Invisible World

by Suzanne Weyn

  “Are you a witch, Bronwyn?” I asked her.

  “I mean no evil, so I am not a witch,” she replied. “Power is not witchcraft.”

  The next day, when I opened my eyes, I felt refreshed and happy from the dream. As I came fully awake, I realized that there was a new sound outside the barrel. It was no longer the monotonous roll and crash of distant waves. This was the splash of pounding surf.

  Sitting up, I peered out and took in the wondrous sight of a glistening sand beach. Behind it was a forest of ferns and tropical-looking foliage. The water here sparkled with bluer hues than out in the dark ocean.

  Sliding from the barrel, I tried to swim hand over hand but discovered that I was too weak. Instead, I lay on my back, stroking as best I could and letting the current carry me forward.

  Near the shore, the surf crashed, throwing white spray into the air and rolling me off my back. As I came to my feet, I let the breakers push and knock me under without caring; I was so filled with elation at seeing solid ground.

  When I finally emerged from the pounding surf and staggered forward, my legs buckled beneath me, dropping me to my knees.

  I knelt in the shallows of the surf between ocean and land. A warm breeze wafted around me as I absorbed the reality of my new situation.

  I was alive and I was on land!

  But I was alone and scared. What would happen to me?

  Where was Kate? Father? Were they even alive?

  Had I really seen Bronwyn? Had she been just a dream?

  And then the odd, floaty, mental limbo I was in broke. Everything became vivid. I was in a world of bright color and sound: Waves crashed, birds squawked, the leaves whispered in the ocean breeze. I was famished, weak, exhausted. My muscles ached, my throat was sore, my lips were cracked.

  Unbridled tears flooded from my eyes. All the fears I couldn’t afford to think about those days in my lonely, wet barrel overpowered me now. Loud, racked shouts of despair emanated from deep within me.

  I knelt there in the surf of this strange land, engulfed in my own vast sorrow.

  I don’t remember crawling up onto the beach, or even falling asleep, but I must have done so, because I awoke encrusted in sand, with my back against a boulder.

  The gentle lavender-gray of pre-dawn revealed a calm ocean pulsing against a sublime beach dotted with large pieces of gnarled, sundried wood. Despite the earliness of the hour, the heat was already tangible, as though it was a blanket wrapping itself around my body.

  In this paradise I felt myself to be a sand-coated barnacle, a seabird with broken bones tossed on the shore, a crab with a cracked shell. It was as if sand had found its way into my very joints. My physical complaints were too numerous to count — jagged fingernails, blistered lips, splinters, and cuts, to name only a few.

  The most awful hurt by far was the roar in my belly. The twist and churn of my stomach was like no pain I’d ever endured. Its agony reached into my brain, filling me with a furious rage at one moment and deathlike despair at the next. Yet I didn’t have the strength required to get up and search for food. I didn’t even have the stamina to sit up from my prone position.

  Though the weather was hot, my teeth chattered. And that’s when — through the blur of my rising tears — I saw the miracle.

  A mere arm’s reach from me was a green basket woven from some sort of reed. The shinier, more vivid green showing on top seemed to be a lining made from some sort of big leaf. Reaching as quickly as my aching arms could manage, I pulled the woven basket toward me. Inside was a hand-carved wooden bowl filled to the top with brown rice.

  Was this a dream? If it was, I didn’t care.

  With trembling hands, I shoveled the sticky grains into my mouth, barely chewing or tasting, only consuming. In a few more minutes, the nutty goodness spread through my body, wrapping me in bliss. Never had any other food given me such complete pleasure.

  But who had left this bowl of rice?

  Of course I hoped that the rice meant that there were people nearby who could help me. Why had they not shown themselves?

  The only thing to do was to set out in search of these people. To keep cool, I walked at the edges of the water — splashing through, the ocean breeze whipping my nightgown, tossing my hair. My muscles still ached, but the rice and the beauty of my surroundings had gone far to revive my body and spirit.

