What Happened In Paradise?

The Past: First Cry

Patricia leads Maxwell down the path to the plantation house. When they arrive in front of the house, instead of taking the steps, they walk to the side, burying themselves in shadows. Maxwell stumbles; before each step, he uses his hands to test the space before him. Despite the moon and lantern lights fluttering here and there around the house, his steps are unsure. He’s certain that any moment now he will trip over or step into something foul.

Patricia’s steps are sure, she’s a few spaces ahead of Maxwell and seems to have forgotten all about him because she doesn’t look back, not once. Not even after Maxwell trips and falls. Manure, wet earth, and the smell of trampled grass bite into his nose. Maxwell hops up, brushes himself off, and rushes behind Patricia. Hopping and leaping over nothing in particular, simply determined not to fall again.

They walk by the well, to the series of huts behind the plantation house. There are dogs barking and howling in the distance; the huts are mostly dark, revealing no signs of life. Patricia heads straight to one particular hut; the closer they get to it, the louder the screams grow. Screams which Maxwell is sure are triggering the dogs. Patricia barges in; Maxwell lingers at the door, uncertain that he can handle what’s behind the door.

“Lock the damn door, you let all the night in. You hear about baby cold?”

Maxwell rushes in; the door slams shut behind him. There are three women in the room; none of them are Patricia. One woman busies herself about the room, collecting rags, water…whatever orders are barked to her, she follows. The woman who barks the orders is sitting on a low stool. Before her, is the woman doing the screaming. She’s squatting and pushing, but the baby won’t come. The woman in front of her barks another order.

“Bee, come over here. You are going to have to hold her. This baby need to come out now or come morning neither baby nor mother going be here.”

Bee rushes over to the woman in labour; Maxwell tries to leave the room, but the door won’t open. He’s intruding. He tries the door again, but it doesn’t budge. He walks over to the women, trying to be of help somehow. He asks what he can do; he doesn’t get an answer. In this world, it seems he’s only a spectator. Patricia brought him here to learn, so he will learn. He moves closer to the women; he studies them, studies the scene. The midwife looks up at the laboring mother, at Maxwell…for a moment he swears she sees him. She’s not Patricia, but she has Patricia’s eyes. She looks down again, searches for progress.

“Why you take so long to come get me?”

“We was in the kitchen, Nana. ‘Stine said it was not time yet.”

“Well, it was time, and now Ernestine and the baby in trouble. Hold her tighter.”

Nana collects herbs from the board shelves in the room and drops them in a wooden mortar. She grinds the herbs and brings them back to the screaming mother-to-be.

“We will have to force this down,” Nana says.

“Will it…” Bee trails off.

Nana shakes her head. “The time for that pass.”

“So what is it?” Bee asks.

“You ask too much question. Just make sure she swallows.” Nana empties the contents of the mortar into the woman’s mouth when she opens it to scream.

Bee pinches Ernestine’s nose, forcing her to swallow. “You know Master does not want us doing any magic.”

“Master also do not want his property to die…unless it be by his hand.” Nana massages Ernestine’s belly and begins to whisper words in a strange tongue.

“I do not like this, Nana.” Bee is sweating as much as Ernestine now.

“Child, be quiet,” Nana says. “Why do you think Master always sends for me? I never lose a baby or mother on this plantation. He know exactly what I do…He pretend to object and I pretend not to practice.”

Nana continues to massage the round belly, continues to chant. Ernestine has stopped screaming, stopped pushing. She seems completely depleted of energy. Nana may lose a baby and mother after all. Nana doesn’t give up; she doesn’t break from chanting, carries on massaging the belly.

“She is coming,” Nana says.

“It is a girl.” Ernestine’s voice is low, her lips are dry; her face is pale under the lamplight.

“Yes,” Nana says, “a girl. I know you tired ‘Stine but I need just one more push.”

Ernestine struggles to keep her body from rocking to the side.

“Hold my hand ‘Stine,” Bee says. “Squeeze as hard as you want.”

Ernestine pushes; the baby falls into Nana’s eager hands. Nana flips the baby onto her belly, lets her rest on one arm, and uses the other to rub her back. A hush settles over the shack. They all seem to be waiting for the baby to make the next sound. Maxwell holds his breath. He wonders if the others are also finding it hard to breathe. He sighs heavily when the baby finally cries. The cry is weak, faint, but Nana says, “Good. That will do. Welcome.” She hands the baby to Ernestine and adds, “I know you are tired ‘Stine, but she needs your warmth and she needs to feed.”

“What are you going to name her,” Bee asks.

“Suzanna,” Ernestine says.

