So Long Been Dreaming (46 page)

The Living Roots
Opal Palmer Adisa

Dusk skipped in like a woman in haste to meet her lover. The sun, hiding behind the mountain, was the only witness as Essence’s head emerged flat from the side of the cotton tree. She knew as soon as the air hit her face that she should have waited until night had crept in like a man returning from a clandestine affair, but she was impatient. She had told Tuba, who claimed the Maroon leadership after her father died, that they had been too long underground; that Piliferous Layer, although a safe haven for them, was only meant to be temporary. He saw her advice as a challenge to his authority; he believed that perhaps Essence, as daughter of the past leader of one the most formidable Maroon colonies, felt she should be the heir. But Essence was only amused by Tuba’s masculine insecurity. She loved being a reconnaissance scout and had no ambition to be a leader. She had witnessed firsthand the challenges and sacrifices her father had made, and understood how leading and trying to be everything to everyone had worn him down. Besides, she fully intended, when she was ready, to woo Tuba to her bed and make him her husband; he had both the mind and body that was as close to an equal that she would get, and it didn’t hurt that he titillated her. Perhaps that was why she was on this mission, defying his order, knowing he would come after her and provide her with the opportunity she needed for them to be alone, away from colony scrutiny – especially her mother’s, a master strategist.

Before Essence could withdraw and blend fully into the tree, the woman spotted her, and cried out, “How duppy come out so early?” Instantly, the woman dropped the bags in her hands, cupped her palms together, blew in them, and then tossed her palms above her head as if throwing something away. Essence smiled. It was not the first time that an enslaved person thought she was an apparition. The woman gathered her bags loaded with fruits and ground provisions, glanced around at the tree, and took wide strides, her arms swinging vigorously despite the heavy bags that she clutched. Essence was tempted to call to her, but decided against it, as there was no urgency. Why scare the woman out of her wits, she mused. In due time, she would have the information she needed to report back to Tuba and the colony. Essence stayed connected to the trunk of the tree until night was fully dressed like a bride in a veil.

She separated herself from the tree trunk and wavered in the cool night air – flat, one-dimensional, compressed soil that slowly ballooned out until she was body and flesh. Her waist-length dreadlocks separated from the sap of the tree, and Essence coughed and stretched as she acclimated her system to the slave colony. Then she remembered what she always forgot: that the people of the world she was entering wore clothes, the unnecessary excessive fabric that hid the beauty and sensuality of their bodies. In Piliferous Layer they wore no clothes, had no need for such excess that impeded them from communicating with one another. Everything was through touch and taste; in fact, not to touch or lick another was an indication of animosity towards that person. That was why she knew Tuba was meant to be hers. He tasted like roasted sweet potato, but she had never told him this. Nor had he told her what her taste was. Essence put aside her reverie as she heard footsteps and squatted behind the tree, making sure she was out of sight of the voices. She had not yet mastered this human form that she hated; not because it was ugly, but because the enslaved world always infuriated her, with its control of human labour and restriction of their movements: “a complete degradation of the human spirit.”

She identified two men, walking slowly, machetes slung across their shoulders, their voices loud and friendly. As they strode past, the shorter of the two craned his neck and glanced at the tree. Essence could feel his eyes scanning the tree and wondered how he knew she was there even though he could not see her. This had happened to Essence several times in the past when she visited the enslaved world. When she had mentioned these incidents to her father, he told her that even though some of the people were slaves, they were related to the Maroons, and could, if they really tapped into their ancestral memory, escape bondage by submerging below the surface of the earth to live freely as they once did. Essence suspected that this man was related to them and was either a subversive or his memory was damaged by the system of slavery. Still, it was not wise for her to call to him, because with his altered brain capacity, he might think that she was an apparition, or duppy. It was funny to Essence that some of these enslaved relatives of hers were unable to distinguish between the ancestors who had gone ahead and those who were still living in an evolved state among them.

The men moved safely out of sight until their voices were a distant sound like crickets speaking another language. Essence scanned the landscape to ascertain where she might find nondescript clothes in order to move among them without attracting attention. She felt that this time was different than the last time she was here. The air was not as constricted, and she smelled another fragrance – even in the men who had just passed and the woman earlier – that she hadn’t smelled in them before. It was like thyme, but she did not know how to read that smell, or its meaning. It had been about five years since she had last visited this land they called Xaymaca. She and the other reconnoiterers had figured out that every one year of their life was equal to five years of their enslaved relatives. Her grandmother had known this from when she was prodded into a ship, pregnant with her first child. That was why in the dark and despair of the hold, rather than surrender to defeat, she had raised her voice, and called out to see who else was in training to be a priestess like she had been. Six other women had responded and despite the vomiting, tears, feces, and the sheer bewilderment that many succumbed to, they had plotted and planned how to transform themselves and escape their fate, paving a way for the life growing inside their wombs.

