The Jezebel's Daughter (21 page)

XXV

Bwa Kayiman, Saint-Domingue

June, 1717

When I was aware again, it was dark. Firelight flickered just beyond an ill-made door and I could hear drumming and chanting. Strange shadows were cast against the wall next to my head, elongated and grotesque, monstrous. I could believe I was in Hell, but I didn't think I was dead. My belly hurt too much for me to be dead.

I looked around and found myself in a small room. It looked like the interior of a mud-walled hut, like I'd seen on the outskirts of Le Cap. There wasn't much in the way of furnishings, mostly just the cot I was lying on, a chair, and a table that was covered with strange-looking things—burning candles, crude human figures made of sticks, an icon of a black Madonna and child, and the severed head of a goat, its tongue lolling from its mouth and eyes glassy and staring.

I shuddered and tried to sit up. A hand came out of the darkness and pressed me back down gently. I cried out in surprise and Ben chuckled softly. “It be only me,” he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “You lay still. You still too hurt to move around.”

I reached for his hand and held it tightly. “Where are we? What is this place?”

“This be Manman Vivienne’s place. We be in her
hounfo
, her territory. Not too far from Le Cap.”

“We're safe?”

“Safer than anywhere else.”

I nodded and fell quiet for a moment, watching the shadows dancing and listening to the drums and the chanting outside the door. “What are they doing? Who is Manman Vivienne?”

“I asked Manman to heal you. They be calling down the
lwa
. She a
manbo
, a priestess of
Les Mysteries.
She didn't want you here, because you be a
blan
, a white. I tell her, Ezili Danto watch you. You be special to her. Manman see it be true, let you in.”

I frowned in confusion. I couldn't understand more than half of what he'd just said to me, other than for some reason, a spirit that he worshiped thought I was special and that's why I was lying in this dark hut, listening to drums that made the blood run hot in my veins and the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.

“Where is Sebastian?” I asked after a protracted silence. I could hear Ben breathing in the darkness and it sounded like he heaved a heavy sigh. “Ben. Where is Sebastian?” Panic crept into my voice and he reached out with his free hand and stroked my head.

“Hamilton wanted a trial, said Captain be lying to the crew about you for two years. You read the articles. You know what he did was against them.”

“What about you? Do they know about you?”

“They do. But I be ship's master. I be too important to maroon. None of this be important right now, though. You rest, and you do what Manman tell you.” He leaned forward and kissed my forehead with a certain amount of finality in the gesture. I clung fiercely to his hand.

“Where are you going? Please, don't leave me here alone!”

“I have to. I have to go speak for Captain, for you. I tell you, girl. You be safe here.” He cupped my chin and raised my head so I was looking in his eyes. I could just barely make out his features in the darkness. “You trust me?” I nodded reluctantly and he smiled, his teeth glowing white in the firelight. “Good. Then rest.”

He let go of me and stood. Moments later, the door creaked open and I saw him silhouetted by the fire. Beyond him, I saw women dressed in white, dancing in small circles around a large bonfire. Nearby, there was a was a group of men beating drums of all sizes, and through it all, an exceptionally tall woman with a graceful, noble stride danced and chanted and shook a gourd covered with rattling beads. She was dressed in a long white gown with a red sash tied about her waist and another around her head.

When she saw Ben, she made a beeline for him and put her arms around his shoulders. She smiled coquettishly at him and he put his hands on her hips, pulling her closer to him. Their bodies began moving together in a sensuous, sinuous dance, and she kissed his mouth once, twice, three times, before she left him, to dance around the fire once more. He turned and closed the door, shutting out most of the light and plunging me once more into darkness.

I breathed deeply and winced at the sharp, hot pain in my stomach. My brief conversation with Ben and my worrying over Sebastian had left me feeling weak. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sound of the chanting and drums just outside the little hut. Surely the crew wouldn't kill Sebastian or even maroon him. Surely Ben would intervene somehow and save his life.

* * *

The next time I opened my eyes, it was day and the interior of the hut was somewhat brighter than it had been the night before. I blinked and looked around for Ben, but found only a small, naked child sitting in the chair that Ben had occupied the night before.

