Nyira and the Invisible Boy

by K. M. Harrell

  “We must be sure that he is not one who would reveal our hiding places to the white men,” he said.

  “I have spoken with him, uncle,” said Enriquillo. “He is sad to be away from his home, but happy to be free. He would never return to slavery of his own free will.”

  “We still must be vigilant, nephew. The dark ones are treated badly by the French planters, and some of them have weak spirits that will respond to fake kindness and give anything to their masters.”

  “I understand, uncle.”

  “Now take the dark one to his cave, and if he proves to be true, then in time you may take him to your mother cave.”

  “Thank you, uncle. Are we to fish tonight?”

  “Yes. I will show you a secret cove that your father used exclusively.”

  When Enriquillo visited Abiodun, he brought cassava bread, fruit from Jaceux’s lower orchards in the jungle, and fish he had caught. Abiodun was delighted by the company, but Enriquillo couldn’t convince him to leave his hiding place. Abiodun was afraid of being re-captured. In his mind, the overseer had eyes everywhere. He was certain that were he to set foot outside the cave, Etienne would descend from the cliffs above, bent on his destruction.

  “White men don’t live in the mountains,” said Enriquillo. “They never leave the town or their plantations.”

  Abiodun grew quiet when Enriquillo spoke of white men.

  “He is searching everywhere,” whispered Abiodun. “I hear him at night, shuffling along the cliffs.” He sat at the little fire in his cave, with his hands folded in his lap; he looked down at them as if to ponder the relentlessness of Etienne.

  Enriquillo, who had been hiding all his life, still had trouble comprehending his friend’s fear.

  “We are high above the valley. He would need wings to get up here. White men don’t have wings!”

  “Some of them do,” replied Abiodun. “I’ve heard stories. Others who ran away were captured within a few days. They don’t—”

  “Where did you hear such stories?” asked Enriquillo, looking around inside the enclosure. “There’s no one here but you.”

  “I’ve heard them,” replied Abiodun, stubbornly. “All slaves know of them.”

  “But you’re not a slave anymore. You’re free! I don’t understand.” He was so frustrated he couldn’t speak. He sat on the ground near the entrance of the cave and leaned his head against the rock. It was like trying to convince water it was wet.

  “What good is being free, if you can’t ‘be’ free?”

  Abiodun looked at his friend.

  “Thank you for what you’ve done for me, Enriquillo. I didn’t realize being free was so hard. I don’t think I’ll ever really be free, until I can go home, to my family.”

  Enriquillo gazed about the cave at the strange keepsakes Abiodun took with them during their escape. One item was a long-handled tool with two curved blades at the end.

  “It is used to open the soil for seeds to be planted,” he said when asked why he wanted it. It leaned against the cave wall in the far corner. He also had the remains of the ragged garment he’d worn, suspended from a protrusion in the wall. The flimsy item performed a mocking dance when a breeze made its way into the enclosure.

  Enriquillo became angry.

  “The overseer doesn’t need to find you,” he said, as he stood up to leave. “You never escaped. You’ve just imprisoned yourself in here.”

  The sun had started to go down, and the shadows crept into the cave.

  “If you never go outside, what chance do you have to return home?” He stepped out onto the trail and walked to the ridge overlooking the valley above the town. Enriquillo cried. He missed Arak, who died because he wanted to be outside with him, and here was Abiodun, afraid to be. What could he do?

  “All right,” he heard Abiodun say. He turned and saw him standing in the mouth of the cave.

  At first, Enriquillo was excited. While Abiodun looked like he was staring over the edge of the cliff—he didn’t want to scare him back into the cave. The sun had gone down, and the sky was cloudy, covering the moon, so he decided to try something different.

  ”What kind of games did you play in your village, when the sun went down?” he asked. The question seemed to make Abiodun forget his fear.

  “Chase the Leopard,” he replied and smiled. A good sign.

  “That sounds like fun,” said Enriquillo. He went to stand beside his friend. “How is it played?”

