Strange Music

by Strange Music (retail) (epub)

Bad spirits, waiting to suck pickney blood, feed round cotton tree trunks. Lickle Phoebe, Harry, all them pickney run from cotton tree branches we pass beneath. Bad spirits stir, swirling round tangled roots. Branches dance and sway above sameway as arms can, fe cotton tree possess a soul. Tall grasses grapple with legs straying from cane-piece track, sliding alongside cattle pen. Heavily tools rest on shoulders now, telling me we almost on main cane-piece track.

  Legs dangling, Harry swings from top rail of gate head overseer’s unlocking, pushing open. Before ditch and earth rise up to cane rows is sitting place fe stillness leading to dawn.

  Canes murmur a little. Overseer’s hunting fe cart whip. Sitting place fills up with First Gang, fills up with exhaustion. We gang up close, talk hushed.

  ‘Windows of great house wasn’t lighted,’ is Windsor’s voice.

  ‘Me call anodder meetin,’ Uncle Ned hiss excited. ‘Torch it. Burn it down.’

  Isaac sweeps machete blade swish, slicing grass heads, whispering, ‘We cun mashup de door den . . .’

  ‘Yu a-mek too much nize,’ me feel say.

  ‘Me a-come wid me machete,’ Uncle Ned say, pounding machete handle on de ground, each dull thud throbbing through me legs. ‘Let we godeh now.’

  ‘Slavery’s ended,’ Big Robert say, ‘no need fe torching. All we free free.’

  ‘Yu full-a foolishness, Big Robert,’ me feel say. ‘Way we live jus git worse.’

  ‘Buckra comin,’ is Isaac’s voice.

  ‘Silent!’ me hiss. Suddenly we more still than cinnamon tree. No one move cept head overseer. Although we stand together, each one now alone. But nothing have life on its own forever. All we’s one soul. Me fear harm Isaac want to do to Mister Sam’s great house Isaac will do to himself; to me. To all of we. If me hurt somebody, is me who hurt. Me know.

  Overseer’s lantern searches wide round cane piece, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth him yellow lantern glow.

  ‘Me naa do it, me radda go to me sack,’ Windsor say. ‘Me gawn back now.’

  ‘We family.’ Slapping de ground with him foot, Isaac pleads, ‘Windsor, yu cyaan go, yu me brodda!’

  Windsor stray off into morning darkness. Taking. Taking. Taking. All them that won’t work take. Take what small hope we have to get canes cut, get crop in. We gang burst apart, rally together; burst apart and keep changing shape like a sea swelling up heavily til winds thrash we down again, bring we crashing down on each other, breaking gang up with crushing pain. But we’ll rise, swell, bunch together again.

  ‘Sheba?’ is Isaac, gentle-soft him voice slips into me ear.

  ‘Aha,’ me say.

  ‘Yu gawn back to yu sack?’ Isaac’s voice takes me to grassy hollow he settled in. Sliding sideways, Isaac makes room fe me to sit beside he and Eleanor.

  ‘Minister say if we work hard Lord will protect we,’ me feel say. Elbowing me chest, Isaac’s deeply mad, him back’s turned on Lord Jesus. Me snuggle against him shoulder, me weary head sinking into me neck – sleep weak – though sleep’s a day away. Me hear Isaac suck in him cheek, make chupsing sounds, suck air between him teeth. Folding arms around him – Isaac, me – we wrap weself together. Tight. More tight than mango flesh clings to mango stone. More tight than ever. You reach into me heart, Isaac; you stay deep at de core of me body. But darkness of night lives in each day and we cyaan hide in forest fe everything far and near consider we prey. Me looking up to dawn star fe hope, fe buckra breaks black woman like he breaks him horse. By riding she. Long ago Eleanor warned me, and she always right. But she no look at me that day fe she telled me: ‘Sheba, yu mama ded. Died in Kingstan lang ago.’

