Sapphire's Grave (5 page)

But whatever this mystery, this death, she would face it open-eyed, her chin raised and defiant, as if issuing a challenge to death itself:

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

ST. JOHN’S PARISH, SOUTH CAROLINA

FEBRUARY, 1772

Sapphire was buried in a hole at the edge of the woods. Few people mourned. Her children, timorous but instructed to be brave, moved like wooden soldiers toward their mother’s inglorious grave, and the thin dark woman who had been Sapphire’s only friend stared angry and appalled over their small heads as Sapphire’s body was dumped unceremoniously into the hole and covered with dirt.

Some folks said that Sapphire’s spirit would never rest. She had challenged God and death, making of each a formidable opponent and dooming herself for an eternity. Had she gone meekly, death might have taken her to a place of quiet and calm, her ravaged soul to comfort, her spirit laid at last to tranquil rest.

Instead, the soul met its eternal fate; but the spirit of Sapphire lived on in her daughters; three, hundreds, then thousands dispersed, bound by a collective memory of suffering and shame. Persisting against monumental antipathy, they would pass bits and pieces of their inheritance from daughter to daughter, the things that Sapphire did not carry to her vile grave: tools of endurance, a hunger for love, and a haughty, surly spirit to defend and protect them from further pain, but with dire consequences and at great expense. Sapphire would leave her daughters, also, her hugeness of heart, and a willingness to sacrifice, labor, or even kill, for that which she loved.

And long after Sapphire was buried, and few remembered her name, she would live on, her acrid presence surviving several centuries, so pitiable yet so unpitied, a vilified image never lain to rest.

The daughters had not cried. This was what was recalled of them, ages later, when they were dead and deeply buried, the memory of them hazy, their names unrecorded, their faces indistinct in the collective and deliberate amnesia of a people too ashamed to recall. Their words did not become wisdom. Their deeds were neither folklored nor memorialized in song. No glasses were raised in oblation, no altars erected in tribute. The three girls had not cried, and this the people could not forgive.

Finished. Done, or so they thought. Forgotten, except to say that they had not cried.

Their names were Ndevu. Eshe. Zoe. Collectively, their name was Life. This was what their mother had intended for them, in the days before her broken baby, in the days before she understood. They would go by other names, as would their progeny: Hagar. Sister. Sojourner. Diaspora, as they took their leave of one another. Other places, other circumstance would claim them. But they would remain just one. Many lives. Just one.

The first one—Ndevu—the brown one, gave up. She would not live in this place. Not here. Not like this. Her sisters stared at her, but understood. The people stared, too, reproach on their faces, and in the set of their mouths as she passed. Sapphire’s daughter, as surely as she was born. The smell of whiskey and honey on her voice, she laughed as wanton women laugh when carried to the gallows of popular disapproval.
I
will not live as you say. I will not do as you say.
She lay supine in the fields, her arms spread, awaiting their wrath. Praying for it. Surrender was her name. Triumph was her name. The tether came down on her chest, her belly.
I will not do as you say.
She smiled drunkenly, or perhaps insanely, doing instead what they had come to expect, and bearing the scourge they had come to enjoy. Her mouth worked silently in a tongue no one understood.

Only her sisters heard.

I am my mother’s daughter, and the daughter of her mother.

With the power of her mind, she had discovered, she could cross the waters, become royalty, warrior. Zhenga. Amira. Nzingha. But she would never become theirs. She would not live in this place. Not on their terms.

Neither would she flee this place, as cowards flee their captors. They branded her nevertheless. The green eyes laughed, defiant. Bloodhounds sank their teeth into her flesh, and when this did not move her, they used lye to turn her back to Hades, home of the dead. Her flesh swelled, exuded pus and contagion, her back a welcome sign for Death.

The daughter of her mother.

No one knew what else to do with her.

They hanged her by her apron strings. Brown, melting flesh dripped like whiskey and honey when they set it aflame. The hair long and straight as sugarcane curled as it burned. The people sniffed the air. Her spirit far away, she never flinched.

The daughter of her mother’s mother.

Zoe: the secret revealed. Sarah had seen it in the yellow eyes. This child would not soon die. Patient, Zoe bided her time, did as she was told. Yassuh. Yes, Ma’am. The yellow eyes were lowered so they could not read them. But Sarah saw the Evil. Zoe glanced up at her, knowing, wondering if Sarah knew, shadow of a smile dancing at the corners of her mouth, the eyes grim. They were not the eyes of a child, a girl. They were the eyes of death, the grave, and infernal places, of memory aged as soil and vengeful as the sea. They were eyes that held the knowledge of death, and therefore of life.

When they came to her at night, she turned the burning yellow gaze of death upon them.

They never came to her at night again.

Zoe had no children.

