Abdullah had the platter placed on a table next to him. Nyira lunged again, but he blocked her path with his bulk.
“Ah-ah! No touching,” said the chief, beaming as if this was the most pleasant game. “He’s already sold. And he brought a handsome price, too.”
“Why?” whined Nyira. “You promised,” she cried, as though it was all she had the strength for.
“I don’t make promises to slaves, girl. And any agreement we might’ve had ended when you hurt my son!”
“He was attacking me! You—” She went for the tray, and when he blocked her, she tried to make eye contact. He quickly turned his head away.
“Oops! Be careful now.” He pivoted around and faced away from her. “Or the next head on this platter will be that old woman’s.”
“No,” said Nyira. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just saw your eyes. They’re just like your other son’s.”
Abdullah turned and looked at her, and his face was twisted with anguish.
“What… what do you know of my Mustafa?”
“I know he is tall and dark, like you,” replied Nyira. “And he has a spear with a red shaft and yellow lines on it.” Nyira tilted her head slightly as she spoke—a little smile came to her lips like this was one of her fondest memories. “I also know he is very strong. I felt that when he picked me up.”
“Wh—what do you mean… is?” said Abdullah. He went to his knees before the child, as if to try and look into her eyes as she shared her memory. “You mean… my son is alive?”
“When I last saw his eyes, he was,” replied Nyira.
Abdullah was practically in tears now.
“But where? How—how can I get to him?” He scooted towards her on his knees, and Nyira backed away—not wanting the man to touch her. “Please… tell me.”
“I don’t know if they still have him.”
“Who? Who has him? How can I get to him? You must tell me!” He rushed her, snatched her up, and began to shake her. “You must tell me! You must! I will do something terrible if you—”
Nyira looked him in the eyes.
“Put—me—down!” She felt only a dull ache in her head now, even though she was very angry.
Abdullah stumbled and fell to his knees, but he still managed to hold on to her.
“Ughhh! The pain!” Tears ran down his face. “You will have to kill me! Ughhn! I must know! Pleeease!”
“Let me go,” said Nyira. “And I will tell you where I saw him.”
Abdullah put her down.
“You must go to the jungle near my village,” said Nyira. “After dark. Stand very still and say the word: Aboo. Then run to the village. They will meet you before you get there.”
The Dutchmen had made all their purchases by the end of the day and were ready to transport them to the coast.
10
Bruno usually started his day in the eastern fields. He preferred working in the potatoes and stayed away from the sugar cane. It was for the bigger, more violent slaves. The ones who might suddenly go mad from the heat and toil and hack one of the men working next to him, just because he was angry, or just because. He’d lost a friend that way. Arnaud. Arnaud had been young, tall and very, very strong. He could finish half a field by himself, take a small bit of water and work until sundown. Arnaud was loud, had light grey eyes and laughed a lot. Bruno had been in awe of Arnaud’s power with a machete in his hands—no one worked faster or longer. There were even bets on who could chop the most by midday. That was how Arnaud lost his life. He had won the contest; he always won. Everyone knew it didn’t make sense betting against him. But losers never lost graciously. Bruno should have mentioned this to his friend. He should have said, don’t take Christian’s bet, my friend. He doesn’t like losing. He should have said that.
“Well, he will have to get used to it,” Arnaud would have replied. “He should know better than to bet against Arnaud!” Arnaud had started referring to himself in the third person. Bruno knew where that came from: Etienne, the overseer. Whenever he was comparing himself to someone he considered his inferior. The only difference: Arnaud did it in jest.
Bruno knew that Christian was afraid to lose to Etienne. The overseer always won and then punished you while also taking what little you had. The only thing Christian had worth losing was Madeline, his wife. It was obviously a foolish wager. Etienne had wanted Madeline and tricked Christian into it. Christian even requested a different opponent. However, Etienne was not interested in fair odds; he wanted a sure and decisive victory. That would only come from Arnaud’s wide back, massive arms and huge shoulders.
As the mid-morning heat boiled up from the undulating crop, Etienne sat upon his big brown mare and watched the competition begin. A young slave named Benjamin stood next to him, holding a long-handled palm umbrella, to shade him from the sun. Another child named Louis held a pitcher of cold water on a tray. To make matters all the more humiliating, Madeline was stationed next to Etienne on a smaller white pony. She was holding her own umbrella. But Bruno had no misconception about why Christian’s wife was given the rare comfort of a horse and shade. It was because Etienne had every expectation that she would no longer be his wife at the end of this event.
Christian was a tall, strong man himself. He was Mandinka, or so he claimed. He was not someone any other slave on the Bissett plantation would challenge. He’d beaten many a man unconscious and dared those watching to report him. No one did. Most of those beatings were behind covetous glances at Madeline. Rightly so—for she was butternut colored with long flowing black hair from her Spanish grandmother, and the most intoxicating hazel eyes. Madeline had a beauty that dared you not to look. Many did and suffered for it.
Halfway through the challenge: to chop a quarter field of cane in three hours. It was an absurd task—but halfway into it, Arnaud got into a rhythm. This was usually manifested by a silly song he had once heard a child sing as he went past the Bissett residence:
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.