We locked eyes, the boy and I, and I smiled a little. “
Bonjou
,” I said, remembering some of the Kreyol Tansy had taught me. “
Kouman ou ye
?” I asked softly, inquiring after his health and well-being. The boy's eyes grew as wide as dinner plates and he rushed out of the hut, screaming for his mother.

The tall woman from the night before, this time dressed in a calico-print skirt and a dull brown blouse, entered the hut and smiled at me. I was once more struck by her bearing, the regal grace in which she held herself, as though she were more than just an escaped slave, living in secret in a mud hut in the jungle.

She went to the table I'd seen last night, now cleared of its strange implements and adornments. She picked up a stone bottle and a large bowl and brought them to my bedside. “I am Manman Vivienne,” she said as she sat down next to me. Her voice was deep and rich, like warm honey. I wanted to wrap it around me like a shawl and draw its heat into my bones. Despite the heat and closeness of the air in the hut, I was so cold. “You scare Phillipe. He didn't expect you speak Kreyol. How you learn it?”

“My friend. She was from Saint-Domingue.” I closed my eyes at the thought of Tansy and I felt the woman's hand stroke over my forehead, smoothing away the hair that was plastered to my skin.

“She Negro? Your friend?”

I opened my eyes and looked up into the woman's face. I nodded. “Yes. She was... She was killed.”

The woman nodded and reached down into the bowl and drew out a cloth. It was dripping with water and she wrung it out before wiping it over my face. It felt wonderful—cool and wet and refreshing. I realized that I had a fever. I darted a look down at my stomach, wondering if the wound had mortified.

“Yes,” she said, as though she'd read my mind, or perhaps just my actions. “You ain't getting better. The wound in you stomach is corrupted. But Ezili Danto told me to help you, even though you a
blan
. So I work the healing spells, draw the
veve
, and give you the herbs.”

“Who is Ezili Danto?” I asked. I wasn't entirely comfortable with this woman, this priestess of heathen spirits, doing magic over me. I was a good Christian. I did not treat with witches or spirits or magic.

“She a
lwa
, a spirit,” the woman explained patiently, dipping the cloth into the bowl and wringing it out once more before stroking it down my throat and over my chest. “She the protector of women who have been raped and abused.” She met my eyes knowingly. “Like you.”

“Ben told you?” I asked, angry he had shared such personal information with this woman, this stranger.

She shook her head and refreshed the cloth. “
Non
. She told me. Manman Danto. Last night, when we called her down. She rode me and told me protect you.” She gently took my wrist and raised my arm while she rubbed the cloth from my armpit down the inside of my arm to my wrist, and then back up the outside to my shoulder. “You special to her.” She dipped her cloth and repeated the motions with my other arm.

“Why? I don't even... I mean, I'm a Christian.”

She chuckled softly. “So am I. Baptized a Catholic. It the law here.” She put the cloth back in the bowl and picked up the stone bottle. Uncapping it, she gave it to me and helped me raise my head and shoulders from the cot. “Drink this and sleep. We call Manman Danto again tonight and see if she heal you.” She pressed the bottle against my lips and I drank, wincing at the horrid, sour-tasting liquid. It was thick and coated my throat, making it difficult to swallow. Once I'd drank everything in the bottle, Vivienne helped me lie down again. She settled next to me and began humming softly. It was the same song Tansy had always hummed while dressing my hair. Sleep rose up and wrapped me in its arms, pulling me down before I could ask Vivienne where she'd learned it.

* * *

Firelight splashed across the wall next to my head. Drums made my blood boil and my heart pound. Chanting spoke directly to my spirit, completely by-passing my mind, and the hair on my forearms and the back of my neck stood up as if yearning to join in. Vivienne and her followers were calling down the
lwa
again.

I looked around the dark room, squinting into the corners. “Ben?” I called out tentatively, unsure if he had returned. I waited for a moment before calling out again and received no answer. I sighed heavily, worrying once more about Sebastian. What was happening? Was his trial over? Was he to keep his captaincy, or were the crew and Mr. Hamilton going to put him ashore on a tiny island somewhere with a week's ration of water and sail away, leaving him to either find a new crew or die? I resolved to ask Manman Vivienne the next time I spoke with her. I had to know what was going on with the
Jezebel
and her crew. They had become my family and my home, and the thought that I might lose them scared me, shook me to my core.

