With the next line about to come from Georgia, I readied my foot to dig. She began to sing and I put my foot down on a snake. It slithered and hissed and coiled, tongue flickering. I screamed. Fomba flew to my side, sliced down with his hoe and severed the snake's head. Before I could say a word of thanks, he picked up the head with one hand and the quivering body with the other and tossed them away.

"Country fool," Georgia said, giving him a shove. She ran to where Fomba had thrown the snake and retrieved the body.

That night she skinned the snake and rubbed oil on the skin, kept oiling it for days. Eventually she dried off the oily skin and wrapped it in two rows around her Sunday washing hat-a wide-brimmed, straw-woven affair with a green and blue peacock feather jutting out at an angle.

"Snake or master, same ole thing," Georgia said. "Wear his clothes, it bring good luck."

It only took fifteen days for plants to start pushing up out of the sandy earth. Under Mamed's close watch, I used a bucket to water them, and they shot out of the ground. When they started showing thick leaves, Mamed assigned me to ten rows of plants each day. My task was to remove all grasshoppers. I was under the strictest orders not to damage the leaves, nor to disturb their faint layer of powder. I was merely to lift the bug off gently, squish it, drop it in a bucket and keep moving from plant to plant. Mamed watched over the leaves as if he knew them individually and couldn't bear the thought of sharing them with the insects. Ten rows a day, for days on end, I cleaned those plants as they grew higher.

MASTER APPLEBY'S BIG HOUSE was cleaned by a Negro woman who worked with a baby slung on her back in the African way. She lived with her baby in a mud home apart from the others and she didn't speak much to anybody. Not long after I had become comfortable in speaking Gullah, I went to join the woman while she was working in her own little garden.

"Evening, Cindy-Lou," I said.

She grunted and kept pulling weeds.

"Y'all hold your baby in the African way."

She grunted again, but offered no words.

"Fomba and I come from the same village," I said. "In Bayo, we wrap up our babies just like-"

"I's from dis here land and jes' now I is stakin' beans, so doan be telling me nothing 'bout Africa."

When we were in bed later that night, Georgia scolded me. "Doan be running your mouth on Africa," she said. "You walk by a nigger with shut-mouth lips, or you walk by a white man on a horse or on his arse, doan be carrying on about back home an' all. Ky-ly-na buckra beat the Africa clean out of you."

The next night, while Georgia was watching me eat and declaring that I now had "meat on my bones," Appleby came into our home. He was a tall man, clean shaven, and he wore tight-fitting pants and fine leather riding boots. I knew not to trust him, but wanted-from a safe distance- to learn more about him.

I tried to follow every word as Appleby spoke with Georgia. He said something about a woman having problems on another island.

"Work all night, no work tomorrow," Georgia said.

"Morning only," Appleby said.

Georgia wouldn't budge. When he gave in, she demanded that he bring her a mortar and pestle, "babe size," from Charles Town. Appleby agreed. Georgia gathered a cloth bag holding her potions, liquids and plants and then she grabbed my hand.

"Just you," Appleby told her.

"She go with me."

"Hurry, then."

Walking as quickly as Georgia could manage, we tried to match Appleby's long strides. Georgia breathed loud, like something was stopping up her nose. We came up to a plantation Negro named Happy Jack, who was waiting with two horses and a cart. Georgia and I climbed onto the back of the cart and bumped along until we came to a pier. There, we were guided into a canoe-a hollowed-out cypress log with two others fastened beside it. Negroes from another plantation stood upright in the canoe and used poles to push Appleby, Georgia and me across the water. The whole time we were in that canoe, Georgia asked the oarsmen questions. She spoke very fast, and it was clear not only that Appleby didn't understand, but that he wasn't even listening. Where was Old Joe? Georgia asked. And Quaco? And what had happened to Sally, after they took her away from St. Helena Island? I could follow most of what the men in the canoe said to her. We arrived at another island, and were taken by horse and cart to a hut where a woman was crying out.

Before going in, Georgia spoke to the buckra man on this new plantation. "Master, give me pipe and tobacco," she said, "and two yards of red Charles Town cloth."

"You can have two pipes and tobacco and not a thing more," he said.

Georgia nodded, and the two of us entered the hut.

A woman was lying on a bed next to three burning candles. Georgia asked the new buckra man for cloth and three calabashes of warm water and shooed him and Appleby away. From her pouch, Georgia brought out a stopped gourd of oil.

