They say it comes from our Indian side:
Lafolle gathers wildflowers in her fist as if they are clumps of shorn hair. Weed-like, their thin roots squeeze through the openings between fingers, prematurely gnarled and scarred from the healed-over cuts she has suffered in the cutting of cane. Her hair, hidden beneath a red kerchief, is a tangled web of clumps, matted against her dry scalp. She gathers the wildflowers in heavied, trembling hands and tears stream from half-shut eyes.
Those who, from the side of the road, stand and watch her hummingbird flight from one tiger lily to the other, struggling to stand above the parched earth, will say later that her eyes had been clear as glass, that she had foamed at the mouth and nostril, that she had eaten the petals in her hands in a frenzy before she began to gather the remaining pieces of the dismembered body of her leader into her patchwork apron.
Those who, unlike her, knew how to wield the cutlass through Jacques I's bone and flesh, who knew how to snap fingers with one sharp blow of rust-colored steel to remove the gold and stone-studded rings of the Emperor, watch her behind hooded eyes. Her feet guide her away, in rhythmic steps, from the hands trembling around the worn handles of foot-long machetes, the blades leaving sweeps of red against blue-black veined muscled calves.