Making Waves (11 page)

I daringly sat down beside my shivering, traumatised friend. “It’s going to be all right,” I told her softly. “If Beau Bexford went off without you, there’s probably a good reason. Probably he thought it would be too dangerous.”

Lola stared at me as if I’d started talking in Martian. “Too dangerous for me? Too dangerous for ME, a slave!” Then she completely exploded.

“Nuttin safe for slaves, NUTTIN!” Her face was quivering with rage and distress.

I was scared I was going to cry. Lola and I were only inches apart, yet there was this howling chasm between us. I wanted to make all her pain and suffering go away, but I didn’t know how.

I groped blindly for words. “I know I don’t understand what it’s like to be a sla—”

Lola covered her face with her hands. I could hear gasping sounds.

The tiny soul-mate lizards were back on the wall, looking like they’d never moved. I got the feeling they were still watching. In a funny way those little lizards gave me courage.

I reached out to touch my friend, lost my nerve and pulled back. Tears spilled down my face.

“I’ll never understand, will I?” I wept. “Oh, but Lola, I
do
want to.”

My martial arts teacher says sometimes the hardest thing in the Universe is just to stay still. He says when we stop trying to fix everything and just stay still, we create a space for miracles to happen.

Well, that morning at Diego’s, when Lola finally decided to trust me, I stayed still. Sometimes I wanted to run out of the room in pure horror at the things she was telling me. But I didn’t. I didn’t try to comfort her or make her feel better. I didn’t try to make it into my story by nervously interrupting to explain that all white people weren’t monsters. I just sat totally still and listened and it was the hardest thing I have ever,
ever
done.

Lola wasn’t really a slave, but the things she was telling me about slaves’ lives were really true. And so I listened, not just with my ears, but with my whole hurting angel heart.

There was one time, though, when I wasn’t able to keep quiet.

In a wistful voice, Lola was telling me how different Young Massa was to his uncle. Young Massa treated her with respect, not like pervy old Josiah, blatantly paying visits to the slave-women’s huts at night.

“Ever see dem yella-skin pickney runnin’ round di plantation?” my friend asked abruptly. “Bright Eyes and dem?”

I figured “yella-skin pickney” meant “light-skinned children” and quickly nodded.

Lola gave me a meaningful look.

I was horrified. “You’re not serious! Bright Eyes is old Master Bexford’s little girl?”

“An’ Jewel an’ Precious.” Lola gave a bleak little shrug. “Precious gone now. Ole Massa sell her las’ month.”

I had to wrap my arms around myself so as not to feel the sudden ache inside. I thought of a slave mother choosing the most beautiful names she knew. I thought of her having to stand by helplessly as her master sold their little daughter like you’d sell a puppy. And I understood why Brice thought he had to buy the guns and ammunition.

When Lola finally stopped talking, it wasn’t because she’d run out of stories, it was pure exhaustion.

I poured water into the bowl and washed my face. After checking carefully for lizards, I started struggling into my seventeenth-century clothes.

Lola looked stricken. “You go leave me now, miss?”

I gave her a tired grin. “No way! I’m taking you to breakfast.”

It was more peaceful than you’d think in the courtyard at Diego’s. The high walls kept out most of the street noise. Only sporadic gunshots in the distance reminded me we were in pirate territory. We were sitting in the shade of an old mango tree. Sunlight filtered through star-shaped leaves sending starry patterns flitting across our faces.

It was more brunch than breakfast as it was past midday, but we seemed to be the only guests up and about. We didn’t talk much. I think we both felt like limp rags. When we’d finished our roast breadfruit and ackee and saltfish, the girl came to see if we wanted anything else.

I had a sudden longing for something sweet. “I don’t suppose you have hot chocolate?” I asked impulsively.

The hot chocolate at Diego’s was so thick you practically had to eat it with a spoon. It smelled of nutmeg and cinnamon and something I couldn’t place.

I kept catching Lola looking at me with a baffled expression. It was the same way she’d looked at me that day we first met in Heaven. Like she was thinking, who IS this girl?

I cleared my throat. “Remember that place I told you about? We drink hot chocolate there all the time.”

