Read Online The Surrender Tree by Margarita Engle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margarita Engle
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guns, which, I have to admit,
from a distance look real!
We catch
cimarrones
with stolen cane knives too,
all three kinds,
the tapered, silver-handled ones used by free men,
with engraved scallop-shell designs,
and the bone-handled, short, leaflike ones,
given to children,
and the fan-shaped, blunt ones,
used by slaves
for cutting sugarcane
to sweeten the chocolate and coffee
of rich men.
Rosa
Secretly, I hide and weep
when I learn that my owner
has agreed to loan me
to the slavehunter,
who brings his hunter-in-training,
his son, the boy with dangerous eyes,
Teniente Muerte,
Lieutenant Death.
Rosa
Spears and stones rain down on us
from high above
as we climb rough stairs
chopped into the wall of a cliff
somewhere out in the wilderness,
in a place I have never seen.
Sharp rocks slice my face and hands.
I will be uselessâwithout healthy fingers,
how can I heal wounds
and fevers?
When the raid is over, many
cimarrones
are dead.
I try to escape, but Lieutenant Death forces me
to watch as he helps his father
collect the ears
of runaways.
Some of the ears come from people
whose names and faces
I know.
Lieutenant Death
I hate to think
what my father would say
if he knew that I am scared
of dogs, both wild and tame,
and ghost stories,
real and imaginary,
and witches,
even the little ones,
and the ears of captives,
still warmâ¦.
Rosa
After the raid,
I tend the wounds
of slavehunters
and captives.
Some look at me with fear,
others with hope.
I tend the wounds of a wild dog,
and the slavehuntersâ huge dogs.
All of them treat me like a nurse,
not a witch.
The grateful dogs make me smile,
even the mean ones, trained to follow the tracks
of barefoot men.
They donât seem to hate
barefoot girls.
Hatred must be
a hard thing to learn.
Â
Â
        The Ten Yearsâ War
        1868â78
Rosa
Gathering the green, heart-shaped leaves
of sheltering herbs in a giant forest,
I forget that I am grown now,
with daydreams of my own,
in this place where time
does not seem to exist
in the ordinary way,
and every leaf is a heart-shaped
moment of peace.
Rosa
In the month of October,
when hurricanes loom,
a few plantation owners
burn their fields, and free their slaves,
declaring independence
from Spanish rule.
Slavery all day,
and then, suddenly, by nightfallâfreedom!
Can it be true,
as my former owner explains,
with apologies for all the bad yearsâ
Can it be true that freedom only exists
when it is a treasure,
shared by all?
Rosa
Farms and mansions
are burning!
Flames turn to smokeâ
the smoke leaps, then fades
and vanishesâ¦
making the world
seem invisible.
I am one of the few
free women blessed
with healing skills.
Should I fight with weapons,
or flowers and leaves?
Each choice leads to anotherâ
I stand at a crossroads in my mind,
deciding to serve as a nurse,
armed with fragrant herbs,
fighting a wilderness battle, my own private war
against death.
Rosa
Side by side, former owners and freed slaves
torch the elegant old city of Bayamo.
A song is written by a horseman,
a love song about fighting for freedom
from Spain.
The song is called
âLa Bayamesa,â
for a woman from the burning city of Bayamo,
a place so close to my birthplace, my homeâ¦.
Soon I am called
La Bayamesa
too,
as if I have somehow been transformed
into music, a melody, the rhythm of wordsâ¦.
I watch the flames, feel the heat,
inhale the scent of torched sugar
and scorched coffeeâ¦.
I listen to voices,
burning a song in the smoky sky.
The old life is gone, my days are new,
but time is still a mystery
of wishes, and this sad, confusing fragrance.
Rosa
The Spanish Empire refuses to honor
liberty for any slave who was freed by a rebel,
so even though the planters
who used to own us
no longer want to
from a distance look real!
We catch
cimarrones
with stolen cane knives too,
all three kinds,
the tapered, silver-handled ones used by free men,
with engraved scallop-shell designs,
and the bone-handled, short, leaflike ones,
given to children,
and the fan-shaped, blunt ones,
used by slaves
for cutting sugarcane
to sweeten the chocolate and coffee
of rich men.
Rosa
Secretly, I hide and weep
when I learn that my owner
has agreed to loan me
to the slavehunter,
who brings his hunter-in-training,
his son, the boy with dangerous eyes,
Teniente Muerte,
Lieutenant Death.
Rosa
Spears and stones rain down on us
from high above
as we climb rough stairs
chopped into the wall of a cliff
somewhere out in the wilderness,
in a place I have never seen.
Sharp rocks slice my face and hands.
I will be uselessâwithout healthy fingers,
how can I heal wounds
and fevers?
When the raid is over, many
cimarrones
are dead.
I try to escape, but Lieutenant Death forces me
to watch as he helps his father
collect the ears
of runaways.
Some of the ears come from people
whose names and faces
I know.
Lieutenant Death
I hate to think
what my father would say
if he knew that I am scared
of dogs, both wild and tame,
and ghost stories,
real and imaginary,
and witches,
even the little ones,
and the ears of captives,
still warmâ¦.
Rosa
After the raid,
I tend the wounds
of slavehunters
and captives.
Some look at me with fear,
others with hope.
I tend the wounds of a wild dog,
and the slavehuntersâ huge dogs.
All of them treat me like a nurse,
not a witch.
The grateful dogs make me smile,
even the mean ones, trained to follow the tracks
of barefoot men.
They donât seem to hate
barefoot girls.
Hatred must be
a hard thing to learn.
Â
Â
        The Ten Yearsâ War
        1868â78
Rosa
Gathering the green, heart-shaped leaves
of sheltering herbs in a giant forest,
I forget that I am grown now,
with daydreams of my own,
in this place where time
does not seem to exist
in the ordinary way,
and every leaf is a heart-shaped
moment of peace.
Rosa
In the month of October,
when hurricanes loom,
a few plantation owners
burn their fields, and free their slaves,
declaring independence
from Spanish rule.
Slavery all day,
and then, suddenly, by nightfallâfreedom!
Can it be true,
as my former owner explains,
with apologies for all the bad yearsâ
Can it be true that freedom only exists
when it is a treasure,
shared by all?
Rosa
Farms and mansions
are burning!
Flames turn to smokeâ
the smoke leaps, then fades
and vanishesâ¦
making the world
seem invisible.
I am one of the few
free women blessed
with healing skills.
Should I fight with weapons,
or flowers and leaves?
Each choice leads to anotherâ
I stand at a crossroads in my mind,
deciding to serve as a nurse,
armed with fragrant herbs,
fighting a wilderness battle, my own private war
against death.
Rosa
Side by side, former owners and freed slaves
torch the elegant old city of Bayamo.
A song is written by a horseman,
a love song about fighting for freedom
from Spain.
The song is called
âLa Bayamesa,â
for a woman from the burning city of Bayamo,
a place so close to my birthplace, my homeâ¦.
Soon I am called
La Bayamesa
too,
as if I have somehow been transformed
into music, a melody, the rhythm of wordsâ¦.
I watch the flames, feel the heat,
inhale the scent of torched sugar
and scorched coffeeâ¦.
I listen to voices,
burning a song in the smoky sky.
The old life is gone, my days are new,
but time is still a mystery
of wishes, and this sad, confusing fragrance.
Rosa
The Spanish Empire refuses to honor
liberty for any slave who was freed by a rebel,
so even though the planters
who used to own us
no longer want to
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