by Anita Kopacz
As we enter a village, I realize that this must be the nation that Richard described. They are a much larger tribe than Cora’s community. Hundreds of people seem to roam about the village doing their daily chores. Women carry water in clay pitchers, weave pictures into ornate blankets and shawls, and cook in front of their homes. The men sharpen spearheads, build animal traps, and work on their houses. The people of the tribe pause and stare at us as the warriors escort me through the village. Children gather around like ants circling a piece of fruit.
A large round home, about twice the size of Cora’s, stands in the center of the village. The men walk me to the birchbark structure. The lead warrior enters first.
Several minutes pass before I am allowed to go in. A man who is more ornately dressed than any of Cora’s people sits with a woman on the floor. He wears a hat full of feathers and several vibrant necklaces. Upon his chest rests a decorative armor of sorts composed of long white beads. He is most definitely the chief. There is a large parchment with several symbols written on it between him and the woman. The chief motions for me to sit with them.
“I am told you have a medicine pouch from one of our sister nations. Can you understand what I am saying to you?” he asks in Cora’s language.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He smiles. “Because my guest here despises English.”
The woman, clad in a colorful robe, spits on the ground.
“Why are you here?” the chief asks. “Are you a runaway slave?”
I pause for a moment, not sure what to say. “I’m a free Negro,” I say, indicating the pouch around my neck. “My papers are here.”
I open my pouch and begin to pull out my freedom certificate. He stops me.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says as he passes a pipe to the woman.
“I am here to see Amitola. She was rescued from the raid.”
“This is why you speak their language. Yes, she and her family are here.”
“What is your name?” the woman asks.
“I am called Yemaya.”
“I am Ayoka. I am visiting to teach the children of this tribe how to read and write,” she says as she passes me the pipe. “You are welcome among my people. Our nation is west of here.”
I take a puff from the pipe and begin to cough. The two of them laugh at me. As I compose myself, I notice the parchment again, and say, “If you don’t mind my asking, what is this? Some of the letters I recognize, but there are plenty that are new to me.”
“Do you know how to read?” Ayoka asks.
“Yes,” I answer, “in English.”
“These are the symbols in our language.”
The chief, who seems uninterested in my conversation with Ayoka, looks at me gravely and says, “I cannot guarantee your safety here. We’re dreading the threat of removal, and some of my people return slaves for rewards.”
“Removal?”
“Nunna-da-ul-tsun-yi. The Trail of Tears,” he translates.
“I don’t understand.”
“The white men are forcing our people to leave their land and move west. I will have my men take you to Amitola.” He then sends me out without giving me a chance to say a proper goodbye to Ayoka. The warriors silently escort me across the village.
Ozata is the first to notice my arrival and shouts with glee, “Yemaya!” I break away from the warriors, run to her, pick her up in my arms, and swing her around.
“You’re here early!” she exclaims. “Is Richard well?”
I smile and deflect the question, asking, “Is Cora or your mother here?”
Ozata knows I’m concealing something from her, but she doesn’t push me. She grabs my hand and leads me to her house.
“They will be here soon,” she says as she indicates that I should sit down with her outside while we wait for them. I remove my food sack, and Ozata reaches over to inspect the puncture in the leather pouch around my neck.
“What happened?”
“I was struck by an arrow coming here.”
“They meant to do that. If they’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. I’ll make you a new one.” She ducks into her home and fetches a circular piece of leather. She presents it to me and proudly declares, “This is buffalo skin—powerful medicine. Your old one is deerskin—gentle medicine, but still strong. It’s a reminder to be kind.”
“My kindness was shot.”
Ozata laughs as she places the leather on a rock. She picks up two other rocks. One is long and sharp, and the other is flat. She punches holes along the edge of the leather by placing the sharp rock on the buffalo hide and hitting it with the flat one. As she finishes the last hole, she picks it up and holds it up to the sun.
“Perfect.” She grabs a black leather string and skillfully weaves the cord through the holes in the hide. As she pulls it through the final hole, she tightens the ends to form the pouch.
“Done!” she says, dangling it in front of my face. “Let’s put your medicine inside.”
I remove the old pouch from around my neck and hand it to Ozata. She carefully pulls out the amulets from the pouch: the Mer carving, the arrowhead, crumbled sage, and finally my freedom certificate.
“What’s this?” she asks as she wipes the sage pieces from it.
“It is the form that proves I am a free Negro.”
“Oh,” she says, carefully placing it into the new pouch. She then holds up a fresh sprig of sage, inserts it into the pouch, and ties the cord around my neck.
“The buffalo hide will protect you and give you strength and power. How does it feel?”
I hold the pouch in my hands and feel its energy surging through my body.
“It feels very powerful. I love it! Thank you.”
“We must bury the old medicine bag by a tree, so that the energy can go back to Mother Earth.”
There are numerous trees surrounding the perimeter of their land.
“That one,” I say, pointing to the largest one in the area.
“Interesting. It’s not always wise to be the largest tree. We must know how to bend and compromise, like the willow, or else we will go down with the storm.”
