The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (77 page)

Thank God he hadn’t suggested meeting at Romilly. She couldn’t have taken that.

Half an hour later she reached the glade of the great duppy tree. He was waiting beneath it. His face lit up when he saw her. He came towards her, took the reins and tethered her horse, then helped her down.

He’d dispensed with the crutches, and his bruises had faded. In the forest light his eyes were very green, the lashes long and black. They made him look young, and easy to hurt. ‘I missed you so much,’ he said, putting his hand against her cheek.

‘I missed you too,’ she muttered. But when he bent to kiss her she twisted her head away. She felt sick at the thought of what she was about to do. Sick and empty inside.

‘You all right?’ he said.

‘No. I’m not.’ She looked down and saw that she was gripping her riding-crop with both hands, her knuckles straining her gloves.
Why
had he asked her to meet him? This was only making it worse. Didn’t he realize everything was over?

She heard him move closer, then felt his arms about her as he drew her to him. For a moment she shut her eyes and relaxed against him, and listened to his heart beat. Then she breathed in, and put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away. ‘What about you?’ she said without meeting his eyes. ‘How’s your leg? And – and your ribs? Are
you
all right?’

‘Me?’ His lip curled. ‘I’m always all right.’

Oh, God, I hope that’s true, she thought. Close up, she saw that the cut on his eyebrow had nearly healed, and was already acquiring the sheen of a new scar. He’s tough, she told herself, he heals quickly. It’ll be the same with this.

‘I’m sorry about the little lad,’ he said, running his hands up and down her arms, as if to warm her. ‘I was going to write Madeleine a note, only I didn’t have no paper. Tell her I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not a good idea.’

There was a silence. Then his arms dropped to his sides. ‘You told her about us.’

‘She found out when you sent the message to Moses. I had to tell her the rest.’

‘Oh, Sophie.’ He turned and walked away a few paces, and then back to her. ‘What did she say?’

She hesitated.

‘She blames me,’ said Ben. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Why do you say that?’

He snorted. ‘Because it happens.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, then shook his head. ‘Christ, Sophie. Christ.’

She felt a spark of anger at him. Why was he thinking only of them, when Fraser lay dead in the little marble tomb behind the house? Why couldn’t he let her go, without putting them through this?

Suddenly she wondered if she’d ever really known him. Looking at him standing there, he seemed rough and unfamiliar. His blue cotton shirt had lost a couple of buttons, and there was a rip in the knee of his breeches. Shirt and breeches were crumpled, as if he’d washed them in the river and not bothered to dry them properly.

She wondered how he’d survived over the past three weeks. Perhaps a few days’ casual labour in the cane-fields, or on a fishing smack or a coffee plantation; sleeping rough and living on his wits. Perhaps he simply stole. As a boy he’d been a thief; it was how he’d survived. And in Trelawny, where people never locked their doors, it must be easy pickings.

How was it possible that three weeks ago they’d been lovers? Three weeks. She was a different person now.

She lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I came to see you – because I need to tell you something.’ She moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving. I’m starting for England tomorrow. I won’t be coming back.’

To her surprise, he only looked startled. ‘That’s a bit sudden.’

‘I can’t stay here any longer.’

He scratched his head, then nodded. ‘Fair enough. But it’ll take me a while to follow you. I got to get up the fare, and—’

‘No. You can’t.’

‘What?’

‘You can’t follow me. It’s over, Ben. That’s what I came to tell you. We can’t see each other any more.’

She watched the understanding dawn; the stillness come down over his features. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘You can’t – no.’

‘I have to.’

‘No, listen. Don’t go to London. Come with me. I been thinking about it, I got it all worked out. We can go to Panama. Or America. We’ll do all right there. Nobody’ll know us. We can be together.’

‘Ben. I can’t be with you. Not anywhere. Not after this.’

He stood with his hands by his sides, watching her. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said at last.

‘I have to.’

‘It’s wrong. It’s—’

‘Why did you have to send for me?’ she burst out at him. ‘Why make me come? What good does it do?’

‘I had to see you. I missed you.’

‘Don’t you understand? We can’t do this. It’s over.’

‘No, Sophie. No.’

