Authors: Alex Wheatle
“Yes, sa. David, yuh waan go up der an’ tell him to rest himself. Harvest time ah come soon, by de end of de week. Tell him to save him energy fe dat. Serious t’ing.”
“Nuh trouble ya head, Kwarhterleg. Sometime Papa ketch him sleep under de palm grove up der.”
Parking the cart, David then looked in on his mother and sisters. They were blissfully asleep. He placed two coins each by his sisters’ heads, knowing that once they wake up they will both skip into the village and buy themselves ‘box juices’. He emerged again into the hot sun and approached Kwarhterleg, fingering in his pockets for more loose change. He tossed the old man two coins. “Hold dis, Kwarhterleg. Go buy yaself ah Red Stripe or somet’ing. Me gone to look fe Papa to give him ah money we earn today.”
“T’ank yuh, sa,” Kwarhterleg accepted gratefully. Before he had time to consider what drink he would buy for himself, David was gone.
Twenty-five minutes later, David found his father snoozing under a palm tree. “Papa. Papa. Wake up now mon. Me ’ave ah money to give yuh.”
Joseph focussed his eyes and saw his son counting out notes and coins on the ground. “Me sell nuff today, Papa. See de money der.”
Sitting up, Joseph found his straw hat and placed it on his head. “David, me trus’ yuh y’know. Yuh don’t affe walk up to me plot to give me ah money. Dat is madness. It coulda wait ’til me reach home.”
“Nuh trouble ya head, Papa. Me jus’ teking ah liccle walk ah hillside up der ah yonder.”
“Alright. But don’t boder get yaself lost. Yuh know ya mama don’t like it when yuh plant ya foot ah strange land.”
David picked up a mango from a collection huddled around Joseph’s feet. He took a generous bite, not bothering to peel the skin. “Papa, cyan me ask yuh somet’ing?”
“Yes, sa. Wha’ is it?”
“Papa, de Bible say dat de Most High made mon in him own image, y’understand?”
“Yes, dat true. Ya mama swear by de good book an’ she teach yuh good.”
“Den if dat true de Most High mus’ be ah black mon. Nuh true?”
Fidgeting with discomfort, Joseph didn’t know how to answer David’s question. “Well. Me nah sure. But when me once sight Preacher Mon old picture Bible, Jesus Christ always white an’ him
’ave blue eyes. So me feel so dey mus’ show dat fe ah reason.”
Not convinced by his father’s reasoning, David shrugged. “Papa, yuh t’ink black people inna de old days had mighty Kings and Queens like de royal family dat live inna mighty palace inna England? Yuh t’ink dat coulda be true, Papa?”
Searching his son’s face, Joseph wondered why David was quizzing him like this. “Nuh, mon. We come from slaves. Well, most of we. Me cyan’t see how slaves coulda ever be King or Queen. David, yuh been talking to mad Miss Blair inna market square? People say she one ah dem mad Garveyite. Marcus Garvey born inna dis land but people say Garvey talk pure fart. Even Preacher Mon say dat inna him service so Amy tell me. Yuh know Miss Blair? De old woman wid ah long mout’ an’ knock knock knees? Her husband pass away many moons ago an’ she live out near ah Crab Foot Gully where de grass grow long an’ holler wid de wind.”
David nodded. “She is one strange woman,” Joseph added. “Me feel so she coulda be inna de obeah t’ing.”
“Nuh mon,” David laughed. “Papa, Miss Blair ’ave her strange ways but she ah nice old woman. Me don’t know how yuh cyan accuse de poor woman of witchcraft. Papa, yuh been lissening too much to de higgler dem.”
“She talk madness, mon. Me don’t trus’ her. Me tell Amy dat if she come to buy anyt’ing den she mus’ give it to her free of charge.”
