by Gayl Jones
“Drop her off the cliff,” I heard one woman say softly, then continued to watch the procession in silence.
I walked out into the road.
“Did her father agree to the ransom?”
She looked at me quickly and said, “Yes,” then was silent.
The white woman sat in the hammock holding her head down, and with her hands folded in her lap.
“Look at her,” the woman said, again softly. “Holding her head down like she’s been wronged, like some horror’s been done to her. I know myself that she’s the same woman leaving as she was when she entered here. They say her father will pay so much for her because he sleeps with her himself.”
“Stop talking vulgar,” a man standing nearby said.
“You know yourself about the white man who lives in the forests who sleep with his daughter.”
“Yes, they say he does,” the man replied. “But he’s a wild old crazy man.”
“And this man?”
“He’s a rich man from Porto Calvo.”
The woman gave a derisive laugh. The man laughed too.
I stood watching until they carried the woman out of the gate. Ahand on my shoulder. I turned quickly. It was Anninho. He put his hand around my waist and we walked into the house.
“Did you negotiate with the man for the return of the girl?” I asked.
“What man?”
“The one in the tavern.”
He looked at me, then he said, “No. That man had nothing to do with that woman.”
The Bashful Woman, or Our Lady of Solitude
THERE WAS A WOMAN who lived in one of the huts. She was a solitary, bashful woman who spoke seldom and only about necessary things. When she first came to the quilombo, the Palmaristas mistook her silence for arrogance, until it was discovered it was not arrogance but bashfulness, and then her silence was respected by some, tolerated by others, ridiculed by a few, but still not understood. She had come as a free woman, not as a slave. She had walked one morning into the quilombo. A house had been provided for her. In all the time she had been there no man had taken her for his wife or she had taken no man. They said she was too bashful to approach. Every time a man came near her she would hold her head down and jump, just a bit, as though she had distemper. Her house was between the high rock watch post and the coca grove. Sometimes I would see her standing among the cocoa trees staring at the ground, deep in thought. It was said that she was the first one who had gone to the church and painted first Our Lady of Solitude a dark color, and then she began to paint all the saints. Every one she painted except Sao Benedito, who was already black. If she had any story besides her silence and what she had done to Our Lady of Solitude and the other saints, nobody knew it. But whenever anyone came near her, she would hold her head down and jump a bit.
Anninho’s Plans to Leave Palmares and the Question
I STAY HERE BY CHOICE,” Anninho said, looking up from his calculations and draughts.
“I am a free man,” he said, standing. “I’ve stayed here by choice, but now I want to leave and take you with me. I’ve thought it over and now I’ve decided. Perhaps it is knowing a life unlike my former, solitary one. But I have decided and now I must act.”
I said nothing.
“I’ll go to Porto Calvo tomorrow and get the things we’ll need for our journey,” he said.
I was silent.
“I want you to trust me, Almeyda.”
Silence.
“I’ll go to Porto Calvo and then I’ll come back for you.”
I turned away from him, saying nothing. He got up and touched my shoulder. I nodded without looking at him.
“Tell no one our plans. As far as anyone knows, it is another errand for the king.”
He kissed my forehead and went out. I sat on the mat wondering about his visit to the Mualim or Mr. Oparinde, their discussions with Mr. Iaiyesimi, and his strange visit to the tavern and conversation with the seaman. Was all of that tied with his decision to leave Palmares now, at a time when they most needed everyone to stay and fight against the Portuguese? I had not heard him mention any of those people again. He did not discuss such matters with me, though I observed his moody silences, and the greater attention he began to give to his papers. Or was his decision to go simply for our personal protection? But didn’t we have a responsibility to others as well as ourselves? I thought of my grandmother. But she had been through several of their wars already, fighting like the other women, along with the men, in wars against the Dutch and then the Portuguese. I thought of her long sword, her musket, her preparations of gunpowder, her prayers, and who knew what occult stratagems.
After a while I raised myself from the mat, and taking Anninho’s fishing pole, went down to the river, to catch fish to serve with the cashews and pears I had gathered earlier.
I fried the fish in coconut oil and butter and put it on a platter of banana leaves, surrounding it with sliced pears and cashew nuts. When Anninho returned, his face was beaming. I fixed his platter and then my own. We sat down on the mats.
“Did you catch these or did Nobrega?” he asked.
“I did,” I said. “They were so small, though, that’s why I prepared them like that, so they’d look better. It was so funny.”
“What?” he asked.
“When I took them out of the water, they puffed up so,” I said laughing, and puffing my cheeks out.
Before I could lift the fish to my mouth, Anninho shoved my hand away from my face, and shoved the platter out of my lap.
“What are you trying to do, woman, kill us both?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Anninho. What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know anything?
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Those are mayacus. Very poisonous fish. Just a mouthful. And there’s no remedy.”
He looked at me with anger and collected the poisonous fish and took it outside to dispose of it. When he returned he was silent. He sat down in his hammock.
