Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  Massa turn aside, take a good look at me before him tell Stella, ‘Go fetch Calla,’ and with that, him and Busha Davis enter the Great House. Don’t give Pell another thought.

  By this time, poor little Pell curled up on the ground like unripe ackee. Him bruised and bleeding from all the blows. Finally Calla come. Get one of the older slave them to help carry him back up to her hut.

  ‘Bad luck number two,’ I hear her mutter when she hobble past me.

  Everybody go back to work like nothing happen. But for me, is one big shock.

  Not just the beating, but what I see us slaves do. Notice how we just stand there, dumb like the animals. Do nothing when little Pell howl for him mother while him get beat. Even Stella. She just stay quiet, hold me close. Clutch me hand. Squeeze it so hard, I think it going drop off.

  ‘Why nobody do nothing?’ I ask her as we walk away.

  She tell me, ‘Hush up, mind you own business.’ Try cover up that she trembling.

  After little Pell get beat, is like the world I used to live in suddenly change. Stella don’t send me off to Calla hut no more. Now, in the morning, I have to go round the back of the Great House to weed in Massa provision ground. Run errands, sweep the yard, chase the piglets, just like what Calla teach us. Sometimes at night, must sleep outside Massa door, in case him need me to fetch something. Thomas get sent to work under Winston, learning how to be a field slave. As to little Pell, him turn shy, fret all the time, afraid of him own shadow. Left to sit in a pen under the shade of a big old silk-cotton tree. Smiling at nothing, shaking his head.

  The glimmering light up and I come to understand this new world, it sit on top of the trouble-less sleep world, weighing it down. And in this new world, there is two kinds of people. Kind and cruel. But in the long run it don’t matter, because how them is have nothing to do with me. With how I feel. With what I want. What I don’t want. Them don’t care. And when people turn kind, turn cruel, is nothing to do with if I behave good. If I behave bad. It don’t make one scrap of difference.

  And worse, nobody is able to stand between me, and the force of the world me born into.

  Me all alone.

  After that, I learn fast to do what anybody ask of me, nothing more. Nothing that going make me stand out. Hide me feelings and any extra little thing I learn, keep it secret. Cover everything up. So what happening on the inside don’t match with what I show on the outside. But then I start to feel funny, like I have to stop, catch me breath. And the earth I walk on, feel like it slipping and me insides, them feel raw and frightened and I don’t know what to do bout it.

  A few days later, it happen again. I start to feel more and more breathless, start to panic. It can happen suddenly, in the daytime, when I see Busha Davis coming up the path. In the night-time, inside the hut. It feel too closed in. Happening anytime, anywhere. Make me feel scared, since it get worse and worse. No way to stop it.

  It called breathing sickness.

  When the breath catch in me throat and it feel like me breathing through dirt, that the dirt keep pouring down me throat, that no air can get in, that me can only breathe out, can’t breathe in and all the time is nothing. No air. No air. Nothing, but dirt.

  It feel like me dying.

  When the breathing sickness find me, Stella turn away. It make her too fearful, so she try pretend nothing wrong. Not Calla. She afraid of nothing!

  When I get sick, she wrap me up in her shawl, turn into Granny Callie. The kind one who hold me in her arms, gently rock me like me still a baby. Make me drink bitter tea she make from the leaf of the dogwood tree. And when the sickness over and I can breathe again, she teach me how to stay calm. Breathe deep. Tell me she going explain things to me, but is best she do it far away from the Great House.

  Which is why, one day, we end up sitting in the middle of a cow pasture.

  Come morning, Calla get permission to gather me up, take a little walk into the fields where the cow them go every morning. Is the first time I leave Stella, leave Massa. Even leave the canefield them behind.

  We take food with us. Stop by the river, drink the cool, sweet water. Lay down in the shade of a big wide breadfruit tree. Calla need time to catch her breath from all the walking. Fan herself with a kerchief she always keep tucked in the bosom of her spotless white dress. When I get restless, she tell me to be quiet. To watch. Pretty soon me eyes open and I see into another world. A world I never see before. A world of freedom. The world of birds. And she start to point them out to me, tell me all them names. Which ones is good to eat, where to find them eggs.