“Are there any willows?”
“No,” Ozata says with a big smile.
I point to a smaller tree. “Then that tree will do.” We laugh.
We walk to the tree and dig a small hole. Ozata hands me my old pouch and says, “You must do it.”
I kneel on the damp earth and gently place the medicine bag in the soil. I scoop the dirt into the hole, pack it tightly, and smooth the spot.
Ozata closes her eyes and says a special prayer:
O, Great Spirit, who is in everything we touch and everything we see, hear us as we return to you your medicine. Make our hearts open to your beauty. Make us wise so that we may follow your voice. We pray that when it is time for us to return to the earth, we may be held in your arms once more.
As we open our eyes, we see Ozata’s mother, Amitola, standing before us. “You are early,” she says with a smile. “Ozata, will you gather berries for tonight?”
“Yes,” Ozata says as she skips away.
Amitola turns to me and asks, “What happened?”
“The townsmen came and set Richard’s stables on fire—”
She interrupts, “The horses!”
“They are alive. Richard saved them.”
“And Richard?”
“He was fine when I left, but he seems to think that the men will return.”
“Did they see you?”
“No.”
“You were not followed?”
“No.”
“I ask because we are with a hidden sect of this nation. The government is trying to send all of the tribes out west. They’ve sent many of our people there.”
“The Trail of Tears?”
“Yes,” she says with surprise. “You’ve heard of it?”
“The chief mentioned it.”
“Oh, Great Spirit! He knows you are her
e!”
“Yes, I met with him, Ayoka, and a group of warriors.”
“You met Ayoka?”
“Yes. The warriors captured me and delivered me to the chief. He gave me permission to stay, but he could not guarantee my safety. Ayoka was with him.”
“Interesting,” Amitola says. “I wonder why he took a liking to you.”
“I think it’s because we were speaking in your tongue.”
Amitola nods her head and agrees, “Yes, that would do it.”
“Ayoka doesn’t live here?”
“She is from just west of here—Tennessee. She comes here to teach us how to read and write in this nation’s language. She has promised to teach Ozata.”
“Yes, she had a parchment with the symbols.”
Amitola stacks wood in front of her home.
“I cannot stay long. Richard gave me the directions to the next stop on the Underground Railroad.” I want to tell her about the bounty on my head, but I have a sense that she knows.
“You may choose to go, but know that you are welcome here,” Amitola reminds me.
“Thank you, but I think it would be wise to leave in the morning. I will take this day to rest. Is Cora around?”
“Yes, she has been waiting and praying for you. As soon as she found out that you were coming, she began planning a celebration. She will be pleased that you arrived early. We will have a feast tonight to bless your departure.”
Ozata comes running back with a basket full of berries.
“Thank you,” Amitola says.
Panting, Ozata asks, “Are we doing the shake dance tonight?”
“Yes,” Amitola responds as she walks inside with the fruit.
I wait for Ozata to explain the shake dance, but she proceeds to stack the rest of the wood in front of the firepit.
“What is the shake dance?”
“Did we not do it with you before?”
“No.”
Ozata sets the wood down, sits beside me, and explains, “The ancients say that as we move through the day, many things stick to us: bad moods, sickness, jealousy, fear, pain.” She leans in toward me. “They stay with us unless we let them go with help from Great Spirit. As you dance, the bad feelings shake off and return to Mother Earth, where they can be cleansed and used for good.”
* * *
Later that night, the survivors of Amitola’s tribe gather for the ceremony. They take turns blessing me with prayers and well wishes. Cora stays by my side while Ozata paints my face with two white lines across my cheek. Others around me have painted faces and are dressed in ceremonial garb; the men are in deerskin breechcloths, and the women are wearing colorful ribbon skirts with blouses that leave one shoulder bare. Some are wrapped in vibrant wool shawls that whip around their bodies as they dance.
The drummers beat out complex rhythms as the tribe fans into a large circle. The women and children move to the center and Cora leads me into the group. Everyone begins to jump up and shake. I follow their lead. We dance for several minutes. I look to Amitola, hoping for a break, to rest. She motions for me to continue, so I bounce to the tempo. After some time passes, my vision blurs and my mind is transported back home.
As the bubbles clear, a tail fin flaps a wave of water in my face. I am swimming with my parents again. My mother smiles and my father hands me a small oyster shell lined with mother-of-pearl. It is the shell he was holding in my last vision, but this time he gives it to me. He squeezes my hand to reassure me, and the vision fades away.
I return to the shake dance, jumping up and down and shaking vigorously. I realize my hand is clenching something. I slowly open my palm to reveal a beautiful shiny oyster shell. I quickly slip it into my medicine bag. I’ve learned not to question the powerful magic of this tribe, but this is difficult to comprehend. Did my father somehow just give me this shell?
