Nyira and the Invisible Boy
Page 8
The slave deck was in the hold, below the galley, the gun deck and sleeping quarters for the crew. The vessel was massive, but below deck still seemed cramped. The thing was still long because when Nyira looked left and right, she didn’t see an end of it. She met Benzia on the gun deck.
“This reminds me of the mine,” the old woman said. “It’s just as dim, and the lamps on the wall never provide sufficient light.”
“Keep moving!” one of the crewmen pushing the slaves to the ladder yelled. Nyira helped Benzia down to the next level.
The heat and stink of the hold was startling. At first, Nyira thought they were in the wrong section. The area seemed smaller than the deck they had just left. The only air came from small square holes cut into the walls. But these didn’t account for the stench and the darkness. Nevertheless, the slaves were shoved into it. The area consisted of a series of tightly grouped wooden bunks, next to shackles hammered into the hull. There were more than she could count, stretching further into the dark to the left and right. This, apparently, was the men’s section. As they moved forward, there was a different divider where the women were being kept. Along the way, she noticed large metal tubs with dried excrement. She didn’t have to wonder what these were used for. Soon Nyira had to stop and vomit, and many of the females were crying, along with their children, while Benzia was in shock.
“I can’t believe they mean to house us in this way,” said the old woman.
Nyira saw the spirit stretched out upon one of the bunks.
“It’s actually much improved from when I was first chained in here,” it said.
Nyira got a better look at him, then. The near darkness brought out his features.
He was a tall, lean African. His face was rounder and his nose flatter than those from her region, so he possibly had been taken from the north. He still had shackles encircling his neck, and there was ritual scarring on his face and chest. As he lay upon the bunk, his legs stretched well past the end of it.
“Even in death,” he said. “These things are still not comfortable.”
“What’s your name?” asked Nyira.
“I was called Lumumba. But that was a couple hundred years ago.”
“I am called Nyira. Why are you still here, Lumumba? Why have you not gone to be with your people?” The smile left his face.
“That’s not something I’ll be discussing with you, child. If you stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours. You’re going to have your hands full with these Dutchmen. They’ve made some changes to this vessel—to accommodate you, probably. Healers are worth a lot to a ship’s cargo. But they still have the shackles, so I wouldn’t sleep down here if I were you.”
Rubin entered the slave deck.
“Pew!” said the white man. “I didn’t realize—. You should come back on deck, child.” His features turned red, as he attempted to hold his breath as he spoke. He also had to lean down quite a bit, due to the lower ceiling.
“All my people should be on deck,” replied Nyira. “They can’t breathe down here. You’re having trouble.”
Before Rubin could reply, a tall tightly muscled man with a scar on the side of his face entered the slave deck behind him.
“What are you two doing out of shackles? Conrad! Bring the tails and some smaller shackles!”
“That won’t be necessary, Nielssen,” replied Rubin. “The child will be in the hut on the deck.”
“What about the old crone?”
“Benzia stays with me,” replied Nyira. She tried to make eye contact with Rubin, but he quickly turned his head. He’d obviously been warned by Abdullah.
“The old woman, too, I guess.”
“She can help me,” said Nyira.
“It won’t be possible to let all of them on the deck at once,” said Rubin. “I’ve taken a smaller cargo this trip so that we can deliver you in better condition. We’ll figure something out. Come with me, Nielssen.” He went up the ladder.
Nyira found herself busy on the first night of the voyage. One of the male slaves had been knocked unconscious and was bleeding from wounds on his back and shoulders. The man Cliegman dragged the still-shackled bondsman to the door of the hut and dropped him.
“First customer,” he snarled and stomped away. Nyira was disoriented and sickened by the up and down motion of the vessel. A few times she ran to the rail and puked over the side. During these moments the boy Piggy was right at her elbow.
“If you’re thinking of jumping,” he said. “the sharks will be waiting.” He stood so close she noted the smell of feces on him. Nyira turned her nose up and backed away.
“What are sharks?” she asked.
“Have you never been on a ship?”
“No.”
“They’re what waits in the water when the Negroes jump in.” She didn’t reply and walked back to her healer’s hut.
“This is much worse than I ever imagined,” said Benzia.
“I didn’t imagine anything,” replied Nyira.
Two more men were deposited on her doorstep that night—one was already dead. The survivors told of being attacked by the big white man when they asked for water. Nyira went in search of Piggy. She found him on the quarterdeck talking to the helmsman.
“Can you bring water for some of the men?” she asked. The helmsman gave Piggy a look
“Slaves aren’t allowed up here,” said the boy.
“Why are you letting this creature order you around?” said the helmsman. Piggy’s cheeks got red, and Nyira could see he was building up his courage.
“You get back down to your hut, I said!” He snatched up the metal ladle from the water bucket on the deck and ran at her with it. Nyira didn’t even flinch as she looked him in the eyes. Piggy stopped in his tracks, turned and went got the water bucket and followed her back to her hut.
“Well blow me down,” said the helmsman. “Such a little coward.”
