Shallow Waters Read online

  I knew my questions made her uncomfortable, but I wanted to understand why we were so different. I waited years for an answer. But Obatala, finally, is a clue. My fluttering heart tells me so.

  * * *

  I spy Obatala from my hiding place on the other side of a large jetty. A nearly unbearable yearning makes me want to reach up and gently trace the strong, slightly raised veins on his forearms. I sit in my longing, paralyzed by this new feeling. How could he and I ever be together? His life is completely different from my own. I cannot join him on land, and he could never survive the waters I call home.

  Something I cannot fully describe is growing inside me. My heart hurts every time I think about the distance we can never erase. Nonetheless, I return every day to watch him fish, feeling more connected each time.

  I often tremble when I first lay eyes on him. He is no longer a boy. He has returned as a man—and has clearly become a leader of his tribe. I see how he is treated with respect and deference. The three scars on the back of his neck have faded, along with the childish curiosity that brought us together once before.

  As Obatala releases his net into the ocean, he spots something in the distance and starts yelling. I duck behind a large protruding boulder to keep from being seen. He yells again to a group of friends onshore, much too loudly for me to understand. I don’t want to let him out of my sight, but I have to dive into the water for a moment to soothe my ringing ears. Obatala’s yelling doesn’t penetrate the ocean depths, and though I’ve learned to decipher the sounds above the water, human screams still overwhelm my senses.

  When I surface, I notice beads of sweat forming on Obatala’s brow as he frantically rows, collecting his nets from along the reef. He’s scared. I see his powerful hands grow unsteady as he pulls up his catch. The source of his terror is invisible from my vantage point. I swim to the far side of the reef for a clear view. Three ships, each larger than a blue whale, approach from the distance. I have never seen such majesty.

  Obatala’s movements are precise. It’s as if his fear has given him mastery as well as speed. There is no longer any hint of the easygoing fisherman he normally is. I follow him, not out of fright but out of curiosity and concern. His muscles flex with the strain of rowing quickly back to shore. I keep my distance.

  As Obatala nears the beach, he yells something repeatedly to his village. People rush into their homes and gather everything they can carry. He turns back toward the horizon, and I duck, but he’s completely focused on the ships. His boat tips as he stumbles onto the sand and runs into a windswept shack, all the while repeating his urgent warning to anyone within earshot.

  The waves are unusually rough, as if a storm is brewing. I dive deeper into the sea and swim into calmer waters. I need to see the ships up close. I surface every once in a while to make sure that I’m on the right course. As I bob above and then beneath the water, I see them. The ships are even larger than I had realized at first glance.

  Obatala’s single-man rowboat cannot compare to the beauty and power of the three ships in this fleet. As I get closer, I notice something odd. There is a sickly stench of sweat and waste around the ships. I approach the rear of the first one, and a seaman bends over the edge and vomits into the water. Our eyes meet. His salmon-colored face is marbled with burst capillaries. Long yellow tresses matted with oil and dirt cling to his shoulders. The coarse growth on his face reflects the red hue of his skin.

  Suddenly, he pulls a wood-and-metal object from his waist and points it at me. A sound blasts through the air—much louder than anything I have ever heard before. I quickly submerge and swim beneath the boat. The blast leaves me unharmed but cuts into a nearby dolphin, who screams underwater as he writhes in pain. I have to hold myself back from catching him in my arms. Nauseated and convulsing with guilt and rage, I am filled with thoughts of revenge. I rush back to shore to see if there is anything I can do to help Obatala escape.

  Obatala was absolutely right to be terrified. These strange red men are cruel and fearful beings. What do they want? I cannot stop imagining the horrific things these men are capable of. Water rushes past my ears, creating a constant hum. I have to go and help him! I have to let him know what I’ve just seen.