  My travels took me along marshland bordered by tall grass. Birds called back and forth to one another, and insects buzzed and chirped in a nonstop cacophony. I jumped back, startled, when a pair of whitish-blue wings with the same expanse as my own outspread arms rose up from out of the grass.

  An angel? It was a fantastical thought, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.

  The next moment revealed the creature to be a most beautiful bird with a long graceful neck and elongated legs. I’d seen it in a book once — a blue heron. The bird landed in the marsh waters, dipping its neck to fish for its supper. Rising again, with a smallish fish in its beak, it once more spread its majestic wings and flew away.

  It wasn’t all perfection, though. I began swatting high-whining mosquitoes as I walked. I also cut my heel, just a little, on a sharp stick.

  The marsh seemed to end at the foot of a shadowy wooded area. Immense, wide-spreading oaks with thick branches emanating from a single thick trunk grew close together. Each oak was draped in fat strands of Spanish moss that fell straight down from its branches. The giant trees were so tightly packed that I had the impression that I would be entering an interior rather than an outdoor space if I were to step under the canopy of their leaves.

  I considered exploring this area, but feared going in where there might be unfamiliar wildlife and where hazards would be less easily seen. After I knew my way around a little better, I would venture into the tangled forest.

  Heading back the same way I had come, I followed the marshland and then the shoreline back to the spot at which I’d begun. I could recognize the place easily because I’d left the woven basket atop the boulder beside which I’d slept.

  By the time I got back to the boulder, the sun was well past its highest point — I guessed it to be between three and four o’clock. I was once again famished … and very thirsty.

  And I also had the strongest sensation that someone was watching me.

  Mus tek cyear a de root fa heal de tree.

  The voice was inside my head and I heard it clearly.

  Father had taught us Spanish, French, and some Latin. I recognized a few English words in the sentence but I had no idea what it meant.

  “Hello?” I called, aiming my voice toward the boulder where I most strongly sensed the presence. “Are you there? Can you help me?”

  No one answered, and a nervous fear slowly crept through me. What if this person wasn’t friendly? It might not be the same individual who had left the rice earlier.

  Udat tittuh? Ibidio?

  I heard the voice again in my head. This time I could tell it was a male voice. From the inflection, I realized he was asking a question. Was he wondering who I was and why I was there?

  I waved my arm widely. “Hello! Can you help me?”

  Njoso?

  What sort of language was this? Where exactly was I? Could I have blown so far off course that I was in China, or Egypt, or Africa? I hadn’t been at sea more than three days. Was it possible?

  Anxious but eager to discover who this could be, I began walking toward the boulder. Almost at once there was a rustling in a bush behind it. “Don’t go!” I shouted. “Please don’t go! I won’t hurt you!”

  A branch snapped farther off. The person was leaving. I broke into a run, desperate to catch whoever it was. Beyond the boulder was thick foliage that I tore through, leaping over tangled vines and fallen trees. I stopped, though, when I came to more of the moss-strewn trees. Again, I was not willing to enter that realm of dim, dappled half-light.

  My mind was on this strange encounter as I returned to my boulder. As soon as I got
there, I checked the basket to see if my visitor had left me anything new. There was more rice, and this time it was dotted with some kind of vegetable I’d never seen before — a green oblong cone about as long as my fingers. It was warm, as was the rice.

  Somewhere nearby, someone was cooking.

  Beside the bowl was a metal container loosely covered with another piece of metal. When I opened it, I cried out with pleasure.

  Three pieces of hot coal glowed at the bottom of the can.

  Forgetting my food for the moment, I raced out onto the beach with my container of coals. Setting it down with the utmost care, I pulled together a pile of the bleached-white branches that were all over the beach and carried them back to the boulder. There I built them into a tower and tipped the burning coals on top. I smiled broadly as it burst into flame.