  Then Calla make some tweeting sounds and pretty soon, here come one little one with him white chin and black and grey feathers hopping cross the ground. She throw out a few crumbs and him gobble them up.

  ‘Is a dove,’ she tell me. ‘Hopping Dick. A baby like you little ones, but him don’t need no one looking out for him no more.’

  Is all very interesting, looking at birds. But after a while I start to wonder what we really doing there. Finally I pluck up me courage.

  ‘Why we come here Calla? Not just to look at birds.’

  ‘No, not to look at birds. Is because of bad luck number three. Him catch you. Give you the breathing sickness.’

  She say no more till we have a little feed, drink some coconut water. Have a little doze. And when the sun start to shift in the sky and the shadows start to get long, Calla take out her pipe, fill it up with tobacco and start to talk.

  ‘What you must do,’ puffing on her pipe, ‘is stop all the mosquito dem.’

  ‘What you mean, Calla? What they have to do with the breathing sickness?’

  ‘What you think,’ knocking her bony knuckles on me head.

  ‘All me know is they is mighty hard to slap and kill.’

  ‘Not the ones dat buzz round on the outside,’ Calla say, chuckling. ‘The ones dat buzz round on the inside. The ones dat fill up you head with too many questions. Questions dat don’t have no answers. Is the inside mosquitoes dat cause the angry tears. They buzz, and cause the breathing sickness.’

  ‘Oh,’ nodding me head, acting like I understand. ‘You ever have the breathing sickness Calla?’

  ‘Use to. Long time ago now. But, no more.’

  ‘How you fix youself up?’

  ‘The only thing you can do is forget bout what happen the day before. Don’t carry the memory round like a sore toe you keep bumping. Forget bout what going happen tomorrow. You not going know till it arrive anyway. Only stay alive, from day to day. Because if you don’t learn to stop all the mosquito dem from buzzing, the breathing sickness going kill you.’

  Calla draw some more on her pipe. ‘This slavery business,’ shaking her head, ‘been going on for a long, long, long time. Nothing you or me can do bout it. Fretting not going change it one little bit. Some of us born on the plantation, like you, like Stella. Some like me, we born somewhere else. But don’t seem to make no difference. In the end, you, me, Stella somehow we ended up in slavery.’

  I get all excited. ‘Where, Calla? Where you come from?’

  ‘If you settle down, little Will, I going tell you. From cross de seas. Africa! A big, big country, bigger than dis little island. The place me call me true home,’ and Calla eye them get watery when she look out cross the fields like she seeing this home of hers. And in the glimmering I can sense the wide, wide spaces too.

  ‘Why, Calla? Why you leave this Africa place?’

  ‘Get stolen by the Black Mother. What backra call the slave trade. The trade in sugar. In bondage. In pain.’ Is all she say bout that. Start to cough, almost choke. Make me rub her back till she can speak again. ‘Get sold to Old Massa William. Long before you born.’

  Calla must be mighty old, me thinking.

  ‘Now Massa Cargill, him son own me. Just like him own you. Own Stella. Own all the slave dem on Rock Pleasant. And him can do whatever him want to any of us.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Why? Why? See how the mosquito d
em buzz and buzz. Is what going kill you.’

  ‘But why?’ I ask again.

  Calla look at me hard. ‘Is just the way things is, little Will.’

  ‘Then nuttin’ going ever change,’ and it pain me to think is true.

  Calla pat me head. ‘You too smart for you own good.’

  ‘Too many mosquito dem buzzing round.’

  She laugh out loud. ‘Too many. Some slaves turn bad. Try to fight it. Get into plenty trouble,’ she say. ‘Some slaves don’t know how to fight it, so we fight it on the inside. Make us get sick.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, starting to understand. ‘Like what happen to me?’

  ‘Yes, little Will. Like what happen to you. And if you let it, it going kill you.’

  ‘Me don’t want to be sick all the time. Me want to be big and strong.’

  ‘Yes,’ Calla say.

  ‘Like … like … like Massa.’

  ‘Not like me?’ Calla ask, looking at me straight.

  ‘No! Like Massa.’

  ‘Well then,’ she say. She hold me close, and her face fill up with disappointment. ‘Time to see things way they is, little Will. The way things always going be. You never going be nothing but a slave.’

