Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons (3 page)

I love the way I can make them rhyme. I love the smell of the very ink I use.

Most of all, I love that when I write I am not skinny and black and a slave. My writing has no color. It has no skin at all, truth to tell.

When I write I am the real me.

I am whole, beautiful, alive, filled with a sense of pleasure and worth. Why can't they all just leave it be?

I was supposed to come here just to answer questions about those poems. Show these men that I do, indeed, know Greek and Latin. And all the other lessons Nathaniel has taught me.

Now they have turned it all into something else.

Now the future of my race depends on my answers this day. Oh, it isn't fair!

Mother! Suddenly I wanted her so badly I felt the hole inside me I always feel, wanting her. Because my best memories cut sharp. And they make me bleed.

The morning I was taken. The vision of her pouring out water before the sun each morning. And the bittersweet memories of what happened on the ship.

"Mother," I said to the hole, "tell me what to do ... As you told me on the ship to stay quiet and make myself small and sleep anywhere and eat what I was given and never make a sound."

Mother, what shall I do?

I am ashamed to admit it, but I cried, sitting there on that bench in that lovely garden. And then, after a moment, something happened.

The sun came out for the first time that day. A clearing came to the sky and the sun shone down, sparkling on the greenery around me. And on the water in the fountain.

I knew what I must do. I stopped crying and stood up.

On the table was a silver teapot. I picked it up from its silver tray. The tea was cold by now. Slowly I poured it out into the grass. Then I took the teapot over to the fountain, knelt, and filled it with water.

And, as I had seen my mother do so many times as a child, as I had done in the fountain the Wheatleys once had in their garden—before Nathaniel tore it out to stop me—I poured the water out, slowly, back into the fountain, while facing the sun.

Something else happened then.
I felt like my mother.
I was her for a few minutes as I poured the water. And when it was all poured out of the teapot, I felt becalmed and strong. Back to the chair I went. I set the teapot on the tray.

My mind was clear now, cleansed. And I let the thoughts pour into it, like water into the fountain.

We lived near the River Senegal on the Grain Coast. And if the leopard hadn't come, I would still be living there.

But he came, to steal the antelope my father had killed for us, and that hung outside our house.

My father was known as a great hunter. We never lacked for food. Mostly he was known for hunting the black-legged mongoose. These creatures plagued us. They seemed tame and children would try to catch them. But they would bite, and many times the bitten child would die.

Other people in my village depended on my father to catch these creatures. Also he hunted the African wild dog. And die bat-eared fox.

My father's brother, Dahobar, was jealous because of the name my father had gained as a hunter. And because both brothers were rival chiefs. Dahobar had slaves. Not only that, he sold his own people to the traders for the white man's presents.

From the River Senegal to the River Congo, the slave traders' great ships came with brightly colored cloth, beads, rum, and most of all, cowrie shells.

A man's standing as a chief depended upon how many cowrie shells he had.

My father had no slaves. We were farmers. He and all the people in our tribe raised rice and maize and cattle. But we had muskets, even like the Wheatleys have here in Boston. Muskets and gunpowder we had, brass pans and kettles, red cloth, scissors, needles, colored thread. My father bartered for these things at market in exchange for what he raised.

Well, what happened is that the leopard that tooK our antelope had to be shot. So my father, the great hunter, went out to shoot it one day, took aim, missed, and shot a man instead.

My father had never missed his mark. Nobody knows what happened. To make matters worse, the man he shot was from Dahobar's tribe.

My father was brought up before one of Dahobar's tribunals and sentenced to be sold into slavery.

A ship with great masts lay riding at anchor in the River Senegal. White slavers had rowed ashore to visit Dahobar.

My father was taken away from the tribunal to be sold, but he escaped and came back to our village. His warriors were placed on guard. The ship left the River Senegal without him.

We children were not allowed to venture from our home for fear the slavers or, worse yet, Dahobar would seize us.

