House of Rougeaux

by Jenny Jaeckel

  She rose up over the roof of the Sick House and moved forth over the fields toward a dark sky. The shapes of shrubs and trees crouched in darkness, and the whistling wind became a song. She walked again beneath the great Anaya drawn with stars. The touch of Anaya’s leaves grazed her cheek.

  Beneath her lay a white path, long and narrow. It was a bridge, the limitless night sky on either side. In her open hand she found a clump of brown fibres. Also a yellow root and a dark green pulp of tiny, bitter leaves. The fibres drew her eyes down, and her hands to a place at her hip where the flesh was torn. The brown fibres knit the ragged edges together. Juice from the yellow root guided the fibres of the first plant and brought out new growth in the flesh. The tiny, bitter leaves removed clots of blood and carried away poisons.

  The plants worked together, and Abeje marveled. Anaya was there to soothe the heart. Each plant had a song, its own notes, and they called among themselves as she had heard the birds and insects do. They gave her their names. In her hands they would do their work.

  Then from her own belly, her own heart and throat, came her song. It flew high like a bird, and hummed low to the ground in a steady rhythm. It played in the wind, and joined together with the songs of all the plants. Now she lived in their village, and her own song brought forth her strength. She was a rooted tree, a rushing river, and the solid earth. She was the dancing flame, and the wind, the breath of the Holy One itself.

  Abeje’s feet balanced once again on the narrow bridge. Down below, her brother lay beside her. The bridge stretched out ahead, she who was awake in her dream-body, and her steps were slow. The Holy One breathed above.

  Fever burned her insides, leaving a trail of ashes.

  She saw Overseer, reduced to his bed with fever himself. She knew that when she rose from her sickness, he would cross his own bridge, and she would not see him again.

  In the days that followed Abeje’s return from the Sick House, Adunbi didn’t want her to go alone to fetch water in the morning. He didn’t want her to lift a heavy load of firewood or even go into the Grove. Over what Abeje did during the day’s work he had no say, but in the Quarters he watched her every move with piercing attention. One night he shouted at her as she was bent over the cooking fire, saying she was far too close and would fall into it if she became dizzy again.

  “Adu,” Abeje hissed, “I am not a child.” Even as the words escaped her, she felt their falsity, because under Adunbi’s gaze she did feel like a child, shameful and unworthy.

  She had never spoken in a harsh tone to her brother before and he stepped back in shock, his mouth agape. He turned on his heel and strode toward the empty hut. A loose palm frond from the thatched roof hung over the doorway and he yanked it, tearing it off.

  There was fire inside Adunbi. Abeje could see its red halo. The spiky palm tree that guarded Adunbi was ablaze, white and crackling. He screamed, reached up and seized more of the thatch, ripping it off the roof. He tore at it again and again, until blood ran down his arms. No one tried to stop him, not Abeje, nor the others who slept in their hut.

  Abeje sank to her heels. Adunbi’s fire would consume the Quarters, the whole of the sugar estate. It would consume her, Abeje, the cause of his pain, because somehow she had let Overseer do what he did. She had not been invisible: there in the field, as she should have been, invisible as she had been once, when she was so small. Overseer had seen her female shape, bent over the cut cane, and he had cut her down too.

  Abeje scrambled forward, sweeping up the fallen fronds of the thatch and hurling them onto the coals under the cooking pot, where they smoked and sparked. The flames rose high into the sky, a pillar of flame, all the way up to where the starlight Anaya sparkled. For a moment she was alone with Anaya, floating in her peace, and this cooled the flames that attacked her skin. Abeje was just a baby, Anaya seemed to say, this fire did not belong to her. It had not, in fact, burned her.

  Now, down on the hard earth, the cooking fire and the palm fronds had spent themselves. Thin trails of ashes lay about Abeje’s feet, marking the places where the fire had raged. The hut was half destroyed. Abeje saw Adunbi slumped to the ground, covering his face. She went to him, and he let her tend to his bleeding hands.

  They slept that night in view of the stars, thankful there was no rain.

