Strange Music (22 page)

Humping wattle hurdles on him back, Trouble passes Sylvia's verandah where me sit at dusk. He all hard from building shack up, from thatching grass and leaves over hardwood beams fe Eleanor's shack roof.

With de gentle comforting clucking of peel-neck chickens rooting in dust round cotton tree's straggling roots, Trouble-Too-Much say to me when me eye offers understanding, ‘Yu a-tree, fruit bin picked by too many pickers, too many. Dey leave yu bare. Buckra, e strip de niggar tree. Yu nah cunny like doctor-bird, hard bird fe dead.'

‘Why yu do say dis me wanna know?'

‘Ask no question, hear no lie,' Sylvia tells me. ‘Buckra don't call im Trouble-Too-Much fe noting.'Him eye hunts me face, hunting misery down. Even when we ripping, stripping, straggly weeds with machete blade, Trouble's lips, choosing silence, firmly clamp shut; him don't let out words but him hunting eye tells what hate and envy's in him mouth, on tongue tip.

Some days more weeds than cane, some days none. Some days me use billhook, some days rip weeds out by hand but always me thinking me cyaan work in cane piece no more.
There's no more, there's only less since yu, Isaac, left
. No, me cyaan work here no more fe it happens now. Again. Tiny pieces come too sharp to see clearly.
Slippery red between me legs
. Memory splinters embed in me head, cling to me throat back. Sometimes me wipe Isaac from me mind, slide into feeling again, whatever sharp thoughts slip into me head me heart's spilling out hurt. Buckra looks through me. Into me belly. Them know. Just stare. Cold. Pale. Ill-looking. Mister Richard's one of them. Sylvia say all buckras afraid of slave woman's belly when it bloated smooth like jumblie-tree skin.

Lickle Phoebe and Windsor change too. It shows in Phoebe's weak walk. Sounds in Windsor's soft soft talk. Tears shine daily on Eleanor's face and me often watch she heart collapse since Isaac's murder. Terror rises up right before me when Trouble-Too-Much stands near.
Shuddering, he crashes down, bringing fiery hell minister tell we bout. Me throat tightens. Hands force me waist down, digging me belly in sandy ground. Heavy rustle of osnaburg trousers, belt buckles clunk. Clamping me head down, forcing deep, deeper, filling me with fear, rasping, thrusting like rusty saws
. Coming over shaky, sweat trickles down me nose, and with Trouble walking behind me, me lose footing on rocky paths. And when we reach shack village every night fe days, weeks, months, Trouble-Too-Much's eye sits tight on me belly. ‘Dere's no way me'd touch it. No way!' it say.

And now each terrible dusk, and now with night looming ahead, feelings come stumbling over Cinnamon Hill with First Gang and down cane-piece track.

And now sky's burnt red. Red like lobsters in wicker baskets Sylvia weaves fe fisher-boys bringing freshly cooked catch fe selling at Cinnamon Hill. Red like obeah chicken blood.
Slippery red between me legs
. Deep dense and glowing red like obeah cast a spell up there where minister say de heavens are.

Trouble-too-Much plods ahead. Coming to village edge, a shambles of pens, dirty yards, closely packed shacks, he halts until me reach tethered brindled goat him stand beside. Sky's glow stains him richly dark skin red. Him hat's disappeared. He loosens spotted cloth from him neck. Him eye looks all-knowing. Like he sees through my thoughts to ocean open blue. Finally he hiss at me, ‘If yu, Sheba, have pickney, yu'll know oo baby-fadda be?' Trouble's words bite. Him eye meets mine; me crinkle up with shame.

Sylvia walks on other side of me. She say to Trouble-Too-Much, ‘Don't ask if Sheba know. Leave she alone, man. Go.' Trouble-Too-Much's eye hunts Sylvia's face this time. ‘Never trust a Negro,' she voice twists on me sharply. ‘Negro swear false, Negro hang thousands to free imself. Torching time yu remember clearly, wen court-house buckra made a studyation to shoot all slave men, an leave all slave woman? Most Cinnamon Hill slave men say, if whites come to take life fe noting dey would run away, not stand together wid slave woman so all we can protect each other. Too quickly we men forget wot Sam Sharpe say “we strength live in unity”. Cyaan snap thick tree trunk or hefty bundle of sticks, but tiny twig snap, see. Alone we a tiny twig. Together, towering tree.'

Trouble's done with rebuilding Eleanor's shack. It give to me sleeping place. Wanting to give thanks me offer Trouble a faint smile. Trouble-Too-Much shows me him back. He goes to him own yard, hangs over verandah rail, head bowed. Him eye still fixes on me.

