In the morning Ayo hugged the rag doll saying, “I call her Claudine. Claudine, Claudine....”
Phoebe smiled. “Claudine is a pretty name.”
Though Ayo was cheerful that morning, Abeje noticed her to be sleepy, and, more than that, a certain shadow hung about her. Abeje asked one of the women to bring a cup of the bitter tea that was brewing for the ill. Some of the needed plants were found growing nearby, and so there was yet a good supply. Already some from the Sick House had recovered. Abeje asked Phoebe to fetch her should the child seem poorly, and she did not come all that day while she worked. But then that night Ayo began to cry. She leaned against Phoebe and whined, “So cold, Maman... so cold!”
“Bring her inside,” said Abeje. They wrapped her in a long shawl. Abeje heard a voice say Do not leave her side. She lay beside the child on the sleeping mat. Fever came upon her, a spell that Abeje herself entered into as well. The hut became a grove where the plant spirits encircled them.
From the dark night rose the two spirits of Abeje and Ayo into a place of gentle sunlight. There they were, walking a road made of two paths, like tracks made by wagon wheels. On either side tall grasses grew, and among the grasses flowers of many colors. The child skipped and laughed, she gathered flowers, and seemed to say, We will take them to Papa!
The waves of grass became waves in the sea, tossing a ship. Three young ladies peered into the wind from a round window, two béké faces and one dark. Then came other visions that shifted and changed. Abeje saw Ayo’s small fingers, playing upon a line of little white plates, that went up and down and gave out music. She saw cold white feathers that fell from the sky. Houses and wagons and roads such as she had never seen before. She saw Ayo much older, and her face much older still, a grandmother who sat beside a candle, with a pair of spectacles on her nose. She held a quill in her hand, and she wrote on a paper....
Abeje then left her niece, pulled away, drawn as a leaf in a current. Below her was the Grove; it breathed. The whole of the Island was breathing, here and there other groves and patches of the old plants, the ones that covered the Island before they were cut away for cane. The sea was swirling around the Island, breathing in its own way. The creatures of the sea were but plants with different structures, able to propel themselves within the body of the sea, to eat and be eaten.
All the next day Abeje was wakeful, but too tired to rise. She lay beside Ayo who slept, still feverish but tranquil now. The women brought water, tea and maize porridge. That evening Abeje went again into the stream to cleanse herself, and slept well that night. Next day, when Abeje returned to the Sick House she sensed the fever among the people had now passed its peak, though it would be some weeks before it was finally spent. She had but a few days left at Mont Belcourt Estate to do what she could, and the people there now knew the plants they could brew for medicine.
Ayo recovered and they had their last evenings by the cooking fire. Abeje taught her Iya’s songs and she sang them to her rag doll, Claudine. The other children gathered round and wanted to learn also, and the songs became new when she heard the children sing them together. Abeje closed her eyes to listen. Their voices danced like the sun on the sea. She longed to see her brother. She had so much to tell him.
* * *
It was two more years before Adunbi earned permission from Old Monsieur to travel as far as Mont Belcourt to see his daughter, and it took him many Sundays of work to pay for his absence. When he returned her brother was much changed, reminding her of when he fell in love with his wife. He laughed and sighed when he told his sister the story of his visit, and he shook his head in wonder. Ayo, now twelve years old, looked just exactly like her mother, and was so clever. He said he would treasure those days all his life.
But that was not all.
Phoebe told him Madame Belcourt planned to send her two youngest children, Thérèse and Nicola, for schooling in Québec City, in the country of Canada, where Monsieur’s son now lived. Madame Belcourt had relations there, and she meant for Ayo to go with the girls as their maid.
Ayo told her father that one day, up at the Great House, she heard the Belcourt girls speak with their mother. Thérèse asked Madame Belcourt, “Maman, why can’t coloreds read and write?”
“I guess they are not smart like we are,” said Madame.
“Hetty is smart,” said Thérèse, meaning Ayo.
“That may be,” said Madame crossly, “but God does not want coloreds to learn letters. Their place is for helping their Monsieurs!”
Later when the three girls were alone Thérèse said to Nicola, “Hetty is smart, isn’t she?”
Nicola, who was the younger, said, “She surely is.”
Thérèse looked at Ayo and whispered, “Would ye like to learn letters, Hetty? If ye could?”
“Oui, I would,” said Ayo, a thrill of danger running through her.
“Why can’t we teach her ourselves?” said Nicola.
“That makes trouble,” said Ayo. She did not dare say more.
“When we are away in Québec City, then,” said Thérèse.
* * *
Adunbi told Abeje how Phoebe held Ayo’s small hand in hers, and he said to her, “She is your daughter,” by which he meant to ask Phoebe’s feelings. Phoebe nodded. Tears started from her eyes and Ayo wrapped her arms around her waist, around the only mother she knew.
“I want her to go,” said Phoebe. “Anything the Holy One gives me to bear is worth this chance for her. To be away from here, maybe someplace better.” To Ayo she said, “A mother may be away from you, but a mother’s love you carry in your heart. Isn’t that so?”
“Oui, Maman,” said the child, hope and sadness both dancing in her large, clear eyes.
