A Woman of Endurance Read online

  Dedication

  I couldn’t write my stories without the constant presence of my ancestors who await me in my dreams and my meditations, whispering their stories and reminding me of what I have forgotten. This book is dedicated to them because their stories have lived for too long under the waters of the Caribbean, unrecognized and in imposed silence.

  Let there be light to illuminate as-yet-to-be-told truths.

  Remembrance, Part 2

  BY CARMEN BARDEGUEZ-BROWN

  To understand

  You need to taste

  memories of salt and water

  blood

  chains

  D

  R

  O

  W

  N

  I

  N

  G

  In the middle of the ocean

  A Christian boat

  foreign tongues

  memories

  sounds

  Despair swallows souls

  Yemayá

  Yemayá

  llévame

  Yemayá

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Remembrance, Part 2

  1: Losing Yemayá

  2: A New World

  3: In Simón’s Eyes, I

  4: The Hands of Men

  5: Hacienda las Mercedes

  6: In Simón’s Eyes, II

  7: The Worlds of Women

  8: Beyond Las Agujas

  9: Back to the Fields

  10: In Simón’s Mind, I

  11: The Healing Tree

  12: The Hands of Women

  13: In Simón’s Mind, II

  14: The Faces of Love

  15: Tiempo Muerto

  16: When the Rains Come

  17: Holes

  18: Finding Chachita

  19: Discoveries

  20: In Simón’s Heart, I

  21: Gains

  22: Losses

  23: Revelations

  24: In Simón’s Heart, II

  25: New Pathways

  26: Celebration

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Losing Yemayá

  Hacienda Paraíso, Piñones, Puerto Rico, November 1849

  Pola, the woman once called Keera, waits until she cannot wait any longer. Her eyes rake the clearing. The other women in the cabin snore, lying motionless after a sixteen-hour day in the heat and sun. Across the yard, the men’s cabin is dark and still. The squeak, squeak of the hammock ties died down long ago.

  The overseer of Hacienda Paraíso, a man of habit, has put his whips away for the night and sleeps off his latest raid on the women’s quarters. La familia, well fed and comfortable, is lulled to sleep by the song of the coquís. The smell of the patrón’s last cigar has long ago dissipated. With a flick of her hand, the patrona, groomed and prepared for bed, has dismissed her house slave; now she is probably burrowing into her pillow, abandoning herself to her rest. Pola, standing absolutely motionless in the darkness, can almost see them tossing in their bedroom finery, content in their white-people dreams. Snores float out of open windows all over the plantation. Lanterns sit cold.

  Clouds hang low in the sky, blocking out starlight and reflections. Pola looks around the batey. Her eyes search out every shadow, every movement in the backyard. Chickens sit silently, safe in their coops. The stables are still. The occasional snort from the pigsty soon dies down. The herbs she has sprinkled in their food keep the dogs drowsy and disoriented. The night has settled into its rhythm. This time she will make it all the way. This time she will not be back.

  Looking around one last time, she takes a deep breath and starts out. Crouching low, she bolts to the nearest bushes, behind the narrow bulk of the outhouse and past the corrals. A rustling in the foliage stops her mid-step. She sends out her senses, making sure, taking no chances. The few moments of apprehensive stillness seem interminable, and in the space of that time, painful memories rush in. A girl child, tiny mouth closing over my swollen nipples, faint sounds of sucking, a daughter. Another movement in the underbrush brings her back. A pair of pitirres fly up into the trees and disappears.

  Pola brushes away the painful images that trail her everywhere. She cannot afford distractions, not now. She summons her intent and continues her journey, staying on the far side of the slave cabins, slipping from one hut to the next, hugging the tied palm fronds that form the walls of the slave quarters. She hopes that even if there is an unsuspected eye, she is just one more shadow in the night. She soon skirts the open space of the batey and is on her way.

