The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  Chapter Four

  A ratbat flitted under the giant bamboo, and Belle’s heart jerked.

  In the moonlight everything looked different. The river was black. The ginger lilies had a sickly glow. The young duppy tree harboured a fathomless dark.

  She hadn’t been back here since the day of the Fancy Dress Ball. She hadn’t wanted to come back. But now she had no choice.

  She opened her satchel and took out the ingredients for the spell. A baldpate’s egg. A parrot’s beak. A hammer and a handful of nails. A blue clay ball which she’d found under Grace McFarlane’s porch, and guiltily squirrelled away.

  She took a deep breath. The air smelt stale and diseased, and the heat lay heavy on her skin. Jamaica is full of ghosts. They’re called duppies, and they live in duppy trees, and they can be mischievous, or downright bad. Tonight it felt as if all the duppies in Trelawny were watching her.

  She set her teeth. The spell had to work. She’d tried everything else.

  She’d been silent on the drive home from Salt River, but luckily Aunt Sophie was in a thoughtful mood too, and she didn’t notice. Dodo was asleep.

  As the dog cart rattled over the dusty red roads, Belle watched the tangled verges flashing by. Mr Traherne was right. The plants she’d grown up with were all poisonous. Rattleweed. Kill-buckra. Jamaica nightshade. These were the flowers she’d stuck in albums; the leaves she’d picked for playing boil-pot with the pickneys. What did it mean?

  She shut her eyes and wondered what to do. Today was Sunday. He’d told her to be in Bamboo Walk on Thursday afternoon. He hadn’t given her a choice. He’d just said to be there.

  Ought she to do as he said? Or should she stay away, and risk his disapproval?

  She longed to ask someone – some grown-up who could tell her what to do. But who?

  The one thing she knew was that Papa must never, ever find out. If he did, he would know that she was different: not the normal daughter he thought she was, but a female. A female who let a gentleman put his hand on her breast. If Papa found out . . . Even thinking about it made her skin prickle with dread.

  So that ruled out telling Mamma, who would of course go straight to Papa. And it also ruled out telling Aunt Sophie, because she would go straight to Mamma.

  Which left only her uncle Ben, and her terrible old relative, Great-Aunt May.

  She went to see Ben.

  More than anyone else she knew – perhaps even more than Papa – Ben Kelly knew his way about. He never talked of his past, but Belle had picked up enough rumours to know that he’d done things she couldn’t even imagine. He’d grown up in the London slums. He’d been a miner in Brazil. He’d lived rough in the Cockpits, and befriended the mountain people. The servants liked and respected him, but they feared him too, and sometimes they told stories about him when they didn’t think the carriage folk could hear.

  Belle adored him.

  On Monday morning she was lucky, and she had him to herself. Aunt Sophie was in Falmouth making calls, and Dodo had baulked at the eight-mile ride, and stayed at Eden to play with the twins.

  ‘So what’s up, Belle?’ said Ben as they strolled across the lawns.

  As always when she went to Fever Hill, they’d begun by looking over the work on the new house, then shared a jug of her favourite freshly pressed cane juice, with a slip of ginger in it for bite. Now they were on the lawn at the back. Belle’s pony, Muffin, was tethered under a breadfruit tree, but Ben’s mare, a gleaming thoroughbred called Patsy, ambled behind him like a big, docile dog. At Fever Hill, the horses had the run of the grounds.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said again.

  Belle wondered where to start. ‘If a gentleman,’ she said slowly, ‘asks a lady to take a ride with him, do you think she ought to accept?’

  Ben put both hands in the pockets of his shooting jacket, and his green eyes became thoughtful. ‘Depends on the gentleman. And on whether he really is a gentleman.’ He paused. ‘Not too many of those about, I’m afraid. You’d better watch yourself, love.’

  She was relieved that he didn’t ask any questions, but also alarmed. Surely there were lots of gentlemen? Every man of her parents’ acquaintance was a gentleman – unless he was a servant or a field hand or a shopkeeper. ‘How does one tell the difference?’ she asked.

  ‘By what they do.’

  She thought about that.

