Invisible World (6 page)

I
N THE MORNING, MY RUMBLING STOMACH DEMANDED FOOD
and water. I glanced to the boulder, hoping to spy another gift from my mysterious benefactor, but there was nothing.

Heading into the surf, I wondered where to begin digging for oysters or clams. Was there a sign to look for? As I pondered this, I wandered knee-deep into the water, wiggling my toes in the sand, hoping to detect the hard shell of an oyster.

“No! No!”

It was the male voice I'd heard the other day. But this voice was
not
in my head.

A young man with very dark skin and very dark hair was running toward me, waving his arms wildly. He wore a blue cotton shirt that was half open and blew behind him. His tan pants were held up with a green reed and his feet were bare. Around his neck he wore a blue glass bead tied to a leather cord. He was about my age, maybe a little older.

“Get out of there!” he shouted as he splashed through the surf. With amazing speed, he scooped me into his arms and ran back onto the beach, where he gently put me down. “There are sharks in those waters!” he cried. “They feed right in this area.”

Never in my life had I seen a person with such black skin. In a London Museum, I had once seen a statue carved of ebony; this young man's skin was just as black and I thought him every bit as beautiful as the statue. I was so enchanted at the sight of him that words failed to form in my mind or mouth.

“Sharks!” he exclaimed, exasperated by my blankness. “You know what they are, don't you?”

I didn't, so I shook my head.

He held his arms wide and I could see he was strong, with lean muscles. “It's a big, big fish with
very
sharp teeth.” The picture that formed in my head was nothing I had ever seen — it was coming directly from his mind. And it was awful — a man lying on the beach, blood spilling from his hip from where his leg used to be but was no more.

I gasped sharply in horror, my hands flying to my face.

“Yes!” he shouted, seeing that I suddenly comprehended. “It will eat you. It's very horrible. Believe me. I have seen what a shark can do.”

I knew that was true.

He gestured toward the ocean. “They come in very close this time of year. No one on the island swims here. Bin yah don't swim at all, really. Only the comeya get eaten.”

“Bin yah? Comeya?” I questioned, confused.

He smiled. “That's island Gullah,” he explained. “Bin yah are from families who have been on the island for twenty years, since the first plantations were settled here. The comeya are newcomers, folks who have not been here nearly as long, like me.” His voice was low and he had an accent that I didn't recognize.

“You speak English. Where am I?” I asked.

“Of course I speak English. Back in Africa — before I came here — I worked for the Richards and George Company. They export palm oil from Africa. My father and I were employed by them since I was a buhbuh.”

“A what?”

“A little boy.”

“I speak English and I have never heard the word
buhbuh
,” I said. “Is it more Gullah?”

“Yes.”

“What is Gullah?”

“It's what we speak here. Some words are English; others are from my home in Africa, Sierra Leone, and other nearby places and tribes.”

“Are we in Africa?” I asked.

He roared with laughter. “You are a crazy girl! No, you are in America. How is it that you don't know where you are? Are you lost?”

“I'm very,
very
lost,” I told him. “The ship I was on sank. I floated here in a barrel.”

“A barrel?!” he cried incredulously. “What a brave girl you are! A barrel?!”

“I was lucky to find it. I wouldn't have survived if I hadn't.”

The young man rubbed his chin. “I thought you were a njoso — a forest spirit.”

That made
me
laugh. “You did?”

“Yes. I left you gifts so you would be good to the people of my village.”

“I thank you very much for them, even though I am not a forest spirit. They kept me alive.”

“How can I be sure you are not a forest spirit?” he asked, though I sensed that now he was teasing. “It is the only explanation. You are obviously not Gullah — you are far too pale for that. And in that raggy dress, I can tell you are not ibidio either.”

The words
njoso
and
ibidio
: I'd heard them the other day. Now that he spoke, I realized he was the one who had been watching me. “What do you mean by those?” I asked. “More Gullah?”

