The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  Sophie’s eyes never left his face. ‘Can we build a monument?’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The john crow had been back three times, but after the moon had risen it hadn’t come again. Patoo had taken over. His soft hoo-hoos echoed from hill to hill, and once, Madeleine thought she saw him: a darker darkness cutting across the stars.

  In Jamaica the country people believe that if an owl flies into the house, a death will follow soon. Patoo frightens them; many don’t even like to hear his voice.

  He didn’t frighten Madeleine. Nothing frightened her now. Not even the ghost that crouched in the corner, watching her hammer flat the last section of leg-iron.

  She put down the stone and sat back on her heels to catch her breath. Mosquitoes whined in her ears. Moonlight cast strange shadows on the walls, and turned the blood on her fingers black. And at the edge of her vision, the ghost watched. A shape out of darkness, it only took form when she looked away, and dissolved into rubble when she turned to stare. But when she resumed her work it always drifted back.

  There had been a time when it had frightened her. She had been frightened of everything, then. Of the darkness. Of the centipedes. Of the bones that crumbled chalkily beneath her hands. But now she felt no more fear. No more hunger. No more pain from the gash in her arm. Even thirst had become just another companion. Nothing was left except the stone in her hand and the fragments of iron she had found in the rubble, and her determination to get out.

  A gecko scuttled down the moon-blue wall. She followed its progress for a moment, then raised her head and scanned her handiwork for flaws.

  Before dark, she had added as much as she could to the crude progression of hand- and footholds from which she had fallen some hours before. She had managed about ten feet of it: four small ledges of stone, and three of iron – each jutting out no more than an inch, but wedged in securely enough to take her weight. Above that, the slope of the wall became gentler, which ought to make it easier – if she could get that far.

  For that part she planned to rely on the last three pieces of stone which she would carry in her petticoat shoulder-pouch, and on the two best pieces of shackle. These she meant to use repeatedly, avoiding the risk of dropping them by tying them to her wrists with her bootlaces. There was no chance of her boots coming off during the climb. Her feet were too swollen for that.

  But there wasn’t much time. At present, the moon shone full upon this side of the sink-hole, but soon it would be in shadow. And she couldn’t risk waiting till dawn, for by then she would be too weak to make the climb.

  She tied the second bootlace to her wrist, and got to her feet, and from its corner the ghost watched in silent approval. She acknowledged it with a nod. Then she shouldered the pouch and began to climb.

  He kept seeing his wife’s face peering up at him.

  There had been something animal in her expression. Yes, an animal in a trap, with no true awareness of its fate. But it was better so. Wasn’t it?

  Still in his riding-clothes, he lay on the bed and watched the slatted amber sunlight on the floor, and longed for sleep. He had never felt so exhausted. And yet he couldn’t relax. His hands twitched. His thoughts teemed.

  When would this torment end? He had never wanted her harmed. He had never wanted anyone harmed. He had never done any harm.

  This is some sort of trial, he told himself. A terrible trial which God has designed for me. And it is because of who I am that I suffer so. If I were coarse and unthinking, I shouldn’t be tormented. It is because I am finer, purer, and cleaner in spirit, that this is such torture.

  He rolled onto his side and reached for the small amber phial, and poured enough chloral into an inch of water to put him out. He drank it in one slow swallow, and lay back and waited for the coming of the golden certainty.

  The first wave was always the best. Soft warm radiance warming his flesh. Clarity and confidence suffusing his limbs. Power in his veins. He took deep, even breaths, and peace bathed him in its golden glow.

  The truth is, he told himself, you haven’t done anything wrong. All you did was try to help her. You risked your life in trying to reach her. But it was not to be. God intended you to fail.

  He shut his eyes and drifted away, cradled on the gentle swell of a sunlit ocean.

  The chimes of the clock wrenched him back to consciousness. He was in darkness. What time was it? Where was he? His head ached from the chloral. He felt oppressed by some nameless dread.

  He rolled off the bed and stumbled to the window. Outside, the moon had risen, and all was peaceful and still. He must have slept for hours.

