‘Well then,’ she say. She hold me close, and her face fill up with disappointment. ‘Time to see things way they is, little Will. The way things always going be. You never going be nothing but a slave.’

The Shadow

A few seasons pass since Calla sat me down, had a little talk in the cow pasture. It must help, because by the time I turn ten me much calmer. Not so many of the mosquito them buzzing round on the inside. I learn how to play dumb. Know how to bow me head, say, ‘Yes Busha, right away Busha.’ Stand very still. Fold into the shadow places so I turn invisible, unseen, while others move round me. Know how to listen in at keyholes. Sneak a look in windows, round half-closed doors. Peep through a hole in the floorboards, from underneath the Great House. Look and listen in on all manner of goings-on. Not seeing that sometimes part of me gone missing and I get lost in a silence that is harder and harder to come out from. But is a silence I cling to. Make me feel safe. Since most times, nobody notice me. Specially when Sammy, me younger brother, hovering round. Because soon enough, Sammy turn favourite. Make Stella always patting and cooing to him. And when old Phoebe get too old to work, Stella turn head house slave. No longer just cleaning woman. Abandoned me. Un-ruddered me from her apron strings.

Now, every morning, I do the same thing. When the sun start to colour up the sky, I set out through the tall guinea grass at the back of the plantation. Calla sometimes boil it up, use it to stop a fever. When I stand in the middle of that grass, it so tall, all I see is a wide, wide greenness. A new day greenness. Fresh, the yellow feathery tips, dipped with dew.

This is the way to get to the river. A river that come from high up in the hills till him creep through the plantation, wiggly wind him way down into the next one. A river to wash in, to play in. Home to a little rock pool. Soft, with lime green ferns I lay down in. Look up through the leaves. See the sky. Feel the sun. Feel it heal the sad places, hiding under me skin. Is a secret place, a place no one go to. Stamp bout, crush its lonely beauty.

On the way back, I pass through the stables. Feed the horses overripe guava that drop from the trees. Feel them nuzzle at me hands, the juice dripping through me fingers. Save the biggest one for the water-barrel mule I sometimes ride to find lost cattle.