*
Rubin
A week into the passage.
“I have told you, Rubin. My name is Alexandre. Not Frenchy!”
“Well, Alexandre,” said Rubin. “You’ve suddenly become kinder, it seems.”
Alexandre looked troubled.
“I haven’t! And I will prove it by breaking your arm the next time you address me as Frenchy!”
“So it seems you’ve decided to use your temper instead of your whip, Alexandre.”
“I didn’t decide to,” replied man, not happy with his admission. “I just can’t seem to do it. It doesn’t make any sense. Whenever one of them doesn’t move fast enough or gives me the evil eye. I just don’t know what’s happened. But I swear to you, Rubin, if you tell the other crewmen I’ve gone soft, I’ll break both your arms.”
“Yes. But will you be able to use your whip on me?”
The big man just glared at Rubin as he walked away, laughing.
*
On the next day, the first officer approached Nyira while she was down on her hands scrubbing the deck of the ship, with some of the other slaves and crew. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood looking at the child. Nyira stopped and looked back at him.
“Be careful,” said Rubin. “Some owners won’t like it when you look at them that way.”
“What way?” replied Nyira. “I am only looking at you looking at me.”
“How did you change Frenchy?”
“He doesn’t like you calling him that.”
“How do you know that? Can you read thoughts, too?”
She continued to look at him.
“Well, I’ll give you some advice after you are sold to the French in Saint Domingue—that’s where you’re going, by the way. Or did you know that, too? Anyway, don’t do any of your… sorcery in front of the priests. I suppose Frenchy was a bit too liberal with his whip. If you promise not to do anything to anyone else, I’ll make sure no harm comes to you… and the rest of the cargo. Do we have an agreement?”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
Nyira didn’t reply and went back to her scrubbing.
Rubin wasn’t sure if the girl was as powerful as the tribesman had claimed. However, something had turned a formerly brutal overseer into little more than a confused human slug. He supposed it was just as well. Damaged goods caused discounts, and the French were shrewd negotiators, always looking to shave a few livre off the top.
12
The sky on the night of the calenda was starless. Bruno made sure to look up because he remembered the way the sky seemed to dance with light on the nights of his village’s dances. He then thought that perhaps that wasn’t true. It was more likely he was adding things to the memory of his childhood. He couldn’t recall a single instant when he looked up and considered the stars. They were just there, like the air and the clouds and the sky. But he didn’t have any other way to hold onto it, so he chose to believe he’d looked up at the sky. And as he peered at it now, it was completely black. Like when they razed the ground for the clearing, they pushed the heavens aside as well. Stars wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The field was fringed by a number of kerosene lanterns—obviously taken from households throughout the planter community. There were some tar-dipped rag torches as well—protruding from the ground at intervals of five to ten feet around the clearing. The drummers had set up next to a group of the kerosene lanterns. The cloth torches gave off too much smoke and sometimes overwhelmed them.
As he waded through the jungle to reach the area, Bruno felt that perhaps he shouldn’t have come. He hadn’t been to a tribal gathering since he was taken. What he remembered always made him sad. His father had been the best dancer in his village—among the men. His brother, Amare, had acquired his father’s personality and a lot of his rhythm.
When he entered the clearing, the drums seemed to grow in volume. He started to feel sick as if they were somehow connected directly into his head and his stomach. Everyone was moving and jumping and bumping and jostling. He felt a loss of equilibrium, like when he was trapped in the disease-infested hold of the vessel that brought him there. He weaved his way through the dancers and made it to a palm tree. He threw up in the grass behind it. When the drummers picked up their tempo, he thought his head would pop. Everything started to spin, and he sat down in the thick green ferns and palmetto next to the palm tree. He felt a little better and periodically peeped past a palmetto plant. What was he thinking? This was not the place for… Juliette appeared among the gyrating forms of the dancers. He knew he had to stand up then. He didn’t want her to see him like that. There was a glow about her. Someone in the crowd said something to her, and she smiled. When he saw that smile, his heart leaped and dragged him to his feet. He was wobbly but standing. He made his feet move toward her.
“Oh,” Juliette said when she saw him. “You came.” She smiled again—right at him. How could such a smile be? There had to be some magic here. He must be in some kind of dream. She was dressed in a bright yellow, red and green pagne that she and her sister produced. Their skill making garments was well known. Babette was right next to her, wearing the identical item. It wasn’t right, though. There was no light to it.
“I—I… yes,” was all he could manage. He had planned to say more. Say something more, Bruno! he admonished himself.
“Your pagne is nice,” he said. It was just the right thing. Her smile lit up so bright, it nearly blinded him.
“You like it?” she asked, looking down at herself. “I was afraid the colors were too bright.”
“I do,” replied Bruno.
At that moment, a shout rang out, and all the dancers moved out of the clearing. The trees and brush in the area had been removed long ago, by other slaves that had come before. The clearing was as bald as the plantation yard, and on nights when they needed some release, the slaves frenzied movements raised a dust thick as smoke.