She pushed past him and ran to her horse. ‘I’ve got to go. I can’t stay here any more.’ She was amazed at how calm she sounded, when inside she was breaking. She was amazed at the steadiness of her hands as she threw the reins over the mare’s head, and put her foot in the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle.

‘If you do this,’ he said, ‘it’s for ever. Don’t you know that?’

‘Of course I do,’ she flung back at him, ‘but what choice do I have? How can I be with you after what happened?’

After what’s happened, Evie just wants to get away.

Away from Fever Hill and her mother; away from Sophie and Ben and that poor dead child. And most of all, away from her own self. Away from Evie Quashiba McFarlane, the four-eyed daughter of the local obeah-woman.

So here she is, sitting on the train in an empty third-class compartment, craning out the window as the whistle goes, and Montego Bay drops away behind her. In her whole life she’s never been further than Montpelier, ten miles down the line, but now she’s clutching a ticket all the way to Kingston. Even as the john crow flies, that’s more than a hundred miles.

But she’s glad. She is, true to the fact. She’s been so full of black feeling that it’s a fat relief to be on her way. Home, family, friends. Leave it all behind. Including that damn journal of Cyrus Wright.

Last night, after she’d finished packing her tin case, she’d sat down under the ackee tree to finish it. Only a couple more pages to go. Finish it and then leave it behind with everything else.

It’s 1825, a full year since Cyrus Wright caught Congo Eve with her lover Strap, and sent him back to Parnassus. A year since Congo Eve went runaway to see her younger sister and her newborn daughter Semanthe.

October 4th, 1825
This past sennight, I have had another attack of the clap, but have taken a vast number of mercurial pills, & am now fully restored, by the grace of Providence & my own industry and forbearance.
Cum
Mulatto Hanah behind the trash house.

October 7th
Last night found Congo Eve dancing the shay-shay, all on her own, by the aqueduct. On her ankle she wore a band of john-crow beads very like to that which her brother Job had given her, and which I had made her throw on the midden. I was greatly vex’d & shouted at her to stop, but she would not. Whereupon I struck at her & tore away the anklet, & had her flogged & put in the collar for the night.

October 8th
In the morning I went to the stable & had her releas’d, & bade her come inside. She looked at me most strangely, & said that if this is living, then she wants no more of it. I told her that if she will not help herself but persists in defying me, then misfortune will surely be her lot. After that she would say no more. Had stewed mudfish to my supper, & a bottle of French brandy sent by Mr Traherne’s Penkeeper. I have drunk too deep, & am now much put beside myself & disturb’d in spirit.

And there, abruptly, the journal cut off.

There was plenty of room for further entries – two whole pages – but they’d been left blank. Not even a final line in someone else’s hand, to tell what had become of Cyrus Wright. So now Evie would never find out if her namesake ancestor ever went runaway for good, or found Strap again, or a measure of peace.

She’d been so into a rage that she’d wanted to throw the book in the aqueduct. But instead, she’d run back to her mother’s place, and penned a quick note to Sophie, and wrapped the book up in brown paper, and given it to her mother to take up to Eden the next time she went.

Eden.

That poor, dead child. If only she hadn’t wasted her time on that damned book, and had spent it instead trying to untangle the signs – then maybe he’d still be alive.

At one point, a few hours before she caught the mail coach, she’d thought about going to see Miss Madeleine and telling her about it. Perhaps it might ease her heart to know that old Master Jocelyn had been waiting to take her little one’s hand and help him over to the other side. But then she’d thought better of it. How could she tell Miss Madeleine, when it was through her own self mistake that the warning got missed?

No. Just leave it. Leave it all behind.

The train’s whistle sounds. She turns her head and watches the cane whipping past beneath a wide, bleaky sky. Montpelier is long gone, and Cambridge, and Catadupa. Everything looks different here. The cattle picking over the stubble are grey instead of white. On a dusty track two women carry big stacks of cane on their heads, but Evie doesn’t know them. She would if she was home.

With an effort of will she puts all thoughts of home from her mind, and leans back and shuts her eyes. Soon she begins to doze asleep.