  The road is dark and empty. On a cool night like this, most folks seek the warmth of their beds and bedfellows—something she has never known. Now that she is away from the plantation buildings, she stretches to her full height, kneading her leg muscles before moving on to Hoyo Mulas, the seaside village she’s heard about on the northeast coast of the island. Pola heads toward the place of the rising sun and prays she will get to her destination before she is betrayed by daylight.

  Her nose leads the way. First Don Guillermo’s cow pastures and then his slaughtering pens. The animals stir at her passing but are far enough from the big house that she has no fear of disturbing anyone there. Moving quickly and carefully, she forges ahead, crouching again to blend in, just in case. Next, Hacienda Ubarri. Its mature cane stalks are ready for harvest and give her a measure of protection. Here she can stand a little taller, giving her aching leg muscles a chance to stretch. She’s grateful for the cover, but once she clears the fields, she must get by the house. This one is closer to the road and riskier. All lights are out, but she will not take any chances. She listens for noises or to detect some minute movement. In those moments of stillness, the baby girl comes back to her. A stray lock plastered across her little head, tiny fists lying still against her own black breast; a faint cry for food, a wet trickle in her hand.

  The leg cramp brings her back but not having the luxury of time, she pushes on, past the pain, knowing that ahead lies the Suárez pineapple fields. The cloying scent of ripe fruit turns her stomach. She looks out across the large field and screws her courage once again before leaving the shelter of the cane stalks. Here she will have to take even more care, moving more slowly, carefully. With the low-growing crops leaving her exposed, this will be the longest stretch and most dangerous part of the journey. She crouches, then lays in the furrow and starts her crawl across the field. Never having been in a pineapple field, Pola doesn’t expect the plant spurs that tear at her exposed flesh as she moves ahead. Gritting her teeth, she pulls herself forward, ignoring the tiny cuts and scratches that begin to cover her arms and legs. It takes longer than she anticipated, fearing time lost and her newly bloody limbs might add to detection by the dogs that will inevitably be sent out to pick up her trail. She pushes that thought aside, focusing on getting across the field as fast as she can. When she finally clears the plants, she pulls herself up to her full height, calves still burning and bloody. She refuses to give in to the pain and cramping as she limps her way forward, crossing one cane field after another until she reaches the outskirts of the village she has never seen but has heard so many whispers about.

  From the first group of buildings, the most direct path to her destination is diagonally across the plaza, but that is too dangerous. Too much open ground. She cannot take that risk. An unfamiliar human scent would drive the town dogs wild, and that would be the end. Others have fallen to the dogs’ noses in the past. She has listened and learned well and has taken precautions. The mixture of pine and magnolia oils with which she coated her skin has camouflaged her scent so far. But the quicker she moves on, the better. Once again, she sends out all her senses, hears nothing, and sees no one. Her shadow crawls across the back walls of the village houses. The end of her voyage will not be far off after she clears this last hurdle.

  One more house before the beginning of the woods. She is halfway across the last of the yards when a door suddenly opens. A large woman holding a lantern stands there, squinting into the night. Just then the clouds shift, and Pola, caught in a stray shaft of moonlight, stands out clearly. She freezes, watching the woman watching her. She holds her breath, waiting for the call of alarm.

  But this woman does not call out. Instead, she lifts the lantern, and her round black face, now illuminated, shows her focusing on the figure standing amid the hanging laundry. As the woman takes in all the details, the lines in her face shift, the eyes register understanding. Pola sees her lips stretch into a conspirator’s smile. The woman peers to the right and then left. Satisfied they are alone, she nods once and makes a swift sweeping motion with her hand. Slowly, her smile turns into puckered lips over a toothless mouth. She blows out the light, turns, and shuffles back into the darkness of the kitchen, disappearing as quietly as she appeared.

  Pola is rooted to the spot, barely breathing, ears sharp, eyes taking in every detail, waiting. She has heard of runaways being betrayed by their own. She hesitates for a moment, then quickly crosses the last few yards to the wooded area up ahead. Mercifully, the clouds shift once again, blocking the light. As soon as she’s cleared the houses and slid into the first trees, she breaks into a full-out run, and before long she is hidden by the shadows of the forest.

