by Lara Parker
There are little squid the color of rainbows that swim backwards with their arms folded. I can do that. Today I saw a turtle with a spotted shell walking on the ocean floor. And yesterday I saw a curved wall of tiny silver minnows, like a huge waterspout. When I swam into them, the wall exploded like stars, like rain. And underneath in the gloom, the shark was so still, so still.
My mother sweeps the dust out of the corners of the room. She leaves a bowl of water by the door to trap bad spirits. There are no mirrors. Why did he come for me?
Our little house is painted coral with lavender shutters and a grass roof. All the windows face the sea. People come to see my mother when they are ill and she cures them. She knows how. She has a bag for the magic. I know she thought it was best for me to go with him.
Sister Claire lets me read her book of poems when I have done the lesson. This is the one I love the best by John Milton.
“The sea is as deep in a calme, as in a storme.”
Three
Angelique could see her heart when she closed her eyes, small and gray, polished like a stone tumbled in the surf. But today her heart felt like a bird fluttering against the walls of a dark cave. Her mind escaped to the caves by the water’s edge, and she wanted to be there, under the tall rocks with the sun streaming in. She dreamed her way back to the turquoise pools, the slapping surf, where the small crabs went scuttling under their red claws, and she swam in the water, floating through the grasses, listening to the fish clicking in the coral.
Today something felt cruel, like a punishment, but she had not needed a scolding. She was a wild child who had never been curbed or threatened. The sea had taught her caution—how to float with the breathing current and stay clear of the fire coral, how to avoid the scorpion fish that could sting with death and skirt the eel’s bite.
Her father’s hand was rough as barnacles, and his fingernails cut into her palm. His hand was like a giant crab claw crushing her small fingers, pulling her along when she slowed, faster than she could walk on her small legs. She ran along the muddy road at his side, stumbling in the puddles, her satchel of books bumping against her. His fingers pinched her when he lifted her into the cart.
“I want to be proud of you,” he whispered, his voice full of warning. “Don’t cry.” But when he looked at her, she felt he did not see her.
The Negro whipped the pony and the cart lurched forward. She looked down at her white dress as it stuck to her sweaty legs, the dress she had never been permitted to wear, which had always hung in a dark corner of the house. The skirt had red flowers and a hem of lace. She touched the embroidery, the raised welts of the leaves, the satiny curve of the poppies, and she felt a quiver of pride. She had seen the white dresses worn by other girls, but hers was the most delicate.
“But Mama, it’s the dress you save for Carnival.”
“Careful, it will tear,” her mother had said. “It’s made of batiste.”
She looked up at him. Why had he come for her today? What did he want from her, this father she rarely saw? Her mother had told her that he was taking her to Saint-Pierre to raise her as his daughter. Then why had he said so little to her?
* * *
“Father? Where are we going?”
She had heard her mother calling her name, the soft tones of her mother’s voice floating in through the rocks and flickering in the sun motes. She had run across the sand, eager for some treat, a piece of sweet pineapple.
“Mama! I saw the peacock flounder! With blue-and-silver spots—and two big eyes on top! I swam down and touched it, and it flew through the water!”
But her mother had jerked off her faded pareu, and brushed the sun and the sand from her body. Then she had taken down the festival dress and pulled it on over her head. She had greased her hair, which was too yellow, sun-brightened and tangled like the seaweed where she swam, and darkened it with oils.
“It hurts when you comb my hair!”
Her mother had pulled it tight and tied it with colored ribbons. She looked at her reflection in the window and felt changed into some exotic thing, like a reef fish with transparent fins and red in its gills. “I don’t like it. It’s too frilly.”
Then she turned and saw the bright tears in her mother’s eyes.
* * *
Her father was a black shadow against the sky, a piece cut out of the blue, like a paper silhouette, his high shoulders looming in his black coat, his nose a heavy beak, his beard like dried eelgrass. But she could see clearly that he was a blanc, white-skinned, even with his ebony eyes and coal-black hair. That was why he never came to see her and her mother. Because they were colored, gens du coulour, and because her mother had been the daughter of a slave.
Once he had come when she was a baby and held her on his knee and kissed her, and listened to her laugh. She had played with his beard and touched his high sweaty brow.
“You have the strangest eyes,” he said.
“Eyes as changing as the sea,” her mother had answered, with some pride. “Transparent as the water in the lagoon. Sometimes they are clear like jellyfish in the sand. Sometimes they are turquoise, or opal. And sometimes they are dark as storms.”
Her father made a grumbling sound in his chest. He took her mother’s wrist and pulled her sharply to him.
“Where did these eyes come from, Cymbaline?” he hissed. “You said she is mine! Where did she get those sea-green eyes?”
Her mother had looked down at him without fear. She wore her hair tied in a bright scarf that came to a point on her head like a flame.
“Can you not tell? She came from your pride all right. How can you dare to doubt? She has your mark on her.”
Her father had pushed her dress up where she sat on his lap, and he had looked at the back of her leg. There was a dark birthmark there—a wine-red blotch in the shape of a coiled snake. He had rubbed it with his thumb and shrugged. Then he had sighed heavily and put her down.
