by Cave, Hugh
"Hey, Luari, can you come with me for a minute?" It was Lee, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway.
"Of course. When I finish these onions."
"Go on, child," Ima told her. "Me will do that."
"All right. Are you coming too, Cliff?"
Cliff had already risen from his chair at the table.
In the drawing room, where the Haitian girl was waiting, Lee said, "We want you to sing for us, Luari. Ginny wants to get you on tape so her folks in Haiti can hear our Jamaican songs."
Luari knew Ginette Beaulieu well, and was fond of her. When Lee came home from school weekends, sometimes on an island bus, sometimes when Mr. or Mrs. Bennett or both of them went for her, she often brought Ginette. The girl's father owned a store in Haiti and her mother was French and both parents were in Paris just now. And because they couldn't get home in time for Christmas, Ginny would be spending Christmas here. I hope I'm as pretty as she is when I'm sixteen, Luari thought.
Looking with interest at the machine on the table, she said, "Is what this—what is this?"
"It's a tape recorder," Lee explained. "Belongs to Ginny.”
See, you sing into this thing here"—Lee handed her the microphone—"and your voice goes on the tape like on a phonograph record, and you can play it back over and over."
"What should I sing?"
"My favorite song is Liza," the Haitian girl said quickly. "Do you know that?"
"Of course."
The two older girls showed Luari how to hold the microphone, and into it she sang the song Ginny had asked for.
"Every time me 'member Liza,
Water come-a me eye.
When we think 'pon me nice gal Liza,
Water come-a me eye.
Come back, Liza, come back, gal,
Water come-a me eye.
Come back, Liza, come back, gal,
Water come-a me eye."
She finished the song, and when they played it back to her she clapped her hands in delight at hearing herself. Cliff, looking on in silence, broke into a grin.
"Can I do another one?" Luari asked eagerly.
The dark-haired, dark-eyed Haitian girl said with a slight frown, "What is it I hear you singing in your room sometimes? It isn't a song. It sounds—well, it sounds like a bird singing. The one we call in Haiti l'oiseau musicien."
"Like this?" From the O of Luari's rounded lips floated a two-note call that might have come from a flute.
"Yes! That's it!"
"It is a bird. But not what you said. It's a small, shy bird that sings in the mountainshere. A solitaire."
"It's the same bird," Ginette insisted. "In Haiti it lives in the mountains, too. Only there, as I said, it's called the musician bird." She was the one clapping her hands now. "Do it for me on tape, Luari! Please?"
At this moment the Bennetts' Austin-Cambridge was passing the little Rainy Ridge post office on its way to Glencoe. At the wheel was Alison. Beside her sat that amazing woman from Trinity Ville, Kim Tulloch, who was now eighty-four years old and still more full of life than most people half her age. As usual, Kim was deep in a story.
“. . . and one of the first was a Frenchman, or rather an Italian with a French ship. Giovanni da Verrazano was his name, and of course he was a pirate, but he certainly had the blessings of Francis the First of France, who was annoyed with Spain at that time. Francis, you understand, had hoped to buy himself the title of Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and Charles the Fifth of Spain had outbid him with all that loot from the New World. And to compound the indignity, Pope Alexander Six had just issued a papal bull dividing the New World between Spain and Portugal. Can you imagine such impertinence? The man had never even seen the New World, and the biggest part of it was terra incognita that might turn out, when it was discovered, to be pure gold."
Alison smiled and nodded. Having wanted not to talk too much herself because she had a touch of laryngitis, she had invited the present discourse by saying simply, "What do you know about the buccaneer Henry Morgan, Kim? Some of the stories about him are so conflicting, and I'm sure you've dug a lot deeper than I have . . .”
The reason Kim Tulloch was in the Bennetts' Austin and not her little red Fiat, which she still drove, was that her coming to Glencoe for Christmas had not been prearranged. Thinking the woman would be spending the day in Kingston with her son, Alison had driven down only to deliver a present. But Eric Reckford and his family would be having Christmas in Savanna-la-Mar with his wife's parents, it seemed. And Kim, though invited, had for some reason decided not to go. "Then come on up to Glencoe!" Alison had urged. "Come with me right now and stay overnight!"
