The Rhythm of the August Rain (25 page)

“I didn't say anything—I mean—nothing that any father wouldn't say. He's a couple years older than you, isn't he, and you know what boys—”

“Don't even go there.”

“I meant that he's not—you have to be careful.”

“We're not—”

“He's from a poor family, I saw where his mother lives, and he sees you as a rich white girl. He's probably looking for what he can get, you know what I mean?”

“I'm not a rich white girl.”

“To him you are.”

“A customer is calling me,” she snapped, and stalked away.

Eric sighed, closing his eyes.
Sheesh, a man couldn't win for losing
.

T
he dark, silent seconds were measured by the clackety-clack of the windshield wipers as Carlton drove through the village of Gordon Gap. Shannon patted her purse holding the envelope with J$18,000 in cash, US$200, as Redemption had said. She'd gone with Carlton to an ATM in Port Antonio to withdraw it, and the fat, white envelope had made her nervous. Eighteen thousand bills looked a lot more than two hundred. She'd stored it in her bedside table, checking on it morning and evening to make sure it hadn't gone anywhere.

It had been sunny in Largo when they left, but the weather here changed quickly from one part of the island to another, from one hour to the next, as unpredictable as its inhabitants. Carlton had asked if he could stop off in a village on the way to give his cousin some mangoes, and the three had had to wait in the car for half an hour after he disappeared inside.

Shad had passed the time asking Ransom questions about where he was from and what family (no relation to the Ransoms in Ocho Rios, he was from Kingston) and how he came to be a professor (through scholarships and universities in London). It had started to rain just before Carlton jumped back into the car without an apology. By the time they'd reached the road to Gordon Gap, darkness had fallen, and the passengers' silent stares were paralleling the headlight beams.

Shannon rubbed an itch on her back against the car seat. Spatters of water were sneaking through the inch-opened window onto the long sleeve of her shirt, but she was too warm to close it. Beside her, Ransom sat looking toward the bellows of frogs. He seemed the only relaxed one in the car, didn't seem worried about what the evening might bring, and his presence reassured her. She'd begun to doubt if being paid four times what she normally received was worth all the trouble, but now she was feeling better. Being with the most respected scholar of Rastafari couldn't hurt.

She reached into her purse and felt the envelope. The money for Redemption was her personal donation to the quest. Expenses were included in what Angie was paying her, but the bribe would be worth it to get to the bottom of the business. No information on Katlyn, no payment from Angie. Equally important was getting out before Eric's girlfriend arrived in Largo. She already had reams of notes and hundreds of photographs, enough to put an insightful article together at home in Toronto; the only thing needed for her departure from Jamaica was Redemption's input.

“What you think,” asked Shad, turning in his seat, “if we pay a little visit to another camp on the way? It's a Rasta farm, and I hear—”

“I thought Ras Redemption was going to help us,” Shannon said.

“We can't put all the farm eggs in one basket.” Shad grinned at his own humor.

Shannon looked at Ransom, who'd been briefed on Katlyn earlier in the drive. He tipped his head, as if he thought it would be worthwhile. “Just a few minutes then,” she said.

Shad told Carlton to turn onto an unpaved road before I-Verse's camp, and they bumped along for half a mile.

“You sure this is it?” Carlton said.

“I not a hundred percent sure,” Shad replied in a low voice, audible in the back.

It was even darker here, the overgrowth and trees narrowing the already narrow road. Outside, the screeching of crickets had turned to a steady drone.

“I don't know,” Ransom put in. “We don't know where we're going, it's dark, and it's raining. Maybe you should do this another day.”

“Have to,” Carlton said, stopping suddenly. Ahead of them, the lights showed a gully full of rushing muddy water.

“Let's go to the Nyabinghi, then,” Shad said.

“Thank you,” Shannon whispered to Ransom after they'd gotten back to the main road.

He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed it lightly. “I could hear what you were thinking.” He didn't lift his hand and she didn't move hers, the warm comfort spreading from his hand to hers.