My friend Obour lived not far away, near the rice fields. To be together, for sport and to earn a few cowries ourselves, we sometimes worked at scaring the birds away from the grain.

But now I was not allowed to leave my home to meet Obour anymore. Kidnappers hid in the thickets along the creeks and they kidnapped children as well.

Obour worked hard chasing away birds to help her family. And I knew she would be in the rice fields early of a morning. So one morning I sneaked out before the sun was up and made my way along the familiar paths and roads just to see Obour.

I would be back before the sun favored us. Before my mother poured the water out of the stone jar to honor the sun.

There Obour was in the rice fields, busy chasing birds, laughing and enjoying herself as she always did. When I splashed through the creek, she saw me coming and raised her arms.

It was still not light, but I could see her clearly. And she could see me.

Then, as I ran to her, another figure leaped out and grabbed her.

Before I got to her, she was struggling in the grip of the strong arms of a large dark man, a kidnapper. Likely one of Dahobar's men.

I fought him for Obour. And for myself. I scratched and bit, hit him with sticks. All I knew was that he was hurting my friend.

Soon, without my understanding it, another person was fighting him. My mother. She had seen me leave the house and had followed me.

The man pushed me and Obour aside. He hit my mother in the head with a big stick. Then, even while we clung to his legs and still attacked him, he tied my mother with grass rope, and then he tied us.

Some other children who had just come into the fields to work saw what was happening and ran for help. But it was too late.

By the time help came the three of us were gone. The man who captured us took us a distance, to meet with evil companions.

One was my father's brother, Dahobar. He grinned when he saw us. "The great hunter," he scoffed. "He may have run from me, but now I have hunted what is his. And he will never see you again."

We were taken on a long walk with Dahobar and his men, through the green forests to the ocean, where a great ship waited in the distance with its sails furled.

And the man I was to come to know as Captain Quinn.

I had never seen the ocean before. I wept when I saw it. Fear swooped down upon me like a great bird, like a roc. Its talons clutched at my heart.

I was accustomed to the river. It went by us silently, in one direction. You knew what it was about all the time. Rivers play no tricks on you.

The ocean was a two-headed beast. It went both ways. First it came at us, attacking like the leopard, making great roaring noises and threatening to eat us alive. Then it retreated, creeping backward, making smaller hissing noises. Only to return with even greater force.

So much openness! The sun on the white soil hurt my eyes. Where were the friendly green trees of the forests that always protected us?

Obour and I clung together beside my mother.

We had marched for near a whole day to get here, tied one to the other. We had been given only some thin meal and tepid water. And I was tired.

Twenty others were with us, men, women, and children. Some we knew, some we did not know. But when we got to the ocean, the men in our group started snapping their fingers.

This was a bad sign. It meant there was no hope. And then Dahobar ordered those men who had snapped their fingers to be put in irons.

Soon we saw the great canoes coming toward us on the water.

"Kroomen," one of the men with us whispered. The word went round and round amongst us.

Kroomen were a tribe that lived on the Guinea Coast. They made their living by fishing. Until they found they could make a better living carrying people who were sold into slavery from the shore to the ships. They were the only tribe who knew how to get their canoes out over the great crashing waves, which even the sailors on board the ships could not manage.

They were very big and powerful, these Kroomen. They rubbed their bodies with palm oil. And their canoes were dug out of the trunks of cotton trees.

They brought the man I now know as Captain Quinn to shore. With some others.

"Koomi," someone murmured.

Murmurs of fear went down the line. Koomi were white men who lived in a land across the water. They would eat us!

There was much haggling then between Captain Quinn and Dahobar. Much pointing to us. Much shaking of Koomi heads.

Men were separated from women and children. Captain Quinn made us take off our clothes. I shudder to remember how we stood there naked while he opened our mouths, and made us jump up and down and move our arms, and pinched our skin and felt our muscles.

