Finally when no arrow didn’t fly, when no war drum didn’t sound, us checked on busy Bleaches’ whereabouts. We inched nearer our black enemy’s side. Surprise, they mourning.
Suddenly we feeling different bout the longtime slaughterers of us. Suddenly they our favorite all-time killers of us, ever. Our enemies wait quiet near the water. Arms hanging heavy by they sides. Maybe they done lost some of they own tribe like this, loved ones disappeared by other such big boats. Our hated ones starts putting on funeral leaves. They acting much like us! Too much. Be easier to hear them laughing of our bad bad luck.
From our high spot we stare across they heads to huts, to village poles yet stacked with dozens of the skulls of our own kin. We know these white bone helmet-heads of our very grandfolks, great-great-great, our dead going farther back into the dark than even Reba’s vine-tight memory stretch. Our King, then all us, slow commences waving—signaling down at the bones of our lost ones. Bye, bones of the early us. We ain’t been waving at our enemies but they wave back, so we do. So long, familiar beloved enemy—beloved because familiar. Bye.
4
UNANSWERED drums spike our way down a river longer than we ever even dreamed. Some dye bled off the boat’s back, staining milky-brown water a nasty pink. Three arrows stung the mast—shot by tribes we didn’t know was there. Bleach-heads only hunkered low till we done turnt another twist. Now my kinfolk just standing in the open air, weeping, tired of weeping, partway weeping bout that. We feels homesick for all our old troubles. We even miss the sight of our dead kinfolk drifting back there in the wet. Compared to here, that all seem perfect home.
Four days’ river uncoiling, trees started having spaces in amongst them. We been used to miles of jungle growing with a thickness that not one of us has ever found strength to wander to the back of. The Sound You Couldn’t Name thin out considerable. Next, sky come falling clear to shore, dipping betwixt scraggle trees. Green soon getting sparse as Reba’s teeths. My people grieved to see the heavens let so near to earth. Feared a bad explosion or a lightning fire, some sky bruise. We’d forever thought that jungle was the world.
Well, everybody just stand clutching each other. All but the children, off making up new games and even partway commencing to flirt with bleachnesses-in-charge. Reba, tired of getting shoved aside by the two yellowheads she been dogging, now sets festering to one side, hunched there holding on to the stick, making mutters, counting something on time-yellowed fingertips, touching hurt spots on her wrists and knees. Me, I sure did sleep a lot. A mercy, that. Plus, I was busy just being a baby princess (a fat one to start out with). I felt happy in the arms of my momma and Queen. She cried so much, her bitter feelings got spelt out to me in milk. Flint. It soon taste like flint and ash. But I sucked anyways, playing like I loved the taste. That forever been my nature. Trouble all they is to eat? Just make a pretend dinner party out of it. You know me, and ain’t you lucky?
The river broadened, going foamier, lighter. Cascades happen, rapids crackling so, churning theyselves white. In one bare tree ahead, we seen waiting—a whole flock of the holy red birds, more than ever lived in our village for the dark fan-spread of time. Thousands, they nearbout coats the slick old limbs, they each sit facing our passing ship like taking lessons in what final crimson might could mean. The King go, “These red birds are all our dead ancestors, ever, more birds than there is drops of water in the river, and all come out to see us go.” Others stare at Reba, checking and see do the King be right. Aunt just shrug, “Possible, but …” Look like Reba plotting some grand escape. We lets her.
Nights seem safer. We slept on deck, scared to wake and find what world change would hurt us next.
TWO months before this terrible debut sneaked in and grabbed us, Reba had done fell to a terrible tribe unfavor. Aunt always stayed alone, but she kept out of sight weeks extra. During this dry time, ugly Auntie cricketed into Village, she cried loud that a flood was coming. Everybody best take all they mats and pots to higher ground. She say this right during drought, land all cracked, a river hardly there.
Reba Woman, after speaking it the onct, just slunk back into green. Folks laugh over Auntie—foretelling flood in parch days! Three nights later us slogged, dripping, most drownded, onto safe high ground. That morning, waters had swept off all holy shields, two babies, and many a complaining dog. We lost most cooking pots and our fleet of dugouts. Now we seen: curlt on our highest viewing rock, Reba sleeping, surrounded by her ninety twelve-foot snakeskins, all her jars and pods, the saved bodies of four hundred dead red birds plus them sticks she kept because they shapes seemed funny only to our Auntie. With one rude big foot, King woke her. Hey! Loud, he axted why come Aunt didn’t work harder at making us believe a flood would steal and kill so much?
