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A Painted House

What matters when the world falls down

By K.T. SetoPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
3

Mykola stood next to the low stone wall, looking down over the valley to the inlet. The air where they stood was warm and humid but made bearable by the breeze blowing softly through the trees. Below them the water glistened in the early morning light and the waves moved in their unending ballet of push and pull, eating away at the land in tiny bites. His friend stood next to him, a tall, broad-shouldered man with skin so dark it fairly glowed in the relentless Caribbean sun. He should have felt sad. Lord knew he had reason, but standing here, he finally understood what Andriy said before he left two weeks ago.

“Are you going to do it, then?” JC said, in his honeyed Haitian accent. Mykola looked, and him and nodded, his eyes sliding past the land onto the brightly painted house a few steps below where they stood by the wall. The house itself was a marvel, perched as it was on the cliff. The front half barely anchored to the land and the rear supported by two concrete pillars, a mishmash of broken cinderblocks that looked like the builder had scavenged the materials from wherever they could. Which he supposed they had.

“It’s too important,” he replied, and JC nodded and remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“You know, I went to that lecture the other day, the one the Irish woman gave. Where she was talking about these- the freedom houses. They have them all over the Caribbean,” Mykola said, and stared at the house again with its brightly painted wood walls and tiny windows. “Every single one is an act of defiance. A blow against oppression,” he continued, and JC nodded.

“Bittersweet symbols of freedom. We lit the flame that burned here in Haiti, but we paid. All of us paid,” JC shook his head and Mykola shrugged.

“There’s always a price. That’s why Andriy left. It’s why I am going too. I get it now,” he gestured with his chin to the beautiful beach hundreds of feet below them at the edge of the valley. From where they stood, everything looked like a model. The tiny resorts and houses nestled into the hillsides, the tiny boats bobbing softly in the sea.

“They get it. The people who live here, the descendants of the stolen. We get it too, my people,” he said and sighed, shaking his head.

“So much beauty and so much pain. So different from my home, from that entire continent really. Europe isn’t like here. We get sun but it is softer, inefficient really. As if they used up the power of it elsewhere so we get the leftovers. It makes you focus on what you can see, lets you feel the age of the culture, of the society and people who live there. It hides the age of the land,” Mykola said, and JC nodded.

“Here you feel the earth, its age, and your connection to it. Your life is tied to the whims of nature,” JC said, and Mykola sighed.

“We forget that where I am from sometimes, but it's there. We have to work hard to maintain the connection, so sometimes I feel like we feel it deeper when we do feel it. It’s easy down here, but not so much at home. When there is so much of humanity obscuring what is and came before, it is easy to lose the importance of what lies beneath,” he said and shook his head giving a rueful smile. “Ugh, listen to me. I sound foolish, rambling on about land and nature and society,” Mykola said, and JC made a low sound of dissent.

“Look man, if you can’t take a moment to reflect now, when are you going to do it? There won’t be time later. There’s work to do,” JC said, and Mykola raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t think you would understand. But I guess it shouldn’t surprise me,” Mykola said, and JC smiled.

“Haitians understand more than most. On this side of the planet, you will find far too many people who understand exactly. Because it isn’t about the battle you’re going to fight. It’s about what it means. It’s easy to win a battle, but to win a war-to conquer a people- you have to remove their will to fight. The ones you’re going to fight, they don’t get what it means to be free. It matters and is real, even if it is just in your heart,” JC said, and Mykola smiled grimly, his lips flattening to a thin, hard line.

“They will have to kill us all to remove our will,” Mykola replied, and walked closer to the edge of the cliff.

The breeze whipped through the branches of the lush greenery around him. The island was mainly mountainous rainforest turned into a National Park. Partially to protect the fragile ecosystem, but mainly to prevent the locals from ever benefitting from their ownership of the land. A common tactic used by invaders to punish folks for forcing them to behave halfway decent. Between that and the rains, the forest bloomed and spread into every space that wasn’t carefully maintained. The house before them had few plants growing nearby. No one lived there but they kept it cleared because the tourists liked to take pictures of it.

“You know why I took this job?” Mykola asked and JC smiled.

