appeared under the ceiba tree’s lofty roots.
With amber eyes fixed on me, he limped the long painful way to the platform. When
he arrived, I examined his shoulder. Like my injuries, the wounds were healing unnaturally
fast. I pressed a cheek into the coarse black fur of his head, stroking behind his
ears.
“I give my sword into your care until I come back for it. Wait for my signal. We may
have to retreat quickly.”
I lashed the sword to his body, took a swig of the potent ginger beer, and rubbed
my nose against his dry one. At last, I descended onto the ballcourt.
The stone risers, where onlookers sat, swarmed with people and spirits and creatures,
some wearing the same form and others shifting through faces as if they had no face
of their own. The force of all those gazes made me tremendously uncomfortable, for
I preferred the shadows. The players had gathered along the walls of the ballcourt.
Most looked as human as I did, but some had the heads of animals or had claws or paws
or furled wings. The crowd roared as I looked around to see who would play with me,
for alone I could not possibly score. Maybe this was the trick by which Thunder meant
to defeat me.
A man strode out to greet me. “Reckon yee don’ know me, gal. Yee saved me from under
a boat.”
I’d only briefly caught a glimpse of the frail old man I’d helped rescue from beneath
a boathouse during a hurricane. This man was younger, all sinewy flesh and muscle.
He looked like a person who might know how to play batey.
“My thanks.”
He grinned in a likable way, then whistled. More men and women trotted out from the
shadows to join us. One introduced himself as Aunty Djeneba’s deceased husband; others
were the deceased relatives of the household or kin of people I had a friendly relationship
with in Expedition. They were all the spirits of dead ancestors. I knew it because
they had no navels. I thanked them and shook their hands inthe radical manner. The more recently dead received the gesture with smiles while
the older ones were puzzled, for it was a manner of greeting they’d never before seen.
The opposing team assembled. A man pushed to the front like a captain coming to lead
his troops. He looked exactly as my husband would have if he had been stripped down
to the short cotton loin-skirt worn for batey by men. I stared, my mouth gone quite
dry.
He had no navel. Could he be my sire? Was that the trick?
I whispered into the ear of the dead boatman. “He can’t be the opia of my husband,
for my husband isn’t dead. Is he a maku?”
“He smell of cohoba and tobacco, like a Taino lord might. I know not who he is. Peradventure
he have taken a dislike to yee and mean to distract yee.”
I could play that game! I took a moment to admire how well the opia had transformed
himself into Vai’s skin, for his bare shoulders and chest and thighs really were quite
admirable, so I admired them with a lift of my eyebrows that made his lovely eyes
narrow as if he were bracing for me to cast a spear that he must bat aside.
“You don’t frighten me,” I said. “Quite the contrary.”
He grinned a challenge.
Thunder raised a feathered scepter. A ball dropped into the game. The spirit lord
who appeared in the form of Vai tapped it up and down on his knees, never letting
it touch the dirt. It was no rubber ball. It was a head with black hair tied into
a club. Its waxy features stared.
We were playing batey with the head of the cacica, Queen Anacaona, the mother of the
twins Prince Caonabo and the exiled Prince Haübey, called Juba.
But I was the hunter’s daughter. I had to admire their ruthless maneuvering.
Let it begin.
I dashed in and caught the head on my elbow, stealing it away from the spirit lord.
As I passed the ball to the boatman, I caught the lord’s ankle with a sweep of my
leg and tripped him. He fell as I dodged past. He grabbed my ankle, yanked me down
With amber eyes fixed on me, he limped the long painful way to the platform. When
he arrived, I examined his shoulder. Like my injuries, the wounds were healing unnaturally
fast. I pressed a cheek into the coarse black fur of his head, stroking behind his
ears.
“I give my sword into your care until I come back for it. Wait for my signal. We may
have to retreat quickly.”
I lashed the sword to his body, took a swig of the potent ginger beer, and rubbed
my nose against his dry one. At last, I descended onto the ballcourt.
The stone risers, where onlookers sat, swarmed with people and spirits and creatures,
some wearing the same form and others shifting through faces as if they had no face
of their own. The force of all those gazes made me tremendously uncomfortable, for
I preferred the shadows. The players had gathered along the walls of the ballcourt.
Most looked as human as I did, but some had the heads of animals or had claws or paws
or furled wings. The crowd roared as I looked around to see who would play with me,
for alone I could not possibly score. Maybe this was the trick by which Thunder meant
to defeat me.
A man strode out to greet me. “Reckon yee don’ know me, gal. Yee saved me from under
a boat.”
I’d only briefly caught a glimpse of the frail old man I’d helped rescue from beneath
a boathouse during a hurricane. This man was younger, all sinewy flesh and muscle.
He looked like a person who might know how to play batey.
“My thanks.”
He grinned in a likable way, then whistled. More men and women trotted out from the
shadows to join us. One introduced himself as Aunty Djeneba’s deceased husband; others
were the deceased relatives of the household or kin of people I had a friendly relationship
with in Expedition. They were all the spirits of dead ancestors. I knew it because
they had no navels. I thanked them and shook their hands inthe radical manner. The more recently dead received the gesture with smiles while
the older ones were puzzled, for it was a manner of greeting they’d never before seen.
The opposing team assembled. A man pushed to the front like a captain coming to lead
his troops. He looked exactly as my husband would have if he had been stripped down
to the short cotton loin-skirt worn for batey by men. I stared, my mouth gone quite
dry.
He had no navel. Could he be my sire? Was that the trick?
I whispered into the ear of the dead boatman. “He can’t be the opia of my husband,
for my husband isn’t dead. Is he a maku?”
“He smell of cohoba and tobacco, like a Taino lord might. I know not who he is. Peradventure
he have taken a dislike to yee and mean to distract yee.”
I could play that game! I took a moment to admire how well the opia had transformed
himself into Vai’s skin, for his bare shoulders and chest and thighs really were quite
admirable, so I admired them with a lift of my eyebrows that made his lovely eyes
narrow as if he were bracing for me to cast a spear that he must bat aside.
“You don’t frighten me,” I said. “Quite the contrary.”
He grinned a challenge.
Thunder raised a feathered scepter. A ball dropped into the game. The spirit lord
who appeared in the form of Vai tapped it up and down on his knees, never letting
it touch the dirt. It was no rubber ball. It was a head with black hair tied into
a club. Its waxy features stared.
We were playing batey with the head of the cacica, Queen Anacaona, the mother of the
twins Prince Caonabo and the exiled Prince Haübey, called Juba.
But I was the hunter’s daughter. I had to admire their ruthless maneuvering.
Let it begin.
I dashed in and caught the head on my elbow, stealing it away from the spirit lord.
As I passed the ball to the boatman, I caught the lord’s ankle with a sweep of my
leg and tripped him. He fell as I dodged past. He grabbed my ankle, yanked me down
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