Making Waves (7 page)

I couldn’t speak. At some point I thought I might want to be sick.

”
Slaves
?” I whispered. “All those people are
slaves
?”

Brice gave an angry laugh. “Do you imagine that white plantation owners could live like emperors if we PAID our workers?”

The clues had been there from the start. The pride and pain in Quashiba’s voice when she talked about African names, the haunted harmonies floating from the fields, the suffering that came seeping out of the blood-soaked earth of Jamaica itself.

I had no excuse for my ignorance. We had learned all about this particular form of slavery at my old school. Human slavers stole thousands and millions of their fellow humans from Africa, shipping them across the sea to work in the plantations of the Caribbean, and forcing them to work in the kind of harsh conditions I’d just seen. Yet I’d pushed this information to the back of my mind. I’d wanted to have my own cool little Caribbean experience. Like la la la, hello humming birds, hello mango trees…

STOP IT! I told myself.

Slavery was
way
too dark to take on by myself. I had to concentrate on my own small cosmic task; getting Brice back home to Heaven before he got into any worse trouble.

To do this, I needed angelic backup, and I didn’t want to waste another minute faffing around. I had the worrying feeling that time was running out.

“I need to find a girl called Lola,” I blurted out. “Do you know her? Quashiba says she can sew.“As you can tell, I was improvising frantically.

Brice looked totally thunderstruck then tried to cover his shock. “Um, yes,” he said in a slightly too-casual voice. “I do, indeed, know a Lola.”

“Really!” I said. I literally felt giddy with relief. This was the best news I’d had since I left Heaven.

You see Mel, I told myself, the simple approach is often the best!

Suddenly aAteeny worm of doubt crept in. “I expect she lives a long way away, doesn’t she?”

“If we’re talking about the same person, she lives here at Fruitful Vale. But I don’t think it can be the same Lola.” Brice sounded really cagey but this clue passed me by.

“No, it is. It has to be,” I burbled. “Can you take me to her?”

“I don’t think I can, no,” he said, to my dismay. “In any case, I don’t think Lola would want visitors.”

“Why ever not?”

He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Before you arrived from England, Lola was accused of stealing from the kitchen. My uncle has strong opinions about stealing. The overseer gave her a beating.”

I gave a nervous laugh. “No, no, sorry, we’re getting our wires crossed. This Lola’s an - a - very proud person.” I was so completely freaked by Brice’s words that I’d almost said “angel”! “Lola doesn’t steal from kitchens,” I added firmly.

Brice swallowed. “To my uncle she is just another thieving slave.”

There was a sudden humming in my ears. The dusty mill yard, with its feverish activity, wobbled like a mirage. “She can’t be a slave!” I whispered. “Lola’s not even African!”

I immediately wanted to bite my tongue off. What a dumb thing to say. Like, if she’d been pure African it would be perfectly OK to beat her like a dog.

Brice gave his painful laugh. “One drop of African blood is enough to condemn someone to a life of slavery. I heard an entertaining debate between my uncle and an English vicar who’d recently arrived in Jamaica. They were trying to decide whether Africans have souls. I suggested it would be more educational to find out whether plantation owners have souls.”

“I have to see her,” I told him shakily. “It’s vitally important!” Horror was pulsing through me in waves. While I’d been lolling around convalescing, my friend had been suffering the worst humiliation Planet Earth had to offer.

Brice sounded despairing. “Lola was sold a few days ago.”

My heart almost stopped with fright. “She’s GONE! But you said—”

“I meant there’s absolutely no point you going to see her. Lovey is driving her over to St Mary’s first thing tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes in relief. She was still here. I’d just got here in time.

I caught hold of Brice’s seventeenth century sleeve. “Take me to her. Take me
now
!” I must have sounded mad.

“I can’t. My uncle could come back at any moment. He would be extremely displeased if—”

“I don’t CARE!”

Bruce looked suspicious. “Forgive me, but what exactly is so important about this piece of sewing?”

I grabbed at the first excuse that came into my head. “I, um, lost heaps of weight while I was ill. I’ve got this gorgeous dress for the Christmas party and now it totally won’t fit. I need Lola to alter it before she goes.”

