A Phoenix First Must Burn

by A Phoenix First Must Burn (retail) (epub)

  She greased my scalp, and I nuzzled into her hand. Outside our bohíos, the ingenio is a place of fear and shadows, stone and sweat, blood and raised voices. But in the circle we’ve built, and in Tía’s bohío, love is the fixed sunrise.

  “Eula, I’ve heard whispers that one of the new men keeps finding his eyes on you. You’ve always been something to look at, but I have a sense this one will be different.”

  I groaned when Tía said that. But maybe she wasn’t wrong.

  The boy’s long strides shake me out of my reverie. He soon stands before me and dips his head into a slight bow. I do not return it. Instead I scan the sky, I read the colors cast by the sun. If we are not at the cutting site in ten minutes the admiral will be told we were tardy. He will not take kindly to stolen minutes. I take a step from Tía’s bohío, and the boy walks beside me.

  “What are you called?” he asks me, and I jerk back when I hear the passable Castilian come from his mouth.

  He must see my astonishment. “I was translator for my father. He was ruler of our village. For the past five years I have spoken to the pale men on our behalf and convinced them to look elsewhere for what they sought.” His accent is boiling sugar, sweet and thick, but his next statement is burned bitter. “These last men who came used their swords in place of their tongues.”

  I do not know why he is telling me this. Perhaps because he has taken stock of the ingenio and seen I am the only person near his age. Or perhaps because he sees I hold a place outside the ladinos. Even though we have not been introduced by any elders, I decide we do not have to stand on formality.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “My father, he was on the same water vessel as me, but he did not survive. None of my kin did. The four other men here with me are all that is left of my village.” He runs his fingers against the calluses on his palms.

  “Eulalia.” I answer what he first asked, to avoid any more discomfort being brought on by my ignorance. “Before she passed my mother named me, but she is the only one to ever utter my full name. I am simply called Eula. Your name?”

  He shakes his head as if shooing away a thought. “The pale men had us stand at the shore, and a bald man in a frock sprinkled us with water and told us we are to have a new name and a new god. But I renounce neither of mine. My god is still yàlla. And my name is still Khadim.”

  I have never heard this name before, or anything like it, but my body responds like a well-strung lute; this name is a song, and I love to raise my voice in melody.

  Khadim works side by side with me. I show him how to hold the machete, which is shorter than any sword he would have been familiar with, but also heavier. I move slower than usual to ensure he can copy my moves and that he swings his machete in such a way as to fell the stalk without injuring his wrist. As we work, I fill the silence. I tell him how I was born here, how my mother died before I was a full day old, but it is when I say this next bit that his head swoops up: “I am almost done paying for my freedom. In a fortnight, at the Christmas Day celebration, I will receive my manumission papers.”

  A frown wrinkles Khadim’s forehead. “How can you pay for a thing that you should not owe? It is . . .” He waves his hand in the air, a mosquito trying to land on the right word. “Nonsensical.”

  I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat that covers my forehead. The front of my chemise is soaked and sticks to my chest, but Khadim keeps his eyes on mine, unlike the admiral when he speaks at me.

  “It is how it is done,” I say. “I am lucky to have been offered such a contract. Not everyone has the chance.”

  Khadim drops his arm to his side, his machete loose in his fingers. “Lucky to be complicit in laying the rabbit trap that snares your own foot?”

  Unlike him I don’t stop moving. “Pick up your machete,” I say between clenched teeth. “The admiral punishes idleness.”

  We thwack at the cane in silence. The machete in my hand hums, and I have to calm down my breathing or I might hurt myself.

  “You don’t know the life I’ve lived. What would you have me do? Work these fields forever? And when I am too old, clean and cook and scuttle in the admiral’s house? And when I am too old for that—led out into the fields like a lame donkey and shot with an arrow between the eyes? Would you have me run into the trees, where the admiral will send a pack of hunting dogs to eat me alive?”

  This time when Khadim shakes his head, there is sadness in the gesture. “I would have you do none of those things, as I will not be doing them. This is not a life I will submit to. All I know is that if they keep putting this machete in my hand it is not their cane I will cut down.”

  I believe him when he says it. The metal in his hands murmurs, blood blood blood.

  We do not speak for the rest of the day, but when the sun dips behind the hills, I stoop to shoulder the long canes and gesture for him to follow me to the mill. I am strongest when at the vats, but when cane must be cut none of us can shirk our duty, especially not the one who catches the admiral’s eye. Khadim looks at me intently as if he would shoulder my cane for me, but I shake my head: he would be doing me no courtesies. There is something brewing in his eyes, and Tía Aurelia would say there is something brewing between the two of us, too.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Five nights later, a soft tapping on the wood of our hut wakes me from my slumber. Tía Aurelia is not in the bohío, and whomever she is with must not be a nice man, since I see she has brewed herself a tisane, something she only does to help calm her spirit.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. I raise myself from bed and shuffle to the opening.

  “Tía?” I ask quietly.

  “It is Khadim.”

