Song of Slaves in the Desert (27 page)

What do they believe? They wandered the desert, hoping for water. They followed a pillar of fire. They pray to one god. No afterlife? This makes them different from Christians. They see a deed as valuable in itself, and not a stepping stone toward eternity. Do they treat others as they would be treated themselves?

Middle of the night. All around the cabin dark kept a hold and lay a weight on the other cabins, on the big house itself not far away under the watery slim moonlight cast down by the quarter orb. Her cry went up in the darkness, and everyone heard, everyone knew. How could they not, the plantation slaves living so close together in the quiet pasture behind the rice barns. At first she lay there in the cabin, twisting and bending with the waves of labor, all alone, calling out to Old Dou and Yemaya, wondering if Wata, her mother’s mother, of whom she had heard a great deal, might be floating somewhere above the cabin, and then she heard rumbling above the roof and harsh rain fell for a short time, and then quiet, and then two voices arguing, Yemaya and Yemaya’s brother Oganyu, the baby is mine, one called to the other, and the other called back, no, no, no, the baby is mine!

The rain fell again, and now she heard Old Dou soothing the arguing children of the god. The rank odor of decaying fish drifted through the cabin. Lyaza felt her water break and then gush across the pallet.

A dog barked.

She felt her head floating free while the bottom half of her leaked like a broken crock.

Up on the roof Yemaya and Oganyu wrestled accompanied by great yells and thumping for the soul of the unborn child. She looked up through the wood and saw Old Dou dancing around the squabbling siblings. She cheered on one, and then the other, and then the first. Lyaza took up the cheers, wriggling out of her aching, writhing body and sailing up onto the top of the cabin, naked, trembling, feverish, excited, desperate, lonely, sad, despondent, hungry, happy to see Old Dou, so recently departed, even under such awful circumstances, sad that in a short while she would bring forth the spawn of the awful slave-keeper.

“
Monster,
” Old Dou called him, reading her mind.

“
I kill him,
” Lyaza shouted back.

“
But the baby,
” Old Dou said, folding her arms across her chest as the god-sister and god-brother flew off into the black sky, going where neither woman could say. Up to the moon? Up to heaven beyond? Back to the home country? Up and up and up, and then diving back down beneath the sea? Yes, perhaps there, where Yemaya kept her home and where Obatala had raised her and her brother, among the flow of great undersea currents, among the fishes, cousins to whales, lovers of dolphins.

In that water Lyaza saw the outline of a plan. As if in a dream she leaped from the roof and landed some yards away from the cabin and leaking water and fluids made her way across the fields to the rice paddies where the water surged into the holding ponds at high tide and the salt leached out, making a mist that stung the nose. By the edge of the lapping pond she lay down and eased her legs apart so that the child slid freely from her body. Taking up the light burden she held the ropy tie in her teeth and cut the placenta from the living child. Her mouth tasted of salt and blood, as if she licked herself down below where the child had emerged.

Drums in the distance, either just on the other side of the rice ponds, or at some distance in the world of her head, that close, that far the sound.

Yemaya spoke to her from the pond.

“
Take your child up and raise her.
”

Lyaza stood up and held her child above the water.

“
Raise her,
”
the goddess said.

“
Take her,
” Lyaza said.

“
No no no no no no no no no no,
” the goddess said.

Lyaza screamed at Yemaya.

“
Take her away!
”

“
No!
”

“
This child filthy spawn of filthy master wretch!
”

She took a deep breath and hurled the infant into the air, as though she were pushing against someone in a dance. It disappeared into the mist and she waited to hear the splash, but none came. She stumbled on leaden legs through deserted fields back to the cabin where she lay back down on the bloody pallet. Closing her eyes, she saw behind the lids the stout figure of Old Dou, and a shadowy woman standing behind her, either the ghost of the mother she never knew or Yemaya, just which she could not say. With a loud sigh she settled down into the filth of her life and the wretched sleep of the hopeless, awaking at the first light of dawn, a soft light that stole in like an ocean dew, settling over the doorway and then the floor and finally touching her where she lay in her misery, an empty hulk of a girl ready for nothing but death.

