“Remember.”
Mimba made a quick gesture. “This is too important.” And to the child, “Do you remember your Papa looking into the glass to talk to spirits?”
“No,” Aurélie said anxiously.
“You are not at fault if you do not remember. You were only two when he died,
hélas!
So calm yourself. Look. Listen. Tell me when to cease moving the mirror.” Mimba was tipping a spotted hand mirror, a heavy thing chased with gaudy baroque gilding. She angled it slowly, and if I were breathing, I would have held my breath the same way Aurélie did as she frowned intently into the age-dimmed reflective surface.
Impatiently I waited as an older woman laid out the things Anne had asked for. Through the open window came the urgent tootling of the Abeng, and again everyone stilled. Then the adults stirred: Not only Mimba but the cluster of people in the doorway.
“More trouble breaking out,” came a voice from the door. It was the silver-haired African man I’d first seen the night of the attack.
“There are no slaves on this plantation. Our people know that,” Mimba stated.
“But the King’s soldiers won’t.” Anne sighed, stirring restlessly on the bed. “What a time for us to come back to Jamaica.”
“All the world is in uprising, it seems,” said someone else. I didn’t dare look as the old mirror angled closer…closer…
I gazed into Aurélie’s reflected eyes and watched them widen. “There she is. She is
old!
Maybe twenty, or even
more!
Her hair is long, the color of Harry’s. She’s light-skinned, like
Maman
,” Aurélie said doubtfully.
“What Nanny says is true, then,” Mimba murmured in a soothing voice. “You are to go to England and be safe. Ayizan sends you an English duppy to watch over you in her land. What does she say?”
“I cannot hear,” Aurélie fretted.
How do you speak clearly when you don’t have a voice—or a mouth?
No. Calomel
. I tried shaping the words. And in French:
Pas. Le. Calomel.
“She speaks, but I don’t hear,” Aurélie said.
Mimba’s face joined Aurélie’s in the mirror, but her gaze searched, clearly finding nothing besides hers and Aurélie’s reflections. She sighed. “My brother was given the Sight, but it was not given to me.” And to the girl, “Tell your duppy to speak slowly.”
Aurélie commanded in a hoarse squawk, her fright clear, “Speak slowly, duppy!”
I shook my head and mouthed the word
NO
. Another slow shake.
CALOMEL
.
And Aurélie looked up in wonder. “I think she says, no medicine?”
Oh, the joy of first contact!
People looked at one another the way people do when they’ve just discovered that something they trusted is now suspect.
Fiba, the dark-skinned girl cousin who’d fetched the mirror, said, “Bad spirits must have got into the calomel. Only another spirit would know.”
“That is a matter for Nanny. But we must do something now. Aurélie, ask the duppy what we must do.”
This was no time to cover two hundred years of medical advances. Especially when no one could hear me, and the only one who could see me was a kid.
And so, with excruciating slowness, I mimed and tried to mouth words. It seemed to take forever, but nobody questioned my instructions once they understood, for they assumed that I had arcane powers, or at least arcane wisdom.
Finally Anne’s wound was washed with boiled water cooled just long enough to bear. After that came the toughest one: into the raw wound, which had begun to infect in a sickening way, they poured whiskey. “The soldier’s remedy,” one of the men had said, as soon as they understood when I’d mimed drinking.
Well, that made sense, if soldiers used it. I could see agreement in the faces.
Poor Anne endured that without benefit of painkillers but soon lay with the wound open to the air. I then said she needed to drink the boiled water. After some discussion of my surprising prescription (leading everyone to agree that it must purify the evil out of the
Mimba made a quick gesture. “This is too important.” And to the child, “Do you remember your Papa looking into the glass to talk to spirits?”
“No,” Aurélie said anxiously.
“You are not at fault if you do not remember. You were only two when he died,
hélas!
So calm yourself. Look. Listen. Tell me when to cease moving the mirror.” Mimba was tipping a spotted hand mirror, a heavy thing chased with gaudy baroque gilding. She angled it slowly, and if I were breathing, I would have held my breath the same way Aurélie did as she frowned intently into the age-dimmed reflective surface.
Impatiently I waited as an older woman laid out the things Anne had asked for. Through the open window came the urgent tootling of the Abeng, and again everyone stilled. Then the adults stirred: Not only Mimba but the cluster of people in the doorway.
“More trouble breaking out,” came a voice from the door. It was the silver-haired African man I’d first seen the night of the attack.
“There are no slaves on this plantation. Our people know that,” Mimba stated.
“But the King’s soldiers won’t.” Anne sighed, stirring restlessly on the bed. “What a time for us to come back to Jamaica.”
“All the world is in uprising, it seems,” said someone else. I didn’t dare look as the old mirror angled closer…closer…
I gazed into Aurélie’s reflected eyes and watched them widen. “There she is. She is
old!
Maybe twenty, or even
more!
Her hair is long, the color of Harry’s. She’s light-skinned, like
Maman
,” Aurélie said doubtfully.
“What Nanny says is true, then,” Mimba murmured in a soothing voice. “You are to go to England and be safe. Ayizan sends you an English duppy to watch over you in her land. What does she say?”
“I cannot hear,” Aurélie fretted.
How do you speak clearly when you don’t have a voice—or a mouth?
No. Calomel
. I tried shaping the words. And in French:
Pas. Le. Calomel.
“She speaks, but I don’t hear,” Aurélie said.
Mimba’s face joined Aurélie’s in the mirror, but her gaze searched, clearly finding nothing besides hers and Aurélie’s reflections. She sighed. “My brother was given the Sight, but it was not given to me.” And to the girl, “Tell your duppy to speak slowly.”
Aurélie commanded in a hoarse squawk, her fright clear, “Speak slowly, duppy!”
I shook my head and mouthed the word
NO
. Another slow shake.
CALOMEL
.
And Aurélie looked up in wonder. “I think she says, no medicine?”
Oh, the joy of first contact!
People looked at one another the way people do when they’ve just discovered that something they trusted is now suspect.
Fiba, the dark-skinned girl cousin who’d fetched the mirror, said, “Bad spirits must have got into the calomel. Only another spirit would know.”
“That is a matter for Nanny. But we must do something now. Aurélie, ask the duppy what we must do.”
This was no time to cover two hundred years of medical advances. Especially when no one could hear me, and the only one who could see me was a kid.
And so, with excruciating slowness, I mimed and tried to mouth words. It seemed to take forever, but nobody questioned my instructions once they understood, for they assumed that I had arcane powers, or at least arcane wisdom.
Finally Anne’s wound was washed with boiled water cooled just long enough to bear. After that came the toughest one: into the raw wound, which had begun to infect in a sickening way, they poured whiskey. “The soldier’s remedy,” one of the men had said, as soon as they understood when I’d mimed drinking.
Well, that made sense, if soldiers used it. I could see agreement in the faces.
Poor Anne endured that without benefit of painkillers but soon lay with the wound open to the air. I then said she needed to drink the boiled water. After some discussion of my surprising prescription (leading everyone to agree that it must purify the evil out of the
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