The Jumbies (2 page)

3

Sister

A
s the voices of people faded in the distance, the jumbie moved out of the protection of the shadows and prowled on all fours over the freshly cleaned tombs. The low, flickering candles lit her naked body as she sniffed at each grave. Her eyes reflected the light back as though they were candles themselves. Her limbs were thin and as gnarled as branches. As she moved, the air rustled against her body.

The rustling stopped as she came to the grave by the orange sapling tree. She smelled the scent of the man who had stopped to talk to her. Pierre, they had called him. And just like Pierre had done earlier, she traced her hand over the name on the wooden cross. She did not recognize it. Her kind did not use markings like these. But she was drawn to something in the scent that arose through the decay and the rotting wood and wormy soil beneath. She had recognized some of that scent on the child earlier, the one who had come running into the forest, the same one with a wax figure that resembled her sister.

She whispered into the ground, as gently as the sound of wind through the leaves. “Is that you?” Her language was known to the animals, plants, rocks, and other jumbies, but not understood by humans
.
“You never came back. I never knew what happened to you.”

There was no answer, only the sound of waves crashing in the sea.

“Did you give up your sissy for that child? She looks like she has lived for as long as you have been gone. Did they kill you? Or did you die from being separated from us?” She pressed her cheek against the ground, and sang:

Sister, sister mine from birth

Rotting now beneath the earth

Mingled bodies, mud from mud

Forever lost to human blood.

Sister mine since time began

Sleeping underneath the sand

One is lost but one is found

A family broken, now made sound.

A low rumble emanated from the jumbie's chest. It grew louder and louder and ended in a shriek that pierced the air. People in nearby villages heard the scream, but comforted themselves with the thought that it was an owl on the hunt, even though it sounded like no owl they had ever heard before. Muddy tears flowed down the jumbie's hollow cheeks. As they touched the ground, they turned into centipedes that scattered over the graves. When she stopped crying, she rose to her feet and said, “Hush, hush, now sister. We will see if we can be a family again.”

The jumbie crept along the outskirts of the island through the frothy sea to where the water grew calm and warm. There the open mouth of a swamp rolled from deep inland, meandering through a thick mangrove forest with still, slick water. The jumbie walked into the swamp and followed it to a muddy island. An old shack sat askew on it, its boards rotting with damp and falling away from the rusty nails that struggled to keep it together.

The jumbie called out. It was a low, throaty sound, nearly indistinguishable from the croaking of nearby frogs—the
crapaud
from the children's song—except that it pierced the air like an arrow. The witch who owned the little shack heard the jumbie's call at once, even though she was standing a mile away from her home. The witch was crouched over a patch of white mushrooms, catching the magic that only came in the three hours after midnight. She swatted away the sound of the jumbie's call like a mosquito at her ears and continued with her work.

When the witch did not answer her call, the jumbie's eyes flashed with anger. She broke into the shack and took some small bottles filled with the witch's medicines. Then she wrapped her bare skin in a length of green cloth and returned to the trees.

4

Market Day

T
he scent of oranges filled the house as Corinne was gently shaken awake by her papa.

“Today is the day,” he said to her sleepy face. “Your oranges are ready for market.”

Corinne breathed in without opening her eyes. “Yes, I smell them.”

Corinne and Pierre had the best soil on the island. It was why Corinne's mama, Nicole, had chosen that spot near the forest for their home. Their garden was always bursting with blooms and fresh fruit and vegetables. And today, finally, the oranges were in.

“You are growing up. Your oranges will help you to make your own way and then you won't need your old papa anymore.”

Corinne smiled at their game. “What would I do without you, Papa?” she asked, peeping at him beneath her thick eyelashes. “Who will tell me that the ocean is too big for me to swim in alone? Who will tell me not to climb trees and skin my knees? Who will tell me that I put too much salt in that fish?”

Pierre laughed. “I guess you need me after all.” He kissed the long tight braids on her head and brushed her soft skin with the back of his hand. “Watch your purse in the market,” he said.

“Watch the sea doesn't swallow you up,” she said.

“I have seawater in my veins,” Pierre said. “And anyway, if the sea swallows me up, it will spit me back out again.
You know how the sea is. Nothing stays at the bottom forever.”

“Except for Grand-père,” Corinne said. “The sea kept him.”