  I hesitate for a second and ensure my sleep shift covers me wholly. I pull back the cover of the entryway. And sure enough, Khadim stands before me, half his face cast into light by the candle in his hand. My heart thumps wildly in my chest.

  “Will you walk with me, Eula?” He offers me his hand, but I turn and pull down the opening, working a complicated knot that keeps animals from wandering inside. When I turn again, Khadim has dropped his hand, and I am glad for it; the only time I have ever held a man’s hand is when I am using my ability to heal him. I would not know how to hold his hand for the simple sake of touching.

  “Khadim, if word reaches the admiral of us taking a midnight walk, we will be punished, or my coartación might be docked.”

  I keep to the shadows as we walk.

  “Eula, I come to your door with ulterior reasons than to walk beside you.” He takes a deep breath. “My men and I are planning an uprising.”

  My feet stutter at his words. I have never heard of an uprising happening at any of the ingenios. People run away. And sometimes the admiral’s dogs catch them. Rumors abound that sometimes they make it far, far west to safety in the Bahoruco Mountains. But no one has ever attempted to overtake an ingenio. I tell Khadim this.

  “No other ingenio has had me. And no other ingenio has had you.” He takes my hand in his and turns it so my palm faces the sky. I am glad we are in the fields, where the tall cane shades us from prying eyes, where no one can see me shiver on a warm night.

  “I have been watching you. At first I thought it was because you are lovely. But, there is something uncanny about you.”

  I do not flinch at either the compliment or the insinuation that followed. He continues before I can unravel the meaning of his words.

  “And then I realized your machete never slows down, it never stops, and you never have to clean the stickiness from it or sharpen its edge. Even back there, at your hut, the hook that held your doorway closed twisted in ways that were unnatural. And when that old man cut his hand a few days ago, everyone else turned to you, although I have been assured you are not a healer.”

  I pull my hand from his. If he accuses me of witchcraft out loud it could cost me my life.
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  Khadim leans in until his breath is by my ear. “You know more than we do about this area, about finding help at the other mills nearby. I think you are highly favored. I think we will only succeed if you help us. And convince the others to help us, too.”

  An ache spreads in my chest. I cannot do this thing he asks of me. “Khadim, I have not known you long. I will tell you about the area and wish you well. But I cannot convince the only family I’ve known to join you in this ill-conceived dream. And I cannot be a part of this. I have worked relentlessly to earn my freedom, and if your uprising were to fail, even if they do not slaughter us all, I could not live knowing I had a chance at manumission and I cast it away.”

  Khadim makes a sound low in his throat. “Could you live knowing you had a chance to free many more than yourself, but you refused?”

  I want to swat away his words like the pest they are, but they bite me nonetheless. If I could build a world of metal to protect me and my kin, I would do it without question or regard to my own safety. But here we labor until we die. They rely on me to buy my freedom and then help make the settlement better for those who remain. I am giving the people of the ingenio a better chance at some small freedoms. How could he possibly understand? I wish I could explain to him that there are nights when Tía’s breathing is slow and steady that I let myself imagine walking into the woods of my own accord, living off low-hanging fruit with the hummingbirds as my only companions. That there are days when my arm feels like it might fall out from overwork, and the only thing that keeps me from dropping my face into the boiling molasses is the belief that soon I will ask no one for permission to eat the grains I harvest, or to rest when I am sick with fever. I want to explain that I have seen mules walking alongside the roadway who know freedom in ways I have never known.

  But I do not have the language to explain this. So instead I ask, “Have you ever tasted sugarcane, Khadim?”

  I cannot see his brow but I imagine it is furrowed. “I have not. We do not grow this where I am from, and here the admiral’s men are always watching.”

  I reach into my head wrap and pull out the slim knife I always keep tucked under there. I curved it to fit like a half circlet beneath my hair. I slice a chunk of cane, easily skinning the bark from the flesh. It is a reckless thing to do, and if I were caught I cannot even fathom the punishment for enjoying the admiral’s crop without his permission, but it seems suddenly as urgent as taking in breath to teach Khadim this lesson.

  “Here,” I say, and press the cane to his lips. “Suckle the juice.”

  He follows my directions, and I am close enough I can make out the wonder in his eyes as the sweetness covers his tongue.

  “Do you know what it is like to covet such a honeyed thing your whole life, and to have tasted just enough to have the memory plague you, but also to know that you would be cut down if you ever tried to claim it as your own? You at least have walked before, knowing you were your own person. Perhaps with obligations, but not destined to slavery simply due to your birth. I just want to remove this yoke from around my neck, Khadim. I just want to possess something sweet, even if it is only my own life.”

  I stomp the remaining cane into the ground.

  Khadim takes a step back from me. “I will leave you out of this. If we are successful, I hope to see you in freedom. If we are not, I hope yàlla continues to watch over you.”

  I nod. “I will tell you what I know, but I refuse to be involved.” I explain that the admiral and the viceroys of nearby mills get roaring drunk on Christmas Eve and the days that follow. I point to the mountains and tell him the rumors I have heard, that the Tainos have built a settlement there and welcome runaways into their folds. I tell him of the armory that holds weapons, and the stables where he can find the mill horses to take them swiftly away once the deed is done.

