Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  With that she leave, tapping her way back up the path.

  Everybody afraid of Calla, even Massa. Afraid she going put Obeah on him. Afraid of the power she bring with her from cross the seas. She know how to work magic, late at night when the full moon sit low in the sky. And other times, when the moon gone, leave behind only darkness.

  After Calla come, Massa and Stella stop fighting. Him still come to visit, but him no longer beat her.

  Is only when I grow and the glimmer Calla give me light up that I start to understand what happen that naming day. Why Massa turn so angry.

  Calling me little Will is how Stella took her eye for an eye. How she hurt Massa deep. After all the nights and days him going to her bed, she telling him I is not his son, but him father son.

  Yes, Old Massa William, him used to come visit her too. Bring little presents, mostly rum, acted all nice with her, made her feel good, even with him crinkly liver-spotty skin, Stella tell me. Them used to sit, talk. Him, looking to discover what going on in the slave village. Stella, to claim the priceless gift of power over others by telling him. And after him have him way with her, Old Massa William kept promising, one day him going set her free. Give her plenty coins. A slave even, to do her bidding. She know was a lie, that nothing going come of it, not while Mistress Margaret, him wife, still alive.

  Not long after me born, Old Massa William died, sitting in the Great House parlour, sipping him best rum. Stella tell me is why she name me little Will, to honour the old man passing. But in me heart, I know is a crippling lie. Calling me little Will was an act of revenge for all of Massa’s beatings. Of sacrifice to the ancient Ancestor god. Of throwing me, her first born, into a wilderness of un-belonging. All the while knowing that I, William, is Massa son. Him first flesh and blood, born whole.

  And from that naming day, I come to be like a thorn in the side of them both. A thorn that burrow deep inside and start to fester.

  Plantation

  Floating. Dreaming. Slowly turning. Watery dreams like me back in the womb again. Them long time finish. Me daytime world fill up with so much coming and going, I fall into a dead sleep, till Stella shake me back to life again. And when I wake, always reaching back to the short time I spend with her as a baby. Remembering how she pour all her mother feelings into me when she bathed and cuddled me. Sang old songs she learn as a pickney from a faraway place them call Africa.

  ‘A land me never been to, but is running hot in me veins,’ she say.

  And when she singing, her face used to light up from unseen memories, bubbling up from the words of them Africa songs. Songs bout places, I come to know, I was meant to be born in. Was a time full up with happiness, even with them dark passing clouds and I cling to them memories, hold them tight inside.

  Now Stella even more busy slaving inside the Great House. She still take me with her, but she pay me little mind. Leave me to crawl round and round the entrance hall, the dining room, the drawing room, the hallways, the stairs, the bedrooms, the many rooms she cleaning in. The youngest slave girls taking turns, making sure I don’t cause no trouble. Fall asleep under the divan in the parlour hallway. Sometimes Mistress Margaret come in the room where Stella cleaning, have words with her. Look down pon me with a frown. If is Massa, them slave girls move me quick outside to the verandah.

  A few seasons pass and Stella turn more and more grumpy. Her belly swell up big and round. She can barely do much work. Make me worry if she sick. Calla come to visit, notice me fretting, tell me is a good thing. Soon I going have another pickney to play with. And when Stella start sweating and moaning and bending over like she in one big pain, Massa tell old Phoebe, the head house slave, to send word to Doctor Watson, just in case. But Stella, in between the breathing, the moaning and the pushing, let it be known she not going have any of Doctor Watson shiny instruments anywhere near her.

  ‘None of him min-is-tra-tions,’ I overhear her say to Massa, almost with pride.

  Stella instead tell me, ‘Mek haste, go fetch Calla.’ The only one she trust.

  After all, is Calla who help bring many baby them into this world. Not just black baby, but backra baby too. Not just on Rock Pleasant, either. She get called out to help for miles round, specially if is a difficult birth.

  When Stella start screaming and moaning, Calla rub her back, wipe her face. Reach in between Stella legs to feel the place where the baby going come out.

  ‘Why you scream so much?’ she ask. ‘Second child easier and this baby not so big. Not big like little Will sitting outside on the step.’

