Among the Garifuna : Family Tales and Ethnography from the Caribbean Coast [1 ed.] 9780817388249, 9780817318710

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AMONG THE GARIFUNA

AMONG THE

GARIFUNA

FAMILY TALES AND ETHNOGRAPHY FROM THE CARIBBEAN COAST

MARILYN McKILLOP WELLS

T h e Un iv e r si t y of Al a­bama Pr e ss Tuscaloosa

The University of Ala­bama Press Tuscaloosa, Ala­bama 35487-­0380 uapress.ua.edu Copyright © 2015 by the University of Ala­bama Press All rights reserved. Inquiries about reproducing material from this work should be addressed to the University of Ala­bama Press. Typeface: Caslon and Helvetic Neue Manufactured in the United States of America Cover photograph: Courtesy of Marilyn McKillop Wells Cover design: Erin Kirk New ∞ The paper on which this book is printed meets the minimum requirements of Ameri­can National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-­1984. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wells, Marilyn McKillop.   Among the Garifuna : family tales and ethnography from the Caribbean coast / Marilyn McKillop Wells.   pages cm   ISBN 978-0-8173-1871-0 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-8173-8824-9 (e-book) 1. Garifuna (Caribbean people)—Social life and customs. 2. Garifuna (Caribbean people—Ethnic identity. 3. Garifuna (Caribbean people)—Biography. 4. Diego family. I. Title.   F1505.2.C3W45 2015  305.897’92—dc23 2014047482

Contents

Introduction     ix

List of People     xi PART 1 THE OLD WAYS

A Garifuna Wedding     1

A Garifuna Marriage     4 The Revolt     4

The Second Wife     7

­Cervantes’s Wake     8

­Cervantes’s Burial     11 ­Cervantes’s Spirit     13

Release from Mourning     16 A Stormy Journey     20

Homeward Bound     27 Old House     31

Alvarez Visits     35 Partners     41

School Clothes     45 New Farm     49

The Red Cock     53

Skipper’s Holiday     55

vi Contents

Santa’s School     60

Tas to Lidisi     65

Tas Meets Terese     69 New Shoes     72

Flowers of Delight     75

News from Larube     77 Return to Larube     79 Building a House     82

Tas and Lisa’s Stories     84 Birthing     86

PART 2 LIVING THERE

Invitation Letter     91 Monica’s Story     97

Meeting Khandi     99 Tas and Home     102 Nutmeg Alley     105

­Margaret’s Bath     107 Fishing Trip     111

Frog in a Jar     114

Persecution and Altar     115

Cashew and Chickens     117 My Lidisi Visit     121 Love Magic     123 Snake Bite     125

The Feeding     127 Warin     133

Khandi’s Funeral     134 Coconut Lady     137 Butterfly     138

Joseph’s Wedding     139

Contents vii

Lucas’s Sickness     142

Frank’s Lesson     146

PART 3 THE ANCESTOR PARTY

The Santa Trance     151

Consulting the Buyei     156 The Mali     159 The Pigs     164

John Canoe     166

Building the Gaiunari     171 Terese Arrives     175 Baking Day     178

Moving Day     180 To the Keys     185

Unwelcome Guests     192 Clara Arrives     197

The Adugahatia     200 The Banquet     205 Jubilation     210

The Last Hours     212 Glossary     215

Introduction

“The Black Carib are the scourge of the Caribbean. You best stay away from them.” An Anglo oil prospector said that to me the first time I went to Belize City, Belize, in 1980. I didn’t tell the man what I had learned from library research about those “pagan cannibals.” Amazonian Indians had migrated down the Orinoco River in South America. The Atlantic currents took their small boats to the Lesser Antilles. The first wave, between 700 and 900 ad, was Arawak, who were peace­ ful horticulturalists. The sec­ond wave, about 1000 ad, was Carib, who were seafarers and said to be warlike. The Carib men overwhelmed the Ara­ wak and married their women. By 1200 the Carib dominated the Caribbean basin. Columbus learned of the Caribs in 1492 and named the sea after them. In the mid-­1600s, at least two slave ships were wrecked on reefs, and some of the Af­ri­can men managed to get ashore. The Caribs took them in, and they eventually intermarried to form a population that is a physical and cultural blend of West Af­ri­cans and Amazonian Indians. Their indigenous name for the group as a whole is Garinagu, which means “cassava eaters.” Garifuna is both an adjective and their word for a small group of the Garinagu. During the next century, British, French, and Dutch governments failed to “tame” the Garinagu, who fought fierce battles with the Europeans. Many Garinagu were killed or committed suicide rather than be captured. Finally, in about 1797 the survivors were rounded up and relocated, with some supplies, on Roatan Island off the coast of Honduras. Among the Garifuna is a work of narrative nonfiction that tells the story of a family living along the Caribbean coast of Central America. The ac-

x Introduction

counts of their lives are drawn from participant observation and stories my Garifuna friends told me when I worked and lived among them between 1980 and 2000. The details are accurate for the time and place. However, the reader won’t find Larube and Lidisi on a map. They are composites of places, which protects their identities and way of life. Part 1, “The Old Ways,” recounts events in the Diego family from 1926 to 1979. Khandi Sabal, the old woman who adopted me, is of the first generation. Her sister ­Margaret and ­Margaret’s husband, ­Cervantes, founded the family in Honduras. After C ­ ervantes was killed in a revolt against the ruling junta, M ­ argaret and Khandi took the children to British Honduras, where I became a part of the sec­ond generation. Part 2, “Living There,” is about how I worked as a cultural anthropologist and became part of the family from 1980 to 1987. I describe problems and insights encountered while playing that mixed role. ­Margaret’s son, Tas, appears to be a moderately successful fisherman, but secretly he’s an emissary to Russia, Cuba, and Libya. His wife, Lisa, is a no-­nonsense, human dynamo who keeps an even keel through all their hardships. The children of the third generation veer between cultures as they negotiate between English-­speaking teachers, Creole-­speaking classmates, and Garifuna-­speaking parents. Part 3, “The Ancestor Party,” describes the family’s struggle to produce a “three pig dugu” in 1988. This is an elaborate ancestor ritual, involving 150 people, whom the family must house and feed for one week. Through “possession trance,” ­Cervantes and ­Margaret’s “spirits” have tapped Tas and me to be the “hosts.” We are held responsible for the dugu’s success or failure. A list of people, a kinship chart of the Diego family, and a glossary are provided for this book. The glossary contains Garifuna terms and defines some items that might be unfamiliar to Ameri­can readers. When the characters are speaking among themselves, the Garifuna language is translated into the English they would have used. However, some of my friends were unschooled; thus, their efforts to communicate in English produced an interesting patois.

List of People

Agnes Cayetano: Lisa’s mother Alvarez Salivar: ­Margaret’s partner Amigos: Tas’s fishing partner and Marcia’s husband Aunt Bea: neighbor and Lisa’s relative ­Cacho: friend of family Casamerio: ­Cervantes’s cousin Celia: Helene’s assistant ­Cervantes Diego: Tas’s father and M ­ argaret’s husband Clara Arzu: Santa’s daughter Delores: ­Cervantes’s sec­ond wife Donaldo: Casamerio’s son Dorothy: Tas and Lisa’s granddaughter Elizabeth: Tas and Lisa’s daughter Frances: Joseph’s wife Frank: Tas and Lisa’s younger son Hector: Friend of family Helene: Buyei in Larube area Innocente (“Skipper”): ­Cervantes and ­Margaret’s elder son James Salivar: Alvarez’s son Joseph: Tas and Lisa’s elder son Juan: head drummer in religious rituals Khandi [pronounced KAHN-­DEE]: Author’s adopted mother, ­Margaret’s sister Lisa Cayetano Diego: Tas’s wife Lucas: Joseph and Frances’s son Marcia: friend of the family and Amigos’s wife ­Margaret Sabal Diego: ­Cervantes’s first wife and Tas’s mother

xii  List of People

Marin: ­Cervantes’s friend Monica: Helene’s sister Phillip Reston: Son of ­Cervantes and his “partner” Portacio Diego (“Tas”): younger son of M ­ argaret and ­Cervantes Ramos: C ­ ervantes’s friend Reese: see Terese “Rico” (Frederico) Gomez: Tas’s friend who died from a snake bite Robert Cayetano: Lisa’s father Santa [pronounced SAHN-­TA]: Tas’s sister Santiago: boatman and Alvarez’s business partner “Tas”: see Portacio Diego Terese (“Reese”): daughter of C ­ ervantes and Delores Thomas Cayetano: Lisa’s brother Uncle Francisco: C ­ ervantes’s uncle Uncle Moe: friend who lived on Nutmeg Alley Virginia: Santa’s childhood friend

__________________ | | Francisco Diego ­Cervantes’s father __________ | | | | Casamerio C ­ ervantes Diego = M ­ argaret Sabal Khandi | |__________|___________________________| Donaldo Innocente Portacio = Lisa Cayetano Santa = Arzu | | ____________ _____________________ | | | | Clara Polly Joseph = Frances Elizabeth Frank | | Dorothy Lucas ­Cervantes Diego = Delores (second wife) | Terese ­Cervantes Diego x unnamed “partner” | Philip Reston Robert Cayetano = Agnes ________|_____ | | Thomas Lisa Cayetano = Portacio Diego Figure 1. Diego family kinship chart.

AMONG THE GARIFUNA

Part 1

The Old Ways

­ argaret and ­Cervantes Diego were the progenitors of the family in this M story, and their courtship and traditional wedding are described. The “outrageous behavior” of Delores, ­Cervantes’s sec­ond wife, shows the customs and problems inherent in a polygynous marriage. After C ­ ervantes’s funeral and ­Margaret’s year of mourning, she and her children and Khandi, her sister, return to British Honduras, their origi­nal home. The hair-­raising storm they endured on that trip suggests the three children’s personalities and the roles they will play in the story. Alvarez Salivar becomes an important part of the family’s life. With the help of Khandi and Alvarez, M ­ argaret struggles to raise her children as C ­ ervantes would have wished. But Innocente never reconciles to the “abandonment” by his father. Santa becomes a “hellion,” and Tas rebels against ­Margaret’s unbending rules.

A Garifuna Wedding Larube, British Honduras, 1926. M ­ argaret Sabal gazed into the bedroom mirror for a final check. She wanted to look her best on this important day. Her scarf set straight over her brow. Amber eyes sparkled in her oval, caramel-­colored face. Just five feet tall, the eighteen-­year-­old girl’s body was supple yet strong. The starched pleats of her traditional woman’s skirt knifed above her bare legs and feet. “It’s time, daughter,” her mother said. “They’re waiting.” As ­Margaret entered the front room of the house, she saw C ­ ervantes sitting under a white wedding canopy. His close-­cut black hair framed twinkling brown eyes, set above high, angular cheekbones. Broad shoulders filled his white-­on-­white embroidered shirt. He looked calm as he

2  Part 1

listened to her father and the other men advising him about skills in fishing and the duties of a husband. ­Margaret chuckled, remembering a different look on C ­ ervantes’s face when he saw the knot of wood her father had asked him to split. It was the time he first told her he wanted to marry her. Good enough for him. Thought he could pass the test with one lick of the ax. I wonder where Papa found that black mangrove stick? Probably been saving it for the test. She inwardly smirked. Might as well have handed C ­ ervantes a boulder to split. And Papa smiled so innocent when he said, ‘Oh, C ­ ervantes, my friend, ­Margaret’s mother needs some kindling for the fire. Would you help her?’ Anyway, ­Cervantes passed his test quicker than I finished mine. She sniffed. It’s just as well we’re moving to the Spanish side. ­Cervantes’s auntie would be hard to keep satisfied. That old lady is something else. Walking all the way down here, handing me those dirty shirts to wash. She must’ve scrubbed that first one in grass. A frown creased M ­ argaret’s brow. And what’s she think? I don’t know how to leech recado? I saw her checking up that morning. Watching how I sprinkled those shirts in the sun. I wonder what she’d have said if I’d returned them with red stains. She’d already been to talk with Papa. Turns out they’d been plotting before I even noticed ­Cervantes. She looked across the room at her future husband. Well, I don’t need to worry about the last test. I know I’m a virgin; and for sure ­Cervantes knows what to do. There’ll be blood on the bed cloth for the old ladies to see in the ­morning. ­Margaret sat beside C ­ ervantes under the wedding canopy and listened to her female advisers. “First duty of a woman is to her children.” “A good woman keeps her children well and her husband satisfied.” “A smart woman doesn’t rely on her husband’s pocket for support. They’re partners but, should the husband fail, the smart woman has her farm, so she can feed herself and her children.” As the adults continued their instructions, ­Margaret recalled the beginning of their courtship. On the first visit, C ­ ervantes had listened to her father tell stories and never once spoke directly to her. She was disappointed when he sailed to Honduras the next morning. I thought he liked me. I know he watched when the women danced, and he certainly made a show when the men sang. Maybe he was just passing time here. A month later, she was sure of ­Cervantes’s intentions. He came to the house again, and again he and her father talked and talked, while she sat, mute, in a corner of the room. But this time her mother interrupted the

Old Ways  3

conversation and called her father to the yard. Alone in the room with the handsome man, M ­ argaret turned her back to him and looked out the window. Why doesn’t he say something? What’s wrong? Then she felt a small seed hit the back of her neck. She remained still until another seed fell into her lap. She turned to C ­ ervantes and tossed the missile back to him. That seed hit her father as he reentered the room. ­Margaret turned again to the window as though she had no interest in the men’s conversation. But ­Margaret could think of nothing except C ­ ervantes. Twice the next morning she forgot to tend the cook fire. Her mother railed up, “Hell, girl, you’re good for nothing. You think a man wants a wife that burns tea? Leave the fire and go fetch water.” So, M ­ argaret thought, running toward the stream, somebody’s thinking about marriage! Has C ­ ervantes spoken to Papa? What will happen next? She hadn’t long to wonder, because C ­ ervantes was waiting at a bend in the path. He drew ­Margaret to him, kissed her, and stood back. “I’m sailing to Lidisi tomorrow,” he told her. “I’ll be gone six weeks. It will take that long to prepare my house properly. I want it strong and nice, with two rooms. When I come back, I’ll be looking for a partner to go into that house. Someone with her bread bowl and grater, maybe a tump basket for the farm. The cassava is planted, and there’s coconut and plantain. My Uncle Francisco lives in the next yard, so there’s a raguma and sieve we can borrow in the beginning.” ­Margaret swatted a mosquito to hide her confusion. ­Cervantes grinned and waited for her to look at him. “Well, woman, will you be ready?” The girl’s heart was pounding, but she only nodded and walked on to the stream. Next evening ­Cervantes’s aunt came to talk with ­Margaret’s parents. As the wrinkled dowager started out of the yard, she called the girl to her. “Child!” “Auntie?” “My back’s been bothering me; and that rascal, ­Cervantes, left me with shirts to wash.” “I’ll do them for you, Auntie,” M ­ argaret volunteered. The old woman nodded and handed the soiled clothes to her. Two months later ­Margaret sailed with C ­ ervantes to Honduras. A year later, Khandi, M ­ argaret’s younger sister, arrived in Lidisi. She set up house close by ­Cervantes and ­Margaret’s home.

4  Part 1

A Garifuna Marriage Lidise, Honduras, 1928. Shortly after their first child was born, ­Cervantes took a sec­ond wife: her name was Delores, a young woman who lived in San Pedro. ­Margaret wept, because she knew that multiple wives and “partners” were accepted customs among the Garifuna (group of Garinagu [Black Carib]). So long as the husband showed proper respect to each wife, and acknowledged his children, there was no reasonable argument against it. However, ­Cervantes tried to break the rule. He returned to ­Margaret’s house after establishing a home for Delores in San Pedro. As he undressed for the night, he dropped his soiled clothes on the floor. Next morning, when ­Margaret collected them for washing, she found two additional sets added to the pile. She washed the ones he had taken off the night before but left the rest lying on the floor. That evening ­Cervantes grumbled, “What’s this? You’ve been too busy to pick my clothes off the floor?” “I wash what you wear here.” M ­ argaret’s jaw jutted. “You can take the others back to the woman who helped you soil them.” That was the last of that foolishness.

The Revolt Tegucigalpa, Honduras, 1933. ­Cervantes Diego held his breath as a fly walked across his nose. He dared not swat it. Since midnight he had been hiding under a mound of discarded baskets in the marketplace. In the early light of dawn vendors began arriving. Any movement might betray his presence. Through slits in the woven reeds, he could see where Pedro and Felipe were hiding. He waited for the signal that would send them leaping from cover to overpower the guards of the Spanish barracks. Careful now. ­Cervantes shifted, seeking relief for his cramped muscles. He froze as a Kechi Indian couple passed close by the basket, coming so near that C ­ ervantes could have reached out and touched the man’s hemp sandals or his bloused cotton pants. The Kechi shuffled across the brick plaza to a spot near concrete steps that led up to the barracks of the Spanish soldiers. There, the man rolled out two mats and watched while his wife unloaded cabbage, onions, and peppers from her tumpline basket. She arranged the vegetables in green, white, and red rows. A sec­ond Indian couple displayed oranges and two live iguanas. The women squatted behind their goods, smoothed their hairlines, and straightened their long black braids.

Old Ways  5

The plaza filled rapidly. C ­ ervantes recognized two Garifuna women carrying head baskets loaded with green and ripe plantain. The almond-­ skinned woman had kinky black hair, while the hair of the black-­skinned woman was as straight as that of the Kechi Indians. The Af­ri­can and Indian mix all ways in us Garinagu, C ­ ervantes thought. Even the eyes show the mix. Blue, gray, green, brown. The women’s skirts swayed gracefully above their bare feet. They laughed and called to friends in Garifuna. “Idebiangi? How’s it going?” “Ouwatigati bugeti? Not bad, and you?” The sun rose, changing the dew to steam. Sweat streamed down Cervantes’s ­­ neck. He grinned as four men carrying a load of fresh fish entered his line of vision. Two more followed with conch and lobster. Good. There’s ­Carloto and his men. Right on time. The others should be taking their places. He squinted at the sun, gauging the hour. Time for the patrols to leave. Once they’re gone, we can take the guards. The rest will be easy. Now the plaza was crowded with customers touching, turning, and examining the wares. Indian, Garinagu, and Latino spoke the language of the marketplace. “Como? (How much?)” “Tres por cinco (Three for five).” ­Cervantes licked his lips, wishing he had an orange to quench his thirst. He watched the patrol form on the verandah above the plaza. The rebel held his breath as the black-­booted soldiers marched within inches of his hiding place and then through the plaza and out the west gate. He listened as their footsteps clacked off the plaza bricks and were muffled in the dust of the unpaved streets. A sec­ond patrol formed ranks. I’ll wait a half hour, C ­ ervantes calculated, and give the soldiers plenty of time to be away from here. As the sec­ ond patrol left the plaza, the anxious man closed his eyes and moved his lips in a silent prayer. “Hear me, Old People. Let this plan for revolution work for your children. Help us free ourselves from the Spanish yoke. You fought and died to escape bondage on Saint Vincent. Now your children ask to be free in this new land to fish and farm and raise our families in the way that you taught us. We only ask to be left alone. Let us be Garinagu!” Then he waited. At last C ­ ervantes stirred. It’s time now. His chest tightened as his heart beat faster. Surprise is the key. Moving as little as possible, he flexed his cramped muscles, preparing to jump from beneath the baskets and give the attack signal. We must catch the guards when their backs are turned, wrestle their guns away from them, then fire on the others. Now! Adrenalin shot through his body as he pushed from beneath the mound of baskets to leap upon the guard nearest his hiding place. But the guard was not at his post! ­Cervantes spun around. Soldiers were rushing back into the marketplace

6  Part 1

through both plaza gates. Other troops streamed from the barracks. They raised their rifles and began shooting, shooting everywhere. ­Cervantes leaped behind a post. The Kechi woman lay bleeding across her vegetables. ­Cervantes tore his gaze from her to see Carlato frozen with shock. The sweat of terror burst from C ­ ervantes pores as a hole opened in Carloto’s forehead, followed by an explosion of bone, brain, and blood. Carlato’s body thrust backward and crashed upon the ground. We are betrayed! ­Cervantes choked with rage and despair. Who was it? Alphonse? Juan? There was no time to think. As his comrades fell, Cervantes ­­ joined the horde of frantic men and women stampeding away from the bullets, leaping across overturned stalls of fish and fruit, leaving bodies strewn behind them. ­Cervantes did not stop running until he reached his own tiny village of Lidisi, ten miles from the town where the revolt had been aborted. He would never be safe in Lidisi, but he had to let his first wife ­Margaret know that he was alive. He hid in a grassy ditch near his house until dark. Then, as he had seen no sign of soldiers, he crept across the sand yard and went inside. “­Cervantes!” ­Margaret was putting their children to bed. Terrified for his safety, she burst into tears of relief at seeing him alive. He stepped toward her and, in a desperate embrace, crushed her tiny body against his huge frame. He murmured her name and caressed her cheek, treasuring the feel of her smooth caramel-­colored skin beneath his palm, fearing he might never see her again. His strong mouth twisted with bitterness as he stroked Santa’s infant face and took Portacio into his arms. “Innocente, mind your ma while I’m gone,” he told their elder son. “Take good care of her.” He settled Tas’s plump body back onto his sleeping mat, kissed ­Margaret one last time, slipped out the door, and disappeared into the night. ­Cervantes Diego ran for his life, heading south along the beach, splashing through the tide’s edge so waves would wash away his footprints. He prayed to Bungi (supreme supernatural) that no one would notice his silhouette against the luminescence of the bay. His plan was simple. He would run five miles down the coast to the village of San Pedro where his sec­ond wife Delores lived. His dory was beached there, and he could sail it across the bay to British Honduras, where his third woman lived. He would be safe in British Honduras. Later he could send for his wives and children; or, once the furor had died down, and the soldiers were no longer looking for him, he might even slip back to Honduras for a visit. His feet churned the sand as he ran hard, steadily south toward San Pedro. A slight breeze stirred in the salty night air and cooled his body. He thanked Bungi

Old Ways  7

that there was no moon. He ran, praying to the ancestors to keep him safe from the soldiers. There! At last! ­Cervantes strained his eyes to make out the dark mass of his boat. There it is! He felt the beginning of relief through his fatigue. No sign of pursuit. He would escape! He would live! He threw the anchor rock into the dory, then decided, “I must see Delores again before I go.” A familiar heat flooded his loins as he thought of how his touch sent spasms of pleasure coursing through his wife’s young body. I’m so close. I must hold her just once more and kiss our little daughter. He whirled about and raced across the beach. Ahead he could see the line of their roof and a glow from the dampened supper fire. Just a few minutes more, and then I’ll be on my way. He cut through a clump of palm trees and circled to the back of the house. Suddenly soldiers were upon him, surrounding him, beating him to the ground. “No!” he cried, fighting wildly, kicking and flailing in a frenzy of disbelief. A rifle butt crashed against his skull and brought him down. He heard a voice say in Spanish, “Juan was right. He couldn’t stay away from his whore.” Another responded, “Just kill the dog, and let’s get out of here.” A shot was fired, followed by a sec­ond; and ­Cervantes Diego bled his life onto the sand.

The Second Wife “It doesn’t look like a baby, Moma,” Terese complained as her mother slipped a small dress over a dried plantain stalk. “We can paint a face after I sew the hem,” Delores said. “Your doll can have black hair, and we’ll draw a mouth and nose.” “I want a real doll,” the child pouted, “like Papa carves from a stick.” “I don’t know how to carve,” Delores snapped at her daughter. “We must wait till Papa gets home for that.” C ­ ervantes should spend more time here in San Pedro, she grumbled to herself, and not always stop with ­Margaret and her brood. Just because she has three children shouldn’t mean he spends extra time with them. She frowned. I’m sure he’s in Lidisi, but he won’t come here ’til next week. Delores sat up straight at the noise of a scuffle outside. “No!” she heard a man’s voice yell. “That sounds like C ­ ervantes! What’s going on?” She stood up, then froze with terror at the sound of men shouting in Spanish. A gunshot exploded through the night, then another. Doll clothes scattered on the floor as Delores leaped to the window and peered out. “Soldiers!” she gasped. “Moma! Moma!” Terese shrieked, grabbing her mother’s skirt. Delores

8  Part 1

pushed the child away and peered out into the night. Men ran off through the darkness. Then she saw ­Cervantes’s crumpled form on the ground. Horror burst from Delores’s throat in a long, shrill cry. She ran across the yard and collapsed on top of ­Cervantes’s body. She wept hysterically, while neighbors came out of their homes and crowded around. An old woman hobbled over to her sobbing niece and placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “Get up, child. There are things you must do.” Delores turned a wild, tear-­streaked face to the old woman. “I can’t, Auntie,” she choked. The old woman tightened her grip on Delores’s shoul­ der. “I’m sorry, child. Truly I’m sorry for you, but you must catch yourself up. Now!” “No! No!” Screaming, Delores clutched C ­ ervantes’s body. Auntie pulled the wailing woman to her feet. Covered with sand and blood, she struggled to throw herself back onto the corpse, then gave up and leaned against her aunt. The old woman supported Delores to the house. A neighbor carried the terrified Terese to another home. Three men talked quietly in the shadows. “Alvarez,” said Marin. “Take ­Cervantes’s dory and go tell ­Margaret. We’ll bring him there in two hours. Ramos, you fetch his hammock while I get started here.” Alvarez left, and the other men wrapped ­Cervantes’s body in the hammock that he had used when he was with Delores. They carried it down to the beach and laid it in a dory, then returned to the aunt, who was trying to calm her hysterical niece. “Alvarez is on his way to tell ­Margaret,” Ramos said. “We should soon follow. The body won’t keep long in this heat.” Auntie nodded and handed Ramos the bundle of clothes she had collected. Then she turned to Marin. “Delores is weak. Help me get her to the beach.” Within an hour the group of mourners was sailing north, with the corpse of ­Cervantes Diego, toward M ­ argaret’s home in Lidisi.

­Cervantes’s Wake ­ argaret roused from sleep. What was that sound? she wondered. The chilM dren are quiet. It’s after midnight. Maybe some bush-­spirit moving about. “Miss ­Margaret!” The voice that had woken her came again. That’s not a bush-­spirit. They don’t call twice. Her small, muscular body jerked to attention as she remembered her husband’s brief visit earlier that night. Her fear-­choked voice hissed, “What do you want, man?” “It’s Alvarez here, from San Pedro. I have a message.” ­Margaret opened the thatched door of her house and, as soon as she saw

Old Ways  9

Alvarez’s face, she knew. “­Cervantes is dead.” Her soundless lips shaped the words as Alvarez spoke them. He reached to brace her but withdrew his arm as ­Margaret willed her body to stand strong despite the grief and despair welling up inside her. ­Margaret’s sister, Khandi, heard the voices and looked out a window. Her startling green eyes shone in the darkness of her face. “Something’s serious wrong,” she thought when she saw a man standing at ­Margaret’s door. Khandi lit a lantern and went to be with her sister, while Alvarez walked to the next house to wake C ­ ervantes’s Uncle Francisco. In minutes, ­Margaret’s yard was well lighted with lanterns brought by her neighbors. One woman built a fire, while two others prepared bread and coffee. Several more offered Khandi their help. “I can bring rum for bathing the body.” “We’ll dig the grave.” “I have herbs for the bath.” The mourners from San Pedro arrived, and Alvarez fashioned support poles for the sails from C ­ ervantes’s dory, making a shelter for those gathering for the wake. Khandi went to her sister, who was in the back room nursing Santa. Her face was strained, her skin gray, and she stared straight ahead. “­Margaret,” Khandi said gently, “who do you ask for the bathing?” “What bathing?” ­Margaret asked, not yet able to accept the reality of her husband’s death. “­Cervantes is dead. Who do you ask for the bathing?” Ramos and Marin brought ­Cervantes’s hammock-­wrapped body into the house. ­Margaret turned her head away. “No! No bathing!” she screamed. Khandi laid Santa in ­Margaret’s hammock. Then she grabbed her sister, shook her, held her. “Catch yourself up, girl. It’s finished now. Who do you ask for the bathing?” ­Margaret stared at her husband’s body, then looked to Marin in desperation. “Yes, M ­ argaret,” Marin responded. “I’ll see to the bathing, and I’ll ask ­Cervantes’s Uncle Francisco to help me.” Khandi led her sister out of the house, to a bench beneath ­Cervantes’s sails. Delores was already seated in a corner of the yard. Friends came, one at a time, to express their sorrow. Each stopped for a moment to talk with ­Margaret, then crossed over to speak to the sec­ond wife. During a lull between conversations, M ­ argaret beckoned to Khandi. “Please take coffee to Delores, and ask wouldn’t she like to borrow one of my shawls. The breeze is picking up.” She stared at ­Cervantes’s sec­ond wife. She is beautiful, M ­ argaret mused. I understand why C ­ ervantes was so taken with her. Still I was always foremost in his respect.

10  Part 1

Across the space of the yard, Delores accepted the coffee Khandi brought her, but refused the shawl. “I don’t need M ­ argaret’s handouts,” she snarled. “­Cervantes always gave me more than I asked for.” “There’s no call for rudeness, Delores,” Auntie reprimanded. “Who does she think she is?” The young woman flounced her skirt. “­Cervantes loved me best!” “She’s ­Cervantes’ first wife, and you owe her that respect,” hissed the aunt. “­Margaret never interfered with you. She even offered help when Terese was born. She’d be your friend if you’d let her.” “Oh, yes. She interferes all the time! Only last month ­Cervantes didn’t take me to the fiesta. ‘No, Delores. M ­ argaret and the boys are expecting me.’ ” “­Cervantes was always fair to you, child. You knew, when you married him, that you were the sec­ond wife. These people show you proper respect. Behave!” Inside the house, the men bathed the body of ­Cervantes with herbs and rum for his spiritual cleansing. They stuffed his anus and nostrils with cotton, and rewrapped him in the hammock, adding an outside cover with his hammock from ­Margaret’s house. They laid the corpse on the sand floor in the front room and lit two small fires, one at the foot and one at the head of the body. ­Margaret came back into the house to put on a black, widow’s dress, borrowed from a neighbor. She sat on a stool next to Cervantes, ­­ mourning, the reality of his death taking her over. She paid no attention to the people who came in and out of the house, except to nod gratefully at Khandi, who was taking charge. Delores entered and walked over to where ­Margaret was sitting. “I’ve come to sit with my husband.” Hysteria tinged her voice, and she began to tremble. Khandi brought her a stool. Delores sat down, stared at Cervantes ­­ for a moment, then burst into loud weeping. “Quiet, girl!” Khandi whispered, but Delores only wept louder. Khandi set her hands on her hips. “Collect yourself, woman!” Her voice was harsh. “Spirits of the dead don’t like all that crying. How’s C ­ ervantes to find his way when you’re making flood waters? How’s he to see the ground? Stop that bawling!” Other mourners stared at Delores, shocked at her behavior. Delores ignored Khandi’s warning. “I’m just thinking that now ­­Cervantes is with my father and mother.” She sobbed and continued to shower tears. “Still, you can’t stay here crying!” Khandi’s face looked as though it were carved of stone. “What will people think, seeing you act so shamefully? You’ll have to leave if you won’t stop those tears.” Delores wiped her hand over her face, drew several deep breaths, and

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quieted. After a few moments, she leaned forward and began talking to ­Cervantes in a low voice. “What the hell are you doing, now?” Khandi demanded. “I’m giving my husband a message to take to my mother and father.” Khandi jumped up. “Get away from there, woman! Get away! Nobody’s going to send messages to the dead through C ­ ervantes!” Delores walked out into the yard, but soon returned. This time she shouted with uncontrolled fury. “Oh, my husband, why have you done this to me? Why have you left me? Now I’m all alone. Who’s to care for me? You’ve left me and I have no one. No one! Fuck you, ­Cervantes! Fuck you!” “Come, child.” The old auntie took her by the arm. “Her soul-­spirit is weak,” she apologized to the mourners. “Let’s go now,” she said softly to Delores. A neighbor came to help, and together they led the hysterical woman from the house.

­Cervantes’s Burial At dawn, ­Margaret went into the back room to nurse Santa. As she rocked the infant, Khandi entered, carrying a clothes basket. “What are those things?” ­Margaret asked. “My gowns and a comb.” Khandi set the basket down and pointed to the roof. “Is that support pole strong enough for two hammocks? I’ll tie mine next to yours.” “You’re going to sleep here?” “Of course. Who else? You’d rather hire the old woman who cares for widows?” “No. I just . . . I didn’t think about it.” “There’ll be time to think later. Come here now. I’ll fix your hair.” “I don’t want much plait.” “No plait, girl! You know we’ve got to cut it all off. You’re mourning now. You have to be careful. They say whatever you do during this next year can mark you for life.” ­Margaret nodded slowly. “I know. I forgot for a moment. I can’t leave the house for a whole year.” A sob tore from her. “Oh, Khandi! A year of mourning! How will I manage?” “One day and one day,” Khandi replied, wishing she could ease Margaret’s ­­ pain, but knowing that her sister must go through this. At mid-­morning ­Margaret emerged from the house. She was dressed in black. Her shaved head was covered by a mantilla that she pulled low to hide her face. She held herself erect, and walked with the grace of

12  Part 1

those who have carried head loads since childhood. M ­ argaret held the infant, Santa, in her arms; and Khandi walked behind her leading the two boys. They followed Alvarez and Marin, who carried C ­ ervantes’s corpse. His hammock-­wrapped body was tied to a pole they supported on their shoulders. Delores came next, then the rest of their friends. The procession wound to the burial ground. The morning was hot and humid, and sweat darkened the mourners’ shirts. Bright orange flowers perched on green stalks, as if ready for flight. Overhead, lacy-­white blossoms drifted in a slight breeze. The distant mountains were purple against a clear blue sky. Mosquitoes flew up from the grass along the path, and members of the procession waved them away with branches. ­Margaret appeared not to notice the pests. Her beautiful oval face was calm. She saw that the blue mangoes were ripe and thought she should pull one for evening tea. ­Cervantes loved the sweet fruit sprinkled with pepper. She looked across a field to the rows of cassava sticks she had planted on the new moon, and mused, The next time I see this field those mounds will be ready for digging, and the mangoes will be ripe again. A deep sigh shuddered her body. All those times I was tired and wished for rest. I never imagined I’d find it this way. How will I ever manage this year of mourning? I’m not old, like Granny was when she buried Grandpa. ­Margaret thought back to that earlier funeral, when she had been a small girl in the home of her grandparents. She remembered the grave dug into the sand floor of the house and the small fire that was lit each evening at its foot. She could still see the long stick Granny used during her year of silence to point to things, or to rap a pole when she wanted attention. ­Margaret remembered how frightened she had been when her Granny refused to talk to her. Well, I will not be silent for one year. I don’t care what they say. I’m going to talk to my children, she decided. “I’m lucky Khandi is with me. I wouldn’t want someone else sleeping here. Not that C ­ ervantes will bother me. He’s a good husband. Always shows me proper respect. He won’t come on me. He knows that dream is not sweet for a woman. Behind M ­ argaret, friends supported Delores as she approached the grave. Twice she stumbled. “I feel light. I can’t walk, Auntie.” “Yes you can, child. Take your lead from M ­ argaret.” “I feel light,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to live.” An elder prayed as C ­ ervantes’s friends refilled the grave with earth. “Bungi, our brother begins his journey to Sari, where he will fish and live among those who have gone ahead. Make his way easy. Grandparents, meet your child to show him the way.”

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Delores screamed and slumped to the ground in a faint. “Her soul-­spirit is light,” one woman whispered. “If she’s not careful, C ­ ervantes will pull her into the grave with him,” another agreed. ­Margaret turned away from the group and led her children back to their yard. Grandparents, why has this happened? What am I going to do? she thought. She looked once more at her garden before she entered the house to begin a year of seclusion. In a few minutes, Khandi bustled in. “I’ve set out the herb bath, so the mourners can clean themselves before they leave. Delores has come round. They’re loading the dory. Do you want to talk to her before she goes?” “There’s nothing to say. It’s over for both of us.” There was an unfamiliar hardness in ­Margaret’s eyes. “Let her go bawl in her own house.” “Well then, I’ll make tea. The neighbors brought lots of food.” ­Margaret touched her shaved head. “Feed the children. I’m not hungry.” “I’ll feed the children and you,” Khandi declared. ­Margaret turned away from her sister. “You know widows fast. They can’t eat much lest they become gluttons, can’t touch money lest they become greedy, no jollying. . . .” Khandi interrupted ­Margaret’s bitter litany. “I know that’s what they say, and that’s fine for the old women.” She stepped into a fresh gown. “But you must eat. You must stay strong.” “Strong for what?” ­Margaret grimaced. “Shut up here in this house!” “Strong for your children. You must keep your strength up,” Khandi insisted. ­Margaret moved to the front window and looked through a cluster of coconut trees, down to the thatched shed where ­Cervantes’s dory rested in the sand. The mast and nets, lying in a heap on the beach, turned her thoughts to her husband. Yes, ­Cervantes, I know you’re still here. I’ll soon see to your tea. Later I’ll find a cigar for you.

­Cervantes’s Spirit ­ argaret cleared a corner of their sleeping room and bent to sweep the M floor with her thatch broom. She placed a calabash cup filled with water on the sand. “Here’s cool water for you, ­Cervantes.” She turned to her sons. “Innocente, fetch the white candle from the front room. We’ll light it so your papa can find his way. Portacio, ask Aunt Khandi to fetch a mango for your papa’s tea.” Khandi looked up from laying a special fire in the yard. The next nine

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days, she would tend it for her brother-­in-­law’s spirit. “Yes, little Tas, what do you want?” “Ma says please fetch mango for Papa’s tea.” “Okay, baby, come. We’ll walk together.” “When will Papa come, Aunt Khandi?” “Your papa is here now, baby, only you can’t see him.” Portacio looked around the yard. “Where’s Papa?” “He’s right here, man. He sees everything we’re doing.” “Maybe he’s at the boat shed.” Tas ran toward the front yard. “No, wait now,” Khandi called. “I have to peel this mango for your ma ’cause she’s not suppose to touch knives.” “Why, Aunt Khandi?” “It’s our people’s rules. She can’t touch knives lest she become a killer.” Khandi handed a plate of juicy, orange mango slices to Tas. “Here now, take this to your ma. Mind you sprinkle it with pepper first. Your papa likes mango with pepper.” ­Margaret lit a candle and handed the plate to Innocente. “Put it down by the water. That’s right, son, next to the cup. Now, you call Papa to tea.” “Ma?” The boy frowned with confusion. “Call Papa to tea. Say, ‘Come Papa, enjoy your mango.’ ” Innocente continued to frown but did as ­Margaret instructed. “Come, Papa, eat your mango,” he muttered. ­Margaret reassured her sons. “It’s all right, boys. You go play in the yard. Santa and I will sit here with Papa while he enjoys his tea.” As darkness approached, Khandi prepared the house for sleeping. She folded clothes, placed them in their proper baskets, then returned a machete and a cooking pot to the storage area in the eaves of the house. She unrolled the children’s sleeping mats, and latched down the palm-­f rond window covers. Khandi sat sideways in her hammock to gently rock Santa to sleep. She hummed a lullaby and thought, The first day and eight to go for the Nine Nights. I wonder what my brother-­in-­law would like for morning tea? Maybe I’ll brown rice for coffee, and he likes lots of sugar. Santa’s body jerked stiff. Her fat fists clenched tight, and her eyes fixed at a spot over Khandi’s shoulder. “­Cervantes!” Khandi exclaimed aloud, then thought, No. It must be a shadow, the breeze. Khandi turned to look where Santa stared, but she saw nothing but a basket of cassava and an old paddle resting on supports below the thatched roof. She thought, Surely ­Cervantes won’t bother this baby. Then she spoke aloud to her brother-­in-­ law. “My friend, your life here is cut short. We’re all hurt and angry at this;

Old Ways  15

but don’t turn your anger on this little one. You’ll stay here among us for the Nine Nights; and we’ll care for you. But then you must go on the journey, and you should not try to hurt us.” Khandi held Santa on her lap, waiting for the little girl’s body to relax, waiting for her eyes to regain focus and for her breathing to become regular. ­Margaret had been watching from across the room. Fear made her voice quake. “Do you think C ­ ervantes will try to take Santa with him? You know he’s crazy about her.” “Best I fix a guard, just in case,” Khandi replied. “We don’t want any more problems in this house.” She wrapped garlic in a black cloth. “All right, Miss Santa, we’ll tie this necklace on you. Your papa won’t come round you with that on.” She laid the little girl next to her sleeping brothers and watched to be certain the child was breathing normally. Then sighing with fatigue, Khandi slipped into her hammock to sleep. The night passed quietly, and at dawn ­Margaret relit the candle for her husband’s spirit. She filled the calabash with fresh water and placed a lighted cigar next to it. “Come, ­Cervantes, enjoy your smoke,” she whispered, and then she went to dress her children. In San Pedro, Delores’s aunt also lit a candle for C ­ ervantes’s spirit; but things were not going well in that house. Delores had fainted twice more on the sail home. Marin carried her to her hammock, and Auntie rubbed her with strong rum to revive her soul-­spirit. It was midnight before ­Delores fell into a normal sleep. Auntie dropped wearily on the floor of the front room. I’m too old for this. No sleep in two days. Too much for me, she thought. Tomorrow I’ll fetch my clothes. Auntie drifted into a deep sleep. In her dreams she thought she heard a child cry out, but she was too exhausted to get up. At dawn she woke with a start, as she heard moans coming from Delores’s room. She rose stiffly and hobbled to where her niece was sleeping. “What’s wrong, child? What’s wrong?” Delores was unconscious. Her body was rigid, knuckles showed white on her clenched fists, and her knees were locked. Her breathing was labored and irregular. The old woman patted her niece’s face. “Delores. ­Delores!” But no response. Auntie rubbed the girl’s head and called again, “Delores. Delores!” She splashed rum on the tranced widow’s stiff arms and legs. Gradually, the young woman began breathing normally. Her fists relaxed as her aunt massaged her limbs. At last, Delores sighed and appeared to be sleeping. The old woman hurriedly prepared a corner altar for ­Cervantes’s spirit

16  Part 1

with a calabash of water and two pieces of cassava bread. As she lit the candle, she saw that Delores was awake. Her niece spoke in a whisper, eyes bulged with terror. “­Cervantes was here all night. He’s pulling me into the grave! All night he dreamed on me, touching me, laying on me. He said he wanted me to go with him!” Delores raised her gown. “Look, Auntie. Look at this mess. I’m wet through. Sex over and over. Oh, Auntie, it’s not sweet at all, at all.” “So that’s it. It’s partly my fault, girl. I should have fixed the altar last night, and I should have slept closer to you. Should’ve known ­Cervantes wouldn’t give up easy. It’s all come too fast. None of us is thinking straight.” “I’m scared, Auntie.” “Catch yourself up, girl. You must be strong.” “I don’t know how to be strong. I can’t live without C ­ ervantes.” “That’s foolishness. Now you lie there while I call Marin to light ­­Cervantes’s fire in the yard. He should have done that when we got home. Then I’ll find your godmother, and we’ll tend to things.” In the course of an hour, the old women had located mourning clothes and a bottle of spirit oil. They rubbed Delores’s skin with the black stinking syrup that repelled spirits. They dressed her in black clothes and hung black beads around her neck. “I’ll put ruda under your hammock tonight. That should keep ­Cervantes away from you. But if it doesn’t work we’ll have to shave your head.” “Oh, Auntie, no!” “Don’t be silly, child. This thing is serious. If you need to cut your hair so C ­ ervantes won’t want you, then you’d better do it. Be thankful you don’t have to take full mourning of a first wife. Soon you can move about, so long as you mind the rules. In the house before dark, no rain on you, and no strong spirits.” Next morning, Delores giggled, “Oh, Auntie, ­Cervantes is vexed with you. Last night he came and stood by my hammock and just looked at me with his mouth poked out. He grabbed the hammock and shook it and shook it. I thought he would throw me out. Then he went away.” “Umph,” the old woman replied. “I suppose he’s vexed by the black oil and ruda. Well, we’ll keep you protected until after the Nine Nights. He’s not likely to bother you again.”

Release from Mourning The year of mourning was over. Santa walked on strong, chubby legs, and once again the mangoes shimmered iridescent blue. ­Margaret put on her

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black, widow’s dress and folded the skirt to hide a spot rubbed thin with wear. The mantilla she settled on her head no longer slipped off her bare skull but caught and hung in the year’s growth of wavy black hair. Khandi opened a shutter to let in the morning breeze. “They say ­Delores will marry the widower, Manuel.” “Why? She’s young and beautiful. Why should she marry a man her father’s age?” Khandi laughed. “Because she’s not worth a fart, and you know it. Ouch!” The shutter prop had swung back and hit Khandi on the head. ­Margaret chuckled. “The Old People punished you for saying that.” “Aye, ­Margaret, it’s good to see you laugh again.” Khandi rubbed her head and smiled at her sister. “But we both know it’s true. Delores is weak, and her soul-­spirit is light. C ­ ervantes spoiled her. A younger man thinks twice about that.” Now Khandi became serious. “So what are you going to say, ­Margaret?” “Say about what?” “Don’t play cute with me, sister. Who will you choose? It’s plain that both Alvarez and Ramos want to marry you. They’ve been about the yard nearly every week. Alvarez brings fish each time he beaches his dory. And Ramos worked the new cassava sticks. Either one would be a good husband for you.” “I don’t want to be a sec­ond wife,” ­Margaret answered coldly. “If they’re so fine why don’t you marry one of them?” “Now don’t start with that. We’re talking about you, not me.” ­Margaret persisted. “You ought to marry, Khandi. Why are you so stubborn?” “You know why, ­Margaret. You know very well there was only one husband for me.” Khandi’s green eyes flashed. “If I couldn’t have him, I won’t have another. Besides, I can’t bend like you, accepting other women that a husband insists on having.” “That’s a man’s nature, Khandi,” M ­ argaret said gently. “Fine. Then man can take his nature elsewhere.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “He’ll not advantage me!” “Okay, okay, sister. Hey, don’t cry. We both know that when Papa sent Raymond away, he intended for you to marry someone else. What would he say now, seeing the way you jolly with first one man then another?” “Well, he died without seeing me marry. And so far he hasn’t caused any trouble.” Khandi sniffed. “I had to accept it when he decided Raymond wasn’t good enough for me. He can take the way I choose to live.” She glared at ­Margaret. “Anyway, now that your year of mourning is over, I

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think I’ll go back to Larube. With Papa gone, someone should be there on our land. I suppose the farm is bush by now.” “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” M ­ argaret said. “You want to go back too?” Khandi’s voice rose. “Alone? You’re used to having a partner, ­Margaret! What about the children?” “I can raise them alone, and I can raise them in Larube as well as I can here. I want to go home.” Khandi shrugged. “Well, this is not the morning to worry that one. Aye, girl, it’s a good day for you! Come on. It’s time for you to bathe in the sea again.” ­Margaret waded into the bay, accompanied by Khandi and two friends. One grabbed the mantilla and ripped it in half. ­Margaret ducked under a wave, enjoying the feel of live water rippling over her skin. She dove again and came up shouting, “The mourning’s over!” Her friend, ­Rosanita, grabbed the back of her blouse and jerked it free. ­Margaret splashed her bare breasts and shoulders. Khandi pulled the tie strings of her sister’s skirt, and the other women grabbed the hem. The old cloth tore into rags. ­Margaret went under the water and came up facing the shoreline. She ran naked to her house, taking care not to look back at her clothes that floated out to sea. In her home, ­Margaret slipped a new gown over her head. She adjusted its pink-­checked yoke on her shoulders and straightened the puffed sleeves. Then, for the first time in a year, she turned the mirror away from the wall and looked at her reflection. Lines around my mouth. She smiled to see if they would disappear. That’s better. She examined her large, amber eyes. They’re still clear, and my skin looks healthy. Be thankful for that, she thought, while she oiled her hair with coconut and combed it into four neat plaits. ­Margaret tied a blue scarf across her brow line and knotted it high behind her ears. She stepped into a pink-­checked overskirt and adjusted its full gathers. It’s time to meet the old men. ­Margaret breathed deeply then exhaled. They won’t like it when I tell them I’m leaving. She opened her front door to greet the acalde and Uncle Francisco who were waiting in the yard. “Good morning, Uncles.” “Good day, M ­ argaret. We’ve come to show you the gardens we’ve tended for you during your year of sorrow.” ­Cervantes’s uncle spoke formally, as befitted this ritual that released a widow from mourning. ­Margaret followed the two men as they circled the yard. “There are three new coconuts in that corner,” Uncle Francisco told her. “They look strong,” M ­ argaret replied.

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“See the hen on her nest, just under the guava tree? Six eggs there,” announced the village leader. “So many! The ancestors are gracious.” ­Margaret followed the men down a newly cut path to her farm. On the way she looked to the burial ground. Only grass there now, she thought. No red earth marked the lines of ­Cervantes’s grave. “I see the stream side is clear and clean. A nice place to wash clothes,” she commented. “Here is the new cassava.” Uncle Francisco pointed. “And over there, the hills are ready to plant yams when the moon comes right.” “I see two new rows of plantain. Truly, the farm has received good care. “Thank you, uncles.” “Don’t thank us, M ­ argaret,” the acalde corrected. “Thanks are not in order. You’re not a child that must clear her debts with ‘thank you.’ ” ­Margaret smiled to herself and led the two men back to her house. “Come in and rest. I’ll fetch some cashew wine. It’s not strong. Khandi only set it two weeks ago.” “You won’t drink some, ­Margaret?” “Yes, Uncle Francisco, I’ll break my fast with a cup of wine.” The three were silent as they sipped the sweet pungent brew. The acalde returned his calabash cup to the wooden tray. He coughed hesitantly and looked to Francisco. “­Margaret, you know it is our way to care for each other. When a widow comes out of mourning, we find a husband for her to go with. Even though you have no men in your family here, you are C ­ ervantes’s widow, and you are under my care.” Francisco cleared his throat and turned to the leader. “Yes but, as head man in this village, I have a problem. Both Alvarez and Ramos have offered to marry you. Francisco advises you to accept ­Alvarez; but some of the others think Ramos would be a better match.” “I’ve decided not to take a husband,” M ­ argaret declared. The acalde was startled. “But, ­Margaret, you need a man to comfort you! It’s not right for a young woman to stay without a man.” “If I need comfort I can find it on my own.” “You speak chancy, girl,” Francisco said sternly. “That’s the talk of a fancy woman. Delores will marry Manuel. You should marry Alvarez.” “I thank you for that, Uncle, but I don’t want to marry now,” M ­ argaret insisted. “But what about the farm?” the acalde intervened. “You need a man to help.” “Was ­Cervantes here when I needed help? Sometimes yes, sometimes

20  Part 1

no. ­Cervantes brought me to Lidisi as a bride. I was faithful to him. But many days, I was on my own while he was in San Pedro or elsewhere.” She nodded with determination. “I want to return to my birthplace. I will take my children to the British side, to Larube. Khandi will go with me.”

A Stormy Journey A few months later, Khandi watched her sister counting coins. “What are they for?” she asked. “To buy rum.” ­Margaret looked up. “I’m going to give C ­ ervantes a bathing before we leave.” “You think that’s necessary? Money is scarce for both of us.” “Maybe not necessary, but smart, I hope. C ­ ervantes has been on his journey for over a year now. He’s bound to be hot and tired. He hasn’t bothered us; and I don’t want him giving trouble while we’re trying to settle back in Larube. Time to cool him down. That will give us room to maneuver before he gets hungry and calls for a feeding.” “Miss ­Margaret?” Alvarez’s voice sounded in the front yard. Innocente and Tas stopped eating the sweet, pink flesh of guavas long enough to reply, “Ma’s in the house, Uncle Alvarez.” ­Margaret watched the handsome man approach. He resembled ­­Cervantes in frame, tall and strong. But his bearing was different. Where C ­ ervantes had been quick and unpredictable, Alvarez moved with measured calmness. “Come in, my friend. Would you like some water? It’s hot today.” “No thanks, ­Margaret, but I came to check out things for the trip.” She motioned him to a seat. “Yes, Alvarez?” “We’ll leave at dawn. That way we should be through open water and inside the reef before afternoon storms. We’ll sail it in two days. Can you bring cassava bread and a cook pot? Santiago and I have the rest of what we need.” ­Margaret nodded. “Good. We’ll beach our dory in Lidisi three nights from now, and sail out on the fourth dawn.” “You’re a good man to take us, Alvarez. Khandi and I will be ready.” Alvarez walked to the door, hesitated, and asked, “You sure you won’t stay here with me, ­Margaret?” “I thank you for that, Alvarez, but no. Better we return to my father’s land.” “I would be good to your children.” “I know that, Alvarez.” M ­ argaret avoided his steady gaze. “Somehow I can’t think about being another man’s wife. Not yet, Alvarez.” “Okay, ­Margaret. I’ll see you in three days.”

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Later, ­Margaret walked to Uncle Francisco’s house. “Greetings. How are things with you?” the old man inquired. “Not too bad, Uncle. We’ll soon be ready to leave.” “Good, ­Margaret. Here, sit in the shade while we talk.” “I can’t stay now, Uncle. There are still things to see about. I came to tell you that ­Cervantes will bathe tomorrow.” Concern etched Francisco’s face. “He’s been bothering you, ­Margaret?” “No, Uncle. I just think it should be done before I leave.” “You’re a wise woman, ­Margaret.” Francisco sighed. “Aye, these spirits, we must not forget them.” “Will you send word to Casamerio? I’d like him to be here, since he was in Larube during the funeral.” “My son and I will be there. Do you want him to come early to dig the sand?” “That would help me, Uncle.” “It will be done, M ­ argaret.” Next morning, M ­ argaret stirred in her sleep, then came fully awake. “The cock crowed. Time we’re moving,” she whispered to Khandi. The sisters dressed without talking. Khandi opened the front door for ­Cervantes’s cousin, Casamerio, while M ­ argaret sorted yet another pile of clothes, discarding everything that was not essential for their trip. Innocente sat up and blinked sleepy eyes at his mother. “Morning, Ma.” “Morning, son.” “It’s not light, Ma.” “Soon will be. Get up and dress. Your papa will bathe this morning. Casamerio is here to dig the sand.” “My papa’s dead, Ma.” “Yes, Innocente, he’s dead, but he’s always near us.” “I don’t see him,” the boy stubbornly insisted. “You will, son. In time you will. Go into the front room and watch Casamerio, but don’t interfere.” Casamerio did not speak to Innocente. His thoughts were on Cervantes, ­­ so alive, and then so unexpectedly dead. He tossed shovel after shovel of sand toward the side wall as he opened the representation of his cousin’s grave. Suddenly his shovel hit a rock in the sand. “Holy Spirits! I’ve hit the bones!” Then he remembered that this was the new way, not like when the old folks were buried. His cousin’s body was out in the burying ground, not in the floor of his house. Not that we would have changed our ways, ­Casamerio thought, except the Spanish made such a fuss. “People who bury the dead in their houses have to be savages,” they insisted.

22  Part 1

Khandi placed wood at the foot of the “grave” as Casamerio trimmed the sides of the hole. She lit the fire while ­Margaret strung a line across a corner of the room and hung a clean set of man’s clothes over it. ­“Innocente, fetch a large calabash of water, and tell Tas to bring soap and a towel.” Uncle Francisco came into the house, and ­Margaret handed him a chap of rum. He poured it into and around the “grave,” and said, “­Cervantes, you have been on your journey for more than a year. Your wife, ­Margaret, invites you to refresh yourself.” ­Margaret carried Santa toward the hole. She dipped a cup of water and poured it into the “grave.” “­Cervantes, I say this for your daughter, Santa. ‘Come, Papa, enjoy your bath.’ ” She set Santa on the floor and beckoned to Portacio. “Fill the calabash, son, and pour it. That’s right. Now say, ‘Papa, come cool yourself.’ ” “Will Papa come, Ma?” “Yes, little one, but we won’t see him. We’ll leave him to bathe in ­private.” Khandi led Innocente toward the “grave.” She handed him the cup. “Okay, Innocente, now you pour it and invite your papa to come enjoy his bath.” “Papa should come home so I can really see him!” “Mind your mouth, Innocente. Your papa will come to you when he’s ready. Pour the water, man.” The boy emptied the cup into the hole, then sulked away, kicking sand as he went. Khandi held her calabash. “Aye, ­­Cervantes, you’ve left us; but we know that you are still here. Come, brother-­ in-­law, enjoy your bath, refresh yourself.” ­Margaret followed Casamerio in line. “My husband, we are about to leave on a journey. Come, cool yourself. Then watch over your wife and children as we move to the other side. I will not forget you, C ­ ervantes.” Finally, Uncle Francisco spoke. “My nephew, we still grieve you. But our lives must go on. Your wife, M ­ argaret, has seen to refresh you before she leaves. Watch over her and the children. She’s doing what she thinks is best.” He turned to Portacio and Innocente. “Come, boys, let’s go watch the sun rise while your papa enjoys his bath.” An hour later Uncle Francisco reentered the room. The fire at the foot of the “grave” was only embers. He poured a sec­ond chap of rum in and around the hole. “So now, ­Cervantes. You have refreshed yourself. Continue on your journey as we go on ours.” Casamerio filled in the sand, smoothing the surface of the floor as it had been before they began. ­Margaret removed the clothes from the line and packed them in her yamadi (a double-­walled basket that floats). Until the next time, ­­Cervantes, she thought.