“I say it onct. You heard it onct. Enough. Ain’t fair to blame somebody my old for being too right.” Then she turn, stretch back out, already safe asleep, her bumpy helmet of silver hair still flirting with the moonlight. Then everybody yet drenched, stand round her snoring. Folks decide Aunt were a witch, sure, and have no heart. She a eyesore irritation. Folks got to hollering names at her. Loud, they told again how one time when Reba been young—way back in the early days when our river were yet a trial stream, back when all the warring tribes still been one big family (ours), when birds could dive and live underwater for twenty minutes—her folks, the old King and Queen, tried marrying Reba off. To a blind boy. Though Reba’s blood be of royalest stock, wouldn’t nobody else come near her. (Were always the mother’s family that our kings done hailed from. Now, Lady, I don’t know bout you but I calls that civilized!) Court folk led this blank-eyed boy to Reba. Folks mash he fingers up cross she face. No sooner did he touch them bunched-up features than his hands jerked back, and no sooner did the fingertips leave her omelette nose than Auntie’s teeth (Reba had a full bucked set then) chomped that blind boy in the left wrist, hard. Boy run off screaming murder, sucking the bit spot like a snake done nipt him. The whole tribe watched, cackling. Reba laugh too—but just so nobody could later say she didn’t. Reba even force a joke, “They can’t keep they hands off me. I loses more husbands that way.” Then proud, shamed, she turned and nimbled off, shaky, to live alone for six more jungle weeks all by her lonesome. Far from mockers (talking smart to herself only), Reba stayed the homely secret mascot to our rubiest birds.
Now, on the red ship, nobody asked for Auntie’s vision. She the one that eased us onto this.
Fifth day on Redness, we woke right before first light. The Sound You Couldn’t Name you couldn’t hear no more. First sun told us trees’d give out total and complete. Land itself done also quit on us. Ship just slid around a misty curve like any other, be nothing left of the earth on earth. Even tribe children—seeing—rolled around, holding one another, screaming. You eardrums popped, you braced for falling off the edge of everything. Was then we seen it, we be on it already—more pale gray-green water than could ever hope to fit on one world. If the sky was turned to water, this might be that water sky’s huge hammock hiding place. A new country, only made of drops for dirt clods, fishes for it rocks. Wetness kept buckling up, trying and play like hills. At the water nation’s edge, these false hills give way, ridges collapsing outwardsly, axting land’s forgiveness, tired of faking being dirt. “I’m not, I’m not,” each breaking water hill admit to the earth it copied. And earth shown the same patience with each mistake that break/lap/break onto she breasty self, “Hush now, hush.” “I’m not.” “Hush.” “I’m not.” “Hush.”
We looked frontways to the far side of wet. We hopes and see a little scrap of waiting jungle. That could mean this just the widest river ever. But nothing green were there to hold on to or hope for.
A spray blown up and my poppa got a taste of salt and he call, “Tears. I names this ‘A Country Made of Something Even Bigger’s Tears.’” None of us had ever heard of water what’s born salted. Even Reba, set off to sheself deciding stuff, she cried, tasting it, rubbing some into her t
errible-wrinkledy face like for to heal or numb it, like she trying and turn either young or dead, one. “Exceeding strange. Sure do make any person to wonder, it not?” and Reba sat uh-ohing, sat shaking she head No.
Waterland laid sticky varnish on us. Being fresh-water-loving river folks—we won’t used to it. Someway, it made us feel more naked-like. That, and watching the cloth tubes on the unpersons, guessing how they looked without.
Free to roam on deck, we still kept near each other. Reba trailed the two youngest lard-backs. They didn’t pay her no mind. One—the yellow-hair with his chained heart what sings shivery like fish scales overlapping—he step to the rail, pull something out the front slit of his cloth leg tubes. Reba be right there. Sailor arch water frontwards then down into passing current. Reba lean forwards, checks, barks back at us, “Ooh, it he thang. Nasty. Pinky white as the rest of him!” Three ladies was sick all over the deck.