Elbows on knees, me sit on newly laid verandah steps stripped of bark and scrubbed raw yellow. Stooped over, clothes dirt-patched, Big Robert gathers cook-fire wood from trees all we field-hands felled and dragged to village edge. Yard's full and busy now. Sky's grazed red with coral-coloured streaks.

Sylvia sits down beside me. Phoebe sits above my knee.

‘Sheba, yu should visit Leah,' Sylvia say. ‘Obeah wiser dan yu an me.'

‘Leah warn only of bad ting,' whispers Lickle Phoebe. ‘Minister mek trouble fe Leah. Leah talk bad, give buckra evil eye, say she'll catch im shadow, mek im die die.' Lickle Phoebe's words lodge in me heart pointed arrow sharp.

Big Robert comes to Eleanor's verandah, he settles, leans against pigeon-pea sacks, legs stretched before him. He opens Bible across him knee, thumbing through torn grubby pages. Eleanor comes to join we, towing two full pigeon-pea sacks, making trails in dirt.

‘Hear me true,' Sylvia protests. ‘Leah grow herb to heal many sickness.' Sylvia's eye go up mountain peaks where tree fern begins and river's arms reach down to carve rock pools fe janga-fish. ‘Leah set fish-pots fe freshwater fishing. She have a cow she hide up dere. Me seen wen she say goodbye to de land at day's end.'

Lickle Phoebe say, ‘Sheba get more sick, wot den?'

‘Hothouse cost four shilling a head,' Eleanor say.

‘Dat wot dey charge yu wen yu last chile die of yaws?' Sylvia ask Eleanor. Eleanor nods. Sylvia fetches she broom made from brushwood twigs fastened to branch handle fe sweeping gritty yard floor.

Lickle Phoebe's small hand stretches out towards roundness of me belly. ‘Yu'll grown big fast,' and she almost laughs, stroking me. Me heart never leaves off pounding hard. Me feel hatred swell towards Lickle Phoebe. She head tips sideways and, sameway as old yard-dog, she nuzzles against me chest. Tenderly, she shares food she's gathered when we're fishing or picking red berries, but loathing grows thick from me to Lickle Phoebe, thicker than overgrown tangleweed grass climbing wrinkled tamarind trees.

Moving to stand, Eleanor say, ‘Sheba won't get more sick dan she aready be.'

Very well den
, me think.

Trouble's ears must hear every word, fe suddenly he shouts, ‘If Sheba visit Leah, Sheba won't come back! We need Sheba to work wid we. Saltwater African too many ere. Dem shirk work, swear, feign illness, steal, lie, but buckra pick on we.'

Sylvia breaks from sweeping yard floor. She eye aim at Trouble. ‘Trouble-Too-Much, is yu talk buckra talk.' She sits down again, rubs bite-speckled skin on arms and ankles. She turns broom brush skyward fe warding away tiny maskitta dancing about cloud-like in evening air.

Trouble wears him hunting mask. He comes to Eleanor's verandah like being drawn by a string. Me toes curl up. Me feel sick to bottom of me belly. Sylvia's eye tells Trouble to keep him mouth shut.

Big Robert looks up from Bible pages, saying, ‘Sheba find Christianity good if it do good fe me.'

‘Don't lissen to no minister,' say Eleanor. ‘Wot Leah do won't hurt yu, Sheba. God cyaan send nigger to hell. Nigger areadie dere.'

Silent now before me Trouble prowls to and fro, lips snarling, him all teeth and clashing.

Sylvia say, ‘Sunday market minister want to end, say we no trade on Sabbath day. Lard want we to starve? We areadie lost pay.'

Tongues clicking, Eleanor, Windsor and Phoebe nod to agree.

‘Buckra feed we wid spiteful venom,' Lickle Phoebe say.

Trouble-Too-Much's voice comes again. ‘White buckra bwoy sin in de eyes of God, make we distrust brodda, sista,' and he laughs madly at me.

‘Why yu say all dis?' Sylvia snaps.

Trouble-Too-Much licks a swollen thumb, staring down him nose. ‘Buckra don't know wot freedom is,' he say. ‘We sworn to de Lard. To mek trouble's wrong.' Him laugh mocks Big Robert, mocks himself, mocks me.

Me look awry, sliding me eye to earthy yard floor baked hard and dry.

Getting up, Big Robert turns on Trouble, saying, ‘It's wrong to do as white men. Mek we bad as dem.'

Me want only to climb from Trouble's eye, from me body, skin, out from yard, shack village, plantation. Life. Hotter and hotter me feel and shivers crawl up and down me spine like frightful chill of mountain stream. Pickney's sucking me belly guts, sucking like red-blue flash from doctor-bird sucking out a flower's soul.

Shelling peas, Eleanor say, tilting towards me, ‘Yu gotta git fram dis place.'

Phoebe yawns in readiness fe she sack and sleep.

‘Afta cane burning she cun go,' Sylvia say.

