Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 New Orleans, November 1872 Pull yourself together. Pull yourself together. The drums that once seemed so all-encompassing now merely echo in the distance. Everything feels like it's reverberating. The multitude of voices mumble together into a soup of sound. I keep my eyes closed, afraid of what I might see. Was I poisoned? I never signed up for this. With my eyes still clamped shut, I touch the tips of my fingers to my thumbs, counting, One... two... three... four... four... three... two... one... My mama taught me that when I was a child. If I ever needed to bring myself back from too much emotion, One... two... three... four... four... three... two... one... Silence. It all stops. The sounds. The echoes. The voices. I slowly open my eyes and see that I'm still here. In the corner. Everyone is still here, but it's silent. They are laughing, drumming, eating -- but no noise escapes them. I'm seated in the middle of the ceremonial altar in the crook of the ballroom. Candlelight gleaming all around me. I'm not used to being the center of attention. Though there are many revelers dancing about the great hall, I can't seem to hear a thing. A wooden crate draped in purple velvet cloth props me slightly above the ground but affords no cushion. I can feel the splintery wood and small gaps between each plank on my buttocks, but I've been told to keep my legs crossed and not to touch the floor until the ritual is over. I have seen statues adorned in this way, with nuts and fruits as offerings, but never a human. Lace dyed lavender has been cloaked along the walls of the altar, and the floor-to-ceiling windows around the room reflect the hundreds of flickering tapers adorning buffet tables brimming with food. Platters of shiny coral-colored crawfish, silver bowls of steaming hot jambalaya, gumbo, and red beans and rice. I can smell the delectable yeasty puffed beignets above all the other heady, spicy, mouthwatering aromas. In spite of the celebration, I feel in no shape to participate. The superbly costumed guests swirl and twirl through the room in their ceremonial garb, the women in long flowing cotton skirts in various shades of purple with multicolored headwraps, and the men in loose white tunics cinched at the waist. Purple and white confetti floats through the crowd as the drummers beat with increasing intensity. Their muscles pulsate as I feel the vibration, yet I still cannot hear a thing. Those dancing begin to move as if they are in a trance. I notice that the red candles, which are only at the altar, have burned down almost to stubs. Marie, bedecked in gold jewelry encrusted with precious gems as befits a queen, approaches and whispers something in my ear, but I can't hear her. She motions for two of her servant women to remove the melted tapers. A gust of wind rushes past us and blows out a few of the candle stubs before the women can change them. They turn to Marie, wide-eyed and visibly unnerved. The draft swells and picks up speed, traveling around the room until all the candles have been extinguished. The dancehall is now only dimly illuminated by the light of the gas streetlamps glowing through the large windows. The wind returns to my corner and surrounds me, encircles me as a tornado might, but I am calm in the eye of the storm. I begin to drift off, nodding my head back. The line between my imagination and reality now becomes increasingly blurred. DING! DING! DING! "Get the midwife, I can't feel her heartbeat!" they yell. My eyes are still glued shut. I don't want to see them. I don't want to feel what this reality has to offer. Against my will, I peel my eyes open. There she is. Sitting behind her heavy, ornately carved dark oak desk with a feather pen in hand. How did I get here? What was that ringing I heard? And the call for the midwife? I think I might be going mad. The smell of old smoke only slightly obscured by lavender oil chokes me. I try not to cough. The window behind her encapsulates the life of this town. Horse-drawn streetcars roll down the wide tree-lined boulevard, past the colorful two-story houses with their curlicue wrought-iron gates, gingerbread embellishments, and ubiquitous white-columned porches. Negro and Creole women walk about in high fashion, garbed in brightly colored silks and satins; long dresses with puffy sleeves, tight bodices, full skirts, and bustles; bonnets with wide ribbons, elaborate bows, and feathers. Are they headed to a ball or just out for a stroll? It's hard to tell. I blink hard and look back at Marie. She is a Negro, but her color seems to have faded with age. Her thick, white wavy hair is pulled up into a loose bun, and her purple satin dress appears to be uncomfortably tight around the bosom. I assume she is wearing a corset, something I am grateful I've rarely had to squeeze into. In Cuba, we almost always have loose cotton sundresses that flow in the sea breeze and feel like we are clad in close to nothing at all. Marie's judgment shows through her deadpan expression. She forces a slight smile as she deliberately places her feather pen back in