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He knew now that the thick red man with the curly hair and bloodshot eyes was the father of all butchers. That the abattoir in San Andrews left the biggest bulls to him: the frothing, red-eyed animals that chewed through their ropes and broke their chains and routed San Andrews with their rage. When that happened, they sent for Marlo.
And if, from time to time, someone decided to leave one of those animals too loosely tethered, or deliberately forgot to draw the bolts of the steel pen, it was so that they could watch the town take to the top of walls and barricade itself behind the closed glass doors of stores while Marlo placed his back against some building on the Esplanade, or planted his legs like tree trunks in the middle of the market square, his head lowered like the animal’s, his shoulders twitching, his right elbow bent so that his finger barely grazed the leather at his side as the animal charged. And at the very last moment, with a movement that the men would recall over dinner in words that would disgust their women and thrill their children, Marlo would call the length of sharpened steel to his palm. He never missed an animal’s heart whenever he reached for it with that knife.
‘Men like blood,’ his father told him quietly. ‘Some o’ them jus’ don’ know it.’
‘I don’ like blood,’ Pynter answered earnestly, staring at the milkiness in the old man’s eye.
‘That’s becuz you not a man yet,’ his father muttered softly.
‘Rain fall last night too. Dry-season rain. Mean a lot more heat to come. It still wet outside?’ His father’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Through the window he could see that it was drizzling, but he said he was going outside to check.
There were people gathered by the roadside when Pynter got down there. Harris’s house looked tired and rain-sogged against the giant bois-canot tree that supported it. The door was partly open and the window facing the road hung on a single hinge. He stood on the wet grass, listening to the lowered voices, the grunts of disbelief, the quiet shock, subdued like the drone of bees. He didn’t think they had seen him. They were lost in talking their thoughts out to each other
‘ … such a nice fella.’
‘ … in hi own house.’
‘ … never do nobody no harm.’
‘An’ Marlo gone an’ done dat to him.’
‘ … a piece o’ bread … ’
‘ … murder … ’
‘ … worse than murder.’
A rough wind shook the trees above them. The water that had settled on the leaves came down in a cold shower on their heads. He shuddered, began wondering what his father was doing now. Soon he would have to collect his breakfast from the steps before the chickens got to it.
No one knew who called the ambulance. Although it was still very early, it had come and gone long before most of them were there. More people were arriving, some from as far up as the foothills of Mont Airy. A tall, slim-faced woman with a white headwrap kept repeating the story to them of what had happened – Marlo had disappeared, and the police were somewhere up there in the bushes at the foot of the Mardi Gras with their dogs; they were sure to find him before the day was over, she said.
Pynter wiped his eyes and looked up at the Mardi Gras, its head buried in the greyness of the flat, soggy morning. He could hear the dogs barking. He didn’t like dogs. Dogs didn’t like him either. He could have told the police or the dogs that they were not going to find him up there in the forest. Marlo could hardly walk, far less climb a hill or run.
He left them by the side of the road, scratching, shifting and murmuring among themselves, their hands moving aimlessly about them, as if they were rummaging the air for something they’d forgotten or misplaced. He criss-crossed his way back up the hill.
Miss Maddie was on her porch, craning her neck towards the road while still managing to keep her eyes on him.
‘Boy!’
He lifted his face at her.
‘What happenin down there?’ It was the first time he’d ever seen her smile.
‘Don’ know,’ he said, not even bothering to break his stride.
Her smile went out like a light.
‘Is true what I hear about those two down there?’
‘Don’ know, Miss Maddie.’
‘You don’ know and you just come from down there?’
He shrugged.
‘I ask you a question, boy!’ Her tone had hardened.
‘And I answer you,’ he replied, and broke into a run.
He waited till his father had finished eating and then he told him all that he had just heard from the mouths of the people by the roadside.
When his father found his voice, he asked, ‘You sure?’
‘’Bout what?’
The old man passed the heel of his hand across his face. ‘Why?’
‘Uh?’
‘Why he done it?’
‘Missa Marlo?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Don’ know, Pa, don’ know. For piece o’ bread, Miss Tooksie say. For a piece o’ Missa Marlo bread dat Missa Harris take becuz he was hungry. A piece o’ bread, Pa. Marlo rip hi guts out fo’ a piece o’ bread.’
‘Pynter! Don’t talk like that. Don’t talk like that!’
Pynter leaned his head against the bedroom door and stared at the ceiling.
