‘Sheba! Sheba!’ Lickle Phoebe bawls. Me cyaan answer. There’s too much hurt to understand, too much to explain. Taking grass path, swamped by a knowing pain, wanting to shout Phoebe! Cover yu mouth! me run. Branches grasp at arms, spiked wooden fingers cruel hard-burying into skin. Me mind say, Pickney’s soul isn’t born. Peacefully it’ll go back to where it belongs. But fear clings to me. Keep running. Don’t ever turn back. Over rocks, through streams evening sun spills copper-red across, run, leave no tracks. Pickney’s head knocks on me breast. Screeching bird shape cuts forest. Still. Hot. Dead.
Clapping on sand, slapping stone, me feet sound stiff and risky against sure but faint sounds of Phoebe shouting. Grasses slowly rush past. Lickle Phoebe’s eye looks after me. Me know she’s standing, shouting, though no answer comes. And even when Lickle Phoebe’s calling’s stopped and shouts fade to silence, me know she eye bawls fe another glimpse of me back, running away.
Scrambling on tides of fear me dare not one peep at struggling, wailing red-skin chile. Moving through underbrush me don’t run now but stop, looking way way below like me can see into dust of me life that’s past.
Me eye follows uneven bristly-bush path leading to ledges, up and across leafy skies. Now me see a safe safe hiding place where jagged rocks overhang a hollow bare pink cliff face.
Bamboo clumps burst over rocky edges. Tree ferns, thinly green, reach into blue. Air plant’s grey roots streaming like hair kept alive by what? Red rocks’ thick fingers shoot skywards. White streams plunge from cracked rugged crags to a bowl of swirling quivering water beneath. Grooves scooped trough-like into rocks make paths to soothe tired feet. Lolling on me breast’s him head. Me did make such a face? Oh, to sail de winds, to fling meself up and out, flapping great wings and be free free free. But him wispy hair holds fast on me neck like grasp of him hand on me finger, and presses on a sticky hollow under me chin.
Brushing aside creeper curtains, sticks snap light as tiny bones beneath cautious feet. From cave roof a rank rat-bat stench fills me nose. Me fingertips unlatch lips dragging down me nipple. Me lay pickney down, without belief in what me doing, on powdery, feather-soft rat-bat dropping bed, without belief in Osun, without belief in God.
Fingers uncurl from tightly clenched hands like tiny brown tree ferns unfurling; searching fe me voice pickney’s head moves blindly. Cyaan hold him tenderly like it Isaac’s chile. Isaac’s chile it cyaan be, fe Isaac’s face me should see. Should be Isaac’s skin me stroke, dark richly smooth; eyes, full bright moons.
Side by side we sleep then as dusk grows colder me body wraps warm round pickney’s tiny softly breathing curves. He snuggles, elbows nudge me belly.
Me mind begins to race. Me see Lickle Phoebe’s pale black face; drawn with sadness she eyelids close. Why me did leave shack village? me wonder – Eleanor, Sylvia, owl-eyed Lickle Phoebe. When me listen to me heart me know that part of me life’s long gone. And when me shut eye still me see thicket, hair-like creeper strand, banana bunches, brilliant wiry flowers palm-climbing. Vines strangling tree ferns. Ackee. Bare pink cliff face, as if pickney and thick forest journey have been carved into me eyelids.
Light fades from cave’s coldly dark mouth. Me think, No longer sun will yu scorch pickney wid yu fiah. Tight and close me draw me bandana, protecting pickney from tomorrow’s hot spears. Fastening a hand round him neck me wonder, this how to soothe spirit chile to sleep?
Tenderly rubbing him back, me lay pickney over me knee. Dis more hard dan cane-piece work. He struggles to breathe on him belly. Yu can put spirit back, if yu waan to yu know yu can.
Him body jerks, mouth gurgles, soaking cloth with spit. Me smother him face tighter with bandana. Panic writhes through muscles, through crackling foaming bubbles frothing from him throat. Him head struggles hard.