He nodded. “Ibidio is the white man, the slave owners. If you were of a slave-owner family, you would be dressed much finer than that.”

“Slave owners?” I questioned. “Are you a slave?”

A slave. What a horrible thing. I didn't want to sound as upset as I felt.

“Born free in Sierra Leone, but when my father was captured and enslaved, I was with him. When he died last year, I was shipped here from Bunce Island. I'm being trained to be a driver, which I don't really like, but there are worse things.”

“What do you drive?”

“People.”

“People?”

“Most of the bosses are gone now for the summer. They won't be back until the fall. It's too hot for them now. Plus, they don't want the yellow fever and malaria. It doesn't affect us like it does them. In fact, we brought the diseases with us from West Africa.”

“You did?”

“They call West Africa ‘The White Man's Grave.' The slavers are afraid to even come ashore.”

“They should have stayed away,” I remarked.

“Oh, how I wish that they had,” he agreed. “Well, we brought lots of things from home with us, and those illnesses were among them.” He shrugged. “We did not ask to come.”

“So the slave keepers are not here now?”

“No. They take off and leave us on our own when it gets too hot for them to bear. Things are much, much nicer here when they're gone. You picked a good time to come. This is the happy time of year.”

“I didn't exactly select it,” I pointed out.

“True, but you're in luck, just the same. It's very hot, though. I have to admit that.”

“You said you are a driver. Where do you drive the people?”

At this, he laughed heartily. “I drive them crazy!”

“What do you mean?” I asked, not understanding but smiling, because his laughter was contagious.

“I
drive
them onward to keep working. A driver is a slave foreman. It's the slave guy who is in charge when the white bosses are gone.”

“Have they taught you about rice farming?”

“No, funny girl,
we
teach
them
. On the West Africa coast, we grow rice, so the slavers in this part of America ask for us in particular because we know more about rice farming than they do. Before he was enslaved, my father was a rice farmer and he taught me.” His expression became distant. I felt certain he was remembering his childhood in Sierra Leone, and didn't want to listen in to be sure.

“They picked me to be a foreman because the tea company trained me as a stock boy and taught me to read and write English so I could do the job. As well as my native Fula, I can also speak both Gullah and English. People think we only use Gullah here on the island, but I learned it back on Bunce Island. It's a language that blends English with African words from many different African tribes. It helped to have one way to communicate when so many captives were coming into the Bunce Island port from such varied areas, speaking so many different languages. Mostly the words are from West Africa.”

“Where are we?”

“Wadmalaw Island. By the way, I am named Aakif,” he said, taking my hand. “The bosses call me John, but I don't use that name among my family and friends. What can I call you — since we are going to be friends?”

His words made me smile. Somehow I knew he was right; we would be friends. There was nothing psychic about it. The feeling came from the warmth of his smile, the fact that in some strange way — although we'd just now met — he seemed happy to see me. I felt oddly pleased to see him too, as though somehow we'd always known each other and we were reuniting rather than meeting for the first time.

“Then I should call you Aakif,” I said.

“Of course. And what should I call you?”

“Elsabeth.”

He shook his head thoughtfully. “Too long.”

“Bethy?” I suggested.

He considered this. “Betty-Fatu.”

“But that's also long,” I pointed out. “And why that?”

“Fatu is African and it's a name I like. It's easier to say than Elsabeth.”

Again, I found myself smiling broadly. “I like it also. Betty-Fatu.”

And so I began my new life as Betty-Fatu.

H
OLDING ON TO MY HAND, AAKIF WALKED UP THE BEACH
toward the forest. “Come. I'll take you to my village.”

We left the beach and traveled through the woods. The giant oaks with their hanging moss were just as shadowy and otherworldly as I'd feared, although being with Aakif made me less afraid. He knew every twist and turn of it.

In about fifteen minutes, we came to a clearing in the oaks. Twenty small, unpainted, wooden cabins stood side by side in a straight row. They were neat but simple. Their only adornment was a bright blue outline painted around the windows and doors of each cabin.

