The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (18 page)

That deep in the forest there was little sunlight and suddenly there was none at all. The storm that swept in from the Atlantic blackened the sky and shook the trees. Within seconds, rain was falling in torrents and Thomas was soaked. Water was pouring down the path, turning it to mud and making each step treacherous. Trying to shelter was futile, so he just stood to one side and waited for it to pass.

When it did, he set off again very cautiously. He was wet, he was tired, he was heading back where he had come from and if the brutes got their hands on him, he was dead. He did not want to make matters worse by slipping and turning an ankle.

But at a place where the path turned sharply, he did slip. His feet went from under him and he slid on his backside across the bend and into the undergrowth. The bushes slowed him and he came to a halt a few yards off the path. He got to his feet but his left ankle immediately gave way. He lost his footing and was on his backside again, slipping down the hill. Without warning, the ground under him disappeared and he was bouncing down a stony slope. He flailed about with his hands to find something to hold on to, found nothing and kept on going down. By this time he was flat on his back. His head hit a rock and when he finally came to a stop he was unconscious.

Had it not been for the arrival of another storm, Thomas might have lain there unconscious for hours. He came to when rain began to fall on his face. Water gushed down the hill, bringing debris and mud with it, and he was struck by branches and stones. He lay curled up on his side, his hands protecting his head, until the storm passed.

When he tried to stand he found that his ankle had swollen to twice its normal size, he was bruised all over and he could not focus his eyes. He seemed to be at the bottom of a deep gully, its walls rising steeply on either side and with a vertical cliff face in front of him, but that was more sensation than sight. Trying to focus on the slope he had tumbled down, he saw vaguely that it was the least steep of the gully sides and would offer some handholds in the form of rocks and shrubs. Ankle or no ankle, it had been his way in and it would have to be his way out.

It would be foolish to attempt the climb before his vision cleared, so he sat on the sodden ground, rubbed the ankle and waited. He felt all the parts of his body that he could reach to make sure that no bones had been broken. There seemed to be only cuts and bruises, although some were painful.

When at last he could focus his eyes the light was beginning to fade. In Barbados there was very little dusk and it would soon be dark. At the bottom of this gully in the middle of the forest, neither stars nor moon would shed much light. Despite a throbbing ankle and an aching head, he must try to climb out.

Using a tree as a support, he stood up and hobbled to the base of the slope. Very cautiously he started to climb. One step up, grab a rock or a bush and heave himself a foot higher. Repeat the process and repeat it again. It was slow and tiring and after five minutes he had climbed no more than ten feet. When he looked up, it was too dark to see the top of the gully and he knew he was not going to make it. One step down, reach for a handhold and lower himself foot by foot until he was back where he had started. Ten feet up and ten feet down, hurting and exhausted. The tiny frogs began to whistle and clouds of insects rose from the ground. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night in the gully.

And so it was. When dawn at last broke, there had been rain, insects and pain. Of sleep or food there had been none. Using a fallen branch as a crutch, he struggled to his feet and examined himself. His arms and legs were decorated with a patchwork of bites and bruises, he could not say which part of his body hurt the most and he was ravenous.

And there was, of course, the little matter of the brutes. Even then, having searched in vain in Speightstown and Holetown, they might be climbing the hill after him, whips in hand and thirsting for blood. He had knocked red brute down and humiliated him. He had run away. There would be no mercy. They would kill him and make up some story about his catching a fever. His corpse would be thrown to the dogs. They would laugh as they watched it being torn apart and devoured.

Enough, Thomas. They have not found you yet. Get out of this gully alive and you might yet survive. You must survive. If you do not, neither will Margaret, Polly and Lucy. And be quick about it.

He began the climb again. A step at a time, favouring the swollen ankle and carefully testing each rung of his ladder before trusting his weight to it, he made steady progress to a point about halfway up, where he held on to a sapling and paused for a rest.

