Strange Music (15 page)

Dawn light slid across dusty floorboards when I climbed down attic ladder. Cinnamon Hill great house huge rooms felt odd when Mister Sam's fury had passed. One shattered bedchamber mirror had kept its glass. Mister Sam's face stared from it. Veins rose on each side of him head; cheeks sprung red, mouth forming a soft O, marooned in a sea of papers, books, still like Barrett portraits, locked still; he was staring staring staring at cobweb-like cracks in glass.

Under staring mirror stood Mister Sam's desk. He unlocked it, slid out rests. ‘What did you do with my musket?'

‘Musket me lock up,' I said.

Mister Sam's hands outstretched. Sad hands for me to drop closet key into.

Beneath tiny hidden drawers at desk back lay low boxes split for parchment, goose quills, nibs, keys, maps. Mister Sam's fingers brushed an estate map and, sliding up, stroked neck of empty white-rum bottle living in desk belly. Shaking rum bottle, straw-yellow hair flopping over him brow, he wrung bottle's neck until drops dotted Barrett estates.

What happened then I couldn't have foreseen. Mister Sam stood nearer to me. A weird feeling of hatred and passion ran through my body. I couldn't swallow, a lump blocked my throat. Him look was searching; pink lips waited. I felt each breath he took flow across my skin. I swallowed painfully, I wanted to coil away. My cheeks were burning. I'd never kissed a white man. It seemed a dirty thing to do. It felt worse than betrayal. It felt evil. I felt contempt for him. He'd destroyed Mary Ann as a pickney breaks a plaything. Then I felt a hollow chill, a darkening in my soul. I've even prayed to Him in heaven for mercy for what I did. White crest of Mister Sam's neck was in my hand, blue-grey mistiness of him eye closed as him mouth closed on mine. He held me tight then shaking him head, turned away. And something else strange was in Mister Sam's chamber. Something even more threatening. Beneath four-poster bedspread a sugar-sack-sized bundle stirred.

‘How would you like to live in England, Kaydie? Visit America?' Mister Sam said.

‘Wot, yu mean yu tek me?' I asked, wanting to hear him say it again. Anything I'd do, I thought, to protect Mary Ann for ever from him.

Mister Sam hastily said, ‘Yes. You can go now,' as shape beneath bedspread uncurled, drew sheets from head, shoulders, legs. ‘Go! Leave this room, Kaydia! Immediately!' But Mister Sam's order came too late.

Covers were cast over griffin crests carved in mahogany-smooth bedhead. Dark curls streamed across she face. Beautiful she looked. Painfully open.

‘Why? How Mary Ann in ere? Walk on silent feet?' I said. Why Mary Ann in Mister Sam's bed? Why she's undressed?

Using arms to cover bumps where breasts soon would grow, Mary Ann struggled to tie long-faded brown petticoat of mine, gathering it into bunches round she waist with string. Looking older now than Mary Ann, shattered like my own reflection – trapped – in Mister Sam's staring-glass, soundlessly she tiptoed through chamber doorway, and scuttled towards main stairs.

Pulling me from wreckage of memory, ‘When will my cousin be here, Kaydia?' Mister Sam says drowsily. ‘He's coming to see us at Wimpole Street, is he not?'

‘Cousin already come,' I say. I move to close jalousie blinds. From below a soft clucking rises up to bedchamber from scrawny chickens of part fluff, part feather, scraping earth bare.

Mister Sam mumbles again, ‘When will my cousin be here, Kaydia?' But I can't turn round. Can't look no more on Mister Sam. ‘When will my cousin be here? I have to write to William Carey . . . Papa and Elizabeth told me . . .'

Outside, Mister Carey emerge with Mister Sam's cousin from behind stable-block, each leading a handsome horse. Before mounting both men pause, squinting, shading eyes from morning sun, most likely looking for Old Simeon, then tighten horses' girth. Mister Carey seemed no worse to me than other Cinnamon Hill buckra men until he brought a too terrible story and gave me bigger fever and anger than Mister Sam's. Mister Sam was back in England; then memories swirl painfully. I am sick to my bones.

I was sitting on whistling walk when Mister Carey had come, sun bouncing off him white skin and flashing from banana leaves by back verandah. ‘News has come,' Mister Carey's voice sounded flat, dead, ‘of your master Sam's imminent return. He'll be docking in Kingston any day.'

Sadness filled mid-day air like rank smells can. Only this sadness was stronger than any stench. Inside I was crumbling.

