Strange Music (6 page)

‘Pray, fine man,' minister say. ‘What is your name?'

‘Big Robert. An me sendin me heart to Lard Jesus.'

‘Then, Big Robert, tell your people to make good terms of employment before turning out to work again, for I must make haste to take the service at Barrett Town.'

Sun's terrible blazing eye glares at Big Robert. Grinning, pumped up like he'll burst, Big Robert swaggers past Isaac and me back to a cane-piece row, swipes up shining machete. Skilfully he slashes cane with great sweeping strokes.

Staring curiously down on Big Robert, Jancra swirls – a great bird, wings full-spread, black-feather tips cloud skimming blue sky.

Minister's horse swishing its tail while minister fixes a foot in a stirrup, flings him leg up over saddle back. He sets off galloping across Cinnamon Hill, heading fe Barrett Town.

Like pickney winning market game, Big Robert's fattened by him new prize – faith in Baptist church – making him body grow bigger, making him work faster. Him mind's crippled, me think, but him face say believing in white buckra church carry him far from hard cane-piece grind. Me look up to white clouds snaking and swirling in clear sky, and prickle blue with envy.

‘God's will be done,' overseer say. Him stare's empty, and angry edge to him voice gone, leaving only hollow words. ‘Jus git to work.'

Tools can so easily slash skin, slit throats, make blood stream, only we too spent from work. Machete feels like a dead weight now. Weeds twine round canes, leaves lace legs, arms, machetes. Tearing stalk's rank stench makes slow moving air sickly, cane row so bushy-thick cyaan see black snake till we chop it. Cyaan see baby boar till we step on it. Wild boar piglet sleeping in dark shade of leaves shrinks to a glimpse of pink, bobbing through swiftly parting sugar, waking sows; boars deep in cane piece dart in all directions, swollen bellies almost stroke soil, squealing through tall trembling canes go tiny piglet sisters, brothers. Between rows all that's left's a brutal trail of trotter tracks to crumple and worry bare earth. Even in sun's brightness we fearful and in need of lantern fe lighting we way. A coarse shout from cane-piece middle will scare because we know what made that sound. Is terror stalking. Faster, faster we cut, spine hurting, thinking only of empty churning bellies, not of close, loved ones; or, sight falling to trash on parched earth, love's a very true thing filling we mind, and we cyaan move on fe these thoughts are like searching fe a bead of hope that's lost and cyaan be found. Is here but cyaan be found.

Coming to row end me find young Mister Sam jogging up to main gate on him horse. Eyelids heavy on him face like a drowsy lizard. Strong hot wind strokes hair dried-grass yellow, brushes green canes. Sugar crests and sways. Jancra circles lower, lower. Current swells, crop ripples and swirls like thick manes tossing. Even de soil frown like Isaac's puckered brow. Each rift and wrinkled dent me feel beneath me tread.

Mister Sam's trouser tightly belted; shirt's too bright a white to look at, buttoned despite thick heat. Fanning flies from him neck with a banana leaf, screwing him eye against sun's heat, Mister Sam's scanning cane gently swaying, gliding flocks of parakeet, then he disappears into forest edge.

Crickets hum. Morning shadows gone. Abeng booms
Fuuuuffuu-ffuu
. We flock to forest shade. Me skin baked, raised all fassy.

Isaac say, unwrapping boiled plantain and yam tied in rags, ‘Mister Sam won't give sugar or proper pay to dem dat say prayer to Jesus Christ.' Kissing him teeth, Isaac shuts one eye and sniffs sweat so it dribbles up him nostril. Isaac's words bring grief, but him eye laughs. ‘Oo needs prayers more dan Mister Sam? E wake we village at night like duppy or white jumbie, crashing into small cinnamon tree, yard, even we shack, searchin fe pum-pum.'

Curled on one side in long yellow-brown grasses, Lickle Phoebe pecks at she bowl of cassava. ‘Yu tink all we gonna die?' she asks in a voice half stolen by cane-piece wind.

‘It dem, or we,' Isaac say.

‘Me
seen
Mister Sam doin it,' Lickle Harry shrieks, ‘so did Lickle Phoebe, she bawling wake de village!'

On a bandana Eleanor lays roasted coney and cane-rat Lickle Harry caught yesterday. ‘Dat brought Mister Sam to a-kinda stop,' Eleanor say. She turns to me: ‘Yu got more cassava, Sheba?'

‘Aha.' Me set out coconut bowls brimming with cassava.

‘E no duppy,' Lickle Harry say, ‘e a-zombie, Mister Sam!'

Looking like Isaac's and Lickle Harry's words hold a terrible lasting stench from which Phoebe must slant away; she balls-up, skinny legs drawing into she chest.