Aakif noticed me looking at the adornment. “Ever hear of indigo?” he asked.

I had learned of it in my history lessons. “It's a dye from a plant, isn't it?”

“Besides rice, we also grow and harvest the plant it comes from, indigofera. We make it into a blue dye. The bosses don't mind if we scrape the bottom of the barrels for our own use as long as we don't take too much.”

“It's very pretty,” I commented.

“The purpose is not for beauty,” Aakif said. “It is to keep off the juju.”

“Evil spirits?” I guessed.

“Yes, witchcraft. It is everywhere. We guard against it always.” He tapped the blue bead he wore around his neck. “This also keeps off the juju.”

Not knowing what to say about such a superstition, I changed the subject. “Which of these cabins is yours?”

“That one,” Aakif said, pointing down the line. “When I came here, I thought I would have no family, but as fortune had it, I discovered a cousin of my mother's was already here — enslaved many years ago. She is much respected as a conjuror among the bin yahs. Her name is Mother Kadiatu, but everyone calls her Aunty Honey because she keeps bees.”

“Will I meet her?”

“You will. Soon. You will love her and especially her cooking. She makes the best gumbo on the island.”

We walked along the cabins and I noticed that there was no one around. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Working,” Aakif told me. “The last of the harvest is still coming in. The women are already beating the first of it that came. When the slavers are here, everyone works hard, hard. But when they leave, we let the old people and the children stay home to work at easier tasks.”

“Why aren't you working?” I asked.

Aakif grinned mischievously. “When I told the other foremen that I thought I saw a forest spirit on the beach, they let me go. Now I must let Aunty Honey know that I have returned and no harm has come upon me.”

“Aunty Honey is home now?”

“Yes, she is old, old, old. No one knows exactly how many years. Even Aunty Honey is not quite sure, I think.”

“You said Aunty Honey is a conjuror. I've never heard that word.”

Aakif stared at me with a puzzled expression. “Never heard of a conjuror?” he questioned incredulously.

“No,” I replied, shaking my head.

“Aunty Honey knows how to use plants — leaves and roots — to keep off the gafa.”

“Gafa?”

“The evil spirits. If someone has put the hudu on you — you know, a spell, a curse — Aunty Honey knows how to get it off. If a njoso enters you, Aunty Honey can drive it out with her medicines.”

At once, I pictured Bronwyn with her herbal medicines.

“Does anyone accuse her of being a witch?” I asked.

“A witch?! Aunty Honey?! No! No!” Aakif explained, waving his hands as if to shoo the question off. “There is witchcraft on this island, but not Aunty Honey.”

“Do you know who the witches are?”

“No, they keep themselves secret,” Aakif replied seriously. “Sometimes you can see them at night. They fly through the sky.”

Again, I thought of Bronwyn and wondered if she was still traveling.

“You can see the witches because they leave a trail of shooting lights,” Aakif went on.

“I saw a shooting star last night,” I recalled.

“That was a witch that you saw,” Aakif insisted.

There was no point in arguing with him. He was certain of the things he believed. And besides, who was I to say he was wrong?

“Magic is everywhere,” Aakif went on. “Every day we see magic; we live with it. The only magic that is bad is magic intended to do harm — evil magic.”

“And witches do the evil magic?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

I decided to keep my desire to study witchcraft a secret. It would not do me any good to have these people think I was a witch, but I wondered if I could learn anything from Aunty Honey's conjuring.

Aakif stopped in front of the last cabin on the row. When I followed him to the other side, I realized we had been walking behind the cabins. The fronts of the cabins faced a sort of village square bordered by more slave cabins on the other side.

Clustered together under a spreading oak, four white-haired men wove more of the sweet grass baskets Aakif had given me. A little way off, two elderly men sat on a simply made bench carving blocks of wood — one shaped a wooden bowl, the other whittled a wooden chain. In the center of the green, about fifteen adorable children, aged from three to ten, ran around, laughing. They seemed to be playing a game of tag. Five grand-motherly women appeared to be patching garments with needle and thread while they watched over babies who either crawled or slept on blankets near them.