  ‘Trouble-Too-Much ere?’ Eleanor’s whisper asks.

  ‘Me ere.’

  ‘Son, me thought yu gawn. Uncle Ned gawn back.’ Eleanor snorts, ‘Me no like dat.’

  ‘Others follow Uncle Ned,’ Isaac’s voice say it true. ‘See Bacchus, see im dere?’ Isaac whispers in me ear, ‘Bacchus gawn back now.’ Me cyaan see Bacchus, me can sense him feet creeping alongside cattle pen near plantation path. Isaac whispers, ‘Windsor, Colonel, Jane, Stanley, Sylvia. Bout half de gang lost.’

  Eleanor clasps she arm round me shoulder. Warmth spreads into me skin when she presses me hand. ‘Yu got cockroach?’ she asks.

  ‘Aha.’

  Eleanor passes overseer’s clay water bottle onto me lap.

  ‘Jus let me fingers undo knot,’ me say. Dead cockroach hides in a tight knuckle me tied in skirt cloth. Untangling knot me hear Lickle Phoebe start up bawling. Cockroach falls from cloth onto me lap.

  ‘Unscrew top,’ me say to Eleanor. She eye makes four with mine. She skin, ruddy-black, blends with dark morning light, but beautiful smooth skin’s a poor reward from God, me think, fe hardness that’s she life. Eleanor takes clay bottle from me. Cockroach makes splash-plunk sound falling in overseer’s water bottle.

  Hungry fe work to begin, head overseer ambles aimlessly, fingers fiddling with hat brim.

  Big Robert, Trouble-Too-Much, Isaac, Isaac’s mama Eleanor sit firmly settled against dawn glimmer. Emily, Lickle Duke, Isaac’s sister Lickle Phoebe, Harry – all them pickney fidget-fight in long grass and weed that slyly turns brown then green with sun’s rising glow.

  Overseer’s crouching, fingers tapping on him trouser knee, then on gate rail. Slowly wooded shadowing mountains appear.

  ‘Yu filled water bottle fe me?’ overseer asks Eleanor. And me know workday’s about to begin.

  Weeds cling to shins, grasping like pickney’s fingers. Me’s here but cyaan be found. Swiftly slashing sugar stalks in cane tunnels, leaves slice arms, me feet sole cracking hard like rock-hard earth, skin sand-dry. Using machete to chop in line, stumbling in furrow, stubble knee-high, row so long gang end looks blurry; stacking, waist-deep in cut cane, cool shade only fe feet, a rash breaks me skin, lashing bundles together with string.

  Shouting, ‘Git a move on, yu missed some,’ overseer’s voice carries over gleaming green-cane sea, shouts back from mountain’s raw-pink face. Overseer’s sky-blue eye’s gaze strong as sun’s rays striking we back. Him sour groan, ‘Ay,’ sweeps cane piece. ‘Where’s de rest of First Gang?’

  ‘Dem far away.’ Isaac’s shout returns like it’s trapped.

  Overseer’s voice rings out astonished and filled with disgust: ‘Yu should be grateful me don’t use cat-o’-nine-tail because Old Mister he had dat whip banished.’ Overseer’s belly droops like corn-filled sack over trouser top. Mighty vexed he picks a spare machete, joins we cane-cutters battling in cane tunnels. Cinnamon Hill keep four top buckras: Mister Carey; Mister Sam; Mister Farquerson; Mister Sam’s cousin; then there’s head overseer, and overseer fe each gang. All we cane-piece workers get split into gangs. First Gang have heaviest task but all overseer and buckra feed worm of fear burrowing into we mind.

  And now me back’s hunched from cutting and bending like me cyaan take more agony, cyaan cut another cane. Me eyes screw tight against strong sun’s blast.

  Overseer stands straight and quiet, brown hair blowing in dry dry winds. Winds making lonely sounds, bashing and thrashing through rippling canes.

