Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  Meg sighed. 'Yes. I'm afraid it was. My people are very ... very ...' She could not decide on a word.

  'They don' like black people, and that is a fact,' Cleave said.

  'Yes,' Meg agreed. 'But ‘ like your people, Cleave.'

  'Yet you goin' go again,' he pointed out. 'When this man is comin'. He does be white.'

  'Yes.' Once again she chewed her lip. She had never expected Cleave to be jealous. But why hadn't she expected Cleave to be jealous? Had she then, been unable to think of him as a person like herself, for all her pretence? 'If I could make you understand,' she said. ‘I have children. I have my plantation. I ... I owe a responsibility to them. I could be happy here, Cleave. I know that. But 1 cannot stay. I cannot shrug off everything I am, everything I was born to be, just to lie back and be happy. It is not possible.'

  My God, she thought, Tommy Claymond. And her brain had scorched white with anger.

  Was Cleave angry? He pushed himself up. 'I hear the drum,' he said.

  The noise shrouded the mountains, rumbled through the valleys, hung on the air. It was nineteen years since she had heard it so close, and she did not remember it as being so loud. It was dusk, and the people of the village were already assembled, seated around the clearing. And at the stake three fowl cocks were tethered by the neck, eyes darting, heads attempting to dart, plainly already mad with fear, with a sense of doom.

  Cleave made Meg sit on the far side of the clearing, exactly opposite the drummers. As on her first visit here, she was ignored by her neighbours. So would they again hold her down should she wish to dance ?

  Because the tempo was increasing, the rhythm rolling around their heads like incense, clogging their senses, reaching down into the recesses of their minds and their bellies to drag every primitive urge they had ever known to the surface. They swayed, and hummed, and Meg found her fingers and even her toes moving in time to the music.

  And then a girl stepped out, naked, a future mamaloi, perhaps, and with a boy, and once again Meg was riveted to the erotic posturing of the dance. Her own body became alive, and she dared not look at Cleave, sitting beside her. But she wanted to dance, how she wanted to dance.

  Supposing she dared. Supposing they would let her. She rose to her knees. Cleave was still there. He had not moved. She released her gown, stepped out of it, stamped her right foot and then her left, raised her arms in the air and sank to her haunches, and then regained her feet again, aware that her breasts were trembling and moving by themselves, aware of all the people seated around her and staring at her, and yet caring nothing for any of them, swaying and stamping, thrusting her belly towards the nearest erected penis, knowing her mouth was open and that she was screaming, unaware of what she was saying, coming to a halt with a dreadful gasp as the sound of the music stopped without warning.

  She stared at the mamaloi, wearing her red robe, and wondered irrelevantly if it was the same robe that Jack had worn, nineteen years before. And slowly realizing that the black people were shrinking away from her side, leaving her alone and exposed in the centre of the clearing.

  The mamaloi’s arm was extended, the finger beckoning. Meg licked her lips, shook her hair back from where it had clouded across her face and her eyes, slowly moved forward.

  The mamaloi stooped, picked up one of the cocks, held it out. Oh, my God, Meg thought. But she was surrounded by silence, by people, waiting.

  The extended arm jerked, the cock flapped its wings, attempted to escape. And Meg herself extended both her arms, wrapped her fingers around the bird's neck. The mamaloi's hand fell away, but she remained staring at Meg, while a low moaning chant arose from the people surrounding them.

  Now, she thought. Now. All I have to do is twist this neck. Do I not eat chicken often enough on Hilltop? But the necks there were twisted by other fingers, other hands. Yet this had to be done. She sucked air into her lungs, willed the strength to flow from her shoulders down her arms to her fingers, willed her mind to give the command, to twist her hands ... and lost her balance as the earth shook, seeming to tremble immediately beneath her feet, while a low rumble drifted through the mountains, as if all the evil spirits in the world were laughing together, and she found herself on her knees, scrabbling at the dirt as if she would slide along it.

  The cock was gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE HUSBAND

  SLOWLY Meg raised her head, looked around her. The trees still stood, although they still seemed to sway, and there was no breeze. Even the huts of the village still stood, although in one an upright had collapsed and the palm-thatched roof had caved sideways, leaving the hammock trailing on the earth.

