Strange Music (31 page)

Wading out to sea, salt-streaked cheeks brushed by now whispering gusts, tired, heavy me is, wading into distressed waters, de salt smell sting.

Chapter Twelve

From yacca floor I look up through dark blue bedchamber window. Morning star lost its shine. Mister Sam lies tombstone stiff.

Mary Ann wriggles between my knees, saying, ‘Gimme breadfruit. Mek me gib lickle bit fe yu.'

Dividing she hair into bunches, I say, ‘Me cyaan eat now,'
Mister Sam's pickney fills me belly.
‘Chile, sit still. Yu cyaan mek chair out-a Mister Sam. Yu cyaan touch im.'

‘Why?' Shuffle-scudding on she bottom she tries to struggle free. ‘Mister Sam don't move.'

Conch-blow bellows
Fuuuuffuu-ffuu
. I stay silent till monster stops moaning. ‘No,' I say, ‘e a-sleepin.' I drag Mary Ann close into my belly.

What's this dawn I see? Freedom? Victory? Blazing sun can't find its strength but Mary Ann keeps up battling. She scrambles from my clasp, swiftly she run-hide fleeing through Mister Sam's chamber doorway, along landing, slipping down stairs, across hall, front lawn.

Swelling up I reach out to touch Mister Sam's hand, cheeks, chin. To tease flaming gold hairs from him chilled dank brow; dead white skin. Him spent and gone. Pale, half-closed eyes turned dull; cloudy like marble with no blue flicker. Even him faint yellow eyelashes seem curious now to me.
Mister Sam cyaan let no ooman keep no pickney. Not if im its baby fadda
. My blood too?
Cyaan see yu as brodda. Me see yu as a curse fe pile of grief yu cause. Noting but pity me feel fe yu. Pity an shame. Cyaan tell no person, not even bedchamber, wot me do to try to raise money fe Charles, fe Pa an me dawta; wot me do to try to claw Mary Ann fram yu. Me waan no person to know wot happened, not even bedchamber – but all me know have memory an dem live on afta me an yu
.

Pelican flaps through my thoughts landing on sea. Dawn breeze mutters over Mister Sam's lifeless form; moon-like face bled of colour. Breeze isn't a stranger. Stranger's me.

Gazing between jalousie blinds I see no hope, no tracks, no lanes across blue sea. Fear, like sneaking dawn light, creeping into me. Candle-flame breeze blows upon suddenly dies.

I move to verandah where two months past my master stood, sweating rum, I was struck by a screaming sun, a flashing, glittering sea. My hand in apron pocket clutches buckled metal skeleton of earrings – missing jewels crushed between rocks somewhere in front garden below. Matching sister necklace of false pearls lies shattered some place near Barrett Hall. Leaning forward, resting elbows on verandah rail, my eyes slant down. Any guilt for what I've done begins to fade. All my thoughts confused with finding my own way to freedom from Cinnamon Hill.

Mary Ann's disappeared. She laugh comes back to hit me.
It's she me waan to guard. Not Mister Sam
.

Rattling into my thoughts cart wheels come, rattling up plantation path. Heading through hall for kitchen block, ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' I'm shouting. Framed by hall doorway, Dick's cart passes gate at drive's end. Cart's piled high with rum-filled puncheons balanced on bundles of guinea grass, pimento sacks bulging over tailboard.

Cracks between kitchen flagstones emerge.
Flagstones Pa's grandpa unloaded from a flotilla
. Guard dogs let out shrill whines. Friday, snoozing in Mister Sam's cloth cot, opens one eye. A horse's sigh shoots into sky's brooding greyness, and stable-block's curiously changed by hissing sounds of lizards sliding through hay, smashing through dawn silence.

Then bushes become busy with birds. But like tiny pickney in my belly I'm trapped in silent stillness.

‘Kaydia! Kaydia!' Dick's bawl sounds like a lunatic in my head, waking me in an unknown country. Loudly I hear Dick calling now. ‘Kaydia!' he bawls. ‘Me need yu elpin in still-house. Yu'll do dat fe me?'

I shout to Friday, ‘Friday, yu big nuff fe workin wid Dick.'

Cradled in hammock cloth Friday nods loosely, swinging sameway pickney-like, green birthday shirt Pa give him soiled, dirt-creased. Stinking of rum Friday tips himself over hammock side, flops down at my feet, him gleaming face grins wide as watermelon slice. Cordia flower twisting open skywards to sun's cool gaze.

All my love for Mary Ann comes flooding back. My head-tongue says Mister Sam's death brings a glimpse of how close mother and daughter might be. I feel terror at my own pain. I'm saying to Dick as Friday and me reach cart horse, ‘Yu see Mary Ann dis mornin? She pass by dis way?'

