Hurricane Dancers

by Margarita Engle

  infuriates me.

  The phantoms of naturales destroyed my leg

  and poisoned my mind

  with troubling magic.

  If I had my sword,

  I would tame the girl

  and her entire

  ghostly tribe.

  Naridó

  I vow to fish so powerfully

  that Caucubú’s stubborn father

  will let her marry me,

  so I fish in a downpour,

  guiding the tree-spirit

  of my lively canoe

  between snarling waves

  that make the sea

  look like a towering

  mountain range

  of water.

  The Woman of Wind

  and her beast Huracán

  shriek and roar,

  but I cannot understand

  their furious, whistling,

  wild language.

  Caucubú

  I wail and plead,

  begging my mother

  to tell my father

  to send other fishermen

  to rescue Naridó

  from the hurricane,

  but no one listens,

  so I run away

  from the lonely shore,

  feeling monstrous.

  Quebrado

  The Woman of Wind

  and her hurricane dragon

  spin closer and closer.

  I flee with all the villagers

  to the same huge cavern

  where we danced before.

  Flutes moan, drums thunder,

  and children weep.

  Once again, we chant songs

  of heroes and hope,

  songs that make me wish

  I could be heroic.

  Instead, I stay hidden

  inside the friendly cave,

  dancing and chanting

  while Naridó is alone,

  lost at sea.

  Caucubú

  My father wears two dance masks,

  one on his face and another

  on his chest, as if he is trying

  to divide himself

  into sacred twins.

  The shimmering masks

  are made of manatee bones,

  with glowing eyes—a blend

  of gold, silver, and copper,

  all the hues of sun, moon, and stars

  swirled together like a marriage

  of morning and midnight.

  If unlike metals can merge,

  why not people?

  Naridó

  Survival.

  Huracán was not able

  to drown me,

  so I climb once again

  toward the big

  welcoming cave,

  thanking all the near

  and far spirits

  for rolling waves

  that carried

  my canoe

  back to shore.

  Survival.

  Some words

  are even stronger

  than wind.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  In the chaos of the storm

  I lose track of the girl,

  but I follow a fisherman

  up to a vast cavern,

  while Ojeda,

  like a shadow

  limps behind me.

  The first thing I see

  inside the cave

  is the savagely

  painted face

  of the broken boy,

  my servant.

  Quebrado

  Quebrado.

  Broken.

  The pirate’s voice

  booms a name

  I had hoped to never

  hear again.

  He orders me to translate

  demands for food, medicine,

  and a big seagoing canoe,

  but I refuse to speak.

  I will not obey

  bellowed commands

  from a man

  who still sees me

  as his slave.

  Part Four

  The Sphere Court

  Quebrado

  Talavera’s face is gaunt,

  and Ojeda is stooped

  like a helpless old man,

  but all I see is coiled fists.

  Villagers move toward them,

  curious and friendly,

  until I shout warnings.

  I call the intruders monsters,

  even though I know that both

  the pirate and the conquistador

  are human, and humans are capable

  of living in unimaginably

  monstrous ways.

  Quebrado

  All faces turn toward me,

  both the painted ones

  and the bearded.

  I am the only one in this cave

  who understands

  two languages.

  My quiet voice feels

  like a small canoe

  gliding back and forth

  between worlds

  made of words.

  Caucubú

  The unnatural beings

  have hairy faces, and they stink,

  so I cover my nose

  while the storm-boy speaks

  to my father and my uncles

  about distant places

  and danger.

  He tells of a faraway land

  where men wear skins of metal

  and move swiftly atop creatures

  that make them resemble

  two-headed giants

  with long wavy tails

  and four legs that end in feet

  as hard as stone.

  He speaks of enormous oceans

  crossed in canoas as big as islands.

  He tells of mournful tree-spirits

  trapped within the wood

  of the huge boats.

  The boats turn into cages

  that capture the lives

  of ordinary children

  and force them

  to float far away

  from their island

  homes.

