CHAPTER 3: JUDAS

  “I therefore hate the corrupt, slaveholding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of the land... I look upon it as the climax of all misnomers, the boldest of all frauds, and the grossest of all libels. Never was there a clearer case of ‘stealing the livery of the court of heaven to serve the devil in.’”

  —Frederick Douglass, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave.

  North End, Boston, Massachusetts, Federation of American States, September 8th, 1945, 0645 hours.

  Father Tobias Abatangelo had always been wary of the Klan. Though to speak truthfully they were never subtle about their preferences. The negroes had to go. The jews had to go. Even the Catholics.

  That was the line for Father Abatangelo, who himself was a baptised Catholic as his family had been for generations. Furthermore he was Italian. An inferior branch of the white race. And that could’ve meant a lynching or a burning, or on some occasions, both. Such peoples were sectioned off into ghettos and forgotten, and perhaps that was better than being battered to death by the secret police for being born incorrectly. Yet even then the Spanish, Portuguese, Irish and Italians rioted when they themselves had been given the same segregation treatment the blacks and the jews had long lived with.

  And on that front it was no coincidence that the most prominent criminal organizations in the Federation were headed by the Blacks, the Jews, the Irish and the Italians. Mostly compromising of mobsters and gangsters. Some had even been promoted to terrorists.

  As unpleasant as it was, he tried to tolerate the Klan. He had told himself that Christianity was Christianity no matter which cloak it wore. Even if it pretended to have wizards. As of present, he had already (at least ‘officially’) converted to Protestantism anyway, as a gesture of good faith to appease the outside world. Though many ‘pure bred whites’ still disliked him for being Italian, as if the Romans didn’t popularise Christianity.

  Today, the Father (or perhaps we should call him the ‘Pastor’ as he plays his role) received a letter from the Klan, sealed with its signature Blood Drop Cross. It was delivered to his local Church within the Italian-only area and addressed to the serving pastor, whomever it may have been. Seemingly they had not known.

  The Italians had been given permission to construct said church by the Klan, the undisputed religious authority in the Federation. On the condition that those attending converted to Protestantism. Many did. Many didn’t. People died.

  Deacon Agnusdei had delivered the letter to him in private that morning. They sat and discussed the matter on a bench situated near the church. The blinding sunrise had painted the sky a vivid gold. Each man ate a honeycrisp apple, freshly plucked from trees in the area. Their reds and yellows complemented the breaking dawn.

  “Fa—Pastor Abatangelo… I fear that this is more a demand than an invitation,” said the plump and hairy little deacon. He was rather young for his rank but that was no surprise considering who his father was. No local church officials would want to pick a fight with the Don after all.

  “I see,” said the man known as the Pastor. He squinted with intention, straining the lines on his face about its angles. He had olive skin, an aquiline nose and small hazel eyes which shone a golden luster in the sunlight. His brown hair had greyed and receded. And in his figure held an eerily straight posture especially apparent with his drooping vestments. He was also known to carry a wooden cruciform and a bible everywhere he went. In the past it had been a Douay-Rheims bible, then it changed to a King James Bible. “The Klan wishes to install me in Australia?” the Pastor asked in his thick Italian accent.

  “Yes, Fa—Pastor… it seems so. Yesterday, in the cover of night, they came into our territory with guns and military vehicles to escort their messenger.”

  His eyes widened. Their hazel hue burning a terrifying flame, “They came to a church with weapons?”

  At that moment Deacon Agnusdei was much more frightened of the Pastor than of the government or the Klan, “N-no Pastor. T-They stopped within p-perimeters of the church and paid a visit to papa!”

  “They’re afraid of the mafia?”

  “They a-aren’t afraid, Father. They threatened them. My papa had to fork up some money we made from the Blood Poppy trade. Thousands, Pastor!”

  No. They were afraid. At least to a certain extent, thought Pastor Abatangelo. Otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered with mobilization. Yet this was also clearly a display of strength. But something else shook him. He turned to the deacon, “Don Agnusdei gave in to their demands?”

  “Papa said that we could not afford a war with the feds! Not in an Italian-only area! They’d burn us all down! They could cut our men into mincemeat!”

  “Cut?”

  “T-They brought Culverins!”

  There it is. Thought the Pastor. That’s why the Don backed down. The Italian people were a proud bunch. They were the descendents of Caesar and Machiavelli. They would not let an insult so grievous go unpunished. But Cambion weapons. That was another matter. The death toll would be zero to thousands. Pastor Abatangelo wondered how an Alexander the Great or a Napoleon Bonaparte would’ve fared against the monsters.

