HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  The burden was hers. And the time was now, or it would be never. For a fortnight ago Louis had left, his sloop flying every pennant it possessed, to fetch his bride. Remarkably, he had never mentioned her name; Gislane knew no more than that she was from Jamaica. But she would be queen here; no more breakfasts for the housekeeper.

  Something she welcomed. She would be left alone, to pursue her own path. She had in fact already made tentative advances to Therese, and been met by a stony stare. Yet she had no doubt. She had known Therese in a state of delayed ecstasy, which could have had only one cause. And by then she had had a sacrifice at hand. Corbeau had made her pregnant, as Mulder had so often made her pregnant. This time she had waited longer before having the miscarriage she had learned to induce so easily. She felt no pity; the unborn child would have been white, and thus guilty. Then she had wrapped the bloody mess in a cambric sheet, and had given it to Therese. 'For Damballah,' she had said. He would understand a message composed of blood.

  Two days ago. She sat up, and Therese started, and hastily crossed the room to draw back the mosquito netting. ‘I didn't wake you, mistress,' she begged.

  'I have been awake for hours.' Gislane thrust her feet to the floor and stood up. She slept naked, because Louis liked her that way, and because she enjoyed it. She was clean, all the time. After four years of being filthy, all the time. She could actually once again bear to smell herself. And she devoted an hour of every day to her bath. Now she walked to the huge glass doors leading to the verandah, and looked out at the plantation, and the rain-drenched mountains beyond; her apartment faced inland instead of towards the never-changing sea.

  'I got your coffee hot so, mistress,' Therese said.

  Gislane turned, and took the china cup in both hands. And stared at the Negress. But she could wait no longer. ‘I heard the drum last night,' she said.

  Therese gazed at her.

  'Do you not think I know of the drum?' Gislane asked.

  'Do you think I have the heart of a white woman because my skin is the colour of a white woman's? I am one of you, Therese. I know the power of the drum. I know the power of the Serpent. And I am lonely for that power, Therese.' Therese licked her lips, slowly.

  'You will take me, Therese,' Gislane said. 'You and me. There is a mamaloi in the slave village. There is a mamaloi and a hougan. I know these things. And I, too, am a mamaloi:

  Therese shook her head. 'I ain't knowing what you saying, mistress.'

  'Don't lie to me, Therese. Don't you understand? I am a mamaloi. I have the power to see into your mind, into your heart. I have known Damballah Oueddo, and held him to my breast. Don't lie to me.'

  'Mistress, I ain't know nothing about that.'

  'I can have you flogged, Therese. I can tell the master that you have been rude to me.'

  Once again the tongue circled the lips. But the head continued to shake, which was all the confirmation Gislane needed. There could only be one power in all the universe of which Therese would be more afraid than Louis Corbeau.

  She smiled. 'But I will not do those things, Therese. Listen to me. This afternoon, when it is hot, I will go for a ride.'

  Therese gaped at her. 'You can't go out midday so, mistress. White woman done get knocked down by the sun.'

  'No doubt you are right, Therese. But I am not a white woman, and so I will not get sun stroke. I will prove to you, this afternoon. I will go riding, as soon as I have finished breakfast. This afternoon, Therese. Make what preparations you wish. I will let you go now. But come to me at one of the clock.'

  Therese continued to stare at her.

  'But first you will tell me his name,' Gislane said. 'Tell me how he is known to you.' Therese sweated.

  'His name, Therese. Or I will be angry.'

  Once again the tongue circled her lips. 'He does be called

  Boukman, mistress.'

  'Boukman. Boukman. Thank you, Therese. Now go!’ Gislane commanded. 'Be off with you. Tell Boukman I am coming. But tell no one else, Therese. Remember, I am a mamaloi. Remember the blood I gave you. I will reach you, wherever you are, should you seek to betray me. I will destroy you, Therese. I know all things, understand all things. And I will see this hougan. Today.'

