The Star Side of Bird Hill

by Naomi Jackson

  OLD YEAR’S NIGHT IN BIRD HILL found the new moon with a copper ring licking its edges. Watch night service started at seven o’clock, and by eleven, low notes and a hum of hymns were laying the ground for Father Loving’s sermon, the words that would carry them over into a new year. At home, black-eyed peas that had been cooking all day stood cooling on the stove. The black cake that wasn’t eaten at Christmas was wrapped carefully in waxed paper. Oranges that would be passed around at midnight, to give the bittersweet taste that the year ahead would certainly bring, were in coolers by the baptismal font. All who could come had come, because the people on the hill thought that if the new year found them on their knees, the months that followed might bring what they prayed for.

  In the pews, hill women tried to keep their minds on the Lord, but their thoughts strayed. Hyacinth wondered whether her jug-jug would keep. As they were saying prayers for the church they had adopted in a country in Africa whose name Hyacinth could never pronounce, all she could think of was how long she’d spent making the dish even though she was sure only the old-timers would eat it. The young people were corralled into the church hall, a couple teenagers left to keep watch, because the five-hour church service was too much to ask of a child.

  While Hyacinth and the other hill women and some of its men tried to stay focused on the Lord, Phaedra sat in the church hall with Donna, Chris, and Angelique Ward, who, after the mango-eating incident, had joined their crew. They ate sweetbread Hyacinth made and Phaedra tried to avoid getting her birthday licks by reminding everyone that her birthday was technically almost over. Something about turning eleven in Barbados made the fact of Avril’s death real for Phaedra. This time there was no hope for her mother’s arrival, because Avril was where she would always be now, silent and below the ground. And this fact, rather than saddening Phaedra, settled in beside her, the way that the hill’s red dust filmed her white clothes, the way that sand lined her pockets days and weeks after she’d come home from the beach. It was always there, a reminder of what had come before.

  They were all on their third and fourth cups of Fanta and the feeling in the air was one of sugar-fueled giddiness, of sitting on the precipice of the unknown. The children, who were too young to be fearful or resigned about the future, were considering what to do next, when Simone Saveur left her roost at the center of her girlfriends to approach Phaedra and her friends.

  “So I hear you have a birthday?” Simone said.

  Phaedra nodded.

  “Congrats,” she said, and Phaedra knew not to accept at face value either the question or her goodwill. “Wunna tell she already about the fire hag?” Simone asked Donna and Chris and Angelique, as if Bajan were a foreign tongue Phaedra could not understand.

  “Oh, don’t start with that nonsense,” Angelique said. Despite having broken off from the clique of Simone Saveur and her henchwomen, Angelique retained her favored status because of her beauty and the trips she took to England each year to see her father. She could brush off Simone with a confidence the others didn’t dare.

  “What story?” Phaedra said, leaning forward and directly addressing Simone, which was easier to do now that they’d spent an entire term together in school.

  “How old you say you turning again?” Simone asked.

  “Eleven,” Phaedra said.

  “Well, if I were you, I would be careful walking home tonight. The fire hag does like to take girls on their eleventh birthdays.”

  Angelique touched Phaedra’s shoulders, trying to smooth the curves alarm had etched into them. “It’s just an old wife’s tale. They told me the same story to try and scare me on my birthday,” Angelique said breezily.

  Donna, a notorious frighten Friday, was edging out of her seat and toward the snack table. Phaedra grabbed Donna by the wrists and pulled her down to her seat.

  “I want to hear it,” Phaedra said. She felt for the braids her grandmother had plaited for her, loose like she liked, and tucked under so her neck could stay cool.

  “I don’t know why you want to hear that foolishness. All it’s going to do is get you worked up,” Angelique cautioned.

  Tanya Tompkins had assumed her place as Simone Saveur’s yes-woman in the power vacuum created by Angelique’s defection. She walked over in her new low-heeled patent leather shoes from her clique’s spot below the cross. “Well, it can’t be total foolishness if everybody says it’s true. My cousin said that she knew a girl who knew a girl who had a friend who had a cousin that it happened to,” Tanya said.

  “That certainly sounds believable,” Angelique said, throwing her hair over her right shoulder.