“Grand-père wouldn't have it any other way. He is king of the fish-folk,” Pierre said. “And that is why you will always be safe in the sea.”

Corinne breathed the cool morning air that washed up from the shore. Most fishermen lived right on the coast, and everyone else who lived in villages scattered throughout the island stayed far from the mahogany forest, but Corinne and her papa lived on a hill nestled among the outer edge of the forest trees overlooking their fishing village. That was where Corinne's mama had liked it, close to the forest. It was where she grew things. It was where she was happy.

It was still inky dark before dawn, and in moments, Corinne could no longer see her papa as he walked toward the sea. But after sunrise, the sea would become a clear blue with hints of green deep beneath. Then, the tips of rippling waves would sparkle in the sunlight, making the sea almost blinding. But Corinne's papa was used to the sea. He grew up there. Grand-père had been a fisherman, too, and spent most of his days out on the boat with his nets, like his father before him. Corinne's papa had taught her everything he knew about the sea, but she was not going to be a fisherman. Corinne breathed in the scent of her oranges. She was like her mama. She belonged to the land.

As Pierre walked down to his boat, Corinne turned back to her pillow, thinking of her grand-père swimming among the fishes. When Corinne finally got up, the sun had risen but barely penetrated the thick layer of clouds that hung over the island. From the living room window, she could spot her father's bright yellow boat reflecting what little light there was back to shore. He had painted his boat just so that Corinne could spot him easily from the house and know that he was still near.

Instead of the usual colorful cotton skirt and white blouse that most of the girls on the island wore, Corinne got dressed in some of her father's old clothes. She used rope to tie the pants tight around her waist and rolled up the hem to her ankles and his shirt sleeves to her wrists. Satisfied that she looked very grown-up and businesslike, Corinne went out to pick the best oranges to sell. Their garden was filled with fruit and vegetables, most planted by Corinne's mama before Corinne was born. There were guava and pomerac, peppers and tomatoes, cassava, dasheen, and chives, each neatly planted around the garden, but in the middle was the orange tree. Corinne remembered her mama's hands over her own, pushing the seed into the ground. She remembered watching it as it sprouted up and its leaves uncurled in the sun. The little plant grew with her and then shot up past her. Now, it reached over even her papa's head.

As Corinne worked in the garden, the memory of her mama holding the small white orange seed came to her mind. Her mama had told her that the seed was magic.
If you take care of it, it will take care of you,
she had said as she taught Corinne how deep to plant the seed, and how much water to give it. Pierre reminded her of all the things her mama used to say, but Corinne could never remember the sound of her mama's voice. When she thought of it, she only heard the sound of the wind through the leaves. That morning, Corinne could almost feel her mother's hands on hers, and she could smell her mother's woody scent.
A seed is a promise, Corinne, a guarantee. Plant it and watch it grow.

When Corinne's basket was full, she tied her long braids behind her head with a colorful piece of cloth and wrapped another cloth around the basket handles so they wouldn't hurt her hands on the way to market. She walked down the dusty path to the main road and went past the edge of the forest. Pink and red hibiscus held their petals open to the sun while bees took advantage of their pollen. When she paused to switch hands, a hummingbird hovered near her basket for a moment. It seemed to drink in the scent of her oranges before it darted off. Already, the day was getting hot. The farther Corinne got from the sea, the less breeze there was to cool her. By the time she reached the dry well, the sound of seagulls and waves had become the sound of chirping birds and animals running through the bushes at the sides of the road. Past the next well—the full one—and a few houses just outside of town, the sound of the market arose. The hum of people haggling over prices, the chickens squawking, and the cries of goats and pigs filled the air. Then came the smells—ground spices, ripe fruit, and strong coffee among them. Corinne didn't hesitate at the entrance of the market. She walked straight in and staked out a spot in the crowd. She rolled out the cloth from around her hands and spread it on the ground. Then she began to arrange her oranges in pyramids of five on top of it.

“Oh no, no, no, child,” a woman selling eddoes said. “You can't set up here. This is my spot.” She was small and brown with short wiry hair just like her vegetables had.

Corinne stood up to her full height, which only got her as high as the woman's shoulders. “There aren't assigned spots,” she said sharply.

“Go somewhere else, darling,” the eddoes seller said. Her lips smiled, but her eyes were as hard as pebbles.

