The Roving Tree. Elsie Augustave
“I am Aïda Wedo,” she said while tenderly stroking my hair. “Your great-great-great-grandmother was a good African who lived by the laws of her ancestors,” she went on. “To reward her for all she has done to keep our traditions alive, I am here to grant her last wish. All that she wanted was for me to come to those who carry her blood and grant them their last wish.”
In a skeptical voice, I asked, “Can you grant me life?”
“Only God, our Granmèt, can decide who should live or die.”
I thought for a moment and decided that I wanted my daughter to know how I came into the world that I believed I was about to leave. I did not want her to feel rootless, trapped in a world of darkness. Although I doubted her power to grant my wish, I told Aïda Wedo I wanted my daughter to know my life story so that she could understand who she is.
“That will be no problem,” she promised.
“How will Zati know my story after I’m gone?” I asked, looking into her glowing eyes.
“When you reach your destination, all you must do is write it. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I . . . I don’t understand,” I stammered.
Aïda Wedo shook her head as if she pitied me. “You may be a daughter of Guinen, but you are unfamiliar with our ways. Everything will become clear when you leave this world.” She flashed a mocking smile. “I guess that is what happens to Haitian children raised in foreign lands, away from their ancestors’ wisdom. Perhaps one day, when the spirits of great men like Toussaint Louverture return to Haiti, our children will not have to cross the waters to find a better life.” She became pensive and then said, “You will reach a gate at the end of your journey. Knock three times. If your time has come, it will open for you. If God, our Granmèt, is not ready for you, He will send you back to resume your life.”
Stories of my great-grandmother coming back from death invaded my mind, and I thought in a flicker of hope that perhaps the same miracle could happen to me. A dimmer, more subdued hue that seemed like dawn replaced Aïda Wedo’s presence, and she vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. Just as immediately, I left behind the weary body that had housed my soul.
I have no idea how long it took to reach the end of the journey, but when I came to a door and knocked three times, as Aïda Wedo had suggested, it opened to a landscape of trees. Colorful daisies, lilies, roses, and hyacinths surrounded a cascade of the clearest water. A cushioned chair, along with a desk with a pen and paper, had been placed in the center of a grassy field.
“Welcome,” said a deep male voice.
I looked around but saw no one.
“Greetings to you, Miss Odys,” said the same voice. “I was told your last wish is to write your life story. You have everything you need.”
As I sat on the chair, I contemplated the surroundings with its blend of colors that reminded me of a Monet painting. The gurgling sound of water was as enchanting as Debussy’s fluid and soothing melodies. I held my head in my hands, watched the steady flow of water, and thought of the newborn daughter I had left behind.
“You may begin now,” urged the voice. “Write the first word and the Holy Spirit will inspire you along the way. One more thing: Should you feel the need to know about someone close to you, just look into the water. You will see and hear that person.”
The Holy Spirit then opened the window of my soul. Thoughts and words poured forth; past events gushed and multiplied. The story I had to tell seized me and flooded my mind with vivid memories.
Chapter 1
Who would have known of Hector, if Troy had been happy?
The road to valor is built by adversity.
—Ovid
When I left my native village in July 1961, the lightbulbs that hung from ceilings and the vehicles that went up and down the paved streets of Port-au-Prince reminded me that I was away from Monn Nèg’s narrow dirt roads, where cars seldom passed and torches and gas lamps brightened dark nights. Indeed, my way of life had changed. I no longer slept on the floor with my cousins nor ate each meal holding an enamel plate on my lap. Now I slept alone in a bed and sat in a hotel dining room at a table covered with a white tablecloth; I learned to use a knife and fork. A man in black pants and a white shirt came to ask what I would like to eat and always there was a choice of meat, fish, or chicken at lunch and dinner. I found it hard to believe that I could have chicken because, at home in Monn Nèg, it was a special treat reserved for Christmas, New Year’s Day, or Easter.
When John and Margaret visited our home in Monn Nèg, I was far from imagining that they would mold the rest of my life. I remember being intrigued and fascinated by their appearance. I could not stop staring at their skin that was even lighter than the shop owner in town who everyone called the Syrian. They both had long, slender legs and hands that felt so soft. The color of their hair reminded me of the straw that women weaved to make hats and baskets to sell in the market. Their lips were thin and pink; their noses long. As far as I knew, they fit the descriptions of the master and mistress of the waters that I had heard about in the folk tales that adults told every evening. Everyone called them blan. What I liked most was their soft-spoken voices and the way they showed interest in whatever little things I did or said.
The real change in my life happened when Margaret held me by the hand as we said goodbye to John at the Port-au-Prince hotel and watched the taxi disappear down the elegant street, taking him to the airport. A few days later we boarded a Pan American jet to New York, to meet him and the big sister who I was told would be waiting for me.
Fascinated, I thought that the airplane was a house in the air above the clouds that even had toilets inside, like those in the Port-au-Prince hotel. Women with Margaret’s complexion placed food on small tables attached to the backs of the seats in front of us. As soon as I finished my meal, I fell asleep and woke up to a woman’s voice announcing, in English and in French, that we should prepare for landing. I remember that the airplane dropped and rose back up, causing my stomach to curl.
“That’s just a bit of turbulence,” Margaret said, in her usual soft voice.
Although I had no idea what she meant, I no longer felt safe. The airplane bounced and tipped to the side and felt like someone was shaking it. I looked out of the window but all I could see were thick, dark clouds.
My breathing quickened and my heart raced. Margaret placed her arm around my shoulders and drew me close.
“Take a deep breath,” she said. “Slowly, let the air out through your nose.” She held my hand until we touched ground.
We joined a line of people and waited our turn to be directed to a man in a booth, who examined the little books that Margaret handed to him. After a brief conversation, she showed him some papers and he stamped our books and waved us through.
Margaret recovered our suitcases from a moving black rubber belt, then we walked to a place where people stood searching for exiting passengers. Some called out names, while others hugged. As voices echoed around us, I could not understand what they were saying. I had never seen so many people in one place, not even in the Monn Nèg market. We followed a man in a blue cap who pushed our suitcases on a cart, and all I could think of was how quickly my life had changed.
“There they are,” Margaret said, pointing to John who was waving to us and holding a young girl by the hand. She looked older than I was and she was holding the biggest doll I had ever seen.
Margaret smiled and hugged her tight. “Iris, this is Cynthia; Cynthia, this is Iris.”
Cynthia looked like John and Margaret and like most of the people in the airport, even though her hair was the bright orange color of the sun when it