"You know, good Obewole, that in Ife we say, 'Do not expect to find a
man wearing white cloth in the compound of a palm-oil maker.'" Atiba's
face was expressionless. "Ogun's spirit is not in the mill house
tonight. He is here with us."
The drummer bowed in uncertain acknowledgement and turned to begin
distributing the straw bundles down the line of men. The young warrior
Derin was first, and he eagerly called for two. Atiba watched silently
till each man had a sheaf of straw, then he intoned one last prayer. As
the words died away into silence, he produced a flint and struck it
against the blade of his machete. A shower of sparks flew against the
bundle held by Obewole. After the brown stalks had smoldered into
flame, the drummer walked slowly down the line of men and, with a bow
to each, fired the rest.
Serina settled the candle carefully atop the iron frame supporting the
rollers, then stood for a moment studying the flickering shadows it
cast across the thatched ceiling of the mill house. From the gables
above her head came the chirp of crickets, mingled with the occasional
night murmurs of nesting birds.
The room exuded an eerie peacefulness; again it called to mind the
sanctuary of whitewash and frangipani scent that had been her home in
Pernambuco. Once before, the magic of this deserted mill house had
transported her back to that place of long ago, back to gentle
afternoons and soft voices and innocence. To the love of her Yoruba
mother Dara, and the kindliness of an old _babalawo _so much like
Atiba.
Shango's spirit had taken her home. He had come to this place that
night, and he had lifted her into his being and taken her back. And
here, for the first time, she had understood his awesome power. Shango.
The great, terrifying god of West Africa was now here in the Caribbees,
to guard his people. One day, she told herself, even the Christians
would be on their knees to him.
Carefully she unwrapped the wand--its wood carved with an African
woman's fertile shape, then topped with a double-headed axe--and placed
it beside the candle. Atiba had made it with his own hands, and he
always kept it hidden in his hut, as part of his _babalawo's _cache of
sacred implements.
The mill had not turned since the day the great ships of the Ingles
appeared in the bay, before the night of the storm. Traces of white
cassava flour were still mingled with the fine dust on the floor. The
place where Atiba had drawn Shango's sign was . . . she squinted in the
candlelight . . . was there, near the square comer of the iron frame.
Nothing remained now of the symbol save a scattering of pale powder.
But across the room, near the post by the doorway, lay the small bag of
cassava flour he had used. It must, she told herself, have been knocked
there during the ceremony.
Perhaps it was not empty.
Timorously she picked it up and probed inside. Some flour still
remained, dry and fine as coral dust. As she drew out a handful and let
it sift through her fingers, the idea came--almost as though Shango had
whispered it to her in the dark.
The drawing of the double-headed axe. Shango's sign. Had it somehow
summoned him that night? Beckoned him forth from the ancient
consciousness of Africa, to this puny room?
She stood for a moment and tried again to breathe a prayer. What
precisely had Atiba done? How had he drawn the symbol? Her legs
trembling, she knelt with a handful of the white powder and carefully
began laying down the first line.
It was not as straight as she had wished, nor was its width even, but
the flour flowed more readily than she had thought it might. The symbol
Atiba had drawn was still etched in her memory. It was simple,
powerful, it almost drew itself: the crossed lines, their ends joined,
formed two triangles meeting at a common point, and then down the
middle the bold stroke that was its handle. The drawing came into form
so readily she found herself thinking that Shango must be guiding her
hand, urging her on in this uncertain homage to his power.
She stood away and, taking the candle, studied the figure at her feet.
The white seemed to undulate in the flickering light. She held the
candle a moment longer, then reached out and placed it directly in the
center of the double axe-head.
Perhaps it was a gust of wind, but the wick suddenly flared brighter,
as though it now drew strength from the symbol it illuminated. The
mill, the walls of the room, all glowed in its warm, quivering flame.
Was it imagination or was the candle now giving off that same pale
radiance she remembered from languorous afternoons long ago in Brazil--
the half-light of mist and rainbows that bathed their courtyard in a
gossamer sheen when an afternoon storm swept overhead.
She backed away, uneasy and disturbed, groping blindly toward the mill
frame. When her touch caught the hard metal, she slipped her hand
across the top till her grasp closed on the wand. The stone axe at its
tip was strangely warm now, as though it had drawn heat from the iron.
Or perhaps it had been from the candle.
She clasped it against her shift, feeling its warmth flow into her.
First it filled her breasts with a sensation of whiteness, then it
passed downward till it mingled in her thighs. It was a sensation of
being fulfilled, brought to completeness, by some essence that flowed
out of Shango.
She glanced back at the flickering candle. Now it washed the drawing
with a glow of yellow and gold. The candle, too, seemed to be becoming
part of her. She wanted to draw its fiery tip into her body, to possess
it.
