Gullah Secrets

by Susan Gabriel

  Violet leaves a note on the dresser telling Jack what she’s going to do. He will try to talk her out of it if she speaks to him directly. Either way, he will be upset with her for wanting to do this. The first rule if someone gets lost is to not go looking for them, or you might get lost yourself. But what if Old Sally needs her? What if this is her time to transition and Violet isn’t there?

  Violet leaves the house with one of the bigger flashlights. She keeps her raincoat and hood pulled close and wraps a scarf around her nose and mouth. Seeing the downed tree is like seeing an old friend struck down. It takes her breath away as much as the wind. Their cars are indeed crushed underneath. The wind pushes her through the dunes and down the beach, a giant hand on her back urging her to get to the lighthouse. The waves are like an advancing army inching their way up the beach. But it is the wind, by far, that is a different beast than anything Violet has ever experienced. It has teeth and a bite to it. Yet, it is only an infant compared to what it will grow up to be.

  How did Old Sally walk in this? It was earlier in the evening, but it would still be difficult. And why would she go to the lighthouse, anyway?

  The ancestors, Violet thinks. It is the only explanation that makes sense. Old Sally must have had another dream.

  Increasingly, Old Sally has lived in both worlds. The everyday world marked by days, months and years, and the timeless world of her ancestors. Ancestors, Old Sally told her only a day or two ago, who seem as real to her as Violet.

  When Violet visited the lighthouse as a girl with Old Sally, its presence felt unlike when she went up into the attic at the Temple mansion. At the mansion, Violet dealt with a whole house full of dead Temples that rattled her with their creepiness. At least at first. However, her Gullah ancestors are more benevolent spirits. Preferring to be helpful, instead of obnoxious.

  Violet stops walking. Her thoughts have been racing, and she hasn’t kept track of where she is in relation to the old lighthouse. Thick clouds cover the moon, which doesn’t help.

  Thanks to Old Sally, the island’s history is alive to her now. It isn’t just the place she grew up, but a place with a past. A past with hidden treasures. With the distraction of modern life, Gullah traditions are more threatened than ever before. The winds of change want to clear the coastline of all evidence that the Gullah culture ever existed. Old Sally’s primary concern is that everything will be forgotten.

  At times, it feels to Violet like an overwhelming mission to be the person who remembers. The person working to preserve an entire culture. Yet, without Old Sally, Violet would never have recognized the imprint her people have made on this island, as well as the mark they have made on her own life.

  Using her flashlight, she searches for familiar landmarks. She finally sees the shape of the lighthouse up ahead. Between the beach and the structure are the dunes. Beyond the dunes is a forested part of the island with a cluster of live oaks and underbrush.

  The only remnants left of the Gullah culture are a one-room schoolhouse on the far end of the island, stone ruins around their cemetery, and the small praise church Old Sally went to when she was a girl, now covered from floor to rafters with wisteria. These structures blend in so well with their surroundings they are almost hidden.

  This area is always where the wild indigo grows, another reminder of the past. A crop that was cultivated and used to dye clothes for hundreds of years. The roots of the plant are used for medicines. Last week Violet and Old Sally collected and dried some of the roots for indigo root tea, known to be good for digestion and kidney ailments.

  Violet’s mind remains active as the wind continues to push her up the beach. It is slow-going; she can only see two or three feet ahead of her with the flashlight. It is her intuition that reminds her to turn where the island juts left.

  When she goes in this new direction, the wind pushes her sideways. She steadies herself to keep from falling. What propels her forward is the thought that Old Sally might need her. In a way, her grandmother is like the lighthouse. A beacon to future generations, yet also somehow abandoned and not appreciated for the history she holds.

  Aiming the flashlight upward, Violet sees the lighthouse looming above her. She heads into the dunes that lead to the steps. Climbing the steps from the beach, her left hand clutches her raincoat and flashlight while her right uses the railing to pull herself forward. The wind tugs at her clothes while burning her eyes and stretching her skin wherever it is exposed.

