Opal Palmer Adisa is always wrestling with a story in her head while she goes about her busy day juggling life, teaching, mothering, and loving herself. She is grateful to the places and people who grow large in her head, and hopes she does them justice. Her most recent poetry collection is Caribbean Passion (Peepaltree Press, 2004) and her forthcoming novel is The Orishas Command the Dance.

The Living Roots
Opal Palmer Adisa

Dusk skipped in like a woman in haste to meet her lover. The sun, hiding behind the mountain, was the only witness as Essence’s head emerged flat from the side of the cotton tree. She knew as soon as the air hit her face that she should have waited until night had crept in like a man returning from a clandestine affair, but she was impatient. She had told Tuba, who claimed the Maroon leadership after her father died, that they had been too long underground; that Piliferous Layer, although a safe haven for them, was only meant to be temporary. He saw her advice as a challenge to his authority; he believed that perhaps Essence, as daughter of the past leader of one the most formidable Maroon colonies, felt she should be the heir. But Essence was only amused by Tuba’s masculine insecurity. She loved being a reconnaissance scout and had no ambition to be a leader. She had witnessed firsthand the challenges and sacrifices her father had made, and understood how leading and trying to be everything to everyone had worn him down. Besides, she fully intended, when she was ready, to woo Tuba to her bed and make him her husband; he had both the mind and body that was as close to an equal that she would get, and it didn’t hurt that he titillated her. Perhaps that was why she was on this mission, defying his order, knowing he would come after her and provide her with the opportunity she needed for them to be alone, away from colony scrutiny – especially her mother’s, a master strategist.

Before Essence could withdraw and blend fully into the tree, the woman spotted her, and cried out, “How duppy come out so early?” Instantly, the woman dropped the bags in her hands, cupped her palms together, blew in them, and then tossed her palms above her head as if throwing something away. Essence smiled. It was not the first time that an enslaved person thought she was an apparition. The woman gathered her bags loaded with fruits and ground provisions, glanced around at the tree, and took wide strides, her arms swinging vigorously despite the heavy bags that she clutched. Essence was tempted to call to her, but decided against it, as there was no urgency. Why scare the woman out of her wits, she mused. In due time, she would have the information she needed to report back to Tuba and the colony. Essence stayed connected to the trunk of the tree until night was fully dressed like a bride in a veil.

She separated herself from the tree trunk and wavered in the cool night air – flat, one-dimensional, compressed soil that slowly ballooned out until she was body and flesh. Her waist-length dreadlocks separated from the sap of the tree, and Essence coughed and stretched as she acclimated her system to the slave colony. Then she remembered what she always forgot: that the people of the world she was entering wore clothes, the unnecessary excessive fabric that hid the beauty and sensuality of their bodies. In Piliferous Layer they wore no clothes, had no need for such excess that impeded them from communicating with one another. Everything was through touch and taste; in fact, not to touch or lick another was an indication of animosity towards that person. That was why she knew Tuba was meant to be hers. He tasted like roasted sweet potato, but she had never told him this. Nor had he told her what her taste was. Essence put aside her reverie as she heard footsteps and squatted behind the tree, making sure she was out of sight of the voices. She had not yet mastered this human form that she hated; not because it was ugly, but because the enslaved world always infuriated her, with its control of human labour and restriction of their movements: “a complete degradation of the human spirit.”

She identified two men, walking slowly, machetes slung across their shoulders, their voices loud and friendly. As they strode past, the shorter of the two craned his neck and glanced at the tree. Essence could feel his eyes scanning the tree and wondered how he knew she was there even though he could not see her. This had happened to Essence several times in the past when she visited the enslaved world. When she had mentioned these incidents to her father, he told her that even though some of the people were slaves, they were related to the Maroons, and could, if they really tapped into their ancestral memory, escape bondage by submerging below the surface of the earth to live freely as they once did. Essence suspected that this man was related to them and was either a subversive or his memory was damaged by the system of slavery. Still, it was not wise for her to call to him, because with his altered brain capacity, he might think that she was an apparition, or duppy. It was funny to Essence that some of these enslaved relatives of hers were unable to distinguish between the ancestors who had gone ahead and those who were still living in an evolved state among them.