  “Nobody ain’t ask you, Angelique. Phaedra, you want to hear the story or not?” Simone said.

  “Yes, please,” Phaedra said, and leaned back into the folding chair around which Chris had draped his arm. The smell of his underarms was pleasant to Phaedra. It was funny to Chris, the weird things she liked about him. Her affection for him always came as a surprise, and he cherished it more for the ways in which it was unexpected, peculiarly Phaedra.

  “You want to tell it then, Pokie?” Simone asked. Angelique furrowed her lips at the sound of her nickname. The sixth-formers called her Pocahontas because of the two braids that ran thick and glossy down her back. Phaedra looked at Angelique’s hair and wondered at her friend’s confidence in wearing her power openly.

  “Fine, then, I’ll tell it,” Angelique said. She stood up and started in a voice that was so smooth it sounded like she’d just drunk her nightly dose of cod-liver oil.

  “Back in the old, old times, the Arawaks and the Caribs roamed Barbados. They mostly lived peacefully but occasionally a fight would break out among the tribes and then they would go to war. There was one Arawak woman who was a witch doctor. She was the sole survivor of an attack on her village in which everyone was killed.”

  Phaedra looked at the children who sat cross-legged around Angelique, the ones who had just moments before been racing the length of the church hall, running the hems of their shirts out of their pants and unraveling their freshly done hair from its barrettes. When she’d first come to Bird Hill the other children had all seemed the same to her, but she could see them more clearly now. There was Samson, the middle child of seven Rastafarian children, whose locks were wrapped in two mounds the size of footballs at the nape of his neck. There were the identical twins Timothy and Thomas, inveterate nose-pickers despite teasing, and Donna’s cousin, Kaylin, whose seizures had stopped after her mother finally gave in and let Hyacinth see about her. Knowing these children, their families, and their stories made Phaedra feel like she belonged, and being among them made the story feel less scary than it was.

  “Once she’d buried the last of her people, the witch doctor was thirsty for revenge. The devil knew that he needed to make a pact with her to stop the war. The fire hag, as she was known, was given three powers. She would live forever. She could shape-shift into any animal or human being. And she could fly in a ball of fire as far as she could imagine, leaving her skin behind her. The fire hag was greedy. And so she asked the devil if there was no blood for her in her new power. The devil agreed that as payment for her people that had been wiped out, she could make her own sacrifices.

  “Now people say that the fire hag preys on the night of their eleventh birthdays. If she finds these girls alone, she wraps them up in her ball of fire, takes them back to the cave where she lives in Chalky Mount, and cooks them. People say that when the fog is thick over Chalky Mount, it’s the smoke from girls the fire hag is cooking that you see.” A shriek went up among the younger kids. Angelique paused until they simmered down, and then she continued.

  “Once the fire hag has your daughter, there are only two ways that parents can get her back. Both involve going to her cave at night. If she’s taken flight, they can burn the skin that she leaves behind. When the fire hag feels her skin burning, she will return to her cave and give th
e people’s child back to them. Or, if they find her in her skin, they can drop a bag of rice on the floor. The fire hag has to count every grain, and start again if she drops even one piece. While she’s counting, the parents can rescue their child.”

  Angelique turned to Phaedra, whose skin had blanched. “Satisfied?” Angelique asked, and looked around for an answer in the crowd that had gathered.

  Phaedra jumped when the door between the sanctuary and the church hall banged open. She fully expected the fire hag, and not her grandmother, to be standing there.

  On the walk home, Phaedra turned to Hyacinth. “Granny, did you ever hear the story about the fire hag?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “They said she comes for girls on the night of their eleventh birthday.”

  “Phaedra.”

  “Yes, Gran?”

  “I ain’t teach you well enough to know when somebody is pulling your leg?”

  “But the things she was talking about sounded real. Tanya Tompkins said her cousin’s friend’s cousin had it happen to her and her parents had to go looking for her.”

  “So, what would you do if the fire hag came for you then?”

