Sacrifice of Buntings by Christine Goff Read Free Book Online

later , the group stopped for lunch in Hog Hammock, a dusty little town with small houses and an open-air market. The houses were brightly colored, and old women sat in rocking chairs on small, covered porches. Tables had been set up in the shade, and younger women speaking a mixture of African and Elizabethan English served them a traditional meal of fish perlo —a one-pot rice dish made with a vegetable and/or a meat, and traditionally seasoned with pork.
    His plate filled to the brim, Saxby had made a beeline for the table where Rachel, Lark, Dorothy, and Cecilia sat under a spreading oak. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then Dorothy asked him what he knew about the people.
    “They’re part of the Geechee culture,” he explained, “which dates back more than two hundred years. Of course, this community only dates to 1950, when R. J. Reynolds instituted his land-consolidation plan.” Saxby set down his fork and used his hands to gesture. “There were black land holdings spread out all over the island,” he said, carving the shape on a map in the air. “But Reynolds wanted to consolidate his holdings. He offered a trade: a plot of land and a house in Hog Hammock”—Saxby pointed to a spot on the fictional map—“for each black landowner’s property.” His hands swept over the imaginary island. “Needless to say, Reynolds came out ahead.” Saxby picked up his fork. “The black landowners often ended up trading for less than they gave in the exchange.”
    “Then why did they trade?” Lark asked.
    Saxby shrugged. “It’s hard to say. The Geechee have a family-oriented culture. For example, it’s customary for newlyweds to move into the husband’s parent’s home and live there until they can afford to build a home of their own. You can imagine how many multi-generational households there are. Plus, community grievances are settled in praise houses or churches.” Saxby forked some more perlo. “Maybe it made sense to them to live closer together.”
    Or maybe they had felt some outside pressure to take the deal . Tired of listening to Saxby, Rachel dabbed her mouth with her napkin and excused herself. Crossing the soft grass, she browsed the stands the crafters had set up and found herself drawn to the baskets of a beautiful dark-skinned woman in orange.
    “ E be fanner ,” the woman explained, handing Rachel a paper. “De basket be used to throw de rice.”
    Rachel read the description.
     
    A fanner is a traditional basket used to throw threshed rice into the air, allowing the wind to carry off the chaff. Originally made of bulrushes, today’s baskets are made from sweetgrass taken from the dunes. Longleaf pine needles are used to make decorations, and palmetto leaves hold the coils together .
     
    “Dat one be beautiful,” said the woman, bestowing approval on the one Rachel held in her hands. “Dat one be fifty dollars.”
    “It’s a good price,” said Dwayne, materializing beside her. “It’s an old art, and Trula’s one of the best.”
    “Tank oon.”
    Dwayne nodded.
    Rachel watched him walk away before hemming and hawing over the price. She had no idea what a basket like this was worth. She only knew she wanted it. Finally, she dug out the money.
    “Oona be happy,” Trula said, wrapping the basket in plain paper and slipping it inside a plastic bag. Then her expression changed, and she signaled for Rachel to move her head closer. “Come, lady.”
    Rachel leaned in, bumping her hip against the table.
    Trula slipped Rachel the basket, but kept hold of one edge, whispering close to her ear. “ Oona mus tek cyear .”
    “Excuse me?”
    Trula’s orange dress swirled about them in the breeze, her sleeve softly brushing Rachel’s face. “Me sense hudu.”
    “ Hudu? ”
    “Bad luck,” she whispered. “Oona mus tek cyear.”
     
    Rachel had to admit, the woman’s premonition creeped her out. Still, they’d had good luck with the birds in the afternoon, and her spotting of the