Shallow Waters

by Anita Kopacz

  “Now, Margaret, I trust you won’t say a word,” the young lady chirps. I am struck by her tone. It is cheerful, but vaguely threatening. Is Margaret her slave?

  “Of course not, miss,” the serving woman replies as she begins stripping the stained sheets from the bed. She turns to me and says quietly, almost as if she doesn’t want the young woman to hear, “Some of the field Negroes are saying that you’re Yemaya.”

  “How do they know my name? Is Obatala here?”

  At first she looks confused, but then her face softens as she bows slightly and answers, “They have been praying for you.”

  She gathers up the bedding and rushes out of the room before I can ask her anything else. The young woman immediately locks the door.

  “They know you?”

  “I don’t know, but that is my name.”

  “This is so exciting,” she exclaims. “I will be right back.”

  The door barely closes before the girl crashes back into the room with a leather-bound stack of papers.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s my journal. Like a book with stories. I record all of my daily adventures in here.”

  I walk toward her to get a closer look at it, but she tilts the journal away from me.

  I’m confused. I thought she wanted to show it to me. “I cannot read,” I say to reassure her that I have no intention of prying into her private thoughts.

  She clasps the book to her breast and cries out, “Oh, you poor soul. Reading is what I live for!”

  Still holding her journal tightly, she kneels by the bed and pulls another book out from underneath it. “This was published when I was a child. My uncle would kill me if he knew I’d read it. I’m only allowed to read the Bible here. I hide it under the guest bed so he doesn’t suspect it’s mine. The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, by Victor Hugo,” she says with reverence.

  Her bright blue eyes light up. “I can teach you to read! I’m supposed to be nursing you anyway. I’ll pretend you’re still healing.”

  “I would love that, miss.”

  “Oh my, there I go again! Where are my manners? My name is Matilda Joslyn and I’m from Cicero, New York—everyone calls me Tillie. I’m only here in North Carolina until winter begins. I’m visiting my aunt and uncle.” She ducks her head slightly and whispers conspiratorially, “Our house in New York is a station on the Underground Railroad.”

  “What is that?” I remember Richard trying to explain it to me.

  “The Underground Railroad? You really don’t know?”

  “No, should I?”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought you were mocking me,” Tillie says as she carefully places her journal on the desk.

  She keeps her voice low, but instead of pride, I detect a tone of fear and slight disdain. “My uncle Phineas owns slaves, so I have to be careful of what I say. He doesn’t know that our house is a station.”

  “Is your uncle here?”

  “This is his property, but don’t worry, he promised you to me for my stay.”

  “Promised?”

  “Like a gift. I know, it’s simply awful. Barbaric. I’ll be leaving here soon to go back home to New York, and there’s no way I would be able to persuade him to allow you to come with me—even if I could pay for you—because he knows that I’d give you your freedom as soon as I got you out of the South.” She goes on, “And if I voice my dismay, he’ll likely take you away from me right now and make you a field slave, or sell you, or worse. Also, if I make too much noise about you and what he plans for you after I leave, he might start questioning my parents, and since our house is a station, he could get them into big trouble.”

  She says all of this at once, in a rush of words, like a large ocean wave. “The Underground Railroad is really dangerous but necessary. It’s a group of people who help runaway slaves get to freedom.”

  As I listen, my eyes drift toward the window, and then back toward Tillie.

  She looks like a little girl, shy and ashamed, and I become afraid that she might start crying. She whispers, “Yemaya, please don’t worry, I’m hatching a plan to get you out of here. My parents will be able to help us.”

  Tillie shakes her head and adds, “It’s been going on for too long. They treat Africans like they are not human. They work all day, every day, with no pay. And the way they beat you—people like you. That’s just normal. They beat them all like that. My uncle says that he is trying to make an example of the niggers who don’t listen.”

  All of this information is just too much for me right now. I saw how they treated Obatala and his people on the ships. I stare out at the bright, hazy sky where I see black birds circling. I hear their caws and envy their freedom. Where is Obatala right now? Perhaps he has made his way to the Underground Railroad.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “I’m just thinking about someone.”

  Tillie’s eyes widen. “Who?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Oh, I love stories. Tell me, please.”

  Tillie hops on the bed, crosses her legs, and rubs her hands together.

  “I came here on the slave ships.”

  I tell her about Obatala, about his scars, about how I knew him when we were children and how we reconnected before the pirates came. I tell her about what the pirates did to the tribe and how I was separated from Obatala when we landed in this country. I tell her everything except who I really am, my true nature.

  Tillie sighs. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to have suffered the way you have.”

  She looks at me with sympathy, delicate tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Your heart must ache so. We must find him. You must be reunited with your true love!” Tillie declares with determination. “However will we find him? How will we find Obatala? I wish I had a love like yours.” She holds up The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. “This book is all about love.”

  She opens it and reads a passage: “ ‘Love is like a tree: it grows by itself, roots itself deeply in our being and continues to flourish over a heart in ruin. The inexplicable fact is that the blinder it is, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger than when it is completely unreasonable.’ ”

  She gazes at me and exclaims, “Let me teach you to read and write. That way you can write your epic tale, after we find Obatala and get you both to safety!”

