The Truth About Awiti

by CP Patrick

  From the outside, 447 McGregor Street looked like the home of Walter and Mable Lee. Red shutters framed the windows. The small two-bedroom house was a perfect square—framed weather-worn wood topped with a tin roof that sounded like pennies were falling on it whenever it rained. A small vegetable garden sat full of tall stalks of corn and patches of ripe greens. But on the inside, the house was still.

  Walter sat in one of the chairs in the kitchen. His elbows rested on the round table, which served multiple purposes, more than the builder had intended. He had on the same clothes as the day before—a wrinkled white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and ill-fitted tan pants caked with mud.

  Walter didn’t move.

  In fact, Walter hadn’t said a word since he came home yesterday. He had thrown his work bag on the floor, sat down at the table, and assumed the position he was currently sitting in. Mable hadn’t finished setting the table for dinner. It was still covered with the ears of corn Mable planned on shucking.

  Mable wanted to clear off the table, but she wouldn’t touch a thing. She was afraid to come near her husband.

  Walter could feel Mable staring at him. His wife’s eyes were searching, questioning, What the hell happened?

  Walter wanted to talk to Mable about it. They had shared a lot over the years. Everything, actually. They knew everything there was to know about each other. Like Mable growing up the only girl child in a house full of boys becoming men. There was no father to tell them not to force open the legs of their sister. And so Mable learned to be strong, to fight and hide. And when those tactics no longer worked, she ran away.

  Mable’s mother made certain her children went to church every Sunday. She talked to God, the preacher, and anyone else who was willing to help her raise four children. She spent plenty of time warning Mable to be wary of men with dreamy eyes. To watch out for tall brown-skinned men with deep voices full of empty promises. But she never thought to warn Mable of her brothers.

  The siblings shared the only bedroom in the small house, while Mable’s mother slept in whatever spot she could find. Often this was in the main room on a bed made of straw covered with thick blankets. She worked day and night to support her children, taking small naps in between. And so Mable often found herself alone with her brothers.

  Although their mother gave strict instructions for the boys to take care of their sister, they did everything but. Those early, dark years of Mable’s life were a secret, one she only shared with her husband. Walter kept his promise and never told a soul.

  And Walter had shared with Mable his fear of being lynched. The choking thoughts of having a noose around his neck, his body hanging and swaying in the wind. Memories of hiding in the bushes with his father always present in his mind.

  They watched the Klan kill his Uncle Jon. The men in white enjoyed it. Laughing and taunting Walter’s favorite uncle as they tied a noose around his neck and hanged him from a cypress tree.

  Walter tried to escape the memory. But it was always so fresh, so real. He could smell the damp air, feel the bushes scratching at his skin. Walter felt bugs crawling up his legs, biting him. His father’s eyes staring with a look that said,

  “No matter what, son, don’t make a sound.”

  And because they had been so still, Walter remembered Uncle Jon’s gasping last breaths. He watched his uncle sway back and forth, the weight of his lifeless body making the branch creak. They waited until the threat of the Klan was gone. Only then did Walter’s father cut down Uncle Jon.

  Walter often had terrible dreams about Uncle Jon’s murder, accompanied by loud screaming and night sweats. Mable always consoled him, never made him feel ashamed. She stayed awake and talked with him if he wished. And when he wanted to lie in silence, she stroked his back and said nothing.

  So it wasn’t Walter couldn’t tell Mable what happened on his way home. He didn’t know how.

  “I saw ghosts at Ebenezer Creek,” he could say.

  Or perhaps, even better,

  “I saw ghosts at Ebenezer Creek, and they spoke to me.”

  Mable would think he’d gone mad. Walter didn’t know how to begin to tell her. So he simply said nothing.

  Walter hadn’t seen one or two haunts. There were many. They had called out, reaching for him with their bloated limbs and swollen faces.

  Mable walked over to the stove. She was relentless, determined. Walter both loved and hated that about her.

  “Want to talk about it?” Mable asked as she poured water into the kettle and lit the stovetop.

