Strange Music

by Strange Music (retail) (epub)

  ‘If it wasn’t fe Mister Farquerson, I’d be gawn,’ Isaac say, eye-winking me. ‘But Mister Farquerson stop me cos e not so wicked.’

  Sunshine streams strong strong. Lickle Phoebe and Lickle Harry skip and bicker round tamarind tree trunks thickly overgrown with tangleweed, and me cyaan say where their energy spark from. Swiftly they take flight from tiny snakes sliding through shivering grasses, tongues switching out, in, blue-black as night.

  ‘De two cousins, Mister Sam,’ Isaac say, ‘talkin wid buckra an overseer like dey’re waiting fe we to run.’

  Wading through grasses that spread into tamarind forest, head overseer, buckra, Mister Sam and Mister Sam’s cousin go all hitched up together. Waving canes stretch behind them to blue hazy sky.

  No wind blows while under sheltering trees we lie, sugar scent suffocates; forest air sits still and hot as a great thickly woven blanket-cloth; its stillness, strange and heavy. No laughter. No sighs – we practise what we’ve learned. Learned to talk without sound. Learned to walk on silent feet.

  Noontime’s long come. Noontime’s fe spreading out in tall yellow-brown itchy grasses. Sunlight slants through a leafy green roof staining grasses gold where all we rest. Bamboo creaking. Sky spirits swish round branches chased by a sudden busy spurt of afternoon breeze. Dizzy blue sky sets me wondering why we have to play hide-and-seek just to be together. Me cyaan say what de matter is but when you work on night shift and night crickets screech till dark air sings and bellies rumble fe supper, squabbles break into brawls and me know you in trouble, Isaac, though me hate to look out through shack doorway to find out why. And when fighting’s over you won’t come to me. So me sit alone, see you in me mind, Isaac. Want to be with you in me body. You face, you strong shining eyes; eyebrows, soft lips and warm tender hands hold me face, firm voice mops tears. Lower lip juts over you chin gently ripe, full, tasting star-apple sweet.

  Sitting up from crushed flowers Isaac gives a dry smile. ‘See im dere? Canya see Mister Sam?’ Clutching overseer’s clay water bottle, Mister Sam bends double. Whistling through teeth, Isaac throws small mauve petals at me, just in case me fell asleep. Him eye flashes white and makes four with mine.

  ‘Im badda dan any buckra,’ me feel say. ‘All Mister Sam waan is pass rum bottle. Mister Sam sow seed fe spirit of unrest.’

  Spitting out cockroach Mister Sam pours buckra’s water onto dusty ground. ‘Look pon dat now,’ Isaac say gleefully.

  Buckra have worn faces; steady hot steel gazes, prowling up and down nearby cane piece.

  ‘Dem in-a worries,’ Eleanor say.

  Isaac nods, ‘Dem’s too hard.’

  ‘Mister Sam worthless,’ me feel say. ‘Im regret sailing fram him home, England.’

  ‘E lie,’ Isaac say. ‘E have plenty money, dem’s two cousin, Mister Sam.’

  ‘Who the hell put a cockroach in the water?’ Startled, looking over me shoulder, me see white sweat shining face of Mister Sam. Him jaw fixes, him eye looks raw, cheek muscles twitch. A red rash crawls up from shirt neck, up throat, spreading across pale cheeks; blue-grey wrinkles riddle him forehead like tiny wavy snakes. ‘If you don’t like it here you can leave. That goes for all of you here,’ he say.

  Isaac’s face goes ragged, him furious searching eyes crave reason. ‘Now we’re free yu pay less. Half what we used to. Cyaan buy land or shack. Two bitts we lose fe freedom. Two bitts we pay fe wot?’

  ‘To prevent me from reverting to the old system,’ Mister Sam quickly say. ‘Then I could sell your wife, or keep her for myself. I need someone to manage my affairs – financial, of course.’

  ‘Ef yu do me beat yu.’ Isaac jolts to him feet and makes him hand a tight fist tempting Mister Sam to strike. Mister Sam stands firm but him nostrils flare wide on both sides. Isaac reaches fe machete half hidden in high grass. Shoving Mister Sam, ramming machete under Mister Sam’s chin, ‘Me aredie,’ Isaac roar.

  ‘Isaac, don’t be renk,’ Eleanor say. Worry lines round she mouth come more deeply carved and show lifelong strain. Fearing what’ll happen to Isaac, fe buckra say Mister Sam wants to bring torching punishment system back, me throw meself forward, grabbing Isaac’s arm. At torching time, Falmouth workhouse head driver hung hundreds of field-hands. Winnie caught running away, militia troop herded she back, militia chopped Winnie with machetes till she ears and jaw almost fell off, then strung she up to hang. Caught sleeping in cane row, Trouble-Too-Much was stripped, after a flogging militia made Old Simeon piss in Trouble’s mouth till Trouble-Too-Much sick. Venus got caught eating sugar cane fe food scarce. Even tho she heavy with child, she got Old Simeon’s full dose – militia made Old Simeon shit in she mouth, gagged she, then after a flogging pickled she back well with salt. Memories of punishment place cling to me mind, me clawing hands try to hold Isaac back from Mister Sam.

