by Lara Parker
He closed the door to his room, relieved to be alone at last. The books lay on the floor where they had fallen earlier. He lit the lamp and reached for the journal. Only when he opened the pages to search for his place did he relax. He realized that he had been longing to return to the diary ever since he had set it down.
He found himself reading a list of magical spells, charms, and notes for what seemed to be African ceremonies.
Cult des Morts of a papaloi priest
To call up the spirits
a crossroad at midnight
a candle made from honey wax and a swallow’s liver
a loaded gun with earth placed upon the shot
The spell is:
“Upon the thunder’s rumbling may all the Kings of the Earth kneel down.”
To put a woman to sleep that you may know her secrets
a toad killed on a Friday
place the head the heart and the liver upon her left breast
Whisper:
“Oh, my love, my love, my very love, hover near me, whisper to me.”
To call up the Dead—Prise du Mort
a bag of wild acacia
a wooden cross and two stones
four white candles—Signaler at four points
A gun fully loaded
Go to the grave at midnight and make this appeal:
“Out from Pelée’s fires must thou come because I need thee sorely.”
When the dead appears do not run away but take three steps backward and sprinkle perfume on the ground between you.
Erzulie’s needs:
An enamel basin, soap in its wrapper, an embroidered towel.
Sugared sweets, perfumes, and a white handkerchief.
Three wedding bands and necklaces of gold and pearls.
The sky sound and thunder. Rain.
Things needed for a spell:
the tongue of a bird
the heart of a toad
honey wax or tallow
a mortar and pestle
a gun with shells
Needed to cast a spell over another:
clothing worn close to the skin
any growing hair
nail clippings or teeth
excrement, semen, blood
Which, when eaten, instills desirable qualities:
The heart—courage
The liver—cunning and immunity to knives
The brain—accuracy in aim
The eyes—foreknowledge
Flesh of a child—immortality
Eight
Angelique missed the sea so much she thought her body would break in two. The bite to her life was gone: the cold plunge in the morning, the sizzling sand at noon, the coral’s scrape, the sting of the jellyfish. She was shrouded in the thick dullness of gray walls and heavy air, hot and damp, inside the tower. Without the breeze from the sea to freshen it, the air was like flesh, so palpable and smothering that her skin was always clammy.
Months passed, and the loneliness of her life became suffocating, then deadening. She filled the long hours of the day staring out the three barred windows. Set deep within the walls, each of the narrow slits had a wide sill where she could crawl up and press her face against the grate.
One window looked out upon the road back to Saint-Pierre. She tortured herself with thoughts of the long journey and how she had fallen to sleep so trustingly on her father’s shoulder. She wondered if she could find her way home if she did somehow discover a way beyond the walls.
Another window looked over the cliffs that fell to the sea. She often thought of Barnabas and wondered whether he had sailed safely home. She could hear the waves crashing on the rocks, but she could not see the surf or shoreline, only the broad expanse of the great deep, with its changing shades of slate and indigo.
A third window framed a view of the inner courtyard, and it was here that she kept her vigil. If she rose early, she could see the slaves turned out of their quarters in groups of thirty or forty to toil in the cane, dragging their tired bodies over the hill before the overseer’s whip. The dog-drivers shouted and cursed so loudly that even from such a distance, she could hear their threats. Her father’s new cane fields lay spread out against the horizon, straggly and sparse, green in some plots, tasseled in others. She wondered if his crop would be a good one and whether this would make him any kinder to her.
Within the courtyard, she could watch the comings and goings of the slaves who cared for her, Thais and Suzette, and others who brought supplies, food, and flowers. The two women hung out wash, as her mother had done. They also fed and watered the animals used for the sacrifice: white chickens, goats, and sometimes a dog. From this window she could also see the broad lattice arms of the tattered windmill, groaning in its feeble efforts to spin. Below, scattered about the courtyard, were wooden troughs for the cane juice and a shed for the kettles, all abandoned. She thought it must have been many years since this was a fully working plantation.