Soon after the light arrived a boy named Isaac showed up with the infant in his arms. The boy grew taller and taller, and his face turned into that of Jonathan, the master’s old son who stood there, nodding his head, the infant now in his possession.

“Devil!” she screamed at him.

Oh, Yemaya! These women reached the heights of childbirth, and then they plummeted into darkness. Lyaza stood up, reached for her child, and fell dead on the cabin floor.

That morning I slept late, one of the indulgences of plantation life. Liza, I presumed, must have immediately begun her work for the day. I imagined her hurrying down to the kitchen where she assisted Precious Sally, the woman who had the largest hand in raising her, touching milk and water, eggs and flour—her magical presence turning these elements into nourishment for all of us.

I could picture Precious Sally opening her eyes in the dark, saying her prayers to the gods, whichever she might believe in—and raising her large body out of her bed of ticking and straw, pulling on her apron and making ready to proceed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, where she found Liza already baking the daily bread.

Isaac, perhaps having slept in his clothes, slowly raised his head off the straw pillow and looked around at the sound of the crowing birds, knowing he must wake his crews and get them moving into the fields as the sun was rising. And in the other cabins, dozens upon dozens of other slaves beginning their long morning, awaking out of the freedom of sleep into another day of captivity, some with words of love, some with curses on their lips, stumbling out into the woods and performing their ablutions, and then eating a corn cake and taking a sip of water and hasting to the fields.

Some of them were singing, a little love tune—

I love my darlin’, dat I do,

Don’t you love Miss Susy, too?

Some sang parts of a work song—that same

My old missus promise me

Shoo a la a day,

When she die she set me free

Shoo a la a day…

I could hear the music, though most were moving in silence, dragging their feet, heads lowered, eyes still fixed on whatever dreams they might have lived in their sleep.

To belong to another person! To be owned by someone the way people owned shoes or carriages or tables and chairs and horses and tools! It never occurred to me to consider such matters even after my days living at The Oaks, at least not until after that night with Liza. Lying there in my bed, the odors of our coupling still rising like ancient perfume from the pillows and sheets, I was reluctant to give up the memories of the night before even as I knew I had to arise and dress and descend the stairs to the breakfast table into the world of strife and suspicion.

Liza was nowhere to be seen. Here I met my uncle. Even as he skewered a small breakfast bird on his fork he appeared to be watching me carefully as I entered the room.

“Well, lad,” he said, “and how are you this morning? Slept rather late, did you? And I thought you were early to bed.”

“I read a while, Uncle.”

“Ah, the reading. Always something I plan to do but never get to it.” He sighed, and chewed on the small bird.

From another doorway Jonathan entered the room, like a leading actor suddenly making his entrance on stage.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning, son. And did you have a good rest?”

“After great exercise, great rest,” he said.

“Oh, were you out wandering in the night?” I tried to stare my cousin down, but he met me glinty glare for glinty glare.

“Jonathan is always up early,” my uncle said, “always on the watch for odd stoppages and difficulties.”

“And for the good events, too,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” my uncle said. “Certainly for the good as well.”

“What good, Cuz,” I said to Jonathan, “do you find in your wanderings at night?”

“Oh, a quiet night, Cuz, with nothing stirring except a slight breeze, and a few peaceful songs on the air from the cabins.”

“You do help to keep the peace there, do you not?”

My cousin stepped toward me and leaned his face close to mine. I could smell traces of foul whiskey on his breath, the residue, no doubt, of a night in the cabins.

“You yourself seem quite well rested,” he said. “Tell me, dear Cousin, do you take this kind of leisure in New York? I will wager a week’s worth of labor that you do not.”

“No,” I said, “I am usually up quite early, as I’ve been doing since I arrived. Except for last night.”

“Always a good idea to make an exception some time,” my uncle said. “Sally? Was there liquor in the pie last night? Our young nephew appears to have been drugged.”

He proceeded to cut the bird and eat.

“Nawssir, massa,” Precious Sally said from the stove, and my two relatives laughed.

Jonathan turned his glance to me.

