“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“It is a brilliant idea,” she says emphatically. “Besides, what good are you doing hiding in the dark? It’s midafternoon. The sun is still shining and the village is alive with activity.” She sighs. “Vivian Jean, your sulking must cease.”
Given no choice, I do not resist.
The “goombah” is a hollow block of wood covered with sheepskin that has been stripped of its hair and produces a sound Katherine describes as “gay and grave.” She then remarks with a smile that fails to reach her eyes, “Sort of like your mood lately.”
How can music be more than just sound? I wonder, but I don’t ask. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“None of which you have chosen to share with me, your friend and leader of this expedition. I wish you thought I could help.”
I close my eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be this way—there’s a lot I’m too afraid to tell because it’s embarrassing and—” I look into her eyes. “Scary and foolish.”
We are heading toward the pavilion where I’ve spent numerous evenings recently, taking part in ceremonies, dances, rituals, celebrations, and activities that have both thrilled and mystified me. “Is this where we’ll learn to play the sheepskin instrument?”
“I may have exaggerated a little. I seriously doubt we’ll be permitted to handle the goombah during this ceremony. Tonight, it’s a sacred instrument. You see, we’ve been invited to a Koromantee war dance ritual.”
I see the sparkle in Katherine’s eyes. This is something she has been looking forward to since we arrived. She’s been seeking out an opportunity to see it, to participate in it, but she was denied at every turn. The reasons were never clear. She was beginning to believe she would never witness one of the most authentic ancient rituals of the Maroon people, passed down from those brought to and enslaved in the Carib bean from West Africa who fought but never won their freedom.
“How did the invitation happen?” I ask.
“It seems that the Koromantee war dance is not just another dance performance. It is an invocation that calls upon ancestral warriors, Cudjoe, Nanny, and Tacky, who fought against colonial forces to free their people. There will be drumming, chatting, and a procession to connect the living to the warrior spirits of the past.”
“Like those I might find beneath the sacred silk cotton tree?” I ask.
“That is why you came, isn’t it, Vivian Jean? The silk cotton tree—in the middle of town. The spirits of the tree. You believe in all of it, don’t you?”
I don’t respond.
“Who is it you need to speak with?”
I still don’t answer. I stare at the dirt beneath my feet.
“It’s not about fieldwork. That you would share with me—it’s personal.”
I look at her even more intensely but remain silent.
“You’ll tell me if you still need to after this ceremony.”
My shoulders relax. She’s backing off, and I will tell her—just not yet. “If the war dances are held because of an adversary’s threat, who are the Maroons raging war against now?”
We have reached an area of the pavilion, and others have already started together. We take our seats, not in the back or the front but in the middle of the group already in place. “Who is the war dance meant for?”
“Talking to Zinzi the other day, she told me that some sugarcane plantation owners are mounting a campaign to legalize taxing the Maroon people for the rum they make and consume in the Cockpit. For centuries, the Maroon people have operated independently from Britain and its policies and taxes. Colonel Rowe intends to ensure that this autonomy continues.”
“And it begins tonight with the Koromantee war dances.”
“Oh, did I mention that this is a proper Maroon ritual, and the ceremony lasts until dawn?”
“So, we’ll be here all night?”
“Yes, we will.”
“I didn’t tell Tully.”
“I told everyone we are the only two who were invited.”
“I understand your invitation, but why me?” I ask.