Angelique had one occupation that consumed more and more of her thoughts. Each time a ceremony was held in the chapel, she was kept in the dark room behind the altar. Long frightened hours listening to the drums had given way to curiosity and then discovery. She was allowed a candle so that she could abide the darkness, and with that faint light she began to inspect the grimy shelves cluttered with amazing paraphernalia.
There were many clay pots tied and sealed with wax. There were also several large sacks of white powder, which seemed to be a mixture of cornmeal and ashes. She found enamel bowls, pitchers, and platters; an assortment of daggers, machetes, cane blades, and scalpels of several sizes; tins of powders, jars of salves, and boxes of herbs; little sacks of sea urchin needles, lobsters’ feelers, and octopus beaks; piles of grasshoppers, millipedes, and various insects she didn’t recognize; glass jars with rubbery pieces of flesh floating in water, trailing bits of limp skin; embryos of small animals; claws and pincers of giant beetles; dried toads, lizards, scorpions, and snakes. Some of the objects she had seen in her mother’s possession, but most were unfamiliar and fascinating, and she combed this macabre collection as though she were sorting through a queen’s treasure.
Inside a carved wooden box, she found, wrapped in silk, a beautiful kris, encrusted with bright-colored stones and jewels, its blade as sharp as a razor. She held it in her hand, turning it over in wonder, before she carefully wrapped it up again.
The most exciting discovery of all was a pile of books stacked in the corner. Most were moldy, thick with dust, the pages glued together from dankness. Some contained strange designs she could not decipher: odd circular pictures, crosses and curls drawn in fine calligraphy. Others were ledgers with lists of property bought and sold—slaves, kegs of rum, barrels of sugar—with all the numbers added and subtracted in columns. She amused herself by searching for mistakes in the addition.
But there was one book that was more precious than all the rest. It was leather-bound, gilt-edged and tied with a cord, and when she opened it she found long descriptions of ceremonies, chants, and songs.
The chants were written in numerous hands, so the whole must have been collected over time. Some were in Spanish, others in French, and a great many were in African dialects, with English words or Christian phrases tossed in here and there, all very difficult to decipher.
The African words would be repeated many times, naming the loa who was to perform the magic. The ceremonies were endlessly fascinating, and she silently read the words over and over, listening to the sounds in her mind. She also found quill pens and ink in jars, still usable. Since the book was heavy and the pages large and stained, she began to copy certain spells in her journal, mostly for amusement, the better to read them over in her room.
Thais always slept in the tower with Angelique, on a wooden bench beside the wall, but after a time the slave became more trusting, or perhaps less vigilant, and the door to the room was sometimes left unlocked for part of the day. When the slaves were off on errands and the castle desert
ed, Thais would allow Angelique to come down the stairway as long as she remained within the inner courtyard. Like a caged cat, she began to explore the perimeter of her prison.
The outer door to the chapel was always bolted, and the grounds were surrounded by the wall and the moat. One entire side of the castle rose high above cliffs, with sheer walls that fell away to the sea. Angelique easily rediscovered the underground tunnel to the chapel where she had gone the first day. There was a narrow ledge beside the water, and she was able to climb in secretly, staying dry, and read from the book or copy more pages. Finally, she smuggled the heavy volume up to her room and kept it hidden under her bed. After that, when she studied the book or wrote in her journal, she kept watch at the window facing the courtyard.
One day when she was sitting at the window, she saw a new slave girl come out of the kitchen. She was about the same age as Angelique, slender as a palm shoot, and she had glowing copper skin. She appeared with a large bucket and drew water from the well. Then she poured the water over one courtyard flagstone, got down on her knees, and began to scour it with crushed cane stalks, singing a simple African song in a high, thin voice.