Laughing again, David enjoyed his father’s superstition. He then composed himself with another bite of the mango. “Papa, me talk to ah man de udder day who is well educated. Him know him letters an’ him cyan read mighty. Him tell me dat back inna de days of de never never der was dis African king who call himself Prester John. Dis Prester John was well mighty an’ him ah rule nuff people all over Africa an’ ah place call Asia Minor. An’ him wise like Solomon. Papa, yuh ever hear ah dis mighty mon?”
Joseph shook his head. “David, who ah tell yuh dis mad talk an’ loose words? Don’t lissen to dem, David, for dey waan lead yuh astray. Who ah tell yuh dis foolishness?”
“Jus’ ah mon who was passing t’rough,” David lied. “Me cyan’t
even remember wha’ dis mon look like. But me generation is learning new t’ings dat ya generation cyan’t tolerate.” Rising to his feet, David attempted to mask his unease and disappointment. “Papa, me ketch yuh later. Mebbe we cyan share ah liccle rum when de moon ah shine bright an’ de cricket dem start quarrel.”
“Yes, sa.” Joseph looked at the money his son made for the day. “Yuh deserve it mon. Mebbe yuh coulda tek ah liccle money to court girl wid,” Joseph smiled.
Joseph’s last words were wasted for David was already climbing the field.
Hunched over his fire, Levi was lunching on a lobster, crab and callaloo when David emerged from the thicket. “Afternoon, brudder,” he greeted. “Yuh come jus’ in time. Yuh waan ah portion ah dis lobster?”
Levi’s makeshift home was situated on a sharp slope between two cedar trees surrounded by Blue Mahoes. Scraps of dead wood and warped sheet-metal formed the walls and a ragged length of corrugated aluminium acted as a roof. There was just enough room inside for a straw and almond leaf bed. A nearby smaller hut contained Levi’s cooking items, a selection of books, food, various sundries that a man required to live in the bush and brushwood.
“Nuh mon,” David finally replied, sensing his refusal might injure Levi’s feelings. “Me jus’ nyam ah liccle somet’ing. Where yuh get your lobster an’ fish from anyway?”
“From dis good brudder who live ’pon de coast. Him come check me from time to time. Me give him chocolate, ackee, sweet-sop an’ him give me any fish dat him ketch.”
Feeling the cooling hillside breeze that threaded through the trees, David sat down. “Why yuh don’t sell ya t’ings ah Claremont market?”
Levi rocked back in laughter, his mane of hair dancing in the air. “David! Look ’pon me! Yuh t’ink Claremont people would give me dem custom? Nuh, brudder! Dey would never understand dat me ah Nazarene. Dem would t’ink me was born from de seed of Old Screwface himself.”
“So yuh don’t ’ave nuh family?” David wanted to know.
“Yes, brudder. Of course. Me come from ah good well intentioned family. Dem sen’ me ah school in Montego Bay an’ der is where me learn to read.”
Looking inside the stores hut at the selection of books, David remarked, “yes, yuh mus’ read well mighty”.
Smiling, Levi said, “but education is ah dangerous t’ing. An’ de education me receive outta school prove even more deadly.”
“How is dat?” asked David, already feeling a dull ache in his backside.
Mimicking the countenance of a professor, Levi explained, “from when me learn dat Moses was ah black mon who did ah waan reintroduce de praising of de One God, jus’ like Akhenaten an’ him first wife, Nefertiti.”
Recalling that Levi had once related the tale of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, David couldn’t remember the finer points of the story. He nodded and faked understanding and allowed Levi to continue.
“Yuh see, David, Moses quarrel wid Pharoah was never about de freeing of de slaves. It was about Moses’ intention of establishing de praising of de One God – de God of Akhenaten.”
Still not grasping what Levi was saying, David nodded his head again. Levi resumed, enjoying his attentive pupil.
“Moses had many followers an’ Pharoah affe treat Moses intentions serious becah him know dat Moses was ah High Priest an’ ah Alchemist. He did know de high arts an’ sorcery dat dem both learn inna Heliopolis. It was ah High Priestess dat collect Moses from him bankra from de Nile.”
