Chapter 5
Chapter 5
I could hear Tio Franco's booming voice in the distance, barking orders so early in the morning. The men in this family usually got off easy while we women were preparing the meals for the day and the actual offerings.
"Dove," Tia Ida called me tiredly, her eyes never leaving the white flowers she was stringing together, her skin a little paler than usual this morning. "Go and give your uncle his coffee before he kills one of those poor men," already weary from just hearing her husband's temperament. Tia Ida had a gentle, quiet spirit and had to be a saint for dealing with Tio Franco all these years. She had been married to Tio all her life and performed her duty flawlessly, yet he still always found fault with her.
"Give him this. It will quiet him down and offer us some peace," Mami said, handing me a plate of steaming, freshly stewed conch with the red peppery sauce piled over white rice and sweet plantains. My mouth greedily watered at the sight, and my mother smiled at me knowingly.
"I'll have a plate waiting for you when you get back," she said, patting my cheek while handing me the freshly brewed coffee.
I made my way down to the open yard. The grumbling in my stomach almost made me stop and keep it for myself.
"Tio Franco," I called out. My uncle ignored me. Unsurprisingly, I found him muttering something under his breath as he carefully inspected the wooden boat that would carry our offerings to the sea.
His stern pout was keenly focused on where the delicate placement of Our Lady's statue should go. He took the plate and dismissed me quickly.
"Oye, where's mine?" I heard an all too familiar voice call out.
"Julian," I squealed, jumping into my favorite cousin's arms for a hug. Julian was the closest thing I had to an older brother. He had been away at college over the last six months.
He was the only grandson besides Amias who could get away with anything and took full advantage of that.
"What are you doing here?" I asked delightedly, hitting him on the arm for keeping his visit a surprise.
"You know I could never miss this." He alluded, pointing to the baskets of offerings waiting to be filled.
"I wouldn't be forgiven by Our Lady or La Tias," he joked before taking the plate of food meant for Tio and running away, as my uncle threatened him with bodily harm.
The moment Julian entered the kitchen, he was immediately fawned over, all my aunts smothering him in kisses and blessings.
Julian didn't have to lift a finger. He just sat there and smiled, being coddled and handled like a precious prince. The future heir who would one day take over the reins of the distillery from Tio Franco.
"Must be nice being born a male in this family," Samara grumbled sarcastically as she reluctantly helped me to make more of the dough, glaring at her brother.
I didn't miss the smile she tried to hide. She was happy he was home and had missed him.
"Don't be jealous, Mi-mi," he taunted, coming over and placing his elbow on her head. I missed you, too," he said with a baby voice, blowing her obnoxious kisses. Julian and Samara looked very much alike. Most of my family members shared the same tall and slender frame. Yaya said it was because of the Taino Indian blood mixed in with our veins.
Samara threw an apple at his head for calling her by her childhood nickname, a name she forbade anyone from using now.
I grinned, laughing.
It was a beautiful way to start the holiday.
I t was tradition that on the first day, the whole family would gather at the great house for the procession to the sea to give our offerings and ask Our Lady for her blessings. Everyone working in the kitchen in the early morning was assigned a specific task, either cooking or preparing the offerings and gifts. No one was allowed to have empty hands.
Mami stood with her hand on her hip, stirring something that smelled delicious in a large boiling pot, singing along with my aunts to the songs they refused to get rid of on the old radio.
The ice between Mami and Tio Franco had thawed a bit, and a silent truce had been called between them.
I smiled at my grandmother, Yaya, who was rocking in her chair and humming, surrounded by my aunts and older cousins who were preparing the seven baskets of offerings for the boat.
I quietly giggled at Jamira and Lucia, who were sitting with Tia Delphie, miserable, under her constant and sharp watch. She had been peeling countless plantains, green bananas, and yuca root for the masa used to make the pasteles.
Pasteles were a staple dish in our family. They were delicious but laborious to prepare and usually reserved for special occasions like this day.
I wrapped Yaya in a shawl, keeping her warm. The air was chilly at this time, and she smiled sweetly at me. Her brown eyes were cloudy with age, and her bony fingers moved in an automatic rhythm, separating the banana leaves for wrapping the pasteles.
There would be seven baskets on the boat we sent out to sea. Each was filled with candies, freshly cut watermelon, yellow mombin, and coconut shavings. A fresh bottle of the special ceremonial drink of Chequete made of sour orange juice, molasses, cornmeal, and fresh coconut milk. Bottles of cinnamon-infused rum from our best batch of the year. Sweet, perfumed oils and bouquets of blue water hyacinth,purple indigo, and white blooming roses strung together. Jars full of golden sugar cane molasses and the prettiest pearls. All of Our Lady's favorite offerings.
