by Lara Parker
Angelique walked over impatiently. “Was I?” she insisted.
Her father answered her brusquely. “Very brave indeed. You are chosen. What do you think of that? Go now, and get ready for the ceremony.”
“When can I go home to Mama?”
She reached her hand up into his, but he placed his fingers inside his waistcoat and turned away abruptly. He was immediately accosted by a fat priest who wore a long black habit and a wooden cross.
“B-b-b-blasphemy! T-t-t-total blasphemy, Monsieur Bouchard!” the priest intoned. He turned to the ruddy-faced man, his outrage forcing him to stutter. “And d-d-do you support this crime, Monsieur Desalles?”
Luis Desalles glanced at Angelique with a smirk.
“Oh, I’m sure this little goddess is a graven image!” he sneered, then addressed the priest with feigned deference. “But, Father Le Brot, you need not fear, since you have the protection of the church, and the slaves have some esteem for that.” His voice was thick with rum. “Oh, no, you need not fear waking up in the night with your house burned to the ground, or your throat cut for that matter. Ha! Ha!” He staggered on his feet, as he chortled, “At least they give lip service to the Mass!”
“Lip s-s-s-service indeed! This is the way to rob them forever of their im-im-immortal souls,” responded Father Le Brot huffily. He appeared to think himself superior and was disdainful of the others, almost as though the effort of conversation was a waste of time.
“Rob us all, I should think!” another planter chimed in. He was an older man, with white hair and a brocaded vest. “But what else do they ever do but rob us of our profits and our rum! Sick one day and dead the next!” Long years on the island had given him an air of resignation. “They’re always plotting. Plotting. They’ll have us in the end.”
“Father? Was I brave?”
Her father glanced anxiously about to see if any of the other planters had heard, then quickly turned to the priest.
“Here, Father,” he said, sarcastically. “She wants to speak to you!”
The priest observed Angelique with some interest. He had noticed her disappointment when, unable to make her father take her hand, she had pulled it back. As he stared down at her, his face brightened.
“I rem-m-m-member this child! She was t-t-taught by the Sisters. A fair student if I’m not mistaken, and a g-g-g-good reader.” He smiled at her. “You are the girl who read the entire book of poetry, are you not?”
Angelique was grateful to be spoken to with such regard. She blushed and nodded happily.
“Yes, Father. And … and also the Shakespeare!”
“And which was your favorite, my dear?”
“Milton, sir, and Thomas Gray.”
“Ah, yes, ‘An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard.’ Hm-m-m-m…”
The priest turned to Angelique’s father and spoke in a low voice. “D-d-d-do you seriously intend to g-g-g-give her up to this atrocious ritual, Theodore? It’s brutal, uncivilized. We b-b-brought the Negroes here to work for us, and it’s now our job to s-s-save their souls.”
“Come now, do you really believe they have souls!” her father said with a mirthless laugh.
“I d-d-do indeed, as all men have s-s-s-souls. They are born with the p-p-purity that enables them to know God.”
“If that were true then we would have to do everything in our power to keep them from finding out!” He turned and called out harshly. “See here! Where are the Negresses?”
Two female slaves approached timidly.
“Here, Massa…” one mumbled.
“Where the devil have you been, you ignorant sows. Take the child at once and prepare her for the ceremony. For God’s sake, bathe her. She’s filthy.”
They motioned to her, but Angelique would not move. She reached for her father’s sleeve and gave it a tug.
“Are you proud of me?” she asked again. “Are you?”
He brushed her aside. “Yes, yes, of course. Now go with these women. They will make you ready.”
“Come, child,” breathed one of the women softly. Something in the syrupy sound reminded Angelique of her mother. “It will be a big happiness for you. Trés gentile. Trés bonheur. A game we play. Come now. Come with us.”
Reluctantly, Angelique followed the women. She looked back over her shoulder for one last glimpse of her father. He was talking with the planters. His tall frame in his dark coat beneath his bearded face and hair took on the shape of a burned and blackened tree trunk. His gestures seemed to be the lifting of leafless branches. He had forgotten she was there.
