Fables & Other Lies

“Leave me alone!” It was my shout, I realized, and I said it again, “Leave me alone.”

And just like that, I was able to move again.

Chapter Four

“Wela, how did Carnival start?” I asked over a bowl of white rice and red beans.

“How did it start . . . God, it was so long ago I barely remember the story. It was the year we claimed our freedom from Spain. I guess that was it. A celebration.” Her eyebrows pulled in as she glanced outside. “You know, I used to hate all of this tourism, but I kind of like it now.”

I followed what she was looking at. There was a group of tourists following a guide. Some took pictures, while others simply admired the house we were in. I wondered how far the history lesson would go. Would they tell them how the Calibans tried to take over the island? And how my great-great-grandfather fought back? How they all did?

“I know the neighbors find it invasive,” Wela said after a silent moment, “but it’s nice to know that these houses will live on in more than just their memories.”

“Do you remember that night,” I started, “when Papi told me to pack my things and leave?”

“Of course.” Wela met my gaze. “It was awful. Do you remember that night?”

“Bits and pieces. You said something to me, about the Calibans being responsible for what happened.”

“Of course, they were.” Her eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “They’re devil worshippers.”

“How do you know they are?”

“Because I know the history of this island.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I just . . . I feel like the devil-worshipping stuff and the Devil’s Chair and the disappearing house . . . they’re just stories.”

“Of course, you’d suggest that.” She shook her head. “You think the Bible itself is a series of stories composed by men who wanted to ensure we would all be controlled.”

“I don’t want to discuss the Bible or argue over our religious beliefs, Wela.”

I regretted the day I even brought up the topic of religion in this household. It wasn’t like I didn’t know any better. She was a devout Catholic, who went to Mass on Sundays, prayed the rosary, and got on her knees whenever anyone she knew was ill. She’d even managed to get some holy water from Rome, blessed by the Pope himself, and sent me away with it when I left this house all those years ago. Wela was not the one to bring questions about faith to. Not unless you wanted her to call the priest she had on speed dial so he could perform an emergency prayer over your forehead just in case.

“Why are you bringing up the Calibans now?” She sucked her teeth and glanced over at me again.

“I was just wondering why you said what you said.” I shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Those people. That house . . . ” Wela shook her head with a sigh. “It’s a darn shame that they live there at all. It’s the only place we can get what would cure your mother.” She looked in the direction of the bedrooms.

“What do you mean? What cure?”

“There’s a tree on the property that blooms every year during Carnival.” She shot me a pointed look. “You asked why we celebrate. This is why. That tree is said to have magic powers. Some call it magic. We call it faith. It is said to have been brought here from Jerusalem. Planted right there, when the ocean hadn’t yet become angry with its surroundings, with its inhabitants.”

“So, the tree only has leaves now?” I leaned forward.

“It only blooms once a year, for one week.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“Seeing it would mean crossing the iron gates.” She shook her head. “My mother saw it when my father worked there. It cured her of her suffering. The few leaves I had were used to help those in need and the rest dried up.”

“Why hasn’t everyone tried to cross those gates for it?”

“Who says they haven’t?” She pursed her lips. “Look at what happened to Esteban.”

“Hm.” I nodded in agreement, then frowned. “But Tia Julia is alive.”

“You know what they say about the island. It takes a life and gives another life.”

I sat back in my seat. “Does she believe that?”

“Of course, she does. Why do you think she’s become a hermit? She used to go out, always wore the latest fashion, painted her lips red, and then . . . nothing.”

“Well, her son died. I can’t imagine her going back to regular life after something like that happened.”

“It was more than that. It’s the Calibans.” She turned to the window again. “Those leaves, like I said, they’re healing leaves. In your mother’s case, I’d give it to her in a tea. My mother used to make potions out of the leaves and sell it to people who wanted to forget things.”