Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  I reach out to help the gravediggers fill in the grave when Calla shout stop. Tell us to turn round, use our hands to shovel the earth back onto old cripple Jonnie. When him body get covered up, then she let us pick up tools, finish filling in the grave. After we done, Calla don’t let us rest till we wash our hands, our feet, the hoes we use, to leave no trace of Jonnie except what in that grave.

  While we doing all this hard work, the mourners and visitors keep right on eating and drinking, singing and dancing. I start to get worried no food going be left, because by now me belly rumbling. Lucky for me, Stella hold back a little something so I get to eat me full.

  Soon enough everybody start to say goodbye. And all round you hear talk bout ‘what a good funeral, Jonnie must be well pleased’. Finally the last slave drift away, take them torch, disappear into the darkness.

  Now is only me and Calla left at the gravesite and I can see she plenty weary, need a little rest. So I build up the fire, put a tree stump beside it for her to sit on. Sit quiet at her feet. Listen together to the sounds of the night. Watch as the stars start to fade into the coming light.

  All through the funeral, the burial, I never shed a tear. As we sit resting in the quiet of the early morning, I don’t know why, but the tears start trickle down me face. And a big, big sadness wash over me. I seen animals die, even killed some of them, seen a dead slave too, seen death a few times, but Jonnie is the first death that touch me and it hit me hard. The glimmering light up, and I come to understand, no matter who we is or what we do, one day, death going come looking for all of us, and him coming for me too.

  Calla say nothing, don’t stop me weeping. And when the tears stop, she wipe me face with her kerchief.

  ‘What really happen to the spirit?’ I ask Calla, sitting up, feeling a little better.

  ‘In nine days time, we going have a wake. Help Jonnie spirit reach the afterlife, return to the Ancestors, leave this earth for good.’

  ‘You believe that, Calla? You really think the spirit live on and on?’

  Calla look at me like she weighing up what to tell me.

  ‘Is like the breath of life. Just because you can’t see it, don’ mean it not there. Yes the spirit is real. It must come from somewhere. So it must return to wherever it come from. We is not animal. All the ritual dem give us strength. Strength to face the day, the night. To face the agony of the shadow.’

  ‘You think Jonnie duppie going try return?’

  ‘Yes, Willy,’ say Calla. ‘Is why me tell you to bury him deep. Jonnie live in unhappiness during the day. Is why him drink bitter cassava every night.’

  ‘Is that what kill him?’

  ‘No,’ she sigh. ‘Jonnie die from woman fever. A fever that never end.’

  ‘Me never see Jonnie with no woman.’

  ‘Is a long time ago now,’ Calla say, filling her clay pipe. ‘When Jonnie was two-legged, him fall in love with a young field slave, name Flora. She pretty as can be. All the men lust after her. Specially Jonnie. Me wouldn’t be surprised if Old Massa William lust after her himself.’ Calla take a pause. Get me to light a twig from the embers of the fire, pass it to her. Smoke up her pipe. ‘Jonnie think because him head driver, Flora going look to him. Be proud to be him wife. But …’ she say, puffing away, ‘she fall in love with Quashie. A slave same age as her, from another plantation. In dem days Old Massa William, him always jobbing out slaves to bring in a little extra money. That how they meet. And the first we all hear bout this love business is when Flora gone missing. Discover she run away with Quashie.’

  ‘Dem escape?’ Hoping them did.

  ‘Get as far as Kingston before the slave hunters catch up with dem. Poor little things,’ Calla say, shaking her head. ‘Too young, too foolish. Think love going save them. Don’t know must stay well hidden for a long, long time before Massa going forget bout dem.’

  ‘So what happen?’

  ‘Quashie get shot in the back when him try to run. Only live for a few more days. And the slave hunters, they just drag Flora right back here. Pick up a big reward. Old Massa William, him plenty vexed. Brand her a runaway, on both cheeks. Got Jonnie to flog her. And him do it with a vengeance. After that, Flora turn wild. Offer herself to every man. Any man, not Jonnie. One day we find her floating face down in the river. No one know what happen, but we can guess. Must be Jonnie doing. Old Massa William, well him think so too. Have him flogged, set an example.’