She gave me a wan smile. “Dey have streets pave wid gold in dat place too? Girl-chile, you always talkin’ wild!”

“We’re friends there,” I insisted. “And no one thinks it’s strange.”

My friend sighed. “Dat place sound nice-nice. Mi have a dream ‘bout a place like dat.”

I grabbed her hand. “Lola, I swear to you. It wasn’t a dream!”

She shook her head vehemently. “Mi wake in dat stinking lickle hut, all bruise an’ mash-up from Massa’s beating. An’ mi know dat other place not real.”

I didn’t ask Lola any more about her dream of Heaven. It was too painful for both of us.

And even if I could get a message back to the Agency, going back home was out of the question. We couldn’t leave without Brice.

My friend and I sat at our table under the mango tree for a long time. Neither of us spoke, but it wasn’t unfriendly.

And as we sat there, a daring plan formed in my mind.

I took a breath. “Last night, when they put that map on the table, I managed to get a look.”

Lola sat up straight. “You know where dem go?”

“Not exactly. But that city isn’t in the jungle, like people thought. It’s in the middle of something called the Black Morass. No, sorry, the Black River Morass. Whatever a ‘morass’ is,” I added sheepishly.

Lola shook her head. “Morass a bad ting. You get suck under di mud. Lungs jus’ full up an’—” She made a graphic choking noise, rolling her eyes up into her head. “You dead.”

“I thought it might mean that,” I sighed. “Well, that’s where the city is, so there you go.”

Lola gasped. “Miss, bad duppy live in dat city!!”

“This entire island is full of bad duppy. Jamaica is practically built on dead people’s bones! But we need to find Bri— erm, Beau Bexford, before something terrible happens.”

My friend started to protest.

“Listen, Lola,” I said firmly, “as I see it, you’ve got three choices. Go back to Fruitful Vale and be beaten to death. Stay in Port Royal and wind up entertaining pervy pirates for a living.
Euw
!” I pulled a disgusted face. “Or, groovy Option Three, to join forces with the weird white girl, and set off to find your boy Beau, and see what happens next.”

After a while Lola looked up, her eyes dark with worry. “You tink Massa in danger?”

I nodded, pressing my hand against my chest. “I can feel it.”

Lola nodded. “Mi feel it too.” She leaned closer. “Las’ night mi hear dat pirate girl tell Massa dey sail round di coast to a place where hill country start.”

“Ooh, Lola!” I teased. “I thought you were asleep!”

She gave a sly giggle. “Hear more tings dat way.”

“Can you remember what the place was called?”

Lola shook her head ruefully. “It drop outa mi head.”

I had a sudden flash of inspiration. Angels have brilliant photographic memories, plus Mr Allbright makes us play angelic observation games all the time. True, I’d never had to do this exercise under pressure, but if I could at least remember the name of this place, we’d have a helpful landmark for the starting point of our journey.

I shut my eyes, trying to recreate the bloodstained map fragments in my mind’s eye. It worked. I could see the coastline with total clarity. Unfortunately I had no idea which landmark was the crucial one. I was on the verge of panicking when, for absolutely no reason, song lyrics floated up from the bottom of my mind. A song Lola had once put on tape for me, for when I needed a boost: Sisters are Doing it for Themselves. I mentally scanned along the Jamaican coastline, and there it was!

“Three Sisters,” I said abruptly. “Three Sisters Cave.”

Lola clapped. “Dat di one!”

Lola and I went back to our room. We couldn’t exactly tell anyone the real reason we needed to go to Three Sisters Cave, so we cooked up a story about how my childhood sweetheart was waiting for me on the beach nearby. I know it sounds a bit dodgy, but people married really young in those days.

It took ages to make the wording of my tale of True Love seem convincingly natural, but finally we were ready to check out.

Before we went back out into the real world, I wanted to make something totally clear.

“Everyone out there will assume you’re my slave,” I said.

Lola quickly lowered her eyes. “Yes, miss.”

“Stuff ‘yes miss’!” I said fiercely. ‘“Yes miss’, is banned for ever. My point is, you and I know different. From now on we’re partners.” Lola opened her mouth.