The men moved safely out of sight until their voices were a distant sound like crickets speaking another language. Essence scanned the landscape to ascertain where she might find nondescript clothes in order to move among them without attracting attention. She felt that this time was different than the last time she was here. The air was not as constricted, and she smelled another fragrance – even in the men who had just passed and the woman earlier – that she hadn’t smelled in them before. It was like thyme, but she did not know how to read that smell, or its meaning. It had been about five years since she had last visited this land they called Xaymaca. She and the other reconnoiterers had figured out that every one year of their life was equal to five years of their enslaved relatives. Her grandmother had known this from when she was prodded into a ship, pregnant with her first child. That was why in the dark and despair of the hold, rather than surrender to defeat, she had raised her voice, and called out to see who else was in training to be a priestess like she had been. Six other women had responded and despite the vomiting, tears, feces, and the sheer bewilderment that many succumbed to, they had plotted and planned how to transform themselves and escape their fate, paving a way for the life growing inside their wombs.

Essence’s mother had told her the story many times about her maternal grandmother whom she had never met, and how the first inhabitants of the underground Maroon colony were all pregnant women, all former priestesses in training who had discovered that pregnant women had the capacity to survive underground and to train their unborn children to do likewise, that the source of their power was in their dreadlocked hair that were like roots that allowed them to breathe and receive all the nutrients that they required. That was why all the enslaved people, especially the men, were forced to have their hair cut short and even the women’s hair refused to grow to any significant length because it was being tamed by the enslavers’ comb. This was simply another way they were being trained to work for the benefit of others, and more importantly, they were also being trained to dislike and distrust their natural selves. But this was not the time to reminisce, she was on a mission, and if Essence wasn’t careful to adapt to her environment, she could end up like her maternal grandmother, head shaved and doomed to live the life of an enslaved captive. Quickly, she identified a house about two miles from the cotton tree, where she would find clothes and cloth with which to wrap her hair and protect her power. Putting her ears to the ground to make sure no one was walking around in the immediate vicinity, Essence easily jogged to the farm house and found a stack of clothes folded in a corner in a small room. She selected the simplest sack-like dress, then digging through a basket, found several pieces of cloth. Selecting a smooth, brown, cotton piece, she wound it around her head, completely covering her thick hair that when left free brushed against her bottom. She was ready to move about and learn how her earthly relatives were making out, and how she and her people might continue to help them regain their freedom.

Morning found her in the market with the other women, as they were always the source of news.

“Howdy!” they greeted each other, their full voices like hampers loaded with ground provisions, their gestures free and intimate as the breeze flirting under the leaves of trees. “Howdy!” Essence joined the women in greeting, quickly scanning their bodies to try and discern which of them still had active memory. Once again she smelled thyme among them and then she remembered. It was the same fragrance she had detected the night she had wandered into the rebellion that left three overseers dead and several acres of cane-field smoldering. Could it be that these women had acquired their freedom? But how could that be, since she did not detect the memory in any of them. Confused, Essence floundered. She did not know if she could trust herself. This always happened when she covered her hair and wound it tight in a bundle to keep from being easily recognized; she received mixed messages, and wasn’t quite sure if the information she was receiving was accurate. Desperate to regain balance, Essence pushed her way into the midst of a group of women and touched one on the arm. Very clearly she received the answer she sought: “Me neva gwane be anybody’s slave,” the woman’s skin proclaimed. Just as Essence was about to let go and move away, she felt the woman’s thumb and index finger circle her wrist.

“Is who yu?” the woman declared, pulling Essence closer to her and jerking up her arm. Essence slowed her heartbeat to synchronize it with the turning of soil as a seed takes root. Instantly the woman dropped her hand, alarmed.

