The Surrender Tree (6 page)

whether the birds imagined they were flying,

or maybe they understood the limitations

of bamboo bars, the walls of each tiny cage.

Now I ask myself about my own limitations,

trying to serve as mother and grandmother

to a child who has lost

everyone she ever loved.

Rosa

The Fox has named me

the first woman Captain

of Military Health,

the first Cuban rebel army nurse

who will be remembered

by name.

I think of all the others

who went before me

in all three wars,

curing the wounded, healing the sick,

nameless women, forgotten now,

their voices and hands

just part of the forest,

whispering like pale
yagruma
leaves

in a breeze.

On hot days, even the shade

from a
yagruma
leaf

offers soothing medicine,

the magic of one quiet moment

of peace.

José

Warnings fly from every direction.

Lieutenant Death, the old slavehunter,

never gives up.

He is seen far too often, tracking, stalking,

hunting his prey.

The price for Rosa's ear grows—

her ear, the proof of her death.

I climb a towering palm tree,

to watch the movements of shadows below.

I wait, studying the shapes to see

which might be wounded rebels,

coming to Rosa for help,

and which could be Death,

bringing his nickname,

even though Rosa healed his flesh

so long ago.

She did not know

how to heal

his soul.

Lieutenant Death

Strangler fig, candle tree, dragon's blood.

The names of forest plants lead me

toward Rosa the Witch.

I can never let anyone learn my real name,

or there will be rebel vengeance, after I kill her.

She is a madwoman—just yesterday, I heard

that she cleaned and bandaged the wounds

of forty Spanish soldiers,

and that Gómez the Fox let them all go,

seizing only their horses, saddles, and weapons,

leaving them enough food to survive.

No wonder so many young Spanish boys

are switching sides, joining the rebels,

becoming Cubans.

She must be stopped.

It makes no sense, healing her enemies

so they will turn into friends.

Rosa

When I travel

between two hospitals,

I listen to trees that speak

with the movement of leaves.

The horse I ride

sings to me

by twitching his ears,

telling me how much

he hates

the flames of war.

I stroke his mane

to let him know

that I will keep him safe.

I hope it is true….

Lieutenant Death

I camp beneath

a shelf of rock,

almost a cave,

I must be close….

I crush a flower bud,

popping it

to squirt the juice

that would have turned

into a blossom

with nectar

for honeybees.

Silvia

How long have Rosa and I roamed

these green, musical hills?

Each step my little mountain pony takes

has a rhythm, the music of movement,

a way to make the most of every chance

to heal a wound, cure a fever, save a life….

We ride through dark night,

surrounded by the beauty of owl songs,

tree frogs, cicada melodies,

the whoosh of bat wings

and leaves in a breeze,

all of it teaching me

how to sing without being discovered

by soldiers who would find us and kill us

if my song turned into words….

Rosa

The scars of fear burn so intensely

that I no longer ride my horse

with a metal bit in his soft, sensitive mouth.

I do not use a bridle of rope

or a saddle of leather

or spurs of sharp metal.

I've learned how to guide the smooth gait

of my Paso Fino mountain horse

by shifting my weight and my gaze

ever so slightly,

just enough to tell him

where I want to go.

I've learned how to choose a direction

with my knees, and my hands,

and my hopes….

Lieutenant Death

I wear a red tassel on my hat

to protect me against Rosa's evil eye.

The caves are endless.

If I never find Rosa,

will the cave serpents

find me?

Breathless, I race

back out, into sunlight,

where small blue lizards

and huge green iguanas

bob their heads

as if they are mocking me

with wicked, silent laughter….

Has the witch cursed me?

Am I mad to think of such things

when I should be hunting, tracking,

hard at work?

Silvia

Before the war, a funeral meant bells,

trumpets, drums,

white flowers, and black horses

wearing black tassels.

Now we just kneel, then rise to our feet,

wondering why there are no priests

out here in the forest…

no tombstones or gravediggers with shovels,

just children with machetes tied to poles

for digging, and hardly any weeping

or singing, or flowers….

I wonder what the king of Spain

would think if he could see us.

He's just a boy, around my age.

I've seen his picture, with sad eyes

and no smile—does he understand anything

about this war?

Lieutenant Death

I march beside an army of land crabs,

their orange claws clacking like drums.

Crocodiles leap from the swamps,

while tree rats stare down at them, haunted.

Green parrots swoop

above the swollen trunks

of potbellied palm trees.

Vultures nest in tunnels of mud.

A hummingbird hovers beside my ear.

Pink flamingos flock past me, cackling.

At night, a bat sips nectar

from white flowers

the size of my fist.

Fever seizes my mind.

Panic, anger, then fear again…

So many years in this jungle,

and now, here I am,

alone…lost…alone….

José

We no longer have enough food

for so many patients.

Silvia and I go out to gather

wild yams and honey.

The child tells me her grandmother

showed her how to cure sadness

by sucking the juice of an orange,

while standing on a beach.

Toss the peels onto a wave.

Watch the sadness float away.

Rosa

One night, a hole appears in the thatch

of our biggest hospital's roof.

