Jackie Tempo and the Ghost of Zumbi

“To arms!” the cry went up again. Now everyone spilled out into the center of the quilombo. All able-bodied men age twelve and up stood in neat formation under the command of the chefe do mato. Everyone else—all the women, children, and very old men—stood back at the mighty display of force and power. Jackie gasped as more and more people came out of hiding. The very woods, it seemed, would join this rebel army and fight to keep their way safe. She reached for her mother’s hand. The two women exchanged a wordless glance that encompassed everything they were feeling—love, fear, hope. For the sake of her mother, Jackie clamped down on a rising panic and turned to look at the proud and determined African, mulatto, and mestizo men in front of her. More people than she ever imagined in one place—much less a dense jungle—were crowded into the central clearing. The onlookers formed a ring around the warriors, more than ten deep in some places. Somewhere in the crowd, Elva chanted in a low voice; it was impossible to decipher her ancient words, even with the book as guide. Sweat rolled down Jackie’s back. She could barely breathe for the heat. “Ey!” a young warrior called out. At first, the drumbeat was so low that to Jackie it seemed like the very earth was rumbling quietly, and then the beat and the sound swelled in strength. She saw an old man to her right pick up an odd-looking instrument, just a few long strings attached to a bowlike structure. He began to pick at the strings, which made a challenging, twangy sound. Then the drum seemed to circle round the strings, and it seemed to Jackie that the two instruments were about to fight, daring and backing off, teasing, prodding, provoking. Two muscular men stepped forward from the formation and began to circle each other with a slow, rhythmic grace. Like the rest of the men, they wore linen pants rolled up slightly past their ankles. They quietly discarded their weapons and faced each other, man to man.