Brown Bondye

Our story takes place over a single, three-minute period of time...

I. The Watcher (Soul Veil’s Guard)

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In Lunvéra, shrine of shadowed waters,

Where forest folds to mirrored gleam,

And air hums low with ancient whispers,

I stand, Brown Bondye, Soul Veil’s guard.

Beyond these groves, thrones lie broken,

Winds wail through a world undone,

But here my watch holds, fierce and firm,

As dawn cracks wide the sky’s embrace.

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Yet nearby lurks the Caged Ravager,

A beast of brindle, storm and spite,

Muscle thick, jaws drippin’ dread,

My cursed foe from nights untold.

Across his twisted prison’s span,

He stares, eyes glintin’ cold and keen,

Seein’ me for the threat I am,

While my magic strains, yet cannot reach.

Through dark hours we watch, unblinkin’,

Hatred hummin’ ‘twixt our souls.

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Now hark, the Royal One draws near, the lass,

Dark curls a crown of night and shine,

Her hands hold high the mornin’ gift.

Rise up this mornin’ Old Mother’s song,*

Smiled with the risin’ sun, we sing,*

A call to duty, deep and true.

She spills sweet nectar, purple as dusk,

A libation laid afore my feet.

Yet the draught sways me off my stand,

Till her kind grasp untilts me whole again.

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Then wild winds sing, a rhythm rises,

Duskbloom voices, fae and free,

Threadin’ through the Veil’s thin shroud.

The Royal One hoists me high to dance,

Her laughter leaps like bell’s bright peal.

The Ravager roars, his prison rends,

A tempest tears forth, fangs aflame.

I face him fierce, eyes glowin’ gold,

To shield the Royal One from harm—

Till his bite breaks me, my arm torn free,

A splintered scream through shrine’s still air.

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Pain pounds, yet I summon her wrath,

The Old Mother’s fury flares alive.

My lost limb rots in Ravager’s maw,

Made fetid and foul by my own craft,

Spit free to save it from his jaws.

Back he slinks, caged once more,

Across that span, eyes burnin’ hate,

Watchin’ me still, as I watch him.

Revenge I carve in whispered oath,

To rise again ‘neath wrathful sky.

II. Caged Ravager

Sun claws the sky, and I fix my snout—hhhh—sharp and snuffin’—on the Watcher. His gnarled roots twist, awake all night, those glowin’ eyes, vile and venomous, starin’ back. I’ve tasted him afore—twice my fangs sank deep, gnawin’ his brittle bones—and ever since, I lock gazes, a grrrumble in my throat, waitin’ to rend him proper

Then—hhhh—there! Little Cub bounds from the Den, her growly yips spillin’ joy, haulin’ a fruit-sweet drink that teases my nose. I lunge, claws scrapin’, hintin’ to share, but she growls a command—firm and fierce—and shuts me behind this twig-thin wall. My spirit sinks, heavy with gloom; I loose a lone whimper—hhhh—just one, thick fur droopin’ low. Trapped here—how shall I protect now?

What spell drags her—hhhh—to the Flat Land, where that Watcher looms? I watch, fangs bared, every sinew strung tight—eyes piercin’, nose hufffin’, ears twitchin’, tail stiff. If he dares harm her, I’ll shatter him to dust. Pack Leader prowls near—good, strong—but then he lumbers into the Den, leavin’ Little Cub bare. I growl low, vigilant as stone.

A loud spirit shrieks—hhhh—wild and wailin’, calling for action. I rear, ears flarin’ wide, scoopin’ the din like claws rakin’ prey—sound floodin’ my skull, is this a perilous signal? Then—grrr!—the Watcher strikes! His evil grip snatches her, twistin’ and thrashin’ in a storm of spite. I bark, I claw, I tear at the twig-wall—hhhh—it snaps!

Free, I charge—paws poundin’, fangs flashin’—to rip the Watcher asunder. He clings to Little Cub; I yank harder, jaws clampin’ his old stump. My teeth sink, bitter wood splits—crack!—and the limb’s mine, a trophy torn free! I snarl in triumph, shakin’ it, ready to gnaw this bone to dust.

Pack Leader storms forth—hhhh—joinin’ the fray, wrestin’ Cub loose and seizin’ the Watcher. Victory’s ours! But—grrrumble—somethin’ fouls the air. The bone turns fetid—rottin’, rancid, a poison stingin’ my tongue. I spit it out, hackin’—hhhh—and catch those glowin’ eyes. The Watcher’s curse, his trick. I glare back, unbowed, unforgotten.

III. Princess Nia

Once upon a sunny afternoon, out skipped little Nia, all of four years old, her pigtails bouncing like twisty black springs in the New Orleans breeze. Her tiny brown fingers gripped a plastic pink teapot sloshing with grape juice—special tea for a very special party. Behind trotted Rex, Nia’s big ol’ Pit Bull buddy, his fur shining and his tongue lolling out, begging to play too.

“Now, you stay put, Rex!” Nia said with a bossy little huff, teetering on her tippy-toes to unlatch the patio gate. She squeezed through, balancing that teapot like a circus star, then nudged the gate shut with her hip. Click—well, almost. The latch hung loose, but Nia didn’t notice. She was too busy planning her party. Rex whined, his big paws scratching at the wood, his sad puppy eyes watching her go.

Out in the backyard, Nia plopped down on her party spot—a raggedy old blanket spread out like a magic carpet. Two plastic tea cups sat waiting, and there, standing proud, was Mr. Bo, her little brown man. He was carved from wood, old as old could be, with paint so faded you could barely see the red of his hat or the blue of his shirt peeking through the cracks. Rain and sun had turned him brown as a tree trunk, and Nia loved him just like that. Next to him, Daddy’s smartphone sang out a happy tune, “Three Little Birds,” all soft and bouncy.

