Strange Music

by Strange Music (retail) (epub)

  Cousin Richard said of Quasheba that she probably strangled her own child, and must be without her faculties. He defined her by what she was not. Though I sometimes fail to see her clearly – it stands to reason that this runaway slave was neither bad, nor mad – if I focus on what she was, then perhaps I can wear the cloak of change.

  She wears a child upon her breast. An amulet that hangs too slack. And, in her unrest, cannot rest. Thus they go moaning, child and mother, one to another, one to another, until it all ends for the best. For her offspring is of its mother’s flesh yet not of her race.

  How her belief in God and His throngs of angels must be tried. Though she may not be looked down on by the tall windows of a church, she must have hope. Must have faith.

  What might compel one to destroy the very beautiful creature that through one’s suffering was created? Can the joy of the first-born child bring the deepest grief? What of my intimate friend, Trippy? Orphaned at a young age, penniless but for the legacy of two slaves who were sold to pay her father’s debts – is Trippy not the offspring of a slave and a white West Indian planter? What does she think of dear Papa? What did she think of Cousin Richard?

  Can it be that when black one is always a fugitive? How a God-fearing slave woman committed infanticide begs the question, is she any more unnatural than dear Papa? Papa’s conviction, that none of his offspring should marry, surely goes against all that is natural. Countless times have I heard of infant deaths on plantations. But is Papa killing his grandchildren by preventing their births? Is this not some kind of murder?

  It is one thing to choose, quite another to be forced to be barren for the rest of one’s days. Forced to be barren like me. Or forced not to be. On many occasions have I heard of a dark child, much darker than its white parents, suddenly appearing with Negroid features. Why it happens I now know – this is a crude justice; the tragic reminder to all is the offspring’s skin colour – I am certain. It is God’s will.

  Would Quasheba then not wish to rid herself of Cousin Richard? Of it? Be driven? Could she bear to look upon a face so white? If Papa fears dark offspring, would Quasheba not fear a white child? Would the reminder not be sickening to her also? The master’s look, that used to fall on her soul like his lash, or worse.

  3 April 1840

  The Hopeful Adventure let down her anchor this morning. The bay waters are jagged and bristly but there have been no exploding ships. Bro, with his brown wind-blown hair resembling the wreck of Hesperus, reads Papa’s letter aloud.

  ‘“Negroes attending church last Christmas on Cinnamon Hill and Cornwall estates, and those refusing to attend Sam’s ‘busha-house dances’, or refusing to accept Sam’s extra Christmas bottles of rum were, the Presbyterian minister Hope Masterton Waddell says, treated unfairly by Sam, and even denied their usual sugar ration.” According to the minister, Sam is guilty of another, greater folly.’ Bro arches his eyebrows. ‘Sam has banned African field workers from participating in abstinence societies!’

  I am praying for God to forgive Sam, to help us all please: to bring humanity together not only in mind and in flesh, but in spirit. For ever. ‘Do we not all long for freedom?’ I ask. ‘Long for grass greener than that on which we tread? Freedom to love? To live? To die? Oh, how that longing must increase ten-thousand-fold if one is imprisoned not simply by social etiquette but literally enslaved by a system of severe floggings, treadmills and other tortures imposed by an alien race.’

  Bro says he too fears that although slavery is ended, the cruelty that went with it is not.

  My beloved friend,

  I am as well today as possible after a sleepless night. The weather is very trying – & I have not been suffered by my Liege Lord physician, to have my bed made, for above a month. But altogether I bear up tolerably. What they mean to do with me this summer is a matter of fidgeting. Here, I am sure not to stay, if I can move – my own longing being for London, & my physician’s, I see too plainly, for the torrid zone. Do not mention this to anybody, dearest Miss Mitford . . .

  4 April 1840

  What is behind Papa’s conviction – the divine right he believes he has to rule and control our lives? Papa’s father had a string of mistresses and illegitimate children, seven in all, I believe; his emotions overflowed everywhere. He abandoned Grandmama, leaving the family in disgrace. Papa is the opposite of him . . . How I remember the coming of that letter to apprise him of the loss of his fortune, and just one shadow passed on his face while he read it . . . and then he broke away from the melancholy and threw himself into the jests and laughter of his innocent boys . . . and in all the bitter bitter preparation for our removal, there was never a word said by any one of us to Papa, nor by him to us, in that relation . . . he suffered more, of course, he suffered in proportion to the silence . . . We never knew what was going on. Everything was rumour or stumbled upon. So it remains. And when Papa sent for Bummy to look after us whilst he was on business in London from June to December that year, her lips stayed hermetically sealed.