  But the people had fallen. Like her they had thrown themselves on the ground, clawing at the dust in their terror. Only the mamaloi remained standing, eyes wide, as if expecting another such seething movement to seep across the land.

  Meg got to her knees, looked over her shoulder. Cleave was also on his knees, gazing at her, and beyond her at the mamaloi. For the priestess was now also staring at her, she realized, and as she watched her, her heart beginning to pound, she saw that long, red-robed arm come out, the finger pointing.

  'You hear what Jack say?' Meg scrambled to her feet. 'No,' she said. 'That wasn't Jack. That was an earth tremor. Nothing more. There have been such tremors before.' She turned, looked to right and left, looked to Cleave. 'You must remember them. There is nothing supernatural about an earthquake.'

  'You hear what Jack say ?' shouted the mamaloi, and this time she was not addressing Meg. 'When this woman did be born, the earth shake so. Jack tell me this. He say he did shake it himself, because one more bad Hilton coming.

  Then he try for to make friends with she, but she ain' coming back, until now. And he shaking the earth again.'

  The Negroes nodded their agreement, sidled away from her, gathered by the drums. The jumbi of their hougan had spoken, and that was enough. They would never accept her now. She didn't know if she could accept herself. One more bad Hilton. They had laughed about the tremor at her birth. Even Percy had laughed. But had he meant to laugh ? Had not all the Negroes known there was one more bad Hilton amongst them? She gazed at Cleave, standing by himself, his entire massive frame a picture of uncertainty.

  'She must go,' the mamaloi hissed. 'She must go, now.'

  Meg sighed, and walked towards Cleave, stooped, and picked up her gown.

  'It is dark,' he said.

  ‘I must go.'

  'Where?'

  She shrugged. ‘I will try to reach Kingston. Perhaps ... perhaps Dr Phillips will help me.' She could think of no one else. She wanted to think of no one else. She was crushed. On top of everything else, this last rejection, by the gods, seemed to leave her with nothing to hope for. Perhaps she thought, it would even be better if I went back to Hilltop, surrendered to Oriole and Billy, and accepted imprisonment for the rest of my life.

  'I going take you,' Cleave said.

  Her head jerked.

  'She must go,' the mamaloi said again. She had crossed the clearing, stood immediately behind Meg. 'If she stay, Jack goin' destroy us all.'

  Meg licked her hps. But she didn't know what to say.

  Cleave was not looking at her. ‘I goin' take she out,' he said to the priestess. Then he looked at Meg. 'Come.'

  She stumbled down the path behind him, into the darkness. She would not look back. However she might have dismissed it as superstition, those people believed she had all but brought them disaster. She could not look back.

  The sound of the dogs and the chickens and the slowly recovering people died behind them, and her feet were already hurting; in the darkness she could not see where were the sharp pebbles which scoured her insteps.

  'Cleave,' she said.

  He stopped, waited for her to catch him up.

  'I am sorry,' she said.

  'I got for be sorry, Miss Meg,' he said.

  'Will you be all right, when you go back?'

  'I got for be all righ
t, Miss Meg. I am the head man.'

  He was moving on again. She had become a duty. She had not the heart to beg him to stop.

  They walked, it seemed for an eternity. The pain in her bruised feet soon became secondary to sheer exhaustion. And they had not yet regained the river. Then it was another twenty miles to Kingston. She suddenly realized she would never make it. She lacked the strength, and after what had just happened, she lacked the determination. She was beaten. Meg Hilton had finally been beaten into the ground, not by Spanish soldiers and sailors, not by unthinkable conditions, not by Oriole's hate or Billy's ambition, but by the people of the drum, poor people, who wished only to live their lives in peace, and wanted none of the problems she would bring.

  She found herself on her knees.

  'Cleave,' she wailed.

  He stopped, and came back to her.

  'I must rest,' she said. 'I can go no farther.'

  He sat down beside her. For a few moments he left her there, listening to her panting breath. Then he stretched out his hand, took her shoulder, pulled her over. She fell, half into his lap, and felt his arm go round her. There was no sexual urge. There was only the comfort of a strong man protecting an exhausted woman. This, she thought, was all she had ever wanted from any man. Her eyes were shut before her head reached his chest.