  He remembered returning to Providence in the heat of the afternoon, and ordering tea. Then paying off the housekeeper and the stable boy and sending them away to spend the Free Come holiday with their families. And after that, nothing.

  As he stood at the window, he heard the skitter of a horse’s hooves down below. He couldn’t make out much through the louvres, but as he froze, breathless and horrified, he heard the unmistakable sound of boots hitting the dust as a man dismounted. The clink of a bridle slung over a hitching-post.

  He wiped the sweat from his face. No-one ever came this way. The track ended at Providence. Dr Valentine was safely in Falmouth, and the old man in Kingston; nor could it be a messenger from Fever Hill, for no black would ride like that in the dark.

  He cast about for a weapon, and saw the candlestick beside the bed. As he took hold of it, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass. His face was pale and resolute, his grip on the candlestick firm. The thing to remember, he told himself, is that no-one knows where she is.

  Softly he made his way through the moonlit house towards the gallery.

  A man had just climbed to the top of the steps. He was tall, with unruly fair hair, and although his back was turned, Sinclair knew him at once.

  Heart pounding, he withdrew into the shadows behind the door. His dismissal of the servants now seemed the purest madness. He was alone in the dark with a man who coveted his wife and wished him nothing but ill.

  Then he saw the horse tethered to the mounting-stone at the foot of the steps, and his apprehension turned to horror. The animal was sickeningly familiar: a big, clean-limbed grey hunter from Fever Hill. The old man’s horse.

  He spiralled down from a great height. His brother had been at Fever Hill – had been received at Fever Hill – and had so contrived to worm his way back into the old man’s affections that he had come away with his very horse.

  His skin prickled with loathing. His hand on the candlestick became slick with sweat. In that moment he understood the urge to kill. He understood Cain.

  His brother turned and saw him. ‘You’re up late,’ he remarked.

  Sinclair stepped out into the gallery. ‘And you, brother,’ he said.

  His brother indicated the candlestick. ‘You’re not going to do much damage with that.’

  Sinclair licked his lips. ‘A curious notion. I was seeking a fresh candle.’ He put the candlestick on a side table, and placed both hands on the back of a chair. Calm, calm, he told himself. This fool is no match for you.

  But he couldn’t get that image out of his mind. He pictured his brother and the old man in the library, standing before the great oil painting of Strathnaw: smoking cigars and drinking whisky; planning the future; laughing at him. Cameron, my boy, you were always the one I wanted for my heir. It was never Sinclair.

  Out loud he said, ‘What brings you here at this hour?’

  ‘I was worried about Madeleine,’ said his brother, matching his conversational tone. ‘I didn’t like the sound of your rest cure.’

  How blunt, thought Sinclair, how lacking in subtlety. ‘I don’t see why,’ he replied. ‘It was – is – entirely appropriate. And under the strict supervision of Dr Valentine of Cornwall Street.’

  ‘Dr Valentine of Cornwall Street,’ repeated his brother with solemn mockery. ‘And is that where the good doctor is now? In Cornwall Street?
’

  ‘I expect him back in the morning.’ It occurred to him that he was allowing his brother to cross-examine him, whereas an innocent man – or rather, a man with nothing to conceal – would have been outraged at such presumption. But his mind was only half engaged, still churning over the hideous notion of his brother at Fever Hill. The return of the prodigal son.

  ‘Where is she?’ said his brother.

  Sinclair moistened his lips. ‘By “she”, I take it that you mean my wife.’

  ‘Where is she?’ said his brother again.

  Sinclair’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. ‘My wife,’ he said, ‘is no longer here.’

  He was gratified to see his brother’s astonishment. Yes, he told him silently, you weren’t expecting that, were you? You thought you could just ride up here and see her at any time of the day or night. How disagreeable to find that you cannot. ‘She left,’ he volunteered. ‘She took a horse and left.’

  ‘When? Where did she go?’

  The exchange had put fresh heart into him. This was going to be easy. Why had he worried? ‘I cannot be sure,’ he said. ‘But I imagine that she has returned to Fever Hill.’

