“You love chat too much,” Aunt Karen yelled from the porch. “’Ere comes Saul. Mek ’im put on ’is school clothes.”
Aunt Karen, often lamented that none of the current generation wanted to farm. It was, after all, the family business. So, Saul had to work in the field before he went to school. The banana exports were due soon. Saul headed straight to the house from the field. What was once Sunday dress pants was worn to feather-thin, dirt-encrusted fringe. His tennis shoes were barely soled, and his New York Knicks jersey was soiled to inscrutability. He brandished a machete that was over half his size. Angela followed him into his room to hurry him. Nathan trailed behind her.
“All right, what was that last night?” Nathan asked.
“You mean de rollin’ calf?” Saul giggled. “Aunt Karen tol’ me de tale las’ night.”
“A what?”
“You did wan’ a duppy story,” Angela said. “It obeah man duppy.”
“It come ’roun’ between Christmas an’ New Year’s,” Saul called out from the bathroom. “It a huge someting wid chains ’roun’ ’is neck an’ fire in a dem eye. You can’t look in a dem eye. Its breath kill you dead. He can’t trouble you on de straight road or in shadow of a tree. Otherwise….”
“Anyting dem meet in a dem way, dem kill.” Angela finished.
“Bye, uncle.” Saul threw his backpack over his neatly pressed, khaki-colored school uniform. Nathan silently thrilled at the respect shown by being called “Uncle.” Saul shook his hand with a fearful trembling like he wanted to warn him. He looked over his shoulder, toward the door, and thought better of it. Angela grabbed Nathan’s hand, escorting him along, leading him back to the kitchen.
“You are quite fortunate to marry a man like me,” Edward said, noting Nathan and Angela’s return. “You are lucky to have a man who has breakfast cooked by the time you get home.”
“Me know, me know,” Aunt Karen said.
“Now, I cleaned up the kitchen when I cooked. I expect it to stay that way.”
Edward raised his hand, only to pat her shoulder, but she shrank back like an oft-scolded dog. He headed toward his bedroom. Aunt Karen ate her breakfast in solitude. Angela waited a few minutes then gestured for Nathan to follow, leading him down the porch steps behind the house. She stopped below Edward’s balcony. Angela cocked her ears toward the opened window.
“What’re you doing?” Nathan asked.
“Shh.”
Edward’s distinctive baritone echoed as he spoke on the phone.
“Yeah, man, the property’s practically mine … banana farm too … I know … she got it all … he never had a chance to change his will … sure she’ll sign it over to me … interest of British importers … not often an opportunity like this comes along.” Edward loosed a chilling chortle, its echoes scraped across their souls like gnarled fingernails.
Nathan lacked Angela’s surefootedness; he stumbled over the jutting stones of the house base. Edward awaited them on the veranda. He dropped a basket of laundry, apparently for Angela to hang.
“Nathan, you’ll never fin’ a woman if you keep ’round your cousin. You carry on like a couple in love. You two are aware you’re family?”
“That never stopped you.” Her words sliced like daggers through her teeth as she turned to pick up the basket. Nathan’s heart stopped in his chest. Silence reigned for an interminable span of seconds. Edward shifted noisily before turning sharply on his heel. His voice was a tyrannical rumble, like crashing waves.
“Don’t poke around my business.”
§
Nathan sat along the beach edge, fascinated by the water’s clarity. He stamped his foot underwater just to watch the sand stir about then settle. His hands dug nervous holes in the sand next to him. Storm clouds gripped the hills of Maroontown in a terrible grasp, a view best appreciated from Brighton Beach. Vestigial winds whipped sand particles across his back like a stern taskmaster. Angela delighted in Nathan’s suggestion to visit the beach. He found it difficult to watch Angela in her own element. She enjoyed the liveliness of the beach. Her playfully flirtatious manner made her quite popular. However, she quickly tired of the attentions of the crowd.
Nathan felt relieved to see her walk toward him. Despite her joviality, Angela carried herself with a melancholy air, a profound sadness that saturated her every movement. The only time it didn’t haunt her was when she played with children. Even then, the sadness transformed only to a longing. Maybe that was why Nathan felt so protective of her. She was at once fragile and hardened. Angela sat close to him. They watched the events of the beach like it was their personal stage. Two young boys, not quite teenagers, shadowed a tourist who might as well worn an “I’m a Tourist, Please Rob Me” shirt rather than his orange and turquoise flower print shirt.
