Part 14 (1/2)

Chapter Four

For almost a month now, any night he could manage, Atiba had slipped unseen from the compound and explored the southern coast of the island, the sh.o.r.e and the upland hills. Now he was sure they could survive after the island became theirs. The _branco_, the white English, were savages, who destroyed all they touched, but there were still traces of what once had been. Between the fields of sterile cane he had found and tasted the fruits of the sacred earth.

There were groves of wild figs, their dark fruit luscious and astringent, and plump coconuts, their tender core as rich as any in Yorubaland. Along the sh.o.r.e were stands of sea-grape trees, with a sweet purple fruit biting to the tongue. He had also found palm-like trees cl.u.s.tered with the tender papaya, and farther inland there were groves of banana and plantain. He had discovered other trees with large oranges, plump with yellow nectar, as well as pomegranates and tamarind just like those he had known in Ife, his home city. The soil itself gave forth moist melons, wild cuc.u.mbers, and the red apples of the p.r.i.c.kly cactus. There also were calabash, the hard, round gourds the Ingles had already learned could be hollowed out for cups and basins.

The only thing wanting was that staple of the Yoruba people, the yam.

But they would not have to survive from the soil alone. In the

thickets he had heard the grunts and squeals of the wild hogs, fat sows foraging nuts, leading their litters. Along the sh.o.r.e he had seen flocks of feeding egrets in the dawn light, ready to be snared and roasted, and at his feet there had been hundreds of land crabs, night prowlers as big as two hands, ripe for boiling as they scurried back to their sand burrows along the sh.o.r.e.

He could not understand why the _branco _slaves who worked alongside the Yoruba allowed themselves to be fed on boiled corn mush. A natural bounty lay within arm's reach.

The Orisa, those forces in nature that work closest with man, were still present on the island. He could sense them, waiting in the wood of the trees. This ravished place had once been a great forest, like the one north of Ife, and it could be again. If the hand of the Ingles was taken from it, and the spirit of the Orisa, its rightful protectors, freed once more.

The first cooing of the wood dove sounded through the thatched hut, above the chorus of whistling frogs from the pond, signaling the approach of day. Atiba sat motionless in the graying light, crosslegged, at the edge of the mud seat nearest the door, and studied the sixteen cowrie sh.e.l.ls as they spun across the reed tray that lay before him. As he watched, eight of the small ovals came to rest mouth up, in a wide crescent, the remainder facing down.

The tiny room was crowded with the men of the Yoruba, their cotton loincloths already drenched with sweat from the early heat. Now all eyes narrowed in apprehension, waiting for this _babalawo_, the priest of the Yoruba, to speak and interpret the verses that revealed the message in the cowries.

_Bi a ko jiya ti o kun agbon

_If we do not bear suffering that will fill a basket,

_A ko le jore to kun inu aha

_We will not receive kindness that will fill a cup.

He paused and signaled the tall, bearded drummer waiting by the door.

The man's name was Obewole, and he had once been, many rains ago, the strongest drummer in the entire city of Ife. He nodded and s.h.i.+fted the large drum--the Yoruba _iya ilu_--that hung at his waist, suspended from a wide shoulder strap. Abruptly the small wooden mallet he held began to dance across the taut goatskin. The verses Atiba had just spoken were repeated exactly, the drum's tone changing in pitch and timbre as Obewole squeezed the cords down its hourgla.s.s waist between his arm and his side. Moments later there came the sound of more drums along the length of the southern coast, transmitting his verses inland.

In less than a minute all the Yoruba on Barbados had heard their _babalawo's _exact words.

Then he said something more and shook the tray again. This time five cowries lay open, set as a star. Again he spoke, his eyes far away.

_A se'gi oko ma we oko

_The tree that swims like a canoe,

_A s'agada ja'ri erin

_The sword that will cut iron.

Once more the drum sent the words over the morning quiet of the island.