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That evening, M ­ argaret and Khandi made final preparations for the trip to Larube. They tied Khandi’s sieve and ­Margaret’s mahogany bread bowl into a round, flat package and crisscrossed their machetes over its top. They stacked a small cooking pot into a larger one, then filled the space with four ripe coconuts, a few calabash cups and bowls, and their small collection of cutlery. ­Margaret laid leaf-­wrapped cassava bread on top of her clothes and fitted the yamadi lid over its bottom half. “I guess that’s all.” She looked around the room again. “I’m going to sleep, Khandi. Close the shutters, will you?” M ­ argaret lay in her tattered hammock and thought of days she had spent with ­Cervantes. Soon weariness overwhelmed her memories. Before dawn, they were at the seaside, where Alvarez and Santiago waited. The sails filled as Alvarez took the rudder. Once beyond the shallows, M ­ argaret shared buns and cheese with the boatmen and her children. Tas said, “I’m thirsty, Ma.” ­Margaret poured a small portion of fresh water from the crew’s container. “Drink it all and don’t waste it. Short rations today, Tas.” She took the empty cup. “Now lie down there and sleep. You weren’t ready to wake up when I called you.” She turned to Innocente. “You too. Go back to sleep.” The boys settled into the bottom of the dory. “Ma,” Innocente asked, “when will we get there?” “Not until evening. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you before then.” ­Margaret settled herself and Santa, relaxing with the gentle roll of the surf. Both she and Khandi dozed. However, it wasn’t long before Innocente began a litany of complaints that lasted through­out the trip: “I’m thirsty.” “The sun is hot.” “I’m going to throw up.” Santiago, sarcastically dubbed him “The Skipper.” The nickname stuck. The sun rose yellow hot above the horizon. Alvarez and Santiago tacked along the coast, seeking a breeze that would carry them across the open bay to the safety of the barrier reef. Tack left. Tack right. Tack left again. Santiago scanned the sky for weather signs, and Alvarez watched the birds leaving the mainland for the keys. ­Margaret woke with a start. “Whew, it’s hot!” she said. Sweat trickled down her breasts, and she saw that Santa’s neck was beaded with perspiration. She draped a scarf over each of the boys’ faces and moved to cast a shadow over Santa’s body. She looked to Santiago. He shrugged and shook his head. The sails collapsed limp again. Skipper swatted at the scarf that tickled his ear. He looked over the side of the dory and pointed to the coastline. “Is that Larube, Ma?”

24  Part 1

“Afraid not, Skipper. Here, turn around and watch Uncle Santiago work the sails. One day you’ll sail a dory, Skipper. Watch how he does it.” The sun bore down hot and the sails only fluttered in the slack breeze. Tack left. Tack right. Tack left again. Another hour passed, and then Alvarez spoke. “Perhaps we should turn back, ­Margaret. It’s mid-­morning and we have to count on five hours to get inside the reef.” “Will we get a wind?” “Yes, later. But we’ll have to run before the dark.” ­Margaret looked to her sister. “I don’t want to turn back. What do you think?” Khandi turned to Santiago. “What would you do if we weren’t here?” “We’d sail for the reef,” he answered with lighthearted assurance. “Then let’s keep going.” “­Margaret, you’re sure?” Alvarez asked, hoping she would reconsider. ­Margaret looked at her children, then at the limp sails. “Yes, I’m sure.” Her jaw jutted. “I’m not meant to turn back.” For two more hours they made little progress. The children whimpered, and ­Margaret and Khandi tried to distract them from their misery. Khandi began a song. “Now we need our new home. We need it now.” ­Margaret sang the response. “Now we need our new home. We need it now. Now we need Satuye.” “We left Saint Vincent lonely,” Khandi called. Her sister repeated the line in harmony. “Now we need Satuye. We left Saint Vincent lonely.” Santiago tightened a line on the sail and shouted the next verse. “Raft will be our transport from Saint Vincent. That will be our transport.” The adults repeated the words. “Raft will be our transport from Saint Vincent. That will be our transport. It is foggy around our home.” “We had no food or drink,” Santiago called. “It is foggy around our home. We had no food or drink,” all ended the song. Khandi tweaked her nephew’s chin. “You like that song, Tas?” “Yes, Aunt Khandi.” “Who is Satuye, Ma?” Skipper asked. “He was a leader of our ancient people. Back when they lived on Saint Vincent. He died in battle against our enemies.” “Like Papa, Ma? Did Satuye die fighting so we could have our own villages?” The boy struggled to make sense of what he had heard about ­­Cervantes’s revolt. “Did the Spanish kill Satuye?” “Something like that, son. Only it was British on Saint Vincent. Back in the seventeen hundreds before we came to this place. Or so the story

Old Ways  25

goes. Suppose to be that British wanted our people’s land. The Frenchman helped us fight for a time, but then they left Saint Vincent, and our people had to go it alone.” “Did they fight with guns, Ma, like Papa when he died?” ­Margaret shook her head then looked to Alvarez for help as a knot swelled in her throat. He answered for her. “I suppose they had some old muskets, Skipper, but I think mostly they fought with cutlass and bow and arrow. I heard how the men ambushed the enemy with clubs and knives. Our people fought a long time before they were forced off their land.” “Aye, that was a time of treachery,” added Santiago. “You know, many of them jumped off the cliffs into the sea rather than be taken.” “Did they swim to Honduras, Uncle Santiago?” “No, Skipper. Saint Vincent is too far even for a Garif to swim. Mostly they drowned. The ones that did get here came in a British frigate.” “What about the rafts?” Skipper demanded. “Slow down, son,” Santiago reprimanded. “I’ll get to it. The British knew they couldn’t make slaves of Garinagu. So they took all that was left to Roatan and put them off so they couldn’t get back to Saint Vincent. The Old People built rafts there, and sailed them to the mainland. A few made it to be free men. The rest were dead, but we were never slaves.” “Did you sail the raft, Uncle Alvarez?” Tas asked innocently. Alvarez laughed. “No, boy. I’m not that old. But I heard stories about how my great-­great-­grandparents made that trip.” A gust of cold wind filled the sails; and Santiago and Alvarez turned their attention to sailing. “Khandi, ­Margaret, you and the children settle down low in the bottom. It’s time to run for the reef. See those birds beating it to the key? It’ll be near dark when we reach.” Khandi looked at the sun behind black scudding clouds. It will be close, she calculated. Too much time with no breeze. We’ll be lucky to make the key by dark. Ocean spray blew over the group as Alvarez turned the dory straight into the waves. Course we’re sailing double time with this gale. Khandi spread her full skirt around Tas’s shoulders, protecting him from the frigid mist that blew past them. Tas edged closer as the bottom of the craft bounced on the crest of each wave. “What’s that, Aunt Khandi?” “We’re sailing the crests now, baby. This old dory is moving in style. The way the ancestors sail when they come to dugu from Sari. Confused and frightened, Tas asked, “Are we going to an ancestor party?” “No, Tas. Right now we’re going to the keys. Tomorrow we’ll sail into Larube.” The waves grew higher. The bouncing changed to roller-­coaster drops

26  Part 1

into wallows before the next swell washed across the small craft. Alvarez held the course in line with the last flock of birds he had seen. The dory’s prow shuddered, struggling to knife through the swells. Then it slammed down into the next wallow. The stored gear broke loose. M ­ argaret and Khandi grabbed bowls and bailed water from the bottom of the boat. Skipper whimpered, “Ma, lie down next to me. I’m cold.” “Hush, Innocente, and lie still.” She looked at Santa who was crying in the bottom of the boat. “Hold your sister, man,” she ordered, trying not to show her growing fear. Tas crawled to the other side of Santa and wrapped his short, muscular arms around her. “Don’t cry, Santa. I’ll take care of you. Aunt Khandi says it’s like sailing to dugu.” He gasped as the mahogany bread bowl cracked against his shoulder. At the same instant the fresh-­water container struck ­Margaret on her back. She sagged, stunned. Then she heard Alvarez shout, “Throw it!” ­Margaret looked around. He shouted again, “Dump it! It won’t help us now.” In the next wallow ­Margaret heaved the container over the side. A package of trade goods rolled toward Khandi. “Dump it!” Alvarez called into the wind. The sisters continued to bail while the terrified children huddled in the bottom of the dory. M ­ argaret longed to comfort them but, as she listened to the wind roar through the sails, she thought, The best I can do for them now is to keep bailing. No way we can swim against those waves. The tropic night fell with its usual suddenness. Alvarez concentrated on reading the water, listening for a change in the sound of the waves. I must round the reef, he thought. They can’t make it to shore on the seaside. “Damn that strong-­headed ­Margaret,” he muttered. “Why did I listen to her?” He knew the answer before he asked. That was exactly what drew him to ­Cervantes’s widow, more than any other woman had attracted him before. He continued to watch and listen. At last! The sound of the waves changed. Through the scream of the gale he heard rollers breaking on the reef. Alvarez signaled Santiago to shift course westward. The dory shuddered and rolled as it moved, no longer into the waves, but at an angle to them. ­Margaret and Khandi threw themselves over the children, bracing their arms against the sides of the dory. The wind slowed, and the swells changed. The sisters relaxed, waiting, not moving. From a long distance they heard the wave begin. A low hissing grew into a roar as it hit the dory broadside. Water rushed into the craft, sweeping loose items overboard. Between swells Khandi and ­Margaret bailed hard, listening for the hiss of the next wave. At the last moment they covered the children and braced for the impact. Then they bailed again.

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Alvarez saw the change of angle in the breakers and turned their course northward. Now to find a cut in the reef. Shilling-­sized raindrops beat on his cheeks as he studied the surf. Spray fumed along the coast. He continued northward, watching for a break in the white froth that would show a gap in the reef. There’s black water! No. Too narrow. He looked down at ­Margaret huddled over her children and shook his head with admiration. What a woman. Wish she would be mine. Alvarez sailed on northward, watching the surf as rain pelted the dory. Finally, he saw a wide, black break in the water. He turned the rudder toward shore and yelled to Santiago, “Drop sails!” A squall blew as the travelers reached the key. Santiago jumped into the sea and pulled the dory to the beach. Alvarez lifted each child to shore. Once ­Margaret and Khandi were on the sand, Santiago and ­Alvarez hauled the mast away and rolled the craft on its side. Alvarez called, “Bring the children under the dory.” Safe and dry there, the group slept.

Homeward Bound At first light, the boys explored the island. Tas found three crabs, each wearing a different shell. “Let’s race them,” Skipper said, grabbing the largest from his brother. He toed a line in the sand. “That’s the start, Tas. Put yours down next to mine.” Alvarez watched the boys, then walked over to M ­ argaret. “How’s the morning with you?” he asked quietly. “Alvarez, I’m just now finding time to thank you. You really sailed that dory, man.” “Well,” he smiled, suddenly shy at the compliment, “it will be clear sailing today. So let’s think about food and just relax ourselves for a while. I’ll go get us some fish.” “I’m thirsty, Ma,” Innocente said. “No problem, son,” answered Alvarez. “Let’s find my machete, and we’ll get you all you want to drink.” Alvarez led Skipper to the center of the key and pulled a green coconut from a tree. He slashed the end and handed the fruit to the boy. “Drink all you want.” Skipper gulped the clear liquid, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Thank you, Uncle Alvarez.” “Okay, lets take some to the rest of our folks.” Alvarez handed Skipper two coconuts and loaded his own arms with a half-­dozen. Khandi waded in the sea, turning over stones to find mollusks. She dropped these into the front of her overskirt. “Morning, Khandi. Think you could lend me a few of those for bait?” Alvarez asked.

28  Part 1

“Indeed, Captain.” She held her skirt out for Alvarez to select what he wanted. “Santiago’s gone to look for dry wood. Said he thought he remembered where some was stashed.” “Okay, I’ll get the fish.” Alvarez took a hand line from his pocket and waded out into the sea. Khandi pulled two conch from the seaweed but left a spawning queen undisturbed. “Auntie, Auntie,” Tas called. “Come see. There’s a big lobster.” “For true, Tas?” Khandi dropped her conchs onto the sand and hiked her skirts. Santiago yelled as she started into deeper water, “Khandi, wait! Wait, woman!” He ran up to Tas and his aunt. “You know better than that, Khandi. You want your feet slashed to ribbons? You think that coral is soft sand?” Tas pointed. “It’s a big lobster.” “I’ll get it for you. Now just wait ’til I come back.” Santiago returned wearing an ancient pair of sneakers. “Keep them stowed in my gear for such occasions.” He waddled onto the coral and grinned. “Like my style, Tas?” Tas laughed. “You’re funny, Uncle.” On shore, the boy imitated Santiago’s waddle. He wondered what it would be like to own a pair of shoes. He buried his toes into the wet sand and pretended that it was cloth wrapped around his feet. Later, Khandi picked up a ripe coconut and said, “Hey, I’m hungry.” She cracked the brown husk with her machete and tipped one half to catch the rich, white milk. “Santa, you want to sip the sweet?” The little girl tasted the coconut milk but turned up her lip. “That’s right, Santa,” M ­ argaret said. “The milk is for soup, not drink. Khandi, you know better than that. Don’t start these children liking things I can’t ­afford.” “Hey, ­Margaret, it’s a holiday. Relax, girl.” Khandi worked the point of her knife between the white coconut meat and its brown husk. “Seems like there’s no fun in you anymore.” She popped the meat away with a flip of her wrist. “Life’s hard enough without wasting the good times.” She shredded coconut on the stone teeth of their grater, then squeezed the pulp to extract milk for the soup. “I’ll save this trash ’cause my skin is dry. How ’bout you, ­Margaret?” “Yes, and the children need oil too.” ­Margaret heated the milky broth, while Alvarez cleaned two red snapper and Khandi shelled the mollusks. They dumped the seafood into the pot, which ­Margaret moved to the side of fire for a slow simmer. Santiago called, “Tas, Skipper, us men are going for a swim. Come on. Khandi, you women can bathe here and watch the pot at the same time.” The males walked to the opposite side of the island while ­Margaret, Khandi,

Old Ways  29

and Santa splashed naked in the sea close to where they had landed. They sat on their soiled clothes and let the sun dry their bodies. Khandi handed Santa a fistful of the grated coconut and took one herself. She rubbed the fiber over her body to bring her chocolate-­brown skin to a soft sheen. Santa did her best to imitate her aunt. “Here, baby, I’ll rub your back.” The little girl shivered with pleasure. “It feels good, no true?” Santa squirmed voluptuously. Khandi’s eyes twinkled. “­Margaret, are you seeing this?” “Really, Khandi,” ­Margaret answered primly, “you act like the child.” Khandi laughed, “Aye, sister, you’ll have your hands full with this one.” When the men returned, M ­ argaret scooped bowls of soup from the pot; and Khandi handed each person two pieces of cassava bread. They sat in the sand enjoying their meal. Skipper dipped his bread into the rich, white soup and brought up a chunk of lobster. “We found an old shed, Ma. It was broke down,” he said around a mouthful of food. “The fishermen will build another one day,” M ­ argaret replied. “Can we build one? Then we can take a nap under it.” “Not today. We have to leave soon as we eat. But you can help build a shed on the farm. I imagine that’s going to be one of our first jobs when we get there.” “It’ll be good to see our friends again,” Khandi said as she scrubbed the cook pot with wet sand. Tas asked, “Did Garinagu have friends when they went to the British side?” “No,” Santiago answered. “They were looking for new land to settle, and jobs as woodcutters. They stopped short of where the English and their slaves settled. Made their homes south of Saint M ­ argaret River. Then the men went north to find jobs in the logging camps.” “I could be a woodcutter man,” Tas spoke up. “Papa had an ax, didn’t he, Ma?” Skipper ignored his brother. “Are the English and the slaves still up there?” “The English are there. You’ll see some now and then in Larube. A mission priest comes around, and a district officer. If you travel north, you’ll meet the Creoles. They’re not slaves anymore.” “What are they?” “Mostly farmers, except in the city. They have shops, and trade in the market.” “They’re in Dangriga now,” commented Alvarez. “There are two or three shops and some help in the Catholic school. I heard about trouble over land claims. Garinagu leave their farms for a time. When they come back, Creoles have it.”

30  Part 1

“They better not try to claim our land,” M ­ argaret declared. “Guess we better get moving then.” Alvarez grinned. “Time to bring you people home. Let’s sail.” The weather was perfect. Bright sunshine sparkled on the turquoise water, and a steady breeze filled the sails. Santiago said to Tas, “See those two mountain peaks way off in the distance? That’s our first landmark for B. H. Now look straight north to the farthest key you can see. Got it? Okay, watch now. Alvarez will steer us straight between those two marks. When you see shoreline we won’t be far from Larube.” Two hours later Tas called. “I see it, Uncle. I see the shore.” “Right you are, Tas. You’re going to be a seaman.” “I’m going to be the seaman,” said Skipper. “Tas is going to be a woodcutter man. He said so.” “Well, Skipper, before it’s done, I suppose you both will do a lot more. Like farming. Us Garifuna men have to know all sorts of ways, leastwise we couldn’t survive in this land. A man does what needs doing.” “Is that Larube, Uncle?” Tas pointed to the village he had seen. “Yes. Straight ahead.” Tears came to ­Margaret’s eyes as she scanned the shoreline she had left years ago. The village looked much the same. The fishermen’s thatched boat sheds dotted the beach. She could see two men mending nets. Three boys swam in the low waves, and a woman walked up the beach carrying a load of firewood on her head. New palm trees grew where old ones had died. She recognized three new houses and saw that an older one had disappeared. Alvarez asked, “Is there someone you want me to call, M ­ argaret?” Startled, ­Margaret shook her head. “I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t know who’ll be here after all these years.” “I’ll make a general hail,” said Alvarez, and he blew on a conch. “Hoot, Hoot, Hoooooooot.” The fishermen and boys came to greet the dory. “Alvarez,” one of the men called from shore, “how’s the day? Good ­sailing?” “Not bad, Robert,” Alvarez answered. “We have some passengers. ­Margaret and Khandi Sabal have come back.” “Khandi, woman! So you’re home!” Robert Cayetano yelled. “About time, too.” He turned to the boy standing with him. “Thomas, run tell your ma that Khandi Sabal is here.” Robert waded out to the dory. “Miss ­Margaret, look at you. And who are these fine-­looking people?” “Hello, Robert. This is Innocente, ­Cervantes’s first son. We’re calling him Skipper.”

Old Ways  31

“God, we were all sorry to hear about C ­ ervantes, ­Margaret.” He shook his head. “Well, time to put that past, eh?” Robert turned to the boy. ­“Skipper Diego, welcome to Larube. Come, hang on to my shoulder. I’ll wade you in.” Santiago lifted Tas to shore, while M ­ argaret carried Santa. Agnes, Robert’s wife, hurried toward the group. “Khandi, ­Margaret,” she called. “Come let me hug you, my friends.” She turned to the children. “Who is this?” “I’m Portacio Diego.” “Good, Portacio Diego. You can call me Aunt Agnes. Thomas,” she spoke to her son, “take these boys to the yard. Fresh juice is in the cook shed.” She took Santa into her arms. Agnes’s gray eyes sparkled as she looked from daughter to mother. “Not so beautiful as you, M ­ argaret, but she has ­Cervantes’s smile. Look out, boys, she’s a killer!” ­Margaret laughed. “I see you haven’t changed, Agnes.” “ ‘Course she hasn’t changed,” Khandi joined in. “What’s to change with a perfect woman?” “Now there’s proper appreciation!” Agnes laughed. “Hey, I imagine you folks would appreciate some shade and rest. Come on.” Agnes turned to her husband. “Robert, you’ll see to M ­ argaret’s things?” “I’ll be along behind you, Agnes,” ­Margaret said. She held out her hand to Alvarez. “I thank you, my friend, for what you have done.” “No need for thanks, ­Margaret. I’ll be back after you’ve had time to get settled.” He tried to hide his unhappiness at leaving her. “You think you can manage it from here?” “Yes, Alvarez.” ­Margaret looked down the beach to where her parents’ empty house stood. “I know it won’t be easy, but this is where the children and I should be.” He sighed. “Well then, we’ll be going on to Seine Bight.” “Smooth sailing, Alvarez.” ­Margaret walked across the beach of Larube to start a new home for her family.

Old House Larube, British Honduras, 1935. M ­ argaret pushed open the sagging door to her parents’ old house and swept spider webs from the threshold. ­“Skipper, you stay outside until I look around. There might be snakes in here.” She stepped gingerly across the sand floor and propped open a thatched win­dow shutter. Back out in the side yard, she cut three limbs from a mango tree. “Okay, Skipper, you carry one of these, but watch where you step.”

32  Part 1

The boy looked around the abandoned house. “It’s dirty, Ma! We’re going to stay here?” “Unless you have a finer house to take me to.” “Who lived here?” “I did, before I married your papa. I lived here with Khandi and our ma and pa. It didn’t look like this then. It won’t be this way for long. But it’ll take some doing to get it back proper.” She jerked Skipper’s arm. “Stay away from the walls. Give the creatures time to know we’re coming in, and they’re going out. Come, I’ll show you where you and Tas will sleep. We’ll make a mattress from split coconut fronds.” ­Margaret propped opened another shutter. “Won’t this be nice, Skipper? See? You’ll have afternoon shade from the cashew tree.” “Where you going to sleep, Ma?” “In the other small room, just next to you. Santa and I will share that one.” ­Margaret scanned the support poles. “You see? This old house is tired now. But when we clean it up, there’ll be more space than we had in ­Lidisi.” “I don’t like it, Ma.” “I don’t like what’s happened to us either, Skipper. But it has, and we all must make do. You’re eight years old now, soon to be nine. I’m counting on you to help me make our way. I need you, Innocente. Can you understand that?” “Yes, Ma.” “Well then, let’s get started. The first thing we need is two brooms. There should be straw grass in the field back of the house. Here, take my machete, and go cut two arms’ full. Then I’ll show you how to tie it.” “But, Ma,” Skipper protested, “that’s girls’ work!” “Now see here, Innocente, I’m going to be short on patience if you drag your leg at everything I say. I’m going to do man’s work, and yes, you’re going to do woman’s work. So get moving. Now!” ­Margaret studied the thatched roof. Rotted in spots for sure. Maybe we can make do with patching, she thought. The sand floor feels dry. Well, I’ll know after the next heavy rain. So many things to do! Where to start? She walked to the front yard. Low spots in that corner. We’ll need sand to fill there. Some bastard grass, but not much considering how long we’ve been away. She sniffed a sharp tang in the air. Ah, Moma’s lemongrass is still here. I wonder if the ginger lasted? ­Margaret pulled vines from where the pungent roots had grown. A few sprigs left. Maybe I can nurse it back. She looked over to the kitchen shed. The roof hung in shreds. Skipper returned with arms full of straw grass. “What you studying, Ma?” “You remember you wanted to build a shed on the key? Well, you’re go-

Old Ways  33

ing to get a chance to help sooner than I thought. That cook shed’s got to be worked right off.” “How do we do it, Ma?” “I’ll arrange for someone to bring us palm for thatch. Then we’ll clear away the old stuff. The fire stand should still be strong. That clay’s supposed to last for years once it’s dried.” ­Margaret picked up a bundle of broom straw, bent it double, and secured the top with a looped vine. “Set this in the sun to get stiff, and we’ll soon have brooms to sweep our house.” Later, ­Margaret sat down by Agnes. She looked toward the sea. It lay flat, bronze in the setting sun. There were no waves now, just a thin line of froth at the shore. “The children are sleeping,” said M ­ argaret. Agnes stripped fiber from a coconut husk and scrubbed a supper dish. “They should be. They had some kind of day running on the beach.” “Thomas and Tas were still talking when I put Santa down. Seems like they struck it right off.” “Guess they’re almost the same age, right?” “Yes. Tas is five, going on six.” “What’s it like having more than one child to look after?” Agnes stroked the mound of her belly. “I guess you’ll soon know that for yourself, eh, Agnes?” M ­ argaret scooped a handful of sand from the ground and burnished black residue from the outside of a pot. “Each one is different. You love parts of all of them, and you want to weep for some of the other parts.” She frowned. “Take Santa for instance. I look at her and I see ­Cervantes’s smile. Just having her around makes me feel good, but already I see his wildness in her.” “She’s just three?” “That’s right, and walking like she thinks she’s a woman. Santa and Tas take after ­Cervantes. They’re going to be big people. Guess Skipper will have my build.” “Skipper is a sweet boy, M ­ argaret.” “Yes, he is most of the time.” ­Margaret sighed. “But he’s jealous of Tas.” “Oh, he’ll grow out of that, M ­ argaret. Soon it will be Tas jealous of Santa.” “No, I don’t think so. Seems like there’s something special between Tas and Santa. I can’t talk it, so, so, so. But there’s something extra there.” ­Margaret dumped the dishwater. “Enough about my children.” “Okay, what about your house?” Agnes asked. ­Margaret sighed. “I can’t think what it’s going to cost to get us started. The roof, the cook shed. I’m scared to see the farm. It’s got to be bush by  now.”

34  Part 1

“Khandi went that way this afternoon.” “Well, for sure it will be six months before we have cassava to dig. I don’t know what to do first, the farm or the house.” “I have a suggestion for the first step. I’m going to dig cassava tomorrow. Since I’m in the family way I could use some help. I’ll make you a deal. One half of the bread for you and Khandi working with me.” ­Margaret considered the offer for a moment. “I can’t speak for Khandi. Now that she’s back on her home ground, I suppose she’ll soon be kicking hell. But I’ll be ready when you are, Agnes.” Next morning, Skipper and Tas stood in Robert Cayetano’s backyard, watching him split logs for firewood. Santa napped close by in the shade of the cook shed. ­Margaret said, “Skipper, Robert will watch after you children until we get back.” She lifted the tump basket and adjusted its line across her brow. “You mind him, and you see that Tas and Santa behave.” “Yes, Ma.” ­Margaret hurried to catch up with Agnes and Khandi, who were walking down the mile-­long bush path to the Cayetano farm. “How much you fig­ure to dig, Agnes?” “I thought six loads. That will give us each a good supply.” The women turned into the cassava field. “I need to come back soon to weed. Some of the rows are getting ahead of me.” Khandi placed her tump basket on the ground and looked around the farm. “You have a nice place here, Agnes. Wish our farm was in this shape. It’ll be slow going for ­Margaret and me, getting those old fields back to right.” ­Margaret honed the blade of her machete across a stone. “One day and one day, Khandi. For now we dig cassava, and I’m thankful for it. Which row to start, Agnes?” “I think those on the left are ready.” “Okay, Agnes. You go weed, and Khandi and I’ll dig the loads.” The sisters moved together down two rows of cassava. Each gripped the stems just above the ground and strained back to bring the cluster of heavy tubers out of the sandy soil. They swung their machetes to cut away the stems. “Six good ones in this hill,” said M ­ argaret. “Five here,” answered Khandi. She threw the stems to the side and reached for the next clump. “So Agnes is pregnant?” “Anybody with an eye can see that. Oh!” M ­ argaret jumped back. “Watch it, Khandi, there’s fire ants in this hill.” The sisters moved to the opposite sides of the rows and continued to dig. Khandi paused to wipe sweat from her face, brushing the sleeve of her

Old Ways  35

dress across her high, brown cheekbones. “Wonder when the baby will come out?” “You know I couldn’t ask, Khandi. But from the way she looks I’d guess another four or five months.” “Aye, these women always worrying about black magic when they’re pregnant,” Khandi complained. “Won’t tell their due time.” “That’s fine for you to say, since you never felt one moving in your belly.” ­Margaret strained against another clump. “But believe me, if you ever do, you’ll take no chance some enemy will tie that baby inside you!” Khandi’s machete stopped in midswing. She turned away from ­Margaret, pretending to rest as she looked over the farm. Her green eyes watered as she thought, How easy for you to say that, sister. You’ve had ­Cervantes and three babies. And where am I? No Raymond, no man I want to have babies for. It’s easy for you, ­Margaret, to scold me about the men I jolly with. The sisters worked in silence for a while, and then Khandi said, “The little Ramaldo house down the beach is empty. I think I’ll try to get it.” Unaware of how her thoughtless words had stung Khandi, ­Margaret asked, “You wouldn’t like to live with us? There’s room.” “No, it’s time for me to have my own place again. We’ll see each other every day, working the farm. We each need to walk our own path. What’s your first move?” “Robert said he’d find another man, and they’d cut palm for the cook shed. I hope it won’t take but one day to rebuild. Then we’ll go into the house. I suspect the roof leaks.” “Think you can leave Santa with Agnes while we farm each morning?” “I hope so. Maybe I can work extra. So I don’t have to buy a lot of food.” Khandi nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll plant these first sticks, while you bake. Next day we can cut brush.” The sisters came to the end of the rows. ­Margaret fanned a gnat from her ear. “I think that’s enough. I’ll pack the baskets while you trim the sticks.” She heaved a loaded tump basket onto her back and settled the fifty-­pound weight across her shoulders. Then she called to Agnes, “My friend, I’ll soon be back.”

Alvarez Visits Larube, 1936. M ­ argaret handed Skipper a tump basket. “Now first off, before you drink tea this morning, you take this basket to the beach. Fill it with as much sand as you can carry. Then you back it to here, and dump it in that low spot at the corner.” Skipper frowned, “But, Ma . . .”

36  Part 1

“I don’t want to hear no buts. You do what I tell you. If I’m not here by noon, you fetch another load then. You’re going to back three loads of sand every day until we get this yard in shape. You hear me, Skipper?” “Yes, Ma.” She called to Tas, “Son, I’m gone to farm. You mind Agnes, and help her keep an eye on Santa.” Tas ran to ­Margaret and hugged her waist. “Yes, Ma. Bye, Ma.” Later, as ­Margaret returned home, Skipper and Thomas ran around the house “Where is he, Ma? Have you seen Tas?” “No, Skipper. You boys playing hide and seek?” “Yes, Aunt M ­ argaret,” Thomas answered. “I can’t find Tas.” ­Margaret heard a giggle from where Tas was hiding under the sand basket she had given Skipper earlier. She dumped the cassava in the cook shed and called, “Come out, little one, so I can talk with you.” Tas ran to his mother. “You home now, Ma?” “Not yet, Tas. I have to back another load. What did you boys do while I was gone?” “Aunt Agnes took us to the beach. Santa’s funny, Ma, just splashes and squinches her nose.” ­Margaret patted Tas’s dark-­skinned shoulders. “Did you help Skipper back sand to the yard?” “No, Ma.” “Why not?” “Skipper no back sand, Ma.” “I see.” She heaved a sigh. “Go tell Skipper to come to me, then you look after Santa.” ­Margaret cut a branch from a hibiscus bush and pulled leaves from the limber switch. “What about the sand, Innocente?” “I forgot, Ma.” “I’m going to lash you, Innocente.” “I forgot, Ma!” Skipper’s voice rose. ­Margaret held the boy’s arm and hit his bare legs with the stinging branch. Skipper yelped, “Aye! Aye!” He jumped up and down and tried to pull away from his mother. She jerked him back and laid the switch across his legs again. “Aye, Ma! Aye, Ma!” “Those last were for pulling away. When you deserve a lashing you stand and take it. No running away! You hear me, boy?” “Yes. Yes,” Skipper sobbed. ­Margaret lifted the switch again. “Yes, what?”

Old Ways  37

“Ma, yes, Ma!” screamed Skipper. “All right.” ­Margaret placed the switch on a stool. “I’m going to back more cassava. You go back sand. When I come, there had better be two good-­sized loads in our yard.” The next morning, M ­ argaret took the children to play on the riverbank. As they walked along, she said to Tas, “Skipper has the job of backing sand. Now it’s time for you to have a regular chore.” “What’s my job, Ma?” “Bring two full pails of water to the house. Not from here, but upstream where it’s fresh and clean.” Tas squinted against the river’s glare. “Ma, there’s Aunt Khandi. See her, Ma, coming round the bend?” Tas and Skipper raced upstream to meet Khandi, who was wading along the river’s edge. “Aunt Khandi, how’s the day?” “Not bad, boys. I see you’re having a fine time.” “Yes, Aunt Khandi. Where you been?” “Looking for reeds. Found some, too,” she said to ­Margaret as they all waded to shore. “Up about two miles.” “What you gonna do with reeds, Aunt Khandi?” “Weave new mats. We need something fresh to sleep on, and that’s where we’re going to get it. ­Margaret, you think Skipper is man enough to go with me? We’ll float a load down.” ­Margaret looked at her son. “What do you think, Innocente? You man enough to help your aunt?” Skipper dragged his toe through the mud and slyly challenged his mother. “Not and back sand, too.” Khandi quirked an eyebrow at her sister. ­Margaret laughed. “Okay, Innocente. We have a deal. Tomorrow you go cut reeds. Tas and I will back the sand.” The children ran ahead of the sisters, and Khandi remarked, “You gonna have to watch that one, M ­ argaret. He’s already finagling.” “Yes, I know, Khandi.” M ­ argaret squeezed the river water from her dress. “I keep wondering how ­Cervantes would handle it. Looks like Tas can’t do enough; and Skipper balks every step.” “Well one thing I know, they’re children of two stubborn people. They’ll need to be gentled and trained.” “Tas, too?” “Oh yes, my dear. One fine day Portacio Diego will tell you just where he stands. When that day comes, I hope you’ll be wise enough to accept it. Mark my word, ­Margaret, ­Cervantes is walking in that boy’s skin.”

38  Part 1

A week later, Innocente rushed into the room, shoulders thrown back and lips pouting. “Ma, I told Tas to throw seed to the chickens, but he didn’t do it.” “Okay, Skipper. Tas! Come here.” “Ma?” The young boy ran to M ­ argaret’s side. “Skipper told you to feed the chickens, no true?” “Yes, Ma.” “Well?” “I was collecting eggs, Ma.” Tas held out a warm, freshly laid egg. “There are three more for tea, Ma.” “I see. Well done, Tas.” ­Margaret smiled, then became stern. “But you must remember that Innocente is your older brother. You take your lead from him.” “Yes, Ma.” The little boy hung his head as he returned to the yard and his chores. He picked up a rake that was twice his length and struggled to sweep the sand clean. Innocente gloated and decided to press his advantage. “Tas,” he called, “the wash pail is empty. Go fetch water.” The children did not see Khandi standing at the door. “You like to molest him, Skipper?” She reprimanded, “If the pail is empty, you fetch the water. You’re three years older than Tas. You can carry that load easier than he can.” Khandi frowned at the scowling boy. “Skipper you better watch yourself. Tas may be younger, but he’s almost as big as you. He’ll soon know the difference between humbug and you guiding him.” A month later, ­Margaret dropped a load of firewood and called for her children. “Ma? Coming, Ma,” Tas answered. He raced across the sand yard, jumping a clump of tomato vines near the house. A hen squawked and flapped away from the boy. “Mind the fowl, Tas. We don’t have any to waste.” “Yes, Ma. Skipper and Santa went with Aunt Khandi to dig cassava,” Tas explained. “What have you been doing?” “I went to watch the fishermen after I backed water.” “Well now, I want you to take hold of the ax and lay into that firewood for me. You’re as big as your brother. It’s time you start splitting wood.” Tas frowned in concentration as he swung and chopped across a log. ­Margaret watched the ax hit a sec­ond time. “I said split it, Tas, not chew it up. Bring the blade down the long grain of the stick.” Tas switched the direction of his swing, and the wood cracked open. A big grin lit his face.

Old Ways  39

“That’s better, son. You’ll soon have the knack.” A familiar voice spoke behind ­Margaret. “Looks to me he’s almost got it.” ­Margaret spun about. “Alvarez! Where’d you come from, man? I thought you were a ghost! How long’s it been?” Tips of gray fringed Alvarez’s tanned-­leather face. His kind, brown eyes soaked in the sight of the woman he loved. He had not seen her for nearly a year, although he had secretly kept a check on her and the ­children. “I said I’d be back after you had time to settle in.” Alvarez smiled at ­Margaret as he took the ax. “You’ve got the idea, Tas. Just watch closer to read the grain.” He turned the largest log in the sand and swung the ax. The wood quartered with two chops. Alvarez looked at ­Margaret. “You think I could earn my supper by splitting this pile of wood?” “You know you’re welcome, Alvarez.” He stared at the tiny woman, his face serious. “I hoped so, M ­ argaret.” Then he turned to Tas. “There’s a sack of conchs and some fish in the dory. Think you could carry them?” “Yes, Uncle.” Tas ran to the beach. Alvarez watched Tas as he half-­carried, half-­dragged the heavy sack of conch. “That’s some boy you’ve got there, M ­ argaret,” he said in admiration. “Big.” ­Margaret chuckled. “Wait till you see Santa. She’s up to my waist now. And always hungry.” “Maybe this mess of conch will fill them up. You start the fire, and I’ll help Tas with the fish.” “Bring your gear up,” ­Margaret called after him. “There’s room for you to sleep in our house.” She hummed a tune as she arranged the conchs along the fire logs and poured a little fresh water into the open lip of each one. The white meat sizzled while she chopped onions and heated oil in a pot. She mixed corn meal, oil, and salt for griddle cakes and set another pot of water to boil for tea. “What’s all this?” asked Khandi as she entered the yard with S ­ kipper and Santa. “Looks to me a certain seaman has arrived.” ­Margaret ignored her sister, so Khandi teased her by singing. “I’m lying on my bed. I’m wind­ing on my bed. Stop that you daughter. Stop that you sister. Now I’m in my bed and I say ‘Aye! Oh!’ ” Khandi danced around so that she faced ­Margaret. “Now I’m in my bed and I say ‘Aye! No!’ My daughter doesn’t listen to me. My sister doesn’t listen. ‘Aye! Oh! Aye! Oh!’ ” “Mind your mouth, Khandi,” M ­ argaret warned. “Skipper, show A ­ lvarez where he can put his gear in the front room.” She glared at Khandi.

40  Part 1

“Right, sister.” Khandi pulled a long face. “You want some help with those conchs?” Khandi padded her hand with a cloth and pried the white meat from its hot shell. ­Margaret chopped the meat into chunks. Khandi asked, “What about the fish?” “Haven’t decided. There’s too much here for one meal.” “Better I bust than waste?” Khandi suggested. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll not waste a drop. These children haven’t had a meal like this for months.” She jumped. “Oh! Alvarez, you startled me again.” Embarrassed that her visitor had heard what she said, she turned her back to mix a flour roux in the simmering onions and added conch to the pot. Alvarez laid dressed fish on the table. “These small ones would be right to smoke, ­Margaret. Do you have an uguagi?” “Yes. Khandi, please fetch it from my room.” “Would you like to send the big ones to a neighbor?” Alvarez asked. I’ll bring you more tomorrow. That is, if you’ll let me stay around for a day or so.” ­Margaret rolled a handful of dough between her palms and flattened it into a six-­inch circle. “It’s no problem, Alvarez. You’re welcome. Let’s send them to Agnes. You know she has a new baby girl?” “That right?” “Yes. A pretty little thing, just sitting up now. They named her Felicia, Lisa for short. Skipper, Tas,” she called the boys. “Take this fish to Aunt Agnes. Tell her Uncle Alvarez brought it. And, Tas, mind you don’t stay long playing with Thomas.” “Here’s the uguagi,” said Khandi, returning with the open-­weave basket. ­Margaret nodded as she rolled another griddle cake and checked the pot of water for tea. “Santa, bring some lemongrass. You like lemongrass tea, Alvarez?” “That’s fine, ­Margaret. Whatever you have will suit me.” Alvarez arranged the gutted fish in the basket and hung it above the fire platform where smoke would dry the contents. ­Margaret stirred the conch soup with a big wooden spoon and tasted the broth. “Soon be ready, just I finish a few more cakes.” She ladled a bowl of soup for Alvarez and placed three griddle cakes on a fresh green leaf. She wiped the table with a cloth, invited Alvarez to eat, and then called. “Children, bring your bowls.” They lined up, and each received a calabash full of soup and a griddle cake. Khandi licked a morsel from her thumb. “­Margaret, Alvarez, mighty

Old Ways  41

fine eating. Seems like this calls for a celebration. Alvarez, you want I find some drums?” “Not this evening, Khandi.” Alvarez yawned. “Maybe tomorrow or the next day.” “Well then, I’ll be taking myself home. M ­ argaret, you still want to work starch tomorrow?” “Yes, Khandi. Could you bring your grater here? It would be easier with the children.” “Right. Alvarez, see you tomorrow.” The children brought their dishes to the shed but continued to hold them. ­Margaret looked up. “You want sec­onds?” She smiled and refilled their bowls. “Thanks, Ma. Thanks, Uncle.” The children acknowledged their debt, then returned to the front yard to fill their bellies.

Partners 1936. During the night, ­Margaret went to Alvarez but returned to her own mat before morning. Alvarez left the house at dawn and brought back fresh fish for morning tea. He cleaned the catch and rubbed them with lime juice. ­Margaret fried them crisp in coconut oil. They ate in silence, savoring the sweet white flesh. When they were finished, Alvarez rinsed his hands in the dishpan. “Have you thought about it, M ­ argaret? Will you marry me?” ­Margaret shook her head. “You have a wife in San Pedro, and how many children? Four? You don’t need another wife. Leastwise, not me.” “I’m the one knows what I need. I want to marry you proper. I want you to take my name,” Alvarez insisted. “I can’t do it, Alvarez. I can’t do it.” “Why not? Is it ­Cervantes?” “It’s not so much ­Cervantes,’though I truly loved him. It’s more the idea of marrying again. I don’t want that strong tie on me.” “You saying you want to take other men?” “It’s not the sex. It’s just I don’t know what I’ll have to do to raise my children. You know I have no family men to count on.” “I know it hasn’t been sex, ­Margaret. That was clear to feel last night. So what’s the problem? I’m good to your children.” “I can’t promise my full self to anybody but the children. I told you that.” “But you’d like us to be partners?” Alvarez asked.

42  Part 1

“Yes, I would. I need a man to look to, to talk with. And I won’t deny we can use help. You saw how we appreciated the conch.” She collected the dirty dishes. “But I won’t take a partner just for money. It has to be someone I can lean on, to advise me.” “You have it, sweetheart. I’m here.” “Don’t call me sweetheart!” She wheeled around to face him. “I’m not going to marry you. We aren’t promised. And while we’re talking, might as well tell me. How many are there?” “There’s a girl in Belize City,” he answered. “Nothing special, just now and then when I stop overnight for trade.” “And?” “That’s all, woman.” “So me being here in Larube makes a nice stop point between Belize City and San Pedro.” “That’s not fair, M ­ argaret.” Alvarez scowled. “I asked you to stay in L ­ idisi.” “You’re right.” M ­ argaret nodded. “It wasn’t fair. But it’s true. Right, ­Alvarez? I want things clear between us.” “Okay, ­Margaret, if that’s what you want to hear, it’s true.” He put his arms around her and rubbed his thumb up her spine. “Now it’s settled. We’re partners.” ­Margaret shivered and smiled at him. “You win. We’re partners.” Next day, Alvarez called to the boys, who were raking the yard. “Who wants to bathe in the sea?” “I do. I do. I do.” Skipper, Tas, and Santa answered. “Santa,” ­Margaret said, “you haven’t fed the fowl. No play until chores are done.” “Not fair,” cried Santa, “Tas and Skipper had time to finish theirs.” “You can’t behave like a boy, Santa; and fair has little to do with it. Feed the fowl. I have to peel this cassava. Khandi soon will be here to make starch.” Khandi worked, bent over the grater. ­Margaret scooped a handful of the pulp into a clean cloth and squeezed the cassava, forcing its pale liquid into a large bowl. She dipped the knot of pulp into fresh water, then worked the liquid through again. White starch settled to the bottom. Alvarez returned as M ­ argaret poured off water from the top of the starch and set the gooey residue in the sun to dry. He shook his head, scattering salt water from his hair. “Lord, Alvarez,” Khandi complained, “might as well have an old dog around throwing water like that.”

Old Ways  43

He laughed. “Well this old dog’s going to be around a lot from now on.” Khandi grinned, acknowledging the new relationship between her sister and Alvarez. “I want to sail over to Seine Bight to talk with Santiago,” Alvaraz said. “Thought I’d take Skipper with me. We’ll be back this evening.” “I’m going, Ma,” said Skipper, pleased to be singled out by the seaman’s attention. “Okay, son. You mind Alvarez.” In the afternoon, ­Margaret struck a pile of sharp flints from the core she had soaked in water overnight. Laying a grater block flat on the bench, she pounded pea-­sized stones into the wood. She had completed half of a sunburst pattern when Alvarez arrived carrying two new hammocks. He motioned to her to follow him into the house. Alvarez grabbed a support pole under the roof and pulled his weight down testing the strength of the beam. ­Margaret watched at the doorway. “So, what’s this?” Alvarez tossed a tie rope around the pole. “I don’t want you falling, lady.” He turned to face her. “You deserve to rest in a hammock. Save your old mat for me.” Before ­Margaret could answer, he strode from the house and tied the sec­ond hammock between a coconut tree and the cook shed. “Okay, Santa, Tas, Skipper. Jump in and swing.” “Is it for us, Uncle? Is it for us?” Santa bounced up and down on the net. “It’s for you when your ma or I don’t use it. Okay, everybody out. Let me check the ropes.” Alvarez eased his weight down and bounced to be certain the lines held fast, then grinned at ­Margaret. “That one’s here to stay, just like me.” In the evening M ­ argaret sat on a stool close to Alvarez. “That breeze feels good. Think it will rain tomorrow?” “Maybe after noon. What are your plans?” “I need to farm. Time to plant more cassava. Then I want to finish my little grater.” “The starch you made this morning, is that for clothes or for food?” “Both. I can swap some of it for fresh fish, but some I use for pudding. Things are easier since the fields are producing; but still now and then, starch pudding is all I have to feed the children.” Alvarez waited for ­Margaret to form her thoughts. “It’s the future I fret about. I want Tas and Skipper to start school next session. The chance is here for them to learn to read and write. I want them to have it.” “How’s that work?”

44  Part 1

“I went to speak to the Sisters, and I try to go to Mass each week.” She smiled wryly. “That doesn’t hurt the plan, you know. The children at the school are mostly Creole, a few Garinagu. Thomas started this year. They stay through noon and eat at school. Another good thing is, next year, Skipper can take Santa with him, although she won’t be old enough for study. She’d get fed, too. That would leave me free in the morning to do my work.” “That sounds good.” “Yes, but there are problems. The children have to wear uniforms; and Agnes says there are other costs.” “Cash again, huh?” “Yes.” “I’ve been thinking. That’s a pretty little grater you’re making. Suppose I could sell a few, up in Belize City, to the Creoles. I might get one dollar for it. Maybe find an order for a big one now and then. The big one ought to bring five dollars.” “Creoles can’t make graters?” “Guess it’s not so much they can’t as they don’t want to be bothered. The same may be true in Livingston and Puerto Barrio. I’d have to ask around. I can cut the boards. You pound the teeth. Then we’ll split what I sell them for. What do you think?” “I could probably work one grater in a week, spare time after farming.” She was pleased to have a chance to earn cash. “You take the little one I just finished. I’ll make do with my broken one.” Three days later Alvarez prepared to sail south. He leaned a large grater board against the house. “That’s so you can keep busy while I’m away.” ­Margaret examined the board. “That’s a nice one, Alvarez! Reckon I’ll have it ready by the time you return.” “There’s one other thing.” Alvarez picked up a large conch shell and struck its cap with M ­ argaret’s hammer stone. He rubbed the edges smooth with a piece of pumice he carried to sharpen hooks. Then he placed the horn to his mouth and blew a series of short and long toots. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked ­Margaret, “Think you’ll know that when you hear it?” She mimicked the call. “Good. I’ll be on my way. I may not stop here going north. Depends on what Santiago and I collect for trade. Sometimes a day’s delay makes a difference in the prices we get. But either way I’ll hail you going by. One call means I’m coming in, two means I’m going past.” “Understood, partner.” ­Margaret hugged Alvarez goodbye.

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School Clothes 1940. Alvarez rested in his hammock and watched the setting sun burnish the west­ern sky to a brassy orange. “Thanks to the cook, sweetheart. That was a fine meal.” “I’m glad you had the chance to come in today. I wasn’t expecting you for another week.” “I should have kept sailing, but it’s hard to go by and not come to see you.” He took ­Margaret’s hand. “I’ll be gone at dawn. I’m overdue in San Pedro.” She smiled at him. “We’re always happy when you come, and we understand when you leave, Alvarez.” The pair sat together silently, comfortable in their partnership that had developed during the last four years. Two weeks later, ­Margaret stood, hands on her hips. “Let’s go, Tas. It’s Saturday morning. I need water, lots of it for washing clothes. Get the pails and start backing. Skipper, you’re in charge of the animals and the yard today. I want it raked clean, clean, clean; and then you clear the grass along the front hedge.” Santa racked the last breakfast bowl and wiped her hands. “We can’t go wash at the river, Ma? It’s so hot.” “Maybe later with some of the other clothes. I’ll wash the uniform shirts here. Hard enough keeping them clean white without having river mud around.” Santa tossed the dishwater. “Sometimes I wish I could be a fish. One they never catch. Then I’d keep cool.” ­Margaret worked soap into the six shirts she had put to soak last night. “Well, before you grow fins, empty the chamber pot and sweep the floors clean.” Santa carried the chamber pot to the sea, emptied and rinsed it. She gazed across the bay and watched boats bob on the aqua water. There’s Uncle Robert netting bait. Must be headed for the keys. Santa stared at a sec­ ond craft and felt a bubble of excitement. She ran home to tell M ­ argaret. “Ma, Uncle Alvarez’s dory just rounded the point.” ­Margaret looked up from rinsing the shirts. “You sure, Santa? He’s not supposed to be here until next week.” The sound of Alvarez’s horn drifted across the morning breeze. M ­ argaret waited for the sec­ond hail. It didn’t come. Only one. Santa’s right. He’s coming in. She shook her head. Poor timing, Alvarez. ­Margaret went to her sleeping room where she stored bottles

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of medicines, herbal tonics, and balms she steeped from barks and grasses. There it is. Looks about enough for two doses. I must remember to cut more bark next time I go to farm. As she swallowed the dark brew she thought, If I’d known he was coming I’d have started this last night when I felt first signs of my moon sickness. Well, maybe it’s not too late to stop the flow. ­Margaret arranged the children’s school shirts on a bush row at the side yard. I’ll let them leech in the sun until they’re near dry, then sprinkle them again. They should come white as new. She shook her head. Time to hand them down again. Santa will get Skipper’s. Bless her heart, at the rate she’s growing she’ll soon pass Innocente. Then he’ll get the last one down. That’s sure to cause an argument. M ­ argaret frowned. Seems like that boy won’t adjust to the idea I can’t provide for him the way ­Cervantes did. It’s been years, and he still pouts. She sighed. I can’t help it. I do the best I can. Maybe Alvarez is right. Maybe I should send him to Belize City. ­Margaret scrubbed the boys’ khaki school pants while she waited for Alvarez to arrive. She looked up as he dropped his paddle on the sand and plopped two fish onto the kitchen table. “Alvarez, welcome.” “How you doing, my lady?” “Not so well as you, I see. You look fine, partner. Have a good trip?” “Not bad.” He hugged ­Margaret’s shoulders. She smiled. “Excuse me, Alvarez, but I must finish these uniforms. Got to be ready for Monday.” “Go ahead. I’ll fix a cup of tea, then I’ll join you.” Tas rounded the corner with another pail of water. “Uncle Alvarez, when did you come?” “Just now, son. You and Skipper hard at it this morning?” “Yes, Uncle. Skipper’s working the front hedge.” “I bet,” Alvarez muttered under his breath. He turned back to ­Margaret. “How are the children doing in school?” “Best I know they’re all right. The Sister called for me to come last week. Sent a letter, on white paper with ink. It said, ‘Dear Mrs. Diego, Your appointment with us is at three Monday afternoon.’ Of course, Skipper had to read it to me.” “Hump. Supposing it doesn’t suit you at three Monday afternoon?” “If you want your children in school it suits you. I couldn’t be sure about the time, so I went at noon and waited until they called me.” “Those Christians sound sort of uppity.” “You put up with it, Alvarez, if you want them in school. Just like I go to their Mass most Sundays, so they’ll look kindly on us. Always make sure

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the Sister sees me. Santa goes with me, too. Says she wants to be a nun. Can you beat that?” “Well, what are they learning?” “They can spell and read. Of course Santa caught it before she started official. Just picked it up being there with Skipper. Tas started ciphers. The Sister showed me numbers he wrote on his slate.” “Sounds like you have perfect children, M ­ argaret,” Alvarez teased. “Of course not, and Sister had plenty to say about that. Santa won’t sit still while the rest finish their writing. Seems she leads the pack. Sister said Tas asks upstart questions, interrupts the class when they’re reciting the answers. Asks why this, why that, ‘instead of accepting God’s word,’ she said.” “That doesn’t surprise me. Tas was asking hard questions when he was three years old. Remember on the sail here?” “Yes. He brings me up short now and then. The other day he asked me how come we plant according to the moon. When I said it was because they grow better that way, he wanted to know why. What makes it so? I couldn’t tell it.” “What about Skipper?” “Same old story. Sister said he knows the work, but he won’t try much. Just when he’s forced to.” ­Margaret wrung the last of the clothes and dropped them into a pail. “You still plan to send off your son, James?” “Yes. He’s going to an English preacher-­man, Anglican. He and his wife have a fine board house next to the church in Belize City. They want a boy to help with the chores. James gets his food, clothes, and schooling in return.” “You don’t worry about losing James to the Creoles?” “I’ve been mixing with Creoles for twenty years. The Garinagu haven’t lost me.” “You didn’t go there as a child.” “True. But I’m willing to chance it, for James to learn proper English and get good schooling. He’s mastered Spanish, but I don’t know English well enough to teach him proper.” “Can you read and write, Alvarez?” “No. Where would I learn? I get along all right, but the children will need it to make their way.” “True. That’s why I’m sacrificing to see mine through.” ­Margaret mixed cassava starch in clean water, swirled the khaki uniforms in the pan, wrung

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them, and set them to dry. “That will do until afternoon. Best I go study on what’s for noon meal.” She called to Santa, “Come grate coconut while I see to the fish.” Santa swung a machete at the brown husk of a coconut. The blade stuck, and the girl struggled to loosen it. “Here, Santa,” Alvarez said, pushing the machete handle up and out of the husk. He cracked the nut with one blow and returned the halves to the girl. “Ma,” Santa said, as she poured the milk into a bowl, “Sister says I must bring a bottle of ink to school. We start writing on paper next week.” “You going to need paper, too?” “Yes, Ma, and a pen.” “All I can afford is the paper, Santa. You’ll have to make your ink and pen the way the boys do. Go gather the red flowers. You can simmer them while you’re grating.” Santa returned with a handful of hibiscus petals. “Which pot, Ma?” “The smallest one. Put just enough water to cover them. You’ll know the ink is ready when it comes dark blue. Go find a stick of strong cane. Maybe Alvarez will split and sharpen it for you.” Alvarez dozed in the hammock while M ­ argaret prepared the children’s uniforms. She laid a pad of cloths across the work table, scooped hot coals into her iron, and smoothed wrinkles from the clothes—six white shirts, four pairs of short pants, and two smocks for Santa. That’s done for another week, she thought. Those pants aren’t going to last much longer, and Santa will soon grow out of this smock. Got to fig­ure where the next will come from. It’ll take four or five dollars to replace them. Alvarez opened one eye and studied ­Margaret’s face, which was strained with worry. “­Margaret,” he said gently, “you want I should find a place for Skipper in Belize City?” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Yes,” she said at last. “I hate to do it, but I’m forced to admit it makes sense. He’s the least help to me here. He never just gets up and does what’s to be done. I always have to tell him, and Tas or Santa ends up finishing his chores. Maybe he’ll be happier where there’s not so much backing and hoeing.” “They’ll make him work, ­Margaret, or they’ll send him home. But, perhaps, he’ll take it better from someone else.” “When will James come home?” “He gets one month holiday in the summer. Of course I check on him when I’m trading up there. Try not to worry, ­Margaret. Santiago and I go to Belize City tomorrow. I’ll ask about a place for Skipper.”