Abeje listened closely to everything Adunbi said. She did not like to think of Ayo and Phoebe parting from each other. And still, she remembered the visions of Ayo and her destiny in a faraway place, Québec City, in the Provinces of Canada. Abeje recalled she heard about this land from Luc. He told her of free people, whole villages, that lived among békés in parts of America and Canada. There might be bridges for Ayo. This child might yet cross to freedom, while she was still alive on this earth.
Adunbi had more to tell. On his last night at Mont Belcourt, Ayo had asked her father, “Is the Irishman who brought me to my mother still living?”
“Groom, child? Oui, he is.”
“Can he read and write?”
“I expect so.”
“Then when I can write, I will send a letter to him, for you.”
“A letter...” Adunbi marveled. “Groom might be willing,” he said, “if it be kept secret.”
Ayo asked the name of Groom, the names of the sugar estate and the parish.
“I heard him say once,” said Adunbi, struck with an idea, “that his wife has relations in America.” Groom was married now.
“Then Groom’s wife will get a letter,” declared Ayo.
“From who, child? Not Miss Hetty Belcourt. That would be dangerous.”
“No,” said the child, gazing at her rag doll. “A letter will come from Claudine.”
* * *
In another year, Ayo was gone away with the Belcourt girls. She left behind three old people thinking of her and praying for her every day.
Abeje found she could still call upon the spirits of the plants for her, since spirit-path did not know distance any more than dreams knew the dreamer. And in this same way she called them also for Phoebe, especially Anaya, to soothe the jagged edges of that broken heart.
Now and again the Holy One brought Abeje young people. Brought them as she was brought to the Obeah woman, to learn. They were sometimes with her as little as a day or a week, sometimes for years, it all depended. However long they had, Abeje sought to ignite in them the healing flame. She saw their spark, and the tinder of their nature. Spirit had marked them, sure enough, and it was to them she sang her own song. Abeje taught them to listen to the plants, to feel the messages, to join in their han
ds the vibrations of plant and person. She sang them her own song to show how one creature joins another. Her way would not be their way, no. That could not be taught. But her way opened a door for them.
Abeje’s apprentices came to her in their young years, when they were wet clay. Solid enough to take shape, but still new. With her they became vessels of the healing. The girl Addie had quick hands, she set bones like no other. Tau and Pres pulled sickness from bodies like hauling boats onto shore. Camilla, so gentle, brought out new growth with a touch light as a feather. Bayard met Anaya, all on his own.
Eight years passed by after Ayo went to Canada. New faces came and old ones went, seasons turned, Spirit brought Abeje a young apprentice, another, and one more. Her brother and she trod the Earth, slept upon her, ate from her, helped nurture her creatures and helped bury the dead in her bosom.
One night Abeje dreamt of a big ship crossing the Sea.
In the morning Groom’s wife appeared at the barns, looking for Adunbi.
She was a kind woman, getting on in years herself, and her face was flushed from walking quickly. She said she had something for them. Adunbi went to find Abeje and they met her outside Groom’s small house. There was a large shade tree with some stumps arranged beneath it and they sat there. Groom’s wife drew a kerchief from her bodice, dabbed at her face, and then from the same folds in her dress took a pair of spectacles and a thick folded paper. There was writing on the paper and at once they knew. Adunbi took his sister’s hand. They scarcely breathed.
The letter was addressed to Groom and his wife, and came from Canada, from Québec City. She pointed to the place on the paper that bore a piece of writing called the address, where a letter might be sent back. Inside, the letter bore the date: November 1st, 1833. Groom’s wife read it out slowly. She said she was not so very good at reading, but they heard every word as if it were a song.
This was what it said:
...at long last I am fulfilling my promise to write to you. So long has been its delay. I pray this letter reaches you and that you are still living, and that you can forgive me. Many events and many obstacles stood in my way. I am a grown woman now, as you will guess, and have learned a great many things, including my letters and also to play piano…
Adunbi asked Groom’s wife to read over the first part again, it was so much to take in all at once. She obliged, and then continued as best she could.
...TB and NB have been kind to me, and though life is not always easy I have been very fortunate in many ways. TB and NB returned to the Island two years ago in the company of their cousin and I stayed behind as there wasn’t money enough for my passage. TB and NB told me on their return to Québec City that my mother had passed away. Apparently she fell ill, and in just a few days she died. They say she did not suffer much. This news was a bitter pain for me, but I feel she is at peace now, and I am grateful for that.
I also had another solace and that was in the form of a young man, Dax Rougeaux. Dax is a free man, a saddler by trade, who works in a shop not far from where we live. We have been acquainted now for about three years and he has become most dear to me. One year ago he asked for my hand, and then went to speak with TB and NB. They wrote to their father asking permission for me to marry, and also to allow that we make arrangements for Dax and me to purchase my worth from them. He did not object and so we have a plan. Dax works hard, and indeed I am also earning wages as I am often asked to play piano music at parties and teach lessons to children. I am very happy. We think we may save enough in another two or three years. TB and NB have gotten used to the idea of free people. Québec City has been a new world for them also. There are many who say that it won’t be long before all people are indeed free.
