The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (47 page)

His skin prickled with loathing. His hand on the candlestick became slick with sweat. In that moment he understood the urge to kill. He understood Cain.

His brother turned and saw him. ‘You’re up late,’ he remarked.

Sinclair stepped out into the gallery. ‘And you, brother,’ he said.

His brother indicated the candlestick. ‘You’re not going to do much damage with that.’

Sinclair licked his lips. ‘A curious notion. I was seeking a fresh candle.’ He put the candlestick on a side table, and placed both hands on the back of a chair. Calm, calm, he told himself. This fool is no match for you.

But he couldn’t get that image out of his mind. He pictured his brother and the old man in the library, standing before the great oil painting of Strathnaw: smoking cigars and drinking whisky; planning the future; laughing at him.
Cameron, my boy, you were always the one I wanted for my heir. It was never Sinclair.

Out loud he said, ‘What brings you here at this hour?’

‘I was worried about Madeleine,’ said his brother, matching his conversational tone. ‘I didn’t like the sound of your rest cure.’

How blunt, thought Sinclair, how lacking in subtlety. ‘I don’t see why,’ he replied. ‘It was – is – entirely appropriate. And under the strict supervision of Dr Valentine of Cornwall Street.’

‘Dr Valentine of Cornwall Street,’ repeated his brother with solemn mockery. ‘And is that where the good doctor is now? In Cornwall Street?’

‘I expect him back in the morning.’ It occurred to him that he was allowing his brother to cross-examine him, whereas an innocent man – or rather, a man with nothing to conceal – would have been outraged at such presumption. But his mind was only half engaged, still churning over the hideous notion of his brother at Fever Hill. The return of the prodigal son.

‘Where is she?’ said his brother.

Sinclair moistened his lips. ‘By “she”, I take it that you mean my wife.’

‘Where is she?’ said his brother again.

Sinclair’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. ‘My wife,’ he said, ‘is no longer here.’

He was gratified to see his brother’s astonishment. Yes, he told him silently, you weren’t expecting that, were you? You thought you could just ride up here and see her at any time of the day or night. How disagreeable to find that you cannot. ‘She left,’ he volunteered. ‘She took a horse and left.’

‘When? Where did she go?’

The exchange had put fresh heart into him. This was going to be easy. Why had he worried? ‘I cannot be sure,’ he said. ‘But I imagine that she has returned to Fever Hill.’

His brother shook his head. ‘I’ve just come from there.’

Sinclair allowed a silence to grow. Then he said, ‘And what took you to Fever Hill?’

His brother threw him an impatient look. ‘I brought Sophie back. And yes, I know you’re her guardian, but I told the old man who she is, so from now on I don’t think he’ll be so ready to let you play the autocrat.’

Sinclair swayed. The child and the old man. Together. The child knew about the pickney. If she told the old man— He felt sick. Terror buzzed in his skull like an angry wasp.

No. Wait. If she had said anything, then his brother would be crowing about that too. Calm, calm.

He ran his fingers over his throat. ‘I thought the old man was in Kingston.’

‘Clemency sent him a wire,’ snapped his brother. ‘Now, when did Madeleine leave?’

His thoughts raced. There was still time. The child would be asleep all night; she couldn’t tell anyone yet.

‘What’s the
matter
with you?’ said his brother.

‘What?’

‘I’ve asked you three times, when did she leave?’

Sinclair thought for a moment. ‘Some time around dawn.’

‘
Dawn?
What the hell have you been doing?’

‘Looking for her,’ he said. He squared his shoulders. ‘I have spent all day, brother, looking for her.’ He indicated his dusty riding-clothes. ‘As you can see, I’ve only just returned.’

Again that surge of power. This was easy. All he had to do was keep his nerve.

‘Why didn’t you send for help?’ said his brother.

‘I did. I sent the housekeeper and the stable boy. Which is why they are no longer here.’

His brother rubbed his hand over his face. ‘D’you have any idea where she was heading?’

‘North,’ said Sinclair without hesitation. ‘A field-hand saw her heading north. Which is why I assumed she was making for Fever Hill. But she must have taken a wrong turn, for when the field-hand saw her she was on one of the cane-roads around Caledon. No doubt that’s why your paths didn’t cross.’