  The Shadow

  A few seasons pass since Calla sat me down, had a little talk in the cow pasture. It must help, because by the time I turn ten me much calmer. Not so many of the mosquito them buzzing round on the inside. I learn how to play dumb. Know how to bow me head, say, ‘Yes Busha, right away Busha.’ Stand very still. Fold into the shadow places so I turn invisible, unseen, while others move round me. Know how to listen in at keyholes. Sneak a look in windows, round half-closed doors. Peep through a hole in the floorboards, from underneath the Great House. Look and listen in on all manner of goings-on. Not seeing that sometimes part of me gone missing and I get lost in a silence that is harder and harder to come out from. But is a silence I cling to. Make me feel safe. Since most times, nobody notice me. Specially when Sammy, me younger brother, hovering round. Because soon enough, Sammy turn favourite. Make Stella always patting and cooing to him. And when old Phoebe get too old to work, Stella turn head house slave. No longer just cleaning woman. Abandoned me. Un-ruddered me from her apron strings.

  Now, every morning, I do the same thing. When the sun start to colour up the sky, I set out through the tall guinea grass at the back of the plantation. Calla sometimes boil it up, use it to stop a fever. When I stand in the middle of that grass, it so tall, all I see is a wide, wide greenness. A new day greenness. Fresh, the yellow feathery tips, dipped with dew.

  This is the way to get to the river. A river that come from high up in the hills till him creep through the plantation, wiggly wind him way down into the next one. A river to wash in, to play in. Home to a little rock pool. Soft, with lime green ferns I lay down in. Look up through the leaves. See the sky. Feel the sun. Feel it heal the sad places, hiding under me skin. Is a secret place, a place no one go to. Stamp bout, crush its lonely beauty.

  On the way back, I pass through the stables. Feed the horses overripe guava that drop from the trees. Feel them nuzzle at me hands, the juice dripping through me fingers. Save the biggest one for the water-barrel mule I sometimes ride to find lost cattle.

  After, I slip through the back door of the Great House kitchen. Greet Melon, the big-arm cook with dimples in her cheeks. Always wear a blue dress, yellow head-tie, white apron tight round her waist. She have a sister, Winnie, slaving for a family up in Montego Bay. Don’t have no pickney, except for little orphan Mary. Mary mother die giving birth and she get passed round and round, hut to hut, till Melon say she going raise her. Get permission from Mistress Margaret to bring her into the kitchen. Teach her how to scrub pots, get food ready for cooking. Mary not so pretty, but she always chatty-chatty, keep Melon spirits up, sing like them pea doves. And when Melon not looking, Mary roll her eye them, stick her tongue out behind Melon back.

  Sometimes, when Melon have a visitor, Mary come sit on the floor beside me. We huddle in the corner listening in on gossip bout who doing what to who. Who selling what where, in the busy Sunday markets. Melon don’t bother bout clothes and linens, all the fancy thing them women like. She only bother bout her herbs and spices to make food taste better. Specially when hurricane season is pon us and the weather turn fierce and the rain set in and is too wet to make a move anywhere.

  Melon only let me linger in the kitchen come morning time. One day is a short time. Next day is a long time and I come to know which, by the look on her face. Short if she tired, stay up half the night cooking for Massa and him guests. Long if Massa off the plantation or head out early to the canefield them.

  If is short, she start yelling before I even come through the door.

  ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing b’woy. Come ’ere to waste time in’a me kitchen? Clean up dis mess,’ she say, handing me a broom. ‘When you done, tek garbage down’a the dunghill. Mek haste.’ She pick up her mixing spoon. Give me a good slap.

  I do any jobs Melon want doing quick. The sooner them done, the sooner I get a little reward. A juicy wing of chicken. A piece of plantain she bake in the skin. If I hang round too long though, she shoo me out the door.

  ‘G’wan bout you business, little Will. Time you do some work round ’ere.’ Then she pinch me arm, shake her head. ‘Still scrawny. Need to fatten you up.’

  ‘Just like the piglet dem?’

  ‘Just like the piglet dem,’ she say, before she turn her back on me. Nudge Mary to hurry up with them pots, and I know is time to go.