Raising his hand excitedly David exclaimed, “me know dat! Me know dat. Mama teach me dat from de Bible.”
Not liking David’s interruption, Levi resumed, his face now stern. “Moses grow up inna Pharoah house an’ learn everyt’ing dat Pharoah learn. But some call dese facts blasphemous. Even educated black mon will chant yuh down if yuh speak it. Even me own fader chant me down. Me decide to live ah simple life living by me own means. Me family disown me from dat. Me don’t waan to work fe nuh white mon an’ mek him belly get fatter, y’understand? An’ read
der
interpretation of de Bible. ME REFUSE TO CARRY DE
CURSE OF
HAM
!”
David recognised Ham as the black son of Noah, but didn’t want to be led into a discussion. He had eavesdropped on his Grandfather Neville, who spoke of such things in secret gatherings and the subject had caused much controversy. David wanted to address his own circumstances. “Me waan to lead me own life, Levi,” he stated, his tone full of determination. “Me waan to travel far an’ see t’ings. Living ah Claremont cyan’t satisfy me. But me don’t know how to tell me Papa. An’ telling Mama would be worse dan dat. It would truly trouble her sweet head. But me ’ave made up me mind. Me will forward to Linstead first, mebbe find work ah bauxite place, an’ tek t’ings from der.”
Pondering his answer, Levi was fully aware of his growing influence on his new friend. “David, yuh live ah good clean life, an’ ya family too. Yuh live de way de Most High intended ah brudder to live. Me respect dat to de fullest! Yuh know, David, me been living up here ah hillside fe more dan ten years now. Sometime me don’t see people fe untold moons. Sometime me come down to look ’pon ya fader working him plot of land. An’ me see dat ya fader treat de soil like it ah gift from de Most High. Yuh tell me ya fader never go church all de time, but him still live Godly. Yuh see, David, we all come from de dirt an’ we shall return to it. So it’s Godly dat ah mon like ya fader live off de land. An’ yuh tell me yuh don’t waan to follow ya fader mighty footsteps?”
“Nuh mon!” David’s voice grew louder. “Yuh talk jus’ like me Papa! Levi yuh lucky becah yuh ’ave seen different places an’ different land. Yuh tek one step inna de big wide world an’ decide to live like ah bushmon. But inna me seventeen years me see not’ing apart from de pure hills dat surround Claremont. Me waan to tek ah mighty step inna de big world an’ mek ah decision meself!”
Standing up, Levi went inside his storage hut and emerged with a water coconut in his right hand; the top was scalped to allow drinking. “Tek dis, brudder. Nice an’ cool. It will quench ya temper. Dey say dat Maroon blood is mighty quick to boil.”
David accepted and drank, tipping the juice into his mouth.
“David,” Levi continued. “Me don’t waan to tell yuh to do dis an’ dat. Yuh affe follow yuh own destiny an’ mek up ya own mind about de problem. But me affe tell yuh dat de big wide world out der is dangerous.”
Suddenly, David laughed, causing the juice inside his mouth to dribble over his chin. He wiped his mouth with his left palm and said, “living inna Claremont cyan be dangerous too. De udder day poor Miss Mavis get run down by mad cow.”
Fixing David with a stare that spoke of disapproval, Levi continued. “Inna de big universe out der yuh affe rely ’pon de corrupt minds of mon. For example, mon an’ mon will mek decisions about ya life dat yuh ’ave nuh control over. Ah job or ah opportunity fe example.”
Raising his arms and showing his palms, David remarked, “but isn’t dat how de world go?”
