by Susan Vaught
I’m an Amazon. I’ve come to fight this storm.
My hands will be steady this time. I won’t wait too long to shoot.
I’m ready for Zashar—and it’s at this moment that I think of you—and I falter.
My mind climbs backward in time to our last storm together.
I see you standing next to me on Haiti’s sand as the little hurricane swirled toward the shore.
“Il n’est pas Zashar,” you whisper as the wind twists toward us. “Next time, it might be her, and we could end this forever. We’re the last, child. And the last will have to do what all the rest couldn’t, or things will go bad for this world.”
Even now, I still feel your warm, oiled fingers in mine. I see the crinkle of your eyes when you smile, Ba. And then Agontime’s unexpected turn … the tug… her shouting… your smile … your hand, leaving mine.
And I remember.
You were smiling as you started to go under because of what Agontime was saying. About enough, about finishing this fight.
And you said, “This is right. Believe it’s right. Sometimes you have to let go to hold on.”
Chapter Fourteen
No time, no Place
We’re all on our feet now, except Crazy Sardine. He’s awake, and he throws off his mattress before pushing himself to one elbow.
“Are we flying in the air?” Miss Hattie asks from behind me.
“Yeah.” Gisele turns to face her as I keep my eyes forward, on the walls of rain that mark the storm. “Looks like a soap bubble, doesn’t it? Ruba sent the wind away and put us in the soap bubble.”
“I don’t think the wind’s gone,” says Grandmother Jones, pointing to bending trees all around our small, bright bubble. We can see only the top halves. “It’s still blowing.”
“We’re sailing,” I whisper. “Sailing on the storm.”
“I’m dreaming,” chants Clay. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.…”
The first footfall shakes the universe.
We sway inside the bubble.
“What in God’s name was that?” Miss Hattie shouts.
“That’s got nothing to do with God,” says Grandmother Jones.
“The storm witch is coming,” I tell them. I wheel around and glance into each pair of wide eyes. “No matter what you see, believe. No matter what you hear, don’t respond to it. Don’t speak to anything in the storm. No matter how well or poorly the battle goes, trust me, and you might live.”
All nod—except Grandmother Jones.
Another footfall slams against the coast.
Grandmother Jones sets her mouth in a straight line, and her face holds stark anger. “You brought this on us,” she says in a cold voice.
“This vengeance is far older than me,” I tell her. “Please, just don’t speak to her.”
Grandmother Jones does not believe me. I can see it in the tilt of her chin. “Admit it, Ruba. You put some spirit in this storm.”
“It’s the stormwitch, Grandmother, like I’ve been telling you.”
“Foolishness.”
BOOM!
“What is that?” bleats Clay. “You’re nuts, Ruba!”
Ray-boy kicks the mattress now lying beside the box spring. He’s holding his breath, nearly blue in the face, so badly does he want to speak.
I glower at him. “This is partly your fault. You stopped me from chanting the storm while it was weaker, still at sea. I could have taken on the witch better then, but now—this is what I have to do.”
Another thundering footstep makes my bones ache. “You just pray to whatever you believe in. Pray I can send Zashar back to the land of the dead.”
“And if you don’t?” Clay asks.
“She’ll kill us.” I shudder. “Then she’ll keep walking, and take this storm inland. She’ll cover the whole world in her hurricane, for as long as she can. She’s evil and angry, and she’ll hurt as many people as possible.”
My eyes return to Grandmother Jones. She says nothing.
“I fight on the side of right,” I whisper.
“Not my right,” she murmurs. “My god is the only right way.”
“Then speak to him!” I yell. “I’m not stopping you. Your god is mine, and mine, yours.”
Miss Hattie touches Grandmother Jones’s arm just as the world grows still and yet another footfall shatters our peace.
“The eye’s here,” I shout, too nervous to keep my voice low.
A laugh drifts forward, high and wild, like the mad yelp of a starving dog.
A cold light fills the stillness of the bubble I created. The moon and the stars break through drifting clouds. A shadow falls across me.
Gisele screams.