“You didn’t know what you were doing?” he asked.
“No, Anninho.”
He looked at me. “If it hadn’t happened now . . .”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know the fish was poison.”
He was silent, then he said, “If you felt you would rather kill us both, then . . . it’s no desertion, it’s an exercise of choice. I’m a free man.”
“I didn’t try to kill us,” I insisted.
He looked at me, where I sat on the mat on the floor, then he got up, held the back of my head, and kissed my forehead. Then he lay back down on the hammock. I do not know to this day whether he believed me.
“Come and lie beside me,” he said after a long time.
The Cycle
I AM BEING SENT INTO TOWN TOMORROW to get firelocks and gunpowder for the expected war. You will come with me,” he said.
“Won’t they suspect something? You know what punishment deserters are given.”
“I know. I have given such punishment.”
“They say it is dangerous on the road now, even for a free man and his woman.”
“You have nothing to fear. I’ll protect you with my own life.” I said nothing.
“You want me to stay here and fight. There are many ways to fight.
“But they destroy one Palmares, we scatter, we form another one. That one is destroyed. We scatter, those who are not captured or killed, we come together again. New fugitives come to us, and free blacks like myself who will risk their own freedom. Generations of destroyed villages, new villages, and new destructions. I know the cycle by heart. Garrostazu . . .”
“Garrostazu?”
“The medicine man who was banished. The medicine man, the diviner, the witch doctor, the warlock, the shaman. He says that this will be the final Palmares. I am an educated man, and I believe him. I saw it written.” He paused a long time looking at me. “He has reckoned it his way and I have reckoned it mine.” He paused again. “
I want to go my own way. I want to take you with me. I want you to be safe, protected. But you don’t want to stay with me. You want to be Zumbi’s woman.”
“What?”
“You said his name again and again.”
“When did I say it?”
“During your fever. And again when you were dreaming.”
“I am no other man’s woman, Anninho. I want to be no other man’s woman. I’ll go with you, wherever you go.”
An Invisible Man; Malaria Fever
WHY ARE YOU WALKING HERE? It’s not safe for a woman alone to be walking here.”
“It was safe yesterday.”
The man on the rock stares down at me.
“What do you see from where you are standing?” I ask, looking up.
“All the way to Porto Calvo.”
“Can you see my husband?”
“You are Martim Anninho’s woman?”
“Yes.”
“Sure I see him, standing, talking to some other men, laughing. Now he looks angry. Now the woman who has silk for hair passes. The men look at her.”
“Does he look?”
“Only a glance, as they all give her. She is King Zumbi’s woman.”
“Do you think she’s beautiful?”
“When he looks at your eyes, how can he look at any other woman? But it’s not my duty to tell you which way your man is standing or which way he’s looking. It’s my duty to watch for the enemy.”
He puts a cigar in his mouth.
“Almeyda.”
I turn to see my grandmother.
“Who were you talking to?”
“The man on the rock.”
“What man on what rock? There’s no man there.”
“What?” I look up.
“What will become of you?” she asks, touching my shoulder. “There’s no place else to go. When we are born, we have been everywhere.” She pats my shoulder. “Poor Almeyda, what will you do?”
She is holding a papaya; the sweet smell drifts up. “Come home with me,” she says, taking my arm.
In her house, she rubs oil into my hair and gives me a cup of hot chocolate to drink.
“You think you’re a woman now,” she says, her fingers on my hairline. “But you don’t know your place in the world.”
“My spiritual place, like Father Tollinare says?”
She pierces holes in my ears and places gold rings through them.
“Hold your head up higher.”
Anninho comes to the door and watches me. “Who is this woman?” he asks.
“This is Almeyda. Don’t you know her yet? She has been with you all along. What cause do you fight for?”
“The cause is always one. To be free and human.” Grandmother oils my stomach and the backs of my thighs.
“How do you feel, Almeyda?” Anninho asks.
“Fine.”
Anninho keeps watching me.
“Tell me about your Dutchman,” I ask my grandmother.
“That was centuries ago. I can remember nothing.”
“What was his name?”
“Lintz. Was it Lintz?”
“No, it was Rugendas.”
“A Portuguese name?”
She washes my face in the juice from a leaf. Her eyes grow dark.
“When it was time to kill him I killed him.” She gives me tea to drink.
“He would have done the same for this woman,” she said. “He would have done the same thing for this one.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders.
Anninho touches my hair, my forehead, the spaces under my eyes. “I was dreaming that I had the fever again and that my grandmother was attending to me,” I tell him.
He puts his hand against my face. “Do I feel warm?” I ask.
“No.”
I lay my forehead on the inside of one of his elbows. He strokes the back of my head.
“I want to take you to a place where you’ll be treated with some dignity, where we’ll both be treated with some dignity.”
“Here we are so treated.”
“A perpetual conflict. A cycle of destruction and resurrection and destruction? Why do you resist me?”
He touches my hair.