The wind was gusting, and the road was rutted and rough. The palms waved their long leaves like giant knives. Her father was sweating under his heavy coat. She could smell his musty odor, not like the sea air, but something closed up, damp and moldy, like the inside of a stone tower. The shoes her mother had forced onto her feet, black patent leather, had begun to rub. She never wore shoes, and her feet were as tough as tree bark, and the shoes wore against her skin in new places. She stopped thinking her ribbons were beautiful; her hair hurt from being pulled too tight. What had he said to her mother?
“I want her to have the best. She is light-skinned and can pass. But I don’t want you to come around and ruin things.”
* * *
The rain fell in sheets. It was a warm rain, stirred with the odors of the frangipani. All along the road the flowers battered by the gale hung limp, their color drained and bruised. She wondered if it would be a great storm, like the ones which ripped the trees, roots and all, from the earth, and tore the roofs off the houses, sending them flying into the sky like great birds. Those were the storms that left the schooners in splinters, battered against the rocks of the bay, and sent waves as high as houses careening against the cliff.
“Why couldn’t my mother come?”
“She … decided it was time you came with me.”
The falling of the rain was steady, the sky was pale and gray, and the surface of the sea was pitted as though spattered with pebbles. She looked out at the harbor as the cart moved slowly behind the laboring pony along the beach road into Saint-Pierre.
Angelique was anxious to see the ships. Sometimes the bay held as many as fifty, heavy with sail, their high prows trimmed with gold, and their flags bright with color. But today there were only a few, hunched and sodden in the sheltered inlet, some with sails ripped into shreds, others with sheets rolled and folded like the crippled wings of the giant bats that hung in the back of the caves.
She stole a look at her father. He was hunched in the corner of the wagon, his head pulled down into his collar. She gathered
her courage, and blurted, “Is it a large house, Father?”
He started at her question, and glanced at her with a frown. When he answered the sound of his voice came from deep within his chest.
“Yes, it’s large, I suppose. Large enough.”
“Is it made of wood?”
“It’s made of stone.”
She decided to start searching for the house to calm the sick feeling in her stomach. Perhaps she would know it when she saw it. She wondered if it would be grand, and if her school would be close by. She could feel the sack of books and clothing lying by her feet. She was glad she had brought her journal to show her mother when she came for a visit. Angelique thought again of what he had said.
“I don’t want you to come around and ruin things.”
The pony pulled the cart onto the new road, which was paved with blue cobblestones. The frame jostled her, but it was better than the jerking of the wheels in the mud and ruts of the dirt path. They passed in front of the warehouses slick with rain, the arched and columned doorways staring bleakly at the empty docks.
Under the awnings she could see, still bound in their chains, a group of newly arrived slaves. Because of their black skin and the dirty rags they wore, they were almost invisible in the shadows, and they huddled together in groups. But she could make out their legs, some muscular, some very small—the legs of children—and there were also the colorful skirts of the women. She had seen slaves sold at auction. Perhaps there would be an auction tomorrow, and she would be allowed to go.
“Do you have any slaves?” she asked. Her father scowled, as though he were preoccupied with other thoughts, but after a moment he grunted.
“Slaves … yes, of course.”
“How many?”
“Too many. Not enough.”
The warehouse guard sat inside a small room that faced the wharf, the oil lamp flickering. Just as their cart rumbled by, the man lurched out into the rain with his whip curled in his hand and shouted cruelly at one of the Negro men. With a harsh cry, he let fly the heavy lash, and the slave shrank into the shadows.
“Oh, that man is whipping them!”
“Without the whip, they are devils.”
She felt a sudden pity for the slaves—the bone-breaking work and the humiliation of bondage. Her mother’s mother had been freed because she had given birth to a light-skinned daughter. How miserable not to be free! Then she thought of the caves and the reef where she could be a nymph in the sea grass, as free as the tugging surge, where the water was so warm and clear and the colors so bright. She wondered how many days it would be before she was swimming there again.
The cart jostled up the main street of Saint-Pierre. Here and there a shutter was left undone, and banged in the gusts of whistling wind, but most were pulled tight against the possible gale. This must mean a hurricane was on its way, she thought, and she wondered if her mother was safe back inside their tiny shack. She hoped she had remembered to tie down the wooden screens, and to place the pot under the leak in the thatch.
* * *
She reached for the charm hanging at her neck and fingered the soft leathery ball. Inside she could feel the snake’s tiny skull. She had seen it coiled on the table before her mother had killed it.
“What a pretty snake!” she had cried. “Can I hold it? It’s like wriggling grass! Is it a poisonous snake, Mama?”
“A Fer-de-lance came out because of the rain,” her mother had muttered. “Poisonous, yes. But a good sign for you, my little one. It will make a powerful ouanga.”
The green iridescent ribbon had slithered around her mother’s wrist as she held it by the neck, opened the snake’s mouth with the tip of her finger, and forced its fangs over the edge of a glass. She milked the glands under its jaw until the poison ran down the side in murky tears. Next she had ripped out the flickering tongue and set it beside the glass. It had still quivered and jerked, like a tiny lizard, on the bleached wood. Then she had pulled back the snake’s head, exposing the throat, and slit it with her knife. Angelique had not been the least frightened; instead, she had been fascinated. Her mother’s powers were the most wonderful thing she knew. Every time she made magic, Angelique watched and remembered.
