sumed a mystical calm. He stood silent for a moment, glared fiercely
about the mill house, then reached for the long iron machete Atiba was
holding out for him.
"_Obi meye lori emo ofe _. . ." He was intoning in a deep, powerful
voice, declaring he would now reveal who he was.
"_Ogun_!"
He abruptly brandished the machete about his head and with a leap
landed astride the diagram Atiba had traced in the dirt.
The other men hovered back to watch as he launched a violent dance,
slashing the air with the blade while intoning a singsong chant in a
voice that seemed to emanate from another world. The drums were silent
now, as all present knelt to him, even those older and more senior.
Derin the man was no longer present; his body belonged to the god, and
his absent eyes burned with a fierceness and determination Serina had
never before seen.
She gripped Atiba's hand, feeling her fingers tremble. Now, more than
ever, she was terrified. The pounding of rain on the roof seemed almost
to beckon her out, into the night, away from all this. But then she
began to understand that the men around her were no longer slaves, in
the mill room of a plantation in the English Caribbees; they were
Yoruba warriors, invoking the gods of their dark land.
Now Derin was finishing the ritual chant that proclaimed him the
earthly manifestation of Ogun. The words had scarcely died away when
Atiba stepped forward and demanded he speak to the men, offer them
guidance for the days ahead. When Derin merely stood staring at him
with his distant eyes, Atiba grabbed him and shook him.
Finally, above the sound of wind and rain, Derin began to shout a
series of curt phrases. His voice came so rapidly, and with such
unearthly force, Serina found she could not follow.
"What is he saying?" She gripped Atiba's hand tighter.
"Ogun demands we must right the wrongs that have been set upon us. That
we must use our swords to regain our freedom and our pride. He declares
tonight that his anger is fierce, like the burning sun that sucks dry
the milk of the coconut, and he will stand with us in the name of
vengeance. That victory will be ours, but only if we are willing to
fight to the death, as worthy warriors."
Atiba stopped to listen as Derin continued to intone in a deep chilling
voice. When he had concluded his declaration, he abruptly turned and
approached Serina. He stood before her for a moment, then reached out
with his left hand and seized her shoulder, tearing her white shift.
She gasped at the tingle in her arm, realizing his fingers were cold
and hard as iron. His eyes seemed those of a being who saw beyond the
visible, into some other world. She wanted to pull away, but his gaze
held her transfixed.
"Send this one back where she belongs, to the compounds of your wives.
Yoruba warriors do not hold council with women. She . . . will lead you
. . . to . . ." The voice seemed to be receding back into Derin's body
now, to be calling from some faraway place.
Suddenly he leaped backward, circled the machete about his head, and
with a powerful stroke thrust it into the earth, buried halfway to the
hilt. He stared down for a moment in confusion, as though incredulous
at what he had just done, then tremulously touched the dark wooden
handle. Finally he seized his face in his hands, staggered backward,
and collapsed.
Atiba sprang to catch him as he sprawled across the remains of the
trampled palm fronds. Several other men came forward, their eyes
anxious.
"Ogun has honored us tonight with his presence." He looked about the
dark room, and all the men nodded in silent agreement.
At that moment a long trunk of lightning illuminated the open doorway,
followed by a crack of thunder that shook the pole supporting the
thatched roof. Serina felt a chill sweep against her forehead.
"That is the voice of Shango. He too demands to be heard. We must
continue." Atiba turned to Serina. "Even though it displeases Ogun,
your presence here tonight is essential. You were once consecrated to
Shango. Perhaps you were never told. But you are Yoruba. Your lineage
is sacred to him."
"How do you know?" She felt the chill in the room deepening.
"Shango animates your spirit. As a _babalawo _I can tell. It must have
been divined the day you were born and sanctified by a ceremony to
Olorun, the high god. There are signs, but I must not reveal to you
what they are."
"No! I won't have any part of this. It's pagan, terrifying." She
wrapped her arms about her, shivering from the cold. "I only came here
to please you. I'll watch. But that's all."
Atiba motioned to the drummers. "But Shango will not be denied. You
have nothing to fear. Most of his fire tonight is being spent in the
skies." The drums began again, their cadence subtly changed from
before. The lightning flashed once more, closer now, as he urged her
toward the dancers.
"We must know the will of Shango, but we are all men of Ogun. Shango
would never come and mount one of us. He will only come to you, his
consecrated."
As the line of men encircled her and pushed her forward, into the crowd
of half-naked bodies sweating in the candlelight, Atiba's face
disappeared in the tumult of heaving chests and arms. She tried to yell
back to him, to tell him she would never comply, but her voice was lost
in the drumming and the roar of the rain.
She was moving now with the line of men. Before she realized what she
was doing, she had caught the hem of her swaying white shift and begun
to swing it from side to side in time with the booms of the _iya ilu_
drum. It was a dance figure she remembered from some lost age, a joyous
time long ago. She would dance for her love of Atiba, but not for his
gods.
Now the rhythm of the drums grew more dizzying, as though pulling her
forward. It was increasingly hard to think; only through the dance
could she keep control, stay centered on her own self. Only by this
arcing of her body, as the movement of her hips flowed into her swaying
torso, could she . . .
Suddenly she saw herself, in Pernambuco, being urged gently forward by
her Yoruba mother as the slaves drummed in the cool evening air. It was
Sunday, and all the _preto _had gathered to dance, the black women in
ornate Portuguese frocks of bright primary colors and the men in tight-
fitting trousers. The drums were sounding and the plantation air was
scented by a spray of white blossoms that drifted down from the
spreading tree. The senhor de engenho was there, the white master,
clapping and leering and calling something to Dara about her_ mulata
_daughter's new frock. He was watching her now, waiting. Soon, very
soon, he would take her.