  I’m not yet comfortable with using my voice, but as I approach the shore, I yell a warning: “Ahhhh!” I try to form the words of Obatala’s people, but my vocal cords are not coordinated enough. The scurrying villagers stop and squint in disbelief when they see me, as they strain to trust their vision. I yell again and flip my fin in urgency. The villagers, caught between their curiosity about me and their terror of what they are fleeing, regain their focus and run quickly, farther inland. I yell louder.

  Obatala emerges from his palm hut. When he sees me, he runs toward the shore and splashes out into the water.

  I continue yelling, trying to form words, desperately attempting to convey the horror of the scene I have just witnessed. As the sea gets deeper, Obatala pulls me into his focus and begins to glide gracefully in my direction. He seems to be aware of nothing but us, ignoring the chaos around him.

  Treading water, he gazes steadily into my eyes, and his own well up with tears. Gently, sadly, he caresses my face with his weathered hands. I trace the three scars on the back of his neck, communicating with my touch that I remember his sacrifice. The tragic scene framing our moment of connection recedes. The red-faced men, the horrific stick, and the three approaching ships seem to disappear.

  Obatala’s face suddenly falls, and he grimaces with fear and regret. He tries to pull away, but it has the opposite effect, as if I’m magnetically drawn closer. I can see that he is resisting the urge to stay by my side, to hold me. Suddenly, he swims away. I reach for him, but he looks toward the ships and commands, “Pirates! Go. Now.”

  I feel a splash of water hit the side of my face and trickle down the curve of my neck. He splashes me once again and points to the ships in the distance. Obatala floats for a moment more, then turns back to shore. I sink into the water as my heart sinks in my chest. My throat is tight and my stomach cramps as I reluctantly slink out to sea.

  A voice inside me calls out: Wake up!

  Though I want to ignore the message, I know I have made a decision to save my life as well as his. I rise from my numbed state just in time to witness the ships drop anchor. The men Obatala called pirates pile into small boats, and I can see that most of them are armed with more of those deadly staffs. I dive deep and swim farther down the shore.

  The scene on land is frantic. The strongest men are ushering the elders, women, and children out of their huts before the approaching boats land. A young boy struggles to untie his baby goat from a tree. He yells out for help. Ignoring him, more of the villagers rush by and head inland. Obatala runs to the boy’s side and tries to pull him from the goat. The child tightens his grip. Obatala unsheathes a knife from his belt and cuts the goat free. He motions for the child to follow his clan before he scurries behind a hut.

  I feel hopeless once again. I want to scream and wave to distract the pirates, but surely one would finish me off without a thought. I fantasize about exacting revenge alongside my dolphin friends while the cruel men are still on our turf, but I know we would never be able to reach them in time. I keep watch in distress as the small boats reach the shore. A tall, thin, angular man with a hard face sticks a large pole with a colorful flapping cloth into the sand. The pirates erupt from their boats with a loud roar as they rush in waves across the beach.

  The village men, women, and children run for their lives. Explosive sounds blast from the pirates’ weapons, upsetting the once peaceful sands. Obatala is one of a group of warriors who emerge from their hiding places wielding spears that fly from their hands, but their efforts are useless. They are outnumbered.

  “Run!” I plead as I watch the pirates close in on my fisherman’s people. “Run!” Finally, I have found my voice, and the language that I’ve listened to for years flies from my mouth as I scream.

&n
bsp; The able-bodied members of the tribe try to assist the slower ones, but their good deed leads to the capture of the entire village. I am overcome by the sheer terror and hopelessness of the sight.

  The pirates force the tribe back to the beach. Fortunately, they no longer seem interested in harming the villagers. I’m relieved when I spot Obatala, until I see him fall to the ground before being dragged by his feet toward the shore. His head dangles lifelessly when the pirates yank him up and attempt to steady him in line with the other villagers. I exhale when I see his face rise once more. White sand cascades down from his woolly cloud of hair and peppers his skin with a thin layer of dust. His arms are held behind his back as the pirates bind his feet and hands together with shiny ropes. Other captives wearing the same cords are lined up behind Obatala, bound to one another and driven ahead. Some weep, and some yell to the gods. Others defy their forced submission by refusing to walk while their captors lead them across the beach. This act of open disobedience earns a strike across the shins from a pirate’s smooth leaden branch.

