Dust and Clay
A JAMAICAN STORYBy CALINE DEROTA BOURNE-CARTERAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 CALINE DEROTA BOURNE-CARTER
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-3870-8Chapter One
Longwood
The invasion of Longwood by explorers armed with muskets, land claims, and human properties has long been forgotten. Oblivious are the descendants of colorful birds who now sing sweetly in the treetops and the offspring of the mongoose who amble gingerly through Spanish needles, Guinea hen weeds, Sarah bush, and other tall grasses, waiting to catch a careless creature or two. Longwood, with its varying meadows, hills, valleys, tall trees, and yams, has been inherited by those who have lasted the longest and those who are unaware of the past.
The little district is tucked away comfortably in the hills of central Jamaica, protected by fragments of broken walls left from Georgian mansions that once stood on the summits. Their foundations lie stark naked, powerless, and topless, staring upward into the sky. They are shattered mementos of the past, and no earthly powers can change what time has done or revive and bring them back. The conquerors have all been defeated by the wrath of sufferings and the economy of patience, leaving their treasures behind in the hands of their successors.
A single winding road, carved out by ancient tools, remains functional and seems to be as it was on the day of its inception. It is dusty and damaged in many parts; sprinkled here and there with dabs of limestone. It is still the road by which the young depart to seek their future and the one on which those in possession of sentiments and curiosity return.
My hand grew weary of drawing, as my mind cluttered itself with self-pitying thoughts about the imminent death of my mother. I put the sketch pad away and searched into the large cotton candy balls of clouds outside of my window, which stood like pillars in the distance. Roddy slept as our plane charted its course above the earth, away from turbulence caused by pressure and wind.
In a childish way, my eyes searched the clouds to find images from the past, like I did when I was seven. Lying flat on my back on the grass of our little common in Longwood, with my hands crossed behind my head, underneath what I remembered to be a periwinkle blue sky, I watched a few funny-shaped clouds as they rolled by. I would get dizzy as my vision would be blinded over and over by the jostle between the sun, the clouds, and the sky for fame, and all seemed as though in an eclipse.
My reflections moved smoothly down the familiar road on a Friday before noon, a day when no winds disturbed the dust that lived above the clay. Only the haunting sounds of insects sheltering under leaves were heard; almost every other living thing was taking shelter. The sun, standing in the middle of the sky, was hampering my vision, as tiny starlets shaped like diamond refractors swarmed about my eyes, each changing form as the colors of light assorted with dust and the sweat pooled above my gaze.
The colors were dizzying and like mirages from a checkerboard of rainbows. They seemed to come to life and die as the light altered each blink to get rid of the puddle of moisture.
From the pipe house to my gate is a quarter mile of road; it isn't good road. The tiny amount spent by the local government every few years to cover up the holes and fractures with sprinkles of limestone, never resolves anything or provides a defense against the heavy rain when it passes through the district. After every shower, the temporary patches would be washed away, leaving hard slippery surfaces alternating between rocks and gaps.
My head was giddy and my stomach ached and murmured simultaneously as I tried to concentrate on my steps with a pan of water on my head. The road was by no means easy to negotiate; any misstep and I could tilt the pan from my head and lose the precious liquid or land in a hole, twisting my ankle.
I was hungry, and I didn't know why. I had eaten two fried jonnie cakes and a little callaloo for breakfast, washing it down with a mug of cerasee tea, and that should have held me till lunch.
Mama said that the cerasee tea would relieve some of the cramps I was having due to my "monthly." But with the hot sun and the heavy pan on my head, the bleeding and cramps became more intense and difficult to get rid of. It wouldn't be the first time that I wished that I could get rid of the "curse" that governed women's body. And just then Mama's reminder rang in my ears: "Is all part an' parcel of bein' a woman; you have to accep' it."
It was my fourth trip to the pipe house that day. Everybody hauled water to drink, wash clothes, clean floors, and feed their animals, especially in the dry seasons, for there were never enough containers to catch rain water. There were few ways for us to get water: from the pipe house or Bamboo Pond or from the barrels and two steel drums set at the side of our house. We paid for the water from the pipe house and drew the dirty water freely from Bamboo Pond.
Papa wouldn't let us drink the water that we hauled from either of those places, so he had set up the barrels around the house to catch rain water that we could use for drinking and cooking food.
Hardly anyone would have chosen the pipe house water over their own water, secured in a concrete tank, but very few had the means to build one. Rumors circulated frequently that the water from the pipe house, which came from the region's reservoir, was contaminated. It was said that carcasses of animals, birds, and even humans lay wasting in the reservoir for days before discovery.
I was glad when I got to our house and lay down my burden, which had only been cushioned by a small pillow made from an old dress.
"Mama, I'm back! Anything left in the Dutch pot?" I called to tell her of my arrival.
"Go check; a' never have time to notice," she answered.
I found another jonnie cake in the bottom of the pot and couldn't help but think it was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted. Mama was already deep into her ironing and didn't want any help, so I gathered up the things I needed to clean the floors and set out to get it done.
I took a quick look through the front window, out on the dusty road that I had just come from. A single traveler, with a burlap bag tossed over his shoulder, moseyed on by. I could tell that he was exhausted due to the slowness of his steps. I watched him as he hobbled to the top of Cotton Tree Hill and stopped to rest on the huge roots beneath the silk cotton tree; then I hurried back to my chores.
A few minutes into the task and at exactly twelve o'clock two sounds disrupted the silence. The first was a truck horn passing through the square, and the other was a braying donkey climbing the backside of Cotton Tree Hill. Neither sound was unfamiliar, for the truck that sold bread passed by every Friday on its way to Mile Gully. And each Friday the driver made the same sound with his horn, broadcasting his arrival to anyone who had money to buy hard-dough and "mongoose" bread. People would send their children to the stop, and the driver, who always seemed in a hurry, would serve any number of folks who were gathered in a space of eight minutes before locking his doors and taking off for the next stop by ten past twelve.
When we needed bread, I would leave our house by eleven thirty to ensure that I arrive at the square, which was two miles away, on time. The sound of the horn could be heard in every corner of the district and was...