“Do me know yu?” the woman asked, less self-assured now.

Essence looked at the woman and recognized her from the evening before, when in her haste Essence had emerged from the side of the tree.

“You belong to the Starch people, like me,” Essence said, spreading her moist calm over the woman. “If you search your memory bank, you will recognize me as a cousin,” Essence continued drawing strength from the woman, which allowed her to scan the woman’s body more fully. She realized the woman was growing dreadlocks hidden beneath her head-wrap. “Me see yu before,” the woman replied as her mind travelled back in time.

“Me se yu before, but yu was different,” the woman ended, nodding her head as if to awaken her memory.

“We survive through our ability to disguise and adapt,” Essence smiled, touching the woman’s hand and immediately drinking in her warmth, like soil being sprinkled with water. “Can we go where we can talk?” Essence asked, feeling other ears prick up at their conversation.

The woman’s eyes bore into Essence, trying to read her in a more obvious way than Essence was trained to do. Then she smiled, satisfied with what she believed she saw and knew.

“We guh afta me get a likkle piece a meat fi flavor de pot,” the woman said, turning. Then she stopped and gazed once again on Essence. “Cousin,” she said with full meaning, “de people call me Walker because me feets does know where to travel any time day or night, but me other name be Carmen. Carmen de Walker be me preference.” She smiled broadly and began to move through the crowd of mostly women haggling over food and prices. Essence kept up, and with her mouth almost touching Carmen’s ear, said, “I’m known as Essence of the Starch People.”

Carmen de Walker nodded acknowledgment as she weaved with ease through the crowd, occasionally greeting others with both a nod of her head and a salutation which often involved inquiring about other members of their family. After more than an hour of this ritual, Essence deduced that the market was merely a meeting place to exchange news; shopping was the guise. The women’s talk was about how sweet freedom was, even though the bacras still had their foot on their backs.

“But we will find a way round dem white people and dem meanness,” said a woman selling carrots.

“Me done tell de one me lease land from dat fi him keep touching me behind, ah go fall down pan him and squeeze him to death,” a rotund woman said with mirth.

“It nah gwane tek much fah you fi squeeze de day-lights out of dat maga, red skin bacra,” said another, bearing a bunch of bananas of her head.

The women all laughed good-naturedly and moved on. Essence tried to understand their tongue that was slightly different from the language she spoke, but even more, she was trying to comprehend how they could claim to be free, and in the same breath declare that someone had a foot on their back. She listened keenly, trying to sort out all the talk, but always making sure she was close to Carmen’s side. On more than two occasions, they were stopped, and once a woman who walked with a cane and whose face was filled with lines, searched Essence’s face and asked,

“Is whe you from, girlie? Haven’t seen you before.”

Essence quickly thought of what to say, trying to bring to her lips the name of other estates over the island that she had visited, but Carmen came quickly to her rescue.

“Howdy Miss Tilda. Yu looking well, today. Dis here is me cousin Es. So what yu buyin’? Yu need any help, ma’am?”

Essence was impressed with the Carmen’s swift and expert manner in deterring folks. As they moved on, Carmen remarked, “Miss Tilda okay. She mean well, but still one can neva be too careful. If anyone else ask, tell dem yu from Yarmouth Estate. Me ’ave people dere.”

This confused Essence, although she did not say anything. If they were free, why did it matter where she was from? All was not what it seemed; there was a great deal more she had to learn before reporting back to Tuba and the Elder Council.

At last Walker purchased a small piece of salt pork and they were on their way to her home, four miles from the market, which they walked in well under an hour. Walker’s name was appropriately suited, Essence decided as they made their way to her little round cottage, built with bamboo vines and covered with a thatched roof from coconut boughs and secluded in a grove.

Before they were inside the one-room cottage, Carmen de Walker reached for Essence’s hand and said to her. “Yu nuh tell me eberyting. Yu know yu can trust me.”

