by Anita Kopacz
Visibly shaken, the man staggers to his feet and splashes past me, continuing to journey forward.
As she wades by me without acknowledging my presence, the petite brown woman mutters, “I haven’t lost a passenger yet.”
She seems confident that I will follow her, so I make my way to the back of the line and trudge slowly against the current with the group. No one questions my presence, perhaps because any noise, including the sound of our voices, is a threat to our safety. Although I could easily bypass this crowd and continue underwater, something tells me we are headed for the same safe house. The woman leading the group holds up her hand, motioning for us to stop. She points up toward the riverbank, where a large tree with drooping limbs caresses the surface of the river.
“This is it. Run,” she commands.
Like day-old molasses, the river slows the group’s movement. They attempt to rush from her waters, only to realize that the way to make progress is with measured, deliberate steps. The harder they flail, the more cumbersome the water becomes. My body is still infused with strength from the river water, so I must restrain myself from bypassing the crowd.
As we come out of the water, we gather by the tree trunk before being instructed by the woman to follow her, single file, through the forest. The soft stampede of human feet on the forest floor is almost too eerie. We are running for our lives.
Up in the distance, I see a lamp flame flickering off and on.
“Follow the light,” the woman commands.
I sprint swiftly and silently, my movements effortless as I anticipate refuge, food, and sleep. The night is particularly cold. While it does not bother me, I imagine that the others are not comfortable. The group is breathless as we finally make it to a log cabin tucked away in the forest. A white man with a long gray beard stands tall, holding the oil lamp high. His breath forms billows of smoke in the frigid night air.
“There’s the Quaker,” the woman says as she leads us to the light.
He ushers us around back to a secret opening leading to a basement.
Our weight upon the planks of the rickety makeshift staircase seems to threaten their stability, yet no one takes caution to move slowly. As we rush down into the basement, the woman stands at the opening and talks with the bearded man. Still no one has questioned me. The whites of their eyes seem to glow with anxiety and fear. The bearded man hands the woman his oil lamp as she walks down into the space that we will call home for the night.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you,” the woman says as she pats down the dirt beside me. She holds her skirt to the side, sits down, and declares, “They call me Moses.”
“Yemaya,” I respond.
“Oh, I know who you are. You may be the only Negro woman they want more than me,” she says with a sly smile. “As you have probably guessed, we are headed north.”
“How far are you going?”
“To Canada. You’ll come with us. It’s not safe for runaways anywhere below the border.”
“I’m going to New York. Cicero, New York.”
Moses gives me a strange look, nods, and then draws in a deep breath and releases a soulful hymn. The others, while folding their clothes and readying themselves for sleep, quietly sing along. The spiritual becomes my lullaby and allows me to drift peacefully into slumber.
* * *
The next morning I awaken to a spider crawling on my hand. Its furry legs carefully scale up my arm. It is surprisingly similar to the crabs I used to watch with fascination back home.
A shiny, weathered hand gently removes the spider and places it on the dirt floor. Moses sits beside me again and says, “You will soon see that I am a woman of few words, but I have been guided by a vision to let you know this.”
She holds her head as if she is in pain, then takes a deep breath. I sit up and listen intently.
Moses pulls out a tattered piece of parchment and says, “Obatala wrote this for you.”
My heart trips over itself and beads of sweat shoot through my pores. Before I can ask her about my love, she recites it, barely looking at the words:
You love me the way
Water loves the earth.
Soil, seeds,
Flowers, trees.
Pouring forth life.
Raining down love,
Gathering in sparkling, crystal drops of light.
You love me the way water loves me.
I remember once
The water of your love
Became something more…
It was a part of all the water there is.
And I had to look away from you
Because in that moment,
I spied the other half of myself.
She stares at me. I am unable to speak, completely wrapped up in the tapestry of my love’s words.
Moses explains, “Obatala was on my last mission. I was debating with myself about whether or not to tell you, because love can make one too emotional to depend upon in our situation. A woman transcribed it for him while a fellow tribesman translated it from his native tongue. I memorized it, but I took the parchment to give to you. I knew we would meet.”
He does love me. The angelfish flutter in my stomach again—they have always been right.
“He loves you dearly. Every move he makes is in search of you. I did succeed in convincing him to join the movement, but his priority is to find you. I’m not sure where he is now, but he gave me instructions to leave him a message at the safe house in Canada if I found you.”
I want to touch her, hoping that he touched her as well, and that his essence is somehow still lingering upon her skin.
“In a vision I had last night,” she says as she holds her head in pain again, “I saw that New York will not be as you hope. I pray that you come with us to Canada. You will be safe there, and perhaps Obatala will have made his way back there by the time we arrive.”
“I must go to New York first. I’ll join you in Canada in short order,” I say with determination.
“My visions are clear and true. New York will not be good for you,” she says gravely, imparting a final warning as she clings to a tattered Bible.
“I have to see to it that a friend is safe in Cicero. She is depending on me.”