I forced myself to relax and watch the shifting shadows of the dancers and drummers. I could feel something in the air, something that reminded me of the disconnected sensation I'd encountered on the beach when I had cursed Graves with the knowledge of his death. Was this, then, what magic felt like? Or was I in the presence of God? Or maybe the Negro spirits had successfully been summoned and were now dancing amongst their followers?

I dozed during most of the ritual, watching the shadows and listening to the chanting and the drumming. After some time, it became soothing, like a giant heartbeat and I finally drifted off to sleep.

XXVI

No place

No time

My body was on fire and yet my bones felt as though they were sheathed in a thick layer of ice. I was shivering so hard that my teeth clacked together painfully. Sweat poured out of me, blanketing me in a greasy, foul-smelling dampness. Pain radiated out from my core, suffusing my entire being, crushing me in its grip and turning my vision red. My skin felt like it was stretched tightly over a tanner's rack and left to dry in the hot sun.

It had been days, maybe even weeks, since I'd last seen Ben. Manman Vivienne never had word of him or of Sebastian, and after the third or fourth time of asking after them with no satisfactory answers, I finally surrendered to the idea that they weren't coming back. Either Sebastian was dead or the
Jezebel
had sailed without me. Maybe they thought I was dead.

The corruption in my wound had spread, poisoning me, making me nauseated and unable to eat or drink anything more than the tiniest sips of water. Manman Vivienne had stopped giving me the foul-tasting medicine from the stone bottle and had switched to something that tasted like honey and rose water. I had little trouble keeping that down the first few times, but soon I vomited up even that.

I was in constant pain and somehow I knew I was dying. Again. This time, however, I didn't fight it. I had nothing to fight for. I had lost my parents and my brothers at sea, and the
Jezebel
's crew had abandoned me. I had no money, nowhere to go. I would die before I returned to Nassau and Madame Dupris, so I determined to let the sickness and the pain win. I stopped fighting.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, hardly noticing if my hut was dark or light, if there were people in it or if it was empty but for me. I had no concept of the passage of time. I might have laid there, slowly dying for hours or perhaps years before my body went totally numb. All physical sensations dropped away. My pain, the fever and chills, even the feeling of the cot beneath me and the thin blanket around me disappeared, leaving me with the odd sensation of floating in the warm sea.

The drums had returned, but their rhythm was different. It was fast, more forceful, more demanding. There was no chanting this time, and I could just make out the high clarion call of bells, their silvery song piercing the cotton wool surrounding my mind.

The door of the hut opened and a crooked old Negro man entered, a small black dog following at his heels. He leaned heavily on a stick and carried a sack on a strap across one shoulder. He smiled at me and came to sit down in the chair at my bedside. He removed the shapeless straw hat from his head and produced a pipe from the sack. He lit it and soon the hut was filled with the sweet scent of his tobacco.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Are you one of Manman Vivienne's followers?”

The old man gave me a secretive smile. “I am Papa Legba,” he said, reaching down to pat the dog's head and lift it onto my bed. It sniffed at me before circling three times and laying down near my chest. “Vivienne called me to come speak with you.”

“Do you know Ben?” I asked, hoping that was why Manman Vivienne had sent him to me.

“I know Ben. He is safe aboard the
blan
's ship.”

Something inside me broke away and dissolved. I felt lighter and freer than I had in ages. “And Sebastian? The captain of Ben's ship? Do you know anything about him?”

Papa Legba shook his head. “I do not know this Sebastian. He is not part of my
hounfo.
I am sorry.” The weight I had borne returned, increased in size. Would Ben have stayed with the
Jezebel
if Sebastian was no longer captain? I thought perhaps he would. Hamilton valued him and would treat him well.

“Have you lived a good life?” Papa Legba asked me after a brief silence. His gnarled, horned hand encircled my own and held it gently. “Do you have many regrets?”