  “I-In addition to that—” Deacon Agnusdei held up a thick leatherbound book embedded with a golden Blood Drop Cross under the words: ‘THE HOLY BIBLE: AMERICAN NATIONAL STANDARD EDITION.’

  “That must be…” Pastor Abatangelo reread the letter.

  Dear Pastor,

  You have been indispensable in our mission to evangelize the masses ignorant of the Lord and thus we have granted you a free ticket aboard the SS America, heading for Australia. Many of your congregation have already been informed of your leave, so please begin preparations for the transfer at your earliest convenience. You, along with our other pastors will be provided with newly built churches ready-made for you to fulfill your duties preaching the gospel. Your Italian community is subject to be transferred at a later date, so please do not miss them too long. We have sent to you over a hundred copies of our newly printed Bibles, please deliver them to your congregation, as well as yourself.

  —Respectfully yours in Christ

  “‘Over a hundred copies of our new bible,’” he quoted. A shadow fell over his face. This has gone beyond Protestantism. The Klan has written their own Bible. He turned again to Deacon Agnusdei, “When will this SS America sail for Australia?”

  The deacon pulled out a newspaper advertisement, “It seems to be setting sail on the 30th, Father… er… Pastor.”

  “A month,” he said. It was going to be a dreadful month. He placed his reading spectacles over his eyes and began reading the American National Standard Bible.

  ***

  West Oakland Neighborhood, California, Federation of American States, September 29th, 1945, 1922 hours.

  Alice Amaru was her brother’s son’s second mother and frankly at this point she might’ve been his father figure as well. Anthony Amaru Jr. had always been a troublemaker since his inception. He had had misfortunes in his businesses and marriage and still took it upon himself to liberate their race from oppression, or so he would often claim.

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  Many days like these have come and gone countless times. Ant was off in a shootout with the police or FBI or what have you and Alice was helping poor Nicki do the laundry and feed little Judas. She blamed Ant much more than she blamed Isaiah, the Top Deuce for this. But most of all she blamed her father, Anthony Amaru Sr. He had also been a troubled man. Two marriages. Two women. One stillborn child. Two other children soon orphaned after he joined the Red Panthers.

  Perhaps it was fate. Anthony Amaru Sr. was the product of a black man, formerly a slave and part of the ethnic Igbo people, and a Quechua woman. Hence the name ‘Amaru,’ the serpent representing the Ukhu Pacha or in other words the Underworld of Incan Mythology.

  “Look out Judas!” Uncle Armstrong shouted as the kite caught a strong breeze and carried the bruised child off with it. Judas almost fell over but Lucius caught him halfway. The boy laughed his head off, oblivious to the fact he could’ve fractured a few bones. His mothers did not seem to think it was funny.

  “Judas!” Nicki and Alice had cried in unison, both rushing to the boy.

  Judas Amaru had been born with osteogenesis imperfecta—brittle bones disease—and was practically weak to everything harder than a pillow. A soft blow to the leg could’ve rendered him disabled for the rest of his life and his was a milder case. Alice dreaded what serious cases of OI could’ve been like. She’d heard tales of infants born with fractured bones and permanent deformities.

  Alice all but scolded him and Lucius for playing with the kite outside. Lucius frowned but didn’t fight back, telling the boy that they’d play a board game inside instead. Judas dropped his smile. He had always wanted to play sports like the other kids, but that was pretty much impossible from the start. The world was cruel like that.

  As Nicki tried to cheer up her child, Alice pinched Lucius on the cheek and dragged him outside for a talk, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

  “I had the situation under control… just maybe we should’ve done this at the park.”

  “It’s 7 pm for chrissake!”

  He had no rebuttal for that one, “You should’ve stopped me beforehand!”

  She had no rebuttal for that one, “God, Lucius… Where’s Anthony!?”

  “Probably refueling the car. That or smoking. Or more likely both.”

  “Both,” she agreed, shaking her head. Alice Amaru was the second most beautiful woman Lucius had ever met. She had full cheeks which were always red from blushing or red from screaming at her brother, small lips, braided dark hair that ran down her back and eyes the color of dark acorns (and angry ones at that). She almost always wore a hat, though not today, and her black-and-red lliclla—a traditional Quechua textile made up of vibrant colours. Her mother had taught her how to handweave llicllas but the one she always wore was a present given to her by Ant many years ago. Lucius had always thought that was odd considering how much they seemed to hate each other, but it made him happy nonetheless.

  They seated themselves on the front steps.

  “You’re leaving again, right?” Alice asked.

  “Yep. Tonight when Ant gets back.”

  Alice pouted, “Always bad news when he gets back.”

  Lucius smiled, “Somethings never change, ay?”