  Naridó

  The storm-boy’s tale

  makes him frown and groan,

  even when he tells of wonders—

  a village woman in love

  with a peaceful stranger

  on a four-legged spirit

  made of strength

  and speed.

  He describes his own

  childhood as a marvel,

  with songs learned

  by listening

  to chanted stories

  told by birds.

  Quebrado

  Revealing my life’s tale

  is such a challenge

  that, in order to keep myself

  from weeping like a small child,

  I begin to add sweet memories

  of my mother’s talking macaws

  and my father’s leaping horse,

  and while I sing in Taíno,

  the pirate glares at me,

  and Ojeda stares,

  his gaze a blank puzzle

  of sadness or fury.

  When I speak of my parents,

  the words make me feel

  less alone.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  All my years in the Americas

  have passed without any need

  to learn a tribal tongue.

  There were always enough

  quebrado children, divided souls

  who found it easy to translate.

  Now, my fate rests in the voice

  of a broken boy who hates me.

  He has grown bold enough

  to defy me, but I can easily

  make him timid again.

  I know how to turn

  newfound courage

  into terror.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  Anger seeps

  into my deep well

  of fear.

  In Venezuela,

  I was the r
uler of all

  and now I rule nothing,

  not even my own rotting leg

  or the ghosts

  or my fear.

  So I wait for an end

  to the broken boy’s

  confusing speech

  in a language that sounds

  like the familiar whispers

  of hateful phantoms.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  Warriors with spears,

  arrows, and war clubs

  surround us.

  Some wear masks

  with glinting eyes,

  and even though the metal

  is not pure, I recognize

  streaks of gold.

  All I need now

  is the broken boy’s

  clever voice

  to help me befriend

  this rich tribe.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  I would give up all my old dreams

  of finding cinnamon, pearls, and gold,

  if only I could learn to speak

  the natural language,

  so that I could beg healers

  to cure my leg.

  I would even give up

  all hope of gaining

  marvelous wealth

  by selling the islanders

  as curiosities

  at market fairs

  in Sevilla.

  Caucubú

  The storm-boy’s tale

  whirls through my mind

  like a hurricane

  in a nightmare.

  When the noise of the storm

  beyond our sheltering cavern

  finally fades to utter silence,

  my father proudly announces

  that we will now descend

  to the sphere court,

  where skillful men

  will play a ball game

  to determine the path

  of our future.

  Quebrado

  Sphere games

  are an island’s courtroom.

  Playing ball helps leaders

  turn their anger into energy,

  so they can make wise decisions

  about matters of warfare

  and peace.

  As a small child,

  I used to play for fun,

  but now I am old enough

  to join the solemn team

  who will decide what to do

  about my tale of cage-ships

  and slave traders,

  the improbable story

  of my true life.

  Quebrado

  The sphere of sap and cotton

  is as hard as a tree, but it moves

  as lightly as air.

  Wooden belts protect our bellies.

  We are not allowed to hit the sphere

  with feet or hands, only our heads,

  hips, shoulders, and knees.

  I leap to strike with my forehead,

  and in that instant of motion,

  all worries vanish.

  I fly.…

  I soar.…

  The sphere

  looks like

  a golden sun

  guiding me up

  into blue sky

  where my mind

  suddenly feels

  completely clear,

  even though

  the future

  is still cloudy

  and uncertain.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  On the mainland,

  trials by sphere game

  are often said to end

  with execution,

  but I have no idea what to expect

  on this bewildering isle

  of troubling surprises,

  so I stare at the healers,

  hoping to make them

  tremble

  by revealing

  my own terror.

  If they see that I am

  inhabited by native ghosts,

  surely they will share

  my fear.

  Quebrado

  The line between

  captives and captors

  flows back and forth

  like high tide.

