“Thanks, Momma. Your kind words are helpful.” I can’t help but feel as if I’ve been slapped in the face. She’d never do such a thing, but her words are just as hurtful. I dash out of the hut, just needing to get away—not only from her words but also from the truth behind them.
CHAPTER 29
VIVIAN JEAN
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Two
It happens on the tenth day in Accompong. I am visiting Katherine and Othella in their living quarters on the colonel’s yard when Iris comes puffing into the house with exciting news. “Tonight there will be a dance,” she announces gleefully.
“That’s too good to be true.” Katherine dramatically slumps against the wall, and she’s not overreacting. Since our arrival, the villagers have resisted her requests for anything and everything, from conversation to storytelling or an innocent chat about herbal remedies, let alone a dance. Katherine has struggled to connect with any villagers, much less receive an invitation to dance. I can see how distressed she has become in just a few days. The reason we are here is dance. She can talk all she wants about potions, artifacts, or mat weaving; the purpose of our expedition is African dance, history, legacy, the music, the movement, the bridge to ancient Africans.
Aside from Iris, our conversations have been limited toMomma Hazel, who I sense doesn’t like us, let alone trust us with Accompong’s secrets.
Very few villagers acknowledge our presence, regardless of how much time we spend wandering around the market and attempting to converse. It has reached the point where Katherine asked me to tell Tully to stay in our hut. “I think his cameras are frightening the villagers. The recording devices might be too much civilization for them to take in.”
She doesn’t say this in front of Zinzi, mind you. Our guide might find the remark condescending and feel obliged to give Katherine what for.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling to sort out my thoughts. I never knew how much my father could hurt me. I never knew how indebted I was to Maxi. She saved my childhood. But at what cost? My relationship with my mother? My father? I’ve been so consumed by that sorrow that I haven’t given Katherine’s mission the attention it deserves. I haven’t even learned as much as I need to know about the sacred silk cotton tree and how I can reach the duppies, or the one duppie I pray is tangled in the roots of the tree. Maybe tonight’s dance will bring me back to my senses, and I can talk about the other reasons I’m here, including the secrets I keep. I return to Iris, who is excitedly detailing the night’s festivities. “We have the fiddler coming in from White Hall, there will be rum, and tonight we dance the set dances of the parade.”
Katherine starts pacing, hands on her hips and taking deep breaths.
“What are set dances?” I ask to distract her, recognizing her excitement and my curiosity.
“I have no idea,” Katherine replies absently. “I am a little disappointed. This dance has nothing to do with the Koromantee war dances.” She turns to Iris. “Where will it take place?”
“The small pavilion—but don’t come too late or you’ll be in the back rows,” Iris explains, before adding, “Don’t come too early, either. You don’t want to seem too anxious, and strangers in the front row are bad juju.” Iris curtsies and hurries off, shouting, “See you tonight.”
“It’s going to be hard to wait for the night to fall.” Katherine starts pacing. “Everyone must take notes.”
“Will that draw attention?”
Katherine nods. “You’re right. This is the first of many invitations, but we must document every step—the sounds, the patterns.”
“How? Didn’t you say there can’t be any more photographs or motion picture cameras?” Othella reminds us from the archway where she has been standing quietly. “If we’re not writing, and Mr. Hartfield—excuse me, Tully—can’t use his cameras, then how?”
“Count on your memories,” Katherine says emphatically. “Every one of us has to be there, too, even Tully. He can use his camera, the Leica II, for a couple of shots, but he must be careful, take them before it’s completely dark, and use no other recording equipment.”
“I’ll have my journal, and you and Othella can take notes, too. But we don’t want to have our heads bobbing up and down the whole time, either. So, commit to memory as much as you can.” Now, Katherine’s excitement is contagious, but my mind still isn’t functioning the way she needs it to. The way I thought I wanted it to.
My spirit is too weak. Always a reed caught in a wind tunnel, snapping at the first gust. No matter how much I try not to dwell on my troubles or avoid focusing on what I wish weren’t true versus what I want to be true, I fall prey to it—weakness of spirit, mind, and character. How could I love Tully more than I ever loved Clifford? Where did my grief go so quickly? Was it my fault his baby died?
My life is slowly being stripped away, piece by piece. At least Tully knows Clifford’s note wasn’t written about us. Funny, I almost wish it was. My father and Maxi, all those years of lies?
Christ, this merry-go-round will destroy me.
Othella is speaking, and I make myself listen. “I’m very good at memorizing things. My mind works like that. It’s something that has helped me tremendously. I see a room once and can remember where every item belongs. It’s like I have a camera inside my head.”
“That is a skill,” I say emphatically.
“A photographic memory,” Katherine adds with a touch of jealousy.
“Yes, Katherine, that’s exactly it,” I concur. “Do you think there’s anything we need to do to prepare?”
“We just have to show up,” Katherine replies. “No one has seen them performed since Professor Melville’s earliest visit, but he’s no dancer.
“We’d better remove our riding pants and boots and wear lightweight dresses and sandals.”
“She did say it was in the open pavilion.”
