Authors: Margarita Engle
Hurricane Dancers (2 page)
The hostage begs for mercy,
but I have enough trouble
just trying to figure out
how to steer
the stubborn ship
in this devil wind,
and how to reach land,
and where to await
fair weather.
In a storm, the only decision
that really matters
is direction.
The sky is alive with cloud dragons
and wind spirits.
When a sailor is almost swept overboard,
I wish that I had a gold ring in my ear,
like the one the pirate wears for luck.
His red shirt is meant to ward away
evil winds, and he ties a green cloth
around his head for protection.
The rest of us are dressed in rags,
except for the shackled hostage,
who wears armor and an amulet
with the painted face of a wistful saint.
I wonder if the saint looks so sad
because she knows how many people
Ojeda has killed.
I carry a brass bell
that clangs
with each step,
hoping to soothe
the angry wind
by ringing out
a festive melody.
If only my own
rising fear
of this howling storm
and the pirate's fury
and Ojeda's screams
could be calmed
by a remedy
as simple
as music.
I am a short man, but strong and agile.
I was daring enough to lead
the bold expedition that named
this entire New World.
Amerigo Vespucci was just a merchant
on one of my ships, and even though
the foolish mapmaker chose his name
instead of mine, the true honor
of claiming this vast wilderness
still rightfully belongs to me.
Someday, all maps and charts
will proclaim the Alonsos,
not the Americas!
The ship groans,
wind shrieks,
and I feel the storm
breathing
all around me
like an enormous
creature
in a nightmare
where beasts
growl
and chase.â¦
On a ship
there is no place
to run away.
I am not a man of prayer,
but every hurricane earns its name
by falling on the feast day
of a saint who has the power
to calm wild winds
and spare fragile ships,
so even though I have no calendar,
and I am just guessing at today's date,
I roar the name of Santiago,
patron of my homeland,
Spain's armored warrior-saint,
galloping on his ghostly
white stallion
of clouds.â¦
Brigantines are slow ships,
sailing no more than five knots,
a mere crawl in the face
of hurricane winds.
The foremast is square-rigged
and massive like a thundercloud,
and the aft mast is rounded
like a graceful bird's wing,
but the pirate is not a real captain.
He's merely a failed farmer,
unable to steer accurately
in such a fierce gale.
Sailors cry out for help
from the only skilled mariner
on this vesselâthe hostage.
Should we free him?
Can he save us?
The sky is a fiery waterfall.
Rain and lightning pummel the deck
from above, while giant waves
hurl us from side to side,
and fierce currents tug
from below.
Every force of nature grasps
at shards of worm-eaten
ship's wood.
While sailors call out
in anguish,
I cling to the rail,
expecting
to die.
A good sailor should be able to smell
the spice of land while a ship is still far
from shore, so I sniff the wild air,
hoping for ginger, vanilla, and orchids,
but all I inhale is sulfurâlightningâ
the storm dragon's breath,
a zigzag flame.
There is no terror greater
than the danger of fire on a ship.
With sailors demanding that the hostage
be set free to help steer,
I relent.
Even the worst enemies
can seem like friends
when storm winds
unite us.
The iron key
feels like a wing
in my hand
as it floats down
toward shackles
to save the life
of a captive,
even though
I know he is
a killer
who would never
free me.
Murky waters rise,
flooding the hold
so that I barely
escape.
I used to be powerful,
but now I am useless,
so weak that I have to lean
on the slave boy's
bony shoulder.
I limp up the ladder,
out of watery darkness,
into a fiery storm.
Burning masts
plummet and crash,
shattering the deck.
Shredded sails
and tangled ropes
form a swaying web
of smoky nooses,
choking me,
seizing my breath.
Sailors screech
like demons,
then leap
and sink.
I throw myself
overboard,
onto a frothy wave,
hoping.â¦
Water
is heavy
and monstrous.
I writhe up
toward air,
gasping and gulping
as the ship's
last remnants
vanish.â¦
All around me,
men grasp and pull,
dragging each other
under.
Trapped on surging waves,
I struggle to swim in rain
that feels like spears
of shattered glass.
The ship is gone,
her tree-spirits rising,
transformed into air.
It would be so easy to give up
and just let myself sink,
but as soon as I begin to wonder
if drowning would be peaceful,
a sea turtle glides toward me
like a creature in a dream.â¦
The turtle is real, with a sucker fish
clamped onto its slick green shell,
and a forest vine tied to the tail
of the wriggling fish.