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“I’ve been thinking about something else, sweetheart.” Alvarez grinned. “It’s sweetheart now. This must be serious business.” ­Margaret smiled. “What we share from the graters helps, but the more school goes on, the more I need cash. I get by with the food. You know, a neighbor and I can swap out, but I need more cash.” She hesitated. “Well, now and then I hear someone say how they’d like a taste of the Honduran kasusa. If I had a jug of that rum I could sell it by the chap and make a cash profit.” “You know that’s smuggling, against the law!” Alvarez exclaimed. Then he reconsidered. “Suppose I did bring some in. What’s my cut?” “One half the profit,” ­Margaret said, grinning at him. “You think we’d make enough for the risk?” “I’d like to try, partner. If I can’t find cash one way, I’m bound to find it another.” “None of that talk, M ­ argaret! I’ll think about it.” Alvarez went into the house where his gear was stowed. He returned with a bundle of cloth. Two yards of pale, blue gingham, and two yards of a matching check. “It’s enough for a gown and an overskirt. I thought it would look pretty on you.” ­Margaret rubbed the material between her fingers. “It’s fine grade, ­Alvarez. Must be English cloth.” “That’s right. Of course, the way you’ve been talking, I guess I should have brought khaki for uniforms.” ­Margaret stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s beautiful, Alvarez. I’ll sew it up for the next time you come.”

New Farm 1943. Three years later, Khandi looked after the children while M ­ argaret, Alvarez, Agnes, and Robert cleared land they would jointly farm. Yard by yard they worked through the bush, pulling the tall grass forward with their hooked sticks and slashing it at the ground with their machetes. In the first two days, they cut a path into the center of the land and cleared a yard for their bush house and cooking area. The men built a frame from trimmed saplings lashed with vines. The women tied bamboo poles across the top of the frame and covered them with palm fronds. In the days that followed, they added palm frond walls, until the house afforded shelter from sun and rain. “Let’s leave the two cashew trees standing,” Alvarez suggested. “Yes,” Robert agreed. “And that big nutmeg. They’ll bear fruit and give us shade.”

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The women worked root crops on the higher land. The men planted sugar cane in low areas that sloped toward a stream. Each afternoon, the women collected freshwater mollusks from under the rocks, while the men caught fish. ­Margaret collected yama bush seeds to brew “coffee”; and Agnes found ripe guava and mango for sweets. When they returned to Larube, the farm was far from production but well established. As the four walked home Robert said, “I’m going to the old woman and get a guard for the land and trees.” “Do you think that’s necessary?” Agnes asked. “We’ve never had thiefing on our farms.” “This new land is a far piece from the houses. We won’t be there to watch it that of­ten. There’s lots of strangers around, you know.” “Creoles, you mean,” ­Margaret observed. “How does this guard work?” Alvarez asked. “As I hear it, you pay the old woman for the guard that you sprinkle round your trees and boundaries. Supposing someone thiefs your cassava. That guard catches on to the thief and swings back on him. He’s forced to return to your land and work double the time it cost you to raise the food he took. He won’t have a choice. The guard catches him.” “What’s it cost?” “I fig­ure two dollars.” “You don’t ask Sam Buyei for this?” “No. This is black magic work, not ancestors.” ­Margaret looked to Alvarez. “What do you think?” Alvarez shrugged. “I’d be mighty upset to come back and find my cane thiefed. I’ll split the cost with you, Robert.” ­Margaret opened the shutters of the house. Alvarez drew her to him and kissed her. “Tomorrow I sail south, sweetheart. They’ll be expecting me in San Pedro.” “That’s right, Alvarez,” M ­ argaret acknowledged. “You must not neglect your wife. It wouldn’t be proper.” “I’ll sail past you on the north trip, then I’ll bring Skipper with me next time I beach here.” “You think he has a month’s holiday like last year?” “Suppose to.” Khandi saw Alvarez sail the next morning and hurried to visit her sister. “Aye, ­Margaret, I missed you. It’s been years since we didn’t talk for a week.” “How are things, Khandi? Did the children behave?” “Did just like usual, except they missed you. Oh, you wouldn’t have heard, being away. The Lopez family will give an ancestor party. One of the sons brought word last week. Seems like every house in Larube has

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someone on the list, and they say the same is true for Dangriga.” Khandi ticked off on her fingers. “Robert Cayetano is called to go to the keys. ­Sanchez’s already left for building the ancestor house. You and I are in the choir. Suppose to be a big bunch coming from the Spanish side. You know, everybody is kin to everybody else down one line or the other.” “Sounds like a big one for sure,” M ­ argaret remarked. “But what’s going to happen at school if the Sisters find out? You know they said they wouldn’t allow heathens in their school.” Sam Buyei was here talking to us yesterday. He said his spirits know about the problem. That’s one reason the list for contributors is so scattered. They’re building the ancestor house in a hidden spot down the beach. The British officers or priest would have to be looking for something to know it’s there.” She frowned. “We’re not supposed to use the dories, just small canoes we can pull up into the bush. And we should take turns about going, so that houses with children aren’t left empty. We’ll all go to pay respects, but we won’t stay the full course.” “What’s the plan?” “I fig­ure I will go for the ‘bringing in,’ then you and Agnes can go for the banquet. I suppose other houses will do something like that.” “What about the children?” “Agnes will take Thomas with her; but Lisa is too small. I could take Santa if you want. She’s strong enough for a short time, don’t you think?” “Yes. She needs to get used to the Old People. But don’t let her stay inside too long, Khandi. I don’t want Santa getting sick.” “That reminds me, M ­ argaret. I’m guessing Santa’s moon days are about to start. Maybe you want to talk with her.” “Guess you’re right, Khandi. Hadn’t thought about it. Can you believe ­Cervantes died eleven years ago?” “Best you not be calling up names, M ­ argaret! Last time Santiago was here, he told me things are stirring down there with Delores. Keep it cool, girl!” The children raced to greet ­Margaret, each one hugging her and clamoring for attention. ­Margaret laughed. “Hey now, I can’t hear two stories at once. But I see you did fine without me. That’s good! To celebrate we’ll have chicken for supper. You do your chores while I tend the meal. Then we can talk.” ­Margaret sat with the children, enjoying their dinner. She stripped a piece of spice-­flavored chicken from a thigh. “Khandi said you two did fine while I was gone to farm. Everything on course.” Santa giggled; and Tas looked down at his plate. “What’s funny?” M ­ argaret asked. Santa giggled again. “Oh, Ma, Aunt Khandi was so funny. Two nights

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dogs got to barking. Aunt Khandi woke us up. She said barking dogs was a sign ghosts were around. She lit her pipe, because she said ghosts don’t like that smell, and she puffed so hard she choked. Tas had to pound her on her back. It happened two nights in a row, Ma. The last night she made me sleep in the hammock with her.” “Did Khandi say what ghost it was? “No, Ma, but she told us how sometimes they’re seen around burying grounds, after midnight. How they glow white and float along above the ground.” Tas dropped his plate into the dishpan. “If I meet a ghost I’ll throw salt and sand at him.” “Where’d you hear that?” M ­ argaret asked. “At school.” Tas shrugged. “They say if you see a ghost you should pick up a hand of salt and a hand of sand, mix them together, and throw it at him. He’s bound to shrink from that.” Tas looked toward his mother. “You ever seen a ghost, Ma?” “No, son, but they’re around. Soul-­spirits that didn’t go to Sari proper like. Then there’s all sorts of bush-­spirits. Those belong to the land, not to ancestors.” Tas considered this for a moment, then said, “Thanks for supper, Ma. I want to go see Thomas. Okay, Ma?” “Okay, but don’t be late.” M ­ argaret rested in the hammock while Santa washed dishes. “There’s another kind of bush-­spirit, you know, Santa. We call it mafia. It’s the one we have to watch out for around ancestor parties. Take proper care it don’t get in and humbug things.” “What’s it do, Ma?” “It can cause all sorts of trouble. The ancestor-­spirits won’t stay around it. They’ll leave and go back to Sari. Sometimes mafia kill a person that’s in a hot condition. Like if you don’t clean yourself properly after sex. Or if you expose yourself during your period. Blood attracts them, and they’ll follow. That’s why we have the rules. You don’t go where the ancestors are invited when you’re bleeding. You don’t work bread for their party when you’re bleeding. And those who wear the red clothes must be cooled of the spirit heat before they leave the ancestor house.” “Is that why you don’t leave the yard when you have your period?” “Yes,” ­Margaret said. “Two reasons, really. First, I don’t want to expose myself to some bush-­spirit that might be around somewhere. The sec­ond reason is consideration for other people. You know ancestor-­spirits come on people now and then. They may be bringing some important message to a family. If you go close by, those ancestors will be offended and may

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leave before the message is completed. Now the buyei have hiuriha around all the time. So you don’t go near them if you’re bleeding.” “What about the rags, Ma?” “You must wash them clean, clean. You rinse them with lime juice. That leeches the heat. Just like we rinse fresh fish with lime water. One other thing, if you should feel faint while you have your period, or after you’ve been near someone that’s bleeding, you rinse your skin in lime water. Clear that smell away from you. Bush spirits are nothing to fool around with.” “Yes, Ma. Dishes are done now, Ma.” “Well, dump the water. You’re finished with your chores for today.”

The Red Cock Next day, Tas split wood and stacked it near the fire stand. “Ma, did Santa tell you about the shoes?” “What shoes?” “Sister said next session we have to wear shoes. Said only pagans walk around barefoot.” ­Margaret chuckled. “I’ve been barefoot all my life. Is that why I can’t read?” Tas grinned at his mother. “Don’t think so, Ma. But that’s what the Sisters said. No shoes, no lessons.” “Maybe you won’t go to school next session,” M ­ argaret said testily. “I’m going, Ma. I got to go.” Tas was not grinning now. “Where you think we’ll get cash for shoes?” “I’ll get it, Ma. I’ll get it!” ­Margaret frowned. “Don’t see how, Tas.” ­Margaret watched Tas unload a basket of plantain he had backed from the farm. “You know, son, the new farm we’re making is for you children. So you’ll have a place of your own.” Tas looked away. “I don’t like farming that much, Ma. I’m going to work the sea.” “That’s fine, son, but a seaman needs a place to beach his dory and a place to grow cassava that goes with the fish.” Tas did not respond, but picked up a water pail and walked toward the river. ­Margaret thought, The boy is talking like a man. I’ll have to shorten his rope, lest he step too far too soon. He’s big as some men now, and nearly as strong. But he’s still innocent. Needs time, needs time. A week later, ­Margaret watched Tas throwing corn to the fowl. The chickens fluttered around his bare legs, scrapping for the next morsel. She

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stopped and counted as anxiety gripped her stomach. “Where’s the red cock? I don’t see the red cock!” Tas threw another handful of corn. Here it comes, he thought. I’m surprised she didn’t miss him two days ago. Well, just got to face her on this one. He remembered the day he decided to raffle the rooster to make money for new shoes. I need them for school, he had justified his plan to himself. I’ll get more money than any old chicken is worth. The boy had sold chances on the red cock to school friends. Three coppers per chance to take the fowl home for dinner. There was a crowd, and Tas was glad he had staged the event way north of Larube, beyond the school where the teachers wouldn’t see him. After the money was collected, he buried the bird up to its neck in sand. Then each boy took his chance, blindfolded, to try to chop off the head of the fowl with one swipe of a machete. Glad I knew to collect all the money before they started. Otherwise there’d been real trouble with Ma. As it was, I had to run for it when the fourth man somehow hit the cock’s neck. But I got the money, and I’m going to wear new shoes to school next session. His mother asked again, “Tas, where is the red cock?” “He’s not here, Ma.” “You think I’m blind? I see he’s not here. Where is the red cock?” “I sold him, Ma. Two days ago,” the boy confessed. “You did what!” “I sold him, Ma, to get money for my shoes. I got it, Ma. Four and change! That’s more than any old cock is worth. And I’ll have some left over after I buy them. I’ll give that to you, Ma.” “Portacio Diego, you telling me you killed that cock?” “Yes, Ma. I sold it on a chicken lottery.” “A chicken lottery! Where did you hear about that?” “Uncle Alvarez told me how they used to do it in Lidisi.” “Jesus! Wait till I see that man again. Tas, I’d set that red rooster out for the ancestor party. Now you telling me you sold him on a chicken ­lottery!” “You didn’t say anything about it to me, Ma. How’s I’m supposed to know, Ma?” “I don’t have to say anything to you, lest I choose to. Go get the belt, Tas. I’m going to lash you for this!” “But, Ma, we got three more roosters. You can take that black one. He’s a fine old cock,” Tas protested. “You never take anything black into the ancestor house. Black is for death. We’re inviting ancestors back for a party. You want I insult them

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with a black fowl, remind them of death and their graves? We’re supposed to take a red cock that’s crowed, one you raised yourself! Now what am I going to do?” “I didn’t know about the cock, Ma.” “Well now you do; and I guess there’s a lot more you’ll be learning when we go to the party.” “When we going?” “Never you mind. I’ll tell you when. What you don’t know you can’t say, so the teachers hear it. You remember we must keep quiet about this. That’s why I didn’t tell you anything about that cock.” “Yes, Ma.” “Well, you think I forgot what I said? Go get the belt.”

Skipper’s Holiday 1943. One afternoon on the beach Santa said, “Look, Tas!” Two wild mares waded in the surf. The horses of Larube ran free along the coast. Although they were impossible to catch on land, the water slowed their movements. A careful Garif could ease up beside one and leap to its back for a brief ride in the sea. Tas and Santa slipped into the water. Santa moved toward the small roan, while Tas chose the bigger mare. Slowly, careful not to splash, they neared the skittish beasts. “Now!” Tas yelled and leaped, grabbed the mane of the mare, flung a leg over her back, and was astride. He pulled the horse’s skin behind her right ear, forcing her to face the sea. She swam in a wide circle, giving Tas a ride through the ocean. Santa dove off the roan’s back and surfaced as Tas jumped from his mount. The children grinned at each other and watched the horses run free down the shore. Santa’s eyes widened, and she pointed up the beach. “Look there, Tas, isn’t that Uncle Alvarez’s dory?” Tas wiped seawater from his eyes and watched the craft tack into the wind. “Yep, that’s his sail. Looks like he has passengers.” Tas squinted. “He does! It’s Skipper!” Tas waved. “Skipper, man you’ve come home!” He rushed toward his brother, splashing as he went. Skipper pulled back, brushing a drop from his trousers. “Watch it, Tas,” his brother complained. “You don’t know how to act civil? Splashing water on people.” “Sorry, Skipper.” Tas withdrew while Innocente carefully folded up the legs of his trousers and hung a pair of white tennis shoes around his neck. Tas turned to Alvarez. “Can I help you with your gear, Uncle?”

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“Thanks, Tas. I won’t be stopping on this trip.” Alvarez jumped from the dory and placed an arm around Tas. “How you doing, boy?” “Not bad, Uncle. We cleared another field of the farm.” “Fine. Your ma says you do the work of a man.” Tas grinned at the compliment, then asked, “Uncle, you want I go call Ma?” “No, Tas. I’ll walk up. You help Innocente with his gear.” He lifted a cardboard suitcase from the dory. “Mind this. It’s a Creole yamadi, won’t stand much water.” “A what?” Tas held the suitcase high above his head. “It’s what Mr. Roberts uses,” remarked Skipper as he waded to shore. He raised his chin. “In Belize City we have stout houses. Rain doesn’t drip through the roof, so we don’t need waterproof clothes baskets.” Behind Skipper’s back, Santa danced a jig, mimicking her brother. “Rain don’t drip through our roof. No, sir. Rain don’t drip through our roof.” Skipper stopped in dry sand to put on his shoes, then nodded to Tas who was carrying the suitcase. “Well, man, let’s go see Ma.” As Skipper walked ahead, Tas placed his bare foot next to the imprint of his brother’s tennis shoe. Nope, he thought, too small for me, but I know who it will fit. Next afternoon Skipper approached his mother. “Say, Ma, what’s this about an ancestor party?” “There’ll be one soon. You and Tas will go with me.” Skipper scratched his head. “Well . . . hmm . . . you know, Ma, . . . I don’t hold much with that sort of thing. I mean it was okay when we didn’t know better. But now, since the Christians brought the true word, we don’t need that stuff.” “You calling our ancestors ‘stuff ’? What kind of talk is that?” M ­ argaret frowned. “You better watch yourself, or you’ll get a lashing. Only it won’t come from me!” “Well, Ma,” Skipper answered smugly, “Mr. Roberts says you can’t serve two gods. You can’t be Christian and practice heathen rites, too.” “Who you calling heathen!” ­Margaret exploded. “Do I look like I got a ring in my nose?” “Ma, no, Ma. I didn’t mean it that way,” Skipper stammered. “Just what did you mean?” demanded his mother. “Well, you know, Ma. You go to church. You hear what the priest tells us. Feeding ancestors is devil worship. Ma, Mr. Roberts read me some history about our people, way back when they lived on Saint Vincent. The

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book said the Caribs were cannibals back then. And Mr. Roberts said he’s heard tell that sometimes we still kill a little boy at the party.” “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and neither do you. Yes, I go to church for my reasons. And I hear what they say. Appears to me they’d listen to their own words, before they start calling us cannibals. What you think Mass is all about? Or can’t you understand the words?” “Ma, don’t blaspheme!” “Your ass with ‘blaspheme!’ You’re the one talking against your own religion!” “Ma, what’s wrong, Ma?” Santa ran toward M ­ argaret. “I heard you yelling way down the road.” ­Margaret wheeled on her daughter. “And you’re another one. Saying you want to be a nun! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” A few days later, ­Margaret summoned her sons. “You both sit down and listen to what I say. I’m taking you to the dugu this morning. After they serve the ancestors’ banquet at noon, and there’s the quiet time, then you two will go to the ‘snatching.’ ” “Ma? What they gonna snatch?” Tas inquired. “During the quiet time, the spirits come to eat the food we’ve prepared. We sit out in the yard. Leave them be while they’re eating.” “Do they eat a lot, Ma?” Tas eyes were wide with questions. “Of course not!” M ­ argaret frowned at her son. “Tas, you ask the damn­ edest questions.” “Sorry, Ma.” ­Margaret saw the hurt look on her son’s face and regretted her short answer. “It’s the same as when we feed your papa at home, except this time there’s lots of folks bringing food, and there’s lots of powerful spirits there eating it. The spirits take the strength from the food; but you can’t see that they bite it. What’s left looks the same, but it won’t feed you.” “So what are they going to snatch?” Skipper inquired. “That’s what I’m explaining. You are going to snatch. Not the spirits.” “Snatch what?” “What’s left of the food!” “Ma?” Tas did not understand. “Both of you be quiet and listen. After the spirits have eaten, Sam Buyei and his helpers will clear away the banquet. They’re going to put part of the food out in the hall where we dance the circles. They’ll make a mat of big leaves, and they’ll pile food on it. Then when the buyei signals it’s time, a drum will beat. Now all the children run in, grab a handful of the

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food, and run back out to the yard. You’re supposed to run quick before the drum stops beating.” “Then what, Ma?’ “Then you eat that food you snatched.” “But, Ma,” Skipper said, “you just told us that food doesn’t have strength.” “It won’t satisfy hunger, but it has something else left in it that you need. Some of the power of the ancestors is left in it. You eat that food, and you get more used to being around that power. Then when spirits come, you’re not so apt to get sick from them being around.” “Well, if we’re eating it to get strength around the spirits, why do we just snatch a handful?” Tas asked. “Because you’re not yet strong enough. You have to build up to it. That’s why you only pick up while the drum is beating.” ­Margaret looked at her sons. “Now do you understand what you’re supposed to do?” “Yes, Ma,” they answered in unison. In late afternoon a dozen or more “snatchers” stood at the front door of the ancestors’ house, waiting for the drumbeat. Rrmmp pa. Rrmmp pa. The children ran into the hall. Tas swept a hand across the mound, picked up a pigtail, a slice of fried banana, and rice dripping with gravy. Rrmmp pa, rrmmp pa, the drum beat again. Tas ran, clasping the food in both hands. The fried banana slipped from his grasp. He bent to retrieve it, but the drum warned he must not stop. Rrmmp pa! Tas cleared the front door. It all had been only a minute. The children giggled self-­consciously as they stood together, gravy and juices dripping through their fingers. An older girl leaned her face into her food and lapped up meat and rice. Tas followed her example. He licked the last of the gravy from his fingers, then looked around for Innocente, who was leaning against a post, smirking. “Skipper, you didn’t get some? What happened?” “Nothing happened, Tas. I’m not going to be a part of these pagan rites. That’s all.” “But Skipper, Ma said we should. . . .” Tas stopped short, as he realized his brother’s eyes were becoming glassy and losing focus. A hush fell over the yard, as the other children saw the boy’s expression and quickly moved out of his way. Tas watched, speechless, as Skipper walked in trance to the front door of the ancestor house. Inside the hall, Sam Buyei heard a gasp and looked toward the door to see Skipper running to the remains of the food in the center of the room. The boy came to a full stop in front of the mound. It appeared that

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an invisible hand pushed him face down into the mass of rice, yams, fish, chicken and pork. ­Margaret was immobile. “Oh my God, what are they doing to my boy!” She stood, helpless, and watched Innocente grovel head first through the mound, lapping food as he went. His head emerged, dripping with sauces. The boy brushed a scrap of food from his nose and collapsed into a deep trance. At once Sam Buyei directed, “You children get out of here, go home now. You’ve had enough of the spirits for one day.” He turned to Skipper, held the boy’s wrist, felt for a pulse, then spoke to M ­ argaret. “It’s okay. They didn’t mean to kill him. Just give him a warning.” The buyei’s helpers lifted Innocente into a hammock. He would lie there, just beyond the edge of the dancers, until he came out of trance. The work of the party began again. A week later, Santa sidled toward her brother, who had been in a sulk since the dugu. She was fed up with the way Skipper had tried to boss Tas and herself all holiday. This afternoon, she had heard the gossip that gave her a chance to strike back. “Well, Mister Big Man, thought you didn’t have to respect the ancestors, huh?” Santa giggled. “From what they’re saying, you looked pretty silly laid out at the ancestor party.” “Where’d you hear that?” “They’re all talking it. How one of those Old People struck you cold.” Santa laughed again. “Sure wish I’d been there to see it. Bet you felt right foolish, coming to in the middle of that hall, all those folks watching you while they danced around.” “Shut up, Santa!” Skipper stomped out of the yard. A week later, Alvarez laid his hand on ­Margaret’s back, waiting for her to wake up. She smiled at his familiar touch, then turned to face him. ­“Alvarez?” “It’s near dawn, sweetheart. Time we’re moving north.” ­Margaret reached for her gown and called, “Skipper, wake up, son. Alvarez is ready to go.” Skipper pulled on the shirt and trousers he had worn on the trip down. They had been stored in his suitcase during the time he had spent with his family. No need to wear them around these people, he had thought. They wouldn’t know proper clothes if they saw them. He reached for his tennis shoes. He ran his hand around the sides and bottom of the container. “Where are my shoes?” he muttered irritably. “Tas, you seen my shoes?” “Didn’t you leave them in your box?” Tas asked from his mat.

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“Skipper,” ­Margaret called again, “hurry up. Alvarez is waiting.” “I’m going, Ma. But I can’t find my shoes. Tas! Get up and help me find my shoes.” Tas crawled over the sand floor on his hands and knees, sweeping his arms in one direction then another. “I just don’t feel them, Skipper.” “Innocente!” “I’m going, Ma. But what I gonna do? I mean how will I look with no shoes?” The sound of Alvarez’s horn drifted through the window. “Skipper, do I have to come in there?” “No, Ma. I’m gone, Ma.” The boy ran to the beach, his bare feet spewing sand with each step. ­Margaret watched Alvarez and Skipper sail north toward Belize City. ­Cervantes, she thought, I’m failing on that one. What should I do, ­Cervantes? Then, shaking loose the sorrow, she turned and called her other children. “Tas, Santa, another day. Let’s go. Tas, first day back to school for you, now you have your shoes. Do your chores before you leave. Santa, you’ll be going with me and Khandi to farm.” Tas ran into the front room. “No she won’t, Ma. Santa’s going to school, too.” He reached into the rafters and pulled out Skipper’s tennis shoes. “She’ll have to grow a mite to fit them, but she’s got shoes.” ­Margaret shrieked, “Portacio Diego, you turning into a full-­time thief?” Tas stood proud. “Lash me if you want, Ma. My Santa’s got shoes.”

Santa’s School Larube, 1945. Tas eased a knife around the toe of his shoe, separating the top from the sole. The blade frayed the rotted canvas. “Damn you, shoes, don’t you give out on me. I kept you dry and clean best I could. You got to hold out four more months.” He slipped the shoe on his foot and saw his big brown toe out beyond the white canvas. No way I could have worn them any larger when I bought them. As it was, that Alfred Jones called me “duck” ’til I busted his fat Creole nose. “Maybe you won’t go back to school,” M ­ argaret remarked. Tas molded wire around the curve of his toes, bracing the top to the bottom of the shoe. “Yes ma’am, Ma. I still have to go. There’s one more term of learning I aim to get.” “Looks to me, with all your upstart questions, you got more than enough of what they’re trying to teach.”

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Tas picked up the sec­ond shoe and thought, There she goes again. Ma and the Sisters are the same. Seems like they don’t want to hear questions. They rail up. Like when the priest lashed me ’cause I asked if Bungi and their God was the same. Seems the same to me. He sighed. I didn’t mean disrespect. Just want to know why. Saying “just because” doesn’t answer the question, leastwise not for me. Tas asked M ­ argaret, “Ma, you want me to bring in more limes?” ­Margaret counted the bottles of juice she had prepared. “No, thank you. This is enough to carry us until they’re ripe again. But bring in mock apple if you see it. I’ll dry them.” “Yes, Ma. I’ll watch for them today. We’re going to hunt armadillo. Thomas and me. You can count on one for the pot. Aunt Agnes, too. After that we’ll sell what’s left.” “You’re talking mighty cocky, Tas. How you know you can find so many?” “Got to think that way, Ma. Don’t get anything done elsewise.” “You haven’t made a deal with Duendu, have you, Tas?” ­Margaret teased. “You know, that little elf supposed to tempt hunter men.” “No, Ma. I’m not that dumb. Besides, I’ve never seen him. Of course if I ever did, I might reconsider,” Tas teased back. “Sure would be nice to find meat every time I went to hunt.” “Tas! Don’t you think such a thing.” He grinned at his mother. “Don’t worry, Ma. The only contract I have is with the end of my hardwood stick. That’s all I need to knock the life out that armadillo.” He set his shoes inside the house. “I’m gone, Ma.” School had not been in session long before Santa realized Roger Anderson was her enemy. Of all the insufferable Creoles in standards five and six, he was the worst. Why did he have to be assigned the desk next to me? she fumed. There are twelve other people he could sit by. Santa had established herself as an excellent student. Roger was not. Besides being jealous of Santa’s grades, Roger hated her because she covered her paper when they took tests. Sister Regina had caught him trying to copy Santa’s answers, and she had lashed him in front of the class. Roger had stood in shame, mortified that he, a Creole, was excelled by a stupid Carib. “Damn crab,” he called her when Sister Regina was across the room. “Filthy pagan,” he muttered as he jostled her desk. Santa tried to ignore him, knowing that if a confrontation between a Garif and a Creole was taken to the principal, Sister Anna would likely side with the Creole. Then there was Sister Regina. She was a new teacher that year, young and British, with flawless white skin and large blue eyes ringed with thick,

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dark lashes. Santa adored her. She wanted to become a nun exactly like Sister Regina, and she pushed herself to new levels in her studies. Santa’s adoration of Sister Regina was not lost on Tas. “I don’t know why you make so much of that Sister Regina,” he complained. “Because she treats us fair, Garif and Creole alike.” Deep in her heart, Santa thought, and because she’s so beautiful. “Hah! How long you think that’s gonna last? Just ’cause she hasn’t had time to learn Garif from Creole. She still thinks all dark-­skinned people are the same. You wait. They’ll get to her. Then you’ll see how fair she is. Bet she won’t think you’re near so smart then!” “She won’t do that, Tas. I know she won’t” One afternoon Santa stood by the schoolyard gate, hoping for a chance to walk with Sister Regina to the parish house. As she waited, Santa thought, I’ll feel great wearing a nun’s garb. She imagined herself teaching young pupils to read and cipher. Suddenly Roger Anderson stood before her. He held the hand of his little sister Rose. Next to him stood a big Creole boy whom Santa didn’t know by name. “That’s her,” Roger sneered, “that’s the stupid Carib that thinks she’s so great. That’s the bloody crab!” “Don’t you call me crab, Roger Anderson!” Santa growled. “Crab, crab, filthy crab!” Roger shouted with glee. “Always skitting from one hole to another. Bet you don’t even have a papa. Bet your ma’s a whore like all the other Carib women. Hah, hah. Your pa’s a cannibal and your ma’s a whore!” Santa shouted back, “Well at least I’m not a stone, a pile of shit that just lies on the beach for us to stub our toes in.” “Who you calling a stone?” Roger pushed her. “You, Roger! A stone! A pile of shit!” She pushed him back, and he knocked her sideways into Rose. Santa tripped over the smaller girl and both fell in a heap. Momentarily forgetting about the boys, Santa reached out to help the screaming child. Roger hit Santa from the side, held her on the ground and pummeled her. She fought back, flailed, and tried to heave him off her. Suddenly he was gone. Santa clawed dirt and sweat from her eyes and saw Thomas holding Roger by the hair. Rose was still crying. Roger’s friend ran down the road. Thomas dropped Roger and held out his hand to Santa. “Come on, girl. I’ll take you home.” ­Margaret stared at her daughter, who stood before her in tears. “What happened, Santa? My God, what have you done to your uniform?”

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Santa’s smock was ripped from waist to hem. “I had a fight, Ma,” she lisped around her swollen lip. ­Margaret shook her head in disbelief. “Who you fighting, Santa? Did you have to fight in your uniform?” Santa looked away, and Thomas answered for her. “Some Creoles jumped her, Aunt ­Margaret. I saw it.” Concern drew lines on M ­ argaret’s face. “You hurt bad, baby?” She reached for her daughter. Santa did not speak. M ­ argaret sighed. “Okay, go get out of the uniform, then bring it to me. After that you wash those cuts good. I’ll heat some water for you.” Next morning ­Margaret found Santa sitting on the bench clutching her wet smock. “Oh, Ma,” Santa cried, “it rained last night, and look!” She held up the sodden uniform. “Well, Santa,” said ­Margaret, “seems like you don’t go to school today. Might be for the best, anyhow. You look a fright, child. Take a day to catch yourself up.” Santa did look a mess. One eye was puffy and discolored; and she had an ugly scrape on her knee. She answered, “Yes, Ma, better I wait ’till tomorrow.” Santa did not look much better the next day, but she put on her repaired smock and set out for school. What will I say if Sister Regina asks what happened? Kicking sand with every third step she decided, I’ll tell her I got in a fight, but won’t say where. Can’t tell her it was at school. She might send me to Sister Anna. She’d say I was wrong, no matter what. Maybe she won’t ask. Santa reassured herself as she strode toward the school gate. If she does, I’ll say I got in a fight with Tas. He won’t snitch on me. An hour later, Santa kicked sand in the opposite direction. Her legs moved so fast that every now and then she broke into a trot. I’ll never go back there again, she thought. Never want to see Sister Regina again. Not after what she did. Tears flooded down Santa’s cheeks, and she angrily dashed them away with her fists. Sister Regina had betrayed her. The nun had pulled her to the front of the class. “You nasty little girl,” Sister Regina had scolded. “Just look at you.” She pointed at the bruises. “That’s what you get for bullying poor little Rose Anderson until her brother stopped you.” Santa recoiled. “But that’s not what happened at all,” she protested. “Don’t lie to me!” Sister Regina yelled and grabbed Santa’s arm. “Come with me. You can tell your lies to Sister Anna.” Santa tried to collect her wits as she walked to the principal’s office. What am I gonna say? What will she believe?

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But Santa had no time to contrive another story because Sister Anna suddenly loomed before her. “You lazy, no good little savage,” she shouted. “You’re all alike. I don’t know why we waste time on you Caribs. You’re all a bunch of heathens.” Santa stared at the woman. Ugly red blotches spotted her face, and her glasses slid down her nose with the sweat that ran off her brow. Even in the midst of Sister Anna’s attack, Santa wondered, Why do all the light-­ skinned foreigners get so ugly after they been here awhile? She watched Sister Anna’s mouth, stretched wide in her tirade, displaying rotting molars. “What do you mean coming to our school in this condition? We do not allow filth among our pupils. Get out and don’t come back until you’re in proper uniform.” Desperately, Santa looked to Sister Regina for support. Surely she’ll say that I’m not dirty, that I’m her best student. Sister Regina stared back at Santa as if she were a stranger, her face impassive, cold. Santa’s mouth pulled downward. Pain lanced her heart. Then pride roused deep inside her, and the girl felt her full strength. She stood up straight, raised her chin, and without a word turned her back on the nuns and walked past her classroom. The Creole pupils snickered, while her Garifuna friends stared straight ahead at the blackboard. Santa left the school with her head held high, despite the cascading tears. Her Mother’s heart lurched when she saw Santa coming. Now what’s happened? she wondered. “Santa . . .?” ­Margaret cut her question short as she saw the expression on her daughter’s face. She waited as the girl walked past her into the house. Santa took off her school smock and ripped it in two. She removed what was left of Innocente’s tennis shoes, put on a traditional woman’s dress, picked up the uniform and shoes, and walked to the kitchen. She dropped the clothes onto the fire and stirred them into a blaze. At last she turned to look at ­Margaret. “I’m home, Ma.” ­Margaret nodded and picked up a conversation as if nothing unusual had happened. “I meant to go out to the first farm this morning, to get some sweet banana. Perhaps you could fetch them for me, Santa?” “Yes, Ma.” Santa placed a basket on her head and walked down the path. Those Christian bitches hurt my baby, M ­ argaret thought as she watched her daughter disappear. Well that’s done. I don’t have any more children to go through their school. I’ll never cross their church door again. M ­ argaret pictured Santa as she walked to the farm. She’s strong. She’ll catch herself up. I’ll treat her like a grown woman, even though I know she’s still just a little girl.

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Tas to Lidisi 1947. Tas stared at the distant shore of Lidisi, squinting to distinguish the separate houses. He searched for any landmark that might link then with now. He longed for some sight that would remind him convincingly: Here you were with your father. Here are your roots. This is where you belong. The village he scanned looked the same as any Garifuna village: a few boat sheds on the beach, scattered palms screening a row of houses from the shore, and a sandy path running behind the houses. Tas jumped into the knee-­high surf and reached for his bundle of clothes. Anger surged as he remembered the ugly scene with his mother two days earlier: “You will stay here in this yard and do the chores while I go to farm,” she had ordered. “You will pound rice, and after that you will tie thatch for the roof.” “Ma, you haven’t answered my question about the money. Where’s the money I earned, Ma?” “What gives you the right to question me? I’m your mother. I’ve raised you. You owe me that money.” ­Margaret picked up her machete and started toward the door. “You took it, Ma. I’d have given it to you if you asked, but you took it!” ­Margaret spun in her tracks and faced her son. “Yes, I took it and I’ll keep on taking it. You stay here and work today. Tomorrow you go back to the ship.” “No, Ma. If I work like a man, you’ll treat me like a man.” “Man! You standing there in short pants saying you’re a man. You get to work. I’ll settle this with you when I get back.” “If you and the captain hadn’t cheated me, I wouldn’t be in short pants. I did the work of a man. I should have been paid like a man, not a boy!” ­Margaret ignored Tas and strode across the yard. “Ma!” Tas shouted from the door,” If you don’t make this right, Ma, I won’t be here when you come back. Kill me now, Ma. ’Cause I won’t be here when you come back!” “You’d better be here if you know what’s good for you,” M ­ argaret yelled over her shoulder. “And that rice better be pounded clean.” Tears flowed over Tas’s high cheekbones as he watched his mother leave the yard. All this time she’s been holding me back, he thought. I’ve got to break loose, to be a man. Ma’s wronged me this time. I have to go. He quickly gathered up his belongings and walked out of Larube. Once he was beyond the village he set a steady trot north to Dangriga. There, he bargained with a seaman for passage south. Two days later, Tas waved goodbye to the sailor and waded to shore. He

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spotted a man mending nets under the shade of a boat shed. “Good evening, sir. Would you direct me to the acalde’s house?” “I’m the acalde. I saw the dory. You came from the north?” “Yes. My name is Diego. I’m looking for relatives here.” The acalde stared at Tas. “Are you Innocente or Portacio?” Startled, Tas answered, “I’m Portacio. But how did you know?” “My name is Casamerio. ­Cervantes was my cousin. You look like him.” He pushed his net aside. “Sit down, son, sit down. Tell me what you’re doing here.” “I came to find my family. To know my father’s side.” “Did ­Margaret send you?” Tas looked out to sea. “Yes, sir.” Casamerio cleared his throat. “You sure about that? Somehow I sense you’re on the run. Tas decided to bare his heart to the acalde. “I had to leave her, Uncle. She wouldn’t let me be a man.” Casamerio picked up Tas’s bundle of clothes. “You’re welcome, Portacio. Come, there’s room for you in my house, at least until we decide what you’re going to do.” “I’m going to stay in Honduras, Uncle, with my father’s people.” “­Margaret will know you’re here, next time Alvarez sails north. Then what?” “I’m going to stay here, Uncle,” Tas insisted. “Okay, Portacio, but for now let’s find you some food and a mat to sleep on.” “Thank you, Uncle.” The young man grinned as they shook hands. “They call me Tas, Uncle.” After supper Casamerio offered Tas a cigar. “Thanks, Uncle, I don’t smoke.” “Just as well,” Casamerio commented. “You drink?” “No, sir, except a little of Ma’s wine now and then.” “How about women? You got girlfriends?” Tas ducked his head. “A couple, Uncle.” Casamerio waited. “Well, there was one woman I knew. The others were just friends, not really special.” Casamerio inhaled cigar smoke and thought, Looks like ­Margaret’s tried to keep him a baby. No wonder he ran. He asked, “Way I reckon, you ought to be about eighteen. Is that right?” “That’s right, sir.” Tas worried, Is he gonna believe that? Me coming here in short pants?

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Casamerio pondered, Why’s he coming here in boys’ clothes? Let’s see, how I can ask that without hurting his pride? As Casamerio considered the problem, Tas blurted out, “I crewed on a steamer, Uncle, doing a man’s work. Then I found out that Ma and the captain had an agreement. He paid me boys’ wages, then he and Ma split the extra that was owed me for doing a man’s work.” “What you mean?” Casamerio sat up straight. “Every week I was paid one dollar, and when the crew got clothes issued, I got one short-­sleeved shirt and one pair of short pants.” Anger choked his voice. Hump, thought Casamerio, no wonder he doesn’t drink or have women. “How long this been going on, Tas?” “Over two years, Uncle. Right after I finished school, Ma found me the job. She said it was time for me to get out and earn my own way. We’d sail from Belize City to Panama, carrying goods back and forth. Only time I’d get home was when we anchored off Dangriga for a day or two.” “Then what happened?” “I saw I was doing every bit as much work as those getting men’s wages. I decided to ask the captain for a raise, but I didn’t know how much to ask for. So one day I slipped into the captain’s berth and found his account book. He never minded to leave it around. He thought none of the crew could read. But I learned proper, repeating chapter and verse of the Bible at a Catholic school.” Tas shook his head. “He had it all down there, every payment. ‘Portacio Diego one dollar. Balance of wage two dollars. On account to ­Margaret Diego one dollar. Captain’s share one dollar.’ Every week for two years, Uncle! When I brought it up to Ma, she refused to talk it. Said it was her right, and then she ordered me to my chores.” “So you left, huh?” “Yes, sir, I left. And I’m not going back.” Casamerio stubbed out his cigar. “Well, for sure you’re not going anywhere tonight.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s get some sleep. I plan on fishing first thing in the morning. You’d like to go with me?” Tas grinned. “I’ll be ready, Uncle.” That night Tas thought about Santa. He missed her. Thomas and I have been best friends, he thought, and we spent hours talking and talking. Ma and I got along until the last, except for the time I took her red cock. “But Santa is different. She belongs to me.” Then having voiced the thought, he wondered what he meant by it. He picked through early memories. What’s that feeling? Where did it start? He pulled his pillow close to his face. There it is!

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That’s the feeling. In his mind’s eye he saw a dory thrashing through high seas, and a chubby little boy holding his infant sister, pulling her close to comfort her. Tas exhaled a deep breath. “I don’t know what the hell that has to do with it.” Then he grinned as Santa’s near-­adult face flashed before him. He chuckled, remembering the times that, with a mischievous nod, she had acknowledged some devilment she had been into. Strange how I’d know that before she ever got home. And she was the same with me. Tas and Casamerio spent most of their waking hours together. Tas asked questions about his father. Casamerio told stories of how he and C ­ ervantes grew up together in Lidisi. Each day Casamerio thought, It’s like ­Cervantes was here with me again. One afternoon while they were mending nets, Tas asked, “What about Papa’s other wife, Uncle?” “Delores? What you want to know about her?” “Pa loved her a lot, didn’t he?” “Yes, but it was a different kind of love that he had for your ma.” “How’s that, Uncle?” “Well, let’s see how to explain it. You remember you told me you had known one woman, and then you had some girlfriends?” “Yes, Uncle.” Casamerio continued to weave his net. “It’s sort of like that. One of those girlfriends you might some day decide to marry. She acts proper, she works hard, she’ll raise your children up right. You can count on her to be strong, like a proper Garifuna woman.” Casamerio looked over at Tas. “You understand what I mean?” Tas nodded. “I think so, Uncle.” “Okay, so you marry her. But you being a man, you don’t forget that other woman you knew. And now and then you want to taste what she’s offering.” Casamerio waited. “You understand me, son?” Tas fed line between the loops of the net and closed a tear. Finally, he asked the question that had been eating in his heart. “If Papa hadn’t gone to see Delores that night, he’d be alive? I’d have had a papa to raise me?” Casamerio gulped. Jesus! How can I answer that one? Tas was staring at him and waiting for the answer. “Who’s to say? Maybe yes, maybe no. ­Cervantes was fighting the same battle we face today. Trying to hold on to a piece of land where we can live as Garinagu. But he was betrayed and on the run that night. Spanish caught him in San Pedro. If they hadn’t caught him there, maybe they’d found him someplace else. I can’t answer your question.”

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Tas continued to stare into Casamerio’s eyes, assessing the truthfulness of his answer. “What about Delores and Terese? Where are they?” “Delores died some years ago. But Terese lives in San Pedro, just a short way past Alvarez’s house.” Tas folded the net he had been mending. “I think I’ll go to San Pedro tomorrow, Uncle.”

Tas Meets Terese San Pedro, 1947. The afternoon sun scalloped patterns across the gray-­ brown palm logs, held in rows by wood pegs. The kind of house Ma would want. ’Cept we couldn’t afford it, Tas thought ruefully. A young woman stood in the doorway. Hmm, a new man around. Very interesting. She appraised his appearance with a discriminating eye. What’s he got up for? Boys’ clothes on a man like that? Terese displayed her brightest smile as Tas spoke. “Good day, ma’am. I’m looking for Terese Diego. They told me on the beach that I’d find her here.” Tas admired the milk-­chocolate skin of the woman standing at the door. She’d be something to have following you, wanting to bed you! I wonder, if I had some of the magic vine with me, and she smelled it, would she follow me? Terese interrupted his fantasy. “And who’s asking for Terese Diego?” She smiled impishly. Tas wrenched his attention back to reality. “I am, ma’am. Portacio Diego from B. H.” The woman frowned then asked, “What you want with Terese?” “She’s my sister,” Tas answered earnestly. “I need to talk to her.” “What you want to talk with her about?” Tas looked the young woman in the eye. “I’ll tell her that when I find her.” Terese considered. Looking for me, his sister. Wonder what he wants? Well I can’t take him to bed, but he might be fun to have around for a while. Don’t of­ten see grown men like him walking about in short pants. She shrugged and motioned to the inside of the house. “Come in, Portacio Diego. I’m Terese.” Tas was startled by the cool, smooth hardness that met his feet. He stood on a gray mud-­slipped floor, not the packed sand he was accustomed to. The interior of the house was divided by a log wall. A fire platform stood on his right, a place for cooking during the rain season. To his left, a side door opened to the backyard. Terese pointed to a chair. “Have a seat, brother. I’ll fetch us something cool to drink.”

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As soon as Terese left, Tas hurried to look in the back room. It was almost filled with a bed. As wide as three sleeping mats, and standing above the floor on its four legs. He scurried back to his chair. Skipper told me that’s what the missionaries sleep on. But I couldn’t think how it was ’till I saw it. He looked around. She lives in a fine house. Wonder if this was Papa’s house? Terese returned with two glasses of cashew wine. “Welcome, brother.” She took a sip. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.” “I decided it was time I got to know Papa’s side of the family. So I sailed down here. I’ve been with Casamerio in Lidisi the last week. Now I’ve come to see you.” Terese looked at her half-­brother and wondered, Is this some kind of a joke? She asked, “You planning to visit in Honduras for a while?” “I plan to stay here, to live here,” Tas answered with determination. Terese sipped her wine again. “You’re not drinking yours, Portacio. You don’t like cashew wine?” Tas gulped the spicy liquid, then swallowed hard to control the burning in his throat. “Oh yes, Terese. It’s just I don’t drink much in the daytime.” He saw her watching him and confessed. “I hardly have anything to drink. Don’t know much about it.” Terese nodded. “I’m guessing there’s a lot you don’t know much about, brother.” Tas swallowed more wine, and no longer felt so tense. “Terese, is this the house my pa lived in?” “No, Portacio. Why do you ask?” Tas emptied his glass in another gulp. “The reason I came here is to find out about Papa. I need to know what it was like when he was alive.” “Our papa and my mama lived in another house down the beach. It’s not there anymore. After the year’s mourning, Ma married Manuel and we moved in with him, just next to where this one is.” Tas stared into his empty glass. “How’d you get this one?” What impudence! Terese thought. Then she realized the question only revealed her brother’s innocence and his rising intoxication. He seems like a nice sort. And I never had a brother or a sister. After Pa died it was just Ma and old Auntie, and of course Uncle Manuel. But he never seemed like real family to me. She looked at Tas, who stared vacantly into his glass. Suppose I keep him around for a while? Wouldn’t hurt nothing. If he gets out of hand, I can send him off in a flash. Might be fun to have someone to talk to about Papa and the family. I never get that from the men that come to this house. Terese refilled his glass. “You just sit in the cool, Portacio. I’ll fix us some supper.”

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Tas gulped at the drink. He slurred, “They call me Tas. You call me Tas.” Terese grinned at him. “Okay, Tas. Relax and make yourself to home. I’ll fetch us something to eat.” Next morning, Tas wondered, Who hit me? I don’t remember a fight. He felt his head for cuts or bruises, then realized the pain was inside his skull. What happened! Where am I? He lay still, trying to make sense of the chaos in his head, then raised up on one elbow, winced at the pain, and looked around. At the same moment, he heard Terese talking to a man and realized where he was. Damn! What happened? How’d I get in here? He lay back again and noticed that some of his discomfort came from lying on the clay floor. It looks pretty but sure doesn’t sleep soft like sand. He moaned involuntarily. Terese peeped around the curtain and smiled impishly. “Morning, brother. How’s the morning?” Tas groaned. “What happened? I don’t remember.” “Nothing happened, only you got drunk. When I brought our supper, you were passed out in the chair.” Terese smiled at the man sitting in the front room. “Lucky Jose came along, or I never would’ve got you out of that chair.” Terese moved to the side door. “Get up, Tas. Come meet my friend, Jose. I’ll fetch you some coffee.” Tas struggled to his feet, walked to the front room, and slumped into a chair. “Morning, Jose. I’m Portacio Diego.” “Morning. You tied one on, didn’t you, man?” Tas only nodded. “Well,” Jose continued, “guess you had reason to celebrate, joining your sister and all that. Terese told me how pleased she is that you’re here for a visit.” “That’s right, Jose,” Terese said as she handed Tas a cup of coffee. “My brother and I got a lot of talking to do.” “Yes, suppose you do.” Jose walked to the front door. “Guess I’ll see you tonight, huh, Terese?” “No, Jose.” She smiled sweetly at the man. “Tas and I got things to do today and tomorrow.” Jose shrugged as he stepped into the yard. “Okay. Later.” Terese pointed to the corner of the room. “We’ll get some woven mats for a divider, so you’ll feel you have your own place in the house. That sheet was best I could do on short notice.” She straightened the cloth. “First thing is to find a hammock, get you off that hard floor. I know where I can buy one.” Tas winced as he carefully placed his cup on the floor. “What happened, Terese?”

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“Nothing, Tas, I told you . . .” She stopped and regarded her brother. “Tas, that was the first time you ever been drunk!” She walked to him. “Right, Tas?” “If drunk was it, that was my first.” He groaned. “Hey,” Terese sympathized, “you’ll feel better soon. Let me get you some more coffee.” She reached for his cup. “Tas, there’s some rules you need to remember. First, if you don’t want to drink, then don’t. Second, if you do drink, you sip it. Not gulp it like fresh water.” Tas inhaled the aroma of his sec­ond cup of coffee. “I don’t of­ten get real coffee in Larube. Most Ma could do was browned rice or yama bush seeds.” He sipped from the cup. “This is real nice.” Terese grinned. “Here, you can have all the coffee and all the drinks you want. But it’s up to you from now on to watch yourself. You get drunk again, that’s your problem. Understood?” Tas nodded. “Understood. Hey,” he smiled, beginning to feel better. “Don’t you have some other name? ‘Terese’ seems too stiff for you. How ’bout I just call you ‘Reese’? Would you mind that?” “Reese,” she tried the sound. “Yes, I like that.” Tas stood. “Okay, Reese, it’s past time for me to take a walk in the yard. You get my meaning?” “Of course, Tas. I’ll just straighten my room.” Tas looked around. The outbuildings were well kept and sturdy. The chicken coop had cane walls. The bathing shed and the kitchen were made of palmetto logs. Jose must do well to provide all this. Tas thought, Those logs cost a pack of money. He buttoned the fly of his pants. That’s what Ma would have, if ever we could make it. Once you get those walls up they last. Don’t have to be replacing them. Terese watched Tas survey her yard. I guess he wasn’t playing a joke, coming here like this, she thought. Wonder what it means? Wonder how long it will take him to tell me the truth? She frowned. Maybe I won’t let myself like him too much. He may leave when he knows I’m a prostitute. Ma always talked about how proper Miss M ­ argaret was. He may think the same way. Well, for sure, if he’s staying here I’ve got to get him man’s clothes.

New Shoes That afternoon, Terese asked, “Hey, Tas. Think you could stand a sail to Tela?” “Sure, Reese. Why’re we going? Our ship stopped at Tela now and then.”

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“Well then, you know Tela has shops where we can buy you some proper clothes.” “Whoa, Reese. I don’t have any money to buy clothes. I’ll have to wear these until I find a way to earn some cash. I meant to ask you. Where you think I should go to find work?” Terese looked him up and down. “You seem like a man to me. You can chop wood, pack palm thatch? I need a man to do that.” “Sure, Reese. I’ll do that for you, but I got to find paying work, too.” “Well for now, I’ll extend you credit. Tomorrow we buy you clothes. Next day, you find work. Then you can repay me when you’re ready.” On a Tela sidewalk Tas cinched the new belt that held up his new khaki pants. He felt the warmth of his first long-­sleeved shirt. “Suppose it’s all right if I roll up these sleeves, Reese? I’m hot.” Terese laughed. “Of course, Tas. Most times men keep them rolled up. But it will be nice for you to have them when the storm winds blow.” Tas hiked his pants again, and felt the unfamiliar tickle of cloth touching his ankles. He hugged a package containing a sec­ond shirt and a sec­ ond pair of trousers. This can’t be real, he thought. It’s a dream. I’ll wake up, and it will all be gone. Then he threw his head back and laughed out loud. “What’s funny, Tas?” He chuckled. “I was just thinking what Skipper would say if he saw me now.” “Skipper?” Terese inquired. “Innocente, our older brother.” “You and he are close?” Tas hesitated. “I want to be. But he pushes back, won’t let me.” Tas looked around Tela’s plaza. Just two blocks from the beach, the open space was surrounded by buildings roofed with red tile. A fountain splashed water into a pool, and palm trees shaded white benches where men and women sat. Tas studied their faces. All Latinos, he thought. No Garinagu resting there. “Tas?” Terese called. He hurried to catch up with his sister. “Hey, Reese, where we going? The beach is back the other way.” “To another shop in the next block. But you were saying something about Skipper. That’s what you call him?” “Yeh, been calling Innocente that as long as I can remember.” “Well, if you’re not close to him, who is special to you?” “Santa. Then Ma, of course. But Santa first.” They passed a vendor selling barbecued beef on cane skewers. Tas in-

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haled the smoke. “You hungry, Tas? I am.” Terese walked back to the vendor. “Dos, Señor.” She handed him coins from her pocket and gave Tas one of the skewers. The fragrant meat dripped smoke-­flavored juices. They approached a shop displaying tennis shoes. Tas’s face lit up with pleasure. “For true, Reese?” She nodded. The clerk smirked as Tas searched for a large enough size to fit his broad feet. They both were surprised when Terese came to the counter with a pair of black leather oxfords. “We’ll take these if they fit. If not, surely you can find us some that do.” She smiled politely at the man. The astounded clerk stammered, “Those are leather. They’re too expensive for you . . .” He stopped short when he saw the roll of money in Terese’s hand. “Of course, ma’am.” He hurried around the counter and motioned Tas to sit in a chair. The sight of Tas’s calloused feet flustered the clerk. “Um, he doesn’t have socks. He needs socks.” “Well, fetch some that fit him, please.” Terese fought to hide her amusement and pleasure at having put a Latino off balance. “Of course, of course.” The clerk scurried to bring a display of men’s socks to Tas. “Which color would you prefer, sir?” The irony was not lost on Tas. He examined first one color, then the next. He held each pair at arm’s length, turning them from side to side, delaying the moment, enjoying the clerk’s expression. Finally, Tas looked to his sister. “We’ll take two pair of the black to match the shoes,” Terese said with­ out hesitation. “Put them on, Tas, and try the shoes.” Tas walked up and down the shop, experiencing the pleasure and pain of wearing his first pair of leather shoes. Terese grinned. “You want to wear them home, Tas?” He shook his head. “No, Reese, they’re going to take some getting used to.” “Okay.” Terese handed Tas the change she had received when she paid the clerk. That would be four dollars at home, he thought. More than I earned in a week on the ship. “Hey, Tas,” Terese said, “all this shopping has made me hungry again. How ’bout you buy us another skewer of barbecue?” Tas made the purchase, then handed his sister the change. She shook her head. “My hands are full with your shoes and the skewer. Put the money in your pocket, Tas. That’s what pockets are for.” Tas would not realize until years later, that the visit to the shoe shop was a turning point in his life. From that day on, he never again thought of himself as inherently inferior to another man or woman. He knew he

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was poor and disadvantaged. He sometimes burned with anger when he experienced discrimination. He was clever enough to be polite, and sometimes to act humbly, when it worked to his advantage. But he never again approached a Caucasian or a Creole feeling less than equal. Portacio Diego had come of age. He was a Garifuna man.

Flowers of Delight Tas lay in his hammock considering his change of fortune. The sun was high, and he reflected. I should be out fishing, earning some money. He yawned. Ought to get up and shave before Reese gets back from market. He closed his eyes again. I’ll get up in another minute. I’m still wore out from last night. He grinned as he remembered the girl who had squirmed and giggled, then moaned with pleasure as their bodies locked on the soft beach sand. Wow! he thought, she’s something else. For sure I’ll go back for more of her. His penis stiffened as he imagined the pleasures that lay in store. “Flowers of delight” all around me! He laughed about his recent exploits. Like a shark in a school of mullet. Tas sobered as the thought of fish reminded him that he was not at work. He swung out of his hammock, pulled on his trousers, and then shuffled to the bath house. I’ve got to say something to Reese about it. Can’t stay out late every night then fish at dawn. Don’t know how Reese does it. She’s always up and smiling every morning. Course she’s sleeping at times I’m still walking around waiting for some man to leave here. He reached for a bar of soap. She’s the one earning all the money. Lot more than I get from fish. Tas chuckled. Reese sure sized me up that first afternoon. What’d she say? Something like, “I’m guessing there’s a lot you don’t know, brother.” Tas rinsed the soap from his body. Well I’m catching on, sis. I’m catching on. He slipped his arms into a clean shirt. Having wine to drink and women to play with is fine. But a man’s got to work. Guess I’ll have to find someplace else to stay, so I can get regular sleep. He heard a knock at the front door. “Terese,” a voice called. Which one is that? Tas buttoned his fly. Doesn’t he know Reese doesn’t work during the day? “Terese,” the man called again. “She’s not here. She’s gone to market.” Tas slipped his belt through the loops of his trousers. The man knocked again, and Tas opened the door. “Uncle Alvarez! I wasn’t expecting you,” he blurted, confused by his mentor’s presence. Alvarez walked through the door. “You knew I live here in San Pedro. You should have expected I’d hear about you.”

