Praise Song for the Butterflies. Bernice L. McFadden

through the tunnel centuries ago by leaving offerings of fruit, flowers, and money.

      After the group had placed their own offerings before the priest, they formed a circle. Hands linked, they stood somberly listening to their thudding hearts.

      Didi’s voice was the first to splinter the silence: “I think we should pray.”

      Moaning their agreement, the circle of people bowed their heads.

      Didi began: “Dear Lord, we send up prayers to our brothers and sisters who passed through this place so many years ago. We are grateful for their sacrifices and we pray that we can adequately take the knowledge and the spirit that we’ve gained here back to those people who may never be able to make this pilgrimage. We ask that You forgive those hands that were bloodied with this inhumane and horrendous act and also that we all learn from this lesson and go forward declaring, Never, ever again. Amen.”

      By the end of the prayer, a number of people were weeping.

      Ismae squeezed Abeo’s hand. “You okay, baby?”

      Abeo was not okay. She felt a great sorrow in her chest and it hurt like hell.

      “It’s okay to cry.” Ismae pulled Abeo into her. Wasik came and rested his hands on Abeo’s shoulders. Ismae looked into his wet eyes and felt the love she held for him roll through her like a wave.

      * * *

      Back outside, back in the salt-tinged air, hands still tightly clasped, they marched solemnly along the cobblestoned alleyway toward the Door of No Return.

      The solid double wooden doors stood at least ten feet tall. The height and width of them was imposing to young Abeo, but that is not what caused her body to quake as it did. What struck fear into her young heart was the history that lay beyond the wooden panels and brass hardware. You see, Morris had revived history and little Abeo was finding it hard to distinguish between the now and what had been. Morris reached for the door handle and Abeo’s breath caught in her throat. She ordered her eyes to close, but they refused, and so she braced herself for the vision of a ship bobbing on the ocean, its deck teeming with shackled human cargo.

      Ismae, sensing the girl’s trepidation, lifted her into her arms, whispering, “It’s okay, Abeo, don’t be afraid.”

      Morris pushed the doors open and they walked out into the bright sun. Strewn across the topaz-colored Atlantic were nearly two dozen fishing boats, their masts wrapped in colorful cloth. On the shore were just as many children, happily kicking about seashells and soccer balls. Abeo breathed a sigh of relief.