Angelique watched the slave girl intently, her narrow back leaning over her task, her sharp elbows sticking out of her ragged dress, and her rounded pink heels turned to the sky. After a few moments, the girl lifted her head and watched a frigate bird flying under the clouds until it was a tiny speck and disappeared from view. Then she sat back on her haunches with a sigh, and made the print of her hand on the stone as the water dried. She began to slap the stone in quick little rhythms as though the paver were a drum. This occupied her for several minutes until a butterfly circled her head and she leapt up and chased it around the yard, an action that led her to dance. She began to skip and twirl, her small arms over her head, and her perfect limbs burnished with gold.
“Chloe!”
The shout from Suzette returned the girl to her flat-footed, gawky self, and she crouched and began to scrub once more, but not for long. The next bucket she raised from the well spilled over her feet, and she splashed in the puddle until it spread under the bread oven scaring out a green lizard. At once she was down on her hands and knees, creeping up on it, and poking it with a finger until it skittered away. Angelique’s heart ached to become her friend.
Angelique realized that Chloe must be sleeping in the kitchen. Early in the morning she would be there, drawing water, singing her monotonous little song. Then she would spend the day washing the stones, or scrubbing pots from the fire. Some days she stayed inside, perhaps helping with the food, but she almost always appeared in the evening to sit on a step, eat her bowl of soup, bat mosquitoes from her eyes, and watch the sun go down over the edge of the sea.
One morning when the girl was at the well, Angelique took a bun from her breakfast tray and, stretching her arm as far as she could through the bars, tossed it to the ground. It landed at Chloe’s feet, and she dropped the bucket chain, jumped back, and looked up quickly, squinting.
“What’s that! Is the sky fallin’?” she cried. Then, glancing back at the kitchen to make sure no one saw her, she ran and retrieved the cake, brushed it off, and took a bite. A smile spread across her face, and she squinted again, this time toward Angelique’s window. Lifting her hand, she gave a quick little wave.
That evening Angelique decided she would wait until Thais was asleep and slip down to the kitchen. She hid a good part of her dinner in a cloth. Then she lay awake far into the night, until the stars were as bright as millions of fireflies, and Thais was snoring. The windmill was creaking more than ever, blurring all other sounds, even the pounding of her heart, when Angelique lifted the latch to her door and slipped into the stairway. She was glad there was no moon.
The girl was curled up on a pallet under a huge chopping block in the dark kitchen. The minute Angelique appeared at the door, she woke, sat up, rubbed her eyes, and stared, knowing better than to move or make a sound.
“Chloe…” Angelique whispered. The girl shrank back against the wall and pulled her legs up to her chest. “Don’t be afraid. I only—”
“Esprit!” Chloe whispered.
“What? No. I am not a spirit.”
“Mystère…! Mystère!” Chloe hissed, her eyes wide with fear.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Angelique softly. “I won’t hurt you. Look at me. I’m real.” Chloe only pulled herself more into a ball and whispered harshly.
“Don’t you come near me! Suzette said I must never, ever, talk to you, or … you will eat me!”
“No! I won’t eat you. I only want to … to…”
“Erzulie! If you touch me, I will die!”
Angelique hesitated, then sat down beside the chopping block a little apart from Chloe. She waited a minute or two, listening to their breathing, then, opening her cloth, took out a piece of roasted pork and began to nibble it. She could feel Chloe’s eyes on her.
After she had chewed for several minutes, she slid a piece of the meat over to the other girl. “I brought you something,” she said. Chloe hesitated, then snatched it up. Both of them ate without speaking, sucking on the fatty bones, and making little slurping noises, until each became aware of her vulgar sounds and began to giggle. Angelique, afraid they would be discovered, put her hand over the girl’s mouth and bit on her own fingers to stop herself, but they shook with sputtering and choking, until they both ached from trying to stifle their laughter.
“Your name is Chloe, isn’t it?” Angelique whispered. The girl hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“Mine is Angelique.”
“I know you. You lives in the tower.” They sat in silence for another moment.