  I tell her that I am a fast learner, and we decide to start our lessons immediately. She reads the first page of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame to me while she points to the words.

  “What are these symbols?” I ask.

  “What symbols?”

  I point to the many markings on the page.

  “Oh, the letters. Do you know the alphabet?”

  “No.”

  She pulls out her journal and writes down the alphabet. I use my memorization skills to learn the sounds of each letter. Within a few hours, I can sound out almost every word.

  “Were you lying to me?” she inquires as she listens to me read about the beautiful gypsy woman, Esmeralda.

  “I can learn almost as fast as I can heal.”

  She looks at me intently with a mixture of fear and awe. “What are you? I have never seen anyone like you, and I meet plenty of people.” She laughs awkwardly and points to the eggs and oatmeal that made up my breakfast, which have become cold. “You really should eat; I’m sure you’re famished. The food here is simply divine. I had them make my favorite: eggs Benedict and sweet oatmeal. It’s cold, but still edible.”

  I realize at that moment that this food was made for her. “Did you give me your meal?”

  “I’m not hungry. I don’t eat much, and I knew you could use it.”

  This is my first meal since Richard’s house. I eat it so quickly it gives me a stomachache.

  “Do you want more?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll go fetch it for you.” Tillie hides the book under the bed, hurries out, and forgets to lock the door.
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br />   I take the opportunity to sneak out into the long hallway. The ceilings are high, and the hanging lanterns emit only a dim light. Quietly, I close the door behind me. I have to find my freedom certificate. I see a library at the end of the hall.

  There are many rooms with open doors. I tiptoe past them, and halfway down the hall, I hear a man’s voice coming from one of the rooms I’ve already passed.

  “Why do they always need me to approve the next move?”

  I dash into the library and hide behind thick drapes covering windows that look out at a vast garden. My heart is pounding in my throat as I attempt to catch my breath. The man’s voice approaches, then I see through a slight gap in the curtain two men, one African and one white, walk into the library. The white man must be Uncle Phineas.

  “I lost three of my strongest slaves. But mark my words, I’ll get them back! If there is even a whisper about a slave revolt on my plantation, there will be hell to pay!” he yells. “Go tell the boys to ride without me. I have to stay and defend my turf.”

  “Yes, sir,” the other man answers as he exits the room.

  He must be a slave. I watch Tillie’s uncle as he paces back and forth. I can almost hear his thoughts. He slams his fist on the massive oak desk. “Damn!”

  He strides out of the room, and I take a deep breath that makes me choke and cough. The air is stale with the stench of… what? Smoke? And sweat. I step out from behind the heavy drapes and sit in front of the desk. I examine the many tiny drawers decorated with gold trim. My fingers wrap around the handle of the top drawer, and I open it.

  Nothing.

  I move to the second one and open it. There are loose papers. I carefully rummage through them, but there is no sign of my certificate.

  “What are you doing?” Tillie asks in a frantic whisper.

  I pull my hand back and shut the drawer. Tillie is standing in the doorway with a basket of fruit in her arms. How could I be so careless?

  “My uncle will kill you if he finds you in here. Come with me and keep your head down, no matter what. Follow my lead,” she orders as she grabs me up from her uncle’s chair.

  We make our way back down the dark hallway. Just before we enter the room, a woman demands, “Is that the Negro from last night?”

  “Yes. We’re on our way back to the room.”

  “You be careful now.”

  “I will, Auntie Soph.”

  Tillie pulls me along and shoves me into the room. This time she takes care to lock the door. “What were you doing?”

  “I wanted to find my freedom certificate.”

  “I’m not sure if I made myself clear before, but my uncle is a very dangerous man. He has no qualms about murdering Negroes. No qualms at all! I will help you find your certificate. Just let me do the snooping.”

  She visibly softens. “I’m on your side, Yemaya. There are just a few games we have to play before we get your freedom back. I cannot pretend to imagine what it’s like for you, but things are not perfect for me, either. When I’m older, I promise you that I’ll change things for Negroes, Natives, and women. People always think I’m silly for thinking this way, but we’re all in chains. I want to be free, too.”

  8

  MAGIC

  Tillie keeps me out of sight so no one will question why I have no wounds on my face or body. She stays in my room most days, pretending to nurse me. I have stopped counting the sunrises and my faith has seemed to dwindle.

  Tonight, we stare at the waning moon, and Tillie asks, “Do you think the moon has anything to do with who we are as women?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So do I. But whenever I try to talk about that with my mother, she says that I am speaking against the Bible. Sometimes she will let me talk, but I think she is afraid that I’m going to get myself hurt.” Then Tillie confides, “I should just write a women’s bible—that would be a controversy!”

  “I would read it.”

  “After I was hanged. Or burned at the stake.” She laughs a little.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “They have done terrible things to women for less than that: burning, torturing, drowning. All because some women think a bit differently. I’m so different that sometimes it scares me. I really think it may be me at the stake one day.”

