De taxi driver, a big belly man wid a splotchy beard, who had looked at me wid concern before, now ignores me as if I’m just another whiny American tourist, but I too happy to care.
Five two story buildings scattered up a small hill, painted in what folks think of as tropical colors, blues and greens, pinks and oranges. Lush grounds, coconut trees, palm trees, white sand beach. Outdoor bars and restaurants. Blue sky, blue sea, little puffy clouds swirling from bunnies to trains and back again. Familiar enough to be comforting, but without the obligation to visit with family and friends. I need time alone, to purge, to push ‘necessity me’ to the back of my life for a little while.
After a quick drenching and some actual swimming dat leaves me heart-poundingly out of breath I lay on de sand wid me feet and legs receiving de gentle massage of de waves, soaking up Mother Nature’s joy-inducing Vitamin D. I let meself fall asleep. Sun dreams are de best dreams.
No one bother me. When I wake up, I see de stars gon soon be in de sea. Dat’s what we used to say, when I was little and Mama and Daddy would take us to de beach after dinner. Dey would cuddle on de sand and talk while Reggie, Amelia, and I ran around and yelled and screamed and stomped in de waves ‘til we were worn all de way out. After a day of school and homework and chores it didn’t take dat long. We weren’t alone on de long walks back up de hill to our house, either. We shared de trail and crossed paths wid mongooses, turtles, iguanas and frogs, and other creatures. Mama made us learn de names and uses of almost all de plants, too.
So I not frighten when I wake up, alone, on de beach, in de dark.
De sea take back some of she own and leave me feet and legs dry and itching. I suspect de no-see-ums and mosquitos is what had really wake me. I ain’t had much of nothing to eat or drink, since a coffee at four thirty in de morning so I thirsty and hungry. On de plane, which was too cold, and nerve-wracking, what wid everybody tinking everybody else is de enemy, I only had some water, refusing de dog biscuits dey pretend is cookies.
I get up a little creakily and stumble through de sand, back up to de chair, where I left my towel and cover-up. My building is de furthest from de beach, and not by coincidence, de cheapest, and I ain’t want to take de lighted pathways all de way around de other buildings when I could see de balcony of me room right dere through de carefully designed bushes and trees. I look at de bush—not what I would have called bush, trees and plants left alone to grow however dey want—but dis cultivated bush, tamed and trimmed for admiring from a distance. I go on in.
I was always alive, but when the sun went down I was alive and awake. I knew it was late afternoon when I began to feel restless. Small tingling sensations stirred through my stems and leaves. My flowers began to yearn to unfurl, to enjoy the touch of the cooling evening air. Was it windy? How many bugs were on me? Where and what kind? Aphids? Whiteflies? Thrips? I prickled with anticipation, moisture rippling through me, up from my roots. Twilight was my time. No sun, no moon, a time of transition. Were any of my fruit ripe enough to burst? To spread my seeds? I was growing well here, flourishing in this carefully tended landscape. But I no longer wanted to tolerate having my sprouts weeded away, unwelcomed and unwanted.
A certain something resonated through the ground. Faint, from far away. From the sand, near the water. It got stronger as it got closer. Closer to where the sand gradually changed to dirt. Stronger still as the dirt morphed into soil made rich by life’s victims. A human. A woman. A woman with the potential to carry me with her, in her. A woman already carrying seeds within her, not unlike my own.
This is the right one. This presence on the sand, on the ground, with feet and arms and the scent of far way.
In preparation, I pulled the life from the hibiscus plant on my morning sun side. A common thing, ordinary dull red flowers that shamelessly opened to the sun. Its already-wilting petals dropped to the ground as I stretched my roots, made contact, and sucked. No more hibiscus tea for the gardener from this one, at least. Leaves curled and fluttered down as I seeped its strength. I took the allamanda behind me next, its bright yellow flowers had always annoyed me. The gardener made an elixir for human babies with jaundice or colic from its leaves. Not anymore. Not from this one. Dead. I stripped the jasmine of any hope for a future. I was a bit regretful as I latched onto the oleander. I had some respect for it, being poisonous, like me, but it’s toxicity would strengthen my own, so it too withered and died.