‘True, Mister Sam walkin dead man,' Trouble-Too-Much say. ‘No feelin in him body, no memory in him head.'

Isaac's eyes turn sun-shot amber now it's noontime. He eats, picking meat strands from coney bones. ‘Sameway as any white buckra Mister Sam have too much of de spirit rum,' he say. He fills a palm leaf with cassava. ‘E like black woman's pum-pum too much. See ow e walk an ow e ride im mare like e have swollen buboes, wid sad sharp pricking pain.'

‘Wot bout Big Robert back dere?' Eleanor asks. ‘E snoring. E a-beached-up manatee.'

Shaking himself, Trouble-Too-Much say, ‘Bway! Me thought e had sense.'

Lickle Harry giggles, shoulders bobbing up and down. ‘Big Robert read de Bible
tree
time a day,' he say.

‘It not so funny,' say Eleanor.

Lickle Harry folds top and bottom lip together, him mouth becoming a crease to disguise him laughter. Me smile a bit inside me head.

‘If it wasn't fe Mister Farquerson, I'd be gawn,' Isaac say, eye-winking me. ‘But Mister Farquerson stop me cos e not so wicked.'

Sunshine streams strong strong. Lickle Phoebe and Lickle Harry skip and bicker round tamarind tree trunks thickly overgrown with tangleweed, and me cyaan say where their energy spark from. Swiftly they take flight from tiny snakes sliding through shivering grasses, tongues switching out, in, blue-black as night.

‘De two cousins, Mister Sam,' Isaac say, ‘talkin wid buckra an overseer like dey're waiting fe we to run.'

Wading through grasses that spread into tamarind forest, head overseer, buckra, Mister Sam and Mister Sam's cousin go all hitched up together. Waving canes stretch behind them to blue hazy sky.

No wind blows while under sheltering trees we lie, sugar scent suffocates; forest air sits still and hot as a great thickly woven blanket-cloth; its stillness, strange and heavy. No laughter. No sighs – we practise what we've learned. Learned to talk without sound. Learned to walk on silent feet.

Noontime's long come. Noontime's fe spreading out in tall yellow-brown itchy grasses. Sunlight slants through a leafy green roof staining grasses gold where all we rest. Bamboo creaking. Sky spirits swish round branches chased by a sudden busy spurt of afternoon breeze. Dizzy blue sky sets me wondering why we have to play hide-and-seek just to be together. Me cyaan say what de matter is but when you work on night shift and night crickets screech till dark air sings and bellies rumble fe supper, squabbles break into brawls and me know you in trouble, Isaac, though me hate to look out through shack doorway to find out why. And when fighting's over you won't come to me. So me sit alone, see you in me mind, Isaac. Want to be with you in me body. You face, you strong shining eyes; eyebrows, soft lips and warm tender hands hold me face, firm voice mops tears. Lower lip juts over you chin gently ripe, full, tasting star-apple sweet.

Sitting up from crushed flowers Isaac gives a dry smile. ‘See im dere? Canya see Mister Sam?' Clutching overseer's clay water bottle, Mister Sam bends double. Whistling through teeth, Isaac throws small mauve petals at me, just in case me fell asleep. Him eye flashes white and makes four with mine.

‘Im badda dan any buckra,' me feel say. ‘All Mister Sam waan is pass rum bottle. Mister Sam sow seed fe spirit of unrest.'

Spitting out cockroach Mister Sam pours buckra's water onto dusty ground. ‘Look pon dat now,' Isaac say gleefully.

Buckra have worn faces; steady hot steel gazes, prowling up and down nearby cane piece.

‘Dem in-a worries,' Eleanor say.

Isaac nods, ‘Dem's too hard.'

‘Mister Sam worthless,' me feel say. ‘Im regret sailing fram him home, England.'

‘E lie,' Isaac say. ‘E have plenty money, dem's two cousin, Mister Sam.'

‘Who the hell put a cockroach in the water?' Startled, looking over me shoulder, me see white sweat shining face of Mister Sam. Him jaw fixes, him eye looks raw, cheek muscles twitch. A red rash crawls up from shirt neck, up throat, spreading across pale cheeks; blue-grey wrinkles riddle him forehead like tiny wavy snakes. ‘If you don't like it here you can leave. That goes for all of you here,' he say.

Isaac's face goes ragged, him furious searching eyes crave reason. ‘Now we're free yu pay less. Half what we used to. Cyaan buy land or shack. Two bitts we lose fe freedom. Two bitts we pay fe wot?'

‘To prevent me from reverting to the old system,' Mister Sam quickly say. ‘Then I could sell your wife, or keep her for myself. I need someone to manage my affairs – financial, of course.'