"Sit by her head and talk," Georgia said.

While Georgia rubbed her right hand in oil, spread the woman's legs, and slid her fingers inside, I looked into the woman's eyes and asked her name. She didn't answer. "What your name?" I asked again. No response.

"She done ask your name," Georgia called out. Still no answer.

The woman looked scared. When I tried Bamanankan, the woman's eyes grew wide. When I tried Fulfulde, words rushed out of her.

Georgia nudged me with her elbow. "Good thing you're here, chile."

The woman's name was Falisha, and she said she had crossed the big river only a few moons ago. Falisha gripped my hand and arched her back.

"Take fast little breaths when it hurts," I said.

Georgia placed my hand on Falisha's womb. In one spot, and another, and another. She asked if I felt anything.

"Two babies," I said.

Georgia's mouth fell open. "How you know that?"

"I done tell you before. My mama done teach me to catch babies."

"Could use your mama right here," Georgia said. "This woman can die."

All through the night, Falisha rode through waves of pain. But between convulsions, she talked and talked as if she had not spoken to another soul for months. She said she had two children at home. She had been abducted with her husband, but he had died crossing the water. I didn't want to hear about that and didn't ask any questions, hoping that she would tire and be silent, but Falisha just kept on speaking. Her other children had seen three and five rain seasons. She had no idea where they were now, or who was caring for them. I felt relieved when she stopped talking and let out a long, low moan. It came from far back in her throat.

Falisha didn't wait for instructions. She pushed mightily of her own accord and, after several tries, out came the head. She pushed again and the shoulders and butt and little feet came out. Georgia wrapped the baby and had me hold it. It had a tiny, squished nose and a rooting mouth. I wondered how much time would pass before this tiny creature would understand that he was not free to live as he wanted.

Falisha was taking shallow breaths.

"A boy," I told her.

Falisha smiled faintly but she had no energy to speak.

"You have still another baby to come," I told her.

The first baby started to cry.

"Good, he is breathing," Falisha said. "I die now. You take my baby, Fula girl. I die now."

"Nobody dies," I said. "You have another baby inside you."

Falisha slept for a while. I held the baby tight against me until he settled to sleep.

"You all sure talk mumbo-jumbo," Georgia said.

"Fulfulde," I said.

"Foo-what?"

"Our language," I said. "Fulfulde."

Georgia shrugged. She lit a pipe and smoked tobacco.

I didn't want to wake the mother or the sleeping baby, but I had been wanting for days to ask Georgia a question. Whispering, I said, "I been wanting to find a man named Chekura."

Georgia looked at me intently. "You too young for a man."

"He ain't my man," I said. "We done cross the big water together. He is like a brother."

"Brother," she snorted. Seeing me stare so seriously, Georgia softened. "If he is in the low-country, the fishnet will pull him up."

"The fishnet," I repeated.

"We got our ways," Georgia said. "Niggers got mouths like rivers. Our words swim the rivers, all the way from Savannah to St. Helena to Charles Town and farther up. I done hear of our words swimming all the way to Virginia and back. Our words swim farther than a man can walk. When we find someone, up he comes in the fishnet."

"He's not really a man," I said. "Just a boy, and his name is Chekura."

"If he nearby, I find him in the fishnet. Or maybe he find you."

Georgia used her thumb to stuff tobacco in her pipe. "You smoke?"

I shook my head. "Believers don't smoke."

"Believers?"

I pointed up. "Allah."

"What you talking about, girl?"

"God," I said.

"What God got to do wit it?" Georgia said.

"God say no smoke. Our book say no smoke."

"Don't be talking books. Buckra man not like that at all."

I was completely confused. I had seen the medicine man reading books by lamplight in his room on the ship.

"What God got to do wit it?" Georgia repeated.

"God say no tobacco," I said.

"Huh!" Georgia slapped her thighs. "Master Apbee got God, he smoke. Two niggers on our plantation talking all the time about Jesus this and Jesus that, and they smoke. Some of us got God and some of us don't, but ain't a nigger in Carolina don't love tobacco."

I didn't know how to tell Georgia that palm wine and tobacco were not allowed, but that kola nuts were fine. I hadn't even seen a kola nut since leaving my homeland. The Qur'an was just too complicated to explain.

The baby started crying. Georgia took him from me and squished his rooting mouth up against Falisha's nipple. The baby sucked furiously.

"That'll get her going," Georgia said.

