When The Shadows Began To Dance

by Yamaya Cruz

  “Yes, but King Foot, most of your people are dying,” he said.

  “And yours are already dead,” I said blatantly as I shifted positions on the floor.

  “We’ll both be dead, if we don’t figure out what to do.” he said.

  I shrugged my shoulders lightly.

  “King foot, you speak and act out of pain. You know that we have a duty to help others,” he said.

  “That was the old world my friend. This is the new world and it’s hell on earth,” I said while blowing the smoke from my pipe.

  The Griot just looked at me, like I had lost my mind.

  “I can’t believe what I am hearing. What about all the people we helped, all the slaves that we freed, does that mean nothing to you anymore?” he finally said.

  I focused on my pipe and puffed out smoke. “It means everything to me,” I said.

  There was a long silence. I looked at the Griot. He had experienced so much loss and pain. He worked to free his soul by remembering the ancient ways of his people. Then, he worked with others. I hated him when I first met him. He always wore the same nasty red tunic. I had offered a hundred times to get him better clothing, but he always declined. He believed that the garment was a symbol of his old age and wisdom. He walked slowly, but intently, refusing to carry a cane and convincing everyone that every body movement hurt. But he was an excellent herbalist. He could find plants to heal almost anyone.

  We all liked to gather around the fire at night and listen to his stories. In many cases, they were similar to ours, but with different Gods and places. He had a heavy accent and had a difficult time rolling the Spanish R. We would look at him, waiting with baited breath as he struggled with the language. He would contort his mouth in the most peculiar way that always resulted in us breaking out in a fit of laughter. A part of me realized that the Griot didn’t really want to speak Spanish. It was incredibly difficult to tell the stories of Africa in a foreign language because the concepts weren’t interpreted in the same way.

  I felt that I was forever indebted to him. He had watched my wife die, a public execution. There was a potent feeling of lost and then desperation, then, a feeling of worthlessness. You’re a coward, I thought to myself. I closed my eyes and my heart felt tight, like a fist of pain. You should have protected her. You should have died with her, the thoughts continued. Isabella, my Isabella, I missed her so much. I looked at the Griot. He was waiting patiently for me to answer.

  “Take Pedro Juan and Elvisa with you. Take everyone with you. Just leave the sick. I will work with them until they come. Until it’s all over,” I said with finality.

  “King foot!” the Griot said.

  “It’s like you said, we stopped being afraid a long time ago.” I smiled as I looked past him. A level of peace had come over me. Yes, it would be over; all the suffering would be over.

  Nobody went to sleep that night. Instead, they gathered their horses and left the small village. For years, the village had been a haven for runaway slaves, Indians suffering from disease, and orphans who had lost their homes and families. Now, it was all over.

  I continued to smoke my pipe and I could see them, moving in the darkness.

  The image was blurry. I could see only the side of their faces, which were as white as crescent moons. They were perched on saddles that were color coded with fine brass trimmings. Their horses moved in unison, slamming their hooves into the landscape with their footsteps echoing through the night. The soldiers wore brown tunics and med-calf pants with one single red stripe down the middle. Their boots were solid black with a spit shine finish, large cartridge belts draped around their shoulders. Their faces and teeth were stained from gunpowder and they carried muskets with long bayonets at the tips.

  I saw the Spanish flag. Then, I saw the big wheels of the gatling gun. It had multiple rotating barrels that belted out metal stones like a canyon. A young boy struggled as he pushed it forward. He cranked it, and the bullets began to fly, firing off explosive shots. The bullets flew aimlessly. People screamed, and ran in disarray, trying to find a place to hide, to find cover. The gatling gun continued to shoot out bullets, with little accuracy, but with the fortitude of infantry archers. The bullets pierced through human flesh, knocking slaves and Indians off their horses, killing mothers, sisters, and daughters, brothers, fathers, and uncles. Their screams were loud and heart wrenching.

