Authors: Margarita Engle
Hurricane Dancers (4 page)
his gaze a blank puzzle
of sadness or fury.
When I speak of my parents,
the words make me feel
less alone.
All my years in the Americas
have passed without any need
to learn a tribal tongue.
There were always enough
quebrado
children, divided souls
who found it easy to translate.
Now, my fate rests in the voice
of a broken boy who hates me.
He has grown bold enough
to defy me, but I can easily
make him timid again.
I know how to turn
newfound courage
into terror.
Anger seeps
into my deep well
of fear.
In Venezuela,
I was the ruler of all
and now I rule nothing,
not even my own rotting leg
or the ghosts
or my fear.
So I wait for an end
to the broken boy's
confusing speech
in a language that sounds
like the familiar whispers
of hateful phantoms.
Warriors with spears,
arrows, and war clubs
surround us.
Some wear masks
with glinting eyes,
and even though the metal
is not pure, I recognize
streaks of gold.
All I need now
is the broken boy's
clever voice
to help me befriend
this rich tribe.
I would give up all my old dreams
of finding cinnamon, pearls, and gold,
if only I could learn to speak
the
natural
language,
so that I could beg healers
to cure my leg.
I would even give up
all hope of gaining
marvelous wealth
by selling the islanders
as curiosities
at market fairs
in Sevilla.
The storm-boy's tale
whirls through my mind
like a hurricane
in a nightmare.
When the noise of the storm
beyond our sheltering cavern
finally fades to utter silence,
my father proudly announces
that we will now descend
to the sphere court,
where skillful men
will play a ball game
to determine the path
of our future.
Sphere games
are an island's courtroom.
Playing ball helps leaders
turn their anger into energy,
so they can make wise decisions
about matters of warfare
and peace.
As a small child,
I used to play for fun,
but now I am old enough
to join the solemn team
who will decide what to do
about my tale of cage-ships
and slave traders,
the improbable story
of my true life.
The sphere of sap and cotton
is as hard as a tree, but it moves
as lightly as air.
Wooden belts protect our bellies.
We are not allowed to hit the sphere
with feet or hands, only our heads,
hips, shoulders, and knees.
I leap to strike with my forehead,
and in that instant of motion,
all worries vanish.
I fly.â¦
I soar.â¦
The sphere
looks like
a golden sun
guiding me up
into blue sky
where my mind
suddenly feels
completely clear,
even though
the future
is still cloudy
and uncertain.
On the mainland,
trials by sphere game
are often said to end
with execution,
but I have no idea what to expect
on this bewildering isle
of troubling surprises,
so I stare at the healers,
hoping to make them
tremble
by revealing
my own terror.
If they see that I am
inhabited by native ghosts,
surely they will share
my fear.
The line between
captives and captors
flows back and forth
like high tide.
When I see such deep terror
in the eyes of Ojeda,
I remember how recently
he was the pirate's hostage,
and I was the pirate's slave.
Now, the only captives
are the same two men
who lived by preying
on others.
It must be the way
I watched Naridó as he ran
and jumped, guiding the sphere
from goal to goal.
My father noticed.
He decided.
I had assumed that the only verdict
to grow out of this ball game
would be punishment
for the two monster-men
who tormented the storm-boy,
but another announcement
quickly follows.
I will be sent away in the morning
to become the wife of a stranger.
I will be sent far away
from Naridó.
I search for her face
in the raucous crowd,
but she is gone.
We will never laugh
together again,
unless I find her quickly,
and we run away,
leaving our village
and our families
forever.
I watch with joy
as tribesmen with spears
chase the pirate and Ojeda
toward an eastern swamp
where crocodiles lunge
and writhe.
Banishment.
Mercy.
My enemies
will be outcasts, not corpses,
but even if they were executed,
their deaths would not help me
to be any more free
and hopeful
than I feel
at this moment
of stunned relief.
This green-water torment
is endless and murky.
We will probably starve
in the swamps,
or shrivel with fever,
or be torn apart by claws
and fangs.
Whatever tale
the boy told in his own
broken language
has worked like a testimony
in a courthouse,
condemning us
to danger.
At least we have a small
merciful chance
of survival.
My world
was once
so wide
and bright.
Now
it is narrow
and dark
as I crouch
alone
in this upside-down
realm of bats.
Only love and hope remain,
but they are enough
to help me smile
as I wait
for Naridó.