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Tas motioned Alvarez to a chair. “Yes, no, I mean yes, Uncle. I didn’t know you were back.” “And would you’ve run, if you’d known I was home?” “No sir, Uncle. I already thought that out. I made up my mind to face you.” Alvarez lit a cigar. “Your ma’s mighty upset, Tas. She’s got seamen looking for you up and down B. H.” “Did you tell her I was here?” “No, ’cause I didn’t know for sure. But I guessed as much when we didn’t find you in Belize City.” “I’m not going back, Uncle.” “Well, that’s for you to decide, but I’ll have to tell her next time I go to Larube.” Tas stared at the floor. “She needs you, son. You know ­Margaret and I aren’t that young anymore. She’s worked hard all these years to raise you children. Skipper’s working in Belize City, and Santa’s living with her sweetheart, so she needs a man near her to help.” “She should’ve treated me like a man,” Tas muttered. “I’d never left her if she’d treated me right.” “I know, Tas.” Alvarez sighed. “She told me some of what happened. Can’t say I blame you. Might have done the same myself.” Tas continued to stare at the floor. “Well,” Alvarez changed the conversation, “you settled in here with Terese. How’s that going? Folks on the beach say you two get along like you grew up together.” Tas looked up. “She’s been real good to me, Uncle. She’s fun to be with. Always larking about something.” “You don’t think it might be better if you stayed with Casamerio up in Lidisi?” Tas bristled. “You mean because of how Terese gets her money?” “Well, partly, Tas, but mostly I’m thinking about you.” “What do you mean?” “I stopped to talk with Casamerio on the way home. He tells me you’ve been cutting a swath here, or least that’s how the gossips have it. Sounds like a lot of jollying and not much fishing.” Tas faced Alvarez. “He’s right, Uncle. I have been.” “You plan to keep that up?” “No, sir. It’s sure fun, I must say. You know Ma never let me loose, and now I’m enjoying it.” Tas shook his head. “But I’m ’bout ready to catch myself up. Leastwise for a time.” Alvarez smiled at the young man he had watched develop over the years. “You’re honest, Portacio Diego. I wouldn’t expect you not to have your

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share of fun. That’s part of being a man.” He stood. “I’ll be on my way, son. Have to tend to things for my wife. If you need something you know where to find me.” “Uncle,” Tas said as they walked to the door, “maybe I will go see ­Casamerio, talk to him about working out of Lidisi, rather than San Pedro. After all, that was Papa’s first home.” “That’s fine, Tas. I’ll see you again before I sail north.”

News from Larube 1950. Tas stowed empty baskets in the bottom of Casamerio’s dory. The heat was intense, and he had to sail from Tela to Lidisi before he could dive into the sea and let waves wash weariness from his muscles. He considered stopping at San Pedro. But he thought, Reese won’t be expecting me until regular market day. There’s bound to be a man there. Best I wait ’til the regular night. Tas leaned into the bow of the dory, pushing it out of the sand. “Get in, Tas,” said a familiar voice behind him. “I’ll give you the shove.” He turned to see Santiago grinning at him. “Uncle, what you doing here?” “Same as you I reckon. Turning sweat into cash.” “What you selling?” “There’s a new cloth from England the ladies are excited about. Alvarez and I get a better price down here. So I made an extra sail.” “Guess you bought the cloth in B. H., huh, Uncle?” “That’s right, Tas. I stopped in Larube as usual.” “How’s Ma doing?” “As a matter of fact, I was coming to see you.” “What about?” “Well, seems your ma’s not satisfied with how Alvarez talked with you. She asked me to bring a message to you, straight.” “What’s that, Uncle?” “She said to tell you to come home. To stop your foolishness.” Tas’s jaw clamped, and he climbed into the dory. “I thank you for the message, Uncle.” “You going home, Tas?” “No, sir. I won’t ever go home, long as she treats me like a boy.” Two weeks later, someone knocked at the door. “Coming,” Tas called, as he slipped on a shirt. “James Salivar! How’s the morning?” “Not bad, no complaints.”

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Tas searched for his shoes. “Hope nothing’s wrong with Uncle Alvarez.” “No, Pa’s fine. I’ve come for another reason.” “What’s that?” James blurted, “I saw Santa and Miss ­Margaret last time I was in La­ rube. They were down at the beach buying fish. There’s a baby on the way, Tas. You’re going to be an uncle.” “No true, James? Santa’s having a baby for Arzu?” “That’s right.” Tas exploded with excitement. “Wow! Wow! And she’s all right?” “Best I could tell she’s fine.” “Well, what did she say? Did she ask about me?” “Of course. I told her you were living the high old life down here.” “How about Ma?” James frowned. “That’s really why I came to see you. She sent a m ­ essage.” “What’s that?” “She asked me to tell you she’s sick, and she needs you to come home.” Tas squeezed his eyes closed. Ma sick? He felt lightheaded. “What you think about that, James?” “I don’t know, Tas.” James shrugged. “She looked okay to me.” “I think it’s her tricks, trying to get me back under her thumb,” Tas said. “When you fig­ure you’ll be back to Larube, James?” “Probably next week. Why?” “Do me a special favor. Find Santa, and give her a message direct from me.” “Okay, Tas. What is it?” “Tell her I love her and, if it weren’t for the fight with Ma, I’d be there watching out for her.” Next market day, Tas beached the dory at San Pedro, then walked to Terese’s house. She was expecting him. “Tas, you handsome hunk of man. Come in, come in.” Tas laughed at his half-­sister’s teasing. “Calm yourself, bitch. I’m just your humble little brother, remember?” Terese smiled tenderly at him. “Of course I remember. You’re the most important person in my life.” Tas gave her a bear hug. “Right, Reese, we’re just two lost children making it in the big bad world.” He sat down. “Seriously, Reese, I never thanked you proper for what you did for me when I first came. I’ll never forget it.” Terese’s heart lurched. “You’re leaving, Tas?” He shook his head. “No, Reese, not yet, but . . .” “What, Tas?”

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“The seamen keep bringing messages from Ma. For six months now, each the same.” He sighed. “That she’s sick and needs me.” “What does Santa say?” “Nothing. That’s why I keep thinking it’s Ma’s tricks.” “You want to go back, Tas?” He nodded. “In a way, yes, Reese. I miss Santa, and Ma and Thomas and the British side. After all, I grew up there, but . . .” “You don’t want to be a boy again.” Terese completed the sentence. “Yep, guess that’s it. And I haven’t seen a sign from Ma that says she’s willing to treat me like a man.” “Well, what you gonna do?” “Don’t know, except what I’ve been doing. Keep sending money to Ma for treatment, in case she really is sick.” “Alvarez knows if she’s really sick. Ask him.” Tas shook his head. “Can’t, Reese.” “Why not?” “Because Uncle and I haven’t really talked since that first time he came here to find me. When we meet, we talk about Santa and Thomas and Aunt Khandi. But I don’t ask about Ma; and he doesn’t say anything.” Tas paused. “It’s like there’s something we don’t want to let out. Because it would hurt both of us.” Tas looked around. “Hey, Reese, you mind if I just bed down tonight? I’m not much in the mood for a party. Next week we’ll find some punta, and I promise you, girl, I’ll dance you out of the circle.” Terese laughed. “That’ll be the day, my brother!”

Return to Larube Three months later, while working together under the boat shed, C ­ asamerio noticed that Tas was preoccupied. “What’s the matter, son? Where’s your soul-­spirit?” Tas did not hear his uncle. Casamerio asked again, “What’s worrying you?” “Oh! Uncle.” Tas came back to the present. “A seaman handed me a letter this morning.” Tas gave the envelope to Casamerio. The older man struggled to make sense of what was written. “I can’t read it.” He shook his head. “What does it say?” Tas had recognized Santa’s printing. He read, “Dear Tas, Mama is dying. Come home. Santa.” Casamerio dropped his net. “You go pack your gear. I’ll find you a boat leaving right away.”

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The seaman and Tas spent the night on the first key inside the barrier reef. They had left Lidisi forty-­eight hours after Santa handed her letter to a fisherman on his way south. Memories of childhood bubbled into Tas’s consciousness. Ma, he prayed, don’t die. I’m coming . . . At noon, Tas lifted his basket of clothes from the dory. “I thank you, Captain, for bringing me straight to Larube. Not stopping in Livingston got me home one day quicker.” “No problem, Tas,” the seaman answered. “Once you told me why you were in such a hurry, I was glad to do it.” He turned the rudder back to sea. “Good luck,” he called. “Thanks.” Tas picked up his basket and started up the path to his mother’s house. The beat of a drum floated on the breeze, followed by the voices of two men. Tas stopped, fighting to control tears. I’m too late, he thought. They’re holding the wake. Then he heard Santa’s voice, and he hurried toward the sounds. He stopped once more at the corner of the yard. I must catch myself up, he thought. Can’t go in there bawling. He took several deep breaths, turned to look at the scene in the backyard, then exhaled sharply. His eyes widened, and his mouth gaped. ­Margaret was dancing with Skipper. Lisa danced with Uncle Robert, while Aunt Agnes and Santa listened to Khandi telling a story. It’s a party, not a wake! Relief and fury flooded through Tas, as he realized he had been duped. Then, just as quickly, he calmed, and a knot hardened in his belly. It’s a good thing I remember how hard Ma worked when we were little, he thought. Otherwise, I might kill her! He stood still, watching. Wonder what they’re celebrating? For sure they’re not expecting me here so soon. At that moment, Thomas looked toward the front yard. “Tas!” He dropped his drum and ran to his friend. “Tas, what are you doing here? Man, this is the greatest surprise!” He hugged Tas’s shoulders then picked up the basket. “I’m glad you’re home!” Khandi rushed to him, “Portacio, let me look at you. You shouldn’t give me such a start, son. You might near scared my soul-­spirit.” She turned to the others. “Ain’t this wonderful? M ­ argaret’s got both her boys back home at the same time!” Santa took a tentative step toward Tas, and stretched out her hand as if in supplication. She did not meet his eyes. M ­ argaret stood where she was. “Afternoon, son.” She waited for Tas to move toward her, but he remained stiff and still. “I’m home, Ma,” he growled. “Glad to see that you’ve recovered, Ma. You feeling okay now, I see.” I won’t let her provoke me this time, he thought. This time I will not lose my temper. I’ve gone too far, M ­ argaret realized. He’s a man now. That’s clear to see. I’ll

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have to be careful if I’m to keep him here. Then she spoke. “Do come and join us, Mr. Diego. Skipper arrived yesterday, and it seemed a good reason to relax for the afternoon.” Tas walked over to Skipper, who had not come forward to greet him. “Skipper, it’s good to find you here.” Tas extended his hand. “How’s things going with you?” “Not bad, Tas. I have lots of things going in Belize City, you know. Just thought it was time to come down and see the folks in little old Larube.” “Well, its good we came at the same time. Might have missed each other, since I won’t be staying.” He thought, It won’t take long for me to make Ma angry. First time she rails up at me, I leave. Back to Honduras. ­Margaret offered, “You wouldn’t like something to eat, Mr. Diego?” She cleared a place for Tas to sit at the kitchen table. “Thanks, Ma. I am hungry.” Tas called to Thomas. “Hey, my friend, didn’t mean to stop the party. Time for more punta.” Thomas played as Tas wondered, “Mr. Diego.” What’s that about? He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or suspicious. ­Margaret served Tas a bowl of conch soup and two pieces of cassava bread. “Anything else I can get you, Mr. Diego? You’d like tea?” “No thanks, Ma. Water is fine.” ­Margaret went back to dancing and singing. Tas motioned Skipper to join him. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and handed it to his brother. “The best,” he said. “Straight from Honduras.” Skipper inhaled the special fragrance. Tas ate some soup and said, “I don’t know what you’re going to do, Skipper, but I’m going to have me some drinks. You know a place we could find some whiskey?” “Well . . . umm . . . there’s a shop just up the way. I could check it out.” Tas handed Skipper several dollar bills. “Do us both a favor, brother. Go buy a big bottle of the best they have.” Santa approached Tas and stood looking at the ground. He continued to eat, and did not acknowledge her presence. After a long silence Santa said, “Tas, Ma made me do it. I had to do it, Tas.” “Why, Santa? Why’d you lie to me?” She cupped her protruding belly. “I’m soon due. And I need help. My man, Arzu, he’s not home lots of times. I don’t always have enough coins for food.” Santa pleaded for understanding. “So why’d you write that Ma was dying?” Anger charged the timbre of Santa’s voice. “Portacio Diego, you can guess why. You think I didn’t see Ma work you round and round? Well, she does the same to me. Ma said she wouldn’t help me lest I brought you home.” Santa stared at the ground. “Besides, I wanted you home, too. What you want me to do, crawl on my belly to ask forgiveness?”

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For the first time, Santa and Tas looked into each other’s eyes. They glared silently for a moment, then began to smile as their thoughts ran simultaneously. Hey, what are we fighting about? This is my soul-­twin. ­Margaret’s lips pinched to a tight line when Skipper brought a bottle of whiskey to the kitchen. But she continued chatting with Agnes and Robert. Tas set the bottle on the table and reached for three glasses. He poured a dollop on the ground for the ancestors, then asked, “How you like it, sis, straight or with water?” “I’ll mix mine with water, Tas.” “How about you, Skipper, you want water?” “A little, yes.” Tas poured whiskey into his glass. “Think I’ll drink it straight this evening.” He turned to watch the dancing. “Santa, do me a favor. Offer a drink to the rest of them. I’m just going to sit here a while.” “Well, Tas, what you been doing in Honduras?” Skipper inquired. “Fishing, mostly. I work shares with Uncle Casamerio. Take the fish to Tela on market days. Rest of the time we sell to the women in Lidisi. What about yourself?’ “Building. I work as a carpenter in Belize City. You know, there’s a lot going on there. Lots of new business going up. Fancy houses for the British, too.” “You hooked in with a special group?” “Oh no, Tas.” Skipper laughed. “That’s what I like about it. I work until I get a little money ahead, then I take off and relax. Jolly around, if you know what I mean.” “You’re not putting any aside for the storm days?” Skipper drank again. “Nah, Tas. Why bother? If I need money I can always borrow from someone.” Tas took a glass of whiskey to Thomas. “Skipper and I are leaving in a few minutes. How about coming with us? Show me what’s going on.” “Okay, Tas. I know where there’ll be a drumming tonight.” “Fine.” Tas picked up the bottle and called, “Hey, Ma, I’m going out.” ­Margaret opened her mouth to stop him, then clamped it shut.

Building a House This isn’t too bad at all, Tas thought at the end of his first week at home. Skipper’s a lot more fun to be with now that we can be drinking buddies. And all these new girls. We’re having a fine time. Ma never says a word, never fusses. Might be okay to stay on for a while.

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“Tas,” ­Margaret interrupted his thoughts. “Ma?” “Come here, son.” She motioned him to sit next to her. “It’s time we had a talk.” Uh oh. I should have known it couldn’t last. Tas readied himself for what ­Margaret might say. All this Mr. Diego treatment. She’s bound to have something up her sleeve, and now I’m gonna pay. “There’s only one key to this house, and it’s my key,” ­Margaret said. “There’re too many people coming in and out of here. That doesn’t suit me, and I’ve decided that my house is too small for all of us. So, we’re going to build you and Skipper a house. You’re a man now, and old enough to be having friends come visit you. If a man is old enough for that, then he should have his own home. This morning we start building.” Tas was dumbfounded. “Okay, Ma,” was all he could say. ­Margaret nodded. “Today you and Skipper can start cutting cane.” Wait a minute! Tas thought. Cutting cane is hard work. We got to walk way out, cut that cane, and pack it back. That cane is heavy. Better Skipper and I pay someone to cut the cane. “No, Mr. Diego,” ­Margaret anticipated his response, “you’re not going to pay for that. You’re a man now, you know. Part of being a man is to show that you can do the things a man is supposed to do. You’re going to build your own house, just like your papa did.” “But, Ma,” Tas objected, “I never built a house. Skipper claims to be a carpenter, but he doesn’t work on Garifuna houses, cane houses.” “No problem, Tas. I’ll tell you what you need to know.” And ­Margaret did supervise the building, every step of the way. The first morning, she showed Tas and Skipper what to cut, helped them pack the loads, and walked back with them. But she never cut or carried one stick of cane. The sec­ond day, Skipper returned to Belize City. So Tas continued on his own. In a week, he had enough cane stacked in the yard. He tied the poles with vines, jabbing each piece into the ground close to the last, until the walls were joined. He cut palm for thatch, and, with ­Thomas’s help, covered the roof. ­Margaret entered the new house as Tas and Thomas trimmed the eaves. “Tas, Thomas, come on down,” she called. She held a flask of rum and a calabash cup, as she surveyed the room with satisfaction. Tight walls. Good. She searched the roof for a gap that would leak on rainy days. None. He’s done a fine job. “You called, Ma?” Tas blinked as he entered the shaded room. “Yes.” ­Margaret extended the flask to her son. “A Garifuna house is not finished until you feed the spirits.” She watched to see what he would do.

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Tas uncorked the bottle and poured rum on the floor. “Aye, you Old People,” he prayed, “we’ve built a little house on this piece of ground that was yours. And we know you still come here now and then. Grandmother and Grandfather Sabal, I thank you for this land, and I ask you to watch over me in this house. Protect me and those who come here.” Tas drizzled rum at the four corners of the house. Then he reached for the cup his mother still held. He poured rum into the calabash and handed it to Thomas. “Thanks to the builder’s helper.” Thomas drank his share, and Tas refilled the cup. “And thanks to you, Ma.” The men’s eyes bulged as ­Margaret downed the potent brew without a blink. Finally, Tas poured himself a drink and raised the cup in salute to his mother. “Here’s to you, Ma,” he said. “You won this round. I won’t go back to Honduras any time soon, but don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing.” “Well,” ­Margaret said the next day, “the little house looks real nice. All it needs is a lock.” She pulled a padlock from her pocket, set it into the latch, and handed Tas one of the keys. She dropped the other into her pocket. Tas frowned. “Hey, woman, what’s with the key? This is my house!” “Ah, yes, Mr. Diego.” M ­ argaret smiled sweetly. “This is your house, but it’s built on my land. So one key will stay with me.” Tas moved into his new home. He watched for ways that he could help his mother, but he never again asked her permission for anything. ­Margaret continued to offer advice, whether or not Tas sought it, but she was careful not to give orders to her son. Neither referred to the argument that had torn them apart; and gradually the wounds scarred over.

Tas and Lisa’s Stories 1951. Years later, Tas recalled the first time he saw Lisa’s wavy hair spread loose on a pillow: “She fought it, tried not to give over to me. But we found the way. I was young and foolish. Slipping around so Alvina, my part-­time squeeze, wouldn’t find out I was seeing Lisa. Alvina was some upstart, talking like we were going to marry.” Tas grimaced. “Might have, too, if Thomas hadn’t tipped me she was using magic. Trying to tie me. I fig­ured she might wrap that black cord around me, some time when I was sleeping with her. So I told her we were done, finished. “I thought that would be the last time I ever spoke to her. But then, I fig­ured I should get out of Larube until things cooled down. I was packing my gear when, all of a sudden, Alvina comes up on me from behind and strikes me on the head with an iron griddle. Knocked me clean out!”

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He rubbed a spot on his head. “When I found out Alvina did it, I went to beat the shit out of her. But she ran out the back door of her house. “So, I went to the logging camp, and settled in on a six-­month contract. On weekends we partied, but I just couldn’t find an interest. Lisa kept walking into my thoughts. I dreamed her. In the daytime, something she’d said would pass in my mind.” He sighed. “Finally, I went to the boss and said, ‘I need to go to Larube on personal business. Let me go and I’ll double the time I’m away, at the end of the contract.’ So I went home, and Ma tells me that Alvina is supposed to be pregnant for me, and that I should marry her and claim her grandbaby. Well, I wanted Lisa, not ­Alvina.” Lisa’s story was: “There he was with Alvina, and with me. Then all of a sudden he’s gone, and my moon time didn’t come! The gossips were talking how Alvina was pregnant for Tas. He’d just up and left me without a word.” She frowned. “I guessed Ma already suspected, and the time was coming when I’d have to face Pa. They’d both said Tas had become a wild ruffian. They didn’t like Thomas palling with him, even if he was Aunt ­Margaret’s son. . . “Then one afternoon, Ma sent me out on an errand, and all of a sudden, there was Tas. He said, ‘Hello, woman. How are you?’ ” “ ‘Not bad, Tas,’ I stuttered. ‘How goes it with you?’ ” “ ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘We have a good camp, and they bring us plenty of food. But there’s something not right for me there, Lisa.’ “What you talking?” I asked. “ ‘I’m talking that I want you to come, to be my partner,’ he answered.” “I growled, ‘You shamed me, Tas. Why should I travel to be your ­partner?’ “He said, ‘Yes, sweetheart, it was wrong for me to leave without telling you. But I’ve come back to make it right.’ “I wondered if he suspected I was carrying a baby for him. Then I decided he couldn’t know, and I would not go just because he wanted to jolly me again. He had shamed me, and I’d make him sweat for that! He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me to him. ‘Loose me, man!’ I hollered. ‘Go find Alvina if you want to punta.’ “He’s acting all sorry now and he said, ‘I’m shamed, Lisa. It was wrong I saw you on the sly. I should have come through the front door, talked with Aunt Agnes and Uncle Robert.’ “ ‘Leave me alone, Tas. I won’t be partners with the likes of you.’ I walked away but Tas stopped me again. “ ‘All right, Lisa,’ he said. ‘But before I go, you hear me out. I sail for camp in the morning. The day I get there, I start building a house for you.

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It won’t be much, just a trash house, ’cause we only have four months to end the contract. But the house will be there, and I’ll be in it waiting for you.’ He let me go, and I walked away. “Next morning Thomas pulled me aside and said, ‘Last night Tas handed this to me. He said I should give it to you, for if you decide to take a trip.’ It was a leaf folded into an envelope, and inside was money for my passage to camp. Meanwhile, I’m almost three months pregnant.” Tas’s story continued: “Every day after I finished logging, I worked on that house. I left the single men’s gallery and slept alone for nearly two months. One morning I’m swinging my ax, bop, bop, bop. Our foreman tells me the boss wants to see me down in the office. What’s wrong now? I wondered. The boss says to me, ‘I’ve got important business with you. Go wait in the office. I’ll be back in a while.’ So I walked into the shed, and there’s Lisa! We worked out the contract, and returned to Larube before Polly, our first child, was born.”

Birthing ­ argaret stood at the door of the little house where Lisa and Tas had lived M since their return from the logging camp. “Lisa, you feeling all right? You didn’t drink tea this morning.” Lisa struggled to sit up. “I’m all right, Aunt ­Margaret. Just not hungry.” She grimaced as the weight of the baby pressed against her pelvis. ­Margaret gazed at Lisa’s prominent abdomen and poked a finger into Lisa’s ankle. Not puffy, she thought. That’s a good sign. But I just don’t like the way she looks. “Lisa, you stayed in the house last month when the eclipse came, didn’t you?” Lisa couldn’t help but smile as she answered. “Yes, Aunt ­Margaret, I did just as you told me.” ­Margaret pouted. “I know you and Tas think that’s a silly s­ uper­sti­tion, ‘that the monster that eats the moon will eat unborn babies.’ But I say it doesn’t hurt to be careful about those things. If our old folks believed it, there must be a reason for it.” M ­ argaret frowned again. “And you’ve stayed away from the bad fish, the ones that carry umeo?” “Yes, Aunt ­Margaret, I’ve done everything you told me. It’s just uncomfortable to walk or sit now. The baby seems so big.” “Well, you rest. I’m going to visit with your ma.” ­Margaret sat down in her old friend’s cook shed and came right to the point. “Agnes, I don’t know exactly when Lisa’s time is, but I think we should call the midwife to take a look. I’m not easy about her.”

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“Is she bleeding or something?” Agnes asked in alarm. “No, and she’s not puffy. But still, I’m not easy about her. You want to come take a look?” Agnes considered for a moment. “I trust your know-­how, ­Margaret. If you think we should call the midwife, then we’ll do it. I’ll send Thomas to fetch her.” That afternoon the midwife came to examine Lisa. “How you feeling, girl?” she asked as she placed a hand on Lisa’s abdomen. “Tired, Granny. The baby’s so heavy, and it hurts when it kicks.” The midwife felt the contours of Lisa’s womb. No wonder, she thought, the baby’s turned wrong. It would kill her if she started labor like that. “Lie back now,” she said. “I’ll see if I can help.” She massaged and applied pressure at vari­ous spots on Lisa’s abdomen. Lisa felt the infant kick, and she jumped as its small fist shot into her diaphragm. She gasped and held her breath when the baby turned within her womb. She waited, then let out a sigh of relief as she felt its head settle toward her pelvis. Granny watched the contours of Lisa’s abdomen shift, then nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Get up and walk around when you feel like it. I’ll soon come back.” She went next door where ­Margaret and Agnes waited. “I turned the baby. Lisa should be okay now.” The midwife lit her pipe while M ­ argaret poured her a cup of coffee. “You want I should be here for the birthing?” she asked. “Yes, I’d feel better,” Agnes answered. “That being the case, I’ll invite myself to spend the night with you, ­Margaret.” She sipped her coffee. “No need me going home, then coming back tomorrow.” “Of course.” ­Margaret grinned. “You mean it’s time?” “If I know anything about it,” the midwife nodded, “it’ll be tomorrow.” That day was foggy in Lisa’s memory. She recalled Tas leaving to fish in the early morning. “Hey, woman, you take care of yourself today.” He ran his hand across her abdomen and held her crotch for an instant. “I’ll be back before sundown.” Lisa remembered feeling warm fluids gush out between her legs. She tried to stand, to clean up the mess, embarrassed to think how Tas might react if he saw her in such a state. But a contraction gripped her, and she fell back on the mat and called in panic, “Aunt M ­ argaret. Are you there?” Through clouds of pain, Lisa saw Granny spread ruda (a foul-­smelling

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herb) around her bed mat. Its high smell, which was to deter evil spirits, made her want to sneeze. ­Margaret waited to help as best she could. “You want I should go find a boy for urine, so she can drink it to strengthen the contractions?” The midwife considered for a moment. “Let’s wait a bit. I think she can do it herself.” Agnes braced Lisa’s back, and Granny went head down between her legs saying, “Now, girl. Push now, girl!” Then Lisa, Agnes, and M ­ argaret relaxed as Granny held up the first member of the next generation. Lisa remained in her house, watching over Polly, for the nine days. ­Margaret kept a small fire burning on the sand floor, and she rubbed small dots of recado (red powder from the flowers of Bixa orellano) onto the soles of Polly’s tiny feet. The red would attract her soul-­spirit. Each morning Agnes came to instruct Lisa in warming the baby over the fire, shaping her head and working the joints of her arms, so that the infant’s body would properly complete its transition from unborn to living member of the family. “I don’t know which one is more beautiful,” Tas remarked as he watched Lisa dribbling water from her lips into Polly’s mouth. Lisa swallowed the rest of the water and put the baby to her breast. “I didn’t hear you come in.” “I’ve been down at the beach talking with the fishermen.” Tas shook his head as Lisa looked up in alarm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not going to do anything to make our baby sick. I’m minding the rules, all of them. . . . Don’t worry yourself about that.” He pulled his shirt over his head and laid it on the pallet where Polly slept. “What’s that supposed to be for?” Lisa asked warily. “Calm yourself, Lisa. I told you I’m being careful. I sweated some down there in the sun. Let Polly sleep next to the shirt. That way we know whatever strength left me is there to protect her. Don’t worry, Lisa.” Tas held a thick finger out for the infant to grasp. “This one’s going to have a strong soul-­spirit.” At daybreak of the tenth morning after Polly was born, Agnes pounded on the door to Lisa and Tas’s house. “Hey, daughter, time for us to go bathe in the sea. Wake up, you people. Lisa, you’ve been lazy long enough. Let’s go.” Tas stumbled through the dark to the door. “What’s happened to the fire we’ve had in here?” he asked as he groped for the latch. “Aunt ­Margaret didn’t put wood on it last night.” Lisa searched for soap and a towel.

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Tas growled as he stood in the doorway. “What you want this time of day, Aunt Agnes?” She pushed past him. “It’s woman’s business, Tas. You go back to sleep.” She handed Lisa a package. “You ready?” “What’s that?” Tas asked suspiciously. “It’s a new gown for Lisa when she comes out of the sea.” Agnes pulled Lisa out the door. “Hurry up, girl, lest you want to bathe in front of the fishermen. It’ll soon be light.” Lisa waded into the sea, stripped off her soiled gown, and washed herself in the pink-­tinged waves. She shivered in the morning breeze as she toweled herself and slipped the new gown over her head. “It’s lovely, Ma. It will be my happy dress.” Agnes hugged Lisa. “Go on now, time for you to get to work.” Lisa had coffee boiling and buns rising by the time Tas and M ­ argaret came to the kitchen.

Part 2

Living There

When I was not teaching at my university, I went to Africa or Mexico for ethnomedical research. Beyond the empirical recording of plants, dosage, and the like, this research includes the people’s beliefs about causes of illness. Very of­ten the malady is attributed to a punishing ancestor, a malicious ghost, or some other supernatural. An understanding of the people’s religion is required. So, when a colleague asked me to go study the infamous Black Carib, I jumped at the chance. One of the first people I met was the village religious leader. At first, she was suspicious of my motives. But over time I gained her confidence and friendship. It was during a religious ritual that Khandi approached me, declared that she would be my mentor, and later “adopted” me. (You didn’t argue with that old lady.) Khandi insisted that I should live in the home of her nephew, Tas, and his wife, Lisa. As a part of that household I learned the ins and outs of foods and manners: “Mama Mar [their name for me], you have to serve your own dish from the common bowl.” “Mama Mar, you must notify Lisa or me whenever you leave this yard.” And I watched family squabbles and reconciliations. I mourned the loss of dear ones and danced at parties. Tas and Lisa’s children and home became mine because, for the first time in my fieldwork, I was not visiting, but living there.

Invitation Letter It was spring of 1980 when a letter came from a colleague who was working among the Maya in Belize. “A Black Carib came by. Said he was looking for someone to tell the true story about their religion. Seems that some man had been there years before and wrote a bunch of rot about them. They were looking for someone to set the record straight. Told him

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I couldn’t do it, but I knew just the gal who could.” After medical anthropology, my sec­ond specialty is religion in primitive societies. This is essential, because religion and medicine are inextricably intertwined. The letter ended, “Come on down. The weather’s fine.” I decided to find out about the Black Carib. I learned that Amazonian Indians had migrated down the Orinoco River in South America. The Atlantic currents took their small boats to the Lesser Antilles. The first wave, between 799 and 900 AD, was Arawak, who were horticulturalists and of a peaceful nature. The sec­ond wave, about 1000 AD, was Carib, who were seafarers and said to be warlike. The Carib men overwhelmed the Arawak and married their women. By 1200 the Carib dominated the Caribbean basin. Columbus heard of the Caribs in 1492 and named the sea after them. In the 1500s at least two slave ships were wrecked on reefs, and some of the Af­ri­can men managed to get ashore. The Caribs took them in, and they eventually intermarried to form a people who are a physical and cultural blend of west Af­ri­cans and Amazonian Indians. Their indigenous name, Garinagu, means “cassava eaters.” British, French, and Dutch governments could never “tame” the Garinagu, who fought fierce battles with the Europeans for over a century. Many were killed or committed suicide rather than be captured. Finally, in 1797, the survivors were rounded up and put off, with some supplies, on Roatan Island off the shore of Honduras. The Garinagu settled on the Caribbean beaches and expanded their villages north and south. Today they live along the coasts of south­ern Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and north­ ern Nicaragua. * * * A beautiful Latina airline hostess collected our immigration declarations. I asked, “Could you tell me the name of a hotel? I don’t want anything fancy, but one that’s reasonably clean and safe.” The well-­dressed woman sitting next to me asked, “This is your first trip to Central America?” I nodded and looked out at the coastline as we approached the airport. Slow-­moving rivers meandered through thick, green forests that seemed uninhabited except for smoke rising from the distant mountain slopes. The woman pointed to the hills, “They’re burning the fields before planting. You will see those fires all over at this time of year.” “Farther south too?” I asked. “Yes, inland. But not on the coast.” She frowned, then asked, “That’s where you’re going? To the south, on the coast?”

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“Ummm,” I answered. “What’s it like down there?” “Well, I can’t really say.” The woman cleared her throat. “We never go there.” She looked out the window for a few minutes then resumed the conversation. “Just where is it that you are going?” “To Larube.” “You must be very careful there.” The woman lowered her voice as she continued, “The Black Carib are there.” “How should I be careful?” “You know. They work things! They are dangerous.” It took a moment for that to sink in. Then I asked, “You mean black magic?” “Yes, they devil worship! You should be very careful.” That sounds familiar, I thought as I collected my bags. Wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard one group accuse another of black magic. The small hotel I stayed in that night became my regular stopover between Tennessee and Larube. The owner has prospered and improved his business over the years; but in 1980, it was little more than a boarding house. Belize City’s streets teemed with con men, pickpockets, and thieves watching for an unwary tourist. The flimsy lock on my bedroom door did not inspire confidence. Plus, a window behind my bed opened on to the front porch of the building. I jammed a chair against the door, and went to sleep holding my hefty flashlight. Movement in the room woke me, but I couldn’t make out what the noise was. The rustling continued, so I turned on the light. No one else was there. The sounds stopped, then started again. A monster cockroach had crawled under the lid of my suitcase, opened a plastic bag of candy, and was munching away. The creature did not want its meal interrupted. I had to shake it out of the case and stomp on it before I could go back to sleep. The next morning the hotel owner, who was also a travel agent, arranged for my flight south on a small, chartered plane. Out over the bay, tiny boats bobbed around in an endless blue sea. To the west there were swamps and distant mountains. Ahead dark storm clouds glowered, and lightning streaked. I was dripping with sweat when we landed but thankful to have my feet on solid ground. Then I realized the travel agent had neglected to tell me that the Dangriga airstrip was a plowed up row in an orange grove five miles out of town. The pilot dumped me and my baggage out and took off back to the city. No buildings, no cars, nothing but orange trees. I was calculating my resources and means for survival when I heard a jeep coming toward me. A Dangriga policeman had seen the plane and came to investigate what

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had landed. I explained my problem, and he drove me to town. He radioed to Larube, and after a couple of hours, I sailed south. On a clear day, laces of clouds graced the beads of keys five miles off shore. Fishermen pitched camps there. During “ancestor parties,” descendants waited there to greet spirits of “the Old Ones who have sailed from Sari to dance with their children.” Tiny hamlets or villages scattered along the beach, where the waves lulled us to sleep, or terrified us when a hurricane approached. A few of the homes were made of brown palmetto logs topped with tin sheeting. The yellow-­cane walls of most houses gleamed under a hot noon sun, while the eaves of their palm-­f rond roofs fluttered like straw hats in the salty breeze. A dusty lane separated the backyards from one or two sheds where, now and then, juicy pineapple, orange mangos, or tinned sardines were offered for sale. In villages, there was a one-­room cinderblock structure that housed a policeman during his infrequent visits to the area. Beyond this, men and women worked small farms scrubbed from the bush. Looking westward one saw a lush rainforest climbing to distant peaks. The word larube means something located on an edge. It marked the line between the sea, man’s realm, and the home and farm, woman’s domain. More important was that Larube stood at the troublesome edge of modernization. There was a constant struggle between a desire for West­ ern goodies, electricity, phones, etc., and a fear that they would lose their traditions and their identity. The man who came to meet me was short, wiry, and muscular. He wore a brown felt hat that matched the color of his skin, and he reminded me of a lightweight boxer. I thought of coiled springs in an over-­wound watch. Rightly so, I later learned. Juan was well known for his high temper and the ability to flatten a man twice his size. He took me to a “boarding house” that turned out to be the local brothel, frequently visited by the local “honey pots.” The next two days, I visited at Juan’s home and asked about the basics that I would need to do my work. He was always gentle and patient with me, repeating time and again the Garifuna words that I stumbled over. He told me stories of his childhood and explained the mysteries of the ­Garinagu. We sat under an open shed, framed with cane poles and roofed with palm fronds. Juan squatted on a wooden bench as he examined a log that was two feet long and twelve inches in diameter. “You have to be called by the spirits to knock drums in dugu. You got to keep to their rules.” He chis-

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eled chips out of the center of the log. “Lots of good drummers try, but if the ancestors don’t want them, they can’t keep the beat.” The next afternoon, I examined the log that was now a hollowed out form of a drum. “You burned that out with hot coals?” Juan nodded. “Chip and burn, chip and burn. It gets tricky towards the end, ’cause that’s when it might split on you.” He grimaced. “Nothing but firewood then.” “But you made it with this one! It’s ready for the head?” Juan shook his head. “Not so fast. First I got to find a deer skin, then scrape it, and talk to it—jolly it along.” “What do you mean? ‘Talk to it?’ ” “When these folks dance in dugu, the drum is the voice of the ancestors speaking to them. Sometimes those old folks, they’re happy, sometimes they’re sad or mad. The drums tell the dancers what the ancestors want.” Juan explained that three drummers are essential for dugu. The large “heart drum” gives a deep bass sound that reverberates off the walls of the hall. Its rhythm simulates the beat of a human heart and can put listeners into a trance. “So the drum head is sort of like a microphone?” “I don’t know about microphones. But I do know you better be nice to that skin. We even give the drums a taste of kasusa.” A big grin split his face. “Rub a tad over them. Let them know how much we ’preciate them.” Juan was the heart drummer for the dugu, and he gave me ritual information I could have received no other way. That evening, he prepared for a night of hard-­sweat drumming for the ancestors. On our way to meet the buyei, the traditional healer, a large man approached the drummer and me. Juan introduced us. “Dr. Wells, please meet my friend, Portacio Diego.” When we shook hands, I felt controlled power in Tas’s calloused grasp. He was tall, broad shouldered, and flashed a great smile. He wasn’t handsome, but his features, chiseled on ebony skin, demanded attention. I sensed a self-­confidence not easily shaken, and perhaps an ego larger than Mount Rushmore. Now there is a real man, I thought. Wonder who he is. No question. Sparks danced between us. But that was an attraction that could go nowhere. He was a married man, and I was an ethnographer who did not get emotionally involved with the people I studied. The buyei’s name was Helene. Wide of girth, tall as most men, with piercing brown eyes, she had a formidable presence. Juan introduced us. “Dr. Wells is the woman come to study our re­ ligion.”

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“And how will you do that, Dr. Wells?” Skepticism tinged the question. “First of all, I will spend a lot of time here, in the dabuyaba. Watching what goes on. Folks need to get used to having me around, really forget about me. So that they act naturally, the way they would whether or not I am present.” “Ah, you mean let our guard down.” The buyei stared at me. I stared back. “Yes. You asked that I come to do this work. I am here to observe, not criticize, suggest, or change. I will describe what I see and hear, as honestly as I know how. But if you choose not to trust me, I will move on.” Helene invited me to sit down. “Then what?” “Then I will ask you and them a lot of questions.” “Like what?” “What is this? Why do you do that? Has it always been this way? Lots of dumb and of­ten annoying questions.” “And if I don’t answer?” “That’s rule number one.” I looked her straight in the eye, to be certain she understood what I said. “You must never lie to me. You can tell me you won’t, or can’t, answer a question, but don’t ever lie to me.” Helene agreed and said that I would be welcome at any time. At first we were a bit wary of each other, but in time our trust and friendship grew. I guessed that I was being tested when, early on at Helene’s suggestion, I watched her treatment for anigidow. She told me, “Garinagu have an anigidow. It’s about the size of your little fingernail.” She touched the tip of my breastbone, then hers. “That’s where it is.” “What does anigidow do?” “If it gets out of line, you get sick.” “Ah,” I responded. “What puts it out of line?” Helene considered for a moment. “It can be a blow to the body, but most times it strikes the heart.” She paused. “I mean, something that hurts a person deep down.” “Something I’d call ‘emotional shock’? ” “Yes.” She nodded and added, “That’s why, you should never give a per­ son bad news until he has ‘drunk tea,’ eaten breakfast.” To me, the patient showed symptoms of severe flu. But Helene began treatment with a call to the ancestors for help. “Lie face down on the mat,” she said to the man. She lubricated her palms with a paste of beeswax. “I work it out from the feet up,” she told me, as she knelt beside her patient. The thirty-­minute deep massage started with the man’s big toes and went up his legs, trunk, arms, neck, and head.

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This woman not only has force of personality, I thought, she has the muscle to back it up. At the end, the healer encircled the man’s jaws, then, with a tight gripping motion, pulled her hands up over his face to the top of his head. She opened her fist and slammed it sharply against a rock. “There, I’ve pulled out the trouble. Your anigidow is straight.” The next day, the man appeared to be well and went back to work. Please note: I did not say the massage cured the man. I just recorded what I saw and heard.

Monica’s Story One day I visited Helene’s sister, Monica, who was busy making “stretch-­ me-­guts.” I asked her what she remembered about Helene’s call to be a buyei (traditional priest-­healer). Monica looked up from the cooling pot of cane syrup that she had boiled down to a thick, gooey, brown mass. “That was a hard time for Helene. She didn’t want to be a buyei, you know. She fought it.” Monica pointed to the sweet paste and instructed me, “I think it’s cool enough. Grease your hands and pick it up.” After a pause, she continued, “Now that I look back, the signs were all around her, even when we were young.” “What do you mean?” “She’d do strange things. It was like she could see things that I couldn’t see. Like one time I remember we were swimming, and all of a sudden she looked toward the sea and said, ‘That dory needs help, Monica.’ And she lit out running hard as she could go. By the time I caught up, Helene had wrestled the dory onto the beach. Now her still a small, small girl, and she was calling to fishermen up the way to come help lift this old man out of his boat.” Monica dug her fingers into a jar of lard. “Now those men had all been there to see that dory. How come it was Helene that knew it needed help? And there were other things. It was strange.” We began to pull the rubbery mound of molasses. “The gossip was that Helene had lost her mind. And I thought that, too. Then one day I walked with her on the beach; and she said, ‘Monica, folks think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think so, too. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I just know that when they think I’m crazy, I’m not. I’m seeing things that you don’t see. And they’re real, sister. I know they are real. Grandfather Ricardo is on me! He hardly lets me rest!’ ” Monica handed me her end of the candy and picked up the middle loop. I asked, “Your grandfather was a buyei?” “Yes. He’s the one supposed to be able to hide in an eggshell or a banana. Be right there with you and you couldn’t see him.”

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“For true, Monica?” She laughed. “I never saw that happen, but I do remember he had ways of appearing where you didn’t expect him. You’d think he was at the farm, and all of a sudden he’s standing there watching you. Helene and I knew, if we made devilment, Grandfather would tell us about it. Course he died when we were still young. But I remember that funeral.” “What happened?” “Well, on the outside you wouldn’t see much different. But there were special things done. First off, seems he knew the day he would die. Didn’t make a fuss about it. Just told folks right off, ‘No, I won’t be here to work for you after next week. You must find another buyei.’ Then I remember him burning a pile of his things in the backyard, and Mama screaming at him, ‘What are you doing? You need those buyei clothes!’ But he just kept right on chucking them in the fire. The morning they found him, all was left was his big shakers and the one set of clothes they buried him in. I remember seeing him on the mat. Lying there next to him were his red loincloth and turban and the big shaker. Everything else was gone.” I pulled another loop of the candy and noted that its color was changing from dark brown to tan. “Did Ricardo call for a feeding and an ancestor party?” “No. Buyei that die right become hiuriha, not regular ancestor-­spirits. I was too young to take part; but there was something Mama and my uncle had to do. They took the old man’s shakers out to sea and sank them. Seems like that turned loose his spirit.” “So now Ricardo is leading Helene?” “That’s about the size of it. Course there was terrible arguments before she gave over. She walked around half crazy. Some days she’d be at herself. Next day Ricardo would be on her again.” “Why did she resist, Monica?” “You didn’t know us back then. Helene wasn’t a drunkard, but she loved jollying as much as the next one. She wasn’t about to give that up without a fight.” Monica greased a pan for the candy, then sighed. “So she went to Kaueche for training.” “Did she say what that was like?” “Bits and pieces she told me. She said there was a river that rushed out of a mountain and dropped into a pool where only a real buyei can bathe. There was supposed to be a pretender that came there a while back. When the pretender stepped into the pool, a big eagle soared out of the clouds and knocked him dead.” Monica began to cut the candy into squares. “She did tell about be-

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ing in the maze. Said she stayed in for fifteen days. Described it as looking like clouds, where she couldn’t see anything but white, and didn’t talk to anybody.” “What did she do in there?” “Seems like she just sat and listened to the hiuriha. Most times they told her how to make medicines. You take this and that and you boil it, so, so, so.” I stood up to leave. “Thanks for sharing with me, my friend. Come see me soon. I’ll be ready to buy some ‘stretch-­me-­guts’.” Monica called after me, “Oh yes, I just remembered. They told her where to find the calabash for her shakers, and what special to put in them.”

Meeting Khandi A few days after meeting Tas, his aunt, Candalaria Sabal, called Khandi, took me in hand. About seventy years old at the time, she spoke broken English but was illiterate and only calculated years by past events. “I loss my sweetheart when de hurricane ’stroyed our village.” She never married but helped to raise several orphaned children. Khandi never looked soiled or rumpled. She always wore the traditional Garifuna dress. That meant bare feet and legs. When she left her yard she put on a starched, knife-­ pleated, full skirt that topped her “morning dress” which was like a muumuu that women wore inside their house, or when working in their yard. In the old days, when their men were smuggling cloth and liquors, the skirts were interlined with pockets. The women greeted the incoming boats, hid the contraband in their clothes, and walked past the officials who came to inspect the boats. Tiny gold earrings framed Khandi’s chocolate-­brown face and her startling green eyes. Her braided hair was dyed black and covered with the traditional Garifuna scarf. It was my scarf that first brought us together. I was attending an ancestor ritual and had been taking notes in a dark corner of the dabuyaba (the Garifuna house of worship and healing). Khandi jerked my arm and hauled me outside to the yard. Her deep voice croaked instructions. “You come to dis place, you wear scarf right! I bean watchin’ you. You no trash woman.” Off came my scarf. “You tie it like dis,” she explained, “straight ’cross your forehead and ’bove your ears!” She stood back to consider me with my scarf, now arranged to suit her. Then she grinned and rumbled, “Okay, now we go meet de people.” The walls of Khandi’s one-­room house were made of cane poles daubed

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with red clay. Its interior was plastered with colorful pages torn from magazines and stuck to the poles with cassava paste. Light came through the door or from a kerosene lantern. Crowded within the space was a cot, a round shipping barrel that held her clothes, one stool, and a rickety table. She sewed quilts from scraps of cloth that she begged, borrowed, or stole. Sale of the quilts brought her money to buy thread, black shoe polish to dye her hair, and now and then a tin of meat. Corned beef was her favorite. Most of her food was provided by kin who said, “Khandi has a way of paying us a visit just before dinner time.” A neighbor might say, “You going to see her? Here, take this pack of fried fish with you.” The old lady’s treasure was a hand-­turned sewing machine. One day she called to her neighbors, “Come! Come see her sew on de machine. My daughter, she one smart girl!” Among the Garinagu, that pub­lic announcement was all that was required to make me Khandi’s adopted daughter. During many afternoons, Khandi corrected my stumbling efforts to speak Garifuna. The language is doubly difficult because there is a male and a female vocabulary. And then it is also tonal so that the relative pitch of a word in a sentence conveys different meanings. The same verb could say, “I am baking,” or, “I am menstruating.” I asked Khandi hundreds of questions. One day she sucked in a deep breath and said, “I not ’sposed to tell des secrets. De young ones, dey too busy with reggae and jittin bug. Dey don’t wan learn our ole ways. So I teach you, and you ’member our ways for me.” And thus, during many quilt-­sewing afternoons, Khandi gave me an education in Garifuna ­culture. One day my adopting mother asked, “You brought de bluin’?” “Yes ma’am. Bought it at the shop on my way. You want me to bleach some cloth for you?” The old lady shook her head and handed me a bundle of quilt pieces. “De beeg ancestor party comin’ up. You got to be ready for dat, ’cause I’m takin’ you into the back room! You my daughter. You got to honor your ancestors.” Khandi scowled at me. “You neber, neber go in der when you hab your moon days! Dat make doz old grandpas rile up and kick hell on us! You ain’t neber seen such fury, should dat happen! Dey will trow you into trance and beat de shit out you. You be crawlin’ on de sand and cryin’, ‘Hep me, hep me.’ ” I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms and squeaked out, “So what’s with the blueing?” My mentor sucked her teeth. “Dat to fool de outsiders. Dey know we got med’cine to halt moon days, so we tell dem it’s de blue.” She grinned.

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“Now what you do is tell my nephew I sed take you to de bush and hep you fetch de bark off dinguti wewe, de blue-­wood tree. He know de one. You chop dat bark and slow boil it for two hours.” She gave me a broad wink. “When it cooled down it be like brown syrup. But while it cookin’ it be blue, blue.” I gulped and asked, “Okay, then what?” “Two days ’fore you ’spect your flow, you take a beeg swallow of dat syrup. You do dat each day ’til de ancestor party be over. Den your flow, it come back.” * * * One important symbol in Garifuna culture is the color blue. Khandi, instructed me to use dinguti wewe, blue-­wood, to delay menstruation. A more precise meaning was “to keep clean.” Blue is thought to have a purifying power. It was used to rinse menstrual cloths, and in baths to prevent or cure maladies inflicted by evil spirits. When the special wood is unavailable, commercial blueing is substituted. Guseue, the color red, signals physical, emotional, or spiritual danger. During dugu, the ancestor party, some family members wear red to deliberately attract ancestors who manifest in their descendants through trance. Of course it is associated with menstruation. “Red cocks who have crowed” represent the ancestor spirits, from Sari (the mythical land where ancestors “live” until they join Bungi, the supreme supernatural), talking to descendants. The fowl are plucked to convert the red to white skin and then served in a communion soup. The toxic Abrus precatorius seeds are in the buyei’s shakers. They are red, tipped with a black “eye.” Black is forbidden in any religious ritual. It suggests “a rotting corpse” and is associated with the bush where evil spirits dwell. Black candles are used in evil magic. A black pig represents a specific ancestor honored during a dugu. Before the pig is taken into the dabuyaba, it will be bled, and its hide flayed to expose the white fat below. As in West­ern societies, white is connected to a state of purity. The corpse of a newborn is wrapped in white cloth, “because he hasn’t had time to sin.” White also indicates a state of fulfillment in obligations to the ancestors. Hiuriha, deceased buyei (priest-­healers), are said to be seen wearing white. The Garinagu say that “Bungi is like a misty cloud, totally pure.” I hasten to say that no Garif articulated my conclusion, but I think of the pro-

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cess as follows: a bit of the cloud comes to earth as a raindrop. It lasts some time as part of a pool of water (living in an earthly community). Then evaporation takes place, and that bit of moisture leaves the earth and is absorbed back into the cloud. Cardinal points imply meaning. North is where “trouble comes from.” Enemies and bush spirits. East is good, Sari, rising sun. South is where friends and neighbors meet. West is the land of the dead.

Tas and Home By the winter of 1980–1981, Khandi had decided that my “proper home” in Larube was to be with Tas and Lisa. Their two-­story wood-­f ramed house, set on brick columns in a white-­sand yard, was larger than most homes in the village. A roofed porch fronted the upper level and caught breezes from the sea. Great spot to hang a hammock and take a nap. There were three small bedrooms, a living-­dining area, and a back pantry used to store dishes, utensils, and canned foods. The lower floor contained a work/storage area and a small room where I slept. A cane-­walled latrine, a bath stall, a chicken coop, and the cooking shed lined the back of the property. Most daylight activities took place around the shed. Under its thatched roof, wood benches circled a mud-­brick oven and grill, a four-­by-­six table and a hand-­pumped faucet that ran to a freshwater well. It was there that Lisa directed household affairs. She was a five-­foot-­tall human dynamo who seldom slowed down from dawn to dusk: sweeping floors, washing and ironing clothes, preparing meals, a trip to the farm, and baking buns that she sold for pin money. Practical and down to earth, you always knew where you stood with her and what sort of mood she was in. Most days she was pleasant to be around, but Lisa did have a short fuse. She checked on what I wore. “Moma Mar, where is your overskirt? I’ll lend you one of mine.” Or, “Moma Mar, wear the blue. People can see you too far in the red.” Or, “Moma Mar, you going to a funeral? We only wear that purple for death.” Lisa told me stories of her childhood and tried to teach me how to cook Garifuna style: spicy fried chicken, chicken-­ feet soup, cow-­hoof soup, pig tails, fry jacks, of course rice and beans and huduit. Huduit is the Caribbean version of a west Af­ri­can dish. It is prepared in the same way, but green plantain is substituted for the yam. Huduit is less sticky, more like dry mashed potatoes. It is usually shaped into balls and served in soup. Because of the hard pounding required, it is of­ten reserved for special meals like Sunday dinner.

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Lisa’s husband, Tas, moved with deliberate calm and appeared to be relaxed in his skin until there was a crisis or a job to be done. Then he became the leader, emanating authority that few dared to challenge. It was during my first winter in their home that I glimpsed the contradictions in his life. It was as though he existed in parallel worlds. To most of the villagers, Tas was a fisherman who cracked jokes with his friends, loved to dance, and told stories to the neighbor children. His knowledge of traditional Garifuna history and culture was invaluable to me, and my point here is that he practiced and believed in those traditions. For example, he always splashed, on the floor, a drop of any alcoholic drink before he took the first sip. “For the Old People.” He taught me to wait a minute or two before eating any food. “Give the ancestors a chance to take what they want. Show respect.” Then he grinned and added, “By the by, when you eat at table, keep both elbows on the table. Else some of our folks might think you are hiding something.” On the other hand, one morning Tas said, “Got to go on a trip. Be gone ’bout two weeks.” “Where are you going?” He winked and answered, “Tell you that when I get back.” And when he returned, he brought me a medallion from Moscow, Russia, and a reindeer scrimshaw from Lapland. Tas, a high school graduate, had continued to read most everything he could get his hands on. He of­ten asked me questions about some subject that seemed to come out of the blue. One day he asked, “Please explain how radar works.” I thought, How the hell am I supposed to know how radar works? But when I returned to the States, I looked it up and mailed him an explanation. I learned that he was a friend of the US counsel and worked for officials in his nation’s government. He had served as an unofficial, secret emissary to Russia, Libya, Cuba, and Mexico. His sudden shifts, from a man of the common folk to a diplomat, always startled me. He surprised me again when he announced that I should be addressed as “Moma Mar.” “Make clear to everyone,” he told his children, “that she is part of our family.” Tas and Lisa’s children were Joseph, Elizabeth, Frank, and their granddaughter was Dorothy. Although the children had Garifuna names, in daily life they went by their “proper English names,” which were assigned to them when they entered school. The school, which serviced three or four villages, was located about three miles from Larube. There were two Creole teachers who were financed by a Christian mission. One day Tas and I were talking about racial conflict in the United States. I asked about the tensions between Carib and Creole. He looked

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at my white face and said, “No matter how much you love my family, you will never understand what it is like to be born with a black ass. I travel all over the world, but I can’t escape it, because of how I was born.” Tas took a deep breath and explained, “I am a Black Carib, and proud of it. Those Creoles, they’re black too. Yet they pretend they’re better than us. But all their folks were slaves. My people have never been slaves! Back in Dominica my ancestors jumped off cliffs before they be taken as slaves.” A wry smile flicked across his face. “I know you’ve heard the stories. How Black Caribs are cannibals, and how we run off to the bush and worship devils. The Creoles call us ‘crabs.’ ” He chuckled and added, “Guess that’s the one name we deserve.” I shook my head. “I don’t understand.” He must have been thinking, Wake up, stupid! “It’s a play on words. You see those little crabs skittering along the beach? They run up and down, then drop into a hole in the sand. My people are seafarers. We began on an island, and we’ve always lived on the beach and made our way on the water. In the old days, my father was a smuggler. My mother sold rum, and he sailed it around the borders to different ports. He swapped the rum for cloth, cigarettes, and guns. It’s a three-­day sail from one end to the other. So he had three women set along the coast.” Tas waited for me to understand the pun. “Now you get it?” I nodded, and he laughed. “But that’s all right, ’cause we call the Creoles ‘stones.’ If you don’t mind yourself when you’re walking on the beach, you’ll stub you toe on a piece of you-know-what that they leave on the sand!” When I first went to Larube, indoor plumbing was nonexistent, and outhouses were a luxury. Each village had a two-­seater built out on a pier over the sea. Early morning, chamber pots were emptied into the sea. The Garinagu were always careful to go out beyond the tide line. The Creole were said to be less environmentally conscious and left their debris on the beach. All was silent. No breeze moved the briny air. Palm fronds hung limp, yet gave off the acid-­sweet stink of their rotting orange fruit. What was left of waves only foamed on the beach. The tropical moon was full, and I could see white sand six to eight feet out under the water. Beyond that was the black trough below the shelf, and beyond that, the flickering phosphorescent lights that sailors call the “lost men at sea.” In a blink, a school of silver mullet swirled into their collective, frisbee-­ shaped dance and spun off to deep water. Then I saw his nose! The shark was barely moving. There was just one flick of the tail. He idled, casting his seven-­foot shadow onto the white sand. A whisper in my ear, “Some day I’ll hook that devil.”