She followed the two slaves across the courtyard and into the small door of a round mill tower. They climbed up a dark winding stairway that turned within the structure like the inside of worm coral. Angelique’s eyes were fixed upon the wrapped head and the large-flowered rump of the slave who led the way. The walls were roughly laid and the stone risers triangular and uneven.
Once there was a tiny slit of a window through which she could glimpse a bit of green and the sea, then the coiled path darkened once more. Angelique thought of the caves she had paddled into when the surf was calm, deeper and deeper until she lost the light. It was a game she loved, flirting with the darkness, which, like the water and the sand, was simply another friend, never something to fear. She could always turn her canoe and pull for the sun.
But the stairway grew even more dim, and the air in the tower was hot and dank. The only sound was the women’s deep breathing and their footsteps clicking on the stone, and Angelique thought again of her father’s ragged silhouette against the sky.
At last they came to a narrow landing and a heavy door with an iron bolt. It opened upon a large round room at the top of the tower, which was furnished with a carved bed and dresser. Tapestry curtains hung at tall windows, and muted light flowed across the stone walls. The bed was covered with a red-velvet cloth, and above it hung a sheer lace canopy. Angelique saw in a moment that all the trappings were European, ornate but shabby. She turned to one of the women.
“What did my father mean when he said I was ‘chosen’?”
The older, larger woman seemed good-natured, and she had a gentleness about her that Angelique instantly trusted.
“They watches you through a chink in the wall, high up—above where the dogs was,” she said, glancing at her companion.
“What did they watch for?”
“Why, to see who be the goddess, chile.” Her voice quavered, and Angelique sensed that she was making an effort to be cheerful, for her face sagged, and her limbs hung heavily from her body.
“Now come on over here, honey. We gots to make you pretty and clean. It’s a nice bath for you, don’t you think?” Gently the older woman led Angelique to a large, round, enamel tub. Her tone was reassuring, but her hand was shaking as she poured oil from a green bottle into the warm water. A ferny fragrance rose in the moist steam. She pulled off Angelique’s dress and lifted her into the bath. Angelique had never felt water so warm and smooth, and she let herself sink into its liquid embrace.
But they would not let her enjoy it. Murmuring something in Creole, the younger slave came to join them, and they scrubbed her so hard, she felt her skin would go raw behind her ears, and under her hair. She gave into the scrubbing like a limp doll, concentrating only on the two pairs of brown bare feet on the wet floor beneath flowered skirts, as they moved around her. They muttered to each other in musical words that Angelique recognized but did not understand. It was all so strange and not completely disagreeable, like a dream in which she was tossed about and pummeled and sung to. She felt their strong hands massage her feet and fingers with oil.
They lifted her out of the water, set her upright, and dried her shivering body with a soft cotton robe. They combed her long hair until it was soft and golden, gently untangling the twisted curls. All this she endured in a daze. They pulled a gauzy white gown over her head made of layers of sheer tulle. It was like a wedding dress tied with scarlet tassels, but it was fr
ayed around the hem. Then they draped her with strings of jewels—necklaces, anklets, bracelets of gold and coin, tiny shells and pearls.
They led her to a looking glass in the corner of the room. She barely recognized what she saw there. The convent where she went to school had no mirrors, and she had only seen her reflection in the windows of her house, or in the surface of the lagoon when the water was smooth.
Her skin was whiter than she had imagined, and her golden hair burst like a sunlit aura around her face which was delicate and very pale. The sheer gauze of the dress was bunched at her waist, its many layers caught and pinned with the jewelry, and she suddenly thought of the fat round cocoons she had seen swaying in the manchineel trees, glistening in the sun, each hiding the sleeping worm inside. The older woman brought a pot and brush and began to paint kohl around her eyes. It tickled, and Angelique pushed her hand away.
“Stan’ still, ma darlin’, and don’ blink. There now. Ain’t that pretty.”
Angelique frowned. “Why are you doing that?”
“Why, so’s you be beautiful, ma baby. All the slaves come to see you now.”