  After a hot supper, I searched the beach for every piece of wood I could find so that my wonderful conflagration wouldn’t die down. Luckily, deadwood was plentiful on the beach.

  That night, I lay beside my fire, listening to the thundering waves. A crescent was missing from the side of the waning full moon, but it still threw silver ribbons on the restless sea.

  Something black flew across the moon and I guessed it was a bat. It made me think of Bronwyn. Was she still flying around out there or had she found her way back to her body? I thought she must be back in her body — otherwise why didn’t she come to find me as she had on those other nights out at sea? And then I recalled that she might not have really come at all. Those late-night visits might have been — probably were — a dream. Still, I hoped they’d been real.

  Sitting back on my elbows, I gazed up at the expanse of stars twinkling against the velvety deep blue night. What was out there? The mysteries of the world seemed so vast and unknowable.

  A brilliant light twinkled across the night. A shooting star! I made a wish — Let Father, Kate, and Bronwyn be safe!

  The steadily pounding surf lulled me and I curled up on the sand, my knees pulled to my chest, my hands tucked under my head for a pillow.

  I wondered what would happen to me. It was no good for me to just stay here on the beach.

  Tomorrow I would not let the mysterious trees frighten me, I decided. When the sun came up, I would enter the forest and try to discover who else was living here.

  IN THE MORNING, MY RUMBLING STOMACH DEMANDED FOOD and water. I glanced to the boulder, hoping to spy another gift from my mysterious benefactor, but there was nothing.

  Heading into the surf, I wondered where to begin digging for oysters or clams. Was there a sign to look for? As I pondered this, I wandered knee-deep into the water, wiggling my toes in the sand, hoping to detect the hard shell of an oyster.

  “No! No!”

  It was the male voice I’d heard the other day. But this voice was not in my head.

  A young man with very dark skin and very dark hair was running toward me, waving his arms wildly. He wore a blue cotton shirt that was half open and blew behind him. His tan pants were held up with a green reed and his feet were bare. Around his neck he wore a blue glass bead tied to a leather cord. He was about my age, maybe a little older.

  “Get out of there!” he shouted as he splashed through the surf. With amazing speed, he scooped me into his arms and ran back onto the beach, where he gently put me down. “There are sharks in those waters!” he cried. “They feed right in this area.”

  Never in my life had I seen a person with such black skin. In a London Museum, I had once seen a statue carved of ebony; this young man’s skin was just as black and I thought him every bit as beautiful as the statue. I was so enchanted at the sight of him that words failed to form in my mind or mouth.

  “Sharks!” he exclaimed, exasperated by my blankness. “You know what they are, don’t you?”

  I didn’t, so I shook my head.

  He held his arms wide and I could see he was strong, with lean muscles. “It’s a big, big fish with very sharp teeth.” The picture that formed in my head was nothing I had ever seen — it was coming directly from his mind. And it was awful — a man lying on the beach, blood spilling from his hip from where his leg used to be but was no more.

  I gasped sharply in horror, my hands flying to my face.

  “Yes!” he shouted, seeing that I suddenly comprehended. “It will eat you. It’s very horrible. Believe me. I have seen what a shark can do.”

  I knew that was true.

  He gestured toward the ocean. “They come in very close this time of year. No one on the island swims here. Bin yah don’t swim at all, really. Only the comeya get eaten.”

  “Bin yah? Comeya?” I questioned, confused.

  He smiled. “That’s island Gullah,” he explained. “Bin yah are from families who have been on the island for twenty years, since the first plantations were settled here. The comeya are newcomers, folks who have not been here nearly as long, like me.” His voice was low and he had an accent that I didn’t recognize.

  “You speak English. Where am I?” I asked.

  “Of course I speak English. Back in Africa — before I came here — I worked for the Richards and George Company. They export palm oil from Africa. My father and I were employed by them since I was a buhbuh.”

  “A what?”

  “A little boy.”