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My guts locked. “Jesus, man! Don’t slip on me like that! You know we shouldn’t be out here together.” Tas exhaled a resigned “Umph,” then said, “You know we can’t deny this.” He settled back, resting his big frame against the side wall of the house. “First time I saw you, you were walking with Juan. I squinted against the heat waves. Who’s that? What’s my friend got in tow? I watched this small, clear-­skinned creature talking with Juan. You laughed at something he said, and it was a gusty laugh. Louder than most women, especially English women. Where’d he find her? I’d seen English come and go. Except for the Catholic Sisters in Dangriga, they didn’t stay long. They arrived, bustled around asking dumb questions, telling the Garinagu how to improve their lives. But they’d soon leave, all sunburned and scratching bug bites.” Tas paused. “Then Juan introduced us. And that was that, my lady!” He grinned and added, “You can’t deny it, my lady.” It was then that I decided for the next trip I would not live in Tas’s home.

Nutmeg Alley Summer 1981. I rented a one-­room house on Nutmeg Alley. It was built by a missionary couple who had given up “trying to convert the heathens.” The exterior of my home was white clapboard with brown, louvered shutters. The interior walls were plasterboard. The floor was rough pine. I had two chairs, a table, and an inflatable mattress. One light bulb dangled on a cord from the ceiling. In the backyard two palm trees shaded a water spigot, a fire pit, and an outhouse. One can learn a lot about a place by just sitting on one’s front porch, and I spent a lot of time perched on mine. I don’t remember when I first met Uncle Moe. It seems he had always been around, but we became friends on Nutmeg Alley. He walked by my house each morning on the way to his farm. And in the afternoon he of­ten brought me green plantain or bright yellow guavas. Their sweet, pink flesh was my dessert. A special treat was a jar of his eye-­watering pepper jelly. Uncle Moe had dark skin, but the Indian part of his heritage shone through. His angled cheekbones declared it; and there was a yellow cast below the Af­ri­can pigment. He stood five feet three and weighed no more than 150 pounds. He was a small man by Garinagu standards, but he was tough and strong. One evening when “some ruffians on a lark” decided to harass this “clear-­skinned woman,” Uncle Moe appeared at my side and in his quiet voice shamed them into leaving me alone. Uncle Moe didn’t drink hard liquor. Now and then we sipped ginger

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wine while he told me stories about “how it was.” He had worked in the mahogany camps during his youth. At that time the English, who governed British Honduras, contracted indigenous crews to harvest the treasured wood from a snake-­infested rainforest. They received their pay only after the contract was fulfilled. Then the men went home to rest or celebrate. Those determined, or desperate enough, returned for several contracts in the camps. In his retirement, Uncle Moe carved bread bowls. These fine platters, used for kneading dough, are about two feet in diameter and flat with a curved rim. They are formed from the huge, flanged mahogany roots that grow above ground. A traditional wedding gift to the bride, they are passed down to daughters and granddaughters. In the old days, there also were deeper “wash bowls,” which little boys borrowed to sail on the river. Unlike many of my friends who were born in Honduras or Guatemala, Moses Williams was raised in British Honduras. He spoke perfect English and was the most proper Garif I have ever known. He would never enter my house; and when I visited him, we always sat on his porch in clear view of the gossiping neighbors. But he certainly was not stuffy. I learned that he was quite a dandy in his younger years and that he had two wives living in other parts of Larube. The Nutmeg Alley house was his retreat from domestic duties. To an outsider it might be difficult to distinguish the difference between a shack up and the sec­ond wife. For the Garinagu there is no problem. If a couple establishes a household and the man claims the children as his, the marriage is considered legitimate. The wives are expected to be courteous to each other. Some become good friends, and sometimes they act together to keep their husband in line, for example, should said husband develop an eye for a third female. However, there is one hard and fast rule. If there is a conflict of interests between the wives, the wishes of the first wife take precedence. I watched all this demonstrated during a funeral procession. The cortege left from the home of the first wife, but along the way it stopped at the house of the sec­ond wife. She and her children joined the group, walking behind the first wife. For many Garinagu common-­law marriages are quite acceptable. The church and the government disapprove of the practice. Therefore, it is not unusual for a “death bed wedding” to be performed for a couple who have been together for years. The “legal words” are said so that property rights are established. Toward the end of the summer, Lisa paid me a surprise visit on Nut-

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meg Alley. I invited her in, and we sat down on my two straight chairs. She looked around the sparse room and grimaced with disgust. “You shouldn’t be living in a place like this.” “Hunh.” I laughed. “I’ve stayed in places worse than this.” Lisa scowled then said, “Moma Mar, I’ve come to tell you something.” “Okay.” I braced for one of Lisa’s tirades. She took in a deep breath, then began her story. “Last night ­Cervantes came on Tas.” “What are you saying?” Lisa shook her head, as if to tell me to keep quiet. “I am saying that last night, while Tas and I were sitting in the living room, his father possessed him.” I quirked a skeptical eyebrow, but Lisa kept on. “For true, Moma Mar. All of a sudden he changed, and Tas didn’t look like his self. He spoke to me in the old language.” She explained, “His Old People talk funny, you know.” “What did he say?” Lisa scowled at me. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. ­Cervantes shook his finger at me and asked, ‘Where is the clear-­skinned woman? Why isn’t she here?’ I said you stayed on Nutmeg Alley. And he said, ‘I like her. Bring her back.’ Then he patted my shoulder and told me, ‘Tas loves her, so you must love her too.’ ” I tossed my head in disbelief; but Lisa continued. “Moma Mar, come home.” It took me a few moments to absorb what Lisa had said. Then I told her, “There’s no denying that Tas and I are attracted to each other. But I promise you that I will never knowingly do anything to hurt your marriage or your children.” Lisa nodded. “You’ve already proven yourself. You show me respect. When you give, it’s not just for Tas, it’s for the whole family.” “Okay. I just want to be sure you and I understand the contract.” I paused. “Lisa, you know there will be gossip.” “To hell with them, Moma Mar. This thing is between you, me and Tas.” “Very well. Next trip I’ll come home.”

­Margaret’s Bath Winter 1981–1982. I was tired after a twelve-­hour trip from ­Tennessee. I scratched two mosquito bites on my ankle and twisted the band of my skirt against heat rash popping out around my waist. A child called, “Moma Mar is here. She’s come back!” Behind me, Lisa spoke. “Moma Mar, go change clothes. You don’t look

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natural in that fancy dress.” I went to my room and changed into a traditional morning gown. Its loose folds let breezes flow around my body, and I relaxed into my sandals. I was at home. I walked into the cook shed and prepared my own tea. I didn’t wait for an invitation to be served. If something needed to be done for a meal I did it, not hesitant that I was intruding. It had not always been like that. The first time I stayed in their house I had walked on tiptoes, worried that some careless action would be misunderstood, causing offense. But “living there” was different. The children I heard squabbling were my children. I was attached to them and felt that it was my right and responsibility to guide, to reprimand them. I had genuine concern about the success of a fishing trip and took pride in my contribution to the farm: the plot I weeded, the rows I planted. I shared sadness in the death of a friend, enjoyed the satisfaction of a well-­played joke, and was hurt or angry at criticism from “outsiders.” When I was “working there,” I had counted each day on a mental calendar. When I was “living there,” the days flew by. And once back in Tennessee, there was a longing for the people, a caring and wondering what they were doing. I acknowledge the argument that with involvement one loses some objectivity. On the other hand by “living there,” I understood the fear of black magic, the exaltation of a dance, the sting of discrimination. It was not always happy. Sometimes it was sad, angry, and hard, but “living there” was deep and real. Tas and I sat on the front porch watching a quarter moon rise above an indigo sea. He said, “You got here just in time, Moma Mar, to watch something no outsider can see.” “What’s that?” “We’re bathing my mother, M ­ argaret, at dawn tomorrow.” He chuckled at my look of disbelief. “It’s the first ritual for sending our parents on to Bungi.” Seeing my puzzlement, Tas explained. “In the old days, back when my grandparents lived in Honduras, they buried the dead inside their house. When it came time for the bathing, they dug up the floor, washed the bones, then reburied them.” He grinned. “Of course we can’t do that now, but you’ll see. We still do our best. And, since you are ­Margaret’s adopted niece, you must take part.” “When did all this start?” “About a month ago Elizabeth woke up sobbing. Said she dreamed

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about an old woman that sort of looked like Khandi. But the woman was dirty and her clothes were raggedy. Elizabeth said the woman called to her, ‘I’m tired. I need a bath.’ ” Tas sighed. “We didn’t need a buyei to tell us what that meant.” A distant cock announced the predawn hour. A palm frond rustled as if to say, “Shh.” Muffled steps descended the back stairs. I dressed and hurried to the yard. There, I found a corner of the house tented over, barring any neighbor from sight of what was to happen. Inside the area, a “grave” was lit by a candle at the head end and a small fire at the foot. A towel and a new set of the traditional woman’s dress hung from a clothesline that was tacked to the wall. Below this, a bar of homemade soap and a sponge rested on a green leaf. Next were two large calabash. The first held fresh water brought from the river, the other floated crushed, aromatic leaves that Khandi still used as a fragrance. The old lady bustled up behind me, inspected the arrangement, then nodded to Tas. He handed her a chap of kasusa (very strong, traditional rum), which she poured around the grave. Her gravelly voice addressed her sister, “Marg’ret, you bean on duh jurnrey long time. Yur son ’vites you to ’fresh yursef.” Tas brought Dorothy to the grave, poured a small calabash of water into the hole, then spoke. “Ma, I say this for our granddaughter, Dorothy. ‘Come, Gramma, enjoy your bath.’ ” He beckoned to Frank. “Fill the dipper, son, and pour it. That’s right. Now say, ‘Gramma, come cool yourself.’ ” So it went, in sequence of age, until Khandi spoke again. “Sistuh, we steel grieves you. But we gots to go on. Tas has seen to fresh you. Watch over him and his chil’ren.” Tas turned to Frank and Joseph. “Come, boys, let’s go watch the sun rise while your Gramma enjoys her bath.” By breakfast time, there was no trace of the ritual, and daily routines took up as usual. It was during M ­ argaret’s bathing that I first heard Khandi complain about Skipper. “I wish Innocente was here,” the old woman growled as the family sat quietly while ­Margaret’s spirit enjoyed her bath. “Yes, well, I suppose Skipper is up on North Key,” Tas replied. “You know he goes hot and cold with the spirits.” “He’s the oldest. He should be responsible!” his aunt declared. “Khandi, Skipper will never be responsible.” The old woman sighed. “How Marg’ret got such a son, I’ll neber understand. No true, Lisa?”

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Tas’s wife ducked the question by picking up Dorothy. So my adopted mother continued to Tas. “One of dez days he’ll git it. You know, ‘he who owes mus’ pay.’ ” “Ma said there’s a lot of Pa in him. Always bucking against the way things are.” “­Cervantes Diego had his ways,” Khandi objected, “but he was responsible! He never forgot who he was.” “Hey, let’s don’t stir up trouble,” Lisa interrupted. “Let Aunt ­Margaret enjoy her bath.” “You’re right, Lisa,” Tas agreed. Later that summer, ­Cacho and Thomas sat with Tas under the boat shed. They discussed the pork market while Tas mended a net. Skipper staggered up the beach and leaned against the shed. “Portacio Diego. How, brother?” “Not bad, Skipper,” Tas answered. “What’s with you?” “Yes . . . well . . . umm, I’ve been in Willams Point. Meant to come for Ma’s bathing; but you know how it is, with a sweet little woman.” Skipper grinned. “She just wouldn’t let me leave.” Tas’s friends ignored Skipper and continued their conversation. “Pork price is rising,” Thomas said. “With luck, I’ll catch the raise with my litter. They should be ready in three weeks.” “Don’t wait too long,” C ­ acho advised. “I sold two this week.” “Well,” Skipper interrupted, “with all you made, you can lend me five dollars.” “No way, Skipper,” ­Cacho answered. “I’m still waiting to see the last I lent you.” “Only kidding, man. Only kidding,” Skipper mumbled. ­Cacho touched Tas’s shoulder. “Time to leave, friend.” “See you later, C ­ acho.” Tas turned to Thomas. “You got a boar? My sow is near ready again.” “Sure. Same deal? One of the litter?” “Same deal. I’ll bring the sow in a few days.” “Sounds like you two are sweethearts, making same deals over again,” Skipper sneered. “There’s nothing wrong with having a friend you can rely on, Skipper,” Thomas retorted, then turned to Tas. “I’m off, pal. Need to go to farm before dark.” Innocente emptied the dregs from his flask. Tas said, “You asked ­Cacho for money. You back home and broke?”

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His brother toed an X in the sand and answered, “Well, yes, brother. You know how it is.” “Yes, I know how it is,” Tas sighed, “but how long can you keep this up?” Skipper grinned. “As long as I have you, Tas.” “Wait a minute, man. You are the older in this family. I should reach out to you. Where’s your hand to help me?” Skipper hung his head. “You heard me. I’m broke. But tomorrow I’ll go to Belize City, look up some old friends, call in some debts. Then I’ll bring back what you need. But I’ll . . . umm . . . need money for the ticket.” “For God’s sake, Innocente, won’t you ever stand as a man? Do I have to treat you like a child, my own brother!” Tas stared out to sea. When he had cooled down he said, “Okay. You’re broke. But running to Belize City won’t help it. Tell you what we’ll do. There’s a young sow in my pen. I was planning to give it to Joseph, but you can have her. She’s near ready to breed. You can take her, build a pen, and raise the litter. I’ll arrange with Thomas for his boar to service her. Time comes to sell, four or five months from now, I get half the litter. There’s a piece of land on the farm I’m not using. You can plant it. Six, seven months from now you can be on your own. In the meantime, you can eat noon meal with us.” Skipper perked up. “You going to farm tomorrow? Well, okay. Pick me up on the way, and I’ll help you dig a plot. What you doing? Banana seeds, yam hills? Man, my muscle is strong.” He flexed his arm. “Then you can give me passage to Belize. Right, Tas?” Tas stared at Skipper for a long moment. “Okay, Skipper,” he said at last, “do it your way.” Tas turned his back on his brother and walked home.

Fishing Trip My friend, Marcia, was known as a hellraiser. Folks said, “When she’s on, you can’t stop her!” Less than five feet tall, stocky, and strong, Marcia refused to speak English, though she had lived in Larube for fifteen years. Each time I returned, her first greeting was to yell in Garifuna “Moma Mar, you’re back!” Then she hugged me around the waist and lifted me a foot off the ground. Her next words were “higab cigaru,” which meant “give me a cigarette.” She of­ten stashed it behind her ear to smoke later. She bubbled energy and bustle, worked hard, played hard, and lived hard. When Marcia joined a group of women to share a bit of gossip or news, it was always a short visit. “I’m on my way to . . ., must vend these fish. Just stopped to say . . .” Somehow the conversation always became ribald, as

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she sang a little song, danced a bump and a grind, and strolled down the path with a tray of goods on her head. Marcia was one of four women who regularly went to the keys for adu­ garahani, the formal name of the major ancestor ritual. While the men fished, the women collected conch, crab, and mussels on the reefs and in the mangrove swamps. This was hard and dangerous work. My favorite memory of Marcia is watching her wade to shore after a trip to the keys. Her old tattered dress was tucked into the belt of some ripped shorts. Over this was a costume made from palm leaves, and on her head was a basket of fresh shellfish. Water from the basket dribbled down her cheeks. Like her Garifuna ancestors, she walked out of the sea strong, proud, and adequate. Amigos was Marcia’s husband and Tas’s fishing partner. He reminded me of a puppet on a string, supple, as if his joints were unhinged, free from the restriction of human ligaments. His stick-­thin frame towered over most men, yet he danced with a fluid grace. His beard showed gray when he hadn’t shaved, but his hair was still black. Amigos was independent, self-­sufficient, always polite. We were friends for twenty-­some years, yet he always addressed me as “Miss Marlini,” rather than the informal “Moma Mar.” Quiet spoken, he of­ten chuckled to himself, but never loudly. I was certain that if there were trouble, I could count on Amigos for help. I had been angling to go with the men to the keys on a serious fishing trip. There was a problem. Men said that women are bad luck on fishing trips. And women kept telling me that it was too hard for me. “The flies will eat you up!” At last it was settled that I would go on a trip with Amigos and Tas. They said to be ready at noon Sunday. A neighbor warned, “Moma Mar, you can’t go to the keys today. There’s a north wind blowing. It will be too rough for you out there.” I prayed that my presence wouldn’t cause any serious problems on the venture. In the house, Frank grinned at me. “What’s funny?” I growled. “Moma Mar, you going to the keys. You’re going to get seasick.” I stashed a package of Dramamine in my pocket, along with a pen flashlight and a tube of insect repellent. I wrapped a notebook, pencil, and camera in a plastic bag, then tried to relax until time to go. The front passed and we sailed around three o’clock Sunday afternoon. The sky was clear, but the seas were deep. I did not get seasick, but I was cold and wet. To get to the key, we had to cross the waves at an angle. So in order not to capsize we watched the big one coming across, hesitated

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as the crest broke, then slid down its back into the next trough. Then we did it again, rode that roller coaster for two hours and made land at sunset. The men built a fire from dried coconut husks, boiled tea from lime rind, and made camp. I sipped my tea and waited for my lower bowel to unlock. That night we went to deep channels to “catch the big ones.” We fished there until one in the morning. The only light was a quarter moon, and that’s not much when you are trying to bait a hook and keep snarls out of your hand line. I had my pen light in my pocket, but I didn’t want the men to know that. It was my security blanket. If all else fails, we’ll have that little light. The night was cold. The seas rolled, and we were plagued by barracuda. They jumped around the dory, and twice they took the tail-­half of a fish just as one of the men brought it up to the side. Some folks eat barracuda, but they are taboo to the Carib. Those razor-­toothed bastards followed us each time we moved, and a chant repeated in my head, Women are bad luck! Women are bad luck! Then of course, what else? One wouldn’t believe it in a movie. I hooked a barracuda! “She has the long one!” Amigos yelled. “Jesus!” Tas muttered. I’m going to stay in camp the rest of the time, I thought as I looked to ­Amigos. He reached to the bottom of the dory and handed me a wood club. “Hit him three times.” The men hauled in their lines but made no move to help me dislodge the ripsaw that was on my hook. I knocked that sucker three of the strongest blows my 110-­pound body could muster. When it lay limp beside the dory, Amigos cut it away from the hook. And truth being stranger than fiction, that was the last we saw of the barracuda. Later that night I hauled in a ten-­pound black snapper. My total contribution to the trip was small, but I had the satisfaction that I didn’t have “to eat sand.” That was their way of saying I wasn’t skunked. On each set you allocate a fish to go in the pot for the next meal. No fish, “you eat sand.” We returned to camp and slept until seven, ate breakfast, then went to the reef for day fishing. That’s when I felt at home. Looking down into the clear, green water was like being at an aquarium. The men caught the “old lady” (flat, feisty, iridescent blue, hard to dress, but valued for its flavor), butterfish (all-­over intense cadmium yellow), yellow and reds (snappers), ghost (solid white except for a large blue eye), grunt (sounds like a pig as it flops around in the dory), speckled (bright red dots on white), Welsh-

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man (neurotoxic, probably named by a Scot army contingent based here fifty years ago). On Tuesday afternoon we broke camp, fished until one in the morning, then started home in the dark to have the salted and fresh fish at market before dawn Wednesday. Among other things, I learned how hard serious fishing is. I saw that the two men netted ninety US dollars for the three-­ day trip, a handsome sum by their standards. And I had a better understanding of what it meant when a wife said, “My husband’s gone to keys.” Later, Lisa told me: “While you were gone Helene called for you. I said you had gone to the keys.” “Who’d she go with?” the buyei asked. “Tas and Amigos.” “Hell, that woman is scared of nothing!” “That’s right,” Lisa affirmed, “Moma Mar’s not scared of anything.” Would that were true.

Frog in a Jar Two weeks after my fishing trip, I wrote a colleague the following letter: Dear George, To God, I don’t know what to say about this one. If it had happened in Africa, I would have made notes and moved on. But this is Tas and Lisa, and that blows my mind!!! And of course, I have to keep quiet about what I think. I honestly can’t tell how much Tas believes this crap, and how much he is just going along with Lisa. Anyway . . . Background: Lisa has been complaining about a bad foot. It’s real. I think it is probably a bone spur plus “arther.” Once she gets up and moving she’s okay; but if she is quiet for a time it stiffens up and is very painful. I suggested she see a physician, but if she ever did, I don’t know about it. So now Lisa says, “Moma Mar, I want you to take charge here in the house for Sunday and Monday. Tas and I have an appointment up north for a general checkup.” I fig­ured that translated to some kind of shaman. When I questioned her, she said, “There are good people and bad people; and everyone has to look out for himself. I’m going to find out what is happening with my foot.” They came back Monday afternoon. Tas says to me, “My lady,

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I’ll need your help. If you will come with me at sunset, there is a job to be done.” Then Lisa tells me about it. (This is an Indian shaman, not Garif.) The man told Lisa that she had three enemies that pretended to be her friends. They were working to gradually put her down, first on one foot, then the other, and up the legs. “He took a frog out of me, Moma Mar! And he said they had planted a doll with needles in it in our yard. So every time I walk over that place the pain grows more.” At sunset Tas and I walked to the shore. He sat down on the beach, opened a Bible and read Psalm 27. (I have no clue where that came from.) Then he stood up, and reached into a bag he was carrying. He brought out a jar holding a dead frog. “Moma Mar, I tell you the first time I saw this thing last night it was alive and jumping.” Then he recited a chant, which I guess came from the shaman, but I’m not sure. Translated into English it goes about: “Let this be like chickens that come home to roost. Let this thing return to the one who sent it.” Then he hurled the jar with the frog into the sea. Before we went home he told me, “Moma Mar, you know I’ve always been a skeptic; and I wouldn’t believe this if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. This man put on some kind of gloves. Then he massaged Lisa all over. After a while, Lisa started groaning like she was in pain. Then she took the birth position over a bucket, and she pushed and pushed. After a while, out pops this live frog. It’s hopping all over trying to get out of the bucket. The man caught it, and put it into the jar. Told me how to dispose of it at sunset.” Later, Lisa told me that the man will charge 100 BH to come and clean the yard of the doll. I think Lisa is going to do this. All I said through this was a series of anthropological “Un huhs.” Go fig­ure! Marilyn

Persecution and Altar Part of my study of the Garifuna medical sys­tem involved talking with patients waiting for treatment at the dabuyaba (house of worship and healing). As in a doctor’s waiting room, there might be a half-­dozen people asking for help. They came to their religious center because they believed

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that the cause of any sickness was ultimately spiritual. If I asked a man how he was hurt, he would answer, “An evil spirit made the knife turn in my hand.” Or, a mother might say, “An angry ancestor is punishing me by making my child sick.” The buyei (traditional priest-­healer) would treat the physical malady, but she also attended to the spiritual. The dabuyaba faced east, toward Sari (mythical land where the ancestors “live” until they join Bungi, the supreme supernatural). A dibasi fronted the building. It matched the open-­sided boat sheds that lined the beach. The main hall of the palmetto-­logged building spread forty by twenty-­five feet on a white sand floor. This is where the ancestor rituals were held. One afternoon the buyei and I sat there on a bench, and I said, “Helene, I keep hearing how Catholics persecute the Garinagu, but I haven’t seen any real evidence of this.” “Well, it’s not obvious to an outsider. And it’s not just Catholics; it’s Protestants, too. For instance if a Creole and a Garif ask for the same job, most likely the Creole will get it. Of course, back when we were children, it was plain to see as a wart on your nose.” “How so? Please tell me about it.” Helene clicked her tongue. “They wouldn’t let us go to school if they found out our parents went to an ancestor party. We had to keep everything secret.” Her voice shook with outrage. “They called the buyei a servant of the devil. Feeding our ancestors was devil worship. That back on St. Vincent we were cannibals. And they’d heard that sometimes we still killed a little boy at the party!” I scribbled in my notebook and waited for her to calm down. Then I heard giggling. “For heaven’s sake, what?” “I was remembering one time when Monica came home spouting some of the Catholic words. There was supposed to be a “feeding,” and my sister said she wasn’t going because ‘now, we have the Christian truth.’ ” Helene wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “Then my fool sister said, ‘Pa, you can’t be a Christian and practice heathen rites.’ ” Now, I was laughing. “I can’t believe Monica said that.” Helene nodded. “Oh, yes ma’am. But she soon got over it because that’s when Pa exploded.” The buyei chuckled. “Well, you can imagine what happened after that.” A few days later Helene and I picked up our conversation when I remarked that the dabuyaba certainly wasn’t a secret now. She answered, “Yes, Grandfather Ricardo told me where to place it. Away from the houses, but not hidden.” “Ricardo is your, hiuraha, correct?”

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She nodded. “He said it was time to make a stand and to get ready for a fight.” “Ah, yes. I remember Tas mentioned something about a ruckus you had with a priest.” “Uh huh. Father Kreiner was appointed priest for this district. He was stationed in Dangriga; but it wasn’t long before I heard what he was saying.” She chuckled. “In fact it was a policeman who came to warn me ­Kriener said I was blaspheming and that I should be arrested and the da­ buyaba closed.” “So what happened?” Helene pointed to the altar room that stood behind the main hall. “Come and examine what’s there. When Kriener came, waving a Bible and shouting ‘Devil Worshiper,’ I said, ‘Look around, and if you see anything that is non-­Christian, you can have me arrested.’ I had set things up like this when I opened the dabuyaba.” The altar that stood in the “shrine room” behind the main hall was three tiered, about six feet long. Pictures and statues of Christ, saints, and the Virgin Mary sparkled among the flickering light of white candles. Next to a vase of fresh flowers were a bundle of dried herbs used as “incense,” a cross, and a calabash cup holding “holy water.” I studied the vari­ous items. “First off,” I said, “that picture of Mary, she’s draped in blue, and I see, although she’s not Negroid, neither is she Caucasian. More cinnamon skinned, like maybe a Carib Indian. Then the saints wear white robes. Like hiuriha, perhaps?” The buyei grinned. “And the sticks of the ‘cross’ really form an x, an intersection. That’s where the Old People and their descendants mingle in time and place.” Helene nodded, then frowned. “You professors have a word for it, but I can’t pick it out just now. It’s when captors force their religion on the natives. They have to accept the symbols, but they put their old meanings into the new things.” “Yes. We call it syncretism.” I shook my head in admiration. “Madam Buyei, you are one sly fox.” It was only after Helene came to trust me that she took me into the real altar room. A small hammock hung from the rafters. In it were her red turban and loincloth and her personal shakers.

Cashew and Chickens When ripe, the cashew fruit looks very much like a yellow bell pepper, except that a single nut hangs from its base. Cashew season is a festive

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time of year. The children munch on the protein-­rich nuts and devour the sweet, juicy fruit. Adults put down the pulp for wine to be served during winter holidays. The children cheered as Tas and Lisa unloaded a sack of cashews in the backyard. They plucked off the single nut, dropped it into a pan made from the bottom of a meat tin, then gorged on the sweet pulp until sticky syrup dribbled down their chins onto their chests and arms. At last all the nuts were in the pan, and everyone had eaten their fill of the fruit. “Now, Ma?” Dorothy asked, hopping from one foot to the other. “You don’t want tea first, Dorothy?” “No, Ma. I just want nuts!” Weary from her farm work, Lisa sighed. “That suit you, Elizabeth?” “Yes, Ma,” the elder girl answered, still licking juice from her fingers. “Okay, then I’ll go bathe, and Joseph can fetch some cheese for P ­ apa’s tea.” Lisa handed Elizabeth the long wooden tongs she used to move pans over the open fire. “Mind Dorothy. Don’t let her get too near that pan when the oil blazes.” Elizabeth fanned the coals on the cooking platform and added sticks of kindling to force a blaze. She set the pan of nuts over the fire. As they began to roast, oil ran from the husks and out holes in the bottom of the container. When the shells caught fire, Elizabeth shook the pan to keep them from burning. They turned dark brown as the astringent oil leeched out. “Don’t let ’em burn, Elizabeth. They’re ready, Elizabeth,” urged Dorothy. “I’m not gonna burn them, Dorothy. Get out of the way now while I move this.” Elizabeth used the tongs to lift the sizzling pan from the fire. “Move, Dorothy!” she warned, hurrying to dump the hot nuts onto the sand. Dorothy tried to pick up a nut. “Get away from there! You got to let them cool.” Elizabeth looked at Dorothy’s fingers. “You touched it, didn’t you? Go wash your hand good, right now. First thing I know you’ll be rubbing your eye. Then Ma will rail up cause you’re bawling. That oil stings if you get it in your eye” Elizabeth squatted in front of a rock, pounding the husk from a nut. A small mound of cashews lay in a bowl beside her. Dorothy reached for one, but Elizabeth slapped her hand. “Leave it, Dorothy. You’ll get your share with the rest of us.” Dorothy picked up a hull and threw it against the chicken shed. “I’ll lash you,” Elizabeth yelled. “Go fetch that back right now. Don’t you know that oil will kill the fowl? Drop it on the pile and go find the shovel. We got to bury these deep so the chickens don’t scratch them up and eat them.”

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Joseph returned with cheese for his father’s tea. “Cashew, cashew, I smell cashew,” he sang as he danced toward Elizabeth. He grabbed the bowl of nuts and ran around the yard with it. “Oh, I got me a big bowl of cashews. I’m going to eat them all.” Dorothy dropped the shovel and ran after him. Joseph pretended to scoop a handful of nuts into his mouth. Dorothy began to cry. “Joseph,” Elizabeth called, “don’t tease her. Give her the nuts.” “Oh no. I ain’t givin’ Dorothy nuts, and I ain’t givin’ you none neither.” Elizabeth and Frank joined the game and chased Joseph around the house. They romped around the yard, up the front steps and down the back. “Hey, Joseph,” called Lisa returning from her bath. “Give the girls the nuts and all of you quiet down. I’m tired. I want to rest.” “Yes, Ma,” the four answered in unison. Next morning I played like a fly on the wall. Remained very quiet, and kept out of the line of fire. Lisa stood on the back stoop planning her work for the day. But something was not right. She scanned the yard below. “Jesus!” she exploded. “Holy Mother of God!” The yard was littered with dead fowl. Lisa raced down the steps and nudged a limp body. “Jesus!” She picked one up, then kicked another. “Joseph!” she yelled. “Elizabeth! Frank! Dorothy!” “Ma?” The sleepy-­eyed children stood at the back door. “Look at this!” Lisa gestured wildly around the yard. The children ran down the stairs and picked up first one chicken then another. “What the bloody hell is going on?” She stopped as she saw Elizabeth’s face. The daughter was already taller than her mother, but now she seemed to shrink. Her eyes were wide, her mouth formed a silent “o,” and she slowly shook her head from side to side. “Elizabeth?” Lisa thundered, “Is this your doing?” “No, Ma,” Elizabeth stammered. “I mean yes, Ma. I mean I forgot, Ma.” “You forgot to bury those cashew shells, didn’t you, Elizabeth?” Lisa’s voice was low. “And my chickens ate them, and now my chickens are dead. Because you forgot to bury those shells. No true, Elizabeth?” “Yes, Ma.” Elizabeth started to cry. Dorothy began to whimper, then Joseph spoke up. “It was my fault, Ma. I teased them with the nuts. We all forgot, Ma.” “I shouldn’t have left them, Ma,” Elizabeth sniffled. “I should’ve seen they was buried.” “You bloody fool!” Lisa jumped toward Elizabeth and began slapping her across the face. “Ma!” Elizabeth raised her arms, grabbed her mother’s wrists, and held

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them. Lisa glared at her, kept her interrupted strike raised. The frightened girl loosened Lisa’s wrist and lowered her hands to her sides. Lisa slapped her again, then said in a voice that was cold with fury, “You and Dorothy take every one of these dead fowl out to the farm and bury them. Dorothy, you drag the shovel. Elizabeth, you carry the chickens.” She turned to Joseph, who had been standing speechless, watching his mother. “Well, what you looking at? Get on with your chores.” She started up the stairs but yelled back over her shoulder, “Frank, all of you, get out of my sight!” A few days after the cashew crisis, I was again “a fly on the wall” and watched an exchange between Tas and Lisa. “It isn’t funny, Tas.” Lisa flared as she saw the crinkle of amusement in her husband’s eyes. He turned his head to hide his grin, surely thinking of her standing in the yard cursing over the dead chickens. Although he recognized the seriousness of what had happened, it seemed he could not help enjoying Lisa’s discomfort. Tas nodded his head in mock seriousness as she continued. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I won’t have eggs for sale, and what will we have for our main meal when you don’t fish?” She glared at her husband as he continued to nod his head. “You’re no help at all!” “Well,” Tas said, lighting a cigarette, “you have to get some more ­chickens.” “You think I don’t know that?” Lisa snapped. “What am I supposed to do? Chickens cost money, unless you can trade with a neighbor; and nobody I know has enough to trade now. They’re all promised to feed those bloody Old People.” “Watch yourself, Lisa! Mind you don’t bring more trouble to what you have.” Tas walked to the pantry for two glasses. He broke the seal on a bottle of scotch and splashed some on the floor. “For you, Old People,” he said. Then he poured a drink into each glass and handed one to his wife. “I thought you always had money put back. Use that to buy new fowl.” “Very funny, Tas,” Lisa said, sipping her drink. “It just seems that way to you because I don’t give away my money to anyone comes asking. I saw you with that beggar yesterday.” She took a deep breath, then quickly added, “So how about you lend me the cash?” “Wait just a minute, Lisa.” Tas sounded incredulous. “This is some kind of turnaround? I mean, here you are asking to borrow cash from me?” “I need your help,” Lisa said softly as she looked at the floor. Tas threw his shoulders back, as if he enjoyed the power that came with this rare state of being on the upper end of the borrower-­lender scale. “And what makes you think I might have the cash for you to borrow, even if I

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was willing to lend it to you? I mean, I’m the one who’s always broke and having to borrow, no true, wife?” “I heard your lucky number come up on the lottery.” Lisa jutted her chin in defiance. “Just ’cause you don’t choose to tell me doesn’t mean I’m deaf to when you win.” Local and national lotteries were popu­lar. My friends held reserved numbers that they bought from a vender who went from house to house every week. All conversation stopped when the winners were announced on radio. I suggested that if they saved the cost of the tickets, over time they would have more than their winnings. They explained to me that was not the case. Whatever they saved up would be required for some crisis. Winning the lottery was the only way they could hold a big sum at one time. “You scheming female.” Tas shook his head. “Can’t I have anything to call my own in this house?” “I need the money.” Lisa scowled. “I need that money too,” he answered with a grin. “Every shilling.” “Damn it, Tas,” Lisa exploded. “I’ll pay you back. Now you’re gonna lend me the cash to buy chickens, or you can forget about coming to me again when you’re broke.” “Okay, wife, okay. Lighten up, woman. I’ll lend you the cash.” “Yes, and never let me forget it either,” Lisa snorted. Tas grinned and finished his drink. “Well, you know what the Old People say. ‘He who owes must pay, and pay, and pay.’ ” When things cooled down after the cashew-­chicken debacle, Tas told me the story about his selling M ­ argaret’s red cock. Little did I imagine that, two weeks later, I would watch a chicken lottery played in Lidisi. However, a big fat hen was the victim. The venue was public, with grown men betting on the players as if they were at a horse race.

My Lidisi Visit We strolled along the beach where soft waves chased fiddler crabs into their holes, and terns dove for minnows in the blue waters. “I have to go to Tegucigalpa on business,” Tas announced. “Then I’m going on to Li­disi for a visit with my father’s people.” He paused, “You’re invited, all expenses paid.” He grinned at me. “Want to come along?” Ever mindful of my restricted budget, I asked, “Who’s paying?” Tas winked. “Never you fret, my lady.” Tegucigalpa was a grim city. Soldiers with automatic guns stood on ev-

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ery corner, and people scampered to keep out of their way. After Tas visited an embassy, we left for Lidisi as quickly as possible. This was the village where Tas had spent his first five years. As a young man, he returned occasionally, but now it was twenty years since his last visit. Yet the minute we walked down the path, old friends hailed us, and children ran to tell his family that he had come back. Casamerio’s son, Donaldo Diego, and his two wives still lived close to where the house of Tas’s parents had stood. Our host gave me a hug and welcomed me to the family. The wives were cautious, yet argued about where Tas and I would stay. It was decided that we would spend one night in each of their houses. I made friends with the women by helping with the cooking and washing. We had a wonderful time there, listening to their memories of childhood antics and stories about the Old People. In that atmosphere, I was not surprised that ­Cervantes came to meet me. We were gathered around an evening fire when a cousin dropped into trance. The man’s body posture, facial expression, and voice changed. The children screamed and ran to hide. The adults stared at him for a minute or two, then began to talk with the man. They told me ­Cervantes said he was happy that I had come to visit. After a few minutes more, he turned to chastising adults for vari­ ous misdemeanors. Then his voice grew weak, and the cousin reappeared. Put in context, ­Cervantes’s visit was not all that unusual. On the other hand, this was not something that happened every month or even every several years. The adults were certainly excited; and it fueled lots of conversation and speculation, not to mention gossip. A week later, Tas was teaching me some differences in Garifuna dialects. “For instance, ‘hi siet ti bu nu.’ That’s the way a man says ‘I love you.’ Now you say ‘lu siet ti bu nu.’ ” He grinned. “That means you love me.” I stared at him and shook my head. “Tas, we must show Lisa the proper respect. If you keep pushing, I will have to leave.” “Marry you!” I yelled at Tas, “You are out of your frigging mind.” “Easy, girl, easy now. I’ve already told Lisa.” “You’ve done what? I’m not believing this! I’m not hearing this!” “You might as well believe it, ’cause it’s done. I called a family counsel, and Khandi and Lisa have agreed.” “What about me? Don’t I have anything to say about this?” “I am dead serious, my lady. I did this the proper way. I love and respect Lisa. But that doesn’t change things with you and me. I asked permission before I proposed to you.” He paused, then added, “I won’t take no for an answer.” “Well, we’ll just see about that!”

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He chuckled. “That’s right, my lady, we surely will see.” Next morning I told Juan that I was leaving. He asked, “When should I expect to see you again?” “I can’t say. I have obligations at home.” “But you’re still working on our rituals. You’ve not finished.” “To tell you the truth, Juan, I’m not sure coming back here is a good move for me. There are problems.” Juan fanned his face with his hat, then looked me square in the eye. “Moma Mar, I tell you something. When a man and a woman are meant to be together they will find a way. I’ll be expecting you.” Later that year, back in the university, I received a grant to work in Papua New Guinea. .

Love Magic While preparing an article for publication, I came across field notes on a conversation with Juan about love magic. This was his story. “There was a girl here, long time passed. She loved a man so much she was near crazy. Wanted him bad, you see.” Juan shook his head. “But that guy, he had no mind for her. So this girl went to the ’old woman.’ And she told the girl what to do. She say, ‘You go to bush and find the magic vine. You dig little hole at the root and plant a shilling there. You talk to the vine and ’splain that you are sorry to cut it, but you needs it to catch your man.’ ” Juan held his hand out to indicate the length of vine. “The girl did that, and she took a piece home, and she pounded it and made a bath with it. The old woman told her to ‘just walk by the man and he’s bound to follow you.’ “So the girl did that, too, and sure enough, the man followed her.” Juan grinned. “Yes, ma’am. That was my Ma and Pa.” I clapped my hands. “That’s a great story.” Then, after a pause, I asked, “Is love magic always good magic?” Juan frowned and told me this tale. “I was young and liked to jolly around. There were three women I squeezed the bone with. One of these girls didn’t know I was coming that night. Thought I’d surprise her, you see? Came up to her house, and it was me that got the surprise!” He popped his eyes wide to express shock. “She was sitting on the floor, all naked. There were three purple candles in front of her, and she was calling my name and some other kind of words. “Then I saw her pick up this string and pull it back and forth between her legs.” Juan looked embarrassed. “You understand what I mean?” I nodded, and he took a deep breath.

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“Well then, she swings that string over the candles and says my name again and again. She was working love magic on me! I rammed through that door and threw her across the room. Then I kicked those candles ’cross the floor. That was the last of her!” Rereading Juan’s story reminded me of a conversation between Tas and Joseph. We were sitting on the riverbank. Joseph unhooked a fish from his line and asked his father, “Is it true what they say about you, that you were a Romeo in your young days?” Tas slow reeled and answered. “Don’t know about Romeo, but I did have some women before I met your mother.” Tas’s cork bobbed, and he jerked back on his rod. “I started getting a bad pain in my back. Your grandma said it was ‘dry back.’ ” Joseph cast out his line. “Dry back. You get that from too much dipping the wick?” Tas answered, “Yep. Ma told me to drink raw eggs in stout with nutmeg. If that didn’t work she’d send me to the buyei.” “What’s the buyei got to do with dry back?” Joseph asked. “You go to the man, and he makes you sit in a pan filled with raw eggs. Your ass sucks the eggs right up.” Tas turned away to hide his grin. “Jesus,” Joseph shouted, “I got to cut back on my jollying!” An hour later we were in the kitchen shed. Tas threw another log into the fire pit and placed a black-­iron skillet on the grill. “Hey, Joseph, since we were talking about dry back and jollying too much, have you heard about Susie?” Joseph scaled one of the fish. “Heard her mentioned, but don’t know for sure.” He slit the white belly and gutted the flesh. “Best you tell me, huh, Pops?” “She’s s’posed to be a beautiful woman that catches men when they stay out jollying too late.” Tas poured coconut oil into the hot pan. “Seems she calls your name, and you walk toward her.” Joseph placed two of the dressed fish into the sizzling oil. “So what happens?” “Well, that’s the trick. Her feet are set backwards so she’s facing you; but you don’t see she’s moving away. She calls, and you follow ’til you get lost in the bush. Or so they say.” Tas laid the fried fish on a plate, and instructed Joseph, “We’ll smoke the rest. You could arrange them in the uguagi.” “You’ve seen Susie, Pops?” “No, son.” Tas smiled at Joseph and said, “If I’d told your grandma that tale, she’d hit me with this frying pan.”

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One day, during a pause in our fishing trip, I had asked Amigos to explain the meaning of afaragu. He chose his words carefully. “It could, or not, be husband and wife. Afarugu can be between man/woman, man/man or woman/woman. It’s not about sex.” “What is it about?” Amigos shook his head. “It’s hard to explain in English, ’cause I know you folks don’t believe it.” After a long pause, he said, “Afaragu is the other half you need to live really happy. Like blades of scissors, or a pair of socks.” “Ah ha.” I nodded. “In English we call them ‘soul twins.’ ” Amigos smiled at me. “I don’t know about soul twins. I just know some folks are lucky to have an afaragu. Others never find one.” Now, after my work in Papua New Guinea, I stared at a letter, sent to me from Larube. Single sheet. One sentence printed in block capitals: “YOUR AFARAGU NEEDS YOU.”

Snake Bite Lisa jumped up and yelled, “Moma Mar! Thank God you’ve come.” She hiccuped a sob. “I can’t do anything with Tas. You’ve got to help me.” My heart bumped a jig in my chest. “Lisa, where is he? What’s happened?” “It’s sustagua, Moma Mar. The night Rico died. Tas stumbled into the house, all covered with black, filthy blood. And he’s not been right since.” “What do you mean, blood? Is he hurt? Where is Tas? What happened?” Lisa shook her head. “He won’t tell it. He just stares off into space. Won’t answer. Hardly eats. Won’t do nothing. Weren’t for Amigos bringing us fish, we’d go hungry!” Uh huh, I thought, the letter. I took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Okay, Lisa. Let’s sit down. What’s this about Rico died?” She shook her head again. “Amigos won’t tell it, and Tas won’t talk. He’s out back in the hammock. Go see for yourself.” “You said sustagua. Helene treats soul loss. Why didn’t you call her?” Lisa grimaced. “ ’cause the stubborn fool won’t allow it!” Well, I surmised, if he won’t allow it, his soul’s not all the way gone. I patted Lisa’s hand. “I’ll go see what I can do.” Tas’s eyes were as flat as his voice when he mumbled, “Moma Mar, I thought I’d lost you.” “You damned near did. Now tell me what this is all about.” He shook his head and turned away.

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“Okay, Mr. Hard Ass, I’ll find out myself.” As I strode to the beach, I thought about Frederico Gomez, Rico. He and Tas came from Honduras at about the same time, and they were “brothers.” Rico’s voice twanged like a broken-­stringed guitar when he told a tale about what the two boys did when they were young. “You seen doz wild horses on de beach? Tas and I yus’tuh ride ’em.” He grinned. “Yes ma’am. Yuh see, skeeters and flies, dey bite horses too. So de horse goes in de sea to rid hisse’f of de itch. Tas and I swim out an’ slip up on dey backs. Den de horse, he swim round an’ round. Twas a game, tuh see who git bucked off first.” Tas felt responsible for looking after Rico because, unlike himself, Rico was illiterate, uneducated. As we had become friends, Rico asked me questions he was embarrassed to ask others in the community. One morning, when I lived on Nutmeg Alley, I woke to a rustling in the yard. I opened the shutters and saw Rico cutting the grass with a machete. His gnarled hands reminded me of dried prunes. I said, “My friend, what are you doing in my yard at this hour? Go home to your wife’s bed.” He answered, “No problem, Moma Mar. I seen yur grass was gittin’ too high. I gots to cut it, so’s you ken see what’s der whens you walk ’bout.” I found Amigos sitting in the shade of a boat shed. He looked up from the fishing net he was mending and greeted me. “Miss Marlini, it’s good to see you again.” In no mood for social chit chat, I snapped, “Okay, Amigos, spill it. What happened?” He worked his pronged, carved net-­needle between loops in the vine cord. “Best I know is what Rico told me before he died. He said he was hoeing out at his farm. You know the place? It’s about three miles back of his house.” I nodded. “Seems he felt a sting on his big toe. Thought it was a fire ant, but when he looked down he saw the tail of a tommygoff.” Amigos shook his head. “I guess he panicked, ’cause he hopped on his bike and pedaled to the snake doctor.” I gawked at Amigos. “He didn’t lance? He didn’t tourniquet before he pedaled? Where was his snake bite patch?” “Nope. Seems that on his way he stopped long enough to send a boy to fetch Tas.” “Jesus!” I groaned. Amigos nodded. “Yes ma’am.” He pulled the cord through another opening in his net. “Well, the snake doctor wasn’t at home. Wife said he wouldn’t be back ’til night.” My friend drew in a breath. “Sooo, Rico rode

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his bike up to the hospital in Dangriga. The doctor there looked at the toe, said it was nothing to worry about and sent him home.” There was a long pause. “I hate to tell you this, Miss Marlini. It was bad, and it got worse.” I waited until he began again. “Rico’s wife was visiting her sister down at Placido. About two o’clock, Tas hadn’t come. So Rico sent for me. That’s when he told me what had happened.” “What shape was he in when you found him?” “His leg was swelling, and he was in a lot of pain. I went to look for the snake doctor. We might have saved Rico if I could have found him. But I didn’t.” “Go on,” I encouraged. “When I got back, blood was oozing from Rico’s nose and his rectum. I did what I could to make him comfortable. But I didn’t know what else to do.” Amigos stared out to sea. “Finally, Tas came. He had been out of town on one of his business trips. You understand?” I nodded. “So that’s what the sustagua is about. Tas is feeling guilty.” “It’s not for me to say, Miss Marlini. You know better than I do.” “Okay. I get it, Amigos. Afaragu. So then what happened?” Amigos squinched his eyes. “Rico was feeling real sick to his stomach. He asked Tas and me to take him out to the yard. Didn’t want to mess up the room. We supported him, sort of dragged him out of the house.” My old friend scowled. “Then the man vomited great globs of black blood. Stink! Christ, Miss Marlini! Even though he was so sick, I could feel Rico was still trying to support himself. And then he went limp.” I stormed home angry and numb, if that’s possible. During a sleepless night, I decided to try some Ameri­can, off-­the-­wall shock therapy. As Elizabeth, Tas’s daughter, described it later: “Moma Mar. She done railed up.” I went to Tas, kicked his hammock, and said, “Portacio Diego, enough is enough. You are not God. You can’t be in two places at the same time. I know you are sick at heart about what happened to Rico. So am I, but you have responsibilities to Lisa and the children.” I kicked the hammock again. “Get up off your ass and go to work.” Tas stared at me for a long time. Then a twinkle came into his eyes. He said, “Ah, you’re back, my lady. Let’s go fishing.”

The Feeding Voices were coming from Dorothy and Elizabeth’s room. Tas looked at Lisa and said, “Sounds like Dorothy’s dreaming.”

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Lisa listened. “That’s not Dorothy. That’s Elizabeth. What’s she saying?” Elizabeth staggered to her parents’ bedroom and stood in the doorway, dazed and sweating. “Ma? Pa? You there?” “Yes, child, what is it?” Elizabeth moved her head side to side, trying to focus her gaze. “I dreamed Grandma.” The girl exhaled little pants. “So real, Ma.” “What was it, Elizabeth?” Lisa asked gently. “She was dressed nice, but she looked thin. She said she was hungry, asked me for food. I told her I’d go to market, see what I could find. She said she’d come along with me.” “Hell, don’t those people ever let up?” Tas rolled to face the wall and pretended to go to sleep. Lisa led her daughter back to bed. “It’s okay, Elizabeth. Go to sleep, child. I’ll sit here with you for a time.” Later, Tas sipped his morning coffee. “Lisa, we have enough to feed the family at noon meal? Khandi and Skipper? Guess I better call a family council.” “Sure, Tas, unless you want something special.” “No, just regular so we can talk. I’ll send Elizabeth around with the message.” At noon Lisa dished up a platter of rice and red beans. She circled the rice with boiled pig tails and set lime quarters in the middle. “Elizabeth, take this up to the folks in the house. Then we’ll eat down here.” Upstairs Tas said, “Khandi and I think these dreams might be a call for a feeding. What do you say, Skipper?” Skipper pushed his fork around his plate. “Well, you know, brother, I don’t hold much with all this. But if Khandi says so, well, I guess she knows.” “So we’re agreed.” Tas nodded. “I think we should go see Helene Buyei right away. If she says it’s a feeding, I think we should do it up big, give them a fine one. Then they’ll be satisfied and won’t come calling for an ancestor party any time soon.” “No good, man,” Skipper objected. “Helene works too dear. I’m near broke, can’t afford to spend a lot on a feeding. I know you don’t have much more than I do, Tas. I think we should go to Sam Buyei. We can talk to him, and he’ll hold down the costs.” Khandi shook her head. “Sam Buyei has been drinking and fooling around with too many women. They say the hiuriha left him.” “That’s just you females like to gossip. Old Sam’s a fine buyei, just what we need. Hell, Tas,” Skipper argued, “Sam Buyei was good enough for Ma. He ought to be good enough for us!”

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“No matter anyhow,” Khandi reminded them. “This is Lent. Buyei can’t work during Lent. We have to wait until after Easter. The hiuriha won’t come until then.” “Huh. I bet old Sam would work, Lent or no. We don’t need hiuriha for a feeding, anyway.” “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Khandi declared. “Well,” snorted Skipper, “I’ll agree to wait until after Easter if you agree we go to Sam Buyei.” “I think we should go to Helene,” Tas said. Skipper slammed the table with his fist. “I won’t help you if Helene does it.” Tas sighed. “Skipper, you’ll screw up anything, if you don’t get your own way. Okay, we go to Sam Buyei, after Easter.” * * * “Jesus, what a mess!” Tas muttered as he approached the yard of the old dabuyaba. Skipper shrugged. “So what? So it hasn’t been used for a while.” “Sam sure hasn’t been working.” Tas surveyed the ruin. The roof was caved in, and people had helped themselves to materials from the building. The yard was overgrown, and there was no sense of life to the place. “Skipper, I know we agreed, but I just don’t like it. Going to see Sam. They say he’s working magic, for money, and that’s why the spirits left him. He isn’t serving the people. Sam Buyei is not a clean person.” “He was clean enough for Ma,” Skipper reminded him, “and she’s the one calling for this feeding. Here, looks like this is a path.” He pointed to a track obscured by grass. “Sam’s house is down this way.” The old buyei lived in a one-­room cane hut. Tas followed his brother. “Good thing Khandi couldn’t come with us,” he remarked. “She’d be balking now.” Sam came out of his house. “Morning, Tas. Morning, Skipper.” “Morning, Uncle.” Sam scratched the stubble on his chin. “You boys come about the f­ eeding?” Skipper looked over at Tas as though to say, I told you so. “See? He’s just fine.” Sam’s breath smelled of old rum. Strong. Bad. Tas pulled a pint of kasusa (very strong, traditional rum) from his back pocket and handed it to the buyei. “Skipper and I came to ask you about that feeding. I want you to check out some things for me.” Sam accepted the bottle of rum. “What you want to know, boy?” “First, Uncle, I want to make certain this is really a call for a feeding.

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Then if it is, and if my parents ask for anything special, I want to hear about it now, so I can have it right for them.” Sam nodded. “Let’s see if the spirits are back after Easter.” The buyei shuffled behind a sheet strung on a line across the back corner of his house. Tas and Skipper heard the old man spray rum and light a candle. They waited quietly as Sam talked under his breath, speaking with the spirits. In a few minutes they heard him blow out the candle. There was a frown on his face. “Have to tell you true. I didn’t see that one as clear as most.” Tas glanced at Skipper, then asked Sam, “What did you see?” “It’s a feeding they want, for sure.” “Anything special?” “­Margaret wants crab, and Santa wants pig.” “Anything else?” “No. Nothing special I remember.” Tas grimaced. Hell, he’s supposed to be telling me things. I shouldn’t have to ask him. I don’t like this. “What about who’s to be invited? Did they say anything about that?” “Oh yes, glad you reminded me. There’s a grandchild in Guatemala,” Sam answered. “You should send word to her.” He shook his head. “You know, Tas, I don’t see things as clear as I used to.” “Thanks, Uncle. Skipper and I’ll be on our way now.” Tas passed five dollars to the old man as he shook hands. “Take care, Uncle.” “Right, Tas. Right, Skipper.” Tas waited until he and his brother were beyond the hearing of the old buyei. “I told you, Skipper. This is a mistake.” “What you mean, man?” Skipper asked. “He saw it. He told us what to do.” “He didn’t tell us anything lest I asked the question. I’m worrying what didn’t I think to ask.” “Why you fretting? We followed the rules, didn’t we? You’re always so big on following the rules for the ancestors. Well, we did it. Now let’s go get a drink and quit worrying.” “Skipper, you just don’t understand, do you? If we don’t keep those Old People happy all hell’s gonna bust loose.” Tas fretted, “I think we should go see Helene Buyei. Just to check this out again.” “I told you, Tas. I won’t help you if you go to Helene.” “Why, Skipper?” “Cause I’m the older brother, and I say we use Sam!” Tas thought, Ma, what should I do? I know Skipper’s wrong, Ma. But, I remember you telling me I should follow my older brother’s lead. What should I do, Ma? Wish you’d talk to me.

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* * * That’s settled, Tas thought. We hold the feeding on May 30. He looked up and down the beach. Wonder who’s up here from Honduras, so I can send for Clara. Hell, I don’t know where that girl is. Got to find someone I can trust to take the message. He studied a dory anchored beyond the crest of breaking waves. It was freshly painted white with red trim. Uncle Alvarez, he thought. I’d recognize that rigging anywhere. Tas waded into the surf and approached a man arranging cargo in the dory. “James Salivar? Long time since I’ve seen you.” James studied Tas’s face then grinned with recognition. “Hey, man. How you doing?” He jumped from the dory and embraced Tas. “Haven’t seen you since you were home visiting Terese.” “Yep. A long time, James.” “How come you never sail that way anymore?” “I mostly stick to fishing, not trading. How about yourself?” “Still trading. Just like Pa. Wood up, plumbing down. Straw hats up, dresses down. Any way to find a profit. I don’t stop here of­ten. Mostly make the long jumps to Belize City and back.” James paused. “What about Skipper? I lost track of him.” “He’s here in Larube now.” “How’s he doing?” Tas sighed. “About the same. He doesn’t change.” The two men waded to shore. “I’m looking for someone to take a message.” “Where to?” “That’s the problem. I don’t know exactly. I need to contact a young woman called Clara Arzu. You heard the name?” James thought. “Not sure. Seems I may have heard it around in Livingston.” “You going there any time soon?” “For you, I’ll go. What’s the message?” “If you can find her, tell her that her uncle’s sent an invitation. Her grandma, M ­ argaret Diego, is calling for a feeding May 30. Ma’s asked for her to be here.” “If I can find her, she’ll get your message.” * * * Tas sat on the side of the bed. “Ma dreamed on me last night.” “What did she say?” Lisa asked. Tas looked at her slyly. “Ma asked if you’d set aside the money she sent.