I withdrew my roots and eased back, loosening myself from the soil, raising myself skyward. Dirt and dead bugs fell off as I rose, as I reshaped myself to resemble the form coming towards me.
I step around de stupid Do Not Enter sign, still hearing de music from one of de hotel bars, not dat far away. I start dance-walking, dancing, but still making forward progress, tramping, like we do in parades. Having a great time all by meself, dancing among and wid de trees, enjoying de dirt under me feet. Taking in big breaths of de sea salt air. Greeting de stars wid de names of me family members who gone to live in de sky. Complimenting de night blooming flowers. Chirping back to de crickets and frogs.
I doing my signature move, a kind of back-bending twirl, when de song change to Whodini’s “The Freaks Come Out At Night”. I straighten up, dizzy, grab out for something, find a sturdy limb.
A sharp pain stab me palm and another pain shoot up me wrist. I try raise me arm closer to me eyes, to see how bad de cuts, but it can’t move. I can’t move me arm. What de rass? What I grab has grab me back. I feel de branch pierce me hand, a hard chook. Cold, spikey liquid threading up through me hand, me arm, into me shoulder and neck. De ground shift de way de sand does slide under you feet. Me throat close up, like I going cry, blocking me breath. Me eyes blur wid tears, and I tink I see a tree where wasn’t no tree before. A tree, shaped like a woman. White flowers around a face of bark. Each second de wood more mobile, more flesh-like. Eyes big and staring, like de eyes of a owl. Stems, leaves and branches arrange into neck, shoulders and torso. More flowers, darker dan de rest, hanging down like a skirt. Brown legs shading into white ankles and white feet wedded to de dirt.
De ting holding me. De plant-tree-woman ting. One scratchy arm grasping, puncturing me forearm, de other holding me tight ‘round me waist.
She wrap she roots, stringing out from she feet, ‘round me ankles and pull me in close. She move like she tink she dancing. Dust swirling ‘round we feet. Me knees bend when she pinch de back a dem. She push me hips back and forth, left and right wid she slender twig fingers, each one like a hot coal stick on me flesh. De leaves whispering, but I can’t make out de words.
I scream and scream, but nobody hear. Nobody come.
I try snap de twigs, break de branches, but dey supple and only bending. I scrabble one foot round de other, trying to tear de vines tying me feet to hers. I curse and spit, but de plant woman ting only bind up me hands and wrap more vines round me throat.
I could see de people at de bar over she shoulder, through she branches and leaves, as she swing me around in she wild version of dance.
De other plants and bushes ain’t swaying like she. Ain’t no breeze, just hot humid air. I feel de feathery ferns and salvias licking me wid night dew as de plant-tree-woman ting pushing and pulling me up de hill. Sea grapes falling, as we bump each tree along de way.
Dis ain’t real, I tell meself. I must really be tired to tink I need dis crazy ting to help me back to me room. I just gotta keep moving. Is only me imagination. T’ain real. Is only a scratch. Couple scratches. I gon soon be dere, in de hotel room, where I gon order a room service dinner, drink lots of water, and clear me head. ‘Cause no way dis could be real.
She wasn’t hard to enter. I pushed myself into her, mixing my sap with her blood. She went limp in my arms, and I wrangled her around to my back and inched us both closer to the lights, my feet firming with each step. My veins merging with hers, my needs becoming ours.
I was most of the way through the trees and bushes when I had to stop. The moon above too brigh
t. The surrounding sky too dark. My time of the night over. My strength ebbed. I drooped to the ground, spread myself over her legs, belly, chest and head, hiding her, keeping her safe, weaving my seeds into her hair, pushing them into her ears, tucking them between her toes, sticking them onto her clothes.
I kept her like that through the rest of the night, through the morning, and on into the day. At twilight, I roused and found more places to sow my seeds. Dark places, moist places.
I wake up on me back, half buried under a datura bush. Branches atop me like dey trying to hold me down. Me skin itch and I feel swollen, bloated and heavy. Me breath coming short and I feel me pulse in me neck, feel de hotness of de blood in me head. De sun high and me sweat trickle ‘cross me cheeks and into me ears. De earth’s dampness seeping in through me clothes. I ain’t self move yet, but I dizzy and nauseous.