“See those two pick’ney behind dat white man?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re pickpockets.”
Closer to them, a Rasta performed his own show for three college frat boys giving them a “Jamaican Experience” to tell the folks back home. He sang for awhile, breaking his routine to sit for conversation. He borrowed one of their Walkmans to provide extemporaneous commentary on their music. One of the frat boys sat up in attention, extremely entertained.
“’’E betta be careful,” she said. “’Im tek ’is time moving farther and farther away as he dances. Soon, he take off wid it.”
“Ain’t that the same Rasta who pulled Poppa’s coffin into the sepulcher?”
“Yeh, dat’s Bigga. He didn’t even go fe ’is own mother’s funeral. Dreads seh, ‘When dey dead, dey dead.’ Won’ have anyting fe do wid dead bodies.”
“Why not?”
“Dead bodies are unclean. Like pigs.”
“They don’t eat pork either?”
“No, suh. You give ’im a box o’ animal crackers, he’d even pick out de pigs befo’ he ate dem.”
Bigga noticed their laughter. His scruffy blue jean shorts, along with his red-yellow-green crocheted hat, flapped as he danced next to his knapsack. He sang along with whatever melody overtook him, occasionally casting a sideways glance toward the prying eyes of Nathan and Angela. One of the men got up for a drink run. He brought back four bottles of Guinness: one for him and each of his friends and one for his dreadlocked acquaintance. A few minutes later, Bigga wandered toward Angela and Nathan, neither of whom hid their nosiness.
“Irie.”
“Irie, dread,” Angela said
“Why you watch me so close?”
“Just watching you entertain folks,” Nathan said
“Wha’, you wan’ be like this Rasta?”
“Yeh, Rasta,” Angela mocked, “jus’ like you, some mawga foot dread. Move yo’self, you too facety.”
“You wicked, gal.” Bigga turned to Nathan. “No suh, what you need is fe eat a plate of steamfish, drink two Guiness, and smoke two spliffs. Thas how you ’andle a big gal like this’un. You do dat, and you break a woman six times before you break once.” Nathan and Angela looked at each other and burst into titters. Bigga took another spiteful swig of his Guinness.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Nathan finally said. “Too bad you don’t know anything about obeah.”
“Obeah. It jus’ science,” Bigga nonchalantly said, knowing eyes peering over his tipping beer bottle.
“What, you an obeah man, too? Like my granddad?”
“You wan’ me fe read you up?”
“Yeah,” Nathan offered Bigga his pen. Bigga fitfully wrapped his hands around it and closed his eyes. His face contorted with some unseen agony. He winced, tilting his head to the side. To Nathan, it seemed quite the performance, but his skepticism gave way to apprehension. Feigned or not, Bigga’s apparent fretfulness caused anxiety to creep into Nathan. Angela stared with equal, but silent fascination. Bigga set the pen down and foraged in his knapsack.
Overturning various accoutrements—feathers, beaks, horns, bones, hair, dried herbs, balls of clay bound with twine
—he decided on a small ball, little bigger than a clear marble. Nathan’s rising anxiety returned to cool skepticism.
“I look in a it fe see who trouble you,” a fearful grimace of confirmation soon flickered on his face. “Here, take this. This will help protect you.”
Bigga tied a tiny leather pouch around Nathan’s neck. Nathan often watched his life play out like he was little more than a spectator. Of all the things to happen on this trip, this was the first to feel natural. The pouch necklace felt right. He asked the only question he was capable of mustering at this point. “How much?”
“Nutting,” Bigga said sharply. “You ’ave potential. Only need ta be taught. Keep it, man. It’s a gift.”
That evening Nathan found his suitcase perched on his bed, spilling its contents like a disemboweled stomach. The papers of his briefcase were scattered across the room. All of his belongings had been thoroughly rummaged.
“Where’s Edward, Aunt Karen?” Nathan demanded.
