The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (67 page)

Evie shuts the book with a thud. A cold sweat breaks out on her forehead. Her heart starts to pound. She wants to throw the book in the aqueduct – to consign Mr Cyrus Wright to the scummy green water, where he belongs.

I have named her Eve.

No. No. This has nothing to
do
with her. She’s not some long-ago nigger from the Guinea country. They just happen to have the same name.

Besides, what does she care about slave time? It’s nearly seventy years since the slaves were freed. They’re nothing to her. She’s Evie McFarlane, teacheress at Coral Springs. She’s half white.

A breeze stirs the bamboo leaves to a hot, dry rustle. Evie reaches out to a nearby bush and snaps off a ginger lily, and crushes the waxy white petals in her hand. The scent is so sharp that it stings her eyes – but that’s good, for it washes her thoughts clean.

What you’ve got to remember, she tells herself, is that this is not who you are. Any time you want to, you can get away from here.
Any time.
You’ve only to say the word to that buckra gentleman, and he’ll help you.
You name the place and the time
, he said.
Just to talk, of course. I only want to talk.

And he promised to treat you respectful, and to never get fresh. Not unless you want him to.

‘Hello, Evie,’ says Sophie at her shoulder.

Evie jumps, and the book nearly topples into the aqueduct.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Sophie, ‘I startled you.’

Evie tosses away the crushed petals and swings her legs off the wall, and searches for her shoes. ‘Hello, Sophie,’ she mutters.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie says again. She’s nervous, twisting her riding-crop in her hands. She’s much less elegant than when Evie saw her up at the busha house, in a calf-length divided riding-skirt, and a short brown jacket and bowler hat. Does she think that by dressing like this she can make it seem that there’s less of a gulf between them? Well, she can’t. Her boots are calfskin, and at the collar of her blouse there’s a little silver brooch.

Looking at her, Evie feels the familiar confusion of jealousy and liking and self-loathing. She hates that she’s been found in her old print dress and her canvas shoes, in this rundown ruin of a place. She hates that she’s pleased to see Sophie.

Sophie glances at the book. ‘Is that any use?’

Evie shrugs. ‘Why did you send it?’

‘I thought it might help for your dissertation.’ She hesitates. ‘And I felt bad about the other day. I mean, just assuming that you were in service, like that.’

Evie ignores that. ‘Did you read it?’ she asks.

‘No. Why?’

She snorts. ‘It’s all about slaves.’

Sophie sighs. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Evie. I genuinely didn’t realize.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

Sophie turns and gazes out over the scummy green water, then back to Evie. ‘The thing is, I need to see Ben. Can you tell me where he is?’

So that’s it, thinks Evie. I should have guessed. Sophie always did have a peculiar deep regard for Ben. ‘Ben’s gone,’ she says.

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sophie doesn’t believe her. ‘You see, I’ve found him a position, and I need to tell him, or it’ll get filled. It’s in Duke Street, at Great-Aunt May’s.’

‘Miss May?’ Evie’s surprised. ‘Cho! Ole Higue herself!’ Then she remembers who she’s talking to, and puts a hand to her mouth.

Sophie grins. ‘Ole Higue indeed! I saw her yesterday, and she still frightens the life out of me. But you see, she really does need a coachman. It’s ridiculous, she only ever drives eight hundred yards to church, but I thought that if Ben were to apply, she’d probably take him. It would appeal to her, to cock a snook at the Trahernes.’

Clever Miss Sophie. Clever, unwise Miss Sophie, walking into trouble with her eyes wide open and blind.

And now Evie really doesn’t know what to do. Of course she knows where Ben is. He’s over east in the hills back of Simonstown; Daniel Tulloch found him a bed at his cousin Lily’s who teaches school in the village. But always at the back of Evie’s mind is that vision of old Master Jocelyn following Sophie up the croton walk. Maybe it means trouble for Sophie, or maybe for Ben. Or maybe for both of them.

With the toe of her shoe she draws a pattern in the dust. ‘Better stay away from him, Sophie.’

‘Everyone keeps telling me that.’

‘Everyone?’

She taps her riding-crop against her boot. ‘I’m just trying to put things right. That’s all.’

Evie wonders if Sophie truly believes that.

‘Will you at least see that he gets the message?’ says Sophie.

Evie shakes her head.