  When I fall silent, we stand still for a long while, gazing at the sky. I wonder if the stars are configured the same where he is from. I wonder if anything feels familiar. I wonder what it must be like to have memories of a place that loved you; to have somewhere to return.

  Khadim walks me back to Tía’s bohío, and it feels like we are saying goodbye. Because either he will die on Christmas Eve trying to cut down the admiral, or he will be caught and killed. And either way, I will keep my head down and hope to be free the day after.

  For the next few days, in the fields and around the bohío circle, Khadim avoids me. I try not to feel bereft, but I am always aware of him, and always waiting for him to speak. Perhaps that is why I think it is him knocking impatiently on the bohío door three nights before Christmas Eve. I unlock the door to find it is one of his men. The tall and lanky one with a perfect row of teeth.

  He speaks to me with unstrung Castilian words, using his hands where language fails. “They came for Khadim.” He mimes the admiral’s uniform. “They take him away. He stole machetes. And was caught.”

  I take in his words and the gestures. The admiral will not allow even a hint of insurgency, and there would be no reason but that for a man to collect more than his own blade.

  “And why are you at my door?” I ask. There is a knot in my stomach that is more vast than hunger, more painful than a blow.

  “Khadim said if anything happened, to come to you. He said you are the key to all of the locks.”

  And for a second I hate Khadim. I hate all the bozales. They who came here with their feral hearts and unbent spines. And as if the thought tightens my mother’s palm print on my own back, I straighten up. If I choose to help Khadim, I have three days to make preparations.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  On Christmas Eve, the night before I am to receive my manumission papers as a gift, I fold my knife into my hair and with Tía’s blessing slip into the darkness.

  The dungeons are quiet, and I run my hands against the slick brick so as not to fall. I know Khadim is unguarded. I watched as the admiral’s men entered the house; they think lock and key is enough to keep Khadim restrained. Above me the admiral and his guests dance and sing and laugh, and the walls shake from their good cheer. I pray Tía Aurelia’s spiced wine is as potent and drowsiness-inducing as she promised.

  “Khadim?” I raise my voice as much as I dare as I walk down the stone stairwell. “Khadim.” I can only hope they have not attempted to make a spectacle of him at the festivities.

  The sound that reaches my ears is not his voice, but I follow it anyway to bars that have him encaged. It is the collar around his throat that has called to me, loud as a clarion. Although I do not have a key, the thick lock that keeps him barred warms under my hand. Come now, I coax the lock. Unhinge yourself. The lock gives way with a soft whistle that sounds akin to relief.

  Khadim is slumped against a big stone wall, and he doesn’t move when I call his name. When I go to lift his head he flinches; the admiral has sharpened the collar placed around his neck and chained it to the wall. There is little slack, and blood is encrusted around the area where the metal has bit into his flesh; any pushing or pulling merely digs the metal deeper into him. I’m afraid that if I try to saw into the collar I might cause him to bleed out.

  “Khadim, can you hear me?” I crouch so we are eye to eye and grasp his face in my hands. His left eye is swollen, and there are knots the size of eggs under his skin. Tears prickle my eyes at the sight, but I grit my teeth and do not let them fall.

  “Eula.” Khadim’s throat sounds parched, and I wish I had a gift for water instead of metal, if only to relieve him of this one simple thirst.

  I clear my throat and keep my voice firm, the way I’ve seen Tía do when someone comes to her with an incurable illness. “I’m here.”

  Khadim opens his eyelids as much as he can through the swelling, and there is something in them I have not seen before and I can’t quite place. He slowly turns his face and places a kiss onto my palm. “You are here.”

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nbsp; Instead of answering, I guide my fingers to the chain in the wall and I coax the links open; when the collar is separated from the wall chain Khadim’s head slumps into my hands and he moves his fingers upward, trying to get them beneath the collar. Despite cuts that immediately appear on his hands, he tries again and again to pry the sharpened metal off his neck. His breathing grows labored, and I know it is despair building up beneath his skin. I move his hands away and run my fingers softly around the collar, avoiding the sharp edges that curve into his skin. I search for a clasp or opening, but it’s almost as if Khadim was born with the monstrous thing on. I grow still at the groan of the door that leads down the stairs. Khadim trembles but I keep my hands as steady as if I were sewing closed a wound. Come now, Eula. The metal wants to cooperate. Just teach it how.

  A hollow sound makes the hairs on my arms stand. A Castilian is coming; they are the only ones with wood soles on their shoes. And only wood soles make this sound.

  I take a deep breath and move my hands even slower. I squeeze and pray and coax until I can feel all the coils that have been melted to make this collar.

  “Khadim. I don’t think I can take this off without it causing too much bleeding. I have an idea, but it’s going to hurt at first. Just breathe.”

  He nods in my hands, and I am scared he is going to faint. I place my fingers on the collar again and use my gift to warm the sharp edges. When it is malleable I bend it inward toward Khadim so that it melds into his skin. Under my breath I utter Tía’s charms, but Khadim’s gasp of pain still fills the cell.