First by sunlight
and later by starlight,
the whole village searches
for Caucubú and Naridó,
but their footprints
show that love
has carried them up
to a forbidden region
of misty forests
where only healers
are allowed to venture,
and not even
the hunting dogs
seem brave.
Villagers blame me for all
that has happened.
Children call me
a creature of magic.
The healers accuse me
of knowing secrets.
Caucubú's father
sends me away.
The village that once
seemed so friendly
will no longer be
my refuge.
Alone and roaming
through valleys and over ridges,
I sense my father's restlessness
stirring within me.
I am an outcast now,
but wandering almost feels
like going home.
There are no people
in this forestâno huts or fields,
just trees the height of clouds,
mossy branches that whisper
and sing in the breeze,
and spidery orchids
that dangle
like fingers,
reaching.â¦
Forests are sacred.
My father once told me
that he'd abandoned the army
because killing made him
heartsick, and acts of mercy
were his only chance
to understand heaven.
I was too young to know
what he meant, so my mother
led me into a thicket of trees
where I heard songbirds,
tree frogs, and cicadas.
I heard stillness too,
silent roots growing
and fruit ripening.
It was the music
of a distant spirit
growing closer.
As I search for Naridó and Caucubú,
I hear the rustling leaves
of a red-barked mahogany tree.
It sounds like a whispered plea
for freedom from a rooted existence.
Naridó fled the village without his canoe,
so when I find him, I will show him
this spirit-tree, and we will build a boat.
It will take a month to chop the trunk
with stone axes, and another month
to hollow it with bone scrapers
and smoldering leaves.
We will have to start beneath
a new moon, when sap runs slowly
and insects will not devour
the moist wood.
By the time the heavy trunk
is transformed into a light,
floating thing, Naridó will know
all the winding paths of streams
in this mountaintop haven,
and he will be able to fish again.
I will help him build a village,
and I will find a girl to marry,
and together, we will plant fields
and be farmers, letting our minds
grow rooted and leafy.â¦
We will create
our own peaceful
New World.
I battle Ojeda for scraps
of swamp foodâraw frogs
and the dank eggs
of stilt-legged marsh birds.
I even swallow the mosquitoes
that pierce my skin to steal my blood.
Ojeda hates me, and I detest him,
but it takes two men to wrestle
a hungry crocodile.
By the end of the first night,
we have saved whatever is left
of each other's miserable lives.
In a silky green meadow,
between stands of ebony and cedar,
I notice a movement,
and then a mysteryâsomething huge
and four-legged, on this isle
where no tales are ever told
of large animalsâno panthers
or tapirs, no cattle or goats.
I aim a makeshift spear,
only to discover that the beast
is just a horse, a blue roan mare
with a wavy tail and rippled mane.
Moving closer, I see that her color
is black and white hairs
so finely mixed
that they look smoky blue,
like a shimmering cloud.
The mare is tame.
I stroke her soft muzzle
and puff my breath
into her nostrils,
inviting her to memorize
my human scent
so that she will accept me
as a trusted companion,
a member of the herd.
After so much solitude,
the friendship of a horse
feels like a mysterious gift
from distant spirits,
so I call her Turey.
I call her “Sky.”
Turey and the green meadow
are so far from the swamps
that I should feel completely safe,
but questions begin to pound
through my nervous mind.
Is the horse alone, or did she escape
from an army of mounted invaders?
Are there explorers nearby,
searching for gold
and slaves?
Perhaps Turey belongs
to a lone wanderer
like my father.
If he is still alive and roaming,
would we recognize each other
after so many lonely years?
The mare is expertly trained,
an eager mount whose steadiness
reminds me how to guide a horse
with my voice, my legs, my hopes.â¦
I have no saddle or bridle,
no halter or lead rope.â¦
Clambering up the towering masts
of rolling ships must have helped me
preserve the art of balance.
I ride, I fall, I climb back up
and ride again.â¦
I feel like a giant,
gazing down at my world
from the height
of sky.
Alone in the meadow,
I practice all the cavalry skills
my father taught me
when I was little
and whole.
Sing to soothe your horse
when you are afraid.
Do not look down at the ground
or you will end up there.
Throw your heart over the fence
and your horse
will follow.
After long nights of sleeping
in the branches of swamp trees,
and even longer days
spent searching
for any sign
of solid ground,
I find myself
absurdly grateful
for any company at all,
even though Ojeda
begins to sound