Brice looked disgusted and I didn’t blame him. He must have thought I was turning into one of those ugly Europeans before his eyes. But he nodded reluctantly. “Very well.”

The slave huts had been built as far as possible from the main house, behind a natural screen of coconut palms. The huts were thatched with palm leaves, and looked - and smelled - completely squalid. Garbage lay rotting everywhere. Probably the inhabitants didn’t have the heart to clean up.

There was unexpected beauty though, even in this depressing little village. The garden plots where slaves grew their own fruits and vegetables glowed with life and colour. I could literally feel the love and care that went into them.

An old man crouched outside his hut, tying up a flowering vine that had come away from its stake. “Massa,” he mumbled.

His eyes followed us resentfully as we walked past. I could feel other pairs of eyes watching from the dark, strong-smelling interiors of the huts. The hostility in the air made it hard to breathe.

I hoped Brice was wrong. I hoped the ghosts of the Taino weren’t watching what Europeans were doing to their peaceful Land of Wood and Water. In just two hundred years, their Paradise had been turned into a hellhole.

I was finding Jamaica’s dark side hard to handle. Luckily I didn’t have to handle it much longer. Once I’d hooked up with Lola, we’d all be zooming back home. I tried to make my voice sound casual. “Which hut is Lola’s?”

Brice pointed. “Hurry. My uncle could come back any minute.”

The path to Lola’s hut was edged with rough scented grasses. I tore off a blade as I passed, inhaling its lemony perfume. I was nervous for no reason. Lola’s on your side, fool, I reminded myself. Pretty soon this will all be over. This time tomorrow lover boy will have his memory back and we’ll all be drinking hot chocolate at Guru.

The door to Lola’s hut was open. Inside was a woven sleeping mat and an old cast-iron cooking pot. Balanced over the stew-pot was a crudely shaped wooden spoon, carved out of some kind of gourd. It seemed that these three pitiful objects were the sum total of her possessions.

I remembered Brice arguing furiously with Mr Allbright about a week after he joined our history class. “Millions of human children are dying of hunger because rich countries couldn’t care if they live or die! And the powers that be say we mustn’t interfere with their free will! Well, that sucks! If you want humans to change, angels are going to have to make waves!”

I stared at that dented old stew-pot and I wanted to make waves, like you would
not
believe. I wanted a humungous tidal wave to roll in and wash slavery from the face of the Earth forever.

I was feeling violent electric tingles, normally a sure sign that other celestial agents are in the area. The thought of seeing Lola was such a relief, I was practically falling over my own feet in my eagerness to reach the rear of her hut.

A golden-skinned girl in a fraying head-tie was stretching up to peg a tattered cotton blouse on the line. She winced and clutched her side.

I ran forward. “Lola? Are you OK?”

She spun in terror then clutched her chest. “Miss! You frighten mi. Mi tink a bad duppy creep up when mi nah lookin’.”

I felt confused. This girl looked like Lola, but she didn’t sound or behave like her.

Don’t be stupid, Mel, who else could she be? I told myself quickly.

Yet something was off. Lollie and I normally hug, even if we’ve only been apart for like, a
day
. But I got the definite feeling that hugging this Lola would not be a wise move. My friend was keeping her eyes fixed stonily on the ground, as if she didn’t want me to know what she was thinking.

That was another disturbing thing. Lola and I almost always do know what each other is thinking. But now she was completely shut down. I could just feel incredibly hostile vibes.

She’s angry, I thought shakily. She thinks I abandoned her.

I swallowed. “You’ve had a terrible time,” I said. “Did the overseer really beat you?”

“Mi belong Massa,” Lola said in a sullen voice. “Massa can do what him like.”

The soles of her bare feet were filthy from walking about the plantation without any shoes. She was wearing a shapeless old skirt and blouse in faded blue. The identical sun-faded blue cotton I’d seen on Quashiba and Bright Eyes. Slave clothes.

I felt my heart contract. “Lollie, I swear, I’ve been ill, or I’d have come sooner.”

“Mi hear ‘bout dat,” she said in her new singsong voice. “Lovey find you in di bush. Dey say you like to die.”

My best friend sounded like she wouldn’t have cared either way.

“Babe, drop the slave-talk, please!” I pleaded. “This isn’t you.”