“Not if yuh waan it to. If yuh follow ya fader’s footsteps den de only t’ing dat ’ave control over yuh is de soil dat grow ya food an’ de sun dat ah shine bright, giving everyt’ing life. Soil cyan’t lie an’ soil cyan’t never be corrupt. An’ living off de land yuh mek yaself ya own king. Me don’t ’ave nuh shoes an’ nuh shirt but nuh mon ah control me or corrupt me. Now, nah even de King of England cyan’t say dat wid ah honest heart.”
David bowed his head and stilled his tongue. He did not want to disagree with Levi. But the desire to bless his eyes on new pastures was something that could not be denied. He decided to inform his parents of his intentions after harvest; his father would need him that day. Following that he would leave and his father or Levi could throw no words at him to make him change his mind. Once gone he’d grow his hair like Levi, be a Nazarene like John the Baptist. Last week he had so enjoyed Levi’s tale of Jesus’ disciples warning him off approaching ‘the dirty, matted hair wild one’. As he read when Levi showed him a passage of the Holy Piby, no scissors would trouble his hair again. He’d walk into far lands and see the world but keep that black pride that Levi instilled in him. Yes, he told himself. Me time ah come.
Two days until harvest Sunday. Amy, shaded by the zinc roof, was nursing a mug of rum and goat’s milk while sitting on an unsteady stool outside her kitchen, the choking smoke of burning tyre strips from her neighbours’ yard irritating her; Miss Panchita, who lived twenty yards away, was breastfeeding her three-month-old baby and wanted to ward off any mosquitoes and other insects; she had yet to register the birth of the infant in the parish capital, St Anne’s Bay, but hardly any Claremontonians ever did – the long trek put them off, notwithstanding the illiteracy that most Claremont folk shared and the subsequent fear of embarrassment.
Sighing wearily, Amy was much relieved that her morning chores were over; sweeping out the yard, scrubbing the cooking vessels in the stream, collecting wood for the fire and mending a pair of Joseph’s old cotton pants. She looked forward to this time of the day. Her daughters, meanwhile, were learning how to sing
Rule Britannia
at school and reading about the acts of bravery of Nelson at Trafalgar and the red-coats who thwarted the Zulus at Rourkes Drift. Amy thought it was a mockery for Jamaican children to sing the lines, ‘…
Britannia rules the waves, Britons never never never shall be slaves
…’ She felt her daughters should be taught to rely upon what the soil offered them rather than educated about the deeds of men who lived in a world her kin couldn’t comprehend. “
Rule Britannia
cyan’t mek de yam grow sweet,” she whispered to herself. “An’
Rule Britannia
cyan’t mek me daughters be dutiful wives.”
Snoozing with his back against the mango tree, Kwarhterleg had earlier volunteered to decapitate, pluck and cook a chicken but Amy could not afford the luxury of stretching her own rest. She had yet to call on her sister, Jackie; buy a prize goat from Mr DaCosta, the local goat-herd; and then call in on her parents: she received a message while she was in the market that her father
wanted a ‘strong word’ with her. She guessed it had to be about Joseph. It was always about Joseph.
Amy drained the last drops of her cocktail and for a short second, considered refilling her mug. “Aaaahhh! Joseph. Where ever did yuh come from?”
She reminisced to when she was eight years old. One quiet evening in the fall of 1915 Amy’s father heard a gentle tap-tapping upon his creaky front door. He opened the door cautiously and there was the fifteen-year-old Joseph, standing up straight with the setting red sun slowly dropping behind his right shoulder. The contours on the right of his head seemed to be glowing. He was nervously holding his tatty straw hat with both hands. His feet, apart from the blisters and sores, were the same colour as dried mud. His ragged, soiled vest and pants clung to him like an outer skin. His hair was dry, browned by over-exposure to the sun. Amy laughed when she recalled her father’s description of her future husband. “Lord me God, wha’ ah crazy sight me see dis balmy evening! Come look here family, der’s ah long bwai outside me door who black ’til him cyan’t black nuh more! Moonless night mus’ be him fader. Him ah dressed up inna him smelly reg-jegs dat even de curious dog dem would nah sniff.” Despite his words, Neville, Amy’s father, knew he was looking at a Maroon and he suffered a sharp pang of guilt; he knew that one of his forefathers had been conscripted by the English to spy on the Maroons.