  Calla take a long draw on her pipe. I see a sadness rise up in her.

  ‘Old cripple Jonnie, him never the same. Turn mean. Full of cruel sorrow. Keep to himself. Yes,’ Calla say, sucking on her pipe. ‘Jonnie duppie going come back for sure. Must do plenty hard work to calm him sad and angry spirit. Lead him to find peace.’

  Up in a tree a patoo start hooting. Swoop down low, fly off over our heads. Make me edge a little closer to Calla.

  ‘No need to fear, Willy,’ she say. ‘Patoo is special for you. Me heard patoo calling outside the hut when you a baby. Is why me put you under me protection. When patoo call out, you must stop. Listen hard. Find out message she trying tell you.’

  I know Calla all me short life, but is the first time she tell me why she take me under her wing. And it make me feel mighty blessed.

  I think Calla done speaking, but then she turn, look me in the eye.

  ‘You must be careful, Willy. Fate have him beady eye pon you. You going travel down a path unknown to even me. And him going twist and turn you, blow you bout like the leaf dem in a howling wind.’

  ‘How you know this, Calla?’

  ‘Me seen it, when me first look pon you as a baby. Now you old enough to hear these things. You going need plenty strength to walk the road you have to travel down. Not strength on the outside, but strength on the inside. So one day, with a bit of luck, you might be the massa. Massa of you fate. But promise me, Willy,’ she say, hugging me close. ‘Promise me you not going end up like old cripple Jonnie. A lost soul, all alone. A soul that live in this world, but have no wish to be in it.’

  ‘Me promise,’ I say, hearing all her words, not really knowing what them mean. Letting the words drop down inside, to wait, to be heard afresh another day.

  A Day of Rest

  It don’t take long before I forget bout old cripple Jonnie. Nobody call him to mind or say him name much anymore, so in time, it seem like Jonnie never even been on the plantation. Is like when nature take over a place, send out curling vines, wildflowers, long burrowing roots to cover everything up. You have to look hard, to see what was before. Massa give Jonnie hut to Winston, just use it for storage, keep it locked up good. The little stools Jonnie made, Calla use them to sit outside by the cooking fire. She deserve them too. She is the only one that remember old cripple Jonnie, look out for him, like she remember all the ones gone before, resting in the burial ground. She visit them graves, a mound of dirt, a stone to mark the spot. She tidy, weed, pour libation, speak words only the dead can hear. Even do it for Old Massa William, him get buried up there on top of the hill too.

  ‘Death, the force that make us equal,’ Calla tell me. ‘In the end, we all lay down in the earth, bones, guts mingling together with the worm dem.’

  Sunday morning. A day of rest on the plantation, from Massa business. A day of work for we own. I wake early. Lay still, slowly shake off sleep. Enjoy the predawn quiet, because come daylight, eyes and ears must get used to the sights, the sounds of the living.

  What always pull me up from sleep into a new day is the crowing of the old rooster, strutting on the stone wall. Calling loud and long to the sun, even though is still dark outside and the sun not going show him face for a little while yet. No matter how many times I lock that rooster up in the chicken coop, or at night, put him in the basket hanging from the roof to keep away them rats, him escape. Come right back. Start him morning ritual cocka-doodle-doo-ing. Once him start, nothing you can do to shut him up.

  Maybe him pick this spot because me save him scrawny neck when I o
verhear Melon say, ‘Is time to use dat old rooster. Him nice and fat, make good stock.’

  That old rooster, him been on this plantation almost as long as me, fourteen years, and I don’t want to see him end up in no pot.

  Sometimes I wonder if I should let Melon chop him head off. Boil him up good, because once him start crowing, all the other rooster them start up. Calling from one hut to the next, till them crowing is like a wave of sound moving through the slave village. Make you head throb, specially if you been working all day, all night, helping out round the place during crop season and it seem like the dawn come, before she invited.

  If is not the rooster breaking the morning stillness, is the scratch, scratch, scratch of the crabs trying to find a way out from the barrel I keep them in. Only one left. Must go to the wood, cross the edge of the plantation, catch some more.