  At the end of the next day, when Adunbi returned from the barns, he found that someone had left several bundles of new thatch stacked beside the hut. He did not allow anyone from the Quarters to help him repair the roof, not even Abeje, but he stopped scolding her as she fetched firewood and water for the cooking pot.

  * * *

  Sometimes at night by the cooking fires the people spoke of an Obeah woman, a great healer, who lived on a sugar estate some leagues away. She traveled to tend the sick, and often the sick or injured were brought to her. But travel was quite difficult, especially as bondsmen had little leave for such things.

  There was a light-skinned carpenter and his wife, Floria, who had a hut to themselves, a small distance apart from the Quarters. Unlike most of the people, who on Sundays tended to what crops they had and business of their own, the carpenter had Sunday and half of Saturday free as well. He sometimes hired himself out for wages, or was seen mending his roof, or building a pen to keep pigs and the like. His wife took sick when she was heavy with their first child. Louise, who helped many women birth children, went to visit her. The wife had pains and weakness, and bleeding before her time. Louise had strong, clever hands but no knowledge of medicines.

  Abeje, now in her fifteenth year, heard Louise tell Vere that the carpenter would not take his wife to the Sick House, saying people went there only to die. So one night the carpenter took a horse from the stable and went to seek the Obeah woman, and the next night she arrived.

  She sat erect on the horse, in a long dark dress and a blue cloth wound tightly around her head. Everyone tending their fires watched as the carpenter led the horse to his hut and brought her inside. Several people went to see what the Obeah might need for her work, and to have a look at her. All were curious, and many hoped they might ask for her help as well. They did not see her come out again that night, but early in the morning she appeared in the Quarters. The people bade her to sit down by the largest fire. Word spread around that she wanted coffee to drink, but none was to be had. Someone found some chicory, and another had a bit of blackjack made from burnt sugar, and soon a pot was heating for her.

  Though it was Sunday, Adunbi was at the barns feeding and watering the stock. Abeje tended the cooking pot, and kept turning her head to glance at the Obeah woman. She sat tall and straight as a tree, surrounded by people who offered her food and asked of news from elsewhere. Abeje gazed at her blue garments, and her black skin, the colors of night, but when she looked away she saw the Obeah’s image, with great fiery waves about her of red and orange, like the blossoms she sometimes saw in the Grove.

  Then the next time she glanced at her the woman looked back. Abeje’s heart jumped and beat quickly. Never before had she seen the likes of her. When they were children Iya told them of the Great Cat that was yellow like ripe wheat and lived across the Big Sea. The Obeah woman was fierce like the Great Cat must have been, but Abeje could see she was not ruthless. She was a mother who had lost her children, and turned her protection onto all of the people. A great need arose in Abeje to get closer to her. She removed her pot from the fire, stole up and sat on her heels at the edge of the group. Abeje listened, drawing a circle in the dust with a stick, as the Obeah continued conferring with three of the women. Suddenly she spoke.

  “What yer name, child?”

  The Obeah looked directly at the girl. Abeje did not move at first, but the folks waved her forward.

  Abeje stood before the Obeah and her voice came out in a whisper. “Marie, Mam,” she said, looking down.

  The Obeah leapt to her feet, eyes flashing with anger. Her hand shot out and her fingers grasped Abeje’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
/>   “I said, What yer Name!”

  Tears came up and rolled down Abeje’s cheeks, and her voice broke from its whisper.

  “Abeje!” she cried, “Abeje, Mam!”

  “Ah!” The Obeah peered into the girl’s face. Her dark eyes grew larger and larger until they blotted out the sky. “Abeje....” Her voice hummed, taking on Anaya’s song. Abeje felt the Obeah’s rough thumb on her forehead and she spoke again.

  “Spirit has marked you, child, I see that well enough.” She ordered Abeje to sit at her side, and she resumed her talk with the women. Soon they rose and the Obeah bade Abeje to follow them into one of the huts. She was to watch and listen as the Obeah tended to one of the women, Berthe, who was ailing with swellings under her arms, and in the groin and throat. As the Obeah began her song the lids of Abeje’s eyes drew down. She could see much better this way. She found herself joining the song, following until the spirits of four plants appeared. Abeje learned their names and songs, smelled the essence housed in their flesh. One of the plant spirits was called Queen of the others, another was very like Berthe herself.

