HF - 05 - Sunset (11 page)

The ford was only about a hundred yards away. Jack went first, now carrying the kid, Cleave came behind, holding Candy's bridle. Meg supposed she must be dreaming, but it was no nightmare; she didn't ever want to wake up. The brief twilight had already ended, and the moon had not yet risen. The night was utterly dark, and yet she felt not the slightest fear, there could be no doubt that her two strange companions knew exactly where they were going. And with the vanishing sun, the heat had left the air; now it was almost cool, and beyond the stream they were climbing again, into the foothills of the Blue Mountains. And as they climbed even the insects were left behind, and she was aware only of the breeze on her face, and the slow movement of the horse's back between her legs, inducing a series of strange, but utterly delightful sensations. Tomorrow she would be sore. Oh, indeed, tomorrow she would be sore.

They walked beneath trees, through a vast cavern of towering ferns, reaching high above her head and drooping down to brush her face. The night became filled with the scent of jasmine. The sound of the drum grew even louder. And the two men walked silently and tirelessly, even old Jack, who was carrying the kid.

And then, without warning, the drum stopped. Meg's head jerked, but still in surprise, not fear. Because suddenly she was surrounded, by women no less than men, moving without a sound, looking at her certainly, but not speaking, sidling up to Jack to whisper at him, and then sidling off again to impart the information to their friends. It was uncanny, to be moving so silently through such a crowd, for now she saw there were more and more of them, the women wearing white gowns, with white turbans wrapped around their heads, the men in shirts and pants, as Jack was. And like her, they were barefoot. Whatever would Oriole say?

The trees faded and they were passing through a narrow gully between two hills. The people pressed closer about her, some even touching Candy, and then brushing against her legs. For the first time Cleave turned his head, to look at her and reassure her, and she smiled at him; she had no doubt that he could see in the dark. Otherwise how had he led her so far without a stumble?

She gazed in front of her, at the glow of a fire, and realized that Jack had disappeared. So had the kid. But the fire was now coming closer, and to either side of it were huts, mere lean-tos thatched with troolie palms, and chickens squawking, and dogs barking, and children, naked, running to and fro. And beyond the fire, the drums, three of them, each responsible for a different note, although now silent, with behind them each a man, waiting, his hands poised. And suddenly the kid was there as well, tethered to a stake driven into the ground, bleating feebly. Meg's stomach rolled, but it was at least partly with excitement.

Candy had been brought to a halt beside the huts, and at the very edge of the glow thrown by the fire. And Cleave was waiting for her to dismount. She swung her leg over the mare's back, and felt his hands closing on her waist. She looked into his face as she was lowered to the ground, slowly, his fingers not slipping on her habit, but holding her so firmly that even when he let her go she could still feel their grip. She looked to left and right, at the children who stared at her, fingers idly scratching crotch and testicle, or picking nose, utterly relaxed, utterly unselfconscious, utterly unaware, even, of their surroundings, save for the unusual presence of the white woman.

Cleave turned, and walked away from her. She sucked air into her lungs and hastened behind him. Of only one thing she was certain; she had to keep close to him. Her bare toes sifted the dust, and she wondered if she would get chiggers, the little burrowing insects which liked nothing better than to lay their eggs in human flesh. But now they were in the cleared space between the huts, and close to the fire. The heat was tremendous; she could feel it scorching her cheeks and arms in a way even the West Indian sun had never done. And she was bathed in light, too, for now she was alone, save for Cleave; the other people had silently taken their places around the circle, at the very edge of the light, and she was exposed and visible to them all, a perfect sight, she supposed, with her still-damp hair and crushed habit. But Cleave was leading her onwards, and then indicating where she should sit, very close to the drummers, wedged in between two white-clad women.

As she sat, the drums began again, slowly at first and quietly, their rhythm seeping across the stillness of the night, as she had so often heard them in her bedroom on Hilltop. And with the beat the people around her began to sway in time to the music. Their shoulders brushed against hers, and she swayed herself, to and fro, even humming beneath her breath as she did so, as the people around her were also doing.

The tempo quickened, almost imperceptibly. Meg was only aware that it had, without knowing when, that the swaying about her had increased, that she was more aware of the people by whom she was surrounded, that she was fascinated by the terrified kid, pulling on its cord, mouth open as it bleated, although it could not make itself heard above the sound of the drums. She wondered she felt no pity for it, but there was no pity needed in these surroundings. Emotions like pity, love, hate, despair, ambition, even physical discomfort, seemed out of place beneath the mind-consuming throbbing of the drum.

And she still could not tell where Jack had disappeared to. She had supposed he was in a position of authority amongst these people.

Opposite her, on the far side of the circle, someone had risen to his feet. But no, she realized,
her
feet. For it was a young Negress, perhaps no older than herself, she thought, tall and slender, dressed in a white robe like all the other women, but now, to Meg's excited horror, removing it with no more than a sweep of her hand, to reveal herself naked underneath. Another sweep removed her turban, and then she stepped into the light and the heat in the centre of the clearing, feet stamping in time to the music, tight buttocks and flat belly rolling in time to the music, small hard breasts jerking in time to the music, head swinging in time to the music, black thatched pubes thrusting in time to the music. Even her sweat seemed to fly in time to the music.

Meg was so excited her throat was dry and the pounding of her heart almost matched the throbbing of the drum. She thought she had never seen anything quite so beautiful in her life.

