Love at Waterfall Even now in the hereafter, I still savor the taste of something sweet. I offer no excuse for myself. In mortal life the elders warned that if I habitually raided hives, I would come to know bee sting. That if I wallowed so much in sweetness, I would find it difficult to endure in times of want. But you know the proverb. Too much advice is no advice. My discipline was lax and I overindulged, mouth relaxing open to the nectar of wildflowers, the sap of sun-ripened fruits. I enjoyed the tang of my husband''s honey long after I had become an elder myself.
It is said that only when a woman passes childbearing, does she come into her full power. Her menses, no longer spent monthly, returns to nourish its host. Her womb closes onto itself like a cowrie shell, a shrine no man is meant to enter. But I was my husband''s only wife. How could I deny him conjugal bliss in his old age? How could I deny myself? And here I stand, Gatekeeper of the Great Beyond. There are no men in this village, there have never been. It is a thing we never thought to question. We are spirit workers, women who have transcended life''s earthly pleasures.
But at times I find myself seized by longings I thought lost in the body I left behind. The memory of hard hands at the curve of my back. The surrender of self to the sweetness of flesh. There is a very thin line between wish and prayer; taboos may be broken in spirit, as well as the flesh. It is on account of such indiscretion that we may all be punished. The moment which would disrupt our way of life and forever trouble the surface of our tranquil waters happens as I take my sunset constitutional. Those times when work has ended and a woman wants a moment to be alone with her own needs. And love always tastes sweetest at twilight.
May I draw you a map? My path to perdition leads downhill toward the first cataract which feeds the River Where Blood Is Born. It twists like a snake through the forest, descending to meet the water at its own level. We come upon a spot just beyond the warm-water inlet where cocoons await their blossoming into birth, near the bridge these unborn daughters eventually cross over into life. It is as in the inexorable course of lovemaking. Where river rushes toward land''s end, it has no recourse. It must rebecome, must leave the earth and meet the air. Must hang suspended, fracturing the waning light. And float, rather than fall.
The cascade murmurs like the musical moan from deep within a man''s chest. Each drop drifts earthward to collect itself into a shimmering pool of joy, before gathering momentum to float onward. Our meeting at the bottom of the waterfall has happened so often, it has become ritual. I call him, and he becomes. His body, flint black and shiny, emerges from the rock face beneath the tumbling waters. He moves toward me and I am ready. His breath is the wind that lifts my wrapper and I pirouette, shameless as a young girl in mating dance. My skirts billow above my waist like sails.
With no amoasi to stay my comfort, I settle my seminakedness into a curve of stone worn smooth by water, warmed by sun. I open my legs and wait, prepared for the familiar rush of sensation; the kiss of setting sun upon my face; the surge, the wet murmur of falling waters. "Come to me, my love," I whisper in anticipation. But the answer I receive is harsh and unexpected, a dash of frigid water down the back. My lover''s coos vanish, his image retreats into the stone cliff. I hear instead the voice of my ancient enemy, rising behind me from the protected inlet of our nursery. There is a man in our midst, someone other than the phantom lover I conjure in my moments of weakness. Uncertain whether I have been seen, I yank down my skirts and rise to search him out, following the sound of his voice.
"Eh-heh. When spider webs unite, can they not bind a lion? Such a net I will weave from this sacred silk, nothing I capture can escape." I open the door to admit a man, and this one slips in? I leave the gateway unguarded and this is what enters? Do you see him? Can you hear him? Will you imagine the gall of this spider of a man? Singing his own praises. Misquoting proverbs in his mischief making. He thinks his misdeeds go unnoticed. It is not his own web that Ananse works. He poaches from our sacred river, playing fast and loose with our very futures. See him there, crouched beneath the joists of the bridge, hidden like the unwelcome visitor he is.
Testing the weave of each bobbing cocoon, the unformed bud of each delicate daughter. Reaching into waters and fishing out unlived lives, wet as raw silk. Laughing his lisping laugh and unwinding. Waving his spindly limbs and reeling. Tossing about the silken mass like a malevolent cat. And spinning a cobweb of confusion from the river of our generations. He has already unraveled silken threads from nine cocoons, when I reach into the crevice where he has secreted himself. I watch him squirm and wonder aloud why I shouldn''t simply crush him between the balls of my fingers.
"I beg-o, Mistress Gatekeeper," Kwaku Ananse wails. "You would never do me such a badness. No luck can come to a woman who kills a spider. Nana would never forgive." "We will see what the Queen Mother herself has to say about that. I suggest, however, that you ready your soul to meet your ancestors." And that, my people, is how Kwaku Ananse, the spider who is a man, the man who is a spider, came into possession of this story. There are those of you who may say he came to it by trickery.
I prefer to call it the fine art of negotiation. Even I can''t help but admire a man who can think on his feet. Yes, Ananse is hauled before the stool of the Queen Mother of the River Where Blood Is Born, cowering but crafty. For he, the undisputed master of all stories, had had just enough time to concoct one of his own. You must watch carefully or you will miss the precise moment when the mist gathers itself from water and rises. Do you know how many aspects can exist in one blueness? Aqua, azure, indigo. Cobalt, turquoise, sapphire, sky. I will call your attention to how subtly the blues cascade, shimmering in her garments as she walks.
And the sound of living waters; is its music like anything you''ve ever heard? Of course not. But then you are not within your earthly domain. You are in the realm of a goddess. What else should be expected? But do not be deceived by the Queen Mother of the River Where Blood Is Born. Yes, her songs are sweet, but often mournful. Because her waters are placid does not mean they are shallow. Do not be fooled by the softness of her smile, the humor that murmurs in the melody of her words. For she is one who can be as temperamental as she is tender.
She has been known to rage, you know. Her blue waters have been seen frothing white, tumbling toward ocean. Bubbling over banks. Do not mistake kindness for weakness. Even Ananse knows better. He quickly unfurls a cobweb of confusion, a dragnet of flattery. "Eh, but you are beautiful, Queen Mother," he exclaims, shielding his bulging eyes from her glory. "Do you want a poor man to go blind?" "Well," she murmurs, music in her laughter.
"I had in mind a rather more severe punishment." "Yes, yes," he hurries to agree. "Pluck me limb from limb, throw the pieces to the dogs. Roast me on your open fire, drown me in your deepest waters. I can die happy today, for I have visited your palace. I have seen with my own eyes the magnificence of your village. Eh, I cannot wait ." And here he begins to contradict himself .
". to run home to my village, to tell my people what I''ve seen." "Foolish little man," the goddess trills. "You think it is that easy to back away from death? You think you can bathe in blood waters and ever again be dry?" "And don''t forget," I remind her. "This man is more than just a trespasser. He has behaved badly. Look at his handiwork." I produce the tangled mass of mischief Ananse has made.
"But what is this?" she asks in alarm. "Bits and pieces of unlived lives, unspoken voices from the daughters of your descent. Like this Ama Krah, a daughter of Africa destined to wander ." I tug one line from the tangle of silk. The fragment of untold story is revealed, reflected in full upon the face of the waters . They had reached the confluence, the place where the Black met the Blood. A mother''s voice seemed to call to them upriver, a voice that only Ama heard. A wind seemed to tug them downriver, a force which only Ama felt.
They stood confused in the crotch of land where rivers meet. Looking first one way, then the other. What name does one give to the not knowing, the wondering? Which road to take? Which river to follow? Which voice to answer? They waited for a sign, and finding none, abandoned the way of water . "A traveler," Ananse int.