Me, Charles and Mary Ann had gone back to sleeping together in attic room, until that day we heard Mister Sam would soon come. Me and Charles can cope with anything buckra do. Anything. Everything. But we can't cope with these things time after time after time Mister Sam does to Mary Ann.

Hair splayed about golden shoulders like black flame, Mary Ann began wandering again – always she'll be my pickney, I thought, though she sparkling brown eyes have died out like stars can. Before dawn glow she would sneak across creak creak creaking floorboards. Glide along upper verandah, down over wide chilly drawing-room. I remember thinking she don't belong to me any more. Who can help she? often flashed through my mind. Obeah woman, Leah? I wondered.

What happened in England I'll never know but Mister Sam sailed back here to Cinnamon Hill with him brother, Stormie, almost as soon as he'd gone. Like he couldn't keep away.

‘The niggers' children carried yellow umbrellas strapped to bamboo sticks high up over the Blue Mountains to shield me from the sun,' exclaimed Mister Sam when he strode into great-house hall with a trunk fleet of boxes, baskets, bundles, bags, packages all shapes, sizes, carried on heads, sumpter-horses, mules.

At first when Mister Sam returned he buried him badness better, and I began to believe he might have changed. But he never hid what he did to my daughter from me or Charles for long. That isn't all Mister Sam does, preying on Mary Ann again and again and again, but those other faults I could bear and so could Charles. Though I hardly ever saw Charles now.

I fought Mister Sam when he pestered Mary Ann, I fought him with my mind. I lost my battle last Christmas, just weeks back, when Sir Joshua Rowe told Mister Sam he must hold parties less.

But Mister Sam told me, ‘This year Christmas will be celebrated at Greenwood great house.' After militia body assembled and troops mounted, I watched their dead white England faces; they missed chainings and whippings of slaves. I looked from cold face to cold face. All drunk. I can still remember Mister Sam's bottle list, remember it like I remember songs. Mister Sam said he liked to ‘indulge' at Christmas time. Good ale; cheese. Roast beef legs. ‘Women,' Mister Sam had said, ‘are like laudanum; you have to double the dose as the senses decline.' And then he said I must find and round up young girls on coast road, take them to Greenwood big party, big busha-house dance. Each night he drank himself into daylight, rum tumbler draining empty only as red sun rose.

Early one dawn I went with Mary Ann gathering wild cashew nuts. Straying from forest path Mary Ann danced a dream-like dance. My eyes strained to fix on she sliding into shadow, darting round trees, through brushwood scrub she moved by scratching branches, gossiping leaves. Following lightly crunching footsteps past giant hand-shaped ferns, high over moss-covered rocks, through silver webs of streams seeping into deep blue pools, I was calling anxiously. Then I ran fast, dragging heavy pain, yelling, ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' She led me to a place I felt was not good. Slowly tramping on, I reached a tall stone wall, a ruin blocking my path, draped in old ivy rugs. I gave up calling for Mary Ann for she never climbed stone walls so high; turning back I saw a hut I knew must be Leah's. Would Mary Ann run-hide in Leah's obeah hut? What had I to lose?

Fountains of tree ferns I remember, every shade of green; bushes creeping across sandy floor of Leah's pimento-grove clearing, and them red flowers cascading over she shingle-roof. Soft, wispy bamboo. Mauve mountains. Blue behind blue. Wattle hut was quiet. Secluded. Small stacks of shrivelled lizards lay on Leah's doorstep before black darkness surrounding she. Sleepily a black dog stirred, sighed. Dried herb bunches hung from leather pouches hooked on wattle walls, or tied to rafters; leather buckets overflowed decaying flowers, roots.

Leah never heard from me what Mister Sam did to Mary Ann. But I believe she knew what went on between them because, ‘Me understand,' Leah said, ‘Mister Sam e'll want yu in im bed, yu'll see.'

‘If me can mek money me might,' I had said.

Leah said, ‘Kaydia, mek Mister Sam eye fix on yu an not on yu dawta.'

‘Wot if it don't work?'

Leah said she no care, making me nervous of following obeah word.

Back through lonely dark woods I walked. When I came out on a path by sugar works, sunlight was too thick to see more than Mary Ann's blurred shrinking shape running up plantation path, heading for great house. I reached Cinnamon Hill gardens and found Mister Sam not sleeping as most often he was when sun had risen high and hot. He was spread in osnaburg cloth hammock slung between cotton trees. I dreaded walking past.

‘Over here!' he shouted at me, swinging an arm above him head. Cautiously I went into cotton-tree shade. ‘Is it true a group of field-hands attending Waddell's church services are refusing to take the Christmas rum ration?' he asked. ‘I believe this stupidity was encouraged by my carpenter. When did he give up drinking?'