I shake my head in disbelief as we switch positions with the men. The tempo of the drums accelerates and they jump, keeping their arms straight down by their sides as they dance. As if on cue, they all begin to stomp on the earth and sing up toward the heavens. The women and children hold hands around them. There are significantly more women than men. We encircle them, leaving plenty of room for the men to dance.
BANG!
The white man’s weapon can be heard over the drums.
Everyone falls silent as the chief of the tribe walks into the middle of the circle. One of his warriors secures the musket in a belt around his leather skirt.
“I do not like to be disrespected!” the chief shouts for all to hear.
Everyone seems to be holding their breath.
He holds up a large poster with a picture of me on it and a caption that reads:
WANTED ALIVE
AFRICAN WITCH
REWARD $300
He looks me dead in the eye and bellows, “You told me you were a free Negro!”
I dig through my medicine pouch and pull out my freedom certificate.
He walks up to me with his entourage following close behind. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I am free,” I say as I hand him my certificate.
He grabs it and rips it to shreds. “Many people could use a bounty like this, including me. I have never seen such a handsome sum for an African witch.”
A whisper crawls from my mouth: “Can we speak in private?”
“Why should we not tie you up here and now?”
I speak in the few words of his language that I picked up during the day. “Please, and may Great Spirit bless you.”
He doesn’t trust me, I can see it in his eyes, but he is intrigued by me. As I speak to him in his language, he softens.
“Come, let us talk.” He motions for me to follow.
“I have an offering for you. I must get it from the house.”
“Very well,” he says, and he sends one of his warriors to follow me.
I run into Amitola’s house and grab my leather purse. I pull out a handful of gold pieces. It looks as if Richard has put quite a few coins in the pouch. I have no time to count it now. I hide the pouch under some clothes and run out.
The warrior stops me and pats me down. As soon as he determines that I carry no weapon, he sends me off to the chief.
“Please take this as an offering for sparing my life,” I plead as I pour the coins in his hands. “It’s twice the bounty.”
He holds the money up and asks, “Did you steal this?”
“No. That is the truth.”
“You must leave at dawn, and never come back.”
I bow as I back away. “Thank you.” I turn and run toward my people.
Cora, Amitola, and Ozata stand anxiously awaiting my return. Amitola whispers, “He let you go?”
“Yes. But I must leave now. Too many know of the bounty.”
They lead me back to the house, where I quickly gather my belongings. As I reach for my leather purse, I notice that Ozata is silently crying in the corner.
“Ozata,” I whisper.
“I will never see you again,” she says.
I embrace her, knowing that her prediction is most likely true. “You will always be in my heart.”
Ozata reaches up and catches one of my tears. She wipes it on her medicine bag. “The tears of a mermaid are powerful medicine.”
I try to hand Cora some coins from my leather purse.
“No!” she adamantly refuses. “This is too much.”
“Richard gave me more, and I want to share it with you,” I insist. “Put it aside for an emergency. Maybe the tribe can use it to buy land.”
“Land can never be bought,” she says as she lowers her gaze.
Cora reluctantly takes the money. I tuck the purse into my clothing and hurry out the door. Ozata and Amitola follow me to the edge of the forest. I have learned to appreciate quick farewells.
“Where will you go?” Amitola inquires.
“Richard told me of the next safe house on the Underground Railroad. I will find so
lace there on my way north.” I hold Amitola’s hand as I attempt to convince us both of my safety.
“May the Great Spirit bless you,” Ozata says.
Amitola nods in agreement and says, “Be safe.”
“Thank you,” I say. We all embrace one another.
As I begin to run through the forest, I hear Ozata yell, “Are you going north to find Obatala?”
I smile as I’m reminded of my love. “Yes!”
17
NORTHWARD BOUND
Once again, I’m swimming toward an unknown destination. I see the waxing crescent of the moon as I peer up through the river water. The night is dark without the light of the full moon. I speed through the waters, refreshed and renewed. The current is high, so I have to barrel along at full force. I can make it through the night, but come morning I will have to find something to eat.
Suddenly, I slam into a huge object. Stunned, I lift my head above water to see that it is actually a large man. He remains crouching in the water with a look of terror on his face. He is at the end of a long line of frightened African people, all crouching and silent. A woman in the front of the line holds her finger up to her lips, begging for my silence. I hear the faint sound of dogs barking in the distance. The woman motions for the people, maybe as many as eight, to duck farther into the river. We all kneel, careful not to make a sound. Our heads are just barely above water as we hear the barking gradually ebb into silence.
“Come,” the woman whispers as we slowly stand to follow her up the river through the black of night. The man I collided with remains on his knees. I walk around him to join the rest of the group, but the woman is still bending over and trying not to speak above a whisper.
“Come,” the woman urges again, “we must hurry.”
The man refuses to move and just stares ahead as if he doesn’t hear her.
“Come,” she repeats with more intensity.
“This will never work,” the man whispers in a trembling voice. “I have to go back.”
The woman, who I see is quite tiny when she stands up, splashes quickly downriver to stand in front of him. She pulls a revolver from a pouch she has tucked into her belt and hisses, “You go on, or die!”