It’s Tully, responding to Othella’s question about how much longer we must remain in the saddle on the beasts.
“Riding a mule over rough terrain is tough on the bones,” he says. “I swear, I didn’t know I had muscles in certain parts of my body.” His chatter aims to provoke a reaction from me. He can’t deceive me. Everyone else in my life has, but not Tully. Not now. And I’d thank him if I felt like talking, which I don’t. Not yet.
CHAPTER 26
ZINZI
The Mule Trail, Cockpit Country
How can a girl dream while riding in a saddle on a mule’s back? Or maybe it’s not a dream, but a memory that invades my thoughts as we get closer to Accompong. The more vivid it becomes, the more I recognize Momma Jayden and the day I discovered one of my mother’s secrets.
The clouds hang low over Cockpit Country. While my mother and I till the soil in the heat of an August dawn, the sky suddenly bursts open, drenching us in a summer downpour. She mutters a curse, grabs my hand, and pulls me close, balancing a bushel of corn on her head as if it were a silk scarf. Despite wading through puddles of mud and fallen branches with her protruding belly—she was with child, or children, carrying twin boys, as we later learned—she moves effortlessly.
We arrive home to the thatched-roof cottage where I was born, only to find a guest waiting atthe doorstep: a gray-haired elderly woman sits on a three-legged wooden stool, blocking our way.
The rain pours down in buckets, soaking us to the skin, but my mother does not shove the old woman aside or pull her indoors to escape the rain quickly. No, instead, she growls at the woman.
“What do you want, Momma Jayden? Why are you here? I don’t let anyone into my hut when my husband isn’t home.”
“I want some of your blessed herbs,” Momma Jayden states firmly, refusing to step aside. Gripping my mother’s skirt, I glance up at the woman. The twinkle in the elderly lady’s eyes calms me, assuring me that I have nothing to fear from her.
“Please,” Momma Jayden pleads. “I need some of your salves, herbs, or precious oils. I’m injured and need healing.”
“You hush now,” my mother replies, looking around warily. “Why do you bring up such things in public where anyone might hear? What’s wrong with you?”
“Then let me inside your home,” Momma Jayden insists.
My mother releases a frustrated sigh, followed by a flick of her hand, signaling that the old woman must hurry through the entrance. Once inside, Momma Jayden wipes her face, removes her cover-up, and shakes the water from her dress. I gasp at the sight of the ugly scars and burns covering her arms and legs. My mother doesn’t seem surprised. She tells Momma Jayden to sit on the stool by the door. Then she goes to the box in the corner that I’m not allowed to touch. When she opens it, a mix of gardenias and some very unpleasant odors fills the hut.
“Thank you. I need a potion to ward off the misfortune that plagues me,” Momma Jayden says, her voice heavy with tears.
“Can you do this for me? I have never spoken of what I know. I will never speak of what I know.”
My mother sucks her teeth. “I will pray for you when the moon is bright and full.” She pulls out a small basket from behind a larger one and opens the lid. “Until then, take this.” She hands Momma Jayden a cloth pouch, which the woman takes and clutches to her chest.
“And now, listen to me,” my mother begins. “Don’t come back here. Trust the herbs. They will take care of your troubles.”
That was the day I learned about my mother’s mastery over herbs and plants, and that she can harness the knowledge of the sacred silk cotton tree, the dwelling place of spirits, African ancestors, and the enslaved dead. Some villagers say she can also communicate with the duppies, the spirits of the departed. But these are secrets that can never be spoken. For in Jamaica, it is a crime to be an Obeah woman—and that is what my mother is: Obeah.
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country
Standing on the final precipice outside Accompong, the village looks the same as when I last saw it. Numerous gardens of yams, plantains, bananas, various fruits and vegetables, along with small sugarcane fields, separate the scattered wooden houses topped with thatched roofs made of bamboo and palm leaves.
The sacred silk-cotton tree stands in the center of town, the keeper of memories and centuries of history. African culture and heritage breathe through its roots, limbs, and leaves.This is what my mother preaches—sacred trees, duppies or ghosts, and Obeah. She isn’t alone in these beliefs. The entire community shares them.
I’m the outsider. My beliefs are grounded in practicality rather than myths, ancestors, or superstition.
“Is this it?” A voice breaks into my musings.
“Yes, Miss Dunham. This is Accompong. Colonel Rowe’s yard is at the foot of the village. You can see it at the bottom of the hill.”
“His yard?” Katherine frowns.
“His property,” I explain. “His houses and the surrounding land.”
“It’s very large.”
“There’s a separate dwelling for the women in your party and another for the men. Later, they’ll find a place for the married couple. I don’t believe the Hartfields were initially included in the letter the colonel received from Melville Herskovits.”