  She slept, deeply and dreamlessly, and came awake with a sudden shock, to the crack of the rifle.

  She rolled over, landed on her hands and knees, mind instantly awake; she thought that sound would haunt her for the rest of her life. And it had been very close.

  Cleave also sat up, scratching his head. He must have been as exhausted as she, she realized.

  It was just dawn, and the mist still clung to the trees. Sleepy birds had also been disturbed by the report and noisily called to each other as they wheeled overhead.

  'Hilltop people,' Cleave said.

  Meg stood up, pushed hair from her eyes.

  'Close,' Cleave said, also getting up.

  She looked down the trail, saw nothing. They were in a wooded copse, and the great trees shut them in behind a wall. 'We must hide,' she said. ‘I do not want to see Hilltop people.'

  He nodded, chewed his lip. 'But they goin' know we was here,' he said, pointing at the underbrush where they had lain, and where the twigs were broken and the ground sagged under their weight. 'We got for get away.'

  He held out his hand, and she seized it, followed him into the bushes. Now the going was much harder than last night; branches scattered the earth, thorns reached out to seize her hair and tear her gown. And she thought they must be making a noise like a herd of elephants.

  But Cleave went on, leading her downhill, cutting across the side of the mountain and stopping, at once to flick sweat from his forehead and to listen, as the rifle exploded again, from above and behind them now.

  'Here,' someone shouted, and Meg instinctively dropped to her knees. The voice had seemed to come from almost alongside them.

  Cleave also knelt. His face was grim. He knew they could not escape.

  'What is it?' bawled another voice, this from in front of them; the path made a U-bend. And this voice belonged to Billy. Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God.

  'They close, Mr Hilton, sir,' Washington said. 'They close.'

  'Listen, Meg whispered urgently. 'It is me they want. They do not even know you exist. Get away. Climb this slope. You can do it.'

  'And what goin' happen to you?'

  'Nothing will happen to me. I promise. They will merely take me back.'

  'And lock you up,' he said. 'We both got for climb this cliff, Miss Meg.'

  She shook her head. 'I'll never make it. And they'll follow. But if they capture me, they won't bother with you.'

  Cleave hesitated, then shook his head in turn. 'I can' leave you, Miss Meg. I say I would take you to Kingston. I mus' be doing that.'

  'Cleave ...' She bit her lip.

  'Here,' shouted Washington. 'They does be in these bushes, Mr Hilton.'

  She gave Cleave a stricken look, but it was too late for him now. There was only one thing left to do. But how memory came back to her, of crouching in the hold of the Margarita, listening to the Spanish bullets ripping into the wooden timbers, listening to the squealing of the rats. How memory flooded her system with what had happened afterwards.

  She sucked air into lungs, stood up. 'Well done, Washington,' she said. 'I think you could track a devil down to hell.'

  The groom peered at her, and took off his hat. His face twisted with embarrassment. 'Well, mistress, I had to do ...' He checked, looking over his shoulder.

  There were four other black men, standing on the path and peering into the bushes. And there was Billy, carrying the rifle.

  'Meg?' he said. 'My God, but you had us worried.'

  ‘I can imagine, Billy,' she said.

  'Well, come on out of there,' he said. 'You have torn your dress. You are a most annoying girl, really you are.'

  He was trying to treat her like a child, like a madwoman, in fact, for all that his face twitched with suppressed emotion. Fear that she had died ? Anger that she had yet again disrupted his peaceful existence?

  'Very well, Billy,' she said, and parted the bushes.

  'Eh-eh,' Washington said. 'But what is that?'

  Cleave stood up, and Meg caught her breath.

  'My God,' Billy shouted, forcing his way forward.

  This man was guiding me out,' Meg said, keeping her voice even with an effort.

  'Guiding you out?' Billy shouted. 'Guiding you out?'

  'I know he,' Washington said. 'Is one of them mountain people.'

  'Mountain people,' Billy snarled. His face was so suffused Meg thought he might be about to have a fit. He pushed his way close to her, seized her shoulder with his free hand, shook her like a rat. 'Mountain people,' he said. 'You went to them ?'