A woman's face.

A child.

The boy descends

as if floating.

He is sick. Heal him,

his mother pleads.

I look around, and realize

that she came through the roof

because the door was too crowded

with families weeping, rebels moaning,

women begging….

This war is a serpent,

growing, stretching….

Silvia

In wild swamps,

I clean and bandage

the gunshot wounds

of Spanish soldiers.

The youngest are children,

boys of eleven, twelve, thirteen….

Those who survive thank me

with words and smiles,

even when the only medicines I have

are bits of lemon juice and ash.

Silvia

Sometimes we are so hungry

that we sing about making an
ajiaco
stew,

the kind where a kettle is filled with all sorts

of meats and vegetables.

It takes many cooks to make an
ajiaco.

Each person brings only one slice of meat

or one potato, one
malanga
tuber or onion,

or salt from the sea.

When the stew is ready, everyone dances.

At the beach, kickfighting swimmers show off

the methods they've learned

for battling sharks.

Even though my
ajiaco
is an imaginary one,

I end up feeling that

something special has happened.

I fall asleep dreaming of music and friends,

not food.

I fall asleep with my whole family

all around me, still alive….

Captain-General Valeriano Weyler y Nicolau,
Marquis of Tenerife, Empire of Spain

In a palace in Havana,

I practice the art of the lance game,

riding a wooden horse around and around

on a carousel pushed by a slave.

Each time I complete the circle,

I stab my narrow sword

through a wooden ring.

When this war is over

and I have won,

I will buy one of those fancy

new mechanical carousels

with many painted horses

and a golden ring.

Silvia

Today the most amazing thing happened!

A man came from far away, to present the Fox

with a jeweled ceremonial sword

made by Tiffany,

someone very famous in New York,

the city where this visitor works

for a newspaper called the
Journal,

a foreign name I can never

hope to pronounce.

When I asked Rosa why a newspaper

would care so much about our island,

I found her answer troubling.

She said tales of suffering sell newspapers

that make readers feel safe,

because they are so far away

from the horror….

Silvia

More and more young people come to join us.

El Grillo,
the Cricket, is small, dark, and lively.

His nickname is earned by chattering.

He is only eleven, but his job is important.

He helps the Spanish deserter

who cooks for the Fox.

How odd it must feel to work as a kitchen boy

in this forest, without a real kitchen,

especially on days when there is no food.

Some of the officers are only fourteen.

The Flag Captain is a girl my age.

When Spanish soldiers see her, they hesitate.

They are not accustomed

to shooting girls.

The Sisters of Shade weave hats

to bring relief from the sun.

They show me how to sew

a padded amulet of cloth

to wear over my heart, as protection

against bullets.

José

Each rebel has a nickname.

El Indio Bravo
wears his black hair long,

like his native Taíno Indian ancestors.

Los Inglesitos
have light hair,

so we call them the Englishmen,

even though they speak only Spanish.

Los Pacíficos
are the Peaceful Ones.

They grow crops to feed their little ones,

instead of choosing sides in the war.

Nicknames of all sorts are worn proudly,

except for
majá,
which means cave boa,

like the snake that hides in darkness,

waiting for bats—

majá
is the name we call cowards

who choose to ride the slowest horses

into battle, so they can be the first

to turn back, and survive

if a retreat is called.

José

War is like the game

of
gallina ciega,
blind hen.

We hide. They seek.

One shot from my old carbine,

and Spanish troops return fire

with thousands of Mauser balls,

cannons, explosives….

So I hide, shoot, and wait

for them to waste ammunition,

firing back at me,

into the forest,

hitting nothing but trees.

Silvia

The wounded are sacred.

We never leave them.

When everyone else

flees the battlefield,

nurses are the ones

who rush to carry

the wounded

to Rosa.

I am learning

how to stay

far too busy

for worries

about dying.

Rosa

Today the children saved us,

our patients, the nurses, my husband, my life.

Spanish soldiers came marching

to the music of trumpets and drums.

Silvia, Cricket, and the Sisters of Shade

ran and grabbed beehives.

I was so weary, I was dreaming.

I had no idea that we were in danger.

I slept through the drumming and buzzing,

cries of fear, shouts of surprise….

Our hives fooled the troops

into fleeing—they do not know

that these bees are stingless.

Now, we feast on wild honey.

We light a candle, and take turns reading

the
Simple Verses
of José Martí.

My favorite is the one about knowing

the strange names of flowers.

José

How strange and sudden

are changes in wartime.

Soon after the victory of beehives,

we suffer a dreadful defeat.

A spy has betrayed the Lion,

revealing his position.

He was ambushed.

He is gone.

The Fox is alone now, only one leader…

so many dreams.

Silvia

Our Lion is dead,

but Weyler the Butcher

has been sent back to Spain,

humiliated by his failure

to defeat
mambí
rebels….

How can I decide

whether to weep for the Lion

or celebrate an end to Cuba's

reconcentration?

The camp where my family starved,

and shivered with fever—

the camp is open now—

the guards are gone.

Survivors can leave

if they have