  Abiodun gazed at the cliffs above and at the rocks and boulders strewn about the ridge. “We would need to be in the jungle,” replied Abiodun.

  “That’s not very far away,” said Enriquillo, smiling. “I’ll race you there.”

  Abiodun got quiet, and Enriquillo was afraid he’d asked too much. Then his bright teeth showed as he smiled. “I’ll give you a head start,” he said. “I’ve always been the fastest in my village.”

  Enriquillo soon discovered it was no idle boast. Even with a significant lead, Abiodun blew past him like a hot wind, just as they got to the edge of the jungle. He then explained the rules of Chase the Leopard.

  “You can’t use your invisibility, Enriquillo. That would be cheating,” said Abiodun. “Leopards are quiet and strike from almost anywhere, but they’re not invisible. They just appear to be sometime. So I, as the hunter, must search and find you, before you can attack. We are hunting each other.”

  The game was intense and fun. Enriquillo never had a chance, because Abiodun was an adept tracker—even at night. Enriquillo was only momentarily tempted to use his invisibility to gain an advantage, but he was having too much fun for it to matter.

  5

  The next day, the women and children were moved into a large tent at the eastern corner of the courtyard, behind the lodge. They were fed a meal of hard bread and a watered down soup with barely any meat. Nyira didn’t like the taste of it. She preferred fruit from the jungle.

  “At least they’re feeding us,” said Benzia.

  Vandella apparently wasn’t ready to let go of her revenge just yet. Toward the end of the day, Nyira saw her at the eastern end of the wall, furiously stabbing the barrier with a spear. She wouldn’t look directly at her, but Nyira knew it was a message to her. And she started delivering it the following day.

  The tent was stiflingly hot, and the breeze and mosquitos wafting in off the backwater, didn’t help. The following morning, warriors showed up and took women from the tent. The first one was a tired, cheerful mother, who had held onto her child through the long trek across the jungle and up the river to the village. Her name was Abena. She was very fastidious about keeping her child clean and making the baby as comfortable as possible. The baby’s name was Efuru. Abena was happy when the other slaves paid attention to Efuru because she’d gotten a lot of love from everyone in her village.

  But when Abena came back later that morning, she was badly injured. Her clothes were in shreds, and her back was bleeding. She had left her child with Nyira.

  “Give me my baby!” screamed Abena, who needed help walking now. “That panther woman said you’re responsible for this! You sent an evil spell that told her to do it!”

  “That’s not true,” replied Nyira, hurt by the accusation. “I never—”

  “But you are a sorceress,” declared Abena. “We heard the chief name you. After what you did to his wife.”

  “She hurt me. I—”

  “So you don’t deny it!” She snatched her child away a little too roughly, causing her to cry. Abena was a short, plump young woman with ritual scarring on her face and arms. Her eyes were large and expressive. They reflected her anger as she glared at Nyira and cradled a bawling Efuru to her shoulder. The rest of the women who returned were in the same condition and had the same accusation. But that was not the end of it.

  Vandella was apparently not content to punish just a few. Anyone that Nyira said a kind word to, or spoke to at all, was viciously beaten. And one woman, named Bosede, never returned. The only sl
ave spared, besides Nyira, was Benzia. Nyira wasn’t sure if this was calculated, but it added weight to the women’s indictment of her: That as a sorceress, she could ensure that no harm came to her beloved old crone.

  When a second slave did not return from the beatings, Nyira decided it was time to make amends with Vandella. So she asked one of the warriors stationed outside the tent to request an audience with the panther woman. Benzia was opposed to the idea.

  “Nyira, what are you doing? You can’t go into her lair. You’ll be trapped.”

  “I have to tell her I’m sorry for hurting her.”

  “That’s insane, child. And it won’t stop her from hurting us.”

  “I have to try, Benzia. Or she may kill all of you.”

  “That’s only because she wants to kill you. She can kill a thousand of us, and it won’t matter. Please, Nyira. I fear for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Benzia. What choice do we have?”