  Suddenly me see minister climb down from him shiny black horse. He rushes, black gown flapping behind like wings. Cane-cutters mob together in a crowd-ring. Minister desperate to spread Lord’s word wide. Minister struggles through mud, through rain to school-house. School-house empty. Pickney no like rain. But minister struggles same time, same place next Sunday. Him crazy?

  Minister say, with pink lips split from dryness set in a saintly smile, ‘You must hurry with your work because soon the burning must begin.’

  Hatred bulges from Isaac’s eyes. ‘Lissen, Mister, lemme tell yu . . .’ Me eye springs on Isaac, forcing him mouth shut.

  ‘Trust in the Lord.’ Minister’s arm’s raised, him tight fist punching sky. ‘Let His strength flow through your bodies.’

  ‘De field-hands oo won’t work, yu say, mek de crop get in late,’ Windsor shouts, pointing at mi
nister. ‘Yu must mek Mister Sam give betta pay so we all can get crop in before it’s ruined by rain.’

  Trouble’s rough voice shakes: ‘Seen a lot, seen too much. Anger mek we blind now. We need more pay.’

  ‘If the crop is late you won’t get any money,’ minister say.

  Trouble’s hard face turns mahoney-wood black, eyes angry sparks. Breaking a path between Isaac and me, Trouble-Too-Much cries out, ‘At Oxford estate Mister Sam brodda pay betta!’

  ‘This, I believe, will pleaseth God.’ Minister’s voice drops. ‘But pray, how did you hear of this?’

  ‘Yu lead struggle wid empty hand,’ Isaac say.

  Coming in closer, Eleanor growls, ‘Yu gainst we, Minister. Yu shoulda come to speak fe we at great-house verandah. Yu know we cane-cutter gang cyaan work fe noting, or fe less pay.’

  Swallowing hard, minister stumbles back, licks lip cracks. He had enough a we heat.

  Overseer’s eye-look threatens. He that vexed he fret and fret, yelling, ‘Yu lot, git back to work.’

  Anger rises in me, me cyaan hold back. ‘Betta Mister start at dawn, finish at dusk,’ me feel say to overseer. ‘Dat buckra, Mister Sam, always late start, early finish. Sleep all afternoon. At night an animal in im come out. Me tell Mister Sam, if e don’t pay proper wage, sixpence, all we go.’

  Isaac say, ‘Dat rite.’

  ‘You have not the right to claim more from your young master,’ minister shouts, ‘because you didn’t make a satisfactory agreement before undertaking your work. Now you refuse to accept the two bitts your master has offered. You should have followed my advice, for is it not better to sit still than to rise up and then fall –’

  ‘A-good, me say. Minister, a-good Samaritan, come to aid poo neger like we.’ Pushing past me and Isaac, Big Robert sings out, ‘Wash me clean of sin, sweet Jesus. No longer me follow Baptis chutch, me wanna be born again!’

  Beckoning Big Robert forward, minister say, ‘Speak louder, man.’

  ‘We negers know noting. Buckra minister know everyting. He have a rite to be massa. Me say of de young buckra oo wrong we humble sinners ere, Fadda, forgive im, fe e know not what e do. An me pity de young buckra fram Englan, e cyaan git trew neegle’s eye.’

  ‘True! True!’ chants John from back of crowd-ring.

  ‘Silence!’ minister shouts. ‘This man has an important point to make.’

  Big Robert’s skinny chest, streaming with sweat, rises and fattens with pride. ‘No longer me fear mussa but wen me yeare of de ways of de Lard me shake an shake, waan yeare de Holy Bock speak fram itself. Forebber grateful to God an me queen in Englan oo kill de slavery monster ded in Falmout chutch. Since dat day me drink no water, only wine, Mussa Minister, sah,’ Big Robert say. He wipes sweat drips from him chin.

  ‘So why have you not made yourself known to me before, if you believe the word of the Lord so strongly?’ minister ask Big Robert.

