Adrift on St. John (27 page)

There was a movement in the darkness, and Manto swung his light to catch it.

The mischievous Princess had moved about twenty feet into the ruins. He watched as she passed in front of the main boiler room and crossed to a short flight of steps leading to the elevated embankment of the cane-crushing ring. Her sneakered feet climbed the stairs and skittered across the circular, stone-ringed structure at the top.

Manto scrambled across the clearing toward the mill, skipping around the stone columns as he chased the Princess through the driving rain. But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, she was nowhere to be seen. The rain poured down as he slowly pivoted with his flashlight, searching the wet shadows for her elusive figure—once more, she had vanished.

Still muttering under his breath about the stolen rake, Manto climbed the slippery stone steps to get a better view of the ruins. From the short height of the cane-crushing ring, he could see into the remains of the boiler room and the series of open cauldrons that had been used to cook down the mill’s sugarcane juice. The building’s roof had long since washed away, but the boiler room’s stone walls, along with the towering smokestack on its far side, stood solid, providing an endless number of hiding places.

A sharp, swirling breeze whipped through the trees, cutting through Manto’s wet clothing. The oppressive heat that had tormented the island for the last two months was now, with the arrival of this pounding storm, morphing into a chilly, bone-soaking cold.

Manto knew he should get back inside the truck, where he could warm himself with its heater and wait for Charlie to arrive. But despite the increasing chill and the lure of the warm, dry cab, he remained at his position on the ledge of the cane-crushing ring, continuing to sweep his flashlight through the ruins’ crumbling stone structures.

He was determined, for once and for all, to catch this troublesome, thieving Slave Princess—and, hopefully, to retrieve his rake.

Deep down in the superstitious corners of his soul, Manto confessed that a part of him wanted to believe in the myth of the Slave Princess. Despite his childhood-instilled fear of the Amina, she represented a proud connection to his ancestors, a link to his heritage that he could boast about to his grandchildren.

But there was something definitely amiss here. In all the versions of the Slave Princess tale, and, for that matter, all the stories of the forest spirits he’d listened to growing up on the island, he’d never once heard of a ghost stealing a piece of gardening equipment.

Issuing a perplexed grunt, Manto crossed toward the opposite side of the ring, to the portion located farthest away from the road, where the land sloped gently upward to meet its top rim. He trained his light on a line of small rooms positioned behind the boiler room.

As the beam flickered across one of the many smooth-limbed, reddish-trunked bay trees dispersed throughout the mill area, a slight movement at the edge of Manto’s periphery confirmed his suspicions. His spotlight found a rain-blurred face peering out from one of the stone entrances.

Manto raced to the circle’s perimeter, his sandals scrambling on the slick, sodden grass. Slipping with every step, he hurtled over the stone rim, dashed around a mound of rocks, and sprinted up to the now empty doorway. Heart pounding, he stepped cautiously over the threshold and looked inside.

The roofless room was vacant, save for the spindly trunk of yet another bay tree.

His frustration mounting, Manto arched his light over the slender branches and then down to the raised roots that snaked across the volcanic-earth floor.

The sound of racing feet brought him back to the doorway. Something scuttled through the leaves to his left.

He turned, panning his flashlight toward the Princess’s fleeing silhouette. His beam followed her as she scampered down a short path leading away from the mill. Then the Princess scrambled across a narrow bridge and up a stone-littered hill to the remains of the ruins’ plantation house—all the while gripping the rake handle in her hand, using it like a walking stick for balance.

Flushed with chill and adrenaline, Manto wavered as his mind argued vigorously with his eyes. He knew it was unwise to follow the Princess, be she ghost or human, much farther into the ruins. But finally, he wiped the back of his hand across his rain-streaked face and continued on.

The narrow ravine beneath the bridge was quickly filling with runoff; a torrent of water rushed through its streambed. On the bridge’s opposite side, the path leading up to the plantation’s former living quarters was a minefield of slippery roots and loose rocks. Long vines dropped down from low-hanging branches, slapping him across the face with every step.

Between the struggle for his footing and the constant swatting of the vines, by the time Manto stepped inside the ruins of the main house, he had once more lost track of his target.

The plantation house was far more deteriorated than the sugar mill. The remaining walls were more horizontal than upright; the structure looked as if it were about to tumble down completely.

Manto aimed his shaking flashlight at the nearest room, illuminating the barely distinguishable outlines of its stove and chimney.

At least, he thought wearily, the tree cover provided some protection from the rain. Water was now coming down against his head in discrete plops.

Drop. Drop. Drop.
The sound echoed in his ears, mimicking the staccato of approaching footsteps.

“You’re all rig’t, Manto,”
he told himself, trying to drum up confidence.
“She’s nut a ghost.”
With a clarifying gulp, he amended,
“Leas’, I hope nut.”

After a quick check to his rear, Manto swept the flashlight toward the house’s top corner. There, at the forest’s edge, just behind the wide fan of a yucca plant, he spied the Amina Slave Princess—still grasping the handle of the missing rake.

As they faced one another over the rainy forty-foot distance, the Princess brushed her free hand through the spiraling damp curls of her jet black hair. Then her fingers dropped to the amulet hanging from her neck.

A flash of lightning blitzed across the night sky, illuminating the entire ruins in a ghostly specter of light.

Temporarily blinded, Manto blinked and refocused his gaze on the spot where the Princess had stood, but she—and the rake—were gone.