  ‘Belle,’ he said gently. ‘Whatever’s bothering you, talk to your mother.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes. You can.’ The mare nuzzled the back of his neck, and he gently pushed it aside. ‘You may not realize it, but your mother’s an amazing woman. You can tell her anything. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘But I can’t. That’s why I came to you.’ She bit her lip. ‘I was sure that you’d know what to do. Aunt Sophie says that you’ve seen and done practically everything, both good and bad.’

  Ben looked startled. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Did she now? Well, unfortunately for you, she also made me promise not to tell you anything about it. At least, not till you’re a lot older than you are now.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Belle.

  He sighed. ‘Because you need to do some growing up first. Sweetheart, I know you’re at the age when you’re getting – well, curious about things—’

  Belle’s face burned.

  ‘—and that’s fine,’ he added quickly. ‘But I’m not the one to talk to. Believe me, I’m not.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Talk to your mother, Belle. It’s the best thing to do. It really is.’

  Of course she didn’t do as he said. How could she? But by ignoring his advice, she had the horrible sense that she was putting herself irretrievably in the wrong.

  The next day, Tuesday, she went to see her only other relation. Great-Aunt May.

  Great-Aunt May, or Miss Monroe as she was known to all Trelawny, was Belle’s great-great-grand-aunt, and unimaginably old. She lived in a town house on Duke Street, and never went anywhere. She sat all day in her upper gallery – a dim, shuttered chamber that smelt of camphor and old age – and not even her servants knew how she passed her time. But somehow she found out everything that went on in Trelawny. And despised most of it. She and Mamma hated each other – Belle didn’t know why – although Mamma still took Belle to visit her once a year, as it didn’t do to fall out with family.

  It was precisely because Great-Aunt May hated Mamma that Belle thought she might safely ask her advice. Great-Aunt May would sooner take poison than give Mamma the time of day.

  It took some inventiveness to see her alone, but on Tuesday morning Mamma took Dodo to call on Mrs Herapath, who lived round the corner from Duke Street, and Belle managed to get away.

  ‘So, miss,’ said Great-Aunt May in a voice like cracked ice.

  Belle perched on the edge of her chair and forced a smile. Her heart was thudding. She could feel the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades. She’d always been frightened of Great-Aunt May. And she wasn’t alone. Most people in Trelawny were frightened of Great-Aunt May.

  As always, the old lady sat absolutely straight on an upright mahogany chair, with her gloved talons atop her malacca cane. Her face was shrunken and bloodless after a lifetime spent indoors, but her eyes were little blue pits rimmed with red. Despite the heat, she wore a high-necked gown of stiff grey moiré, and long kid gloves the colour of flint. Great-Aunt May always wore gloves. According to legend, she’d donned them at the age of eighteen, in disgust at the world after her only London Season, and had never taken them off. Shortly afterwards, Mr Traherne’s father, Addison Traherne, had asked her to marry him. She had been outraged, for he was descended from a blacksmith. She’d hated the Trahernes ever since.

  ‘So, miss,’ she said again. ‘What brings you to me?’

  Belle swallowed. ‘How are you, Great-Aunt May?’

  The old lady treated that with the contempt it deserved. Clearly she had no intention of making this easy for Belle.


  Belle drew a deep breath, and launched into a halting account of the bathing party at Salt River, although she didn’t mention any names.

  Great-Aunt May listened in unnerving silence. ‘So,’ she said at last. ‘It appears that you have a beau.’

  Belle jumped. She wasn’t sure if ‘beau’ meant what she thought it did, but she didn’t dare ask.

  ‘A beau,’ repeated Great-Aunt May with grim relish. ‘At the age of thirteen. How extraordinarily vulgar.’

  Belle’s hands tightened in her lap.

  ‘What is his name?’

  Belle licked her lips. ‘Mr – Mr Traherne.’

  The ancient face went very still. The gloved talons tightened on the cane. ‘Which one?’ said Great-Aunt May. ‘The elder – or the younger?’

  Belle could not bring herself to say.

  ‘Ah. Indeed. The elder.’ Surprisingly, the inflamed blue eyes gleamed with pleasure.

