by Arthurs, Nia
I tried to tread against the current, fighting the pull of the waves to move out of the box’s path. The heavy crate would have missed me had the sea not conspired to push me forward.
I felt a blast of pain as the wooden edge connected with my temple. My vision turned hazy. I fought against unconsciousness.
Thomas! I had to find Thomas!
My limbs slowly fell numb and my legs refused to move, despite how firmly I commanded them to. Sleep pulled at my eyelids and the cold seeped into my bones.
Darkness dragged me down. I gave in to its impatient demands. The night enveloped me so that I could not distinguish between the sky and the sea.
I saw my star, bright and beautiful in the distance and then it disappeared as I slipped fully into unconsciousness.
***
I woke suddenly, shooting to a sitting position and coughing up springs of sea water. The sky was bright overhead. My clothes were damp and clung to my chest like a disease. Mosquitoes buzzed around my head.
I brushed them away and inhaled deeply, turning my head and listening for signs of other survivors.
Apart from the call of tropical birds and the hazy smack of the waves against the shore line, there were no other sounds.
I was alone.
My thoughts turned to Thomas. A flash of grief crept into my cold heart. Death was a part of the human existence. I had become immune to the sorrow of it. Yet Thomas’s passing was painful to accept.
I darted toward the water, using my heightened vision to scan the horizon. There were no bodies floating in the distance.
I was in to my knees, my toes curling against the slimy feel of seaweed beneath my feet.
The Caribbean Sea was amazingly blue and very still, leaving no hints of the horrors it had wrought on the pirates and sailors the night before.
I took a deep breath and ducked underwater. Ignoring the sting of the salt in my eyes, I swam out and searched the sea bottom desperately.
I spent several minutes swimming as far as I could go, but in my weakened state, I eventually gave up and allowed the current to tug me back to shore. It was no use. Thomas had most likely perished.
It saddened me to think of it. I fisted my hands and pounded it against the sand as I lay flat on the beach.
“Why!” I screamed to the heavens. “Why would we meet so I could watch him die before his time?”
In my mind’s eye, I saw Thomas’s brilliant blue gaze and enthusiastic grin. He’d had no family, no home and no one on whom he could rely.
Captain Abrams often burdened him with chores meant for men twice his size, but I never saw Thomas complain. He had been in love with life and had been grateful for every second of it.
I recalled his reaction when we stumbled upon a pod of dolphins in the Atlantic Ocean. He’d held his tattered cap in his scrawny hands and screamed in exhilaration.
I hit my fists into the sand over and over again. I should have done more to save him. Had I used my abilities more quickly, I could have prevented the attack. I could have protected him like he’d asked.
Why hadn’t I…
My ears picked up the faint sound of a heartbeat thrashing in a chest. I tilted my head and listened closely.
In the stillness, I heard the rush of breath and the faint sounds of coughing. The island had picked up another survivor!
Thomas?
I scrambled to my feet and ran down the coastline. The hot sand stung my bare feet, making it hard to move, but I kept on.
I hopped over driftwood and darted around debris until I came upon a small figure.
Long, tangled brown hair spilled over slim shoulders in curly waves. Brown skin was visible above the tattered plains of a white slip.
Disappointment squeezed my throat so that I could barely breathe. I moved to turn away, but froze. How could I leave her like this?
I groaned even as I spun around and knelt by her side to turn her on her back. Her face was quite pretty. Her eyes were closed. Long, dark lashes rested against brown cheeks. Her lips were thick and full. I guessed her to be around fifteen years old.
The child’s eyes burst open and she began to cough violently. I helped her to a sitting position and knocked her back to get rid of the sea water. The girl breathed deeply, dragging in huge gulps of air.
When her eyes met mine, she screamed and pushed me away.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled.
With more energy than I expected, she rose and held the tattered remains of her dress away from her feet as she dashed down the shore.
I stared at her retreating figure and then closed my eyes. In the next instant, I stood before her.
She screamed when I materialized and began to claw and bite. It was quite a feat to pin her arms to her sides.
“Calm down,” I instructed. “I am not going to hurt you.”
She stared at me with distrust. Her eyebrows arched over large brown eyes. I wondered if she even spoke English.
Though I knew many African dialects, the languages in the continent of Africa were so numerous I’d had no opportunity to learn them all.
From her demeanor, dress, and appearance, I guessed that she was a slave. Pirate ships often traded in the industry and sold beautiful women for coins or tobacco in America.
“I am River,” I pointed to my chest. “I will not hurt you.”
She lifted her tiny chin, her eyes sparking with courage.
“Why should I believe you?”
Though the accent in her voice was heavy, I was happy to be understood.
I pointed to my chest where the shredded cloth of my shirt hung like palm leaves. “You will have to trust me,” I said.
She appraised my face. I wondered if the girl had ever seen anyone like me before.
My narrow, angular eyes, pale skin, and straight black hair often sparked curiosity in the people I met on my travels.
I felt her muscles relax and tentatively released her arms though I anticipated any attempts to flee. She remained still.