  Isaac shakes me off. He don’t meet me eye. Him bony chest drawn broad and tense like a wood box – power’s wrapped inside. ‘Is im or me,’ Isaac say, and makes to slit Mister Sam’s throat.

  Sweat sits on Mister Sam’s hairline. No magic cure fe hatred. He stiff. Infected with it. Me not seen young Mister so sick with fury since he stop minister worshipping at Cinnamon Hill great house.

  Gripping cowhide whip between thighs, Mister Sam twists leather round whip handle. Him voice snakes out, ‘Lazy niggers. Here, the sugar and the works must be kept in good order.’ Mister Sam don’t look at Isaac, just machete blade curving up to him throat. Lines stand up on Mister Sam’s neck like blue-grey threads streaking palm fronds.

  Lowering him machete, Isaac steps back.

  Mister Sam shudders from head to foot like unharnessed horse. ‘I came here to sort these matters out for my father,’ he say. ‘For three weeks I’ve not had a full gang working.’ Snapping round sameway as a makeshift thought, Mister Sam snatches me machete. A fine ridge of sand splays as Mister Sam, bending over, scrapes a line on de ground with me machete-blade tip. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’ White forearm hairs brush me shoulder as he steps forward, steps back, boot toe just meeting de line he scored in sand.

  Isaac gives me a queer look. Buckra’s face beams satisfaction, giving me a sidelong glance. Face going thinner than before, Mister Sam have staring zombie eyes. Dead with anger.

  First Gang steals out from forest resting place and silently spur Isaac on. Isaac best cane-cutter. Why Mister Sam take im on? Swirling round, Isaac faces young Mister, and power we fear gave Mister Sam slips away quicker than yellow snake. Me feel white heat of we hatred fe buckra. See Isaac’s hate swell up, him arm muscles ripple lively like black flame. Hate bursts from Isaac. Eyes warring, Isaac’s eagerly squeezing wooden machete handle like it a friend’s hand. Opening him mouth, Mister Sam swings me machete blade, slashing stalks; spiteful breath gushes out.

  ‘Isaac chop cane wen knee-high,’ Eleanor whispers to me. ‘E have no problem to win.’

  Drawing in a bellyful of air, Isaac swings machete blade to and fro faster than ever, ‘Eh-he,’ puffing breath out with all him great strength. Then all movement goes slow and ugly but most of all slow – drawn-out – suddenly. It isn’t just peeled-pink colour of Mister Sam’s face makes him different, makes him look like he been skinned; or him hands, floppy-white like white woman’s gloves; it’s everything different. Way Mister Sam holds cart whip; way he changed saltwater slaves from Africa’s names; shouts; makes we pay fe what we already have – shack, provision ground; measure everything – even time he slices up, like day can be chopped into tiny minutes. Mister Sam carves up everything.

  Sharp machete blades glint, slashing canes. Hot air’s rising. Isaac, huffing, panting wildly works to cane-row end. Mister Sam bends with pressure, shirt clinging, sodden, to him back. We know he cyaan go on, he never going to win.

  Whistling pickney clap hands, stamp feet. Face screwed up, Lickle Harry starts bottom rolling like John Canoe dancer.

  ‘Amen! Amen!’ cries Eleanor.

  Like a weary pickney halfway along a cane row, Miste
r Sam slouches over machete blade. Jerking up its head, him horse stops munching cane; quivering nostrils flare red like he can smell a smell of dread.

  Hastily Isaac tramps back across cane stubble. Speeding up me run to fetch coconut water from we noon rest place.

  You me Isaac, me thinking, but you’ve changed. Some days flames blaze in me belly and me fear me want you too much. Fear me love too deeply. Isaac, is you now a stranger? Why? Because you beat we master? It’s a trick of strength you win and you know me know Mister Sam will make you pay.

  Smiling, buckra hovers, moustache drooping over top lip. Buckra’s eye haunts me, making me insides hunch up.

  Isaac straightens up, arches him back. He gulps sweet silver stream of coconut water with dull pride. Lord made a judgment letting all we field-hands through heaven’s gate – this joy me feel. But coldness sits in me belly sameway as mangrove mud at bottom of blue pool.

