I knew that her death just wasn’t about helping Indians or healing slaves. It wasabout me. It was because she had chosen a worthless savage of a man who couldn’t evenprotect and save his own people, much less an heiress associated with the Spanish crown.A feeling of anger took over me. I looked back out at the sea. The waves looked desolateand black as they swished back and forth, taking life and then giving it back again. Itcalmed me and I wondered about the ocean’s vitality. It held such power. It kept so manygreat secrets. I wondered if they would ever be told. Or would they die forever, like aslave who had drowned in the bottom of it.
Three men in short breeches were pulling in an oversize canoe. They parked it on theshore and begun to walk away. Fishing time was over. We walked back inside the bohiosand placed both children in a cotton hammock that was hanging in the corner of theroom. We sat with our legs crossed and made a small fire for both light and warmth. I litmy pipe. The Griot watched me in silence. The room was filled with woven baskets thatwere used for storage. They sat clumsily, one on top of another. Large red and white claypots used for cooking and drawling water peeked out of one. While calabashes of allsorted colors overflowed from another.
“Going somewhere?” the Griot asked I looked around the room and instantly knewwhere he was going.
“Where would I go? This is my home, the only place that I know.”
“King Foot. They’re coming for you,” he said leaning forward.
I drew from my pipe again and looked at him.
“I thought that we stopped being afraid a long time ago?” I said.
“Yes, but King Foot, most of your people are dying,” he said.
“And yours are already dead,” I said blatantly as I shifted positions on the floor.
“We’ll both be dead, if we don’t figure out what to do.” he said.
I shrugged my shoulders lightly.
“King foot, you speak and act out of pain. You know that we have a duty to helpothers,” he said.
“That was the old world my friend. This is the new world and it’s hell on earth,” Isaid while blowing the smoke from my pipe.
The Griot just looked at me, like I had lost my mind.
“I can’t believe what I am hearing. What about all the people we helped, all theslaves that we freed, does that mean nothing to you anymore?” he finally said.
I focused on my pipe and puffed out smoke. “It means everything to me,” I said.
There was a long silence. I looked at the Griot. He had experienced so much loss andpain. He worked to free his soul by remembering the ancient ways of his people. Then, heworked with others. I hated him when I first met him. He always wore the same nasty redtunic. I had offered a hundred times to get him better clothing, but he always declined. Hebelieved that the garment was a symbol of his old age and wisdom. He walked slowly,but intently, refusing to carry a cane and convincing everyone that every body movementhurt. But he was an excellent herbalist. He could find plants to heal almost anyone.
We all liked to gather around the fire at night and listen to his stories. In many cases,they were similar to ours, but with different Gods and places. He had a heavy accent andhad a difficult time rolling the Spanish R. We would look at him, waiting with baitedbreath as he struggled with the language. He would contort his mouth in the most peculiarway that always resulted in us breaking out in a fit of laughter. A part of me realized thatthe Griot didn’t really want to speak Spanish. It was incredibly difficult to tell the storiesof Africa in a foreign language because the concepts weren’t interpreted in the same way.
I felt that I was forever indebted to him. He had watched my wife die, a publicexecution. There was a potent feeling of lost and then desperation, then, a feeling ofworthlessness. You’re a coward, I thought to myself. I closed my eyes and my heart felttight, like a fist of pain. You should have protected her. You should have died with her,the thoughts continued. Isabella, my Isabella, I missed her so much. I looked at the Griot.He was waiting patiently for me to answer.
“Take Pedro Juan and Elvisa with you. Take everyone with you. Just leave the sick. Iwill work with them until they come. Until it’s all over,” I said with finality.
“King foot!” the Griot said.
“It’s like you said, we stopped being afraid a long time ago.” I smiled as I lookedpast him. A level of peace had come over me. Yes, it would be over; all the sufferingwould be over.
Nobody went to sleep that night. Instead, they gathered their horses and left the smallvillage. For years, the village had been a haven for runaway slaves, Indians sufferingfrom disease, and orphans who had lost their homes and families. Now, it was all over.
I continued to smoke my pipe and I could see them, moving in the darkness.
The image was blurry. I could see only the side of their faces, which were as white ascrescent moons. They were perched on saddles that were color coded with fine brasstrimmings. Their horses moved in unison, slamming their hooves into the landscape withtheir footsteps echoing through the night. The soldiers wore brown tunics and med-calfpants with one single red stripe