  When she spoke like that she almost believed herself. She was able to put so much power and intensity into her tone; she could not help but wonder what might happen should she speak to Louis like that. But for the mamaloi to have power, the devotee must believe, and Louis would merely laugh. And after he had laughed, why, she did not know what he would do, but she knew it would be something terrible. It was not a risk worth taking. But Therese believed, and would obey. She left the room silently, and Gislane returned to bed, and stayed there until it was time for her bath. And in her bath she was attended by Clotilde, the chambermaid, who did not utter a word. Therese was gone, about her mistress's business, about the business of the Lord Damballah.

  Then it was necessary to wait, to look out over the plantation, to watch the overseers walking their horses up the drive to join the attorney, Jean Romain, who ruled the plantation in Corbeau's absence. But with Louis away, there was no need for her to attend the meal. She remained in her apartment, did no more than nibble a few biscuits, and pour herself a glass of wine. Normally she ate a hearty breakfast, and aped Louis's habit of reclining during the heat of the afternoon, even if she preferred to read than sleep. For how long had she wanted to read, lying in a soft bed, with no knowledge other than that she would be visited by her lover when the afternoon drew on. But this was the side of her character, the luxury of being almost white, which constantly threatened to obliterate her true self. For that was not Gislane. The Gislane who had been stolen away to England, who had been carefully educated as a young lady by Mama and Papa Nicholson, who had allowed herself to dream of marrying a Hilton, that Gislane had never existed. It had been no more than a cloak which she had been forced to wear, to cover her true self, to cover her nakedness. She had only discovered Gislane, discovered herself, that morning on board the Antelope when she had looked along the deck and seen Dinshad, and seen, too, his eyes searching for her. Then Gislane had been born, and to let her ever again be submerged beneath the cloying make-believe of a white man's civilization would be a crime for which Damballah would surely never forgive her.

  But at last it was noon, and the great house, never noisy, slowly became even more silent. Gislane dressed herself in her blue silk riding habit, tied a wide-brimmed straw hat beneath her chin by a blue ribbon, opened the door of her apartment and listened. A houseboy walked down the corridor; his feet were bare although he wore the pink and white liveried jacket of the Corbeaux. He gazed at her, and she returned his stare. Undoubtedly there would be gossip, but it could not harm her. If she failed, well then, she had but to explain to Louis, when finally it reached his ears, that she had felt restless. If she succeeded, then the gossip would never reach his ears.

  She knew this maze-like tropical palace well, now. She found her way down corridors and across withdrawing-rooms, down small staircases and short hallways, and reached the north doorway. And there, as she had commanded, her mare waited, saddled, with one of the yardboys holding the bridle. And there too was Therese.

  'Are you coming with me?' Gislane asked.

  'Me, mistress? I got for stay here. You say you going ride by yourself. Or I can call one of them girls.'

  She was almost hoping, no doubt. No hougan would then show himself.

  'I shall ride alone,' Gislane said. 'But I am undecided where I should ride.'

  The girl licked her lips. 'It cool by the river, mistress. This is where it is best to ride at midday.'

  Gislane nodded, and the yardboy made a back for her. She settled herself in the saddle, right knee high, whip in her left hand, and nodded again. The boy stepped away and a flick with the whip had Annabelle moving slowly forward, away from the house, along the paved path through the gardens, her hooves clicking gently on the stones.

  How hot it wa
s, and still. Sweat trickled out from her hair and down her neck. And she could hear not a sound. The gangs were still in the fields, but around the plantation villages all work had ceased in the heated silence of the siesta. One o'clock in the afternoon was probably a more secluded time on Rio Blanco than one o'clock in the morning.

  The noise of even the hooves ceased, as she left the immediate vicinity of the house and walked Annabelle along the beaten earth of the plantation roadways. Now the river was immediately in front of her, an avenue of swiftly flowing water concealed by the row of tall trees on either side, a place of relative coolness and shade, coursing through the very heart of the plantation, supplying power for the sugar mill, and providing too all the fresh water they could use, to leave Rio Blanco independent of drought even in the driest season. And beneath the trees there waited a man. This she could see immediately, for he revealed himself for just an instant, to guide her, before once again withdrawing into the shade. Heartbeat quickening she turned Annabelle again, and entered the shade. Boukman. Her latest manifestation of Damballah. Her sole reason for existence. And even that hasty glance had convinced her that this was no shrivelled halfstarved old man. Here was height, and vigour, and strength, and perhaps even dominance. Here was a man.