‘Why not? Don’t you want to help him? He’s your friend too.’

Evie does not reply.

‘Just take him the message,’ urges Sophie.

Well, and why not? thinks Evie. After all, you’re not really friends with Sophie any more, so why worry about keeping her out of trouble? And why worry about Ben? Ben can look after himself. He always has.

‘Evie – please.’

She sighs. ‘All right.’

‘
Thank
you.’

After that Sophie doesn’t stay long, and Evie doesn’t try to keep her. But still she’s sorry when she’s gone. It’s lonely by the aqueduct, with the ackee tree whispering overhead and the wild bamboo creaking to itself, and the journal of Cyrus Wright calling to her from the wall.

She half expects it to have moved by itself, but when she turns round it’s still there, waiting for her. With a sense of foreboding, she curls up on the wall and opens it.

But to her frustration she can find no further mention of Eve. With mounting apprehension she flicks through pages of crop-times and how many hogsheads per acre, and terse Latin accounts of forced couplings in cane-pieces. What happened? Was there an illness? A beating that went too far?

Just when she’s beginning to lose hope, she finds it.

December 3rd, 1817
Yesterday I gave Eve my old blue Holland coat, but by nightfall she had lost it, or so she said. Old Sybil says that Eve gave it to Strap. I was vex’d, and sent Eve to the field gang for a punishment. Had a search made of Strap’s hut, but found no coat. (NB: Old Sybil says the Negroes have taken to calling Eve ‘Congo Eve’, to tell her apart from Mr Durrant’s Chamboy Eve, up at Romilly. But this is without my leave.)

December 15th
Congo Eve has gone runaway. Have sent men to make search, and am too vex’d to take more than ham & a cheese to my supper.
Cum
Accubah
in dom.

December 17th
Congo Eve has been catch’d & brought back by Mr McFarlane’s overseer. She went runaway to Caledon to see her sister Leah. Had her flogged & rubbed with brine. In the evening, noticed that she wears an anklet of john-crow beads. She told me that her brother Job made it for a present. Suspecting it to be some vile Obiah practice (i.e. Black Magick), I made her throw it on the midden.

December 18th
Had a strange complaining visit from a Mr Drummond, overseer at Waytes Valley. He told how yesterday he was on his way to Pinchgut when he met a well-made Negro wench on the road. She agreed to go with him among the bushes, but when they got there she desired payment first, upon which he pulled out his purse of knitted blue silk. As he was holding it rather carelessly, the girl snatched it out of his hand and ran away, and he has not seen her or the purse since. Nor would he know the girl again, for she wore a kerchief pulled down low on her head. He said he lost five shillings, and sought compensation from me, saying that the girl must be mine. I denied this with all vehemence, & he went away. I then questioned Congo Eve, but she said she knew nothing about it, though she looked at me with excessive impudence.

December 19th
This past sennight I have put my Field Negroes to cutting copper wood on Pinchgut Hill, & now have one hundred & 16 cart-loads stacked ready beside the boiling-house. I was walking back from the works just after shell-blow, well satisfied, when I saw Congo Eve talking to Strap by the Pond. She was smiling & touching his cheek with her hand. Had him flogged, & both nostrils slit.
Cum
Congo Eve
in dom., sed non bene. Illa habet mensam.

‘Evie! Evie!’

She raises her head blearily, as if from a dream.

It’s her mother, calling her to supper. She gets up and shuts the book, and brushes off her skirts. She’s not sorry to go. It’s getting dark, and there’s a swampy, destroyful feel of duppies about the place.

With Congo Eve in the house, but it was not good. She had her courses.
Just reading it makes her feel dirty; as if Cyrus Wright has left little spidery stains in her memory.

When she reaches the yard, her mother glances up from the hearth, sees the book in her daughter’s hand and gives her a small, proud smile. Grace McFarlane never did herself learn to read, but she dearly loves to see Evie with a book. ‘What did Miss Sophie want?’ she asks as she hands her daughter a bowl of steaming fufu.

Evie shrugs. ‘Nothing. Just to visit.’

For a while they eat in silence. Then Grace says, ‘You know, you’re better not spending time with her, girl.’

Evie blows on her fufu and frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘You know why. She’s from a different class of ideas and life.’

‘Mother, I’m a teacheress, not a maid. I can spend time with who I like.’