  “He’s such a dimwit. Such an idiot. He has such a lovely wife and child and all he cares about is making his own glory.”

  “Don’t you think that’s why he’s fighting?” Lucius stared at the stars. It was a bright night tonight, a star spangled night, that was mainly the reason he brought Judas outside to play. To watch the night sky as their ancestors had. No matter how many generations passed, the night sky would remain largely the same, even after a thousand years. Anthony Amaru Sr. no doubt saw those same stars when escaped slavery. In fact he likely used them as his compass as many other slaves did. “He’s fighting for Nicki, and for Judas… in his own way.”

  “A man does not simply fight for the son of another man and a woman he calls a whore,” Alice hugged her knees.

  “Judas is his son. I know he is,” Lucius said the words with such determination he almost believed himself, “she gave up the business to be with him after all. What more proof does he need?”

  “But you can’t know for sure. Judas could be anyone’s son. God forbid he could be a white man’s son!” Alice said the words like they were slurs. And to her they probably were. What white men did to their mother was what provoked their father to his revenge spree after all, and ultimately what got him killed.

  “Whoever his dad is I’m sure it doesn’t matter, not to him, he was born with his mother telling him stories of his heroic daddy off on duty to save everyone from the villainous white man.”

  “I’d sure hope for that to be true. But it mattered to Ant. That you have to understand. I can’t stand how he shouts at Nicki or how he outright refuses to be a father to Judas. Dammit, Lucius. At best he says he could be the uncle! The uncle! But I understand. I understand his pain. Love is painful like that.”

  Lucius instinctively ran his hand over his burn scar. He shook. He could feel the flames drawing in again.

  Alice sighed watching him writhe inwardly, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright. It’s over. It’s long gone. It’s dead. It won’t happen again,” he lied, again almost believing himself.

  “I wish it could’ve been different… with your woman I mean. If this world weren’t so… wrong.”

  “No. Not my woman. I was her’s. She was never mine.”

  She frowned. Isn’t that just…

  Lucius could almost read her thoughts. He answered inwardly. Slavery.

  After a moment’s pause Alice switched the subject, “So, where to?”

  “The Port of Los Angeles. Aboard the SS America.”

  “God, Lucius, you’re going to Australia!?”

  “Don’t worry it’s not permanent. I’ll be back for Judas’ 8th birthday. I promise.” Judas’ 8th birthday was on December 25th, as if his life was anything close to auspicious. But he was ‘Judas’ ‘Amaru.’ A happy life couldn’t have awaited him. He was doomed for tragedy the day he was born.

  Alice pinched his nose, “The boat leaves tomorrow, 9 am, it takes a 20-30 day voyage to get to Australia, best case scenario you’re there by November. The most you can spend is a month, no more.”

  “I know, I know, I did the math alright,” he didn’t. He just blurted it out. He had always had strange blunders whenever he was around Alice. Around her he was spontaneous. It was odd. But it felt right. Like that was something Lucius Armstrong would’ve done.

  “Why Australia?”

  “To be more exact, we’re going to the CN Mandate of Arkaroo.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. Top Deuce says the Red Panthers got information from a spy in D.C. though to be quite frank I don’t know how we even got a spy in D.C.”

  “What’s the information?”

  “Anthony Conolly sent a telegraph right before his death, we’re going to investigate it and reveal the truth. Everything surrounding his death, it’s all suspicious. The European media and the CN blamed it on the Africans, now there might be a repeat of the Butcherings if things escalate. The American media shrugs that fact off. Why? Since when have they ever done that!? There must be some other factor we’re unaware of,” Lucius stood up, his back turned to Alice as he recited the message, “Humanity's answer lies where the Rainbow Serpent curls up the World Tree.”

  “‘The Rainbow Serpent’…”

  “Arkaroo. The ‘World Tree’ we don’t know yet.”

  “God, Lucius you’re not just going up against the Federation this time, you’re going up against—”

  “—the whole world,” he finished for her. At that moment it was as if the North Star sparked a heavenly white streak across the sky.

  A car suddenly screeched into view. Ant got out, “Get in, Lucius! We gotta go fast! I hafta pick up some suits from Top Deuce before we head off for good!”

  Lucius did not turn back. He simply walked towards Ant and got in the vehicle. Somehow that felt right. He did not want to turn back. Did not want to see her expression.

  Ant got in the car and was halfway through fastening his seatbelt when Lucius spoke up.

  “Ant.”

  “Yes?”

  “Go say goodbye to your family.”

  Ant made a grunting noise.

  “Do it.”

  “What authority do ya have over me!?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  There was a pause.

  “Fine!”