Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  She got up again, went down the steps. Now she had only to guard against losing her way. But her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, could make out the tower of the chimney. As long as she kept the bulk of the House over her right shoulder, and the chimney over her left, then she was going north, going the right way.

  The front stairs faced south, and while descending them she was almost sheltered from the rain. But at the foot it struck at her with all its force, pounding on her hair, plastering it to her scalp, thudding right through the thin cotton of her gown, while her feet were immediately soaked to the ankle. And equally, she was cold, chilled to the marrow, flesh rising in goose pimples, great shudders hurrying through her muscles.

  I am Meg Hilton, she told herself. There could be no stopping now. She went round the building, began her trek across the pasture. She was aware only of the discomfort, the cold, the slashing of the rain into her flesh, the terror which constantly welled up into her throat, and her repeated exhortations to herself: I am Meg Hilton.

  She stumbled up the pasture, occasionally stepping into a hole and falling, rising again immediately. To stop for even a second would be to remain there for ever, or until they found her. She walked into the midst of a herd of sheep, huddled close against the storm. They bayed plaintively at the violent arrival of this alien, but she pushed them aside and attempted to stumble through them, tripping and falling in their midst, and regaining her feet in a flurry of mud and streaming water.

  On the far side, where the pasture began its dip to the banana trees, she looked back, and nearly choked with fear as she saw lights flickering in the windows of the Great House. She had gained not a mile, and they were already awake and preparing to follow her.

  She gathered her skirt around her waist and ran for the trees, arriving beneath their shelter quite out of breath. She sank to her knees and panted for some seconds, before getting up again and driving herself onwards. Now she had some slight protection from the teeming rain, but at the same time she was surrounded by noise as the branches swung to and fro, every so often catching her searing blows across the head. She panted, and fell, and got up again, and ran again, and fell again, and knew she had torn her gown.

  How big the plantation was. She had never been farther than the Grandstand, except on horseback. Now it seemed to last for ever, so that she was sure she was running round and round in circles, although that was impossible, because the groves were numbered and signposted, and she could keep a track of her progress. But the noise of the rain and the swaying of the branches obliterated all other sound, and she could not tell how close her pursuers might be, until she suddenly heard the report of a rifle, booming through the night. Were they calling to each other, saying they had found her trail ? Or were they calling to her?

  But the report had been distant. A moment later the banana groves ended, and she gazed at the slope which led up to the cluster of cedars which marked the river.

  She wondered what time it was. It had been just after midnight when she had made her escape from tie house. She seemed to have been stumbling onwards for ever. Her head hurt and her back hurt and her belly hurt and her legs felt like lumps of lead; she dared not think of her feet - it seemed every pebble and every thorn on the plantation had attacked her insteps. And however dark it was, it could not now be far off dawn. And her pursuers were close behind.

  She climbed the slope on her hands and knees, looked down on the river, and felt her heart give a great lurch of dismay. Three days' rain had been sufficient to turn the always fast-running stream into a tumbling, foaming torrent. And it would have increased the depth as well. She forced herself to her feet, half ran and half fell down the slope, once again sank to her knees as she gazed at the rushing water. She was so tired. To attempt to cross here would be to commit suicide. And why not, she wondered. Could there be a better place to die than here, where she had known so much happiness? And was there really any point in continuing to live?

  She was Margaret Hilton. There was Richard and Aline to be thought of, to be regained. And there was Alan.

  She followed the stream, looking for the ford. But the ford itself was flooded with rushing water, and from a few inches deep it had risen clearly to a few feet. She turned her face up to the sky, allowed the water to flood her cheeks and eyes and ears, opened her mouth to allow it to trickle down her parched throat. And heard the rifle again, and closer.

  She stumbled into the water, gazing at the darkness which was the farther side. Only there mattered. The river thudded into her ankles and then her knees, and she lost her balance, regained it with a desperate surge of strength. Then she suddenly sank to her waist and lost her footing altogether. Instantly the water picked her up, threw her over, seemed to toss her into the air with playful malevolence, before sucking her down. She struck the bottom even as she lost the last of her breath, then forced herself back to the surface, gasping, arms flailing, rolling over and over and taking water in through her mouth and nose, striking out with her arms in desperation, and slashing her fingers across a series of branches.