But for the birds, the forest was silent. Taking a deep breath, he continued to climb and had almost reached the top when he glanced up and saw a face watching him. He missed his footing and slid down a few feet, scrabbling for a hold with his fingers and luckily coming to rest on the stump of a fallen tree. A shaft of pain shot through his ankle and he cursed. Then he looked up again and laughed. The monkey was still watching. Then it ran off. Probably gone to fetch his friends, thought Thomas.

He started to climb again and took care not to look up until he reached the top. When he did, he lay on his stomach, catching his breath and wishing his ankle would stop throbbing. Eventually he picked up another branch and set off slowly down the path. It was still treacherous and he took great care. Another slip and another gully might well finish him off.

When he came to the palm trees, he split another coconut and ate its flesh. Where the path forked, he turned up the left-hand path, offering a silent prayer to any god who might be listening that it would lead him to the Lytes’ estate. He had not gone far, however, when his eyes refused to focus. No amount of blinking or rubbing helped and his legs began to feel heavy. He knew something more than a twisted ankle was wrong and sat down with his back to a tree. His eyes closed and he slid to the ground.

When he came to, he was lying on a blanket. He struggled on to his elbows. He was in a clearing in the forest where a circle of men and women were sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating, drinking and laughing. Every one of them was naked. Thomas sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked again. About twenty of them, chatting happily and not a stitch of clothing between them. Something stirred in his memory. The little parson in the Mermaid. Was it Mange? No, Strange. He had been talking about these people. Ranters, that was it, Ranters. His brain was fuddled and he could not recall if Ranters were dangerous or not.

They were not. When one of them noticed that Thomas was awake, he got to his feet, spread his arms in greeting and spoke in a clear, musical voice. ‘Good day, brother. I am Jacob, leader of this family. You will share our food. All are welcome to join the Ranters.’

When Thomas did not move, Jacob tried again. ‘Do not be afraid, brother, the ways of the Ranters are peaceful. Come and sit with us.’

Still Thomas did not move, so Jacob walked slowly towards him, arms outstretched, until he could take Thomas’s hand, help him to his feet and lead him into the group. Favouring his ankle, Thomas limped behind him. Every Ranter stood and held out a hand to touch the newcomer. Jacob helped him to sit in the shade of an old fig tree and a slim young woman with long black hair gave him a piece of bread and a fruit he did not recognize. He asked for water and was handed a leather flask. The Ranters sat around him, watching him eat and drink.

The water did a little to bring Thomas to his senses. He was still befuddled but gradually it dawned on him that he was not where he should be. He had lost his way, passed out and been found by these Ranters. They had given him food and water and they were friendly enough. He looked about. Roughly equal numbers of men and women, not in the least abashed at their nakedness, and perfectly happy to have a stranger amongst them. He wondered if he should take off his clothes, decided they would tell him if he should and sat quietly.

When Jacob spoke again, the fog was clearing and reason was slowly returning. ‘What is your name, brother?’ the Ranter asked gently.

‘Thomas. Thank you for the food.’

‘The Ranters believe that nature’s bounty should be shared. We found you in the forest. We have treated your injuries. Where were you going, Thomas?’

‘I was running away. Where are we?’

‘We are in the hills above Speightstown. Did you come from there?’

‘Nearby.’

‘Do you work there?’ asked another voice.

Thomas glanced up. The face and voice were familiar. Someone he had met in the market, perhaps. ‘I do. I am indentured.’

‘Indenture is slavery,’ said Jacob quietly. ‘The Ranters do not condone slavery.’

‘All men and women are free,’ said the young woman who had given Thomas the bread and fruit. There was a chorus of agreement.

‘God is in all of us. Submission to the rule of others is wrong.’

Not feeling up to a discussion on faith and morality, Thomas nodded politely. The Ranters must have sensed his mood because after a while Jacob began to play a flute while the others danced naked around him. Among the dancers was the man who had asked him if he worked in Speightstown and when Thomas looked at him, it came back to him. The little man with thin wispy hair and watery eyes was none other than the Reverend Simeon Strange himself. The parson who had declaimed so mightily against the Ranters had become one of them. Thomas wondered if any of the other dancers were parsons or even members of the Assembly. For all he knew, Walrond or Bell could be among them.