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You said ‘yes’ and Ma said, ‘Well then, you should give it to Tas. It belongs to him.’ ” Tas looked into Lisa’s green eyes. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Lisa turned her head. “I didn’t tell you, Tas,” she whispered, “but Polly sent us twenty dollars from the States.” “So why didn’t you tell me, woman?” Tas’s voice was controlled, but Lisa recognized the anger beneath what he asked. “I didn’t know it was Aunt M ­ argaret sending it for you to use.” “Well you know it now. Give it to me. I’ve already paid Sam Buyei, and I have to buy food and drinks for the feeding.” Lisa stood and faced her husband. “I can’t give it to you. I lost it.” “What the hell you talking about?” Tears came to Lisa’s eyes. “I hid it, and now I can’t find it.” “Lisa!” “To God. Tas. I hid it under the mattress, so I could buy the children a little something special for Easter. When I went to get it, it was gone!” “Lisa!” “She’s telling the truth, Pa.” Elizabeth had come to the door to see what the noise was about. “I crawled all under the bed looking for it.” “If you two females are telling the truth, then it’s got to be there. Ma meant it for the feeding, not Easter ribbons.” He pulled boxes and baskets from under the bed, laid on the floor, and swept his arm back and forth under the mattress. His arm stopped, and Lisa and Elizabeth heard his hand touch paper. He stood up and waved the twenty-­dollar bill in front of them, “Is this what you lost, Lisa?” “Yes, Tas.” Tas pulled on a pair of khaki shorts, then turned and glared at his wife. “It’s not enough I’ve got Ma worrying me, Clara sent word she’s not coming, and Skipper lacks good sense? Now I can’t trust the people in my own home!” The front door banged as he strode from the house. The day of “the feeding,” Lisa looked around the bedroom, satisfied that it was ready for the spirits of Santa and M ­ argaret to come. Helene buyei had cleansed the room with rum, and everything was arranged to be pleasant and appealing. The mahogany bread bowl sat on a low stool. It carried two candles, a bottle of brandy that was Santa’s favorite, and a bottle of heavy, mint-­flavored “green ting” for ­Margaret. Lisa removed the metal caps from the bottles and stoppered them with balls of white cotton. On a line, strung in the corner of the bedroom, hung a new dress Khandi had brought for M ­ argaret, and another new outfit Tas bought for Santa. On the floor below the clothes were a pan of water, soap and a towel, so that the spirits could refresh themselves before they ate.

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Tas entered the room. He sat on the end of his bed and faced the flickering candles. “Ma, Santa,” he said, “I can’t see you, but I feel that you are here. You know Skipper’s gone again. Just upped and left without telling us. And Clara wouldn’t come. But I notified her, Ma.” Tas sighed. “You’ve been on the long journey, and I know you must be hungry. Come and enjoy your meal.” Tas picked up a bowl of freshly boiled crabs. “Look, Ma, here’s your favorite dish. I boiled them early this morning just for you. Well, the truth, Ma, Lisa and I boiled them after I came in from the pier. We were both hungry, and the bucket was full. More than I knew you would want. When the water’s right, our way of getting crabs is quicker than how you did it, Ma, but not as much fun. I like to remember you that way. ­Wading in the sea. You’d stick two stakes into the sand and tie a piece of fish on a string. Then you’d go from one stake to the other. You’d pull up the string and hit that old crab eating on the bait. Knock him right into your net bag.” Tas paused, lost in memories, then pointed to a sec­ond dish. “Here’s your pig tails, Santa. Lisa cooked them special, just the way you like them. Come enjoy your meal. Soon your friends will be here to dance abai­ma­ hani.” Toward evening, Lisa stood with Tas as some of the guests prepared to leave. “You want I should clear the bedroom?” Tas looked around the yard. “No, not just yet. We’ll wait until everyone leaves. Then I’ll bring the food down and bury it.” He grinned at Lisa. “You know what I’m going to do now? I’m going to abaimahani.” He walked to the group of singing women. “Pardon me, ladies, may I join the line?” “Of course.” They made room for him in the middle of the row. “Hey, Tas, you start a song.” Tas linked fingers with Khandi and the woman on his other side. He began a song he remembered his mother singing years ago.

Warin Among the Garinagu, the only reminder of Christmas was an occasional ornament dangling from a wilted, brown palm frond. However, the Garinagu celebrated the winter solstice as a major holiday. The coming of ­Warin, the mythical hunterman who visits villages during the winter holidays, triggered excitement akin to the arrival of Santa Claus in the United States. Tas explained, “The man who plays Warin will look like a tired hunter coming back from the forest. Dirty, bearded, dressed in rags and dry leaves.” He grinned. “I know who his partner will be this year. She’s a young woman

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lives up there just beyond the bay. But the children will never guess it. You’ll see. She’ll act like an old crone, and she’ll dance with a basket of cassava sticks on her head.” “So they’re bringing essentials for life? Meat and bread?” I asked. Tas nodded. “You got it. Though I doubt most folks think about that. The two of them will hide out on an abandoned farm tonight.” The next morning Lisa issued instructions. “Now, Dorothy, you keep hold of Moma Mar’s hand. Frank, you stay with them and watch your sister.” She explained to me, “There will be a crowd along the river bank. The kids get excited when they see Warin. I don’t want Dorothy falling in.” I found a spot where the three of us could watch the show. We heard drumming from up river. Frank whispered, “He’s coming, he’s coming.” Dorothy giggled and jumped up and down as the crowd began to clap. Warin and the crone waved as they drifted down the river in a dugout canoe. The children cheered, while two drummers escorted the couple to the village. During the holidays, the duo visited homes and entertained the children. The little ones were both frightened and entranced because, above all, Warin was a clown. He performed antics and tricks, while the crone danced around him and flashed a scary, snaggle-­toothed grin. A group of children followed the couple the day they visited our yard. Everyone clapped as the hunterman turned backward flips. Then he did a one-­armed handstand while jerking my leg with the other hand. Surprised, I landed on my backside. The crowd loved it. Tas helped me up and asked, “Are you hurt, my lady?” “Only my dignity,” I answered. Tas signaled to Warin, who immediately whirled around and threatened to lash Frank with his cane whip. The boy yelped and ran for the house. Later I heard Tas say, “Hey, Frank, why’d Warin chase you? Were you one of those rowdies that tried to set fire to the man’s leaf skirt?” “Cow” of­ten came along for the fun. The costume, worn by two men, was a huge, wide-­eyed heifer with a long tail. The mask carried sharp, curved, bovine horns. When children taunted “cow, “ the wearer lowered his head, pawed the ground, and lunged toward them. This brought on shouts of fear and laughter. Other times of the year, boys wielded two sticks above their head to practice “cow.” Warin’s return to the forest marked the end of winter holidays; but there remained other creatures among the Garinagu. These were told about in stories, yet taken half-­seriously because, “the Old People knew them.” For example, Duendu was a little elf who lives in the forest and “tempts hun-

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termen. He sets a contract. You get all the meat you need, but you spend the rest of your life paying your debt to him.”

Khandi’s Funeral Back in Tennessee, the anthropology department secretary interrupted my Monday-­morning class for me to receive an overseas call. I picked up the phone in the office. “Hello.” Tas asked, “Moma Mar, you there?” “Yes. Where are you?” “I’m in our house. We just got a telephone last week.” “Wonderful. Now we can keep in touch.” Tas coughed out a hesitant grunt. “Well it would be, except my first call to you is bad.” I slumped into a chair, as memories of Rico’s death flashed. “What is it?” “Khandi’s had a heart attack.” He paused. “You better hurry, my lady.” I asked our secretary to dismiss my class, and I went to my office. A heart attack. Khandi seemed fine when I left Larube. And that was just two weeks ago. Dear God, what am I going to do? Final exams start a week from today. I promised the students a full review before their test. My friend Carole knocked at the door and said, “He wants you to come. I’ll help you get it together.” That threw me into motion, then into frustration, because I could not get a flight out. I tried Miami, New Orleans, and Houston. Everything was booked for Monday. Tuesday morning I caught the first plane from New Orleans and arrived in Larube at 3:15 p.m. On my way to the house I met a friend who told me that I was too late. “They rang the bell at twelve o’clock noon.” It was dusk when Tas came into the house and flopped down on a chair next to me. “Where have you been so long?” I asked. “Arranging things for the funeral. We’ll do it in the old way. We’ll go straight from her house to the graveyard, no church, no priest.” Tas pulled me close to his chest as I sobbed. “I know it hurts, girl.” He patted my back. “Come on, my lady, the wake’s started. Time to move.” As I was dressing, I heard Lisa talking with the children. “No, Dorothy, you can’t go. You’re too little,” she explained. “We have to stay all night for this one. It’s all right for friends to come and go; but the family will stay until sunrise.” Lisa spoke to Frank, “Go get dressed. It’s soon time for us to leave.”

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“I’m ready, Ma,” the boy answered. “Not in that shirt, you are not.” Lisa rumbled. “What’s wrong with it, Ma? It’s my new shirt you bought for me.” “It’s red, you young fool! You going out of your way to stir up Khandi’s spirit? Go change it, I say. Put on a white shirt or a dark one.” A large tarpaulin was stretched from the door of Khandi’s house into the yard. Family and friends sat on benches borrowed from a local pub. Under one corner of the canvas shelter, three women prepared hot buns and coffee. Folks milled about, greeting those who arrived from distant villages. Tas spoke to one after another as we worked our way to the door. We stood beside Khandi’s coffin as acquaintances came to express condolences. By midnight, the first group of the guests drifted away. Latecomers told stories and recalled memories of their lost friend. Lisa sat on a bench and supported Elizabeth and Frank, who were sleeping on her shoulders. “Time to get us a strong drink,” Tas said. “These’ll be the long hours.” I rubbed my weary ankles. “What happens next?” “Later, there will be dancing, but right now the crowd is ‘blanching.’ ” “Blanching? That’s an English word. It means ‘to get pale or white.’ ” Tas flexed his shoulders and stretched his arms. “Of course, Garinagu don’t get clear skinned. It means we lose strength. The soul-­spirit gets weak. It happens any time we go through a full night of ceremony. Folks get quiet between midnight and three o’clock. Don’t worry. Things will pick up soon after. Sit there and rest yourself. Two hours later, the first cock crowed. Frank came to ask Tas, “Can’t we do something to liven this group up?” Tas yawned and looked across the yard toward the sea. “There’s no light in the sky, Frank. Wait a bit longer. Then we’ll start.” “Should I go find some drums?” “No, son, not tonight. Drums are for calling spirits in, inviting them to be with us. You and Joseph go find a wood crate, or fetch a cassava trough. We’ll knock on that.” “I’ve heard drums used at other wakes,” Frank objected. “Yes, I know you have. But the right way is to use a wood box,” Tas explained. “The box means the coffin, the grave, Frank. Khandi’s soul-­spirit is still close by. If she answers our beat, it’s into the grave. Not to mix amongst us.” As soon as Frank left, I asked, “If you don’t want Khandi to come around, why knock anything, drum or box?” “Ah, Moma Mar, that’s why we stay all night through the dark hours. It’s our way of saying to Khandi, ‘We know you’re still here, and we’re sorry

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you have to leave us. You’re going down into the black grave. But just as we sink and get weak, then return strong again, so you will, too.’ Our staying on, then dancing at dawn, is saying to Auntie that someday she’ll dance again.” “You mean at an ancestor party?” “That’s right, my lady, at a party.” As cocks crowed across the neighborhood, the dawn sky changed from purple to mauve to hot pink. Friends who had slipped away for a nap returned to join in the last hours of Khandi’s wake. Younger men knocked the box in the first hour of dancing; and twice, pressured by Lisa and his children, Tas danced the old traditional steps known as chumba. Then he relieved the younger drummers, who complained that their arms were tired. Tas straddled the bench where the box lay. Hitting the rhythms hard and strong with hands calloused from years of farming and fishing, he played for his Auntie and her friends, reassuring his family and himself that the old woman still existed. Khandi would go to her grave, but in time they would raise her from that dark state of existence. At last Tas looked up from the box and saw what he had been waiting for. The rising sun glared full into his eyes. He tapped an endnote to the dance, stood up, and left the yard. Tas wept silently as we walked along the beach of Larube. Here and there someone, looking out a window, saw our sadness but did not intrude on that private time. Later that morning, we buried Khandi in the local cemetery. I headed back to my university classes.

Coconut Lady Aunt Bea, Lisa’s distant relative, was our next-­door neighbor. A pretty woman, she was agile at sixty-­eight. I thought of her as “the coconut lady.” She said, “Nature provides it for us. You don’t have to plant coconuts. Leave them where they drop. Next year there is a small tree, and three years later you have more to eat.” Coconut was a mainstay in the Garifuna diet. We burned the husks for fuel, drank the water from green nuts as a refresher, relished the white, ripe milk in soups, and fried our fish in its clear oil. One morning, I watched Aunt Bea knead the oil into flour to form eight-­inch-­long loaves. “Place them on the drum lid,” she instructed. “It’s my bake pan.” “That’s some oven you have there.” I inspected the black oil drum that was belching smoke. “It does for me. When the coals get right, they’ll bake shy of an hour.”

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She gazed at the loaves with pride. “Be ready when my regular customers come. They count on my bread for their tea.” “So, after baking, that’s when you render the oil? Let it set overnight?” Aunt Bea’s sky-­blue eyes twinkled. “Yes, darling, and so long as you’re here you can do the shredding.” She handed me an eight-­by-­twelve-­inch grater. “Mind your knuckles.” Razor-­sharp quartz chips stuck out from the mahogany board. The spry old lady “renched” the white coconut flakes in cold water, then threw them to chickens that flocked around the door. We stopped when her pot of oily water was full. “That will do. The trash is for us.” As she rubbed the scraps over her arms and legs, Aunt Bea’s cinnamon-­colored skin took on a rich sheen. “Ah,” she purred. “Best lotion in the world.” I worked some of the flakes into my tired hands. “I’ve seen a much larger version of the grater at dugu, used to shred cassava and yam. It rested on the ground and came up to a woman’s waist.” “Yep, I used to work them, but I quit.” She laughed. “The women who bend over those beasts get hemorrhoids.” One day Aunt Bea called to me. “Goin’ to the river. Want to come?” She held a bucket and a spade in her hands. “Sure. Be right there.” I grabbed my sun hat, and she handed me the spade to carry. We turned away from our favorite fishing hole and climbed up a steep path along the riverbank. Aunt Bea stopped and pointed to the river six feet below. “Now what?” I asked. She threw the bucket below and pulled her skirt tightly around her legs. “We got to slide.” Down she went. I tossed the spade and followed. Aunt Bea pointed to the blue and white clay stratas that ribboned the steep bank. “We’re goin’ to dig the blue.” Later that afternoon, back in her yard, the tireless woman shaped the clay into rectangular wafers, which she stamped with a die carved from a calabash. She explained, “I’ll dry these in the sun for three or four days, then sell them to my secret customers. They don’t want their cravings known.” Geophagy, eating dirt, is found all over the world. I saw it in Africa and Central America, and it is also practiced in the United States. In the 1980s shoeboxes full of clay were sent from Ala­bama and Appalachia to relatives in Detroit, Chicago, and New York. It is sought after by some pregnant women, and by men with gastritis. Geophagy can become an obsession and a stubborn habit to break.

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Butterfly A year later, my Garifuna family was “honoring the ancestors,” and this was the first time Khandi was to be elevated to that position. I was there to perform my ritual duties as her daughter. Although Khandi had adopted me, and I was treated as a part of a Garifuna family, I knew there were still a few suspicious members of the community who questioned my presence among them. “She’s a CIA spy.” “She’s a narc.” “She’s an agent for United Fruit Company.” My adoptive family just laughed at the naysayers. Khandi’s female kin and friends were gathered under the cook shed. We were peeling cassava to be made into the special Garifuna bread. The women gossiped about our neighbors and teased each other about who would fall into trance when possessed by a returning ancestor spirit. A monarch butterfly had hovered around the shed all morning, and the women speculated as to which ancestor spirit it was that had “come to watch us.” I was half-­listening to their chatter while I concentrated on husking cassava without slicing my hand with the machete. I suddenly realized all conversation had stopped. I looked up. Everyone was staring at me! Oh God! I thought. What have I done now? The women began to dance around me and sing, “Khandi, Khandi has come!” The butterfly had lit on top of my head. It remained there while the women celebrated the woman she had been.

Joseph’s Wedding Joseph, Tas and Lisa’s elder son, invited me to attend his wedding. I remembered meeting Frances when she visited Larube and surmised that Tas and Lisa were less than pleased about their future daughter-­in-­law. She was a pretty girl, but in my opinion, Frances had the social skills of a warthog in rut. Tas said she was, “dumb as a log.” Joseph woke to the sound of cocks crowing. He stretched his trim, muscular body and looked out the window. Dawn was not yet showing at the horizon. The sky was black except for the morning star that shone doubly bright above the sea. He could hear the soft slough of waves on the beach. A mosquito buzzed, but he ignored it. Trees whispered with the predawn breeze. Another cock crowed in the distance, and a sec­ond and third answered from their yards across the village. A rustle sounded from a neighbor’s yard. Someone going out to sea. He looked back at the morning star. This is the day, he thought, as an image of Frances appeared in his mind.

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This is the right thing, the right way, the smart way. Life was going well for Joseph, and with a little effort on his part, it would soon be going even better. He had started his new job as a teaching aide in the Catholic school, an enviable position indeed. He hoped that he could work his way into a permanent teaching post, but he knew that the priest and the nuns would look for signs that he was a proper, sincere Catholic. They did not approve of “pagan ways,” which was what they called many of the Garifuna customs, especially that of raising a family without a proper marriage ceremony. Ma and Pa went through that foolishness just so our last names would be “Diego” on the register. As if that had anything to do with their being married. Folks know, the couple knows, if they’re married or not. This ceremony doesn’t make you married. Joseph pulled on a pair of shorts. Guess we have to give in to them on that one, so they won’t stop the ancestor parties. He laughed. Those people! How they think they’re the only ones God talks to? Well, let them think they’re right, so long as we can keep our ways in our homes. Joseph walked downstairs to the bath stall. The priests and nuns will tolerate us dancing in the ancestor parties; but if I want the promotion, they must believe that I’m a faithful husband. He hung his clean clothes over the cane wall and picked up a dipper. He wondered if Frances really thought that he would be faithful to her. Joseph knew he would not, but he decided to walk straight for a little while after they were married. Later, I’ll be careful not to cause a row or a scandal. Find a woman in another town, and take care to keep Frances satisfied so she doesn’t complain. He soaped, rinsed, and dried himself with his old pair of pants. It’s a man’s nature to want many women. A man is faithful to one woman only if that woman has some sort of black magic over him. Joseph hummed a disco song as he shaved. “Come on, girl, let me make it with you tonight. Let me . . .” He poured the used water onto the sand. Yes, Frances is a good choice. She’s docile, and I can sweet talk her out of an argument. Because she loves me more than I care about her. He dressed for his wedding in his first suit, the one his sister Polly had sent him from the United States. Lisa admired her handsome son as the family walked down the streets of Dangriga. Joseph was her favorite, although she tried not to show it. At six feet, he stood tall for a Garif and was dark skinned with long, curly lashes around his black, sloe eyes. He’s a loving boy, she thought. I hope Frances will be smart enough to appreciate him. Well, he’s made his choice, Tas thought as they crossed the north bridge to a newer section of town. She’s not what I’d want. No spunk. But each man to his own. They walked past houses and small shops that lined the street,

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past the town hall with its tall yellow tower and clocks on all four sides. Tas watched Lisa. She sure does look fine, he thought. She’s been my wife for all these years, and she’s as beautiful as when we married. God help me, I do love her. They approached the Catholic church, a large building twice the size of the town hall. Its white cement walls supported a tower for the bell that was rung to call people to Mass, or to announce someone’s death. Lisa watched Tas. He’s still some kind of a man, she thought. When he’s gone for a day or two the house seems empty, flat. She frowned. It’s hard to put up with his foolishness. He wastes money, and that holds us back. And when he gets a stubborn streak I want to leave him. She looked at Joseph, Elizabeth, and Frank, thinking what nice children they were and how well they looked. Her heart warmed toward Tas, who had fathered them. Frances and her family were waiting outside the church. The bride looked lovely in an ankle-­length white dress and veil that she had bought in Belize City. Lisa greeted her parents, “This is a happy day for Joseph, for true.” She turned to the girl. “Frances, don’t you look pretty!” Dozens of friends arrived for the reception. Joseph went over to Hector, who was standing by a table on which were several bottles of kasusa, the very strong traditional rum. He handed the groom a glass of the home-­ brewed rum mixed with fruit juice. “This is a good day for you! Here, you need some of this to fortify you for later on.” “You gonna drink that home brew, boy?” asked Miguel. “They got the imported stuff here. Trafalgar gin and US beer.” “Hump.” Hector grunted. “You don’t know what’s good. Why you think the foreign stuff is better than our own?” Joseph swallowed and winced as the potent brew seared its way to his belly. “Hey, Uncle, you trying to kill me?” Hector laughed. “You got the first batch there, man. No ‘boys’ in that.” Uncle drank from his glass. “It’s a shame, Joseph, you young men don’t even know how to make it.” “Did you make this, Uncle?” “Not anymore, but I’ve made plenty in my time. In fact, your grandmother, ­Margaret, used to speak easily some of my brew. That’s how she got cash to send your pa to school.” “Speak easily, Uncle?” “That’s it, my boy. Speak easily. We caught those words from the US back when they had prohibition. For us that meant it’s illegal, so we’re careful how we talk it.” “How did you make it, Uncle?”

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“In those days we didn’t have fancy copper pipe. We made do with green bamboo. It would burn out, and we’d have to replace it two, three times during a batch. I’d let the mash set up for about a week, usually cane, but sometimes rice or corn. Then I’d set it to boil. I bottled what came through on the first cook. That’s what I sold to your grandma. But the sec­ond boil, we called it ‘boys’ because it was weaker. You could call that my reward.” Hector grinned at Tas who was listening to the conversation. “Right, Tas?” “Right, man, which goes to show a drunkard will drink anything. Please hand me a tot.” Tas finished his drink then wandered away, greeting guests he passed. He went to the yard where two drummers knocked punta, the sexually suggestive dance. Lisa came toward him humming the song. “Come, baby, come husk the coconut.” Tas grinned at her and sang more loudly, “Oh, baby, I’ll husk your coconut.” His head swam with the drinks, the heat, and the closeness of his wife. He rocked his hips to the rhythm of the drums. Lisa turned slightly, thrusting her rump invitingly at Tas. The drummer slammed the drum hard once, indicating a break in the dance and an invitation to Tas and Lisa to take their turn at punta. The other ­dancers moved back as the couple eased into the center of the ring. Their bodies anticipated every beat of the drum. They moved to the rhythm, around each other, seducing one another, dancing close but never quite touching. “Punta!” called Hector, excited to see the old version being danced. Tas and Lisa’s movements were controlled, suggestive but never flagrant. It was a subtle but powerful mimic of male-­female lust. Hector’s call attracted others, who hurried to watch the show. They seldom saw their parents dance the old way. Lisa shunned the wide hip swings that were typical of the younger women. Yet there was never a doubt of what was going on under her skirt. Tas pranced around her, shifting position suddenly and moving close but never touching. Frank yelled, “Go, Pa!” Elizabeth answered, “You got him, Ma.” Lisa and Tas stared arrogantly at each other. Tas approached aggressively; and Lisa retreated, only to circle and catch Tas unaware behind his back. Sweat popped on both their faces as they danced to down one another. The crowd cheered and called encouragement. At last Tas thought, Hell, we’ve been making this dance too many years. I know her moves, she knows mine. I can’t beat her, she can’t beat me. He signaled to the drummers, “Take us out.” The drummer hit a quick two beat, suggesting orgasm, and the couple left the ring.

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Lucas’s Sickness A year after Joseph’s wedding, I watched Lisa fret that Frances would not properly care for Lucas, the new grandson. For the customary “nine days of transition,” she hurried to Joseph’s house just after breakfast. One afternoon I said to Lisa, “I understand that the baby and new mother are supposed to remain isolated from visitors. But what are you doing when you go there every morning?” Lisa pulled a packet of recado (red powder from the flowers of Bixa orellano) from her skirt pocket. “I rub the red into the soles of Lucas’s feet, to attract his soul-­spirit. Then I show Frances how to work the baby’s arm and leg joints.” She grimaced. “I don’t trust her to work Lucas’s head.” “I don’t understand.” Lisa shook her head impatiently. “It’s so his body will grow properly from unborn to living member of the family.” She spoke as if she were talking to the village idiot, “We have to do that, Moma Mar.” When Lucas was two weeks old, Dorothy and I walked over to ­Joseph’s house to give Frances a present for the baby. I knocked on the door and called, “Morning, Frances.” No response. I could hear the thin cry of an infant. Dorothy pounded the door and yelled, “Frances, open up!” Yawning and stretching, the new mother cracked the door. “Oh, Moma Mar, I didn’t hear you. I was asleep. Come in.” She ignored Lucas’s crying, and took my present without saying thanks. “Sit down. I’ll just wash my face and come back.” What’s she doing sleeping while Lucas is crying that way? I wondered. Dorothy walked over to the big hammock that hung in a corner of the room. She stared at the wailing infant. “Don’t touch him, Dorothy, until Frances says we should.” “Why’s his head look funny, Moma Mar?” “His head doesn’t look funny, Dorothy. Lisa says he’s a beautiful little boy.” “Why’s he got that white stuff on the hole in his head?” Dorothy persisted. “What!” I rushed to see where Dorothy was pointing. “There, Moma Mar, what’s that?” I gasped when I saw how the fontanel on Lucas’s head sank into his skull. Mole drop! This baby has mole drop! This was a well-­known symptom of infant dehydration. “I’m boiling us some coffee,” Frances said as she returned. “It’ll soon be ready.” She ignored the baby’s cries. “Frances, may I pick the baby up?” I asked in exasperation.

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“Oh sure, if you want.” Frances shrugged. “It doesn’t do any good. He just keeps on crying.” “Get away, Dorothy. Go sit down,” I sputtered, then lifted Lucas out of the hammock. The infant’s face was drawn. His skin was dry. I pulled the diaper aside and saw traces of a thin yellow-­green stool. “Frances, Lucas has mole drop. What are you doing about it?” “My Ma came yesterday and treated him. She said she’d be back this afternoon to treat him again.” “What kind of treatment?” I demanded. “First she hung him upside down and shook him, to shake the mole back out from his skull. Then she put her finger in his mouth and pushed up on the soft spot to force the mole up. You want I show you?” Frances reached for Lucas. “Ma said I should do that three, four times a day. Push the mole up in his mouth.” I stepped back with the infant. “No, not now. What else are you doing to cure him?” Frances shrugged again. “I nurse him, but he just cries.” “Do you think you should take Lucas to a doctor?” She shook her head. “Ma said she’d cure him.” I turned to Dorothy who had been listening. “Now, Miss Dorothy, I want to send you on a woman’s errand. Think you’re big enough to do it?” Dorothy raised her chin and threw back her shoulders. “Yes, Moma Mar. I can do it.” I hugged her and said, “I’m sure you can. I need you to go home and tell Lisa I said she should come and to bring a jar of honey. The fresh stock she just brought from farm.” I paused. “You understand, Dorothy? You can do that?” The little girl nodded and rushed out the door. I turned back to Frances. “I see you’ve put a plaster of egg whites on Lucas’s head, but maybe we should do more to help it along.” “To help what along, Moma Mar?” Joseph stood in the doorway. “What’s the matter?” I gritted my teeth. “I don’t like to interfere, Joseph; but Lucas has mole drop, bad.” I pointed to the depressed skin at the top of the baby’s skull. “How long has he been this way?” “It started yesterday, Moma Mar. Frances’s mother came to treat it.” He stared at his son’s drawn face. “To God, he didn’t look that bad when I left this morning.” Joseph’s chin quivered. “You can fix it, Moma Mar?” “I will try.” Then added, “I’m sure your mother will tell you what to do.” When Lisa entered the room, Joseph begged, “You can fix it, Ma? “ ­Lucas is my son, Ma.”

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“I don’t know.” Lisa frowned. “I can try, but if something’s happened here I don’t know about . . . well, I can’t promise, Joseph.” “What you mean, Ma? “Well for instance, you don’t suppose someone passed here and cast an evil eye on Lucas?” “Not supposed to. Nobody but family been to see him this soon.” Lisa quirked an eyebrow. “And you, Joseph, you been following the rules? Have you done something to stop Lucas’s soul-­spirit from growing strong?” “No, Ma! To God, I’ve walked straight. No other women since . . .” “Since when, Joseph?” “Since before Lucas was born. To God, Ma.” Lisa looked at her son’s anguished face. “If that’s how it is then we should be able to cure him.” She took command of the situation. “First off, go find some red cloth. We’re going to wrap Lucas in that, to call his soul-­spirit to him.” She turned to Frances. “You think you could boil some water, then mix some of this honey into it?” I watched as Lisa changed the baby’s diaper, then slowly dribbled the honey mixture from her mouth onto Lucas’s lips. She smiled when his tongue lapped up the drops. “Mole drop” is a widely used term in Central America to describe a sinking of the fontanel in an infant’s head. It is considered a disease in itself, rather than an indication of dehydration caused by diarrhea. I was told that it is caused, “when you give the baby a bottle too young. It sucks the mole down.” Another said, “If you bounce the baby rough, rather than cradle it.” Cures given were: “She take just a little water in her mouth then she spray it on the mole.” “Cut a plaster from brown paper bag. Stick it with soft candle.” “Apply a paste of flour and rum.” “Hang baby upside down and shake it.” This was one instance where I interfered loud and clear: “Wash a Coke bottle with soapy water. Rinse with boiled water. Fill the bottle with boiled water. Add one tablespoon sugar, one teaspoon salt, a squeeze of lime juice. Wash your hands. Drip the liquid onto baby’s lower lip.” My heart ached to think of the infants who would not be so lucky as Lucas. I remembered a conversation with Khandi that took place years ago: “You eber seen a baby bathed for umeo?” “I don’t think so. What’s umeo?” “You mos’ly see it in de little ones, jus toddlin’ on deh feet. De belly swells up, and deh skin peels. Sometime der hair falls out.” “Yes, I know what you mean. A sign of malnutrition.” The old lady continued. “Dat’s caused by de umeo, doz lit’le fellows

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with red caps dat dance in de waves ’long de beech. Now and den dey’ll latch onto a baby and suck its life spirit out of him. Should that ha’pen you mus’ treet him with de blue baths. It’s forcin’ de bush spirits out an’s away. Clensen.” * * * The small brown man stooped under his load. He begged, “Please, ma’am, you buy one bowl of my corn? Just ten cents.” Lisa replied, “I’ll give you two dollars for the whole bag.” As the man stumbled down the dusty path, I asked, “Why? We just brought two bags of corn from the farm. You need those two dollars for rice.” She replied, “Yes, Moma Mar, but that poor man and his children need it more.” That evening Tas railed against US foreign policy. “Your people preach about free­dom of religion, about the right to vote, all that shit. My people want free­dom from hunger!”

Frank’s Lesson Tas roused from sleep as Lisa spoke, “Tas, it’s after midnight and Frank’s not home.” “Wonder where he is?” “He’s supposed to go to a dance at the hall. But that’s been over since eleven.” Tas slipped on a pair of trousers. “Go to sleep, Lisa. I’ll see to him.” “You going to lash him, Tas?” “No. I’ll let the ancestors do the whipping from here out. Ma lashed Santa and me till we were near grown. It didn’t help. Just made us more stubborn. Go to sleep, Lisa.” Tas walked onto the front porch and lit a cigarette. He leaned back in a chair and thought, Wonder what that boy’s up to? He blew a smoke ring and grinned. I know what he’s up to. I heard Elisabeth teasing him, calling him “lover boy.” Well I can’t say too much about that. I sure didn’t follow the straight path. Tas looked up at the half moon and remembered a time in Belize City, the night the older woman, whose name he never knew, seduced him in her hammock. His first woman. Talk about dumb-­assed innocent, that was me at age sixteen. Tas groaned. I’d be embarrassed for the men to know how dumb

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I was. He lit another cigarette. What were those girls’ names? I can’t pick it. Seems like one was Shirley. She had big titties. Kept rubbing them against my arm. Tas laughed. Hell, things were happening in my pants, and all I knew to do was buy her ice cream. He took another drag on his cigarette. Course in those days ice cream was a real big thing. I was down right scared. Tas ­chuckled. Think I even said “ Yes, ma’am,” when she told me to take down my pants. Tas sat up. Ah, here he comes now, moving like a cat, hoping I’ll be sleeping. He waited until Frank reached the top step to the porch. “When you’re sneaking in you have to skip the third step. It squeaks.” Frank jumped like a goosed goat. “Oh! Evening, Pa.” “Did I ever tell you about the time the ghost chased me?” “No, Pa.” “I was a lad, not much older than you. We were living in the old house then. Course things didn’t look the way they do now. There were no streetlights, and unless there was a full moon, this place was black at night. We were the last yard on this road. “Ma had scolded me about coming home too late at night. She kept saying, ‘You’re looking for trouble coming in after midnight. Something gonna be out there some night.’ ” Tas exhaled a puff of smoke. “But of course, I thought I was a man and knew it all. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Right?” He quirked an eyebrow at Frank. “Well, that night I came whistling down the road. I was right about up to where that big old tree is yonder, when I felt cold air just sweep around me. I looked back and there he was, coming after me. I started running and he’s coming faster. I yelled, ‘Ma, open the door, open the door!’ Lucky the latch was loose ’cause I’d have busted it down. Ma said she saw him right behind me when I slammed the door. “But I hadn’t been quick enough, and I was sick for some time. Ma fetched herbal baths from the buyei, and we smoked the house for three, four days, before he finally gave up and left the yard.” Tas paused. “You ever seen a ghost, Frank?” Frank grinned. “No, Pa. Guess they’re not around here anymore. I’m not scared of them.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s more likely you’ll meet some ruffians out looking for trouble. Where you been, boy?” “We had a dance at the hall, Pa.” “The hall’s supposed to close at eleven. It’s near one. I fig­ure I can walk to the hall in ten minutes. Where you been?” “Some of us hung around after the dance.”

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“Hereafter, you be in the house before midnight.” Then Frank made his mistake. “I’m old enough to stay out with my friends, Pa.” “Sounds like you think you’re a man. Well, we’ll see if you can do a man’s work. You better get some sleep now, because at five you’re going to farm with me.” Tas woke Frank at first light. “Go borrow an ax from Joseph, then catch me on the road to farm. It may take two axes for this job.” Frank dressed hurriedly, then collected the ax. When they entered the farm, Tas pointed to a large tree on the edge of a cleared field. “Okay, man. You chop it down. I have other work to do.” Frank’s eyes popped and he swallowed hard. “Me?” “Chop it down,” Tas repeated, then turned, leaving Frank alone with his ax and the tree. Frank stared at his father’s retreating back. He thinks I’m a small, small boy. Thinks I can’t down this tree? Frank started chopping. I’ll show him who’s a man, he thought. Chips of wood flew. Tas lit a fire and picked some herbs to boil in an old metal pot. He went to work clearing a rain ditch. An hour later, Tas heard the tree crash to ground. He walked over to his son. “Well done, Frank. Sit down, rest yourself. You know you have to pace this kind of work” “I’m not tired, Pa.” “Fine. Here, I brought some cheese and buns.” Tas drank some of the bitter tea, then handed the pot to Frank. “If this runs out, you can brew some more. Remember, don’t drink too much at a time when you’re hot. I’ll be back this evening. A man like you should have that stick of a tree cut into firewood by then. You have the sec­ond ax, if yours breaks.” Tas avoided Frank’s face as he started home. Frank fought tears. I should have known the old man wouldn’t rest with me just downing the tree. Pa could cut this tree up by evening, but he knows I’m not strong enough to do the same work he can. I can’t finish this job by the time he comes back. I’m gonna be shamed. He resolutely picked up the ax. Well at least I’m man enough to give it a good try. He raised the ax and began to chop. Joseph and Lisa were in the yard when Tas returned. “Joseph, I left your ax at the farm. Why don’t you collect it for me later on? Frank’ll probably get lonesome out there before the day’s over.” He grinned. “Think I’ll go work on the dory. It needs caulking. Lisa, I’ll see you at noon.” “Ma, what’s Pa up to?” Joseph asked. “I can’t rightly say, son, but you remember when you were about Frank’s age, and you told Tas that you were a man?”

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“Lord, yes, Ma. I dug yam hills till my back was broke. Pa kept ahead of me all day long.” Joseph grinned. “Guess I’ll go to the farm. Frank’s not a bad brother.” In late afternoon Tas said to Lisa. “Hey, wife, let’s take a walk out to the farm. You said you needed cassava for starch. I’ll help you dig it.” Lisa fitted her round, woven farm hat into place. The center of the basket fitted comfortably over her head. She would distribute the weight of roots and plantain around the troughed rim. Tas slung a large tump basket onto his back, settled the line across his brow, then picked up his machete. “Wonder how Frank’s making out?” he chuckled. “They’re good children, Tas,” Lisa answered. “They just need to be kept in line.” “Thank God for that, Lisa. With all this disco dance, and them speaking more Creole than Garifuna, I wonder what’s going to become of them.” “It’s hard on them, always hearing English in school, and half their schoolmates are Creole.” “Yeah. Maybe we should have raised them in another village, where there’s nothing but Garinagu.” Tas shook his head. “I don’t know. I keep thinking they’ve got to live in a Creole world. But they’re losing it, Lisa. Our people are losing it. Seems like we cared more to be a Garif when we were punished for it. When I think what you and I had to take, just to go to school. I remember Santa running home bawling one day because a Sister had jerked her hair. Said it wasn’t plaited straight enough. Called Santa a monkey, and said they didn’t allow monkeys in school. I wanted to kill that woman.” Lisa and Tas turned into the farm. “Hum. I don’t hear the ax.” “Maybe he’s resting.” Joseph called, “We’re over here in the shade, Pa.” Tas walked up to his sons who were sitting next to the stack of firewood. “Well, Joseph, came to claim your ax I see. Frank, the tree’s done?” “Yes, Pa. Joseph helped me.” “I see. Well, you owe your brother one, don’t you, Frank?” “Yes, Pa.” “Okay. The job’s done. Frank, load the tump-­basket with wood, and you boys start for home. We’ll be along as soon as I help your mother dig some roots.” Tas walked to the cassava field. Well, there’s a lesson learned, he thought.

Part 3

The Ancestor Party

A postmortem ritual, the ancestor party is given to facilitate the honored spirits’ journey to the supreme supernatural. The hosts invite the parents and grandparents to join them to dance and share a last meal with the living. The ritual is usually a two-­or three-­day affair. I had visited other ancestor parties, but I was stunned at M ­ argaret and ­Cervantes’s demands. First off, we had to involve some relatives that Tas had never heard of. We must raise three hogs to be ritually sacrificed during the party and grow extra crops to feed the 150 guests for a week. We had to provide special clothes for close kin and build a traditional ancestor house where “the parents and grandparents would come to dance.” The event began on a Thursday and ended the following Wednesday morning. For hours and hours that week the guests and relatives trod out the ritual dance steps, “fed the ancestors,” and “talked with spirits” who possessed participants. There were setbacks: a storm and a sand-­fly swarm. Tempers frayed. Before dawn of the last morning, we danced in the darkened hall. Collectively, we held our breath. Then the sun rose over the horizon and shone full gold bright into the hall. We laughed and cried, because now we could dance “the jubilation.”

The Santa Trance Winter 1988. I only knew Santa from watching trances. She died in the late 1950s during childbirth. The stories told about her suggest she was a hellion: got in fights and was expelled from school, rode wild horses in the sea, and was a ring leader in adolescent escapades. Apparently, she was loved by many of her peers and certainly adored by her brother, Tas.

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Noise in the bedroom above mine woke me. “Elizabeth, come on,” Dorothy pleaded. “You going to make me late to school.” Elizabeth mumbled something, and Dorothy spoke again. “You know Ma won’t let me go alone. Come on, Elizabeth, I don’t want to be late!” I went upstairs and met Tas as he walked into the front room. “Now what?” he grumbled. “Where’s Lisa? What’s happening?” “Pa,” Dorothy wailed, “Elizabeth won’t get dressed. I’m going to be late, Pa, and Teacher will rail up.” We walked back to the girls’ room. “Elizabeth, why aren’t you . . .” Tas stopped when he saw his daughter. Her eyes were glazed as she stared into the corner of the room. “What is it, girl? What are you seeing?” he asked gently. “They’re there, Pa, talking to me,” Elizabeth said. “There’s three of them.” “Who’s there?” “They are there, Pa.” “Hell, is there no end?” Tas said, his anger rising. “Do they want to kill me? My blood pressure can’t stand this. Frank! Lisa!” he roared. “Come here.” The floor of the house shook as Frank and Lisa raced up the back steps. “Pa?” Frank asked, running into the room. “Take Dorothy to school, now!” He turned to Lisa, who stood staring at Elizabeth. “Where have you been?” “I’m in the cook shed, fixing breakfast, Tas. What? Elizabeth?” She walked over to her daughter. “What is it, child?” Elizabeth again looked toward the corner of the room. “They’re dancing the circle, Ma. They’re laughing and dancing.” Lisa shook her head. “It can’t be, Tas. They know we’re just coming back from the costs of getting Joseph and Frances settled in their new house. Then Lucas was so sick.” “I’ll get the rum,” Tas answered as he strode to the pantry. “Maybe she’s just dreaming.” He returned and splashed rum on the floor next to the girls’ bed, then handed the bottle to Lisa. “Lie back, child, let me cool you down.” Lisa poured rum into her palm and rubbed it over Elizabeth’s sweaty brow and frazzled hair. She poured more and splashed it over her daughter’s neck and arms. “There now, you rest. This will pass soon, Elizabeth. It was a dream, girl.” “That’s right, Elizabeth, sleep now and it’ll all be gone.” Tas raised a skeptical eyebrow at Lisa, then walked down to the cook shed to eat his breakfast. The next day Tas stood in the yard, watching the sun rise bright and

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clear. He finished his coffee and placed his cup in the dishpan. “You think Elizabeth is okay?” “She’s dressing for school,” Lisa answered. “Seems to be normal.” Tas nodded. “Okay, I’m off to catch the big one. See you later.” That afternoon, Tas walked into the yard and threw two fish on the table in the cook shed. “About time you got here, brother.” A strange yet familiar voice greeted him. Tas jumped like a crazed cat. “What? Who’s that?” A voice from the past answered from the back steps of the house. “What the fuck you mean going off to fish when I’ve come to visit you?” Tas walked to the steps. “Elizabeth?” he asked, confused by what he was seeing and hearing. Elizabeth cackled a raucous laugh as she slapped Tas on the shoulder. “Tas, sweetheart, you don’t know your own sister?” “Santa!” The name escaped Tas’s lips, even as he saw that it was his daughter speaking to him. She skipped around Tas, tapped the back of his head, then sat on the steps. “That’s right, brother, your Santa’s come for a visit. Hand me a cigarette.” “Tas, you home?” Lisa stood at the top of the stairs wringing her hands. “Elizabeth was late coming from school.” She gestured toward their daughter. “And when she did get here, Santa was on her!” Lisa shook her head in dismay. “Have you done anything for her?” Tas demanded. “No. I wasn’t sure what to do.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I’m going upstairs to eat, Santa. You want to go with me?” “Sure, Tas, that’s why I came. To visit with you.” The girl skipped up the steps. “What’s for tea, sister-­in-­law?” “Just cheese and buns, Santa,” Lisa answered. “I wasn’t expecting company tonight.” “That suits me, long as I have some brandy to wash it down.” She sat at the table and looked around the room. Her gaze fell on Dorothy, who was watching from the bedroom door. “Hey, Dorothy, up that radio for me, so I can hear the music. Let’s liven this place up.” Dorothy looked toward Lisa, but Santa spoke again. “You don’t have to look to your ma. I’m your Aunt Santa, so you do what I say.” Dorothy turned up the radio, and Santa kept time to a reggae beat, humming the tune. “Yeah, I like that. Can you dance it, Dorothy?” She stood up and took the little girl’s hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

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Dorothy pulled back. “Stop it, Elizabeth. You’re scaring me!” “Elizabeth ain’t here now, child. I’m your Aunt Santa.” She took ­Dorothy’s hand again and led the girl around to the rhythm. “We didn’t have that music when I was alive, but I sure do like it.” She hummed the tune. Frank and I sat down at the table and stared at Elizabeth. Or was it? I wondered. Tas and Lisa stood in the pantry. “What should we do?” Lisa asked. “You think we should call Helene?” “Let’s wait. You said Santa was on her when she got here. This shouldn’t last much longer. We may not need the buyei’s help.” He watched his daugh­ ters dancing. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, Lisa?” “What?” “How much Elizabeth looks like Santa right now. I’ve seen it happen over and over at the ancestor parties; but until it’s one of my own, I didn’t realize that it’s like she’s really here.” Lisa looked at Tas with exasperation. “What are you talking about? Of course Santa’s here.” Her eyes narrowed. “You saying you don’t believe the spirits are real?” “No, Lisa. I know the spirits are real. They’re around all the time. It’s just that . . .” Tas stopped and shook his head. “I guess I don’t know what I mean. There’s so many questions and not enough answers.” Tas chuckled as the Santa-­possessed Elizabeth cavorted around the room. “Hey, brother, come dance. Let’s punta.” She swiveled her hips, then called again. “Hey, Tas, where’s my brandy? I want brandy, man.” Tas clenched his fists, not knowing whether to laugh or be angry. “Well, Santa, I think we have a couple of beers. Come sit down, and I’ll share one with you.” Santa put her hands on her hips and stared at Tas. “Share a beer with me! Now listen, lover boy, don’t you play cute with me, or I’ll set you in your place before you know what’s happened.” Tas raised his hand as if he wanted to slap his daughter for her impudence, but then he began to laugh. “Okay, sis, I tell you what. I don’t have any brandy, but I think we have some gin. How about that?” Santa nodded. “That’ll do for tonight, but tomorrow you buy me brandy, brother. I’m here for a party, and I mean to have a high old time.” While Dorothy sat in her chair, sucking her thumb, Lisa placed cheese and buns on the table. Tas poured drinks. He handed a glass to me and one to his wife. He said, “You both look like you could use this.” We tossed the drinks down with one gulp.

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Tas handed his daughter her glass and held his. “Well, Santa, what shall we drink to?” Santa’s devilish grin spread across Elizabeth’s face. “How ’bout we drink to happy returns, brother. Many happy returns. . . oh, by the way, Ma and Pa say they really like your lady friend.” The possessed girl turned to me. “Moma Mar, Aunt Khandi said to tell you she’ll be seeing you soon.” I croaked, “I think a little fresh air is in order,” and led Lisa down stairs to the backyard. Frank followed and whispered, “Ma, she’s gonna get drunk. Elizabeth doesn’t drink.” Lisa answered, “Let your father handle it. He best knows what we’re dealing with.” Next morning, Elisabeth appeared to be her normal self, and the three children went to school as usual. Tas, Lisa, and I conferred in the cook shed. Tas hooked his fingers into his pockets and looked down at the ground. “She says Ma and Pa are calling for a party.” Lisa swished a plate through the dishwater, fear etched her face. “You know, Tas, you don’t have the money to sponsor an ancestor party.” “You’re telling me that, wife?” Tas snorted, “You think I don’t know that!” Lisa handed me a plate to dry. “What you going to do?” Tas ground his teeth. “If they want a party, they’ll have to show me the way. Damn it, how much can they ask from a person!” He turned on his heels. “For now, I’m going fishing.” Later that afternoon, Marcia came to our house to tell me what had happened earlier. She said, “Santa, I mean Elizabeth, was walking around this morning. She went to Virginia’s house. She’s supposed to have talked with Virginia about when the two of them were girls. How they played, and the devilment they got into.” When Tas heard about this, he asked, “Where is Elizabeth now? I’m taking her to Helene.” Before I could answer, a strong, determined voice spoke from the back door. “You ain’t taking Elizabeth nowhere, you son of a bitch.” The girl was again in trance, possessed by Santa’s spirit. She wore beads taken from ­Lisa’s basket and Lisa’s newest overskirt. She adjusted the puffed sleeves of her yellow gown as she walked down the stairs. Tas reached out to take the girl’s arm. “Elizabeth, come.” She struck him across the chest. He gasped and, reeling from the blow, grabbed the corner post of the house. Elizabeth stood glaring at him as he caught his breath. When he stood steady again, she grinned Santa’s imp-

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ish smile and asked, “Tas, my brother, why aren’t you happy to have me here with you?” She hugged him and whispered into his ear, “Come on, Tas, let’s you and me go have a high old time, like we used to do. I’ve come for a party, brother. Let’s go play.” “Wait a minute, sis. Before we leave I need to settle things with Lisa. You understand?” The girl laughed. “Of course, Tas. Settle things with your wife, and tell her not to wait up.” Tas walked to the cook shed where Lisa and I stood, not able to believe what we had just seen. “You all right, Tas?” I asked. “Did she hurt you?” “I’m all right, just wasn’t expecting it.” He rubbed his chest. “That arm hit me stronger than any man’s I ever dealt with.” He reached into his pocket and took out three dollars and a few shillings. He pulled the lining of the pocket out and looked at Lisa. “That’s all I came home with, wife. I’m going to need money for the spree she wants.” “Take care of her, Tas,” Lisa pleaded, as she reached for food money she kept hidden in the rafters of the shed.

Consulting the Buyei The next morning while Lisa and I prepared breakfast in the cook shed, I said, “Heard them come in, late. What happened after that?” “Santa seemed satisfied. She smiled sweet as honey and went to sleep.” Lisa shook her head. “Elizabeth’s sleeping it off. At least, I hope it’s Elizabeth up there.” Tas hustled into the yard. “Okay,” he announced. “I spoke to Helene. Lisa, you stay close and watch Elizabeth. Moma Mar, get ready. We have to go to the dabuyaba.” “Whoa,” I said. “I’ll watch Elizabeth. Lisa, you go with Tas.” Lisa grinned at me. “Oh no. It’s not my lot. It’s the Diegos and Sabals kicking hell. I’m a Cayetano. I’ll do what I can to help, but you’re the one they want.” A memory of Khandi’s bathing came to mind. I remembered that Lisa had helped with the preparations but was absent during the ritual. Tas nodded. “She’s right, my lady. You are the adopted Sabal daughter. Like it or not, you are in this with me.” He turned to Lisa. Helene said to bring a white candle, a chap of rum, and two dollars.” At the dabuyaba, Helene said from the door to the altar room, “You

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can come in now,” She turned to Tas, “You told me there’s problems with Elizabeth. That your sister, Santa, is on her.” “That’s right, Nebu.” Tas answered using the Garifuna word meaning “our support.” “Santa’s been on her for two days. We came to find out what this is about.” He handed Helene the package of dollars, rum, and a candle. The buyei (faith-­healer) placed the money on the altar, lit the candle, and set it next to a calabash cup. She uncorked the bottle, took some rum into her mouth, and sprayed it over Tas and me. She waited to see if a spirit would take possession of one of our bodies. When none did, she said, “All right, you wait while I call the buyei-­spirits. We’ll see what they have to say.” From a curtained corner behind the altar, we heard Helene speak to her guiding spirit. “This is Portacio Diego I’m asking about. One of the Old People is visiting his daughter.” There was silence for a minute or two, then the buyei’s shakers rattled, and we knew the buyei-­spirit had come. Now, Helene spoke in a high, whistling voice. “Tell him to come here.” Tas went behind the curtain. After a long moment the whistling spirit voice said, “They want to dance. They want to eat. They want a party.” “Who wants a party?” Tas asked. “­Cervantes, ­Margaret, and Santa,” the whistling voice answered. “A three-­pig dugu.” Tas sucked in his breath. “I can’t afford a three-­pig party,” he answered. “There hasn’t been that big an ancestor party here in years.” “A three-­pig dugu,” the buyei repeated. “We just gave a feeding three years ago,” Tas argued. “It’s too soon for them to ask for a party.” His voice quaked. “I don’t see how I can do it. It’ll take me years to gather that much money.” “Next year, Portacio. A three-­pig party.” Tas came to sit by me. “Why don’t they just strike me dead and be done with it?” he muttered. Then, the buyei said, “Moma Mar, there’s a message for you, too.” “What is it, Nebu?” Again the spirit-­voice spoke. “A Mali. Santa says she won’t leave Elizabeth until you promise a Mali.” I wondered, How much of this is just because I’m around? Then I decided, Oh well, in for a nickel, I can afford some dimes. So I answered, “Okay, one Mali coming up.” Tas said, “Brace yourself, ’cause we’re about to hear just what it is they want.” Helene walked back into the hall and picked up a notebook. “Now,”

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she said thumbing to a page, “first off we better see to that Mali. We could give it in two weeks if that’s all right with you.” She looked to me for agreement. “I’ll notify the drummers and the choir. Tas can get word to the people to come. You can invite all those that came to the feeding. You understand you must bring a quart of strong rum?” I nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be here.” “Good.” Helene wrote as she spoke. “­Cervantes Diego, M ­ argaret ­Sabal Diego, and Santalina Diego.” She looked at Tas. “That’s right isn’t it?” When he nodded, she continued. “We’ll set the date for the last week in June of next year.” She counted on her fingers. “February, March, April, May, and June. That will give you a year and a half to get ready.” She looked at Tas again. “You do intend to do this, don’t you?” Tas cleared his throat. “Nebu, don’t you think we could ease this thing down a bit? You’re asking an awful lot of us. And . . .” “Wait a minute, Tas,” Helene interrupted. “It’s the Old People asking this, not me. I’m just telling you what they said. If you want to go to someone else with your problem, that’s all right with me.” Tas shook his head. “No, I don’t want to go to anyone else. It’s just I can’t see my way to make it.” “You will. One day and one day.” Helene called to her assistant. “Celia, fetch a bowl of the herb bath for Tas, and there’s clean towels in the store­ room.” “What’s that for?” Tas asked. “It’s for the blood pounding in your ears. You go bathe down while I talk with Moma Mar. And another thing, Tas,” she added as he started toward the little shed where clients took herbal baths. “I know it won’t do any good to tell you, stubborn as you are; but you should stop smoking and drinking so much coffee.” Turning again to Celia, she said, “Moma Mar will need a bottle of the bath to take home for Elizabeth.” Helene continued, “We can hang the uguagi basket at the Mali. That will be the promise to them that you will give the party. Since this is all such a surprise to you people, I think one basket will do.” Then she added, “This is the list for the galatihatia.” Tas returned from the herbal bath in time to hear Helene list the “red shirts.” “What about Skipper?” he asked. “He’s to wear full red after he returns from the keys.” “You counting on him for going to the keys?” Tas snorted with disgust. “He didn’t even show for the feeding.” Helene nodded. “You just give him the message. Let the spirits see to

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what he does. She added, “Skipper’s supposed to be in charge of building the gaiunari.” That was when I thought, Snakes will fly before this dugu is a success.

The Mali Dorothy poked a finger through the open weave of the basket that lay on the table in the cook shed. “Papa, what you going to do with that?” “We’re going to hang it in the dabuyaba,” Tas explained. “With those things in it?” Dorothy pointed to the chap of rum and the candle. “That’s right.” “You’re suppose to put fish in uguagi, Papa.” She looked at one that hung over the hearth. “Like Ma is smoking those.” “Yes, but this one’s different. You see, those little fish up there are a kind of promise to you. You know someday you’re going to eat them. This basket is a promise to my folks that they’re going to have a party.” “Can I dance at the party, Papa?” Dorothy asked, hopping from one leg to the other. “We’ll decide that when it gets closer to time,” answered Tas. “Tonight you can see what it’ll be like. But you must promise to behave. When there’s drumming you must sit still with Frances and Lucas. You hear, Dorothy?” “Why can’t I go with you and Ma?” the child asked. “Because you’re not tall enough yet. You’d get stepped on when we turn the circles,” Tas explained patiently. Dorothy spun around in a circle. “Like this, Papa?” “Sit down before you fall and get dirty.” Tas straightened the sash of her dress. “The drummers turn in small circles, but the rest of us move around them in a big circle. You’ll see.” “Ma said I must be quiet ’cause this is the holy dance. Like we are in a church.” “The dabuyaba is the Garifuna church, Dorothy.” “It doesn’t have a bell and pretty windows.” “The ancestors didn’t have bells and glass windows. The dabuyaba is the kind we Garinagu have had forever.” “Forever, Papa?” “Well, as far back as when they lived on St. Vincent.” Tas swatted Dorothy’s behind. “No more questions now. You’ll see it soon enough.”

