The Josephine B. Trilogy (3 page)

You will be Queen,
she said.

In which I am punished

Monday, August 4, 1777.

When I saw Father Droppet coming up the laneway on his grey mare, fear came into my heart. I ran up the trace to the manioc hut. Mimi was turning the big iron scraper.

“Father Droppet is here!” I said. “Why? It’s not a feast-day.”

Mimi stopped turning the wheel.

“I made confession yesterday morning,” I told her.

“Did you tell?”

“About the voodoo witch?” I nodded.

“Did you tell I took you?” There was fear in her eyes.

“I
wouldn’t.
” I turned, suddenly anxious. “I wonder what’s happening.”

I did not intend to eavesdrop. That was not my plan. But instead of going directly toward the sucrerie, I went down into the ravine. From my place in the kapok tree I could hear voices on the verandah—Mother, Grandmother Sannois. Then Father Droppet saying, “You understand, this is a matter of…I don’t have to…”

“Goodness!” Mother exclaimed.

Father Droppet said something I couldn’t understand. I heard the front door open and close. Then I heard Manette’s voice.

Manette!
I strained to hear, but all I could make out was Grandmother Sannois saying, “I told you. I told you this would happen.”

I heard the door open and close again and, before long, the sound of
Manette weeping in an upstairs bedchamber. Then I heard Father Droppet say, “If the Devil is permitted…You must…”

“But Father Droppet!” I heard Mother exclaim. I strained to hear more but a black finch landed on the branch above me and began to scold so vigorously I couldn’t make out a word. I shook the branch to chase the bird away. Then, Father Droppet’s voice: “If you don’t…”

It grew dark suddenly and began to rain, a light shower at first, followed by big, heavy drops.

“Rose!” I heard Mother calling.

I climbed down and approached the verandah.

“Why, it’s Rose,” my mother said. “You’re soaking wet.”

Grandmother Sannois was slouched in a cane chair. Father Droppet was standing by the door with an empty glass in his hand. He nodded.

“What can you be thinking of, standing out in such a downpour. Go put some dry clothes on and come back. There is something we must discuss,” Mother said.

Gladly I escaped. Catherine met me at the top of the stairs, an embroidery hoop in her hand. “Manette says you will be Queen! She said the old witch told you. But she won’t stop crying! What happened?”

I could hear Manette bawling even from the foyer. I went down the dark hallway to the door to her room. I knocked. “Manette? It’s me.”

The weeping stopped but she did not answer.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise.” I pushed the door open. She was huddled in the corner of the little four-poster bed. I stooped down under the canopy and sat down across from her. Her eyes were red and her nose was runny. I felt around in my bodice for a handkerchief and handed it to her. “I know you told,” I said.

“You’re not mad?” she asked, her breathing jagged. She glanced up at Catherine, who had come to the door.

I shook my head no. “I should never have taken you there. Did you say anything about Mimi?”

“No!”

“Do you understand what might happen if you did, Manette? She’d be sold—or put on a field gang.” Or worse…

“I didn’t say anything!” she sobbed, so hard my heart was full of fear.
The rain had stopped when I emerged onto the verandah. I could hear Mother and Grandmother Sannois bidding farewell to Father Droppet on the laneway. I stood by the front door, my hands clasped in front of me, waiting. It sounded like Father Droppet’s grey was being fractious. I heard the stable boy cursing in the African tongue. The horse quieted. Then I heard the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hoofs on the stones.

Mother appeared on the path, Grandmother Sannois on her arm, the two pugs sniffing in the weeds behind them. They were wet and looked like big rats. Grandmother Sannois was saying something to Mother as they walked along. Then Mother looked up, saw me.

I held my breath.

“I’ll tell her if you won’t,” Grandmother Sannois said, lowering herself into the chair with the sisal seat. One of her pugs jumped up onto her lap and she pushed him off.

Mother turned to face me.

I bowed my head. I considered throwing myself at her feet. Was that not how it was done?

“And to think that you
made
little Manette go along with you!” she whispered, so low I almost couldn’t hear her.