They would kill her if they could not subdue her, make hell of her flesh if she laughed. She had seen this, the dark one, Eshe, daughter of her mother, sister of Ndevu. Disconnected from Godness, she lacked her grandmother’s power. She lacked Zoe’s knowing superiority, Ndevu’s resolve. She learned to adapt. The daughter of her mother. She lay down, but only when directed to—no antics in the field; and she did not smile. She flinched when they raised their fists. She cried only when she was alone, when she was sure that no one heard.

No one ever knew.

Only Eshe had learned to cry. Beg. Retreat. Somewhere along the way she lost sight of her Self. She survived, barely, not for herself, but for her children. She was her mother’s daughter.

They gave her children, and her grandchildren, nice names. Lilly. Jasmine. Mercy. Grace. Comforting, nurturing names. Still, they were too dark for the big house. Lovey. Sister. These girls fought back their sadness, had angry, tearful rages, but later, among themselves. Eventually, they seasoned their discontentment, fried it in cornmeal and chicken fat, consumed it as it consumed them. Their cheeks grew round, their bodies fat and greasy. Peaches. Big Dessa. They called them “healthy,” these women who ate their anger, their grief. They called them Strong; and the women, fat with their own anger and grief, believed themselves strong. After all, they outlasted the others, had more babies, lived to lose their teeth and go through the change.

Still, as each generation succeeded the next, they missed their sisters, the ones they had outlasted, the ones who had been killed, or sold away from them to other places, other circumstance. They searched for each other in sullen, shackled groups as they passed through the marshes of South Carolina; along the red clay roads of North Carolina; across the bayous of Mississippi. They looked for legacies of one another in the features of the new ones brought from other places, other circumstance.

Binta?

Adero?
they questioned, leaning forward to peer into uncomprehending faces.

They looked for one another in their children, in each tiny newborn face.

Nyallay? Sister? Are you there?

And in St. John’s Parish, in Warren County, each first born girl became Sister. One generation, and the next, then the next bore this question, this hope upon her face.
Sister?
The eyebrows arched.
I’ve lost you. I so
miss your face . . .

And all this because they had not cried, only stood stoic, dry-eyed and strangely alert as their mother was returned to the earth. She was their mother, after all. It was unnatural, unreal. Who ever heard of women not mourning, women’s eyes not closed in pain or fear, trembling? Little women, at that, not doing as women do? It was dangerous, ’s what it was. Why, what if they had children, and they had children—girls named Con-stance, Courage, Njeri, daughter of a warrior; unnatural, unwholesome children, who came from dreadful places where the women never cried, not even in prayer?

LICKSKILLET, NORTH CAROLINA

AUGUST, 1874

Sister was surprised to hear that she had only been absent from her own time for six days, six days during which she had thrashed about on her mother’s mattress made of chicken feathers and quilts, babbling incoherently or gyrating wildly, barely accepting small portions of water or grits. Toward the end, she was told, she had sweated and shivered and cried aloud for her children. Finally, Sister had sat upright in bed, apparently unable or unwilling to respond to her surroundings.

Word had traveled quickly: Sister Yarborough had lost her mind; proud Sister, finally driven by that Prince of hers to madness, babbling, yelling epithets, and making indelicate gestures. People had stopped by, ostensibly to show concern for Sister and regard for the family. In truth, curiosity and a need to verify Sister’s plight had been the motivation. For in Warren County, proud home of robust former slaves, people were seldom on their backs, and never lost their minds. A real live crazy person was a tantalizing spectacle. People came from Henderson and as far away as Oxford to visit the pitiable Sister whose mind had so departed, leaving her unable to speak or hear or do for herself.

Prince had come, sheepish and contrite, only to be discouraged by the withering stares of Sister’s mother and sisters.

Queen Marie had come, too, pretending to be a friend, but looking for further details to support the already incredible tale of Sister’s demise. It was Queen Marie who had started the story that Sister had been stricken by a demon of licentiousness, had arisen from her torpor to molest poor Prince, and attempted to seduce her own unsuspecting daddy.

But Sister seemed to pay no mind to the rumors. She moved, with grace and dignity, quietly back to her humble hut, her bewildered children in tow. And again, having failed once more to destroy her with their slander, the townsfolk said that she was vain, begrudging Sister the only refuge that she had left: her pride. They would have seen that devastated, too, if they had had their druthers.

Prince’s sisters, her own sisters, came at intervals to check in on her, and take the children to church. Sometimes, they made dinner and small talk.

“You awright?” they would ask, and smile thinly, expecting no response. They knew that Sister was not alright.

