Instead, he ran away. Hava roused him one morning in December, but he did not come down to breakfast. When she went upstairs for the second time, she discovered his bed empty. She ran to our house wailing; her crying roused me from my own sleep. She had left the babies alone to come find us, so Mama went back to mind the children. I walked to the rabbi’s house to ask for assistance from the congregation, or those who were still home.
The reinforcements I collected were a mixed lot: the rabbi and the mail carrier, and after that the women (most of us more robust than the rabbi, but less so than the mailman), the older men, and the infirm. For once, Julius was among the fittest in the group, and it was agreed that he and I would search the woods while the others searched the streets.
Oh, my brother. His sharp mind, his withered leg. We walked slowly, and though we did not need pretext, he would pause on occasion to catch his breath and examine something. A footprint in mud, a broken twig. His path meandered. He could not be far ahead of us, but a young boy would always be faster than Julius. The clues, real or not, at last brought us within earshot.
The cries were faint, but we followed them. We reached the creek, and had no doubt what had happened. Izsak had ventured out across the creek, and the ice had not been thick enough to support him. He clung to the side of the hole he had fallen through, cracks radiating from his position. His sobs had already begun to weaken.
“We’re here, Izsak,” I called to the boy. He looked up at us and seemed to summon new strength to struggle. “Stay calm,” I added. “Be still, and we’ll come get you.” He was at least thirty feet out from the edge of the creek.
Julius shook his head. “You can’t go out there. The ice won’t hold you. Your skirts will drown you if you fall in.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked. “We have no rope, no branch stout enough.”
“You walk faster than I do. Go get help. I’ll stay here and keep him calm. Go, quickly.”
I ran until I was out of breath and my muddy skirts weighed me down. Then I walked, nearly as fast as I ran. I emerged from the woods screaming and heaving for breath, alerting several members of the searching group. We fetched rope from the nearest barn, and some blankets to wrap the child in when he was safely out of the water. I led the group back to the creek.
We were too late. Not for Izsak, but for Julius. I should have known that he would try to save the boy. The small hole that Izsak had created was gone. Most of the ice from our side of the creek was gone, broken away by Julius when he fell through. The water rushed past, clear and cold. They both lay soaked on the muddy, snowy bank.
We tried to save them. We stripped their wet clothing from them and wrapped them in blankets, and I lifted Izsak into my arms. The mail carrier and the rabbi together helped Julius to his feet. He was not a large man.
We stumbled back through the woods. Izsak stirred slightly in my arms, his face and lips blue with cold. His body began an uncontrolled shivering. At some point, perhaps when I reached the street or perhaps before, someone took the boy from my arms. I had my eyes on the backs of the two men struggling with Julius. Julius stumbled as he walked, his lameness more pronounced than ever. He did not talk, and he did not shiver.
I don’t know why Izsak survived and Julius did not. Maybe because he was younger, maybe because his body was stronger. Julius lived just a few days more, speaking occasionally. Mostly he was incoherent. I stayed by his bedside and tried to warm his hands with my own, and listened as he spoke of nefesh and neshamah and ibbur, spirit and soul and that strange concept of benign possession that he had raised once before. His hands were so cold.
Only days after we buried Julius, we were informed that Levi had been killed in a battle at Stones River. Three letters arrived from Levi behind the news. There was one for Mama, one for Hava, and one for me. I thought at first it was a mistake, but my name was printed on the envelope. There was a second reason I thought it a mistake. Though the name signed to the letter was Levi’s, the handwriting was unmistakably that of Julius. I knew his penmanship as well as I knew my own.
“Dearest Frieda,” he wrote. “We are writing to tell you of the miracle that has happened. Ibbur. I (Jul.) had it backwards. I was so concerned with inviting a soul to comingle with my own, with making my own soul and body fit for such a task. I could not have realized that in doing so I purified myself, for even the realization of such a thing would have made me unfit for the burden of it.