“I made a promise to Obatala that if I came upon you in my journeys, I would bring you to him.” She takes in a deep and bitter breath as she hands me the parchment on which the poem is written. “Against my better judgment and my clear visions, I will make sure you reach New York.”
The bearded Quaker man and his wife, a petite woman with a humble demeanor, bring down several bowls of soup broth. The room is quiet as we sip the surprisingly delicious liquid.
“I am Christopher,” the Quaker says. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you need. The winter will be upon us soon, and I want to make sure you reach your destination before then.”
“Winter is our ally,” Moses says. “Everyone keeps to their home. No one goes in search of runaways in the snow.”
Christopher does not question Moses. I have observed that she is fearless and that her moves are strategic and precise. She has no patience for insecurity or uncertainty.
Christopher whispers to her, “This is a large group. Are you sure you have room for more?”
“Yes,” Moses says without hesitation.
“They’ll be here come nightfall. I will keep the lantern on.”
Christopher and his wife gather the empty bowls and head back to the main cabin. Now that we are safe, the others are becoming curious. I hear whispers from the group.
“Gossip is from the lips of the devil!” Moses says to the whispering women. “If you have a question, ask. We are all family now. We are all responsible for each other.”
One of the women stands and attempts to look at me. Her eyes dart from side to side as she asks, “Is it true that you’re an African witch?”
“That’s nonsense,” Moses cries. “We are all children of the Lord. Do not listen to the power
s that want to separate us. Yemaya is a beautiful young woman.”
Blood rushes to the surface of my skin. I feel exposed. The women are not convinced. They are quiet for now, in fear of Moses’s wrath, but they are not satisfied.
“Do not be swayed by their petty fears. We have greater dangers to contend with,” Moses says in an attempt to comfort me.
I follow her to the corner of our dirt basement and ask, “Who is it that we are waiting for?”
“You heard Christopher?”
“Yes.”
“It seems as though a couple of our friends need some assistance.”
“Are you sure it’s fine for me to join you?”
“This mission is blessed by the Lord himself,” Moses pronounces as she holds her hands up toward the sky. “There is room for every passenger because this train is bound for glory. Plus, we could always use another strong woman on our mission.” Moses falls into divine rapture and saunters to the other end of the room, humming a spiritual.
The sunlight seeping through the cracks in the basement door slowly fades and the chill of the night air settles around us. The three gossiping women remain close to one another. At this point I believe they are merely sharing body heat. Although I am aware of the change in temperature, I am not bothered. In fact, the colder and darker my surroundings, the more I am reminded of my dwelling deep on the ocean floor.
I lie down on my straw mattress but am unable to sleep. My mind races, imagining Obatala reciting the poem. I pull the folded paper from my medicine pouch and reread it. My fingers outline the ink of his words and I suddenly catch a whiff of his fragrance. I breathe in the scent of my beloved and gently close my eyes. His lips curl up into a tender smile as I reach behind his neck and trace the three familiar scars with my fingertips. My body begins to tingle with an overwhelming feeling of desire. Before our lips touch, I am pulled from my fantasy by the sound of the basement doors creaking open.
We silently await our fate.
“It’s me,” Christopher announces, sensing our fear. “We’ve brought rice and broth for supper.”
Four people carefully step down the fragile staircase carrying bowls of soup. I imagine it’s all he and his family can afford to feed such a large group of visitors. Christopher walks up to Moses and says, “The two we were waiting for have arrived.”
I’m the last one to get my food because I have claimed a space in the far corner of the room. One of the people distributing the soup makes her way toward me.
“Are you hungry?” a familiar voice asks.
I squint to see more clearly, and whisper, “Tillie?”
Startled, Tillie places the bowl and lantern on the ground and flings herself at me. Her body is quivering with emotion as she exclaims, “My God in heaven, is it really you?”
She kisses me all over my face, then turns back toward the door and yells, “Auntie Soph! Come quickly! Yemaya is here!”
Tillie’s aunt trips over someone as she hurries toward the back where I am sitting. When she sees that it is really me, she claps her hands together and says, “Oh dear! We were so worried about you.”
“You know each other?” Moses asks.
Tillie stands and gives Moses a long embrace. She’s the only person I’ve seen relate to Moses with such warmth.
“We need to get you home,” Moses says to Tillie. “Your parents are worried sick.”
“Will you come with me to Cicero?” Tillie asks me.
“Yes, of course. I want to make sure you get home safely. Then I’ll travel to Canada to wait for Obatala.”
Tillie’s eyes widen, and her lips pinch into a smile. She looks at Moses and says, “You found him?”
Moses nods. Tillie grabs her shoulders and says, “Minty, do you know what this means?”
I stop Tillie and say, “Moses thinks I shouldn’t go to New York at all. She had a vision that things will not go well for me there.”
Tillie instantly becomes serious and asks Moses, “Is that true?”
Moses nods again.