  Belle was alarmed. She’d been wrong to come. What were her troubles to Great-Aunt May, except the source of grim amusement? Great-Aunt May didn’t care about her. She’d been Belle’s age at the time of the great slave rebellion of 1832, when she’d watched the hangings in the square. She’d seen the corpses piled by the side of the road in the cholera epidemic of 1850. She’d witnessed hurricanes, earthquakes and floods. She didn’t care.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Belle.

  ‘Why come to me?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You thought that I might help you. Why?’ With her cane she rapped the parquet. ‘The Trahernes have been a stain on this parish for years,’ she went on, ‘and before I die, I intend to see them removed, root and branch. However, I shall choose the time when that shall come to pass. And I say that that time is not yet come.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I shall not corroborate your story, miss. Upon my word, I shall not. And without me, who would believe you?’

  Belle stared at her.

  ‘Why should they believe you?’ said Great-Aunt May, leaning forward. ‘They would simply say that you have a pretty skill at weaving a falsehood, just like your mamma.’

  It was so unexpected that Belle’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Great-Aunt May. ‘Your mother is a liar, as was her mother before her.’

  ‘No,’ protested Belle.

  Again Great-Aunt May rapped the floor with her cane. ‘Do not interrupt! You are liars, I say! All Durrants are. Feckless. Loose. It is in the blood.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ said Belle, who didn’t know what feckless meant. ‘I’m telling the truth.’

  But was she? Or had she got everything disastrously wrong? Did Mr Traherne simply want to help her, because she was different? After all, he’d promised that he wouldn’t touch her again. And she believed him, for he was a gentleman, and gentlemen always keep their word.

  ‘Lies,’ repeated Great-Aunt May with relish. ‘That is what people will say. Wicked, wicked lies.’

  Belle leapt to her feet and fled.

  By the afternoon the heat had become intense. Tempers frayed. People scanned the sky in vain for rain clouds. Belle and Dodo stayed on the verandah, flicking through back numbers of the Weekly Gleaner and getting on each other’s nerves.

  To make matters worse, Dodo had developed a crush on Ben, and insisted on going through the albums again. And when she wasn’t doing that, she wanted to talk about kissing.

  It turned out that although she still played with dolls, Dodo Cornwallis knew a surprising amount about kissing, but nothing whatever about what came after – although she thought that she did.

  ‘A girl at school told me all about it,’ she said as they were dressing for dinner. ‘It’s really quite simple. There’s something men need to get rid of from time to time, so they give it to the Piccadilly women.’

  Belle paused with a petticoat in her hands. ‘Who are the Piccadilly women?’

  Dodo rolled her eyes. ‘You know.’ When Belle still looked blank, she leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Bad women. You know.’

  Belle didn’t. And the term worried her. She’d never thought about it before, but now she realized that there was a hierarchy. There were ‘ladies’ like Mamma and Aunt Sophie; and ‘women’ like the servants and the market women; and ‘bad women’, whatever that meant. And then there were ‘females’. At Salt River, Mr Traherne had called her a female. Was that like a Piccadilly woman, or was it even worse?

  Wednesday dawned hotter than ever, and she still hadn’t decided what to do. Then at breakfast she had a brilliant idea.

  What if she did what she was told, and went to Bamboo Walk – but Mr Traherne wasn’t there? What if he was taken ill? Not seriously ill; just enough to make it impossible for him to go for a ride. Then she would have fulfilled her obligation, and at the same time avoided anything happening – and he couldn’t possibly be displeased.

  It was simplicity itself. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? All she needed was a little obeah. And she knew just the person to help.

  Her teacher, Evie McFarlane, was a beautiful mulatto lady who’d been friends with Aunt Sophie since they were children. She’d married a coloured planter, Mr Walker, and now lived on his estate at Arethusa, on the other side of Falmouth. But everyone still called her Miss McFarlane, or ‘the Lady Teacheress’, as she’d once been the schoolmistress at Coral Springs.

  She’d given up teaching school on her marriage, but still tutored Belle as a favour to Mamma, who couldn’t face sending Belle away to Miss Woolmer’s academy at Kingston. But the best thing about Evie was that she wasn’t only a teacher, but also a witch.