“I am Adivy,” she offered. “But you may call me Ivy.”
IVY AND I SPENT four days on the island. We built a shelter from the fronds of coconut trees, ate bananas and coconut meat and drank the milk from the coconuts.
We explored the coast, searching for other survivors or for items that could be of use in our survival.
The land was uninhabited and the items that had washed to shore were either destroyed by rain or sun.
Still we did not despair or lose hope. Ivy knew many useful things and was surprisingly bright.
She could salvage bits of material for dresses and mats. She spent most of her time while I searched, weaving baskets from the reeds.
Though the girl and I spent many hours together, we did not often speak. Our goal was survival and finding a way off the island.
But the silence did not last. On the fourth day, Ivy sat me down and told me her story.
Chapter 3
Ivy was born in Western Africa to the second wife of a chief in a small village.
She grew up working hard in the tiny thatch house that belonged to her mother and took care of her younger brothers and sisters.
One day, while Ivy was preparing food for the workers, she heard a loud cry. The men in the fields rushed to surround the compound with spears and bows. Ivy gathered her siblings and hid in her father’s hut.
Whispers of this visit had rippled all along the savannah but the moment had finally arrived. The slave traders were coming.
The battle was fierce and bloody. Ivy’s father was cut down by the slave-raiders who had arrived from the coast to take the children and youths.
The warriors were slain. Ivy and her siblings were abducted and forced to march to the coast where they would be sold to the European ships.
During the harsh journey, Ivy’s seven brothers and sisters perished. Ivy, along with fifteen other prisoners from her village, was forced to leave their bodies in the grass.
Through it all, Ivy d
id not cry.
Her capturers bound and straddled her with the wooden staff used for rearing oxen, but she held still.
The girl was forced to walk endlessly under the hot African sun with few water breaks, yet she did not falter.
Ivy held herself stiffly as her kidnappers touched her and abused her for her beauty. The thought of survival strengthened her and kept her silent.
Each step she took, she planned her escape. As her African brethren handed her off to the white man, she dreamt of her route to freedom.
As they packed her and over two hundred slaves in the hull of a ship with a stench so unbearable, people vomited in one whiff, she focused on her getaway.
Ivy never lost sight of her dream, even as pirates attacked the ship and captured her. Even as she watched countless friends commit suicide.
The storm had been a stroke of good fortune. Ivy used the pirates fighting with the Gee Luis crew as a distraction to make her escape and flung herself overboard. She did not consider it suicide.
“I wanted to live,” she said, looking at me with eyes that had seen too much evil. “It cannot be suicide if I wanted to live.”
Many times during Ivy’s story, I wanted her to stop. It was very hard for me to listen without becoming angry at the people who had caused her harm.
It was hard to hear her story without becoming angry at myself.
My abilities gave me an unfair advantage over humans. They also gave me the power to step in for people who were suffering from injustice. But I rarely did.
As Ivy spoke, I felt guilt for all the times I remained seated when something was worth standing up for. In those moments, I had blamed my coldness on the inevitability of death.
The consequence of every human life was that it ended. As much as the people on this planet squirmed around hoping to fill their days, they missed a vital truth.
Everything that had breath simply existed until that breath ran out. So why did they try so hard to prolong their own realities? Why push through only to survive for one more day?
Ivy’s story was a slap in the face of those doubts. Here was a human who had been through countless horrors, who had every right to desire death, and yet she fought for life.
Yes, many times during the retelling I wished Ivy would stop speaking. But I never told her to be quiet. For as much as her confession was a means to draw me into her life, it was also a cleansing of her soul.
Silence filled the beach when Ivy finished speaking. Even the waves and birds calmed their noise in respect of her.
I said nothing. What comfort could be offered after a tale so full of heartbreak?
‘I am sorry’ felt hollow and insincere. No one could repay to Ivy all that she’d lost. No apology could return her virtue or her family or her village.
Perhaps it was my regret for leaving Thomas to perish in the storm. Perhaps it was her moving story. Whatever the case, I made a decision that I had avoided for centuries.
“I will protect you,” I promised, staring at the little girl in the dirty white slip.
Ivy smiled. “You will try.”
She got up and moved toward the sea. We worked as usual, in silence and contemplation.
“Why are you called ‘River’?” Ivy inquired as we gathered coconuts to husk for supper.
It was the very first question she had asked of me. I reached for a coconut near the higher hanging branches and answered.
“A long time ago, I travelled to a settlement that had never been visited by sailors before. When I tried to convey that I had come on a ship, I pointed to the river that snaked through their territory so they could understand. The natives referred to me as ‘River’ for the rest of my stay. It is what I have used ever since.”
She nodded sagely and gathered the coconuts in her arms. I followed after her, confused by her sudden quiet.
“Do you have more questions?”
She shook her hair out of her face. “No.”
Unsettled, I caught up to Ivy as she deposited the coconuts next to our threadbare shelter.
“Do you not want to know where I have come from? If I have any stories to share?”