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An hour later, Tas hung the basket over a wall peg in the dabuyaba. Here’s the promise, ­Margaret, I thought. Now you and ­Cervantes and Santa must do your part. Tas needs help on this. The tall, handsome buyei strode into the hall, opened a chap of rum, took some into her mouth, then sprayed it into the hollow undersides of the three drums used in the ritual. She returned to the altar room as the drummers looped support cloths around the heavy drums, then tied them behind their necks. They tested the weight; for once the ritual begins, nothing must stop its completion. I remembered what Khandi had said about the Mali, the most sacred dance performed in worship services. “It’s to quiet the spirits, girl. They’ve been on their journey to Bungi for a while now, but they still want to keep in touch with us folks back here. Make sure we remember them, pay what we owe. We remind them they must go back on their journey. But it takes time for them to leave us for good.” Helene called out, “Drummers, Mali to honor Santalina Diego.” Juan, the lead drummer, tapped a few beats to call the people. The hall filled with men and women. We stood facing west toward the altar room, while the drummers began the beat and moved to stand in front of us. The buyei picked up the rhythm with her gourd shakers. The beat of the drums and shakers felt like my own pulse. Energy filled the room as the choir led the celebrants in the first verse of the Mali: Ancestors, we are quieting you down. We are fulfilling the vow we made to you. Let the cocks crow. Ancestors, this is our call. All fell silent and bowed their heads as Helene and the drummers lowered their instruments to the sand floor. The buyei worked her shakers in a series of crossed patterns before them. We all straightened up, then bent over again as the she repeated the patterns, working to raise the ancestor-­ spirits from their graves and help them on their journey toward Bungi. The first station completed, the drummers pranced to the south side of the hall, leading the crowd that now formed a circle around the room. The left and right drummers spun in a smaller circle around the lead drummer as the buyei moved to the next station. Spinning, spinning, I thought, as the crowd swirled toward the south wall. Spinning like the winds of a hurricane. The whirlwind pulls the ancestors in, then we’ll change directions and send them out again.

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We sang the sec­ond verse of the Mali: Ancestors, the cock crows. According to our vows, let the cock crow. Ancestors, we are quieting you down. The Mali continued in two counterclockwise revolutions, stopping at each compass point. Then the celebrants reversed directions. The drummers changed to a faster playful beat as they moved from the last station to their bench against the west wall. The head drummer called the familiar invitation to the cherut (traditional dance), speaking for the spirits honored in the Mali. “Come on, my children. Let’s have fun now.” Helene led the rhythm with her shakers until everyone had made the emotional switch from the solemn Mali to the frolicking cherut. Then she returned to the back room. The guests who wanted to leave at this point went to the altar to receive the cleansing bue (aromatic bark used as incense) smoke that Celia blew over their heads. In the hall, others crowded around the drummers as they played the traditional Garifuna dances. I watched Tas move gracefully to the beat of the rhythms. He won’t be doing much of that for a time, I thought. After this, it’s going to be hard work, getting ready for the party. Our guests frolicked through another cherut, then said goodbye. “It’s late,” Lisa said. “Time to go, Tas.” “You go on with the children,” Tas answered. “I want to have a word with Nebu before I leave. Moma Mar and I’ll soon follow.” “You want an herbal bath before you leave?” Helene asked him. “Maybe you’d like to calm yourself before you go home.” “Thanks, I think I will. These days have been hard on me.” “I’ll tell Celia to get it ready. But sit down a minute. There’s something else we need to talk about.” “What’s that?” Tas pulled up a stool. “I’ve been puzzling about where you should build the gaiunari,” Helene said. “What!” Tas exploded. “You didn’t say anything about a gaiunari. I can’t build a house just for the ancestor party!” “Take it light, Tas,” she answered. “I know I didn’t mention it, because I thought you couldn’t take any more the other night. But now we must talk about it.” The buyei took in a deep breath before she continued. “By rights it should stand on the land next to your house, where your Ma lived. But that’s too close to town now. That would just be asking for trouble.”

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“I thought we’d have the party here in the dabuyaba.” Helene shook her head. “Not this one, Tas. Not if you want to do it right. Your folks want it done in the old way, the way it was when they were young.” She shrugged. “Of course, you could build it out on your farm, but that would mess you up growing cassava and such.” She waited while Tas clenched and unclenched his fists. “You have an idea about where to build the ancestor-­house?” “No.” Tas looked at the ground then up at the buyei, who sat staring at him. “What you getting at?” he asked. “You’re supposed to have a piece of land south of Larube, right on the beach.” Helene responded. “Who told you that?” “The buyei-­spirit told me.” Tas’s jaw clenched in fury, that she knew his secret. “Knowing I have that piece of land is the only thing keeps me going sometimes,” he snapped. “Even Lisa doesn’t know about it.” Seeing the surprise on my face, he explained. “Moma Mar, it came to me queer like, from a cousin of Ma’s that’s been dead for years. He left it to me. I fig­ured, if I couldn’t stand to live next to Ma any longer, I could always go down there.” “Well? Tas, the land runs in your ma’s line, and it is away from town,” Helene reasoned. “I was thinking I’d go live there some day,” Tas protested. “Get away from all the fussing and noise. Sometimes I sail down there just to sit and think. It’s nothing but bush land.” The buyei nodded. “After the party you’d have a house to live in. The ­gaiunari, I mean.” Tas started toward the bath shed. “Let me think about it, Nebu. Right now I need to cool down a little.” I asked Helene, “What’s a gaiunari? Way I understand Garifuna, the word means ‘chicken coop.’ ” She laughed. “You’re half correct. Gaiu is chicken, or more exact, a cock. Remember the words in Mali? ‘Let the cock crow.’ Gaiunari is the ancestors’ home or house, while they are visiting the living.” “Of course.” I nodded. “Where they crow, ‘talk,’ with their descendants.” Helene smiled. “You got it. Of course, these days we use the dabuyaba. But then,” she clicked her tongue, “­Margaret and ­Cervantes want it done the old way.” When Tas returned, Helene flipped to a page in her notebook. “Well now, it’s time for the galatihatia list. These are the people called to wear the red.” She looked at me. “You, Moma Mar, and Tas. Then there’s C ­ ervantes and Delores’s daughter, Terese.”

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“What!” Tas began to pace. “You mean he’s calling Reese, from Honduras? I haven’t seen her in thirty years.” “That’s right,” Helene continued, “and he also called for Phillip Reston.” “Who the hell is he?” Tas growled. Then he stopped, searching his memory for where he had heard the name before. “Phillip Reston? Wait a minute, it’s coming back. I met him at a meeting in Belize City, some years ago. He was at that conference when the English tried to teach us how to plant coconuts. Besides myself, he was the only one that raised objections.” Tas nodded. “Yeah, we told those experts their fancy agriculture wouldn’t work down here.” He grinned. “And we were right; but why is he on the list?” “It seems your pa had a ‘partner’ in Belize City.” Helene hesitated. “Phillip Reston is her son.” Tas looked up at the ceiling, shook his head with resignation, then turned to me. “Okay, Moma Mar, let’s get on home.” “Just a minute.” Helene stopped us. “I haven’t finished the list yet.” What more? I wondered. The buyei continued. “In the next generation, they’ve called for your son, Joseph, and Santa’s daughter, Clara Arzu.” Tas whirled around and groaned, “No!” Lisa had warned me that Clara was a touchy subject. Tas blamed her father for “misbehavior,” breaking pregnancy taboos, which folks said caused Santa’s death. Arzu had taken the infant girl back to his home in Guatemala. There, Clara was taught to dislike the people in Larube, and particularly, Tas. He walked to the door and gazed at the palms that led down to the sea. Finally, he heaved a deep sigh and returned to where we waited. “She won’t come, Nebu. I invited her for the feeding. She wouldn’t come.” He struggled to control tears that welled in his eyes. “Your ma has called for her, Tas,” Helene said calmly. “You and I don’t understand why, but she’s called. You must notify her.” His face was set like fossilized wood. “Okay. What should I tell them?” “Invite them to come early to help build the gaiunari. If they can’t do that, they should be here no later than Sunday, June 18. The next day the family lines will start the cassava bread baking. There should be someone from each line to contribute to that.” Tas finally sighed. “All right, Nebu, but this thing sure better work. They’re asking me to give up . . .” “I know what they’re asking, and I’m telling you it will be accepted if you do what I say. Just do what I say.” Dynamite couldn’t shake that woman’s confidence, I thought.

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The Pigs Six months after I sponsored the Mali, the most sacred dance in the worship services, I was again in Larube. There was a black hog tied to a tree in the backyard. He was making a mess in his pen, uprooting a big banana clump and digging deep wallows. I knew he was for the dugu (ancestor party) and fig­ured Lisa and Tas could see the damage as well as I could. So I said nothing about it. The pig was given leftovers from meals, better than the usual slop thrown to animals. As if an extra serving was added to each family meal for the pig. Already, fat bulged behind his shoulders and along his belly. One afternoon, I was resting in the shade, and Tas did not see me as he approached the pen. The pig stuck his snout through the rails and rubbed on Tas’s leg. He scratched the hog’s ears and addressed it as “­Cervantes.” His father’s name! It was an “ah ha!” moment in fieldwork, when a piece of the puzzle drops into place, and others around it suddenly make sense. In the previous dugus I had studied, answers to my questions about the pigs were vague, of­ten in the form of, “I don’t really know why. We just always do it this way.” I had correctly surmised that the purpose of the postmortem rituals was to advance the ancestor’s transition toward Bungi, the supreme supernatural. Here now was living proof. They were going to symbolically kill ­Cervantes for his final transition. The next day I learned that Marcia and Amigos were raising “­Margaret” for Tas. A childhood friend, Virginia, was raising “Santa.” Early one morning Tas knocked on my bedroom door and called, “Moma Mar, let’s walk down to the beach.” Once we reached the shore, he scanned the skyline, studying the distant crafts sailing north and south. “What’s up?” I asked. “After Pa died and we moved here to Larube, Ma took a trading partner she had known in Lidisi. He was always good to Santa and me. We called him ‘Uncle Alvarez.’ His son’s name is ‘James Salivar.’ He still sails Uncle Alvarez’s old routes. Should be coming by here this morning.” Tas pointed to a dark dot that skittered across the horizon. “There he is now. I recognize the set of his sails.” He picked up a conch shell from the corner of the boat shed and blew a series of loud toots. The seafaring Garifuna use conch “horns” to signal “ship to shore” messages. One series means, “Hello, but I’m passing by.” Another says, “Will return in one, two, days, etc.” Tas had blown, “Please come to shore.” James Salivar guided his dory to the beach. Its twelve-­foot hull was

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made of curved, hardwood planks. James sat at the rear, steering the rudder. He pulled ropes that adjust the sails, which were attached to a mast set into the center board. “How’ve you been?” James jumped to shore and grabbed Tas in a manly embrace. “What you doing walking the shore this time of morning?” “Looking for you, James. Won’t you come up to the house? Lisa has coffee ready.” Tas turned to me. “This is Moma Mar, Khandi’s adopted daughter.” James held out his hand. “Happy to meet you, ma’am.” He nodded. “I really could use a hot cup. Let’s go.” James accepted the coffee. “Thanks, Tas. Now what’s on your mind?” Tas set the pot at the fire’s edge. “My father and mother want a party. They’re not asking for the usual dugu. They’re calling for three pigs, and every son of a gun they ever sired.” “Wheew!” James whistled. “What are you going to do?” Tas shrugged. “What’s the choice? Do my best to give it for them, just the way they’ve asked.” Tas paused. “That’s where I need your help.” “What you want, Tas?” “I could send the notices regular mail, but I don’t know where these people are now, or if they’d get them. I need you to deliver my letters into their hands. There are three of them. The first is to Phillip Reston. I think he’s in Belize City.” James took the first letter. “That’s right. I see him now and then at the market.” Tas handed the sec­ond envelope to James. “Then there’s Clara Arzu. You found her once for me. Think you can do it again?” James lifted his shoulders to express uncertainty. “I’ll do my best.” “The last is for Terese.” Tas grinned. “Tell Reese I’d sure be proud to see her again.” James handed me his cup. “Guess I’ll be seeing you again, Moma Mar. Best I get on my way south.” He paused and turned back to Tas. “You do know, about Clara? What she said about the feeding?” Tas grimaced. “Yes, I remember. Just do what you can for me, James.” Later, the buyei sent word that she wanted to see me. “What’s up, Helene?” I asked as I entered the dabuyaba (house of worship). “Have a seat and tell me how Tas is doing.” I gave her an unfriendly glare. “About as you might expect, considering what’s been laid on him. He grits his teeth and plows on.” Helene nodded. “I know this whole thing has been a shock to both of

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you.” I didn’t answer, so she continued. “By rights these jobs should fall to Clara and Terese. But since they’re not around, I’m handing them to you.” I took in a deep breath, then exhaled. “Okay. What?” “There’s the uniforms that the kin from Lidisi will wear. To signal their part in the party. As you’ve seen in other dugus, the men’s shirts and the women’s overskirts should be made of a matching checked gingham. You can decide what the colors will be. That job should go to Terese but . . .” Helene shrugged her shoulders. “And how am I supposed to take care of that?” “If they come early it shouldn’t be a problem,” the buyei answered. “If they don’t you’ll need to see that the clothes are ready for them.” She smiled. “I’m sure Lisa will help you, as a friend of the family. Tell them the clothes will be made here, and they can pay the dressmaker when they ­arrive.” “Uh huh,” was all I could answer. Helene continued. “Also, Clara should be responsible for getting the uguagi. Six in all.” “Six uguagi! Where will I find them? Folks around here are lucky to have one good one to smoke fish in.” “We smash these when the party is finished. So you can’t borrow them. I think you should sail to Seine Bight. There’s a man there who still knows how to weave them in the old way. You’ll need to go see him.” “Smash them!” I jumped up. “What will that cost?” Ignoring my outburst, Helene continued. “You’ll have to bargain that with the weaver. You should deliver them, to each one wearing red, the week before we start the party.”

John Canoe A year had passed since Santa’s visit, calling for the ancestor party. Winter holiday celebrations were at a peak. Lisa and I were baking vanilla cookies in the kitchen shed. Dorothy ran down the back stairs, arms flapping with excitement. “Ma, I can hear the drums. I can hear the drums!” “What drums?” Lisa teased, as she dipped her finger in the mixing bowl and tasted the sweet dough. “John Canoe, John Canoe!” Dorothy hopped from one foot to the other. “Oh, that,” said Lisa, smacking her lips. “Sounds to me they’re way over on Nutmeg Alley. That’s a long way from here.” “I want to see them, Ma.” Dorothy’s brown eyes sparkled.

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“Where’s your money? You know you have to pay for John Canoe.” Dorothy’s face fell. “I don’t have any money ’cept for one copper that Joseph gave me.” “I see. But one copper isn’t enough for John Canoe.” Dorothy began to cry. Lisa frowned and said, “Hey, girl, crying doesn’t fix anything. You have to think how to earn more change. You know, we Garinagu must make our way.” “How ’bout I scrub the pantry floor?” Dorothy asked. Lisa considered the offer and clicked her tongue. “I don’t know, that’s a job for a big woman.” “Please, Ma,” Dorothy begged. “I can do it.” Lisa grinned at her daughter. “Okay then, but first you go fetch Frank for me.” Dorothy ran up the stairs, as Lisa called after her, “You sweep it first, and don’t leave any puddles on the floor.” A sleepy-­eyed Frank came to the shed. “Ma, you want me?” he asked. “Yes. Carry a bucket of water upstairs for Dorothy. Then I want you to listen for John Canoe. When they get over to this side, you hail them to come here. But don’t tell Dorothy yet.” An hour later, we heard the John Canoe drums, not far from the Diego house. “Ma, Moma Mar!” Dorothy screamed, “Please come see the floor, so’s I can have my money.” We went to check her work. I could see that the child had done a good job; but Lisa took her time, looking under the table and behind the back door. “Hmm,” she bent down pretending to wipe a speck of dirt from the floor. “I washed the counter boards too.” Dorothy pointed to the jars and pans lined neatly against the wall. Lisa reached into her skirt pocket. “So you did.” She nodded. “I think this work deserves two shillings.” She handed the coins to Dorothy. “And, I’ll give you two more,” I added. “For such a good job.” “Is that enough to pay them, Ma?” “It’s enough to pay your share.” Lisa smiled at her. “Go tell Frank I said you could go with him to hail the Flag Man.” “Frank! Frank!” Dorothy screeched and ran from the room. “Elizabeth,” Lisa called. “Go sweep the front yard. There’ll soon be a crowd here.” Dorothy and Frank returned with the John Canoe Flag Man. “­Cacho,” Tas greeted his friend, “you out working this morning.” ­Cacho pushed a tall pole bearing a British flag into the sand at the front of the house. “Right, Tas. How’s the morning?”

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Tas pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pocket. “How about I give you your pay before the dancers get here?” He splashed a bit of whiskey onto the ground, poured ­Cacho a drink, and then took a swig from the bottle. “Ahh,” he said. “Well, let’s get in the right spirit of things. What you need?” “Chairs for the two drummers is all.” ­Cacho returned the cup to Tas. “Out here in front yard suits you?” “Fine, fine.” We watched children running from all over the neighborhood. “They surely love it, don’t they, Tas?” I said. “Yep,” he answered. “I remember when Ma was too poor to pay John Canoe, so Santa and I followed them all over the village.” He looked at the children who crowded into the yard and scrambled for space on the front steps. “Some of them are still too poor to pay.” Tas turned to C ­ acho. “Tell you what, Flag Man, after the dancers finish the first set, you come to me. I’ll buy another one.” Frank brought two straight-­backed chairs from the front room, and Elizabeth pulled up a stool so that Dorothy would have a place to stand, high enough to see. The John Canoe group came to the yard, three women dressed in brightly flowered smocks and ten masked men. Each man wore white gloves and high black socks wrapped with strings of shells that rattled as they walked. The four lead dancers wore headdresses of stiff, red and yellow feathers that made the men appear to be seven feet tall. Pink and green ribbons ran across their chests and fluttered from their waists. Tas poured a drink of whiskey for the two drummers. The first one handed the cup back to him and started the fast-­paced beat of John Canoe. The women sang the verse of the song as a dancer entered the circle and faced Dorothy and Elizabeth. He leaped into the air and spun in a full circle, landing in front of Dorothy. She screamed and grabbed on to Elizabeth, as the man paced backward and began to dance, moving his feet in sharp, quick steps that made the rattles keep time with the drums. Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, tah! The dancer paused and turned slowly, balancing on one foot. Then he leaped into the air again. Next, a clown performed. He was dressed in a woman’s lace gown and a bridal veil that flopped around his head. As he minced about the circle, the children giggled, and the adults applauded his antics. The man held his arms out straight, palms down, to demonstrate his prowess in John Canoe. His feet, held close together, moved back and forth across the sand in staccato jerks that caused his rattles to snap out the beat of the drums. The crowd clapped as the next dancer, brandishing a wooden sword, entered the ring. After each of the ten men had taken his turn, the lead

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dancer returned to the ring. He performed for a minute or two, twirled in the air, and landed in front of Dorothy with his gloved hand extended palm ­upward. “Pay him, Dorothy,” Elizabeth coached her sister. Dorothy placed her coins into the man’s hand. He looked at the amount, spun round again, and landed in front of Lisa with his other hand outstretched. The children shouted their appreciation as Lisa laid dollar bills in the dancer’s hand. ­Cacho left to place his flag where the dancers would perform next. “You want to dance, Tas?” asked the sec­ond drummer. Tas shook his head. “No. Thanks, Roy.” “Yes dance, Papa, please, Papa,” Dorothy begged. Tas shook his head, but some of the other children took up the request. “Dance, Mr. Tas,” a neighbor’s child called. “Show us how, Mr. Diego,” said a Creole boy that lived up the road. Roy started the beat. “You’re outnumbered, my friend.” Tas danced the simple, basic steps of John Canoe. The ones Uncle Alvarez had taught him when he was a boy. As he completed the set, he moved toward a Garifuna child, took his hand, and drew him into the circle. The grinning youngster looked down at Tas’s feet, trying to copy the steps as they worked their way to where the Creole child stood. The drummers slowed their beat as Tas motioned the boy to join them. Then the three danced together, the older man leading, teaching, while the two boys followed the signals he sent them through his hands. A week later, I answered a knock at the front door. James Salivar smiled at me. “Morning, Moma Mar. Good to see you again. I’m looking for Tas.” “Tas and Lisa have gone to the farm. But come downstairs. I just made a fresh pot of coffee.” James laid his hat on the kitchen table. “Guess they’re working double time out there. Huh?” I nodded. “Oh yes. Tripled the rows of cassava. More ginger plants. I go out in the afternoon with the children. Joseph and Frank are doing a man’s work. Elizabeth has stobbed more and more cocoa yam. Even Dorothy helps by dragging trash to the fire pit.” James looked over to where “­Cervantes” wallowed in his pen. “That hog has grown really big.” “Yes.” I smirked. “You’d think he owns the place, the way he’s treated.” James laughed. “Glad to hear things are going well. Course you heard that the folks from Lidisi plan to come, and Terese is excited about seeing Tas again.”

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I set coffee and a cinnamon bun in front of him. “Yes. And Phillip Reston, too.” “That’s the good news I brought.” James sipped the dark brew and tore off a piece of his bun. “Just talked with Phillip, last trip to Belize City. He said to tell you folks he’s taking a week off from work, and will come down to help build the gaiunari. I’m planning to do the same.” “That’s wonderful, James. I’m sure Tas will appreciate it, more than you know . . . that’s the good news. What’s the bad?” He clicked his tongue in disgust. “I finally found Clara Arzu. She won’t come.” “What did she say?” I held my breath. James shook his head. “I’m sorry, Moma Mar. She said to tell the old bastard to fuck off.” After the message from Clara Arzu, I was relieved that Tas was not around when Joseph walked into the backyard, Lucas in his arms. “Morning, Ma.” He turned to me. “Moma Mar, how’s the morning?” “Fine, Joseph, thank you.” I held out my arms. “Come to me, Lucas. Sit on my lap.” Joseph sniffed the spice-­laden air and turned to his mother. “Ah, Garifuna tamales. Is there enough for Lucas and me?” “Of course, son, but what are you doing here on a school morning? Shouldn’t you be at work?” Lisa plopped a spoonful of plantain mixed with coconut milk onto a leaf, tied the folded leaf into a neat package, and dropped it into a pot of simmering water. “No classes today, Ma. The pupils are supposed to be studying for their exams. I told Frances I’d watch Lucas while she went to visit her mother.” Lisa stirred the tamales. “That’s good. You’ll have time to go fit your clothes for wearing the red. The seamstress sent word you should come right away.” Joseph cleared his throat. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you about that, Ma.” “What’s to talk? You go get the clothes fitted, you pay the fee, then you take the clothes to the dabuyaba to be dyed.” “It’s not that simple for me, Ma.” Joseph picked at a fingernail. “Why not? What you so nervous about?” “There’s lots of gossip around, Ma. I mean about this party. Everyone is talking.” “I suppose so! It’s the biggest one been held here in years.” “Well,” Joseph continued, “the Creole teachers are asking me where

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the ancestor house is being built. Saying they want to come visit, watch what happens.” “If they’re that curious there’s nothing to stop them. Helene put the party on the south land so’s the noise and crowd wouldn’t bother folks here in Larube.” Lisa glared at Joseph and set her hands on her hips. “If gawkers come looking for it, well then, that’s their business, not ours. Let them see.” “But you don’t understand, Ma. It’s my problem, too. What are those folks going to think when they see me right in the middle of it?” He pointed to himself. “Me, a teacher at the school, dressed in red, dancing with the fowl! What if I trance? I could lose my job, Ma. I just can’t wear the red!” “Joseph, we talked about this before, when Elizabeth was trancing. I told you then, and I tell you now. You must make up your mind where you stand. You can’t play it both ways, son.” Joseph hesitated. “Pa will be really angry, won’t he, Ma?” “Your father is way past angry, Joseph. He’s desperate. Clara’s not coming for the party, and now you’re saying you won’t wear the red.” Lisa looked at her son. “Joseph, you’re a man now. I don’t need to tell you what to do. You must make your own decisions.” Joseph braced his shoulders. “I’ll dance at the party, but I won’t wear the red. It’s too facey [sassy], with me teaching in the church school.” He picked up Lucas and walked out of the yard. When I told Lisa goodbye, I said, “Thank you, for all you’ve done to help me in this.” I blinked back tears and shook my head. “Five months to go. I’ll be back in late May, soon as spring semester is over.”

Building the Gaiunari June 1, 1989. Only weeks before the dugu (ancestor party) would begin, Lisa and I wanted to see how things were going with the gaiunari (celebration structure), so Amigos offered to sail us to the south land. He threw two large burlap bags into the dory. “Those are gifts from Marcia and me to the ancestor house,” he explained. “Wood pegs and vine cord.” “What are they for?” I asked. “Miss ­Margaret said she wanted things done the old way. That means no nails, no wire. These pegs and cord hold the building together.” “You and Marcia made these?” Amigos nodded. “That’s amazing. I am truly grateful, and I know Tas is.”

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At the site, white sand glistened in the morning sun. All brush had been cleared from the area. Only palm trees stood in the yard south of the building. Frank, Joseph, James Salivar, Tas, and a man I didn’t know were hard at work. Frank lifted a heavy bundle of palm fronds from his shoulder and dropped them in the yard. He had grown since my last visit to Larube. His gangly limbs angled like an awkward aardvark. “Hey, Moma Mar. Hope you brought us something cold to drink.” He wiped his sleeve across his face. “There’s a nice, freshwater stream up the hill there, but I miss ice.” “Wait a minute, and I’ll fetch you a glass of lemonade. Where’s Joseph?” Frank motioned to the hill behind the yard. “He’ll soon come. He’s bringing the last load of cane poles. Then we have to gather enough fronds for the roof. That’ll take another two, three days.” “Thank you for your hard work, Frank.” I hugged his bony shoulders. “Tas is proud of you.” Lisa called, “Moma Mar, come meet Phillip Reston.” She poured glasses of iced tea. “And you know James.” “Yes, happy to see you both.” Eight-­foot-­long cane poles clattered to the ground as Joseph said, “I hope that’s the last we need, Papa. It’s a long haul.” Tas squeezed his son’s arm. “I know it is. I remember lugging those devils for the first little house I built. Good job, Joseph.” He turned to the rest of us. “Since you ladies brought a picnic lunch, I declare this afternoon a holiday. We all deserve a rest.” Like his half-­brother, Tas, Phillip was tall and broad shouldered. A slight British accent flavored his speech. “Sounds good to me.” Phillip handed his empty glass to Lisa. “Come, Moma Mar, I’ll show you around.” We entered the gaiunari, which had been framed with cane poles. The walls were a double layer of overlapping palm fronds, stobbed into the ground. The main hall was about thirty by thirty feet with a sand floor. There were north and south doors. Planks, resting on logs, made benches that lined the walls. “Wow,” I gasped. “This is impressive. I’ve learned that west is a symbol of death and the grave, and the ancestors come from the east, out of Sari. What about north and south?” I pointed to the doors. Phillip scratched his chin. “Hadn’t thought about it. It’s always been this way. The south yard is where guests hang their hammocks. And we will build a cook shed out there. I guess it speaks of safety and the old ways. “And north?” “Ah. That door is usually shut. Our enemies always lie to the north.”

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He laughed. “One time, when I was a kid about Frank’s age, we were unloading supplies from a wagon. Everyone took their load around through the front. The north door was closer, so I carried my sack toward it. Boy, did I get yelled at.” “That screen at the west end of the hall?” I asked. “It shuts off the gule?” Phillip grinned. “Yep, that’s where we ‘red shirts’ will take a rest in our hammocks, when dugu is in full swing.” So, I thought, even when we’re resting, we’ll be the buffer between the grave and the living. Tas called, “Hey, Phillip, stop flirting with Moma Mar. You two come on out to the dibasi. Lisa brought fried chicken.” Later, he flopped into a hammock that was strung between palm trees. The rest of us stretched out in the shade. “This is a beautiful place,” I said. “I’m sure C ­ ervantes will like it.” “He damn well better,” Tas muttered under his breath. “Watch yourself, Tas,” Phillip warned. “The first ones are already here. I felt them come yesterday.” “What you talking about?” Frank sat up straight and stared at the door of the gaiunari. “What you mean, they’re here?” “They don’t all sail the same dory, Frank,” Phillip explained. “Different ones will be coming in all along now.” Frank shuddered. “What’s the matter, brother?” Joseph teased. “You expecting a visitor? Maybe you’ve been up to something they know about?” “No,” Frank declared. “I bet Frank’s the first one hit,” Joseph continued. “I sure want to see that.” Tas raised up. “As a matter of fact, I think I see one just behind you.” Frank jumped and looked around. “Where?” “All right, enough,” Lisa said. “Leave the boy alone, Tas. It’s more likely you’ll get hit first.” “Not me, Lisa. I’ve been a good boy.” He lay back in the hammock. “Now I’m going to take a little nap. Tomorrow it’s back to work.” Bam! The hammock rope snapped, and Tas dropped to the sand in a heap. “Hello there, ancestors!” James laughed as he helped Tas to his feet. “Damn you, James,” Tas grinned, “you tricked me, didn’t you?” “I swear I didn’t, Tas,” he declared. “I’ve been resting in that hammock for three days now, and you’re no heavier than I am.” “Okay,” Tas laughed. “Last man in the sea gets no rations tonight.” The men stripped at the water’s edge and dove into the waves. Next day back in Larube, I learned that Frank wasn’t the only one who was teased about spirits. Lisa and I prepared huduit, the Garifuna version

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of a west Africa dish, for the main meal, while Dorothy cleaned up after breakfast. Lisa tossed a peeled yam into the stew pot and then looked at her daughter. “You sailing boats today?” she asked. “Ma?” Dorothy, startled, turned to her. “You sailing boats? For true you’re not washing dishes. Hurry up. Moma Mar and I have things to do.” “Yes, Ma. Sorry.” Dorothy scrubbed at another plate. “Ma, you think Lucas got evil eye?” “What makes you ask that?” “That time, when Lucas was so sick, you said maybe evil eye.” Lisa chuckled. “You don’t miss much do you, little girl?” Dorothy asked again, “What’s it like, the evil eye, Ma?” “Well, if someone has that meanness in them, they can put it on you just by looking at you. Or so folks say. That’s why sometimes you see babies have a blue spot on their forehead. It’s to guard them from the evil eye.” “Did you put a blue spot on me, Ma?” “No, Dorothy, I didn’t reckon anyone would want to hurt you. If folks act right, then other people don’t want to hurt them. Besides, most times evil eye goes to grown people.” “What’s it like?” Dorothy persisted. “Why you want to know all this, Dorothy?” Lisa asked. “Get on with the dishes.” “Because sometimes Elizabeth and her friends tell me, ‘Mind yourself or I’ll put the eye on you.’ ” “Oh. They’re just teasing, Dorothy, playing. If someone really has evil eye, he’s not going to say it.” Lisa examined the dishes Dorothy had stacked on our work table. “No grease, Ma.” “No grease, Dorothy,” Lisa agreed. That afternoon, I tossed two coconut husks onto the fire and watched Dorothy toe a hopscotch block into the backyard sand. She threw a pebble to see where she would start, then looked at me and explained. “If I practice a lot, then maybe I can win when Elizabeth comes home.” She hopped into the first square and concentrated on her next jump. But then, she frowned and said, “Moma Mar, maybe Lucas tranced.” “Did what?” I asked, puzzled by the child’s remark. “Maybe somebody made Lucas trance.” “Now where did you get such an idea?” “Sometimes Elizabeth and Mary say they’re going to trance me if I don’t leave them alone.”

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I laughed. “They’re teasing again, Dorothy. They can’t trance you. Just spirits do that to you.” Dorothy’s eyes opened wide. “When’s a spirit going to trance me, Moma Mar?” “Not for a long, long time, I hope.” “Does it hurt, Moma Mar, to trance? Elizabeth said I’d jump around and bawl. Does it, Moma Mar? Does it hurt?” Dorothy persisted. “If the spirit lashes you, it hurts. Just like when Lisa switches your legs. But that won’t happen if you behave yourself. Folks get lashed when they do wrong.” I smiled at the bright, inquisitive child. “Do you remember when Santa tranced Elizabeth?” “Yeess.” “Well, I remember that you were scared, but I didn’t see Elizabeth get a lashing.” Dorothy considered my answer, grinned at me, then jumped to the next hopscotch blocks.

Terese Arrives One week before the dugu was to start, Tas pointed to the horizon and said to me, “That’s James Salivar’s dory. Recognize it?” I squinted. “No, I lack your seaman’s eyes.” “See there? He’s standing in the stern, and . . . wait a minute. There’s a woman sitting in front of him. It may be Reese. I’m not sure, it’s been so many years.” Tas had told me how, in his late teens, he had a big argument with his mother, M ­ argaret. He had run away to Honduras to find his father’s family. It was there he met Terese, Delores’s daughter. They had become great friends. Terese stood up as the dory nudged into the sand. “Tas, you don’t look much better than the first time I saw you.” She laughed. “Still wearing short pants and no proper shoes.” “Reese!” Tas waded into the water. He reached his hand to her; but instead of climbing into the dory, he yanked her arm and pulled her into the sea with him. “What the hell?” Reese came up spluttering water. She struck out at Tas. He grabbed her arms and held her close to him. “Reese, Reese. I’m so glad you came.” Terese relaxed. “Okay, Tas. We’re even. I won’t treat you like a boy from the bush again.”

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“If you two are finished saying hello,” James said, “I’ll help Terese with her baskets.” “What about you, James?” Tas asked. “You’re staying too, aren’t you?” “I’ll be back for the dancing, but I’m making a sail to Belize City in the meantime. Just stopped to deliver Terese.” James pulled the prow of his dory onto the beach. “Best I can fig­ure, there will be thirty or thirty-­ five coming from the Spanish side. I told the men to watch for signal fires south of Larube.” “I’ll go tell Lisa you are here,” I said, and went to the house. “Hurry,” Lisa urged Frank and Elizabeth, as we ran to the beach. She smoothed back her hair and straightened her skirt. “We must greet Reese quick as we can.” She paused to take a breath. “You remember now, next to Santa, Tas loved her best.” Elizabeth and Frank stopped on shore and stared at Terese, a trim, grace­ ful fig­ure, dignified in spite of the water dripping over her face and the crumpled ruffles of her Spanish-­styled skirt. She looked Frank over and demanded. “What’s your name?” “Frank Diego.” Terese gazed at him for a moment, then said, “I reckon you’ll call me Aunt Reese.” She shivered as the morning breeze chilled through her wet clothes. “To God, I don’t know what Tas is thinking about, letting you stand here shaking,” Lisa said. She stepped out of her overskirt and wrapped it around Terese’s shoulders. “Come on, the fire’s ready. We’ll have you warmed up in a minute.” Lisa took her hand. “Don’t worry about your baskets. The children will take care of them.” As we entered the backyard Lisa called, “Dorothy, bring me a fresh gown. Hurry.” Terese stood in front of the fire. “I’m okay, Lisa. You are Lisa, aren’t you?” “Yes. And this is Moma Mar, Khandi’s adopted daughter.” “Hello,” I said. “We’re happy that you have come.” Lisa instructed, “You can go just there into the bath stall and change to a dry gown. Then I have hot tea for you.” Dorothy watched Terese toweling her hair. “How’d you get so wet?” “Dorothy, be quiet,” Lisa reprimanded. “It’s all right, Lisa. I’ve raised children, too.” She turned to Dorothy. “Tas pulled me into the sea.” “Papa pulled you into the sea? Why?”

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Terese accepted a cup of tea from Lisa. “Guess we had an old score to settle before the party.” “What kind of score? You mean like Elizabeth and I play hopscotch?” Terese sipped her tea. “Something like that. A long time ago we played a game, but Tas left before he got his last turn. We needed to finish the round.” “Who won?” Terese handed her empty cup to me. “I’d say we both won, little girl. We both won.” Next dawn, Lisa called, “Reese, how’s the morning?” She twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head. “What did you dream?” “Only pleasure, sister-­in-­law, only pleasure.” Terese walked to the back porch, splashed water into her mouth, gargled, and spit it over the rail. “Oh, sorry, Moma Mar, I didn’t see you standing down there in the yard.” “No problem,” I answered. Reese said to me, “You look like you’re ready for serious work. What’s the program?” “Two more days of digging cassava, then grating on Monday. That’ll finish it off except for the baking.” “I’ll be ready in two minutes.” Reese went to the corner of the house that had been assigned to her. She pulled on a tattered pair of her husband’s trousers and a long-­sleeved shirt. She dug around in her baskets and drew out a frayed pair of rubber boots. “I didn’t think to bring a machete.” “You can use Tas’s,” Lisa offered, “but you know, you don’t have to do this. You’re not called until next week.” “Fetch the machete, Lisa. I know what I’m called to do.” The three of us walked to the farm and went to work. Lisa swung her machete, breaking a stalk away from the tubers. “What about Clara?” She looked over at Terese, who was working the row next to her. “She’s not coming. I went to Tegucigalpa to search her out. She says she doesn’t owe Tas, and she’s not coming.” “It’s not Tas she owes. It’s M ­ argaret calling for her.” “That’s her answer, Lisa. She’s not coming.” “What can he do, Reese? He’s beat before he starts.” “Just do the best we can. That’s all. It will work out.” Lisa frowned. “That’s what I keep telling Tas, but I’m having doubts, too.” “No time to doubt now, Lisa.” Terese pulled on another hill of cassava. “I’ll race you two to the end of the row.” We turned our attention to harvesting for the Old People’s party.

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That evening, Tas and I stood at the top of the back steps listening to Lisa and his sister laughing in the cook shed. “Those two sure are hitting it off,” he said. “They haven’t stopped swapping stories since Reese got here.” As we came down the stairs, he called, “Hey, you two, I’m going to be jealous if you’re not careful.” “You should be,” Terese answered. “I’ve decided to take Lisa home with me. I’m going to show her how to live the high life, Spanish style.” “What a way to talk, and you a married woman.” Tas grinned as he poured a cup of coffee. “Somebody might think you had a cheeky past.” “Talking about cheeky pasts, I was just telling Lisa about the time you and Angeline got caught . . .” “Enough, you two,” Lisa interrupted, “Frank and Elizabeth can hear your foolishness.”

Baking Day It’s Monday morning. Marcia, Virginia, Reese, and I sat under Lisa’s kitchen shed peeling cassava. Reese stood and said, “I’ll take the first turn.” She settled an oblong wooden container into the sand and placed a grater against one side of its trough. I tossed in a half-­dozen peeled cassava, and Reese leaned over the grater. It stood as tall as her navel. She sang a song as she rubbed the hard root up and down against the stone teeth of the board. “The man is gone. The man is gone, my sister. How can I know life, when the man is gone?” The rasp of the grinding cassava kept rhythm with the tune. “He was my way. I was his path. How can I know life, when the man is gone?” She placed a sec­ond hard, white root over the first, now thin, sliver. “Will I ever know love? Will I ever know life? The man is gone, my sister.” Reese shifted her weight from one foot to another and reached for the next tuber. The pulp ran down the grater and collected in the bottom of the trough. Amigos walked into the yard dragging a six-­foot-­long raguma (a tubular basket, called “the boa,” used to express liquid from cassava pulp) over his shoulder. Tas and Frank followed chanting, “Here comes the boa. Look out, girls, here comes the snake.” Amigos shook the end of the raguma at Elizabeth and Dorothy. They jumped back; and Frank warned “Look out, Dorothy! If it catches you, it’ll squeeze the juice out of you! Just like it eats cassava!” Marcia pushed a handful of the dripping pulp into the opening at the top of the snake-­shaped woven basket. She worked the wet mass down

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inside the flexible boa. “Okay, Tas, hold it up in the middle and help me shake it down.” He lifted the raguma, and Marcia flipped the cylindrical tube in wavelike motions, working the pulp toward its end. She continued the process until the raguma was full. “We’re ready, Amigos,” she called. “Okay, Frank, you carry the tail while I handle the mouth.” Amigos hoisted the wobbling front end of the basket and slipped its woven loop over the limb of a tree. Then he shoved a four-­foot pole through the bottom loop and asked, “Who wants to swing first?” “Me, me, me!” Dorothy screamed. “Hey now, we’ll take turns and balance the weight. Frank, you sit on this end and hold Dorothy in your lap. Elizabeth, you hop on the other side.” The children lifted their legs and swung back and forth, as the cassava juice gushed out between the woven reeds. When the flow slackened, Amigos said, “Your time, Marcia and Miss Marlini.” Our additional weight expressed another gush of juice. After it slowed, Amigos and Tas sat on the pole, squeezing the last of the poisonous fluid from the pulp. “Next batch is ready,” Reese called, as she eased her head backward and flexed her spine. “Your turn, Virginia, my asshole is aching.” Virginia settled her heels into the sand and bent over the grater. It would take most of the day to prepare all of the cassava. The next morning, I straddled a bench and pulled a wooden trough between my spread knees. I laid a circular, woven cane sieve over the trough. Terese placed onto the sieve a chunk of the semi-­dry casava pulp we had worked the day before. As I rubbed it across the sharp-­edged reeds, the mass broke into small grains of meal that dropped through the strips of cane into the trough. Because we were using her cook shed, Lisa took charge of the baking. The red-­hot fire gave off an even, intense heat. Lisa set a round, iron griddle over the logs and then sprinkled a light, powdery layer of meal over its hot surface. She added a sec­ond and third layer, and smoothed them with a wood paddle, shaping a perfect circle of bread that slowly dried and browned around the edge. Phillip Reston walked into the backyard and made a courtly bow. “Morn­ ing, ladies. Glad to see the baking crew is up and at it.” He turned to Terese. “I’m guessing you are Reese. If so, I’m your half-­brother, Phillip.” Terese grinned. “Well now, this is turning into a family introduction, as well as a reunion.” Phillip nodded. “And more to come. If you’ll walk with me over to the seamstress’s house, I’ll introduce you to the Lidisi contingent.” He turned

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to me and explained. “They arrived at the south land yesterday afternoon. I brought them up to collect their uniforms. We’ll sail back when they ­finish.” Terese slapped on her sun hat and said, “Fine. Let’s go, brother.” I breathed a sigh of relief as I mentally checked off another job completed. Lisa placed her left hand in the center of the cooking bread and slid the paddle under the browned side of the two-­foot disk. With a twist of her wrist, she flipped the uncooked side high in the air, then back onto the hot griddle. “Glad to hear some good news.” She drew her machete across the bread, marking pie-­shaped wedges in the disk. “If the grandchildren would behave, things might be looking up.” Lisa lifted the bread from the griddle, set it on a bench to cure in the sun, reached for more meal, and started another disk. At noon, Marcia and Virginia came to help with the baking. Terese returned and took a turn at the sieve. Lisa considered the rows of bread. “I think those first ones are ready to store.” She wiped away sweat running down her neck. “Wheew. This heat is getting to me.” “Go rest in the shade,” Marcia said. “I’ll finish it out.” “Right,” I said. “You take the fire, and I’ll pack the bread.” Virginia arranged clean cloths into twelve baskets; and I stacked each one full with the dry disks. The lightweight cassava bread is pure carbohydrate, stores well up to six months, and is essential in the sailors’ gear. However, to me, it looks and tastes like white styrofoam. The wild cassava is lethal if not processed properly. The cyanic acid in the juice expressed through the raguma is dissipated during baking. Minute traces of the poison left in the bread give the Garinagu, in contrast to the other ethnic groups, resistance to malaria.

Moving Day Wednesday was moving day. We shut down the Diego house in Larube and transported supplies to the south land. James Salivar, Phillip Reston, and Tas sailed two round trips. Their cargos included three hogs, twelve baskets of cassava bread, one basket of ginger root, coffee beans, six baskets of yams (and another six filled with cocoa yams), Lisa’s pots and pans (plus those borrowed from neighbors), extraneous utensils, and six passengers. First priority was to load the pigs, one to each dory. It took the three boatmen, plus Amigos, to load the hogs. The person who had raised the

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beast, Tas with “­Cervantes” for instance, petted and held the head of the huge animal, while the other three men toppled it over on its side. They lashed the front and hind legs and ran cane poles between its feet and body. “On count of three, we lift,” Tas said. “One, two, three.” The pig squealed a complaint that echoed across Larube and did not stop. “Holy Mother,” Phillip grunted. “You and Tas got the front end?” James asked. “Yeah,” Amigos answered, as sweat popped his brow. The men groaned and cursed under their breath as they hauled the frantic beast from its pen to the beach. Attracted by the cries of the pig, neighborhood children ran to watch the circus. Once the pig was laid in the dory, we packed supplies around and over the squealing passenger. As the three dories sailed south, I chuckled. If there is anyone in Larube who hadn’t heard about the party, he sure knows it now. For the sec­ond trip, Lisa and Dorothy sailed with Tas. Frank and Reese went with Phillip, and Elizabeth and I climbed into James’s dory. Each craft was packed to its gunnels with supplies. Elizabeth fidgeted. “Mr. James, how many people are there?” she asked. “Moma Mar, what’s it look like?” “If you keep jumping around,” James warned, “you’re bound to tilt us over.” “Elizabeth, sit still,” I ordered. “Then we’ll tell you about it.” After that, James said, “Well, you know your kin from Lidisi have arrived. And five or six other friends came in from there this morning.” He pulled ropes to adjust the sails. “Best I understand, some folks from Larube will come tomorrow for the ‘Bringing In.’ Then lots more will be there when we present the fowl.” An hour later, James turned the sails and beached our dory at the south land. The two wives I’d met in Lidisi sat under the dibasi with three other women I did not know. One or two hammocks swung between every pair of palms in the south yard. Additional reed sleeping mats were piled nearby. Clearly, the guests from Honduras had staked out their personal spaces. A dozen or so barefoot men, pants rolled up to their knees, unloaded supplies from the dories and stacked them in an open-­sided shed that stood in the center of the yard. Next to this, two other women shoved small logs into traditional adobe cook stoves. The first woman greeted me, “Idebiangi?” “How are you?”

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She grinned when I answered, “Ouwatigat.” “Nothing bad happening.” The sec­ond woman gushed in Garifuna, “That makes you ‘Moma Mar,’ for sure. We have heard about you.” “Not all bad, I hope.” Then thought, Take notice. You will be watched. The first woman spoke again. “I am Victoria. I knew ­Cervantes and ­Margaret from when I was a little girl.” She took my arm. “Come. Meet my husband.” Farther to the back of the yard, a broad-­limbed hardwood tree shaded a large work table. Victoria’s husband scaled and gutted a red snapper, then tossed it on a pile of dressed fish. “Glad to meet you.” He wiped his palm on the seat of his pants and extended a hand. “Victoria and I are acting as cooks for this meal. Won’t be long before you’ll have something to eat.” “Thank you, I look forward to it.” Just then I heard a familiar “oink.” “­Cervantes” and the other two hogs were tied to large saplings at the very back of the yard. Not far from them was a large fire pit where I knew they would eventually be roasted. Phillip tapped my shoulder. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you. We need to get you set in the gule.” As we walked to the south door of the ancestors’ house, he pointed to two extra-­large hammocks roped to palms. “That’s where Lisa, Elizabeth, Frank and Dorothy will sleep. Close enough so Tas can keep an eye on them.” Inside the main hall, rolled-­up hammocks were tied to the rafters. This was where our uniformed kin from Lidisi and the three drummers would rest. I walked around a screen woven from palm fronds that separated the main hall from the gule. To my right, another screen enclosed the area to be used by the buyei and her helper. Phillip walked to the far end of the gule and pulled down my hammock. He sat in it, bounced up and down, and then grinned. “Don’t want the ancestors dumping you out of this one.” Ah hah, I thought. You are the one who tricked Tas when we were here for the picnic. Phillip pointed to my basket that had been placed in the corner. “Tas said you would want to be tucked back here, so you could write your notes. But I think he’s trying to keep me away from you.” I laughed. We both knew that any sort of flirtation, or intimation of sex, was absolutely forbidden during dugu. “And where will you hang your hat?” Phillip stepped off the space. “Next to you is Terese, then Tas.” He pointed to the rafters. “That would be Clara’s place. Then comes Joseph and, finally, yours truly.”

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“Thanks for your friendship, Phillip. It’s time for me to go meet and greet our guests.” That night, I thought about the last year and a half of preparation. Everything aimed at tomorrow morning. First day of dugu. Thursday morning, Tas and I stood in the dibasi, drinking our morning cups of coffee. The sand yard gleamed pure and clean, reflecting pink in the rising sun. “You ready for this?” he asked me. “To be honest, I’m scared it won’t work but glad the waiting is over.” “Well,” he shrugged, “we’ll soon find out. Helene should be here in another hour.” We waited on the beach as the first dories from Larube arrived. Joseph led the way. He and the three drummers were surrounded by additional supplies. Next, Amigos sailed Helene to shore. She waved to us and called greetings. Celia, the buyei’s assistant, perched on a mound of supplies in the third dory. “Bring it close to shore,” she instructed. “I can’t allow none of this to get wet.” She motioned to a fourth boat. “Come up close beside us. Watch yourself!” she warned as waves lapped its sides. “Nebu will rail up if we don’t do this to suit her.” From north and south, dories and canoes sailed toward the beach. Friends and relatives arrived for the Old Ones’ party. One boat after another landed, full of supplies and personal possessions the participants would need for the celebration. Red cocks flapped their wings and crowed, as they were tied to any available tree or stake. Tas and I walked around the ancestors’ house with Helene while she inspected the building. She examined the gule, then pulled down on a rafter with her full weight. “You don’t worry about those, Nebu,” Tas said. “Phillip and I tested every one. They’ll support the hammocks and everything else you stack on them.” Celia shouted orders. “Put that tub here! Place that table there! That’s Nebu’s basket. It goes in this corner!” The buyei sat in the gule, a calm eye in the storm. “Anything you need, Nebu?” Tas asked. “Not at the moment, Tas.” Helene looked around her. “I’ll clean the hall, then we’ll start the ‘bringing in.’ ” I asked her, “What should I do next?” “Tell the lines to get their uguagi ready,” she instructed. “A candle, two dollars, and a chap of rum in each.”

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An hour later Helene sent everyone from the ancestors’ house except Tas, Celia, and myself. Tas picked up scraps of trash that had fallen while the supplies were unpacked. Celia swept the sand floor and closed the windows and doors. We sprinkled the floor with water and lime juice, settling the dust. The south land became quiet as the participants in the yard waited. The buyei blew rum across Tas’s and my head and shoulders to see if a troublesome spirit might come forth to make additional demands. She nodded with satisfaction when we stood quietly, unperturbed. Then, Helene blew the cleansing bue smoke into every corner and at every opening of the building. Finally, satisfied that all was ready, she opened the front door and called for the drummers. “Okay, folks,” Tas instructed, “the lines lead in.” Terese and I placed large baskets of cassava bread on our heads and walked toward the east door. My feet picked up the rhythm of the drums as I crossed under the dibasi and stepped inside the hall. Phillip, Joseph and Tas followed, each bearing heavy loads. Our Lidisi kin were next. Then Lisa, Elizabeth, and Dorothy. Members of the choir followed. Other guests picked up parcels and joined the procession. They carried heavy sacks of flour, sugar, salt, and the rudders of the dories, every supply we would use in the party. We danced a counterclockwise circle in the presentation. After one rotation, the representatives of the lines set our gifts in the middle of the hall and hung our promissory baskets on pegs scattered along the walls. Helene picked up the beat with her shakers and the guests sang. “Sail the sea, Grandmother. Crest the waves, Grandfather. We have built your house. Come dance with us. The cocks will crow.” I noticed that Dorothy was no longer beside Lisa. I looked around and saw Tas smiling as he watched his daughter dance slowly toward the drums. She moved with the controlled grace of an adult, not the gangly awkwardness of a child. “Who is it?” Lisa hissed at Tas. “I don’t know. But let her be,” he answered. “See, she’s dancing the old one.” Helene played for the child, watching her carefully. She looked across the room to us and nodded reassuringly. “They’re coming, Lisa!” Tas sighed with relief. “They’ve heard our call. The Old Ones are on their way.” The last of the presentations completed the circle, and the drummers tapped a halt to the dance. Guests streamed out of the hall, fanning them-

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selves, greeting friends, checking their hammock lines. Inside, Celia blew bue into each container before the men stored the tub or basket in the ­rafters. A few minutes later, Dorothy, who was sitting in Lisa’s lap, yawned, rubbed her eyes and said, “Ma, guess I took a nap.” After lunch, Terese pulled me aside. “Moma Mar, explain to me about Skipper. I know Lisa’s furious that he didn’t show. But what’s behind all this?” “From what I’ve been told, he’s always been a rogue. Seems he was a thorn in ­Margaret’s toe, always vexing her. Never would do what was his to do.” I hesitated, then continued. “Gossips tell me that he’s sired six or seven children who are walking this coast. But he’s never acknowledged one of them.” Terese nodded. “I’m sure that grates on Tas.” “Yes, and Skipper is supposed to be part of the fishing party tomorrow morning.” I shrugged. “I don’t know, Reese.” Tas spoke to Phillip. “Have I said how glad I am that you are here?” “No problem,” Phillip answered. “I’d have been hurt if Papa hadn’t called for me. I have to leave soon as the party is accepted.” “If it’s accepted,” Tas corrected. “We’re facing problems, man. Big problems, with Clara not coming and Skipper missing.” “You want me to take Skipper’s place tomorrow? It’s been years since I fished the keys, but I’ll do my best to bring in what the Old Ones want.” “Thanks, brother. But Helene and I agreed Frank should go.” By sundown everyone had been fed. In the evening, a Lidisi guest started an ancestor song. She sang alone for a few bars. Then the woman next to her picked up the tune. A man joined in. Line by line, all the participants in the ancestors’ house added to the melody. We did not sing loudly. That would come later, when we invited the Old Ones to join us in dance. Tas closed the doors as the men and women settled down to sleep. Finally, he turned out the last lantern that hung from a rafter above his hammock.

To the Keys I dozed but did not sleep deeply, waiting for a fowl to signal the approach of Friday dawn. Rrup-­a-­rup-­a-­rooo. The first call, I thought. Another cock flapped his wings and crowed. Orrk-­a-­ork-­ah-­owrroo. Okay fellows, yell it out. Your party has started. Tas lit a lantern, and I crawled out of my hammock and walked into the main hall. One by one the sleepy celebrants tied their hammocks to the rafters.

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Some slipped down to the beach for a swim. I stood at the south door and watched the yard come awake. Marie, a cook, lit the kitchen fires. Olivia, her partner, arranged calabash cups and buns on a table. “I fig­ure there’s at least fifty here now,” she said. “We’ll have to serve in shifts once the rest of the guests come.” Marie set out a container of sugar. “Helene said to fig­ure on at least two hundred for the main days.” “Jesus,” Olivia remarked, “where all these people coming from?” “­Cervantes and M ­ argaret had lots of friends. There’s s’posed to be at least fifty coming from Honduras.” “And don’t forget Santa,” a third cook added. “People loved her, even if she was a hellion.” The soon to be “red shirts,” and the fishing party, crowded into the gule. Helene distributed a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches, and a chap of rum to each man and woman who would sail to the keys. They would collect the special food for the ancestors’ banquet. The buyei prayed. “Grandparents, they are coming to meet you on the keys. Guide your children to find the goods you want for your banquet. Protect them, and follow them home. Grandparents, we will be waiting for you and them. We have prepared the party for you.” In the main hall, Celia distributed white ribbons, “fans,” that celebrants would flutter as they danced. The drummers tied the cotton strips to their drums, while supplies for the fishing party were placed in a mound at the center of the hall. Rmm-­pa-­pah! The lead drummer called for the participants. One after another, they circled the mound of supplies, then lifted parcels to their heads. Helene and the drummers marched through the east door, leading the procession to the beach. She poured bottles of rum into the sea, blessing each dory while the choir sang, and the supplies were waded to the crafts. “Holy Mother!” Terese exclaimed, nudging me. “Look at that!” I gawked, dumfounded, as Skipper staggered down the beach toward our group. The people moved aside when he stumbled forward and then collapsed at the buyei’s feet. “Mata muerta, dead man,” someone laughed in the crowd. Tas started to move to his brother; but Terese held his arm. “Leave him. What’s happening there is between Skipper and the Old Ones.” Helene said to Frank and Miguel, “Put him in your dory.” “Nebu?” Miguel asked, thinking that the fishing party had enough work without being saddled with a drunk like Skipper. “Pick him up. Put him in your dory,” Helene repeated.