  Sadness created an agonizing melody in Papa’s breath, when after luncheon he walked into my room, held my hand and paused between each line of prayer.

  If Papa were to find it within him to change. Imagine – that would be a dream come true.

  . . . The weather is unbending – & altho’ the east wind returned yesterday, we are not likely to be long molested. By favour of its absence I had my bed made three days ago – the first time for six weeks – but the moving to the sofa produced great faintness & exhaustion – to which however I shall not yield the point about trying again. Indeed we – Dr. Scully & I – are beginning to talk of transferring me by the said sofa, & additional wheels, thro’ the one intervening door into the drawing-room – let but the weather be settled, & one of us something stronger . . .

  Memories. Everywhere. I am tormented by this storm. The curtains, not yet fully drawn back, thinly disguise the sun. Sam’s pallid face comes to me; impatient. Vexed. I fear he looks unwell, and that I must blame myself for this. Sam leans, headlong, into the gale, his sickness full-blown.

  Dr. Barry died for my sake. I was instrumental in Sam returning to Jamaica. And I persuaded Bro to remain in Torquay. I fear a great disaster looms as a consequence of my bold, selfish, stubborn stupidity. Were Bro and Sam to leave this world for the heavenly stars, Papa would have lost both his first and second sons. How am I to bear the truth about myself?

  I look across the restless sea. It might provide an answer. From a grey foreboding sky the mist of grief falls, whispering over turbid waves, across the stretch of barren yet fertile earth visible from my window. In Sam’s eyes I see death. And Bro?

  White waters froth like a fresh bed sheet waiting for Bro to slip beneath. The water holds his body-shape. His shirt is saturated. My heart beats, but Bro’s breath drowned by water does surcease. Entangled by weeds he sinks below the tempest; white transparent skin; arms bloated; riding the swelling currents of the tide of the deceased.

  In sheer terror I lie unable to sleep. Can condemnation be removed by repentance for one’s sins? God’s love is too great to bring upon Papa such tragedies. Beloved Papa has suffered so. That the Lord God will spare us the horrors I have witnessed with my very own eyes is one simple truth I know. Not for my sake but for his.

  I taste the sadness with which Papa is surrounded. Sam’s expression was sadness. Sadness is the silenced slave. I have a freedom, and yet with that surely comes a curse; for it is true I am cursed. To be ruled by self-doubt and inner-conflict surely is. When I think on my inheritance a cold wind sweeps this body I so despise. I am no more than a useless machine that cannot fight back. I am useless, helpless, worthless. Scarcely worth taking care of. Unlovable.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sheba

  BARRETT TOWN MARKET

  May 1839

  Yu lunatic, me head say. Yu liar. Yu promise, like lunatic, yu going to run an here yu are, walk walking a-side Lickle Phoebe. Pickney strapped to yu chest dr
ains wot yu drink, eat – cornbread, roast fish, bammie. Yu fear if yu mek noise someone will hear. Will know. So yu walking on silent feet. Speaking silent to yuself.

  Market days passed fast until this one came. Coldness grips me, and me cyaan find meself no more. Yu know wot yu have to do but yu fraid to do it. Fraid to kill it.

  Owl-eyes in Lickle Phoebe’s hungry face fix on pickney bawling and butting me full hot breast. Every strike of him feet’s a knife stabbing.

  A woman stumbles against me. Curses. Me seen she face at Cinnamon Hill; eyes grief-filled. She do housemaid work fe Mister Sam, Sylvia did say, and now Mister Sam flee to England she live at Cinnamon Hill all by sheself. In a violent rush of passing pickney she’s whisked from me sight. Inside me flare, too long imprisoned, storm-like, it a anger of anguish briefly uncovered. Holding out me pickney, begging she’ll take him, me must think of something to make she hear, make she see. Words run from me mouth, ‘Yu, fram Cinnamon Hill!’ me craving shout. ‘It me, Sheba!’ She name? Kaydia, me remember. But already she’s lost in a flood of market sellers. Vainly me eyes search fe she face. Blow-winds come soft as shadows off salt-sparkling blue sea, a thirsty heat licking skin dry.

  Silently looking to Phoebe, me clutch pickney back to me breast, clench hands into fists, and feel more alone than one palm tree on lonely windswept beach.

  ‘Yu did mek ow many bitts?’ me ask Lickle Phoebe.

  She fishes in a pocket. ‘Two.’

  ‘Me carry yu bitts, keep em safe safe. Sylvia telled me to. Me do it fe she.’ Lickle Phoebe hands money over, around it me wrap me tight fist. ‘Me give yu me yellow candy,’ me say.