“Whas de matta, boy,” she flustered, “he went out fe visit Poppa’s grave. Him vex ’bout someting.”
Nathan stormed toward the door, until Angela blocked his way.
“You can’t go. Thas what he wan’ you fe do. Meet on ’is terms.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him, now would I?”
“You no easy, cho,” she sucked her teeth disgustedly at him, a habit that never ceased to annoy him. He glared at her, but she turned her head from him. So, he left. Her voice echoed after him. “Lord Jesus, he no easy.”
The family cemetery was not far behind Edward’s home, halfway down a hill that leveled to a plateau. Rocks spit dust into the night air marking his passage. The overcast moon scowled. Nathan paused at the stone marker of his grandfather’s tomb. Edward stood calmly on the other side of the small cemetery, with his back turned toward Nathan.
“I still know what you did, even if I don’t have any proof. You know as well as I do, Jamaicans, especially Jamaican police, aren’t real fussy about proof,” Nathan shouted.
“Did what?” Edward asked. He turned, revealing a joyless smile as he slowly walked toward Nathan.
“Kill Poppa,” Nathan’s voice softened. He wasn’t sure at what point his grandfather became “Poppa” to him. Edward stepped closer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Menace laced Edward’s calm measured words. Nathan took a few steps backwards.
“I bet you don’t. I won’t stop, you know. The will can be contested. Better yet, Aunt Karen wouldn’t sign anything over to someone she suspects killed her father.”
“You haven’t learned anything, have you? You’re in my country. My town. Your laws do not apply. Here, my will is done.” Edward’s hand patted against his side, toying with whatever hung there. “It’s a shame that I couldn’t find you sooner.”
“Sooner?”
“‘You hear how your people dem behave? Those rasclots from de shop got a hold of you. It was all I could do fe chase dem after dey tief you’.” Edward mimicked the gossip he would spread. “If only you hadn’t been so determined to come on your own. I, for one, was greatly saddened. Family is supposed to take care of family.”
Edward pulled his machete from its scabbard, the dim moonlight glinting off its razor-edged blade. He stood between Nathan and the road, blocking the path. Nathan dashed into the banana tree grove. The leaves cut into Nathan’s soft flesh as he ran. Still in beach attire, he cursed himself for not dressing more properly. The sand in his clothes scraped as he ran, rubbing his skin raw. The wind ripped through the leaves, creating the illusory sound of a deluge.
Nathan stumbled blindly through the trees. Edward stalked close behind him, slower, but with sure footfalls, like a man who knew the grove like the back of his hand. A truck banged loudly along the road behind him. Above him. Beside him. He didn’t know. He felt the truck rumble past as if his own stomach suddenly grumbled. Nathan’s breath grew ragged quickly. The trees thinned ahead. Nathan hoped that was because they led to the back of the house.
The trees opened into an isolated clearing.
Wan moonlight weakly lit the area. Nathan’s arms swung wildly as he ground to a halt. As he regained his bearings, he realized that the house was at the top of the next hill over. He swallowed deeply, his breathing little more than short, dry rasps. Nathan heard a tuneless whistle from behind him. Edward gripped the machete’s taped handle firmly, tantalizingly slicing the air in front of him. He feinted to one side, letting Nathan flinch impotently, for the sheer joy of extending his game. Nathan’s exposed skin rippled with gooseflesh. Nausea pooled in his belly, threatening to overwhelm him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as if he had backed into a socket. Edward halted and looked around. He felt it, too. Something approached.
The shadows stirred nearby. A forlorn wail erupted all about the trees. Birds fluttered. All else seemed to fall silent. A harsh grating echoed closer, like a train braking in the woods. Edward craned his neck from side to side. The clanging of huge chains dragged in the distance. Nathan felt the blood in his veins freeze with terror. A foul, dank odor seared his nostrils. It accompanied the nearing cacophony of a maelstrom of metal.
A shape slowly materialized into view.
Twin, red pyres peered through the night. The abomination was twice the size of a bull. It was mostly black, with white patches, approximating the shape of a hornless goat. It had no mouth. A collar strained against its thick neck, attached to a series of chains that dragged along the ground. One of its front feet looked like a horse’s hoof; the other, a human foot. Its back legs were reminiscent of goat legs. A cow-like tail swooshed broadly over its back. The raw stench of wet fur gagged both Nathan and Edward. The grotesquerie seemed to have absorbed all manner of life in its travels.
