The weather was sultry. Dusty, moving idly to and fro on the porch swing, absentmindedly tossed the piece of quartz stone from hand to hand, as his thoughts went back to yesterday, when he was sitting with his grandmother in the living room after supper. He now lived with her, as his mother had been tragically killed in a drive-by shooting in Chicago. He did not remember his father, and did not know where he was. Visiting his grandmother in the country in southern Illinois used to be a treat for the slight, ten-year-old African-American boy, and he was grateful that he was welcome there on a permanent basis. He looked at the greenery surrounding his grandmother's small house and contrasted it with the mortar and bricks and graffiti of his surroundings in the city. "If only there were fewer bugs," he thought to himself, "I could get to like this place."
His grandmother had given him the quartz last night, and explained that it had been in their family for a long, long time. In a hushed voice, she said that it contained the souls of all their ancestors which gave it magical properties. She had lowered her voice even more when she told him her secret--that the stone had the ability to transfer its holders to the past, while rendering them invisible throughout the journey. She said she had taken many trips, but now was too old to undergo the physical and emotional stress which accompanied these unexpected outings. She went on to say that she thought Dusty was the only one she could trust with this gift, as she felt he was destined to live a good life. Dusty didn't know whether to believe her or not. She had told him so many wonderful stories, from her imagination he thought, as they sat together in the warm evenings.
As he mused in his little, private world, his mind rested on the African folktales his grandmother told him: of the crafty Anansi, sometimes a man and sometimes a spider, and of the Hen and the Frog, his favorite story from Nigeria. His fist tightened over the rock, and he felt it vibrate. The air grew hazy around him, and suddenly the astonished boy was lifted up, out of his corporeal body, out of the present time, and away from his grandmother's porch. Over land and sea, through rushing wind, he felt himself fly, until he was set down gently on a hot, rocky promontory overlooking a wide, dark river threading its way through a lush, emerald rainforest. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of a blue ocean, the Gulf of Guinea.
A slight, wiry, black man was gazing out over the river Niger, and out to sea, shading his eyes with his hands and biting his lower lip with strong, white teeth--the front one a little crooked. As Dusty stared at the Ibo's taut body, the muscles on the man's arms flexed, and his tension communicated itself to the boy. Over the horizon, a dark smudge appeared, rapidly grew in size, holding the man's attention until he finally sighed and quietly left his post. Dusty followed, running to keep up with the Ibo's smooth, loping strides. A woman appeared, and put her hand to her mouth as she saw the hurrying figure.
Her language was not English, but Dusty, now without surprise, could understand every word. "Anbor, is it . . . ?" she inquired. He stopped, placed his hand gently on her arm, and in a low voice urged her to go to the village and alert everyone that the slave ships were coming. She turned immediately and without a sound melted into the vines that encircled the great trees. From another direction, two young men appeared, and Anbor turned sharply towards them, waved his arms, and stabbed the air in the direction of the sea with a very long index finger. Silently, they turned together and ran through the trees, followed closely by Dusty, until they came to a circle of thatched huts standing underneath a clump of smaller trees surrounded by a large clearing.
The alarm had been given. The villagers were gathering children and belongings--sacks of grain, fruit and yams--and were preparing to move off, away from the river and deeper into the jungle. The group, including Dusty bringing up the rear, passed more clearings in which they were growing their staple foods: maize, melons, okra, pumpkins, beans and yams.
After several hours of a steady but forced march through the dank and sweaty landscape, the ground began to rise under their feet, and Dusty realized that they had been heading for the safety of the hills. Other than an occasional whisper, the children had walked quietly without uttering a single word of complaint. Dusty watched as the older children took care of the younger ones, who, in turn, behaved with respect towards their older siblings, cousins and friends. The American boy had the feeling that the village was one large family with everyone looking out for everyone else; a feeling that oneself did not come first. He longed to hold out his arms to a girl of about seven, who was struggling to carry a two-year-old who had stumbled and hurt his little leg from which the blood had begun to flow. The girl gritted her teeth and walked on, but shortly an older boy came to her aid and took the injured child, giving her one of the warmest smiles Dusty had ever seen.
As the little band scattered among the tree-covered and rock-strewn hills, a woman broke the silence and asked if anyone had seen her father. A quick poll of the villagers revealed that no-one recalled his presence since their trek had begun. Anbor patted the woman's arm and told her to settle in for the night, and that he would go back and bring her father to safety. Several of the other men volunteered to go with him, but he refused, saying that they were better employed to make sure the women and children remained safe, and to stand watch until danger had passed.
Dusty decided he would return with Anbor to the village. He admired the small, Ibo farmer, who had seemed to be everywhere: encouraging the villagers to keep going, and dealing kindly with everyone all the while. As they retraced their steps, Dusty longed to be the recipient of a pat on the arm from this strong, gentle man. As he tired and struggled to keep up with his companion, Dusty saw, and then smelled, yellow, acrid smoke seeping through the branches of the trees. From what he could remember of his African history class, he judged that the slavers, angry that the villagers had run away, had set fire to their homes and were destroying the crops they had left behind.
Suddenly, a piercing yell cut the air. From behind a moss-covered tree trunk, Dusty and Anbor stiffened as an elderly man was dragged into view. Dusty heard a slaver betting that such a scrawny individual would never survive the journey back to the colonies, but then shrugged and hit his prisoner again with his whip. As a line of shackled men came into view, two slavers appeared around the tree and shouted in triumph as they saw Anbor, who thrashed and fought his attackers until he was overpowered. Then his wrists and ankles were threaded through iron cuffs, and he was attached by chains to the line of shackled men. Anbor stood bloodied but straight, and glared haughtily at his captors who ignored him. Dusty cried in horror, and tried to catch Anbor's hand in his. As he did so, the Ibo looked down and gazed directly into Dusty's eyes. At whom did Anbor smile" On whom did he bestow such a loving glance in spite of his anguish?
In his pocket, the stone began to vibrate. Dusty felt a hazy mist gather around him and he was whisked forward in time, through the rushing wind, back to his grandmother's porch swing. He sat there in shocked silence for a moment, but the harshness of the memory began to dim as his emotions subsided. Was it simply a dream? He thought sadly, but admiringly, of the good man whose hand he thought he had grasped just for a moment. Then, he took out the quartz stone from his pocket, peered into its depths, prodded it with a very long index finger, and whistled absently through his slightly crooked front tooth.
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