Miss Hattie gasps.
Grandmother Jones lifts her prayers toward heaven, and Ray-boy Frye starts to cry.
From Clay and Crazy Sardine, there is but a stunned silence.
I straighten my shoulders and try to stand tall. “Zashar,” I say.
“A child?” screams a voice straight from the depths. “Agaja sends a child against me? I did not think to have it so easy. Where’s the old one? Where is Ruba Cleo?”
I lower my raised fist, drop my hand behind my head, and withdraw an arrow from my quiver. My bow slides from my shoulder into my palm.
“She’s gone. I’m the only Amazon left for you to kill … if you can.”
I see her then.
Six sharp gasps tell me that the others see her, too.
Zashar towers as large as a mountain, dressed just as I am, wearing a guard cap so white it lights the night. Her crocodile mark winds dark blue and harsh against her ebony skin, and her crusted teeth seem sharp and brutal.
Bones rattle on her tunic. Moonlight flashes on her machete. A rifle as large and long as any cannon hangs in her belt. The stock droops heavy with cowry shells pasted in place with blood, one mollusk for each soul she has killed in battle.
Her right hand is raised, and her left is closed at her side.
Is she holding more shells? One for me, one for each of the people I love?
“Stand aside,” she rumbles.
I shake my head and nock the arrow. “No.”
She laughs and waves a hand. A great gust topples me backward. Beside me, Ray-boy covers his ears, and Clay shakes.
I struggle back to my feet, grateful I didn’t lose my bow or the arrow.
“Who are these?” Zashar snorts. “Old women, weak men—and a white beast? Give him to me. I’ll eat him first. If you give him to me, I’ll spare one of the others. One of the old ones, if you ask it. Give him to me!”
Ray-boy cowers closer to Clay, and Clay actually throws a protective arm across his shoulders. I can tell with one glance that Ray-boy is sure I’ll do this, that I’ll sacrifice him to save my grandmother.
The thought does tempt me, but only for a second.
“You’ll go hungry,” I say. “He’s under my protection, just like the rest.”
“Your protection?” The witch rattles the bubble and knocks me down again, this time harder. My face scrubs against the edge of a box spring and I feel my cheek bleed. “You make me laugh, girl.”
Once more, I find my feet and resettle my bow and arrow.
Zashar leans her hard black face into the bubble, toward Gisele, who stands silently at my side. “And you, little mouse. Come here. Let me see you.”
Gisele holds her ground. Brighter light swells around her, and Zashar steps back. “What is your name, little mouse?” she booms.
Gisele opens her mouth. My heart stops, but I can’t interfere with the choices of others. If she speaks to the witch, Zashar might confuse her and claim her.
I watch, chewing my own tongue, as Gisele slowly closes her lips. She glances at me, and she turns her back on the witch.
Zashar’s attention strays to Crazy Sardine. “You there, on your backside. Who might you be?”
Crazy Sardine gives me the same glance as his daughter, lowers himself back to the box spring, and closes his eyes.
> Clay and Miss Hattie don’t wait to be addressed. They turn from the witch before she calls them out.
“White boy!” shouts Zashar. “Have you come to speak for your own?”
Ray-boy flushes scarlet, but he doesn’t answer.
“Worse than grub worms, the white lot,” the witch continues. “Fat and pale, sloppy and sticky. You take what you can get.”
Ray-boy’s fists open and close, but he looks at me. I stare back without moving. It’s his choice.
Purple and sweating, he crams one fist in his mouth and flips over on the mattress.
And then Zashar’s chilly gaze passes to Grandmother Jones.
“I hear you speaking to your white god,” says the witch, and I worry. Grandmother Jones insists her god has no color, and she feels strongly about that.
Will she start an argument with the witch?
“You fancy this god a match for me?” Zashar asks.
Grandmother Jones trembles.
“Call him, then, old woman! Call down your god, or deny him with your silence!”
Grandmother Jones steps forward. She stands at my shoulder and stares at Zashar’s dark, foul bulk.
