The Tale-Teller by Susan Glickman Page A

that he must have been propelled by the storm to one of the American colonies. Indeed, the people acknowledged that they had heard of Spain and that Spanish ships came to the area occasionally. Maybe one day they could take him home. He was in no great rush to quit the hospitality of his rescuers, however, as he had grown fond of their quiet voices and sad music. That they preferred not to talk about who they were or where, exactly, their island was located, struck him as odd, but he attributed this reticence to their isolation, their primitive living conditions, and his own problems with communication.
    As the days grew into weeks, he understood more of what was said to him and the others began to understand some of what he said to them. He learned that the place was called “Fogo” and the language, “Kriolu.” He was convinced that he had been to this country before, perhaps in another life, or that he had sailed to one of those islands he’d read about in travellers’ tales — a secret place that appeared out of the ocean mist every fifty years.
    There was one girl in particular he became friendly with: the same one who had found him on the beach and saved his life. Her name was Aissata and she was sixteen, just like him, and had two big brothers, just like him, and her father was dead, just like his. She was the sister of his soul. He spent his days trying to think of ways to make her laugh, for the pleasure of hearing that silvery ripple of joy. Aissata’s laughter redeemed him and made life seem worth living. Aissata’s laughter promised that nothing bad could ever happen again.
    And then one day when the wind off the ocean was brisk and cold, and Joaquin was helping the others carry armloads of firewood back to their cave, there was a sudden cry of alarm. It was quickly followed by the menacing crack of pistols and the smell of gunpowder and the fierce barking of dogs. Terrified, Joaquin clung to the side of the cave for support. All around him bodies swirled and eddied; running, fighting, falling. Strangers smelling of sour sweat and dirty beards pushed him aside roughly while the others were rounded up and dragged down the beach. A few small children were crying, but otherwise the people had become eerily silent. He kept shouting for help but no one answered him.
    He recognized at once that the invaders were speaking Portuguese. They must be buccaneers, he thought, and here he was, defenceless. He had no weapon; he didn’t even have eyes! Presumably they would execute him as soon as they had plundered whatever they could lay their hands on. They had only ignored him so far because, being blind, he had no obvious value to them. Joaquin crossed himself, said a quick prayer, and waited patiently for death, the death he had so recently outwitted, to find him at last.
    To his surprise, one of the ruffians spoke to him in Spanish, asking if he was all right. Joaquin replied impatiently that he was more concerned about the others. The man laughed, and asked why he cared what happened to a bunch of black savages.
    The others were black?
    Yes, the man told him; they were runaway slaves who had been hiding in the hills but were now being returned to their masters where they belonged.
    How could that be? They were kind, courteous people, nothing like the naked wretches he had glimpsed shackled below deck on the
Imperio
, screaming and moaning in an inhuman tongue. They ate proper food and made proper music. They were as civilized as any Spaniard he knew. More than most, perhaps. It was inconceivable.
    His blood thundering in his ears so that he feared he would faint, Joaquin let himself be led to a boat anchored in the shallow bay. He felt the presence and heard the murmuring of many bodies on board, but did not reach out to them. He felt betrayed. Why didn’t Aissata tell him that she was black? How could she make a fool of him like this?
    On the other hand, he hadn’t told her