“By the way,” she said, “I have a few facts to ask you about that are not in your books.”

“You've been reading them.”

“I read them already—in Canada.”

They laughed together, making the hand-touching easier.

Outside, the rain had stopped. “We reach,” Shad said. The gates to the camp were open tonight, and as they wound along the drive to the compound, the car lights picked out the eucalyptus trees towering over them like dripping sentries. Around the corner, a row of kerosene torches low to the ground announced the celebration, and in front of the first building, a large flag hung soggily from a bamboo pole.

A cluster of young men stood at the clearing in front of the buildings, some talking, some drawing on spliffs, turning one by one to look at the approaching car. The torches lit their faces from below, making them look like skulls, their chins and cheeks gleaming yellow. When Shad rolled down his window, the sound of drumming throbbed into the car, and Carlton leaned over the wheel as he crawled to a stop.

“Rawtid!”
Shad exclaimed.

“A big night,” Ransom agreed.

One man, dreadlocks in a bun on top of his head, stepped over to the car and placed his hand on the driver's window. “What your business here, brethren?” he said, clearly the gatekeeper.

“They coming to—” Carlton started.

“Ras Redemption invite us to the Nyabinghi,” Shad explained, leaning in front of Carlton. “Is not the first time we come.”

The gatekeeper called to another man, said something about Redemption, and the other man started toward the buildings.

The professor let go of Shannon's hand and stuck his head out the window. “I'm Richard Ransom—from the university.”

The man with the topknot looked puzzled. “You coming to study us?”

“I come to partake, man,
nuff respect
,” Ransom replied, switching to a middle-class patois.

A post-rain breeze drifted into the car along with the drumbeats. The men kept looking at them, at Shannon longer, and she shivered. She wanted to reach for Ransom's hand, but each of the car's occupants was sitting upright in a silo of space. A minibus braked to a stop beside them, and a dozen Rastas stepped out, men in baggy pants, females wearing flowing dresses with colorful headgear. They greeted the men and walked inside.

The gatekeeper kept his hand on Carlton's open window, only releasing it when I-Verse walked toward them. “Yes, you can let them in,” the tall wood-carver announced. In his embroidered white shirt and yellow turban he looked elegant among the youths.

“Park here,” the gatekeeper instructed Carlton, “and walk inside.”

“I staying in the car,” the driver replied.

Settling the camera bag on one shoulder and her purse on the other, Shannon stepped out of the car and joined Shad and Ransom beside I-Verse.

“This Mistah Ransom, the professor from UWI,” Shad said to I-Verse, gesturing to Ransom, who bobbed his head at the introduction.

“The Ransom who write all them books?” I-Verse asked, the scent of marijuana bursting from his lips. “Welcome, welcome, brethren, some nice reasoning with I and I tonight.” The Rasta started toward the buildings, and the men at the gate parted to let them through.

Shannon felt the wash of eyes as they passed, and she took an extra step to catch up with Ransom. “Stay close to me.”

“Joined at the hip,” he said under his breath.

W
ith each step they took, the drumming got louder, the haze of ganja smoke making it seem more insistent. From behind a building came the glow of a fire. A full moon had just risen above the trees, banishing the compound's bedraggled daytime look and turning it into a dramatic scene lit by torches. It reminded Shad of a film he'd taken Beth to see in Port Antonio for her birthday, the one about an ancient kingdom that was really in the future, except there was no electricity and everything looked old-fashioned, just like these Rastas.

Dozens of people swarmed the grounds in graceful outfits and turbans trimmed with variations of red, yellow, and green. Some moved around the outdoor kitchen; some walked toward the center of the compound carrying bowls. Men called instructions to women; women called instructions to children.

“Greetings,” Akasha said, waving as they passed the kitchen. She looked pretty in a red head wrap, rows of beads around her neck.

“I and I getting ready for the feast,” I-Verse explained to the visitors.

“
Ital
food, good food that,” the professor replied.

“You hungry?” the Rasta asked Shad. “Is organic, so they call it in America.”

