October 31, 2017

PodCastle 494: Folk

27 minutes

* Author : Eden Royce

* Narrator : Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

* Host : Summer Fletcher

* Audio Producer : Pria Wood

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Upcoming anthology, “Sword and Sonnet” an anthology of stories devoted to the union of battle and poetry — lyrical, shimmery sonnet-slingers, grizzled, gritty poetpunks, and word nerds battling eldritch evil! Edited by E. Catherine Tobler of Shimmer, and PodCastle’s own Aidan Doyle and Rachael K. Jones.

Folk

By Eden Royce

In a place beyond far, my braids are woven into the sweetgrass basket encasing me and I am surrounded by the scent of the ocean and its dead. A crack of light breaches my intricate prison and I shift, twist only a fraction, to take advantage of its brightness — there is no warmth from it.

I look at the pads of my fingertips. The flesh, bloodless, has been stripped away, and instead of muscle and meat, there is a network of twisting reeds, coiled, wound tightly into green-brown curlicues. Three of them in a staggered pattern like stepping stones in a garden. I touch my fingertips to my face and feel the prickly scrape of dried palmetto leaves.

It is the mark my people use for their handiwork — no, I lie. Only the women use it. It is the women who show their pride this way, their nimble fingers pinching and twisting the sweetgrass before forcing it over and through itself with the end of a teaspoon, whittled sharp. It is woven into their baskets, each one distinct like a signature. It is embedded in me.

Awake now, I run my blunt nails over my you-must-be-mixed-with-something skin, raising pink welts. My flesh crawls, itches, and in the dim light from the moon coming through the old plantation house window, I can see it ripple with intent.

Three circles, tightly wound, a trinity formed from one strand of sweetgrass. It isn’t the Holy Trinity, but something other. The poet, the weaver, and the . . . what? Which am I? Through the fog of interrupted sleep, I can’t remember. All I want is a shower. To scrub clean, to fill my nose with scent, to rinse away the sweat and dirt and dead skin.

But for me, water brings the dead.

Grandma is an expert with the machete. The blade doesn’t look like much, but they resemble each other — brown and thick and sharp-edged. Her grip is firm on the walnut handle and the blade sings briefly before severing the sugar cane on the counter, leaving a fibrous rip in the air of the stuffy kitchen. The screened door is open, as are the windows, but the breeze carries with it the sulfur of marsh and secrets.

Once, twice more the blade falls and then she is handing me a flat plank of cane to chew on while she teaches me the magic. I can barely see over the counter, even on my tiptoes, but I know to listen. The blue crabs in the slatted box next to me spit rhythmically and click their claws. I poke at them with an eraserless pencil and Grandma snaps at me to stop making them tough.

She controls the machete with ease, her plump arms fleshy and loose with age. The knife comes down and up with swiftness, and a crack appears in the side of a shaggy coconut. Gran has already drained the milky liquid into a measuring cup, so she lets me try to pull apart the coarse halves of the seed. I am unable to, even with my bare foot braced against the wooden cabinet. My fingers are too soft and small for this work. But I try and try and one day I manage it, the sound of tearing coconut meat a victory. She tells me I am ready.

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