A dark-skinned man with muscular arms watched the scene in the Cinnamon Bay ruins unfold from the thick woods at the back of the property, near the entrance to a nature trail that led up into St. John’s hilly center. Rain dripped down on the water taxi captain through the heavy canopy of the surrounding bay trees, but he appeared not to notice. His attention was focused on the events taking place in the ruins.

When he saw the Slave Princess make her move toward the trailhead, he slipped into a small rustic cemetery holding the remains of the plantation’s early settlers and waited for her to pass. A moment later, he followed her up the trail.

As soon as the captain disappeared through the trees, an elderly woman in a soaking wet shirtdress and loose rubber sandals crept out from behind the largest of the aboveground stone coffins. Taking care to maintain a safe distance, Beulah Shah set off up the trail, falling in behind both the water taxi captain and the Amina Slave Princess.

Charlie carefully navigated his towing rig down the slick and treacherous North Shore Road, keeping his eyes peeled for Manto’s disabled truck taxi. The rain was still coming down in buckets, limiting visibility, especially on the road’s sharp curves.

When he finally spied the entrance to the Cinnamon Bay parking lot and, in the ruins on the opposite side of the road, Manto’s disabled truck, he could hardly believe the sight.

“What—did you forget how to drive?” Charlie asked with exasperation as Manto met him at the tow truck’s back hitch. He studied Manto’s wet, disheveled appearance with concern. “What happened to you?”

“Eye saw a ghost.”
Manto gulped, his face deadly serious.
“She ran me off thuh road.”

“A what?” Charlie asked, his brow furrowed. “A ghost ran you off the road?”

“It wuz a wo-man—thuh Ameena Slave Preen-cess.”
Manto wiped a hand across his forehead.

“The who?” Charlie demanded, clearly confused. “The Slave who?”

Manto cleared his throat.
“She had wone of my rakes.”

Charlie put his hands on his hips. “A ghost ran you off the road with a rake?”

Manto nodded solemnly.
“Sometin’ lyke that.”

Charlie covered his face with his hands. Then he pointed to the tow truck.

“Get in the cab,” he said with a sigh. “We’ll get Bessie out in the morning.”

33

Jeff sent word that the dive shop had picked up a last-minute sunset charter, so I found myself without my expected Saturday-night companion.

I couldn’t imagine why anyone would pay good money to sit on a wet boat on rough water out in all this rain, but there was no accounting for the wild whims of tourists. Regardless, I headed into town on my own, catching a ride on one of the few remaining truck taxis waiting in the resort’s front drive.

Twenty minutes later, I dashed through the rain, up a flight of green-painted steps into the second floor of a building located to the right of the Crunchy Carrot. With the storm still emptying itself onto the island, the Dumpster table was out of the question, but the bar next door was a perfect alternative.

The Silent John had the laid-back atmosphere of an old Irish pub—that is, one that had been exposed to the open air of the Caribbean for the last forty years. The uneven wood floor and well-worn furnishings were a perfect complement to the plastic table and chairs of the Dumpster table below.

Shaking off a scattering of droplets, I crossed the room
to a counter and a row of bar stools. A couple of television screens were hooked up to a satellite feed along the back wall behind the server’s station. Underneath the TVs, a rickety shelf held a line of dusty beer cans and bottles, an advertisement of the bar’s beverage offerings.

The Silent John didn’t serve food—which was probably a good thing, given the sanitary conditions in the place—but the waitresses from the Crunchy Carrot made frequent deliveries up the stairs.

I placed an order for a fish sandwich and took a stool at the far end the counter. As I stared up at the nearest television screen, my thoughts focused on the hot meal that would soon be headed in my direction. My stomach rumbled with hungry anticipation.

This sandwich would receive a much better reception than the one I’d received in the backseat of Hank Sheridan’s sedan.

Down at the other end of the bar, a man in a Hawaiian print shirt knocked back a shot of dark amber liquid. Then he
thunked
the glass dramatically on the counter next to a dingy baseball cap. Given the molded crease in the hair across the back of the man’s head, the hat had seen several days’ worth of constant use.

The man licked his lips and announced in a loud drawl to the fellow seated to his left, “I’m from Murfreesboro—that’s in Tennessee. I’m here on my honeymoon.”

The Hawaiian shirt had been dyed an eye-popping array of vivid orange and pink, the bright-colored blobs arranged into the shapes of oversized flower petals. The top three buttons were undone, revealing the red skin of the man’s neck. This was not the recent sunburn of an island vacation, but the permanent leatherizing texture accumulated over a lifetime of UV exposure.

Beneath the shirt, the man wore a pair of ill-fitting, roughed-up blue jeans. A circular impression had been worn into the left rear pocket, the residual imprint from countless
tins of chewing tobacco. A pair of pale hairy feet poked out from the jeans’ rolled-up cuffs. Chipped, yellowed toenails wiggled freely in cheap discount-store sandals.

“Have you ever heard of Murfreesboro?” he yelled loudly into his neighbor’s ear.
“Merf-fees-buro?”
he repeated, his voice slurring even as he overenunciated each syllable.

The recipient of all this attention was a dark-skinned man with wooly dreadlocks and a tired, blistered face. The West Indian’s body was covered with a permanent layer of long-unwashed grit and grime. The rags of his clothes hung with the same limp, dirt-laden droop. A vacant, drug-numbed expression clouded the man’s eyes. The stench of human decay wafted all the way down the bar to where I was sitting, but the Tennessean appeared not to notice.