“A day didn’t go by when she didn’t praise the water spirit, who governed the water. Who infused it with love.”
“Water spirit?”
“Mami Wata. ‘Mother Water.’ Goddess of the waters. A mermaid, some may say.”
“Like the Little Mermaid? Like my mermaid?”
“I don’t know this Little Mermaid, only Wata. But there’re mermaids in all the world’s waters.
“Some say: ‘Mami Wata? Nothing but superstition.’ ‘No such thing as mermaids.’ ‘A folktale for ignorant people.’
“Others say, ‘Sailors see manatees. Otters. Sea cows living in Africa, West Indies, the Amazon. No such thing as water spirits, mermaids.’ Others believe mermaids lure ships to rocky shores.
“Since the beginning of mankind, people from the top of the world to its bottom have sworn magical creatures reside in oceans, rivers, and streams.
“Membe’s tribe whispered of mermaids who protect and cherish. Both water- and earth-bound life. They honored Mami Wata as the spirit who brought their village joy. Who taught them respect for Nature.
“But, for Membe, joy became despair.” Grandmère closes her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her lids.
I stroke her arm.
“Each day more women, men, and children were stuffed inside the ship’s hold. Some came from her village; some from afar. Some spoke languages she’d never heard. Terrified, everyone suffered. Cramped, strained muscles, hunger, suffocating heat. The littlest children cried themselves to sleep, then cried some more. The sadness and ugliness broke Membe’s heart.
“And then, one day, a voice called, ‘Lift anchor.’ Membe heard chains rattling, sails snapping, and she knew the boat was taking her away from all she loved.
“Membe cried, ‘Wata, save me!’ She wanted the currents to stop moving, for waves to die, for water to turn to dirt.
“But it didn’t work. She knew, water like blood flows… nothing could stop her unwanted journey.
“All day, all night, she cried. Weeping away water in her tears. She wouldn’t drink the water given with stale bread. Water had failed her.”
“Without water, she’d die.”
“C’est vrai, Maddy. But Membe hated water, hated it more than the men who’d chained her. ‘Water betrays,’ she chanted. ‘Water spirits fail. Wata never loved me, never loved us at all.’”
“She’d given up hope.”
“True, but the second night, and no one knows from where or how, a firefly appeared in the ship’s hold.”
“Like my firefly?”
“That’s right, Maddy. The fly hovered close and gave Membe hope. By day, it disappeared. Come night, it was always there. Blinking, near her head, staying close so she could see it, tiny wings flapping.
“Sometimes Membe pretended to sleep, but when she opened her eyes, the firefly was still there. The firefly calmed her, helped her save her strength. Daylight, chained at the neck, arms, and legs, packed tight on wood slats, the memory sustained her. Behind her eyelids, she kept seeing its flickering light.”
Grandmère leans back. The rocker creaks, cracks against the wood. Grandmère inhales, exhales. Breathes like she’s risen from water.
A firefly, light as silk, perches on my shoulder.
I don’t move.
“Is this”—I open my palm, and the firefly lights upon it—“the firefly that came to Membe?” Her wings twitch like eyelash kisses.
“No, child. That firefly is long dead. But this here is a descendant of the first one. Just like you are descendant of Membe, your great-great-great-grandmother. This firefly has been waiting for you.”
“Like you and the bayou?”
Grandmère nods.
“Does she have a name? Besides Miss Firefly?”
My firefly walks from my wrist to my elbow.
“You can name her. Take your time. Fireflies are a special gift. A sign.
“All things in this world can’t be seen, Maddy-girl. You’ve got to learn to read the signs. Signs earth-bound, water-bound, too. All of nature.
“Most folks don’t pay attention. Don’t really see, smell, touch, and hear, not really. Don’t honor how they feel, how feelings can be another way of understanding. If you’re lucky, when you need them most, feelings, dreams become intuition, sight.”
“You mean like seeing things? Things that aren’t there?”
“I mean like knowing things. Past, present, future.”
Knowing the past and present is hard enough, I think. I’m not sure I want to know the future. Seems spooky.
Though Grandmère’s a little spooky, too. But she’s also loving and kind.