  His brother shook his head. ‘I’ve just come from there.’

  Sinclair allowed a silence to grow. Then he said, ‘And what took you to Fever Hill?’

  His brother threw him an impatient look. ‘I brought Sophie back. And yes, I know you’re her guardian, but I told the old man who she is, so from now on I don’t think he’ll be so ready to let you play the autocrat.’

  Sinclair swayed. The child and the old man. Together. The child knew about the pickney. If she told the old man— He felt sick. Terror buzzed in his skull like an angry wasp.

  No. Wait. If she had said anything, then his brother would be crowing about that too. Calm, calm.

  He ran his fingers over his throat. ‘I thought the old man was in Kingston.’

  ‘Clemency sent him a wire,’ snapped his brother. ‘Now, when did Madeleine leave?’

  His thoughts raced. There was still time. The child would be asleep all night; she couldn’t tell anyone yet.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ said his brother.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve asked you three times, when did she leave?’

  Sinclair thought for a moment. ‘Some time around dawn.’

  ‘Dawn? What the hell have you been doing?’

  ‘Looking for her,’ he said. He squared his shoulders. ‘I have spent all day, brother, looking for her.’ He indicated his dusty riding-clothes. ‘As you can see, I’ve only just returned.’

  Again that surge of power. This was easy. All he had to do was keep his nerve.

  ‘Why didn’t you send for help?’ said his brother.

  ‘I did. I sent the housekeeper and the stable boy. Which is why they are no longer here.’

  His brother rubbed his hand over his face. ‘D’you have any idea where she was heading?’

  ‘North,’ said Sinclair without hesitation. ‘A field-hand saw her heading north. Which is why I assumed she was making for Fever Hill. But she must have taken a wrong turn, for when the field-hand saw her she was on one of the cane-roads around Caledon. No doubt that’s why your paths didn’t cross.’

  His brother swallowed it whole. It was beautiful. ‘Saddle your horse,’ he said, with that soldierly decisiveness which Sinclair had always detested. ‘We’re going to find her.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘There’s a moon.’

  ‘My horse is lame.’

  ‘Saddle another.’

  Sinclair studied him for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall fetch my hat.’

  Why had he worried? This sugar-planter was no match for him. He would pass the test which God had designed for him, and he would prevail.

  He deserved to prevail. He was an innocent man.

  Still some hours till the sun comes up, and Evie has dropped asleep in the house, and Grace is sitting out on her step, sitting in the moonshine and looking at that fresh new grave at the back of the yard.

  They planted him by the garden cherry tree, for he liked garden cherry; though not as much as he liked star apple. Only she got no star apple tree in her yard.

  She got her pipe ready for a little smoke, and she got her bankra ready to do a little obeah, to ask again for a sign who kill her boy. She asked before, but no sign came. Maybe her heart still too confuse.

  If only she could clean up this confusion in her heart. But she so tangle-up with mourning and worry-head and black monster hate, she about reaching her rope end. Can’t find a way to balance off the feelings. Sagging tired and full of worry-head about Evie – that child not said two words since it take place – and black monster hate at whoever done this thing to her boy.

  Strange, strange, the way things work out. The eve of First August just drawing to a close, and usually on that night, everybody singing and partying, to mark the day they mancipate the slaves. But not this night; not here roundabout. This First August eve, they been too busy keeping nine-night for Victory.

  Last week, soon as word of the death went out, everybody came for the burying. Brother, sister, cousin, aunt. From all over Trelawny and from foreign they came. Moses from Eden, and Daniel Tulloch from Parnassus, cousin Martin that preach at Rio Bueno, and sister-in-law Lily, that teach Baptist school at Simonstown, and do a little myal on the side.

  The nanas they helped Grace and Evie make the coffin-shirt, and dug the grave at the back of the yard. They dug deep, for pickney duppy stronger than a man’s, and you got to make damn sure that he stay put in there.

  They raised the coffin three times high before they laid him in the ground, and planted pigeon peas by the stone to hold him firm. Then they swept out the dead room, and left the lamp burning right through till the nine-night, so the duppy would know where to come.