Bandana lifts from him nose and sucks into it with each breath. Never did flesh die so hard. Never did me know such power in so small a body, such small fists. Pickney cyaan fight forever, can he? Wishing me used creeper-rope to hang him, not this strangle-hold, me loosen bandana, slowly. Bloody white blobs form in a lather round him mouth, round nose. Him body thrusts forward and up then falls floppily. Cyaan look again though chile don’t flinch. Him flesh return to water? Me won’t risk uncovering him fully yet fe me feel pickney’s spirit soar. Hear me now, even when cloth was drawn tight me felt him eye upon me. Me think he’ll keep breathing. Suddenly me realize, no. We free.
Slowly me untie bandana though tiny thumping feet suddenly fight again savagely. Blood leaks from him nose slanting down across him cheek and tiny perfectly rounded chin. Me tears don’t heal, they seal what me done.
Rugged mountains cast long cold shadows. Moonbeams slide down rocky slopes. Down steep mountain-goat path me walk numbly and stiffly, picking a way through trembling grasses, a limp bundle of a body cradled in me bandana, thumping dully against sorrow-filled chest. Sand, whitened by sunshine, lights up under moon’s silvery touch. Me feel him warm, still twitching, feet. Black branches’ shadows point like fingers to moonlit seawater. Running through thick wood forest me go, toes slipping between sleepy flowers’ droopy heads, running through mangroves; trees, perched on roots like ready-woven baskets, trunks twisting skywards. Night winds stroke shady pimento groves freely before a white sand bay.
Me eye rest on me pickney – a lead-heavy shell. Wait fe dawn den bury wot yu done.
Sky turns a deep mango colour, red-purple streaks flare across. A feeling fills me body of holding you at night, Isaac, safe safe safe. But even this leaves me nowhere stranded. Sadness stained.
Pelicans glide, bills sagging. Me filled with a cry but all sound’s missing. Red sun rolls up from cool blue sea. Gently me lay pickney down having carved sand aside till fingertips touched chilled stones. Wind gusts hold their breath. Me feel white with fury fe me have no wrap fe him body bare; only cold sand to clothe him. No funeral drum beats dawn air but me heart throbs strong to soothe him.
Watching red sky splinter with gold me cyaan look true at him fe fear him stare can cut me down.
Me lay out tiny hands, arms outstretched like branches, him darker cheeks, bulging tongue, bruised neck, face so sad me want to offer relief, offer to him comfort forever, as fire drains from dawn sky. Me don’t have no lock-up fe cell bars these hands, cell walls him cloud-soft skin. Sky held its blue breath when me crouched, waiting fe pain to swell. Kneeling forward me whole body shuddering and rocking in huge waves, agony with spirit chile came. In Sylvia’s shack me animal-cries brought no one, fe all field-hands were out working. And labour lasted so long me believed something was wrong. It were more like a battle than a birth. Between waves me rested till next pain crest, scared pickney wouldn’t fit, afraid me split, tear apart. Soft, smooth, warm, a pale copper monster’s born, wriggling, squirming, howling. Memories float leaving my mind – This curious limp thing could feel, cry, stretch him spine? – there’s a bleak deathly gleam to him wretched copper face now. Me did make an kill such a face. Me watch meself fade in and out of it.
Yu must make all thoughts go. Yu must be strong as hurricane. Lower, lower me sink heavy with woe, spreading coarse gritty sand over him body till me fingertips burn. Breezes whistle through mangrove branches – him voice discovers a way out, wailing across water like angry nesting morass bird. Feelings cyaan be dashed, crushed. Wanting to rip feelings out, me drag me eye from me pickney spirit grave, step across sand and away from him. Spirit’s no longer here.
Sky glares slippery red. Sea’s angry sparkling blue eye’s staring staring staring. Cupping hands over me ear me stare back, searching fe Isaac. Longing.