  Stella get angry. ‘Why you let him?’

  ‘A man pickney need to know bout the pain him cause when coming into this world. It help to soften up him soul.’

  I don’t want to, but Calla make me sit on that step hour after hour while Stella scream her lungs out, even though the baby not so big. Is a hard thing to hear you mama scream like some wild animal. And the glimmering light up and I come to understand, when I get born, I cause her the same pain. Make me wonder if that is why she don’t seem to like me so much no more.

  Finally, when the baby slip out, Calla quick smart cut the cord. Wipe him all over with water boiled up with herbs. Wrap him up in Massa old raggedy shirt, give him to Stella so she can hold him. Tell me to come in to have a good look at me baby brother, a mash-up looking thing. And when everything get clean up, we sit outside so Calla can have a quiet smoke.

  ‘Why we just sitting here,’ I ask, yawning.

  ‘Waiting for “the little grandmother” to come out.’

  ‘What you mean?’ Shaking me head. Sometimes Calla teachings too hard to understand.

  ‘Is how to keep the baby safe. Must bury the little grandmother. Bury it deep, pour libations. Is how me help make the baby grow plenty big, plenty strong.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, too tired, hoping I don’t have to go out digging with Calla.

  ‘Nobody must see where “the little grandmother” get buried. Only me know. Find it by the fruit-bearing tree me plant on top.’

  A few days later, Massa show up and this time, him don’t ask Stella, him just name the baby Sammy. Make him plenty happy when Stella say him the father.

  Now is Sammy she take with her on her early morning walk. Carry him in a sling cross her back like she used to carry me. Take him with her into the Great House. And I feel a great sadness well up when she shout at me ‘do as you told’, and shoo me out the door. Send me off to stay with Calla, in her hut, the one that sit at the top of the hill, far away from the crowded slave village. When you look down, you can see how the village huts all clumped together and the people them look small. See the Great House, the grassy lawn, the fruit trees in the kitchen garden at the back. Even see the canefield them, if you look far enough off.

  At first, it take me a long time to walk up that hill, dragging me feet along. It seem like I never going get to the top. Feeling with every step is love I leaving far behind. Somehow, I get used to it. Turn not so gloomy. Start to feel better as I pass the little bubbling stream, the one that run close to Calla hut, lime green ferns clinging to the side. Tiny leaves like lace, a fluttering in the sunlight.

  Is not I alone must walk up that stony grass path to stay with Calla. She already have a few of us pickney under her wing. Is up to her to keep us busy as soon as we steady on our feet, able to do some basic learning. Teach us bout the life we born into. A life without freedom. The life we going be made to live.

  There is Ellen and Jane, them was born at Christmas time, one after the other. Them is Sydney and Winston pickney. Winston is head driver and Sydney is Mistress Margaret slave. Must mean Ellen and Jane belong to Mistress Margaret too. Then there is Thomas. Him born a few seasons before me, when planting season done and everybody waiting for the cane to ripen. Pell is the youngest. Born too soon, in cropping season, right in the middle of the canefield them. Small for him age, funny-looking, always a twisted smile pon him face. Thomas and Pell, them belong to slave women what work in the field t
hem.

  Trouble is, them pickney all darker skinned than me, specially Thomas. Make me stand apart with what Massa call me mulatto skin.

  One morning, when Calla out the back doing her morning ritual, them pickney gang up on me. Start to prod and poke me with a stick. Call out to me.

  ‘Here come little yellow-belly. Look like mango. But no good to eat,’ before them spit at me feet.

  Is Thomas start the teasing business. Force them girls to do it. Push little Pell to do it too, but I can tell him don’t know what him saying.

  Lucky for me, Calla catch them. Look at them so fierce like a hawk looking at prey, them scatter, run away. Don’t stop them when Calla not there though. So most times is me that run away. Hide when Thomas walking up the path.

  Calla tell me, ‘Must stand up for you self, little Will.’

  But I never can. And it feel like something must be wrong with me. Just like little Pell.