Datura, moonflower, jimsonweed, used for fever, pain, arthritis, asthma. Invasive. Causes hallucinations, can permanently change de brain, poisonous. Me mother lessons come back to me plain plain.
I push de damn ting off me chest, kick and thrash to free me legs. All dat exhaust me already. What had happen? Why I find meself sprawl out under a datura bush, like a dying cat trying to bury sheself? I raise up on me elbows, wait a bit and raise up some more. Is so I make it to me feet. De colors all wrong, as if I seeing through a tint of dried blood, muddy red. Me knees almost buckle wid each step, but I making it. Making it back to me room, de world spinning around me.
All I tinking as I nearing me room, card key in hand, is dat I want to bathe. Me skin itching me so bad. I want water. I want food. I want sleep. I so glad nothing bad happen. Nothing worse. I had fall asleep in the bush, had a bad, crazy dream. It coulda been much worse.
I step inside and de tile floor almost throw me down. A paper slide across de floor from where me foot had kick it. Damn blasted stupid people. Why dey gon’ leave something on de floor, make people fall? I slam de door, hard, and me head almost explode from de noise. I put me foot on de paper and drag it to de bed where I go to sit down.
Is de checkout notice. Can’t be. I here for two nights. Is only been one. I ain’t self get to sleep in de damn bed. I hunt ‘round for me phone. Check de date. Turn on de TV. Check de date. Call de front desk.
I been in de bush for more dan a day and a half? What de rass?
And I’m going to miss the plane if I don’t leave now. Right now.
I fling a dress on over my bathing suit and cover-up, and I’m out of the door, hurrying to the hotel lobby, to find a taxi, to get to the airport, to get back to my job, dusting strange grit off myself off all the while. I wish I could have taken a shower, but other than that, I’m doing better than okay. My headache is gone and the sun feels good on my skin. I’m just a little thirsty. My trip was bizarre—I don’t understand how I could have lost two days with no recollection of what happened—but I feel renewed, transformed. Ready to go on earning my place on the planet.
Dark Matters
Cecilia Ekbäck
The first time my father died, I was eight years and one day old.
We were in the middle of winter and the darkness outside was so intrusive my mother said she could feel it pushing through our windows. It brought with it something gritty to each room that couldn’t be cleaned up or aired out. I had gone out to play in the snow whilst waiting for my father to return home. The only sounds were those of my body against snow: a soft thud-udd when I fell, the rasping of a shovel, the crunch-munch of red moon boots and, above it all, the rhythmic sound of my breathing inside my hat. I was on the moon. Like Neil Armstrong.
I knew of Neil Armstrong, but, just as my father once had warned me, I couldn’t remember the name of the second man on the moon—the one who stepped down on its surface right after Neil. My father had said that man was doomed to be forgotten. This was his lesson in the Importance of Being First. I didn’t like this lesson. It made me sad to think about all those people who couldn’t be first. They might not even recognize the importance of it at the time. Or maybe they were merely well-behaved and said: “No, after you, I insist,” and then, too late, they realised what awaited them was a future of people asking: “Who?”
In order not to think about it any longer I rolled snowballs—maybe a thousand—and stacked them in pyramids to be used as lanterns.
In the late afternoon, my mother gave me candles for my lanterns. The candles were perfumed, as everything was around my mother, and the forest at the back of our garden soon smelt of old sugary cinnamon buns fried in yellow butter—something we used to make to eat and call “poor knights”.
I didn’t like our house without my father—it was shapeless and mushy with candle light and classical music. When my father came home, he switched on every lamp in the house, whistling beautifully as he walked from room to room—whole concerts in adagio, allegrissimo, prestissimo! He changed the classical music for jazz and turned up the cassette player to volume level four. Then he scrutinized me with brown eyes, raising his left eyebrow.
“What did you decide today?” he asked.
The lesson around the Importance of Making the Right Decisions was exemplified by John F. Kennedy’s death, how the day when he was shot he rode in the convertible, top down as always, sun on his shoulders, grace by his side, but for some reason that particular day the windows that were normally rolled up, were down. “Ah, let’s feel the wind in our hair today,” he must have said. “Go on then, roll them down!”