  It was her relentless way of saying, “We will talk about it. Wherever you’re ready, of course.”

  But would he ever be ready?

  Ebenezer Creek was plagued by rumors, tales of ghosts who haunted the water and cried whenever the creek rose. The stories were always conflicting. The only thing certain was many Negroes died in the waters of Ebenezer Creek. Old folks said it was best to stay away.

  Walter had listened to the warnings all of his life, carefully avoiding the creek, taking the longer route wherever he needed to go. But the older he became, the sillier it all seemed. In fact, it was downright ridiculous.

  He was a man. Married with a wife and young child. It seemed so foolish to take a detour to avoid an old creek. Walter wanted to get home as soon as possible. And the extra time spent traveling to and from work was wearing on him.

  Walter had started counting the time he spent traveling. Time felt like money he was wasting, precious. Walter knew exactly how he would spend each minute. More time playing with his baby girl when he got home. Extra time with Mable in the evening. They could sit out back and talk like they used to. All the time he was wasting. It frustrated him.

  “C’mon, honey,” Mable said. “You know you can tell me anything.”

  Mable was pleading now. She had stayed in the kitchen with him all night. Walter opened his mouth to speak, but his words were trapped. Just like the bodies.

  It had been a long day at the Adams’ picking cotton and chopping wood. Unlike most employers, Mr. Adams paid his field hands a fair wage at the end of each week. He was the most respectable share cropper in Springfield, and Walter had been lucky to get the job. After collecting his pay, he was eager to get home.

  Walter came to the familiar fork in the road—the path on the right leading to the long route home, and the left pathway leading toward Ebenezer Creek. He did something he had never done before. Walter turned left onto the dirt road.

  He made quick strides, following the pathway a few feet away from the bank. The walk was easy, peaceful even. Lofty trees with full foliage shaded the edge of the creek. Their roots were exposed, coming out of the water to form little woven huts at the base. Walter was all too familiar with cypress trees.

  Walter’s pace began to slow. His feet and mind were in disagreement about what to do next. He heard the words as plain as day.

  “Come here, Walter.”

  It did not take long for them to show themselves.

  Swollen, bloated faces emerged from the murky water. Their voices filled the air. Screeching, deafening and piercing.

  Walter fell to his knees. What he was feeling was heavier than watching Uncle Jon hang from the tree. He remained on the ground, listening to the cries of the swollen spirits in the still water.

  Walter had no words, just sounds from a voice that sounded like it didn’t belong to him. He was hoarse, as if he had been crying. Had he been crying? Walter hadn’t even noticed the tears on his face.

  A young woman drifted toward him. Her blue dress was tattered. A red headscarf scarcely covered her dark, kinky hair. Her feet were bare, and like the rest of her body, bloated. She reminded Walter of a dead animal left in the sun.

  Two children held each of her hands, a young boy on the right, and an even younger girl on the left. They were of the same tattered and engorged appearance as the woman. The girl looked to be no older than five or six, and the little boy perhaps a year her senior. Their eyes were full of sadne
ss as they clung to the woman Walter assumed was their mother.

  “They lied,” she said to Walter. “Said they was gon’ help us, but they drowned us. That’s what they did.”

  Walter sat still, as unmoving as the day he hid in the bush with his father. His mind refused to believe what he was experiencing.

  The woman realized Walter was of no use to her. She turned from him, her children in tow, and returned to the murky water.

  Uncle Jon was everywhere. In the reflections in the water. Hanging from the cypress trees. Walter could not escape the staring eyes. They reminded him of Uncle Jon’s eyes when death had set in. Dark and wet. Still and final in their gaze.

  Although Walter wanted to run from the cypress trees and the memories, he couldn’t move. He seemed stuck to the bank. He sat there in the mud. Green leaves touched the surface of the dark water. There were so many cypress trees. So many faces with eyes like Uncle Jon.