  Her mother, Grace, was also a witch – the most powerful obeah-woman in Trelawny – and she lived by herself in the old ruined slave village at the bottom of Fever Hill. But not even Grace could do what Evie could. Evie was four-eyed. Evie could see ghosts.

  ‘Can you see the future, too?’ Belle asked casually after Evie had arrived in her little dog cart and they’d settled down for a half-hearted history lesson. Dodo had gone back to her aunt at Running Gut, and they were alone on the verandah.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ said Evie with a wry smile. ‘Why? Can you?’

  This was a setback. Belle had been hoping that Evie might simply tell her whether or not she was going to go to Bamboo Walk tomorrow. Then at least she’d know, and she wouldn’t have to ask Evie to do a spell to make Mr Traherne ill. Clearly it wasn’t going to be that simple. She said, ‘But you do know how to set a curse, don’t you?’

  Evie’s face closed.

  ‘I mean,’ floundered Belle, ‘that’s what people do when they make obeah. Isn’t it? Nailing a person’s shadow to a duppy tree, or putting hand on someone, or setting a snake on—’

  ‘Belle,’ said Evie in her low, soft Creole voice. ‘Obeah is not a game.’

  Belle coloured. ‘I know. I do know that. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s dangerous. Do you understand? You meddle with obeah, even just a little, and it’ll fire back on you so fast—’ she broke off, shaking her head. ‘So fast that it’s like a broken rope snapping back in your face.’

  Belle swallowed. She’d never heard Evie talk with such feeling. It frightened her. ‘It was only to make him ill,’ she said in her defence.

  ‘Who do you mean?’ said Evie.

  Belle shook her head.

  Evie thought for a moment. ‘So this man,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ve got something of his? You know enough about obeah to know that you need a personal effect?’

  Belle nodded.

  Evie held out her hand.

  Reluctantly, Belle reached into her pocket and brought out Mr Traherne’s handkerchief, that he’d given her to bind up her hand. It was fine white lawn, but it bore no initial. Evie would not be able to tell to whom it belonged.

  ‘Consider this confiscated,’ said Evie, sounding very much the teacher as she tucked it into her handbag. ‘And now I want you to promise me – promise me – that
you won’t try anything on your own. Belle? I’m waiting.’

  Belle heaved a sigh. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I promise.’

  But twelve hours later here she was, standing in the moonlight by the river, getting ready to break that promise.

  A hot breeze rustled the dry leaves of the giant bamboo. Fearfully she looked about her. The night was full of spirits. Who would protect her now? She’d broken faith with Ben, and now she was about to break faith with Evie McFarlane. She was about to put herself beyond the protection of one of the most powerful witches in Trelawny.

  But what choice did she have? Even without Mr Traherne’s handkerchief, she’d picked up enough obeah from the servants to make a stab at a spell. At least, she had to try.

  She turned back to the sliding river. A fish broke the surface with a plop. A mosquito whined in her ear. The night-song of the crickets was low and musical.

  Suddenly, to her surprise, her spirits lifted. These sounds were as familiar to her as the sound of her own voice. This was her home. Eden would protect her. Eden would make her spell work.

  Thursday morning dawned hot and windless, but Belle didn’t mind, for the omens were good.

  A mongoose crossed her path as she padded to the bath-house. In the night, Mr Anancy the spider had built his web in a corner of her bedroom – and he didn’t do that for just anybody. The spell had worked.

  Then a boy came with a note from Aunt Sophie. Would Belle mind postponing her usual Thursday visit for a couple of days? Another good omen, for Belle had been wondering how to put off her aunt without arousing suspicion. Now she was free to ride to Bamboo Walk and fulfil her obligation, and Mr Traherne couldn’t possibly be angry with her. She would do as she was told; but because of the spell, he would not be able to come. Her spell would see to it that he stayed away.

  She had no difficulty getting away, for the twins were being impossible, and Mamma had her hands full. But Belle had to ride slowly because these days Muffin tired easily, and it took an hour to get to Bamboo Walk.

  The cane-pieces lay stunned under the heat. Even the crickets sounded exhausted. Muffin wheezed irritably with every step. Already the good-luck charm of rosemary and Madam Fate which Belle had fixed to the bridle was wilting, and so was the sprig she’d pinned to the lapel of her dust-coat.