“I got here just in time,” said Juliette, taking his hand. He felt a shock go through him. “Makienda will sing now.”
Makienda was a tall, slim man. No one knew what plantation he came from. He emerged from the jungle wearing a long orange, green and purple pagne, and a wooden monkey mask fringed by feathers. The only information anyone knew about him was he performed at calendas. Word of mouth would spread that he would possibly be at an event. Sometimes he would and sometimes he wouldn’t. There was never anything definite.
Bruno had heard of this person, but this was the first time he had actually seen him. Makienda didn’t waste time and immediately broke into a vigorous dance. And as he began to sing, the crowd took up the song, too. So it wasn’t clear to Bruno whether he could really sing. As for his dancing, Bruno thought his father was much better.
*
Juliette managed to draw Bruno out among the crowd of dancers.
“I don’t think I should,” he protested, as she took his hand and pulled. “My brother was the dancer in the family; he and my father.”
Juliette smiled. “So you grew up dancing then?” She didn’t wait for him to answer because while he was mesmerized by her smile, he’d been transported to the center of the clearing. Then the drumming sped up as Makienda began to perform a dance that Bruno had seen his father do, hundreds of times—his brother as well. Amare had even begun to teach it to him. He hadn’t quite gotten it when he was stolen away. But the drums seemed to know something about him, something he hadn’t known. They caught Juliette, and she began to move with the rhythm. Suddenly Makienda swooped into the center of the circle and was moving toward Juliette as if to dance with her. And Bruno would be outside the vibrations, outside the rhythm. But his body wouldn’t let him be a coward, wouldn’t let his sadness overtake him. His feet wanted something; his legs did, too. Neither paid attention to the emptiness of his soul. He moved; he jumped—his knees, his feet. All chose joy, chose happiness, chose to move with Juliette, and then something else:
“Why are you crying?” asked Juliette. “You dance too well to be sad.”
“I’m not sad,” replied Bruno. He was right. It didn’t matter what his head might be doing. He’d follow his feet. This really was some kind of magic. Because there was no way he could be dancing, or feeling as happy as he was. So he decided to enjoy it, just as he’d enjoyed the divine fruit. He would accept this gift, too. He just wished Arnaud could see him now. He would… no. No sadness, not now. He would enjoy this dream while he was in it. But Arnaud would’ve been happy for him. That much he would acknowledge.
*
The next day, he showed up to the eastern end of the potato field and found Juliette was there already.
“Babette said that I should pick with you now,” Juliette said. She didn’t say it casually like she was joking. She said it like this was the way it would be, forever. Bruno didn’t know how to take this. It now appeared that the other night hadn’t been a dream. He had really danced, and Juliette had really been there, for him. And now she wanted to be with him? Forever? But that would mean… he wouldn’t have room for sadness anymore. How could he have gotten so lucky? Juliette was by his side from then on. Even the day Christian tried to kill him.
*
Enriquillo dozed on the front porch of the bohio. His mother sat on her duho, weaving baskets and chatting with some of the tribe’s women. Enriquillo had just come in from fishing along the coast. He’d caught a decent-sized shark and some red snapper. He felt Agueybana sit beside him. He didn’t have to look. The old man gave off a strange, not unpleasant tobacco aroma.
Enriquillo knew the purpose of this visit. He didn’t want to talk to the behike.
“I know why you’ve been avoiding me, Enriquillo,” said Agueybana. “And I don’t understand why you thought it would make a difference.”
“I didn’t think about whether it would make a difference,” replied Enriquillo. “I just had no need of your guidance.”
“I suspected as much. You know that what you’re doing won’t help them.”
“No. I don’t know.”
“They’re afraid and away from their home and their people. Your gestures will only confuse them.” Enriquillo turned and looked at the behike.
“If you knew that I didn’t want your guidance, why have you decided to give it?”
“Just because you don’t want it, doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”
“You know everything, Agueybana,” replied Enriquillo. “So you must also know that I won’t give up.” He stood up and walked past his mother and the other village women, and went out into the jungle.
13
By the end of first the week of the voyage, Nyira discovered what Lumumba was.
A few of the slaves had started to get sick from the heat and lack of ventilation on the slave deck. Abena’s baby, Efuru, was weaker than most of the adult slaves. Nyira noticed the tall spirit hovered near mother and child as the woman tried to breastfeed her baby. The infant began to cough as Lumumba waved his hand over her face.
“What are you doing?” demanded Nyira.
Lumumba’s face turned white, and his eyes glowed red.
“Don’t bother me, girl. This child is suffering.” Efuru seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“Oh please! Someone help!” cried Abena. “My child can’t breathe!” The baby thrashed and made chirping sounds. Nyira remembered a remedy her father had once taught her. She rushed up the ladder and found Benzia on the deck, emptying chamber pots for the captain’s cabin boy.
“Please, give me some of your grey strands!” said Nyira.
Benzia looked puzzled but sat the pots down and tugged some strands from her scalp.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I know what the spirit Lumumba is. He is trying to kill Abena’s baby. Have you any salt?”