She came down the hill each morning, her eyes dark and heavy with the disturbance of the night, and spoke to them in whispers. She told them of women whose hair was a nest of snakes, dark rivers that ran backwards, gatherings of clouds that rained down scorpions on Old Hope, men as tall as palmiste trees covered in robes of flaming red, pregnant boys, rocks that bled, bloated babies with messages in their cries and fierce hot winds. The older folks tried to unravel these dreams. A brown and muscular river meant confusion, spiders promised money or deliverance, scorpions were spite, and a red-dressed man who danced the dance of palm trees meant that Shango, Orisha of all Orishas, had been awakened by the troubles in Old Hope and would not go away.‘Y’all talk like if trouble went somewhere,’ Tan Cee said. ‘But in dem dreams, you fly, Patty. You always fly. Dat mean … dat mean you not beat-an’-defeat, y’unnerstan? You not.’These days Tan Cee hardly talked. She sat alone with her back against the iron platter watching the world through half-closed eyes.