Me reach a wall of doubt. Move away from Phoebe when Isaac live in she face? Me must be near Phoebe fe she a strong reminder of Isaac in flesh. But me hate forgiveness Lickle Phoebe shows when me did no wrong. Forgiveness fe wot's left of me. And me love Lickle Phoebe's caring soft ways. Hate turns to love turns to hate; there's nothing in between.

When burning begins me can go where?
Despair snatches at me mind, whispering,
Burning soon come
.

Me eyes become heavy slits. Aching tired me eat evening cassava meal Sylvia serve; curl on dry leaf-stuffed sack, wanting to run. But to where? Rain rings sharp on palm-and-grass thatched roofs. Me can dream but cyaan sleep feeling yellow buckra flesh feeding off whatever me eat. Strangled by feelings, me lie half dead. Cyaan run away from what's in me head, what turns and grows in me belly, slides through blood. Sylvia's shack's too dark to see bodies me hear breathing. But Lickle Phoebe's voice travels to me this night, crawls under skin, through flesh, bones, where a living beast sucks.
Leah catch buckra shadow, mek im die die
, Lickle Phoebe said.

Me have a sudden feeling to run. Stealing from sack without thinking further run through smouldering fire-smoke – a wispy milk-white web coiling into rain-drizzle, smelling of burnt sugar and green wood. Run silent path winding long through sleeping village, knowing Lickle Phoebe won't see foot tracks fe at sunrise Harry's broom sweeps between shacks.

Like snake spirit haunting salt marshes, thoughts of Leah curl into me mind as me run through tall grasses, toes sinking into hissing mud, leaving gardens behind, scatterings of cordia flowers, small cinnamon trees, provision grounds passed on from Mama in hills above. Leaving behind Lord Jesus, into looming darkness me head fe vast mountain slope. Lord Jesus creeps up on me trying to take root; Lord Jesus seeping in when me breathe. Me reach place fe uprooting trees fe cook-fire wood; Jesus sinking into me heart as me pass under sky's solid sobbing black roof.
Run past clearing where we held each other, kissed, Isaac, bitten with love's storm. To run me fingers across yu face, Isaac, dat's all me live fe now. Run by Sunday punishment place where you cyaan make market money, Isaac. You were bleary-eyed, you hands and feet cruelly tied. Eleanor helped raise field-stock yoke, weakly heaving you body up. Why we free yu fram field stocks to too soon leave this life?

Running past cane-piece track. Cotton trees. Leaving restless sea's hum behind. Croaking lizards. Toads. Sweet frangipani. Pimento groves. Trash piles – black against a blacker sky. Running, passing trees where Loa twists and whirls, a great panic grips me. Branches strike me belly. Trunks thump me thudding heart. Spells twirl through hair, round legs, all wanting to suck soul out-a me. Lightning shoots from one tree like shock of pain. Flickering silver, lightning streaks crack clouds. Running through thick-scented jackfruit forest, on past breadfruit, pomegranate, mango trees. Shadows, charcoal black, leap from behind star-apple tree trunks. Creeping claw of fear of Lord Jesus takes root in me, sinking through me heart to skirt very edge of me soul. Bible pages fall back, fall out, fe me running to spirit gods. Hills grow into mountains. Mountain me climb disappears suddenly cloaked in rain. But goat track leads up steep, picking a path through moonlit streams parted by boulders. Past janga-fish resting in rock pools. Water smooth as silvery coconut oil swirls cold round ankles. Heaven's completely gone when me leap waist-deep in thickets, bushes unknown to me slice cheeks reaching sharply fe bone, sameway as machete blade slashes skin. No Jesus God comes after me through thicket wood so thick me cyaan hack out a path. Water streams from wide banana leaves. Fat raindrops bounce off arms. Me bound so far, run so fast that dripping leaves grow blurred, dim. Scrambling high over mossy rocks, rain-drenched tree ferns soft soft as chicken feathers brush me legs; then sandy-floored clearing me reach.

Bones stick up from a cedar shingle roof, poles rest against shed walls me know must be Leah's. Cockerel feathers clasp a cross nailed to she hardwood door. Me push. Door opens a bit, but it's stiff. Heavily me lean like pushing a great stone.

A shape lies on floor middle. Blinkie-blinkie fluttering in glass jars light wattle walls green. Snoring, Leah turns over. Squawking feathers skim me shin – a chicken flaps through Leah's doorway vanishing into dark forest.

Leah's voice darts out shrilly, ‘Oo de hell's dat?' Me heart shrinks in on itself. Walking on feet and hands till she back arches, Leah forces she body to stand upright. Me heart shrinks further than it's ever been, and me feel everything me think me knew of life suddenly disappear after Leah's squawking chicken, over mountains, down hills.