Pelican-wing shadow roams across many fine lines left on sand by waves lapping. Past enters me head. It happens now. Again. Tiny pieces come but them too sharp to see clearly. Slippery red between me legs. Hot. Cold. Pain. Night’s darkness enters each day. Me see buckra’s white face. Me cyaan find a path from Mister Richard Barrett, cyaan remember way out so stop, and stoop. Smooth sea-washed abeng shell me cling
to me ear sings of dashing over sand, dropping canoe Isaac and me carried, painted black, dug from a cotton-tree trunk. You laughed, Isaac, scattering squawking chickens into palm-thatched fishermen’s huts, a clutter of nets, cowskin sails against bamboo walls. Cyaan feel seawater, cyaan feel warm morning sun breathe on shoulders, only you, Isaac, and morning before abeng, and warmth of you arm round me shoulder; lying, lip to lip; you body warmth, salt of you breath, and kissing you sleeping head.
Wading out to sea, salt-streaked cheeks brushed by now whispering gusts, tired, heavy me is, wading into distressed waters, de salt smell sting.
Chapter Twelve
Kaydia
CINNAMON HILL ESTATE
17 February 1840
From yacca floor I look up through dark blue bedchamber window. Morning star lost its shine. Mister Sam lies tombstone stiff.
Mary Ann wriggles between my knees, saying, ‘Gimme breadfruit. Mek me gib lickle bit fe yu.’
Dividing she hair into bunches, I say, ‘Me cyaan eat now,’ Mister Sam’s pickney fills me belly. ‘Chile, sit still. Yu cyaan mek chair out-a Mister Sam. Yu cyaan touch im.’
‘Why?’ Shuffle-scudding on she bottom she tries to struggle free. ‘Mister Sam don’t move.’
Conch-blow bellows Fuuuuffuu-ffuu. I stay silent till monster stops moaning. ‘No,’ I say, ‘e a-sleepin.’ I drag Mary Ann close into my belly.
What’s this dawn I see? Freedom? Victory? Blazing sun can’t find its strength but Mary Ann keeps up battling. She scrambles from my clasp, swiftly she run-hide fleeing through Mister Sam’s chamber doorway, along landing, slipping down stairs, across hall, front lawn.
Swelling up I reach out to touch Mister Sam’s hand, cheeks, chin. To tease flaming gold hairs from him chilled dank brow; dead white skin. Him spent and gone. Pale, half-closed eyes turned dull; cloudy like marble with no blue flicker. Even him faint yellow eyelashes seem curious now to me. Mister Sam cyaan let no ooman keep no pickney. Not if im its baby fadda. My blood too? Cyaan see yu as brodda. Me see yu as a curse fe pile of grief yu cause. Noting but pity me feel fe yu. Pity an shame. Cyaan tell no person, not even bedchamber, wot me do to try to raise money fe Charles, fe Pa an me dawta; wot me do to try to claw Mary Ann fram yu. Me waan no person to know wot happened, not even bedchamber – but all me know have memory an dem live on afta me an yu.
Pelican flaps through my thoughts landing on sea. Dawn breeze mutters over Mister Sam’s lifeless form; moon-like face bled of colour. Breeze isn’t a stranger. Stranger’s me.
Gazing between jalousie blinds I see no hope, no tracks, no lanes across blue sea. Fear, like sneaking dawn light, creeping into me. Candle-flame breeze blows upon suddenly dies.
I move to verandah where two months past my master stood, sweating rum, I was struck by a screaming sun, a flashing, glittering sea. My hand in apron pocket clutches buckled metal skeleton of earrings – missing jewels crushed between rocks somewhere in front garden below. Matching sister necklace of false pearls lies shattered some place near Barrett Hall. Leaning forward, resting elbows on verandah rail, my eyes slant down. Any guilt for what I’ve done begins to fade. All my thoughts confused with finding my own way to freedom from Cinnamon Hill.