  Well, it turn out Calla was right when she say have to wait till I grow, to see if me going look like Massa or more like Old Massa William. Make Sammy full up with envy because every season that pass, it come clear, I look more like Massa than him do. Reach the same height, have a similar mouth. Broad shoulders. Wide forehead. The way I move and carry meself is a lot like him. Everybody can see it, but nobody say nothing bout it.

  And after that day at Jonnie funeral, it take a while, but I notice Massa no longer look at me sideways. When our paths cross, him look me full in the face, some mornings, him even nod. Always looking to see if any of him blood roaring round in mine. Stella, she change her ways a little too. Talk to me bout her concerns. Start to listen when I give advice. Is like the world of un-belonging I been living in start to fade away. I can come out of hiding, no longer see it from behind the wait-a-bit hedge.

  The funny thing is, Sammy start look a lot more like Busha Davis, even though Stella swear is only Massa what have him way with her. Caused a whole lot of ruckus one time when Sydney go tell Mistress Margaret, ‘Me seen them, late at night. Seen them talking, sneaking round the place.’ Next day, all of a sudden bags packed, Busha Davis saddled up him horse, headed off the plantation. Came back a few weeks later, when everything cooled off. Stella and Sydney barely had two words for each other after that, and them was already not talking.

  Me and Sammy no longer enemies, but we still not friends. I live in one world, him live in another. He have eleven years under him feet, and them feet take him in another direction. Spend most days inside the Great House learning how to serve at table. Looking after Massa clothes. Making sure him shirt clean and pressed, him boot them bright and shiny. Sammy seem to fit this indoor house slave business. Everybody say him good at it. Massa try me out first, but me feet too big. Always drop things. And when I set the table with all the knife and fork and spoon and glass them, I get it all wrong. ‘Clumsy donkey,’ Stella used to call me. Is true. I not meant to be indoor slave. Make me feel cooped up like the animals in them pen. But me not a field slave either. Don’t seem to fit in anywhere.

  Still, me the oldest and in charge of our little family. Except Sammy don’t listen to me, never did. When I have dealings with him, he get all puffed up, pretend like him don’t even know me. Pretend that we not brothers. Look down him big nose at me when him dressed up, running round the place like what him doing is important. What a fool. Just because Massa call him servant, don’t mean him is not a slave. And when was the last time him look in a mirror? Him not see him have the same raggedy hair like me.

  It seem like some good come out of being Massa son. Don’t have to bow down before Winston. Is still Busha Davis telling me what to do. I have to report to him every morning. Go wait outside him office till him ready to come out. Then him send me off to do whatever need doing. Work in Massa provision ground, weed, dig, plant, sprinkle lime round the fruit-bearing trees. Take away garbage and burn it. Sweep the long carriage drive, collect up the brown coconut leaf them that fall after a big storm. Ride the mule to fetch water from the river in the water barrels, sometimes a little bit of carpentry like what old cripple Jonnie used to do. Fix, paint, mend whatever need doing.

  The only job I favour is when him send me off to watch the plantain walk, the provision ground Massa keep special for himself. Everybody surprised when I get the job, is plenty special. Massa must be tell Busha Davis to let me do it. Old one-arm Cato, him used to guard the plantain walk, but one night him ran away, nobody can find him. Maybe him flee up to where Maroon town is, hiding in some ravine. Mind you, Massa don’t put much effort into finding him. Call off the slave hunters. Cato not worth much anymore. Going be dead soon, anyway. Always sick.

  The plantain walk is bout a mile away from the Great House, a quiet place of freedom, far away from all the coming and going and gossip that circle round and round the plantation. To get there is a nice cool walk down a path covered in shady, big-leafed trees, come round a bend and you going see it. Have a little wattle hut beside it, a place to sleep and cook beside. Must be hold bout twenty trees and Massa plant it out so the fruit don’t ripen all at the same time. In between the plantain trees, him plant cocoa, use the plantain trees to give them shade. Is up to me to tend, water them plants, make sure nobody steal nothing. Nobody but me, that is. Not all the time, mind you, but when the dry season is plenty dry and nothing much growing in our provision ground and bellies bloated from hunger.