Out of the downpour,
a canoe appears as if by magic,
rowed by a man with long black hair.
He tugs at the slithery green vine,
leading the huge turtle
toward his boat.
He shouts, and even though
his voice is swallowed
by howling wind
and booming waves,
I understand that the fisherman
is telling me to reach for the turtle,
so I grab the rim of the shell,
and I clamber up,
pulling myself onto
the great beast
as it skims
the rough surface,
soaring toward safety.â¦
The waves are mountainous,
but there is a spirit-boy
between peaks,
so I help him escape
on a turtle I caught
with my bring-it-back fish.
I pull the storm-boy
toward a sandy beach,
and when he cries out
with gratitude,
his odd words
sound like echoes
of my own
human tongue.
Feeling lost
in a whirl
of wind,
I breathe
and discover
that I am alive
with my feet
on firm land
and my heart
astounded.
My ship, my crew,
the promise of a long
profitable life
at sea.
All are gone.
Only this struggle
to swim
remains.
My poisoned leg
makes swimming impossible,
so I cling to a splintered board
and hope that somehow
it will carry me
to dry land.
I have survived
other shipwrecks
on perilous shores,
but I was strong then
and now I am helpless,
just an old man
surrounded
by devious phantoms
who try to steal
my makeshift raft.
The turtle hunter leads me
through the ragged ruins
of a flooded village,
and then uphill
along the edge of a forest
where the wind
uproots towering trees
and sends them
flying.â¦
We stop and crouch.
We enter a cave.
I expect darkness and silence,
but the torch-lit cavern
is filled with people, birds, dogs,
and music, a chanted story,
a heroic song.
My world is safe in the leaping light
of palm-frond torches that surround
a circle of dancers.
Hollow-gourd rattles, bird-bone flutes,
tree-trunk drums with fire designs
painted on the sides.
Caucubú sees me and smiles.
Her name means “Brave Earth,”
and she is all that I know and love.
I take my place in the circle
of dancers, with the storm-boy
at my side, bringing his spirit world
into the cave, our only refuge
in this time of wind.
The enormous cavern glitters
with jagged crystals
and smooth ones.
The faces of the dancers
are painted with red zigzags
and black spheres.
My mother used to decorate me
in the same way, using
bija
seeds
and
jagua
fruit to ward away
stinging insects.
The women wear white cotton skirts,
but the men are almost naked.
Everyone stares at me
as if I am the one
who looks strange.
Safety.
Such a small word.
The cave bristles
with sharp crystals
shaped like beaks and claws,
and flowing ones that resemble
glassy waterfalls.â¦
If I am not dreaming,
then perhaps I am dead,
wandering along the paths
of an afterlife
filled with wildness
and beauty.
Naridó brings a boy
from another world, his arms and legs
encased in a skin of wrinkled cloth.
We stop dancing to laugh and wonder,
but we cannot pause long
or the Woman of Wind
and her beastly Huracán
will swoop down to crush us
with gusts of rage.
So we resume our rhythmic steps,
chanting about the ancient beings
who emerged from caves long ago.
Some turned into trees or birds,
while others became peopleâhumans
who love to sing like birds
and dance like trees
in wild wind.
Everyone calls me River Being
because I catch so many fish
with my feathered arrows
and winged spears.
Caucubú's father
is our leader, the
cacique
,
and her twin uncles
are the
behiques,
magical healers whose cures
protect our village
from wind spirits
and water beings,
visitors from the worlds
of spinning clouds
and swaying fins.
When Naridó is close,
I feel like a storm
within a storm.
My father says I must marry
a powerful
cacique,
but I love Naridó,
the best fisherman
in our village.
When Naridó is close,
my mind swoops
and tumbles
like the wind
in a stormy sky.
I am glad there is peace
at the center of each
hurricane.
Many years have passed
since I was small and whole
and free to dance.
Movement surges
up through my feet,
pounding
and rippling
like a whirlpool
in a stream,
round and round
until the story-song
flows to an end,
like a river
finally reaching
its deep heart,
the wide sea.
I wish the dance
could go on forever,
keeping me far
from the dread
of marriage
to a stranger.
Even my mother
expects me to accept
my father's wishes,
and marry someone
my father chooses,
instead of Naridó.
No one listens
to young girls
in love.
The hurricane
falls silent.
We step out of the cave,
and find masses
of writhing sea things
that look like snakes,
moons, flowers,
and stars.â¦
The Woman of Wind
taught all these creatures
how to fly.