House of Rougeaux(15)

Abeje procured a measure of rum for her from Floria, to dull the woman’s pain while she set the bone. But she had little for her own pain, for the waste of young life in a man such as Luc, whom she was certain was now dead, except to think that he had followed the call of his heart. Perhaps that was enough.



* * *



Late in the year after the Rebellion there was an outbreak of fever in the parish. A rider came one day to the estate with a paper for Monsieur, asking him to give the bondswoman Marie permission to go with him to aid the sick at Mont Belcourt, a sugar estate to the east, and Lise came down to the Quarters with a pass for Abeje.

Abeje studied the fragment of paper marked with looping black lines. She had seen writing but a few times before. Letters were known to possess power, which was why they were forbidden to the bondspeople.

“A fortnight,” said Lise, “he says not a day longer.”

Abeje went with the rider to the Quarters to prepare a bundle. He was a young man. Not so unlike Luc, thought she. Tears sprang to her eyes for a moment, but she hastened them away.

“Thank you for coming along, Mémé,” said the young man, “the people will be happy to see you.”

They brought the horse to be watered at the barn, and there Abeje was able to speak to her brother.

It was night when they arrived. Mont Belcourt sugar estate was large, with some eighty or ninety bondsmen. Already a dozen had died and some thirty lay crowded in the Sick House. Two women showed Abeje to a hut where she could lay down her things and sleep for a few hours. In the morning she spent some moments alone, asking the plant spirits to guide her hands. Next she undid her bundle, as she had a great many smaller bundles of dried plants inside. She opened several of the bundles and made a strong tea to bring to the Sick House. The fourth bundle she opened was larger than the others, and full of an aromatic dried leaf. Having unwrapped the cloth she saw another crumpled among the leaves. Something placed there long before, and forgotten. She smoothed it out gently.

The rag doll.

The one Leola had made for her brother to take to his daughter. Years ago she put it with these leaves to keep moths away. Abeje picked it up gingerly, held it to her cheek. She prayed that this was not a sign, there in that place amid so much grief and death and danger, of something connected to Adunbi’s lost child. She set the doll down, removed a quantity of the dried herb, and then wrapped the doll back up in the cloth.

A clear stream ran through Mont Belcourt, and there was a small pool near the Quarters where the people drew water and did their washing. After the first day in the Sick House, at twilight, Abeje went to the stream and immersed herself in the pool, clothing and all. She asked the water to carry away all sickness and fear and sorrow, and leave her clean and refreshed. When she returned to the Quarters the women found a dry dress for her and a shawl, and set her before a fire to rest with a dish of salt-fish and yams. The people came to greet her, pronounce their names and squeeze her hand. All the day there were new people, names and faces, yet she felt they were known to her. The first time she had travelled to another place for healing, all the new faces dazzled her eyes. But it was not so now.

Abeje finished eating and a woman took the dish away. A young girl about ten years old came forth with a steaming cup that smelled of scorched maize meal and molasses. The firelight fell upon her face and Abeje’s eyes played tricks.

Olivie.

She blinked and shook her head, but the girl was still there.

Olivie?

But not only Olivie. She saw her brother as a boy.

“Who are you, child?” she asked, scarcely able to breathe.

A woman came forward. “She is called Hetty, Mémé.”

Abeje looked at the girl, tilting her head toward the woman. “Your mother?”

“Oui, Mémé.”

She looked back to the woman, trembling. “And... you?”

“I am Phoebe, Mémé,” said the woman.

“An Irishman brought you this child,” whispered Abeje.

“Oui.”

Abeje fell forward to her knees.

“Bless this day!” she cried, clutching at her heart. “Oh, bless this day!”

The people gathered around, murmuring.

When Abeje spoke again she took Phoebe’s and Hetty’s hands in hers. The girl looked at her with big, clear eyes.

“Your father,” said Abeje, “is my own brother. I am your Tata.” The girl’s eyes flew wide open and she looked up at Phoebe, who drew her arm around her and pulled her close.

“Holy One!” whispered Phoebe. Then she said, “The child knows I am her foster mother. My own baby did not live long.” She brought a knuckle to her lips, then lowered it again and looked to Abeje. “Hetty is my joy!”

The two women gazed upon each other’s faces, and then Abeje turned her attention to the child, her niece. Abeje told her the names of her parents, and how she came to be with Phoebe. She told the child her own name, given by her parents, in Iya’s language, her grandmother’s language, and what it meant. They remained there talking together until very late indeed.

The next night Abeje asked Phoebe and the child to sit with her by the fire. Phoebe nodded to the child, reminding her of some instruction.

“May I bring you tea, Mémé?” said the child.

“You must call me Tata, and I will call you your father’s name for you. Alright?”