Bowing slightly, tipping his head, Joseph greeted, “goodnight, sa. Me really sorry to trouble yuh dis fine evenin’. Me walk far an’ wide an’ me liccle weary. Me jus’ waan to ask yuh, sa, if yuh ’ave any work to give me. Me ’ave ah strong back an’ de midday sun don’t trouble me strengt’ inna me shoulder dem. Me cyan plant, sow an’ reap anyt’ing, sa. Me know how to pluck fowl, skin goat an’ chop off ah pig head top. Me well ably, sa. Me don’t waan nuh money, sa. Jus’ somewhere to lie me head when de moon ah shine bright an’ me don’t care if me ’ave to ketch ah sleep wid de dog an’ fowl dem. Me used to dem smell an’ it don’t trouble me.”
Inspecting the poor wretch, Neville gave him a strong ‘eye pass’. Neville’s family, Amy included, peeped from behind his back.
“Where yuh come from, bwai? Where ya mama an’ papa? When de las’ time water ah rinse ya armpit? Where ya shoes? ’Pon ya travels yuh never t’ought to moisten ya skin wid coconut? Ya elbows are grey like vexed rain cloud!”
Joseph’s eyes dropped to gaze at his scored feet and he emitted a sense of shame. “Me don’t ’ave nuh family, sa,” he lied. “Tell me where de river der an’ me would forward to it, sa.”
“But yuh mus’ ’ave ah strikin’ plot somewhere,” Neville insisted. “How cyan yuh born widout family. If yuh is ah trickster or ah t’ief me gwarn lick yuh wid me piece ah breezeblock ’til de crab louse come outta ya dutty hair!”
Refusing to answer, Joseph continued to stare at the floor. Amy, wrestling free from her mother’s grip, stepped to her father’s side. She took a lingering look at the visitor. He was different from anybody she had ever seen. So dark! So tall! And the eyes! So pitiful. But he looked strong, his shoulders barely fitting within the door frame. Amy compared Joseph’s jawbone to a Blue Mahoe branch that she sometimes sat upon.
Seeing himself as a Godly man, Neville considered that if he offered this young beggar some food and a place to rest his bones for the night, it would only enhance his reputation, especially if he told the aged preacher man about it. Yes, old Mister Forbes would have to talk about this good deed in church, he thought. Maybe if I play my cards right, the good people of Claremont might want
me
to sermon them when the preacher man passes away and rises to heaven to get his reward. Wise Mister Forbes bones are getting creaky and his crazy son, Isaac, spends him time trying to sway pretty girls to follow him to the bush. “Alright, bwai,” Neville decided. “Yuh know ya name?”
“Joseph,” muttered the stranger, his words aimed to the floor.
“Come in, Joseph. We will give yuh ah liccle supper an’ somewhere to rest ya mosh-up foot…Amy, start up de fire an’ boil some water an’ mek de bwai ah coffee. Don’t use too much coffee bean!”
In the morning, Neville emerged out of his house and found that the yard had been swept by Joseph already, wood had been
collected for the fire and Joseph had located the stream to wash himself in; his hair now looked a rich black texture. Neville, mightily impressed, asked his wife, Melody, to cook Joseph’s breakfast and while smoking his pipe, pondered Joseph’s future. He decided to give him a trial run working on one of his two fields. Joseph dropped to his knees in thanks, his eyes filling with tears.
Neville discovered that Joseph was indeed industrious and knew the ways of tilling and farming. At length he discussed Joseph’s fate with Melody, and one night he said to her, “sometimes de Most High give yuh ah chance to right ah wrong. Mebbe if we do right by Joseph de Most High might finally bless we wid ah son. So long He has cursed my seed.”