His brother swallowed it whole. It was beautiful. ‘Saddle your horse,’ he said, with that soldierly decisiveness which Sinclair had always detested. ‘We’re going to find her.’

‘In the dark?’

‘There’s a moon.’

‘My horse is lame.’

‘Saddle another.’

Sinclair studied him for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall fetch my hat.’

Why had he worried? This sugar-planter was no match for him. He would pass the test which God had designed for him, and he would prevail.

He
deserved
to prevail. He was an innocent man.

Still some hours till the sun comes up, and Evie has dropped asleep in the house, and Grace is sitting out on her step, sitting in the moonshine and looking at that fresh new grave at the back of the yard.

They planted him by the garden cherry tree, for he liked garden cherry; though not as much as he liked star apple. Only she got no star apple tree in her yard.

She got her pipe ready for a little smoke, and she got her bankra ready to do a little obeah, to ask again for a sign who kill her boy. She asked before, but no sign came. Maybe her heart still too confuse.

If only she could clean up this confusion in her heart. But she so tangle-up with mourning and worry-head and black monster hate, she about reaching her rope end. Can’t find a way to balance off the feelings. Sagging tired and full of worry-head about Evie – that child not said two words since it take place – and black monster hate at whoever done this thing to her boy.

Strange, strange, the way things work out. The eve of First August just drawing to a close, and usually on that night, everybody singing and partying, to mark the day they mancipate the slaves. But not this night; not here roundabout. This First August eve, they been too busy keeping nine-night for Victory.

Last week, soon as word of the death went out, everybody came for the burying. Brother, sister, cousin, aunt. From all over Trelawny and from foreign they came. Moses from Eden, and Daniel Tulloch from Parnassus, cousin Martin that preach at Rio Bueno, and sister-in-law Lily, that teach Baptist school at Simonstown, and do a little myal on the side.

The nanas they helped Grace and Evie make the coffin-shirt, and dug the grave at the back of the yard. They dug deep, for pickney duppy stronger than a man’s, and you got to make damn sure that he stay put in there.

They raised the coffin three times high before they laid him in the ground, and planted pigeon peas by the stone to hold him firm. Then they swept out the dead room, and left the lamp burning right through till the nine-night, so the duppy would know where to come.

But
when
to hold the nine-night? That the question. And it cost Grace some worry-head, figuring out what actual true day he died. In the end, Miss Clemmy said, Grace, you just ask your heart; your heart tell you the truth. And Miss Clemmy was right about that. Grace looked in her heart and counted to nine from there on up, and when it came out for the eve of Free Come, she knew it correct for true.

So for nine nights that pickney duppy been walking roundabout, throwing rockstone, making trouble, putting hand on people. Then on the nine-night, this same night, he came home again, and everybody arrived back at the house, to keep him entertain.

Strange, strange. Grace done nine-nights out a count for other people, but she can’t get use to the
strangeness
with her own self son. Course, that pickney duppy
not
her son, she know that. But still he is, and that the strangeness of it. Duppy not the
good
part of him: the good part gone way off in the Up (if there is a Up, and Grace not too sure, thinks maybe not, since not a damn thing ever came down from there except rain). It the bad part left down here which becomes the duppy. Everybody got a bad part. And when you die, it slips loose and becomes duppy, and goes round making trouble.

So on the nine-night, everybody arrived again. Brought lot, lot a food. Currie land-crab and pepperpot, cowfoot and beans and bammy cakes, hot pickle and run down. Brought rum and sorrel and ginger wine, and coffee sweet with cocoanut milk. And Grace and Evie, too, they were cooking since dawn. Hard-dough and roast breadfruit, jerked hog and rice and peas, johnny cake and chocho pie and cassava pone. And duppy own feast, too besides.

Dark falls, and everybody sitting round in the dead room, eating, singing, telling Anancy story. Waiting for duppy to come. Duppy feast spread out on banana leaf in the middle, nobody touch.

And roundabout midnight, old Cecilia said, I feel him oh I feel him: hot wind rushing through. And people started to shiver and shake, and Evie was near to crying, but couldn’t; she just said in small muffle-voice, Where? Where?