“How old are you?” Angelique asked.
“I dunno. Ten, maybe.”
“Stand up.”
Chloe rose warily, and they stood back to back. Angelique reached up and patted their two heads. “I think you’re only nine,” she decided, feeling superior. “But that’s good.”
“What you mean, good?”
“We can be friends. Even though I am almost eleven.”
“Oh, no, I can’t be your friend. I can’t play with you at all!” Chloe’s eyes grew wide with fear.
“Don’t be silly. We’ll meet at night when everyone is asleep. Don’t you see? I have no one to talk to, and I have been here more than a year.”
“Wha’ for you pick me?”
“Oh, Chloe, I wished for a friend. I’ve been so lonely, and now you’ve come, and I’m so glad.”
Chloe smiled a little to herself. “I likes the meat a whole lots,” she said softly.
“Good. I have to go back before Thais wakes up.”
“Oh, Lord. Go. Go now. Hurry!”
“But I’ll come again tomorrow. I’ll bring you some more dinner. And you can bring me … some mud.”
“Some what?”
“Some mud. So we can make something.” Angelique gave her a little hug, and dashed back across the dark courtyard.
The next night Angelique and Chloe crept quietly through the underground passageway to the little room behind the altar. Chloe brought clay from the riverbed. They lit a candle, and they whispered and laughed together for hours, making tiny lizards and turtles, cows and chickens and goats.
After that night, the room became their secret chamber. They created the whole plantation out of clay, with huts for the slaves made from tiny sticks and grass for roofs. They fashioned the tower and the great house and the castle walls. Soon there were small slave figures set at tasks, planting cane or pounding the stalks.
Every night, Chloe brought more clay as well as seeds and shells, leaves and berries, to enhance the village. Angelique fished through the drawers of her wardrobe and found bits of fabric and leather, wisps of lace or pieces of embroidery to decorate their little people. They made up stories and portrayed all the roles—overseer and planter, slave and child—moving the figures around and bouncing them up and down when they spoke.
Chloe seemed to carry none of the weight of her slave’s existence. She was lively and lighthearted, and her enthusiasm for doll play was boundless; she sometimes took over the game.
“Get that slave outta here!” she would holler in the cruel voice of the overseer.
“No, no, Massa, don’t put him in the ground!” she would cry for the slave.
“Dig the hole, you bassards, and stick ’im in it!” she would growl, and she would bury her shaking little figure up to his neck in dirt, all the time crying, “Oh, no. OH, NO! Don’t put me in the hole!”
“Leave his head stick out, and bring me the honey!” the master would snarl.
“Oh, no, Massa, not the honey! Please not the honey!”
“Pour it on his head and bring me the bucket o’ ants!”
“Oh, no, Massa, not the ants!”
“Pour on the ants so’s they bites him good, bite his eyes an’ his ears an’ his neck an’ his nose!” Chloe would become possessed and screw her face into a cruel mask when she pretended to be the overseer. And Angelique would join in, becoming the helpless slave.
“NO! NO! The ants be bitin’ me! They be eatin’ me all up!” she would cry, thrilled with a mixture of horror and fascination. She could not imagine such cruel tortures. She thought Chloe invented these dramas, and she was in awe of the girl’s imagination.
It was Chloe’s idea to make the dolls. Both were brown because the clay was brown, but one had Angelique’s blond hair, and one had Chloe’s little black braid. The hair was cut from their own heads. The clothing, as well, was ripped from their own dresses, and sewn in place, to make them more authentic. Eyes were tiny stones and mouths were slivers of seed, and they argued over who was to use the seed with the most perfect curve for a mouth. They pretended the dolls were sisters and made them beds with pillows and covers so that they could sleep side by side. Then they made a tent of silken scarves and cotton pareus and they would lie down beside the dolls and croon to them, songs their own mothers had sung, until they knew one another’s songs and could sing them all by heart.