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By Root 1189 0

los Gemelos was spread below her, calling to her. She wanted to be on the ground, to feel its rich earth, to smell it, taste it even. Long before she reached it, she knew she’d love this land, would love it as long as she lived. She was eighteen years old, had arrived at the end of a journey that was also a beginning, one that she’d already decided was final. I’m here, she said to herself. I’m here, she told the breeze that rippled the guajana. I’m here, she said, to the clear and vast sky, to the winking water on puddles along the path, to the birds in formation overhead. I’m here, she said to herself again and again and was overcome by dread at what lay before her. She shook her head to banish fear, crossed herself, and mouthed a prayer of thanks and a request for courage and strength as she followed Ramón, Inocente, and Severo down the hill into the canebrakes.

The mature sugarcane stalks were over two meters high, so once they dropped into the valley, they couldn’t see over the guajana.

“This field,” Severo called back, “is ready to cut. Less than half the potential fields were planted, but we’re still shorthanded. The macheteros should reach here by tomorrow afternoon.”

It was midmorning, but the air in the valley was already hot and humid, giving off ripples of heat into the clear sky. Wind whistled through the sharp leaves of the cane, followed by a clacking sound. Every so often scurrying creatures, like giant rats, crossed the path and frightened the horses. The air smelled of green, wet earth, smoke, and a pervading sweetness.

Swish, thwack, thwack, thump. Swish, thwack, thwack, thump.

Ana heard the rhythm of the cutters before they reached them.

Swish, thwack, thwack, thump.

They came to a field where men severed the long stalks close to the ground with one slice of the machete. They removed the long leaves, then stacked the stem nearby. Women and older children bundled and carried the stalks onto the wood-planked beds of cattle-driven carts, the thuds diminishing as the cane grew higher. Bells jangled every time the bullocks moved their heads. Workers grunted. An overseer yelled. Wheels squeaked. But it was the swish and thwack of the machete against the cane that got under Ana’s skin, the rhythmic cutting as the macheteros moved through the fields.

“You can see that several acres are already cleared,” Severo said. “The macheteros leave a couple of inches of the stalk from which another crop grows.”

As they passed, the mounted foremen tipped their hats, but if a worker slowed to take a look, a curse, a threat, a shove, and sharp words kept the rhythm going.

Ramón and Severo rode ahead, with Ana and Inocente behind. Severo was explaining things to Ramón, and though Ana could hear only part of what he said, she gleaned the rest. It impressed her how much land was required not only for the cultivation of cane but also for the operations to turn it into sugar.

She’d read chronicles by travelers in the West Indies like George Flinter, whose book so impressed Ramón, Inocente, and don Eugenio. She’d taken notes along the margins of accounts by plantation owners in the Spanish and British isles. She studied their methods and how they managed their land. But looking around the great expanse from her saddle, she realized that little of it had prepared her for her new life. Every one of her senses was alive, and she now understood how abstract her reading had been in Spain. The actual experience was at once familiar but utterly, overwhelmingly foreign.

They reached the main yard before noon. The batey was hectic with the comings and goings of women, men, carts, cattle, mules, children, horses, dogs, stray pigs, goats, and chickens. Leaves and chunks of cane littered the ground. Swarms of flies followed the carts loaded with stalks, and buzzed in bothersome clouds around humans and animals alike. The air was infused with the cloyingly sweet aroma of boiling syrup. Fine gray ash from the chimney covered everything, including the busy workers, the equipment, and the animals, and formed a gray scum over the pond