And old Cecilia felt him – but Grace she
seen
him too. And he was one dirty little duppy, that true to the fact. No shoe, no Sunday best for him. Just the saggy old blue pants he liked so much, and the yellow shirt that never kept one button more than a day. And that look on him face when he just
knew
he done wrong, and waiting for her to catch him a wallop.

So then came the time for Grace to shoo him out to the graves; to tell him Go way and never come back. But she couldn’t do it. She must a done it time out a count at other people nine-nights, but this time, with her own self son, she couldn’t get out a word. And old Cecilia seen that and took it on, to give Grace time to get her spirit back.

Duppy, said Cecilia loud and polite, we know you come. We glad you come. Myself two times. See, Duppy, we give you feast. Boil fowl and white rice and good white overproof rum. We do everything for you.

Then Cecilia looked to Grace, to see if she better yet. And Grace nodded, for she was ready to take it on from here. But it
hard
. Hardest thing she ever did in life. She stood up straight, and put on her strictest voice – like she meant it this time, or he for trouble true, and she said, Duppy! Go on to you rest now, and not to do we no harm. We no want to see you again, duppy. So no come back. Mind me now, I say mind me. Done!

Then they got up and shooed him out the house, and Grace watched him fade, fade into the yard. And right that last moment she so wanted to call him back – for though he a duppy, he still part of her boy. But instead she stood her ground and swallowed her spit, and let him go.

After that they removed the duppy feast into the yard, and put cross-mark charcoal on the door and window – and then it done, and people commenced to leave. And Cecilia said, Well Grace, we done with Victory now. We shooed him to the grave and we planted him good. So now he at peace.

Well, Victory at peace now. True. But Grace, she the mother. She never know peace again.

Out of her bankra, she takes an old syrup bottle of dirt from the new grave, and some parrot bones, and some camphor that Miss Clemmy gave. Still some good few hours till the sun comes up, and she’s getting ready to ask again for a sign who done this thing. Could be any sort a sign. Bird on the roof. Man in the road. Mark in the dirt. She’ll know it when it comes.

She gets up and goes inside – soft, so as not to wake Evie and brings out a little bowl of scrip-scraps of lizard parts to help things along.

He used to fascinate with lizard, when a baby. Always trying to touch one, never could; they always too quick. But how he laugh! Sitting in the dirt, watching them chasing each other round and round the yard, fighting at their fierce little lizard-wars. How he laugh, laugh and clap him fat little hands.

He grew up so quick. One day baby, next day riding jack-mule, digging yams, picking rat coffee to sell. Last September, first day of school, Grace watched him walking off to Salt Wash with Evie, and it the proudest day in life.

And this night, Free Come eve, was always the favourite with him and Evie both. Staying up late, telling story of Nana Semanthe in slave time, and of great-grandfather Caesar that got killed in Black Family War, that buckra call Christmas Rebellion. Telling story of how Grace named Evie after the First Woman, and Victory after victory, simple straight, like in the Book. ‘Victory that overcometh the world.’

Victory that overcometh the world.

Well, that all dead-bury now.

Grace lights up her pipe and starts setting out her things, to ask again for a sign who done this thing. She knows obeah and myal and church matter, too. She knows all kind a ways to ask.

So sign go come for true.

Chapter Thirty-Three

She lay back, gasping and staring at the moon. She was so relieved that she wanted to retch.

A trickle of pebbles rattled down into the sink-hole, warning her that she was still on the edge. She rolled onto her front and half-crawled, half-dragged herself away. The bootlaces snagged on the ground and cut into her wrists. She stopped to untie them, but her fingers were raw and shaking, and she soon gave up.

Once again she lay back, and felt the warm earth beneath her, and the warm night flowing over her. She watched a wilderness of stars spinning towards her.

Gradually, she became aware of something else beneath the ring-ring of the crickets. A faint, continuous roar, just on the edge of hearing. Was it a sound, or a vibration in the earth?

She strained to listen. There it was again. A river? She held her breath. The Martha Brae had its source in the Cockpits. Was that what she could hear? If it was, and if she had the strength to climb to the top of that slope – if she could find the river, she could follow it out of the hills.