But no one knew the horror of profound loneliness that Sister felt inside, when no one saw her downturned face but her children, who grew quiet and watchful during these periods when their mother was irritable and intolerant of them. No one else knew the terrible burden of standing alone against a great torrent of fear that threatened to sweep her beneath its current; fear of failing herself and her children, who looked to her for their livelihood and nurturing, while her own internal resources seemed to dwindle yet more each day; fear of being forever alone, and frightened, in a world not fashioned for her survival, no one to lean on, even for a moment, when she sorely needed comfort; fear of the ever present spirits, some amiable, some hostile, that seemed to reign over her soul; fear of having lost the strength of her own will; of death and hell, eternal and more horrible than anything she could fathom, for hell itself, she had become sure, lay just beyond the reaches of her consciousness—just there, silent and simmering, waiting for her.

At times, these fears overcame Sister. It was at these times that she returned to wait huddled on the dirt floor of the barn in Saint James Parish, waiting for someone, anyone, to unbar the heavy door and free her from the grief of Sapphire’s sins and the consequence of her dreadful act of liberation—emancipating her child, she had heightened her own bondage.

Sister waited patiently now, knowing that what lay beyond the walls of the barn was a prison of another sort. She waited feeling the sting of the contempt of others, knowing that she could never redeem herself. Yet she returned, again and again, for certain tools of Sapphire’s survival were there imparted to Sister: an ever more haughty spirit, and a tongue sharp as a sword. These kept her enemies at bay.

And an energy drawn from Sapphire’s spring filled Sister and made her strong.

INEZ, NORTH CAROLINA

APRIL, 1875

After his wife had gone crazy, he had begun spilling his semen on her sheets. No, Queen Marie thought, it was not until Sister had made a public spectacle of herself, showing up at the Fields’ Good Inn, affectionately known by its faithful clientele as the Feels Good Inn. Queen Marie did dishes there, and Prince loitered or clowned, sometimes drunk, entertaining the customers and, if he had managed lately to beg, steal, or swindle enough, buying a round for the entire house.

It had been a particularly boisterous party, the whole house dancing and sweating in the darkened barroom.

But all had fallen silent when the door had opened, and Sister stood with her children, scowling as she surveyed the room. Everyone knew who she was, of course, and what had happened to Sister, and whom she was seeking. When her eyes fell upon him, she had stepped inside, yanking her children with her, holding their hands tightly. The dance had ended, the music had stopped, and Sister had surveyed the crowd with her trademark arrogance.

Tall and of regal bearing, Sister was not the ancient harridan Queen Marie had envisioned. She was shapely and unobtrusively beautiful, even
elegant
in her shabby dress and bare feet. She had walked up to Prince with her chin held high; and Queen Marie, uncertain of herself in the face of her rival, had half-hidden behind Prince; but Sister had regarded Queen Marie briefly, without envy, and with only a fleeting interest. She had stood as close to Prince as she could without stepping on his toes, and gestured toward her children.

The girl was willowy and embarrassed, her face the face of a child far too wise for her years. She shot her father a desperate look, pleading in her long-lashed eyes. But when the eyes found Queen Marie in his shadow, they hardened with the hate Queen Marie had looked forward to engendering in her mother. Defiantly, Queen Marie raised her chin and glared back at the girl, touching Prince’s arm possessively. Who did she think she was, after all? These were grown folks’ affairs. But Queen Marie could not help but be impressed. This child was neither dull-witted nor subtle. In time, she could prove a remarkable foe.

But it was the boy who most impressed Queen Marie. A small reproduction of his father, he had the hooded hazel eyes and bored expression of her Prince. Queen Marie fell immediately in love with this child who, unaware of his own charm, surveyed the room with little interest. He glanced dispassionately at his father, then meaningfully up at his mother. Taking sides, Queen Marie noted. She shrank behind Prince again, hoping the boy had not seen her, dreading his disapproval. She hated his mother for being his mother, and wished that the boy was her own.

“You see dese?” Sister hissed at Prince. “Know what dey is? Dey your chirren, Prince. Da ones what you ain’t seen in months, and what ain’t seen a dime o’ yo’ t’bacco money in longer even dan dat.” She paused and raised one eyebrow. “You
is
still workin’, ain’t you?” Prince did not respond. He took a step backward, dropping his head. “Lawd ha’ mercy.” Sister threw up her hands. “You is just
go’
be triflin’, ain’t ya? It’s jes
in
ya.” Shaking her head in mock pity, Sister turned and walked away, her children in tow, and tossed over her shoulder one final condemnation.

“Jes hope you don’t keep waivin’ ’at thing ’roun’ makin’ no mo’ o’ dese fo’ you to fo’get about. Niggas like you oughta be neutered.” With that she opened the door and led her children out of the hushed barroom.

He had stayed with Queen Marie for several nights, making love to her with fervor. She had hoped that she could have his child—a boy. Like Sister’s. But he had heeded the veiled warning of his wife, always withdrawing from her at the moment of culmination, leaving her frustrated and fretful.