He was in trouble. By now the brutes would be searching for him. If they found him they would flay the skin from his back. He knew he should do something but had no strength for it. He looked at the sky. It would soon be dark. Despite his ankle, he should go.

The music and dancing came to an end and the Ranters gathered up the remains of their food. The young woman who had
spoken against submission to the rule of others took Thomas’s hand and helped him to his feet. ‘I am Catherine,’ she told him. ‘It is too late for you to leave now, Thomas. You must spend the night with us.’ She was right. Better a night with the Ranters than another alone in the forest. Thomas allowed himself to be led by Catherine along a path through the trees to another clearing where a circle of neat shelters made of branches and palm fronds had been erected.

‘There is a place for you here, Thomas,’ said Catherine, indicating one of the shelters. Thomas ducked inside. It was dry and cool and more fronds had been laid down to make a floor. Even if it rained he would be quite comfortable for the night. When he smelt cooking, Thomas emerged from the shelter and found that a fire had been lit in the centre of the ring and the Ranters were preparing to eat. While the men gathered wood for the fire, two women stirred a large pot simmering over the flames. Thomas breathed in the aroma and realized how hungry he was. When the food was ready it was ladled by one of the women into wooden bowls and handed out by Catherine. Each Ranter sat with their bowl and platter around the fire.

When she had served everyone, Catherine came and sat beside Thomas. ‘Are you familiar with the Ranters, Thomas?’ she asked between mouthfuls.

‘I have heard of you but know little of your ways.’

‘Would you care to know more?’

‘If you would care to tell me.’

‘Ranters reject the teaching of the Church. We believe that God exists in every living creature and that man is thus free of sin and of his own laws.’

‘Should a man not be punished for robbery or murder?’

‘He will be punished by God.’

‘Do you not believe in any form of government?’

‘We believe in the freedom of the spirit.’

‘I see,’ said Thomas, although he did not. Ranters sounded very like anarchists, albeit peaceful ones. ‘And why are you here?’

Catherine bit off a chunk of bread and chewed it thoroughly before answering. ‘There are some in England who fear our ways. When they passed laws against what they call blasphemy and adultery, it was to give them an excuse to prosecute us. Some of us chose to come here to practise our beliefs.’

‘Are you free to practise them here?’

‘For most of the time, we are. There are always a few who seek to interfere. We turn them away.’

‘I notice that Simeon Strange is one of you.’

Catherine giggled. ‘Simeon spoke vehemently against us until God persuaded him to join us. Even now, his faith is fragile and from time to time he turns against us once more. We tolerate this because we believe that he will see the truth once and for all when God wishes him to.’

‘Does his congregation not object to his being with you?’

‘I doubt if Simeon has told them.’

Catherine had finished her dinner and turned to sit facing Thomas. ‘And you, Thomas, how did you come to be on this island?’

While Thomas told Catherine the story of his arrest and indenture to the Gibbes, she sat in silence and listened. Not once did she interrupt with a comment or a question. ‘What a wonderful listener you are,’ he said when he had finished the story. ‘Listening is a great skill and much undervalued.’

‘We are taught to listen,’ she replied. ‘Our leaders insist upon it. They teach the art of deep listening.’

‘What is deep listening?’

‘It is listening beyond the words. Listening to the tone and the manner of the one speaking. That way, we learn the truth.’

‘Do they insist upon the removal of your clothing?’

‘That is a matter of choice. In this warm climate we choose to hide nothing from each other.’

While Thomas and Catherine had been talking, the other Ranters had gone to their shelters. None of them went alone. When they were the only couple left by the fire, Catherine rose and kicked earth on to it to kill the flames.

‘Come now, Thomas,’ she said, ‘it is time to rest.’ Thomas followed her back to their shelter and lay down on the palm fronds. Catherine lay on her side facing him and put her arm around him. As she gently stroked his neck, he realized how much he craved the comfort of another body. It had been a long time. Catherine sensed it and did not hurry, nor did she mention the scar on his cheek. She was slow and skilful and when it was over, she whispered, ‘Sleep peacefully, Thomas. Wake me if you need me again.’