business wid dem?”
The woman paused, looked upon her baby and replied, “him need feeding. Please, Misser. Cyan me come inside fe ah liccle while an’feed me pickney? Before me set off again? Me foot well tired an’ me head wet up.”
Seeing the young woman’s distress, Isaac helped her with her bags and led her inside. He ushered her into the tiny room where he received guests and performed his counselling duties for his parishioners. Sparely decorated, it only had three wooden chairs set around an old desk with a hand-carved fruit-bowl upon it next to a well-thumbed Bible; a collection basket, full of coins, was resting on a small table in a corner. The Bible lay open at the book of Psalms; certain passages were highlighted with coloured pencils. The young woman noticed a white-painted, wooden cross that was nailed to the wall. A portrait of what the young girl guessed was a bishop or a high ranking official of the catholic church hung from, and dominated, another wall. It was signed in black with a Latin signature.
“Jacob! Jacob!” Isaac called.
Footsteps could be heard from the back of the house. Seconds later, Jacob, now a handsome young man of nineteen with a cheerful expression, appeared in the room. Dripping wet, he was wearing nothing on his feet and his clothes, hands and face were smudged with mud. Isaac glared at him. “Wha’ happen to yuh, Jacob? Yuh been bathing inna de wet soil?”
“Nuh, Papa. De gate ’pon de pig pen bruk an’ one ah de hog dem escape. Me affe chase after it an’ I did ah slip an’ slide. Dem hog really rapid an’ swift when dey waan to be. Nuh boder yaself, Papa, I never come inna de house wid me dutty shoe dem. I know Mama woulda curse me ’til nex’ year after she strike me wid de Dutchpot!”
A faint hint of a smile caressed the young woman’s eyes as Isaac shook his head in embarrassment. “Jacob, cyan yuh mek dis good lady ah mug ah coffee an’ mek ah liccle somet’ing fe de young chile. Mebbe yuh cyan mek some cornmeal porridge. If der is any t’ing lef’ inna de cooking pot, warm it up an’ bring it come. Don’t wake ya mama – she well tired from going ah river.”
“Yes, Papa. Me soon come.”
Jacob closed the door. Isaac turned his attention to the youngwoman, steepling his hands together. “Now, me chile. Mebbe yuh cyan tell me ya name?”
“Carmesha.”
“Now, Carmesha. It very late fe travelling ’pon dis hour an’ if yuh never did ah see me an’ try to mek ya own way to Claremont, if God don’t guide yuh, den yuh woulda surely find yaself los’. I see inna ya tears dat ya pickney is not ya only burden yuh ah carry. So why yuh don’t tell me wha’ is bodering yuh an’ I will try to help. I is ah mon ah God an’ good people come to me to unburden der worries.”
“Yuh know David Rodney well?”
“Yes, of course me know David Rodney. Amy’s son. Ah good bwai from ah saintly mudder. Him usually come home fe harvest an’ Easter but I don’t see him dis year or de las’. Him family well looking forward to see him come October.”
Dropping her head, Carmesha cried new tears. She embraced her baby close to her chest. “David dead,” she muttered, barely forcing the words out. “An’ de pickney me ah carry ah him son. Daniel is eight mont’s old.”
Isaac opened his mouth but no words came out. He could only visualise Amy, shuddering at the pain she would surely feel. He stood up, turning his back on Carmesha, his eyes locked on the cross. He wished that he could be the one, not Joseph, to comfort Amy in her dark hour of loss. Why did she ever take up wid black-heart Joseph? Isaac wondered. Becah I’m sure dat God has cursed Moonshine and his seed. Ungodly dat mon ungodly! “How? How did dis grievous t’ing happen?” Isaac finally asked.
“Police ah Spanish Town aress’ David an’ batter him ’til him dead,” Carmesha replied automatically, her voice tinged with great bitterness.
“But David never ah
The woman paused, looked upon her baby and replied, “him need feeding. Please, Misser. Cyan me come inside fe ah liccle while an’feed me pickney? Before me set off again? Me foot well tired an’ me head wet up.”
Seeing the young woman’s distress, Isaac helped her with her bags and led her inside. He ushered her into the tiny room where he received guests and performed his counselling duties for his parishioners. Sparely decorated, it only had three wooden chairs set around an old desk with a hand-carved fruit-bowl upon it next to a well-thumbed Bible; a collection basket, full of coins, was resting on a small table in a corner. The Bible lay open at the book of Psalms; certain passages were highlighted with coloured pencils. The young woman noticed a white-painted, wooden cross that was nailed to the wall. A portrait of what the young girl guessed was a bishop or a high ranking official of the catholic church hung from, and dominated, another wall. It was signed in black with a Latin signature.
“Jacob! Jacob!” Isaac called.
Footsteps could be heard from the back of the house. Seconds later, Jacob, now a handsome young man of nineteen with a cheerful expression, appeared in the room. Dripping wet, he was wearing nothing on his feet and his clothes, hands and face were smudged with mud. Isaac glared at him. “Wha’ happen to yuh, Jacob? Yuh been bathing inna de wet soil?”
“Nuh, Papa. De gate ’pon de pig pen bruk an’ one ah de hog dem escape. Me affe chase after it an’ I did ah slip an’ slide. Dem hog really rapid an’ swift when dey waan to be. Nuh boder yaself, Papa, I never come inna de house wid me dutty shoe dem. I know Mama woulda curse me ’til nex’ year after she strike me wid de Dutchpot!”
A faint hint of a smile caressed the young woman’s eyes as Isaac shook his head in embarrassment. “Jacob, cyan yuh mek dis good lady ah mug ah coffee an’ mek ah liccle somet’ing fe de young chile. Mebbe yuh cyan mek some cornmeal porridge. If der is any t’ing lef’ inna de cooking pot, warm it up an’ bring it come. Don’t wake ya mama – she well tired from going ah river.”
“Yes, Papa. Me soon come.”
Jacob closed the door. Isaac turned his attention to the youngwoman, steepling his hands together. “Now, me chile. Mebbe yuh cyan tell me ya name?”
“Carmesha.”
“Now, Carmesha. It very late fe travelling ’pon dis hour an’ if yuh never did ah see me an’ try to mek ya own way to Claremont, if God don’t guide yuh, den yuh woulda surely find yaself los’. I see inna ya tears dat ya pickney is not ya only burden yuh ah carry. So why yuh don’t tell me wha’ is bodering yuh an’ I will try to help. I is ah mon ah God an’ good people come to me to unburden der worries.”
“Yuh know David Rodney well?”
“Yes, of course me know David Rodney. Amy’s son. Ah good bwai from ah saintly mudder. Him usually come home fe harvest an’ Easter but I don’t see him dis year or de las’. Him family well looking forward to see him come October.”
Dropping her head, Carmesha cried new tears. She embraced her baby close to her chest. “David dead,” she muttered, barely forcing the words out. “An’ de pickney me ah carry ah him son. Daniel is eight mont’s old.”
Isaac opened his mouth but no words came out. He could only visualise Amy, shuddering at the pain she would surely feel. He stood up, turning his back on Carmesha, his eyes locked on the cross. He wished that he could be the one, not Joseph, to comfort Amy in her dark hour of loss. Why did she ever take up wid black-heart Joseph? Isaac wondered. Becah I’m sure dat God has cursed Moonshine and his seed. Ungodly dat mon ungodly! “How? How did dis grievous t’ing happen?” Isaac finally asked.
“Police ah Spanish Town aress’ David an’ batter him ’til him dead,” Carmesha replied automatically, her voice tinged with great bitterness.
“But David never ah
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