  When Calla ready, the first thing she do every morning is take us to her provision ground. Is a little way up the hillside. Teach us little ones how to work the soil. Show us how to pull out the bad plants, the weeds. Not the good plants. Those her special herbs and food. She show us how to catch water from her water barrel, give the plants a little drink.

  Then she take us round the Great House yard, teach us how to sweep it. How to run errands. Say ‘Yes, Massa’ and bow our heads. Me favourite is when we must catch the piglets after them escape from the pens. Throw scraps in the feeder, help to fatten them up. Scatter corn for the fowls, gather eggs, but if you break or try to steal one, watch out! Calla slap you so hard, knock you flat to the ground. Must sit very still till the blow stop hurting. But when we get little scrapes, if we cry and whimper, she kiss and hug us. Let us call her Granny Callie while she put on her healing potions.

  When we not doing all them things, she take us down to watch the great gang. The field slave them mark out a trench, then dig up the earth with them hoes. Bend down low, laying out old cane stalks, one behind the other. Cover them over, dig in animal manure. All day long you hear Winston shouting out orders, cracking him whip. Is him that blow the conch shell every morning to call the slaves out to work. Winston dark like Thomas and is easy to see the slaves him favour, the ones him don’t. Work them all harder, if them move too slow. And when him shout is time to catch a rest, we must run fetch water to give them a little drink.

  Mostly women in the great gang and them have to be plenty strong to do all that field work.

  Calla always muttering, ‘Massa stupid if him think him can work a woman like she a bullock, then turn round, expect her to push out pickney. Give him a bonus.’

  And when the canefield them ripening and we get strong enough, us little ones spend all day in the hot sun weeding.

  ‘It go round and round,’ Calla tell us one day when we taking a rest. We under the shade of a big guango tree overlooking the canefield them. She pick up a stick, use it to draw a circle in the dirt like she stirring a pot. ‘One big circle that start from when the cane get planted,’ and she make a mark at the top, ‘then they grow big. Get chopped down.’ Another mark on the circle. ‘Field slave dem take the cane to the mill where they get crushed.’ Another mark. ‘Boil the juice. Boil it all day. Boil it all night.’

  ‘Den what happen?’ Ellen and Jane ask at the same time.

  ‘Turn to syrup. Left to dry. Get put into barrels. Is sugar make Massa rich. Sugar, molasses and rum. When the weather is good like now, him make plenty money, get even richer.’

  I look at the circle. Notice a bit still not marked.

  ‘What happen to the barrel dem?’ I ask her.

  ‘Get taken to Montego Bay where big ships come take dem away. Travel long time on the seas till dey reach the Mother Country.’

  ‘Mother Country?’ Thomas ask. None of us know what she mean.

  ‘Is what Massa call the place him family come from. Mind you. Massa not born there. Him born right here. Right here on this island,’ knocking her cane on the dirt. ‘Is why him called a Creole. Just like you,’ looking from one face to the other.

  This is one big surprise! Massa born with the same earth running round inside as me. I always think Massa must come from somewhere else. Is what give him the power him have over us. When I ask Calla bout it, she tighten her lips. Say no more. Instead, she get us to help her up off the stump she been sitting on.

  ‘Is one strange world we live in,’ looking down at the circle in the dirt, ‘all this suffering,’ she say. ‘So people can have a little bit of sweetness in dem tea.’

  With that, she use her cane to rub out the circle like she rubbing out some stubborn, dirty mess on the floor of her hut.

  Crop season come round, mean the cane ripe, ready for cutting, taking to the mill and the plantation turn plenty plenty busy. All the slaves work together with Massa, Winston and Busha Davis the overseer. We work through the daytime, sometimes into the night-time, till just before dawn break. Even us young ones. Is our job to carry water, bring food. Run behind the bullock cart, picking up the cut cane piece them that fall off as it rumble up the stone path to the cattle mill.

  The first time it seem like a game, but when we reach the mill, I know is not. Is a frightening place. Smell bad and is stinking hot. Many a time some poor slave get him hand burn up when him feeding the fire pots. Even him feet can get burn, the floor so hot.