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Once the fishermen and women were settled, Helene led the choir and drummers in song. The celebrants fluttered their fans, as the three dories set sail toward the keys. Which ancestors will come? I wondered. Will they be pleased with the party? Helene and the drummers wheeled away from the beach and led the procession back to the ancestor house. The buyei continued to shake her rattles as she marched through the hall into the gule. The drums stopped. In the yard, guests untied the cocks from stakes and bound their feet with vines. A hush fell over the yard as we waited to hear the buyei’s call. “Dungbe!” (“Drummers play!”) Tas and Phillip picked up their fowl and danced into the hall. Terese and I followed with ours. Soon, the building was packed with dancers circling in the presentation. I completed a round and tied my red rooster to a stake under a bench. Tas turned to me. “You okay, Moma Mar?” I nodded, and he said, “So far, so good. Now if . . .” He looked across the room. “A visitor’s coming.” He pointed to Phillip, who held a fowl on top of his head as he shuffled around the circle. We watched Phillip move to the center of the hall. He bent down, and placed the cock on the floor. As he rose, his body seemed to shrink, and the expression on his face changed. He looked about him and said to Terese in a female voice, “Bring me my overskirt.” Elizabeth giggled nervously as Phillip minced toward her. “That’s a pretty scarf, child. I want to wear it.” Phillip waited, while Elizabeth tried to tie the scarf, then shook his head irritably. “Tie it straight. I don’t like your fancy new styles,” he complained. “Where’s Lisa?” He looked around the crowd. “Call my daughter-­in-­law?” “I’m coming, Aunt M ­ argaret,” Lisa answered. “I was fetching a skirt for you.” She hurried to Phillip and held up two of her own skirts. “Which one you want?” “The blue check,” Phillip said. He stepped into the skirt and tied its belt around his waist. Terese helped him roll his trouser legs up above his knees. “Now then, that’s better,” he remarked, seeming to be satisfied. The drummers began the next set of songs. “She’s not riled up,” I said to Tas, as we stood watching M ­ argaret dance in the circle. “You don’t know her. Just wait, she’ll strike,” Tas said. “Good, Tas,” Helene said as we entered the altar room. “I was just going to send for you.” “What’s up, Nebu?” “It’s time to build the ancestors’ altar. You should fetch live sand from

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the beach. Two buckets full will do it. And did you bring the remembrances?” “Lisa has them. The buckle from Pa’s belt, and some things that belonged to Ma and Santa. “Okay, bring the sand, and I’ll show you where to build the mound.” Tas picked up the buckets but stopped as he heard his name called in the main hall. “Portacio, where’s my son? Portacio?” Helene raised an eyebrow at Tas. “Guess you better go see to Miss ­Margaret. I’ll send Joseph for the sand.” “Portacio?” ­Margaret called again. “I’m here, Ma.” Tas walked to the M ­ argaret-­possessed Phillip. “Where you been? Don’t you know I want to dance with you?” M ­ argaret grumbled. “Ma, I was in the back room.” “I want to dance with my grandchildren.” M ­ argaret jammed her hands onto her hips and scowled at Tas. “Where is Clara?” She looked around the crowd and snorted. “Why didn’t you obey me?” “I sent for Clara, Ma. She wrote that she wouldn’t come.” “I said one granddaughter.” M ­ argaret stomped her foot. “Elizabeth’s here, Ma. My daughter.” Tas signaled for Lisa to bring Elizabeth to the center of the hall. “See, Ma. Elizabeth’s here.” He gripped the frightened girl’s arm. ­Margaret cocked her head and stared at Elizabeth. “She’s a pretty one, all right.” Then she scowled again. “But she’s not the one I said. I want Clara,” ­Margaret yelled. Tas motioned for Elizabeth and Lisa to leave, then turned to Phillip. “I know you did, and I’ve done everything I could to get her here. I begged Clara to come. What more you want from me, woman?” Tas yelled back. “If you want Clara here, then you see to it. I’ve done all I can do to please you, Ma.” Tas strode through the crowd that had stood speechless, watching the performance. “Dungbe, drummers play,” Helene called. The choir sang, and dancers moved into the circle. Phillip slumped. “Take him to his hammock,” the buyei told two men in the audience. “I’ll check on him in a few minutes.” Helene signaled me to follow Tas. I found him sitting on the beach looking toward the keys. “How’s Phillip?” “Embarrassed, but okay.” Tas stared toward Sari. “I ruined it, Moma Mar.” “No, I don’t think so, Tas. You did the best you could.” I sat down beside him. “From what you’ve told me, your ma always was headstrong, but

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she was sensible too. And what you said was right. You’ve worked double for this party. The Old Ones have to realize there’s limits.” Tas shook his head. “I keep remembering how Ma and I got into the big argument, and I ran to Honduras. Years passed, before we spoke to each other again. Now this.” “What’s done is done, Tas.” I stood. “Come on, our work has just ­begun.” The deep, steady beat of the drums reverberated across the yard as we walked back from the beach. “You hard at it?” Tas asked Reese, who was grating ginger for the traditional wine. “Making the good stuff, brother.” She grinned. “It should be just right come Monday morning.” “How’s it going, my friends?” Tas called to the cooks as we walked by to check the pigs. “Fine, Tas. It’s under control,” Olivia answered. We went to the gule. “Pa,” Joseph called from where he squatted before a twelve-­inch-­high mound of sand, “what do you think?” He smoothed the top, then stood. “Looks fine to me, son. What does Nebu say?” “She poured some rum into the sand, while I mixed the buckle and things in it. Then I rounded it off.” “You’re back in time, Tas,” Helene said, handing him three white candles. “Place these and light them.” She turned to Joseph. “We’ll need a calabash with water and crossed sticks. You should set them on top of the mound.” The buyei placed a cotton-­stoppered bottle of rum next to the mound. She turned to me. “Who has the clothes, Moma Mar?” “I think Elizabeth is in charge of that. I’ll send for her.” “Pa,” Joseph said as he returned with the calabash, “I wanted to tell you that I changed my mind about wearing red. I asked Celia to dye my ­uniform.” “That’s fine, son, but what brought the change? You seemed stubborn set against it.” Joseph laid crossed sticks over the calabash. “Aunt Reece said I was acting like I didn’t love Lucas. She said even if I wasn’t willing to sacrifice for you, I’d be bringing later trouble to Lucas. Because I didn’t obey the Old Ones’ orders.” Tas nodded. “I’m glad you got your thinking straight, son.” Later, while I was back in my corner of the gule writing notes, I watched Tas bring Dorothy in to see the completed ancestors’ altar. “Oh, it’s pretty, Papa.” Dorothy pointed to the mound of sand that reflected sparks of light from the candles. “Yes it is, little one.” Tas held Dorothy’s hand as she gazed at the altar.

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“It has three candles. Ma sets out two at home.” “That’s right, Dorothy,” Tas explained. “At home, we set out one for my family and one for Lisa’s family. But this time is special for my people. So there’s three. One for my pa, one for my ma, and one for your Aunt Santa.” “Is Aunt Santa going to rail up, Papa?” “I don’t know, Dorothy. We’ll have to wait and see.” “I don’t like it when Elizabeth acts crazy, Papa.” Tas chuckled. “I don’t like it either, sweetheart. Maybe Santa won’t be that way this time. Maybe she’ll be happy with what we’re doing.” “Is that her dress?” Dorothy looked at a line of clothes hung behind the altar. “Yes, and next to it is a dress for Ma, and shirt and pants for Pa.” “And soap and water for them to bathe?” Dorothy pointed to the toilet articles below the clothes. “That’s right. It’s all there for them to refresh themselves.” “Can I go outside now, Papa?” “Of course, little one, go play.” Tas remained, watching the flickering candles, as if grateful for a moment of solitude. “What you doing sitting in here sulking?” Terese broke into Tas’s rev­erie. “James and Phillip are calling for you. They want to start an a­ rumahani.” “Okay, Reece. I’ll be there in a minute.” He stretched. “I wasn’t sulking, just thinking about Ma and Pa.” “It’s their party, Tas. Not a time for solemn faces. You’re supposed to be happy, dancing.” “Arumahani, huh? I thought that was lost forever.” “The men want to try, and they heard you know it.” “Right,” Tas answered as they walked into the main hall. “See if you can find Hector. I’ll look for Tate and ­Cacho. They know some of the words.” I put away my notes, eager to see an arumahani, the “men’s dance” that I had heard mentioned but never seen performed. Outside, Tas stopped to speak to the drummers who were resting in the shed. “Your beat sounds good, men. I can feel the Old Ones kicking to the steps.” “Don’t worry, Tas,” Juan assured him, “come Monday morning, the hall will be full of ancestors.” “I’ll be around with a little booster for tonight’s sets.” Tas pretended to lift a whiskey bottle to his mouth. “But right now we’re singing arumahani. Come join us if you want.”

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“Hey, Tas,” James called from across the yard, “come on. We’re ready to start.” Tas raised his arms toward the sky and yelled “whoop.” He ran to join the men who were waiting for the arumahani. “Hector, I’ll lead off. You want to follow?” Tas began the first song. “Oh, me, how will I go out, hey ho.” Hector called his response from the facing line. “How will I walk to the home of Lusina?” Soon the two arumahani lines stretched across the yard. The men, with arms around each other’s shoulders, rocked with a boatlike rhythm and listened to learn the words of each song. “It’s never like that in Larube,” Lisa remarked to me. “Not in San Pedro, either,” Terese said. “Seems they’re too busy. Now look at them.” Joseph placed a calabash filled with rum punch between the two lines of dancers, then stepped between Hector and C ­ acho. “He never would do that at home,” Lisa whispered to me. “The boy may make it, if he can stop worrying about what Creoles say.” Tas called the first line to the next song. “My dreams are far from me.” Hector answered. “My sleep is far from me . . .” After the cooks served supper, the drummers tapped the call for a circle dance. Hour after hour we trod a track in the sand. Right step forward, left step forward, right foot shuffle in the sand. Symbolically erasing sins the ancestors might have committed in their earthly existence. Repeat. Again and again. Unknown hands covered my eyes. But a familiar voice said, “Guess who?” “Uncle Moe.” I gave him a quick hug. “Haven’t seen you for a while.” “You don’t come to Nutmeg Alley these days,” his gentle way of reprimanding me. “Sorry, Uncle Moe. All my spare time’s been put on getting this party organized. Come, let’s sit down. Tell me what you’ve been up to.” He sat next to me on a bench. “I’m getting too old for much moving around. But I couldn’t let this go by without paying my respects.” “I’m so glad you came, Uncle Moe, and I truly appreciate your effort.” My old friend looked around the hall and said, “Tas still dances the same as the first time he went to an ancestor party.” He nodded. “Never will forget how some spirit tried to trance him that first time. But Tas kept on dancing just like now. His head thrown back, like he knows a secret joke, and his hands behind his back, like a cock that’s not disturbed.” Startled, I asked. “You see that, too? I thought I just imagined it.”

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“Oh no, ma’am.” He shook his head. “That’s not your imagination.” He grinned. “He’s a special person, even if he can be the most stubborn man in the world.” Again, Tas closed the shutters and doors and turned down the lanterns as the weary dancers settled into their hammocks. He slept soundly, except for a dream about the fishing party. “Uncle,” Frank said to Skipper’s prostrate body, “Supper’s ready. Wake up.” “Can’t make it.” Skipper retched onto the sand. “Can’t make it.” “Leave him, Frank,” Miguel called. “Come eat, boy. You’ve put in triple duty today.” “That’s for true,” Norma agreed. “All the key trips I’ve made, ain’t never seen man or boy produce more than Frank did this afternoon.” She patted Frank’s shoulder. “We’ve salted most of it. At the rate you’re going, tomorrow and Sunday morning will give us all we need.” “Is the pot ready, Norma?” Miguel asked. “It’s ready.” Miguel picked up a handful of cassava bread and dipped a large calabash of fish stew from the pot. He motioned to Frank to do the same. “There’s something Skipper’s supposed to do,” Miguel explained, “but I reckon you should do it for him.” “What’s that, Miguel?” “Well, you see, we’re out here on the keys. Yes, we’ve come to get the food, but also we’ve come to meet those sailing from Sari.” Miguel poured the stew from his bowl as he walked along the beach. He waited for Frank to do the same. “They’ve been sailing a long way now. They’re bound to be hungry.” Miguel scattered pieces of cassava bread along the shore, then pulled a flask of strong rum from his pocket. “Pour it for them, Frank.” Miguel handed the bottle to Frank. “Pour it so’s they know this food is meant for them.”

Unwelcome Guests Saturday morning, I woke to an undertone of grumbles in the yard, and realized that I was already sweating, though it was still early. I looked out the south door. The leaves hung still above the shed. “Ma, it itches, Ma,” I heard Dorothy whimper. “It’s sand flies,” Lisa said. “Let’s go bathe in the sea. The breeze should pick up soon.” The beach was crowded with women and men seeking relief from the insects, but the swarm followed them into the water, biting any parts of their bodies that weren’t wet. “Keep ducking your head,” Lisa instructed

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Dorothy as the child swatted at her ear. “They’ll slack off soon as the sun comes full bright.” On shore Tas called to Joseph and James, “Get the machetes, and cut green leaves. We need smoke fires.” “Won’t this pass soon as the breeze stirs?” Phillip asked as they laid wood for a fire. “You’ve lived in Belize City a long time, brother. You’ve forgotten how some days no breeze comes?” Phillip looked toward the keys. “Those poor devils will be going through hell out there.” “They’ll probably move to deep water,” Tas answered. Helene came to the front door and said, “Moma Mar, pass the word to the women that any who have long pants should wear them today. Dress restrictions are relaxed. And Phillip,” she added, “when the drums start at nine, you should offer a ration of rum to the dancers and choir.” She winked. “For cooling their skins, you understand, not drinking. The sun shone bright, and the clammy air clung to our skins. Around ten in the morning, the sand flies stopped their swarm. But by then the celebrants felt as if they had danced a full day. Sweat trickled down their backs and legs. They hurried out to the yard between sets and were slow to answer the drummers’ call to a new round. Tas, Terese, and I moved from one group to another, greeting newcomers and sharing a story or a joke to keep the party moving. During the noon meal an argument erupted in the kitchen shed. “Now what?” Tas asked. Lisa set her bowl of fish stew aside and said, “You stay here, finish your meal. Moma Mar and I will see to it.” “And you been wasting water,” Olivia yelled at Marie, “slopping it when you pour. It’s me that has to back that water. So you stop wasting it!” “Hey!” Lisa interrupted. “This is an ancestor party. You both know there’s to be no arguments at the party.” “Tell Olivia that,” snapped Marie. “She’s been trying to pick a fight all morning.” “What’s the problem, Olivia?” Lisa asked. “Marie’s been acting like she’s some kind of boss. I don’t take instructions from nobody but Helene.” Olivia flung her apron down. “I’m leaving! I’m not taking that kind of treatment from nobody!” “Olivia, wait!” Lisa ran after the cook as she strode toward a canoe. “You know you were called special for this party. What’s going to happen if you leave now?” Helene came to stand with Lisa and me. We watched Olivia push her

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canoe from shore. “Let her go,” the buyei said calmly. “She’ll be back. They will bring her back.” Tears welled in Lisa’s eyes. “Nebu, I’m trying, but to God, it seems like the Old Ones are working against Tas and Moma Mar.” As we walked back from shore, the buyei said, “You have to work and sweat for the ancestors, Lisa. We’re going to sweat a lot more before this one’s over. But I promise, we’ll all dance ‘the jubilation.’ ” After two hours of dancing, I was resting in the gule when I heard the rumble of outboard motors. I rolled out of my hammock and hurried to the beach. “They’re coming from Larube, Pa.” Joseph pointed to three boats cruising toward the south yard. “I warned Ma they’d come. That’s the Creoles, come to watch us pagans dance.” “So be it, son.” Tas braced his shoulders. “The way to win this one is never let down, never falter. I hope you don’t have doubts about the ancestors; but if you do, don’t show it to these visitors.” At four in the afternoon, Helene called for a circle-­dance. Tas led the line, and Joseph came right behind him. “Sing the song, Joseph,” Tas called as they reversed the circle. “Sing!” “We will wear the red, and we will dance with you,” Joseph sang out, ignoring the Creoles who peeped through the windows. Then he staggered. “Pa!” he yelled as he went into trance. Tas swung around and caught Joseph as he slumped. “Call Helene,” he said to a dancer. Whispers rushed around the hall. “They’ve knocked Joseph.” “Who is it?” “Don’t know, he’s still down.” The buyei looked at Joseph. “Bring him to the back room,” she said to the men. “Tas, you and Moma Mar come, too.” She signaled the lead drummer to continue the dance, then pulled her hammock from the rafters. “Lay him in there.” “Nebu?” Concern creased Tas’s brow. “Just stay quiet, Tas.” Helene picked up a flask of rum. “You two close your eyes. I’m going to spray you first.” The cold mist of alcohol settled on my face and shoulders. We waited, but no spirit came to possess us. “Okay, you ready?” Helene asked as she walked to Joseph, who lay unconscious in the hammock. “Blow it, Nebu,” Tas answered. “Let’s see who’s knocking.” Helene sprayed rum over Joseph’s inert body. In a moment he shook his

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head, opened his eyes, and said to Tas, “Son, I want a cigar. None of your puny cigarettes, I want a cigar.” “I’ll find one for you, Pa.” Tas muttered to me, “I should have remembered that Pa would ask for cigars.” He grabbed James’s arm. “You have any cigars? Pa’s asking for one.” “I have some in my gear.” James seemed pleased to have a special gift for that Old One. “I’ll bring it right away.” “Tas!” Lisa called as she tried to elbow her way through the Creole spectators who now blocked the doors. Tas forced his way through the crowd to his wife. “Please stand aside from the doors, ladies and gentlemen. Watch, if you insist, but please don’t interfere with our work.” “They say one of them’s possessed,” a stranger called. “Where is he?” Tas ignored the man. “What’s happened to Joseph?” Lisa asked as she entered the hall. “See for yourself, Lisa.” Tas grinned. “He’s asking me for cigars.” Later, ­Cervantes called for Phillip. “Your ma is coming, too,” he told him. “She’ll follow the fishing party.” ­Cervantes embraced Terese, and they danced together in the main hall. Soon afterward, he spoke to Tas again, “I’ll go rest now, son.” “Fine, Papa.” Tas settled Joseph into his hammock. The buyei smiled at Tas. “That one seems satisfied with what you’re doing. Just be sure you keep cigars handy.” Joseph slept soundly. When he woke, he didn’t remember what had happened. “Did I make a fool of myself, Pa?” he asked. “No, son,” Tas answered. “­Cervantes came to bring some messages, that’s all.” “Did I dance,” Joseph looked toward the hall, “out there?” “Yes. But you didn’t act out of hand. Nothing for you to be ashamed of.” “The Creoles still out there?” “Yep,” Tas answered. “We’re trying to discourage them. Maybe they’ll leave at sunset.” Tas swatted a mosquito. “Damn, I wish the breeze would pick up. We’ll need smoke fires again tonight.” “They think because it’s Saturday night, something big’s going to happen,” Joseph remarked. “They don’t know the real party doesn’t start until Monday.” “Who, the ‘stones’ or the mosquitoes?” Tas asked irritably. “Hey, Pa.” Joseph grinned. “I never heard you talk that way before. I didn’t know you knew that term, ‘stones.’ ”

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“Well I do!” Tas said. “Just ’cause I don’t use those words, doesn’t mean I’m ignorant about them.” At eight, the drummers called for a circle dance. Instead of the uninvited guests leaving, more boats had arrived, and the spectators now crowded around every door and window. Tas looked at the fowl tied under the benches. He said to me, “They’re wilting. And we won’t last ’til midnight, if they don’t stand back and give us some air in here.” “Excuse me,” Elizabeth said, trying to get through the door. “Excuse me.” “I was here first. Don’t try to push in front.” A Creole refused to move. “Excuse me,” Elizabeth persisted, “I’m trying to get into the hall.” Then we heard Terese speak in Spanish. “Stand back, you son of a bitch, and let her through!” We hurried to the door. “Take it light, Reece, most of them don’t understand Spanish.” “Well, get these fuckers out of here!” she said to her brother in Garifuna. “I’ve never seen such disrespect at an ancestor party. One of them asked me what it was like to dance with a dead man. ‘Did he have a hard on?’ she asked me! Can you imagine? I’m dancing with my own father and that bitch asks me such a question!” “Easy, Reece.” Tas led her into the back room. “You’re not dancing in San Pedro. It’s different in Larube. We’re right on the edge with them. We have to keep the peace between us, hard as they may make it.” Celia brought a calabash of rum. “Bathe your skin, Terese. Cool down. Getting riled won’t help nothing.” Reese swallowed a gulp of the rum, then splashed the rest on her arms and legs. James Salivar walked to the south door, and spoke to the spectators with the cultured English he had learned as a houseboy in a missionary’s home. “I take it you people are from Dangriga?” One of the visitors said, “That’s right. So what?” “I was wondering why you came here.” “We came to see this dance they call ‘dooo gooo,’ ” a brash youth yelled out. “I’m a Garif,” James answered, “and I assure you there is no dance called ‘dooo gooo.’ ” “Don’t try that with me, man,” a girl spoke up. “We been hearing for weeks how you people was going to dance for your ancestors.” James cleared his throat. “What we are trying to dance is the circle, but you’re making it difficult for us, blocking the doors. We have nothing to hide, and you’re welcome to watch; but if you persist in harassing us I’ll go

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for the police. This is private land you are standing on.” James continued, “You are welcome to watch, but don’t block the doors again.” The spectators shuffled back, and the drummers began the next set. Lisa fell into step behind Tas. His clenched fists told us he was fighting to control his anger. When the drums stopped, the participants remained inside the hall, fanning away bugs that swarmed around tired legs. Sweat poured down our bodies, aggravating the bites and heat rash we had acquired earlier in the day. As the next set ended, the dancers tried to escape the heat of the hall, but once again their way was blocked. A scuffle broke out as some of the men forced their way to the front shed. Lisa stomped to the door. “All right, you bloody people,” she yelled. “You either clear out of here right now, or we’ll call the police and press charges against every one of you. Now! Go on! Get!” “Bloody pagans!” a Creole girl yelled back. “Who the hell are you?” “Cool it, girl,” a wiser youth cautioned. “What she said is true. They could lock us up.” “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” another called. “Maybe the Englishman was telling the truth. Nothing special going to happen tonight.” He swatted a mosquito and scratched a bite. “I say let’s head back home. We don’t need to see them jump around no more.” “You mean I came way down here just to watch them shuffle around in a circle?” another asked. “I heard they make blood sacrifices, man. Ain’t seen none of that.” “Let’s go, man. I’ve had enough of this shit.” “Yeah, let’s go.” A few at a time, then all together, the Creoles walked down the beach to their boats. I listened to the fading roar of the outboard motors. The woman dancing in front of me flapped her arms and kicked out her legs, imitating the fowl that symbolize visiting ancestor-­spirits. Dance, you fowl. Crow, I thought. It’s your party. Come on now, Ancestors, we’re ready for you. The dancing stopped just before midnight, and we exhausted participants fell upon our mats and hammocks.

Clara Arrives The three drums hung from the rafters. Their beat would not call the ancestors again until Monday. This was to be a day of leisure. Skeptics might say that this was a concession to the Christians. But I remembered Khandi had said, “We tink Jesus Christ is one of de greetist hiuriha. Dats why we

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shows respect.” Many slept late Sunday morning. Several of the guests from Larube sailed home for the day. Joseph told Tas, “I’m going to see Frances and Lucas, but I’ll be back before sunset.” He turned to me. “Moma Mar, anything you want me to bring down when I come?” “No. Thank you. I think I’m set.” Tas frowned. “Joseph, I want you to start back early. You should leave Larube by noon.” “I’d planned to spend the day with Frances and Lucas, Papa.” “I don’t like the weather signs,” Tas explained. “There may be a storm.” I looked around. “It’s a beautiful day, sunny and a nice breeze.” Tas shook his head. “You see that dark line right at the horizon?” He pointed to the north. “You can’t trust it, son. It can move fast and cute, be on you before you know it.” Joseph nodded. “Okay, Pa. I’ll watch for it.” Guests washed their clothes in the freshwater stream. Others raked the yard, chopped wood, and waited for the last of the participants to arrive from Honduras. In the afternoon, Tas, James, and I stood together looking toward the keys. “You suppose they’ve seen it, Tas?” James asked, watching the distant horizon. “Yeah, they’ve seen it. They’re all experienced at sea.” Leaves shivered. A quick ripple that subsided unnoticed by those who did not know the sea. “The question is, how will they read it? Will they ride it out on the key, or try to run ahead of it today?” Lightning crazed the sky. “If it was me, I’d ride it out,” James answered. “Me too, any other time,” Tas agreed, “but that’s what’s worrying me. This isn’t just any time. They know we’re expecting them first thing tomorrow morning. A north storm held me out there for two days. They may decide to risk it and sail for home.” “Well at least everybody has arrived from Honduras.” James took a cheer­ful approach. “We don’t need to worry about them.” “Let’s walk up the beach,” Tas said. “Joseph should be here soon, if he did what I told him.” The first gust of the storm raised waves on the bay and rattled palm fronds as it crossed inland. “There he comes, Tas.” James pointed to a small craft bobbing up and down in the growing swells. “You can relax on that one.” “He’s carrying a passenger,” I said, as Joseph tacked toward shore. “Hey, that’s Olivia, the cook that ran away! Helene said she’d be back.”

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Olivia jumped from the boat before Joseph had it beached. She ran toward the kitchen shed. “To God, Pa, I thought Olivia was going to roll us over.” Joseph stared after her. “She’s been jumping around and screaming all the way down.” “What happened?” “She was waiting on the beach when I started back. Seems the ancestors began whipping her this morning, and they said they’d keep on lashing her ’til she reached the kitchen shed.” “Well, that’s another problem solved.” James slapped Tas on the back. “Keep faith, man, it’s going to . . .” James broke off and pointed to the opposite end of the yard where Phillip and Reese were wading into the water, working their way to a dory that wallowed in the swells. “Who’s that, now?” “Someone else running for shelter,” Tas said. “I’ll go welcome them.” “Wait a minute!” James studied the people climbing out of the dory. “What’s the matter?” Tas asked. A woman stood knee deep in water, looking toward the ancestor house, then at Reese and Phillip. “You see that young one looking around?” James asked. Tas nodded. “She’s looking for you, my friend. Clara has come to the party.” Tas gasped. “You sure?” “Of course I’m sure.” James pointed to Terese talking with the young woman. “Look, Reece knows Clara.” Tas turned on his heels and walked toward the ancestor house. “Hey,” James called after him, “where you going? Isn’t this what you asked for?” “Of course it is, James.” Tas struggled to control his voice. “But now that it’s happened, I’m not sure I’m ready for it.” Tas knew that I was seated in my dark corner of the gule. He waited in front of the ancestors’ altar. We could hear Lisa and Reece helping Clara change into a dry gown. Her braids were still tousled as she stepped into the room. “Tas?” Clara, hands on hips, waited for her uncle to turn and look at her. “Come in, Clara. Have a seat.” Clara stared at the mound where three candles burned. “It’s beautiful.” “Take a seat, Clara.” Tas pointed to a stool. “Don’t rush yourself. Let’s both try to relax.” She sat down and stared at her uncle. “What you thinking?” he asked. “You’re bigger than I imagined.” “I’m not feeling big right now.” Clara looked away from him. “Guess I should say it straight to you, so’s

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there no misunderstanding.” Her chin jutted. “I didn’t come here for you. The way I see it, I don’t owe you anything.” “Why did you come?” Clara pointed to the ancestors’ mound. “They forced me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” “What happened?” “I wasn’t thinking about you or any of this. I was eating supper, and I sucked a fish bone into my throat. Tried the usual. Dry bread, gagged with my finger down my throat, you know. But it wouldn’t turn loose. So I went to an infirmary.” Clara pulled at her unruly braids. “Well, they probed and pinched, but they couldn’t get hold of it. ‘Go home,’ they told me. ‘Most likely it will dissolve and turn loose itself.’ By Thursday morning I could barely swallow. So I went to the hospital. ‘Oh, there’s a bad abscess,’ they said. ‘We’ll have to operate.’ ” Clara fell silent, and Tas waited. “Then I heard ancestor songs.” She hummed, “‘Sail close, you beautiful daughter . . .’ you know that one, Tas?” He nodded. “I don’t know where they came from, but right there in that hospital, I heard ancestor songs. The doctors are talking how they’ll schedule the operation for that afternoon, but I’m hearing, ‘Beach the dory and . . .’ So I walked out of there, and caught a bus for Tela.” Clara looked at her uncle. “You know Tela, Tas?” He nodded. “A long time ago, I knew Tela.” “I caught a lory to San Pedro. Went looking for the buyei that lives there. Friday afternoon he told me what I already guessed. It was the Old People molesting me.” Listening to Clara’s story, I remembered Friday. When Tas had lost his temper and yelled at the M ­ argaret-­possessed Phillip. “Then what happened?” Tas asked. “He said if I was ready to go to their party, he’d help me. Gave me something to drink.” Clara gripped her throat. “I vomited, and vomited, and vomited. And when I stopped, the bone was gone from my throat. Soon as I caught myself up, I went looking for a dory coming this way. We spent last night on the first key inside the reef.” Tas stared at his niece. “Ma’s going to be real happy that you’re here, Clara.” He stood up. “And so am I.”

The Adugahatia The storm passed during the night. At five, Celia woke those of us who were to wear red. “Time to dress, ladies and gentlemen. Go bathe at the beach, then I’ll have your clothes ready.”

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By six, we were dressed in red. Cotton tops and drawstring skirts or pants dyed with Bixa Orellana. “Hey, Pa, this outfit is the same color as my red rooster.” Joseph adjusted the neckline of his top. Tas grinned. “Yep. From here out, you and that cock are close kin.” In former times, the red pollen was applied to the hosts’ bodies. This is somewhat like waving a red flag at a bull. The idea is to make oneself vulnerable to possession, to invite an ancestor to manifest if he/she desires. It is rather like saying, “If you have any gripes or unfinished business, let us hear about it now. So that you won’t molest us after this is over.” But the red also attracts malicious spirits. Therefore a “red shirt” should not step out of the hall unless accompanied by two other kinsmen. Celia distributed ribbons of the red cloth to us and the drummers. Then we waited for Helene to signal that it was time to go to the beach. Outside the hall, the guests rolled up their hammocks, straightened the yard, and looked east, waiting for a signal from the fishing party. ­Cacho ran toward the ancestor’s house. “Tas! Tas! They’re coming! Three boats! Their flags are flying!” The buyei led the procession to the beach. She wore a red turban and carried her shakers. Red sashes crossed her chest. The fishing party waited in their dories. Each wore a costume draped with seaweed and leaves gathered on the keys. The sail ropes were decorated with pink and green checked scarves matching those worn by the men and women who represented the Lidisi lines. We “red shirts” stood behind the buyei and drummers. The choir and other participants crowded along the beach. “Uncle Tate,” begged Dorothy, “hold me. I can’t see.” “How’s that?” Tate asked as he settled her on his shoulder. “I see Frank out there with Miguel.” Then Tate frowned. “But I don’t see Skipper moving around in the dory.” “Drummers play!” Helene called, then waded ankle deep into the water as we began the welcoming song. She poured a chap of rum into the sea, thanking the ancestors for guiding the fishing party safely home. She invited the Old Ones to follow us into the hall. Men and women waded out to the dories and brought to shore the seafood that the fishing party had collected. There was basket after basket of fresh and salted fish, conch, crab, and crayfish. A successful trip to the keys was thought to show the ancestors’ approval. The green sea turtle was considered a prize catch. As the fishermen and women came ashore, Helene said to ­Cacho and Fernando, “Get Skipper out of Miguel’s dory. Carry him to the back room, and put him in a hammock.” Then she led the procession back to the ancestor house.

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We piled in a mound the bounty collected from the sea. Helene blessed the food, and participants danced a circle before the food was taken to the kitchen shed. After a sec­ond round, each guest, who was remembering his own ancestors, placed a cotton-­stoppered chap of rum around the Old Ones’ altar in the gule. As the dance ended, I went to the dibasi, where the fishing party waited for the Old Ones to reach their ancestors’ house. “Here comes the bright sun now.” Marcia grinned at me, then pointed back to the beach. “For sure the ancestors are following us.” She accepted a cup of ginger wine that I served each member of the seafaring group. They would stay there, resting for a while from their arduous trip. “Frank, Frank!” Dorothy shrieked, “we were scared you drowned! Papa’s been walking the beach for hours.” “Be quiet, Dorothy,” Lisa reprimanded. “You don’t have to tell everything you know.” Then she looked at her son. “You okay, Frank?” “It went fine, Ma,” he said as he sipped wine. “We decided to ride the storm out on the key. It cleared out there before it did here.” “What happened to Skipper?” Lisa asked. “He looked terrible when they brought him in.” Miguel shrugged. “He wasn’t able to work. Just lay on the sand. He wouldn’t bathe or do anything to help himself when the flies swarmed. They ate him up.” Inside the gule, the ancestors’ altar supported three lighted candles and a bowl of wine with three calabash cups. The mound was circled by fifty or more chaps of rum, gifts to the honored ones, from guests who had come to their party. Tas stared at his brother’s swollen body. “What you think, Nebu?” “He’s burning from all the poison. I’ll keep him bathed down.” Helene shook her head. “It will just depend on how much the ancestors decide to punish him.” Out in the main hall the drummers tapped for a circle dance, and the choir sang. In a few moments, Amigos and Marcia danced, tranced in their costumes of leaves. Happily, they swayed with the hypnotic beat of the drums that reverberated in the hall. Clara yelled and was suddenly possessed by Santa. Tas and I talked with the ancestor-­spirits, welcoming them, hurrying to satisfy their demands: “I want a pipe.” “Where’s my cane?” “Rum, I want rum.” The drummers called another dance. The deep bass rhythm rocked within the hall as we began a circle. Almost at once, Frank dropped into trance. His straight young frame curved into the posture of an old man, and he

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spoke with a rasping voice. The crowd moved back to give him room, and he looked around the hall as if he had come suddenly into a new place. “What’s happening?” I asked Tas. “It’s an ancestor. It’s a grandfather.” “What’s he saying?” I strained to hear. “It’s Garifuna, but some of the words sound different.” The drums stopped, and Tas approached the old man-­spirit. “Welcome, Grandfather. You’ve come to the party.” “That’s right, boy. Now . . .” “Pardon, Grandfather. I didn’t get that.” “I said, now . . .” He scowled at a woman who asked who he was, and shouted, “Who am I? I’m Alexander Sabal!” “My God,” Lisa said to me. “That’s Tas’s grandfather. That old man’s been dead since before we were born.” The possessed Frank turned on his heel, circling the hall with his gaze. “Dungbe!” He shouted. Juan began the next set, remarking, “Well, he knew how to say that loud and clear. ‘Drummers, play.’ ” We kept a careful eye on the old man-­spirit. Alexander rocked with the music, then slowly made his way across the hall, moving a few steps with the dance then going forward. He faced Elizabeth, who had backed as far into a corner as she could get. Alexander reached for her hand. Elizabeth reared back against the wall, then slumped in the first stage of trance. The drums continued as Lisa and I helped her to her feet and supported her wobbling legs. She slowly raised her head and spoke to me, “Daughter, bring me my cane. You know I needs my cane.” “I’ll get it, Khandi,” I answered, and hurried to find a stick that my adopted mother could use as a cane. The Khandi-­possessed Elizabeth grabbed the stick. “Fix me de ginger-­ flavored rice I like.” “Yes ma’am, Khandi. You’ll have it tomorrow.” “Good.” She turned to Frank, Alexander’s spirit. “Papa, glad you’re here. Let’s sid down. You know my leg’s not done right yet.” The tranced pair seated themselves, and reminisced about Khandi and ­Margaret’s childhoods. At mid-­afternoon, the drummers tapped a halt to the dancing, and the weary guests hurried to their mats and hammocks to rest. They knew that the next two days would tax their strength and patience. I went to watch what would happen at the work table under the big shade tree. The “killing of C ­ ervantes, ­Margaret and Santa.”

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Tas walked to the back of the yard where his hog was tied. “Time to go, fellow,” he said as he led the animal to the table. Helene sprinkled rum over the pig’s head while Tate and ­Cacho lifted the snorting boar to the table and held down its thrashing legs. Tas drove a kitchen knife straight into its neck. I swallowed my urge to wretch, as I watched Olivia hold a pan to catch the blood that gushed from the severed vein. Tate and C ­ acho relaxed their hold; and the carcass settled onto the table. Helene and Tas returned to the gule. Suffice it to say that the rest of the procedure was handled efficiently. The pig(s) was bled, skinned, and gutted. The white body, now rid of all red and black, was hung against a wall in the main hall. Just before sundown, the drummers called for a special Mali. Two of the butchered pigs hung from wood hooks, one on the north wall and the other on the south wall. Their white fat glistened in stark contrast to the dark palm thatch. The third pig, split lengthwise, lay in a large wood bowl in the center of the room. A lighted candle and a bottle of rum were at its head, toward the west. The guests and choir stood by the walls. The buyei, and the drummers, played. We, who were dressed in red, danced Mali around the center pig. I was gratified that the newly arrived Clara and the recalcitrant Joseph were with us. After the Mali, the “red shirts” rested in the gule while the pigs were removed from the hall. At sunset, the evening cycle of dances began. A series of circles interspersed with Mali. The drumming stopped at midnight, and Helene called for the offering of fowl that would be prepared for the ancestors’ banquet. Always before, I had been an observer, not a participant of the dugu; and I had not seen this event. I went to Lisa for guidance. “Hold his legs tight, Dorothy,” Lisa instructed, as she untied the cock that had been under a bench since the time it had been brought in. “He’s near wore out, but he can still flap and get away from you.” I watched Terese present her fowl to the buyei, who stood in the middle of the hall. Lisa whispered to me, “Sometimes, if Nebu thinks the fowl’s not right, she will reject it. Helene nodded, and Terese handed the cock to C ­ acho. Dorothy and I gasped as ­Cacho crashed the cock’s head against a stone set in the sand, then slung it aside. I gulped and shuddered when Elizabeth walked forward to the buyei. Thrump! The fowl died quickly; and C ­ acho dropped it to the sand.

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“Okay, Dorothy, your turn now.” Lisa nudged the child. “Take your fowl to Helene.” Thrump! Dorothy stood gazing at the growing mound of dead chickens. “Dorothy,” Lisa hissed, drawing her daughter back, “it’s Papa’s turn now, and then all these other people have theirs to present.” By one in the morning all the fowl lay dead on the heap, and the participants rested until dawn.

The Banquet On Tuesday morning I walked into the main hall and found Lisa, Elizabeth, and Dorothy looking at the mound of dead cocks. “Moma Mar, good morning.” Dorothy yawned. “Is it time to drink tea? I’m hungry.” “We have to clean the fowl before we eat,” Lisa said. “Then I’ll find you a bun and some cheese. But you mustn’t bother the cooks today. They’re busy, busy preparing the banquet.” “Come on,” Elizabeth urged. “Here, Dorothy.” She handed one of the roosters to the child and picked up two more. “These look like nice ones.” Dorothy pointed to a corner of the hall where Joseph and Phillip sat talking. “Don’t they clean fowl? They presented, too.” “They could, but they’re wearing red, so’s it’s risky for them to leave the hall,” Lisa explained. “That’s why the rest of us will clean the extra ones for them.” Elizabeth started toward the beach. “Come on now, Dorothy, and don’t drag it, carry it.” I remained in the ancestors’ house, but I imagined what the scene was like at the beach: Dorothy sat down at the edge of the water, among the men and women busily dressing chickens. She watched for a moment, then began plucking red feathers, letting them drift away in the waves. Lisa waded out, rinsed the gutted cavity of her first fowl, then snapped its legs, folding them back into the body. “Why’d you break the legs, Ma? You don’t do that at home,” Dorothy asked, shaking feathers from her sticky fingers. “So’s it can’t walk around anymore,” Lisa answered as she picked up the sec­ond chicken. “How’s it going to walk? It’s dead.” Lisa stared at the child. “I don’t know, Dorothy. That’s just what we say. It’s what we always do.”

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Elizabeth jerked feathers from the next chicken. “Hurry up. Quit dawdling.” Dorothy shrugged, then went back to her plucking. Out under the shade tree, I watched Tate and ­Cacho carve sections of a pig’s carcass. Helene directed Celia in how they should be distributed. The buyei held a mound of pork in her hand, estimating its weight. “This one goes to the sec­ond drummer.” She gave the meat to her assistant, and wrote a mark in her notebook. “That next one goes to Sarah, in the choir.” Many of the shares would be redistributed to the poor. The south yard bustled with preparation for the ancestors’ banquet. Guests cooked their parents’ or grandparents’ favorite foods. A banana pudding, huduit, fried fish. Big pots stewed over fires. Cassava bread was heaped on mahogany trays. More ginger wine and native coffee were brewed. Inside, Joseph and I swept the hall and gule clean of any fallen trash. The doors were shut, while the buyei cleansed the house with bue and sprayed rum into every nook and corner. Helene nodded with satisfaction. “Okay, we can start.” Tas and Phillip carried in a madudu. This table was made of cane poles, which the Garinagu used before they had saws to cut wood. “Nebu, how you want this placed?” Tas asked. “Set it next to the first one, just beside the ancestors’ mound,” Helene instructed. “That’s right. One table for M ­ argaret’s line, and one for C ­ ervantes’s. She turned to Joseph. “We’ll need more benches in here to hold the offering plates that the guests will bring in.” Clara and I had not seen this part of dugu before, so we followed Terese’s lead. She asked Helene, “Tas said we should arrange the madudu. You want us to start now?” “Not yet, Reese. We want everything settled first, then Celia will clean the room with bue and lime water. After that you can set the tables.” By eleven the room was ready, and Terese and Clara began to arrange the offerings for the ancestors’ tables. I watched Reese spread green leaves on the sand below ­Cervantes’s table. “That’s for the very old ones, right?” I asked. “Yes.” Reese squatted next to ­Margaret’s madudu. “The ones that are too weak to get up to the table. “They won’t be coming back again?” Clara asked. “That’s right.” Terese smoothed the sand under the table. “We’ll put the pig’s head and the blood pudding under here.” She stood up and grinned at me. “You face their snouts to the west. Maybe your Grandmother and Grandfather Sabal will come to eat one last time.”

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I looked around to see if everything seemed set. Behind the m ­ adudu were new sets of clothes and bathing implements for the Old Ones. White candles and cotton-­stoppered flasks of rum surrounded the ancestor mound. I placed a piece of cassava bread, a cup of ginger wine, and a candle on each table. At eleven thirty, Tas opened the front door. Guests streamed in to set their food offerings around the gule. Each paused to gaze at the madudus and the ancestor altar, then moved on to give room for another contributor. Soon, the benches were stacked with plates, bowls and trays holding food favored by a particular ancestor. “Grandmothers, Grandfathers,” the buyei prayed,”your children have sweated to prepare your banquet. They do not begrudge you this, because they remember how you worked to care for them when they were young and weak. Come now, Grandparents. Enjoy your meal, then join us when we dance ‘the jubilation.’ ” Helene was silent for a minute, then said, “Okay, time to leave the Old Ones to their banquet.” “Did you get enough to eat, Moma Mar?” Tas asked, as he sat down next to Lisa and me. “Yes, I’m stuffed. Thanks to the cooks.” Tas scratched his back. “I’m ready to dive into the sea again. Wearing this same set of clothes for so long is not pleasant.” “Well, tomorrow noon it should be finished. Right?” I asked. Tas nodded. “If we can get through tonight without trouble, well then, the road looks clear.” “You think your parents will accept the party?” “Who knows?” Tas shrugged. “I’ve done the best I could. For sure, I couldn’t have made it without your two ladies’ help.” Lisa said, “The Old Ones seem like they’re enjoying themselves. Dancing and dancing. So many I’ve lost count.” I asked Tas, “Did you know that Clara cooked a special bowl of ­Santa’s favorite foods?” He grinned. “Wonders never cease.” Tas looked at the sun, gauging the hour. “It’s getting close to three. Soon be time to clean up the banquet. Then dancing starts again.” “Nebu, what about this sec­ond table?” Phillip asked. “Just set in the corner out of the way. We’ll use it again tomorrow, when Moma Mar serves the farewell cups.” Helene looked around her. “Soon as we store the remains of the banquet, we’ll be ready.” Celia scraped food from the dishes. Most fell into a large washtub. But she flicked a small bit, from each plate, into a plastic lard pail. I pointed to the containers. “What’s this about?”

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“Nothing,” Helene answered. “Celia’s just cleaning up. We’ll soon sprinkle the sand with lime water to settle the dust.” Ah, buyei, I thought sadly. You just lied to me. Tas beckoned Frank to the gule. “Pa, you want something?” “Nebu says we must dress Skipper in the red, then put him in a hammock out in the main hall.” Frank looked to where Skipper lay. “How is he, Pa?” The boy frowned. “I tried to help him, Pa. But Miguel and the rest kept telling me to leave him and tend to my work.” Tas put his arm around Frank’s shoulder and hugged him. “You did fine, son. I’m more proud of you than you can ever guess. I heard how you brought the fish in, and Miguel told me it was you that caught the big turtle.” Tas picked up Skipper’s uniform. “But now I need you to help me wrestle with that animal over there. The swelling’s gone down some, and now and then he seems to come to. So watch yourself. He might strike out.” Terese led the first circle dance. Clara joined her. For a moment the rest of the participants watched the two women laying down a fresh track in the clean-­swept floor, digging a trough into the sand with their bare feet. Then others joined them, and the line looped around again in a sec­ ond circle. Tas carried a bowl of soup to Skipper, who was sitting on the side of his hammock. “You enjoying the dancing?” he asked. “Yeah, some of them are really kicking up. I was thinking maybe I’d try the next circle.” “Suit yourself,” Tas said as he walked away. “You always do,” he muttered to himself. Between six and eleven we danced special Malis, sponsored for their parents by Terese, James, and Phillip. Helene announced the last Mali would be for Grandmother and Grandfather Sabal. “Uncle,” Joseph said as he and Frank stood beside Skipper’s hammock, “Nebu says you’re going to dance the Mali.” “No, man,” Skipper responded. “I’m just going to rest here.” “Wrong, Uncle.” Joseph and Frank pulled Skipper up from the hammock. “Nebu says you’re going to dance Mali.” “I don’t know how to dance Mali.” Skipper tried to pull away from his nephews. “We’ll teach you,” Frank said. “I’m not strong enough,” Skipper objected. “I tried, but I didn’t have the strength to get out there and dance the circle.”

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“We’ll support you, Uncle.” Joseph pulled Skipper into the crowd of dancers. Rmmm-­pah, the drums played. Shissh, shis-­er-­rah, shissh, shis-­er-­rah, the seeds in Helene’s gourd shak­ers answered, calling the spirits. “Okay, Uncle,” Joseph directed, “four steps back.” “Here we go again,” Frank said, “four front.” Frank and Joseph lifted Skipper by the arms and carried him toward the south station, moving with the rest of the swirling dancers. “Hey, boys, I’m too sick for this,” Skipper objected. “Be quiet, Uncle.” Joseph let Skipper drop to the sand as all the dancers bowed silently at the first station. “You think we could spin him one turn?” Frank asked mischievously as they carried their uncle among the crowd moving to the east door. “Take it light,” Joseph advised as they eased Skipper toward the floor for the sec­ond supplication. “Remember there’s two circles around and one back before we can put him down.” James and Miguel relieved Frank and Joseph as the dancers approached the north door for the third circle. “Thanks, Uncle,” Joseph sighed. “I wasn’t sure we could make it.” Miguel looked down at Skipper who had collapsed into dead weight. “We’ll take him for the last stations. You get ready to dance cherut. You’ve earned it.” James and Miguel returned Skipper to his hammock as the lead drummer called the words, “Come on, my children. Let’s have fun now . . .” The drummers tapped the close of a dance sequence just before midnight. Hot, weary guests rushed to the yard, wiping sweat from their foreheads and scratching bug bites. In front of the shed, James and Tate fired a mound of wood lice nests, fanning the smoke to deter any bush-­spirits that might try to enter the ancestors’ house between midnight and dawn, the time when evil spirits were most active. The cooks served the guests, a communion meal, a wedge of cassava bread and a calabash filled with red, spiced, chicken soup. White and red again, I thought, as I slipped away to my dark corner of the gule. As I waited, I could hear the family and their friends milling around in the main hall. Then, the buyei and C ­ acho entered the gule. ­Cacho picked up the white, plastic pail of food collected earlier from the banquet. He and Helene slipped, unnoticed, out the north door. I followed them back into the bush. A hundred yards or so, into the brush, ­Cacho scattered the discarded food onto the ground. As Helene turned, she saw me watching. She said, “It’s to appease the

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bush-­spirits that might be disturbed by the party.” I said nothing. She shook her head. “I was afraid you’d think we were devil worshiping.” Helene knew that the trust I had placed in her was lost. After all these years. All those times we worked together, I thought. As I returned to the main hall, a scene vibrated my memory. I was lecturing my fieldwork class at the university. I shook my finger at the students and said, “Remember. For many reasons, people will lie to you.”

Jubilation A few of the guests dozed, but most talked quietly, waiting for the first cock to crow. Helene searched the sky for signs of dawn, then called the drummers to begin the last cycle of dances. I knew the hardest part was coming up. No one felt like dancing again and tempers were short. The drummers hit a sec­ond and third call, urging guests to return to the hall. They straggled in, two or three at a time. Tas tapped my shoulder and whispered, “Come on, my lady. They need us to fill the first circle.” This time, we danced around a washtub of food scraps that had been placed in the center of the hall. As the sec­ond set began, James and ­Cacho picked up the tub and followed the buyei down to shore. While dancing continued, the three sailed out into the bay and threw the offering into the water as a gift to spirits that control the sea. During a break, Tas and I moved among the “red shirts,” offering drinks of ginger wine or rum punch. “How you doing, Reece?” Tas asked. “I saw you in the circle kicking up sand.” “Okay,” Terese answered as she gulped down some wine, “except I’m tired.” “Hang on,” I encouraged her. “It’s almost done.” “Well, Clara, what’s your choice?” Tas held two bowls out to his niece. “My choice would be to bathe down with one cup of rum and drink a sec­ond.” Tas handed her the rum. “Start splashing while I bring you a sec­ond. Anyone who came from Tegucigalpa deserves both.” Streaks of gold gleamed behind dawn clouds when Helene called for the last circle dance. Now, the hall was packed with dancers who knew the long days of working for the Old Ones were drawing to a close. The buyei moved among the guests, spraying rum, searching out any reluctant ancestor-­spirit waiting for an invitation to dance.

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A man and a woman went into trance, while the dancers in the circle flapped their arms and trod more and more complicated steps. Toward the end of the set three fig­ures moved simultaneously into the center of the ring—Reese, Tas, and Clara. Helene picked up her shakers and spoke to the drummers. “Okay, men, let’s see how they’ve liked their party. We’ll play a double set for them, quick time!” No one needed to ask who possessed the three. C ­ ervantes, ­Margaret, and Santa were in the hall. One after another they drew their loved ones into the circle to dance with them. “­Margaret’s coming for you, Elizabeth,” Lisa whispered as Tas danced toward where we stood together. “Oh, Ma, I’m scared.” Elizabeth pulled back from her ­Margaret-­possessed father. “Don’t be. It’s clear they’re happy. They just want to dance with those they love.” Then Lisa stared wide eyed, as she realized that it was herself that Tas was pulling into the circle. Tears ran down Lisa’s cheeks as they danced around and around the hall. In a few minutes the ­Margaret-­spirit left Lisa and motioned to James Salivar to come dance with her. Then, the C ­ ervantes-­possessed Terese came for me. At the last, everyone dressed in red was dancing in the circle. This was the big one, the last of our struggles to satisfy the Old People, the last hour of ritual to send their spirits on to their heaven. Eighteen months of preparation, seven days of execution. The days filled with round after round of measured steps, moving in the eternal circle, erasing any sins the ancestors might have committed in their earthly existence. Repeat. Again and again. The red dye of my costume had bled, mixed with my sweat, and colored my skin a filthy brown. My hair was larded with dust and smoke. Heat rash circled my waist. Sand fly bites itched and burned. I stank. The bass drum rattled my bones as we danced in the darkened hall. The snare scratched at my ears. We danced and waited, danced and waited for daybreak. Collectively, we held our breath. Then the sun rose over the horizon and shone full gold-­bright into the hall. “Drummers play!” the buyei shouted. “It’s done. Complete.” The three drummers hit a raucous beat. We laughed, we cried, we kicked up our heels, and we danced again in jubilation. Tas said, “It’s time to throw the baskets. I’ll lead the line. You follow me.” Each “red shirt” took down from the wall the promissory basket that he or she had hung during the bringing in. While the guests waited outside in the yard, the drummers began a playful rhythm. Ump, pa-­pa, ump, da.

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Ump, pa-­pa, ump da. Tas danced down the hall, swinging on his arm the basket that held money and a chap of rum. He stopped at the front door, then tossed his out among the waiting crowd. I threw mine, then stood with the other “red-­shirts” to watch the guests scramble to catch the dollar bills and flasks of rum. Joseph asked, “Why don’t the older folks grab for a basket?” Phillip answered, “Because they think it’s not worth the chance.” “What chance?” “It’s sort of a joke,” Phillip explained. “Just in case we haven’t satisfied one of the Old People. We throw the ‘promises’ outside. Whoever picks up a part of it, the unhappy ancestor is going to follow him to finish the promise, not us wearing red.” As co-­host of the dugu, I had one more assignment. The cane table was placed at the front end of the hall. On it, large calabash bowls of ginger wine and rum punch sat next to stacks of calabash cups. I stood looking out to sea and Sari. Each guest and I exchanged a farewell remark as I served them a cup of the refreshments. “Thank you for helping us honor the Old Ones.” “It was lovely meeting you.” “Hope to see you again, soon.” Tas’s cousin from Lidisi stepped to the table. “When you coming to see us?” he asked. “Soon,” I answered and handed him a cup. He looked up and whispered, “Nikati.” The woman next to him said, “Nikati.” A third guest repeated, “Nikati.” Nikati is usually translated, “You are welcome.” Young Garinagu might say it means “Forget it.” Underlying the word is an understanding that the receiver is free of obligation. I turned to look where the guests were staring. At the far end of the hall, the buyei and Tas stood talking. He was wearing a sparkling white shirt. He was nikati. All debts paid.

The Last Hours Tas and I were cleaning up the main hall when Miguel walked over to Skipper’s hammock. “Okay, Skipper, time to sail.” “You leaving now, Miguel?” Skipper stood and patted Miguel’s arm. “Have a safe trip, it’s been good seeing you again.” Miguel clasped Skipper’s shoulder. “Don’t make this hard on me, man.

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You and I are sailing to Larube. You go to the back and change out of the red.” “Oh no,” Skipper said, sitting back down in the hammock. “You got that wrong. Those wearing red have to stay for the next week.” He stopped as he saw Helene walking toward him. “Nebu, I’m part of the family,” he whined. “It’s my place to stay here.” “You should have been,” Helene said, clasping her arms across her chest. “The ancestors gave you two chances. But it doesn’t take a buyei to see that you’re not wanted here now.” “But what’s going to happen to me?” Skipper protested. “I got to stay! What if they molest me again? Who’s going to help me? You’re driving me away from my family!” “You are the one that abandoned your family when they needed help. You disobeyed the Old People; and they’ve told me they don’t want you here. I’m not going to risk the work of Tas and Moma Mar.” Helene grabbed Skipper’s arm and jerked him up from the hammock. “I say you go. Now.” Skipper looked about the hall and screeched in panic, “Tas, it’s my right to stay here with the family!” Tas ignored him. Suddenly Skipper winced and doubled over, as though a whip had been laid across his shoulder. “Ow!” he yelped, “Ow! Ow!” The lashing did not stop until he ran from the hall.

Glossary

Abaimahani Traditional women’s group performance. Acalde Village leader. Adugahatia Men and women who collect dugu food from the keys (low islands or reefs). Adugarahani The ancestor party. Afaragu Soul twin. Anigidow Structure said to be attached to a Garif’s sternum. Arumahani Traditional men’s group performance. Bue An aromatic bark used as incense. Bungi The supreme supernatural. Buyei The traditional Garifuna priest-­healer. Cherut Traditional dance. Chumba Traditional dance steps. Dabuyaba The Garifuna house of worship and healing. Dibasi An open-­sided boat shed. Entrance to the dabuyaba. Dory A high-­sided boat with a pointed bow. Duendu A mythical forest elf who tempts hunters. Dugu [duh guh] A shortened form of adugarahani, the ancestor party. Gaiunari A structure built to celebrate a dugu. Galatihatia Members of the family who wear red during a dugu. Garif One Garinagu. Garifuna An adjective or noun referring to a group of Garinagu. Garinagu The indigenous term for the Black Carib. Gule A room behind the dabuyaba’s main hall. Guseue The color red. Hiuriha A deceased buyei who leads a living buyei. Huduit Garifuna version of a West Af­ri­can dish.

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Kasusa Very strong, traditional rum. Madudu Traditional cane-­pole table. Mafia Evil bush-­spirits. Mali The most sacred dance performed in worship services. Nebu Formal address to a buyei. “My support.” Punta A sexually suggestive dance. Raguma “The boa.” A tubular basket used to express liquid from cassava pulp. Recado A red powder from the flowers of Bixa orellano. Ruda A foul-­smelling herb. Sari Mythical land where ancestors “live” until they join Bungi. Sustagua Soul loss. Tommygoff Pit viper that is hemotoxic. Tump basket A basket that is carried on the back. The strap goes across the forehead and over the shoulders, to attach the top of the basket. Uguagi An open-­weave basket used for smoking meats. Umeo A “sea elf ” said to make toddlers sick. Yama bush Senna occidentalis. Yamadi A double-­walled, water-­resistant basket. Warin A mythical hunterman who visits villages during winter holidays.