Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  Rainy season.

  Big storm come blowing up through the valley. Must be knocked him out the nest. Found him squawking under the tree when him was just a baby. I took him to Calla and she fixed him up good. Dug out a big calabash. Made a bed of dry grass for him to lay down in. Mixed up grubs with little bits of herbs, showed me how to feed him.

  One day Calla told me, patting and cooing to him all the while, ‘This young hawk. Him never going learn to fly. Need him mama and papa to teach him.’

  Calla didn’t want to see him fly. She wanted take him away, keep him for herself. Make him a pet. Use him feather them in her night-time ritual. So I turned papa and mama. Took him with me out to the pasture. Made him try to fly day after day till one day, him suddenly lifted up on the wind and gone.

  When Calla found out, she plenty angry. Plenty sorry to see that bird go.

  ‘Next time you listen to me if you know what good for you!’ using her bony knuckles to knock me on the head. ‘Now that bird gone. Nobody happy.’

  And every time after that when she ran cross me, she reminded me how foolish it was to let that bird slip away.

  ‘Freedom is a powerful thing,’ she told me. ‘No bird, no man, no beast desire to enter a locked cage.’

  Was the first time I didn’t listen to Calla. She full of wisdom. Teach me many things, but in the glimmering I come to understand that sometimes you must follow you own mind. Walk down you own road. Is the only way to know if what you do is wrong, or what you do is right.

  Every chance I got, kept watch under the birth tree, praying to the Ancestors for that hawk to return. I almost gave up hope when, one day, I heard a lonesome cry come echoing on the wind. Saw a shadow curving fast cross the field. A flash of red – him tail. Dark brown – him wings. White, the underbelly as him circled round and round. Listened as the cry got closer and closer, till I finally saw him circle, swoop down on some frightened creature. Had him fill before him dropped what’s left at me feet. And when I saw him, heard him, received him little gift, the biggest happiness bubbled up inside. Is then I decided to give him me name and called him William. William the Second, just like the king and queen them in that Mother Country Massa always boasting bout.

  Now every day seem like a new day as I wait and watch for him return. I don’t tell Calla, is our little secret. I have a friend. We watch and wait together in the lazy heat of the afternoon. Him to spot him prey, and me to not have to run when Busha Davis call. To come and go as I please. To live a life that belong only to me. To be free like William the Second circling in a blue and mostly cloudless sky, high up above the world of bondage.

  I open up to the glimmering and do the same thing. Run me mind through the seeing and hearing of things. Circling, twisting, turning them inside out, till them become like a story I collect. A story I keep, one on top of the other inside the breadfruit tree.

  One story is bout old cripple Jonnie. Him have a hut right in the middle of them dogwood trees. Whenever I walk past, him call me over. Tell me the same story over and over again. His story is one of the saddest that sit inside the breadfruit tree.

  ‘See dis funny leg,’ him say, when him pull up him pants leg to show me the stump. ‘A horse done dat. Rear up pon him back legs and trample me.’

  ‘Me know, Jonnie. Me know.’ But it don’t stop him telling the story.

  ‘Leg swell up. Turn yello’ and green. Start to ooze pus. Everybody come have a look. Many oohs and aahs and head shaking. Not even Calla medicine can help me. “Have to chop it off,” Doctor Watson say. Mek me drink plenty rum. Put a piece a wood in’a me mouth. Tell the other slave dem to hold me down. Tell me to bite down hard when him saw through the bone. Lawd of mercy! Even with all dat rum. It hurt me, little Will. It hurt me so bad. Me bite straight through dat little old dutty piece’a wood.’

  Feel sorry for old cripple Jonnie, but I hear that story so many times, all I can do is nod.

  ‘Is a hard ting to lose a leg. Me can still feel the pain of it. Was a good leg too,’ him say, holding up him stump.

  ‘Was a long time ago,’ I say, trying to cheer him up. But Jonnie just ignore me, keep rubbing him old dried-up stump. Don’t know why I bother, Jonnie never going get cheered up.