Mary Ann’s disappeared. She laugh comes back to hit me. It’s she me waan to guard. Not Mister Sam.
Rattling into my thoughts cart wheels come, rattling up plantation path. Heading through hall for kitchen block, ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!’ I’m shouting. Framed by hall doorway, Dick’s cart passes gate at drive’s end. Cart’s piled high with rum-filled puncheons balanced on bundles of guinea grass, pimento sacks bulging over tailboard.
Cracks between kitchen flagstones emerge. Flagstones Pa’s grandpa unloaded from a flotilla. Guard dogs let out shrill whines. Friday, snoozing in Mister Sam’s cloth cot, opens one eye. A horse’s sigh shoots into sky’s brooding greyness, and stable-block’s curiously changed by hissing sounds of lizards sliding through hay, smashing through dawn silence.
Then bushes become busy with birds. But like tiny pickney in my belly I’m trapped in silent stillness.
‘Kaydia! Kaydia!’ Dick’s bawl sounds like a lunatic in my head, waking me in an unknown country. Loudly I hear Dick calling now. ‘Kaydia!’ he bawls. ‘Me need yu elpin in still-house. Yu’ll do dat fe me?’
I shout to Friday, ‘Friday, yu big nuff fe workin wid Dick.’
Cradled in hammock cloth Friday nods loosely, swinging sameway pickney-like, green birthday shirt Pa give him soiled, dirt-creased. Stinking of rum Friday tips himself over hammock side, flops down at my feet, him gleaming face grins wide as watermelon slice. Cordia flower twisting open skywards to sun’s cool gaze.
All my love for Mary Ann comes flooding back. My head-tongue says Mister Sam’s death brings a glimpse of how close mother and daughter might be. I feel terror at my own pain. I’m saying to Dick as Friday and me reach cart horse, ‘Yu see Mary Ann dis mornin? She pass by dis way?’
Tugging at pimento sacks buried under thatching grass, Dick tests load for steadfastness. Cart’s whole load wobbles. Shaking him head Dick says, ‘Work gettin harder an me floggin meself gettin crop in.’
‘No yu aint,’ I say. ‘Yu aint worked fe days.’
Dick yanks up grey horse’s head from feeding on lush grass. He holds horse steady. Swollen skin round horse’s eyes breeds raw pink patches, he stamps an unshod hoof. Fitfully cart’s load shudders. Slapping horse’s hollow sweating neck, ‘Horse wid fever,’ Dick adds, ‘him coat sweat.’
‘Cart’s overloaded,’ I say.
Friday say, ‘Lickle ol fashion but it work,’ him eyes glazed over.
‘Cart weary, but e last,’ Dick says. ‘Me must go down plantation path to wharf, unload puncheons, pimento sacks, drop off feed sacks by slave shacks on way back up.’ He checks short chains clip firmly from horse’s collar to shafts, jangling them. He pats horse’s pitted dappled chest. ‘Any fool cun git puncheons to stay on top. Friday cun tie dem.’
I’m saying to Dick, ‘It look easy,’ but pushing forward in my mind I see Friday – my eyes skim crazy stack on guinea thatching grass; curved wood making cart-horse collar ache with age – my heart says no.
Sun’s blazing eye comes piercing through clouds, showing hotter than hot day. Bending low Dick grunts. Him hands mould together to form a stirrup for Friday to mount cart. Sweat brews on Dick’s broad bare back, Friday’s little foot weighs on stirrup hands. Leaning against cart side Friday hoists himself up like him shin up coconut tree.
‘Me gonna chuck dis rope up,’ Dick shouts to Friday. Sweat trickles like raindrops down Dick’s shoulders, soaking osnaburg trouser-cloth. He throws up rope, it snakes through blue morning air.
Pa walks round track curve where treetops join like arch he carved for Cinnamon Hill church doorway.
My eye keeps wandering for Mary Ann.