Pebble eyes put her hands on her heavy hips and a tall woman with dry, ashen skin stood up next to her to back her up. Corinne had seen her father deal with rivals before. She stood her ground. But a little way behind them, another woman, selling peppers, smiled at Corinne and beckoned her with a quick flip of her wrist. The pepper vendor folded the edge of her blanket in order to make room. Corinne narrowed her eyes at pebble eyes and her flaky-skinned friend but decided to squeeze in next to the lady with the peppers.

“Thank you,” Corinne said as she began to set up. Her new market neighbor was wearing a bright yellow sari and her hair draped behind her like a black silk curtain.

“Don't mind them,” the woman said. She raised her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Nobody's buying their rotten vegetables anyway.”

Pebble eyes sneered and grumbled under her breath. Flaky skin sucked her teeth,
chups.
Corinne smiled at her neighbor, who had soft-looking arms, just the kind that Corinne would have liked to feel folded around her. A small face peered around the woman and startled Corinne. The face disappeared almost as suddenly as it had shown up. Corinne felt a deep pang of loneliness when she realized that her neighbor had come to the market with her child. She tried to shake off the feeling. “I have the sweetest oranges on the island,” she said.

“Very good,” the woman in the sari said. “You'll get a lot of customers, then.”

The market bustled with people haggling about money and the quality of produce. Coins dropped into hands and jingled in pouches. Vendors sang about their wares over the steady hum of negotiations.

“Sweet, sweet figs here! Get your sweet figs!”

“Potatoes for stew! Cheap for me! Plenty for you!”

“Nice ripe melongene! Ask Miss Jen for melongene!”

“Long mango! Sweet mango! Julie mango! Sweet mango!”

And then the market voices fell silent. The hush began at one side of the square and rippled out to every corner. A beautiful woman moved past market-goers in the suddenly still crowd. She was dressed in a green cloth the color of forest leaves. Corinne pushed through elbows to get a better look.

The cloth wrapped around her body flowed behind her. She walked with such grace that she appeared to be gliding along on a ribbon of green. Her skin was the deep brown color of wet soil. Her hair was piled high on top of her head in a yellow, blue, and green cloth. She paused briefly and turned. Corinne felt as though the woman looked right inside of her, and her heart leaped in her chest. But it was impossible to tell who the woman was really looking at from her deep-set eyes outlined by thick eyelashes as black as shade.

Corinne kept her eyes fixed on the woman as she walked through the market. As she passed, the crowd found its voice again.

Some held out their produce for her to buy. Those who didn't narrowed their eyes and whispered about her behind their hands.

“Who is she?”

“All my born days and I never saw that woman before.”

“Anyone know who her people are? There's no way to tell what kind of person she is without knowing her family.”

The woman in green finally stopped far from Corinne, in front of an ancient woman with striking white hair, who sat beneath the only tree in the market.

She had come to see the witch.

5

The Green Woman

T
he white witch did not look up from arranging her magic on the blanket.

“I need something from you, old woman,” the jumbie said in a low voice.

The witch snorted. The short white braids on her head twitched. “You took what you wanted from my hut last night. Look how you're using it to fool these people into thinking you are a regular woman. So what else you need from me?” The witch moved another vial of her smelly potions.

“You did not have enough of what I needed.”

“Oh no?” the witch asked drily.

“I plan on a long visit.”

That made the witch look up.

The jumbie smiled. “Oh yes, a very long visit.”

“I can't help you,” the white witch said. “I can't help one side at the expense of the other.”

“You did it before,” the jumbie reminded her.

The white witch shook her head. Her braids tossed in every direction. “That was different. That was for the benefit of both sides. I can't intervene like this.
If I help one, I have to help the other. For balance.”

“You have been helping their side for years!” The jumbie gestured at the bottles and pouches on the witch's blanket.

“These?” The witch laughed. “You know as well as I do that these concoctions don't do nearly as much as they think.”

A growl started in the jumbie's throat. Her voice became rough. “You will help me, old woman.”

The witch bared the few yellow teeth she had left in her mouth. “Go back to the hole you came from. Wait there, and see if I will ever help you.”

The jumbie turned to leave, but tossed one last threat over her shoulder. “You will help me, or you will suffer.”