  Guiltily me weave behind Lickle Phoebe, weaving towards coast road through crowds of women holding on their heads trays of saltwater fish, crying, ‘Fi-ish! Fi-ish!’ Trays of freshwater shrimps go by, women calling, ‘Jan-ga! Jan-ga!’ Baskets of avocado, crying ‘Ripe-peer! Ripe-peer!’ Pig trotters, yellow and nubbly. Flat white bammie cakes stacked high. Pickney gather round rising sour dough smell from scorching fresh baked bread. Sunday market quenches thirst, fills moaning bellies. Black dogs bark. Old women with faces dark purple as star-apple, warty as soursop, sit neatly cross-legged before small herb bunches, lettuce heads, lima beans, duck eggs, ackee yawning open red to savagely hot sunbursts.

  Walking backwards on stick-thin legs, Lickle Phoebe’s staring at free-black slave’s fancy waistcoat trimmed with bright red ribbon. Best best petticoat lace frills out beneath dress hems.

  Going towards stinking mud-fish stall on market edge, Lickle Phoebe say, ‘White-nigger have cray-fish, duck, salt-marsh plover.’ At stall corner fe tethering pack asses, donkeys loaded with pannier baskets peacefully swish tails around sucking foals’ flanks. Rows of women with dung-caked feet shout, ‘Yam fe cleaning donkey yard! Yam fe cleaning donkey yard!’ Dung juice seeps through baskets’ wicker weave; baskets piled up with muck upon heads. Brown slurry juice dribbles behind ears, drips down grinning babies sucking on yielding breasts, leaves trails down necks, bald raw patches.

  Me eyes flick from black nigger women to white nigger women and back. Scornfully Lickle Phoebe looks at white nigger, she brown eyes merciless as baked-hard earth holding a mixture of horror and hate. Turning, walking backwards to look on stinking mud-fish stall, Lickle Phoebe say, ‘White nigger, Mama say, more filthy dan black nigger fe buckra treat white nigger worse dan we. White nigger aint just slave, dem street-beggar, escaped fram prison, not paid fe like we.’

  Stony red sand track we’re coming to clings to yellow-white coastline. Cyaan walk fast fe sharp stones bite even we hard feet. Pickney’s hand’s tapping and prodding me rock-hard breast, head rooting under burning swollen flesh. Temptation draw me to break him neck. Yu lunatic, yu forget to run! Red sun slants down to coastline and coast road we’re on, each step bringing closer me dread. Mek sure yu kill im, Leah’s voice say.

  Soon market’s a dot, bay’s yellow-white curve hugs warm flat calm sea, and fish stench gets swallowed in a shy sweet honey smell stealing into late-afternoon breeze.

  Chattering to sheself like she does, Lickle Phoebe quick-steps ahead, hopping, snatching at flies, criss-crossing red stone track. Me treasure Lickle Phoebe, treasure she voice, treasure each song, but all day truly me almost running to get away fe me feel so unclean and move clumsily on heavy unsure feet. Sadly me think of cane burning and sundown. Deep within feelings flutter and stir, bad feelings about taking Lickle Phoebe’s bitts. Yu a coward, me head-tongue says. But me want to be far from Lickle Phoebe to think and to plan when me should dig a grave fe me pickney. When me should bury pickney’s future – eighth day? Ninth day? How do me remember with too much hurt inside me breast? Red clouds sweep too fast across blue sky; me search in me heart. Onshore winds blow warmly in from sea’s quiet face – a ready strength, a deep peace – sea’s blue heart surges like some great beast, rises, falls, fe this’s where Loa lives, a spirit world where dead slaves’ souls go. Salty tang blow you touch to me, and me want to smile feeling you, Isaac, everywhere. Clouds move freely, sea, salty air. Sun sinks slowly red and although me feel you, Isaac, me cyaan see you anywhere. Me feel how you hot mouth once covered mine; me skin sizzling under you touch. Fe you me love’s more fierce than any blazing suns.

  Giving a broken trampled look, ‘Wot if me run away?’ me ask Lickle Phoebe. ‘Yu’d shout afta me?’

  Lickle Phoebe sings, ‘Yu cun run if yu waan. No one come afta yu.’ She’s skipping to and fro, halting on stony track like a goat kid then leaping across boulders and back to rubbed smooth sandy places where track’s beaten by many tired feet.

  ‘An yu won’t raise de alarm? Yu’ll cover yu mouth?’

  Lickle Phoebe keeps skipping. ‘Yu cun run if yu waan. No one come afta yu.’ Slowing to a walk she say, ‘Ow yu wanna know? Me won’t tell no one if yu go, so ow yu wanna know?’