  Violet can’t imagine what the full thrust of this storm will be like in two hours, when it is supposed to finally make landfall. Surely, no one will be able to stand, much less walk in this wind and driving rain. It is a challenging climb in a storm. She pulls herself up each step until she reaches for the railing and nothing is there. Her body lurches forward, and she screams as she tries to not fall headfirst into the dunes. Her heart takes a quick elevator to her throat until she steadies herself. For the next few steps, she places each foot solidly before moving it to the next level. Finally, the railing returns. She stands for the longest time, not moving, appreciating the railing’s support. Her heartbeat calms as she stands on the landing in front of the lighthouse. She made it.

  When Violet tries to open the large metal door, it doesn’t budge. With one fist, she beats on it. If Old Sally is inside, she doubts she will hear her.

  If, she hears herself say.

  What if Violet has come all this way for nothing?

  Shining the light on the handle, she pushes against it with her right shoulder. Someone pulls from the other side, and Violet stumbles into the lighthouse. An instant later, the wind grabs the door and slams it behind her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Queenie

  Queenie’s bedroom is soaked with water and filled with the pungent destruction of live oak and unearthed soil. For a moment, she feels much sadder about the tree than her bedroom. A bedroom can be rebuilt.

  “It’s a good thing we weren’t celebrating our honeymoon when it happened,” Spud says, with a wink she assumes is meant to reassure her.

  Queenie leans into him as they survey the damage, a large puddle forming on her oval rug. “This is serious, Mister Grainger. Please don’t make light of it. Where are we going to live now?”

  “My place, Mrs. Grainger, until we get everything fixed good as new.”

  The Mrs. catches Queenie by surprise. She prefers Ms. to Mrs. Besides that, she hasn’t told him yet that she plans to keep her old name—Queenie Temple—given that’s how everyone in Savannah and on the island has known her for the last forty years. She claimed the Temple name after working for Iris for only a year. If she was going to be treated like someone lower than the graveyard dirt her mama keeps in the flour bin, she decided to legally change her name. Since she resided in South Carolina, nobody in Savannah even knew about it until it was official. It was an act of pure defiance, and something she has not for one instant regretted. The Temple name gives her a little prestige, like driving a new Mercedes instead of taking the city bus.

  When Iris married, she refused to change her last name, too, to keep the power that came with the Temple title. It doesn’t matter to Queenie that she is a Temple by way of the back door, as the illegitimate child of Iris’s father, the second or third Edward Temple in a long line of Edwards that Queenie can never keep straight.

  Meanwhile, all this chaos and debris has stirred up Queenie’s past. Besides Spud, the only other man Queenie ever slept with was Iris’s husband, Oscar—Violet’s father. Not that it was Queenie’s idea for one second. Although she did develop feelings for him. Complicated and confusing feelings. None of which she has for Spud.

  Come to think of it, natural disasters don’t offer a whole lot of choice, either, she reasons. Maybe that’s why she is all of a sudden thinking of these things again.

  Oscar had his demons, too. The only time Iris showed him any respect, as far as Queenie observed, was to change her will at the last minute and honor his wishes that Violet i
nherit the mansion. Oscar knew that Iris’s only weakness was deathbed requests and the fear of what might happen if she didn’t fulfill them. Queenie still can’t believe Iris did it. If not for her falling into a coma soon afterward, she probably would have changed the will back lickety-split.

  “What are you thinking about, sweet-tart?” Spud kisses Queenie on the cheek.

  Queenie doesn’t comment on his latest confectionary nickname, except to note that it could be taken in the wrong way. She is not a tart or a loose woman by any imaginative stretch. However, she is certain Spud didn’t intend it as anything bad. She also doesn’t answer his question. He might not understand her flirtation with prestige. She will wait for the ideal moment to broach the subject of keeping the Temple name.

  “Maybe the good Lord wanted to teach me a lesson that it’s not good to get attached to things,” Queenie says.