  Walter stared as a young man appeared from amongst the trees. His wet eyes were a bluish-green. Dusty reddish-brown curls peaked out from beneath his gray cap. The young man’s body, while hazy, was not bloated and puffed. His feet were bare, and his simple clothing torn and nearly ripped apart from an apparent struggle.

  “She tellin’ the truth, she is,” the young man said.

  He told the story in one long, continuous sentence, hurried.

  “We was followin’ the Union soldiers after they freed us. Tryin’ to help ’em any way we could. Walked ’cross Georgia makin’ our way North. Then we come to this creek here. Ain’t no bridge to cross over, so we helps the soldiers build one. General tell his soldiers to go over first. Say once the last soldier over safe, then we can come. But when the last soldier cross, General tell his men to destroy the bridge. We don’t know what to do. We trapped. Can’t cross if it ain’t no bridge. Can’t turn around, ’cause Confederates not far behind.”

  “So what happened?” Walter asked.

  The question was unnecessary. Walter knew what happened. He was surrounded by swollen bodies in Ebenezer Creek.

  “Folks start to panic,” the young man continued. “Try to swim ’cross, but they can’t. Other folks pushed by the folks behind them. They tryin’ to get away from them Confederates. It’s December, so the water real cold. Feel like ice. Folks drowned. Union supposed to help us. That was they job. To help us. But they didn’t.”

  The young man paused.

  “I fought through all them bodies and got out the river,” he said. “Made it to the trees. Thought I was gon’ make it. But Confederates found me and shot me dead.”

  The wet blue-green eyes searched Walter. They wanted something Walter couldn’t give.

  Walter’s memories were interrupted by knocking. Mable ran to the front door and flung it open as though whoever was on the other side was there to rescue them. Walter saw the silhouette of their visitor. It was his granny.

  “What you done did, Walter?” she asked.

  Like when he was a child, her tone implied she already knew Walter had done something.

  “Went down by dat creek, didn’t you?” she demanded. “I see it in ya’ eyes. Somethin’ told me one day, ‘Walter is gon’ go down by da creek.’ You never did mind!”

  Granny opened the kitchen cupboard and grabbed the salt dish. She began to sprinkle salt all over the house, praying as the salt fell from her fingers. Mable watched the entire scene, disconnected as if it wasn’t taking place right there in her home.

  “Seen dem spirits?” Granny asked.

  Walter nodded his head. Mable sat down on the chair opposite Walter. She put her head on the table, next to the ears of unshucked corn, and began to cry.

  “What dey tell ya’?” Granny asked. “Spirits told you something, didn’t dey? What dey tell ya’!”

  Walter closed his eyes. He was back on the banks of Ebenezer Creek.

  He remembered the beautiful young woman coming forth from the dark waters. She wore a white robe and looked as alive as Walter. She seemed like a rising angel from amongst the dead.

  The brown woman came and stood right across from him. Her dark hair flowed down her back. Walter found himself staring into her small dark pupils. He felt her breath on his face as she asked him,

  “You see what has happened here?”

  “Yes,” Walter responded.

  “I have to make it right. Help these folks find peace.”

  “Okay.” Walter wasn’t certain of what else he should say.

  “You know what I’m going to do? To make it right?”

  “No, ma’am.” Walter tried not to scream. He was talking to a spirit. A real live haunt.

  “All of us here, we going to gather up our memories, the wrongs done to us. And we will send a storm to rain down on this land. And when it comes, and it’s coming soon, you are to tell everyone it’s the wrath of the dead at Ebenezer Creek.”

  Walter wished he could collect his memories of Uncle Jon. His anger at his father’s cowardice. His frustration over being a boy, unable to do anything as Uncle Jon’s body hung from the cypress tree. Like the spirits in Ebenezer Creek, Walter wanted to find peace.

  Walter looked at Mable. He watched as Granny continued to sprinkle salt all over the house. Both women were looking at him, their heads cocked, waiting for answers. His tongue felt heavy, as if someone had control of it, making it thick and unable to move. Walter tried to speak. But his words were trapped. Like the bodies.