  ‘Trongly me feel is true true. But me need to be sure tis de Lard an Mussa in me heart an not de debil come to confuse me. No doubt in me mind now, mussa. Dat wot me tellin yu. Fe me wait fe a year till dis day come, Mussa Minister, sah.’

  ‘You say you drink only wine.’

  ‘Mussa, water’s all me drink, Lard’s water taste like wine.’

  ‘What about rum?’

  ‘Peas, ax me no more but odder pusson ere will speak gainst me if dat’s de truth.’

  Even harsh light seems to mock Big Robert. Me too shame to shame him more. De special kind of quiet stings.

  ‘If odder pusson speak gainst me,’ Big Robert say, ‘me deserve to suffer fe me sin, me deserve flogging. Ebery bad ting me no more do. Teach me, a poo neger servant, to blong to de chutch, den we cun flog de debil out-a Jamaica an build a trone fe Mussa Jesus. All is equal in de Lard’s eye, all black pusson sinner same as white mussa sinner. Dem dat lie, tief, bline to good ways of marriage certifikate fram de person minister ere. An me bin savin, savin, savin since dat day me see de lite. God bless minister an misses minister an deliver we poo neger servant fram evil. Amen.’

  Minister ask, ‘Will anyone else stand before God and open his heart to Our Saviour, Jesus Christ, like this good Christian man?’

  ‘Ooebber tink me live to see dis day?’ Jumping up and down Big Robert shouts, ‘Me rich! Me rich! Yu mek me, a poo sinner, rich, Lard! Yu cared fe an lubbed dy wandering sheep. Wen lost, yu find me. Wen thirsty, yu quench me. Yu put out me fiah fe pum-pum. Yu fed me! Wen me sick fram flogging yu comfort me in yu chutch. Miracle werker! Hab mercy! O Lard, yu hab de power an de glory fe meking leper clean. Forgive we ungrateful chillun fe not following de Fadda’s werd, Minister, sah. Me bin waitin fe dis day. God give me sweet faith in Jesus. Me nebber lissen to no debil no more.’

  ‘Pray, fine man,’ minister say. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Big Robert. An me sendin me heart to Lard Jesus.’

  ‘Then, Big Robert, tell your people to make good terms of employment before turning out to work again, for I must make haste to take the service at Barrett Town.’

  Sun’s terrible blazing eye glares at Big Robert. Grinning, pumped up like he’ll burst, Big Robert swaggers past Isaac and me back to a cane-piece row, swipes up shining machete. Skilfully he slashes cane with great sweeping strokes.

  Staring curiously down on Big Robert, Jancra swirls – a great bird, wings full-spread, black-feather tips cloud skimming blue sky.

  Minister’s horse swishing its tail while minister fixes a foot in a stirrup, flings him leg up over saddle back. He sets off galloping across Cinnamon Hill, heading fe Barrett Town.

  Like pickney winning market game, Big Robert’s fattened by him new prize – faith in Baptist church – making him body grow bigger, making him work faster. Him mind’s crippled, me think, but him face say believing in white buckra church carry him far from hard cane-piece grind. Me look up to white clouds snaking and swirling in clear sky, and prickle blue with envy.

  ‘God’s will be done,’ overseer say. Him stare’s empty, and angry edge to him voice gone, leaving only hollow words. ‘Jus git to work.’

  Tools can so easily slash skin, slit throats, make blood stream, only we too spent from work. Machete feels like a dead weight now. Weeds twine round canes, leaves lace legs, arms, machetes. Tearing stalk’s rank stench makes slow moving air sickly, cane row so bushy-thick cyaan see black snake till we chop it. Cyaan see baby boar till we step on it. Wild boar piglet sleeping in dark shade of leaves shrinks to a glimpse of pink, bobbing through swiftly parting sugar, waking sows; boars deep in cane piece dart in all directions, swollen bellies almost stroke soil, squealing through tall trembling canes go tiny piglet sisters, brothers. Between rows all that’s left’s a brutal trail of trotter tracks to crumple and worry bare earth. Even in sun’s brightness we fearful and in need of lantern fe lighting we way. A coarse shout from cane-piece middle will scare because we know what made that sound. Is terror stalking. Faster, faster we cut, spine hurting, thinking only of empty churning bellies, not of close, loved ones; or, sight falling to trash on parched earth, love’s a very true thing filling we mind, and we cyaan move on fe these thoughts are like searching fe a bead of hope that’s lost and cyaan be found. Is here but cyaan be found.