Some of Dahobar's captives he pushed aside. He did not want them. I heard him say a word I did not understand. "Diseased." He also pushed the other children aside. Not me. Dahobar insisted I be taken. And Obour clung to me, so they took her, too.

When Captain Quinn was satisfied with the rest of us, he ordered the Kroomen to bring Dahobar's reward from the long canoe. Hogsheads of rum. Barrels of cowrie shells. Stacks of new muskets.

Those of us selected were then branded.

I was so frightened I think I have chased the memory of it from my mind, as Obour and I had chased the birds from the rice fields. All I recollect is seeing Captain Quinn's men come forth with the hot brand. Then I fainted.

Mother was holding me when I woke up. They let her put a cloth of cold water against my hip, as was being done to some others. While she did this, she took her cowrie shell off her neck and put it around mine.

"No matter what happens," she whispered, "stay quiet, keep yourself small, eat what you are given, and never make a sound. This cowrie shell will protect you. It is a giver of life."

Soon the pain from the branding subsided. It was not a deep brand, but it brought blisters. And to this day I have the initials T. F. on my hip. Timothy Fitch, the merchant who owned the slave ship.

It was years before I could bring myself to look at it.

We were given back our clothes and herded into the canoe. All around us the great two-headed beast of the ocean screeched and gnashed its teeth at us.

I hid, hunkering down into the side of the canoe. I screamed. I vomited. I clutched Obour. I yelled for my mother, who was at the other end, so far away I could scarce see her.

"Keziah!" I heard my mother calling my name, even above the surf crashing around us as the canoe rode the waves. I heard her voice as from a great distance though a giant of a Krooman was standing in the middle of the boat and directing the rowers.

"Mother!" I screamed until my throat was raw. But no one heard me. The time for hearing me was past.

Two men jumped out of the boat. We could hear their screams as they were eaten by sharks.

When the canoe finally made it through the waves to the ship, there was great turmoil to get us up the rope ladder. Another jumped into the sea, a woman. Sharks were circling around, waiting. As one of the Koomi carried me up the rope ladder I looked down to see the swirling waters below filled with blood.

The men were immediately shackled and hauled off 'tween decks. We could hear their cries from below as they were packed into the hold.

The women were put in another part of the ship.

Later, I learned many things. My mother had only sixteen inches to lie on. But since the
Phillis
was a loose-packed slaver, Mother had two and a half feet of space overhead, instead of only twenty inches, as she would have had if we were tight packed.

This was considered lucky.

Obour and I were the only two children. We were also put in the hold, shackled down. All I recollect is a Koomi man over me nailing down my chain, the cries and wails of those around me, the stench of those who had already dirtied themselves. And the dimness.

There was no air in the hold. Even the candles could not live there. They went out. And then, so did I.

The next morning we sailed. I learned later that slave ships must leave immediately. Sickness can break out on board. If the crew takes sick, the cargo can mutiny.

Slaves are more likely to form an uprising within sight of shore than out at sea. Once at sea, they are helpless.

So we sailed. I cried, feeling the ship move under me. Because I knew I would never see my home again. All because I disobeyed my mother and went out alone. All because Dahobar hated my father.

All because the leopard came.

But again, I was lucky. The gods favored me. Or mayhap it was the cowrie shell I now wore around my neck.

The second day out, I came down with a dreadful sickness. I was brought abovedeck. In my delirium, I did not know how or by whom. But I woke with the smell of salt air in my nostrils and a man shoving boiled rice down my throat. I was gagging.

Captain Quinn stood over me. "You will eat!"

I told him I wanted my mother. A nigra crewman who knew some of my language translated for him.

"Your mother is with the women. She will soon be brought on deck for exercise. Eat!"

I told him no. I was not hungry.

"Do you think you have a choice? Do you want to be thrown to the sharks?"

Wanting to show him I was brave, I said yes.

"Do you want to be flogged?"

I was not that brave. But I stared hard at him, holding my ground. "I want my friend, Obour," I said.