House of Rougeaux(76)

“What is this tree?” Eleanor asked.

“We call this arbre de couleuvre,” said Sidonie. Snake tree. “At night it releases its fragrance, though you can still smell it now.” After a moment of quiet shelling Sidonie continued. “We make many medicines from this tree, from the leaves, the blossoms, the bark. It cures ailments of the skin and blood, the bowel and fever.”

“Papa Okun has taught you this?” Eleanor asked, and the other woman nodded.

“Every plant has its spirit, its guardian,” Sidonie said. “The flower of the snake tree also teaches us. It is love long in absence.”

“Love long in absence,” Eleanor murmured.

“We love our flowers here, you know,” said Sidonie. “Our island is not only called Martinique, but also Ile aux Fleurs. And it also is called Pays des Revenants.”

The country of those who return. Things were known by so many names, Eleanor mused. Frangipani or snake tree, Old Silas or Papa Okun. Even she herself had been called in different ways, Eleanor, El, Nora, chère.

Coughing was heard from inside the hut.

“I will just check on Papa,” Sidonie said, rising. She was gone for some time. Eleanor finished the shelling and then just sat, wondering if she should go in too, but before she could decide Sidonie emerged and said, “He is ready to see you now.”

Eleanor followed Sidonie into the hut, where the figure of an old man lay in a hammock. His head, covered in a thin white stubble, appeared large atop his shrunken body. Sidonie knelt down on a mat beside him and motioned for Eleanor to do the same.

“This is Eleanor, Papa,” she said. “The granddaughter of Mémé’s niece.” The old man reached out a wizened hand to Eleanor and she took it in hers. His grip was firm and the fingers long. He must have been much larger in his younger years, and strong. With great effort he spoke a few garbled words.

“He says he doesn’t see with his eyes now,” said Sidonie, “but he sees with his heart.”

There was more of the garbled speech and Sidonie interpreted.

“Papa says the spirits are very pleased you have come to pay your respects. He says your ancestor was a powerful healer. She was a mother to him, and a great teacher.”

Eleanor knew nothing of spirits, they were no more real to her than fairy stories, but she felt a presence in that small room, as if the frail old man were a towering giant. Not fearsome, but somehow very big. She felt an electricity in his hand that still gripped hers, akin to the way she sensed the music inside an instrument. Yet he was already tiring. He said something else and then closed his eyes, catching his breath.

“He knows your grandmother,” said Sidonie, “because Mémé has told him about her. She was called Ayo.”

“My grandmother was called Hetty,” said Eleanor, wondering if perhaps he was mistaken.

He spoke again, and Sidonie said, “Yes, he remembers from a letter received by Mémé long ago. The child’s parents called her Ayo, their word for joy.” There was a long silence, during which Eleanor wondered if the old man had fallen asleep, but he spoke once more.

“Papa will offer you a blessing now,” Sidonie said. She went to retrieve Eleanor’s bottle of rum from the chest by the front doorway. After removing the cork with a thin knife she spilled a few drops in each corner of the hut, murmuring something Eleanor couldn’t make out. She struck a match and lit a small bundle of dried herbs that smoldered in a clay dish, giving out a fragrant smoke. She fanned at it with her hands and set it on the mat beside Eleanor.

Eleanor closed her eyes a moment. She heard a faint humming sound—the old man was singing. She saw herself riding a train alone in wintertime. She saw the tiny, familiar, wet body of a newborn child. Jack’s crushed hands wrapped in plaster, Alma weeping. Now another newborn child, drawn away from the body of its mother, and a man crying out. Strong arms lifted Eleanor, and held her. She heard a voice from ages ago murmuring her name. Her mother, younger than she could remember.

Mama.

The smell of broken earth filled her nostrils, the smell of a grave, of birth blood. The ringing sound of an earthen pot striking stone and shattering rushed her ears, the first cry and the last.

And then the sound of music, a piano, a melody she had never heard but that moved her heart, and she saw that a young man played, a young man with hair combed in minute dark waves. He was dressed in a suit, and held a thin cigarette in his lips, and his fingers moved over the keys so gracefully.

Step by step the melody played on, until the notes reached her, as if knocking on a door.

Eleanor opened her eyes.

She was there in the hut with Sidonie, and the old man, Papa Okun.

She still held his hand, but his grip had relaxed and his breathing had become rhythmic. Sidonie gently took his hand from Eleanor and laid it over his chest. He was asleep. She motioned for Eleanor to follow her outside again, and back to sit under the frangipani. Sidonie picked up the basket, the shiny red beans now separated from their husks.

“I must tend to some chores now,” she said. “Why don’t you rest awhile.”

Eleanor did suddenly feel remarkably sleepy. The grass was soft and welcoming and she lay down, with her arm folded under her head.

She awoke when Sidonie touched her shoulder.

“Sister,” she said, “it’s time to eat something. Madame will come for you soon.” She held out a bowl of yellow porridge and stewed vegetables. Eleanor sat up and took the bowl. The handle of a flat wooden spoon stuck up from the middle.