  I shot up and realized that the screams were coming from a bohio nearby. Quickly, I got up and ran toward the sound of the voices. How could you forget about them? How could you have failed to protect them? I thought to myself. I saw the Spanish soldiers roaming around. They were setting huts on fire and burning crops. It was a horrific sight, and my mind just couldn’t process it.

  I ran towards the hut with the sick children. I slammed the door behind me. I rested against it while scanning the room, not knowing what to do. There were dozens of hammocks with young children in them. They turned as they moaned in their sleep. They were all sweating from feverish headaches. There was a pungent smell of both shit and vomit, but that didn’t worry me.

  It was smoke. It seeped inside the crevices of the hut like the fumes from a deadly bomb. My eyes were itchy and dry as a cactus. I felt like I had just swallowed a handful of burning embers. I could feel the smoke burning up my insides. I was attacked by a fit of coughs. Air, I needed air. I covered my nose and mouth and made my way toward the door. It was locked. I closed my eyes tight, I couldn’t look at them, but I could hear their cries.

  “Help me. Help me. Help me,” they said.

  I opened my eyes and saw young children who were bone thin like skeletons. They had large moon like eyes and jet-black hair. They were once beautiful and healthy children. I remembered my own childhood. I was so free, happy, loved. I ran around all day, nagging my mother and trailing after my father, learning all the secrets of our tribe. I slid down the door and began to weep. I cried for the children who would never know how it felt to be free. I buried my face in the crevice of my arm. I couldn’t look at them. I just couldn’t face what my world had become. The smoke was getting thicker, but I could see the children’s eyes in the darkness. They were filled with emptiness and despair.

  There was a flicker of light that came from a flame that bounced off of one hammock onto another. In a matter of seconds, the hammocks were completely on fire. The flames rose around the children like a log of wood in a furnace. I screamed. I closed my eyes, trying to escape the image, but it continued to live in my mind. All I could see were young children with thick puss like dimples all over their bodies; some had scratched at the deadly rash until their skin was raw. Some had huge lesions on their body that were badly infected from neglect. Their skin darkened, like porcelain seared by a flame.

  This was Hell. We were burning in Hell.

  “We are the shadows. The shadows. The shadows. The shadows.” We are the buried souls of the past. Our pain is your pain.”

  I shot up. I was in Nico’s house. I looked around me. I was lying in a canopy styled bed with ivory curtains, and pillows stuffed with goose feathers. There was a Victorian style dresser with matching armoire that had brass handles. There was a beauty stand tucked in the corner with a huge pear shape mirror on top of it. Ali came rushing into the room. He looked relieved and then angry. Before he got a chance to say anything, Nico walked into the room.

  “Nico, man I’m sorry. Sometimes she just faints and we just can’t wake her up,” Ali said.

  Nico raised his hand to silence him before he motioned for Ali to leave the room. Ali looked incredibly annoyed and distrustful. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nico just glared at him.

  “Mija, are you okay?” Nico said.

  I sat up and shook my head. I spotted a glass of water on the nightstand and then the flashing digital numbers on the cloak radio. I watched in disbelief as the numbers changed from 12:07 to 12:08. Was it twelve o clock at night? I looked out the window and saw that it was daylight. I had slept through the who
le night and half the day. I drank the water in one long gulp.

  “You did good Mija. Real good,” he said. He smiled in a weird kind of way, like a con man, who was plotting to steal my soul.

  He sat on the bed and reached for my hand. There was only one emotion that I was feeling, disgust. I hated myself even more now. My cheeks flushed. I wasn’t really sure what had happened the other night, but I didn’t like it. Nico held my hand in his. It was a loving gestures but it felt wrong, like I was committing incest. I pulled my hand away and placed it back into my lap. There was a long awkward silence. Nico got up and left. It wasn’t until I heard the door closed that I broke down. I just lost it. I covered my head into my hands and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I cried for King Foot and for all of us, because we were burning in Hell.