  Only time I see him happy is when the Maroon man, Robert McKellar, come for a visit. Jonnie help him to catch a runaway slave when him was two-legged. McKellar was grateful, gave him a little of the reward him got. After that, whenever him come down from the hills and passing through, him always looking in on Jonnie. One day I ask Melon bout him.

  ‘Jonnie used to be head driver, before Winston time. Was Old Massa William favourite. Work the field slave dem too hard. Some say dat horse-trampling business, it was no accident. Now him can’t work, just do nuttin’. What Massa going do? Nobody going buy old cripple Jonnie. Can’t just kill him. Massa use him when him can,’ Melon say, shaking her head. ‘Is one sorry business. You seen him. Most times all him do is sit outside him hut. Smoke him pipe. Night-time, drink bitter cassava. Sing sad songs. Have no friends. Most everybody close to him dead. Soon him going be dead too.’

  ‘Too bad him one bad singer,’ I say, putting me fingers in me ears. Melon laugh, then shoo me out the kitchen.

  Another story is bout Massa mother, Mistress Margaret. Her room is at the back of the Great House, the coolest part that look out over where red and pink rose bush grow. Nobody round there much. Make it easy to hide, peep through the window. Have to be careful, don’t do it too often. Because it going be big, big trouble, if anybody catch me.

  Is a funny thing to look at, when she sitting in front of her mirror putting powder on her face, trying hard to cover up the red veins on her nose. Is how I know she going visiting, sitting in her carriage all dressed up. And when she bored, she spend a long time poking and prodding herself with a pair of bone handle tweezers. Sometimes she draw blood and it look like she like it.

  ‘A gift from my French grandmother,’ holding them up like them is something special.

  She tell Melon this French place where her people come from. But Melon tell me, ‘From the time me come work in’a dis kitchen as a pickney, Mistress Margaret, she never hear nuttin’ from any’a dem French people. Is a good ting too. The Mother Country at war wid dem Frenchies.’

  Day to day I never have much to do with Mistress Margaret, but Stella have nothing good to say bout her or Sydney her slave. Maybe she jealous. I don’t know why, cause from what I see, Stella wouldn’t like to look after Mistress Margaret the way Sydney do.

  When the day so hot you feel the heat before the sun rise himself up, Sydney half close the shutters, help Mistress Margaret into the big copper bathtub. Wash her hair, pour cool water down her bony back, rub her arm them with lemons to try bleach the sun brownness from her skin.

  Other days, Sydney sing to her like she a baby. Soothe away her tears as she lay there moaning bout her fate now Old Massa William pass on. Not caring that Sydney, a grown woman, was forced to let Jane and Ellen go when Massa sold them to the plantation next to this one. What a big ruckus it caused when Massa discovered Sydney been sneaking off at night to visit her children, without him permission. Massa told Winston to drag her outside and flog her. Was the first time Winston not run to do Massa bidding.

  What was worse, Massa made us all watch when Winston had to force Sydney to lay on the ground, show her back. Listened when she begged for mercy, promised not to do it again. Winston gave him wife ten lashes. Only ten, but still her back did bleed. Some of us hung our heads in shame for Sydney, she never got flogged before. Stella hung her head, but I noticed she had that snake smile on her face.

  ‘Sydney getting uppity,’ I heard Stella tell Melon one day when she was helping out in the kitchen. ‘Think because she Mistress Margaret favourite she deserve special treatment. Huh. You wait. One day she going see Mistress Margaret turn. Just like Massa turn with me.’

  Stella not so wrong, because what Mistress Margaret did?

  Watched Sydney
get flogged, all quiet-like, and said nothing.

  After all me chore them, I sometimes keep watch on Massa, looking to find a new story. Creep inside him empty bedroom, when no one looking. Sit on the floor, open up him clothes cupboard. Push me hand way down inside him boots, just to get a feel of him. Stand in front of a long mirror, see how much I grow, even if I never seem to get much bigger.

  Looking for signs. Signs of who I could be, if Stella not reel me out, tell Massa me not him son. Even though Calla tell me, ‘Course you him son.’ Make no difference what Calla think. When Massa see me coming, him always look the other way.