After two weeks he decided to take Joseph on permanently; his wages were food, an outside straw bed and a drop of rum to wash down the ackee and salt-fish supper that Neville insisted upon on Friday nights. Amy, Neville’s youngest daughter, was delegated to bring Joseph’s meals to him in the evenings; Jackie was asked initially but she cried off, saying, “de black stranger wid de wolf eyes look like de angel of deat’’’. Joseph never said much upon receiving his dinner, just a “t’ank yuh liccle Amy, ya mos’ kind”. He never did reveal where he hailed from, despite Amy’s mother prompting him and, in the end, she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “hear me Lord, praise is ya very name. It easier to t’read ah long belly goat t’rough de eye of ah needle dan getting dat long bwai Joseph to talk about him past.”
“Amy! Amy. Wha’ happen to yuh? Yuh ketch inna daydream?”
Shaking the memories out of her head, Amy composed herself and looked at her sister, Jackie, who was carrying a long piece of rope in her hands. Jackie was shorter and fatter than her younger sister. Her eyes looked fearsome and her bunched calf muscles well defined from treading miles every day since she could remember. She could also cuss-cuss with the best higglers in the market. She was wearing a simple light blue frock and a white, cotton headscarf that exposed her silvering temples.
“Yuh forget we ’ave to go up to Misser DaCosta to buy fat goat fe harvest night.”
“Nuh, Jackie. Me don’t forget. Cool down ya fire an’ stop fret! Me jus’ ketching ah liccle res’.”
The two sisters set off and took the winding goat’s path uphill, through water coconut and pimento groves that led to Mr DaCosta’s land. Sometimes the terrain was treacherous and unstable underfoot but years of experience allowed them to find a true path, Amy using long, elegant strides while Jackie employed short, hurrying steps.
“Amy,” Jackie called, her tone over dramatic. “Preacher Mon come up to talk to Papa las’ night. When me sight him tie up him donkey, Preacher Mon face look like fiesty higgler slap him face wid wet callaloo. Him was vex me ah tell yuh.”
“Isaac fussing?” Amy queried casually. “Wha’ is wrong wid him now? Him wife der ’pon her mont’ly cycle? Him donkey run away becah de poor beast cyan’t tek de beatings nuh more? Somebody t’ief de collection money?”
“Why yuh always call Preacher Mon Isaac?” Jackie wondered.
“Nuh Isaac him name?”
“Yes, but yuh should nah call him dat. Anyway, Amy, yuh well an’ truly know why Preacher Mon vex. Joseph, ya brute of ah husband, ah lick him down. Me hear Preacher Mon ah tell Papa. Papa ah lissen an’ shake him head ’til him head get loose. An’ den Papa frown an’ frown ’til him face look like ah crushed old plum. Dis gwarn cause one mighty bangarang an’ de Most High himself might set curse ’pon ya family! De poor people dat live down ah hillside hate Joseph already an’ wid dis latest news some ah dem might seek der revenge. Mebbe dey will chop off more of Joseph’s finger dem!”
“Jackie, yuh jus’ like dem leather-neck higgler ah market who cyan’t sell dem wares an’ dem spend dem time ah create rumour an’ susu while dem head top ah turn grey! Foolishness de higgler dem ah talk, but ya susu, Jackie, is ah whole heap worse. Cyan’t Isaac defend himself? Why him ah ride to Papa yard an’ start bawl like girl chile who cyan’t find her pretty dress to go ah church ’pon Sunday. Isaac mus’ fight him own battle an’ don’t drag anybody else inna it. Isaac like fowl who run away from craven dahg.”
“Yuh know, Amy,” Jackie cooled her tone, not wanting a cuss cuss with her sister for her tongue was no match for hers. “Yuh t’ink Preacher Mon still ah feel it becah yuh turn him down all dem years ago?”