  But when to hold the nine-night? That the question. And it cost Grace some worry-head, figuring out what actual true day he died. In the end, Miss Clemmy said, Grace, you just ask your heart; your heart tell you the truth. And Miss Clemmy was right about that. Grace looked in her heart and counted to nine from there on up, and when it came out for the eve of Free Come, she knew it correct for true.

  So for nine nights that pickney duppy been walking roundabout, throwing rockstone, making trouble, putting hand on people. Then on the nine-night, this same night, he came home again, and everybody arrived back at the house, to keep him entertain.

  Strange, strange. Grace done nine-nights out a count for other people, but she can’t get use to the strangeness with her own self son. Course, that pickney duppy not her son, she know that. But still he is, and that the strangeness of it. Duppy not the good part of him: the good part gone way off in the Up (if there is a Up, and Grace not too sure, thinks maybe not, since not a damn thing ever came down from there except rain). It the bad part left down here which becomes the duppy. Everybody got a bad part. And when you die, it slips loose and becomes duppy, and goes round making trouble.

  So on the nine-night, everybody arrived again. Brought lot, lot a food. Currie land-crab and pepperpot, cowfoot and beans and bammy cakes, hot pickle and run down. Brought rum and sorrel and ginger wine, and coffee sweet with cocoanut milk. And Grace and Evie, too, they were cooking since dawn. Hard-dough and roast breadfruit, jerked hog and rice and peas, johnny cake and chocho pie and cassava pone. And duppy own feast, too besides.

  Dark falls, and everybody sitting round in the dead room, eating, singing, telling Anancy story. Waiting for duppy to come. Duppy feast spread out on banana leaf in the middle, nobody touch.

  And roundabout midnight, old Cecilia said, I feel him oh I feel him: hot wind rushing through. And people started to shiver and shake, and Evie was near to crying, but couldn’t; she just said in small muffle-voice, Where? Where?

  And old Cecilia felt him – but Grace she seen him too. And he was one dirty little duppy, that true to the fact. No shoe, no Sunday
best for him. Just the saggy old blue pants he liked so much, and the yellow shirt that never kept one button more than a day. And that look on him face when he just knew he done wrong, and waiting for her to catch him a wallop.

  So then came the time for Grace to shoo him out to the graves; to tell him Go way and never come back. But she couldn’t do it. She must a done it time out a count at other people nine-nights, but this time, with her own self son, she couldn’t get out a word. And old Cecilia seen that and took it on, to give Grace time to get her spirit back.

  Duppy, said Cecilia loud and polite, we know you come. We glad you come. Myself two times. See, Duppy, we give you feast. Boil fowl and white rice and good white overproof rum. We do everything for you.

  Then Cecilia looked to Grace, to see if she better yet. And Grace nodded, for she was ready to take it on from here. But it hard. Hardest thing she ever did in life. She stood up straight, and put on her strictest voice – like she meant it this time, or he for trouble true, and she said, Duppy! Go on to you rest now, and not to do we no harm. We no want to see you again, duppy. So no come back. Mind me now, I say mind me. Done!

  Then they got up and shooed him out the house, and Grace watched him fade, fade into the yard. And right that last moment she so wanted to call him back – for though he a duppy, he still part of her boy. But instead she stood her ground and swallowed her spit, and let him go.

  After that they removed the duppy feast into the yard, and put cross-mark charcoal on the door and window – and then it done, and people commenced to leave. And Cecilia said, Well Grace, we done with Victory now. We shooed him to the grave and we planted him good. So now he at peace.

  Well, Victory at peace now. True. But Grace, she the mother. She never know peace again.

  Out of her bankra, she takes an old syrup bottle of dirt from the new grave, and some parrot bones, and some camphor that Miss Clemmy gave. Still some good few hours till the sun comes up, and she’s getting ready to ask again for a sign who done this thing. Could be any sort a sign. Bird on the roof. Man in the road. Mark in the dirt. She’ll know it when it comes.