Outside our bubble, the trees begin to move again, ever so slightly, ever so gently, and I know the moment is coming.
I make myself keep my eyes on the witch and away from Grandmother Jones. If I look at my grandmother, I’ll beg her to be silent. I’ll sob and tell her how I don’t want to lose her, too.
I feel the soft brush of Grandmother Jones’s lips against my cheek.
“My god taught me not to talk to the devil,” she whispers in my ear, speaking to me and not the witch. “My god taught me not to give the devil any openings at all. That’s why you want us to be quiet. I understand.”
Then, I hear a rustle as she drops stiffly to her knees without comment to Zashar. She folds her work-worn hands, and closes her eyes. Speak she does, but in her own mind, to her own god and not to the witch.
“You stand alone, girl,” Zashar says to me.
“No,” I tell her. “You do.” I thrust out my bow. The arrow rests lightly against my finger. With my toe, I kick Agaja’s necklace, and I fire the first shot. It slips through our floating bubble, leaving a ripple in its wake.
Smoke and shimmers billow forth from the necklace, catching Zashar’s eye as my arrow flies true. She doesn’t notice it to dodge. While she stares at the necklace, the arrow strikes her large left knee. She still doesn’t seem to be aware of it.
“Aaahhh,” she hisses as the smoke from the necklace takes form around me.
A shadow-man stands with me now, handsome and youthful. His robes twinkle, brilliant silk, and he wears heavy pearls and glittering hammered gold.
“Begone, witch,” says Agaja, and he waves his beautiful wispy hands.
I fire my second arrow into Zashar’s right knee. Another ripple in the bubble, another true hit. She feels this one, and the other, and to my surprise, she sinks like Grandmother Jones in prayer.
“Once I killed your memory,” she growls to Agaja. “I killed your sons. It pleases me to kill your spirit, fool!”
She reaches for him, her hand pushing farther and farther into the bubble. The bubble shifts and distorts. It trembles, as if it might burst. My third and final arrow trembles against my finger, too. My nerves jangle. My arrow dips.
Zashar’s hand nears the spirit of King Agaja.
Suddenly, behind the witch’s head, I see a new glow. First one, then two, then flare after flare after flare. A face!
Ba’s face, grinning broadly.
And then another face, much like Ba’s. It must be Circe, my mother.
The witch’s hand falters and slows.
One by one, the stars come to be counted. Amazons beam at me from the sky, the white of their guard caps shining.
I straighten, and my arms feel young and strong. I gaze into the loving faces of my Amazon ancestors.
“Go back to the dead,” I yell at the witch, and I let fly the third arrow.
It leaves a bigger ripple in the bubble, then sails forward, a dream shaft, and lands between two strands of Zashar’s tunic. Just a prick to the heart, small as a pin, but tipped with love and the strength of all the generations of Amazons.
Zashar’s hand stops inches from the neck of my king, but still, she doesn’t fall, and she doesn’t retreat. I can tell she’s weakened, but not defeated.
The bubble holds against her thrust, but for how long? My body starts to shake.
I’ve fought her in all the ways Ba taught me. She’s half broken, and yet she stays. What’s left to do? I glance desperately at my bag. My herb jars have been broken and scattered. My oils are spilled. My machete is gone. There aren’t any extra arrows. My journal is the only thing left.
Shrugging off my quiver and dropping my bow, I reach for it. I don’t know what else to do.
Zashar, her hand still inches from Agaja’s spirit, watches me with mean, gleeful eyes.
I snatch up the journal and wield it like a shield.
And then, thinking of Grandmother Jones and all she’s taught me so far, I take the journal, step forward, and say, “Go. You won’t win. Together, we’re too strong for you.”
Holding the journal with both hands, I use the book to give Zashar’s outstretched hand a gentle push away from us.
To my surprise, the witch screams as I make contact. Where I touched her bubble-coated fingers, the walls of the magical shield harden and reject her.
She stands, then staggers and throws back her head.