  Abeje sat with the Obeah the whole rest of that day, as she tended to others, including the carpenter’s wife. Carpenter gave her a strange look when she entered his hut with the Obeah, but no one questioned the healing woman. The Obeah stayed one week in the Quarters. At that time there was a party of guests at the Great House, and Lise and Karine from the kitchen asked Madame for permission to get Abeje’s help. Once they put her to work up at the House, she was not so weary each night from the hard labor of the cane fields, and she was able to assist the Obeah in tending folks. In this way the Holy One arranged for her initiation.

  One evening while it was still light the Obeah beckoned Abeje to follow her. They walked without speaking into the Grove.

  “Show me your own plant,” she said. Abeje knew there was an Anaya close by and she led the Obeah there. “Oui,” said the healing woman, pleased. She caressed a leaf, then quickly plucked a few. She broke one apart and breathed in the scent. Then she asked Abeje, “Do you know a tree with a brown crust growing around the bottom?” She did, and they soon found one. The Obeah brought out her knife, and cut a piece of the crust away from the tree. “Now I will show you something.”

  Back at the Quarters, in a small pot, she brewed a tea from the Anaya leaves and pieces of the brown tree crust. “This drink is for healers only,” she said, “to aid in preparing herself for a healing.” When it was ready she poured a gourd full for Abeje. The sharp, sweet taste burned over her tongue. She tasted the dark earth, and drained the gourd. The Obeah watched as Abeje began to feel small tremors in her middle.

  Soon it was dark and the cooking fires were busy with people. Abeje was unable to move, and sat very still looking into the flames. She heard the healing woman’s voice. “Tell me, what do you see?”

  “Colors, Mam,” she said, in wonder. She saw the colors of fire, of water, of the flowers, of fish and the birds, all dancing.

  “Now listen,” said the Obeah, “what do you hear?”

  When Abeje closed her eyes she saw the colors still, and heard Anaya’s song, which became threads of light that laced around her fingers.

  “I hear light,” Abeje said.

  “Good,” said the Obeah. “Come along now. Let’s see what Spirit brings us to heal tonight.”

  That night there were four healings, and the Obeah instructed Abeje to put her hands on each person. “Let the right place pull you,” she said. The last healing was a final visit with the carpenter’s wife. The Obeah asked her to lie back against her husband and waved Abeje forward. Abeje knelt beside Floria and listened again to the light. Her hands moved to the small of the pregnant woman’s back, which felt icy cold.

  “Oh my,” Floria said. “Girl, you are burning me!” But she was smiling.

  When it came time for the carpenter to return the healing woman to her home, she took Abeje’s hands and gave her a small bundle of several dried plants. She pressed the girl’s fingers over the bundle, looked her in the eye, nodded and smiled.

  “Thank you, Mam,” said Abeje, her heart so full.

  She would never see the Obeah again.

  Later Adunbi grinned at her and said, “Now I will call you Big Sister!” Abeje laughed.

  The carpenter’s wife recovered and went on to bear a healthy child. People began to regard Abeje with new eyes, as one whom spirit had marked, as the Obeah had said. One Sunday, Vere asked Abeje if she might help with her stiff knees. A few weeks later Lise punctured her palm on a nail, came down with a fever and went to find Abeje. Abeje began with the songs, the plants and their spirits, the Anaya, and the threads of light around her fingers. When she touched the ailing flesh she felt its call, and knew how to answer it.

  In the months, then years, that followed, more of the people sought out Abeje’s help, and every time she learned something new. The people offered food, sometimes a clay pot, a piece of cloth. She and Adunbi suffered less and less from the hunger they had always known.

  * * *

  One night during the rainy season, when Abeje was nearing her twenty years, she felt her brother shaking her arm to wake her. “What is it?”

  “Listen,” he said. The faint sound of animals lowing and braying came across the distance. “Sure a storm coming,” said Adunbi. “Mighty big.”