  I hated nights at Nico’s house. They were scary as Hell. I would usually watch in horror as the clock struck twelve. It was always at twelve. The door would crack open. There would be a flash of lightening followed by a rumbling of thunder. Then, he would appear. At first, he didn’t have a body. He was just a hollow shell that moved in the darkness. Then he would take shape. First, I would be able to see his eyes glowering in the darkness. His pupils black and shiny like marbles. Then his body, it was gaunt and lean like a wild panther.

  He moved quickly into the room, sauntering over the bed before he rested firmly on the edge. Then he would look at me, through me. His eyes translucent, like a cat watching me in the night. I would shiver and pull the covers to up to my chin.

  “Travel with me,” he would say.

  I shook my head with disgust, like an old maid who hated sex. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do anything for him. It made me feel bad; it brought up too many emotions, too much pain. Why did he do this to me, night after night? I glared at him in the darkness, wishing that he would just go away. I felt helpless, like there was nothing that I could do.

  I laid back down the pillow. I felt Nico’s hands as he firmly pressed them against my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Oh my goodness. I couldn’t breathe. He pressed harder on my throat until my eyes rolled into the back of my head. Was this death?

  I saw an image of white hands. They were my hands. They were crossed and resting on a podium.

  “Do you understand your sentence?” a man asked from his bench. He was wearing a powdered white wig, along with a black robe.

  “Yes,” I answered meekly, looking at the dozens of faces in the pews who chattered incessantly. I could hear what they were saying. They all thought that I was a fool. I was a direct descendant from the Spanish Crown, born with wealth, privilege and beauty. And I defied God and his laws by fraternizing with Indians and freeing slaves.

  There was a docket of twelve proceedings. Each of us was a member of a secret clandestine society that freed and healed slaves. We were all tried and found guilty of practicing witchcraft.

  Dozens of people sat on the witness stand. They accused us of witchcraft, of planning slave revolts, of sorcery, of black magic. They spoke of accounts of slaves buying their freedom, not understanding how they could get money to do such a thing. They spoke of landowners being killed by herbs, plants, and magical dusts. They spoke about trances and dances that evoked evil spirits. “It’s brujeria.” They all spat.

  I looked over at the Griot who was seated in the witness stand. He came to the islands as a slave, beaten and chained. He had watched his only brother take his life, and he vowed that he would change his fate and that of others. I remember him telling me stories about Africa and all the ancient wisdom that was hidden there. He told me about the universe, that it was vast and infinite. He spoke about how the dead really weren’t the dead. He taught me how to work with them. He taught me how to communicate with nature to heal others and myself.

  We developed a father daughter relationship that no one could understand, except for my husband. He understood everything. I blinked back tears as he looked at me. Pedro Juan was seated on his lap and sucking on his fingers. He rested his beautiful deep green eyes on me and smiled widely, revealing a mouth with just gums and two teeth. He flapped his little arms around him and crooned excitedly like a bird, gliding in the wind. I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore. I looked at the old man and he reassured me that he was going to be okay. He would be looked after and well taken care of. I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

  I was escorted outside. I held my head up high, my spine was hard and stiff, and I was as regal as an Egyptian Queen. I was led outside, where a gaggle of people tugged on my dress, and yanked my hair so hard; I could feel strands of it being ripped from my scalp. I looked at their faces. I recognized a great deal of them. What will they do now? I thought to myself. Where will their slaves go to heal themselves? Who is going to cure illness and provide remedies to the poor and the sick? I shook my head and surrendered to my fate. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before the Spanish crown met its demise. One child spit in my face.

  “Burn in Hell demon,” he spat.

  Two men were holding my arms and I couldn’t wipe the spit off of my face. Instead, it dribbled down to my chin, and trickles of it seeped into my mouth. I was sick, from the taste and the smell. I was pushed forward and led to a dirt-paved arena. Thousands of people watched as I was bombarded with grit and cursed at for being a witch, a devil, and a demon that had sex with evil spirits and Indians.