  Isaac sneers with cold teeth like he swallowed something sour. Huge wind gusts sway canes. Unsteady, Mister Sam leans on buckra’s shoulder fe a spell. Turn this day back, me pray, when Mister Sam mounts him nervy horse, and we watch him canter sorely away.

  Day feels more weary than night fe we back to we blade slashing cane; tying rows of bundles; loading mule, donkey, we head, old ox wain. Cane quivers like a heart trembling. Smooth as shadows buckra’s stare slants between sugar canes, crossing me face, leaving me mind scarred sameway as cart whip lash scars can. Wind hisses overhead bringing shiver nearer. Machetes swing high. Wind comes to a standstill again. Isaac and me’re dripping, cyaan hardly hold wood handle. Cyaan pause fe me eye to seek Isaac in next cane tunnel. How me do feel? True as me love’s hair’s black; true as earth turns deep brown when rains come. Me cling to you love like mango leaf clings to tree, Isaac, but fear fe you coils through me body.

  Machete blade winks silver, bites soil. Blackened clouds rumble. Shuddering, clods flake, crumble, beneath bare rough-skinned feet. Shadows slide over we back. Heat sharpens. Canes shiver. Cart whip comes into sight. Hard me struck from behind. Whistles split me head – a head singing loud with pain Me skull’s cracked? Me skin goes heavy.

  Wrapping him arm around me neck overseer locks me to him chest. Isaac plunges through parting cane throwing himself at me. Swimming through swishing sugar, grabbing me hand Isaac trips and falls blindly, bringing we all three down. Inside me roar. Buckra dives on me again. Sinking, me stretch skywards fe air to see another buckra leap on Isaac. Buckra’s hands, elbows, slide between Isaac and me, prising we bodies apart. Like slippery fish Isaac’s hand slides from me grasp.

  Whip tears Isaac’s back, him flesh bursts open. Struggling free fe hiding me glimpse him head top. Then Isaac’s swallowed by sugar cane.

  Isaac’s fighting spirit’s all me sense when buckra round him up and me watch them push him back across cane piece.

  Eleanor stares like she don’t recognize she boy. Bloody shoulders lined with gashes, me cyaan recognize you either. You a sack on bendy legs. Me stare. Me stare again. You stumble-step. Eleanor approaches she son, horror in she eye.

  Bashing canes aside to reach you, me caught by buckra hands again, struggle-fighting, boxing hard, head spinning, me scream, ‘Isaac! Isaac! Isaac!’ Across you face green canes close as buckra tears you from me.

  Buckra men haul Isaac up by bloody dust-caked hands, dragging him far. Buckra’s swaggering footsteps swallowed by rustling cane. Cautiously now me rise, and slowly. Buried in darkness me stand. Me want to melt into earth, be part of it like blood marks, blotted by sand. Loud as devil Isaac shrieks, ribs standing out like washboard ridges. Begging buckra men to bring him back me chase a little way, but me also want Isaac to go and never return to this place of pain.

  Eleanor, Sylvia, Trouble-Too-Much have on their faces a kind of dread me seen before. Gulping sorrow lumps down she throat, shaking, Eleanor comes towards me.

  Starving fe you, Isaac, me fingertips seek to feel you sticky, thinly sugar-coated skin, but only Eleanor me have to touch. Sun’s rage already dried blood-soaked sand.

  Buckra drags Isaac away until him shrieks sound like demon laughter and then are drowned by motionless greens, blue blue hills beyond.

  Canes thrash me face. Lickle Phoebe’s small hand locks, stiff, on mine. Without you, Isaac, me cyaan be meself. Me see you face, and me see you face in Lickle Phoebe’s – jagged, dark brown. She face becomes a scavenger’s: matted hair; starved cheekbones poking loudly from skin.

  ‘We must tek revenge,’ Eleanor say.

  ‘Burn de trash-house!’ Trouble-Too-Much’s yelling. ‘Fetch torch fram boiler-house!’

  Isaac’s gone forever. We take revenge all de more we suffer, me eye say to Eleanor. Isaac’s cries, him deathly moans, don’t spool away but hang in torrid air like threats, hover with scraps of dreams, of memories, too beautiful to forget. Me heart howls, What’s left of yu, Isaac? Sad pain?

  Blindly me mount hilltop where thinly grasses grow, pink sky splinters gold through tears flying from me eye, valley spreading before me’s moulded into me mind: we battered shacks sitting side by side on wasted ground between parched vegetable plots lying above, and sugar mill – a monster moving noisily – below. Me know each broken plank of Isaac’s verandah and wattle walls of him shack that flap on windy nights and blow away feather-light on wind puffs whenever hurricanes come or a great storm raging, stripping we of everything. Me know odd mix of pens fe chickens, pigs, tethered brindled goats, and dirty yards where pickney stay every day when too weak to work. Me know sun slides quietly red behind pointed shingle roof belonging to Cinnamon Hill great house. Me know what little we have fe it goes to make drab place we call home. All we field-hands coming over hillside feel bitter hatred fe foulness of we world. Splashes of brightly coloured flowers beside track taunt me with their beauty. Sandy paths wind down towards gold sand bay, warm blue star-sparkling sea. This a part of you, Isaac? Part of me? Soon me learned me cyaan belong in Jamaica. This island cyaan ever be a home. Although buckra say we belong, although me blend in, fit with other field-hands, although me live here since a pickney, part of me don’t fit anywhere. This island don’t belong to we.

