible dreams. I was spared this torture by a slapping of the wooden wall, jolting my focus in its direction, and the yelling keeping it there.

I recognized the voice as belonging to the man they called Vazio. When I cried out for him to stop screaming at me, he did. He walked in with a kerosene lantern and hung it from a metal steak he jabbed into the ground. Its glass bowl was cracked and shattered on one side, spilling the light unevenly into one corner, dimly running the length of the wooden planked walls. At its most gruesome, it played on his face, elongating the shadows of his sharp bones, hollowing out his cheeks and deepening the sockets of his eyes. Shady stubble on his jaw accentuated his glowing chin. He turned his head, revealing wiry hair growing from the base of his skull, much longer than my own and tied into a neat ponytail. But when he aimed his candid gaze right at me, even in the gloom of the lantern, he still seemed bald.

He circled closely, even after hearing the ruckus between Rowan and me. I turned as he turned, our eyes grappling in a twisted tango. I wanted to claw him to pieces. Maybe that’s why he stopped. What a young thing, he said. Returning to the light, he pointed to the ground. Sit.

I am not a dog.

Again, he hit the wall, accent stronger as he raised his voice. Do I look like I want to play, your highness? Now get over here and sit on the ground! That’s better. Sit on your hands. Not your fingers, your whole hand. Good.

When I was seated, he joined me on the ground, just beyond the length of my tethering, his legs splayed to the side. Rowan tells me you studied ancient civilizations at the university. Is this true?

His brow furrowed when I didn’t answer. I nodded emphatically to stave off his anger, now that he was as close as he was. He saw South American civilizations? Politics, religion… legends?

Who are you?

What do you know of El Dorado?

This is why you killed Papa? I cried.

What do you know of El Dorado?

I gulped. I know the myth.

The legend! he corrected me. His jaundice eyes glinted with excitement. Myths are fantastical. But legends, oh, there is always the chance root of truth. Truth, he drew a bundle of letters from inside his shirt, in this letter. Your father knew! I don’t believe you’ve read this yet. He took the larger, newer page that enveloped the bunch and threw it on my knee. Pick it up.

Tears rolled down my forearm and dropped to my knees as I held Papa’s death warrant with both hands, its scent choking me as I drew it closer. Bleary lines spread into a web of ink. The text turned foreign through watery eyes, and it was just as well that Vazio drew the sheets from my fingertips.

You’ll ruin them, he snapped.

I swung to retrieve it, but he swayed out of reach with the gust from my arm. Disbelief widened his sunken eyes, almost as if he dared me to try that again. It held my breath, that look, my lungs about to burst until the sorrowful shake of his head calmed me. He stood and opened the door, waiving somebody closer. Bring Mac to me. She’s acting up.

His foot met the ground with purpose and determination I had only ever heard when they burst into my bedroom. Only his leg passed the frame of the door, the unmistakable knots of muscle in his calves alone were stiff with use, his massive shin that didn’t seem to end, causing me to scramble backwards until I bumped into the wall. With only one step, I feared him even before I saw him.

He dipped his shaven head and turned sideways to get through the door. Even in the warm light of the lantern, his skin was so black that he seemed little more than a silhouette. He took stock of me, and trying to appear brave, I raised my chin high.

You can’t be serious, he said to Vazio.

She’s more wily than you think. Remember what Rowan said about the jaguar.

My cousin? What did that dog say about me?

Mac wasn’t convinced, but either way he pulled me to my feet and clamped my hands behind my back, pushing my shoulder, shoving me down to the very spot in which I was sitting.

If you move, I’ll box you, he promised. I didn’t dare try to wipe my eyes and was relegated to catching pale blotches of Vazio through blurring tears.

Mac can break you like a twig, so make this easy on yourself. Clear your eyes. Read this.

I fingered the grainy weave of the pages as I read, glancing up between tracts of words. It was from Professor Williams, written to Papa only days before he came to our house for dinner. I had an idea of Papa’s research with the hints of fieldwork and excavations, but the subject of his study was very unclear, until now. The race to conquer South America was effectively won when one British Lord captured an unfortunate Spaniard, both whom were mentioned in this letter. But the theory in this letter was one I had never read in any history book.

Their expectant gazes pierced my skull while they waited. Some paragraphs I read over twice, and when I still felt their eyes, I read them three times.

Do you know how your father came across the documents Professor Williams speaks of?

I shook my head, not looking up to see his reaction.