“Are you free or are you enslaved?”

“We claim freedom two years now. Whe yu been hidin out? Yu is one of de Maroon dem?”

So that was why she had smelled thyme. What had her mother told her about thyme again? “If you rub thyme into your joints, and behind your knees and under your arm-pits, it will make you invisible to the enslavers and the enslaved.” Her mother’s words seeped into her consciousness. Now she had to decide how much to tell Carmen the Walker.

“Yesterday evening you saw me at the cotton tree,” Essence began, observing Carmen closely. “I was just coming up and had not filled my lungs with air yet.”

“Yu is duppy?” There was alarm in Carmen’s voice.

“I am still among the living,” Essence hastened to assure her. “But you are right about me being a Maroon. There is a whole group of us Maroons who live underground.” Before Carmen the Walker could interrupt, Essence pulled off her turban and shook her hair, which fell around her like tall, brown grass. “We breathe and survive through our hair. I am a reconnoiterer. I come up to learn how those who are enslaved are making out to gain their freedom. A few of us who came up were captured and enslaved when our hair, the source of our power and transformation, was cut off.”

Carmen also pulled off her head-wrap, and her finger-length dreadlocks stuck up on her head. “We is indeed cousin, and me heard oonuh chatting plenty, but me moda tell me me a gu mad cause nu body kyan live inna ground like yam root.” Carmen clapped her hands and the balls of her feet tapped the ground. “Yu can neva know how it feel fi know me nuh mad,” she said, embracing Essence, who immediately licked her arms in joy. Carmen pulled away.

“Mek yu lick me like puppy?” she asked.

“That’s how we greet each other down there,” Essence apologized, remembering that this was not the way of the enslaved.

Carmen took hold of Essence’s hand and pressed it to her stomach. Essence felt the child growing in Carmen’s stomach. Both laughed, then held each other and danced around the small room. Essence realized she was suddenly tired. She yawned.

“Yu tired. Tek a likkle rest while me cook.”

Grateful, and sensing she was safe, Essence stretched out on the small cot and pulled the colourful sheet, made from the scraps of many different cloths, up to her neck. Some of her hair, falling to the impacted dirt floor, instantly drank the nutrients. Her dreams connected her to her grandmother who was sitting on a hill looking down on a valley in which people, who appeared to be the size of ants, went about their daily chores. Her grey-roped locks were pulled over her shoulder almost to her ankles.

As Essence approached her grandmother, the old woman caught hold of her hand and licked her fingers. Essence returned her grandmother’s greeting by licking her shoulder as both a sign of respect for her age as well as a symbol of deep affection. Essence sat beside the elder, who did not avert her eyes from the valley, but spoke as if she was merely continuing a story.

“Your mother has told you how I, along with six others, came to find Piliferous Layer and how I came to lose my claim to it. It has taken more than ten years, fifty in the world of the enslaved, to grow back my hair. Now it almost brushes the ground; this way I am always connected to the soil that sustains us.

“When I was on that slaver’s ship, cuffed and chained, bewildered and bereft of hope like all the others, I heard the voice of my great-grandmother saying to me over and over, ‘All is not lost, all is not lost.’ I was trying to shut out her voice when I raised my own to ask who else beside me was a priestess in training. Others replied, and they too were being sustained by their grandmother’s voices, telling them, just like my own who had already made her transition from our world, that all was not lost, and together we had the knowledge in our wombs to forge a new way to live.

“I cannot tell you how we did it, except that once the ship docked and we were relieved from our chains, we each ran, and to keep from being detected we buried each other, and in our desperation to be quiet, to keep from being detected, our bodies transformed and we found ourselves being pulled more deeply into the earth, as if through quicksand, until we sank to a latitude that had a floor.