Bee scrunches up her face. “Well, the name will certainly match.”

“Match what?” asks Ernestine, her voice still weak.

“This is another yellow child,” Bee says. “That make two for you and none for the mistress. She will not be happy about this.”

“Let the woman rest.” Nana shoos Bee away and helps Ernestine into a more comfortable position, adjusting the structure so that Ernestine can lay back.

“This one belong to Cudjoe,” Ernestine responds, despite Nana’s efforts to keep her quiet and comfortable. “And it is a girl. He will be happy.”

Bee takes the baby’s hand in hers. “Look at the knuckle ‘Stine.” Bee examines the baby’s face and ear. “And look at the top of her ears. This is a white man’s child.”

“She will get darker,” Ernestine insists.

“ The only darker she will get is if the Mistress decide to tar her.” Bee leaves the baby and mother, starts busying herself about the room, but she isn’t done talking. How often you get to be with Cudjoe? You know very well this is the Master’s child. Your second…and the wife still cannot get pregnant…not even once.”

“Quiet, Bee.”

“Nana, you know this will cause problem in the house.”

“If it come to it,” says Nana, “I will keep the child. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Life here never that easy,” Bee says

“It is not my fault. None of this my fault.” Ernestine is frantic, weeping. “I should have come to you sooner, Nana.”

“To get rid of it?” Nana asks. “Because magic could not change who the father.”

“It is not my fault,” Ernestine repeats. “It is not my fault the Mistress is barren.”

“Hmmm. ‘Stine, feed the child. Do not worry about that now. We will deal with what happen when it happen.” Nana returns the mortar and pestle to a shelf.

“What…” Ernestine sits up; the baby almost spills from her arms. “What if you help the Mistress, Nana?” Ernestine steadies the baby, secures her head, settles herself.

Nana shakes her head. “The mistress do not pretend. She hate our magic. She would prefer to be barren than follow us to the hell she condemned us to.”

***

Nana and Bee clean baby, mother, and shack; the blood and mess of the delivery is gone, but the smells linger, clinging to the air, bodies, and the wooden beams, staining the room with the memory of the near-fatal labour.

“I will get Cudjoe,” Nana says, “He will want to know that you and the baby alright.”

Ernestine looks away.

Bee looks from Nana to Ernestine then back to Nana. “We should let them rest. We do not need to wake Cudjoe.”

“Wake him?” Nana scoffs. “It almost time for the fields. He will need to be awake soon or the whip will wake him.” Nana walks to the door.

“Nana, you know he do not need to come,” Bee calls to her back.

“Hush.” Nana pushes the door open. “The man needs to come see about him wife and child.” Nana steps out, leaving the door open behind her. Apparently, she has forgotten about baby cold. Maxwell has the urge to follow her, so he does. The moment he steps out of the hut, the door shuts behind him.

Nana has disappeared into the shadows between two of the shacks surrounding the birthing house; Maxwell listens for her footsteps, follows them. The sky overhead is dark; the moon is gone - no more blues hues. A muddy orange tinge can be seen hovering about the horizon; the sun isn’t yet visible. The door of a shack near Maxwell opens; the doors to all the shacks start to open. Men and women emerge from behind creaking doors.

Maxwell dodges and sidesteps widebodies as he tries to separate the sound of Nana’s footsteps from the others. He folds upon himself, awaiting a slap or a punch when he walks into the broad back of the man standing in front of Nana. This world isn’t his. The man can’t hurt Maxwell because he can’t see or feel Maxwell.

“It is a girl,” Nana says.

The man’s shoulders drop. “Is she…?”

“It is too soon to tell, Cudj.”

“Do not lie to me, Nana. It never too soon for you to tell.”

Nana’s eyes fall to Cudjoe’s bare feet. She sighs. “No, Cudj. But the woman is yours and the baby will have to be.”

“I have to go to the fields.”

“Just come with me. Look in on them. They almost never make it. It will lift them spirits to see you.”

“Thanks for saving them, but I have to go to the fields.” Cudjoe turns to leave; Maxwell, forgetting that he’s an invisible visitor, tries to hurry out of the way. He stumbles backward, falls against the shack; he feels nothing.

Nana reaches for Cudjoe’s hand, closes the distance between them again. “Look at it this way. Maybe this will give the child some security. Maybe she can grow in the safety of the house…Like…like her brother.”

“She no safer in there than out here.”

“The Master has no heirs.”

“So what, Nana? Is Master going give the boy the plantation? The boy not mine, but he still one of us.”

“Do not insult me. I know where I am and who we are…to them.”