"Anyway," the tiny woman was saying, "this Italian Frenchman, Verrazano, sailed into the Caribbean and waylaid a Spanish fleet en route to Spain, carrying loot extracted by that grabby Spaniard, Hernán Cortés, from the fabulous City of Mexico. He put the fleet to rout and captured two of its treasure ships. And though Spain screamed to high heaven at the outrage, as they called it, rough and ready seamen everywhere else pricked up their ears at the tale of Verrazano's audacity—and his loot—and piracy became a popular new profession. Adventurers of half a dozen nationalities rushed to the Caribbean to get in on the spoils."
The Austin was climbing the rocky grade past the coffee works, and Kim's nimble mind leaped from 1523 to the present.
"How much are the Osburn brothers paying you for your coffee these days, Al?"
"I'm not sure I know," Alison said with a frown. "Why?"
"Is it still what they were paying you four years ago, when you first took over Glencoe?"
"I think so. Lyle hasn't said anything, so it must be."
"I'd look into it, then, if I were you. The price they're getting for the finished coffee beans has gone up, Eric tells me. You know, of course, that our Jamaica Blue Mountain is one of the highest-priced coffees in the world. Maybe even the highest. You do know that, don't you?"
"Yes. So I've heard."
"Just be sure you get what you ought to be getting, then. I'm not sure I trust those Osburns. They're pretty deep in politics now, I guess you know."
"I'll ask Lyle about it," Alison said. "I really will, I promise. So what about Henry Morgan? He was one of those who came here after this Verrazano captured the treasure ships?"
"Morgan was Welch, a farmer's son, and nobody seems to know exactly how he came to the West Indies. You've read the pirate historian John Esquemeling, haven't you?"
"Well, yes."
"Then you know he saysMorgan was seized and sold as a bondslave in Barbados by a ship captain he paid to carry him there. But other historians say he shipped himself to Barbados as a bondslave after a quarrel with his father. And to make it even more muddled, Morgan himself claimed to have come here with Venables as a soldier!"
"What do you think?"
"Well, I don't think I'd believe Morgan. Uh-uh." The white hair swirled as Kim vigorously shook her head. "At any rate, he turned up in Jamaica eventually and shipped out with pirates already here, and at the end of a successful voyage—meaning they brought back some loot—he bought a ship of his own. From the start of his career to the finish, Jamaica was home base to him.
"He sacked the Spanish city of Granada on Lake Nicaragua," Kim went on with enthusiasm, as though picturing herself wielding a cutlass at the side of the man she wastalking about. "He ripped Cuba apart when it was a flourishing colony. Then he tore into Portobello, the treasure port at the Caribbean end of the trail across the Panama Isthmus, and in Venezuela he sacked Maracaibo and nearby Gibraltar. Oh, he was a holy terror, Henry Morgan was. And it made no difference to him that England was not then at war with Spain. The treacherous Spanish would surely seize Jamaica unless they were kept off balance, he argued. So he wasn't a pirate. Oh, no. He was just protecting this English island! Then, of course, came the big one, when with thirty-six ships and two thousand men he raided the most inaccessible prize of the Indies—the City of Panama, on the Pacific shore of that h
ellish jungle isthmus which years later was to be a graveyard for hundreds of canal builders. You've read about that, of course—how he marched his men up the Chagres River, through the jungle, for ten awful days—so hungry they actually ate leather—but though they were an army of skeletons when they got there, under his leadership they still smashed a defending army twice their number."
"And then he cheated his men when they got back here," Alison said. "But was knighted and made governor of Jamaica anyway."
"And turned on his old mates," said Kim fiercely. "Did you know that? How his whole personality changed when he became governor, and he hunted down his old buccaneer shipmates and even had some of them hanged?"
"I've read it but I'm not sure I believe—"
"Oh, it happened, all right. All the historians agree on that. But when he caught English seamen and handed them over to Spaniards to be imprisoned and tortured, claiming England's treaty with Spain forced him to, that was a bit much. In 1682 England sent Sir Thomas Lynch here to be governor, and Sir Henry Morgan was finished. He retired to one of his plantations—maybe the one still called Morgans—and drank himself to death."
