HF - 05 - Sunset (48 page)

A voodoo priest.

'And now there is no
hougan
in this village?' Cleave shook his head.

'Why are you not the
hougan?
Meg asked. Oh, she thought, if only he could be the
hougan;
my troubles would be over.

'I ain' knowing that,' Cleave said. 'You wan' some more?'

'No, thank you.' She finished the last of her food.

Cleave stood up. 'You wanting a drink? I got rum.'

Her turn to hesitate. But how she wanted to drink that rum again, to feel her mind go whirling up into the mountains, perhaps to regain the tempestuous confidence of her girlhood. Perhaps to want his fingers, again. She could not be sure, now.

'Yes,' she said.
‘I
would like a drink of rum.' She smiled at him. 'It may do me good.' He nodded, left the hut. It was growing dark now, and the mosquitoes were starting to buzz. She slapped one, watched the splodge of blood on her arm, looked out at the clearing and the village. Wherever the people went during the day, they were mostly home by now. They sat around and smoked pipes or primitive cheroots, and drank, rum she supposed, and sang to themselves. A fire had been lit, and flickered in the centre of the clearing. Why wasn't there a feast, and a dance, in honour of her coming? she wondered. Because they did not wish her here, now. They had changed, after all. They were no longer Jack's people. Now they belonged to the
mamaloi,
and wished no white woman to complicate their lives.

She watched Cleave walking across the clearing, carrying a bottle by the neck. People spoke to him, and he answered. She looked for the flash of their smiling teeth in the gloom, but saw nothing. They were not smiling tonight.

He ducked his head, stood beside the hammock. He held out the bottle, and she took it. It was three-quarters full. Stolen, no doubt; even rum cost more money than these people possessed. She raised it to her lips, drank slowly, afraid of what she would taste, afraid of what she would feel like, having tasted.

And there it was. The heat filled her mouth, seeped down her throat, exploded in her chest in that well-remembered way. She dilated her nostrils as she inhaled, felt a dropping away of her cares and her fears, held out the bottle in turn.

Cleave hesitated, then took it.

'Won't you sit?' she asked.

He drank, while hesitating, then slowly lowered himself to the hammock beside her. It sagged beneath the added weight, so that their bottoms almost brushed the ground, and they slid towards each other, their thighs touching.

Cleave offered the bottle once again, and this time she drank even more deeply. It is going to be all right, she thought. Always before she had endeavoured to remain sober when making love. Alcohol dulled the senses, those that mattered, anyway, left memory uncertain. But for the first time, alcohol was essential, to relax the nerves, quieten the fears. And this was the first time. She was a virgin again, the passionate excesses of her youth disappeared into the limbo of uncertain memory.

She returned the bottle, and his fingers touched hers. Now it was quite dark, the only light provided by the flickering of the fire, and that did not penetrate in here. No one could tell what they were doing, here in the darkness.

Which was nonsense, because everyone knew what they were doing. Except her. The darkness was necessary, for her. For this last time, she wanted the darkness, to hide from herself.

She shrugged away the shirt, let it fall to the earth beneath the hammock. She could see his face, dimly, in the gloom; the firelight glinted from the bottle as he held it out. She took it, set it on the floor beside the shirt. Still he hesitated. Perhaps he needed more than just a drink. Perhaps he needed the impetus of the drum and the blood and the erotic cadence of the dance.

But if she lost the magic of the rum, then she would lose all else. She was sixteen again, uncertain what was going to happen, what she would feel like, during and even more, after. To think, now, would be disaster.

Meg reached out to take his hand, place it on the naked flesh of her shoulder.

His fingers seethed. Or was it her flesh which was seething? She turned into his arms as his fingertips stroked across her shoulders, trickled down her spine. She wanted to shriek with joy, and not only because of the delight induced by his touch. Because she could feel the passion building in her belly. Because she knew, after so long, that she was still Meg Hilton, that not the Spanish sailors, not the Spanish prison, not even Oriole's imprisonment, had robbed her of herself.

And when Cleave's hand moved slowly round her ribs, to hold her breast from underneath, and slowly slide his fingers forward to find the nipple and very gently squeeze it while thrusting it away from her flesh, she exploded into the quickest orgasm she had ever known, twisting on to his lap, searching his pants with her hands, sliding them down, finding what she wanted and cramming it into herself while she pushed him back on the hammock. He had never entered her before. He had left her a virgin. Now he must make her a whole woman again in every way.

He seemed longer and harder and more powerful than anything she had ever known, himself included. And possessed of greater control. She could raise and lower herself to her heart's content, each descent accompanied by that tremendous surge of utter ecstasy. Exhaustion returned, made itself felt in flooding sweat which dripped from her hair and coated her flesh, and still she sought orgasm after orgasm. It was more than eight years of enforced chastity. It was a clearing away of every man who had forced her, of every indignity to which she had been exposed, of the very last memory of the sawing rope. And when at last she collapsed on his chest, unable to move, aware only of her own gasping breaths, dimly feeling his fingers still exploring her back and her bottom, she could think again, at last I am Meg Hilton.

She became aware that it was daylight, and that people were stirring all round her. She lay on her side in the hammock, her knees drawn up almost to her chest, curled up like a child. All her years seemed to have dropped away. She had slept with utter soundness for very nearly twelve hours; her head was clear, her mu
s
cles were active, and her belly seethed with passion. But the passion was muted.

A little boy stared at her over the side of the hammock. He picked his nose with one hand, scratched himself idly with the other. Instinctively she reached down to find some covering, and then realized there was no need. There was no need to do anything she did not wish. She was Meg Hilton.

'Hello,' she said. 'What is your name?'

The boy gave a shy smile, then turned and ran out of the hut. And Cleave came in.

