Invisible World by Suzanne Weyn Page B

stay here on the beach.
    Tomorrow I would not let the mysterious trees frighten me, I decided. When the sun came up, I would enter the forest and try to discover who else was living here.

I N THE MORNING, MY RUMBLING STOMACH DEMANDED FOOD and water. I glanced to the boulder, hoping to spy another gift from my mysterious benefactor, but there was nothing.
    Heading into the surf, I wondered where to begin digging for oysters or clams. Was there a sign to look for? As I pondered this, I wandered knee-deep into the water, wiggling my toes in the sand, hoping to detect the hard shell of an oyster.
    â€œNo! No!”
    It was the male voice I’d heard the other day. But this voice was not in my head.
    A young man with very dark skin and very dark hair was running toward me, waving his arms wildly. He wore a blue cotton shirt that was half open and blew behind him. His tan pants were held up with a green reed and his feet were bare. Around his neck he wore a blue glass bead tied to a leather cord. He was about my age, maybe a little older.
    â€œGet out of there!” he shouted as he splashed through the surf. With amazing speed, he scooped me into his arms and ran back onto the beach, where he gently put me down. “There are sharks in those waters!” he cried. “They feed right in this area.”
    Never in my life had I seen a person with such black skin. In a London Museum, I had once seen a statue carved of ebony; this young man’s skin was just as black and I thought him every bit as beautiful as the statue. I was so enchanted at the sight of him that words failed to form in my mind or mouth.
    â€œSharks!” he exclaimed, exasperated by my blankness. “You know what they are, don’t you?”
    I didn’t, so I shook my head.
    He held his arms wide and I could see he was strong, with lean muscles. “It’s a big, big fish with very sharp teeth.” The picture that formed in my head was nothing I had ever seen — it was coming directly from his mind. And it was awful — a man lying on the beach, blood spilling from his hip from where his leg used to be but was no more.
    I gasped sharply in horror, my hands flying to my face.
    â€œYes!” he shouted, seeing that I suddenly comprehended. “It will eat you. It’s very horrible. Believe me. I have seen what a shark can do.”
    I knew that was true.
    He gestured toward the ocean. “They come in very close this time of year. No one on the island swims here. Bin yah don’t swim at all, really. Only the comeya get eaten.”
    â€œBin yah? Comeya?” I questioned, confused.
    He smiled. “That’s island Gullah,” he explained. “Bin yah are from families who have been on the island for twenty years, since the first plantations were settled here. The comeya are newcomers, folks who have not been here nearly as long, like me.” His voice was low and he had an accent that I didn’t recognize.
    â€œYou speak English. Where am I?” I asked.
    â€œOf course I speak English. Back in Africa — before I came here — I worked for the Richards and George Company. They export palm oil from Africa. My father and I were employed by them since I was a buhbuh.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œA little boy.”
    â€œI speak English and I have never heard the word buhbuh ,” I said. “Is it more Gullah?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat is Gullah?”
    â€œIt’s what we speak here. Some words are English; others are from my home in Africa, Sierra Leone, and other nearby places and tribes.”
    â€œAre we in Africa?” I asked.
    He roared with laughter. “You are a crazy girl! No, you are in America. How is it that you don’t know where you are? Are you lost?”
    â€œI’m very, very lost,” I told him. “The ship I was on sank. I floated here in a barrel.”
    â€œA barrel?!” he cried incredulously. “What a brave