“To see me? Why? Why to see me?”
“In your robe, an’ your fin’ry. ’Cause you sit there, up on the altar.”
“What … altar?”
“Why you the goddess now, chile. They all come and bow down and worship you, little Virgin Mary.”
This description of events seemed like a terrifying prospect to Angelique. Something was happening that frightened her more than the room with the dogs, or her father’s coldness. Her thoughts spun crazily, and she looked up at the women.
“I want to go home!” she wailed. “Please, please take me back! My mama is waiting for me!”
“No, no, baby,” the large woman muttered soothingly. “You stay here now. You live in the tower. We take care of you, we feed you and dress you, and make you fat and shiny. ’Cause you the new livin’ goddess.”
Her voice quivered, and Angelique looked into the black woman’s eyes for the first time. They were lined with coppery veins, but they were filled with tears, which ran down her cheeks and glistened on her dark skin.
“Why are you crying?” she asked, more confused than ever. “Do you cry for me?” The woman shook her head, but choked as she tried to speak.
Now the younger woman approached, her rusty skirt tight across her thin belly, and gazed sternly down on the weeping one.
“Thais. Stop this! You the fool, all right! What if they hear you?”
Thais looked up at her and said in a pitiful voice, “So, what? We does it again? All again! Look at this little chile! Suzette? So cruel … so cruel … Is your heart hard as rock?”
“Why, what else can we do?” Suzette retorted grimly. “If we refuse, they kill us. You know that, Thais. You know it as well as the sun go down at the end of the day!” At these bitter words, Thais suddenly collapsed into keening and, holding herself, began to rock back and forth.
“She was ma chile … ma precious baby…”
“Stop that!” hissed Suzette. “She wasn’t your child at all. She was jus’ another poor slave girl like this’n, only this’n look white. Now, is you crazy carryin’ on like this? If they catch you, they beat you. Is that what you want? Fifty lashes like fire on your hide? And back into the field for you with your back all in stripes. We is both lucky to be here, workin’ in the house, so shut your mouth. You sound like a fool hyena.”
The weeping subsided somewhat, and Angelique, growing ever more disturbed, glanced around the room. She could see only the one door, with its metal bolt, and three large windows, leaded and barred, set back in the thick wall. At the same instant, she noticed an enticing odor, spicy and warm, and Suzette approached her with a silver tray, bearing a dish of cakes and sweet pastries. There were sugared fruits and meats wrapped in flaky dough, and there was a goblet of liquid the color of gold.
“For me?” she asked.
“Yes, chile, all for you, an’ what you don’ eat, that be for us.” Suzette’s tone held the hint of covetousness. “Go ’head. Take some. You like it fine, honey.”
Angelique felt her stomach tug and she realized how hungry she was; she reached for a pastry. It smelled of lemon and sugar, and there was warm greasy chicken inside. She took a bite. Never had she tasted anything so delicious! She took a dish and Suzette watched with a grim satisfaction as Angelique ate until she was full, licking her fingers, and sipping the sweet juice from the cup.
The whole time Thais stared into space and chewed on her fist, rocking herself as though she were waiting with a smothered dread. Then, abruptly, she raised her head and her eyes flew wide. Angelique heard a far-off sound. Thais rose, sucked in her breath, and let out such an anguished wail, it seemed she had been struck. Suzette, her face contorted, ran to her companion and held her close.
The cry came from the direction of the chapel—a wrenching shriek, not a howl of fear or pain, but a scream of complete and final terror. Angelique rose, her dish clattering to the floor.
“What was that?”
Neither of the women moved, or answered. Thais sank into her chair with helpless resignation. Her face was twisted with grief, and she stared out with unseeing eyes. But Suzette came to Angelique and took her by the hand. She pulled her to her feet.
“Come now,” she whispered. “They will be wantin’ you. When your time be over, perhaps this will all have ended, and you will go free. You must hope for that and keep your heart away from broodin’.”