Meg sat up. His face was again sombre. 'Is something the matter?'

'We must go,' he said. 'To the
mamaloi
’
She had forgotten the
mamaloi.
But surely, after the night they had just spent, the
mamaloi
was unimportant. 'But first, you must eat.'

He held out the cassava, the fish, the bananas. Staple diet. She gazed at his pants, found the bulge. 'Will you not sit beside me?'

He shook his head. 'Now is not the time, Miss Meg.' He hesitated. 'You ain' sorry?'

'Sorry ? Why else do you think I came here. I should have come back here long ago, I think.'

'Them white people ain' goin' like what happen,' he pointed out.

'Them white people ain't going to know,' she said, and smiled. 'Unless I choose to tell them. And when I do that, it will be because I won't care whether they like it or not. I don't care now.'

He gazed at her for some seconds.

'You eat,' he said at last. 'Come outside when you is ready.'

She ate slowly and carefully; she was hungry, but her stomach was also churning with suppressed excitement. She finished her meal, stood up. She knew they looked at her, every man, every woman, and every child, whatever they were doing. Cleave's woman. All that tall, powerful, uninhibited voluptuousness was Cleave's. She felt the excitement building. She did not want to consider the future. It would be weeks before Alan could return to Jamaica, and in that time she must remain here, as Cleave's woman. Now was not the time to consider what Alan would think of it. Now was only the time to be Cleave's woman.

She found her tattered gown, dried now, and put it on. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing some of the tangles, then stepped outside, into the morning light. The people looked at her, but did not speak. Only Cleave got up, came towards her.

'Is this way,' he said, and led her into the trees which clustered north of the village.

Meg hesitated, for just a moment, then went behind him. She wished he could be a little more demonstrative. A little more possessive, perhaps. How strange to hear Meg Hilton wishing that of any man. Save Alan.

But the strangest thing was that she no longer found any great pleasure in reminding herself that she was Meg Hilton. Or had she ever found pleasure in that?

They walked, it seemed for a long time. Meg's feet were sore from her escapade of two nights before, and now they were soon sore again, but at least there was little undergrowth with its inevitable carpet of thorns and bristles. Here there were mainly loose pebbles, and occasional slabs of flat and surprisingly smooth rock. And the trees provided some shade from the sun which soon came swinging low over the mountains which surround them.

'Why does not the
mamaloi
live with you in the village?' she asked.

Cleave did not turn his head. 'She is not the
mamaloi
of my village, Miss Meg. She is the
mamaloi
’

'Ah,' Meg said. But she didn't really understand. Probably no one down by the coast, even as close as Hilltop Plantation, really understood anything about the mountain people, she thought, or even realized that they did possess some kind of social order, some kind of cohesion.

Cleave stopped, so suddenly she nearly ran into his back. The trees clustered more thickly in a little valley immediately in front of them, and there was a whisp of smoke.

'You mus' be quiet, Miss Meg,' he said. 'Unless she asking you.'

Meg nodded. I go to meet my superior, she thought. What a topsy-turvy world it was. But who was she to decide which was real and which was fantasy? More important, which was good and which was evil ? To Alan, every Hilton since Tony Hilton the first had landed in St Kitts had been a creature of evil, following his or her ambition to wealth and power regardless of who had to be thrown aside or trampled underfoot in that quest. This old lady did nothing more than give a law to a village of outlaws.

'Come then,' Cleave said, and went forward again, but slowly now. He reached the trees, parted branches, looked into the small clearing and the hut, like those of his village, but possessing walls, and indeed, much more strongly built. Amazingly, the smoke issued from a hole in the roof, whatever the fire risk. The morning was still, and the plume of grey rose straight into the air. The faint tang of it came to Meg's nostrils, titillating them with an unusual odour, unlike any woodsmoke she had smelt before.

The door stood slightly ajar, and the interior was dark. Cleave did not knock, but stood immediately outside the aperture, motioning Meg to stand beside him. They waited there for perhaps several minutes, while the sun continued to climb into the skies, and a bird called, far away in the trees. There was no other sound.

Then a voice spoke. 'Who waits?'

'Is Cleave.'

'And the woman is with you?'

Meg's head swung in amazement, but Cleave frowned her into silence. 'The woman is with me.' 'Then enter.'

Cleave stepped back, gestured at the doorway. Meg ducked her head beneath the low beam, pushed the door to one side, stepped into the darkness, hesitating and blinking, her nostrils assailed by the same smell she had noticed outside, but now immeasurably stronger, a smell which suggested untold ecstasies to her imagination, but at the same time untold filth. It rose from a small fire in the centre of the earthen floor, and in her immediate violent inhalation she choked in the smoke which filled the room before finding its way out through the roof. In a fit of coughing she collapsed on her knees, close by the fire.

Dimly she realized Cleave had also entered the hut and closed the door.

'What she want with us?' the woman's voice demanded.

Meg raised her head again, gazed at the red gown, the slender, hunched body on the far side of the fire. And then sat up straight in surprise. She had expected an old woman, but this
mamaloi
was no older than herself. Indeed, she supposed her younger. And there was something familiar about her face.

'She got trouble with her people,' Cleave said. 'She come to us for help.'

'Us?' the
mamaloi
asked. 'Her skin is white.'

'We got for help she,' Cleave said. 'You ain' remembering? Is Jack bring she here the first time. Is Jack saying she mus' come back.'

'I remember she,' said the
mamaloi,
and suddenly Meg remembered
her.
It was the girl who had led the dance, nine years before. Never could she forget those eager, passion-consumed features. And now? The face seemed close, almost asleep. 'I remember she does own Hilltop,' the woman said. 'I remember she father and he people kill our boy, one time.'