The Truth About Awiti

by CP Patrick

  We walked up the winding staircase to Massa’s bedroom. It was a large room, with high ceilings and lots of windows with heavy, shiny, white curtains hanging to the floor. The Missus was in the bed. She was covered with lots of thick blankets and looked to be sleeping.

  All the slaves said the Missus was set die soon. She was a pretty lady and always kind. But once she got sick, we didn’t see her as often. And whenever we did see the Missus, she looked frail. Like if she fell down she would break into little pieces. I remember hoping she didn’t die while I was in the room that night.

  I stood by the side of the bed, and the Missus opened her eyes. She gave me a weak smile before closing her eyes and going back to sleep. Then I felt Massa’s hands around my waist. He pulled my pants down to the floor. I stood there naked, feeling ashamed. I didn’t feel right being in the Massa’s bedroom without my pants on.

  “Get in the bed, boy,” Massa said. “Lie at the bottom.”

  I tried to do as Massa instructed. That was the first thing Mama taught me—always mind what Massa say to do. But the bed was large and wide, made of dark wood and four tall posts, one at each corner. It was high, and I couldn’t climb in by myself. Massa reached down, picked me up, and put me in the bed with the Missus.

  I lay across the bottom of the bed like Massa said. The white sheets were cool and soft. Goosebumps started to form on my naked body. There was that hot-cold feeling on my skin, but I didn’t know what it meant back then.

  Massa lifted the blankets from the Missus. Then he took her feet and placed them on my chest and stomach. The Missus’ feet were cold. Massa made me stay there all night to keep them warm. He looked at me and smiled as I warmed the Missus’ feet. That was why he needed me.

  I warmed the Missus’ feet until the day she died. That was a sad morning. The Missus was nice, and death always seemed wrong when it happened to nice people. After she died, I thought I would return to being with Mama at night. I was looking forward to sleeping with her again. But the same day they buried the Missus, Massa come to get me. Mama’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Be strong, baby,” she told me.

  That hot-cold feeling come over me right then. And it never went away until the day I died.

  When we got to Massa’s bedroom, he made me undress like before. And when I lay in the bed, he lay right beside me. Massa touched all over my naked body. He felt on the part that made me a boy until it became hard. I felt strange inside. And afraid. Every part of me was hot-cold. And I started to cry.

  “Don’t cry, Amos,” Massa said. “Nothing is wrong. You belong to me.”

  After Massa touched on me, he made me lie at the foot of the bed like normal, and he put his big feet against my naked body. Massa slept, but I stayed awake all night.

  I wanted to cry again, but I was afraid. I didn’t want to wake Massa and have him start touching on me again. And the hot-cold feeling wouldn’t let me sleep. Voice inside kept telling me to get up and run, but I couldn’t move.

  Massa touched on me for a few nights, and then, one night, he made me touch him. He took the parts that made him a man and put them in my mouth. I tried to fight him, but Massa slapped me across the face so hard I fell to the floor.

  “Stop crying, boy,” he yelled. “You mind what I say! You belong to me. Now you mind what I say!”

  Then Massa did things to my body. Bad things that made my insides hurt. And every night, up until the day I died, Massa hurt my body with his own. At the time, I didn’t think I was dying. Just thought I was suffering from having Massa’s hate inside me. But I was—dying, that is.

  The night I died, Massa seemed sad. He pulled out his bible and asked God to forgive him. Then Massa wrapped my body in his bloodied sheets and buried me on the part of the plantation the slaves were forbidden. He buried me along with his hate and his secrets, all of it covered with dirt in a shallow grave.

  But someone was always watching. Old Jonny told Mama what he saw that night—Massa out walking late at night with a shovel and carrying something wrapped in a white sheet that looked to be my size.

  I watched from above as Mama cried on the floor of her cabin all night. Some of her friends tried to comfort her, but she couldn’t stop weeping. Seeing Mama cry was hard. I wanted her to know the pain was over, but there was no way for us to be together again.