“It is like a different world here when the bosses are gone,” Aakif commented. “We are thankful for this heavy, heavy heat that drives them off for a time.”

A mosquito stung my shoulder and I slapped at it, leaving a splotch of blood where it had gotten me. Now that I no longer had the cooling ocean breeze and the protection of the shady oaks, I realized how truly scorching it was.

Staggering slightly, I clutched Aakif's shoulder to keep from falling. Aakif steadied me. “Ah, Betty-Fatu, I see for certain that you are no forest spirit. You are a white and cannot stand the heat. Aunty Honey will feed you and cool you down.”

With my arm draped across his shoulder for support, Aakif led me toward his cabin. As we neared, I became aware of a continuous hum and looked toward the sound. Over to the side of the last cabin where Aakif lived with Aunty Honey were six sweet grass baskets, only they were large and cone-shaped. They sat upside down on small wooden tables. There was a small hole in each one; occasionally a bee would fly in or out. “Those are Aunty Honey's bee skeps,” Aakif explained as he eased me toward the steps to his cabin. “There's a real beehive in each one. Aunty Honey believes honey will cure almost anything that ails a person.”

The moment I turned my attention away from the bee skeps and back to the cabin, I was faced with a person I assumed was Aunty Honey herself.

Though very short in stature, she was also wide, especially at the hips. Her plain blue skirt appeared scrubbed yet stained and it had been mended in various places. She wore a shirt with wide black stripes, and wisps of cottony white hair peeked from the black head wrap she wore. Her skin was as black as Aakif's, and her small onyx eyes gleamed angrily at me.

Feet planted on the top step, and with her hands on her hips, Aunty Honey barked furiously at Aakif in a language I assumed was Gullah, but which I couldn't begin to make sense of.

Aunty Honey turned her piercing stare back to me and the rapid-fire syllables of her unfamiliar language — words she was thinking but not voicing — flooded my mind. It was a torrent of images: a mother, a father, a husband, a girl baby born, friends, cooking, tending the baby … then men from a nearby tribe attacking her village. Shouting. Screams. Running, running, running through a wide savannah, howling baby clutched to her chest. A net hurtling through the air.

After that, the next images came quickly but not in the same jumbled torrent. These were horrible pictures that I didn't want to see. They rushed in just the same, and there was no way I could shut them down, even though I was trying.

Black African slaves were chained together at the ankles and wrists, packed so tightly in the lowest chambers of a ship that there was hardly enough air for them all. Aunty Honey lay shackled to another slave. The sound of wailing and anguished cries filled the space.

I saw a white man pulling at the baby girl Aunty Honey clutched. Aunty Honey screamed for her child and was hit with a metal bar from behind. I saw her crumple onto a dock where other Africans were being sold.

My mind filled with the image of Aunty Honey grinding her back molars as she was whipped by a white slaver, searing agony shooting through her. Men were nearby, laughing.

I saw things I don't ever want to see again or remember even now.

Tears flowed from me — gently at first, then harder and harder still. Rolling despair washed over me and I fell to my knees, my hands over my face, weeping from the depths of my being. Was this Aunty Honey's deep sadness or my own? I couldn't tell.

Another, different, but still overpowering emotion swept through me. Ferocious, red rage. Aunty Honey herself entered my mind, younger and stronger than she actually appeared. She glowered at me with pure hatred.

Never had this kind of malice been directed at me. It was terrifying. In my mind, I saw her grab my throat and squeeze. Each time I tried to push her off, she'd tighten her grip.

“Gafa!” Aunty Honey shrieked at me.

She tossed a white powder into my face.

The powder burned my eyes.

“Gafa! Gafa!”

From somewhere very far off, Aakif shouted urgently at Aunty Honey, speaking in the Gullah language. It was the last thing I heard before my eyes rolled up in their sockets and my knees buckled out from under me.