Tugging at pimento sacks buried under thatching grass, Dick tests load for steadfastness. Cart's whole load wobbles. Shaking him head Dick says, ‘Work gettin harder an me floggin meself gettin crop in.'

‘No yu aint,' I say. ‘Yu aint worked fe days.'

Dick yanks up grey horse's head from feeding on lush grass. He holds horse steady. Swollen skin round horse's eyes breeds raw pink patches, he stamps an unshod hoof. Fitfully cart's load shudders. Slapping horse's hollow sweating neck, ‘Horse wid fever,' Dick adds, ‘him coat sweat.'

‘Cart's overloaded,' I say.

Friday say, ‘Lickle ol fashion but it work,' him eyes glazed over.

‘Cart weary, but e last,' Dick says. ‘Me must go down plantation path to wharf, unload puncheons, pimento sacks, drop off feed sacks by slave shacks on way back up.' He checks short chains clip firmly from horse's collar to shafts, jangling them. He pats horse's pitted dappled chest. ‘Any fool cun git puncheons to stay on top. Friday cun tie dem.'

I'm saying to Dick, ‘It look easy,' but pushing forward in my mind I see Friday – my eyes skim crazy stack on guinea thatching grass; curved wood making cart-horse collar ache with age – my heart says no.

Sun's blazing eye comes piercing through clouds, showing hotter than hot day. Bending low Dick grunts. Him hands mould together to form a stirrup for Friday to mount cart. Sweat brews on Dick's broad bare back, Friday's little foot weighs on stirrup hands. Leaning against cart side Friday hoists himself up like him shin up coconut tree.

‘Me gonna chuck dis rope up,' Dick shouts to Friday. Sweat trickles like raindrops down Dick's shoulders, soaking osnaburg trouser-cloth. He throws up rope, it snakes through blue morning air.

Pa walks round track curve where treetops join like arch he carved for Cinnamon Hill church doorway.

My eye keeps wandering for Mary Ann.

Pa's standing level with me, chewing coffee beans mighty hard.

‘Yu see Mary Ann dis mornin?' I ask him. ‘She on path to Sibyl's hut? Yu'll watch out fe she?'

‘Me watch out fe she.' Pa's chewing savagely. ‘W'appen?' he asks.

‘Friday workin fe Dick, Pa.'

Pa's jaws snap shut. Him eyes follow mine. Easing him body forward Friday straddles puncheons nesting in thatching grass, him feet a-walk in air. He feeds rope round puncheons' belly.

Dick looks vexed. Cart can't keel over, I'm thinking.

‘Lard hab mercy.' Pa sighs, and spits crushed coffee beans onto driveway. Friday, shaking, clutches top puncheon rim. Him faith-filled eyes flash a look at long drop down.

Spitefully Dick yanks both reins, bringing horse's old bony head sharply round. ‘Me try turning cart up an round in driveway, heading up afore going down,' Dick says. Cart moves maddeningly slowly, wheels juddering forward; back. Shallow morning heat getting deeper.

‘Friday big nuff fe workin wid yu, Pa. Yu tink e'll be a-carpenter?' I ask.

Squatting on heels, rapidly cracking fingers, him eye full on me, Pa says, ‘Say wa? E a-lickle pickney. Dis too risky. Yu cyaan see dat, girl?' He turns out trouser pockets, into one hand he empties fluff, coffee grains, filth. Pa's fishing for more beans. ‘Wot's dis yu dangle fe Charles? E butcher yu if e know,' he says, and chucks a small coffee bean catch into him open mouth.

Dick shouts, ‘Beast! Beast!' Horse's muscles tighten, swell, pulling forward up drive slope; coat matted with sweat, hooves slipping on dusty stones. ‘Beast! Beast!' Dick shouts. ‘Cyaan pull de load up to turn cart back.'

‘Yu see Mary Ann on plantation path?' I ask Pa again. He says nothing. Cart's wooden sides creak. Blood seeps from horse's cracked lips. Cart's jerking wheels stop. ‘Pa, why yu –'

Pa says, ‘Shut yu mouth.'

Cart bottom makes tearing sound like osnaburg cloth ripping. ‘Don't, Friday – go on!' Pa bawls.

Sun's screaming on Friday's spoiled birthday shirt. Sky's hot. Empty. Blue. Road's empty too.

Stained by shrieking sunlight banana leaves shine.

‘Mister Sam ded dis mornin?' Pa asks me.

‘Yes.' I don't feel any worry lift now Mister Sam's gone.

Dick shouts, ‘Beast! Beast!' pulling reins taut, almost wrenching bit clean from horse's long brown teeth.

‘Oo de ell's dat comin round back way on Sam's horse?' Pa says. ‘E cyaan elp?'

