Palmares

by Gayl Jones

  “What?” I look down.

  “Go on and look at the woman.”

  I look at the woman, her head against her shoulder, her eyes rolled back.

  “See how the blood of a continent drips from her eyelids. But doesn’t she have lips that heal?”

  I stare at the woman and the backs of the crowd. When I turn to her again, she is gone.

  “There was a strange woman there,” I told my grandmother when I returned.

  “A strange woman?” she asked, looking at me. “It is not such a strange thing that one has done—But this has been her day of reckoning.”

  “No, another woman who was speaking as if she too had been hanged like that.”

  “It is the phantom of Zeferina,” she said without looking up.

  She sat on a mat and scribbled something in Arabic letters. I sat down and stared at her.

  “So you have seen her,” she said. “It is nothing. Old spirits wander through here all the time. We are all part of the same world.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “What about it, old mapmaker?” I looked but saw no one.

  “You know Zeferina, don’t you? How does a spirit court a spirit?”

  She looked at me and smiled and then was silent. I stared at the lines in the corners of her eyes, noticing for the first time that one of her eyes slanted down, the other slanted up. But if it had been that way before, wouldn’t I have noticed it? Perhaps it was the way her head was tilted. But no, she straightened it, and one still slanted down. She gave a short laugh and continued writing in Arabic letters.

  A Fanatical Man

  IT SEEMED AS IF ANNINHO was always on the roads, conveying messages, getting information, and as a free man he must have been very useful. Most of the time he did not take me with him, but sometimes he did. There was a man who lived not far from Palmares—in the forests.

  “Come I must go see German,” he said. “Come along.”

  I thought we would ride, but he said it was not very far, and I walked beside him, until we got to the narrow paths when I walked behind. Vines carpeted the path and clung thickly to the sides of trees.

  “Who is German?” I asked once, but when he did not answer I remained silent. Perhaps he had not heard me. When we got near the clearing and could see fresh sunlight, Anninho said, “Do not let the women frighten you . . . He is a madman, but he is useful.”

  We came into the clearing and saw the long mud and grass hut. But it was not the mud and grass hut that I watched but five Indian women lined up in front of it, one, the oldest sitting and smoking—the young ones busying themselves with their fingers, making mats. The old one occasionally mumbled something but in an Indian language. Their skin looked redder than it should have been and as we drew nearer, I became frightened. Anninho took my arm, but said nothing. The women’s skin looked raw, even their faces, as if it had been rubbed with bark or some grainy fiber. There was fresh bleeding over what looked like older scars—the skin of red crocodiles. I wanted to ask something, or to just make some sound but I could tell by Anninho’s manner that he did not wish for me to. All of the women were silent, as if they felt nothing. The young ones did not look up at us, going on with their work. The old woman looked at us, silent, puffing on her long pipe.

  “Where is German?” Anninho asked her.

  Before she could answer, a voice came from the dark interior, “I’m in here, man of good faith. I too do not believe in the Christian god.”

  “You don’t believe in any god,” Anninho said.

  We walked inside. Anninho bowed to him and he returned the bow. I could not see the man’s features, as he sat in the shadows, but he was a little, slender man. His movements seemed crooked, disjointed.

  Anninho sat on a mat and motioned for me to sit down beside him.

  “Who is the woman?” German asked.

  “My new wife,” Anninho said.

  German gave a short laugh. “Well, you have my blessing,” he said. Anninho was silent.

  “You should not have brought her here at this time,” German said. “My outlandish appearance.”

  “Their appearance,” Anninho said.

  “Shall I have one of my servants fix you something? Is there anything you would like? Any food or drink?”

  Anninho said, “No.”

  “See how I put up with him?” the man said, good-naturedly to me.

  I smiled, but said nothing. I was still uncertain though of what I had seen. I looked from Anninho to the man in the shadows.

  “What excuse do you have for coming?”

  “What excuse do you have for sending for me?” Anninho asked.

  “Why is she looking at me so?”

  “Almeyda? She can’t see you. Get to your business.”

  “It’s no business, it’s a story. It’s always some story your king wants told.”

  “Tell your story, German.”

  “Will your woman mind sitting with my women?”

  “German is playing games again,” Anninho said. “Go and sit next to the old woman.”

  “I’m no gamer. This man’s a gamer,” German said to me, as I rose.

  I stood still for a moment, thinking he would say something else, but he did not.

  I went out and sat down beside the old woman, who looked at me but said nothing.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” she asked suddenly. I looked at her.

  “You are afraid? Don’t be afraid of me. I’m Turi. One drop of Arabic blood, no other. Come and walk and talk with me. I’m an old woman.

  “What harm can I do? I did not do this thing to these women. I would not do such a thing. And you go in there? Come and go for a walk. We won’t go far. I want to gather some kurumikaa leaves to put on these women.