Sure enough, Falisha awoke and pushed again. The second baby came quickly then. A girl. Discoloured and motionless.

Georgia cut the cord and listened for the breathing that didn't come, the heart that didn't beat. Then she wrapped the baby completely.

"And the second one?" Falisha asked.

"She is dead," I said.

"A girl?" Falisha said.

"Yes."

"I always wanted a girl." Falisha stretched her hand across her eyebrows, covering her face, and she lay completely still.

I stroked her hair for a moment, but Falisha did not move or respond. I stood up to take some air outside. The stars were brilliant that night, and the cicadas were crying in endless song. If the sky was so perfect, why was the earth all wrong?

Georgia came out to get me. "We got to move. Buckra coming soon. The second baby is our secret. Nobody knows. Falisha had only the boy. You hear? You tell her too."

Georgia bundled up the dead child and put it under her clothes. We left the son on Falisha's breast.

By the time we arrived back at the Appleby plantation, light was creeping into the eastern skies. We paused at our door for a moment. When we were sure that all was still, Georgia took me deep into the woods to bury the dead twin. Afterwards, we returned quickly to our bed.

"I never seen someone from Africa learn so fast." Georgia stopped to touch my hair. "But watch out, girl. You know too much, someone kill you."

"I ain't killable," I said.

"You were sure 'nuf half-dead when I scooped you out the yard," Georgia said, "but I sure is glad you living now."

THE WEATHER GREW WARMER and more humid. With the meat on my bones that made Georgia so proud, my womanly bleedings also returned. The heat reminded me of home, but the dampness weighed on me like a wet blanket. I saw the first of many rainstorms. Late in the afternoon, puffy clouds started darkening. Long before the day was done, the light suddenly changed as if evening had come instantly. Lightning cracked, the thunder grew louder and then the skies exploded. Georgia grabbed me away from the washtub.

"Lightning fry you up like bacon," she said, pulling me into her home and putting her arm around my shoulders. "Hope the roof gwine hold."

It wasn't just rain. It was like a thousand buckets of water pouring down at the same time. Two trees blew over. Lightning split another one. Our roof held, but another caved in. We heard the shouts of Negroes running from the destroyed house, seeking cover in another. After a short time, the onslaught ended as quickly as it had begun. The sky cleared, the clouds blew away and the coolness brought by the rain turned to steamy vapours in the sun.

Georgia took me along whenever she was asked to catch babies on the plantation or on neighbouring islands. About one out of three babies died in childbirth or soon after, and a number of the mothers died too. I loved being with Georgia, but despised having to face sickness and death. Georgia didn't want to leave me alone on the plantation-she said I wasn't safe without her by my side-but I pleaded to be allowed to stay when she knew ahead of time that an expecting mother was already ill.

It wasn't just mothers and babies who died. Lots of others died, including buckra and adult Negroes. They died of fevers, with their bones on fire. Georgia told me that the buckra feared the vapours in the low-country swamps. In the hottest half of the year, which Georgia called "sick season," Appleby stayed away almost entirely.

Georgia was known all through the low-country islands for baby catching and doctressing. Every time buckra or Negro overseers from other plantations came asking for her services, she insisted on some form of payment. The one thing she craved-more than rum, tobacco or bright-coloured cloth-was Peruvian bark. Appleby or other plantation owners had to bring it to her from the Charles Town market, and they complained of its great cost. Sometimes Georgia had to trade as much as ten baby catchings for one pouch of the bark. When she got it, she dried it, ground some of it in her hand-sized mortar and pestle, didn't allow a grain of the dust to be lost and kept it in a leather pouch, hanging from a wooden beam overhead in her home. Other bits of it, she chewed. She offered some to me, but it was too bitter for my liking. Apart from me and Happy Jack, whom she occasionally took into her bed, Georgia defied any Negro to enter her home. She didn't want anybody messing with her powders and roots, especially the Peruvian bark, which she said was the best treatment for fever.

Georgia kept pouches in various shades of blue. She made me remember every detail. In the blue-black pouch went thyme, for speeding delivery and bringing away the afterbirth. In the deep-water-blue pouch went jimsonweed, which she kept as a secret weapon to bring on madness. She gathered pine-needle clusters in a sky-blue pouch and used them to make tea for stuffy noses. In a light blue bag went sweet fennel and anise seeds, for windy disorders.

"What's this?" Georgia would say, testing me.

"Plantain and horehound mixture, for snakebites," I said.