  Desperately she clutched, and felt the sodden wood tearing through her fingers. Then they lodged again, and her back struck something, and she was wedged, the water still pulling at her and seeming to be driving right through her, but able to keep her head free and to breathe, and to wait, while the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, and while she gathered her mind for one last mighty effort to free herself or to he there until she drowned.

  She awoke to a feeling of blessed warmth seeping through her bones. For a moment she did not know where she was, then the memory came flooding back and she frantically grasped at the trailing branches yet again, discovered she was digging her fingers into the earth. She was on dry land. At least, the land was rapidly drying as the sun rose noon high; for the moment the clouds had cleared.

  Then she did not know where she was. She raised her head, scooped hair from her eyes, found that her fingers were also coated with mud, and gazed at feet. Black feet, naked, and mud stained. Oh, God, she thought. They had, after all, caught up with her. Her head flopped forward, nestled into the rain-softened earth. She was so tired. Every muscle in her body seemed to be weighted with lead, and her head swung, while her empty stomach ached for food.

  And they had caught up with her. She would be returned to Hilltop, in ignominy, to have her guard no doubt doubled in the future, while the rumours would be spread all over Jamaica of how the Madwoman had attempted to escape.

  Someone knelt by her head. 'Miss Meg?' a voice asked. 'It is really you?'

  Meg's head jerked as if he had pulled her hair. She blinked tears from her eyes, gazed at Cleave. Was it really Cleave ? There were scattered grey hairs on his head as well, but his face had not changed, except perhaps to grow firmer, grow harder. And grow more confident. Not that Cleave had ever lacked confidence.

  'We heard them rifles,' Cleave said. 'In the night we heard them. And we knew they was looking for someone. But who they going be looking for, if it ain't Miss Meg?'

  Meg licked her lips, slowly and painfully. Cleave snapped his fingers, and one of the other men also knelt beside her, holding a bottle. She drank greedily, hoping it would be rum, but it was water, and tasted like nectar.

  'Where are they?' she whispered.

  'They stop by the river,' Cleave said. 'That water running too hard, and they stop there. But how you manage to cross, Miss Meg?'

  Again she licked her lips. 'I swam.' She attempted to push herself from the ground, found she lacked the strength, lay still again.

  "They mus' be thinking you drown,' Cleave said, half to himself. 'You coming to us, Miss Meg?'

  Meg made a great effort, rolled on her back. 'Yes,' she said. 'I am coming to you, Cleave.' Her eyes flopped shut again.

  When she awoke she was being carried on a rough fitter, and someone's shirt had been thrown across the upper half of her body because her gown was in rags. The sun was still high, but no longer exactly overhe
ad.

  Cleave walked beside the litter, and now he looked down. 'Is not far,' he said.

  They were in the stony ravine. How memory flooded back. Nineteen years, and she could remember this place as if it were yesterday.

  She licked her lips. ‘I am so very hungry,' she said.

  He nodded, and gave her a banana. Perhaps one of her own, she thought, stolen from Hilltop. But nothing had ever tasted so good.

  The men carrying the litter stopped, in the shelter of the cliff, to rest. She was laid on the ground, and Cleave squatted beside her.

  ‘I am sure I can walk,' she said. "There is no need to carry me any more.' 'You can' walk,' Cleave said.

  She lay back, and gazed at him. You are here, she thought. So what happened now ? Is it up to you, or up to him ? Did she feel passion? She did not, at the moment; she felt only weariness and anxiety.

  'Them people done saying you are mad,' Cleave said.

  'Do you believe that?'

  'For truth, I ain' knowing what that is,' Cleave said. 'It means that I am unable to think. That I have the mind of a child.'

  Cleave's mouth widened into a slight smile. 'You ain' no chil’, Miss Meg, and that is a fact.'