The group rounded a building to find a robust fire, six feet across, roaring in the middle of the compound. On either side of the fire were two long tables covered by white tablecloths and laid with bowls and silverware. Platters of food already sat in the center of each, and more food was being added. Encircling the whole area were torches on bamboo poles, and to one side was a large tree. Framed photographs of the emperor hung from the lowest branches of the tree, the panes of glass glimmering above the six men drumming in a semicircle below.

“Take a seat.” I-Verse gestured to a bench at one of the tables.

“Is Redemption here?” Shannon asked.

“Redemption busy now, reasoning with some brethren.”

She smiled without showing her teeth. “We had some business to attend to, remember?”

“Little patience, your turn coming.” I-Verse turned to Ransom. “Time for sacred herb. Everything taste better after a little smoke, right, Professor?”

Ransom looked up at the man, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, man.”

The drummers started singing, a wailing about
taking us home
that went along with a rat-a-tat rhythm and a higher-pitched drum. Before departing, I-Verse placed a spliff in Ransom's hand as if he were the elder, the one to start the smoking, and Ransom glanced at his companions, eyebrows lifted helplessly, before placing the four-inch joint in his mouth. Shad wondered what Ransom was going to do—a man from Kingston used to being behind a desk—until the man took such a strong pull of the spliff, seeds popping, that his eyes crossed. Maybe it was part of his job, so he had plenty practice, Shad decided.

Shad took the joint and, after giving it a suck, offered it to Shannon.

“I'm working,” she hissed.

Akasha, the baby lashed to her chest with a sash, motioned them to join the circle that was forming around the fire. “Praise time.”

I-Verse appeared and gestured to the drummers to stop. They laid their drums down and joined the circle. I-Verse grabbed the hands of Shad and Ransom and raised them, his woodworker's palms hard and scratchy, and everyone raised their joined hands.

“Jah, the Beloved, the Wise,” he called above the crick-crack of the fire, “your brethren come to you to ask blessings—blessings on the food, on the queens who made it, and on the feast. And I and I come before our emperor, the Most High Jah Rastafari, knowing you are everywhere around us. Your brethren walk before you in humility and follow your guidance, because wisdom is forgotten and overstanding is lost. Just as this fire represents the key to your presence, the judgment of the Almighty, may it also cleanse us all of wrongdoing. Jah and man, I and I, will keep all bad mind away from the door, now and forever more.”

“Jah Rastafari!” the group shouted.

“Eating time,” I-Verse said, releasing their hands.

Shad stared into the fire, the ganja making the crackling of the branches louder, the colors more vivid. He'd never noticed the greens and purples in flames before. A fire could hypnotize a man just as the sea did sometimes, but fire was like anger, the ocean like peace, and he preferred the latter.

By the time he made his way back to the bench, little room was left. “Give a man a seat, nuh?” he said to the teenager beside Shannon.

“Nuff respect,” the youth responded, and made space for the visitor. Chatter and laughter were building, spoons and forks clanking against bowls, the windy roar of the fire in the center.

Shannon touched Shad with her elbow, her purse clamped under her arm. “Should I ask I-Verse about Redemption again?”

A plate of stewed eggplant was calling to Shad. “Soon come, soon come,” he soothed as he spooned it into his bowl. “Like the man said, little patience. Eat something first.”

Shannon threw him an exasperated look and reached for the fish that Ransom had put down, an aroma of onions and thyme steaming from the dish.

I-Verse returned to Ransom's side. “Redemption want you to join the reasoning.”

The professor looked at Shannon. “Do you mind? I won't be gone long.” When she nodded, he picked up his bowl and followed I-Verse.

“Redemption was supposed to see
me
,” Shannon muttered to Shad. “I thought that was why we're here.”

“Reasoning is a man thing.” Shad helped himself to the fish.

“A
man
thing?”

“They gone to talk about Rasta beliefs. When he ready to talk business, he will come to you.”

“When he wants to talk money, you mean.”

“He probably don't know much, anyway.”