  Guarding the plantain walk is the best job for me. Is easy and I know what to do. Is not that I don’t like learning new things, but none of them stick. I learn too quick, then me get fed up. A slave not supposed to get fed up, much less show it. We must just do what we told. Bow down, say, ‘Yes, Massa,’ keep you mouth shut. Underneath, though, them mosquitoes still buzz and buzz. Sometimes have to work hard to stop them stinging. Make me do something I wish I didn’t do. One time, I get so angry, I shouted back at Busha Davis, ended up spending whole night in the stocks. Must be careful. It start to happen often and Stella get mighty angry with me. Mean she have to bow and scrape even more, to save me from the cut of the lash. So I learn how to keep meself to meself, follow me own path. Live in the world, but not of it. Was it Calla that mark me out, when she look pon me as a baby? Or was it fate that settle himself round me like a shroud? Many a time I open up to the glimmering, but I get no answers. No answers at all.

  As to Stella? She long time gone from this part of the plantation. Long time gone from living in the slave village. Now Stella live in a small hut close to the Great House. Massa make Winston build it special for her. Nothing fancy, but the floor is a proper mud floor, not just earth. And the bed is a bed, not old cloth and rags to cover straw, piled up on top of pieces of wood.

  She finally done her duty. Birthed two more pickney for Massa. A boy him call James. A girl them call Eliza. Stella and Calla happy too. Massa done him duty. Did what other massas did. Paid them silver coins since James and Eliza didn’t die when them was babies.

  Little James still young, eight years old, slipped into the world without a murmur. Stella always saying was the easiest birth she ever have. And talk bout smart. Was like him get the best of Stella, the best of Massa. A real dreamer, like the way I used to be. Quiet, don’t say much, just him big eyes looking, tilting him head and listening, listening. Busha Davis send him off every morning to do the weeding round the Great House.

  One Sunday, I come cross him using a little twig. Drawing something in the dirt. I look close. Is a funny-looking face.

  ‘Who that?’

  ‘Busha Davis! When him shouting at you.’

  I look closer and is true. Make us laugh.

  ‘What else you draw?’

  In no time James start to copy the Great House. Straight lines, curves and windows. Is one big surprise. James have no schooling, but him can draw good. Now if I find any little torn-up piece of paper, I give it to him and him use it to draw on. Cut a little piece of bamboo him sharpen with a knife. Dip it in ash from the fire, mix it up with water. Mix it up good.

  What a thing if James turn painter, like Massa used to be. But him know, and I
know, to keep it a secret. Is only a dream. It never going come to be. Slave job is to work, not paint pretty pictures. I have to try hard to make sure him don’t get into trouble. Specially since the older Massa get, the more him like to punish, to use the whip. All the slave them grumbling bout it. I know is only Stella protecting us, so I need to keep me guard up. Keep me eye on James, try stop him dreaming ways. Sammy, him can get a whipping for all I care.

  After Stella gave birth to James and before Eliza born, Stella got mighty sick. Had a big pain in her belly. Got the shakes. Had to wipe away the sticky yellow juice running down between her legs. Was not the first time, but that time was plenty bad.

  ‘Clapped out,’ Massa call it.

  She catch it from him. Needed plenty nursing from Doctor Watson. Got bled. Got purged. Had to take little pills. Upset Stella bad. She never let sickness bother her. She just lift her head up, keep on working. That time, though, she lay down on that bed and didn’t move for many week. Calla sat by her side, fed her broth. Used one of her special fowl to make the stock. Me and James and Sammy used to go visit her when we could, tried not to weep when we saw the state she in.

  Every day that went by and Stella didn’t get better, Massa got more fretful. And the fretfulness made him drink, caused him dark moods. Act more mean and cruel with all the slave them. Even Mistress Margaret got upset, not because she cared for Stella, but because Stella run that Great House like is her own. Know where every little thing is. What every little thing need doing. None of the other house slave them as good. So everybody cross, sad, worried, waiting and waiting for Stella to get better. Made us all come to understand, a world without Stella is no good.

  Many weeks went by before she woke one morning. Lifted herself out the bed, even though she still so weak. Leant on me as she walked up the back steps of the Great House. Went straight in. Sat on a chair, started giving orders. In a few days, she was right back to slapping and bossing everybody bout. Everything going settle down now that Stella found her way back from dying.