‘Ef yu do me beat yu.' Isaac jolts to him feet and makes him hand a tight fist tempting Mister Sam to strike. Mister Sam stands firm but him nostrils flare wide on both sides. Isaac reaches fe machete half hidden in high grass. Shoving Mister Sam, ramming machete under Mister Sam's chin, ‘Me aredie,' Isaac roar.

‘Isaac, don't be renk,' Eleanor say. Worry lines round she mouth come more deeply carved and show lifelong strain. Fearing what'll happen to Isaac, fe buckra say Mister Sam wants to bring torching punishment system back, me throw meself forward, grabbing Isaac's arm. At torching time, Falmouth workhouse head driver hung hundreds of field-hands. Winnie caught running away, militia troop herded she back, militia chopped Winnie with machetes till she ears and jaw almost fell off, then strung she up to hang. Caught sleeping in cane row, Trouble-Too-Much was stripped, after a flogging militia made Old Simeon piss in Trouble's mouth till Trouble-Too-Much sick. Venus got caught eating sugar cane fe food scarce. Even tho she heavy with child, she got Old Simeon's full dose – militia made Old Simeon shit in she mouth, gagged she, then after a flogging pickled she back well with salt. Memories of punishment place cling to me mind, me clawing hands try to hold Isaac back from Mister Sam.

Isaac shakes me off. He don't meet me eye. Him bony chest drawn broad and tense like a wood box – power's wrapped inside. ‘Is im or me,' Isaac say, and makes to slit Mister Sam's throat.

Sweat sits on Mister Sam's hairline. No magic cure fe hatred. He stiff. Infected with it. Me not seen young Mister so sick with fury since he stop minister worshipping at Cinnamon Hill great house.

Gripping cowhide whip between thighs, Mister Sam twists leather round whip handle. Him voice snakes out, ‘Lazy niggers. Here, the sugar and the works must be kept in good order.' Mister Sam don't look at Isaac, just machete blade curving up to him throat. Lines stand up on Mister Sam's neck like blue-grey threads streaking palm fronds.

Lowering him machete, Isaac steps back.

Mister Sam shudders from head to foot like unharnessed horse. ‘I came here to sort these matters out for my father,' he say. ‘For three weeks I've not had a full gang working.' Snapping round sameway as a makeshift thought, Mister Sam snatches me machete. A fine ridge of sand splays as Mister Sam, bending over, scrapes a line on de ground with me machete-blade tip. ‘I'll show you how it's done.' White forearm hairs brush me shoulder as he steps forward, steps back, boot toe just meeting de line he scored in sand.

Isaac gives me a queer look. Buckra's face beams satisfaction, giving me a sidelong glance. Face going thinner than before, Mister Sam have staring zombie eyes. Dead with anger.

First Gang steals out from forest resting place and silently spur Isaac on. Isaac best cane-cutter. Why Mister Sam take im on? Swirling round, Isaac faces young Mister, and power we fear gave Mister Sam slips away quicker than yellow snake. Me feel white heat of we hatred fe buckra. See Isaac's hate swell up, him arm muscles ripple lively like black flame. Hate bursts from Isaac. Eyes warring, Isaac's eagerly squeezing wooden machete handle like it a friend's hand. Opening him mouth, Mister Sam swings me machete blade, slashing stalks; spiteful breath gushes out.

‘Isaac chop cane wen knee-high,' Eleanor whispers to me. ‘E have no problem to win.'

Drawing in a bellyful of air, Isaac swings machete blade to and fro faster than ever, ‘Eh-he,' puffing breath out with all him great strength. Then all movement goes slow and ugly but most of all slow – drawn-out – suddenly. It isn't just peeled-pink colour of Mister Sam's face makes him different, makes him look like he been skinned; or him hands, floppy-white like white woman's gloves; it's everything different. Way Mister Sam holds cart whip; way he changed saltwater slaves from Africa's names; shouts; makes we pay fe what we already have – shack, provision ground; measure everything – even time he slices up, like day can be chopped into tiny minutes. Mister Sam carves up everything.

Sharp machete blades glint, slashing canes. Hot air's rising. Isaac, huffing, panting wildly works to cane-row end. Mister Sam bends with pressure, shirt clinging, sodden, to him back. We know he cyaan go on, he never going to win.

Whistling pickney clap hands, stamp feet. Face screwed up, Lickle Harry starts bottom rolling like John Canoe dancer.

‘Amen! Amen!' cries Eleanor.

Like a weary pickney halfway along a cane row, Mister Sam slouches over machete blade. Jerking up its head, him horse stops munching cane; quivering nostrils flare red like he can smell a smell of dread.