Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  Deep in me heart, I know is not him fault. Sammy just follow along the way things shape up to be. Sometimes after Massa have him supper, him call Stella to him room. Watch her with him pale, caneleaf-colour eye them as she slip through the half-open side door. Go in, make herself comfortable, sipping on Old Massa William rum. Tell Massa all the coming and going in the slave village. Help him to see the slave them that do good. The slave them that do bad. Just like what she did for him father. Sometimes she even bring Sammy in there. Have him play at them feet on that frayed-up old India carpet. Make it look like them is one big happy family.

  I sit in the dirt, watch from behind the wait-a-bit thorn hedge, looking at a life that was never meant for me.

  The Long Road Home

  Seasons start. Seasons finish. Plantation life go on as usual. Then one night, old cripple Jonnie up and dead. Is me that find him in the dawn light, sitting outside on the step of him hut. Hunched over, mouth open like him having a little sleep. I run up to the Great House, tell Stella and she send out word to Busha Davis and Massa. Soon the whole plantation know old cripple Jonnie gone over to the Ancestors. Then is plenty wailing and weeping from the other slave them.

  When Calla find out, she hobble over to the hut. Shoo away the little crowd standing round, looking pon old cripple Jonnie like them never see him before. Then she get me to help lay out Jonnie body on the bed, cover him over with a cloth she keep back special. Lock up the hut, while we make ready for all the funeral preparations.

  Is a powerful thing this funeral rite business, when a slave crossing over from the world of the living to the world of the dead. Calla bring the knowledge with her from Africa. Tell me she was chosen by the Ancestor spirit them, from when she was a pickney.

  Before we start, Calla send me to the river to wash all over. Make me bow down before her. Pour libations over me head. Pray for guidance and protection. Cut the tip of her finger, drip the blood in a circle round me.

  ‘You have no power of you own, Willy. Twelve still too young,’ she explain. ‘Have to use the power of me blood to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me from what, Calla?’

  ‘Spirits, waiting, watching, hoping to catch a ride.’

  ‘Catch a ride?’

  ‘Enter the body, hook into the soul. Live again on this earthly plane.’

  I draw closer to Calla.

  ‘Any spirits close by?’ I ask, looking round.

  ‘Don’t you worry bout that, Willy,’ Calla say with a chuckle. ‘Time to get to work.’

  And with that, we open up the hut and go in.

  Not much in old cripple Jonnie hut. A broken-down box him use as a table. Two stools him must be make for himself. Him best shirt, him pants. Not much for a man that live as long as him did. Calla notice me just looking round and tell me to ‘mek haste!’ Soon every corner get dusted, get washed. But the floor need a good deal of sweeping before Calla happy with it.

  While she waiting for me to finish cleaning, she sit outside, have a nice little smoke from her pipe. Gather up the things she going need to prepare Jonnie for the burial ritual.

  First she take up a sharp knife, cut the clothes off Jonnie body.

  ‘Throw dem on the fire,’ she say. ‘Stay and watch. Make sure they burn up good. After, take him shirt and pants down to the river. Wash dem plenty times.’

  I burn Jonnie old clothes till them turn to ash. Go down to the river, wash him good shirt and pants plenty times, then wash them again.

  By the time I hang the clothes out to dry and return to the hut, Calla ready to start in on the next thing. ‘We clean the hut, clean the clothes. Now we must wash and clean the body,’ she tell me.

  Calla pull the cover off Jonnie and him lay there all naked like the day him born. Even though him old, him still have strong wiry arms and him good leg full of muscle. Get a good look at the cripple leg, feel the stump. Is like seeing the strong and the weak of him, side by side.

  ‘We must first start washing on him back,’ Calla say, nudging me to pay attention.

  What a surprise when we turn him over. Jonnie back covered in scars, marked up bad from the lash. Deep scars. Jagged scars crossed and crossed again. I never see it so bad. Then I remember how him always used to have a shirt on, no matter how hot the day. Must be because him felt shame.

  I look at Calla to ask what happen, but she scowl at me, knock her bony knuckles on me head. ‘Not now, Willy. Not now. Your job is to watch. To listen. To learn.’