“Why do folks call you Queenie?” I ask.
“Sign of respect. Honoring what I know, sense, and feel. Like knowing when rain is coming. What herbs are best for poultices. When a baby’s due.”
“There’s lots to learn,” I say. “Like in school?”
“Of a different kind. Membe worked hard on the Lavalier Plantation. That’s how our family came to be named.
“Like the firefly, Membe gave hope to others. Helping, nurturing, healing. I’ve carried the line. Now it’s your turn, Maddy.”
I puff myself up.
“I believe Mami Wata sent the firefly,” says Grandmère. “Membe didn’t know… or maybe she was too bitter to believe it was so?
“But both my dreams and my mother, long dead now, told me that Mami Wata left Africa and swam alongside the ship carrying the kidnapped Membe. As best she could, she tried to provide hope, support, and love.
“For all time, Mami Wata exists, helping whenever she’s needed. My mother saw her when she was just about your age, Maddy. Four times, she saw her.”
My head spins. African magic lives in the bayou. Do I have it in me, too?
“Have you ever seen her? Mami Wata?”
Grandmère shakes her head. “Being able to see Wata sometimes skips generations.”
I think about telling her I saw a face in the water. But what if I’m wrong? What if I make her feel bad because she never saw Wata?
“What else do I have to learn?”
Somber, her voice deep, Grandmère says, “Wear clean underwear.”
I’m disappointed.
Clean underwear? I always wear clean underwear. How can that be special? I wrinkle my nose.
“Think, Maddy. Master expected Membe to break,” Grandmère says, forceful, loud. “To bow down. Lose her self-esteem. But she didn’t. That was her real strength.”
“Keeping herself clean?”
“That’s right, Maddy-child.”
I think hard. “Didn’t she ever get dirty?”
“’Course she did. Working in the fields, sunrise to sundown. How could she not? But, chin high, she worked. It’s a saying: ‘Wear clean underwear.’ It means ‘have self-respect.’ No matter how hard he tried. Beatings. Bullying. Calling her names. Master couldn’t take away her self-respect.
“Lesson one: Respect yourself.”
With Grandmère, everything’s a story.
“Time for bed,” she says sternly.
“Did I upset you?”
“Non,” Grandmère sighs. “I’ve been telling you what’s needed. What’s wanted. But you’re not ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“What’s needed.”
The porch door slams.
I feel hurt. Then I remember the porch door always slams. It doesn’t have springs.
Part of me wants to go home, back to what I’m used to.
But part of me remembers how glorious it felt to call fireflies. It was real. I didn’t dream it, I’m certain. But if I did dream a mermaid, is she any less real? Is Grandmère’s tale true?
My head hurts. I don’t understand what I’m thinking. I try to puzzle it out. There’s my known world—New Orleans. A life with my family. My sisters bickering. A world tamed by glass, metal, and concrete.
Then there’s an unknown world—Bayou Bon Temps, where Grandmère tell
s tales, loving and strange.
The night sky darkens. My firefly poses on the porch rail, then another firefly lands, then another, until there are ten tiny fireflies in a row sparkling bright, then brighter. Each one, glimmering, pulses in time with their tiny breaths and hearts.
Fireflies mean hope. Maybe they’re telling me I won’t disappoint?
Bear likes me. Grandmère likes me, too, I can tell. And though she hasn’t said it, she loves me, too.
I inch closer to the fireflies. They’re truly beautiful, glowing like mini Christmas lights, making me believe all is going to be fine. It’s the middle of the night, but I feel like I’m waking up, understanding more.
“‘Wear clean underwear,’” I whisper. Leaves ripple. A raccoon dashes through the underbrush.
I stoop before the fireflies. “I can do that. Wear clean underwear.” They glow brighter, answering back. I feel happier, hopeful.
Bon Temps is a fine place. It’s more alive than anyplace I know.
“You’re not ready,” Grandmère said. I’m not sure what I’m getting ready for. But if Grandmère wants me ready, I can get ready. Like Membe got ready for her hard, new days.
Sayings and Signs
Each day, Bear and I explore.