its well. "I think it's time we try some herbs. Nothing permanent, just something to help you through this rough patch. What do you think?" I don't know what I think? My mother sent me here because she said that Marie has a special interest in my well-being. She says I am connected deeply to the spiritual work that she does. Marie handles me as one might a newborn child, she is so careful. I can tell that her handmaidens, dressed in white, who seem to attend to her personal and business affairs, and servants, dressed in black with full white aprons, have the utmost respect for her. Or perhaps it's fear, so hard to tell. Regardless, I know Mama would not send me to anyone who would mistreat me, so I try to trust her. Apparently, I met her when I was young, but I do not recall. "I came to New Orleans because my mother said you would know what to do with me," I whisper. Marie lifts her gaze from the parchment and meets my eyes. "I am of the mind that you know exactly what to do with yourself, I am only here to help you find that answer." She asks one of her servants to make me the prescribed herbal tea. I rub my still-tender and somewhat distended belly and swallow my unbearable grief as I think of my baby girl. The winds come again, strong enough to rustle the thick dark green velvet curtains framing the grand windows, which happen to be closed. I try to hold back my emotions, counting backward in my mind. Marie looks up but does not seem startled by the breeze. She walks over to me and places one of her hands on my stomach and the other tight around me. My body automatically stiffens with the touch of this virtual stranger, but then, without thinking, I find myself responding to her nurturing kindness, softening and folding into her embrace. "Nou pral rive," she whispers. "We will get through this." The winds settle down in Marie's dark room as she comforts me. Dusk has fallen, and the servants have not yet lit the candles. The only light comes from the full moon that peeks through the slits between the velvet drapes with its faint yellow glow. Marie is the first person other than my mom who doesn't seem frightened by my powers. One of her handmaidens walks in with a steaming cup of liquid in a delicate porcelain teacup. She places it on the wooden desk and then retreats to the corner of the room, where she stands quietly with the other handmaidens and servants. "This tea has a mix of herbs that will both heal your wounds on the inside and calm your nerves." "But my mother already healed me," I inform her. "Yes, these will heal your emotional wounds, my child." I take a sip of tea and have to call upon my full restraint not to spit it out. I gag on the wretched bitterness and almost choke on the loose bits of herbs that have not been strained. "You will get used to it," Marie states in a flat tone, her eyebrows furrowed with more worry than her voice indicates. She walks over to her handmaidens and whispers something to them. I let the water cool before I take another tiny sip of the disgusting brew. Without warning, two handmaidens, either my age or younger, walk up to me. I notice that they are identical twin sisters, their resemblance striking, as they stare intently at me. Their dark, mysterious eyes have a glint of wisdom beyond their years. Their skin is smooth, like the melted chocolate my mother would prepare for me on special full moons. Their lips are almost heart-shaped, with a deep bow in the middle and full bottom lips. They are so uniquely beautiful that it is hard not to stare back. "Madame Oya, we have been tasked with watching over you." "You're the most gorgeous woman we've ever seen, isn't that so, Cosette?" They both giggle, and Cosette replies, "Oh yes. You're an angel! Exquisite--your hair is so big and curly! Women here never wear their hair loose like you. And--" They pull me to my feet, and Cosette stands on her tiptoes and says, "You're so tall!" Their candor and sweetness completely disarm me. The other twin curtsies awkwardly and says, "I will perform the spells and prepare your herbs. My name is Collette." "And I will help with your everyday chores until you are settled in. I'm Cosette." I know what the herbs are now, but what does Collette mean by "spells"? I don't want to come off as completely ignorant, so I decide not to ask. I reach for the tea. "Collette and Cosette, that's easy. Thank you," I say. Collette flashes a mischievous smile and whispers, "The hard part is telling us apart." Cosette pours me a fresh cup of steaming tea before they both curtsy awkwardly, giggle, and hurry off. I hold my nose and take a swig of the tea, forgetting that it is freshly poured and scalding hot. "Oya! Oya! You can't catch me, you're too slow!" my brother, Obatala, yells as he runs in front of me. How did I get here? I am running as fast as I can in the hard wet sand and trip over my own two feet, landing headfirst in the surf. Obatala sprints back to me. He looks to be around eight years old, making me just four. "Oya, are you hurt?" He pulls me up and brushes off my face. I spit out crunchy grains of sand and feel his strong arms holding me