“I found myself cohabitating with Levi. I cannot put another word on it, for we have no recollection of my arrival here, only that such a strange thing had occurred. We were on a battlefield. Even as we fell back, we stopped to help the injured, or at least those who could be helped. We amputated a foot while loud reports sounded around us. We walked with that soldier leaning on us – and oh! I will admit to the joy of having two strong legs that he might lean – until we reached a medical station. Then we turned around again to help others find their way. We found a soldier whose boots were gone, and we gave him our boots. We walked barefoot through the battlefield, helping men to safety.
“I felt so many things, Frieda. I was frightened, so frightened that I recited the shma yisroel beneath my breath, for at any moment it felt we might leave this world (I, for the second time). But I also felt the assurance of a surgeon, and deep anger that we should find ourselves retreating. A different kind of righteousness, the kind that comes from fighting for a cause I believe is just. I have apologized to my brother, in our way, for though he is a boor, his motivations are pure. He is a good person, despite his failings as a brother and a husband and a correspondent. I don’t know if he would have given away his boots without my presence, or returned so many times at such risk to his own safety. But I feel a great completeness at having done these things. We are both here now, and both safe, for the time being. I love you, and I will perhaps see you again at the end of this war.”
The letter was signed by Julius and Levi both.
Hava and Mama’s letters were from Levi and in Levi’s hand, apologizing for his silence. I suppose we cannot know how much Julius had to do with that. Levi had never listened to him before, but neither had he put pen to paper for his wife and mother at any point in his long absence. Whatever the motivation, the sentiments he expressed seemed sincere, and they were a small comfort to my family.
We had mourned Julius, then Levi, and then Levi afresh when the letters arrived. I retreated to Julius’s study to grieve for him alone. The room looked much as he had left it the day before Izsak ran away. It still smelled of leather and ink, the scents I most associated with Julius. One of his journals lay open on his table. In it he had written, “We live in the present, fleeting. We speak of past and future, and both weigh heavily upon us. My frailties began when I was a child (past), and will continue into the future. But if we find oneness of soul, will we also find oneness of time? Past, present, and future, existing in an eternal now.”
I have begun to read my brother’s books when nobody is looking. I believe in the oneness he spoke of, and the wholeness and the eternal now. If I find my own way to righteousness, maybe I will see him again. My brother, who is perhaps gone but not gone, who may yet reveal himself to me if his soul still has unmet tasks. My brother, who might even now guide my hand, his heart my heart, and his soul commingled with mine.
Art by Esme Baran
It’s War
by Nnedi Okorafor
* * *
April 21, 1929
Aba, Nigeria
The smell was hot, humid, wet and earthy. This night, a storm poured rain somewhere nearby. Arro-yo had spent much of the evening cooking, sweeping the floors, and dragging in hunks of fragrant wood for her next series of carvings. Now tired and pensive, she nibbled a bit of boiled yam as she watched Margaret across the small plastic table. The old woman ate quickly, a meal of boiled ripe plantain and yam with stew. She was already dressed in her best outfit, leaning over her plate as she ate so as not to soil her green gold
rapa with a matching top. When she finished, she smiled at Arro-yo, got up, and left.
A half hour later, Arro-yo went flying. She was restless. The air was still heavy and static, even above the low clouds. Her dress grew sticky with sweat and humidity. She circled low over Nwora’s house and considered visiting. She hovered just above the roof and saw Nwora, his father’s arm linked with his.
Nwora held up a kerosene lantern as they walked slowly around the house. Nwora’s father walked bent slightly forward, his feet shuffling under his navy blue rapa with white squares. In the near dark, the white squares glowed. He grumbled something that made Nwora smile and say, “No, Daddy, she’s not here.” He grumbled something else and Nwora laughed and said, “No, not even on the roof.”
They turned around and went inside. Arro-yo hovered there for a moment, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. She missed home. Her grandmother would probably be sitting on her wooden stool in the doorway humming to herself and weaving a basket. Her grand-uncle would be sitting outside brooding and smoking his pipe as he watched the heavy clouds pass the half moon. Her mother might be making love to her father, or her father might be with one of Arro-yo’s other mothers.
