What Happened In Paradise?

The Past: Repair It

Later in the night, the door to the birthing house bursts open.

“What the? Lock the door idiot.” Nana is fiddling with jars on a shelf; she turns to face the intruder. “Oh. It is you.”

The man they call Busha is at the door with a lantern raised at his eye level. “You…I need you in the field.” He points to Nana. Though he could only request Nana, Bee has been popping in and out of the plantation house. She hasn’t been back, so she must have retired for the night. Ernestine and the baby are asleep.

“You letting all of the night in, Busha,” Nana says, her words slower; her tone hasn’t changed. She does a poor job of concealing her disdain. “You going to sick Master Palmer property. Remember you already short him a body.”

Busha glares at Nana, kicks the door shut with his heel. The baby stirs, cries. Her cries wake Ernestine who shoves a full breast into her mouth.

Busha settles his lantern on a shelf in the room. “The three of you are quite comfortable holed up in here. It’s about time you return to the house.” Busha points to Ernestine.

“House affairs are not your headache…Busha.”

“You’re all my damn headache. The lot of you. And you.” He shifts his body, faces Nana head-on. “Don’t think I didn’t miss you in the fields today.”

“I will make up my numbers when I return,” Nana responds.

“You don’t get to decide-”

“Actually, Busha, Master Palmer is the one who decided. I am to be in this room with Ernestine and the baby until they are both in the clear.”

“Liar. I have no knowledge of this,” Busha says.

“You are welcome to ask, Master Palmer,” Nana says. “Be sure to tell him about the loss of Cudjoe’s labour as well.”

Busha steps towards Nana; her white-wrapped head is up to his chin. Busha breathes his rage down on her. “You fancy yourself a thinker, don’t you? You think you’re of some great value. Think you are priceless. Untouchable.”

“Are you here for a reason, Busha?” Nana stands her ground; she stares into Busha’s open shirt at the smattering of hair on his chest.

Busha’s chest rises and falls; his fists are clenched tightly at his side. Maxwell moves closer to the exchange; he expects Busha to reach for his whip. Maxwell has seen the damage that the wisp of black leather can do, so he reaches for it. His hand passes over it, reminding him he’s nothing. He has no power to stop this beating. Like the men and women who stood and watched as Cudjoe was strangled to death, he’s helpless.

Busha grinds his teeth. “I need you in the field,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Come on, Busha. Even we get to sleep.”

Busha slowly releases the tension in his jaw, unclenches his fist. “You need to undo whatever Cudjoe has done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Enough, Mary. You know what he’s done. I’m sure that whatever he knew, he learnt it from you.”

Nana smiles smugly. “What is it you think I know, Busha?”

Busha sighs. “You know this is just as bad for you lot as it is for me. Master Palmer will not take kindly to the use of spells and charms and strange enchantments on his plantation.”

Nana studies Busha’s face.

“I wonder how many hidings it will take to strike your continent out of you?”

Nana squares her shoulders.

“You are too old to bend, but what about the others, Nana? Whatever you’re capable of, I’m sure you can’t shield all of them.”

Nana chews the inside of her cheeks. “I will be back, Ernestine.” She pushes past Busha and exits the birthing house; Maxwell follows. Busha exits and leaves the door to the birthing house open. He and the light of the lantern follow down the path away from the house. Nana mumbles a curse, other words Maxwell doesn’t understand. The door slams shut.

Nana meanders around cane stalks to the spot where Cudjoe had lain dead; Maxwell and Busha follow her steps. When Nana reaches the spot, she draws the outline of a circle with her feet, then falls to her knees. She repeats a string of strange words; it’s not long before the colour of the stalks changes under the moonlight. Busha raises his lantern over his head, examining the cane. Nana is still on her knees, panting. Busha walks over to her, his free hand at his waist, on the handle of his whip.

“Do. Not. Even. Try. It,” Nana huffs out. “It take a lot of energy to revive dead things. But I have enough reserves to carry you to the other side with me.”

Busha kicks the dried remains of grass and discarded cane in Nana’s direction, then leaves her there, still panting.