  Phaedra looked down at her hands, hoping they might somehow hold an answer for her. She remembered a night when her mother, in her cups, her eyes gone glassy, had told her, “The one mistake I made was in thinking that someone could save me. First it was England, and then it was your father, and then it was you girls. You girls are the only things that ever came close. But still. I can tell you for sure one thing. You can’t wait for someone else to save you from the life you made for yourself. If I teach you girls anything, I hope it’s how to gird up your loins and face the fate that’s yours.” Her mother moaned then, and even now, Phaedra could hear Avril’s voice trembling with tears.

  “Phaedra Ann Braithwaite, don’t you know enough to keep yourself well?” Hyacinth asked.

  Phaedra nodded, wanting to be sure. She looked up at the stars and the red-ringed moon for an answer but all she could hear was the sound of her mother’s voice, and in it the sea of regrets she’d lived and then drowned in. What she wanted more than anything was to believe what Avril had told her, and the summer had taught her, was true, that she could save herself if she needed to.

  “There’s nothing that can come for you that between me, you, your sister, and God we can’t handle. You hearing me?”

  “Yes, Granny,” Phaedra said.

  “Right, then,” Hyacinth said, considering the matter settled.

  Acknowledgments

  Shari Jackson Oyefeso, my sister and first friend, has been an unflagging supporter of me and my writing. I thank you and Ademola for being so kind and for making beautiful children, Aaron Adejola and Ella-Adeniké, who I hope to write books for one day. Neil and Kim Harvey, I’m so grateful to have you as my brother and sister-in-law; I can’t wait to see who Emmanuel grows up to be.

  My parents, Reginald and Sadie Jackson, have shown me how big their love is. Thank you is just a start.

  My mother, Cheryl Rose, first unlocked the world of literature for me, for which I will always be grateful.

  My grandmother Ruth Jackson taught me so much about life and generosity. I’m not sure this book would be here if she hadn’t kicked me out of her room and back into the world.

  Thank you to my grandmother Oriel Brewster, a woman of infinite wit. I pray she is looking down from above with a wry smile.

  Thank you to my godmother, and number one fan, Evelyn Meade.

  To my JA family—Shauna and Jason, Shav and Shamar, Deidre, and the extended clan—thank you for the jokes and inspiration.

  To the Jackson family, my cousins Jeffrey, Nikki, Vincent, Rodney, Michelle, Michael, Maurice, Haniff, Marlon and Raquel, all my aunts and uncles, Tanty Chrissy, Vincent and Erin, Patrick, Cynthia and Morris, and Janet, I hope you see some of yourself and the summers we spent together in this book. Uncle Carlton, I’ll never forget how much you taught me about loving and living with a big heart.

  Friendship has made walking this path bearable by making it less lonely. I am deeply grateful for the literal and figurative shelter provided by my dear friends Jaynemarie Angbah, Vanessa Agard-Jones, Tisa Bryant, Sunu Chandy, Celeste Doaks, Shamaine Francis, Rhashidah Hilliard, Ronak Kapadia, Jason King, Thomas Lax, Brinda Maira and Chad Jones, Ayanda Mngadi, Kamilah Aisha Moon, Ariadne Papagapitos, Ra Ruiz Leon, Nicole Sealey, Shante Smalls, Glenn Solomon-Hill and Sara Whetstone, and Andrea Williams. I am grateful for all the little ones who were born around the same time as this book, especially my godchildren Tessa Pearl and Langston.

  Thank you to the friends who helped me see Barbados anew. Lisa Harewood, your guidance shaped this book more than you’ll ever take credit for, but I still want to “give Jack he jacket.” Sasha Archer, Tammy Jacyna, and Lisa Marshall, thank you for showing me a magical time in Bimshire. Arquita Cunningham, your resourcefulness allowed me a soft landing so I could do my work. Shout-out to my neighbors in Fairholne Gardens. Love to Mrs. Pauline Gittens and family, Beresford Yearwood, Marva Forde, and Ethnie Weekes. Sheena Rose, thank you for the gift of your artwork and your irrepressible spirit.

  Shout-out to my Philly crew, Asali Solomon, Jos Duncan, Essence Ward, Pooja Mehta, Nina Ball, Anya Dennis, Tsitsi Ella Jaji, Deborah Thomas, John Jackson, and Duarte Geraldino, who helped me get to work and play during the last round of writing. A special thanks is in order to Jessica Lowenthal, Alli Katz, and Andrew Beal at the University of Pennsylvania’s Kelly Writers House, and the fantastic Literary Boot Camp participants.