9 (#u28d22412-8e31-55e2-b13f-1fa9a7d51d72)
THEY CALLED IT Rainbow Weather – that time during the dry season when the sun was bright above their heads and a drizzle came down from the Mardi Gras and covered the valley with a spray so fine it was almost as if the air were filled with talcum powder. There were rainbows everywhere, some of them as faint as washed-out ribbons, but there was always the one they called The Mother. It curved high and glowing above their heads, its foot planted in the water somewhere behind the hills that kept the ocean back.
A gardener might catch a glimpse of it, straighten up and lean against his machete, suddenly aware of the flowering okras, the pigeon peas and the amazing likeness of their blossoms to little yellow butterflies. He might see the manioc differently, how their shiny, dark-limbed trunks resembled the skin of a well-greased child. And he would feel a tiny tug of sadness in his heart that a day would come when he would no longer be there to see all this. A woman would stop mid-laugh and for some reason turn her mind to the children she did not have. Or another would sketch a private smile, remembering the time when Dreena’s little girl-chile – now a woman who worked the canes with them – tried to follow a Mother Rainbow to where she thought its root was planted in the sea. Dreena’s lil girl returned to her mother’s yard exhausted and in tears because, however far she walked, it never got any closer.
Rainbows reminded Pynter of the strap that Paso wore around his waist for a belt. It reminded him of the wish that Deeka carried in her eyes, and then when it faded he took the track to Eden.
Earlier that morning and most of the afternoon, the dogs had been searching the foothills for Marlo, but Pynter could no longer hear them; they must have given up. Men with guns had arrived, their Land Rovers came roaring down the road. He had heard the slamming of doors and the thud of feet on asphalt. But they too had left a couple of hours later. And soon after the sound of their engines had faded in the distance, Gideon’s white Opel came gunning up the hill.
Pynter had forgotten that his father had told him that Gideon was coming. His father also said that he should go to see his mother. But he didn’t feel like it. He wanted this to be one of his by-himself days, and so he was down here at Eden, where it was quiet, even the birds were silent for once. And where Missa Geoffrey made his leaf bed for Miss Petalina, the earth was bare and brown. Maybe they’d found another place. P’raps Pastor Greenway found out and killed Miss Petalina. Everybody was killin everybody these days. For no flippin reason a pusson could understand. But if Pastor Greenway really done that to his best an’ p’raps only daughter, news didn reach nobody yet. And he better not, because he, Pynter Bender, would pussnally ask Birdie to bus’ his arse real bad when Pastor Greenway got sent to jail.
Pynter wondered what Peter was doing now. What would he say when he told him about Marlo and Harris? He sat on the earth, not bothering to settle himself down in his hideaway in the elephant grass. He wanted a stick to make markings like his mother on the ground. He wanted words to make all of it make sense.
He saw the man the instant his hand reached out to pull a twig – a shadow at the corner of his eye almost as if one of the trees had moved. He was on his feet before he’d even thought of it. Felt the wet grass give way beneath him and his shoulder hit the trunk of the guava tree in front of him. He heard a grunt, felt the tree heave. A shower of guavas hit the grass. A hand closed around his ankle. He kept moving. He kept moving because Tan Cee had told him to. He couldn’t remember how long ago, or how many times she’d said it to him and Peter. He’d forgotten where he was or exactly when she’d said so, but now her voice was like a whisper at the back of his ear. ‘If a pusson get hold of you, and you know dat they don’t mean you no good, you don’t jus’ stand up there. You move, you kick, you bite, you make a whole heap o’ noise. You don’ tell yourself you weak, you don’ tell yourself you finish, you never tell yourself you lose. You keep movin, even if they lock you down, you never stop movin, y’hear me? Jus’ move … ’
The hand slipped off his ankle. He swung himself away and in that single eye-blink of a turn he caught a glimpse of Marlo’s fleshy face, the leather scabbard at his side and his bulk against the guava trees. And then there came a shout from another man nearby.
‘Ayyy! What de hell goin on ’cross dere?’
Pynter found his back pressed against Missa Geoffrey’s stomach, the man’s hand holding him firmly there. Missa Geoffrey’s chin was lifted high, his body rigid. He held a large stone firmly in his free hand.
There was a crash of trees, branches breaking, and suddenly Marlo was no longer there.
Missa Geoffrey stepped away from him – with his light brown eyes and a tiny brown moustache. ‘Who de hell is you, and what bring you here?’
‘Pynter – I’z Pynter.’
‘You know who dat was?’ Missa Geoffrey lifted his chin at the bushes beyond them.
Pynter nodded.
‘You know what could’ve happen if it didn cross my mind to come here now?’ His face was hard and unsmiling.
Pynter nodded again. He realised his knees were shaking slightly. Missa Geoffrey was there beside him, yet he sounded as if he were speaking from a far way off.
Missa Geoffrey dropped the stone. He looked about him. His face and shoulders were twitching. ‘Why dat murderer had to come here, eh? Dat sonuvabitch could ha’ gone everywhere else, but is here he had to come. I have to report this now, not so?’ He gestured at the bushes. ‘An’ what happm when I get out o’ here and call police? Next thing you know, this place full up of all kind o’ people.’ He looked about him again as if the gully were his house. Pynter thought the man was going to cry.
‘And you,’ he turned brown accusing eyes on Pynter, ‘what de hell bring you down here? This look like place for chilren?’
‘I come here when I hungry,’ Pynter told him.
‘Come here when you – you playin de arse wit’ me, not so?’ The man was staring at him closely. His eyes narrowing down to slits.
‘I don’ look, Missa Geoffrey. Not all de time.’
‘Don’ look – look at what? Look, you say?’ Geoffrey moved his lips to say something else but coughed and rubbed his chest instead. He swung his head around as if expecting all of Old Hope to be there. He brought his hand up to the side of his face and coughed again.
Missa Geoffrey looked around him. ‘Look? What de hell it got down here to look at? Dem guava? Dem serpent over yuh head?’
Pynter found himself replying in his father’s flat irritated tone. ‘A pusson not blind, yunno.’
His words stopped Missa Geoffrey short. Left him open-mouthed and confused. He kept smoothing the hair back from his forehead and then he coughed a very distressed cough.
‘Lissen, lil fella,’ his voice rumbled out of him deep and low exactly as it did with Miss Petalina, ‘I just save your life. You know what dat mean?’
‘Nuh.’
‘It mean,’ he dropped his voice to a half-whisper, ‘it mean you owe me a life.’
‘I don’ have no life to give back.’
‘I don’ want no life back, man. You tell anybody ’bout …?’
‘You an’ Miss Tilina? Nuh.’
‘Me an’ Miss – Jeezas, man. Jeezas! Then you keep it so – okay? You keep it so, cuz … ’
Pynter nodded. ‘A life fo’ a life.’
‘Eh?’
‘Pastor Greenway goin kill ’er if he get to know.’
Missa Geoffrey sat back on the wet grass. ‘You prepare to swear on de Bible?’
Pynter nodded.
Missa Geoffrey slapped his pockets with both hands. He pulled out something bright and red and shiny and held it out to Pynter. ‘Look – look, I want to give you this.’ It was a small penknife. ‘Dis mean me an’ you’z friend. Dis mean you can’t tell nobody nothing. Dis mean me an’ you agree man to man, y’unnerstan?’
Pynter took the knife.
‘Okay fella, we settle then.’ Missa Geoffrey looked up as if suddenly alerted to something. ‘Come, let’s get outta here. And don’t come back again, y’hear me. Is my land.’
‘Is not.’
‘You hear what I say?’
‘Yessir.’
When Pynter reached the yard, it was raining again. Warm dry-season rain, the kind that fell with all the violence of a flash-storm and lasted just a short while. Pynter wondered if Gideon had left yet. He was trembling, but he wasn’t cold and he didn’t want to go inside if Gideon were still there.
He stooped between the pillars of the house and watched the rain come down.
10 (#u28d22412-8e31-55e2-b13f-1fa9a7d51d72)
‘GIDEON TAKE MY father,’ Pynter said.
Elena shook her head. She didn’t understand him.
‘I come from Eden. I shelter under de house and when I went in he wasn’ there.’
His mother shook her head again. She still didn’t understand him. ‘You look in dem other room?’
‘Gideon take my father,’ he repeated.
‘Where he gone to?’
He heaved his shoulders and turned his face away.
‘Where…’ She stopped herself short. The cloth that she was drying her hands with dropped softly on the floor. She brought her face down close to his. She touched his cheek and looked into his eyes. ‘Gideon take your father where?’
He heaved his shoulders again. ‘Gideon come and take ’im when I wasn’ there.’
‘You get wet,’ she said. ‘Your head soakin wet. You couldn shelter from the rain?’ She began unbuttoning his shirt.
He was staring at the wall behind her head.