For now the girl was joined by a boy, and she saw that it was Cleave. Gone were his pants, and his naked body, hardly thicker although more heavily muscled than the girl's, snaked to and fro in splendid rhythm. His penis was in full erection, a towering black miracle of manhood, pointing at the girl's belly, reaching towards her as he leaned backwards, touching her as she too thrust her belly close, and yet never allowing their bodies to do more than brush before they were away again. Meg found that her fingers were so tightly dug into the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs they were causing her considerable pain. But even pain was no more than natural; no more than delightful, on an occasion such as this.

She was aware of a mad desire to tear off her own clothes, to rush out there and replace the black girl in the dance, to feel that unforgettable organ brushing against her groin, to reach out and hold it

As apparently did everyone else. For suddenly the cleared space was full of men and women and children, dancing and stamping and posturing, all naked, all lost in the magnetic appeal of the dance. She knew she could sit still no longer. She must take part in the madness before her, no matter what it cost. She released herself, tried to push herself up, and found fingers gripping her arms. The two women, one on either side, were holding her down, and as she stared at them, in mingled anger and frustration, they shook their heads, gently refusing her the right to participate in their ceremony.

Anger became fury, compounded by passion. She pulled and tugged. She attempted to free her feet, caught beneath her body, to kick. They smiled, and held her on the ground. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound made no more impact upon the heaving mob than did the bleatings of the goat. She panted and tossed her head, watched the long still-damp strands of her hair flick across their faces. But she could not move, and her desire was overtaken by a silence so sudden and so complete that she was left breathless and exhausted.

Her head turned, from left to right, staring at the dancers. But they too had ceased their gyrations, many of them retained the same posture in which they had been arrested, to suggest a garden filled with grotesque statues.

But all their heads were turned, to look beyond the fire, to where the kid was tethered, and where a man now stood, wearing a red robe, his head lost in a red turban. Meg realized with a start of horror that it was Jack, but a Jack transformed, from a little old man into a priest of fury, a representative of the snake god, Damballah. In his right hand he held a sharp-bladed knife and, as she almost choked in horror, he passed the knife across the throat of the animal.

The kid died without a sound, but its death was not quiet. With a roar of self-manufactured hysteria, the dancers surged forward, clustering around the bleeding animal, reaching for it and adoring it even as they tore it to pieces. Meg discovered that her arms had been released, as the two women appointed to restrain her had also joined the struggling mass. Slowly she rose to her knees, and was splattered by flying blood.

She stared at the naked bodies, became aware with a sudden return of excitement that if the dancing had ended with the sacrifice of the goat, the night was only just beginning. Couples were melting away into the darkness, blood dribbling from their mouths, their skin glowing in the still flickering firelight. And realized that she was no less aroused herself, legs clamped together, fingers twined in the skirt of her habit. Because she alone was still dressed, and thus still an outsider. But why bring her here at all, and force her to remain an outsider?

She ran forward, thrusting her way into their midst Someone held a piece of still warm flesh at her face, and she seized it and chewed it, angrily and excitedly. Liquid dribbled down her chin, and she looked at her hands, stained with blood. Her head turned from side to side as she sought a familiar face, saw only their smiles, their sparkling eyes, saw only blood. And found Cleave, standing apart, watching her. She reached for him in such haste she tripped and landed on her hands and knees. 'I would have danced,' she said. 'I would have danced,' she shrieked.

His face was serious. 'It ain' for you, Mistress Meg. It ain' for you. Not until you
know.'

She stared at his member, drooping now, the ecstasy induced by the drum and the dancing beginning to leave his loins. She trembled as she stretched out her hand, and it came erect again.

'How do I
know?’
she whispered.

He smiled. 'When you want to come back, you must be know. But this ain' for forcing. You have to know, and you have to want'

He stepped backwards, sliding through her fingers, and seeming to merge in the darkness. She reached her feet again and stumbled behind him, fumbling at her clothes now; there was no one to restrain her. And found him again, in the darkness.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CRIMINAL

HANDS slid over Meg's shoulders, moving gently across the velvet of her flesh, slipped under her armpit to scoop the breasts away from her chest, cupping them and at the same time elongating the nipples, already chilled by the sudden cool of the night air now she was removed from the heat of the fire.

Then they were away again, and she was crushed against his chest as the hands reached for her buttocks, parting them and sliding to the front, to caress and to scratch her pubic hair, before once again parting her legs to delve between. She did not know what he was doing, where his fingers were touching. She did not want to know. She only knew of the delicious sensations reaching away from her groin, racing into her belly and even seeming to fill her legs with passion.

A passion which built up, exploded in her belly, and seeped upwards, which had her heart pounding as if she had run a mile, had her lungs constricting as if she could not move, and finally clouded her throat and obliterated the processes of her mind, leaving her unable to think, unable to do anything save feel, and yet totally aware that something was about to happen, something enormous and unforgettable, but something she wished never to stop.

And there it was, a climax of physical and emotional pleasure, a bursting of the dam of uncertainty and ignorance and inhibition within which she had been walled for so long. She thought she screamed her joy, and yet did not wish the fingers to cease. Nor did they. They remained between her
legs, and the passion started anew, no longer with quite such overwhelming, such consuming power, but sufficient to send her once again into raptures, and then again and again. And all the while she was reaching for and holding his member, and feeling her hands grow hot and wet at the same time, knowing that at least some of the pleasure was being transmitted to those so eager fingers.

She lay on her back, on the dew-damp grass, and gazed through the trees at the moon-filled sky, and listened to the sounds of the Jamaican night, the slither of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs, the gentle whisper of the breeze through the trees which dried her sweat. Her head was pillowed on the mass of her hair, and her body, for the first time in her life, was satisfied with exhaustion. But then, never before had she been so exhausted. And never before had she known such a feeling that there remained nothing more in life to be experienced.