Jumby Bay
Chapter 1
June 1789, Wadadli Island off the NE coast of Antigua
Gull.
Any of numerous long-winged, web-toed aquatic birds of the family Laridae, having
usually white plumage with a gray back and wings.
It was planting season. The air was thick with fragrant smoke from burning piles of wood, weeds and bushes. The village was small with huts made of mud and sticks. The villagers farm a small plot assigned to them by the estate master. Some crops are grown to live on and others to trade. They would nourish the soil with the scattered ashes from the bonfires. A few managed small flocks of sheep. Bleating wild goats were grazing, hungry for the days nourishment.
A gull squawked loudly fighting for a small piece of fish. Big Sam calls out "eeeeee-yaaaakkk." Sam could mimic the sounds of birds singing delicately poised in the branches of the trees, the bananaquit and the lesser Antillean bullfinch or even the rare parrots in the evergreen forests of cedar and whitewood. He could easily imitate the gulls, pelicans, cranes, herons and frigate birds. He was an expert at throwing his voice, conjuring up the illusion that made his voice sound like it was coming from somewhere other than its source. He used it to amuse himself and toy with his friends. An elder caught him once when he was a boy and told him that it was the work of evil spirits. He commanded him to keep it secret. The elder was a priest. He knew that he could use Sam’s talent for his own benefit. He had a plan. He told Sam he could help him to ward off the evil ones if he used his skill at precisely the right moment during the ceremonies. By now Big Sam was so proficient in being able to create pictures in the minds of others by using his voice that the priest gained great power and respect by making it seem that the spirits spoke to him alone. Many stories had been told this way, through the priest and the ventriloquist. Sam had a knack for playing tricks with his voice. This time he may have gone too far. The priest blamed Big Sam for offending the spirits. Sam knew that this meant he was in big trouble. He meant no harm, but the priest had accused him of frightening his people with false spirits.
The hot skies were broken by sultry breezes. During the hot season, most heavy work was impossible. Thunder rumbled through the night. Lightning filled the sky. It was low lightning, the kind that seemed it was right outside your door. Strangely, there was no rainfall. There had been no rain for a while, which was a bad omen. Fragrant blossoms and the pungent smell of smoke filled the night air. It was just as well Sam wasn’t tired because he couldn’t sleep anyway lying under his goatskin coverlet wondering what the punishment would be. He was impatient. Then he heard drumbeats and the chants of a gathering crowd. The slow movements became faster and faster. They were dancing and shouting, arms, hands and legs moving in unison. He thought it was unusual since everyone had worked a long, hard, hot day. The yelling and jumping shook him. He jumped out of his resting place, picked up his hoe and ran out of the hut. As the lead dancer and the drummers played, he walked among them. Soon he was before all the assembled people in the village.
The old-time slaves must have done all sorts of incantations to ward off the evil ones. The ceremony this time is to rid them of the trouble maker, the practical joker who had crossed the line one time too many. Big Sam is held captive by his own people, his hands bound with chains to a stake at the edge of the clearing.
Later that night, Big Sam escapes by working his way out of his restraints through sheer brute strength, The others were by the bonfire or on the beach getting drunk on croton. Big Sam runs rapidly down the beach through the sand, his lungs burning. Someone wakes up, notices he's gone and beats a drum to sound an alarm.
The shouts of his pursuers echo through the groves and hollows. The air smells fresh and spicy, a slight breeze carried an herbal scent. The bird sounds were everywhere. They stop singing as he passes, then start up again, or fly off and start singing in the distance. He could hear no other sounds but the steady pounding of his bare feet in the sands along the beach, and his breathing. He nearly stumbles over some rocks or roots. He looks like a flickering phantom in the moonlight. He leaps up a hill and floats down on the other side. Then he comes to a spot where the trail forks off. He follows the trail over the ridge along a slope by the sugar mill. The grass here was cut short by grazing sheep. He slows down, barely jogging now as his muscles ache. He stops in a clearing, looking desperately for a place to hide. He stands there still breathing heavily. All around him the bougainvillea and hibiscus were blooming, but he doesn’t have time to savor the fragrance. His torso, arms and legs are laced with bright sweat. At last he reaches the Estate House. Slowly he approaches the walls, looking for an opening. He thinks that it would be a safe place to hide because he knows the others won’t dare to enter. He finds a pantry under the stairs between the kitchen and the main dining room where he waits to escape the island as a stowaway on the next morning’s ferry. His breathing slows as he comforts himself with the safety of his hiding place and the thought that he can make it to his cousin’s place in Liberta on the main island where the liberated could grow flowers and cultivate pretty gardens. Little does he know that he will never make it out of the pantry.
© Copyright 1999 by Patrick M. Finelli. All rights reserved. These pages are protected by United States and international copyright laws. Copying or distribution by any means is strictly prohibited.