  There are no footpaths. Her journey slows as she dodges fallen branches and climbs over looping lianas. Th
e moonlight proves to be no longer an enemy revealing her escape but a powerful ally lighting her way. The thick foliage makes her progress slow, but now she follows her nose and lets the strong smell of salt guide her. Her destination must be just ahead, on the far side of the palm forest.

  Low branches whip at her upper body as she fights her way through, pushing ahead. She feels spiderwebs sticking to her face and hair. Her arms and legs strain; her breathing is labored. Pola struggles to get ahead, ignoring the menacing shadows that rise and fall around her. She finally comes to a clearing, where she falls in exhaustion. As her breathing slows, she becomes more aware of her surroundings.

  The musky forest rises around her. She smells the rotting leaves and the unseen animal carcasses. The coquís create a familiar wall of song that soothes her, but the sharp croak of the cotorras attacks her from the dense canopy overhead. A lagarto, disturbed in its nocturnal world, slithers over her arm, leaving a slimy trail behind. A chorus of deep-throated croaking frogs warns her away. A lone owl’s hoot fills the night with unknowing. Then she feels it, the sticky, slippery sliding between her thighs. She doesn’t have to see the red to know she is bleeding, leaving a scent that could be easily detected. By morning, the tracking dogs and sharp-eyed overseers will follow a clear map of her movements.

  The thought gives her the impetus to move on. Just as she begins her run, a new cramping starts. Her hand automatically goes to her belly. All the hours in the birthing chair come rushing back to her—the pressure, the pain slicing through her until she was left a mass of sweat and blood and agonizing, breath-sucking agony. It takes all her will to ignore the twisting in her gut and push on. Her body cannot, will not, betray her, not when she’s so close. She closes her mind to the increasing pain and focuses on moving ahead.

  As she makes her way, Pola no longer feels the branches slapping at her. She drives herself, pushing beyond the pain in her legs, beyond the burn in her chest, beyond thinking. She slows, staggering, dragging. The blood is now dripping down her thighs. Soon she won’t be able to continue. Finally, she drops where she stands.

  She breathes through her mouth, taking in great gulps of air. Her sweat drips into her eyes, blinding her. She feels the rivulets run down her face, not knowing or caring if the wet is sweat or tears. It has the salty taste of fear.

  Suddenly, weariness overwhelms her, and she feels her arms and legs melting away. She longs to lie back and surrender to sleep. But one shining thought breaks through. If she doesn’t get up now, now, she never will, and then it will truly be the end. An image hangs in the air in front of her—her baby girl, round head against her breast—and then . . . nothing. Gone. As if she never existed. How many times? How many betrayed wombs and empty arms? No, Pola cannot do this anymore.

  She tears at the moist loam in the undergrowth and rubs it against her face, hard and harsh, scrubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Now more alert, she notices that the stars have faded and the sky is taking on a salmon hue that signals sunrise. Pola knows for certain that if she stays here, defeat will come with the light of day. The fear of capture gets her up and moving.

  The forest opens up. The foliage changes from thick, low-hung vegetation to sleeker, welcoming palm trees that line the shore.

  Then she hears it, the swishhhh of leaves in the growing light.

  Palmeras, tall and elegant, frame the beach. Swishhhh, swishhhh—the sound of a thousand palm leaves fills the air and soothes her spirit. As she gets her breathing under control, she sniffs the air: perfume. Mother scent intoxicates her, pulling her onward. The sea draws her to her destination, sings her way home.

  She forgets everything but the welcoming song of the waves. This is the realm of her sacred Mother Yemayá, the place of all forgiveness and all safety. Now Pola moves, in a trance, toward her destiny. Barely feeling the water, she continues her journey. The sea lies before her, rising to welcome her body, the seductive dance of the waves making it easy, oh so easy.