Tillie looks at me and says in the same serious tone she’s just used with Moses, “Have you heard of Minty’s visions? They are accurate. Extremely accurate. You should go directly to Canada. I’ll be fine. I can make it home on my own.”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll just drop you off and then go directly to Canada.”
I yearn to forget Moses’s prediction, but she has infected me with a sense of doubt. Tillie simply stares at me, shaking her head. After a brief pause, she abruptly moves on to another subject.
“Did Yemaya tell you what happened at my uncle’s plantation? How she narrowly escaped death?” Tillie asks Moses.
“Well, I have heard stories,” Moses responds, not seeming the least bit interested.
“I first saw Yemaya when my uncle brought her home from town. She’d already been badly beaten. I had so much compassion for her, but I knew I’d be hanged if I showed it. So, I prayed she would be delivered to me. When she was close to losing her life, my uncle looked at me and said, ‘Tillie, you like to take care of sick animals; take this one.’ My prayers were answered. I convinced my uncle to let me put her in the guest room. There was no possible way that she would have survived out in the elements. Yemaya was beaten so badly that her flesh was torn completely to the bone in many places. The next morning, she was fully healed!”
A loud scream from outside startles us, and we fall silent. We hear dogs growling and barking, and then, “Help! Help!”
Everyone freezes in a state of fear, but I’m up the stairs and pushing through the basement door before I can process what’s happening. A pack of wolves is trying to take a young boy, one of Moses’s passengers who must have snuck out when the Quakers brought us our food. The wolves, sensing my power, release the boy. I scoop him up in my arms and carry his limp body down the flimsy stairway.
With each step I take, my skin begins to sprout webs from every pore. The threads intermingle and wrap around the boy’s wounds. As I enter the room, one of the three gossiping women releases a guttural moan. The boy is clearly her son.
“Take him away from her!”
“What’s happening?”
“She’s really a witch!”
“Someone do something!”
People are yelling, but still the child remains in my arms. We are protected and sheltered by the luminous webs that surround and heal the boy. I can feel my energy draining. I gently collapse to the floor, tethered to the boy by my silken threads. The voices are completely muted now. They sound like a distant choir humming the spiritual that Moses shared. As we both begin to stir, the webs fall away and float gently to the floor. The boy’s mother runs up to us and holds us in a tight embrace. She weeps deeply as she takes the boy from my arms. He is healed completely.
“My Lord! My God. Thank you, Yemaya,” she says, weeping and holding him tightly as she leads her beloved child to the far end of the room.
Everyone in the basement has fallen silent. The only sounds are the sniffles of the boy’s mother and the wood settling on the stairs. I lower my gaze, not sure what to expect next. The man I knocked over in the river stumbles to his feet and places a silver watch by my side. One of the other gossiping women walks up and drapes a knitted shawl over my shoulders. From dried fruit to family heirlooms, the people spare no expense in their gratitude.
I close my eyes to keep the tears from forming. When I open them, almost everyone in the room is staring at me in expectation. I begin handing back the gifts. I thank them all and explain that though I am deeply moved by their generosity, I cannot accept their only worldly possessions.
Moses approaches and wipes the excess webs from my skin. She whispers, “I told you we could use another strong woman on this journey.”
Tillie walks up to me and sits by my side. Her aunt goes over to the far side of the room to check on the boy. We have all come together, as fellow travelers and souls. We have become the Eternal One, just as my friend Waldo spoke about. We are i
n this together, united by the knowledge that we need one another to survive.
18
ON THE MOVE
The Quakers secure our next stop, and we are ready to set off on our journey. Along with the boy I saved from the wolf, there is one other child traveling with us. She looks to be around two years old. Moses brings the girl’s mother a glass of liquid. The mother takes in a whiff of the concoction and unintentionally contorts her face. She bribes her daughter with a piece of fruit to drink the fluid. Within minutes, the child is fast asleep in her mother’s arms.
Tillie whispers to me, “She’ll be fine in the morning. Minty knows all about the power of herbs. In fact, she would be considered a witch for this knowledge if she were ever found out.” Tillie’s whisper becomes a hiss of righteous indignation as she continues, “It’s just appalling to me that whenever a woman has special abilities—or any abilities at all, for that matter—she is deemed a witch!” She explains what I’ve already discerned: “Minty sedates the children to keep them quiet during the journey.”
“Why do you keep calling her Minty?”
“That’s her nickname.”
Moses walks by and tells Tillie, without making eye contact, “I changed it, dear, and you may call me Moses.”
“Moses?” Tillie says, nodding her head. “Very fitting.”
We say our farewells to the Quaker couple, and before we head back to the river, Moses, Tillie, Auntie Soph, Christopher and his wife, and all of Moses’s passengers hold hands in a circle. Moses invites me to join them. They close their eyes and recite these words in perfect harmony: “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. In Jesus Christ’s name, amen.”
Tillie holds my hand as we walk toward the river. Once again, everyone is quiet. Moses turns around and whispers, “I have a few signals I use that I need to share with you.”