I tell him Membe’s tale, just like Grandmère told me. I’m not certain Bear believes it. But he likes hunting, solving mysteries. If he were a hero in a story, he’d hunt for a pot of gold; search for a dragon’s lair; track a golden fleece.
Mister Cochon, though he fusses, lets us borrow the airboat. Each day, Bear races the motor and we fly, bouncing over water. Then we slow, peer at muddy water, algae blooms, searching for the smallest sign.
Dinnertime, we eat stew, boiled shrimp, okra, and corn bread. Whatever Grandmère cooks. Bear eats like there’s a hole in his stomach that can’t be filled.
Nights, we sleep on Grandmère’s porch. “It isn’t real camping,” complains Bear. I don’t care. I’ve never slept outside before. I’ve got a pillow, sheets, and the night air is so moist, I’m breathing water.
I see millions of stars. Flickering, glowing. Stars streak across the sky.
The moon watches me. No matter how I shift, turn, the moon holds still, right where I can see it. Each passing night, it grows big, bigger, transforming from a sliver to a crescent moon.
Before sleep, the last thing I see is my firefly darting under and over the porch rail and Bear’s brown, shaggy hair.
Only problem is, Bear snores.
Mornings, Grandmère wakes us, singing. Not humming, but singing with words. Our ritual has changed since Bear’s our guest. There’s not as much quiet time for me and Grandmère. I like Bear visiting, but I miss the quiet.
But I think playing with Bear is part of Grandmère’s lessons, too. It’s like I’ve finished one set of teachings and now I’m learning set two. I still don’t know what I’m studying for, but it doesn’t matter. I like being a Bon Temps girl.
Most days, Grandmère’s tunes are happy. She sings about slow-moving waters, spirits in trees, and spiders spinning webs with love. Her voice is high, soprano, warbling at times, like a nightingale.
Today her song is sad. I don’t understand the French; I only know her mournful sounds make me cry.
I don’t ask Grandmère why she’s sad. Or what the song means. As far as I can tell, nothing’s wrong. Each bayou day seems better than the last. Maybe Grandmère’s singing for the past? Or the future?
My sisters are right. Grandmère is a little weird.
I want to be just like her. Just not when she’s singing sad.
“Finish breakfast,” says Grandmère. Then, “Vite, quick. Clean the dishes.”
I wash. Bear dries. Afterward, Grandmère orders, “Go play.”
But before we’re down the steps, she tells us to wait. On the porch, she stands regal, strong. “A saying.”
I love this part. Especially on her good singing days.
One day, Grandmère said, “Do good and it’ll fly right back to you.”
Another day, she said, “Ten isn’t just one more than nine. Ten means change. Energy, luck. New things in life.”
Mostly, I don’t understand a word Grandmère says. But I try.
But on days when her singing is sad, she gives warnings. “If a bird snatches your hair for its nest, your hair will fall right out.”
“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone.”
I tremble, waiting for Grandmère’s saying. She starts singing again. It’s a different song but still mournful.
Dodo titit
Si ou pa dodo,
krab la va manje ou
Dodo titit,
krab lan kalalou
I remember this one. Ma sang it. Something like: “Sleep, little one. A crab will eat you if you don’t.” A bogeyman lullaby. Why do grown-ups like to scare kids to sleep?
Bear and I squirm. We both want to be gone. I don’t like when Grandmère’s like this. But we wait for the saying.
Grandmère’s song fades, petering out like she’s lost air. She stares—at what? I can’t tell. Instead of her intense gaze, she looks dulled, shaken.
“Why don’t you rest, Grandmère?”
She sways, her arms hugging herself. Her head nods, jerks like she’s just plucked from the air what she needed to say.
“A bird with a crooked wing means sorrow.”
I search the sky for birds. Relieved, I see two hawks soaring, their wings sturdy and strong.
“Another saying,” she says.
Two? Before our morning adventure, Grandmère usually just says one. I’m worried.
“Heartache comes in threes.”
My shoulders slump.
“Let’s go,” Bear mutters. “Queenie, we’ll help you cook this evening. Maybe fry some fish?”