‘That all very well. But it does no good to go meddling with carriage folk. You know that.’

Evie sets her teeth. All her life she’s been hearing this. And it’s specially hard coming from her mother. ‘Meddling with carriage folk?’ she says quietly. ‘But Mother, you’re the one who did that. Not so? You “meddled” with a buckra gentleman, and—’

‘Evie—’

‘– and I’m the result. Not so, Mother? You went with a buckra gentleman, though you never would tell me his name.’

Grace gives her a black hard look, but Evie’s blood is rising and she don’t care. ‘So please don’t tell me who I can’t spend time with, Mother. I’m half white. I can—’

‘Half white is no white,’ snaps Grace. ‘Don’t you know that yet?’

Evie can’t take any more. She throws down her bowl and quits the yard, slamming the bamboo gate behind her. She gets all the way to the aqueduct before she even realizes where she is – or that she’s got the journal of Cyrus Wright clutched under her arm. Her heart is pounding.

Now what to do? It’s getting dark. Mosquitoes are humming roundabout, and swallows flitting down to drink. Should she catch some peenywallies and put them in a jar, and read some more by the light?

Reading some more is the last thing she wants to do. But because she’s so angry, it’s exactly what she
will
do.

And once again, she can find nothing about her namesake for several pages. It’s as if Cyrus Wright became disenchanted with everything but sugar planting and coffee growing. Or maybe he was ashamed. Whatever the reason, it’s two years before there’s another mention of Congo Eve.

September 13th, 1819 S
till no rains; heat excessive strong. Had set my Field Negroes to collecting mahoe bark for rope-making, when Job cut his leg. It swell’d with the guinea worm, so I sent him to the hot house. Congo Eve troublesome in running to visit him & supper him, so I had to restrain her yet again with a collar & chain about her neck. She is perverse & will not help herself, but always must defy me.

September 15th
Mr Monroe’s wife brought to bed of a daughter. He has named her May. It is his seventh child by his wife, though of course he has very many Mulattos borne for him by his Negro females. Job still in the hot house, very fever’d & troublesome in calling for his sister. I myself have a scalding urine, & fear it is a dose of the clap. Took 4 mercurial purging pills & a cooling powder on advice of Dr Prattin. He suggested that I physick myself at the hot house like my Negroes, he thought it a good jest. I did not.
Cum
Congo Eve,
stans
,
in the curing-house. To my supper had a stewed turtle with a pint of porter.

September 17th
Job dead of a locking on the jaws. Congo Eve almost out of her senses, & would hear no reason. Had to collar her again. Gave the Negroes leave to bury the body behind the bee houses.

September 26th
Much havoc in the night. Against my orders, Strap held a Negro nine-night for Job down at the village, & Congo Eve slip’d from my house & went to it. I follow’d her in the dark, & there espied a vast many people with drumming & strange music, & Strap playing on a Banjar. Saw Congo Eve at work with her Obiah. Then she & Strap danc’d the Negro Motion they call the shay-shay, a most revolting sight: much slow winding of the hips, but with the upper body still. I broke in on them, brandishing my musket & greatly vex’d. Had Congo Eve flogged, 29 lashes, and have this afternoon sold Strap to Mr Traherne at Parnassus for £43, a loss of £2. Then I took Strap’s Banjar & shewed it to Congo Eve, & chopped it all to pieces in front of her with my cutlass. She threatened to make away with herself, & since then has said no more to me. Mr Monroe is right when he says that the Negro’s lack of moral faculties keeps him in subjection to his passions. To my supper had two broiled pigeons, very fat & sweet.
Cum
Congo Eve
supra terram
in Pimento Walk,
bis.

Evie puts her hand inside her dress and grips the little bag of warm green silk like a talisman.

Day has just commenced to light, and the peenywallies in the jar are dead. Soon her mother will come out of the house and start waking up the fire, and wonder why her daughter is up so early.

She can’t read any more. Her heart is beating so hard that she feels sick. Reading the close-written pages has made her head ache.

The Negro’s lack of moral faculties keeps him in subjection to his passions.
What lies people tell to excuse the wrong they do.

Around her the birds are waking up. A flock of jabbering crows settles in the ackee tree. Ground-doves peck the dust. She looks about her at the tumbled cut-stone, still streaked with black from slave time, when old Master Alasdair burnt the village after the great Rebellion.