“Let me tell her,” Grandmother Sannois said.

Mother took a deep breath. “Mimi, of course, will have to be—”

“No!” A violent emotion filled me. “Mimi had nothing to do with it! I
begged
her to take me, but she refused. I was the one, it was only
me!
” My breath was coming in spurts; I could not still it.

Mother took the chain from around her neck, the chain with the big silver cross hanging from it. She took my two hands, put the cross between them. “Look at me, Rose,” she said.

I looked into her eyes.

“Swear that you speak the truth.”

“Mimi is innocent. It is all my doing, all my fault,” I cried out, not untruly.

“She did not take you to see the unholy woman in the woods?”

I shook my head no, violently.

“Say it.”

“Mimi did not go,” I lied. The cross felt cold and heavy in my hands. I pushed it back into my mother’s hands.

“Call the child down,” Grandmother Sannois said.

Mother sat down on a wood stool. “Come here, Rose,” she said. She pulled me down on the stones in front of her. She wiped several strands of damp hair from my forehead. Her touch was tender. “Sometimes it’s not easy to be a mother,” she said. Her voice was cold when she said, “You will be put in the storm room, in the cellar. You will stay there for eight days.” She looked over at Grandmother Sannois and then back at me. She took a deep breath. “You will be fed nothing but dry bread and water.”

I looked at her without comprehending. Eight days? Eight
nights?
In the cellar? “Alone?” My voice trembled. In the
dark?

Mother slipped the chain with the cross over my head. “You will be needing this,” she said.

I’ve been sent to my room to await my fate. I’m to eat supper with my family, and make my farewells. It will be my last meal.

Mimi and Manette are more upset than I am. Catherine, however, can only think of the fortune I was told. “That
you
will be a queen, Rose. Imagine!”

My nanny Da Gertrude appeared, her face wet with tears. She crushed me to her bosom. Then she washed me with a fragrant liquid, beginning at my feet.

“Why?” I asked, for her method was curious. A floating feeling came over me, as if my body were not my own.

“This will protect you,” she said.

“I will be strong,” I said. The thought came to me:
As befits one who will be Queen.

It was true, then, I knew, I
had
been cursed.

At supper I could hardly eat. After, everyone embraced me as if I was going on an ocean voyage. Grandmother Sannois presented me with her Bible. Da Gertrude grasped me so hard I feared my bones would crack.

Mother held the lamp high as we descended into the basement. It was cool, the air damp—old air. I watched where I stepped, fearing cockroaches.
I followed Mother into the storm room—a large room with a narrow bed in it. There was a chair with a frayed wicker seat and a three-legged table propped up in one corner. On the table was a lantern, a candle, an earthenware jug and a cracked china cup. That was all but for one small opening high up on the wall, covered with a wooden shutter.

I set my basket down on the bed. I recognized the patchwork counterpane as one that Catherine and I had worked on together. Mother put the lantern down on the table and felt with her finger to see if it had been dusted. She turned to me. “Rose—I hope you understand why this is necessary.”

“I do,” I lied. I didn’t know what to say.

She began to weep. It was more of a shuddering movement than a sound, for there were no tears. It seemed an unnatural thing. I put my arm around her shoulders. I was surprised how small she seemed. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “May God be with you,” she said.

And then she was gone and I was alone.

Later.

Dear Diary, it is night, my first. I pried open the shutters; the night sounds filled my room. Then I closed the shutters tight, for fear of the wandering night spirits, the hungry mystères.

I fear I am not alone. In the shadows I feel the presence of some spirit. I cannot sleep, will not sleep, for fear it will approach. My eyes open, ever alert, I watch the dark.

The oil in my lantern is low. I must blow it out, I know, forsake this island of light. Courage, I say.

Faith,
I hear something whisper.

August 5.

I woke at the sound of the slave-master blowing his conch shell up in the slave village. I lay there for a time, staring at the ceiling, looking for faces in the cracks. I thought I heard a voice and a giggle. I pushed the chair to the wall and opened the shutters. There, peering at me through the long grass, were Catherine’s dark eyes.

“We have to be quick!” she whispered through the grate.