“What you skeered of, Prince? I ain’ try’na ha’ no babies,” she had lied, marveling that he should begin to be cautious just as this ambition had dawned within her. She had tried hard to distract him, squeezing her knees closed around him, holding his buttocks firmly to prevent him from withdrawing, but he was adamant in his resolve: Queen Marie would have no babies with which to obligate him. He would have no more daughters, vulnerable and eager, to hurt with his absence; no more sons with eyes like his own, condemning and cursing and finally dismissing; no more of himself, in all of his wretchedness, squeezed into a tiny vessel: a child undeserving of the burden of this uselessness and colossal failure; no more responsibility imposed upon him by others wanting and needing and expecting from him.

It was enough for Prince to immerse himself in pity and self-doubt, no sage advice to offer his son, no gleaming heroism to proffer his daughter in exchange for the adoration he read in her eyes. He could not bear the passing of this heinous and inevitable torch to yet another child.

Perhaps even more, Prince dreaded the thought of Queen Marie, her once adoring face twisted in contempt; Queen Marie, the only person in his life ever to insist upon giving without taking. He could not bear to see her transformed into an angry mother, making him painfully aware, again, of his own failings, but helpless to correct them.

Queen Marie could rant and rage, her eyes narrowed and accusing him of selfishness and distrust; but Prince would have no more children. He would have no more reasons for feeling unworthy to live.

At first she told herself that it wasn’t Sister that she sought. Yes, Queen Marie rationalized, she
could
buy her cornmeal and flour at the store in Inez; but the one near Lickskillet was larger, with a greater variety of produce and sundry items that might catch her eye, reminding her of something that she needed or that Prince would like. And yes, Sister did her shopping on Thursday evenings, her children following as she moved down the aisles, the boy mischievous and given to antics, the girl giggling at his performances. But Thursday evening was also a good time for Queen Marie to shop before going to work, with Friday being her night off and a good day to prepare the sumptuous meals that Prince enjoyed.

And so Queen Marie made the four-mile trek to Lickskillet each Thursday to do her shopping, not caring, she argued with herself, whether Sister was there or not! But once Queen Marie was there, curiosity never failed to draw her, stealthily, toward Sister and her son; careful to keep sufficient distance between them and herself, so as not to draw their notice, but straining to see what curiosities might be contained in Sister’s basket.

Tossed in with the salt pork and cornstarch and pepper, Queen Marie occasionally glimpsed a tin of lilac-scented talcum powder, or lavender water; perhaps a few red peppers or ground nutmeg, small clues to Sister’s tastes and habits, hints at what she cooked or did or wore that made him love Sister, love her hair her scent her touch her feel her taste, the way he did not, could not, love Queen Marie.

Next she began to attend services at Bull Swamp, a hat perched on top of her head, heavily veiled to obscure her face. It was only after she was seated strategically at the rear of the building—this allowed her a maximal view of the church and its parishioners—that she would allow herself to wonder if, by chance, Sister might be here this fine morning, and her eyes would pan the small room. She could not bring herself, after being disappointed several weeks, to ask the faithful members whether Sister still attended. After all, Queen Marie reasoned, she really did not care whether Sister still attended church. That was why she was returning to her former habit of sleeping on Sunday mornings, not rising until noon. A working girl did need her rest.

Soon, she began to take walks—long walks on Sundays or in the evenings before work; walks that took her to Lickskillet, past Sister’s shotgun hut, to which Queen Marie carefully paid no mind, then back to it again on her return walk home. Occasionally, she would see Sister hanging clothing on a line or chasing chickens back into their coop.
So,
Queen Marie would think as she noted the opulent silk or satin dresses and pantaloons and shirts,
Sister is taking in laundry now;
or,
Sister is raising chickensnow,
she would whisper to herself. Sometimes, the children would be playing outside, alone or together or with other children who lived nearby, and she would stop to watch them, especially the boy, with longing in her heart. At other times, Queen Marie would find the children carrying tubs full of water from the well to the house, or burning refuse in the yard.

But mostly, Queen Marie found the small house silent, its residents inside, its mystery beckoning. More than once, she had toyed with the idea of sidling up to a window and peeking inside. Just what she expected to find, she was not certain: some clue, perhaps, to the domestic environment maintained by a woman of the sort that Prince could love; her interactions with her children; a glimpse of the room he had slept in. Or perhaps she hoped to find out some habit of Sister’s, sinister or bizarre, that it would give Queen Marie satisfaction to know. Perhaps Sister had a man, the husband of a sister or friend, that Queen Marie could discover if she approached with sufficient silence. Always, she dismissed the idea of such blatant voyeurism, and walked away ashamed of her own behavior. Yet something always drew her back—back to the people that Prince held dear, and their house, where he had once lived.