The Lightning Dreamer (12 page)

When my gloating uncle leaves
to claim his other new properties,
I dare to explore the mansion.
Most of the rooms contain treasure:
books, paper, ink, pens . . .

 

Solitude.
Serenity.
It's no use—
I can't write;
I need to roam.

 

For the first time in my life,
I've been released from the walls
that trap women.

 

Alone, I venture outdoors, wandering
along muddy pathways, beside a river
so peaceful that I dream, and then
I swim . . .

 

Forests, coffee groves, guava thickets,
mango orchards. So much beauty,
so much life! Honeybee hives,
hummingbird nests, pink flamingos
and green parrots, a giant woodpecker
with a smooth ivory bill—each sight
is a marvel that deserves its own poem,
but all I can do is look and listen,
feeling serenaded by sound
and drenched in color
as I gather my skirts
to run freely
beneath wild flocks
of huge red macaws.

 

Has sunlight always
been this bright,
or were my mind
and my eyes
asleep?

My uncle stays far away,
leaving the mansion's inhabitants
uncertain. Cooks and maids grow
more confident, offering their names
and their stories.

 

They seem to know that I'm not
the proper lady I was trained
to be, but a half-wild creature,
a throwback to some other,
more natural time and place.

 

I perform plays, recite poems,
and then let my audience go about
their daily routines, without
any rules
made by me.

 

I want to tell all the slaves
that they are free to leave,
but I have
no authority.

 

A few flee at night,
while overseers are sleeping,
but most stay, convinced
that sooner or later
my uncle will return
and send slave hunters
to chop off the feet of captives
who've shown that they know
how to run.

 

Sometimes, fear
is the most powerful
weapon.

I leave the sad mansion
to roam tangled jungles,
tranquil orchards, dark caves,
and my own silent fear
of never knowing
how to live
in a world
where I don't belong.

 

Nature is a sanctuary. Wilderness
invites me. All I need is this leafy
green
pathway
toward truth . . .
but each time I go back to the house
that I can never think of as home,
I feel jolted by the sight of girls
my own age, scarred by whips
instead of words.

So many of the babies
on this plantation
are brown.

 

In the city, they would be orphans,
but here, they stay with their mothers.

 

When my grandfather was young
and strong, did he rule
like a brutal king?

 

Are any of the slaves
in the sugar fields
my relatives?

Disturbed and desolate,
I roam country roads
crowded with wanderers—
muleteers and musicians,
vendors, herders, hunters,
and traveling magicians,
all singing their rhythmic
wayfaring songs.

 

I dream of fleeing to Havana,
the biggest city on the island,
where I could work as a tutor,
earn my own money, travel,
see Niagara Falls,
meet Heredia . . .

One morning, on a green hill
beside a forest, an old woman
leans from the open doorway
of her raggedly thatched hut.
She calls out, inviting me
to share her dinner
and a story.

 

The meal is just yams and corn,
but her tale is a familiar legend
that seems to spring from the roots
of my own life: Once there was a king
who kept his son hidden in a tree
so that the prince could never
meet a girl and risk
the heartbreak of love.

 

Birds taught the tree-boy
their language of songs.
A hawk showed the prince
how to hunt, owls offered lessons
in wisdom, parrots taught the art
of cheerfulness, and doves spoke
of love. One day, all the birds
joined together
and lifted the tree-boy,
flying with him balanced
between their wings.

 

They flew and flew, until finally
they reached a far kingdom,
where they dropped the prince
onto a treetop. There, a beautiful
young princess lived in isolation
because her father, too, imagined
that young people can be protected
from the pain of finding
and losing
love.

The old woman's tale
of lonely tree-children
stays with me until gradually,
day after day, the storyteller's
friendly hut becomes my refuge.

 

It is also my inspiration.
I gather the old woman's stories
like sour green fruits that can be eaten
later, once their sweetness has grown
full and ripe.

 

Other wanderers come to the hut
for tales and companionship.
I meet farmers with sun-withered skin,
children with bright, eager eyes,
and Sab—the storyteller's godson,
a half-African freed slave,
flame-scarred
and troubled.

My name is Bernabé, but ever since
I ran into a fiery hut to rescue
a burning child, everyone calls me Sab,
from
saber
—“to know.” People seem
to imagine that my scars
give me wisdom.

 

I am not a storyteller,
but I will tell you about my life,
so that you and the other wanderers
who visit my godmother
will understand
and believe
the powerful nature
of love.

 

I was raised along with my owner's
daughter, Carlota, who taught me
how to read, and how to dream
of a normal future together,
dark and light joined forever,
without any hatred, sadness,
or fear.

 

We were inseparable.
We were happy. We promised
that someday we would marry
and have children of our own . . .
but that hopeful age ended
along with childhood's
shared laughter.

 

Now we are grown,
and I still love Carlota
with all my heart, but she plans
to marry a gentleman who gallops
around the countryside
on a spirited horse
that makes him
look brave.

 

After the fire, when Carlota's father
freed me, he gave me this gentle pony,
and one imperial lottery ticket—
see,
it's a winning ticket, worth a fortune!