  'Let me go,' Meg said, still speaking quietly. 'Yes. I went to them.'

  'To your lover,' Billy said. 'Your black lover. You bitch. You whore. You crawling thing.'

  Meg stepped away from him, faced Cleave. 'You had better go home now, Cleave.'

  'He ain' goin' beat you?'

  'No,' Meg said. 'He is not going to lay a finger on me. Go home, Cleave.

  Cleave hesitated, then turned.

  'You,' Billy shouted. 'You're not getting away. I may not be going to beat her, by God, but I'm going to beat you. Washington, tie that fellow up.

  'Me, Mr Hilton?' Washington gazed at the rippling muscles in Cleave's back.

  But Cleave had checked, and half turned at the threat.

  'No,' Meg said. 'Do not stop, Cleave. Go home. No one is going to touch you.'

  'Touch you,' Billy screamed. 'Touch you,'

  Meg sensed the desperation in his voice, began to turn herself, saw the gun muzzle coming up, gasped in sheer horror. The noise of the shot, for the muzzle was not six inches away from her shoulder, knocked her over so that she thought for a moment she had been hit. Still lying in the bushes she watched Cleave's back explode in a splash of red, watched his arms come up, watched him take half a step forward, and then collapse on his face, crackling through the bushes to strike the earth.

  Meg started forward, but checked before she reached him. The bullet had struck at a range of not more than six feet, and Cleave hardly seemed to have a back any more. What his chest would look like where the bullet had come out did not bear consideration.

  'Oh, God,' Billy said. 'Oh, God.'

  Branches cracked, and Washington stood beside her. 'He mus' be die right away, Miss Meg.'

  Meg turned, to face her husband.

  'All right,' Billy said, his face suffusing. 'A man has a right to kill his wife's lover. Especially when...' He glanced at Washington.

  He loved me, she thought. And once, I said to him, they shall not shoot you; I will stop them doing that. And he had said, 'When you are Mistress of Hilltop.'

  He had loved her, and had died, because of that love. As Ala
n had all but died, because of that love. So, what could be worse than death ? What could she possibly fear while she breathed ?

  'Especially when he is a nigger, you were going to say,' she said, quietly. 'Give me that rifle.'

  Billy's head jerked. 'Eh? Give you ... you must be mad. You are mad.'

  'I am not going to shoot you with it, Billy,' she said. 'I am placing you under arrest for murder.'

  He stared at her, his jaw slowly sagging. Then he gave a nervous laugh. 'You are mad, after all, you know. A wife can't arrest her own husband.'

  'Watch me,' Meg said. 'Or do you propose to shoot us all?'

  Billy looked at Washington, then at the four other black men waiting on the path. His fingers trembled.

  'You,' Meg called. 'Massie, is it? Fetch the horses, Massie.'

  Massie hesitated but a moment. 'Yes, sir, Miss Meg. I goin' do that.' He hurried down the path.

  'Now you listen to me,' Billy shouted. 'All of you. Mistress Hilton is mad. You know that. You've been told it often enough. So you are to take no notice of anything she says. Now, we'll just bury this fellow, and then ...'

  'We been told it often enough,' Washington remarked, half to himself.

  Billy swung towards him. 'Now, what the devil do you mean by that ?'

  'Give me the gun, Billy,' Meg said again.

  Billy hesitated, looked down at the other three men, saw the hostility in their faces. He snorted, and threw the rifle on the ground. 'Take the damned thing. I didn't mean to shoot the bastard. I lost my temper.'

  Meg stooped, picked up the rifle. 'Do you think I am mad, Washington?'

  'No, man, Miss Meg. I ain' never think that,' Washington said.

  'Thank you, Washington. I would like you and your companions to place Cleave on one of the horses. We shall not be going to Hilltop, but direct into Kingston. You know how to join the road ?'

  'Oh, yes'm, Miss Meg. But... we only got six horses.'

  'We will have to double up,' she said. 'I can ride with you, Washington.'

  'With me? You?' Washington was plainly delighted. 'Oh, yes, man, Miss Meg. I going see to that right away.'

  Meg pointed the gun. 'We'll go back to the path, Billy.'