  Benzia was a stooped old woman. Her skin was black as soot and her eyes yellow and bloodshot. She had told Nyira that at one time, she was held captive in the diamond mines of Ndogi when she was a young girl, and the gases produced by the deep caverns had caused her eyes to look the way they did. At this point, she was worn-looking, in a faded pagne that had been washed too many times but not recently. Her head was covered by a ragged scarf through which her gray braided hair was visible and on top of that was a piece of discarded fisherman’s net, tied in a knot behind her head. She was referred to as the witch by the other slaves, and Nyira knew she relished the description because people were wary of her. But Benzia was no witch. She reached out and pulled Nyira into a tender embrace.

  “I don’t know what will become of us if we lose you, child. I believe they haven’t been as cruel to us because they fear you.”

  “I don’t want to be feared,” said Nyira. “I’m just like the rest of you.”

  “You’re not like the rest of us, Nyira. You’re not like any child I’ve ever known.”

  A tear rolled down the old woman’s withered cheek. Nyira reached up and touched it. She wasn’t used to seeing grownups cry, but found the old woman’s tears felt just like her own.

  The warrior returned with instructions to bring Nyira to the lodge. She followed him out of the tent and across the courtyard to the front steps of the gold building.

  *

  She had trouble keeping up with the tall warrior. The steps appeared to be made for a giant. Nyira had to go on her hands and knees a few times to get up them. The warrior didn’t help, but he waited patiently for her to catch up. The front door was twice as tall as the warrior, and made of the same red metal as the roof. Just above it, within the gold exterior of the structure, a massive lion was taking a bite from the top of the door. The warrior grabbed the high brass loop and pushed the door opened for Nyira, and then quickly jumped away, as if afraid to go inside. As she stared into the dark foyer, Nyira was also apprehensive, conscious that Vandella may have set traps for her. But she could sense someone or something was there waiting for her, and it didn’t feel evil.

  “Hello,” said a child’s voice.

  Nyira stepped inside.

  As she walked into the foyer, Nyira heard what sounded like bird-song, and flinched when a colorful little hummingbird buzzed past her head. When she looked up, she discovered the most beautiful sight: A garden suspended from the high ceiling. It was bursting with bright flowers and small trees, and there were also openings notched in the ceiling that let in sunlight. The garden was teeming with every type and color of bird: from grey parrots, peafowls, toucans, kingfishers and many, many more.

  “Do you like birds?” asked the voice.

  “Oh!” said Nyira. She had been so absorbed by the hanging garden she’d forgotten the person in front of her. This was another unusual sight: a boy covered from head to foot in gold. He was bald, quite a bit taller than her and wearing nothing but a small loincloth. “Yes,” replied Nyira. “I do like birds.” As she moved further inside, she was startled by a sudden boom.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the boy. “That’s just the door closing. It makes an awful sound, but you get used to it.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Nyira.

  “No.”

  “No? No what?” asked Nyira.

  “That’s my name. I am called No.”

  “Pleased to meet you, No. I am called Nyira.”

  He came up and grasped her hand.

  “I am to take you to my mistress,” he said. It was such a casual gesture that she didn’t even consider resisting, and allowed herself to be taken.

  As they made their way through the long entryway, Nyira gazed down at No’s hand.

  The gold didn’t appear to rub off or to flake.

  “How did you get covered in gold?” she asked

  “What is ‘gold?’” replied No, looking at her. Nyira noted that his eyes were the color of morning sky.

  “It’s what’s on your skin. How did they do it without burning you?”

  “This is not… whatever you called it. This is the color of my skin. It has always been the color of my skin.”