She’s woken by the door slamming shut and a man sitting down across of her. He’s young, maybe twenty or so, and his skin is very dark, and his clothes raggity.

Country nigger, she thinks, watching him beneath her eyelids. He’s meagre, but his arms are muscle-strong and netted with standing-out veins from years of cutting copperwood and taking off the crops.

The whistle goes and the train pulls out of the station. She catches a look at the sign.
Siloah
. It means nothing to her. It’s from foreign. She’s in another country now.

The young man from Siloah is shy of her. Still with her eyes half closed, she watches him watching her. There’s a lot of fidgeting going on, and little admiring looks. God, she thinks wearily, why did You make me pretty? What in hell is the damned point?

Finally the young man screws up his courage and catches her eye, and cracks a shy smile. ‘It look weathery out there, ma’am,’ he says, jerking his head at the window. ‘You consider the rain go come?’

At least he calls her ma’am, and not ‘sister’. That saves him from the worst of her scorn. ‘Well, sir,’ she replies, giving him a cool but not unkindly eye, ‘I do believe that to be in the hands of God.’

He nods vigorously. ‘True word, ma’am. Most true word.’

She turns her head and shuts her eyes. He’s a big, gentle farmhand who would never talk no rudeness to a woman. But she can’t find it in her heart to be civil for long. Not to him, not to anybody.

Far as she’s concerned, Kingston can’t come soon enough. She wants no more admiring country niggers. No more sweet-tongue buckra gentlemen. No more obeah, no more four-eyed nonsense, no more reading the spirit signs wrong-side out.

Jesum Peace, what a relief to be removing from Trelawny! You should be celebrating, girl! Now you can find yourself a nice quiet position in a nice quiet school, and marry yourself with a nice quiet coloured man. Maybe a parson or a storekeeper, it doesn’t matter what. Just so long as he’s got a light skin and a starched collar, and has civilized English ways. Just so long as he’s never set foot in Trelawny.

Yes. You should be celebrating.

When she opens her eyes again, they’ve reached the high pastures, and all she can see is guinea grass. For the first time, the hugeness of what she’s done begins to bite.

She glances at the farmhand, but he’s dropped asleep. She puts her face out the window, and the tears are cold on her cheeks. And all she can see is miles of guinea grass, shivering under the bleaky sky.

Faint on the wind came the far-off whistle of the train, and Sophie glanced up from her packing.

The railway track was miles away. Perhaps she’d only fancied that she’d heard the whistle, because she wanted to. Because tomorrow she’d be on that train, too.

She longed for it to be over. She longed for Jamaica to be far behind her; for the rainy streets of London; for hard, mind-numbing work and forgetfulness.

She glanced about her at the room which Madeleine had prepared for her with such care three months before. Only three months. How was it possible? She remembered sitting on the train with those American tourists – what was their name? – and counting the hours until she would see her sister.

Now look at them all. Look at the trail of desolation she was leaving behind. Fraser. Madeleine. Cameron.

Ben.

Every time she thought of him, she felt cold. She felt as if she were falling from a great height through a frozen nothingness. She kept seeing his face as he’d stood there watching her ride away. For once he hadn’t been able to hide his feelings. He’d been devastated.

But he’s tough, she told herself, again and again. He’s been through so much already, he recovers fast. He’ll get over it. Perhaps he’s getting over it already.

It’s early evening when Ben reaches the sea, and by then he’s drunk.

He stumbles onto the beach somewhere east of Salt Wash, peers at the remains of the rum in the bottle, and takes another long, blistering pull.

He’s been walking all day. At first he didn’t know or care where he was headed, just so long as it was away from Eden. He went west through the forest and out onto the bare, blinding rocks on the other side of the hill. From there he stumbled down the slope, slipping and sliding on the pebbles, and crossed the river at Stony Gap, and followed it north.

After an hour or so he stopped and looked about him. From here the Martha Brae made a great turn east, looping around the cane-pieces of Orange Grove. Orange Grove: the westernmost part of Eden estate. Sophie’s out there somewhere, he told himself. Somewhere on the other side of the river, beyond those rippling acres of cane. He set his teeth and turned his back on her, and headed north through the cattle pastures of Stony Hill.