  Used to be Old Massa William bedroom. The big one at the front of the Great House. Have a wide window with wooden shutters that look out down towards the canefield them. Can see the mountain through them shutters. The one that look close but is far, far away. Sometimes that mountain is violet like the little flowers Mistress Margaret sew on her pillowcases. Other times is indigo like the dye them make in the plantation next to this one. And in the rainy season, that old mountain turn from green to grey, the mist dipping down to cover it. Is funny, though, no matter when I creep inside – morning time, evening time – Massa always keep the shutter them half closed.

  Now the thing is, Massa bedroom like the plantation. Him story all bout routine, routine, routine. Sheets get changed every second Saturday and Stella is the only one him let do it. She take them down to the river, beat them on the rocks. Wash them clean and fresh. Hang them out to dry, press them with a hot iron while them still damp. Is a happy time for me, because Stella let me sit close. Let me watch the steam from the iron rise.

  And while Stella make the bed, she always complain bout not being able to use the good sheets, the ones Massa keep under lock and key in the linen cupboard.

  ‘Lawd, that man stubborn,’ she say, getting me to help her fold in the ends. ‘By the time him let me use the good sheets, them going be old. Why him do such a ting?’

  I learn young, is best not to answer. Massa have a big writing desk that sit in the far corner with two small tables push up each side of him bed. Jonnie make them when him was still two-legged. Is up to me to rub with polish I make fresh every season, from citrus oil mixed up with beeswax. Last long time, make the whole room smell sweet.

  When Mistress Margaret doing her inspection in the Great House, I have to stand by them tables while she wipe her finger along the edges.

  ‘Such pretty wood,’ she say, ignoring me, before she move to see if any dust collecting on the windowsill.

  Sometimes when Massa come in from the fields. Pull out him books, make them marks. Words and numbers him call them. Me peep at him through a hole in the floorboards. Hear Mistress Margaret nagging him. Is like a game, because them always say the same thing.

  ‘When was the last time we purchased a new chair?’

  ‘Isn’t there enough clutter in the house, Mother?’

  ‘A new mahogany sideboard?’

  ‘Why is something new better than something old?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that in your father’s day. He was proud to display his wealth.’

  ‘Yes, and he left us in terrible debt.’

  Mistress Margaret never give up. She complain again. Try to get Massa to change the carpet.

  ‘Thanks to his good taste, that carpet has lasted as long as it has, but surely it’s in dire need of replacement.’

  The carpet is one Old Massa William bring with him from some place Mistress Margaret call India, when them was stationed there. Must be a long time ago because that carpet, it all worn down, stringy round the edge of it.

  ‘And when are you going to get rid of that painting? It’s a disgrace. There are so many eligible young women you could have painted.’

  ‘Leave things alone, Mother. Enough! Stop your meddling!’

  Then I hear the door slam as Mistress Margaret march out the room.

  One day, I ask Stella bout the painting.

  ‘Massa paint it. When me was young,’ she say, leaning on her broomstick. ‘Massa used to paint all the time, you know. Calmed him right down,’ and her face soften and she have a faraway look. ‘Used to make me carry him paints, him brushes. Rise early. Walk far and wide looking to find a good vantage point. That’s what him called it. Seemed to look all the same to me.’

  ‘How come him stop?’

  ‘Mistress Margaret make such a fuss bout it. Make Old Massa William take away Massa paints.’

  ‘Why him do that?’

  ‘Why why why. You ask too many questions, little Will,’ Stella say, shaking out her dusting rag.

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I going ask Calla. She don’t hide tings from me.’

  Stella stop what she doing. Look at me hard, but I look right back. At last she say, ‘Everything stop when him find the special paintings.’

  ‘What paintings?’

  Stella sigh. ‘The ones Massa paint of me. Had to lay down in the grass. Lay quiet, not move a muscle, even if ant bite me,’ and Stella have that faraway look again. Sigh when she tell me, ‘Him put flowers in me hair.’

  ‘Why him want to do that? Him can look pon you whenever him want.’ Stella don’t answer, just sigh some more. ‘Must be before me born?’ Stella just nod, get on with her dusting.

  I go up to the painting, take a closer look.

  ‘You pretty back then. Much prettier than Mistress Margaret.’