  “Do you want to go with me? Where we go, you can still see the hut from there.” She looked at me. “How can an old woman go very far in the body, though my spirit has been places you haven’t seen? My father was a paje. He taught me what to do. Come on. He will still protect you.”

  She took my arm, and we rose and walked behind the hut and to the edge of the clearing and near a small stream. I expected her to begin picking leaves from a certain plant, but she did not. Instead she sat down on a rock and told me to sit down.

  “You do not know the man you went in there to see,” she said. I could not tell if it were a question or a statement.

  “No,” I said, then I said it was my first time to come here.

  “I knew that,” she said, then, “He is the devil, he worships the devil, the devil and all his works through time,” she said. “I do not believe in the Christian god either, but I believe in some god. Do you see these trees around here, aren’t they blessed? Do you think He blessed them and disappeared? No, He is still here, and He knows my words before I do.

  “And His eyes never close. Do you know the peacock? It is the male peacock with all the eyes on his feathers, and the royal colors. That’s a blessed creature. Didn’t God bless that one with beauty? But the devil can make something beautiful too, to trick a person. I will get the kurumikaa leaves when you go, so the women will heal well. I want to talk now and tell you things. You are very beautiful, but don’t worry. I think it is the ‘eye’ that looks on you kindly. Do you know I have one drop of Arabic blood and no other? I am a very intelligent woman. I pray a lot. You know, in the old days, I never had seen a black woman before. No one had ever seen a black woman. That is why the African woman was captured. Those Indians had never seen one before, so that is why they tied her to a tree and tried to rub the black color off. They rubbed and rubbed but it would not come off. Was this not a woman? Was not this stranger human? They had not seen one before, so they skinned her and stuffed her with straw.”

  She looked at me, her eyes very wide. I closed my eyes, and opened them. She still looked at me, her eyes with some question.

  “We did not see the husband of the woman. Did he hide and watch them make the straw woman? He must have watched it to know
what was done to her. He did not rush out and show us a man we had never seen.

  “What would my man have done? Would he have rushed for me among strange savage people who had never seen a brown woman? But he did not. Now I have seen all kinds of people, every color. White with Negro features. But then they did not know Africans. Skin the color of the bark of some tree, but very smooth. Now I have seen everyone, but then there were no Africans here. Now I have seen everyone. We are all savage people who do not know what to do with strangers. And now what does that man do? He captures Indian women. Some he sells, others he keeps for his own women. Me he has kept because I am the paje’s daughter, and cure them as fast as he can destroy them. If I am the paje’s daughter, why don’t I give him some poison? He captures all the Indian women he can. If I am the paje’s daughter, why don’t I poison him? Once a month he ties them to a tree and rubs their skin till it bleeds. I heal it fast. I keep an infection from coming. But look what he has done to the beauty? They go about their work. They look at me and say, ‘You are the paje’s daughter.’ But what can I do? I heal them fast. I make it so there is no pain.”

  She looked up and I looked too to see Anninho standing against the back wall of the hut.

  “Go on with your man,” she said. “I will gather my kurumikaa leaves.

  “What can a paje’s daughter do but tell the story? I do not do the devil’s work. I pray all the time. Maybe the eternal ear will hear.”

  I said goodbye to the woman, saying something about perhaps seeing her again. She said something about her spirit’s journey.

  I walked up to Anninho and he took my arm.

  “Did you hear his story?” he asked when we left the clearing.

  “What?”

  “Did the old woman tell you German’s story?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You know it?”

  He said, “Yes.” I waited but he did not say anything nor did he tell me the story German told him. When we got back to our house, he left me at the door, saying that he had a message for the king.

  A Visit and a Draughtsman’s Plans

  IT WAS NIGHT WHEN WE TRAVELED to the place. I rode behind Anninho on the one horse. Anninho moved the horse easily through the narrow paths of the forest, through swampland where we saw a shy tapir who ran and hid behind a bush. It is said that tapirs are so shy that they hide during the day and only graze at night. And I have never seen one in the daytime.

  We left the swampland and rode along the bank of a river, and then through a wide valley. We rode up a small hill at the top of which was a building which looked like both a mansion and an unfinished castle, with high stone walls and towers. It did not look like something that belonged in the country of Brazil.

  “Why are we going to see a white man?” I whispered. “Does he have something to trade?” The word “traitor” suddenly came into my head.

  “He’s not a white man,” replied Anninho in low tones. “He’s Sudanese the same as I am. Maybe a drop or two of Arabic blood. He helped to design the parapets and lookout towers in Palmares. They call him a Moor, but he’s Sudanese.”

  Anninho gave several low whistles as we entered the wall. A light was lit in one of the ground windows. Anninho dismounted and helped me down. We walked between mangrove and palm trees up to the tall door.