“The food in the Windjammer?” JC quipped, and they both laughed.

“To see the places the wealthy find exciting. We meet many people on the ship, and that’s ok I guess, but the things they do while they relax fascinates me. Or it did when I first started. Now not so much,”

“Shine wears off when it’s just us sailing in circles,” JC said, and they shared another laugh.

“It was gone before then. They all sort of blend after a while. Some are nice, most are odd and demanding. Even the ones who are nice are demanding and oblivious to how much work they make for us,” Mykola said, and JC grinned.

“If they weren’t here making work, we wouldn’t have jobs,” JC said. Mykola grinned.

“True. I’m just saying that it isn’t novel anymore. Now it’s more about what I can send back,” Mykola said.

“And you’re worried you won’t have any place to send anything to,” JC said, and Mykola nodded.

“That’s what Andriy said. We need to save it from all those folks just following orders, destroying everything that means anything to us so their leader can feel like he won,” Mykola said bitterly, and blinked back the tears that wanted to form. His throat tightened, but he wasn’t the type to cry. Not before the end.

“Not gonna cry. Tears are for endings. The end of pain, the end of life, the end of one chapter to start the next. You cry for what you were to make space for who you’re going to be,” Mykola said, and JC reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. The two stood in silence for a moment while he waited for his vision to clear and his heart to unclench.

“My Granmè used to say something about freedom. I never forgot it,” JC said after a moment removing his hand, and Mykola turned to look at him, nodding for him to go on.

“She said, freedom is not static. It’s more like a road. A long, winding road with obstacles. Potholes and barriers and places where the path peters out and seems to disappear. It’s easy to get discouraged when you’re walking the freedom road. Especially when you can’t see a way through. But the main thing is to hold tight to the will to press on. Hold on and remember, we are the ones who survived,” JC said, and Mykola smiled grimly.

“My Babushka used to say something similar. Our people, we have always had to fight. But one thing we never did was give up,” he said, and JC grinned.

“Sometimes the path to freedom is fighting, but a lot of times it's subtle. The point is that it’s there. You see it in the bright blue paint on a freedom house, or in the feathers and beads of a jingle dress. Or the upraised fist on the Olympic podium. The indomitable will to keep fighting no matter the odds,” JC said, and Mykola nodded.

“Galaxy Quest. Never give up! Never surrender,” Mykola said, and JC laughed.

“What is it with you and that movie?” JC asked, and Mykola grinned.

“Alan Richman, it’s a parody of Star Trek,” he said, and JC shook his head.

“You know he was Irish and Welsh. Sure, he was born in England, but his roots were Celtic. The Celts know a lot about fighting, a lot about freedom. Plus, it’s funny as hell,” Mykola said, and JC smiled.

“I don’t know many Ukrainians obsessed with American Science Fiction,” JC said, and Mykola grinned.

“Easier to stream from a ship than the Ukraine,” he said, and JC shook his head.

“When do you leave?” JC asked, and Mykola sighed.

“Today actually. I have my bags packed and waiting at the port. I just wanted to hang with you here a bit before I left,” Mykola said, and JC looked at him sharply. Mykola waited for him to say something more, but he just nodded firmly and sighed.

“Ok then, that’s a long flight. How about we get you some Rum Punch and fish cakes?” JC said, and Mykola screwed up his nose.

“That’s your favorite, not mine,” Mykola griped, and JC smiled.

“I want this to be an excellent ending. It’s what you said, right? Tears are for endings? I like a good meal before I cry,” JC said, and Mykola reached out a hand and clasped his shoulder, looking out over the valley again while the edge of the tin roof of the Freedom house clattered softly in the breeze. Its blue paint reflecting the sunlight onto the leaves of the trees.

Short Story
3

About the Creator

K.T. Seto

In a little-known corner of Maryland dwells a tiny curvemudgeon. Despite permanent foot in mouth disease, she has a epistemophilic instinct which makes her ask what-if. Vocal is her repository for the odd bits that don't fit her series.

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

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  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

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    Well-structured & engaging content

  3. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

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    Zero grammar & spelling mistakes

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