  We spend a good long time washing Jonnie body from him head down to him foot. Calla show me how we must work together, one on each side, moving in circles, reaching the same place at the same time, till it seem like we putting life back into the used-up old body of cripple Jonnie. The glimmering light up and I come to understand, we giving him a blessing him didn’t get in life. Then we turn him over, start the blessing on him front.

  Calla make me use water from a yabba she have beside the bed. When it get dirty, I go to throw it away, but Calla stop me. Make me throw it in the empty barrel she put outside the door.

  And when the clothes get dry, all fresh, all clean, we dress Jonnie in him best clothes.

  I think this is the end of the dressing business, but no. Calla snip all the buttons from the shirt. Cut out the pockets from him pants. Throw them all in the barrel. Then she sew up all the hole them, so nothing left open.

  When we take a little rest, I ask Calla, ‘Why we must do the burning and washing and sewing business?’

  ‘Stop him spirit from trying to come back into the body. Turn into duppie.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, and shake me head, remembering all the story them I used to hear as a pickney.

  Like how a duppie come back to haunt Cudjau, one of the field slave them. Cudjau stole what little bit of money the duppie saved up for him daughter. Went and spent it all on rum. Every night the duppie rattled things in Cudjau hut. Threw things bout, drove him out, made him turn crazy. Calla had to do plenty of her moon magic to make the duppie go in peace.

  Is very confusing, this duppie business. Is part of what Calla do, but is the part that make me afraid. The part that make me draw away from wanting to follow in her footsteps, even though I know she would like it.

  Helping Calla mean she long time ago put me under her protection. Make it be known, I is the one she favour. Most times is a good thing, like when she ask Busha Davis to release me, so I can help with all the funeral rites, and him can’t say no. Other times, is not so good, mean slaves going keep them distance, don’t want to come too close, in case Calla use Obeah to gain power over them. As far as I know, Calla only use her power for good, but ask somebody else and them might tell you different.

  I don’t care what them think. Calla is the only one seem to care bout me. Can turn to her when me feeling sad, feeling low, want answers to questions. Mind you, I never outstay me welcome. Never want to feel the wrath and fury side she can bring down on some poor slave head.

  We finish the cleaning business just in time, before the mourners start to arrive. If you didn’t know somebody dead, you know it now. You can hear them bawling and screeching from way off, where them gathering at the edge of the plantation. Start walking up the long drive towards the Great House. Hear the wailing get louder as them coming up through the dogwood trees. And when them get outside Jonnie hut, the weeping and wailing so loud, I must cover up me ears.

  This mourning business take plenty strength, not everybody can do it. Is a group of women that come together just for mourning and them learn it from when them was a pickney. Some come from Rock Pleasant, but many come from all round.

  Stella and Sydney is two of the mourner women. I don’t see them at first because everybody look the same. Them covered in white from head to foot. White dress. White turban. White ash on them skin, on them arms. All over them face.

  Is the first time Stella enter Calla world. The first time I come to understand the power that lay between them. Stella rule over the Great House, but Cal
la have the bigger power. She rule over the plantation, and the world between the living and the dead.

  Backra say preaching Obeah, working magic, is a crime. All them backra like Massa can send Calla to gaol. Put her on trial. Find her guilty. Hang her till she dead. But she too valuable. Is she that control the slave them on the plantation. Not the driver, not Busha. She is the one in charge. If she say jump in the river, swim with the crocodile them, the slave going jump.

  When everybody ready, Calla stand tall, stand proud outside the hut. ‘Welcome, mourners, welcome,’ she say. ‘Come let us mourn the dead!’

  After a lot of shuffling and pushing, the mourning women go stand round the bed, leave a space at the front where Calla stand. I try to enter, but Calla tell me to sit outside on a stump. Protect the entrance. Listen and watch from there.

  When everybody settle down, Calla lay out a white cloth on a little altar she place at the foot of the bed. On it she put down a bottle of rum, a plate of boiled rice and fowl. Have some orange peppers she put on top. Them so hot, if the pepper touch you lip you must run drink plenty water to cool you mouth down.