  “I speak English and I have never heard the word buhbuh,” I said. “Is it more Gullah?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is Gullah?”

  “It’s what we speak here. Some words are English; others are from my home in Africa, Sierra Leone, and other nearby places and tribes.”

  “Are we in Africa?” I asked.

  He roared with laughter. “You are a crazy girl! No, you are in America. How is it that you don’t know where you are? Are you lost?”

  “I’m very, very lost,” I told him. “The ship I was on sank. I floated here in a barrel.”

  “A barrel?!” he cried incredulously. “What a brave girl you are! A barrel?!”

  “I was lucky to find it. I wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t.”

  The young man rubbed his chin. “I thought you were a njoso — a forest spirit.”

  That made me laugh. “You did?”

  “Yes. I left you gifts so you would be good to the people of my village.”

  “I thank you very much for them, even though I am not a forest spirit. They kept me alive.”

  “How can I be sure you are not a forest spirit?” he asked, though I sensed that now he was teasing. “It is the only explanation. You are obviously not Gullah — you are far too pale for that. And in that raggy dress, I can tell you are not ibidio either.”

  The words njoso and ibidio: I’d heard them the other day. Now that he spoke, I realized he was the one who had been watching me. “What do you mean by those?” I asked. “More Gullah?”

  He nodded. “Ibidio is the white man, the slave owners. If you were of a slave-owner family, you would be dressed much finer than that.”

  “Slave owners?” I questioned. “Are you a slave?”

  A slave. What a horrible thing. I didn’t want to sound as upset as I felt.

  “Born free in Sierra Leone, but when my father was captured and enslaved, I was with him. When he died last year, I was shipped here from Bunce Island. I’m being trained to be a driver, which I don’t really like, but there are worse things.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “People.”

  “People?”

  “Most of the bosses are gone now for the summer. They won’t be back until the fall. It’s too hot for them now. Plus, they don’t want the yellow fever and malaria. It doesn’t affect us like it does them. In fact, we brought the diseases with us from West Africa.”

  “You did?”

  “They call West Africa ‘The White Man’s Grave.’ The slavers are afraid to even come ashore.”

  “They should have stayed away,” I remarked.

  “Oh, how I wish that they had,” he agreed. “Well,
we brought lots of things from home with us, and those illnesses were among them.” He shrugged. “We did not ask to come.”

  “So the slave keepers are not here now?”

  “No. They take off and leave us on our own when it gets too hot for them to bear. Things are much, much nicer here when they’re gone. You picked a good time to come. This is the happy time of year.”

  “I didn’t exactly select it,” I pointed out.

  “True, but you’re in luck, just the same. It’s very hot, though. I have to admit that.”

  “You said you are a driver. Where do you drive the people?”

  At this, he laughed heartily. “I drive them crazy!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, not understanding but smiling, because his laughter was contagious.

  “I drive them onward to keep working. A driver is a slave foreman. It’s the slave guy who is in charge when the white bosses are gone.”

  “Have they taught you about rice farming?”

  “No, funny girl, we teach them. On the West Africa coast, we grow rice, so the slavers in this part of America ask for us in particular because we know more about rice farming than they do. Before he was enslaved, my father was a rice farmer and he taught me.” His expression became distant. I felt certain he was remembering his childhood in Sierra Leone, and didn’t want to listen in to be sure.

  “They picked me to be a foreman because the tea company trained me as a stock boy and taught me to read and write English so I could do the job. As well as my native Fula, I can also speak both Gullah and English. People think we only use Gullah here on the island, but I learned it back on Bunce Island. It’s a language that blends English with African words from many different African tribes. It helped to have one way to communicate when so many captives were coming into the Bunce Island port from such varied areas, speaking so many different languages. Mostly the words are from West Africa.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Wadmalaw Island. By the way, I am named Aakif,” he said, taking my hand. “The bosses call me John, but I don’t use that name among my family and friends. What can I call you — since we are going to be friends?”