“Here ya go, Mr. Bo!” Nia chirped, pouring grape juice into his cup and hers. “Cheers!” She clinked her cup to his, but—oops!—down went Mr. Bo with a tiny thud. He don’t mind, he my friend, she thought, giggling as she set him right again.

“Princess, be careful with Mr. Bo,” Daddy called, standing up from where he was planting bulbs, his faded Saints cap tipped back. “He’s gettin’ pretty old, ya know.” Then off he went inside the garage, humming along to the music.

Nia leaned close to Mr. Bo, whispering, “Great Gran Zora said you watch us, didn’t she? She called you Brown Bondye—that’s a funny name!” She sipped her tea with a smile, thinking of Great Gran’s raspy voice from before she went to be with Jesus. Then the music switched—bam!—to something peppier and Nia’s eyes lit up.

“Oh!” she squeaked, grabbing Mr. Bo right off the blanket. “Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof—c’mon, Mr. Bo, clap with me!”* She twirled him high, spinning and spinning, juice splashing everywhere. Rex barked and scratched at the gate, wild with wanting to join. That loose latch? It gave up, and out burst Rex like a furry rocket.

“No, Rex!” Nia hollered as he leaped, jaws snapping at Mr. Bo. She yanked hard, hugging her little brown man tight. You can’t have him! Rex tugged back, growling, tail wagging like this was the best game ever. They pulled and pulled—until snap!—Mr. Bo’s arm popped right off!

“Bad Rex!” Nia yelled, stomping her foot as Rex pranced off with the wooden arm, shaking it like a prize bone. Nia’s lip wobbled, and big tears spilled down her cheeks. My Mr. Bo’s hurt! She clutched his broken body, juice-sticky hands trembling.

Just then, Daddy stepped back outside, his brow all scrunched with worry, bucket in hand. “What’s all this noise?” he said. Nia ran to him, thrusting Mr. Bo out with a sob. “Daddy! Rex broke him! Fix him, please!”

Daddy knelt down, his big hands gentle as he took Mr. Bo. “It’s okay, Princess,” he said, wiping her tears with his thumb. “We’ll fix Mr. Bo up good as new.” He gave her a warm hug, and Nia sniffled, feeling a little better already.

IV. The Gardener

Jamal knelt beside a sprawl of flowers in a large redwood planter box, one foot tall and bolted tight—trowel slicing into the dark soil where his Grandma Zora’s ashes lay scattered. A year had passed since her death, cremated remains stirred into this earth at her request, a nutrient to feed new life. She’s in there, mixin’ Jesus and them spirits, Jamal thought, pressing a bulb into the dirt. Haiti in her blood, N’awlins in her bones—always mistrustin’ them white folks round here. He’d been fifteen when she moved nearby, ten years back, her raspy voice mutterin’ ‘bout this strange land she’d landed in. Now, at twenty-five, the Vodou rumors—chants, hexes—still prickled his skin. Ain’t tellin’ Nia none of that crazy.

Weeds choked the blooms, stubborn and thick. He stood, brushing his gloves, and decided on the cultivator—a three-pronged tool for tearin’ roots. Heading to the garage, he passed Nia in the backyard, she’d knocked down that old gnome. “Princess, be careful with him,” he called, voice drifting lazy over his shoulder. “He’s gettin’ old, ya know.” She giggled, lost in play, as he stepped into the dim garage. Zora hauled that thing in from some local shop, he mused, grabbing the cultivator and tossing it into a bucket. White man’s toy gone brown when she found him—a sign, she said, like he was waitin’ for her. Left him out here to watch us, like he’s alive or somethin’. She’d moved in when Nia came along, four years back, Bo in tow—claimed she woke him up. Crazy talk.

The backyard music shifted—Pharrell’s “Happy” kicked in, bright and bouncy. He hummed along, low and loose, “Because I’m happy, happy, happy…”—bucket swinging in one hand—when a ruckus broke through. Nia’s squeal pierced the air, Rex’s barks rollin’ wild. Jamal hurried out, brow furrowed tight. What in hell’s goin’ on now? Nia ran toward him, sobbing, thrusting Mr. Bo forward—his arm gone. “Daddy! Rex broke him—fix him!” she cried, tears streakin’ her face. Jamal dropped to a knee, hands gentle as he took the gnome. Rex slunk off like he was about to be sick, droppin’ the chewed arm on the way to his corner.

“Easy, Princess,” he murmured, wiping her cheek with his thumb, glancing at Bo—something odd caught his eye. The gnome’s legs, stiff as stone, sat crooked, like they’d twisted during the ruckus. No, that ain’t right, he thought, shaking his head. “We’ll fix him up good, promise.” Nia pressed into his hug, still snifflin’. Bo’s dark wood warmed his fingers, too hot for April shade. Trick of the sun, gotta be.

Zora’s words clawed back—He watches us, Jamal. Woke him up to guard. He took it all in at once—Bo, Rex, Nia, even himself, tangled in some boilin’ mess of energy. His gut churned, mind flashing to Zora’s ashes in the planter, her paranoia creepin’ into him, her spells. This gettin’ wild, he reckoned, then steadied himself. Naw, this just silly. He set Bo down, hauled Rex back behind his gate, and guided Nia inside with a gentle hand.

Atop the flower-laden mound, framed by redwood boards, Brown Bondye stood rigid, crooked leg, arm gone, eyes locked on Rex—and Rex glared back.

F I N

*Song Lyric credits: “Happy” by Pharrell Williams (2013) and “Three Little Birds” by Toots and the Maytals (2012), originally by Bob Marley.