The Surrender Tree (3 page)

with former owners,

all of us fighting together,

against ownership of Cuba

by the Empire of Spain,

a ruler who refuses

to admit that slaves

can ever be free.

José

Dark wings, a dim moonglow,

the darting of bats,

not the big ones that suck blood

and eat insects,

but tiny ones, butterfly-sized,

the kind of bat

that whisks out of caves to sip nectar

from night-blooming blossoms,

the fragrant white flowers my Rosa calls

Cinderella,

because they last only half a night.

Rosa leads the bats away from our hut.

They follow her light, as she holds up a gourd

filled with fireflies, blinking.

I laugh, because our lives, here in the forest,

feel reversed—

we build a palm-thatched house to use

as a hospital,

but everything wild that belongs outdoors

keeps moving inside,

and our patients, the wounded, feverish

mambí
rebels,

who should stay in their hammocks resting—

they keep getting up,

to go outside,

to watch Rosa, with her hands of light,

leading the bats far away.

Lieutenant Death

They think they're free.

I know they're slaves.

I used to work for the Holy Brotherhood

of plantation owners, but now I work

for the Crown of Spain.

Swamps, mountains, jungle, caves…

I search without resting, I seek the reward

I will surely collect, just as soon as I kill

the healer they call Rosa
la Bayamesa,

a witch who cures wild
mambí
rebels

so they can survive

to fight again.

Lieutenant-General Valeriano Weyler y Nicolau,
Marquis of Tenerife, Empire of Spain

When the witch is dead,

and the rebels are defeated,

I will rest my sore arms and tired legs

in the healing hot springs on this island of fever

and ghostly, bat-infested caves.

If the slavehunter fails,

I will catch her myself.

I will kill the witch, and keep her ear in a jar,

as proof that owners cannot free their slaves

without Spain's approval

and as proof

that all rebels in Cuba

are doomed.

Rosa

Rumors make me short of breath,

anxious, fearful, desperate.

People call me brave, but the truth is:

Rumors of slavehunters terrify me!

Who could have guessed that after all these years,

the boy I called Lieutenant Death

when we were both children

would still be out here, in the forest,

chasing me, now,

hunting me, haunting me….

Who would have imagined

such stubborn dedication?…

If only he would change sides

and become one of us, a stubborn,

determined, weary nurse,

fighting this daily war

against death!

José

Rosa's fame as a healer brings danger.

She cannot leave our hut,

where the patients need her,

so I travel alone to a field of pineapples

where a young Spanish soldier lies wounded

in his bright uniform,

his head resting between mounds

of freshly harvested fruit.

The leaves of the pineapple plants

are gray and sharp, like machetes

the tips of the leaves cut my arms,

but I do my best to treat the boy's wounds.

I do this for Rosa, who wants to heal all.

I do it for Rosa, but the boy-soldier thanks me,

and after I feed him and give him water,

he tells me he wants to change sides.

He says he will be Cuban now, a
mambí
rebel.

He tells me he was just a young boy

who was taken

from his family in Spain,

a child who was put on a ship,

forced to sail to this island, forced to fight.

He tells me he loves Cuba's green hills,

and hopes to stay, survive, be a farmer,

find a place to plant crops….

Together, we agree to try

to heal the wounds between our countries.

I help him take off his uniform.

I give him mine.

Rosa

We experiment

like scientists.

One flower cures

only certain fevers.

We try another.

We fail, then try a root, leaf,

moss, or fern….

One petal fails.

Another succeeds.

José and I are both learning

how to learn.

Lieutenant Death

The witch

can be heard

singing in treetops.

The witch

can be seen—

a shadow

in caves.

I search,

and I search.

She vanishes,

just like the maddening

morning mists

and the wild

mambí
rebels.

They attack.

We retreat.

They hide.

We seek.

Rosa

Itchy
guao
leaves,

biting mosquitoes,

and invisible, no-see-um
chinches,

burrowing ticks, worms, and fungus,

growing in the flesh of the feet.

Gangrene, leprosy, amputations,

I never give myself permission

to look or sound horrified…

until I'm alone

at the end of the day,

alone, with the music

of nightingales.

José

We have seventeen patients

in our thatched hut

hidden by forest

and protected by guards,

dogs, traps, and tales of ghosts.

Seventeen feverish, bleeding, burning,

broken men, with bayonet wounds,

and women in childbirth,

and newborn babies…

seventeen helpless people,

all depending on us,

seventeen lives, blessings, burdens.

How can we heal them?

We are so weary!

Who will heal us?

Rosa

Grateful families give us chickens,

guinea hens and coconuts,

sweet potatoes,

cornmeal,

a hat, a knife,

a kettle,

a kerchief.

New mothers name their sons José

and their daughters Rosa.

Orphans stay with us,

working alongside the young Spaniard,

who chose to change sides,

and become Cuban.

True healers never charge any money for cures.

The magic hidden inside flowers and trees

is created by the fragrant breath of God—

who are we to claim payment

for miracles?

Who are we to imagine

that the forest belongs to us?

Now, if only God who made the petals

and roots

will grant me one more gift—

a peaceful mind,

escape from the rumors that haunt me,

tales of prowling slavehunters,

warnings about Lieutenant Death.

