Authors: Margarita Engle
Hurricane Dancers (3 page)
What will the hurricane
teach me?
Villagers wade
through deep mud,
salvaging fragments
of their toppled homes.
All I find is a bell
like the one I rang
on the ship,
when I hoped to calm
the Woman of Wind
with music.
Calm winds were my hope
because I did not yet know
that a hurricane could free me.
I help Naridó weave new palm-frond roofs
beneath a sky of circling vultures
and shrieking parrots.
When children ask my name,
I cannot bear to speak the TaÃno one
I knew when I was small and whole,
so I search my mind for a new name,
and while I search, the children decide
that I must have come from the air,
so they call me Hurará, “Born of Wind,”
even though I do not feel bold
and strong
like a hurricane.
I still think of myself
as a broken place, a drifting isle
with no home.
Battered by reefs,
my hands are swollen,
scraped by the rough
coral stone.
Washed ashore like driftwood,
I am lost, and longing for sleep,
desperate for restâbut I need
to keep moving
until I find magic
or medicine
for my hands,
and hearty food,
and a big seagoing canoe
to carry me away
from this desolate shore
of shipwrecked hopes.
This is my first true encounter
with weakness.
My leg is paralyzed
yet it aches and itches,
and drives me mad with fury.
After other shipwrecks,
there were bells, mirrors, and beads,
shiny trinkets of flotsam
to astonish the
naturales
.
This time, I find nothing at all
on the shell-littered beach,
nothing to trade
for food and potions.
All I have is my ghosts
and my fear.
Naridó's village is sheltered
by freshwater marshes
and wind-ravaged trees.
The thatched huts seem hidden,
but even on this peaceful shore
I cannot imagine ever feeling
truly safe.
The dark sea is huge,
and it brims with ships
that carry ferocious men
like the pirate
and Ojeda.
No matter how invisible
I feel, I will always be wrapped
in the memory
of life as a captive.
I give up my Spanish clothing,
and start to dress like Naridó,
wearing only a cotton loincloth
and a necklace of spiky
barracuda teeth.
The designs that Caucubú paints
on my cheeks and chin
soon begin to feel
like a protective covering,
even though they are really
just pictures
of fiery lightning
and radiant stars.
I venture just far enough inland,
to get away from the salty crust
left by hurricane waves.
I mound soft red mud into hills,
and dig holes with a sharp stick,
so I can plant spicy pepper seeds,
sweet potatoes, and corn.
Then I wait
for my world
to grow.
When I am a little older,
no one will be able
to keep me away
from love.
Many years have passed
since I was a child of the land
with my hands in moist soil.
Now, I am eager to plant yams,
peanuts, and papayas,
and pluck hollow gourds
from tangled vines
to make musical
maraca
rattles.
I long to eat pineapples
that taste like golden sunlight,
instead of dry ship's bread,
and salted beef,
and sorrow.
I have discovered
a deepening fear
of the sea.
I stay away from Naridó
while he fishes, and I avoid Caucubú
as she leaps from rock to rock
at the edge of the tide,
gathering shellfish.
The water is no longer stormy,
but it holds memories
of bearded men
who capture tree-spirits,
and turn them into wooden ships
that serve as floating cages.
I have discovered
a deepening fear
of the past.
I try to show the storm-boy
how to swim like a dolphin,
but his terror of water
will not let him listen.
So I work alone,
catching silvery marsh fish
in tapered baskets,
chasing swift river fish
into stone traps,
and wrapping the sea's
great gold-belly fish
in nets that fly out
over the waves
like wings.
The storm-boy is young.
He has not yet learned
that hope is stronger
than fear.
I explore farther and farther inland,
away from Naridó's futile efforts
to teach me courage.
Alone at midnight, I hunt
on the slopes of a mountain.
Naridó has warned me
that the whispering forest
is forbidden to villagers,
but I climb uphill anyway,
grabbing the slender trunks
of trembling saplings,
and shaking them
to make iguanas fall.
Then I roast the giant lizards,
listening as branches
whisper and sing
in a gentle breeze.
Each time my father speaks
of sending me away to marry
the
cacique
of another village,
I flee to a small hidden cave
where I huddle alone
in darkness, feeling certain
that bat dung and pale,
skittering, eyeless spiders
are more beautiful
than a life without love.
Naridó is the only one
who knows about this tiny cave,
a secret we have shared
since we were little.
As soon as he arrives
and we huddle together,
the darkness begins to feel
like home.