  ‘Jonnie like him food hotter than hot,’ she call out, holding up one of the pepper them, swallow it whole, and me notice her face get bright red.

  Next she pick up the bottle and shake it. ‘Jonnie like him rum dark and strong,’ before she take a long, long drink, put back the little bit what leave-over.

  She lift up a calabash full up with water. Take a sip, spurt it out. Do it a few times, before she pour the water on the ground in front of the altar, calling out in a loud voice to the spirit of Jonnie.

  ‘Come Jonnie, come. Come for water. Come wash you hands. Come eat. Come drink.’

  Then she leave things quiet so Jonnie spirit can enjoy him eating and drinking.

  All of a sudden, Calla raise up her arms. Raise them up high. Stand over Jonnie body, looking down pon him for a long time, her voice lifting in mumbled prayers. She using words that only the dead can hear and she helping Jonnie spirit to make the crossing back to the Ancestors.

  After a short while, she signal she want the mourners to join in, do some mourning. What a ruckus with the swaying, weeping and wailing as though Jonnie was them only son. And when Calla calling out in prayer, calling out the words of the dead, is the voice I remember from when I was a baby. A voice that roll and rumble, deep and strong like thunder.

  Calla turn into mighty Obeah woman. I can see the strength pouring out of her. Her power fill up the whole hut and hover outside round the edges. Calla showing her true face. Uncovered, in the light of the sun, not hidden within the veil of night.

  After that, Calla settle herself on a little stool before the altar. Start to beat out a rhythm on a piece of iron hoop with a stick. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clangity clang, the stick go. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clangity clang, the mourners go, clapping in time with her rhythm, before them take turns singing out to Jonnie spirit.

  ‘Walk in peace, old Jonnie,’ one of them say.

  ‘You chains been broken,’ another say. ‘Mus’ feel good.’

  ‘No more will you suffer. Praise the Lord,’ the next one say.

  ‘You gone to a better place,’ Sydney say. ‘Mind you, any place better than dis.’

  ‘You lucky devil. You is free. Free at last,’ Stella sing out.

  ‘Praise be,’ Calla say.

  ‘Praise be,’ the mourners say.

  Round and round them go, singing out, clapping and clanging before Calla finally shout, ‘Praise to the Ancestors! What is done is done!’

  And bang, she clang her stick against the hoop one last time.

  After so much noise and carry-on the silence come down on us heavy like a sheet. It take us all a little while to get used to it. Finally everybody head outside the hut.

  Now I understand why Massa so put out when him hear Jonnie dead. This funeral business is a big thing. Him not going get much work out of any of us. And as the day pass, I come to see how even though old cripple Jonnie not much loved on the plantation, him going get sent cross to the Ancestors with dignity.

  While me taking a long cool drink from the water barrel, I see Sammy and Melon coming along the path up through the dogwood trees, carrying a big yabba. Melon going use it to cook food over a fire. As usual, Sammy try ignore me. But since me the one helping Calla, him have to pay attention to me.

  We clear the ground by the bamboo grove. Cover it with a cloth Stella pick out special. Then we work together to lay out the extra food visitors bring. Them that travel from far and wide to attend the funeral. Make me feel proud as we help Melon to serve the food. Make sure everybody get fed, nobody take more than them share. Is the first time in a long time me and Sammy work together, without fighting, calling each other names. Seem like old cripple Jonnie spirit draw us together, for a little while anyway.

  For that short afternoon, slaves come and go as we like and everywhere you look, all you see is black and brown faces. No backra to disturb us. Is almost like a little freedom. And I never have such a good feed in a long time. Plantain, corn and yams thrown in the fire. Saltfish, Massa send up special. Melon make her ginger beer and mix it up with plenty rum. Is one happy time, till suddenly Massa show up.

  Everything go quiet as him stride up the path in him shiny brown boots. Whispers start flying, why him coming, what him doing here? Is unspoken law that a massa must turn scarce when it come to slave funerals. Next thing I know, Massa march right up to Stella. Drag her aside. Shout at her that she have no right to turn Sammy into a servant for slaves. I see the shame rise up in her face and I don’t know how, but I find the courage to go stand by Stella side. Hold her hand tight in mine, to keep us both from trembling. Look up at Massa, the way Calla look sometimes, like a hawk looking at prey.