  “Possibility,” Spud says, “although it could also be about an old tree doing battle with a strong wind and losing.”

  “True.” Queenie appreciates Spud’s practical nature. “Let’s hope we don’t lose the battle, too.”

  “Indeed,” Spud says, reaching to straighten a bow tie that isn’t there. He asks if she is okay and she says she’s been better. She assumes he knows how much this house means to her. Not only was it her childhood home in its previous rendition, but it has also been her first real home since Edward burned down the Temple mansion. At least everybody thinks it was Edward who burned it down, given he was walking around in the mansion that night and didn’t get out alive.

  To this day, it perplexes Queenie why Edward would do such a thing. She knew he could be a pompous jerk, but she never thought he would try to murder her in her sleep by committing arson. Something about all that didn’t make sense. Anybody in Savannah who had a secret would have a motive. But instead of scrutinizing the whole city of Savannah, investigators determined Edward did it, and it’s not like he could object.

  Queenie was the only person living in the mansion at the time, though Rose and Max had just arrived from Wyoming and were spending the night, too. However, it was Queenie’s bedroom and all her possessions that were destroyed in that fire. As far as personal items, she had to replace everything from underwear to books. What she couldn’t replace were her journals from the last twenty years, and Rose’s letters she had kept for decades. The loss still makes her tear up if she thinks about it long enough. In their new house here on the beach, she finally had everything to her liking. And now this.

  Queenie sighs. It never occurred to her that a tree could crash into her bedroom and do this much damage. That old oak was thought to be the oldest on the island. As a girl, Old Sally told her trees are our elders and should be respected as much as people. This old tree provided shade during the boiling summers when Queenie was a girl. She sat under it while Old Sally braided her hair. She played with her dolls under it. In a way, it is like an old friend. An old friend pushed over by a playground bully named Iris.

  When Queenie and Spud ventured outside a little while ago to see the damage from the other side, the entire root system of that sweet old tree had been unearthed and was dangling above the ground. All its secret parts exposed for the world to see.

  Queenie thinks again of her wedding dress. It was in the garment bag it came in, the bag lying across the big armchair in her room where she did her journaling. The new chair was never quite as comfortable as her old one that burned in the Temple fire, but it didn’t deserve to be destroyed.

  Tears cling to her eyelashes as she takes stock of her current losses. Yet, like Spud said, it could have been a lot worse. What if they had been in bed celebrating their nuptials, or Queenie had been reading or journaling in her chair?

  She imagines the headlines in the Savannah newspaper the next day:

  elderly newlyweds meet tragic fate during hurricane iris

  Well, I’m not dead yet, Queenie thinks, and I’m not willing to meet a tragic fate.

  In typical fashion, Queenie asks herself, What Would Oprah Do? The answer is easy. Oprah would err on the side of gratitude. There would be no room for feeling sorry for herself. No spending time with the thought that she might be somehow cursed with bad luck. Nothing is required but gratefulness.

  Queenie will have to start over again, at least regarding a few items, but the one thing she knows for sure is that she is resilient.

  Queenie and Spud return to the candlelit kitchen. Only Jack is there.

  “Who died?” Queenie asks, seeing his face.

  “Vi is out in this storm somewhere looking for Old Sally.”

  Queenie gasps. She can’t believe she has been worrying about a stupid wedding gown when Violet may be in trouble. “What should we do?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jack says. “They may be on their way back already. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.”

  Queenie has never seen Jack look this worried. “Where is everybody?” Queenie asks.

  “Tia and Leisha are in their room,” Jack begins. “Rose is somewhere with that Heather woman. Max is taking a quick nap, and Katie and Angela are in their bedroom resting up for the big event.”

  “Which big event?” Queenie asks. “Baby or hurricane?”

  “Hurricane, I guess. The latest word is that the earlier contractions were a false alarm.”

  “Thank goodness,” Queenie says with a relieved sigh.