Cudjoe lowers his eyes. “It too much, Nana. We have nothing. There is nothing to this life. You claim a woman as wife and you have to do that in secret. And after you have claimed the woman, bond with the fruit of her womb, you learn that the child is not yours.” Cudjoe pulls his hand away. “I going be in the fields.”

“What should I tell Ernestine?” Nana asks Cudjoe's back.

“Whatever you have to.”

Nana stands by Cudjoe’s shack, watching the thick, dark shoulders grow smaller and smaller; Maxwell watches too.

“It will get better,” Nana shouts after Cudjoe. Cudjoe raises his right hand in the air as an acknowledgment, though he doesn’t look back. Nana turns to leave; Maxwell wants to follow her; his legs carry him to the cane piece and the spot where Cudjoe has fallen to his knees, weeping and chanting, chanting and weeping. The cane stalks around him turn from green to brown to black.

The men and women, who a moment ago were slinging cutlasses into cane stalks, rush over to Cudjoe and try to get his attention.

“What you doing Cudj?”

“You going to get us all whipped.”

“Or killed.”

Cudjoe continues to chant and weep, weep and chant.

Another man struts over on a horse. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Busha. Cudjoe not himself this morning.”

“Is that so? And the rest of you? Not feeling yourself? Why aren’t you working?”

“Sorry. Sorry, Busha.” The man who responds grabs up his cutlass and drives it into one of the black stalks. He glances at the still chanting Cudjoe before striking down another cane stalk.

“Wait. What’s happened to the cane?”

“I…I do not know, Busha. Probably something get into it.”

“The cane was fine. I didn’t see any indication of pests.” The man on the horse dismounts. “Sick cane and lazy slaves. That’s what I have to deal with.” He walks over to the fallen black stalks and takes one in hand. He examines it, tries to find the light from the rising sun. He smells it. “This isn’t a pest. It smells parched.” He turns to Cudjoe. Takes the whip from his waist and lashes it across Cudjoe’s back. “Boy! Get up.”

The other slaves retreat from the whip, busy themselves falling more of the black stalks.

“Hey, you.” Busha points to the slave who has been supplying him with information. “What is he saying?”

“I…I do not know, Busha.”

Busha lashes him as well.

“I speak truth, Busha. I do not know the old tongue.”

“Useless. All of you.” Busha lashes the slave for his ignorance, then turns to Cudjoe; he whips him: one, two, three, four, five times. Cudjoe continues to chant, but he no longer weeps. More cane blackens.

“Stop that!” Busha demands.

Cudjoe doesn’t stop; the blackness spreads.

“I’m warning you, boy.”

Cudjoe doesn’t heed the warning.

Busha swings the whip around, wraps it around Cudjoe’s neck. Cudjoe coughs, mumbles his chants. Busha squeezes tighter. Cudjoe mutters. Tighter. Cudjoe’s chant is a whisper. Tighter. Cudjoe’s mouth moves; no sound escapes, still the blackness spreads. Busha pulls the whip tighter and tighter until Cudjoe lies motionless in the centre of the blackened cane.

“Great. Now I have to explain this s**t to Master Palmer.” Busha wraps up his whip and fixes it to his waist. “You and you, clear the field.”

Cudjoe is carried from the field to a rudimentary cemetery behind the shacks. He is left there so that the others can return to the field and falls the cane that hasn’t been turned black.

***

A man from the field brings the news to Nana. Nana calls Bee outside and shares the truth of Cudjoe’s demise; the truth is kept from Ernestine. Bee is advised to keep her lips sealed until mother and daughter are strong enough to leave the birthing house. Nana’s efforts turn out to be for nought when a young rough from the field enters the birthing house.

“You believe that i***t Cudjoe really use magic in the field today?” Her question isn’t posed to anyone in particular. The young woman is fussing over the baby, completely oblivious to Nana trying to secure attention. She must also be oblivious to the fact that Ernestine and Cudjoe shared some form of relationship. Maxwell doubts this would be the young woman’s way of presenting the information if she knew what Cujoe meant to Ernestine.

Nana clears her throat. “Eve…”

“Yes,” Eve responds. “He destroy a good portion of the field. Turn it well black. Everybody wondering what going to the rest of us since Cudjoe cannot get whip for this.”

Nana clears her throat again. “Eve! I think it is time for you to leave.”

“Why?” Ernestine asks. “I already know Cudjoe dead.”

Eve looks from Nana to Ernestine, finally reading the room. “Oh.” She backs away from the baby.

“You do not need to protect me. The only thing any of us sure of, is death. Death after a miserable life. Maybe death should come sooner for all of us…” Ernestine turns her back to everyone in the room. “. . .put an end to this miserable existence.”