"At fifty-three."
"Yes, at only fifty-three. Would you believe it? Have you ever been to Morgans? It's north of May Pen, just above Chapelton."
Alison shook her head.
"I should take you there sometime. As governor, he could have had his pick of the island's beauty spots, remember. It's in a pretty valley fed by the Rio Minho and a number of branches, with the big flat-topped mountain known as Bull Head just north of it. Bull Head is said to be the exact geographical center of the island, but I have friends in the Geological Survey Department who tell me it isn't."
Kim took in a big breath as the car turned down the Glencoe driveway. "Well! Here we are, aren't we? And I promise not to talk you to death any longer, even if you do keep priming my pump with questions."
The young people were still gathered around the tape recorder when Alison and Kim walked into the drawing room. Lyle was there with them. But not Roddy.
"Hi, Mother! Hi, Kim!" Lee called. "Come and hear this!"
The two women walked over and heard the voice on the tape singing yet another Jamaican folk song. "Why, that's you, Luari!" Alison said.
"Isn't she great, Mom?" Cliff enthused.
"She's wonderful! Luari, you sound even better on tape than you do around the house! And that's saying a lot, believe me!"
"I'm taking it home to play for my parents," Ginette Beaulieu said proudly. "And by the way, Mr. and Mrs. Bennett . . . can Lee come to Haiti next Christmas, to make up for you having me here this year? I know my folks would love to have her."
Alison smiled at her husband. "Well, now, I'm sure Lyle and I won't have any objection, dear. But why don't we get through this Christmas before trying to plan the next one?" One never knew what changes time might bring about, she thought. Twelve months ago, for instance, Roddy had rushed off to Kingston to spend Christmas with his Heather. Now he wouldn't even talk about her, though it was obvious something had happened and they were no longer seeing each other. And for that matter, who would ever have thought that little Luari, taken in after the fire, would still be here four years later and now be as dear to them as their own children?
Life had been a lot more predictable in Rhode Island, hadn't it?
4
Trucker Noel Peart of Rainy Ridge had given his vehicle a fresh coat of paint. Its high wooden sides, with wide spaces between the boards so that his passengers would not suffocate in Kingston's heat, were bright orange. Its metal parts were black. On the driver's door was a new name, done with a flourish in white: Sir Noel.
At ten o'clock Christmas morning, on its way to Eleven Mile where Peart would spend the day with his parents, the truck stopped on Cambridge Hill and its only passenger, Manny Traill, dropped to the ground. Lifting a hand in salute, Manny said, "Me glad for the lift, Noel. Thanks."
The bearded driver frowned down at him. "Manny, how you and you brother expect to get home from here? Me won't be coming back till tomorrow."
Manny spread his hands with their palms turned up. The truck growled on its journey.
Manny turned to the side of the blacktop highway and entered a tunnel through tall trees and man-high, dusty undergrowth.
Some ten minutes later he arrived at a clearing in the wilderness. The half dozen shacks in the clearing were made of used boards, tarpaper and zinc and looked as though they had been there for years but might be flattened by the next high wind.
In front of the nearest, a tall black man wearing only blue jeans—no shirt, no shoes—rose from a rickety chair as Manny approached.
"Peace and love, brother," Manny said with care. "Good morning."
"Love again, brother."
"Me looking Ralph Traill. Does you know where him could be?"
"Most likely at the meeting. Over there." The fellow turned to point.
"Thanks, brother. Peace and love."
"Love again, brother."
A voice that appeared to be making some kind of speech led Manny to the meeting place, which was simply an open space between two of the larger shacks. There he found twenty or more men assembled, some on their feet, others seated on the ground. The voice belonged to a man on an upturned wooden box.
Wearing a long black coat, that one appeared to be a preacher. The others were less well dressed, some nearly naked, some in pants and undershirts.
Black Coat was leading a hymn of which Manny, being a deacon in his own little church, happened to know the words. They seemed appropriate to the occasion.