  Sundown’s nearly done with making wattle-shack village red. Me heart searches fe you, Isaac. How close, when me don’t know where you gone, you death seems.

  Whispers drift into me shack on a gentle honey smell and sink deep into me belly. But no one can reach lone place life’s become so sudden. Me see you try taking a step, see you falling down, Isaac. Lickle Phoebe holding me cyaan save me from falling too. Even Phoebe’s still and pained face’s a tormenting reminder of you.

  Softly she voice drops into me ear, ‘Wot’s fiah made fram?’ Answer, me heart say, is love, but me mind say, No. De idea of fiah sparks fram angry hunger. ‘Me stay wid yu, fiah-maker,’ Lickle Phoebe say. She sweet pickney kiss cyaan give me even small hope grain. Inside a scream slices me guts. Love’s fire burns only fe me lover. Me fear me love too much.

  Tools rest against wattle wall. Axe, hoe, billhook, machete. Buckra passes on him plodding horse, a glance meets me from him eye. Anger presses in on me. A knot ties tight in me belly, me saddled with memory. That thickly rolled collar of skin under back of buckra’s head glows red in late-evening sun.

  Chapter Three

  Kaydia

  CINNAMON HILL ESTATE

  14 February 1840

  Shuffling along main drive now Old Simeon leads a loping horse. Slack reins trail from one hand; a lantern swings from him other hand heading for stable block. Old Simeon’s rank leg smells strong even from here, way back.

  ‘Where yu bin?’ he shouts. ‘Bin waitin on yu. Gotta let de dogs out.’

  ‘Me jus ax Pa fe fetch Doctor Demar,’ I say.

  Old Simeon wasn’t born, he always lived here. Old milky blue-brown eyes slide towards me. Greenish-white lantern glow slips across Simeon’s wrinkled face as he turns, looking to great house, turns back, looks for stable block. ‘Demar’s in de house. Passed by on im way. Juni
us in dere wid ’em. Mister Sam won’t be needin yu.’ Snorting violently Demar’s mare nods like she agrees with him.

  ‘Me musta missed im wen me went fe Pa,’ I say. I hear Old Simeon turn Demar’s mare into a stable. Old Simeon stinks ugly as burnt hair, rotten bones. Simeon’s lamp’s dying. Bolting bottom door behind him he grunts, slings tack on saddle-room rack. Steered by great-house hall candles he trudges behind me across main lawn.

  Doctor Demar’s oily black hair’s plastered to him head. Rolling shirt sleeves to elbows, Doctor Demar’s all voice. ‘Get the stable boy to saddle the mare. Call the guard dogs too.’

  Old Simeon hobbles into Cinnamon Hill hall, hitches up brown overalls. Looking like Old Simeon’s in charge.

  ‘On second thoughts there’s no need.’ Doctor Demar staggers towards hall table candelabra. ‘I’m not feeling too good. I’ll stay here until dawn.’ He flops into dark wood chair, him head moving into my shadow – a darkness lurching across walls. Doctor Demar’s arm sticks out at Old Simeon like a branch stripped white of bark, ‘You, feed and water the mare. You,’ branch swings to me, ‘watch over Sam. He says he told you to nurse him. Give him water, keep him cool.’

  ‘Mister Sam miss me?’ I ask. ‘E did notice me gawn?’

  Sternly Doctor Demar says, ‘Sam’s very, very sick.’

  ‘Ganja mek Mister Sam betta,’ Old Simeon mumbles, putting lantern on table-top with a weighty thud. ‘E have no need fe white buckra doctor, e need Myal man, not obeah. Trouble is yu cyaan tell difference tween Myal an obeah. Yu know wot difference dere is? Yu no good like dat Ope spirit minister man.’

  Doctor Demar’s whole body shivers like air’s cold, or he scared of a high wind passing through tree branches.

  Old Simeon’s hand’s a crinkled paw screwing lantern wick up until orange-white flame leaps yellow then mellows to pale jade-orchid green. ‘No need fe work now,’ he says. ‘No need fe Mister Sam.’ Lantern spits, light floods gritty maps, curling parchment, quill pens, plantation stock books loosely stacked on hall table.