up. "I'm good," I say, sniffling. Obatala walks me over to the shore. I remember this day. I remember what happens. Still, I can't seem to stop this nightmare, and, even worse, I can't stop my participation. Obatala spots a glistening orange starfish on the beach. He runs up to investigate and sees that it is still alive. I can feel the deep urge inside me to keep it. "I want it!" I demand. "No, Oya," he says, "it will die. We must put her back into the ocean." "No!" I yell. "I want her!" We feel the winds begin to pick up. Obatala puts me down and grabs the starfish. He shields his eyes to protect himself from the stinging sands that the building squalls are throwing about. He runs to the ocean to put the starfish back, but the waters have already begun to swirl. "No!" I yell again. "That's mine!" A huge wave advances over Obatala and crashes down on him. The dainty teacup crashes onto Marie's desk and splashes hot tea everywhere. Cosette runs up. "I'll take care of it, miss." She hurries to fetch a rag. I stare at the steam rising off the spilled liquid, watching the symbols forming in the vapor. They seem to be telling me something. "Do you see it?" Marie walks in with a rag. I jump like a child being caught doing something naughty. Is she talking about the steam? "You can read it too; you can read any element speaking to you in form. You can read water, stones, fire, smoke, clouds--everything in existence is trying to commune with you." Marie reaches over and wipes off the table. "It would be a shame if it ruined my desk, though." She laughs. Her face is as smooth as a baby's cheek, but I know she must be in her seventies. Her hands show the life she has lived. They are a shade darker than the rest of her body, with wrinkles gathering at each joint. Her veins are raised, purple and green, and her skin has a shine as if it might be wet. "Are you reading my veins?" "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I mumble, lowering my gaze. I realize that I think I've seen something she doesn't want me to see. Has she been through the same thing I have? Has she lost a child? Marie reaches for me with her wizened hands and lifts my chin. "Don't you ever bow your head to anyone. You are not like others on this earth. We are fortunate to be on your path." "But you are the queen." I had heard some visitors refer to her as such. I hope I do not offend her. She smiles. "If I am the queen, then you are a god." But she is the queen. While wiping the final spot of tea, she holds her other hand out to me. "Come on, now, don't be shy." I grasp Marie's hand and, with the strength of a large man, she pulls me to my feet. Startled, I stumble forward and almost fall. She steadies me. "I don't know my strength," she says with a crooked smile. "Collette will bring more tea to your room. You should have a cup of this at least three times a day until I deem you healthy. There is nothing you need to do here but heal. Rest, my child." She walks me down a long narrow hallway lined with rows of large portraits in ornate, heavy gilt frames. The paintings depict a wide array of people from different backgrounds. A Negro woman clad in European wear, a white man in military gear, an old Native woman holding a child, three mulatto children sitting by a toy train. Candles in brass sconces cast eerie shadows that bring the portraits to life. Their eyes seem to follow me as I walk slowly down the hallway staring in wonder. Such different people. Who are they? How do they all belong here? "My ancestors," Marie says, noticing my stare. "They help guide me. I keep their light burning by honoring them. I do rituals and spells to keep them happy." Rituals and spells? I'm startled when she seems to read my thoughts. "Not to worry, you will understand all of this mumbo jumbo before you know it. Time for you to get some rest." Marie guides me to my bedroom on the second floor. The hefty dark wooden door creaks as I slowly push it open. Marie smiles and slightly bows her head as she turns back toward the ancestor hallway and leaves me to explore my new room. As I step inside, my gaze is immediately drawn to an arresting painting of the Black Madonna hanging over my bed. I recognize her instantly, a figure my mama introduced me to long ago. In all the depictions I've seen of her, she wears a solemn expression, as if burdened by the baby Jesus. Mama told me it wasn't sadness about having Jesus in her arms but, rather, sorrow for all the injustices he would endure in his life. But how did the Madonna know? I stretch out on the plush lavender bed and take it all in. The lace canopy reaches the floor, and though it is pulled back and contained by soft satin ropes with long tassels, it flutters and shimmies as I settle in. The room smells delightful, like lilies and orchids, and is decorated with delicate lightweight wooden furniture--an armoire, a vanity, side tables, and high-backed upholstered chairs--painted white and pale pink, with carved edges embellished with gold. It feels like a young girl's quarters. Soft and pretty. Fine and elegant. But I can't shake the feeling that this room doesn't