The rolling calf galloped faster than any living horse. Nathan simply fell and scampered backwards as fast as he could away from the horror. Nathan shrank away, hiding in the shadows, praying it wouldn’t notice him. He watched in horror as the creature chased down Edward and cornered him. Edward swung his machete haphazardly at it, for all the good it did him. The rolling calf pinned Edward with its front legs. The horse hoof planted squarely in Edward’s gut, the human foot pressed against his neck. It had no mouth, but it bent its face low toward him. Whatever awful exhalations it expelled choked Edward. Nathan saw the comically quizzical expression on Edward’s face as his skin shriveled, as if his insides had been sucked dry. Even as he closed his eyes, Nathan still heard the snapping, the rending, the sounds of … breaking. Then the dull thud of a machete hitting the ground. When he opened his eyes, Edward had vanished without a trace.
The rolling calf turned toward Nathan.
Nathan cringed against a tree, his arms thrown up, waiting for the inevitable to play itself out. The rolling calf snorted its dreadful cough. Nathan’s mouth dried, as if hot sand filled it. His throat closed as a scream died on his lips. Each desperate gasp pained his chest. His muscles convulsed into seizing knots. The howl of the wind fluttered the banana trees, creating their rain-like patter. The rolling calf stopped just short of him. Its flame-socketed eyes locked onto Nathan’s primitive pendant. It exhaled with a frustrated humphing of a donkey’s bray as if it were reminded of something. The whole area grew hot with each breath, its snorts exuding blue flames, far hotter than the tiny flames should’ve produced. The rolling calf fixed its gaze toward Nathan. He peeked from behind his shielding arms. He saw something familiar, like the essence of country geniality hidden among the horror.
Nathan closed his eyes. He waited for the pain that never came. When he chanced opening his eyes, he found himself alone. Except for the red scarf that lay at his feet. That was when he knew: the farm had to be worked, but obeah was the true family business. And it was his turn to run it.
Read Me Up
Von and Earl Duperon glided past each other in the kitchen, knowing each other’s moves. A choreographed dance of reaching for hand towels, opening the ref
rigerator and trading off frying pans they alternately stirred then tasted, all the while without touching each other. All the while in silence while she strained to think of something safe to talk about. Earl was the first to break the silence.
“Are you nervous to meet him?”
“Who?” Von was careful not to make direct eye contact with him. These days, such an act seemed too intimate. A challenge. A careful dare to search for anything familiar, anything that once was. Or worse, only finding a stranger’s eyes peering back at her. He stirred his Alfredo sauce, an attentive eye to its color and texture, but all she knew was that he never made meatloaf much these days. He would rather conquer some new recipe, attempt some exotic dish than fix something she enjoyed. She liked meatloaf. No need to dress it in some fancy sauce. Just plain old meatloaf.
“You know who. Your new stepdad.” Earl piled dirty dishes into the dishwater without consideration. He slammed the last plate into place. A blue, plastic one from the set they bought the year they were married. Their everyday set. Scratched and water-worn, the color bled from them. “God, why do you have to make each conversation like pulling teeth?”
“He’s not my stepdad. He’s the guy my mom married.”
“That’s awfully long to put on a Hallmark card.”
“Let’s just get through this. She’s only in town, hell, in the country for a month. Two good visits and I’m back to being the favored daughter.”
“The bar’s not that high. Your brother and sister still aren’t talking to her.”
“I know. But I thought only one visit would seem … obligatory.” Von dried her hands as she swept the kitchen one last time for anything out of place. She tried to tell herself that it was the obligation of family that made her agree to allow her mother to visit. That it was the duty of the firstborn to protect their siblings, even if it meant hosting their mother. But while that all sounded good, the real reason was guilt. Forty years worth of her mother’s hooks in her compelling her to accept a visit or else be tortured by the idea of being a bad daughter. The whole prospect made her more nauseated than she already felt.
The Voices of Martyrs Page 11