Essence’s mother had told her the story many times about her maternal grandmother whom she had never met, and how the first inhabitants of the underground Maroon colony were all pregnant women, all former priestesses in training who had discovered that pregnant women had the capacity to survive underground and to train their unborn children to do likewise, that the source of their power was in their dreadlocked hair that were like roots that allowed them to breathe and receive all the nutrients that they required. That was why all the enslaved people, especially the men, were forced to have their hair cut short and even the women’s hair refused to grow to any significant length because it was being tamed by the enslavers’ comb. This was simply another way they were being trained to work for the benefit of others, and more importantly, they were also being trained to dislike and distrust their natural selves. But this was not the time to reminisce, she was on a mission, and if Essence wasn’t careful to adapt to her environment, she could end up like her maternal grandmother, head shaved and doomed to live the life of an enslaved captive. Quickly, she identified a house about two miles from the cotton tree, where she would find clothes and cloth with which to wrap her hair and protect her power. Putting her ears to the ground to make sure no one was walking around in the immediate vicinity, Essence easily jogged to the farm house and found a stack of clothes folded in a corner in a small room. She selected the simplest sack-like dress, then digging through a basket, found several pieces of cloth. Selecting a smooth, brown, cotton piece, she wound it around her head, completely covering her thick hair that when left free brushed against her bottom. She was ready to move about and learn how her earthly relatives were making out, and how she and her people might continue to help them regain their freedom.

Morning found her in the market with the other women, as they were always the source of news.

“Howdy!” they greeted each other, their full voices like hampers loaded with ground provisions, their gestures free and intimate as the breeze flirting under the leaves of trees. “Howdy!” Essence joined the women in greeting, quickly scanning their bodies to try and discern which of them still had active memory. Once again she smelled thyme among them and then she remembered. It was the same fragrance she had detected the night she had wandered into the rebellion that left three overseers dead and several acres of cane-field smoldering. Could it be that these women had acquired their freedom? But how could that be, since she did not detect the memory in any of them. Confused, Essence floundered. She did not know if she could trust herself. This always happened when she covered her hair and wound it tight in a bundle to keep from being easily recognized; she received mixed messages, and wasn’t quite sure if the information she was receiving was accurate. Desperate to regain balance, Essence pushed her way into the midst of a group of women and touched one on the arm. Very clearly she received the answer she sought: “Me neva gwane be anybody’s slave,” the woman’s skin proclaimed. Just as Essence was about to let go and move away, she felt the woman’s thumb and index finger circle her wrist.

“Is who yu?” the woman declared, pulling Essence closer to her and jerking up her arm. Essence slowed her heartbeat to synchronize it with the turning of soil as a seed takes root. Instantly the woman dropped her hand, alarmed.

“Do me know yu?” the woman asked, less self-assured now.

Essence looked at the woman and recognized her from the evening before, when in her haste Essence had emerged from the side of the tree.

“You belong to the Starch people, like me,” Essence said, spreading her moist calm over the woman. “If you search your memory bank, you will recognize me as a cousin,” Essence continued drawing strength from the woman, which allowed her to scan the woman’s body more fully. She realized the woman was growing dreadlocks hidden beneath her head-wrap. “Me see yu before,” the woman replied as her mind travelled back in time.

“Me se yu before, but yu was different,” the woman ended, nodding her head as if to awaken her memory.

“We survive through our ability to disguise and adapt,” Essence smiled, touching the woman’s hand and immediately drinking in her warmth, like soil being sprinkled with water. “Can we go where we can talk?” Essence asked, feeling other ears prick up at their conversation.

The woman’s eyes bore into Essence, trying to read her in a more obvious way than Essence was trained to do. Then she smiled, satisfied with what she believed she saw and knew.

“We guh afta me get a likkle piece a meat fi flavor de pot,” the woman said, turning. Then she stopped and gazed once again on Essence. “Cousin,” she said with full meaning, “de people call me Walker because me feets does know where to travel any time day or night, but me other name be Carmen. Carmen de Walker be me preference.” She smiled broadly and began to move through the crowd of mostly women haggling over food and prices. Essence kept up, and with her mouth almost touching Carmen’s ear, said, “I’m known as Essence of the Starch People.”

Carmen de Walker nodded acknowledgment as she weaved with ease through the crowd, occasionally greeting others with both a nod of her head and a salutation which often involved inquiring about other members of their family. After more than an hour of this ritual, Essence deduced that the market was merely a meeting place to exchange news; shopping was the guise. The women’s talk was about how sweet freedom was, even though the bacras still had their foot on their backs.

“But we will find a way round dem white people and dem meanness,” said a woman selling carrots.

“Me done tell de one me lease land from dat fi him keep touching me behind, ah go fall down pan him and squeeze him to death,” a rotund woman said with mirth.

“It nah gwane tek much fah you fi squeeze de day-lights out of dat maga, red skin bacra,” said another, bearing a bunch of bananas of her head.

The women all laughed good-naturedly and moved on. Essence tried to understand their tongue that was slightly different from the language she spoke, but even more, she was trying to comprehend how they could claim to be free, and in the same breath declare that someone had a foot on their back. She listened keenly, trying to sort out all the talk, but always making sure she was close to Carmen’s side. On more than two occasions, they were stopped, and once a woman who walked with a cane and whose face was filled with lines, searched Essence’s face and asked,

“Is whe you from, girlie? Haven’t seen you before.”

Essence quickly thought of what to say, trying to bring to her lips the name of other estates over the island that she had visited, but Carmen came quickly to her rescue.

“Howdy Miss Tilda. Yu looking well, today. Dis here is me cousin Es. So what yu buyin’? Yu need any help, ma’am?”

Essence was impressed with the Carmen’s swift and expert manner in deterring folks. As they moved on, Carmen remarked, “Miss Tilda okay. She mean well, but still one can neva be too careful. If anyone else ask, tell dem yu from Yarmouth Estate. Me ’ave people dere.”

This confused Essence, although she did not say anything. If they were free, why did it matter where she was from? All was not what it seemed; there was a great deal more she had to learn before reporting back to Tuba and the Elder Council.