After she had finished the ouanga, she tied it around Angelique’s neck. “Here, child, this will keep you safe.”
“Why are your hands trembling, Mama? And where are your songs? Are they stuck in your throat?” Then her mother pulled Angelique into her lap. She smoothed her hair and spoke softly.
“This has always been my dream, my darlin’. You’ll have a better life than ever I can give you.”
“Do I have to go away?”
“Yes…”
“But I like it here by the sea, with you.”
“A planter’s daughter, and darlin’, with a velvet coat and a four-poster bed. You’ll go to a fine school, not that lonely convent with the old nuns. And you’ll have pretty friends, and music and … chocolate…” Then she drew her in a desperate embrace and pressed her against her soft breast. A stifled sob bucked out of her.
“What, Mama?” Angelique whispered. “Why are you crying?”
“My precious darling … my life … my heart … if only you were not such an angel…”
And then her father had led her away.
* * *
They started up the long avenue of overhanging tamarinds, which lifted in a heavy archway. This part of the town was beautiful even in the rain, all stone-built, stone-flagged, with roofs of red tile pierced by peaked windows. They passed the theater with its deep arches and its double stairway. Posters painted on wood signs advertised an opera from Paris with an Oriental ballet. Her heart skipped a beat. Would her father take her? She could not imagine anything more wonderful.
“Can we go to the theater, Father? When I grow up, I want to be a dancer!”
He grunted but did not answer. She thought he must be angry with her, or that he had changed his mind about keeping her. Perhaps he thought she did not want to go with him because she had been so quiet. Her stomach began to flutter like a pool of trapped minnows.
“Saint-Pierre is a pleasing town. It is so many colors, like the coral,” she said as brightly as she could. “I’m glad you have brought me here.” He did not respond.
“Which house is ours, Father? I want to guess! Tell me when we are close.”
The plaster houses of clear yellow, pale orange, or peach held a covert promise of another life, things she imagined only from her mother’s stories: treasures from other lands, inlaid furniture, bronze statues, dresses of silk and velvet, music of violins and harpsichords, perfumes and crystals and sweet cakes. Her mother had told her that behind the shutters lay shelves of thick books with leather bindings and gold on the edges of their pages, silver teapots and china cups, and most of all, the private dream-life of the wealthy plantation owners and their families.
Her mother had also told her that there were mulatto women who sometimes lived with the planters and gave them their bastard children in return for a sweeter kind of slavery. Her mother could have done that. She was a vivacious, handsome woman, and many men fell in love with her. But she was too proud. No, that was not the only reason. She had chosen another way, a magical way of healing, and so kept her freedom.
“Is our house on this street, Father?” she asked hopefully. “Will we be there soon?”
The rain drummed on the pavement, and the water ran like a little stream down the gully of the street, purring and splashing between the low walls that divided the road from the buildings. The air was pungent, the streets empty, and still they did not stop. Just when she felt she could bear the wait no longer, the cart pulled into a back street that headed out of the town.
“Isn’t the house in Saint-Pierre?” she asked.
He cast a cold eye in her direction. “No. Not Saint-Pierre,” he said. Her heart sank in disappointment.
“Then where are we going?”
“Into the hills.”
&
nbsp; She sat back and tried not to feel too frustrated. She could hear the crunching of the cart wheels, the harsh breathing of the pony, and at times, the low humming song of the Negro slave who drove the cart, his bare back glistening in the rain. She closed her eyes and remembered that when she went into the sea to find a certain fish, a blue angel, or a spotted puffer, they were never where she looked for them. Only when she left off searching and floated in a dream, letting the reef shadow pass beneath her, did she come upon some rare and beautiful creature she had never seen before. She decided to stop asking questions and wait and see what happened. She belonged to her father now. After a while she fell asleep, her head falling trustingly upon his arm.
She woke to hear the sea crashing against the rocks far below the cliff, just as they turned off the road and went down the path toward the end of a peninsula. The rain had stopped, and the sky above the sea was a gleaming silver. The pony stumbled on the loose stones in the path, and she fell forward in the cart. Her father caught her and held her against him. She looked up and was surprised to see that he was frowning at something far down the road. She followed his gaze, and her heart leapt as if a hook had caught it and jerked it in the air.
A massive edifice stood on a rock precipice high above the water. It was built of heavy stone covered with moss, and it was surrounded by a wall. She knew this place. She could remember her mother’s stories, at night before she had fallen into dreams. “Once, it was a great house. The stone was shipped over the sea all the way from France, as ballast in the hold of a schooner. And carpenters and artisans came as well. Ah, yes, it was a fine castle made by, oh such a wealthy man, who wanted it for his tender bride. But she died, poor soul, of the vapors on the eve of her wedding night. So it fell to ruin, then became a sugar plantation. That’s when the mill tower was built, and the chapel, and the slave quarters. Slaves worked there in the heat until they died. They gave their lives to the sugar.”