  Annabelle stopped, and the black man stood beside her. He wore only the drawers of a field slave, and a straw hat, and his huge muscles gleamed with sweat. 'Boukman,' she said, and frowned at him as he took off the hat, and then stared, in a mixture of horror and utter delight. 'Dinshad?'

  chapter twelve

  THE ABOLITIONIST

  'I am afraid it will be expensive. Mr. Reynolds placed his fingertips together as he rested his elbows on his desk, and peered over the top of his pince-nez.

  'How expensive?’ Matt sat between Coke and Suzanne, facing the advocate; they had been given straight wooden chairs, sufficiently uncomfortable even for a man, and Suzanne was again pregnant, although there was no telling it in that cool demeanour. But he wished the matter done, quickly.

  'Ah .. .’ Reynolds appeared to consult a note in his pad, although obviously he had no need to. 'Forty pounds.'

  'Forty pounds?’ Coke demanded. 'For an acre of worthless land?’

  'Within the city limits of Kingston, Dr. Coke. The city grows, you understand, and land has once again gained in value since the end of the war. Why, sir, even at that price, when you come to sell you will make a profit.’

  'Except that should we buy, we will not mean it as an investment,’ Matt pointed out. 'Yet must you be right about its growing value, Mr. Reynolds; when I was last in Jamaica, scarce two years ago, an acre of land behind Kingston was not commanding a pound.'

  'Ah, well ...' Reynolds allowed himself a gentle smile. 'Two years ago we were still at war...'

  'And two years ago,' Suzanne said, very quietly, 'you had not made it known that the land was sought by Dr. Coke.'

  Reynolds flushed, and removed his pince-nez to polish the glass. 'It was difficult enough, I do assure you, Mistress Huys, to find anyone willing to sell land to a ... a...'

  'An abolitionist,' Matt suggested. ‘A Wesleyan?' Coke offered.

  'I suspect one is as bad as the other,' Suzanne agreed, and gave a delicious little ripple of laughter at the lawyer's discomfort.

  'Well, madam, if you will have it so,' he said angrily. 'Neither word is much regarded in Jamaica, as no doubt you are well aware. Forty pounds, and there it is. I can see no prospect of bargaining. And as that is too heavy a sum, well then, the matter is closed.'

  'The matter is just beginning, Mr. Reynolds,' Sue remarked. 'We are being robbed, but then, presumably that could also happen to us on a dark night at the point of a pistol. We shall take your so valuable acre of scrub.'

  Reynolds looked from her to the two men. 'I am afraid the vendor will require cash.'

  'Then give him cash.' Sue opened her reticule and took out a piece of paper. 'There is an order for a thousand pounds. I place it in your care.'

  Reynolds's pince-nez dropped to the end of its cord as he studied the draft. 'This is against Hilltop.'

  'And signed by my brother, you'll observe.'

  'But...' his head came up.

  'You had heard how he threw us off Green Grove. The tale has been embroidered, Mr. Reynolds. Robert and Matt do not see eye to eye on a great number of things, principally on how a plantation should be managed. Yet would he not let his sister beg. You will further observe that the order is made payable at my demand, to be used as I see fit. We shall require further drawings, from time to time. For the moment you may apply forty pounds of it on this land of yours.'

  'Bless my soul,' Reynolds remarked. 'Bless my soul. You will have title this time tomorrow.'

  'I thank you, sir.' Sue stood up. 'You have been most cooperative.' She led Matt and Coke outside on to the verandah, looked down at the street, and inhaled.

  ‘I really do not see that I can permit such generosity, Sue,' Coke protested. 'That money, as I understand it, was for your passage back to England, and to see you established there. Can you be sure Robert will again be as open-handed, especially when he learns to what use you have put his credit?'