“No,” Ivy brushed the dirt from her hands. “You frighten me so I do not want to get to know you.”
I stared at her in shock. I frightened her? Had I not rescued her from certain death?
Had I not protected her from wild beasts?
Had I not remained by her side through the night when she curled up in fear from bad dreams?
“What is it that you are afraid of?”
She held her brown fingers in her lap and said nothing.
“Is it my appearance?” I held up a pale hand to the sun.
She fixed her eyes on the horizon as if I had not spoken. Was this what others felt when I ignored them?
Frustrated by her reticence, I insisted. “Is it my speech? My silence?”
Ivy swung her head toward me and flung an answer with casual ease.
“It is because your eyes are old.”
I was about to ask her another question when Ivy jumped to her feet.
“I knew it!” she scrambled toward the blue water lapping against the shore. “It’s a boat! It’s a boat!”
I rose as well, my heightened vision clearly outlining the ship and its occupants. The crew was well dressed. The contents of the crates were fine cloths and spices, indicating that they were merchants.
Choosing to take a chance on the captain’s grace, I grabbed Ivy’s hand and focused on the vessel that was, to the human eye, only vaguely apparent in the distance.
A moment later, we were aboard the ship.
Ivy yanked her hands away from mine and observed me with a frightened stare. Our presence was noted at once so I had no time to calm her.
“Who are you?” a sailor dressed in a stocky cap and brown vest pointed his finger at our sudden arrival.
I turned away from Ivy and addressed the gathering crowd. “My friend and I are survivors of the Gee Luis vessel that perished three days ago. We request an audience with your captain.”
“Your request is granted,” the kindly captain parted his crew. “Captain Rodney, at your service.”
“River, sir and Ivy,” I pointed to the girl who had her gaze on the planks beneath her dirty feet. “We are indebted to you.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Captain Rodney brushed my words away. “Where have you come from?” He peered over the side of the boat. “I see no canoes.”
“We were shipwrecked for three days on that island,” I jerked my head toward our refuge. “And the canoe was washed away.”
The captain observed me with shrewd eyes, but accepted the story.
“Well, you must be tired and hungry. Come and be whole.”
Captain Rodney invited us onto his ship. He shared his food and clothes and spoke freely with us. I learned vital information about the political and social climate of our American destination.
Ivy also asked questions and was treated with kindness and respect from not only Captain Rodney, but the crew. All in all, he seemed rather unaffected by Ivy’s skin tone.
I believe he got the wrong impression and assumed the young girl was my mistress. I did nothing to correct his assumption as it kept Ivy safe.
Unfortunately, all my efforts went completely unacknowledged by the girl. For the duration of the trip, Ivy kept her distance from me and conversed as little as possible.
Though I’d expected at least a tiny inquisition about my powers, I had not anticipated such a reaction. At the very least, I thought I had gained her trust.
The moody behavior of my young ward did not discourage me. As the ship neared the coast in the northern Americas, I made arrangements with Captain Rodney.
Slaves in America could purchase their freedom if they met the arranged price. It would not take me long to acquire the money that Ivy needed. I would see her safely off and then return to my travels.
It seemed a solid plan. It would also give me peace of m
ind to know that after all her trials Ivy could build herself a new life in America.
We were both on deck when the bustling pier appeared in the distance. Pelicans floated overhead and dived into the sea for their food. Other cargo ships sailed toward the mainland, dotting the horizon with big, black squares.
Ivy’s face was full of wonder. I kept one eye on her as she leaned over the rails to see the crowded port. Her fingers gripped the iron bars and she smiled in excitement.
A few minutes later, the ship docked in the port. Captain Rodney shook both our hands as we dismounted.
“If you need anything, just ask for us down by the pier,” he grasped my hand firmly. “I’ll be sure to help.”
“Thank you, sir.” I dipped my head in respect.
Ivy waved to the crew members and struck out on her own.
“Ivy!” I yelled as she marched away from me. “Ivy!”
The stubborn girl strolled through the crowd of people and was quickly swallowed up by the masses.
The melee of a hundred different tongues rose on the air. People of all colors bumped into each other as they haggled over the wares set in tightly woven baskets.
The stench of fish rotting in the hot sun and the thick scent of spices rose in the air. Crowds pressed around me so that I soon lost sight of the African girl.
“Ivy!”
“Hey, watch where you’re going!”
A woman angrily grasped her paper bag of French loaves that had toppled when I bumped into her.
“Joesonghamnida,” I said in Korean and then quickly translated. “I’m sorry.”
The woman harrumphed and went about her business. Strangely, the people in America did not seem at all surprised by my appearance.
I glanced around and realized that this nation had become a boiling pot of ethnicities. It was encouraging, but not helpful in locating my ward.
The crowds multiplied by the second. No matter how hard I looked I could not spot the dark-haired Ivy in the throng.
“Excuse me,” I rushed to a local vendor. “Did you see a black girl about this big go by?”
“No!” the man roughly dismissed me and then turned his attention to other potential customers.