  Powerful winds moved in. Tresses of my long, black, silky hair fanned around my face. The bodice of my dress hung loosely around my breast. My chemise was wet and soiled. The garnitures of ribbons on the hem of my dress unraveled and coiled around the lower parts of my legs. A gust front began to blow dry dust and loose sand, stinging my eyes and clouding my sight. The wind blew the dress high above my legs, the long fabric flapped, like a kite blowing in the wind. I looked up at the sky. It was twilight, and it was time for me to die.

  I was pushed forward and forced into a chair with a high backrest. It was made of hard wood with triangular shape feet, with splinters that dug deep into my flesh. The two men slammed my hands against the armrest and strapped them down with long thick belts made of leather. My bare feet rested on a raised podium. My legs were spread apart. One of the men licked his lips as he walked around me, leering as he eyed my naked calves and thighs.

  I shifted in the chair, trying to sit in a position that still enabled me to have some decency. Besides, I wanted to die with pride and honor. I jumped when I felt the cold wire from the garrote. At first, it was wrapped loosely around my neck. Then it tightened, my head slammed into the headrest. My veins looked like wild vines as they protruded from my neck. Then, I felt something snap and my head rolled around loosely. It was over.

  We are the shadows. The shadows. The shadows. The shadows. We are the buried souls that live through you. Our pain is your pain.”

  I opened my eyes and then my mouth. I was choking. Hurriedly, I crawled out of the bed, clenching my stomach. I was sweating and exhausted. I looked up and saw Nico standing over me. I was slobbering like a toddler. My stomach convulsed and all of my food came up and out. Tiny particles from the vomit rested on my tongue and lips because I was just too weak to wipe it off. It left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “I can’t do it anymore.” I said pleadingly. “I just can’t do this anymore.”

  Nico didn’t say anything. He just turned on his heel and left the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter Eleven

  Nico warned me not to tell anybody. Suddenly, I knew that all of the stories that I had heard about him were true. I saw everything at night, in my dreams. I saw horrible things, and once I saw them. I couldn’t get them out. They just stuck in my mind like crazy glue. Nico told me that I had to earn my keep. That everyone in the house had to earn his or her keep. Besides, I had no one else to love me or care for me. I had nowhere to go. I hadn’t seen or heard from my mother in over six months, and my dad was nowhere to be found.

  Nico decided to enroll Ali and Blazen in sc
hool. Not because he wanted them to have an education, but because he wanted them to do work for him. He asked me if I wanted to go back to school. I thought about it long and hard and realized that I did. I wanted to do anything to escape Nico’s house for a few hours. Things were different this time around. I was no longer starving, dirty, and poor. I went to school with a full stomach and wearing designer clothing that came from a major department store. But there was a huge void in my life. I felt like I wasn’t alive anymore.

  The children whispered to themselves, wondering who the three new kids were. After about ten minutes, a long yellow school bus pulled up. There were a total of twelve kids who climbed on. The boys seemed to gravitate to the back of the bus, where the rowdiest and loudest thugs in school sat. I timidly walked over and sat next to a young boy, with glasses that were as big as goggles. I was too afraid to speak, so I just sat in silence.

  The buses pulled up to the schoolyard and parked in chronological order. A siren went off, and all of the kids rushed off of the bus. When I reached the center of the schoolyard, I spotted a small clique of girls. Immediately, I spotted Blazen. Then, I remembered that she had taken the express route to school. She had one of her boyfriends drive her.

  Her face was freshly painted, her t-shirt was fitted, rolled up and tied around her midriff, and her skirt was so short, that when she bent over, her polka dot panties played peek a boo. Blazen was a beauty. However, she seemed to be failing in the brains department. This was her second time in the tenth grade. Hurriedly, I looked away, but not before Blazen spotted me.

  “Hey Nelly,” she yelled from across the schoolyard.

  Shit, I cursed to myself. I looked over and saw that she was motioning for me to come over. I mumbled under my breath as I took slow painful steps over to the other side

  of the schoolyard. They were all older than me, sprouting breast, hips and buttocks. I smiled meekly, while I waved with my right hand.