  One time, in the middle of the night, I hear screaming. Screaming like I never hear before. When I look, I can’t believe it. Is a slave. Him hand getting mash up in the rollers. Must be fall asleep standing up when him pushing the cane through. Winston run past me, rush over. Get the cutlass and with one blow, chop off the arm. What a lot of blood, it go everywhere.

  ‘Poor wretch,’ Massa say after the screaming slave get carried away, before him look round. Notice that me just standing there with me mouth open.

  ‘Come here, boy,’ him shout. ‘Go get rags and water and clean up this mess.’

  Winston push me in the back to make haste. ‘Hurry up. Hurry up now,’ him say, while me and the other slave them get down on hands and knees, start cleaning the bloody stone floor.

  Then Massa turn on Winston. ‘Why are we waiting? Start up the rollers again. Hurry up. Hurry up now. You know the cut cane will spoil if it’s left idle for too long.’

  ‘Yes, Massa. Right away, Massa,’ Winston say, bowing and scraping.

  Then everybody keep going, working just like nothing happen. When Calla come back from the hot house where the slave them go that get sick and wounded, she start muttering bout bad luck come in threes.

  When I ask Calla what going happen she tell me she don’t know. ‘But we must be on the lookout. Make sure bad luck don’t catch any of us.’

  I try not to, but me keep thinking bout that poor slave. Keep seeing him arm all broken, mash up in the roller. And when I do, it make me feel weak, like I going to vomit.

  The only good thing bout the canefield, we get a chance to catch the rats that roam and scurry bout. Set traps and catch them good. We must chop off the tails. Bring them tails to Busha Davis. Let him pat us on the head when him tell us, ‘You are good little pickneys.’ Stand, wait, hold out our hand them till him give us a coin for every tail we bring him.

  I don’t know what the other pickney do, but Stella, she get plenty mad if I don’t give her all me coin them. Plenty times I ask her what she going do with them.

  But she tell me, ‘Hush up. Stop ask so many questions.’ Tell me, she saving them for me and Sammy future.

  This future business? I don’t know bout that. What I do know is I try catch as many rats as I can. Try to make Stella happy. Wait to see the smile cross her face when she take them big fat rats, cook them up good. Then we have a big feed. Specially since sometimes, no rain coming and the provision ground get all dry, all dusty and there is little food to eat and we bellies growling loud from hunger.

  By the time is crop-over, I forget bout Calla mutterings. Then one day, I not
ice little Pell sitting in the dirt playing, with him twisted smile. Pell still slow in the head and every year him seem to get slower. But Calla treat him no different.

  I go over to see what him doing. Notice him playing with a buckle. A bright, shiny, silver buckle. Must be drop off Massa shoe. Suddenly Thomas come running up. Him turn big, strong, and him even more mean to little Pell than him is to me. Him push Pell face into the dirt, try to pull the buckle away. Pell get frighten start to make a whole lot of noise, whimpering and wailing. Stella come running out the Great House, hurry over. Pull me and Thomas aside, try to calm little Pell down. Too late, Busha Davis come rushing over.

  ‘What the devil is going on?’ him shout.

  We all scatter except for Pell sitting in the dirt keep on bawling.

  ‘Can’t a gentleman get a little rest around here? Stop that unearthly noise. Stop it, I say.’ Him cuff Pell cross the head. Make him bawl even louder.

  Then Busha Davis notice what Pell have in him tight little fist. The buckle. Him try to grab it, but Pell hold it fast. Finally Busha Davis lift him stick, hit Pell cross him back. Cross him legs. Hit him hard and Pell scream loud, louder every time him get hit. By this time, everybody start gather round. Start to whisper, shake them head. Finally Massa show up.

  ‘Hold your fire, Davis,’ him say. ‘We can’t afford to lose another slave. Especially after that runaway got killed. Cost me too much already. Pell may be slow, but we can find a use for him.’

  ‘He’s stolen my buckle. We can’t let him get away with this. We must set a good example.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Massa say. ‘At least you got your buckle back. Lost mine at the races. I haven’t seen it since.’ Then Massa pull out him pocketwatch, take a good look. ‘Eleven o’clock, it must be close to second breakfast,’ him say. ‘Come, let us eat. Melon has prepared some fish and those plantain fritters you like.’