Chapter 29
VIVIAN JEAN
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Two
It happens on the tenth day in Accompong. I am visiting Katherine and Othella in their living quarters on the colonel’s yard when Iris comes puffing into the house with exciting news. “Tonight there will be a dance,” she announces gleefully.
“That’s too good to be true.” Katherine dramatically slumps against the wall, and she’s not overreacting.
Since our arrival, the villagers have resisted her requests for anything and everything, from conversation to storytelling or an innocent chat about herbal remedies, let alone a dance.
Katherine has struggled to connect with any villagers, much less receive an invitation to dance.
I can see how distressed she has become in just a few days.
The reason we are here is dance. She can talk all she wants about potions, artifacts, or mat weaving; the purpose of our expedition is African dance, history, legacy, the music, the movement, the bridge to ancient Africans.
Aside from Iris, our conversations have been limited to Momma Hazel, who I sense doesn’t like us, let alone trust us with Accompong’s secrets.
Very few villagers acknowledge our presence, regardless of how much time we spend wandering around the market and attempting to converse.
It has reached the point where Katherine asked me to tell Tully to stay in our hut.
“I think his cameras are frightening the villagers. The recording devices might be too much civilization for them to take in.”
She doesn’t say this in front of Zinzi, mind you. Our guide might find the remark condescending and feel obliged to give Katherine what for.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling to sort out my thoughts.
I never knew how much my father could hurt me.
I never knew how indebted I was to Maxi.
She saved my childhood. But at what cost?
My relationship with my mother? My father?
I’ve been so consumed by that sorrow that I haven’t given Katherine’s mission the attention it deserves.
I haven’t even learned as much as I need to know about the sacred silk cotton tree and how I can reach the duppies, or the one duppie I pray is tangled in the roots of the tree.
Maybe tonight’s dance will bring me back to my senses, and I can talk about the other reasons I’m here, including the secrets I keep.
I return to Iris, who is excitedly detailing the night’s festivities.
“We have the fiddler coming in from White Hall, there will be rum, and tonight we dance the set dances of the parade.”
Katherine starts pacing, hands on her hips and taking deep breaths.
“What are set dances?” I ask to distract her, recognizing her excitement and my curiosity.
“I have no idea,” Katherine replies absently. “I am a little disappointed. This dance has nothing to do with the Koromantee war dances.” She turns to Iris. “Where will it take place?”
“The small pavilion—but don’t come too late or you’ll be in the back rows,” Iris explains, before adding, “Don’t come too early, either. You don’t want to seem too anxious, and strangers in the front row are bad juju.” Iris curtsies and hurries off, shouting, “See you tonight.”
“It’s going to be hard to wait for the night to fall.” Katherine starts pacing. “Everyone must take notes.”
“Will that draw attention?”
Katherine nods. “You’re right. This is the first of many invitations, but we must document every step—the sounds, the patterns.”
“How? Didn’t you say there can’t be any more photographs or motion picture cameras?” Othella reminds us from the archway where she has been standing quietly. “If we’re not writing, and Mr. Hartfield—excuse me, Tully—can’t use his cameras, then how?”
“Count on your memories,” Katherine says emphatically. “Every one of us has to be there, too, even Tully. He can use his camera, the Leica II, for a couple of shots, but he must be careful, take them before it’s completely dark, and use no other recording equipment.”
“I’ll have my journal, and you and Othella can take notes, too.
But we don’t want to have our heads bobbing up and down the whole time, either.
So, commit to memory as much as you can.
” Now, Katherine’s excitement is contagious, but my mind still isn’t functioning the way she needs it to. The way I thought I wanted it to.
My spirit is too weak. Always a reed caught in a wind tunnel, snapping at the first gust. No matter how much I try not to dwell on my troubles or avoid focusing on what I wish weren’t true versus what I want to be true, I fall prey to it—weakness of spirit, mind, and character.
How could I love Tully more than I ever loved Clifford?
Where did my grief go so quickly? Was it my fault his baby died?
My life is slowly being stripped away, piece by piece. At least Tully knows Clifford’s note wasn’t written about us. Funny, I almost wish it was. My father and Maxi, all those years of lies?
Christ, this merry-go-round will destroy me.
Othella is speaking, and I make myself listen. “I’m very good at memorizing things. My mind works like that. It’s something that has helped me tremendously. I see a room once and can remember where every item belongs. It’s like I have a camera inside my head.”
“That is a skill,” I say emphatically.
“A photographic memory,” Katherine adds with a touch of jealousy.
“Yes, Katherine, that’s exactly it,” I concur. “Do you think there’s anything we need to do to prepare?”
“We just have to show up,” Katherine replies. “No one has seen them performed since Professor Melville’s earliest visit, but he’s no dancer.
“We’d better remove our riding pants and boots and wear lightweight dresses and sandals.”
“She did say it was in the open pavilion.”
“I don’t have a dress like that,” Othella replies with a sigh. “Oh, you can wear one of mine,” Katherine suggests.
“I’m twice your size.”
“I have a trunk full of dresses, all types and styles. We’ll find something.”