This time I know it's Charles before I see him. Minister follows on trotting black mare. I hide behind Pa. Truth slaps me brutally in my face. Charles knows what I carry. Knows what's already growing inside. He knows Mister Sam not fully gone.

Pa sings out, ‘Cotch de cart it full-a feed! Friday, come down ere! Yu drunk on rum. Any fool cun see.' He bawls to Dick, ‘Lame horse weak! Yu idiot. Yu cyaan tek harness off? Tek machete an cut it afore de horse fall.' Cart rolls backwards. ‘Wedge rakstone!' Pa bellows. ‘Cart slide backwards fore de horse!' Spitting out coffee bean jots Pa snatches reins from Dick, grabs bridle with such force bit part's sliding from horse's bleeding mouth. Horse's brown eyes roll back to half-moon whites. Hurling himself against horse, sweating shoulder rubbing sweating shoulder, Pa shouts, ‘Git up! Git up!' Groaning cart bottom splinters. Pa bawls at Friday, ‘Git down.'

Friday stretches up over rum puncheon, him belly's slithering back towards cart tailboard.

‘E too scared to come down, Pa,' I say.

Pa shouts despairingly, ‘Jump! Jump!' He keeps on goading Friday. ‘Jump out-a deway!' Leaping to one side Pa's jumping shows Friday how.

‘Yu stay! No, move on up!' Dick shouts, pushing cart from below and behind now. Dick's pressing, straining, leaning full against cart tailboard. Cart halts, rum puncheons rock. Dick springs clear of tailboard. Stumbling onto bony knees grey horse screams. Puncheons tumble over cart back, Friday topples from him perch. Wild pig squeal – Friday shrieks and shrieks in awful agony. Puncheons battering him body, head, spilling over pimento-stuffed sacks, bounce-rolling down plantation path; split. Smashed. Rum gushes downhill. Rum flows red. Slumped between shafts horse rears up front hooves, mane splaying out in yellow-white flames.

Pa have a zombie face. He just stands there. Lips shaking.

Friday's bloody rum-soaked body wedges awkwardly beneath puncheons, torn sacks spewing pimento atop cart's wreckage.

‘Yu aright?' Dick asks Friday. Clambering up pimento-stuffed sacks to guinea thatching-grass bundles, crawling over splintered puncheons, Dick shouts, routing for Friday. No answer comes. Then I see Friday's bleeding head; sameway like broken chicken's neck twisted unnaturally it defy any kind of faith in life, limply falling back dead. In my mind him still squealing like pig with machete to him throat. I sharply feel yoke of guilt slant across my shouders.

‘Friday never aright afta dat,' Pa says, him voice broken. He joins Dick to pore over messy stack. Pa's trembling hand reaches out, grasps rope loop like it's a line leading to hope. Searching for ways to free Friday, he tilts up a puncheon, ripping out grey-green shirt shred.

Turning, I see myself through great-house windows, rushing along landing – how I got here I don't know – down hall, across front verandah. Cinnamon Hill great hall's empty. ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' I'm yelling. Flying up stairs, I yell, ‘Yu not gawn to Sibyl's yet?' Blocking Mister Sam's chamber doorway a shape black as a shadow moves. Panting hopelessly, ‘Friday. Is Friday,' I'm saying. ‘Me tink Mary Ann aright, but me cyaan find she.'

‘It's Monday, Kaydia, what's wrong?' Minister shoves him hands in deep black gown pockets. He must have come in by back door, I think.

Frantically my thoughts spin back. ‘Is Mary Ann. Rum. Friday. Gone.' My burning eyes scour plantation path sweeping round, eye-watching drive for Charles.

‘How much rum was lost? How many puncheons?' minister asks, moving to window to see. ‘It's a mercy the consequences weren't more serious.' Minister hisses under him breath, ‘This horrible, cruel weather.' He asks again, ‘How much rum was lost, damnation? You must answer clearly. I can't understand if you keep blubbering.' But minister shudders. Like he smells something else wrong. Smells more than spilt rum. ‘You will send for Junius to find someone to clear up, clean up any mess. And get Friday to water my horse, she's hitched to the cinnamon tree by the cut wind.'

‘Yu pass Mary Ann on plantation path?' I ask. Turning into Mister Sam's bedchamber minister, muttering prayers, closes door on me, turns chamber key. I shout after minister, ‘Yu ride wid Charles dis mornin?' Fury flares hot within my breast. Over and over my hand's banging hardwood door. Breaking through my pangs of loss I feel thin ray of hope – at least Mary Ann's alive.

I can tell it's Pa thudding into great-house hall. I break off from door thumping.

Sticking to stone wall, quaking, Pa's all pain and rage. ‘Wot's dis yu dangle fe Mister Sam?' Leaning back, hard breathing, Pa's head batters stone wall two, three, four times. ‘W'appen, Kaydia?'