This development didn’t bode well for Christian. He looked back and was horrified to see the boy Louis taking the pitcher of cold water to his Madeline. He began hacking with a frightened frenzy then. Etienne yawned and seemed not to care one way or the other. While Christian wanted to cry, and Arnaud was more than halfway through his portion of the cane. Christian had cut a great deal as well, an impressive feat on any other day. This was not any other day, though. This was the end of his life, his love, every tender moment he’d shared with beautiful Madeline. Tears flowed down Christian’s cheeks as he swung his blade like a madman, fighting against the wind. As the hot sun bore down on his wet back, he lost track of where he was within the thick swelter of the cane. He finally chopped until he came clear. The field was done—all the cane was laid down.
“I won!” cried Christian. “I have finished first! I have…” That’s when Arnaud strolled past him and headed back to the beginning of the break.
“What are you raving about, you fool!” said Etienne. “You have blindly stumbled into Arnaud’s wake. Look behind you.” Christian turned around and saw that he had cut sideways and crossed into Arnaud’s cleared crop. His crop was still behind, and only half done.
Christian didn’t bother to hide his heartbreak, as Etienne rode away with Madeline trailing behind on the little white pony.
“And don’t you leave here until you’ve finished!” Etienne called back over his shoulder, as he trotted the mare toward the homestead.
Christian went berserk. He flung his blade around like a drunken maniac and screamed at the hot blue sky. And then Arnaud made a gesture—of genuine friendship.
“Don’t worry, Christian,” he said, stepping up to chop beside him. “I’ll help you finish. It’s the least I can do.” He chopped in earnest as if this was his task all along.
But Christian wasn
’t in need of friendship, or restitution. He only saw his beautiful one’s radiant hair, as the brute Etienne ran his hands through it. Arnaud had already hacked past him, and Christian was looking at his huge sweaty back. There was no other place to direct his rage except at the instrument of his destruction. So he hacked off the top of Arnaud’s head and then continued cutting the cane. He knew the overseer would punish him if he didn’t finish as he was directed.
He received no punishment for the murder of Arnaud. Etienne actually spoke on his behalf to Alphonse Bissett: that Christian was a strong, productive worker and they could not afford to lose two good slaves.
*
There was no more Etienne as there was no more Arnaud. The overseer had been gone more than a month now. It made no difference in Bruno’s life. He was afraid he had no personality without Arnaud’s massive gregarious nature to define him. He kept to himself, as well as was possible on a slave plantation. When the slaves approached the water bucket at midday, he always hung back, not wanting to talk or hear hollow condolences about his friend. He was a good worker and found that he worked better alone.
The new overseer was a man named Bertram Miles. He had not shown himself to be particularly cruel. Not yet, at least. That usually came with time. And he showed no displeasure with Bruno’s production. Bruno was managing his grief as well as he could. But then he started to lose his mind.
It started on the second morning of potato season. As Bruno moved up a row, a pineapple appeared in the dirt before him. He didn’t know what to make of the fruit but quickly stuffed it into his sack, before anyone saw it. They never gave slaves fruit. He only knew what it was from seeing them as a child in his village. Farmers cultivated the crop and then sold them at the village market. They also grew wild if you wanted to venture deeper into the jungle. He had only been eight when he was stolen by the slavers, as he fished a little inlet that he and his brother Amare had discovered, not more than a quarter mile from his village of Abrolo. So he hadn’t had the chance to venture further than his mother allowed him to. If caught with the fruit, they would whip him for stealing. He was sure he could get it back to his shack that he had shared with Arnaud. Everyone assumed he would take a wife. That hadn’t happened yet. Within the next hour, three mangos showed up. He had barely stuffed them into his sack before Juliette came over to pick beside him. Juliette was very pretty and always wore little flowers at the ends of her braided hair. He closed his eyes and prayed to whatever cruel god that was granting him these gifts.
“Please stop,” he whispered. “I beg you. Don’t send any more.”
“Who are you praying to?” asked Juliette. She had constantly probed the workings of his mind. He was reluctant to tell her that divine fruit appeared before him. He would need to get the fruit hidden before he emptied his sack. He pretended he had to go pee, and hid it in the jungle next to the field. That’s when he saw the half-naked Indian boy. He was sitting beside the palm tree just inside the bush, eating a mango.
“Did you not like the fruit?” the boy asked.
Bruno was shocked that this strange boy knew something he couldn’t possibly know.
“What?” said Bruno, and almost dropped the items he was trying to conceal. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend,” said the boy. “You should eat those. Why are you hiding them?”
“Slaves aren’t allowed such things,” Bruno replied, as he covered the fruit with brush. “How do you know about them?”
“I gave them to you,” replied the boy. “Maybe I should’ve given them to someone else.”
“How?” asked Bruno. “I would’ve seen you. How did you—” The boy evaporated before him, and Bruno ran. He would have screamed, but he was afraid someone might ask him what he was screaming about.
“What’s the matter?” asked Juliette. “Why were you running?”
