Chapter 34
VIVIAN JEAN
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Five
Early in the morning, I leave my hut with my husband by my side to collect oral histories from Accompong’s storytellers. I ask the questions, take the notes, and Tully photographs our subjects or records them with his motion picture machine.
Momma Hazel and her friends, Miss Mary and Teddy, have been incredibly helpful in securing interview subjects from among the Maroon villagers.
The only quibble I have is that Mary and Teddy are always armed with a pouch of herbs, some pungent spices, and a few bottles I describe as potions, to help influence those who need a better reason than hospitality to speak with us.
But however our good fortune comes to us, I am pleased that we now have many more villagers lined up than we’d hoped for.
On the outside, Tully and I appear to be functioning normally—no quarreling or snappish words directed at one or the other. On the inside, we remain on unsteady ground, mostly because of me. The distress in my heart feels like I’m carrying half the jungle on my back.
I don’t know if the silk cotton tree can fix me, let alone us.
My belief in communing with Clifford’s ghost is as much Maxi’s as mine.
“It will help rid you of guilt, talking to Clifford,” she said.
But I can’t trust Maxi. She and my father cost me my mother’s love.
Regina must’ve always known about their affair.
I don’t even have to hear her say it. Looking back, it was clear as crystal.
With these thoughts racing through me, I know they are affecting my contribution to Katherine’s expedition.
It’s noticeable, and not just to me. I sense Katherine’s frustration—and her concern.
Today, she finds me in Tully’s makeshift darkroom, where I like to hide away, and insists—or, I should say, demands—that I join her to learn how to play an authentic African musical instrument.
“It is my goal for the day,” she states.
“I have several interviews arranged.”
“I believe Tully can manage them. I’ll ask Robbie and Othella to help him.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“It is a brilliant idea,” she says emphatically. “Besides, what good are you doing hiding in the dark? It’s midafternoon. The sun is still shining and the village is alive with activity.” She sighs. “Vivian Jean, your sulking must cease.”
Given no choice, I do not resist.
The “goombah” is a hollow block of wood covered with sheepskin that has been stripped of its hair and produces a sound Katherine describes as “gay and grave.” She then remarks with a smile that fails to reach her eyes, “Sort of like your mood lately.”
How can music be more than just sound? I wonder, but I don’t ask. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“None of which you have chosen to share with me, your friend and leader of this expedition. I wish you thought I could help.”
I close my eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be this way—there’s a lot I’m too afraid to tell because it’s embarrassing and—” I look into her eyes. “Scary and foolish.”
We are heading toward the pavilion where I’ve spent numerous evenings recently, taking part in ceremonies, dances, rituals, celebrations, and activities that have both thrilled and mystified me. “Is this where we’ll learn to play the sheepskin instrument?”
“I may have exaggerated a little. I seriously doubt we’ll be permitted to handle the goombah during this ceremony. Tonight, it’s a sacred instrument. You see, we’ve been invited to a Koromantee war dance ritual.”
I see the sparkle in Katherine’s eyes. This is something she has been looking forward to since we arrived.
She’s been seeking out an opportunity to see it, to participate in it, but she was denied at every turn.
The reasons were never clear. She was beginning to believe she would never witness one of the most authentic ancient rituals of the Maroon people, passed down from those brought to and enslaved in the Carib bean from West Africa who fought but never won their freedom.
“How did the invitation happen?” I ask.
“It seems that the Koromantee war dance is not just another dance performance. It is an invocation that calls upon ancestral warriors, Cudjoe, Nanny, and Tacky, who fought against colonial forces to free their people. There will be drumming, chatting, and a procession to connect the living to the warrior spirits of the past.”
“Like those I might find beneath the sacred silk cotton tree?” I ask.
“That is why you came, isn’t it, Vivian Jean? The silk cotton tree—in the middle of town. The spirits of the tree. You believe in all of it, don’t you?”
I don’t respond.
“Who is it you need to speak with?”
I still don’t answer. I stare at the dirt beneath my feet.