  'I am not mad, Cleave,' she said. "They have been keeping me a prisoner, for seven years they have kept me a prisoner, so that they could have the plantation to themselves.'

  Cleave thought for a while. 'You wan' another banana ?' he asked at last.

  She took it greedily. No doubt bananas would be her main diet for a while. Bananas and their cousins, plantains.

  'So what you doing now?' Cleave asked.

  'Well...' She swallowed. 'There is someone who will help me. He is a sea captain. If I could stay with you until the next time he is in Kingston, I am sure I will be all right'

  Cleave thought again. Then he got up and snapped his fingers, and the men picked up the litter.

  Oh, my God, she thought. What have I done ? Suppose he will not help me ? Nineteen years. It is too long.

  'I... I don't mean to inconvenience you in any way,' she said.

  He looked down at her. Ts good to have you with us, Miss Meg,' he said.

  Which was sufficiently non-committal. She chewed her lip. 'Is ... is Jack well?'

  Again the sombre glance. 'Jack done dead, Miss Meg. Oh, four year' now.'

  'Oh. I... I'm terribly sorry.'

  'Well,' Cleave said, 'he was old.'

  Voices, and people, the women and children she remembered. But no, she thought, these are the children and grandchildren of the people I remember. Why, one of these heavy-breasted matrons is probably the girl who danced.

  But the drums were still there. Surely. She had heard them often enough. Yet she could not see them tonight, and there was no kid bleating as it went to execution. Only the stake to which it had been tethered still waited. She wanted to scream for joy. The stake was real, therefore it had all been real.

  'But what is this?' a woman asked as the litter was put on the ground.

  'Is Mistress Hilton,' said one of the men. 'You ain' knowing that?'

  'She?' asked a woman. 'That is she? Why she naked so?'

  'She mad,' said another. 'You ain' knowing that? Is what they saying in Kingston. That she mad.'

  Oh, my God, Meg thought. Oh, my God.

  Cleave held out his hand, and she grasped it to rise to her feet. The shirt started to slip, and she hastily clutched it against her breast. Her legs felt weak, and she would have fallen if Cleave had not supported her.

  'What you got there, Cleave ?' asked one of the men.

  'Hush up your mouth,' Cleave recommended, leading Meg away from the litter and towards the hut. 'This woman sick. You ain' seeing that?'

  She had to duck her head to get under the troolie-palm roof. Within the shade there was a hammock, hung from two of the uprights, a roughly carved wooden table, with a bench to each side, and some cooking utensils. Cleave guided Meg to the hammock, and she sank into it. But her brain was seething.

  'I am not mad, Cleave,' she whispered. 'Please believe me. I am not mad.'

  'I say you is sick,' Cleave pointed out. 'You been out all night in the storm. Man, Miss Meg, if you ain' restin, you going be sick bad.' He raised his head to gaze at the people clustered outside the house. 'You all ain' got business?'

  'Man, Cleave,' said one of the men. 'You knowing she can' stay here. Them white people going come looking. They going send them nigger policemen.'

  'How they goin' know where she is ?' Cleave demanded. They done give up the trail, anyhow.'

  'They goin' come again,' the man insisted. 'They mus'. Man, they ain' going leave no white woman in these mountains.'

  Cleave chewed his Up, looking down at Meg. 'Help me,' she whispered. 'Oh, please help me.'

  'We goin' let the mamaloi decide,' Cleave said at last.

  The watchers exchanged glances.

  'Yeah, man,' said the man who had objected to Meg's presence. 'That is the thing. The mamaloi going know.'

  'So that is what we goin' do,' Cleave said. 'When the mistress done get better, and can walk. Then the mamaloi going decide. You all gone now, and leave she.'

  They hesitated, then drifted away, about whatever business occupied their time. Meg leaned back in her hammock with a sigh. The first crisis had been surmounted. But there were others, looming close at hand.

  'I do not understand,' she said. 'Who is going to decide my fate?'

