HF - 05 - Sunset (49 page)

'Long ago,'
Cleave said. 'She did be a chil’
then. Now she wanting our help.'

'I remember she come here,' the
mamaloi
said. 'I remember you did put a sweetness on her. That is what she came for.'

Meg decided she was panting. It was incredible that she should be kneeling here, in a noisome hut, listening to her fate being decided by two black people.

'I got sweetness for her,' Cleave said. 'But is Jack bring she here.'

'And Jack say she goin' come back soon. Jack sayin' after she come one time she mus' be our friend. Why she ain' come until now ? Why them Hilltop people still shoot at we ?'

'She ain' able,' Cleave explained. 'She ain' able, until now. But now she here, and she wantin' to stay.'

The
mamaloi
stared at Meg for several seconds. 'Then I goin' ask Jack,' she said.

'Now?' Cleave asked in terror.

'Soon,' the
mamaloi
said. 'Soon. This night I goin' come. You beat the drum.'

Cleave hesitated. 'We can' get no lamb,' he said. 'Them white people hunting for she. They got rifle.'

Once again the dark eyes gloomed at Meg. 'Then it can be fowl cock,' she said. 'Tonight. And Jack goin' say, then.'

They returned by a different route, which took them by a bubbling stream. 'You want to bathe?' Cleave asked.

Perhaps, she thought, he was remembering their first meeting. But she did want to bathe. She nodded, took off her gown, stepped into the surprisingly cold water, waded out to its deepest, where it came to her thighs, crouched there and scooped it over her shoulders, pushed her head back to wet her hair, felt her nipples start away from her chest.

'Won't you join me?'

He hesitated, then took off his pants and came into the stream himself.

'It is good here,' he said, scooping water over his head. 'You mus' stay here.'

'I would like to, for a while,' she said, misunderstanding his meaning.

'My people, they do not understand,' he said. 'They forget that Jack ever lived, think of him only as a
jumbi.
But once he has spoken, they will be your friends. Until then, it would be best for you to stay here.'

'You mean,
here?’

'It is quiet, and there is water. I got for go back, to tell them to prepare for the
mamaloi
coming, but I goin' come to you with food.'

'Oh. All right.' She realized she had been dreading her return to the village, the glances, some sly and some hostile, to which she would be subjected. But as Cleave said, after Jack had spoken, they would be her friends.

Cleave stood up. 'There ain' nobody goin' trouble you here,' he said reassuringly.

She watched water draining down his shoulders, hanging from his buttocks and his penis before dripping into the water, and held out her hand. He hesitated, then squeezed her fingers, left the water and pulled on his pants. A moment later he was gone.

And Meg had a sudden fear. She remembered that morning on board the
Margarita.
The same lazy loneliness, the same feeling of well-being, which had been about to be torn apart, for ever. It had seemed.

She stood up herself, left the water, felt the sun, high now, scorching her skin as it dried it. She could not spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. It had been that fear-induced memory which had kept her subservient to Oriole for so long. It must not happen again. Besides, there were differences. This time she had actually had her swim. And this time she was in no danger from anything. Save perhaps the spirit of Jack. And Jack had been her friend.

She found a smooth piece of rock, brushed it free of dust and leaves, and lay down on her back. The sun seemed to shroud her, warming her and reassuring her at the same time. Around her the mountains and the forest were quiet, only the occasional wailing bird breaking the silence. She could be happy here. Were she not Meg Hilton, were she able to sit back and be Cleave's woman, she could be happy. She need never wear clothes, she need do no more than lie in the sun, and grow old in peace.

Then why did she not, even as Meg Hilton? Did not Meg Hilton do whatever she wished, whenever she wished? No, she thought. That Meg Hilton drowned with the
Margarita.
That Meg Hilton had defied convention once too often, and suffered dreadfully as a consequence.

It rained, suddenly, the sun disappearing behind the fast
-
moving clouds. But Meg continued to lie on her rock, allowing the heavy drops to bounce from her skin, awaiting the return of the sun. And in time it came again, warming her and drying her.

So, she wondered, what did this Meg Hilton wish? Did she really wish to be Mistress of Hilltop, ever again? Or was she just being driven by the weight of her ancestors, the circumstances of her heritage? She really did not know. Her first objective must be to escape Oriole and Billy, and regain Alan. All else waited upon that.

And to accomplish that, she was prepared to use Cleave and his people. Oh, indeed, she had not changed so very much. She was Meg Hilton.

Useless to remind herself that she had always wanted to return here, that, indeed, she had always intended to return here. That had been a delicious dream to relieve her hours of boredom. Useless to remind herself that she had always wanted to know more than just his fingers. That was Meg Hilton the courtesan speaking again. But also Meg Hilton the woman. Because Cleave was the most accomplished lover she had ever known, without being in the slightest accomplished. When making love he was doing what came naturally, not shrugging off all the inhibitions of his upbringing and imposed by the society to which he belonged.

And he loved her. At least, she thought he did. She would never find a better man. But she was using him, to get back to the side of the man
she
loved.

She opened her eyes, gazed at him, realized she must have at some stage fallen asleep. Her body was roasted pink but she felt lazily well, and lazily passionate, as well. She held up her arms, and he dropped between them. She realized with a start of delighted surprise that it was the first time he had lain on her belly; last night she had been on his. And once again her first orgasm came at his first touch, so long had she waited to know a man again.

But today he too was perhaps lazy, or perhaps troubled. When he had ejaculated and she went back to the stream to wash, he lay on his side, his head propped on his hand, and watched her. She came back to him, dropped to her knees at his side. 'Your people are not happy?'

'They mus' be happy, Miss Meg, when Jack comin' to them.'

'But you are not happy. Jack is my friend.'

'Is a fac', he did like you too much, Miss Meg. He was too sorry when you didn' come back.'

She bit her lip. 'Well
...
I got married, and
...'
She gave a quick smile. 'I used to go swimming in the river. Often. I hoped that one day you might be there. And Jack.'

'Jack say you got for come here,' Cleave pointed out.

'Ah.' She squeezed water from her hair. 'I'm sorry.'

'It was because you are white and we is black,' Cleave observed.

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,
w
earing her red robe, and won
dered 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.'