Here Groom’s wife mopped her face again with the kerchief. “I promise ye I won’t tell about this,” she said, “but ye must burn this letter when we’re through.” After catching her breath she continued reading. The letter went on to describe many things about life in Québec City, so many events such that Adunbi and Abeje felt transported across the Sea. It was as if they were there with Ayo, all these years gone by. At last she said,
I think often of you and the many things you taught me long ago. I feel you with me in my heart always, and I hope you know I have never forgotten you. One day, God willing, I will teach your songs to my own children.
Sincerely yours,
Claudine
After Groom’s wife finished reading, Adunbi and Abeje were too overcome to speak for a long time. Adunbi took the letter from her saying he would indeed burn it right away, so as not to risk bringing trouble on anyone. They thanked Groom’s wife very much for the great favor she had done for them.
All that day passed in wonder. That evening Adunbi sat by the fire holding his daughter’s letter.
“I am very tired,” he said. “We burn this in the morning. A little while I keep it with me.”
He went to lie down in the hut and Abeje brought his supper in to him. She placed it beside the sleeping mat. “I am happy, Beje,” he said, closing his eyes.
In the night Abeje dreamt she and her brother were once again little children, sitting on their mother’s lap, chattering and singing and laughing together. Their little hands were soft, and Iya planted kisses on them. As young and small as her brother was, he was still big and strong to Abeje, her wise and clever protector. Funny that his hair was black. For some reason she thought she remembered it being white.
“Don’t ever go away from me, Adu!” she cried, in her little girl’s voice.
“I won’t, Beje!” laughed he.
Iya held them and held them, and the stars sparkled above.
When Abeje woke in the morning, she saw her brother had not moved at all in the night. The letter lay on his chest, with his hand over it. His supper was untouched. And his body was cold.
That night they laid him in the ground beside Iya and Olivie. Groom came down to help dig the grave and also brought the hide of a goat. Abeje preserved a scrap of the letter where the address in Québec City was written, and the rest she left with her brother. The letter lay on his chest with his hand over it, as it had all night. They laid the goat hide over him and with it prayers that his animals would always keep him joyful company. Abeje broke their cooking pot and all placed shards on the grave.
The people brought her shawls and food and tea, and she kept vigil on the grave for a long time. She saw the Waking Star rise and set. The dream of them with Iya seemed to continue on. She watered the fresh earth with her tears. She had never known life without her Adu, but in truth she would never have to know. As long as she looked in her heart, her brother would always be there.
One or two months later Abeje awoke one morning with a feeling of great anticipation. She had no reason for this feeling, yet it flowed in all her movements. When she poured water for cooking she was suddenly reminded of the limestone cave in the Grove, and a place within where water formed a pool from a spring. After rains the spring gushed up with a force that made little flowing hillocks of water above the surface of the pool. Abeje could go now to the Grove most any time she needed to collect plants, as she had leave from the Monsieurs to do so. After all, she helped to protect their property.
So she went to the Grove, while it was still early, and set out toward the cave. As she approached she stumbled slightly and then felt her foot turn on some root or stone. She reached out, caught the smooth trunk of a small tree and fell toward it. She hugged herself to it. She breathed against it, feeling the life inside the tree.
Something inside her fell away.
She understood that the life of the tree was no different from her own. Opening her eyes she saw some ants treading over the bark.
These too were no different from herself. If they were not different, then what was she?
She was but salt in the water of the world. All of her elements were dissolved and were no longer separate from that which was not she.
She and not she were one thing.
Abeje felt no pain, but thought that surely this was death. That the moment had come. She thought of her brother, tall and strong like an old tree. He was also she, and she was he.
Abeje, the old woman, sat beside the tree, having sunk to the ground, for one moment or for all of eternity, she didn’t know. The sun traveled a long way across the sky, shining through the leaves of the tall trees, changing shadows all the while. Her body became thirsty, and thirst moved her, as it once had moved her and her brother from the grave of their mother. She made her way to the cave and drank from a stream that ran down from the spring. Abeje seemed not to be dying or dead, but very much alive indeed. In fact she would always be, had never been born and would never die. A great peace overtook her. She became the very heart of peace.
* * *
After this did life go on as before? It was the same and also changed. Everywhere she went she met herself. Everywhere she found peace. It lay behind all things, even sorrow and pain and fear. When she was not at work aiding sick and injured she looked after the little children, those who were weaned and not old enough for work. They followed Mémé Abeje around like little chicks. She taught them Iya’s songs, as she had with the children at Mont Belcourt. And she told them stories, which were their great delight.
By and by, Groom’s wife helped Abeje to write a letter to Ayo, another great miracle, so that words could journey back across the Sea and reach the child, now a grown woman, in the country of Canada.
Dear Claudine,
The Holy One carried your letter to us. Now may this paper be carried and placed into your own hands. We had such joy to hear about you...
Abeje told Ayo of her father’s last years, such as she could recall. She told her how he chased off the snake that fell upon her when they were little babes. She told her how he spoke to his wife so gently, and how wild songbirds landed on his fingers. Lastly:
House of Rougeaux Page 6