“From there we learned what we had always been taught, that we could become whatever the occasion demanded, and the season of hostility and geographic realignment slated for our people required that some of us transmute and become one with the yams that had historically sustained us. We grew roots and dug more securely into the ground and gave birth, then one by one, rose to the surface to claim men and teach them to live like us.

“Our numbers increased and we learned to slow down our aging process considerably because we surmised that this season would be a long one, and our role was not only to be way-makers, but to survive it, as we were the keepers of memory and purveyors of tradition.

“At first we didn’t think we would survive, partly because we were ambivalent. Our continent, that would become divided up and renamed Africa, was not perfect, but it was ours. Our needs were met. Like most people, we sometimes fought among ourselves, and often had to contend with kings who wanted to expand their territory, but it was home.

“The tears I shed for that place and the people lost to me is in the ripple of each wave. But every time I wanted to give up, my grandmother’s voice would pound inside my head, ‘All is not lost, this is a great journey-way that you are making. Go on and make of it something new.’ And so I did with the help of Arrora, an Arawak woman, who did not die with the rest of her people, but stayed to help us who were coming. She was a mother to me; she had been a high-priestess of her people. She taught all of us how to breathe underground, how to become soil and use our hair like roots. She delivered our babies and showed us how to wriggle like worms to the surface of the earth. Mostly, she taught us the smell of the white man and how to stay safe from becoming one of his slaves. Arrora is your grandmother, too. You are a woman now, soon will be sleeping with a man. You must put water out for Arrora just like how you put water out for me.

“You are as good a scout as I was, better in fact. Once again the wind has changed course, but there are still battles ahead. Always remember that you are a purveyor of memory and tradition. You must always be able to live and survive anywhere. That is our claim. We survived when others did not. I was fifty, the age of your mother now, when the enslavers captured me and cut off my hair. I had been visiting several estates over the years, speaking to the women, teasing out their memory, helping them to set fire to the fields, showing them which herbs to grow to strengthen their and their men’s bodies, which to use to weaken the bacras and make them worthless without killing them. I was doing well, but then I took up with a man on one of the estates. The woman I took him from got jealous and told the overseer that I was telling the cook how to kill him. I was too wrapped up in this man’s love to be vigilant. I was tight in his arms, our legs intertwined when they caught me, and right there before him, my hair was cut off and my head shaved clean. That was true bewilderment; that and the sting of the whip. Thirty lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails, but not a sound escaped my mouth or a tear watered my eyes. I knew my responsibility and kept my focus on the colony underground and on our people. I knew I would see them again.”

Essence turned on the small cot and the back of her hand wiped the tears that spilled from her eyes. She was still asleep, but mumbled, “Fifty in our years, but 250 in theirs. Oh grandmother, you were such a warrior.”

“We all are warriors, child, especially those who were enslaved and did not succumb to death, but kept believing and working to break the chains of slavery. My child, some of the greatest warriors simply kept faith.”

While Carmen de Walker hummed a mento and cooked, Essence slept deeply, her grandmother dreaming her the memory she needed to fulfill her duties. She woke after the day had gone to rest. Her mother always cautioned her to wait until day was chasing evening before entering the enslaved world. She woke feeling powerful, and immediately her eyes located Carmen sitting just outside the cottage on a low stool and a man standing behind her massaging her shoulders. Essence rose quietly and walked to the door, but even before her feet were over the threshold, Carmen called to her.

“Yu was well tired. Yu sleep sound.”

“Yes, your cot is very comfortable,” Essence replied, her eyes scanning the man, the father of Carmen’s unborn child; she detected that he was safe.

“Dis be Joint, also known as Sammy.”

Joint smiled at Essence, and his eyes fastened on her like burr-burr, that thorn-like weed that easily attached itself to cloth.

“Me did know yu,” he declared, moving from behind Carmen and walking towards Essence. “Me did know you from another time when memory flowed like river water.”

“Joint was here before,” Carmen interjected. “Him was here two times more dan me, but de both of we been here before.”

“And are you free also?” Essence asked.