Sweat poured down her thighs; and in its warmth she felt the desire of
Shango. As she clasped the wand ever more tightly against her breasts,
she gasped, then shuddered. The white presence was entering her, taking
her body for its own. She sensed a heat in her eyes, as though they
might now bum through the dark.
A heaviness was growing in her legs, and she planted her feet wide
apart to receive and support the burden she felt swelling in her
breasts. The room was hot and cold and dark and light. She no longer
saw anything save whiteness. Then she plunged the wand skyward and
called out in a distant voice, resonant.
"_E wa nibi! SHANGO_!"
* * * * *
The flames billowed along the edge of the field, and the crackling of
the cane swelled into a roar as a carpet of red crept up the hillside.
Clusters of gray rats scurried to escape, lending a chorus of high-
pitched shrieks to the din. As the night breeze quickened from the
west, it whipped the flames toward the dense, unharvested acres that
lay beyond.
Suddenly the urgent clanging of a bell sounded from the direction of
the main compound, and soon after, silhouettes appeared at the
perimeter of the indentures' quarters, the circle of thatched-roof huts
beside the pathway leading to the sugarworks. Figures of straw-hatted
women--the men were all gone away with the militia--stood out against
the moonlit sky is they watched in fearful silence. Never had a fire in
the fields erupted so suddenly.
_Now_! Atiba wanted to shout. _Join us_! Throw off your chains. Free
yourselves!
He had not been able to enlist their help sooner, for fear a traitor
among them might betray the revolt. But now, now they would see that
freedom was within their grasp. He tried to call to them. To beckon
them forward.
Give me the words, Mighty Ogun. Tell me the words that will make the
_branco_ slaves join us.
But the prayer passed unanswered. He watched in dismay as the women
began, one by one, to back away, to retreat toward their huts in awe
and dread.
Still, they had done nothing to try and halt the flames. So perhaps
there still was hope. If they were afraid to join the
rebellion, neither would they raise a hand to save the wealth of their
_branco _master.
Also, these were but women. Women did not fight. Women tended the
compounds of warriors. When the men returned, the rebellion would
begin. They would seize their chance to kill the _branco _master who
enslaved them. He signaled the other Yoruba, who moved on quickly
toward the curing house, where the pots of white sugar waited.
The sky had taken on a deep red glow, as the low-lying clouds racing
past reflected back the ochre hue of flames from fields in the south.
Across the island, the men of the Yoruba had honored their vows. They
had risen up.
Atiba noticed the savor of victory in his mouth, that hardening of
muscle when the foe is being driven before your sword, fleeing the
field. It was a strong taste, dry and cutting, a taste he had known
before. Something entered your blood at a moment like this, something
more powerful, more commanding, than your own self.
As they pushed through the low shrubs leading toward the sugarworks, he
raised his hand and absently touched the three clan marks down his
cheek, their shallow furrows reminding him once again of his people.
Tonight, he told himself, all the men of Ife would be proud.
"Atiba, son of Balogun, I must tell you my thoughts." Old Tahajo had
moved forward, ahead of the others. "I do not think it is good, this
thing you would have us do now."
"What do you mean?" Atiba eased his own pace slightly, as though to
signify deference.
"A Yoruba may set fires in the forest, to drive out a cowardly foe. It
is all part of war. But we do not fire his compounds, the compounds
that shelter his women."
"The curing house where sugar is kept is not the compound of the
_branco's _women." Atiba quickened his stride again, to reassert his
leadership, and to prevent the other men from hearing Tahajo's censure,
however misguided. "It's a part of his fields. Together they nourish
him, like palm oil and salt. Together they must be destroyed."
"But that is not warfare, Atiba. That is vengeance." The old man
persisted. "I have set a torch to the fields of an enemy--before you
were born the Fulani once forced such a course upon us, by breaking the
sacred truce during the harvest festival--but no Yoruba would
deliberately burn the seed yams in his enemy's barn."
"This barn does not hold his yams; it holds the fruits of our unjust
slavery. The two are not the same."
"Atiba, you are like that large rooster in my eldest wife's compound,
who would not suffer the smaller ones to crow. My words are no more
than summer wind to you." The old man sighed. "You would scorn the
justice Shango demands. This is a fearsome thing you would have us do
now."
"Then I will bear Shango's wrath on my own head. Ogun would have us do
this, and he is the god we honor tonight. It is our duty to him." He
moved on ahead, leaving Tahajo to follow in silence. The thatched roof
of the curing house was ahead in the dark, a jagged outline against the
rosy sky beyond.
Without pausing he opened the door and led the way. All the men knew
the room well; standing before them were long rows of wooden molds,
containers they had carried there themselves, while a _branco _overseer
with a whip stood by.
"These were placed here with our own hands. Those same hands will now
destroy them." He looked up. "What better justice could there be?" He
sparked the flint off his machete, against one of the straw bundles,
and watched the blaze a moment in silence. This flame, he told himself,
would exact the perfect revenge.