The Sun blared and blistered at her skin. It's like venom. The roof needs to be sheeted though, so still she stays and hammers that blue iron, slowly lapping it and filling the yawning hole over. It's in the cloudless sky, the sun from above, the heat reflecting off the sheeting, the dead air, the view of rolling purple hills and it's in the girl. A girl who is so black that she thinks that her skin is reflecting as much heat back as the iron.
The girl that had been lazing passed on the shaded street below, taking in all the wonders that a quiet, cramped street side of Blossom Island had to offer. She had leant her head down,
"20 berries if you help me fix this roof, girly." Midday was approaching and she wanted it done in time for lunch. The girl had turned and brightened like a megawatt light,
"I'll do it for 10!"
She could not be more grateful.
When it was all done, they were shiny in sweat and sticky with pollen that somehow managed to drift up even though there was no wind. She invites her to lunch and the girl nearly eats her whole kitchen out, but that's okay, because she worked very hard for her, a stranger really. She must be used to the pain of hard, hot labor.
Maybe she does start, maybe she doesn't, but when the Sun hits the girl just right, all these scars, previously hidden by the sheer blackness, light up and flow over her skin. They are deep, long and silvery.
Over the table, over the ham and buns and olives and jam, they chatter about the beautiful island, famous for being veiled in fine-looking wild flowers.
"Oh, I must take you on a tour; there are so many lovely hushitty-hush spots around this island."
"Okay! I really wanted to see the sky floor forests, can we go there?"
They wash up the dishes side by side, warm, soapy water over their hands, her cleaning and the girl drying. She notices a worn letter in a baggy pocket of the girl's vivid summer dress, something strikes her about it, it just looks so important. Not in an official way, in its personal value to the girl, with the way it was tucked so safely and folded ever so carefully.
When she comes back from the toilet, the girl is sitting at the cleared table and running her fingers over the same letter. She does not try to read it, but she does notice the wild smile on the girl's face. Does the girl realize that she looks so simply...happy when she's reading that letter? It must be something good.
…
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
…
It's storming. Really badly.
The ship rides towering, swelling waves. Everyone on board clenches their teeth as the ship reaches the top and, for a moment there, we are falling through the air.
Crash! They are caught by the dark ocean with it's vast bounds. Brimming and bulging we stand with the current, and eventually it will end.
"Living is this! Careful, you're digging holes in the wall there!" Of course there are the crazy ones who run around on deck and laugh nearly as loud as the thundering sky.
Throughout the dark, dark day- so much so that it seemed like night- they manage to coast into a port and throw themselves off. Building high waves are throwing themselves against the harbour walls and cliffs. Back at their home island in the New World, there was only a thin strip of ocean being thrown against them, but here in the West Blue, it is an entire quarter of the world behind that wave.
They tumble into a bare and still bar. Best to make the night here, says the captain. Best to buy some warm drinks, says the navigator. Best to pay for some rooms, says the shipwright. Best to sit down and let the warmth soak in, says the doctor. Best I go and check out the town, says the crew mascot who always manages to separate herself when they get into the harbour.
So the creature of night leaves her drenched thirsty strong crewmates to shake themselves out like dogs and curl up to the oil heaters like cats. She flicks her rain coat hood up and steps out. The streets are a dead place; the rain lashes out at the buildings and roads. It would be a spectacular sunset right at this moment if not for the monsoon.
There is a large slippery cloaked figure also walking along underneath the overhangs. She sees him in the distance, white marine cloak fluttering and ruffing in the growling winds. She worries about how many more marine are stationed here; she worries for her crew's safety, and if they have been caught in the middle of their stealing endeavors.
It's only when the figure gets to a point where he needs to run through the chilling rain that he stops, thinks better and turns back the way he came. They see each other's faces and just stare, recognizing a stranger that has grown so much.
"Garp!"
"Bwahaha, it's been a while!"
She runs to him, moisture flying off her coat like snow fall…and she jumps. Arms wrapped around his neck and her face in his shoulder. Her hair is everywhere, so much, so tightly woven and soft and everywhere, so much… and they find themselves so much at ease as they talk and chatter and no after you I insist and my crew were such babies sailing in and finally face to face again. But this time they trust and know and maybe…possibly….
…
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
…
"Are you scared dear?"
"Scared? Of course I'm scared, I would be stupid if I wasn't."
Dear me, no need to be so frank…
"Well rest assured I am here for you throughout the entire process."
"Of course you are, that's your job. It would be stupid if you weren't."
Maybe she is one of those that get aggressive when nervous…
"Just breathe and it will be over soon, I promise."
"I have a friend whose labour lasted for two days."
The horror stories of child birth, they never crease to amaze her.
"Well, yes, that does happen sometimes, I-"
The women are chuckling at her.
"Soon then? Soon…"
And she settles back with a sigh, eyelids dropping slowly, and she waits.
Like she has seen so much more than this mere world could offer.
…
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
…
I deal with this,
I do not break down
I do not surrender
I do not marvel and cry
Why me?
I grew up in the slums, the illegalities, the poverty,
The third world nestled hidden amongst the cracks of the first.
A world within a world,
And now I'm in another,
One darker and deeper.
But I was raised in the pits of my own, and those pits are very, very deep.
Indeed.
…
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise."
- Maya Angelou (1928)