  Walter closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Granny’s blue-gray eyes staring at him like wet marbles. Or Mable’s gaze burning him like hot coals. If only they could see what he saw, hear what he heard.

  “Do you know what it’s like to drown, Walter?” the woman asked. “To feel cold water rushing into your lungs as you gasp for air?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Can you imagine reaching for your child, hearing your baby scream for you and you can’t help? Everybody’s trying to survive. Pulling, pushing, reaching. Drowning.”

  Walter didn’t know what to say.

  “These people didn’t deserve to die that way. Hundreds and hundreds. So many, their bloated bodies formed a makeshift dam for weeks while they lay dead.”

  “It’s a shame, is what it is.”

  “It’s more than a shame, Walter,” the woman said as she walked to the river’s edge, her hands outstretched to a ghostly figure. They didn’t touch, as there was no way for them to embrace. “It’s not right. But that’s what I intend to do. Make it right. Need some folks to know that drowning feeling. Need them to know what loss feels like.”

  Walter opened his eyes. Granny and Mable were still there, staring at him, their eyes looking like they could set the wooden table on fire if they tried. Granny’s wet eyes burned the most as she yelled,

  “Answer me, boy!”

  He wanted to tell them what he had seen. How all those bodies at Ebenezer Creek had called out to him. That the woman in white was going to make it right. But the only words Walter could say were,

  “Hurricane coming.”

  14

  everyone else is gone

  Laforche, Terrebonne, LA (1893)

  Whenever I hear rain falling or know a storm is coming, I feel sick. There’s no tonic that can make the illness go away. Most times I vomit. Even if the rainfall is light, more of a shower than a downpour, it doesn’t matter. The sound of rain takes me back to that day.

  We moved to the beautiful island of Cheniere Caminada on September 26, 1893. My folks hoped to start a new life for us. But by October 7, 1893, the island was gone. The dream Francisco Caminada envisioned and that my parents believed in was washed away.

  Father had wanted to move for the work opportunities. Cheniere Caminada was becoming a tourist town, and that meant more money for fishermen. Mother, ever the optimist, believed the coastal waters would cure the rheumatism that plagued her. She could not contain her excitement.

  “We are moving to Cheniere Caminada! There we will live like those on the
Grand Isle. The sun, the sand, the beaches. Why, I can hear them calling my name!”

  “Calling my name” was one of Mother’s favorite phrases. When something was calling her name, it meant she was excited.

  Sammy and I dreamed of endless days spent swimming and searching for crabs. We were young, so a move for us meant another adventure. New experiences and friends. We were eager to leave our old lives behind.

  And life on Cheniere Caminada was good. Plenty of fresh catch, new faces as lots of folks visited and met with Francisco to discuss his plans. As short-lived as it was, it was the best few weeks of my childhood. That is, before the storm.

  No one thought the storm would be as bad as it was. The people of Cheniere Caminada believed this storm would be like all the others. There would be violent wind and rain. And of course damage, and perhaps even a small loss of life. But we believed the island would survive. We were wrong.

  The storm was unlike anything we had ever seen. A few of us lived to tell about it. Everyone else is gone.

  The bodies of our mother and father were never found. Or perhaps they were, but whoever found them thought it best to shield me and Sammy from their deaths. To let us remember our parents healthy and strong. Vibrant and full of life.

  Had they stayed with us at the Archambaults, perhaps they would have survived. But Father had wanted to return home to gather a few last minute supplies.

  “We will be right back, Sebastian,” Father told me. “Watch over Sammy until we return.”

  I wish they’d never left.

  When they walked out the door, the wind was starting to pick up speed. It blew with a seriousness that let us know a hurricane was coming. When they did not return by the time the first rain began to fall, I was only slightly worried. Light rainfall was always the beginning. Many people were still outside boarding up their windows and doors. There was still time.

  “Don’t worry, Sebastian,” Mr. Archambault encouraged me. “They’ll be back in time.”

  The rainfall became more intense, and the winds blew harder. Debris began to scrape against the sides of the Archambaults’ storm shelter. I panicked, anxious for my parents to return.