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“Jalla!”
“Chamfer,” Jalla, setting down his things, waves. “You look splendid young master Chamfer. Are you going to the ceremony?” His accent runs words together more like an island breeze and lapping waves than a voice.
Chamfer stops and nods.
Smiling, Jalla steps away from his bags. “You seem unhappy. Are you not excited?”
Chamfer shrugs. “You’re here early, Jalla.”
“Indeed, I am. M. Benedict has summoned me early to begin reworking the boiling vats. He wishes me to find a way to reduce the loss during the harvest peak.”
Chamfer nods again. Alexa swishes around his leg.
“Give me a moment.” Jalla picks up his bags and lugs them inside the hut. Chamfer takes a deep breath and hums to distract himself. When Jalla returns, he smiles again, “let’s go.”
“Are you going to the ceremony, too?”
“Yes. And you are going to tell me why you do not wish to.”
Chamfer remains quiet. When they reach the end of the commons, the tile becomes a raked, dirt road down to the fields. The fog is already shrinking into wispy snakes, slithering along with the gusts from the white beaches just on the other side of Caridad. On the left of the road, streamers cover the pavilion of palm and birch where newly-arrived workers are kept and broken in, or where the drivers rest during heavy rains and eat their lunches. Further left, following a fork which Chamfer normally takes every morning, the Big House and chapel are also heavily decorated in roses and morning glories and streamers. At this distance, many dots of people move around both areas and drumbeats echo between the breezes.
Alexa drops the pigeon and meows.
Chamfer kneels down and strokes her head. More to the cat than to Jalla, Chamfer says “I’m going to stand before Wouchixa with the other children.”
Alexa plops down and rolls onto her back.
Chamfer starts to comb his fingers across her belly, detangling matted fur. “I love the dancing, shouting and drumbeating. The colorful costumes Marse Benedict encourages the aunties to wear. The banquet at the house that Mistress has overseen: salted and spiced meats, fishes, fowls, stews from the commons that have been cooking since last night--”
“Yes, they smell wonderful. But, Chamfer--”
“--fresh baked breads, olives, roasted vegetables, and pastries, some shipped in for today. Homemade butter, cheeses. Casks of añejo, from the first sugars boiled off last fall, are poured into lime juice, hand-squeezed by the Mistress. Overseer García goes down to the cellar and brings up the rum. He crowbars one open and checks the dark fungus around the rim.”
“Yes, but Chamfer--”
Chamfer’s hand stops, resting on Alexa’s belly “The more fungus, the more the Sun God has taken for his share on his birthday. The whole feast, part of the Masculalia, Mascul’s old tenet that masters serve the servants for one day to acknowledge the start of the new cycle, the whole feast happens in the Mistress’ Cienfuegos rose garden.
“Other than marriages, it’s the only time workers get to visit the garden.”
Jalla squats next to Chamfer. He studies the boy’s far off gaze, as if Chamfer is in holy contemplation.
“I get to visit there every day, Jalla, when it doesn’t rain. I’m only six, but I get to play with Sunelion. The trellis enclosure is where the young marse takes his continental literature, poetry and violin studies. It’s so beautiful.”
Alexa bats his hands and then curls up and bites the soft inside between thumb and forefinger. A trickle of blood issues.
Chamfer recoils.
Jalla puts a hand on Chamfer’s shoulder.
“What does it matter if I have powerful medicine?” Still looking down at Alexa, “It doesn’t change anything between us, does it?”
Alexa leaps onto her feet and meows. Her voice carries a little squeak in it, even though she’s old enough to have kittens herself.
Chamfer scratches behind her ear, and then stands up. Jalla stands with him.
Alexa retrieves her strip of pigeon. She pauses for a moment and then turns and trots back into the commons.
Jalla frowns, contemplates something, and then says “Come.”
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Chamfer part 3 (Read 179 times)