“Aaaahhhh!” she bellows, holding the hand I touched with the journal, giving off blasts of wind strong enough to fell buildings and mighty oaks. They penetrate the bubble like my arrows, rippling, but leaving it intact.
I hold up my journal and chant, using the book to knock away the gusts. They spin back outside the shield I made.
“Aaaaahhhh!” Zashar shrieks, and the wind around our bubble grows steady. It buffets the rounded shield, tossing it like a child might toss a marble, up and down. Back and forth.
Grandmother Jones topples over, but I hold the journal in one hand and grasp my grandmother’s hand with the other. Miss Hattie joins the chain, and Clay, and Crazy Sardine. Ray-boy pushes in between them.
The bubble starts to dissolve. Wind breaks in. We are whipped around like feathers, anchored only by my grip and my will. Beneath my arm, Gisele somehow stands, and I see her reach toward my upraised arm.
Hold on to them, Ba seems to whisper in my ears. It’s not your time to go. You have years of love and battles ahead.
My legs grow weak.
Zashar thrashes.
The bubble sinks, lower and lower, losing its shape steadily as it plunges us into the wild surf.
Wind and water slam against me, an elephant made of storming air and waves.
I stand, and I stand, on the bit of protective bubble still holding us up. Then, I feel Gisele’s fingers close over my elbow. She clings to me and I cling to her as Zashar’s winds turn on her. The witch strikes out at the swirling storm, but it strikes back. It seems to have teeth. A mouth. Opening wide, wide, wider to swallow her.
The sea itself snaps at her, each bite making her less and less whole. Less and less real. Less and less here, less and less now.
Zashar runs away, kicking tides and waves as she goes. Back into the ocean, the darkness. Back into death.
She doesn’t look back.
The bubble sags.
We fall into the ocean, but I feel no pain, no cold, no fear. Light blinds me, and …
I see you, Ba, holding the gates between life and death, ready to close them behind Zashar.
You’re standing with my mother, waving. You look like you did when I was little, strong and full of energy. I see you blowing me kisses while King Agaja fades back into memory, and Zashar’s winds pound her farther and farther into death, where she can never find her way back.
And if she does, you’ll be there. With my mother
. With my foremothers. Guarding the gate.
I feel Gisele’s hand on my arm. I feel Grandmother Jones squeeze my fingers in hers, and I know. The Amazons live, Ba. In us. In me. In my family.
This is my first victory.
On the beach in Haiti—I think I understand.
I didn’t fail you. I didn’t let you go.
It was you. You let go of me, because you were sick and your strength was failing. You knew Zashar was coming because Agontime told you, and you trusted me to be strong enough to defeat her. You let go so that in the end, we could hold on.
I will always love you, Ba. I will always sense you in the night stars. My father, my mother, my grandmother, gone before me, but I’m not alone. I’m far from alone now.
Good-bye, Grand-mère Ruba.
Chapter Fifteen
Sometime, Someplace: After
A gentle rocking wakes me.
I’m floating, holding my wet journal to my chest with both hands.
Salt water laps my face. Rain drizzles across my body. My head rests on soggy cloth. I feel my tunic against my aching skin, wet with seawater and stained with my blood.
I sit up on a mattress in the ocean.
No! Not the ocean.
I’m bumping against a toppled cornice. Tops of trees poke through waves around me.
The ocean has swallowed Pass Christian, Mississippi.
I sink back to the waterlogged cloth and see nothing.
Chapter Sixteen
Monday, 18 August 1969
“Ruba?”
Someone shakes my shoulder.
“Ruba, open those eyes!”
My body feels still, though my mind has that floating sensation. I feel wet mattress with one hand and wet, hard ground with the other. The air smells wet and dank and dirty. I force my eyelids to cooperate, and Miss Hattie’s worried face blurs into view.
“Storm over?” I rasp, getting to my feet in sand and muck. My mattress apparently beached itself on branches and debris, and held fast as the storm surge pushed back out to sea.
“In a manner of speaking,” Miss Hattie says. She wraps the shreds of my cotton dress around me, covering my tunic.
Clay’s face looms at her elbow.