I licked my lips and Papa Legba let go of my hand and rose. He brought me some water and patiently held the cup up to my lips as I took tiny sips. “I think my life has been good,” I said tentatively after drinking my fill. “I've tried to honor my parents, tried to follow the Bible's teachings.” I swallowed and closed my eyes. “I do have regrets, though.” The faces of the men I killed flashed before my eyes and I pushed them away immediately.

“You regret killing in defense of your own life?” Had I spoken aloud? How could he know what I was thinking? The old man chuckled softly. “This is not something you should regret. If you had killed because you were greedy or because you enjoyed the killing, that is something to regret. But to protect yourself? No. Do not regret that.” There was a single knock at the door. Papa Legba stood and the little dog jumped off the bed and followed him. Papa Legba opened the door and a frightening-looking man walked through it.

His skin was black—not the dark, nut-brown of some Negroes, but a true coal black—and his face was covered with a mask that looked like a human skull. He wore a tall hat with a narrow brim, a formal black suit, and spectacles with round, dark lenses. Instead of walking, he moved with a shuffling, almost dance-like step, and he carried a long-necked bottle in one hand, and a lit cigar in the other. He paused briefly and picked up the dog to cradle it in his arms. He nuzzled it as though it was a woman and then waltzed around the room with the dog as his partner. He stopped after a few turns and put the dog back on the ground. He took a long draught of whatever was in the bottle and winked lasciviously at Papa Legba, who looked surprised to see him.

“Samdi!” Papa Legba exclaimed, and at first I thought he was instructing the man to come back on Saturday, but I soon realized he was addressing the man by name. “You have come for her yourself?”

“Some of the
lwa
say she is special,” the man, Samdi, said in a nasal voice. “I came to see why.” He turned his eyes on me and I could feel his scrutiny. “She is pretty for a skinny
blan
girl from the wrong part of the world,” he said. “Tell me, madame,” Samdi said to me, “how is your quim today? If it is not well, you tell me and I will send someone to address it, someone with a big, healthy Thomas.”

I stared at Samdi in shocked horror and turned beseeching eyes on Papa Legba. How could he let the awful creature speak to me in such a way? The old man saw my distress and gave Samdi a scathing look. Samdi's only response was to grab his crotch and jerk his hips in my direction.

Papa Legba sighed heavily, as if this was a routine he and Samdi had repeated thousands of times before, and stepped between Samdi and I, turning the other man's attention toward him. “She is a
blan
in whom Manman has taken an interest,” Papa Legba said. “You cannot take her.”

“And you cannot tell me what to do, old man,” Samdi said in a cutting tone. “I have dominion here. She is at the crossroads. Her grave is dug. She is mine.”

“No, I believe she is mine,” said a commanding, deep female voice. “She has been marked.” A small, straight-backed, rather buxom Negro woman with tribal scars on her cheeks entered the hut. Papa Legba bowed shallowly to her and she bestowed a loving smile on him. Samdi gave her a courtly bow, though the smile on his lips and the hand on his groin said the gesture was mocking. She inclined her head regally to him, obviously taking no offense at his mockery, and turned her attention to me. Her eyes were the color of honey and seemed to pierce straight through me.

“You're Ezili Danto,” I said softly, my eyes wide with awe. “Ben said he asked you to protect me. He marked me with his blood.”

“That's right,” she said and sat down next to me. She reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair off my forehead. “Because of the wrongs done to you, he knew I would accept you as one of mine—” She turned and gave Samdi a hard look. “—despite the color of your skin or where you were born.” Something fierce flashed in her eyes and my fear of Samdi dissipated. He might be lewd and vulgar, but Manman Danto would protect me from him.

“Who is he?” I asked, nodding to Samdi, who was puffing away at another cigar he'd produced from one of the pockets in his coat.

“He is Bawon Samdi. He meets the dead at the crossroads and helps them into their graves. That is why he is here.”

“I'm dead?” She nodded with a gentle smile, and tears filled my eyes, spilling over hotly to streak down my cheeks. “I can't be dead. He said I have more to do.” I pointed at Papa Legba and Ezili Danto turned and looked at him. Papa Legba gave her a slightly sheepish look and shrugged.

She turned back to me. “It is true. You have a destiny that you must fulfill. I have seen it.”

“Destiny? What is it?”