I had a notebook in which I wrote down all his lessons. There were so many and it was easy to become confused. For example, what if you had to choose between being first and being right? I assumed it was better to be forgotten than dead, but I couldn’t be sure.
My face had stopped hurting from the cold and it was time to go inside. I knew spots on my cheeks would be hard and white and it would hurt when the blood came rushing back. I hung up my wet snow suit in the hallway and put my boots on the stand. The gloves and my hat I put in the drying cupboard on the plastic shelves.
My mother worried about my hands. After I’d been playing in the snow it never took long before she stood on her toes, holding onto the large kitchen cupboard and stretched fa-a-ar to reach the cream where she had placed it behind the wedding photo. It made her huff and sigh. This day was no different.
“So,” she turned to me and when I didn’t obey: “Don’t fuss.”
Sighing I put both my hands into the one she had stretched out.
“You have got to stop taking your gloves off outside. Look!” she scolded.
They were ugly without a doubt: chubby, the skin red and rough, swollen finger tips and the lining around the nails soggy, even torn. We knew the hands would turn out alright one day—I had inherited them from my father’s mother and there was nothing wrong with hers, in fact, hers were rather pretty. My mother’s concern was that I might just manage to ruin them before something real became of them. My father agreed.
“It is the first thing a man looks at, a woman’s hands,” he would say (left eyebrow raised). “Your mother has hands like jewels.”
I watched my mother putting cream onto my stinging limbs. I had tried to explain to her again and again that snowballs simply did not get the icy shell that could return the shine of a candle unless you squeezed them hard with bare hands. My mother did not want to hear it.
“You will end up like your grandmother,” she threatened.
“I like grandmother,” I said with a sudden defiance that surprised us both.
“She is unbalanced,” my mother said.
My grandmother lived in a small village in Lapland. We didn’t see her often. She was not part of the Pentecostal church. “Your granny was h’expelled,” a snotty boy with clammy hands had whispered to me one time at a sermon. His nose was so stuffy it sounded like he said my grandmother had been “helled.” I didn’t believe him, but I never dared ask my mother. I don’t know what had happened between my mother and hers, but something had; that was
clear. Whenever they met, both my mother and my grandmother acted strangely. Sentences were pronounced politely in LARGE LETTERS. They never turned their back on one another. My mother insisted she herself had no memories from her childhood. Life began when she married and bid farewell to her mother and that was that. Now and again she forgot herself and a fibre of something murky from the past would surface. Whenever that happened she would stop speaking mid-sentence and fall silent.
There were sounds on their porch of someone removing snow from clothes, kicking their shoes against the edge of the stairs—first one, then the other, stamping their feet down hard two, three, four times and then using the brush. My mother untied her apron, folded and arranged it on top of the kitchen towel. She looked at me once more: we were not done yet talking about my hands. She walked towards the entrance. The doorbell rang. She opened the door and a cold gust entered. Two of my father’s friends were standing outside.
“So you are here,” she said and stepped to one side.
We didn’t talk very much. Stating the obvious was a pleasantry. “So you are out walking the dog,” “So you are out buying milk.”
“Yes,” one of them said. It was a good beginning: concurrence.
The two men fingered their woollen hats, shuffled feet and cleared throats. My mother stood still, careful not to disrupt.
“It’s about a man, your man, he’s unwell,” one of them said finally.
The other one glanced at him.
“Well,” he continued. “It is a bit worse. We believe he might have died.”
In that instant, the four of us were trapped together, between what was and what must come. Nobody screamed or cried. There seemed to be no questions. Nothing more to say. I looked down at my hands. They were covered in white gloves of fat. As I lifted my head, the world returned to life with a whirring sound, like when you wind up a mechanical dog too far and then let go of it and the poor thing whizzes around on the floor in front of you. The tick-tock from the grandfather clock seemed thunderous, the classical music menacing. I could see only my mother’s back. It was quite still and erect. At the back of her neck a few strands of blond hair had escaped her ponytail.
The Outcast Hours Page 29