House of Rougeaux(4)

Abeje liked to sit among the shrubs with the small golden flowers. There was something about them that reminded her of Iya, her dry-grass smell. One day Abeje collected a handful of the tiny flowers. She brought them to her nose and sniffed them, longing for Iya. As the smell faded she began eating them, crushing the golden petals and the green hearts with her teeth, tasting a sourness on her tongue. When the flowers were gone she looked for more, even though they had begun to burn at her throat, pricking like pins in her belly, and making her sleepy. Soon she forgot them and wandered away, toward other flowers.

Someone was singing, but Abeje wasn’t sure. A hum, a growl. She felt sick and bent to vomit the bits of chewed flower, which revived her some and she walked on. The singing became louder as she drew near a clump of shrubs, a kind she hadn’t noticed before. They had waxy heart-shaped leaves, cool to the touch. She sat down, closed her eyes and listened.

The singing felt like a presence, the voice of the shrub, and it seemed to have a name.

Ah

Nai

Yah

Anaya.





“Anaya,” Abeje spoke aloud, and a terrible pain entered her chest, like flesh tearing, and a great darkness opened up.

Abeje couldn’t see, but she could feel the waxy heart-shaped leaves in her hands. She heard the song again and it led her beyond the Grove.

From the darkness emerged an Anaya shrub made of lines of stars, like a drawing in the sand made of seashells. It was so large it spread over her like the sky. The song told Abeje that she must look up.

There.

The invisible presence of the Holy One, vast, yet intimate.

Suddenly she was again among the green leaves of the Grove, her feet leading her along back toward the Quarters, one Anaya leaf in her hand. She ran to the hut. It was empty, as it was still daylight, and she laid the leaf under one corner of the sleeping mat she shared with Adunbi. She felt warmth in her heart, where before she felt flesh torn. For the first time in so very long she wasn’t afraid.



* * *



The next time Abeje went to the Grove she strained her ears to hear the growling song. Instead she heard the cry of two birds as they leapt from tree to tree above her head. She heard insects clicking, and wind rustling the leaves, as she searched for another Anaya, which she soon found. The Anaya had a gentle sway, a soft presence, like feathers. She felt the touch of gentleness steal again into her heart.

For many months when she had the chance Abeje returned. She sat and let the Anaya care for her, and each time she brought home one leaf to place under the sleeping mat. Adunbi began to notice the collection of leaves and assumed it was a game of hers.

One evening as Abeje sat beside the Anaya a strong wind kicked up. Some of the dry leaves floated up into the air, and she chased them. The brown leaves twirled, dancing up, down, and up again. When they fluttered to the ground she saw that she was standing before a short palm tree with great spines on its bark. Twigs covered with globs of red berries grew from its low crown. Abeje knelt before the tree and closed her eyes. Faintly, as if from the back of her head, a spider’s thread of song came over her ears. It reminded her of an instrument that a woman in the Quarters sometimes played, made of a gourd and a stick, and a single string played over with another stick. It was the voice of this new plant. The presence of her brother was there, and she knew at once that as Anaya cared for her, this tree cared for Adunbi. She gathered what berries she could hold and ran back to the Quarters where she placed them along the wall of the hut, beside their sleeping mat.

In the next weeks, Abeje saw Adunbi become quiet. He sighed. His eyes cleared. Instead of wandering in circles, he sat beside the fire and helped Old Joseph. She brought more of the berries to the hut, and some of the palm’s dry leaves from the ground. Adunbi sometimes picked them up, absently, as he sat up in the night, rubbed them in his fingers, and then sighed and lay down again.

Though they were slowly coming back to life, Abeje and Adunbi did not laugh or even smile for a very long time. But then her brother discovered something new. It began with one of the sow-pigs. One day, she pushed at his ankles with her snout. She had only ever ignored him before. Suddenly he understood the nosing meant the trough was dry and she wanted water. He filled the trough, heard her grunt, and was sure she meant to thank him.

“She is your friend now, so,” said Abeje, when Adunbi told her about it that night.

“Oui, maybe,” he said, “like all of your friends.” He gestured to the corners of the hut, where Abeje’s leaves were piling up.

Another day Adunbi saw a few geese eating the long grasses. He plucked some green stalks and approached them slowly. The old gander flew at him hissing, and bit his hand with its sharp beak. Adunbi dropped the grass stalks and grasped his hands to his chest, crouching down. The gander strutted around showing the lady geese his mettle. But then the gander cocked his head and Adunbi saw a shadow pass over the yellow eye, and he knew at once the old bird was sorry, though he wouldn’t admit it. The gander hissed once more, but without conviction.

Nearly all the estate animals were like this with Adunbi. Barn cats that ran when others came near, rubbed on his legs and purred. Cows too skittish to be milked stood patiently for him, the fowls considered him one of their own number. Even when he led animals to slaughter they showed no fear.

Abeje begged him for stories of the animals.

“What the animals do today, Adu?” she said, each night.