“Already there are too many shadows about your eyes. When I first saw you, you looked like the sun’s woman.” He combs his hands through my hair. “And your hair was longer, thicker.”
“Yes, but it’s the fever. Not Palmares.”
He touches my forehead. I touch his. He holds me and says my name.
Almeyda’s Farewell
MY GRANDMOTHER SMILED AT ME when I entered, but did not speak. I sat quietly against one of her huge pillows. She came near me and sat without speaking. She looked at me boldly, as if she were studying me, but still did not speak.
“I have watched your man come back and forth this way all morning,” she said. “And the others I have watched them digging pits to trap the enemy.”
She burst out laughing, looking at me with her huge eyes.
“What is it?”
She didn’t answer. She got out a small bowl of coconut oil. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “Oil your old grandmother’s wild head before you go.”
I looked at her quickly. She placed one of her huge pillows for me to sit down on, then she sat between my knees. I parted her hair and oiled her scalp and strands of thick hair.
“Did Anninho tell you?”
“No. I have only to look at either of you to know what you are doing. If you’re captured . . .”
She didn’t go on. I said nothing, smoothing back her hair with my palm.
“It will be cruel,” she said. “By us or them, a difficult punishment.”
When I stood, she also stood, and held both my shoulders, then embraced me and kissed my forehead.
“Perhaps it’s best that you go,” she said. “It’s the time of destruction.”
“What?”
“I’ll fight the fight,” she said, then smiled. “You won’t get to see an old woman wield a sword.”
“Do you feel we are traitors?” I asked.
She said nothing. She touched my hairline, then embraced me again.
“Here,” she said, reaching for a bunch of yellow papers tied together with a string. “This is a record of my travels and worst memories and spiritual adventures. But you can’t read it. It’s written in Arabic. Too bad, but there’s no more I can give you to take with you on your journey.”
I took the papers. She frowned and kissed my forehead again. She walked me to the door. I turned to say goodbye again, but she kept me from seeing her.
The Journey—Preparations
ANNINHO THREW THE LEATHER BAGS across the horse’s back. “I have been in territories where a free black man cannot even ride a horse,” he said.
I said nothing. One of Zumbi’s messengers neared us. He looked at the horse, saying nothing. Then he said, “We are told that they may have more than a thousand men and Indians.”
“Are Indians not men?” asked Anninho.
The messenger ignored him and punched the saddlebags on the horse. I waited for him to peer into them, or ask what we were carrying, but he did not.
“What word did King Zumbi send?” Anninho asked.
“No word. It is expected that Luiza Cosme will have some word for him and you should be careful to get it.”
Anninho frowned but said nothing.
“Why have you need of her?” the messenger asked.
“I have permission to take her.”
The messenger smiled but said nothing. “King Zumbi says for you to be careful on your journey,” he said, turning. “You are one of his most treasured and respected men.”
When the messenger left, I said softly, “It would be foolish to go now.”
“We will be sure to go to the woman Luiza Cosme,” was all he answered.
A Visit to Luiza Cosme, and the Return to Palmares
ANNINHO WAS HARD AND SILENT on the road. There was no one
who stopped us. I had put grandmother’s papers into one of the leather bags and held onto his back.
We went to the store near the edge of the city. This time I noticed a raised X carved into the dark wood over the back door. Anninho knocked softly, but there was no answer. He knocked softly again, still no answer. Then we heard soft steps from the corner of the building. I touched Anninho’s arm. He pushed me behind him and grabbed the small sword at his waist. The woman came around the corner, seeing us, startled.
“It is Luiza,” she whispered.
She was wearing loose trousers and a short waistcoat. Her hair was piled in a high cushion on her head. She looked at Anninho solemnly, but smiled at me.
We went inside, Luiza leading the way.
She closed the door, but did not light a candle. Again, the moon showed through the high window.
“I have just come from Aprigio’s,” she said.
“I was told you would have a message for Zumbi,” Anninho said. His voice was hard and even. There was no warmth. He stood stiffly.
“No. No more than he knows already. The governor is putting together a new expedition. Bandeirantes and Indians in the bunch. How long will it be? A day? A week? A month? Nothing that he does not know. Nothing that he does not expect any day.”
“So there is nothing you have for Zumbi?” he asked.
Luiza looked at him but did not speak, then she answered, “No. Aprigio will send someone if there is any news . . . When I come from Aprigio’s I go to pray to São Benedito. He is the only one I pray to these days. He is the only one I speak to. Some of his jewels have been stolen. They say the criminal says in his defense that it is not right for a Negro to wear such precious jewels, even a Negro who is a saint. And they do nothing.”
Anninho said nothing. I did not speak.
“They want to carry the stupidness of this world even into the heaven. Oh, I have tales to tell. But you are a silent man tonight.”
He still did not speak. He touched her shoulder and she touched the side of his arm. I wondered then how they had known each other and looked down at the floor. I thought of his admiration for her and for her “dangerous existence.”