The golden, crispy, round fried dough was a favorite of mine, especially paired with a warm cup of freshly roasted coffee and milk, cafe con leche.
I came to join Samara at the table, and she grinned, relieved, as she pushed the dough bowl toward me.
"You do it." She yawned, putting her head down to nap.
Giving into her cranky demands, I began molding the soft, sticky dough into a palm-sized circle.
After the early morning procession on the beach, my family would attend a special mass in the historic basilica. After the mass, we always gathered for a big lunch at the great house.
The actual fun would begin at sunset.
I came into this world surrounded by Our Lady's waters. My mother gave birth to me in the ocean in a small tide pool, an old tradition amongst mothers who were devout followers.
Ocean births were once common in Salamanca, although the practice had died out.
As a little girl, I wished with all my might that I would see her and be one of the few granted the privilege of witnessing her descent back into deep blue waters.
I wanted to be like my mother, who heard Our Lady's voice when she was just a girl.
With the soft white sand beneath my feet, I stood facing the vastness of the ocean, listening to the soft waves hitting the shore, offering my prayer as I watched the boat that carried our offerings into the sea.
The sun was just beginning to kiss the skies with its golden rays as my mother raised her hands, leading the family in prayer. I will never forget how she was dressed in all white, with royal blue beads around her neck, as she chanted a prayer of petition.
The three sacred days.
The festival dedicated to Our Lady of the Sea occurs once a year. It was bigger than Easter and Christmas combined on a predominantly Catholic island.
The other part of our population practiced the old ways, venerating our ancestors, divining and consulting with the gods and forces of nature. My mother was amongst them. She synchronized the two faiths. I grew up knowing the tradition as Ona. It was the way of the saints. Mami always said there was no difference between the two. The mysticism of our ancestors blended and bled into the Catholic faith.
Mami, Yaya, and her grandmother before her were priestesses of the religion. Many villainized, misunderstood and portrayed it as evil witchcraft and black magic. It was met with fear and was often wrongly accused of devil worship.
It was a rich, complex tradition spanning generations and across oceans, brought with the slaves to the new world. It had many names and was practiced differently on other islands, all with their own set of customs, merging with different cultures, and with many names. What it was called varied; people often referred to it as Caribbean folk religion; others called it Santeria or Macumba; it was known as Obeah to some, and on the island of Domingue, it was called Vodou.
Despite the differences and practices in each religion, they share the same roots.
On Salamanca, the gods of old and the saints of today were one and the same. A legend passed on for generations tells the story of how my people gained their freedom.
It was said that the Spaniards were to recapture Salamanca, and three ships were floating just off the shores, ready to violently subjugate and take back the island.
The loss of life had been significant, and they were heavily outnumbered, with the inevitable threat of being forced back into chains.
Seeing no other way to win, they called out in supplication to the divine spirits, beating ancient drums to the mother of their homelands—the mother that dwelled deep within the waters, the mother with many names, the mother of all—to save them and grant them their freedom.
And she answered.
A fierce and brutal storm had started in the sea, seemingly out of nowhere. The calm blue skies turned black, the sun's light swallowed by angry dark clouds as the waves swelled and rolled in a lashing, unforgiving fury.
The winds were ungodly, howling and ripping as thunder cracked through the skies, shaking the earth violently beneath. Lightning that could blind a man lit up in enraged and erratic patterns.
The storm raged violently for three days and nights, never relenting in its brutal and punishing force. Miraculously, unbelievably, not one drop of rain fell onto our island. Not a gust of wind disturbed a palm tree out of place.
The monstrous waves settled into gentle, harmless laps before reaching our shores.
The people were spared from its wrath.
But the ships that were sent for our demise were destroyed.
The debris of their mutilated wreckage floated amongst the gentle and settled waves to our shore.
In the myth, it is believed that those who gathered on the fourth day on the beach that early morning witnessed the sacred Lady herself as the sun was beginning to rise.
Dressed in all white, floating on the calm and serene sea. Her skin glistened the dark color of the earth. Her wild hair was covered in glittering shells as the jewels of the sea adorned her beauty.
Our Lady heard the pleas of her people, and nearly three hundred years later, she continues to protect us.
I stood hand in hand with Amias, who was calmly settled beside me, instinctively understanding the sacredness of the moment. I prayed to Our Lady that she would accept my family's offerings, to have good health, to protect my mother, and to settle my dreams that had become plagued by dark eyes.
An invisible shadow lurked in and out of my dreams, that same unknowable presence lingering, tainting the air.
Mami sensed it as well, our eyes meeting with unspoken words lost in the wind between us.
T he nighttime breeze carried the festival throughout the island as music blared in the streets. Masses of people dressed all in white or blue gathered at the downtown district in Esperanza, the whole island coming together in celebration to honor Our Lady.