He was winded now and drenched in sweat from the frying heat. Slaves rarely ran in the fields, because it was too long between water.
“I… I just felt like running,” replied Bruno. “I can run if I want to. I just wanted to get back to work quickly.”
“Oh,” replied Juliette. She didn’t question his story. “I will give you half of my water,” she said. “You shouldn’t run out here.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll be fine. You need your water. Thank you, though.”
She decided to change the subject.
“Will you be coming to the calenda tonight? Makienda will be singing.”
She was so beautiful and so sweet. But what would he do with sweet? He didn’t deserve it.
“I… I don’t know,” Bruno replied, looking down into the rows as if searching for where he’d left off. “I don’t think so.” He found his hoe and picked it up.
“Oh,” Juliette replied, and suddenly looked very sad. She actually dropped her hoe and turned away, as if she wanted to cry. Bruno panicked.
“Wait, no! Don’t… don’t go. I…” She turned to look at him. Her eyes so hopeful, so… magnificent—the most magnificent brown since his mother. “…I guess I could come. Will you be there?”
“Yes!” Juliette replied, beaming. “I will be there.” She took a small flower from the end of one of her braids and placed it in his right hand. She then turned and walked back toward the western fields, where she and her sister, Babette, usually picked.
When Bruno gazed down at the delicate little flower, the strangest thing occurred. Its sweet scent began to dance joyfully about his nose as if possibly it was an extension of Juliette.
How is it possible that I am given such a gift? he thought, and wondered if the strange Indian boy had had a hand in this, too
11
Nyira was not fond of the ship. Until this structure, the largest conveyance she had been on was an elephant that brought a load of spices Papa had purchased from a trader on the coast. When the creature entered the village, all the children stood back and watched as three-year-old Nyira went up and spoke to it. Her father had gone into the men’s lodge to arrange payment for the trader. The elephant had made strange noises and smelled, but finally agreed to ferry her and a few of the other children around the village. This ship thing was a hundred times larger, with smells so awful she was suddenly nauseated, but she recognized it as the same smell she’d gotten from the smiling white man. There was also a spirit dwelling upon the vessel, and one of the reasons she was initially apprehensive to board the three-deck monstrosity. There were also a lot more white men.
The spirit had positioned itself at the rail next to the white men, who proceeded to shout and push the slaves as they boarded. She stood still and looked at the being. It wasn’t that distinct, as the bright cloudless sky made him almost transparent.
“Be aware of the big one there behind you,” it said. “He enjoys striking with his bludgeon.”
“What is your name,” Nyira asked.
“I’d be more concerned with that one if I were you.”
Nyira turned and saw an enormous, dirty, disheveled white man coming toward her, screaming. As he moved across the craft the slaves were boarding from, the boat dipped a good bit.
“What are you waiting for?” the man bellowed. He was so broad and tall, he blocked out the sun. Nyira smiled at the man, but he still raised the thing he had in his fist. “Don’t you laugh at—”
When Nyira made eye contact with him, the anger on his face was replaced by confusion. He looked at what he had in his hand as if he couldn’t imagine where it came from.
“What did I come down here for?”
“You were going to help my people onto the ship-beast,” Nyira replied.
He turned and gazed at the other slaves, as they struggled to board the large vessel. Instead of helping, he sat down in the boat.
The spirit looked shocked by what it had witnessed and shook its head.
“You are going to be trouble,” it said and vanished.
The ship seemed to eat the slaves. They were marched to an opening in the f
loor and shoved down it. A number of the white men had gathered on the deck. Rubin came toward Nyira when she made it aboard.
“What did you do to Frenchy?” he asked her.
“What is a Frenchy?” replied Nyira, mimicking the man’s accent.
“I’m glad you’re finally talking to me,” said the Dutchman. “Frenchy is that big lump sitting in the boat down there. I was nervous when I saw him approach you. He enjoys hurting.”
“He didn’t hurt me,” replied Nyira, and went past him to the ladder with the rest of the slaves.
“Wait!” said Rubin, blocking her path. “Don’t go down there. I have someone I want you to meet.” A pudgy, surly looking white boy came up and stood beside the first officer. “This is Piggy—”
“My name is Maximillian!” cried the boy. “I ain’t no damn Piggy…” Rubin gave the boy a look that shut him up. Nyira was amazed at how quickly Rubin’s face could change from smiling to menacing.
“Anyway,” continued the first officer. “Piggy here will make sure you have all the supplies you need for your healing. I have also had them build you a structure here on the deck. It’s a healer’s house.” Nyira looked at the squat clay shed situated to the right of the larboard gangway on the main deck. It had a roof made of reeds. There was also another enormous white man standing beside it, leering at Benzia. He was as tall as the structure and a lot less clean looking.
“What are you looking at, old mom,” he snarled.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Rubin. “That’s just Cliegman.”
Once again, he had that strange expression. He seemed pleased with himself and expected her to be pleased as well.
“I don’t want it,” replied Nyira, as she watched Benzia go down the ladder. “I will stay with them.” She went down the ladder, too.
Nyira and the Invisible Boy Page 7