Lightning flashed again, and she felt its warmth against her icy skin.
She wanted to laugh, to cry, to stay in that world of faraway whose
warmth beckoned. But now she felt her own will beginning to ebb.
Something was happening. . . .
"No! Please, no!" She forced her long fingernails into her palm, and
the pain seemed to restore some of the awareness she had felt slipping
from her. Desperately she tore herself away from the dance and seized
the center post of the mill, gasping for air and digging her nails into
the wood until she felt one snap. Then she pulled away the African
kerchief and threw back her head, swirling her hair about her face till
it caught in her mouth. All at once she was thirsty, hungry, yearning
for a dark presence that hovered over her body like a lover.
Again the blossoms of Pernambuco drifted down, tiny points of fire as
they settled against her face, and she began to hum a simple Portuguese
song she had known as a child. It was spring in Brazil, and as she
looked up she saw the face of the old Yoruba _babalawo_.
"Dara, come." He was reaching toward her, beckoning
her away from the Portuguese master, saying something about Shango she
did not understand, and the sight of his sad eyes and high black cheeks
filled her with love. But now there was a youthfulness in his face, as
though he were here and powerful and young. Her old _babalawo _had come
back: there was the same glistening black skin, the same three face-
marks cut down his cheek, the powerful eyes she had somehow forgotten
over the years.
She gasped as he pulled her back into the circle of dancers.
He was Atiba. His clan-marks were Atiba's. And so was his voice . . .
Lightning illuminated the doorway and its whiteness washed over her,
bleaching away the mill, the moving bodies, the face of Atiba. As she
stumbled back among the dancers, her mind seemed to be thinning,
turning to pale mist, merging with the rain.
' _'Boguo yguoro ache semilenu Shango_ . . ." The men were moving
beside her now, intoning their singsong chant. She suddenly recalled
the long-forgotten Yoruba verses and wanted to join in, but the words
floated away. She was no longer part of the men in the room; she was
distant, observing from some other world. Instead of the sweating
bodies, there was the fragrance of frangipani and the faces of _preto_
slaves on the Pernambuco plantation as they gathered around at the
moment of her birth to praise her light skin. Dara's warm, nourishing
breast was against her lips, and the world was bright and new.
She gasped for breath, but the air was wet, oppressive. Its heaviness
was descending over her, then her left leg seemed to catch in a vise,
as though it belonged to the deep earth. She wrenched her body to look
down, and felt a crack of thunder pound against her back. The world was
drifting up through her, drowning her in white. . . .
. . . She is floating, borne by the drums, while a weight has settled
against her back, a stifling weariness that insists the dance must
stop. Yet some power propels her on, swirls about her, forces her
forward. She senses the touch of wet skin as she falls against one of
the dancers, but no hands reach out to help. Only the drums keep her
alive. But they too are fading, leaving her, as the world starts to
move in slow motion. A white void has replaced her mind. Her breath
comes in short bursts, her heart pounds, her hands and feet are like
ice. She is ready now to leave, to surrender, to be taken. Then a voice
comes, a voice only she can hear, whose Yoruba words say her mind can
rest. That her body is no longer to struggle. She holds her eyes open,
but she no longer sees. A powerful whiteness has settled against her
forehead. . . .
' _'Okunrin t 'o lagbara_!" A hard voice cut through the room,
silencing the drums. "_Shango_!"
The Yoruba men fell forward to touch the feet of the tall mulata who
towered over them, demanding worship. Her eyes glowed white,
illuminating the darkness of the room; her arm stretched out toward
Atiba as she called for her scepter.
He hesitated a moment, as though stunned that she was no longer Dara,
then rose to hand her a large stone that had been chipped into the form
of a double-headed axe. He had fashioned it himself, in anticipation of
just this moment. As he offered the sacred implement, her left hand
shot out and seized his throat. She grabbed the axe head with her right
hand and examined it critically. Then she roughly cast him aside,
against the mill. While the men watched, she raised the stone axe above
her head and began to speak.
"_Opolopo ise I'o wa ti enikan ko le da se afi bi o ba ir oluranlowo.
_. . ."
The voice of Shango was telling them that the Yoruba must join with the
other men of Africa if they would not all die as slaves. Otherwise they
and their children and their children's children for twenty generations
would be as cattle to the _branco_. Even so, he would not yet
countenance the spilling of innocent blood. Not until Yoruba blood had
been spilled. They must not kill those among the _branco _who had done
them no hurt. Only those who would deny their manhood.
Suddenly she turned and glared directly at Atiba. The voice grew even
harsher.
"Atiba, son of Balogun, _bi owo eni ko te eku ida a ki ibere iku ti o
pa baba eni!"
_It was the ancient call to arms of Ife: "No man who has not grasped
his sword can avenge the death of his father." But Atiba sensed there
was a deeper, more personal message. The voice had now become that of
Balogun himself, clearly, unmistakably. He felt his heart surge with
shame.
Her last words were still ringing when a sphere of lightning slid down
the centerpole of the roof and exploded against the iron mill. Rings of
fire danced across the rollers and dense dark smoke billowed in the
room. Atiba had already sprung to catch her as she slumped forward,
sending her stone axe clattering across the packed floor.
' _'Olorun ayuba bai ye baye tonu . . ._" Through the smoke he quickly
began to intone a solemn acknowledgement to the Yoruba high god. Then
he lifted her into his arms and pressed his cheek against hers as he
led the men out.
She was only dimly aware of a whisper against her ear. "You are truly a
woman of the Yoruba, and tonight you have brought us Shango's power.
With him to help us, we will one day soon plant our yams where the
branco's compounds stand."
As they started down the pathway, single file, the lightning had gone.
Now there was only the gentle spatter of Caribbean rain against their
sweating faces as they merged with the night.