‘No need to fear, Willy,’ she say. ‘Patoo is special for you. Me heard patoo calling outside the hut when you a baby. Is why me put you under me protection. When patoo call out, you must stop. Listen hard. Find out message she trying tell you.’

I know Calla all me short life, but is the first time she tell me why she take me under her wing. And it make me feel mighty blessed.

I think Calla done speaking, but then she turn, look me in the eye.

‘You must be careful, Willy. Fate have him beady eye pon you. You going travel down a path unknown to even me. And him going twist and turn you, blow you bout like the leaf dem in a howling wind.’

‘How you know this, Calla?’

‘Me seen it, when me first look pon you as a baby. Now you old enough to hear these things. You going need plenty strength to walk the road you have to travel down. Not strength on the outside, but strength on the inside. So one day, with a bit of luck, you might be the massa. Massa of you fate. But promise me, Willy,’ she say, hugging me close. ‘Promise me you not going end up like old cripple Jonnie. A lost soul, all alone. A soul that live in this world, but have no wish to be in it.’

‘Me promise,’ I say, hearing all her words, not really knowing what them mean. Letting the words drop down inside, to wait, to be heard afresh another day.

A Day of Rest

It don’t take long before I forget bout old cripple Jonnie. Nobody call him to mind or say him name much anymore, so in time, it seem like Jonnie never even been on the plantation. Is like when nature take over a place, send out curling vines, wildflowers, long burrowing roots to cover everything up. You have to look hard, to see what was before. Massa give Jonnie hut to Winston, just use it for storage, keep it locked up good. The little stools Jonnie made, Calla use them to sit outside by the cooking fire. She deserve them too. She is the only one that remember old cripple Jonnie, look out for him, like she remember all the ones gone before, resting in the burial ground. She visit them graves, a mound of dirt, a stone to mark the spot. She tidy, weed, pour libation, speak words only the dead can hear. Even do it for Old Massa William, him get buried up there on top of the hill too.

‘Death, the force that make us equal,’ Calla tell me. ‘In the end, we all lay down in the earth, bones, guts mingling together with the worm dem.’