She crouched down but was not at the right angle to see inside Nwora’s home. Nevertheless, she knew the oily flicker of the kerosene lantern would be in the front room. Nwora’s father liked to sit near the door in his favorite chair and watch people walk by.
Arro-yo flew on. When she saw the small adobe house brilliant with light and loud voices, she descended. Inside was so bright that it looked as if it were on fire. Even from where she was, she saw that the house was packed. There were several women standing outside on the porch leaning forward to hear what was being said inside.
Arro-yo landed on the roof and pressed her ear to its tin roof. She didn’t have to listen hard because a woman inside was shouting. It took her only a moment to realize the booming voice was Margaret’s.
“…all saw what they did last time,” Margaret bellowed. “It was only a few years ago.” Arro-yo always thought that the best language for yelling was Igbo. Margaret’s voice easily carried to the women outside and to the skies above. Efik, Arro-yo’s native language, sounded best when sung.
Margaret continued, “They taxed and taxed our husbands and sons and fathers until they had nothing left!”
The women clapped and grunted agreement.
One woman shouted, “My sons, Okechukwu and Chinedu, were arrested!”
“Eh heh! You see? They take all the money, then they take the men!” Margaret said. “And look at these stupid warrant chiefs who join with the white men and sell out themselves and their own people! Warrant chiefs take wives without paying the full bride wealth! They take land that doesn’t belong to them. They take the census and act like they are just getting to know us. Humph. They treat us like we are stupid. Like bush meat! Now they want to turn around and disrespect the people more by taxing us women? No, we will not allow that!”
Many of the women shouted, “NO!”
“We are the trees which bear fruit!” someone shouted.
“And look at our men now,” Margaret yelled. She sucked her teeth. “Cowards! Look at your husbands, sons, fathers. They are not here. They are afraid of these traitorous chiefs and these white men with their guns and idiotic magic book. Are we afraid?”
“NO!”
Arro-yo leaned forward, pressing her cheek closer to the roof, her heart beginning to race.
“Our men are behaving like women, so we must behave like men! The colonial administration is still treating us like chattel, like slaves. But we are free!”
“Yes.”
“Nwanyeruwa sent us this!”
Arro-yo heard something crinkle, and then the women begin murmuring loudly. She could hear Margaret laughing.
“You all know what happened with Nwanyeruwa, two days ago,” Margaret growled. “That nonsense chief Okugo was going about taking his… census… and he came to her house where she was hard at work pressing palm oil.”
Margaret paused and Arro-yo was sure that every listening woman was holding her breath.
“He asked her to count her sheep and goats. She replied ‘Was your mother counted?’ ”
All the women laughed loudly. Arro-yo smirked.
“But then… oh then! That man seized her by her throat and began to squeeze. She is a strong woman, so she fought him off. And now it must start! Ah-ah, you see, what this means? No? This palm leaf means we’ve talked enough to these warrant chiefs who lap at the white man’s feet. It’s time for action! We will sit on that damn warrant chief until he has resigned. Tomorrow they will know that we are like elephants, marching to battle, crushing obstacles on our way! Nzogbu, Enyimba Enyi!”
Arro-yo flew several feet into the air, her eyes wide, as the entire house exploded with cheers and shouts and the sound of stamping feet. She hovered like a frightened hummingbird, and then she turned and flew into the sky. Whatever they are planning, it has nothing to do with me, she thought.
Nevertheless, her heart was still pounding. The white men made her angry, too. Always playing the role of stopping people from doing what they wanted to do. First they came and worked with greedy local men to capture people and kill them with work. Then they stayed to further muddle things by causing people to forget the deities of the forest, sky, and water. Now they wanted to tax the financial wealth away. To tax the women of the land, after unfairly taxing the men was beyond insult to the foundation of the people.
Hours later, she headed home. As she drifted off to sleep, she still angrily thought about the colonial administration. When she finally slept deeply, she dreamed of a choppy ocean, grey and white beneath a churning stormy sky. Even as she dreamed it, she knew it was a bad bad sign.