Then, bold, Aunt, breathing deep, stuppering nearer, tried to up and talk at this same Bleach-face what’d acted kindest to us children. Auntie been biding her time, picking the choicer of young foamy ghosts. He the yellowhead with smoothingest pink face. He got a ivory-looking chest drawn tight as a answering drum. It inlaid with strange dark ironwood pellet nipples. Reba sheself now sinuate close up to him. He done stuffed he thang back in cloth leg tubes.
Aunt weans off she hex part, crank on the charm, try putting this one at he ease. Tilting on the stick, Reba a-chattering far up. She axting (slow, out of kindness) bout bleachness’s idea of a good time. She admit wondering: Is white ones born from womens or—as seem more likely—break like turtles out big sponge eggs? He wink down at Reba just gumming away in a language he won’t smart nor lucky enough to know yet. He grinning, his white fangs just spangle in the day. You seen that—though all paste ones is ugly—some be less bad off than others. First this Bleach pats Reba’s scalp. Tribe folks we ouching—to see a white one touch a one of us—not thinking Reba gone pull through. But she just smirks this way, winks at us, like saying, “See? I done made a pet of it.” Then he called at buddy monsters, he points from my wise gabbling great-aunt over towards the monkey. The huge Bleach with outshoot sun ray for hair, he now signal from a chained ape to Reba. Blanks, seeing this, laugh, one slap he knee. Reba hush down then. Pride always been her failing. Nobody figured she could live through this much insult. Well, Aunt just gather herself up and, with the stick for only company, scump off away from laughing. She alone. We watch Reba resting to one side, hands knotted round she staff, her back bent, old woman staring for a long while out cross the Tears of Something Even Bigger. What she deciding? Might she use her walking staff for cudgel weapon on the one what hurt her royal feelings so?
A jealous niece—long scared of going face to face with Reba—now holler at Aunt’s back, “Was you that coachened us onto this blood boat. Know something? Aunt Unmarried/Unmagic? I glad you ain’t ever gone be listened to again.”
Now, madam, in holy Africa, us had another longtime custom. Reba now performed it on the niece. Without bothering looking behind, Aunt just hoist her veinish blue-nailed snake-gnawed right hand. Then oh so slow, its middle finger lift straight up. Boing! Back home, this act been called “shooting a troublemaker ‘the bird.’”
You can use it on them Yankees in twenty minutes.—Here, look, I gone show you how it’s done.
BELOW
THEN whitenesses hurlt open twin doors built flush with deck. Bleaches led us into a great ribbed hollow where they’d hid earlier. Going down, suet-faces didn’t shove us much. Politeness made us think some treat be waiting. Whatever’d got hauled down here before had left dark smearings. We seen a single handprint (human) mashed onto one beam, like a message for us. Off to the end, on cleaner wood, tracings by childrens—butterflies and such—smudged there with what? Only then did chains come out. Hundreds pounds of blue-black links. Up these got ritually lifted from out great boxes.
All our royal cousins, uncles, aunts, cranky Reba, start getting bolted to floorboards in the dark bottom of a high red boat. Didn’t nobody fight harder than Auntie, slugging. You never heard such cat shrieks, never seen a blur like her knobbed stick swung sideways wild. Aunt’s skull top come to about manliness level on a few sailors. Her stick sent them howling, doubled, back upstairs. We admired how Reba carried on. But, after, it come to my relations—not only did Aunt not like getting chained … she didn’t want to be chained onto us. This old one was so used to going off alone. Now being hooked, permanent, by hands/feets/round the neck, clampt like everybody else to everybody else, it must mean a extra little death for her.
Bleachnesses found that babies couldn’t be shackled right. Metal arm and leg manacles clamped too wide for trapping babies proper. So we got to crawl round free among the chained big ones, we was passed continual from hand to hand. Us youngests felt right free till trapdoors flap-flap shut. Then we all known we been locked down here with one plug of African night—another royal captive. They taking our homeland’s Lateness cross Tears, too. It almost give comfort to be hid down here so in it, spared studying them spear-nose hair-bellies, kept from seeing the strangeness of a world all teary mist, the oddness of no vine, no tree. In first dark, Reba’s chains got to jingling, tests of how far each bond would let out. She starts throat-making red-bird sounds. Folks linked closest to Aunt was getting tugged here/there by her tries at usual freedom. Jerked sideways, they flat told her bout it.