“You haven’t changed your mind about leaving, have you? Staying here you could take a great deal more leisure.”

“What precisely do you mean, Cousin?” I said, staring at him and trying to discern some particle of motive in the events of the previous evening.

Jonathan gave a shrug and settled at the table with a coffee mug before him.

“Nothing more than what I said, Cousin,” he replied.

“Because in fact I have decided to take a bit more time,” I said.

He sat up, and appeared to be surprised.

“How very nice. Father?”

“Yes, indeed,” my uncle said, his jaws still working on the meat of the bird.

“Though I still do want to inquire about the sailings to New York.”

“Eventually you will go, yes,” my uncle said, swallowing.

Jonathan raised his mug toward me.

“But not this week or next.” If he had not sounded so smug I would have taken him for being surprised by my decision.

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so. Yet I am not entirely sure when I will go.”

“Of course,” my uncle said.

“At least not until the rice harvest, yes?” said my cousin.

“I cannot say.”

“Of course not,” my uncle said, touching a napkin to his lips in that dainty manner he had.

“I will need the carriage for a trip to town today,” I said.

“Oh?” Jonathan looked at me suspiciously.

“I wish to speak to the ship’s agent,” I said. “I would like to know the schedule.”

“Of course,” my uncle said. “one of the boys will take you.”

“I will go alone,” I said. “I believe I can handle the horse.”

“You have learned a lot in your short stay, yes,” my uncle said. “Has he not, Jonathan?”

“Oh, yes, Father, indeed, he has.”

“And I will need some assistance,” I said.

My uncle turned to Jonathan.

“Then you will go—”

“Not him, sir. I will need some assistance…in the market. Those local curios you mentioned to me when I first arrived. I thought perhaps Liza might accompany me and help me find them.”

“Did I mention such things to you?” my cousin said.

Crockery clattered in the washing basin behind us where Precious Sally worked her pots and plates.

“You find the fine baskets for the harvest right here on the plantation,” she said.

“But they are worn from use, Sally,” my cousin put in. “It would be a good idea to find some good unused specimens in the market.”

“Miss Rebecca, she could go,” Precious Sally said as she picked up dishes and silverware strewn about the floor.

“Rebecca is teaching her reading today to the children from the cabins,” my cousin said.

“I…we will be fine by ourselves,” I said.

“Of course,” my uncle said. “That’s a splendid idea.”

“Liza will be of great assistance,” my cousin said. “I am sure she has been already.”

He sent me a sideways glance, and I held his gaze. Did he suspect anything about last night? Could Liza have said something to him as a way of keeping him at arm’s length? Or, worse, could he after all have sent her to me on a mission to tempt me to stay, making Liza into a monstrous liar? And was my uncle a part of such a plot? A cold shock of regret quivered through my body and if I had been standing next to the wide creek I might have thrown myself headlong into the waters.

But if we were going to town that day—and there was nothing I wanted more—we would have to leave soon. The drive was long, and I hoped to spend more time with Liza, though where or how I had not even thought about at that point.

My uncle aided us in what was now a plan, going out to look for Black Jack so that he might send him out to the barn to find Isaac who would hitch up the horses. Jonathan meanwhile went about his business for the day, whatever that business was, leaving me alone in the room for a moment with Precious Sally.

“Massa from New York,” she said, her big brown arms showing below the rolled-up sleeves of her voluminous dress of cotton sacking with an apron of thicker sacking draped over it.

“Is that what you call me?”

“It is,” she said.

“I suppose that’s who I am. Except I’m nobody’s master.”

“Not so far,” she said.

I shook my head.

“You’ve been listening to our conversations?”

“Everybody talks in front of us. Sometimes it’s like we’re not there. Sometimes it is…”

“You know what my father wants to do?”

“From what I hear he wants to buy part of this plantation.”

“And I don’t want him to. I’ve decided that.”

“But you ain’t going back to New York yet. First, you said you was going.”

I shook my head, confused somewhat that I was having this intimate conversation about my life and family matters with a woman I scarcely knew—who, and I confess that I thought this, was a slave to boot.