  Pickney isn’t made of bones, skin, flesh, blood. Kill it. KILL IT afore ninth day. Osun, spirit of healing streams. Osun, yu know, will guide yu. Me remember now all Leah said.

  ‘Yu hungry?’ I ask Lickle Phoebe.

  Lickle Phoebe say she’s not but she sucks loudly on me yellow candy stick, sharp cheekbones showing through skin. Skin scarred with cane sores, deep scratches, cuts from tending pumpkin and squash plot, no more Lickle Phoebe’s a light, loose chile. Wide-eyed as a cud-chewing cow Lickle Phoebe works on me yellow candy twist. Skin crusty, clothes needing patching, she’s scratching, scratching flaking scabs. Me think she turned sick with something. That’s why me feel bad about taking she bitts.

  Flowers stray onto red stony track. Mango trees lean over like tall women with not enough in their pockets to buy what they want fram we stall. You towered over me. Strong arms. Words. Branches, spread life’s wisdom to me fe me die when they took you, Isaac, and you leave me at plantation.

  Single smoke strand stretches across evening sky smudgy above mountain ridges but a clear sign fe parting. We come plodding up a low hill, every step bringing me closer to running.

  Pickney’s red crying face turns up to mine. Standing still, letting him suck what he can, me struggle to let out a word. Part of me body’s trapped in him face – all me want to do’s forget. Cyaan name im. Me cyaan love im. Lickle Phoebe cyaan love im. Burning bagasse and molasses stink hangs stale in orange sky, pecks and prickles me nose too. It’s de running time.

  ‘Pickney tire?’ Lickle Phoebe ask.

  Sleepily him head moves sideways, banging me breast. Him eye, a lantern dimly shining, makes four with mine. Me breasts will burst. Snake of true hatred runs through me blood. Clamping on again, sucking from nipple tip till it bleeds, pickney drains what goodness me have. Flames we see from hilltop sweep orange-grey to black through cut stubble, hunting out coney, snake, boar, sleeping pickney. Smoke curls back on itself from fire’s red blaze, a wall of air trembles and shivers like sugar furnace. Boldly raging flames pour smoke up into dusk-blue sky leaving a sooty path; soon there’ll be nothing but trash, and a sea of smouldering ash.


  Coming over hill’s wide shoulder me pledge to pay back Lickle Phoebe’s bitts some day. Me gave she me last candy twist. Me did that fe she.

  Flames reach over big hill’s brow, making afternoon air ripple like freshwater streams.

  ‘Dem must finish burnin afore brown dusk settle on plantain grove,’ Lickle Phoebe say.

  Old Simeon from Cinnamon Hill stands upon a grassy hummock under a clump of trees. He rests on a spade, body looking stunted like clouds have pressed him down. Behind him, violently shaking its head, stands a mule, and behind grey mule minister’s cloak billows, great bat-wings shadowing a shiny-smooth mahoney-wood coffin.

  ‘Somebody dead,’ Lickle Phoebe say.

  ‘Cyaan say. But coffin’s real enough,’ me say, wanting to run, now, as we trudge over dunes.

  Lickle Phoebe’s drawn spent face scarily mirrors sharp-shaped rocks on mountains ahead. ‘Is Mister Richard Barrett dem bury,’ she say. ‘It puzzle me fe tink where im shadow go afta im dead.’

  ‘Mister Richard Barrett? Ow yu know im dead?’

  Lickle Phoebe gives a strong smile. ‘People say Leah mek poison fe im.’

  ‘Mister Richard Barrett, dat one, Mister Sam cousin?’

  Me head-tongue say, Mister Barrett, yu me pickney fadda. Bury de fadda, bury de son.

  Minister’s cloak flaps whipping around legs like it’s trying to push them from under him, and Old Simeon’s skin gleams funeral satin black as him elbow slides off spade handle. Though him skin’s aged him muscles swell richly as burnished mahoney wood – Simeon’s turning back to him job. Red sandy earth clods flump on grass. Each thump say, Reach across, put wandrin spirit back. As lang as yu understand dis yu free.

  Pickney’s feet start up jabbing breasts again. Silent as Jancra wing-tips slipping blue-black into evening sky, Leah’s words come on feeble winds, and cord tying red pickney and me together withers, finally. Old Simeon’s spade scrapes raw rock stone, smashes into rock-hard earth.

  Not looking back me run. Me head thumps with what Leah said: Yu must make all thoughts go. Yu must be strong as hurricane. Wind have fingers; hands; fists; howling, living breath; and if me stop now me’ll be afraid, afraid of what chile might do. It knows it’s returning to spirit world? Me cyaan bear to tell fe true.