Grandmère squints, lost in thought, like she’s forgotten we’re still here.
“Maddy, how old are you?”
Anxious, me and Bear glance at each other. Last few days, Grandmère’s asked the same question a dozen times.
“Almost ten.”
“Ten’s good, Queenie,” says Bear, quick, reassuring. “You said, ‘Change. Energy. Luck.’ If anything bad happens,” he boasts, “Maddy will fix it.”
He grins, poking fun. “Now, me? I don’t fix nothin’. I’m trouble. I’m eleven. You said, ‘Patient. Sensitive.’ Doesn’t seem right. Not me.”
I study Bear, his hair tousled, standing on end. He’s always tugging, pulling, yelling at me to come on. Yet I think Grandmère’s right. Bear is sensitive. Patient when he needs to be. He’s a good friend. Kinder than me.
“You’re a good boy, Bear.” Grandmère stands taller, palms pressed together. “Maddy, I’m beginning to believe you’re like me. Did I tell you that, Maddy?”
I nod. I’m a Lavalier like Grandmère’s a Lavalier. We look for signs. We call fireflies.
I’m just trying to get ready. For whatever it is. Whatever is coming.
Grandmère starts singing again. Her voice scratches and wails. Bear crouches, covering his ears.
I holler, “Stop, Grandmère. Please. Too sad.”
“Lesson one.” She points one finger. “Self-respect. Two.” She points another. “Signs everywhere, Maddy. Pay attention.” Then she motions me close. “Play.” Her voice is desperate. “Enjoy the bayou while you can.”
“Make me a birthday cake?” I ask, trying to distract her.
“Moon pies,” she answers. I see myself inside her eyes. A small shadow. “Moonlight reveals mysteries.”
Nervous, I bite my lip.
“Extra filling, please?” begs Bear.
I jump off the porch. “Come on, Bear.” I look at him, pleading, Let’s explore.
Bear understands what I don’t say. He clutches my hand. We run.
Grandmère’s sad, sad song chases at our heels.
Another lesson. Pay attention. Signs everywhere. I open my eyes wide, wider, widest, tryi
ng to see.
Fish Tails
“Some in the world don’t believe mermaids are real. But some do,” I say, perched on the airboat.
Water slaps against the boat’s bottom.
“Even though she’s never seen her, Grandmère believes Mami Wata is real. But maybe now, she isn’t sure? It’s been so long since slave days. Maybe she thinks Mami Wata has swum back to Africa? And that’s why her songs have turned so sad? Maybe, like Membe, she thinks Mami Wata has abandoned her? Abandoned Bon Temps and all the Lavaliers?”
Bear doesn’t answer. He keeps peering into brackish water. His sweaty T-shirt sticks to his back.
It’s been over a month. Thirty-two days, we’ve searched.
When the sun is shining ever so fierce and hot, we search. When rains pour, drenching our skin, we search. When the sky is overcast, gloomy, we search.
I tell Grandmère’s tale over and over again, trying to inspire me and encourage Bear.
“Wouldn’t everyone in the whole world be happier if mermaids were real?” I clench my hands, nervous.
Bear still doesn’t speak.
Worried, I stare at the water and marsh grass. My eyes hurt.
Summer is flying fast.
Without meaning to, I feel like I’m ruining everything. Ruining me and Bear’s first and maybe only summer. But I can’t give up.
I’ve read lots of books but never read a tale anything like Grandmère told me. I’ve seen pictures of brown-, blond-, and red-haired mermaids with white faces. I never thought a mermaid might look like me. I don’t tell Bear this, even though I think he’d understand.
I don’t tell Bear, either, that Membe is Grandmère’s great-grandmother. I don’t tell him she’s my kin.
Today, Bear asks, not unkindly, “Maddy, you sure you saw a face? Maybe it was just a fish with bug eyes?”
I don’t blame him. I’m ready to give up, too.
“Maybe it’s a manatee? Or a lost dolphin? Oh, oh, I know,” says Bear. “An undiscovered monster? Something with two heads, big teeth, and a tail that stings, paralyzes.
Bayou Magic Page 5