  Her arms outstretched in supplication, she begins her plea: Eternal Mother, giver of life, granter of dreams, mother of all mothers. The water rises steadily, over her knees, caressing her thighs. Now Pola knows only the sound of the voice living in her head, flying out of her mouth like released butterflies. Have you forgotten me, your loving and devoted child, the one you knew as Keera? The dark water saturates her bodice to just below her breast. You must know my anguish, my grief, and my despair. Her steps are strong and steady even as the water rises to her shoulders. Bathe me in your loving waters, wash away my pain, and relieve me of this torment. With the water finally splashing her face, Pola comes to another level of awareness. She looks out at the open sea, smells the salt in the air, and listens for the song of the waves, a dirge. And then, joyously, she abandons herself to the pull of the current.

  Below the surface, the water is cool on her legs, pubis, and arms. The seaweed caresses her legs, and she feels the fish brushing her body. The Mother is welcoming her, and she, Pola the daughter, Pola the lost, is coming home and becoming part of Her realm. The rocking movement offers rest, acceptance, and loving care. It embraces her body and stokes her soul. She hears the waves’ song receding above as she descends into a comforting silence. She welcomes what is to come, relinquishing all will, blocking out all knowledge, turning deaf ears to the fear screaming in her chest. Do with me as you wish, but remove me from this world of most unnatural people.

  Slowly, the waters begin to swirl, pulling her into an ever-widening dance. She yields to Yemayá’s wisdom. The water pulls her down, down, down, into the depths, and Pola rejoices at The Mother’s benediction. There is no resistance, no sight, no sound, only the warm embrace of The Mother, the going home. Her last thought is of the joy of surrender. She releases body and mind and allows herself to be taken. The much-needed, longed-for, and hard-won relief awaits. She’s almost there.

  But then the pictures come, intruding with all the shards and thorns following her even into this holiest of places. El Caballo, a wild stallion of a man, taking her from behind, delighting in breaking her by ramming himself into her every opening. El Puerco, grunting and snorting like the pig he is, smelling of the sty and of putrefaction, digging his snout into her, grinning like a demented idiot. El Lobo, biting her to bleeding and slapping her until she begged for it. All of them, performing animals for the patrón, an audience of one, or perhaps more, if he was in a sharing mood.

  And then Luisito, a man-boy really, who wouldn’t or couldn’t do as commanded. He lay on top of her, tears staining his lovely black face as the lash bit into his back and the others jeered at him. We thought you bucks were so macho. And That the best you can do? And poor showing for a strong, strapping Negro like you. Finally, the boy passed out, his weight pinning her down. She kissed his unresponsive face before he was taken away. He was never sent for again. His poor performance had wasted the patrón’s time and had offered no entertainment.

  Mercifully, those images wash away, and Pola floats in the gentlest of whirlpools. Then they come to her, her babies. They come in silhouette, faceless, nameless, as they were in life. But she recognizes them as they are part of her very body. Each floats up, arms reaching, seeking her out, the woman who didn’t protect them, the mother who was never there. She remembers the cold space left when they were taken away. She remembers the hole left in her heart mirroring the emptiness in her womb. She has not been there for them. The boys were taken, and she had done nothing. But no, they haven’t come in recrimination. They know, understand all too well. They come not in accusation but in protection, offering welcoming arms. The boys hover, touching her, lulling her into a place of calm, and love. Their fingers bring warmth and forgiveness. They bring her the gift of redemption and come to guide her home. She gladly lets herself be taken into the depths. This is what she has been seeking all along.

  But somewhere there’s a giant shift in her water world. The spinning begins and the boys start to recede; their silhouettes dissipating and whirling away. The gentle undulation is gone, and she is left hanging in an empty and alien place. She is alone, adrift in a frigid world swirling. Every fiber in her body screams, NOOOOO! She reaches out into the void. Her mind reaches out for The Mother, but there is only silence and emptiness all around her.