  “Don’t say such things!” Just as I’m about to reassure her, a distant sound grabs my attention. “Can you hear that?”

  “No. What?”

  “Drums. I definitely hear drums.”

  “Can you hear as well as you heal?”

  I open the window and urge, “Come on.”

  “Wait! What are you doing?”

  Smiling with anticipation, I pull my arm out of her grip and duck through the open window, swinging my legs up and out. As I slip down to the ground, Tillie scrambles to follow. We land on the plush damp grass.

  The sweet, invigorating dew soaks my slippers as we hurry across the lawn. I feel my strength returning. I could run twice as fast now, but I would leave Tillie far behind. I match her pace and follow the faint sound of the drums.

  “I hear them now!” Tillie exclaims.

  “This way.”

  I grab Tillie’s hand and pull her through the forest that surrounds Phineas’s property. My eyes adjust easily to the dark, and I lead her through and around the dense trees. The run reminds me of the plant medicine, and suddenly I feel as if I’m back in that dream. I see the gleam of the panther’s eyes peering at us from a high tree limb up ahead. I watch her warily, and as we run beneath the limb, I feel her breath on the back of my neck.

  I stop suddenly, causing Tillie to crash into my back. She holds on to me as she steadies herself. I can feel her fear.

  I whisper, “Follow me,” as I take her hand and gently guide her deeper into the forest.

  I can feel that Obatala is with me in spirit, guiding me, and as the drumming becomes louder, I am sure that I am being called. Tillie and I dart through the forest, avoiding trees and brush, sometimes stopping to get our bearings. The insistence of the drumming and its promise of something I do not yet understand keeps me from feeling my grief.

  The pace of the drums seems to quicken as we approach the origin of the sound, but we can see nothing. We stop again. Who is playing them?

  Tillie whispers, “Did they just say your name?”

  We listen intently. There is a series of words I cannot understand, and then they sing my name clearly. Three times.

  “They did!” Tillie proclaims.

  I pull her toward the sound. A faint glow outlines the opening of a cave. The leaves and branches surrounding the area have been used as a barrier. We crawl around it and cautiously approach the mouth of the cave. It is covered with a thick blanket.

  “My heart is going to beat right out of my chest!” Tillie exclaims.

  “Shhh.” I push the edge of the blanket aside so we can peek in.

  Two African men are playing the drums while a group of men, women, and children dance around them. A woman dressed in blue and white takes a pull from a navy-colored bottle and spits the liquid on the dancers. They again chant my name. “Yemaya… Yemaya… Yemaya!”

  The woman I recognize as the one who served me food, the one named Margaret, turns toward us. We quickly shut the curtain.

  “Did she see us?”

  “I don’t know,” Tillie answers, “but I’m not waiting around to find out!”

  Before Tillie and I can run, Margaret appears and calls out, “Don’t leave, Yemaya. We were expecting you. We have been praying to you to deliver us.”

  Tillie looks a little taken aback and asserts, “Margaret, what are you talking about?”

  “Yemaya is the goddess of the ocean. She is the Mother of all Orishas. She is the Mother of all African people.”

  I am stunned to silence. She has it all wrong. I am not here to deliver anyone. I am just a fool out of the water, searching for Obatala.

  “I must be the wrong Yemaya,” I say.

/>   Margaret falls to her knees. “It’s you, I just know it. Deliver us! Deliver us!”

  She begins to weep as Tillie pulls her to her feet.

  “I saw the wounds you had,” Margaret says, sniffling through her tears. “I saw them. There was blood and cuts and bruises. You were broken. Now look at you! How did you do it if you are not Yemaya?”

  Tillie looks at me for an explanation as well. They both stare at me in wonderment. Their eyes are full of questions, but I cannot share my secret.

  When I do not respond, Tillie turns to Margaret and asks, “Do you meet every night?”

  “Only for one more day,” Margaret answers. “By tomorrow night, we will have prayed for seven nights in all.”

  Seven. That’s my favorite number.

  “We know you love seven,” Margaret says to me without question.

  How does she know this?

  “And blue is your favorite color.”

  I can’t believe what she’s saying. I haven’t told these things to anyone.

  Margaret no longer seems weak and defenseless. As she speaks of me, her voice becomes resilient and strong. Her conviction seems to intensify as she finally looks directly into my eyes.

  “Remember who you are. Come with me. Please.” I move to follow Margaret, with Tillie right on my heels.

  Margaret looks at Tillie, then says to me in a low voice, “She can’t come in.” I look back at Tillie, who has heard Margaret, and see that she is about to protest but then thinks better of it. She stops and with a wave of her hand encourages me to go in without her.

  As I walk into the light in the center of the cave, gasps and awed exclamations fill the space.

  “Yemaya?” the elder asks. She is stately and heavyset. The elder fixes her headwrap as she urges me to come forward. White garments almost entirely cover her body. Her face, neck, and hands are the only places where her glistening, yet wrinkled, skin is exposed.