  Quickly they roused the others in the hut. Abeje grabbed her two shawls and a few cakes of meal wrapped in a large leaf, then went out to help spread the warning through the Quarters. A great pressure pressed at her ears. The wind struck up leaves from the ground and flung them into the sky. The people began to run in the direction of the barns, which were made of stone, and to the Great House, also of stone, where they might find shelter in the cellars. Adunbi made to follow them, but dread took hold of Abeje. “No, this way.”

  They ran toward the Grove as dawn broke. The blowing clouds glowed an unnatural green. There was a place Abeje knew from her wanderings, a small cave of limestone hidden in a hillock, covered with shrubs and vines. The wind thrashed the trees now, so violently the two could scarcely move forward. By the time they reached the cave they were drenched from the rain, but they managed to struggle inside before the storm neared its full strength. From the mouth of the cave, a small passage led upward, to where the darkness was almost complete. They crawled along, feeling their way between the walls, and the stones that reached up from the floor and down from the low ceiling. They went as far as they could, then stopped, huddled against the stone. The hurricane roared, far away. Some gusts still reached them, and in places water streamed in. The storm beat hour after hour.

  For a long time neither spoke. They listened to the scream of the storm, muffled by the twists and turns of the cave passage. Abeje shivered, and Adunbi drew her close, surprising her by saying, “Beje, do you remember when Ma’a died?”

  “Mais oui.” Never once had they spoken of that night.

  “It felt just like this,” he said.

  They were quiet some time more, until Abeje said, “Adu, give me your hand.” He reached over and she felt his strong fingers. “Here is Baba,” she sang, grasping his forefinger. “And here is Iya,” moving to his middle finger. “Here is Adu,” and at the littlest, “and here is Abeje.”

  “Who is the Fat Man, then?”

  “Georges.”

  Adunbi’s deep laugh burst against the walls of the cave. Georges was the houseboy that Lise said was always scurrying out of the kitchen, chewing on something.

  By the time night fell their clothing had mostly dried. The storm raged on. They feared for the others but didn’t speak of it. Here and there water pooled in pockets in the limestone. They drank from these and ate some of the meal cakes Abeje had brought. They sang Iya’s songs. Abeje sang the songs of the spirit village and Adunbi listened, and at last the songs bridged into dreams.

  The hurricane lasted all of the next day and night as well. At last on the third morning all was quiet. Sunlig
ht danced before the mouth of the cave, sparkling off the green leaves, playing at innocence. Abeje and Adunbi ventured out not knowing what destruction would meet them. The low places of the land were flooded and strewn with the bodies of people and animals. The huts in the Quarters were gone, only pieces of thatch, board and clay lay scattered on the ground or caught up in treetops. Abeje and Adunbi ran up to the barns. The roofing had collapsed and been torn off by the wind, but some people had survived there inside a grain cellar. Adunbi immediately began to round up and secure any living animals and Abeje took her place in aiding the injured people. She felt their turmoil as clearly as if the storm still raged, and this she sought to ease, but she also felt their strength, like iron forged in fire. It was said of the dead, “They are free now.”

  On the fourth or fifth day after the storm, as Abeje struggled to continue at her work, hardly any strength left in her, Lise appeared saying she was wanted at the Great House. Monsieur’s young son was very ill. The békés would never accept the aid of one like herself, but because of the Hurricane, and the ruined roads, no regular doctor could be summoned. Lise herself told Madame, “Mam, there is one in the Quarters, called Marie, who helps people that are ailing.” Monsieur said no colored would feign witchcraft on his boy, but Madame was so desperate she shouted she would go and fetch Marie herself if she had to, and that her husband had better not stand in her way.

  Abeje had never set foot inside the Great House before. Lise led her through the rooms and she saw all their finery, which was mostly undisturbed by the hurricane, though there were places where water had come in, and shutters covered the broken windows. Lise said part of the roof and one or two upper rooms would have to be rebuilt, but that was all. Abeje followed, climbing a staircase for the first time. Upstairs Lise knocked upon a door, which was opened by a house bondswoman called Zara. Lise ushered Abeje inside but did not follow.

  The room was dark save for one lamp lit by the bedstead and a line of light coming from the window where a heavy curtain rested slightly to one side. A man stood there with his back to the room, peering outside. Abeje’s legs swayed, and bile burned in her throat.