Dead Americans by Ben Peek Read Free Book Online

soot, smelled of smoke, and around his wrists was a long chain, attached to the manacle on his right arm.
    His teeth, when the dead smiled, were yellow and misshaped. “Deve ser o bastard que põe o fogo,” he said slowly. “Agradece.”
    Pemulwy had learned a small amount of the dead’s language, but it was difficult to learn without a guide for context and meaning. Yet, knowing as little as he did, he knew that this was not their language.
    Come with me
, he said, pointing into the dark scrub.
I will offer you shelter
.
    Around him, his warriors tightened in a ring above the dead, watching, waiting, protective. Unaware of them, the dead shook his head, and said, “Eu nao entendo o que você dizem, mas eu nao vou em qualquer lugar com você.” Slowly, as if trying to conceal the action, he began wrapping the length of chain around his right fist.
    Pemulwy, giving him one more chance before he killed him, tapped his chest, silently, and then pointed into the bush again.
    “Tive suficiente com ser cativo. Você e o Inglês,” the dead’s gaze swept the surrounding area. “São somente os mesmo a mim nesta prisão.”
    “Inglês?” Pemulwy repeated, tasting the familiar word. “English?”
    The dead nodded, his yellow teeth splashed against his skin. “English,” he agreed, glancing behind him. The message was clear to the Eora: the English were the white men at the fires.
    Still glancing behind him, the dead suddenly swung his chain-covered fist at Pemulwy.
    The warrior ducked and, darting forward, jammed his foot in the back of the dead’s knee, causing him to cry out in pain and slump to the ground. The cry sent a hot flush through him, and he bared his teeth in joy. Around the fallen man, the dozen Eora warriors emerged, one of them tossing Pemulwy his spear.
    The black man—and he was a man, Pemulwy knew,
just a man
—began to speak, but the spear of the Eora warrior never hesitated.
    Leaving his spear in the body, Pemulwy turned to the warriors. None of them had struck the dead, but they knew, by watching him, by hearing the exchange, that it was only a matter of time until they too killed the dead.
    Running his fiery gaze along the semi circle of men before him, Pemulwy said,
The name of our enemy is the English.
1895.
    The bones across Cadi’s skin snapped together in faint clicks as the Aborigine walked through the black water of the hulk’s belly to stand before Twain.
    Twain, despite his wariness, was fascinated by the features behind the white skull. It was the impression of a man sleeping, with the full, closed lips, smooth skin, and large, closed eyes. But there was nothing childlike or innocent about the Aborigine. Scars covered him in slender lines, as if a series of blades had been run again and again against his skin, and then stitched back together with a care that ultimately could not hide the damage.
    “Revolutions.” When Cadi’s faint, skeleton whisper of a voice reached Twain’s ears it was harsher: raw, sad, and violent, whereas before it had sounded like a man’s. “I have tried to organize revolutions.”
    “That’s a mighty large thing to do,” Twain replied. “And not always altogether successful, from my understanding of history.”
    As he spoke, the ribs of the hulk melted away, and the black water had drained from his shoes; but rather than experience a dryness, the fluid was immediately replaced with new water that signalled, before he saw it, a continual silver slant of steady rain that ran over him.
    Before him was an inn made from wood, with a wide, tin roofed veranda around it, and hitching posts for horses out the front. It had glass windows, while behind the glass was light provided by lanterns.
    “I have tried to make symbols,” Cadi’s grating voice whispered to his left. “A revolution must have a symbol.”
    Twain began to reply, but stopped.
    On the veranda, dark shapes slithered into view between the rain. Allowing the Aborigine to lead him through