I heard Manette behind her: “Let me see! Let me see!”

“Quiet!” Catherine hissed.

Manette’s little face came into view. Her hand reached down. I took the handful of moist crumbs. “A mango tart. I stole it!”

Then some more quarrelling and Catherine came back into view. “How is it down there?”

“Boring.”

“Run!” I heard Manette cry out.

And then there was only grass.

August 6.

Toward evening I heard a scratching at the window again. I stood on the chair and looked out. It was Catherine again. She was crying.

“What’s the matter!”

“You have to promise not to tell.”

“What
is
it!”

She started to speak but tears came. “Just a minute,” she said, taking out her handkerchief and blowing her nose. She pressed her face closer to the grate. “I went to the fortuneteller.”

“To Euphémie David?”

She nodded.

“But Catherine! How could you!”

“Just because she told
you
you would be Queen.”

“Did Mimi take you?” I was angry now.

“I went alone.”

“
Alone?
” I couldn’t imagine anyone being
that
brave.

She was beginning to gasp now, sobs overcoming her. I stuck my finger through the grate to try to touch her. “What happened! Did she say something?”

And then she told me. At first the sorcerer had told her to go away, she would not say her future, she said she could not see it. But then the old woman said an awful thing—that Catherine would be in the ground before her next birthday.

“Mother’s right—she is the Devil!” I hissed, but already Catherine was gone, scrambling through the grass.

[Undated]

Is it the Devil or a kind spirit that takes the form of a bat? Last night there were several. I have begun to feel dizzy and not at all hungry. Why am I here? I can’t recall.

[Undated]

I went for a walk. I remember an old woman’s face. I remember her eyes and dust on the back of her hand. I remember watching as she picked through a basket of dried leaves and put them one by one on the dirt in front of me. I remember her chant, her strange wail. I remember an earthenware bowl with two little hearts in it, swarming with flies. I remember seeing a maggot in the bowl.

Was this a dream?

I remember a crippled old woman standing, raising her arms. I remember her lifting a flask of devil-fire to her lips, drinking it like water. I remember her jumping up and down on the ground in front of me, swiping the air with her outstretched hands.

I remember the words:
You will be Queen.

This must have been a dream.

Tuesday, August 12, late.

It was Mother who came for me, at the last. I was lying on the bed. She stood at the door with a lantern in her hand. “Rose?”

I did not answer. I tried, but could not—it seemed too hard a task.

She came to the bed. She was wearing a white gown and a white head scarf and by the light of the lantern she looked like an angel. “You look like an angel,” I said, my voice strange, hoarse.

I felt her fingers fluttering over my face. I heard a snuffling sound. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” she whispered.

I looked at her with confusion. Why was she weeping? I saw a brilliant light all around her. She was the Virgin Mary come to bless me. “Maman!” I cried out, kissing her fingers, pressing her hand to my cheek, marvelling at her beauty.

In which the mystères have their way

Thursday, August 21, 1777.

I woke to the sound of a soft rap-rap-rap on my bedchamber door. “Who is it?” I hissed, fearful.

The door creaked open.

“Father!” He was wearing a riding jacket, blue with gold buttons.

“I’ve ordered your pony saddled,” he whispered, so as not to waken Da Gertrude. Steam was rising from the earthenware mug in his hand. It smelled of coffee and rum. “I want you to meet my new lady,” he said, tossing me a chocolate roll.

Father’s new lady was a black mare with white socks—a bold well-built girl with big eyes, young still. “Lady Luck, I’ve named her,” he said proudly, “won at the tables.”

I reached out to touch her muzzle. She jerked her head away. “Sucre is small for me now,” I said. My little pony was standing by the wall with flies on her eyes.

“This one’s a little hot for you,” Father said. I held the bridle as he mounted.

The horses snorted as we headed down the laneway, shaking their heads against the flies. The sun had just come up; the shadows were long yet, the grass damp. A blue heron flew up as we approached the canefields, still in chaos from the harvest. On the far horizon, at the edge of the sea, the field-slaves were working, preparing a field for burning.