  Sue wrinkled her nose. 'Do you know, Tom, I have never been to England. Nor do I have any great desire to go there now. I was born in Jamaica, and I grew up here. No doubt I shall eventually the here. If Robert does not understand that by now, and if he does not understand that I must also have somewhere to live until I do die, then is he a total fool.' She squeezed Matt's hand. 'Somewhere for us all to live.'

  'Aye,' he said. 'If I have no doubt at all that my reappearance in your life was a curse, sweetheart, I am also certain that yours in mine was a gift from heaven. I can only repay you by work. You'll excuse me. I must get down to the market and procure some labour.'

  'Slaves, you mean?' Coke demanded.

  Matt grinned at him. 'Hired hands, Tom. We'll get your chapel up before the rainy season commences. I promise you that.' He kissed Sue on the forehead. 'Take care of her for me.'

  He ran down the steps and along the street. Coke held Sue's arm as he escorted her more slowly to where the rented gig waited for them. 'I sometimes wonder where he gets the energy. And if I am right in allowing him to dissipate it in my cause.'

  'I suspect your greatest fault is that you wonder too much,' Sue remarked, gently. 'You doubt, too much. Have you no confidence in this project?'

  'Oh, indeed I have. I would the for it.' He handed her into the coach, took his seat beside her, and flicked the whip. 'Would you go for Tony?'

  'He is safe enough with Mistress Lucas. I'd visit our property. And attempt to convince you that you must have confidence in the tools with which God provides you. Even two such sinners as Matt and I.'

  'Two such sinners,' he mused. 'It is the enormity of it, of what you must sacrifice, that concerns me.'

  'I could say that we had doubtless sacrificed it whether you had appeared in Antigua or not,' she pointed out. 'But

  Matt, you must understand, is continuously and repeatedly atoning for the crime of having loved Gislane Nicholson.' 'You can speak of her so calmly?'

  Sue shrugged. 'Let us suppose that Matt had married her, and she had died, perhaps in childbirth, while he was roistering with his friends, or of the flux, in England, while he was in Jamaica in the heat, or of yellow fever, here in Jamaica, while he was safe in England. Then I, as her successor, would know every moment how guilty he must feel.'

  'Yet would you also be sure of her death,' Coke said. 'So far as we know, this girl still lives.'

  'Indeed she does. On the other hand, she was never Mart's wife, as I suggested in my example. He atones for a dream. You might suppose a general succeeds in battle because all his life he has dreamed of conquests, of marshalling vast bodies of men, of outwitting his opponent. Certainly, for example, my Lord Rodney has always been successful because of his ambition, and England has used him well. You would be very foolish not to use Matt, who is now prepared to lend al
l of the Hilton energy, the Hilton determination, and the Hilton courage, to your cause, even if his reasons are not your own.'

  Coke did not reply, and studied the road. They had left the main part of the city behind, and were passing through the poorer quarters, where the freed Negroes squatted on Crown property, sheltering beneath troolie roofs. 'Our estate.'

  The gig rattled to a halt, and they surveyed the brief area of uneven, parched grass. 'At least we have a view of the sea,' Sue said. 'Albeit a distant one.'

  ‘You speak as an observer,' Coke suggested. 'As an observer even of Matt. Yet must your feelings be totally bound up in what is happening, in what you have forsaken to live in poverty, in what you must fear might happen in the future. Or do I speak entirely out of turn?'

  'Of course you do not,' she assured him. 'As my life is now equally bound up with yours, Tom. I am here because I love Matt. Ah, you will say, love is scarcely enough; it is even, perhaps, a sign of immaturity. But I am also here because I respect him, and what he has elected to do. He will not sit back and reap the profits of being a planter, or even of being a Hilton. And that were surely easy enough. He may well fail. I am sorry to say I believe he will fail; there are too many odds stacked against the pair of you. But I would rather spend my life with a man who failed, after attempting, than with one who merely inherited, and squandered.'