  I see a pregnant woman among the villagers, faint from exhaustion and dragged along by her hands and feet. The pirates do not tolerate any captives’ attempts to help their fallen companion. In the distance behind this horrifying scene another band of pirates has taken up fire, their torches dancing as they set ransacked huts ablaze.

  The villagers fall to their knees upon fully realizing their defeat. The men with the torches return with four horses they’ve found in the village. The pirates force all of the prisoners back on their feet. The leader, wearing an oversize blue hat the shape of a canoe, paces back and forth in front of the villagers. He stops in front of Obatala.

  Two pirates rush over, unchain Obatala, and shove him closer to their captain. He takes a stick and whacks at the insides of Obatala’s ankles to spread his legs apart. Obatala’s jaw is clenched so hard that the shape of his face is distorted. The leader grabs at it and inspects his every feature, from the backs of his teeth to the undersides of his eyelids. Obatala neither looks away nor fights the man’s invasion. The leader violently pushes him back in line, and declares something in his grating tongue.

  He begins to pace again, redirecting his attention toward another of the villagers. Handsome, fit, and defiant, the young man looks away. A slight smile crosses the leader’s face as he walks up to him. He repeats his inspection with his new victim. The tribesman wrenches back from the man’s grasp and spits in his eye.

  The leader laughs, wipes the spittle from his face, and snarls.

  A group of pirates lumber over to the young man. They release him from bondage and force him front and center. All the while, he kicks and fights. He gets in a few good jabs, but nothing to set him free from their grasp. The young pregnant woman at the end of the line screams, trying to reach out to him, as six pirates lay the young man faceup in the sand with his arms and legs outstretched.

  The tribesman calls out for the first time during his ordeal, pleading for protection of the woman and the child within her. I do not think that the pirates understand, but they can see that she is important to him. A pirate takes this cue to rush over, grab her by the hair, and hold her gaze steady toward the young man.

  The six pirates tie each of the man’s limbs with a separate rope. They arrange four horses around him and fasten the other ends of the ropes to the horses’ necks. His wife screams again and tries to break free from the line. The pirate holds on tight but is visibly strained by this tiny woman’s strength.

  I close my eyes and dive underwater. I already know what is to come next. The beauty of the ocean silence mutes the soul-scorching cries raining down from the beach.

  The black feet of the villagers splash into the water and kick up clouds of sand from the ocean floor. The fog becomes so intense that I am no longer able to see my hand in front of my face. I am forced to swim with my head above water.

  The red men get into their rowboats and line up alongside the string of villagers. They unravel strong cords from inside their boats and attach them to the shiny rope that connects the prisoners. When each section is secure, they begin to row forward.

  The villagers choke on the salt water as they struggle to stay afloat, paddling as best they can with their restrained legs and feet. The pirates laugh and play a game where they push down on the ropes to submerge the prisoners into the sea. The villagers’ struggle to keep air in their lungs as they are whiplashed into and out of the water amuses the pirates to no end.

  I can take it no longer. I bash the middle of the last boat with my powerful tail and break the vessel in half. The pirates fall overboard, and just for a moment, a feeling of satisfaction flows through me before I hear them scream.

  Within minutes, the pirates reorganize their ranks and continue on their way. Their pace quickens, and they no longer torture the swimming prisoners.

  I dive alongside the beautiful stream of black bodies until I reach him. I recognize him from his scars, lingering on the three horizontal lines marking his neck. Obatala ducks underwater as if he has felt me coming. He stares, making no attempt to free himself from bondage. I know what he wants, what he asks without being able to speak.

  I mouth, Yemaya. I’m Yemaya.

  Suddenly he’s jerked above water, but I remain by his side until we reach the ships.