Angelique had no idea what she meant. She knew only that something terrible had happened, and that she was going down into the church. She whipped her hand away and bolted for the door. The heavy latch was hard to lift, and Suzette had her by the waist, restraining her and crying out. Angelique managed to wrench free by kicking back at her and pushed open the portal with a clang. She slipped through the narrow opening and flew down the dark stairway, feeling that at any moment that she would lose her footing and plunge headfirst into the dizzying spiral. Suzette was close behind her, screaming and clutching for a hold on her dress, but Angelique was quicker than the heavy-footed woman.
When she reached the bottom, she scrambled across the courtyard and threw herself against the gate to the outside. The heavy padlock struck her in the stomach with such a blow that she gasped. Seeing that the chain was tight around the bolt, she looked around helplessly, spied a door in the wall crossing over the moat, and dashed toward it.
Suzette’s footsteps echoed behind her, and she shrieked, “Angelique! Stop! They kill us! Come back, please!”
The door gave way with a groan, and she scrambled down another stone staircase and into a corridor that was as black as the grave. She groped along the wall terrified of falling, as the stones beneath her feet were slimy with moss or scum. Behind her, Suzette’s voice was still calling her name, but she half ran, half crawled, on the slippery stones, her breath coming in gasps and her fingers scratching on the rocks. Suddenly the floor beneath her feet disappeared, and she felt herself tumble off some rough edge and splash into cold water up to her knees. She was in an underground moat. She gathered up the gauze of her dress, and sloshed through the pool, which seemed to grow deeper, then more shallow again. She licked her lips, and a taste of the fetid air told her that the water was tidal backwash from the sea.
As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw the damp stone walls rising around her. There was a far-off drumming sound that she thought must be the surf pounding against the shore, and she rejoiced to think she might escape to the ocean.
It was then she saw a light at the top of another stairway much more narrow than the first, and quite steep, like a ladder rising out of the water. Encouraged, she waded toward it and climbed. The drumming sounded nearer, and there was a shivering moan, like the surf thundering in a deep sea cave.
She came to a wooden door, which she pushed open. She found herself in a small room lined with wooden shelves laden with bottles. At the end o
f the room there was another, much larger ribbon of glimmering light beneath a heavy curtain, and, thinking this must be her release to the outside world, she scrambled beneath it.
At first Angelique didn’t know what she was seeing. It was as though she were poised at the edge of a cavern, and the night sky had fallen and flooded the chamber with its stars. But no, they were tiny flames—sparks of light everywhere! The sputtering embers were actually thousands of candles flickering in the blackness. The humming and murmuring came from the throats of dozens of black men, crowded into the church, each holding a candle, and swaying to the rhythm of drums. She was in the chapel.
Her will collapsed within her, and her limbs ached from exhaustion. She bit her lips and blinked back hot tears. Her desperate race for escape had only led her here. The heavy drums pulsed and their timbre shook the air. She looked in horror upon a swaying mass of sweating bodies. The men were chanting, mesmerized by the drums.
Her eyes darted about, searching for a way through the throng. The food she had eaten was having a stupefying effect on her. Her vision blurred, and her legs became like water. She tried to run, but instead she reeled, collapsing in the arms of Suzette, who had come up behind her. She felt her limp body lifted onto a high wooden platform.
Placed above the men, she could barely discern vials of liquids, fruits and cakes, and slices of raw vegetables through the haze. They were all dusted with a white flour and gave off a rancid odor. There were jars tied with twisted ribbons, concealing small bones and other mysterious floating contents. On a huge porcelain dish she saw pieces of raw meat of some skinned and sacrificed animal, sliced into sections and still oozing. She gagged at the sight and wrenched her eyes away.
Looking up, she saw her father standing at the back of the sanctuary. She felt a flush of hope, but he did not come forward. He was watching her, but his gaze was not one of affection or pride. He seemed both angry and resigned, as though rejecting and accepting a fate greater than he could control. He moved to the center of the dancers and stood holding a long sword above his head, the handle in one hand and the tip in the other, like a bridge over his head. The shaft of the sword glinted in the flames, but it was darkened with a rusty stain.