  It wasn’t even two days after Massa killed me that he went to the slave quarters and took another boy from his mama’s bed. The boy’s name was Antony, and he was a tad younger than me. We used to play together before I died. Antony was nice boy.

  I couldn’t stop looking over the plantation. I didn’t want Antony to suffer the way I had. So I pushed down. I went into the Massa’s bedroom right as he was pulling down Antony’s pants. And I showed myself.

  Seemed like Massa didn’t believe what he was seeing. He blinked several times. I stood real still because I wanted him to know it was me. Antony ran from the room, his pants gathered around his little ankles.

  He yelled, “It’s a haunt in the house!” His screams pierced the quiet stillness of the house.

  The chambermaids came running, and I pushed myself up out of Massa’s bedroom and faded into the night. Antony’s pants were still around his ankles, his nakedness exposed. The chambermaids looked on the scene and said nothing. But their glaring eyes shamed Massa.

  Massa didn’t sleep that first night I showed myself. He read from his bible and drank from a glass bottle. Seemed like me showing myself would be enough to stop Massa, but it wasn’t long before he went back to the slave quarters to get Antony from his mama’s bed. His mama cried and tried to hold on to him. Word had quickly spread Antony was found running from Massa’s bedroom with his pants pulled down.

  “Don’t take my baby,” Antony’s mama cried.

  “Shut your mouth, wench. He ain’t yours, or did you forget your place? The boy belongs to me.”

  Massa slapped Antony’s mama right across her face, so hard she fell to the ground. Then he told her to hush unless she wanted the whip.

  I was waiting for Massa when they returned to his bedroom. I made sure I looked real serious. The light from the moon shined on my bruises and showed the blood running down my legs. I wished I could speak.

  I wanted to scream, “You let Antony alone!”

  But all I could do was show myself.

  Luckily, the second time I showed myself was enough to scare Massa for good. It wasn’t long before he sold his plantation. He took his slaves and his secrets to some other part of South Carolina.

  I was sad to see Mama leave. Before Massa left with his slaves, Mama came to find where I was buried. She cried as she sang-talked about how much she loved me.

  Lots of folks came to the plantation back then, hoping to buy it. But I didn’t want nobody living here with these bad memories. So any time someone came looking to purchase the land, I showed myself. I did other things to scare folks too. Made the floors creak or the cupboards rattle. Sometimes I’d rush past folks real fast so they’d feel a cool breeze. Soon word spread the Davis Plantation was haunted, and no one wanted to buy it. So it became mine.

  Only a few times I felt bad about showing myself. A real fine couple came by. A young man and his wife. The woman was real pretty. Her hair was red and shiny. She reminded me of an apple.

  “Would you look at these beautiful windows, Wilbert,” she said. She sounded like a good Southern lady, one who entertained like the Missus did before she got sick and died.

  “Yes, Charlotte, they are lovely,” her husband replied. But he didn’t sound like he meant it.

  I rushed past her, a colorless blur.

  “Oh my,” Charlotte said, gathering her shawl around her. “There is one mighty draft in here.”

  “Go look around the kitchen, darling,” he dismissed her.

  She seemed used to him being mean and wandered off to explore the house without him.

  I followed her from room to room, watching her admire this and that. She talk
ed to herself about how fabulous the floors would be once they were restored. I wasn’t planning to show myself, because she seemed real nice. But then she went into the Massa’s bedroom. She started twirling around the room like it was the happiest place, singing about how she finally found the house she always wanted.

  I couldn’t let her live here. She was nice. So I showed myself. Felt bad about scaring her. But she needed to know.

  And then there was the one family I wish had bought the plantation. The family with the boy named Pete. At first, Pete was scared when he saw me. Couldn’t blame him, especially seeing my soiled clothing and bruised body. He was about my age the day I died.

  I smiled at him. I wanted him to know I was friendly, didn’t mean him no harm. And Pete smiled back. He reached out to touch me, real slow. When his hand went right through me, he jumped back. Don’t know why that made me laugh. Pete started laughing too.