  Now is Busha Davis I work to. But no matter how hard I try, him never satisfied. Find fault in everything I do. Even when I digging out the weeds from the spiral stone steps leading up to the front entrance of the Great House. Lucky for me, looking after cattle is the main thing. So after I visit to the kitchen, I take up the little switch I leave cotched behind the kitchen door. Use it to prod the mama and baby cow them all the way to the far pasture. Listen to the bells round them neck clanking, listen as them bellow to each other. Cow talk I call it, but them only talk bout where is the sweetest grass. The freshest water. The trees with big shade so them can huddle together.

  After calving season, is a different kind of bellow. Them cows don’t talk. Them cry all day and all night. Crying for them babies, asking after them. Don’t know Massa get Winston to take them babies to market. Sell them off, just like when him sell off Thomas. Sell off Ellen. Sell off Jane.

  Thomas got sold long time ago. Nobody sorry to see him go. Every season him turn meaner and meaner, got into fights. Spent many a night in the bilboes. The mosquito them must be sting and sting him, because one day, him beat up little Pell so bad, him face all mash up and it never look the same. Winston seen it. Catch Thomas delivering the last blow. Lock him up till Massa decide what to do with him. Tell me to fetch a wheelbarrow, put crumpled-up little Pell inside, push him up the hill to Calla. Was a hard thing pushing that wheelbarrow up the stony path, was even harder listening to little Pell moan. When Massa found out what happened, him plenty angry, got Winston to give Thomas a whipping. Winston whipped him bad, before Massa sent Thomas off in chains. Sold to a big plantation on another island cross the seas.

  One day I ask Calla why little Pell got beat, when him causing nobody no harm.

  ‘The weak always pay for the strong,’ she tell me. ‘Take on the suffering that seem to gather round dem. When everybody look at little Pell, it make dem feel better, because dem know dem is luckier than him.’

  ‘But why Thomas beat him up?’ I still didn’t understand.

  ‘Thomas strong on the outside, but weak on the inside, have no true strength. When him look at Pell, him see himself. But him want nobody else see it.’

  After the beating, little Pell turn even softer in the head. Ended up sleeping with the dogs, till one day, him just drifted off the plantation and nobody seen him since. Everybody shake them head, mutter what a bad thing, but deep down nobody really care. Even me, was a re
lief, no more funny-looking, smiling little Pell, following me everywhere.

  When Massa decided to sell Jane and Ellen, was a big surprise. Nobody think him going sell Sydney and Winston pickney. Didn’t have much to do with them girls anymore. Just used to peek at them through the shutters, when them cleaning in the Great House. When we cross paths, them stick them nose up at me, just like how Sammy teach them to do.

  ‘Pretty slave girls like them fetch a good price, and Massa need the money,’ Stella muttered to Melon, acting like is nothing.

  But what a ruckus Sydney made, weeping and wailing when she found out she going lose her children. Cry even louder when them girls sitting up in the back of the cart, calling out to her as it rumbled away. I never see Sydney run so fast. Followed that cart till she couldn’t run no more. Fell down in a heap like she dead. Take a long time before Sydney face light up with a smile again.

  As to the young cattle Massa didn’t sell, them got branded with a red-hot branding iron. CM, it say, and no animal and no slave escape Massa mark. Even me and Sammy. Happened after last crop-over. Stella got very upset when she heard me and Sammy screaming. Make no difference that Winston rub on a little palm oil before him press that hot iron into our skin. Stella took us back to the hut to calm us down, but I ran away. Ran up the hill, go visit Calla instead.

  ‘What a wicked man,’ she said, when she hugged me up. ‘How can Massa put him cruel mark pon him own children?’

  Even with Calla potions, the burn, it hurt too much to make a sound. So I and the young cow them, we said nothing bout it at all.

  Now that planting season come round and finish, everybody waiting for the cane to ripen. Waiting for the long days and nights ahead, when is time to cut the cane. Mean I get to spend longer and longer out in the pasture before somebody come fetch me to do any extra jobs.

  At noontime, when the sun sit high in the sky, I rest under the breadfruit tree. The same tree Calla take me to when I was young, trying teach me how to survive in the world I come to be in. It seem so big and tall back then, now it seem smaller, but it still give off the best shade in the pasture. I lay there, resting, drifting in and out of sleep. Watching the sky. Watching, waiting for me friend to show up.