From Greenland's icy mountains
From India's coral strand,
Where Africa's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand,
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
But, Manny suddenly realized, the Rastas were singing a version of their own that would have startled any ordinary church congregation. The substitute verses were a profession of loyalty to Ethiopia and its Emperor Haile Selassie, the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. And alongside the man on the box were two drummers whose rhythmic accompaniment would also have caused a mild scandal in any conventional church.
It took the Rastas a long time to sing the emperor's praise. While they were doing so, Manny was able to locate the man he sought. Unobtrusively he paced forward to stand at Ralph's side, but said nothing, only touched his brother's hand. With a glance at him and a nod, Ralph went on singing. Then the song ended, the two solemnly shook hands, and others turned to offer greetings.
"Peace and love, brother."
Peace and love? These men were friendly enough, or seemed to be, but most were fierce-looking. The badge of the Rasta—at least of these Rastas—appeared to be unwashed, uncut hair, shiny with oil, that hung down around their shoulders in ropes like a lot of dead snakes dangling. Many here wore heavy beards, aswell. Manny had no trouble understanding why ordinary citizens, black as well as white, meeting such men on lonely streets at night, would cross to the opposite side to avoid contact. Moreover, the air was a hot, sweet-sour mix of ganja and rum fumes, thick enough to choke a man not used to it. More than one eye that stared into his above a clasped hand was significantly small of pupil.
Curious, Manny moved closer to the man on the box, where Black Coat was now delivering some kind of speech. He could make little of the speech itself, but whenever the man shouted "Ras Tafari," pronouncing it "Rahs-ta-far-eye," other voices repeated the hallowed name after him. The speech contained references to Africa, Freedom, and the Black Man.
Manny looked at his brother, a man five years younger than he and slightly taller. Before Ralph had joined the Rastafarians, Manny recalled, people had remarked how much they looked alike. No one would ever say that now, for like so many of the others here, brother Ralph wore a beard and dreadlocks.
He had had the decency, though, to put on a shirt and shoes this Christmas morning.
"Mek we go," Manny said, nudging him. "Don't you ready, like you did promise?"
"Yes, me ready."
"Come, then!"
Unobtrusively, with Ralph in the lead, they made their wayout of the crowd and through the camp. There were no stops for handshakes or farewells, Manny noticed. Apparently his brother had told no one he was quitting the group for good. The fellow who had greeted Manny on his arrival—or had it been a challenge? —now sat on a camp stool with an easel in front of him and small jar of bright-colored paint on a folding table at his side.
Manny stopped to look at what he was painting. It was a portrait of a small, very black man, seated in black robes at a bare table, with what appeared to be a lightning bolt clutched in one hand. Behind the table was a tree—the tree of life? —with a whirling wheel of fire suspended from a leafy branch.
"Who this is, please?" With his chin cupped in one hand, Manny turned to frown at the artist. Over one shoulder, now, the fellow wore a yellow, green and red sash, faded but clean.
"Haile Selassie, brother."
Manny touched the sash. "And what this is?"
"Himcolors, brother. The colors of Ethiopia. Peace and love, brother."
Manny solemnly murmured "Love again, brother," and offered his hand. The man wiped his own with a rag before shaking it. Maybe they were not all the same, these Rastas, Manny mused ashe and Ralph continued on their way.
Suddenly Manny stopped and turned with a scowl to his brother. "Wait. Where you clothes and things is?Don't you bringing a suitcase?"
"Me nuh have one here, Manny. All me have here is what me have on."
"Where the rest is? In you room in Kingston?"
Ralph nodded.
"Well." Mannyhunched up his shoulders and let them fall with an explosive exhalation. It had been a hard morning and the rest of this Christmas day seemed likely to be just as hard. "All right. You can go in with Noel Peart sometime and get them, me suppose. You must have to give up you room anyway, huh? Or does a man just walk away from a place like that?" In Kingston's Trench town his brother lived in a miserable shantytown yard—one door, one room—sharing a toilet and kitchen with at least four others. The yard was full of trash and garbage, and it stank. A country fellow should stay in the country, where he could be sure of clean air and space to move around in. Most men who went to the city hoping to find good jobs never did find them, anyway.