  While his folks looked around the house, Pete and I talked about friendship. He didn’t have a lot of friends, so I promised to be his friend. We had a grand time playing hide-and-seek all about the plantation. And Pete’s folks almost bought the place.

  “Well, your boy sure seems to love this place,” the realtor said. “What do you think, young man? Should your father buy you and your mother this place?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pete said. “I quite like it.”

  “And what do you like about it so much?” the realtor asked with a smile.

  “Well, for starters,” Pete began, “I’ve already made a friend. There’s a Colored boy in here, and we’ve had a grand time.”

  Pete couldn’t stop talking about all the fun we had.

  “Stop talking, Pete,” I whispered. “You scaring your folks.”

  But it was too late. Pete’s mama fainted right there in the foyer. The realtor and Pete’s pappy had to carry her outside to get some fresh air.

  “Ain’t no way they buying the house now,” I said.

  “I reckon you’re right.” Pete seemed sad about it, even sadder than me.

  “Well, Pete, it sure was nice to meet you.”

  “Come with me,” Pete begged. “We can play in whatever house my folks buy.”

  I wanted to go. It sounded like fun, an adventure. Problem was, unlike me, Pete wouldn’t always be a young boy. So we had to say goodbye. Pete was the last friend I had until Awiti came along.

  “Are there any places that don’t have hate?” I asked Awiti one day.

  “No such place can be found for Black people,” Awiti said.

  “Not one place in this whole world?”

  “Not one, Amos.”

  This made me sad.

  “Well, can we make one?” I asked. “You know, a place where Black folks can be happy?”

  “And how would we do that, Amos?”

  “I think we just need a place to start over. Like in the bible when God washed away the hate with rain and a big ol’ flood.”

  “Now that I can do,” Awiti said with a smile.

  “You can make rain?” I asked. “And floods?”

  “Yes. And you can too.”

  That’s what I wanted to do. I could hear Mama sing-talking in my ear, telling me to make everything all right. Since God’s tears couldn’t do it, maybe I could try.

  “Teach me, Awiti.”

  16

  lost and found

  Galveston Bay, TX (1900)

  There was a time when the Ishak lived free. We respected Mother Earth. The land and game were plentiful. The Ishak knew to take only what we needed and to leave the land as we found it. This was before the White man arrived. The Ishak and the White man, we were like day and night. We could not dwell together.

  They wanted to settle the land. And they set about to destroy all life that stood in their way. Land, trees, animals, and even people. It did not matter. Whatever stood in the White man’s way of what he wanted, he destroyed.

  Our Chief tried to reason with the White man’s chief. But he learned White men had many chiefs. And so our Chief decided, before we lost everything to the White man’s need to settle, we would leave. For a danger foreseen is half-avoided.

  Although many of the Ishak wanted to stay, our Chief said, “I have prayed, and the ancestors have told me what is best for the Ishak. We are one people. And we will live as one people. Let us find a new land to call home before the White man destroys us just as he has destroyed Mother Earth.”

  We travelled to Galveston Bay. There, with many other tribes forced to flee their homes, we found peace. The Ishak knew to walk lightly in the spring when Mother Earth was pregnant. We were wise with our resources. We knew the frog should not drink up the pond in which he lives. But the White man did not know these things.

  The Ishak promised to tell each other if we ever saw White men.

  “If you see the White man here in Galveston Bay, do not try to stop him. Tell the others so we can be prepared. Wherever the White man is, destruction will follow.”

  It was often we encountered people with black and brown skin. Runaway slaves seeking to escape the White man’s need to have others to do his work. We welcomed them, understanding their desire for freedom. But living amongst us was not their intent. Most passed through. All except Awiti.

  When Awiti first arrived, I could see her for who she was. A burdened spirit trapped in an immortal body. Her past was an anchor around her neck.

  “I am Teche,” I told her. “And you are welcome here. I know what you are, and while I do not know what ails you, come be with the Ishak. Come find peace.”