  They soon came upon a series of very large paintings. Each of them depicted men who were obviously related to chief Abdullah. One was almost his twin, while others had similar eyes, noses, and various other features. They all were tall and just as big, wearing beautiful pagne or kente garments. There were ten of the paintings, and all had one thing in common: a golden person kneeling beside the men. There were different types of strange objects on the wall facing the paintings. It was covered from the floor up to about twenty feet with gold bones. The bones went unbroken for about ten yards, and then they got to the doorway out of the foyer. Nyira was speechless. Mounted twenty feet above the doorway, was the head of a hairy elephant. She had never known elephants to be hairy, but this one’s head was larger than many huts in her village, and the tusks that curled down around the doorway were longer than some palm trees, and just as thick.

  They left the foyer and entered a large room at the center of the lodge. The room contained a giant staircase that seemed to go all the way to the ceiling. The banister running along the length of it was composed entirely of gold bones, but it was the thing at the beginning of the banister that stopped Nyira in her tracks: another gold boy. He appeared to be made into the banister.

  “Oh my goodness,” cried Nyira. “What is… who is this?”

  “That is Yes,” replied No.

  “He looks just like… is it a statue of you?”

  “No. It’s my twin. Do you have a twin?” asked No, as if to perhaps change the subject.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He’s dead,” replied No. “They put him at the front of the stairs. So that I—”

  An awful roar erupted from the top of the stairs. Nyira shrieked and hid behind No. When she gazed up, there stood chief Abdullah, dressed in a purple and gold kente robe, and beside him, a massive male lion.

  “What is the meaning of this, No?” demanded Abdullah. “What is this slave doing here?”

  No dived to the floor in front of the stairs and looked to be either a rug for the chief or a meal for the lion.

  “I’ve been commanded to bring her to mistress, my chief.” He said all this to the stones in the floor.

  “Whose idea was this? She shouldn’t be here.”

  “I asked to come,” replied Nyira. “I want to say I’m sorry.”

  “Have you lost your senses, girl? I’ve been trying to keep her away from you. You’re worth more to me alive. I wi—”

  “Stay out of this!” This was Vandella, who had come up a hallway just to the left of the stairs. She was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and eyes locked onto Nyira. She was clean now, and her hair was done up in an elaborate tiered creation rising up from her scalp. Abdullah was quick for a man of his bulk; he raced down the stairs and towered over Vandella like a shadow over the sun.

  “What did you say
to me?” boomed Abdullah.

  The lion didn’t even bother to follow. Instead, he lay himself down at the top of the landing, as if to enjoy the show.

  Vandella’s expression quickly changed from one of hatred to one of fear.

  “I—I’m sorry, my chief,” she said. “I forgot myself. Please forgive me. The slave has asked for an audience so that she might apologize for her attack upon me.”

  Nyira had been so caught up in the grandeur of the lodge that she had not noticed the other occupants. There were other gold servants. Many of them adults, and non-servants as well. She got a better look at the boy who’d brought Vandella the cane she’d used to beat her a week before. He came up an adjacent hall, among a group of other children. He was wearing a long yellow and blue pagne, and it was held at the shoulder by a jeweled brooch, shaped like a crocodile. When Nyira gave him a smile, he smiled back. He looked very much like his father then. But one of the children—a pretty pouting girl of about nine, with thick braids infused with bits of gold—said:

  “We shouldn’t smile at slaves, Prince Martolé.”

  The boy turned to the girl and then grabbed one of her braids and jerked her head around.

  “I will smile at whomever I like!” snarled Martolé . “You don’t tell me who I can smile at!”

  The girl started to cry, and when Martolé released her braid, she ran back up the hallway. Nyira immediately didn’t like him. But Martolé continued to smile at her as if he’d done nothing unusual.

  “I don’t like this, Vandella,” said Abdullah. “I’ve told you this slave is very valuable. The Dutchmen pay ten times as much for a sorceress. They like to present them to their king.”

  “Yes. I know, my chief,” replied Vandella. “I promise that I won’t lay a hand on the child.”

  “I will hold you to that.” He turned, but before he went back up the stairs, looked at Nyira.

  “Don’t hurt my wife, child,” he said. “If you do, you’ll be sorry.” He went up before she had a chance to reply.

  When Nyira looked at Vandella, she quickly turned her face away.