We move all our patients into a cave,

a cathedral of stone,

where Rosa hopes to feel safe.

Crystals glow in the light

of palm-leaf torches

and living fireflies.

The stones seem to move like clouds,

forming bridges, pillars, fountains….

Rosa tells me she feels like one of those statues

that hold up the roofs of old buildings.

I picture the two of us, carved and polished,

motionless, yet alive,

holding up our roof of hope.

Rosa

Hiding in this cave makes me remember

the secret village where runaway slaves

and freed slaves all hid together

during the early months

of this endless war.

The houses were made of reeds and palms,

green houses that looked just like forest.

We built them in a circle,

and at the center, hidden,

we built a church of reeds,

where we would have loved to sing

if we did not always have to be hiding

and silent.

Now, in the cave, I hum quietly.

My voice echoes, and grows.

I sound so much braver and stronger

than I feel.

José

I dream of a farm

with one cow, one horse,

oxen for plowing,

chickens and guinea hens

for Holy Day meals,

and a small grove of trees,

coffee and cacao

shaded by mangos.

I dream of cornfields,

sweet potatoes, bananas,

and a palm-bark house

with a palm-thatch roof,

and a floor of earth,

a porch,

two rocking chairs,

and a view of green wilderness

stretching, like time….

Rosa

Cave of Nightmares,

Cave of Pirates, Cave of Neptune,

Cave of the Generals,

Lagoon of Fish,

Rosa's Cave.

How many names

can one place have?

How many tales

of frightened people hiding,

and blind creatures thriving,

tales of mermaids, sea serpents,

giants, and ghosts….

I leave my handprint on glittering crystal

beside cave paintings made in ancient times—

circles, moons, suns, stars;

my palm, the fingers,

star-shaped too….

Ten years of war.

How many battles

can one island lose?

Lieutenant-General Valeriano Weyler y Nicolau,
Marquis of Tenerife, Empire of Spain

We call Cuba our Ever-Faithful Isle,

yet these wild
mambí
rebels are loyal

only to the jungle, and their illusions

of freedom.

We leave the land smoking—

each farm and town turns to ash.

The barracoons where slaves

should be sleeping are empty.

The flames look like scars

on the red, sticky clay

of this maddening island

ruled by mud and mosquitoes.

Rosa

In order to talk to my patients I learn

a few words from each of many languages,

the words of African and native

Cuban Indian tribes,

and all the dialects of the provinces of Spain.

I even invent my own secret codes,

but the ones taught by birds are the best,

especially when mixed

with the music of conch-shell trumpets,

bamboo flutes, rattles, drums,

and the Canary Islanders'

language of Silbo,

a mystery of whistles.

Animals and plants help me learn

how to understand all these ways of knowing

what people are trying to say.

The ears of a horse show anger, or fear.

The eyes of oxen tell of weariness.

Voices of birds chant borders around nests.

Yellow acacia flowers whisper secrets of love.

Green reeds play a wild, windy music.

Pink oleanders are a poisonous message

that warns:

^¡
Cuidado!
Beware!

Fragrant blue rosemary speaks of memory.

White poppies mean sleep.

White yarrow foretells war.

José

The most famous of our
mambí
generals

are called the Fox and the Lion.

Máximo Gómez is the Fox, slender and pale,

a foreigner from the island of Hispaniola.

First he was a Spanish soldier,

then a rebel,

and now we think of him as Cuban.

The Lion is Antonio Maceo, our friend since birth,

a local man of mixed race.

Some call him the Bronze Titan,

because he is powerful, and calm.

The Fox loves to quote philosophers, poets,

and the Proverbs of King Solomon.

He tells Rosa that those who save lives are wise,

like trees that bear life-giving fruit.

The Lion adds that kindness to animals

and children

is a part of Rosa's natural gift,

but healing the wounds of enemy soldiers

is a strange mercy that floats down

from heaven.

Rosa

The Lion and the Fox

visit our hospital huts and caves.

We have many now.

We travel from one to another,

carrying medicines, and hope.

I wear an ammunition belt,

and an old gun, a carbine,

to make José happy, because he insists

that I must learn to defend myself

against spies.

Lieutenant Death

I watch

from a treetop,

looking down

at the top

of her head.

So simple.

Her hair

in a kerchief.

Her gun,

rusty, useless…

She is not

what I expected

of someone so famous

for miracles.

I take aim,

then wait,

searching….

How did she do it…?

Is she a real witch…?

How does she make herself

vanish?

Rosa

A man is carried into the hospital, wounded—

he fell from a tree.

I know his face, and I can tell that he

recognizes me.

We were children, we were enemies…

Now he is my patient,

but why should I cure him,

wasting precious medicines

on a spy who must have been sent

to kill me?

Each choice leads to another.

I am a nurse.

I must heal the wounded.

How well the Lion knows me! Didn't he say

that curing the enemies

is not my own skill, but a mercy from God?

Each choice leads to another.

I am a nurse.

I must heal.

Lieutenant Death

I sneak away,

my arm splinted,

my head bandaged.

Now I know

where Rosa
la Bayamesa,

the cave nurse from Bayamo,

hides her patients—

in a hospital