Lola made a rude sound, like sucking spit through her teeth. “Nuttin wrong wid me, miss. You di one talkin’ foolishness.”

“Lola, LOOK at me!” I practically yelled at her.

My friend reluctantly met my eyes, and I felt as if I was falling through space. There was no warmth, no spark of recognition. Just pure hate.

“You really don’t know who I am,” I whispered.

Beau/Brice came up behind us, looking frazzled.

“I see you’re up and about, Lola,” he said in a falsely bright voice. “The pain isn’t too bad today?”

Lola blushed. “No, Massa,” she said. “Pain nah so bad today.”

The two of them were being just a bit too careful not to look at each other. Brice and Lola might have lost their memories but they definitely hadn’t lost their cosmic chemistry.

Their obvious attraction only made me feel worse.

I felt so alone, I can’t tell you. I wanted to wake up in my room at school, and rush next door to Lola. I wanted to tell her about the horrible dream I just had where we were on a nightmare mission to Jamaica, but she’d somehow forgotten we were friends. I wanted to hear her say, “Poor you! Dreams are SO weird, aren’t they!”

But I didn’t wake up. My nightmare just went on. I turned and fled back to the house.

My aunt was sitting on her veranda, chewing furiously on a chunk of sugar cane. Beside her was a dish of mangled spat-out stalks. As I fled past, she called brightly, “Would you like to sample some, my dear! Sugar cane is so soothing to the nerves.”

I looked at this woman who wept over dead birds while her husband tortured human slaves, and I would have liked to despise her, but I knew she was every bit as lonely and lost as her slaves.

I excused myself, saying I needed to rest. Then I shut myself in my room and flung myself face down on my bed. I was so upset I couldn’t even cry.

What am I going to do? I thought. What am I going to DO?

Somewhere between Heaven and Earth, something had happened to my friends; something which made them forget their true identities. Unlike yours truly, Lola and Brice had clearly read their cover stories. Now they believed they actually
were
these fictional humans and they were living their parts for real!

This mission was meant to get Brice back on his feet. Instead he and Lola had been ensnared in some dark game of seventeenth-century Consequences. White nephew of rich plantation owner meets feisty slave-girl in steamy Jamaica. And the consequence was…

…I was playing a lonely game of angels all by myself.

I don’t think I have ever felt so alone. I won’t lie to you, I could feel myself being sucked down into this like, total marsh of self-pity. But then I did something that I think shows I’m starting to mature as a celestial trainee: I asked my inner angel for advice.

I sat down in the lotus position and closed my eyes. After a while I felt the familiar burning hot-potato sensation spreading through my chest. I don’t actually
see
my inner angel. It’s more like I could feel her vibes building up inside me. And this time I heard her voice as clear as a bell.

“Hi babe,” Helix said. “Poor you! It must be scary, seeing your friends like this.”

My eyes filled with tears. “It’s so scary I can’t tell you. It’s like they’ve been hypnotised.”

“Isn’t it?” she agreed warmly. “Lola isn’t a slave. Brice isn’t her master’s nephew. It’s just a story line some Agency scriptwriter thought up for them.

“I’m so confused, Helix. How come this kind of thing can happen to angels?”

“It’s a bummer,” she said. “The fact is, thoughts are incredibly powerful. On Earth, if you think something’s true for long enough, it eventually becomes true.”

“For humans, yeah,” I objected. “But we’re supposed to know how this stuff works!”

“OK, OK, listen. Angels are immortal beings operating at v. intense energy levels, right?”

“Right,” I agreed.

“Plus they have humungous thought power, agreed?”

I remembered how the angel preschoolers grew teeny baby trees in like, ten minutes flat. “Agreed,” I said.

“Without their angel memories, Brice and Lola grabbed at what seemed to be reality. They’re actually creating this whole scenario minute by minute. If they saw what was happening, they could step out into angelic reality just like that. But to them it feels like this is reality.”

“Actually it kind of feels like reality to me too,” I said miserably.

“I know, honey,” Helix said sympathetically. “So here’s a teeny cosmic hint. If something makes you feel small, lost and hopeless, it probably isn’t real!!”

Helix went on to tell me some other private angelic stuff, which I’m not supposed to share. After what seemed like blissful
aeons
of time, I opened my eyes.