“Slavery days done!” Joint declared, spittle spewing from his mouth, his nostrils flaring.

A rush of excitement flushed Essence’s skin. She wanted to rush back to the colony and tell Tuba and the others that they could come up now, that they no longer needed to live underground, but first, she had to hear the full story. She had to confirm what Carmen and Joint told her, and had to decipher the smell that clung to the colony. Essence walked up to Joint and licked his cheek and then his arm. She had to be sure; taste was the ultimate confirmation. Carmen reared up and Joint brushed Essence away gently.

“Dat’s me oman dere,” Joint said, pointing to Carmen who had her arms akimbo. “We be family. Me no want no more oman.”

Realizing that her action was misinterpreted, Essence hastened to explain.

“It’s only through taste that I can verify what you say. It is the language of the Starch people.”

“Is who oonuh be?” Joint asked.

“Whe oonuh live fah real?” Carmen followed on the heels of Joint, now insinuating herself between Essence and Joint, and linking her arms with his.

Essence smiled at this gesture of ownership. How would Tuba react if she were to openly declare her intention to posses him by licking his soles and tracing his spinal cord with her tongue at one of their weekly public gatherings? Would he in turn circle her navel with his tongue and lick her eyelids to indicate consent and signal their union?

“Tek me whe yu live,” Carmen de Walker stood in front of Essence, demanding of her. “Tek me; mek me see cause me is one of oonuh.” Her voice was determined. Both feet were planted firmly on the ground and her arms were akimbo again. Essence could see that she would not be dissuaded easily, yet dare she take an outsider into their free colony?

“I cannot take you. You do not know how to transform and become a root.”

“Me can become whateva me want. Jus tek me and show me how,” Carmen de Walker insisted.

Essence knew she was cornered, but her mind quickly reviewed the first tenet of Piliferous Layer: Safety is the responsibility of all, from the youngest to the oldest, and no outsider must be allowed into Piliferous Layer without the approval of the leader, an elder, and two other members of the community. Essence respected this rule and knew that the colony had been protected all these years because everyone, including her great-grandmother who had been captured and made to live like a slave, honoured that code. She could not and would not break it, even though she believed Carmen de Walker was one of them, and wanted to show her how they lived. But before she could explain to Carmen why she could not take her, she felt a cool wind on her arms and legs, and knew instantly that someone else from the Maroon colony was approaching. Almost immediately, she smelled the sweet potato and smiled. So Tuba had come after her as she had hoped.

“The leader of my colony is approaching. You can make your request to him.”

Tuba strode into their midst, his skin rich like wet soil, his muscles taut. Essence moved quickly to him and licked his knuckles in greeting as he ambled through the gate leading to Carmen de Walker’s cottage. Immediately Joint stepped forward, his hands fisted at his side. With her peripheral vision, Essence glanced at Joint and smiled at the folly of men, free or enslaved; they amused her with their need to always lay claim, to establish their territory. Apparently Carmen was equally aware, because she moved quickly beside Joint and placed her hands over his fist, massaging it. “Him is not here to cause trouble,” she said to Joint, although her eyes were on Tuba, drinking him in.

Essence felt like someone was yanking on her dreadlocks and her scalp prickled. She had not experienced this sensation before, but she knew enough to know it was her way of wanting to claim territory, indicate to Carmen that Tuba was hers, even though she had not yet made such declaration to him or the colony. “Tuba, I am glad that you have come after me. Slavery is over. Everyone is now free. This is Carmen de Walker and her man, Joint. They are free and she is carrying his child.” She knew she had said more than she needed to by way of introduction, but she felt the need to establish Carmen and Joint as a couple.

Tuba nodded to the couple, but his eyes were fastened on Essence: she read both irritation and desire.

“I had to come, and for defying your order I will submit to your punishment,” Essence said more coquettishly than she had planned. It was the general rule that when the leader was disobeyed, the violator had to spend every minute of two weeks shadowing the leader.