  Queenie remembers very little about giving birth to Violet. She was incredibly young, for one thing. But she does remember that having a baby feels as life-changing as a hurricane coming. No one can stop a force of nature. Just like no one can predict where exactly Iris might come ashore. Queenie wishes now that they had made it off the island. She and Spud could be sleeping soundly at a Days Inn without a single worry except what they might come home to. Instead, they are right in the middle of a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t go after Violet and Old Sally?” Queenie asks Jack.

  “No, I’m not sure,” he says. “But for now, it makes sense to stay put. They both know how to take care of themselves.”

  Queenie is not so sure non-action is the course to take. Spud sends her another reassuring look. But how could she not worry? Two of the most important people in her life are somewhere out in a hurricane. Or at least the beginnings of one.

  Do Max and Jack believe that a few storm shutters and sandbags are going to keep an ocean out of their house? Nothing prevented the poor unfortunate tree from falling into her bedroom and taking half the porch and several cars with it.

  Queenie can usually laugh her way through anything, but she finds nothing at all funny about their current danger. As if to prove her point, one of the tarps rips away from the roof, and the wind whips through the house. If she could get on her knees with any ease, she would be on the floor praying by now.

  A shiver climbs Queenie’s spine as she thinks of Violet and Old Sally out in the storm. A storm that seems determined to challenge them in every way possible.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Old Sally

  Old Sally wakes to find Violet sleeping in the chair next to her. Then she remembers Violet’s arrival and her disappointment that Violet didn’t bring the others. The steady drone of the storm outside sounds like a wild lullaby. She recalls the dream where her grandmother told her to build the courage fires for what is coming. Old Sally thinks now that the dream was telling her to get everyone to the lighthouse and light the beacon. It will be the safest sanctuary for them.

  Violet’s head tips forward, and she startles awake. “I must have fallen asleep,” she says. “Are you okay?” Violet moves to the cot and Old Sally’s side.

  “I be fine,” Old Sally tells her, but even to herself she doesn’t sound fine. Her voice has a quiver to it that is new since her walk to the lighthouse.

  “We didn’t talk about it after I arrived. Why did you come here?” Violet says this gently, as if speaking to a cherished child who was lost and who is suddenly
home.

  Old Sally has noticed how the young and the old change places at some point. Old Sally took care of Violet. Now it is the other way around. A mantle passes there, too.

  “My grandmother told me to come here and light the courage fires,” Old Sally says. “Our ancestors were sending me a message through the dream.”

  If anyone can comprehend the urgency, it is Violet. Yet, she doesn’t wear the expression of someone who understands.

  “Well, we’ve got to get back to the house,” Violet tells her. “Everyone is so worried about you.”

  “I left you a note, so you could bring everyone here,” Old Sally says.

  “We can’t stay here during a hurricane.” Violet looks around the inside of the lighthouse as if gathering reasons why this won’t work.

  “It not be safe at the house,” Old Sally says. “The storm is angry, and the ocean, too. This is the safest place we can be if we stay on the island.”

  Violet pauses and takes another look around. “That live oak next to the house came down after you left,” Violet says. “Everybody is fine, but it fell into Queenie’s bedroom and smashed several cars.”

  A wave of loss crashes over Old Sally. That tree kept her small house shaded during the hottest summers and protected it from the wind all year long. Not to mention its beauty and the number of creatures it supported. Birds. Chipmunks. Squirrels. Insects. Even that old owl she scared away earlier. The live oaks on the island have long outnumbered the people here. The roots of the live oaks grow shallow and cling to the sandy soil, weaving an immense tapestry just beneath the surface. Being rooted is vital for humans, too. No matter how long they live in a place. This particular tree has grown alongside Old Sally for a century. It is an ancestor, as well.

  “So sorry to hear that,” Old Sally says, a wobble of emotion in her throat, along with the quiver.

  “I loved that old tree, too,” Violet says. “Remember how I sat under it to eat my breakfast?”