Amy’s eyes betrayed a sour memory and she switched her gaze in front of her. Jackie seized on the opportunity and went on. “Him even ask Papa fe permission to marry yuh before yuh know anyt’ing about it. Amy, yuh coulda live inna Preacher Mon big house. Me remember dem time an’ Preacher Mon ah bawl ’til him tears run dry. Dat’s why him coulda never like Joseph.”
The last remark cut Amy like a sharp stone on a bare-footed child. But she wasn’t about to display any hurt to her sister. “Well, if Isaac still ah feel it den me don’t care,” Amy shrugged, remembering the marriage proposal that came when she was only fourteen years of age. “All of yuh did ah laugh after me when me tek up wid Joseph an’ Isaac did ah t’ink dat me turning fool like fowl who lose dem head. So him only feel it becah Joseph prove him an’ everybody else wrong.”
“But, Amy, yuh affe admit dat sometime Joseph gwarn strange. Him use to frighten me when me ah girl chile wid him wolf eyes. An’ yuh still don’t know where him ah come from after all dese years.”
Coming to a halt, Amy caught Jackie with a fierce glare. “Dat is
me
business, nuhbody else’s!”
The two sisters looked at each other for more than thirty seconds, both of them realising that they jousted verbally with each other as long as they could remember. Jackie wanted to win this particular battle. She went on. “As him turn up dat night outta nuhwhere any day him coulda tek up him long foot an’ disappear to nuhwhere. Some people inna town still call him
Black Duppy
.”
Resuming her trek, momentarily leaving Jackie yards behind, Amy countered, “yuh woulda like dat, Jackie. Den yuh coulda spread rumour dat Old Screwface ah kidnap me husband an’ tek him down to work inna hell fire.”
Jackie opened her mouth but no words came out. Old Screwface had never appeared in a cussing joust with her sister before. Amy
continued, her tone full of injustice, her voice raised. “Jackie, me don’t understan’ yuh becah me never blaspheme or slur ya husband. Although me always sight him down ah liquor bar near ah market wid ah drink of somet’ing inna him hand, talking pure fart to anybody who care to pass while him crops ah wonder where him der.”
Now grinning, Amy went for the kill, knowing if it would come to a fight she always had the upper hand. “Lazy him ah lazy. Licky licky ya husband licky. Me surprise de rum him ah drink nuh turn him into sugar cane. Him coulda grow ah new sugar plantation if him piss ’pon de land. Even people who suffer from cold fever an’ ah live inna St Anne’s Bay cyan smell de rum offa ya husband breat’! Jackie, ya de one who should start
fret
!”
Priming her tongue for a reply, Jackie thought better of it. The remainder of their trek was completed in silence.
Mr Welton DaCosta, a lean light-skinned man, owned a sizeable plot of sloping land where he raised cows, bulls and goats; one of his forefathers was the child of a Spanish captain and a slave. To quell the gossip and the scandal, when this child reached his teenage years, he was dispatched with his mother to the backwoods of Claremont, accompanied by a bull and four cows. The days leading up to harvest time was Mr DaCosta’s busiest and most lucrative of the year; there was no red soil staining his land so he hadn’t been tempted by the corporate cash wads like other farm owners had been. He saw Amy and Jackie approaching him. They had a fearsome reputation in the village. Welton knew there was no way he could tempt the harsh-mouthed sisters into purchasing one of his cheap ‘maaga’ goats.
The sisters left Mr DaCosta’s land with a fat-bellied goat walking dejectedly behind them, as if it knew of its fate. A noose was around its neck and Jackie gave it no time to nibble on grass or inspect anything with its nose. The siblings reached their father’s home forty-five minutes later; Jackie paused at the post office where she collected her father’s mail. Neville lived just outside the village near a tambarine grove, a mile away from Amy and her family. The location offered a grand view of the descending hills
that led to the sea. On fine mornings, Neville and his family could detect a shimmering horizon tinted with shades of light blue.