  There were many bottles of water on the ground outside the door. The man let us in in silence. I could not make out his feature in the darkness, but he was as tall and broad-shouldered as Anninho. There was a wide entrance hall with many mats on the floor. He led us through an arched doorway into a large room with tile floors—red, green, and white. There was English and Dutch furniture, and oriental rugs. The man was wearing black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. I still saw only the back of him, his round bald head. He still had not spoken. When he turned I thought he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. His baldness gave his forehead a higher, broader, majestic, otherworldly look. His eyes were jet black, intense, sparkling. He seemed a serious man, but one who could jump quickly to humor at the proper occasion. His nose was long, but rounded and his lips smooth and full. There were slender lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked to be in his middle fifties though with the “sense” and vigor of a younger man. His complexion was dark but with a touch of red.

  Anninho and I sat in two chairs he pointed out to us. Tall-backed chairs. He sat in a similar one across from us, and crossed his legs. Though the floor had very elaborate, polished tiles, there were no wall decorations, except for a few Arabic inscriptions near the ceiling.

  “If I call any man my master and teacher it is this one,” said Anninho, as a way of introducing the man.

  The man looked at him with a barely perceptible twinkle and then looked at me.

  “This is Almeyda?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” Anninho replied.

  They said nothing to each other for a long time. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, but they didn’t seem to, as if their pleasure was in seeing each other.

  “Did you bring the draughts?” asked the man after a moment. I think he said “draughts” but I might be wrong.

  Anninho pulled up the loose sleeve of his shirt. Papers were tied around his arm. He undid the strings, and he and the man moved their chairs up to a low table, leaving me sitting alone, as they bent over several drawings. I could not make out the meaning of everything they were saying. But I will record as much of it as I remember in the way that I remember it.

  “This is the shape of the hull?” asked the man.

  “Yes.”

  “The smallest beam I . . .”

  “The length is almost ten times the beam.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible. For speed, ease of movement . . . I’ve combined some of the features of a warship and a merchantman here . . . These are my calculations of its speed and stability under different sea temperatures and weather conditions. Here’s a table of the different speeds.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Different loads. Heavier weights here . . . The first ship can be bought or hired but the others should be privately built . . . The difference between a shipowner and a shipbuilder, a shipowner who’s also a shipbuilder. You know my feelings on that matter.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “This can be shortened or enlarged by detaching this. You see? And it will have to be armed for protection from pirates.”

  “And slavers,” said the man, raising his eyebrows. “That goes without saying.”

  Silence.

  “I’m naming it Zumbi, the first one. All of this is for extra speed, rapid turning . . . But merchant shipping—that’s the only way. That’s what the world is about. Participation in trade rivalry. That’s what the New World’s about, and the old one. They’re always looking for new types and features. We’ll have all the crew. A number of black whaling men I’ve been in contact with. Do you know how many of the whaling men are black? And you’ve heard from that black shipowner in Massachusetts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we’ve got to take the risk if anything is to come of anything. Aprigio’s giving all his energies to Dutch shipbuilding interests. He could train the shipwrights, and I the marine architects and designers. But he has no faith in it. It’s all Palmares, and their meaningless raids. I don’t mean that. I understand the usefulness of that. But I’m very tired. Do you know what I mean? We have to develop something outside of that. Instead of wasting energies.”

  “Land is always important.”

  “Yes, but you don’t understand.”

  The man said something about the others not all having the “freedom of movement” of Anninho, and perhaps himself.

  Anninho was silent. Then he said something about intelligent men having to waste their intellect and energies on things that other men took easily and for granted.

  “But Aprigio would say it’s necessary. And he does it . . . So there’s you, myself, Cuffee in Massachusetts,
Alsace on Madagascar Island, Barcala when he returns to Holland, Mr. Iaiyesimi and trade with the West African coast.”

  “There’ll be others,” said Anninho.

  The man bent over the plans again. He questioned something. “That part of the design is experimental now. But Aprigio agrees we should try it. There’s a need for a new approach . . . They’re always spying for new designs—their marine architects will get it soon enough when it’s afloat . . . but why merely copy what’s already been done without contributing some new feature . . . This is the approximate scale of feet . . . sections, sail plan, deck plan . . . Note the shape here . . . just the underwater portion . . . Studied lines of a fish quick, agile, graceful . . . some scientific approach . . . No decoration . . . no carvings . . . sure it’s the style but we’re more concerned with performance than style . . . Phineas Pett’s masterpiece, an outstanding achievement for his time but hampered by the style, so forget the century’s style, all meaningful design . . . Look at this . . . But the key is to begin building our own craft as soon as possible. Start with the hired one and then move to this. The merchanting of course the first level, but if we get into conflict with any slavers . . .”

  “What does Aprigio think of your calculations?”

  “He’s studied the plans. He thought this was impractical, and I modified it. But he has no real faith. Even though he himself studied with a master builder. If it had been a Dutchman who had approached him five years ago he would have said it was possible.”