Free The Empty Hammock by Brenda Barrett

Made our men work hard.”
    Juan frowned; he actually understood the essence of what the man was saying.
    “The Christians killed two men related to the Chief in the east. He pointed in an easterly direction. So the chief of the east came to avenge their relatives.”
    Juan nodded.
    “What’s your name?” the chief asked sleepily, grimacing in pain.
    “The name is Juan Perez.” Juan looked at him properly. It was no wonder that Colón had befriended him; the man had eyes that were wise.
    “Juan,” Guacanagari said, pained as he moved his bandaged leg slightly. He swallowed and a half smile curved his cheek. “Bienvenidos - Welcome.”
     
    ******
     
    “Should we move her?” Carey asked his mother, as they stood over Ana. “She is out like a light.”
    “No let her stay,” Clara looked out to the sea, “the evening will be cool, if she is not awake by then, we should wake her up so that she can continue sleeping in her room.”
    “What were you doing in the basement so long?” Carey stretched. “I am sure I dozed off.”
    “I was sorting out your father’s papers. Your father was a storyteller; he had stories of his beginnings ranging from Taino parents and such. It sounded quite incredible.”
    “Ana would love that kind of thing,” Carey looked at his mother. Her face had creased lines that he could not recall seeing before. “Are you worried about something, Ma?”
    “It's just that I'm not so sure your father was senile.”
    “He wasn’t?” Carey asked incredulously. “The man rambled and raved for years before he died.”
    “I think he was writing a book and he mixed up fiction with his real life.”
    “Mixing up fiction with real life is what we call insanity,” Carey retorted, “how come I didn't know he was writing a book?”
    “I had no idea myself,” Clara headed toward the house, her housedress billowing in the breeze. “First, I find a treasure chest, and then I discover that all my late husband’s ramblings about the Arawaks and Spanish, including his dreams and visions, are documented. I found myself wondering how connected they could be, me finding this chest and his papers…”
    “Let me see what he has,” Carey walked behind her. “I can get to brag at the office that my father was in the process of writing when he died. Instead of having to explain that he was suffering from acute dementia and sporadic periods of disillusionment.”
    They headed down the steps of the basement. Carey looked around. It was like a museum. The odd calabash bowls sat on low, crude looking stools. In a corner, there were boxes of little wooden statues, their ugly faces scowling. In the center of the room boxes neatly packaged and labeled were stacked on top of each other.
    “How come I’ve never seen these things before?” Carey asked his mother.
    “They were scattered all over. I dragged them down here in the latter days. This is where Floyd used to spend most of his time—there is the book,” she pointed to a box marked ‘family tree’. “Read to your hearts content.”
    Clara headed for the other side of the room, “I will just clear out the old exam papers.”
    Carey sat down and opened a folder called the ‘Misconceptions of History’.
    History does not emphasize that the Tainos knew of the coming of the white man. There was a chief called Guacanagari, who saw the coming in a vision.
    Before the decimation of these people, they were shown exactly what would happen. Not only by Guacanagari, but also by Ana, my ancestor. She knew many things; she predicted many things. It’s history’s loss that her story was never officially told.
    “How could he know this?” Carey asked aloud. “And why was his ancestor called Ana?”
    “Don’t worry. I think your name is also from ‘the good people’,” she said and pointed to another folder.
    Carey scanned through the Taino names and howled, “Sea turtle. I am named sea turtle and Ana is the flower? How could you