  Stella stop what she doing. March right over. Cuff me bout the ears. ‘Never you mind bout pretty,’ she say. ‘You be careful round that woman. She two-faced. Play nicey nicey. Then spread plenty plenty lies behind you back.’

  In the evening, after everybody have them supper and the plantation quiet down, Massa retire to him room. Must be hiding himself away from Mistress Margaret nagging. The room have a little side door open out to a path that lead to the back pen, past a grove of bamboo trees, before it make it way up to the slave village. A secret door him slip through, believing nobody see him. Of course I know what him up to. Been watching him come and go since me a pickney.

  After him return from stopping by Stella, or lately one of the young slave women. Is then I take up me hiding place, just behind the wait-a-bit thorn hedge. The hedge Massa plant to keep out the animals from him gardens. Make ready to collect more seeing and hearing story them. Watch as him make marks in him book, on him paper. Marks that mean much to him, but hold not much meaning for me.

  Watch as him call Sammy into the room. Teach him how to make them marks. The word and number them. See how proud it make Stella, when she find out. But it only make her angry when I ask her how come Massa don’t teach me the marks the way him teach Sammy.

  If I want answers as to how come things is the way them is, I know who I must ask. Like always, Calla don’t want to talk bout it at first. Then one day as I follow her up to her hut, she tell me a story.

  ‘Is the shadow,’ and I hear deep sorrow in her voice. ‘It protect Stella. It also give her a mean streak. Make her see the world in only one colour. If something bite her, no matter what, she must bite back.’

  ‘What the shadow have to do with it?’ Looking back at ours as them follow us up the hill.

  ‘Not that kind of shadow,’ Calla say. ‘The kind that live and grow inside us. From the moment we born and backra turn us into a slave. Right up till we die as one. And that shadow is like a tear. Have jagged cruel edges. And is not a little tear, is a tear that get bigger and bigger. Fill up with worry, with dread, with fear. And this shadow, it sit in the pit of our belly. Give us no rest. But,’ Calla say, banging her knuckles on me head so I going listen good, ‘is also what push us to survive. And Stella, well she have one big, deep shadow running through her. Clawing at her guts. Make her the biggest survivor of us all. Stella mother drown when she was a little pickney. No brother, no sister to look out for her. Nobody but old Calla here.’

  ‘What this have to do with Sammy and me?’ I ask, when we get to her hut and Calla give me a cool drink from her water barre
l.

  ‘Every pickney a mother give birth to is special. But the first born is the one she fret over the most. You is the first thing Stella have that belong to her, belong to her alone. And she don’t want nobody else to have claim over you. Not even Massa.’

  Nothing Calla say make any sense.

  ‘Never mind,’ she say. ‘You going understand when you have few more years on you.’

  That may be true, but all I come to know is brother or not, Sammy is no friend of mine. One day, when I sneak into Massa room to have a look round, him suddenly show up.

  ‘What you doing in this room?’ him ask, as if him own the place. ‘Is not cleaning day.’

  ‘What you doing here?’ I ask back.

  ‘Massa send me to collect him book dem,’ sticking him nose up. ‘What you waiting for? Take dem!’

  Then him make a move to shove me out the door.

  ‘Me wait for you to go.’ I shove him back.

  ‘Me leave when me want to.’

  ‘Stay then! But me going tell Massa you always in him room. Looking at him things. That you up to no good.’

  ‘Why you want to do that?’

  ‘You think because Calla favour you mean you special? You is nothing. Just a lazy good-for-nothing boy! Is what Massa always saying.’

  Then I hear the word them that cut me even deeper.

  ‘Me the only son Massa have. Me and only me. And,’ Sammy carry on, get all puffed up, ‘Massa tell me, one day him going send me to the Mother Country. Get proper ed-u-cay-shon. Then when me come back, is me going be the Massa. And you going be the slave.’

  I look at Sammy like me seeing him for the first time. Him seven. Three years younger, but him world already different from mine. Him carving out a place for himself in this world. A place him have no plan to let me enter. Is then I see. Sammy no longer brother, no longer friend. Him a rival, and I must move careful, stay clear away from him dark intentions.