“It’s not about fieldwork. That you would share with me—it’s personal.”
I look at her even more intensely but remain silent.
“You’ll tell me if you still need to after this ceremony.”
My shoulders relax. She’s backing off, and I will tell her—just not yet. “If the war dances are held because of an adversary’s threat, who are the Maroons raging war against now?”
We have reached an area of the pavilion, and others have already started together. We take our seats, not in the back or the front but in the middle of the group already in place. “Who is the war dance meant for?”
“Talking to Zinzi the other day, she told me that some sugarcane plantation owners are mounting a campaign to legalize taxing the Maroon people for the rum they make and consume in the Cockpit. For centuries, the Maroon people have operated independently from Britain and its policies and taxes. Colonel Rowe intends to ensure that this autonomy continues.”
“And it begins tonight with the Koromantee war dances.”
“Oh, did I mention that this is a proper Maroon ritual, and the ceremony lasts until dawn?”
“So, we’ll be here all night?”
“Yes, we will.”
“I didn’t tell Tully.”
“I told everyone we are the only two who were invited.”
“I understand your invitation, but why me?” I ask.
“You’d have to ask Momma Hazel. She has a lot to do with this ceremony,” Katherine explains.
No wonder it takes all night. The entire village is in attendance.
The drums, the goombah, and the chanting soar, and the freedom of movement is intoxicating.
Such abandon of spirit that Katherine has put aside her notebook.
There are no photos to document this experience.
It’s felt in the heart. In the soul. That is where the memory of the ancestors come to life within each of us.
I start to giggle. I do believe the atmosphere has caught me off guard, or has simply caught me.
I feel a warrior spirit inside me, bursting to be set free.
Katherine holds my hand. “This ceremony,” she gestures across the pavilion, “is the living embodiment of rebellion and identity.” She taps her foot to the frenetic rhythm of the drums.
“Do you want to join them?” I nudge her.
“I always want to dance,” Katherine says, squeezing my hand. “And since we have adversaries, a war dance is for us, too.”
“Yes, it is,” I reply, more seriously than I meant to.
“Maybe a war dance will show them their place. With the spirit of Cudjoe, the mighty warrior, they will think again about standing against us. So, yes, we should dance.”
“And we aren’t being sacrilegious.”
“It’s not a religion. The Maroon people call upon the heroes of their past to give them strength, cunning, and victory in the present.”
“All right, you’ve convinced me. Let’s dance.”
Katherine stands up gracefully, while I get to my feet with less elegance.
I kick off my sandals. “Do you think we can do it?”
“Do what, dance?”
“Yes, but dance until dawn.”
“Finally, you understand me,” Katherine says.
I stomp my bare feet, striking the hard ground stroke after stroke, jump, jump, jump.
Then I circle my hips and drop my head forward, look up at the sky and down at the dirt, then up at the sky again, and twirl and twirl.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I sway from side to side, my hip thrusting toward the ocean, then toward the mountains; my body tumbles down and rises up.
I don’t know if you call it dance or something mythical, something spiritual, but it has control of my limbs, has control of the center of my body, and just lets me do whatever comes next without thought, without choice.
It’s freedom. And the ancestors are watching.
Only the stars can tell how long we danced, but my spirit feels so free. I am not concerned about time or exhaustion; my feet might be. I stumble, and Katherine steadies me with a firm hand.
“I want to shout this to the moon.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Art and history bring balance to our world, Vivian Jean. Humanity cannot survive without acknowledging its past. We stagnate if we don’t honor and study the creativity that has thrived through generations.”
She twirls away from me. “Without dance, music, and our ancestors’ wisdom, we wouldn’t survive.”
“I understand.”
She twirls back. “Do you? Understand? Then answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“Do you believe in Obeah?”
I let my head tilt back and gaze at a sky blanketed with more stars than I’ve ever seen. “Yes, I believe in Obeah, in the duppies, in the sacred silk cotton tree and that it can heal my wounds.”
She opens her arms, and we embrace. “I do, too.”
And once more we are dancing.