  All the whispering stop. Everything go still, quiet, as Massa stare down at me with them pale, caneleaf-colour eyes. It feel like a long time, standing there, waiting to see what him going do, before him turn on Sammy, order him back to the Great House. March off down the path through them dogwood trees, Sammy, head hung low, following a few steps behind. The dividing line between us drawn clear for all to see. I know now, nothing going change things. No matter, is the first time I stand up for Stella, stand up to Massa, and it feel good.

  Pretty soon, everybody return to eating and drinking and I stop looking over me shoulder, waiting for Massa to order Winston to beat me. All this time I been thinking is Massa love I been wanting, but is not. Is the love of Stella, of Mama, that I been longing for. Still reaching back to the time she used to love me up as a pickney. And as the day go on, I notice she start to look at me different, maybe even with pride.

  After the sun go down and the moon start to rise somebody jump up, slap them hands together, shout out.

  ‘Me got him! Me got him!’

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘De shadow!’ somebody shout out. ‘Must catch de shadow!’

  And with that everybody start jumping up and down. Catching and calling out.

  ‘Is me dat catch him!’

  ‘No is me!’

  ‘Him get away.’

  ‘No him don’t!’

  ‘Yes him do! See there.’

  ‘Me see him.’

  ‘Catch him! Catch him good.’

  I don’t understand what them doing. Look to Calla and she doing it too. This go on for a long time. Finally Calla pull out a small coffin from under the bed. And the last person what say them catch the shadow, Calla wrestle it from them into the little box. Slam it shut. Lock it up tight.

  When everybody calm down, Calla knock her cane on the ground, tell us to rest good, because come morning, it going be the funeral procession.

  Early the next morning, Calla get some of the field slave them to knock a hole in the wall of Jonnie hut. Then them have to carry old cripple Jonnie corpse out through this hole. When them get him outside, them have to lower him down and lift him up three times, making sure the body touch the earth, before th
em raise it up again. After, them must cover back up the hole. Lock up the windows, the door, so according to Calla, him duppie not going be able to return.

  By then everybody show up and with much drumming and strumming of instruments, the funeral procession start up in force. Leading the way is Jonnie corpse wrapped in a cloth, proudly carried on the shoulders of the strongest and tallest of the field slave them. The body going get buried in the burial ground up on the hill. To get there, the body must be carried up along the path that wind through the slave village.

  The first hut the procession come to, Calla call a stop. Call out to the slave who live in the hut.

  ‘You do anything wrong to old cripple Jonnie?’ Calla ask, pounding her cane on the ground.

  ‘No!’ the slave shout out and we all breathe a sigh of relief. The procession can move on to the next hut.

  Each time is the same thing. Except when we get to the second to last hut. The hut that belong to Winston. Calla call out to him and him say no. But when the corpse bearer them try to move, is like them can’t leave. The corpse get heavy. Start to rock from side to side. And the corpse bearer them start to sweat, to shake, overcome with weakness. Calla must put a stop to it right away. She shout out again.

  ‘Winston! You done any wrong to old cripple Jonnie?’

  This time Winston shout out in such a loud voice that him swear him do no wrongdoing to Jonnie, the corpse suddenly lay quiet. Allow the procession to keep going.

  Even though we set out from Jonnie hut in the morning, we don’t reach the burial ground before late afternoon. When we get there, Calla say to dig the grave deeper. She not happy bout what happen outside Winston hut. She don’t want spend her nights taking care of no duppie.

  Then we all gather round. Calla standing at the head of the grave holding her arms up high, mumbling prayers of the dead as the corpse get lowered down. At last Jonnie in him final resting place. And I watch as the whiteness of him shroud turn from new to old when we pour the water we use to clean him body all over him. Watch as it start to bleed from the crushed-up peppers. Turn brown from the rum and the last of the food laid out on him altar.