quite belong to me. I wonder if it was one of Marie's daughters'. It is so distinctly different from the rest of the decor in the house: heavy, dark, and serious. The only thing in my bedroom that seems out of place is the painting of the Black Madonna. Her intensity permeates the room in spite of the lace and pink and gold. Though the space is charming and bright, I feel a chill and pull the feather comforter over myself. The houses here feel cold, not only in temperature but in spirit. There is an air of repression and restriction, with the city's wrought-iron gates and proper dress, that I never sensed in Cuba. I hate the feeling that I must control myself, must contain my energy. The waves crash upon my feet. "Obatala!" Mama comes running down the beach with clouds of sand following her. I clutch the orange starfish to my chest and stare into the waves that have just swallowed my brother. I'm unable to move, but Mama dives into the ocean and grabs Obatala. She pulls him out, and I see that his body ragdolls like bundled scraps of cloth. His arms are completely limp. Mama gently places him on the sand and puts her ear to his chest. Her face tightens as strings of pearly silken threads flow out of her hands and surround Obatala in a soft cocoon. Mama mumbles some words I don't understand. A golden light flashes all around the cocoon, and it begins to shudder. Obatala's little hands emerge from the woven shell as he coughs up a gush of water. "Obatala!" Mama jerks him up and pulls him into her arms. "Obatala, now, now, child, everything is going to be all right," she says as she wipes away the webs. Obatala coughs in her arms and holds her tightly. I slowly walk up to them. Obatala spots the starfish in my hand. He weakly whispers, "Put her back, Oya, you don't want her to die." I look at Obatala, then back to the ocean. Mama encourages me to go. I drag my feet in the sand, creating long, curved lines with my toes until the water washes away my marks. I kneel in the surf. "Bye-bye, star," I say as I place her in the water. "Her water broke!" Marie yells as she pulls me away from a very pregnant, very young woman laboring in her back room. My hands shake as I attempt to steady myself in this reality. The waves, Obatala--it all feels so real. How did I get back here? Through the blur of my tears, the details of the room slowly sharpen into my vision. The space is perfectly outfitted for birth, with its soft colors, sterile bed and birthing stools, basins, and gleaming silver birthing instruments all lined up on a clean white cloth laid out on a long enamel cabinet. "Go fetch some hot water and towels. Collette, go help Oya." Flustered, I almost trip headfirst into the wall. Collette catches me and directs me down the long, dark, narrow hallway to the kitchen, large and opening out to the verdant herb and vegetable garden behind the house. Last night's dinner of roast chicken lingers in the air, and I realize that I'm hungry. Only a few candles are lit, as it is now the middle of the night, and most of the servants are asleep. "I'll go put the water on the fire, and you get the towels from the washroom," Collette commands. She is confident and sure, the opposite of the giggly young handmaiden I met before. I follow her orders. The washroom is a separate small building behind the main house with a water pump and laundry basins. I speed out the back door and onto the shadowy path that takes me to the washroom. I don't have a candle or lantern with me, so it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the scant moonlight. The streetlamps have already been extinguished, so I imagine that the entire city of New Orleans is dark. I've heard this is a place known for its nightlife, but when three or four in the morning rolls around, there aren't any souls on the street. Marie calls it the witching hour. I like the darkness and the quiet. They calm my nerves. "Oya!" Collette shouts. "Did you find the towels?" She startles me, and I yell, "I'm looking!" I haven't yet explored the washroom, so I fumble around in the darkness, unable to locate the towels. I see a light bobbing on the path outside, and Collette busts the door open with a lantern in hand. The light reveals a tidy, whitewashed interior, tile floors, and several barrels for washing, as well as a hand-crank clothes wringer and hanging racks. Collette heads straight for a trunk in the back of the room, swings it open, grabs the towels, and runs out. I follow close behind. Cosette meets us in the kitchen with a pot of hot water. She carefully walks toward the back room. I feel a bit useless; I couldn't find the towels, and now Cosette has the water. "It's not about you," Cosette says, as if she can intuit my thoughts. I am silent, but I stay close in case they need me. By the time Cosette and I arrive, Collette has already given Marie the towels. Cosette hurries over and places the hot water at her feet. There is so much blood. My knees begin to buckle. Cosette runs up to me and whispers again, "This is not about you, remember. We are here to serve right now. Remove your self-importance. Just for the moment." I