Pa’s standing level with me, chewing coffee beans mighty hard.
‘Yu see Mary Ann dis mornin?’ I ask him. ‘She on path to Sibyl’s hut? Yu’ll watch out fe she?’
‘Me watch out fe she.’ Pa’s chewing savagely. ‘W’appen?’ he asks.
‘Friday workin fe Dick, Pa.’
Pa’s jaws snap shut. Him eyes follow mine. Easing him body forward Friday straddles puncheons nesting in thatching grass, him feet a-walk in air. He feeds rope round puncheons’ belly.
Dick looks vexed. Cart can’t keel over, I’m thinking.
‘Lard hab mercy.’ Pa sighs, and spits crushed coffee beans onto driveway. Friday, shaking, clutches top puncheon rim. Him faith-filled eyes flash a look at long drop down.
Spitefully Dick yanks both reins, bringing horse’s old bony head sharply round. ‘Me try turning cart up an round in driveway, heading up afore going down,’ Dick says. Cart moves maddeningly slowly, wheels juddering forward; back. Shallow morning heat getting deeper.
‘Friday big nuff fe workin wid yu, Pa. Yu tink e’ll be a-carpenter?’ I ask.
Squatting on heels, rapidly crackin
g fingers, him eye full on me, Pa says, ‘Say wa? E a-lickle pickney. Dis too risky. Yu cyaan see dat, girl?’ He turns out trouser pockets, into one hand he empties fluff, coffee grains, filth. Pa’s fishing for more beans. ‘Wot’s dis yu dangle fe Charles? E butcher yu if e know,’ he says, and chucks a small coffee bean catch into him open mouth.
Dick shouts, ‘Beast! Beast!’ Horse’s muscles tighten, swell, pulling forward up drive slope; coat matted with sweat, hooves slipping on dusty stones. ‘Beast! Beast!’ Dick shouts. ‘Cyaan pull de load up to turn cart back.’
‘Yu see Mary Ann on plantation path?’ I ask Pa again. He says nothing. Cart’s wooden sides creak. Blood seeps from horse’s cracked lips. Cart’s jerking wheels stop. ‘Pa, why yu –’
Pa says, ‘Shut yu mouth.’
Cart bottom makes tearing sound like osnaburg cloth ripping. ‘Don’t, Friday – go on!’ Pa bawls.
Sun’s screaming on Friday’s spoiled birthday shirt. Sky’s hot. Empty. Blue. Road’s empty too.
Stained by shrieking sunlight banana leaves shine.
‘Mister Sam ded dis mornin?’ Pa asks me.
‘Yes.’ I don’t feel any worry lift now Mister Sam’s gone.
Dick shouts, ‘Beast! Beast!’ pulling reins taut, almost wrenching bit clean from horse’s long brown teeth.
‘Oo de ell’s dat comin round back way on Sam’s horse?’ Pa says. ‘E cyaan elp?’
This time I know it’s Charles before I see him. Minister follows on trotting black mare. I hide behind Pa. Truth slaps me brutally in my face. Charles knows what I carry. Knows what’s already growing inside. He knows Mister Sam not fully gone.
Pa sings out, ‘Cotch de cart it full-a feed! Friday, come down ere! Yu drunk on rum. Any fool cun see.’ He bawls to Dick, ‘Lame horse weak! Yu idiot. Yu cyaan tek harness off? Tek machete an cut it afore de horse fall.’ Cart rolls backwards. ‘Wedge rakstone!’ Pa bellows. ‘Cart slide backwards fore de horse!’ Spitting out coffee bean jots Pa snatches reins from Dick, grabs bridle with such force bit part’s sliding from horse’s bleeding mouth. Horse’s brown eyes roll back to half-moon whites. Hurling himself against horse, sweating shoulder rubbing sweating shoulder, Pa shouts, ‘Git up! Git up!’ Groaning cart bottom splinters. Pa bawls at Friday, ‘Git down.’
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