* * *
Margaret returned a few hours before daybreak. Arro-yo was in her bed trying to forget her watery nightmare. For a while she listened to Margaret moving about the small house. She even considered getting up and asking Margaret how her night was, but she did not. Instead, she fell back asleep. When she awoke, the sun was up. Margaret was gone.
Arro-yo ate a breakfast of a mango and leftover yam. She had no birds to sell today, but she wanted to buy a chicken and some plantains. She put on her third favorite dress, a long European style blue one she’d designed and sewn herself after meeting and befriending two Catholic nuns. She’d liked the length and flow of their habits. She added her own personal flair by using blue cloth, taken in the waistline so that it nicely hugged her figure and lowered the bust-line. She slung her blue satchel over her shoulder and was off. It was a cool morning and the roads on the way to the market were practically empty. A man carried a bushel of sticks on his head as he walked and another had an armful of cloth. She saw no women. When she arrived at the market, it was nearly deserted. There were few open umbrellas; no women sat shaded in booths.
“Arro-yo!” Nwora’s voice echoed through the mostly empty market as he ran to her. “They’ve all gone to the Native Administration Center.”
“Your mother, as well?”
“Yes. I… I knew she was involved. She was gone last night. I didn’t know they were planning something so big.” He took a deep breath. “I had to leave my father to come find her. Are you coming?”
Arro-yo nodded.
* * *
They heard the women before they saw them. There had to be over a thousand of them. The open area before the large adobe building was packed with so many women that Arro-yo felt dizzy just looking at them. Many were dressed in sackcloth, their faces smeared black with charcoal. They carried sticks wreathed with palm leaves and they were singing a song that Arro-yo couldn’t make out through all the noise. There were other groups of women dressed in white and red rapas and tops dancing vigorously, wooden cooking spoons in hand. Other women milled about just looking angry.
A woman’s voice rose high above all the others and immediately everyone stopped what they were doing. Ma
rgaret stood on something that raised her short body a foot above everyone else. Arro-yo could feel the tension increase and the air pressure rise. She looked at Nwora. He looked back at her and mouthed, “I don’t know.”
“What is that smell?” Margaret shouted, waving her fists in the air. “Death is that smell if they don’t come out and hand us that chief’s cap. When they do, we will tear it apart like the piece of nothing it is!”
Margaret’s fuzz of grey white hair stood on end, for today she wore no head wrap. Never had Arro-yo seen her look so invigorated.
“Maybe we should step back,” Nwora said.
“Death is that smell!” Margaret shouted again and another wave of agitation rippled through the audience. Arro-yo stood mesmerized by the energy before her eyes. They were only a few yards from the peripheral of the crowd. Arro-yo stood on her toes. She could easily fly up but there was already enough hysteria. She was taller than almost all the women, so she still managed to see much of what was going on. There were British soldiers stationed in front of the administrative building. They had guns. Several women were taunting them by throwing rocks and poking them with their sticks. Arro-yo smelled smoke.
“You see that?” Nwora said, pointing his stick. Arro-yo frowned at his fragile weapon, wondering when he’d grabbed it. “My mother’s in there!” he said.
Suddenly the crowd of protesting women surged forward. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Arro-yo saw Margaret fall. Then the crowd burst in all directions. Panicked women came right at Nwora and Arro-yo and he pulled her into the bush beside the road. Flames leapt from the administration building and several of the others around it. Arro-yo could see a British soldier tumbling on the ground with one of the dancing woman. She was kicking, scratching, and screaming; he was punching and shouting.
Some women lay dead or limped away injured, but just as many didn’t run from the bullets. Like crazed elephants, they ran at the soldiers. Others looted the British-owned store next to the administration building. Arro-yo saw a woman running out with packages of biscuits. The chaos continued to trample the area, but Arro-yo’s eyes only searched for Margaret. Nwora was gripping Arro-yo’s arm. He turned to look at her just as she began to rise. For a moment, his arm held tightly, then he let go, his eyes wide.
Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History Page 36