Storms follow me
wherever I go.
Once again,
the sky looks so heavy
that I would not
be surprised
if black clouds
sank to earth
and grew roots
in moist soil,
creating a wispy forest
of drifting air.
Mysteries follow me
wherever I go.
I wander like a beggar,
never finding any living soul
to mend my wounds
and heal my hunger.
When I finally see a
natural,
she is just a young girl
on a stormy beach,
watching the crash of waves
from another tempest.
Hidden by beach shrubs,
I wait for a chance to capture
the unsuspecting girl.
I could trade her for medicine,
or a canoe rowed by slaves.â¦
The sight of the lone girl
infuriates me.
The phantoms of
naturales
destroyed my leg
and poisoned my mind
with troubling magic.
If I had my sword,
I would tame the girl
and her entire
ghostly tribe.
I vow to fish so powerfully
that Caucubú's stubborn father
will let her marry me,
so I fish in a downpour,
guiding the tree-spirit
of my lively canoe
between snarling waves
that make the sea
look like a towering
mountain range
of water.
The Woman of Wind
and her beast Huracán
shriek and roar,
but I cannot understand
their furious, whistling,
wild language.
I wail and plead,
begging my mother
to tell my father
to send other fishermen
to rescue Naridó
from the hurricane,
but no one listens,
so I run away
from the lonely shore,
feeling monstrous.
The Woman of Wind
and her hurricane dragon
spin closer and closer.
I flee with all the villagers
to the same huge cavern
where we danced before.
Flutes moan, drums thunder,
and children weep.
Once again, we chant songs
of heroes and hope,
songs that make me wish
I could be heroic.
Instead, I stay hidden
inside the friendly cave,
dancing and chanting
while Naridó is alone,
lost at sea.
My father wears two dance masks,
one on his face and another
on his chest, as if he is trying
to divide himself
into sacred twins.
The shimmering masks
are made of manatee bones,
with glowing eyesâa blend
of gold, silver, and copper,
all the hues of sun, moon, and stars
swirled together like a marriage
of morning and midnight.
If unlike metals can merge,
why not people?
Survival.
Huracán was not able
to drown me,
so I climb once again
toward the big
welcoming cave,
thanking all the near
and far spirits
for rolling waves
that carried
my canoe
back to shore.
Survival.
Some words
are even stronger
than wind.
In the chaos of the storm
I lose track of the girl,
but I follow a fisherman
up to a vast cavern,
while Ojeda,
like a shadow
limps behind me.
The first thing I see
inside the cave
is the savagely
painted face
of the broken boy,
my servant.
Quebrado.
Broken.
The pirate's voice
booms a name
I had hoped to never
hear again.
He orders me to translate
demands for food, medicine,
and a big seagoing canoe,
but I refuse to speak.
I will not obey
bellowed commands
from a man
who still sees me
as his slave.
Talavera's face is gaunt,
and Ojeda is stooped
like a helpless old man,
but all I see is coiled fists.
Villagers move toward them,
curious and friendly,
until I shout warnings.
I call the intruders monsters,
even though I know that both
the pirate and the conquistador
are human, and humans are capable
of living in unimaginably
monstrous ways.
All faces turn toward me,
both the painted ones
and the bearded.
I am the only one in this cave
who understands
two languages.
My quiet voice feels
like a small canoe
gliding back and forth
between worlds
made of words.
The unnatural beings
have hairy faces, and they stink,
so I cover my nose
while the storm-boy speaks
to my father and my uncles
about distant places
and danger.
He tells of a faraway land
where men wear skins of metal
and move swiftly atop creatures
that make them resemble
two-headed giants
with long wavy tails
and four legs that end in feet
as hard as stone.
He speaks of enormous oceans
crossed in
canoas
as big as islands.
He tells of mournful tree-spirits
trapped within the wood
of the huge boats.
The boats turn into cages
that capture the lives
of ordinary children
and force them
to float far away
from their island
homes.
The storm-boy's tale
makes him frown and groan,
even when he tells of wondersâ
a village woman in love
with a peaceful stranger
on a four-legged spirit
made of strength
and speed.
He describes his own
childhood as a marvel,
with songs learned
by listening
to chanted stories
told by birds.
Revealing my life's tale
is such a challenge
that, in order to keep myself
from weeping like a small child,
I begin to add sweet memories
of my mother's talking macaws
and my father's leaping horse,
and while I sing in TaÃno,
the pirate glares at me,
and Ojeda stares,