“There is to be no punishment,” Tuba replied, smiling at Essence for the first time.

“No punishment!” Essence was incredulous.

Tuba moved closer and licked her neck. “I conferred with the Elder Council before I left. I told them I approved your mission because like you, I believed we have been underground too long.”

Thrown off guard, Essence could only mumble as her mind raced ahead to try and discern if Tuba was laying a trap for her.

“But you always opposed me,” she shouted.

“It might have appeared that way, but perhaps I was allowing you to practice your rebellion on me,” Tuba spoke softly.

Essence felt as if all the wind and fight had been knocked out of her. Was Tuba more complex than she had thought him to be? He was certainly liked and admired by most, including the Elder Council.

“So Mr Leader, tek me and Joint so we can see whe oonuh live,” Carmen de Walker interjected, jarring Essence.

“First we must experience this freedom that you have gained,” Tuba said, focusing fully on Carmen. “My people have been waiting on this day, when they could come up and breathe in the sweet air of freedom. The drums will sound this news when Essence and I return. Then perhaps you can come and see where we live, but of course there will be no need now that you are free. Living in the belly of the earth was how we resisted slavery.”

“Well, slavery done, but we still have fi struggle fi get the laws change,” Joint, said circling his arm around Carmen’s waist. “Some of the bacras dem still want treat we like we is dem slaves. Dem no want give us no land fi grow and plant and profit from me own labor. Dem no want we have any say in how de island fi run.” By now Joint was worked up and going at full speed.

“We free, but yet still we not free,” Carmen interjected. “Dem still flog people like dem is slave for de slightest ting. Dem nu want pay we what we worth. Dem is true bad-minded people, dem bacra people who chat like hot coal in dem mouth and skin red and blotchy like wild leaf dat yu boil fi wash sore foot.”

The four laughed, feeling a warm cameraderie.

Tuba was invited to dinner and they ate and exchanged stories about their day-to-day activities in their respective homes. Although Joint and Carmen weren’t sure, they believed that slavery had ended more than two years before. They insisted that Essence and Tuba tell them about Piliferous Layer, and they listened to all the details with their jaws agape and their eyes big. Essence and Tuba also sought more details from them about their new freedom, and the four agreed that they would travel the island over to make sure that everyone now enjoyed freedom. Carmen de Walker said she would lead the way as she had travelled most of the island, and had even witnessed some of the torching of the fields, as well as some killings. Still, she insisted that she wanted to visit Essence’s colony and have her unborn child live in a place where people refused to be slaves. After yawning and declaring it was time to sleep, Carmen stretched out on the ground and pressed her ears to the soil. A smile covered her face.

“Me hear dem talking. Me hear dem, me always used to hear dem. Me is one of oonuh.” She turned on her back and smiled up at the sky sprinkled with stars. Joint and Tuba reached down and helped her up. “Well, me tink we is all tired and must get some shut eye,” Carmen started moving towards the cottage. “Es, you and Mister Tuba can take the cot. Joint and I will pass the night on de floor.”

Essence wanted to ask Carmen why she called her Es, but decided now wasn’t the time, and besides, she rather liked the sound of Es. And she had no intention of taking her bed and told her so. They argued back and forth for a while, then Carmen proceeded to spread bedding on the floor for Essence and Tuba. With the lamp out, the two Starch people stumbled toward each other, unsure of their next move. They could hear Carmen and Joint settling on the small bed. Suddenly, Essence felt Tuba’s tongue circling her navel. Now twice in one day he had beat her to the punch, this time by declaring his affection.

“It does not count,” she whispered in his ears.

“It does to me,” Tuba rejoined, licking her neck. “When we return, I shall honour you in the appropriate manner, before the community.”

Essence pulled Tuba to her and whispered in his ear. “You are my sweet-potato.”

“And you are my cassava,” Tuba said as they fell into a sound sleep nestled together, tongue against skin.