Home rumors once said Reba—when she disappeared from out our sight (she mostly lived that way)—disappeared from out the jungle, too. Gone, except for a spirit marker left to help her find her place and come back solid when the crinched body needed seeing. Reba—not caring for the kind of smooching middle-village friction-care us others had to have—lived some freer, hidden. Now, we would see how far she got and did she vaporate.
Is Freedom not needing too much? Or maybe always having more than you can use? Tell me, Lady. I myself ain’t yet made its acquaintance, though this French goddess clock I’m dusting tells me my appointment with it’s close at hand.
Storm heave up our sixth day out, seventh maybe. Such sickness you never heared nor smelt. We didn’t rightly know what, besides the rocking, kept making us so ill. By then, won’t nothing in you to throw up. Still, you did and did and did till you spitting out bile itself. Seem bile be the very last of brown-black Africa wearing off. Leaning forward, spent, you did and did heave, feeling emptied of all home dyes. In shadow, the King (hoping to get our minds off sickness) now try explaining why the boat ones looks so awful. He claim that they been staring at the sky so long (up where nobody can’t go). Cold sky done hooked deep into these animals’ up-aimed eyeholes. But us? see, we been gazing down at our own brown river and home earth for so many years, we been adopted by both. As a type of honor, each one’s turned us—eyes and all—towards they own personal family shade.
Folks commenced to blaming Reba even louder when a bigger rain blown and bob and slap us round all day. Storm’s sounds! Thunder unhitching right overhead, every plank in this here tub trying and decide whether to stay hooked to the others for one more roll, or float off and take its chances alone. The ropes was all whining-biting with the strain, white voices screaming orders at each other or the wind. And every bit that red dye done scrubbed off, Lady Listener What’s Forgot to Play Piano. (I takes that as a token of respeck, being the princess I am.) Dye done dripped all salty in on us, down through curved boards and straight. Blood-red wet be drumming over me, sucking Momma’s bosoms. Her breasts’d started drying up from not getting enough drink nor food. Our Queen so thirsty, she now gulping all the red paint droplets what fall in reach. Hands out, her mouth be stretch wide open in the dark, eyes mashed so tight-shut. My Queen don’t care do this downpour red be poison or no. (Maybe hoping it were.) She lift her face to where she think that, back in our country, over the jungle of clear streams, long vines, and loose monkeys, a rightful sky’d yet be.
Me, I kept curled, dreaming bout the milk wall-
safed in sweet free village coconuts. Bleaches fed us something like what we calls oatmeal nowdays. It got served in one long wood trough, one slid by ropes down our narrow footwalk. I say “served” … a word I learnt from you. Some joke, speaking “served” bout a trough pulled over chains that bound every adult ankle. Our court folk had to bend forward cross they own legs’ bolts, then each’d drink it, head in, sadsacks sucking up a soup what sounded made out of the kidnapped African dark itself. Bad form. Picture it.
A week into chains, some hungry kinsman call, “Oh, Auntie, down there on the end? Kindly pass us that seed choker from round you baggy neck. We gone soak them pods in tears. Seeds gone swole all up, be right good to nibble. They’s leastways solid.—I plans to share. Give over, everybody’s favorite.”
“Come kill me for it, you. I done had a sign. Reba here, she saving this back.”
“Why for? We hongry, witch breath. What matter’s more than food?”
“Plenty. These seeds be messengers. They wearing me.”
He yell, “Listen, how that bitch be acting ever crazier than to home. She the mud-face what teased us onto this.”
Right after our daily feedings, kin commenced they loudest rattling of chains. See, broth just didn’t fill you. Were mostly water. Every day us waited for this mash to make things better. Every day after it failed to half help, us roared, tried breaking bonds.
Reba, she say nothing. Our tribe magic seem all spent. But, soon enough, things changed, luck it shift. Our old pride, it soon down-deepened.
Aunt Reba made it happen.
2
MASHED in irons (minds free-wandering, everything else right much the opposite), us’d hear Bleach-faces singing they tribe songs. A strange hooted heron language. They played one reedy whistle, plunkt something rigged with strings. Didn’t even use no drums! They sure needed schooling. White song sounded thin as the gruel whites slopped our way.