The sound of the thunderous drums echoing, mixed in with the shouts of merriment as children weaved their way in and out of crowds, gleaming sparklers in hand as they danced and jumped along with the towering Moko Jumbies walking in the air on stilts. Acting out their roles of scaring away the evil spirits with masks and bold, colorful costumes.
There was not one person who wasn't moving along to the joyful rhythms. I twirled my white lace tulle skirt with the music, singing along to familiar songs, grinning up at the booming fireworks that came from all directions, mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of colors illuminating the sky.
The smell of gunpowder and sea air meshed with the mouth-watering aroma from food stalls, the spices fragrant in the air. Stalls offered ginger sugar cake, freshly made sorrel to keep cool, and endless traditional sweets. I had put aside the ominous feeling from the morning and decided to focus on the celebrations instead.
My stomach was full of Vienna cakes, guava berries, pineapple tarts, and sweet tamarind stew.
Samara walked beside me with her camera, taking pictures, laughing at the bewildered tourist, and gorging herself with sweets.
She refused to dress up in traditional clothes, opting for her baggy, carefree style—the opposite of the common sight on the old cobbled streets. She cited tomorrow night as enough torture with our upcoming debuts.
But I always loved this part of our tradition.
The soft flow of the skirt on my legs, the lace-trimmed ruffling top that bared my shoulders, stitched with blue flowers by my mother, my thick curly hair braided in a single plait, held together by ribbons at the end.
Jamira and Lucia walked regally ahead, fanning themselves as they coyly flirted with the boys and men who passed by. Reveling in the whistles of appreciation, the boys tried to lure them into dance but were quickly thwarted by Tia Delphie's protective eye.
Meanwhile, the men, or more specifically the young men of the Solomon bunch, were allowed to do what they pleased, when they pleased, with no repercussions.
The reminder was glaringly apparent as Julian and his friends disappeared into the night without chaperones.
"The archaic nature of things," Samara called it, and I agreed. The sad truth was that's just the way it was in our family.
Samara suddenly grabbed my arm, holding me back from moving forward, and put her fingers to her lips. She watched deviously, smiling as the rest of our tias walked ahead, completely oblivious that we stayed behind amongst the crowd, losing sight of their faces.
"You're going to get in trouble." I looked down. It was Amias. He was grinning mischievously, his mouth covered in red jam, his white clothes marked with every color one could think of, and his curly mop of dark hair drowned in glitter and confetti.
"Who is supposed to be watching you, Amias?" I sighed, unsurprised that he escaped from his mother and wandered alone.
"You are now," he said nonchalantly, grabbing hold of my skirt firmly, resolute in his will to stay, pouting sternly at us both.
There was no doubt in my mind who inherited the stubborn will of my uncle.
Samara raised her hands in the air defeatedly, curling her lips in annoyance at Amias.
"I am not babysitting you tonight, brat," she said, flicking his nose angrily as Amias tried to bite her finger in retaliation.
"Both of you." I sighed, grabbing hold of my small, wiggling cousin before he decided to run off again.
"Fine," Samara relented.
"I'm going down to the fort. Meet me there once you find Anthea. It's the best view of the fireworks. The crowds are starting to give me a headache," she huffed, irritated. She backtracked, continuing to snap photos, leaving Amias and me in a sea of people.
"Now you listen," I said, bending to be at eye level with him. "You know your mother is probably sick with worry right now," I tried to reason with him. But it was useless with a five-year-old whose attention was caught in the passing moko jumbie fire jugglers.
"We're going to find your mother. Give me your hand," I directed, grasping him firmly as we walked through the crowd.
Stopping for a moment, my resolve against no more sweets for the night was obliterated once I saw the fresh fruit cart, the block of ice, and the empty line.
Succumbing to my temptation, I greedily ordered two syrupy sweet snow cones dribbled in extra cherry syrup.
"Here you go," I excitedly offered Amias, feeling a little guilty that I was giving him more sugar but already too busy devouring my own.
He ignored me and the treat in my hand.
"What's wrong?" I asked, my frown growing. I was struck by how quiet and pale his little face had gotten.
"Amias," I called more forcefully, dropping the cups and bringing myself to his level.
"Are you hurt? Did something bite you? Is it your stomach?" I said in one breath. I felt his cheek for fever, checking him over anxiously for any signs of a bite or wound.
His eyes continued to gaze straight ahead, the apprehension and fear startling me to stand straight, looking in the direction to see what could have scared him.
There were no familiar faces in the crowd, just a group of tourists walking drunkenly while singing.
There was nothing that I could physically see that would make him so terrified.
"Dove," he called slowly, pulling my skirt, demanding my attention, his eyes wide and watery with terror.
"Yes?" I said worriedly, still looking between him and the crowds.
"The scary man is back."