Fables&other lies

Chapter Four

“Wela, how did Carnival start?” I asked over a bowl of white rice and red beans.

“How did it start . . . God, it was so long ago I barely remember the story. It was the year we claimed our freedom from Spain. I guess that was it. A celebration.” Her eyebrows pulled in as she glanced outside. “You know, I used to hate all of this tourism, but I kind of like it now.”

I followed what she was looking at. There was a group of tourists following a guide. Some took pictures, while others simply admired the house we were in. I wondered how far the history lesson would go. Would they tell them how the Calibans tried to take over the island? And how my great-great-grandfather fought back? How they all did?

“I know the neighbors find it invasive,” Wela said after a silent moment, “but it’s nice to know that these houses will live on in more than just their memories.”

“Do you remember that night,” I started, “when Papi told me to pack my things and leave?”

“Of course.” Wela met my gaze. “It was awful. Do you remember that night?”

“Bits and pieces. You said something to me, about the Calibans being responsible for what happened.”

“Of course, they were.” Her eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “They’re devil worshippers.”

“How do you know they are?”

“Because I know the history of this island.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I just . . . I feel like the devil-worshipping stuff and the Devil’s Chair and the disappearing house . . . they’re just stories.”

“Of course, you’d suggest that.” She shook her head. “You think the Bible itself is a series of stories composed by men who wanted to ensure we would all be controlled.”

“I don’t want to discuss the Bible or argue over our religious beliefs, Wela.”

I regretted the day I even brought up the topic of religion in this household. It wasn’t like I didn’t know any better. She was a devout Catholic, who went to Mass on Sundays, prayed the rosary, and got on her knees whenever anyone she knew was ill. She’d even managed to get some holy water from Rome, blessed by the Pope himself, and sent me away with it when I left this house all those years ago. Wela was not the one to bring questions about faith to. Not unless you wanted her to call the priest she had on speed dial so he could perform an emergency prayer over your forehead just in case.

“Why are you bringing up the Calibans now?” She sucked her teeth and glanced over at me again.

“I was just wondering why you said what you said.” I shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Those people. That house . . . ” Wela shook her head with a sigh. “It’s a darn shame that they live there at all. It’s the only place we can get what would cure your mother.” She looked in the direction of the bedrooms.

“What do you mean? What cure?”

“There’s a tree on the property that blooms every year during Carnival.” She shot me a pointed look. “You asked why we celebrate. This is why. That tree is said to have magic powers. Some call it magic. We call it faith. It is said to have been brought here from Jerusalem. Planted right there, when the ocean hadn’t yet become angry with its surroundings, with its inhabitants.”

“So, the tree only has leaves now?” I leaned forward.

“It only blooms once a year, for one week.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“Seeing it would mean crossing the iron gates.” She shook her head. “My mother saw it when my father worked there. It cured her of her suffering. The few leaves I had were used to help those in need and the rest dried up.”

“Why hasn’t everyone tried to cross those gates for it?”

“Who says they haven’t?” She pursed her lips. “Look at what happened to Esteban.”

“Hm.” I nodded in agreement, then frowned. “But Tia Julia is alive.”

“You know what they say about the island. It takes a life and gives another life.”

I sat back in my seat. “Does she believe that?”

“Of course, she does. Why do you think she’s become a hermit? She used to go out, always wore the latest fashion, painted her lips red, and then . . . nothing.”

“Well, her son died. I can’t imagine her going back to regular life after something like that happened.”

“It was more than that. It’s the Calibans.” She turned to the window again. “Those leaves, like I said, they’re healing leaves. In your mother’s case, I’d give it to her in a tea. My mother used to make potions out of the leaves and sell it to people who wanted to forget things.”

“Forget what?”

“Burdens from their trauma. It’s not our place to ask those questions.”

Our place meaning hers and the long line of women who came before her. Outsiders called them healers; the locals called them witches. It didn’t come with the negative context that word often carried. My grandmother had helped many people. Her mother helped even more, but that was before we had doctors and nurses and hospitals. Even so, a lot of people still visited our house to seek treatment when they were out of options. It was something Wela passed down to my mother and that was where it stopped. Maybe if I hadn’t been kicked out of the house and left the island I’d have followed the same lineage of work. Maybe if I hadn’t found luck and a way to make a living in my own way. Maybe, but probably not, because unlike my mother and hers and hers, I questioned everything.

“So what does Papi’s death mean?” I asked after a moment. “It makes no sense. Mami is really ill. Papi died. Shouldn’t she be well? What does the doctor say? Have you even called him or have you been working your miracles on her instead of listening to science?”

“Of course, she’s been seen by a doctor. He has found nothing. He said it’s likely she’s shut down because of the experience.”

“So, she’s not ill then, not really. How would any of those leaves help her?”

“Like I said, they heal every wound—physical, mental, everything.”

“This is all so antiquated. We’re not in the seventeenth century. If she’s having a psychiatric break, she should be in a hospital.”

My grandmother pursed her lips. “There’s a nurse monitoring her day and night. You’d know that if you bothered to step foot in her room.”

“That’s not fair.” I felt a flush of anger creeping up my neck.

“Life doesn’t care about fairness. We live, we suffer, we die.” She met my gaze. “You’ve been afforded more than most. More than all of us. You’ve had peace and health and happiness. You’ve had freedom. And yet you sit here speaking about fairness?”

I bit my tongue, unable to keep my eyes from burning. I hated when she lectured at me, but she was damn good at it, I’d give her that. We were both quiet for a moment, respectively brewing.

“As for the meaning behind your father’s death,” she said. “I don’t know. My theory is that the island wanted you back.”

“What?” I stopped breathing. “Me?”

“I think that was the reason for your father’s death.” She searched my eyes, as if looking for some kind of confirmation I didn’t have. “I think it has unfinished business with you, and I don’t know what it is, but my intuition says that you bargained with the Devil the night you sat in his chair, and now he’s brought you back to collect.”

“Did you see that in your tea?” I glanced at the cup beside her.

“Maybe. Not that you’d believe it if I did.”

“It’s kind of hard not to question that. An island isn’t a person. It can’t possibly need anything from me.”

“An island is a piece of land like any other. All of our ancestors rest beneath our feet. Don’t you think they have power?”