“I’m going to town to inquire about sailing schedules.”

“I see,” she said.

“And I would like Liza to travel with me. To help me at the market. I…want to make some purchases before I leave for New York.”

“Uh…” she said. And then she added, “Huh.”

It was that look, that tone of voice—I had known it all my life growing up with Marzy in the household. African or white, our servants were our consciences, and it was important for us to notice the way we treated our consciences.

“I trust you can spare her for the day. Perhaps even overnight. We may not be able to return until tomorrow.” I paused and took a breath. “I don’t know why I am telling you this. It sounds as though I am asking your permission.”

Precious Sally sighed, and her huge chest heaved up and down in a wave of inhalation.

“You don’t have to ask my permissions,” she said. She seemed about to say more when my uncle came huffing and puffing back into the room.

“All arranged.” Turning to Precious Sally, he said, “Now where is she?”

“Right here, massa,” Liza said from the doorway. She was wearing a fresh dress and a tan straw hat that sat on her head at an angle I could only call jaunty.

“She need a pass, massa,” Precious Sally said. “They’s been trouble up the road.”

“Of course, of course,” my uncle said, “I’ll write it just now.” And he left the room while the three of us remained, the big woman, me, and Liza, silent, silent, silent, until he returned.

About half an hour later we set out, the passes in my coat pocket, my heart beating, or so it seemed to me, louder than the noise of the horse’s hooves. I held the reins and Liza sat primly alongside me. The horse—a big old gelding named Archie—seemed to know the way, and obliged only now and then to give me the opportunity to urge him along.

“How are you this morning, Liza?” I said, finding it difficult to breathe.

“Fine, massa,” she said in a voice that gave no notice of any difficulty on her part.

“Are you never going to call me Nate again?”

“Maybe later, massa,” she said.

I reached over and touched her at the knee. It was a shock to me, almost as if I had touched the tip of a candle flame, and I noticed she flinched at my touch.

“I am suddenly tired, are you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“But happy,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Liza,” I said, keeping my hand in place, “I have been thinking about you…wondering about you, I should say.”

She sat silently, giving nothing back.

“It was…” I paused, not knowing the words, and the creak and rattle of the carriage and the clomping of the horse filled the world all of a sudden. I wanted words to fill the emptiness and ward off the confusion inside me. The heat grew steadily stronger, and the road seemed long.

“Tell me about yourself, will you?” I said.

Liza touched a hand to her hat as if it might be blown away in the wind, though it was a breezeless morning, except what air we stirred as we rolled along in the carriage.

“I…was born here, at The Oaks.”

“And your parents?”

“My…family, they came over on the ships.”

“From distant Africa?”

“From across the water, yes.”

“That’s a long way. And a long time.”

“Not that long, Nate. They didn’t live that long.”

“I am sorry,” I said.

“I am sorry, too,” she said. “My mother…she died when I was born. Precious Sally helped raise me up. That’s how I come to work in the house.” She paused, and we listened together to the rumbling of the carriage wheels in the dust.

“Nate?”

“Yes, Liza?”

I took my hand from her thigh and lay my arm around her shoulders.

“I got a question. If I’m ever going to be a free woman—and that’s what I dream of—I know I got to talk better than I do. That right?”

“When you are free, Liza, you can speak any way you like. That is part of being free.”

“I read books, you know.”

“I believe I know that.”

“Next thing I want to work on my hand.”

“That would be a good thing.”

“The doctor says, you write a letter, it’s like casting your voice over the miles.”

“A lovely way to put it,” I said.

She pursed her lips and turned her face away, as if she suddenly had a desire to study the plants and trees we passed.

“Do you ever wonder about what it’s like to be a slave?”

“What a question! No, I never have.”

“That’s because you don’t have to. But every one of us dreams about being free, ’cept those that can’t dream. The stupid ones. The ones be content to stay where they are every day, working until they fade away, for a few cups of flour and some pieces of meat at the weekend and the holidays.”

“I could find many people like that in New York,” I said, “and they are supposed to be free.”

“They are free,” Liza said. “So they can choose to be a slave or not. Slaves don’t have a choice.”