  Coming to row end me find young Mister Sam jogging up to main gate on him horse. Eyelids heavy on him face like a drowsy lizard. Strong hot wind strokes hair dried-grass yellow, brushes green canes. Sugar crests and sways. Jancra circles lower, lower. Current swells, crop ripples and swirls like thick manes tossing. Even de soil frown like Isaac’s puckered brow. Each rift and wrinkled dent me feel beneath me tread.

  Mister Sam’s trouser tightly belted; shirt’s too bright a white to look at, buttoned despite thick heat. Fanning flies from him neck with a banana leaf, screwing him eye against sun’s heat, Mister Sam’s scanning cane gently swaying, gliding flocks of parakeet, then he disappears into forest edge.

  Crickets hum. Morning shadows gone. Abeng booms Fuuuuffuu-ffuu. We flock to forest shade. M
e skin baked, raised all fassy.

  Isaac say, unwrapping boiled plantain and yam tied in rags, ‘Mister Sam won’t give sugar or proper pay to dem dat say prayer to Jesus Christ.’ Kissing him teeth, Isaac shuts one eye and sniffs sweat so it dribbles up him nostril. Isaac’s words bring grief, but him eye laughs. ‘Oo needs prayers more dan Mister Sam? E wake we village at night like duppy or white jumbie, crashing into small cinnamon tree, yard, even we shack, searchin fe pum-pum.’

  Curled on one side in long yellow-brown grasses, Lickle Phoebe pecks at she bowl of cassava. ‘Yu tink all we gonna die?’ she asks in a voice half stolen by cane-piece wind.

  ‘It dem, or we,’ Isaac say.

  ‘Me seen Mister Sam doin it,’ Lickle Harry shrieks, ‘so did Lickle Phoebe, she bawling wake de village!’

  On a bandana Eleanor lays roasted coney and cane-rat Lickle Harry caught yesterday. ‘Dat brought Mister Sam to a-kinda stop,’ Eleanor say. She turns to me: ‘Yu got more cassava, Sheba?’

  ‘Aha.’ Me set out coconut bowls brimming with cassava.

  ‘E no duppy,’ Lickle Harry say, ‘e a-zombie, Mister Sam!’

  Looking like Isaac’s and Lickle Harry’s words hold a terrible lasting stench from which Phoebe must slant away; she balls-up, skinny legs drawing into she chest.

  ‘True, Mister Sam walkin dead man,’ Trouble-Too-Much say. ‘No feelin in him body, no memory in him head.’

  Isaac’s eyes turn sun-shot amber now it’s noontime. He eats, picking meat strands from coney bones. ‘Sameway as any white buckra Mister Sam have too much of de spirit rum,’ he say. He fills a palm leaf with cassava. ‘E like black woman’s pum-pum too much. See ow e walk an ow e ride im mare like e have swollen buboes, wid sad sharp pricking pain.’

  ‘Wot bout Big Robert back dere?’ Eleanor asks. ‘E snoring. E a-beached-up manatee.’

  Shaking himself, Trouble-Too-Much say, ‘Bway! Me thought e had sense.’

  Lickle Harry giggles, shoulders bobbing up and down. ‘Big Robert read de Bible tree time a day,’ he say.

  ‘It not so funny,’ say Eleanor.

  Lickle Harry folds top and bottom lip together, him mouth becoming a crease to disguise him laughter. Me smile a bit inside me head.