  He manages to dip below the water one final time, and I hold his hand and squeeze it before they yank him aboard. I don’t want to let go, but I can feel his hand being pulled from mine. Just before his fingers slip from my grasp, he’s able to return the gesture, and then his hand is gone.

  I feel an indescribable emptiness that I know can never be filled by any other. My fate is sealed. He is my destiny. I will follow him. I will find a way to save him.

  The villagers are worn as the pirates pull them aboard. Their skin, once glistening and black, is now dull gray and water-wrinkled. Their limp forms waver between a place of life and death.

  2

  THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

  Countless suns rise and fall before I see Obatala again. I’d found a tattered rope attached to the rear of the first ship. At night I tie it around my waist with a special squid knot my father taught me. This allows me a bit of rest. I imagine it’s far more pleasant than being held on board.

  Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell the difference between day and night because the sky seems to get grayer and gloomier the farther away from shore we sail. But today is different. Today the sun is so bright that it warms the surface of the water. As I bathe in this rare pleasure, I see three indistinct faces peer over the edge of the deck. Their gently wavering images are fragmented by what looks like a bit of food landing on the water’s surface. Without thinking, I shoot up to snatch the morsel and dive back under the water, where I swallow it whole without chewing. As the ripples fade, I look up again and recognize Obatala standing with two others, a young woman and a little boy.

  Obatala’s face is gaunt, and he has a scraggly beard. He looks so much older, so different, so rough. I laugh and gasp at the same time. Against my better judgment, I float to the surface and stare directly at him. I search his face, trying to connect, trying to make eye contact. A slight smile cracks beneath his beard.

  I glance at the woman and the boy standing with Obatala, and though they watch me closely, I cannot tell what they’re thinking. Their faces are utterly lifeless. Their eyes have sunk into their heads, and their lips are ashen-white and cracked. Bones protrude from their chests. Surely they must need the food they threw in the water for me. I am even more grateful for the flavorless crumbs when I see the sacrifice of their own emaciated bodies.

  The farther we go out into the open sea, the more scared I get, and the more I question what I’ve done. I have no idea where I am, and there is no turning back now—no hope of finding the shallow waters again on my own. But looking into Obatala’s eyes for just these few spare moments reminds me that my love for him is greater than any obstacle.

  I see the
woman whisper to Obatala. Suddenly she is yanked back from the side of the ship. I hear an awful earsplitting shriek as I see an oar swinging through the air. Obatala leans over the side and looks at me with great desperation and fear. A pirate grabs him and pulls him away from the railing. I feel sick, bearing witness to such cruelty with no way to intervene.

  I dive deep below the ship to escape from the hopeless situation on deck. The calm of the water provides the solace and retreat I need to survive. Before I can become too lost in the odd beauty of the ocean depths, I return to the ship where Obatala is being kept and fasten myself to it once more with the rope.

  The sight of the barnacle-encrusted hull burns its way into my eyes. It reminds me of the beard now growing on Obatala’s face. I see his image everywhere. I look out through the murky ocean, beyond the prow of the ship, and I am surrounded by vast stretches of nothingness in every direction. The endless journey is brewing a sort of madness inside me. The sun is beginning to set on this day. The waters around me darken as night falls.

  A splash wakes me from my fitful sleep. Something much larger than the food scraps I’ve grown used to. I untie myself to investigate. I’m repelled by the smell of blood that permeates the water, but I follow its source, knowing that I have to act fast. I spot an object, and as I draw nearer, I see that it is an infant! His eyes are shut tight, and his wrinkly body is sinking slowly. I grab him and push his head above the water. His eyes dart open and stare at me for a moment. Then he coughs as he takes a breath.

  I look up and see that the pregnant woman from the beach is slumped over the ship’s rail. She does not see her baby or me. She hoists her legs over the side of the ship, and then, as if manipulated by an unseen puppeteer, her arms float wide apart, and she falls gracefully, like a bird gliding in the sky. She hits the surface of the water hard and sinks. She makes no effort to save herself.