“I cannot tell you. Bondye does not allow it. But if you would stay alive, you must fight. Your
gwo bònanj
, your big guardian angel, has left your body. It's gone back to
le Gran Met.
To live again, you must call your
gwo bònanj
back to you. It must join with your
ti bònanj,
and heal your soul.”

“How do I do that?”

“Remember what it is like to live.” She stood and Papa Legba took her hand. They left the hut, arm in arm, and Samdi followed in their wake. He paused by the door and turned back to me. He tipped his hat, gave me a wide and flirtatious smile, and stepped out. The door shut behind him, sealing me into the dim room, leaving me utterly alone.

Remember what it is like to live
. What did that mean? I'd never thought about living. I'd just... lived. The most logical place to start was with the differences between a living body and a dead corpse: the flow of blood in my veins, the steady thumping of my heart, inhaling and exhaling, the pull of muscles as I climbed the rigging to the crow's nest. The scratchiness of a dry throat. The grumbling pain of an empty stomach.

There was more, of course. There was the cold air freezing my nostrils in an English winter, and the hot, wet weight of the air in the Caribbean. The taste of pineapple, and of wine on Sebastian's lips. The smell of star jasmine and salt air. The feel of sea spray on my face. The texture of silk against my skin. The smoky-green smudge on the horizon after the watch has cried out, “Land ho!” The feathered riot of colors in the bird cages at Earthly Delights.

There was the sharp pang of grief when my family died and when I lost Tansy. The excitement of finding new books from Sebastian on my bed or in my cabin. The pride when Ben learned to write his name. The terror of nights with Graves and being found in the hold of the
Neptune
. The safety I found in Sebastian's embrace. The peace I felt during prayer.

These things were the differences between living and death. These things—and so many more—were what it was like to live. Sights and sounds, scents, emotions, the inner workings of my body. The perfect marriage of mind, body, and soul. This is what I wanted, more than anything. I wanted to live again.

A rush of breath inflated my lungs and my eyes snapped open. Harsh sunlight made me squint and I turned my head, seeing Sebastian kneeling in the dirt next to me. His head was bowed, his face covered by his hands, and his shoulders shaking with the strength of his silent grief.

“Sebastian?” My voice was raw and I could only whisper.

Sebastian's head jerked up and the sight of his face squeezed my heart with grief. He looked wretched, as though he hadn't slept in days. The lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth were etched deeply, and his skin was haggard and ashen gray. He stared at me, his expression blank, his eyes wet with tears. Then he blinked and the smile that settled on his lips was like the sun coming out from behind storm clouds. “Oh, thank you, God,” he said, reaching for my hand and clinging to it.

* * *

Manman Vivienne gave me more of the honey-rose water and I drank it down greedily. My throat was parched and it felt like no matter how much of the water I drank, it would never be wet again. Vivienne tried to tell me to go easy, to sip slowly, but I ignored her advice and promptly vomited up everything I'd just drunk. She quirked an eyebrow and I gave her a sheepish look. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I'll go slowly this time. I promise.”

She nodded and handed the bottle back to me. I took very slow sips. She smiled kindly and stood, turning to Ben and Sebastian, and said, “Don't upset her. She still weak.” She gave them stern looks and left the hut.

Sebastian slowly knelt in the dirt next to my bedside, moving as though he was stiff with pain and clinging to my hand with both of his. Ben sat in the room's only chair, slowly stroking my forehead. Ben looked as awful as Sebastian did; it was plain that neither man had slept nor eaten much since leaving me with Vivienne.

“Was I really dead?” I asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

“Manman said you was,” Ben answered, his tones soft and reverent. “Manman said you heart was still and you didn't breathe. She said you
bònanj
left you body.”

“Then how... How am I here? How am I alive again?”

“It's a miracle, Loreley,” Sebastian answered, his grip tightening around my hand. “God brought you back to me. To us,” he added hastily, catching a glower from Ben.

I closed my eyes, my brow wrinkled in thought. A miracle, Sebastian said. My
bònanj
returning to my body, Vivienne and the
lwa
claimed. It was too much to think about right now. Was my dream real? I put it away until I was more rested and clear-headed.