Fear slapped my face. ‘Yu cyaan fix de blame on Pa,' I said. ‘Pa's yu carpenter but Pa don't drink for long time past.'

‘Kaydia,' Mister Sam said, as he eased both legs over hammock edge, ‘do you know what's in this bottle?' I nodded. ‘Take it to your father. You'll find him in the lock-up.'

‘Pa don't drink, don't tek no more rum.'

‘A seasonal present. He must take it from his master, as any good Christian would.'

A sickly rum smell leaked up white stone steps from lock-up in basement beneath great house. I hid rum bottle in my apron, hearing Pa curse Mister Sam. Bending down to lock-up keyhole I saw Old Simeon shake and shake him skinny arm. Face cut, lower lip swollen up, that's what I'd seen.

‘Wayah! Wa mek yu both down ere?' I was shouting at lock-up door.

Through thick door wood Old Simeon sounded far away. ‘Me n Pa won't tek rum so Mister Sam give we no Christmas sugar.'

‘Me won't dance at busha-house!' Pa shouted. ‘Mister Sam too wicked, too bad, too rough.'

‘Tek dis, Pa, fore Mister Sam mek yu,' I said, and forced rum bottle down stone wall gun slot softly coated with yellow moss.

‘Yu cyaan gwan tell me wot to do. Yu full-a foolishness,' Pa shouted.

‘Mister Sam and him cousin treat we sameway lek Old Mister Richard,' Old Simeon said. From keyhole I saw Old Simeon's sad heavy form lurch across lock-up, grab at a sugar barrel, stumble against oak door. Open welts on Old Simeon's back wriggled with maggots, flies.

Days later Mister Sam told me he was inviting Doctor Demar, Mister Carey and other court-house friends to stay at Greenwood for Christmas.

Greenwood great house, a long low building of finely cut ballast stones, like all them large outhouses standing round its pretty grounds, was built only for parties, Mister Sam said, and he was to be head buckra for him cousin, who often stayed at Greenwood but was travelling to Kingston for Christmas to join with pickneys and wife.

Rats rummaged in rubbish and yam cuttings Mary Ann put out for field-slaves. Mister Sam rounded a corner and, head held high, came gaily strutting by in showy fashioned clothes.

‘Hey. What's going on?' he asked me. I was in Greenwood kitchen plucking chickens. ‘It's a holiday,' Mister Sam said.

A stronger than strong thirst rose from my belly to shelter Mary Ann from him come hell's fire.
Keep yu eye fixed on yu dawta betta
, my head-voice said. But Mister Sam and me we sameway too much – both binding nearer to Mary Ann. A closeness between we from this filled each day before Christmas. Him eye would turn greedily on Mary Ann's body curves, bare arms, muscular calves, smooth slim ankles.

Air tasted rich from black crab pepper-pot bubbling over cook-fire on Christmas Eve. Mister Sam had brought to Greenwood a ship's French cook, a woman he called Chef who could cook any dish.

He dropped a mottled blue jade-orchid flower on kitchen flagstones carefully at Mary Ann's feet. She smiled at him, uncertainly, bent down to petals speckled blue-purple, soft like Mister Sam's neck-cloth he call silk cravat. Carrying blue jade flower Mary Ann went through doorway, disappeared into jade vine tunnels leading to rose gardens.

Fat gobs oozed from wild-boar flesh on roasting spit, making cook-fire throw out loud hisses. I looked up again from chicken plucking, feeling Mister Sam watching me. He gave me a sharp stare; sheer blue-green eyes so clear I could see through to a more crafty stormy sea-blue. My stomach started shrivelling – he had seen fire in mine? – but him gone, disappearing behind huge carved great-house mahogany doors.

Carriage wheels crunched on dusty stony drive winding from coast road to Greenwood. Red faces roared with laughter. Some had two chins, some three or four. Dressed as English pages, freed slaves with stony-black faces stared out like statues across Greenwood lawn.

Ladies fluttered in dresses bright as butterflies. Candles lit tables, mirrored yellow in chinking glasses, silver cutlery. Greenwood dining-room air came alive, tasting of warm red hot spices. Mister Sam's family portraits hung on walls; cheeks pale, slightly flushed; small slits for lips; sharp curved English noses like Mister Sam's Cousin Richard's – new paintings from England met my eyes – Mister Sam. Another showed a woman's face buttermilk-white framed with black ringlets
Elizabeth Barrett Moulton Barrett
inscribed on brass lettering plaque.