feel like I should be offended by her words, but they make so much sense. I see the woman, who appears to be my age, writhing in pain as she struggles to find a position to push. "Lorna May, do you remember the breathing exercises I taught you?" Marie asks as she pulls Lorna up off the bed and guides her onto her feet. Breathing in tandem with her patient, Marie holds Lorna's arms as she instinctively squats in pain. Marie encourages her to breathe in time with her contractions, and Collette positions herself in front of Lorna, ready to catch the baby. I can feel my spirit needing to leave this reality. Cosette whispers, "Stay here with us, I know it's hard, but it's--" "It's not about me," I interrupt. "I got it." As much as I want to believe that it's not about me, I can't help thinking of the baby I lost. The dream I lost. The life I lost. Tears well up in my eyes, and before I can wipe them, Marie commands, "Oya, come." I rush to her side. Marie lays the woman on the floor and positions me and Collette on opposite sides of her body. Lorna lifts her feet and bends her knees. Marie instructs us to place her feet on our shoulders, and when it's time to push, we counter-push her legs back. "I have to push, I have to push!" "I have to push!" I yell, even though my mama and the midwife are close by. Sweat drips into my eyes, but all I can feel are my intense contractions. "Something is not right," I mutter. "This is all natural. Keep breathing," the midwife reassures me. I blow fish lips, as my mother would call it. She said it would help me relax during labor. The contractions subside for a moment. I begin to wail uncontrollably. "Mama, something is not right, I feel it! I feel her leaving." Mama holds me from behind and wipes the tears from my eyes. "There, there, now, child. There, there," she says to comfort me. But nothing can relax me. I can feel my baby saying goodbye to me. I can feel her giving up, and there is nothing I can do. The contractions start again. The midwife can sense something is wrong now. "It's time to push," she says. I push with all of my might, but nothing happens. I push again, using every bit of strength I have left. "We have the crown!" the midwife yells. Mama begins to cry with joy, but I already know. A dark cloud begins to loom inside of me and outside of our house. Mama looks out the window and sees the weather shifting. "One... two... three... four... Come on, breathe with me." I push once again, and my baby flops out. There is silence. The midwife holds her upside down and taps her on her bottom. Still no sound. The midwife looks at my mama and shakes her head. Mama rushes over and tries to heal her. Webs form on her hands, but it is already too late. The silken threads flutter to the ground as my beautiful baby girl, my Kitari, rests in her lap. Mama traces her face with the tips of her fingers. She's more beautiful than any baby I've ever seen. Her skin is smooth, and her black curls are shiny. She has a birthmark on the side of her arm that looks like a misshapen heart. Mama kisses her cheek and slowly hands her to me. Marie hands me the baby girl. "Good job," she whispers. I am visibly shaking, but I hold on to the precious life. Collette and Cosette hurry to me. "Let's wash her and get her back to her mama," Cosette says as she offers to take the baby. I oblige. My arms are weak, and I can't seem to handle whatever cruel trick my mind is playing on me. I feel like I'm going to break. Collette holds my arm and leads me to the kitchen, where we will wash the baby. I can hear the wind howling outside. One... two... three... four... four... three... two... one... I take a deep inhale to try to calm down. The last thing we need tonight is a hurricane. Collette lights a candle and burns some herbs. She starts chanting over a small red thread bracelet. Cosette is on baby duty. She takes some of the water we warmed and mixes it with cold water. While holding the baby in one arm, she dips a rag in the bowl and wrings it out with her other hand. As Cosette washes the baby, Collette says a prayer over her and blows smoke from the herbs onto her body. The baby begins to wail. "She is telling the ancestors that she arrived," Cosette says with a smile. When Cosette finishes washing the baby, Collette puts the red bracelet around the baby's wrist. "This represents her connection to the ancestors. It also lets them know that she wants to continue that connection throughout her journey in this world," Collette explains as she ties the knot. "Let's get her back to her mommy," Cosette exclaims, and they hurry out. I fall to the ground, too weak to continue. Tears fall incessantly from my eyes. I feel Mama embracing me from behind. I hold on to her arms and let it all out, the grief, the rage, the searing pain. I keen, scream, howl, and weep as the rain outside our house pounds the tin roof. Though I am being dismantled from the inside out, we are contained within the eye of my storm -- but God protect the rest of the island! Excerpted from The Wind on Her Tongue: A Novel by Anita Kopacz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