  'I got for take you to the mamaloi,'' he said. 'When you can walk. Is the mamaloi going decide. Is the mamaloi must tell us what to do. Is the mamaloi what is our mistress.'

  And therefore, she reflected, by implication the mamaloi was her mistress, if she would seek shelter here. The mamaloi. She knew the meaning of the word well enough: A mamaloi was a voodoo priestess. She knew the legend of how her great-great-grandfather, Matt Hilton, had fallen in love with a mamaloi, had nearly wrecked the entire West Indies in his hunt for her. That mamaloi had been sold into slavery by Robert Hilton, to prevent his cousin destroying the family in his, to Hilton eyes senseless, passion. And yet, so the story went, she had borne no hatred, where certainly she had sufficient cause. And when the slaves in the French colony of St Dominique had risen in revolt in a long orgy of rape and murder and mayhem, it had been the good offices of the mamaloi which had saved the life of Great-Great-Grandmother Suzanne, Matt's wife.

  So, mamalois were not necessarily evil things. But at the same time, Meg remembered with a shudder, it had been that same mamaloi who had ordered Suzanne's sister, Georgiana, to be torn to pieces while she still lived and screamed.

  So then, mamalois were creatures of instinct. Or creatures able to communicate with the gods, and tell their wishes. That was what Cleave would believe. And believing that, he would do as the mamaloi commanded him, however much he might wish to keep the white woman in his village.

  However much. It was late afternoon, and he was back beside her hammock, bringing her cassava bread, and some baked fish, and avocado pear, and bananas. She was so hungry it tasted like a banquet. And why should it not be a banquet? she wondered. She was free of Hilltop. It was all but twenty-four hours since her escape. Oriole would be desperate with anxiety, that she might be dead, that her rule of Hilltop might be imperilled. But when her body was not left stranded on the rocks where the river debouched onto the beach before finding its way into the sea, they would know that she had to be alive. And as the villagers had warned Cleave, they would resume their search.

  'Will you not eat with me ?' she asked.

  He hesitated, then broke off a piece of fish, slowly conveyed it to his mouth, sucked his fingers.

  Meg licked her lips, masticated slowly and painfully. 'I wish you to know,' she said, 'that whatever the mamaloi decides must be done with me, I am grateful to you for having brought me here today. I will never forget that.'

  Cleave ate some more fish. What was going on inside that mind, she wondered. Where was the boy who had sought her body?


  She ate her avocado. 'Did ... did Jack bring me here because the mamaloi told him to ?' she asked.

  'Jack didn't listen to no mamaloi,' Cleave said, 'Jack was a hougan.'

  A voodoo priest.

  'And now there is no hougan in this village?' Cleave shook his head.

  'Why are you not the hougan? Meg asked. Oh, she thought, if only he could be the hougan; my troubles would be over.

  'I ain' knowing that,' Cleave said. 'You wan' some more?'

  'No, thank you.' She finished the last of her food.

  Cleave stood up. 'You wanting a drink? I got rum.'

  Her turn to hesitate. But how she wanted to drink that rum again, to feel her mind go whirling up into the mountains, perhaps to regain the tempestuous confidence of her girlhood. Perhaps to want his fingers, again. She could not be sure, now.

  'Yes,' she said. ‘I would like a drink of rum.' She smiled at him. 'It may do me good.' He nodded, left the hut. It was growing dark now, and the mosquitoes were starting to buzz. She slapped one, watched the splodge of blood on her arm, looked out at the clearing and the village. Wherever the people went during the day, they were mostly home by now. They sat around and smoked pipes or primitive cheroots, and drank, rum she supposed, and sang to themselves. A fire had been lit, and flickered in the centre of the clearing. Why wasn't there a feast, and a dance, in honour of her coming? she wondered. Because they did not wish her here, now. They had changed, after all. They were no longer Jack's people. Now they belonged to the mamaloi, and wished no white woman to complicate their lives.

  She watched Cleave walking across the clearing, carrying a bottle by the neck. People spoke to him, and he answered. She looked for the flash of their smiling teeth in the gloom, but saw nothing. They were not smiling tonight.