  As a Healer, I made it my purpose to rebuild Awiti’s spirit so she would walk upright again. It is important to not let yesterday use up too much of today. I believe that is why Awiti stayed.

  I never question the Great One. It is not my place. But I do know no one was created to be alone. And so the Ishak welcomed Awiti.

  “One has come to live among the Ishak. She is alone, and we know this is not the way of the Great One. Let us make it known Awiti is welcome here.”

  That night, as we celebrated and made sacrifices in her honor, Awiti did not speak. Even in the midst of love, she was encased in her sadness.

  Awiti looked like the Ishak. Brown skin and thick dark hair, her dark eyes always pleading for the love being part of a family can bring.

  After much prayer, I spoke with our Chief.

  “I can heal Awiti.” I said. “I can calm the sadness and anger that brews within her. Let her become one of us.”

  With the blessing of our Chief, Awiti became one of the Ishak.

  We shared a bond of suffering—the loss of our lands and family at the hands of the White man. It was often we spoke of their unbelievable arrogance to not learn our names but to call us whatever they wished. Through her travels and witnessing the cruelty of so many, Awiti understood us. Her own story was so full of pain, it was no wonder her damaged spirit weighed her down.

  “You know suffering, Teche,” Awiti told me one day. “But you do not know suffering like I know suffering.”

  “It is not my job nor does it serve any purpose to compare our wounds, Awiti. Each of us has scars. Proof our wounds have begun to heal.”

  “My wounds will never heal, Teche.”

  “Yes,” I assured her, “your wounds will heal, Awiti. You will never be the same, but you will be better than who you were each day before. That is the process of healing.”

  I served as Awiti’s Healer. My concern was not for Awiti’s immortal body, but rather for her spirit. I know spirits who are not at peace can bring about great destruction.

  Awiti possessed the power to resist the temptation to destroy. This would always be a constant struggle. The battle to choose good over evil. Both the living and the dead fought this same war.

  It was often I had to remind Awiti, “Life is not separate from death. It only looks that way.”

  Awiti’s spirit would never cross over, but if she could find peace, she could live fulfilled in her immortality. Th
is was my prayer for Awiti.

  I taught her to shape-shift. She would find great pleasure turning into various animals. Her favorite was a black bird. Awiti would soar the skies of Galveston Bay wild and free, her black wings bold against the blue sky.

  “Look at me, Teche,” Awiti exclaimed. “Look at me fly. I am free!”

  These things calmed Awiti’s life force. Belonging to the Ishak. Learning to fight the constant battle between good and evil. Being able to take a form other than her immortal body. These blessings silenced the spirit of the wind that once raged inside of her. And Awiti was at peace for many years.

  At first, Awiti spent much time alone. I believe she reflected on her life. She dealt with the memories she needed to put to rest. She would hunt alone, fish alone, and pray alone. But Awiti knew she was not alone, for she was one of the Ishak.

  This made the difference in her healing. Soon, Awiti’s spirit was in a place to be open and receptive to receiving love. And this was a good thing. For the heavens did not create the spirit to be alone. It needed love for survival, to reach its fullness.

  This is why the Ishak were happy when Awiti became fond of Flying Eagle. They would fly in the blue sky together in silence. Flying Eagle knew it would take time for her spirit to be completely open to love. Partially, yes. That was always easy. But loving completely after great suffering is more difficult.

  “Teche,” Awiti said in disbelief, “I cannot believe there is someone to love me for what I am.”

  Flying Eagle was patient. And in time, Awiti was never alone. They hunted together. Fished together. Prayed together. He knew Awiti was immortal, and thus, she would not be with him forever. But it did not matter. They looked forward to the time they had to share. Knowing her life was infinite and his death was certain made them cherish each day.

  You see, true love sees no fault. No obstacles. Flying Eagle did not care Awiti could not have children, or that she would always stay youthful in appearance while he grew old. One day, he would die. And that too did not matter. For they are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind.