HF - 05 - Sunset (10 page)

Lucky them. She turned another bend, and the afternoon was again silent, save for the gentle rustle of the cane-stalks to either side. She felt she could walk Candy through these fields for ever. And why not? As Oriole had told her, time and time again, it was hers. Every last stalk was hers. Every piece of mud which flicked away from the mare's hooves was hers.

And suddenly she heard the drums, seeping through the cane. She had not heard the drums for some time. She had tried to make Oriole listen to them, once, and Oriole had laughed, and said, 'Some people enjoying themselves, no doubt. It is the breeze which makes the sound travel.' And when she had told Oriole that they were sheep stealers and that Harry McAvoy had once shot one of them dead, Oriole had said, 'Good thing, too. Force is the only thing people like that understand.' Oriole did not believe in being afraid of anything.

Oh, damn Oriole.

The path ended with amazing abruptness, at land which sloped upwards, and was covered in trees. She drew rein in surprise. She had not realized she had ridden for so long. But if it was still daylight, the heat was leaving the air as the sun plunged towards the sea. And she had walked Candy clear across the plantation and out the other side.

Then she was still on Hilltop? She had to be. She had been walking north, and the northern boundary of Hilltop was a river, she had always been told. Which she had never even seen. Once again she urged her tired mare forward, aware now of how tired she was herself. Yet she did not wish to go home. Not now.

The upward slope was shallow, although now she was beneath the shadow of the great mountains which made such a backdrop to the plantation. The pounding of the drums seemed much closer. Then she was descending again, picking her way through the trees and avoiding low-hanging branches, and hearing the rustle of water. The river obviously rose in the mountains, and came bubbling down, making for the sea. At this point it still ran surprisingly hard, but was clearly deep in the centre. Too hard for alligators, certainly. The water was brown but clear; she could see the pebbles on the bottom.

She dismounted, let Candy roam to eat grass. Candy immediately went to the water's edge and began to drink, which made Meg realize how thirsty she was herself. She knelt and then lay on the soft grass, scooped water up in her hands, drank and drank and drank, and then lay still. She could lie here for ever. She could he here until they came for her. Because in time they would. There would be a great excitement if she did not return for supper. A white girl, alone somewhere in the Blue Mountains at night. Up there was where the sheep stealers, the snake worshippers, lived. And beyond the mountains was the Cockpit country, the home of the Maroons, those runaway slaves who had made good their escape and banded together to form a society which had defended itself so well it had at last been recognized by the British government. But recognized or not, to the planters the Maroons were still a pack of murdering runaways. And up in the mountains were the drums.

Well, let Oriole and Papa and the McAvoys get worried, and come looking for her. She need make no excuses to anyone. She was Margaret Hilton. She rose to her knees, and sweat trickled down her neck. If she were home, she would be sitting in her tub. That was the only thing she missed.

She stared at the clear brown water. It looked magnificently cool. What was to stop her bathing? Absolutely nothing. According to Oriole, there was nothing to stop her doing anything and everything she chose. And besides
...
for how many weeks, perhaps for how many months, had she dreamed of doing something to prove her omnipotence. Something personal. Something
...
but there was the realm of words which Oriole considered taboo.

Anyway, the decision was not irrevocable. It could be implemented in stages. For instance, she thought, no one could criticize her for wanting to wash her feet. She sat down, unlaced her boots, and pulled them off. She pulled her skirt to her thighs, rolled down her garters. But to wade, properly, would certainly soak her drawers. A moment later these joined the stockings on the bank, and she was stepping into the water, skirts held high, feeling the water caress her toes and then rise to her knees and above with an almost physical intensity, as if her legs were held in an embrace. She felt quite giddy with desire for that embrace, perhaps for any embrace, ran at the bank to stumble ashore, and before she could stop to think about it, fumbling at the buttons of her habit, throwing it on the grass, adding her petticoats, and standing there for a moment, feeling the evening breeze caressing her flesh, looking down at her body. A Hilton body. Long, strong legs, wide thighs, thick, curling pubic patch, a matching colour to her hair, flat belly, and then the large swelling breasts, strangely white against the tan of her neck and shoulders. Hilton women were beautiful; she grasped her hair, pulled some of the mahogany strands in front of her shoulders to trail across her breasts - and was suddenly embarrassed, and running back into the water with great splashes, crouching almost to her knees as soon as it reached her thighs to allow it to rise over her shoulders, feeling at once the most splendid coolness and relaxation combined with a ballooning awareness of wickedness, but which summoned her to be even more wicked. Still crouching beneath the surface, she crossed her arms on her breasts to finger her nipples, to allow her mind to soar into hitherto unthinkable realms, to feel that, when she was ready, she would go ashore and lie on the grass, naked, and
...
and to jerk her head in stark horror at the sound of a voice.

'White girl, you stupid or what?' it asked. 'You ain't know they got fish in that river?'

CHAPTER FOUR

THE COCKPIT

MEG sank lower, until only her head was visible, she hoped; she was terribly aware of how transparent was the water.

'Next thing you know,' said the voice, 'them fish going be nibble at your ass. You come out of there.'

She stared at the bank, her stomach and chest seeming to fill with the strangest mixture of anger and fear, but also with another feeling she could not identify. And now the unseen watcher left the shelter of the bushes, and came down to the water's edge, standing right beside her clothes.

And her immediate reactions were replaced with disappointment. The black man was even older than Percy, she estimated, and not anywhere so tall. A runt of a man, wearing shirt and trousers but with bare feet, coated in dust; his face was wizened, and seemed crushed; his hair was speckled with grey.

A black man watching her bathe. As if she had not known from the start that he was a black man ? And she was Meg Hilton.

'Get away,' she shouted. 'Clear off.'

'Now, why I am going to do that?'

'You
...'
She almost stood up, then hastily crouched again. 'Because I have told you to,' she shouted. 'Because you are trespassing, on my property. Get away. Or I'll have the law on you.'

'Watch out for that fish,' he said.

'Oh
...'
She stood up, turning round to gaze at the water, saw nothing. 'You
...
you wretch.'

'Chil’, you ain' no chil’
, and that is a fact. But the fish going come.'

She faced him again, still standing, water running down her shoulders and dripping from her nipples; the river settled about her navel. So what was she afraid of? He was certainly not a Hilltop man, therefore she need never see him again. Physical assault? She was at once taller and broader. The pure shame of it? But she was Margaret Hilton. Hiltons did what they liked, when they liked. If she was going to be ashamed of being seen then she could never ever go swimming here again.

'I will have the law on you,' she said, and slowly walked towards him, each leg in turn pushing the water aside, feeling it go down, past her thighs, knowing where his eyes were looking, although he did not appear to move his head, feeling it drip from her groin as the level sank to her knees.

'She is one sweet-looking chil' in truth,' the old man said. 'You ever see sweet-looking white girl like this, Cleave?'

Meg gasped, and turned, and stared at the second black man. Or perhaps boy would have been a more accurate description, she thought; he was at once tall and broad, and young. The muscles bulged in his arms and shoulders, for he wore only pants, and his chest seemed to seethe with hard ridges. Such of it as she could see, for he carried a kid
in
his arms. His face was also a series of ridges, high cheekbones, prominent chin and forehead, wide, flat mouth, big nose, a hard face seemingly made harder by the glowing ebony skin.

But at this moment it was relaxed, and smiling. And they had just stolen one of her father's goats. One of
her
goats. Therefore this was a man very like the one who had been shot; no doubt they had known each other. She felt like fainting. Oriole had said that was a good thing to do, in times of stress. But she couldn't possibly go unconscious before two black men.

'You is beautiful, Mistress Hilton,' the young man said.

'You
...
you know who I am?' she said. 'Go away, and
I will not tell the police. You may have the goat. Take it. I will say nothing.'

She paused, and found herself panting, and suddenly could hear the drums, louder than ever, as if she had not been listening to them all the time. A kid goat, and the drums. Oh, my God, she thought.

'We can' leave you here so,' said the old man. 'How we going say who is going to come along?'

'Who
...'
She gaped at them.

'And if you don't get dress, mistress,' said the boy, 'you going be catching cold.'

He stooped, holding the kid in one arm, picked
up
her petticoat, held it out. She hesitated, then snatched it from him, dropped it over her shoulders, settled it on her thighs. It was immediately wet from her skin.

'I got the thing for you,' said the old man, and dug into his satchel to produce a bottle. The cork popped, and he held it out. 'Drink, nun?'

She gazed at it in horror. Their water bottle. No doubt their lips had touched that neck. 'Oh, I
...
thanks all the same.'

'Drink,' commanded the boy, picking up her riding habit.

Meg snatched the bottle, held it to her lips, gulped. And gasped. It was rum, and seemed to explode in her throat and then all the way down to her belly.

'Now you going be all right,' the old man said.

She glanced at the boy, who was still holding her habit. She stretched out her hand, and he gave it to her. She stepped into it, pulled it up, settled it on her shoulders, fumbled for the buttons; she seemed quite unable to find them, and when she had found them she seemed unable to get them in the holes. She gave up when the top three were still loose, leaving her throat exposed.

'You shaking again,' the old man pointed out 'You had best take another drink.'

Once again she hesitated, but her body had suddenly filled with a most tremendous glow; her mind seemed ready to soar away to thoughts she had never dared accept or explore before. She took the bottle, held it to her lips, drank longer this time, waited for the next ripple of heat, and was not disappointed. She held out the bottle, and realized she was smiling at him. The sun had disappeared, and it was suddenly dark; the hum of insects rose to compete with the distant drums. 'You had best be off,' she said.

'Now, how you going back through that canefield in the dark ?' the old man said.

'You had best come with us,' the boy said. His teeth flashed in the gloom. 'Is your goat. You don't want to eat it?'

'Oh, but
...
they'll be looking for me.'

'And they going find you, come tomorrow. Or you going find them,' said the old man. The bottle was once again being extended. 'Like Cleave says, it is your goat, Mistress Hilton. You got for eat some of it.'

She found herself drinking without meaning to. The darkness seemed to fade, her eyes and her mind and her body seemed bright with alertness and knowledge. 'Why is he called Cleave?'

The two black men looked at each other, and then shrugged in turn. 'Is he mother will,' the old man said.

'But does it
mean
anything?'

'Why it going mean anything? I does be call Jack. That meaning something?'

'Well
...
it meant something once. John did, anyway.'

'But I is call Jack,' the old man pointed out gently. 'You coming, mistress? It ain' far, but it far enough.'

She bit her lip. How she wanted to go.

'You can ride your horse,' Cleave said. 'We going lead she.'

She looked down, at her bare feet, at her stockings and boots, lying in a heap. The last time she had been outdoors without boots on had been the night Oriole had arrived to change her entire life. She would leave them there.

But her drawers were there too. She could not possibly go with two black men when not wearing drawers. She could not possibly ride Candy without wearing drawers.

She watched Cleave give the goat to Jack, and walk into the bushes, to return a moment later leading the mare. Oh, how she wanted to ride Candy without wearing drawers.

Cleave stood in front of her, smiling at her. He cupped his hands to make a step, but she ignored him, put her left foot in the stirrup, and sat astride. Candy half turned her head at this continued unusual treatment, but Cleave was once again holding the bridle. 'There does be a ford
up
there,' he said. 'We got for cross the stream.'