“We should all go together,” I say.
“And stay together as a group.” Katherine takes Othella’s hand. “Let’s hurry, I haven’t opened all my trunks and it might take a spell to find the right clothes.” She turns toward me. “Will you need anything?”
“I have plenty. And I need to tell Tully about tonight,” I say, heading to the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Count on it.”
Katherine wishes to follow Iris’s instruction by arriving neither too early nor too late, but waiting makes her jumpy and cranky.
Her tongue is so vicious that I think I see a tear in Robbie’s eyes.
And the boy, though a gentle spirit, is not weak-minded or a complainer.
Sadly, however, I’m almost glad about her bad mood. It distracts me from thinking about me.
After screaming at us to hurry and stop wasting time, we follow Katherine—Othella, Robbie, Tully, and me—to the open pavilion.
It is already filling up with villagers of all ages, some with familiar faces but mostly strangers. Tully lifts his moving picture machine over his head until he finds an elevated spot, a mound of dirt, for a better view.
“Help me up,” Katherine orders.
Tully doesn’t change his position, holding his machine with both hands. “I’m already losing the light.”
Katherine huffs loudly. “All right, then. I’ll stay here. Is everyone taking notes?” she shouts to the rest of us.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders and squeeze. “This is just the first of many dances, Katherine. We’ll be here for weeks. So, let’s just take in this moment. Maybe even enjoy ourselves.” I anticipate her shaking off my arm, but she surprises me.
“You’re right,” she replies. “I’ll try.”
Some villagers offer friendly smiles, while others are openly curious, as if we haven’t been marching around Accompong for the past week, trying to get to know them and talk to them about rituals, history, and African legacies.
Other villagers are outright hostile. Katherine, as she has been since our arrival, remains oblivious.
She can’t or refuses to see that to some, we are intruders, outsiders, and unwelcome—these villagers may never change.
A commotion in the center of the pavilion grabs our attention. Colonel Rowe is pushing through the crowd with his wife, his daughter, Iris, and a man who must be the fiddler from White Hall by the look of the musical instrument in his hand.
The fiddler is middle-aged, and some villagers call him yella man. I can see it’s not because of his skin color. He’s black as night. It must mean something else. He hobbles on a crippled leg, shifting his weight from side to side as he appears to tune his fiddle.
Whatever the colonel intended by charging to the center of the crowd is forgotten as a group of old and young women and baby girls come center stage wearing white kerchiefs on their heads.
A jug is placed in Robbie’s hands, and he quickly passes it to me, looking horrified. Glancing around, I notice others sipping healthily from their jugs.
“It must be the white rum,” Katherine remarks.
I sniff the mouth of the jug and nod, and before anyone can stop me, I take a long swig and lick my lips. “It tastes good.”
Tully laughs. “Save me a swallow.”
I am so stunned by the sound of his laughter that I indulge again, taking an even longer drink. When I look back, thinking I’ll get another playful reaction, he’s looking through the lens of his motion picture machine. I pass the jug to Katherine.
“Are all the women here wearing something on their heads?” I ask her, although I can see that the answer is yes.
“Of course, we are capless,” Katherine replies with a shrug.
“At least we got the dresses right,” I say.
They also wear loose-fitting dresses tied at the waist that fall below their knees.
The men circling the dancing women wear blue denim or faded khaki trousers or go barefoot.
The only ones in sandals like us are the prominent members of the village: the council members, their immediate families, the shopkeeper, and several young dandies, as Zinzi informed us one afternoon when she took the time to show us around.
“Are you getting all of this, Othella?” Katherine looked sharply at the young girl whose eyes were wide but not empty. I could see her taking in every speck of information that came within her gaze. Katherine saw it, too, and gave me a raised eyebrow. “Maybe she can do as she claims.”
“I think so.”
A hush suddenly falls over the crowd, but only for an instant. Music of some sort—anharmonic chords, squeaks, and thumps—mix together.
Six of the women dancers are not just old, they are quite elderly, and the men dancing with them are young. “I wish I knew the meaning of this dance.”
“Look at that.” Katherine gestures toward a wrinkled, profoundly hunch-backed woman who suddenly straightens and ties her kerchief more tightly around her head. She then takes the colonel’s hand, who appears out of nowhere, and twirls him into an embrace.
“Just like a seasoned ballerina,” Katherine notes happily. The women’s skirts rise as their kicks become higher and higher, their bodies move sensually, arching and dipping, joined by the men whose hips circle around and around, creating an almost dizzying effect.
Or maybe it’s the white rum.
There is more fiddling, more rum, more dancing with high kicks, backbends, and rum. Time passes, and the lines blur between the set dance and the dancing villagers. We stay until the end, exhausted, slightly drunk, and wearing broad smiles.
As Tully and I bid farewell to Katherine and Othella, Katherine turns to me, her breath sweet with the scent of rum.
“As you said, this is only the beginning.” She heads into her living quarters, barking instructions to Othella about writing down everything she remembers before she falls asleep. Nothing must be lost. Nothing.