  When I see such deep terror

  in the eyes of Ojeda,

  I remember how recently

  he was the pirate’s hostage,

  and I was the pirate’s slave.

  Now, the only captives

  are the same two men

  who lived by preying

  on others.

  Caucubú

  It must be the way

  I watched Naridó as he ran

  and jumped, guiding the sphere

  from goal to goal.

  My father noticed.

  He decided.

  I had assumed that the only verdict

  to grow out of this ball game

  would be punishment

  for the two monster-men

  who tormented the storm-boy,

  but another announcement

  quickly follows.

  I will be sent away in the morning

  to become the wife of a stranger.

  I will be sent far away

  from Naridó.

  Naridó

  I search for her face

  in the raucous crowd,

  but she is gone.

  We will never laugh

  together again,

  unless I find her quickly,

  and we run away,

  leaving our village

  and our families

  forever.

  Quebrado

  I watch with joy

  as tribesmen with spears

  chase the pirate and Ojeda

  toward an eastern swamp

  where crocodiles lunge

  and writhe.

  Banishment.

  Mercy.

  My enemies

  will be outcasts, not corpses,

  but even if they were executed,

  their deaths would not help me

  to be any more free

  and hopeful

  than I feel

  at this moment

  of stunned relief.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  This green-water torment

  is endless and murky.

  We will probably starve

  in the swamps,

  or shrivel with fever,

  or be torn apart by claws

  and fangs.

  Whatever tale

  the boy told in his own

  broken language

  has worked like a testimony

  in a courthouse,

  condemning us

  to danger.

  At least we have a small

  merciful chance

  of survival.

  Caucubú

  My world

  was once

  so wide

  and bright.

  Now

  it is narrow

  and dark

  as I crouch

  alone

  in this upside-down

  realm of bats.

  Only love and hope remain,

  but they are enough

  to help me smile

  as I wait

  for Naridó.

  Part Five

  The Sky Horse

  Quebrado

  First by sunlight

  and later by starlight,

  the whole village searches

  for Caucubú and Naridó,

  but their footprints

  show that love

  has carried them up

  to a forbidden region

  of misty forests

  where only healers

  are allowed to venture,

  and not even

  the hunting dogs

  seem brave.

  Quebrado

  Villagers blame me for all

  that has happened.

  Children call me

  a creature of magic.

  The healers accuse me

 
of knowing secrets.

  Caucubú’s father

  sends me away.

  The village that once

  seemed so friendly

  will no longer be

  my refuge.

  Quebrado

  Alone and roaming

  through valleys and over ridges,

  I sense my father’s restlessness

  stirring within me.

  I am an outcast now,

  but wandering almost feels

  like going home.

  There are no people

  in this forest—no huts or fields,

  just trees the height of clouds,

  mossy branches that whisper

  and sing in the breeze,

  and spidery orchids

  that dangle

  like fingers,

  reaching.…

  Quebrado

  Forests are sacred.

  My father once told me

  that he’d abandoned the army

  because killing made him

  heartsick, and acts of mercy

  were his only chance

  to understand heaven.

  I was too young to know

  what he meant, so my mother

  led me into a thicket of trees

  where I heard songbirds,

  tree frogs, and cicadas.

  I heard stillness too,

  silent roots growing

  and fruit ripening.

  It was the music

  of a distant spirit

  growing closer.

  Quebrado

  As I search for Naridó and Caucubú,

  I hear the rustling leaves

  of a red-barked mahogany tree.

  It sounds like a whispered plea

  for freedom from a rooted existence.

  Naridó fled the village without his canoe,

  so when I find him, I will show him

  this spirit-tree, and we will build a boat.

  It will take a month to chop the trunk

  with stone axes, and another month

  to hollow it with bone scrapers

  and smoldering leaves.

  We will have to start beneath

  a new moon, when sap runs slowly

  and insects will not devour

  the moist wood.

  By the time the heavy trunk

  is transformed into a light,

  floating thing, Naridó will know