“Partners,” I repeated firmly. I gave one last glance around our room. “Don’t you want your herbs?” I said in surprise.

Lola had left her withered collection of poisonous plants on the bed.

She just shook her head.

I gave a nervous laugh. “Does that mean you’ve stopped wanting to poison me?”

My friend shook her head again. “Mi nah poison you, girl-chile.”

I was genuinely touched. “Really?”

Lola’s eyes glinted. “Where we goin’, dey got alligators!”

We went down to the docks and asked around for a boat to take us to Three Sisters Cave. Every person we spoke to looked blank and passed us on to someone else. Off we’d trudge to another sleazy waterfront location and I’d tell our story again.

It got really boring hearing myself repeat the exact same thing over and over. After a while, Lola and I started adding colourful touches.

My sweetheart and I were to be married as soon as he got his inheritance. Meanwhile my evil uncle was in hot pursuit. My wicked uncle had wanted to marry me off to his pervy best friend, but I was determined to marry my true love.

At last someone directed us to a boat called the Susannah. When we got there the Susannah turned out to be a full-sized sailing ship. Dirty and dilapidated, but way too grand for what we had in mind.

I was going to say we’d try somewhere else, when a sharp-eyed deckhand came dashing down the gangplank. “You the young mistress wants to hire a boat?”

Wow, news travels fast in Port Royal, I thought. The deckhand had obviously been told to look out for us! A minute later we were on board, talking to the captain!

I have to say Captain Plum didn’t exactly fit my picture of a sea captain. He was quite old and his clothes were greasy and grimy. There were icky bits of food in his beard and his eyes were red-rimmed from too much rum. As I told my story he made sympathetic noises in all the right places. When I’d finished, he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what this world was coming to.

“I can pay,” I said quickly. “My uncle didn’t take all my jewellery.”

The captain looked thoughtful. “We’re bound for Hispaniola on the next tide. We shall be sailing past the very landmark where your young man is waiting.”

I felt a prickle of excitement. “That’s fantastic! Does that mean you’ll take us!”

Captain Plum put his head on one side like a wise old bird. “Did I hear you say you had a little jewellery, young mistress? I’d gladly take you for free, but I’m not getting any younger and times are hard.”

I kept back a sweet little bracelet for emergencies, and poured the rest into the captain’s hands. This was such a cool way of doing business! Way more romantic than cash or credit cards.

It seemed like we’d only just found the Susannah in time. Bare minutes later, her rusty old anchor was hauled up dripping on to the deck. Her sails filled with a rush of wind and, with mighty creaks and groans, the battered old sailing vessel eased away from the waterfront.

As we sailed away from Port Royal, I couldn’t stop smiling. You’re nuts, I told myself. There is absolutely nothing to smile about. May I just remind you that we don’t actually have a map!

Could two angels find their way through the Black River Morass without a map? I had no idea. Could we track Brice down before he helped to plunder a sacred city and blew his final last chance of having a career as an angel? I didn’t know that either. All I knew was that my friend and I were a team again. We had made a plan and we had followed it through. Now we were on a seventeenth-century sailing ship watching pelicans fly home to their nests, or wherever pelicans sleep at nights. I was SO happy I started humming our Sisters theme tune. This is what Mariah means about being free, I thought. Life is so-o much more fun if you just go for it!

Lola and I watched the whole sunset from beginning to end, until the sun vanished into the sea in a final fabulous blaze of colour.

The ship sailed on through a deep blue dusk. I could see glittery trails of phosphorescence on the water. I became vaguely aware that the sweet greenhousey smells of Jamaica were fading. There were just smells of rope and tar and sea salt. Instead of hugging the Jamaican coastline, the Susannah was heading out to sea.

Lola looked bewildered. “What happen?”

“It’s fine,” I told her cheerfully. “The sailors are just trying to avoid rocks or something. They’ll correct their course in a few minutes.”

I heard stealthy creaking sounds. A man with a knife between his teeth swung himself up on deck, landing as softly as a cat.

Before we could raise the alarm, a dozen or so hard-faced men came swarming over the side. At the same moment, a galleon flying a sinister black flag loomed out of the dusk.

The Susannah been captured by pirates!