  Thank you to my agent, Julia Masnik, for her unwavering belief in and tireless work on behalf of me and of this book. You had me when you summoned the specter of the shiv.

  Many thanks are due to Andrea Walker. You set this dream in motion and brought me in from the literal and proverbial cold.

  Thanks to the incredible team at Penguin Press for your manifold efforts in support of this book. First, deep gratitude to my editor, Virginia Smith-Younce, for her grace, eye, and care. Thanks to the entire Press staff, especially Sofia Groopman, William Carnes, Sarah Hutson, Juliana Kiyan, Matt Boyd, Caitlin O’Shaughnessy, Darren Haggar, Ted Gilley, Ann Godoff, and Scott Moyers for their work to bring this book to the world.

  This book would not be what it is without all-star readers. I am especially grateful for the women of my writing group at Powder Keg, Sharon Lerner, Holly Morris, Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai, and Lorelei Williams, as well as Samantha Thornhill, Kamilah Aisha Moon, and Wura-Natasha Ogunji. Susannah Shive made me see this book’s ending in an entirely new way. Mya Spalter’s razor-sharp eye and magic whipped early drafts into shape, and got me righted on course.

  I treasure the community of talented writers and friends at Iowa who brought light and levity to my time there, especially Susannah Shive, Chinelo Okparanta, Alexia Arthurs, Stephen Narain, Yaa Gyasi, and Nana Kweti. Sylvea Hollis and Reinaldo, thank you for keeping me in good humor and health. Marcus Burke and Mary Coats, thank you for your friendship and for making your home in Iowa City an extension of my own. Michael Hill and Sandra Sousa, thank you for the education and your kindness. Modei Akyea, thank you for the dances, meals, and laughs. Sydne Mahone, thank you for being an ecstatic reader and mentor, and reminding me that my destiny was intact.

  Thank you to all my colleagues at the Russell Sage Foundation, Rockefeller Brothers Fund, and the Studio Museum in Harlem, especially Aixa Cintron-Velez, who looked the other way when I started writing at work; and to Ben Rodriguez-Cubenas, Doreen Wang, Haki Abazi, Shenyu Belsky, Betsy Campbell, and Ben Shute. A special thanks to Carolyn Caddle-Steele and Leona Hewitt for their encouragement.

  Thank you to all my writing teachers, especially Kimiko Hahn, Tyehimba Jess, ZZ Packer, Marilynne Robinson, Ayana Mathis, and Sam Chang, whose phone call changed everything. Special thanks to Connie Brothers, Deb West, Jan Zenisek, and Kelly Smith for your supp
ort when I was at the Workshop. And thanks to the writing communities where my words first formed—Cave Canem poetry workshops in New York City, the Frederick Douglass Creative Arts Center, and Tongues Afire writing workshop at the Audre Lorde Project.

  I am grateful to the remarkable writers whose work informed this book, especially Toni Cade Bambara, Paule Marshall, Jamaica Kincaid, Edwidge Danticat, Tiphanie Yanique, Marlon James, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

  The financial and moral resources of several institutions underwrote the writing of this novel. The University of Iowa and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop gave me the gift of three years to write, through the Maytag Fellowship for Excellence in Fiction, the Dean’s Graduate Fellowship, and the Stanley Graduate Award for International Research. I wrote portions of this book during the ArtsEdge residency at the University of Pennsylvania’s Kelly Writers House. I am especially grateful for two residencies at Hedgebrook Writers Retreat, where this manuscript came to life, and for Amy Wheeler’s cheerful leadership there. I’m grateful for support from the Point Foundation both in graduate school and beyond, especially from Vince Garcia and Scott Arneson.

  And lastly, thank you and love to one-in-a-million Lola Flash. I couldn’t have chosen a better companion and champion for this journey’s last leg.

  For anyone whom I’ve forgotten to mention here, but who knows that their story, mine, and this book’s are deeply intertwined, thank you.

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