Free The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez

loomed large and solid, something she had not articulated her love for. She remembered hearing Bird’s voice for the first time below her in the house announcing the entertainment. The deep resonance sent a thrill through her body. Minta’s soft warning was all but forgotten, but her tender concern which showed in the bend of her body filled the Girl with joy. The wary, protective way Bernice had watched her grow, their evenings alone in the kitchen talking about the ways of the world—these were things of value. She opened her eyes and looked into Gilda’s. She found love there, too. And exhaustion beyond exploration. She could see no future in them although this was what Gilda wanted to promise her.
    Reading the thoughts that Gilda tried to communicate, the Girl picked her way through. “You’re offerin’ me time that’s not really time? Time that’s gonna leave me by myself?”
    â€œI’ve seen this world moving on many different paths. I’ve walked each road with curiosity, anxious to see what we would make of our world. In Europe and to the south of us here have been much the same. When I came here the world was much larger, and the trip I had to make into the new world was as fearful as the one you’ve made. I was a girl, too, much too young to even be afraid.
    â€œEach time I thought taking a stand, fighting a war would bring the solution to the demons that haunted us. Each time I thought slavery or fanaticism could be banished from the earth with a law or a battle. Each time I’ve been wrong. I’ve run out of that youthful caring, and I know we must believe in possibilities in order to go on. I no longer believe. At least for myself.”
    â€œBut the war is important. People have got to be free to live.”
    â€œYes, and that will no doubt be accomplished. But for men to need war to make freedom… I have never understood. Now I am tired of trying to understand. There are those of our kind who kill every time they go out into the night. They say they need this exhiliration in order to live this life. They are simply murderers. They have no special need; they are rabid children. In our life, we who live by sharing the life blood of others have no need to kill. It is through our connection with life, not death, that we live.”
    Both women were silent. The Girl was uncertain what questions she might even ask. It was like learning a new language. When she looked again into Gilda’s eyes she felt the pulsing of blood beneath the skin. She also sensed a rising excitement that was unfamiliar to her.
    â€œThere is a joy to the exchange we make. We draw life into ourselves, yet we give life as well. We give what’s needed—energy, dreams, ideas. It’s a fair exchange in a world full of cheaters. And when we feel it is right, when the need is great on both sides, we can re-create others like ourselves to share life with us. It is not a bad life,” Gilda said.
    The Girl heard the edge in Gilda’s voice but was fascinated by the pulsing blood and the swirling colors in Gilda’s eyes.
    â€œI am on the road I’ve chosen, the one that is right for me. You must choose your path again just as you did when you ran from the plantation in Mississippi. Death or worse might have met you on that road, but you knew it was the one you had to take. Will you trust me?” Gilda closed her eyes and drew back a little, freeing the Girl from her hypnotic gaze.
    The Girl felt a chill, as if Gilda’s lowered lids had shut off the sun, and for a moment she was afraid. The room was all shadows and unnatural silence as Gilda disappeared behind her closed eyes. Finally, confusion lifted from the Girl who was intent on listening to more than the words: the highs and lows, the pitch, the rhythm were all molded by a kind of faith the Girl hoped she would reach. It was larger than simply a long life. It was a grand adventure for which her