Love's Fiery Jewel (12 page)

"You are no longer needed here! I will not accept your
charity! Please leave.. .now!"

Rapidly descending the steps to his cabin, Damien
roughly pushed open the door, entered and slammed it
hard behind him, muttering a low, ominous oath under
his breath, "You will live to regret those words,
Amethyst Greer. Oh, yes...you will live to regret
them..."

Silently slipping out of the house, Tillie moved down
the darkening street as surreptitiously as her impressive
size would allow. Carrying her small, unlit lantern, she
would walk to the far end of town and turn into the
forest. From there she would reverse herself through the
wooded trail and retrace her steps until she proceeded
steadily in the opposite direction from which she had
appeared to be heading. She wanted no one to guess
where she was going. She had no desire to allow her prestige as a free woman of color to suffer as a result of
her actions tonight. Having finally reached the edge of
town, she ducked into the woods and continued on her
preplanned course.

Tillie was all too aware that as a special class of
Jamaican, her status depended on steadfast adherence to
all customs white in origin. Having been educated by her
white father, she, as well as the other mulattos on the
island, laid claim to the manner, dress and religion of the
white parent, but Mabella Swann had forged a lasting
influence on her proud daughter's life. Rearing her to
concede outwardly to social pressures, she had allowed
her daughter to adopt the white man's ways and religion
in public, while secretly indoctrinating her into the
religion of the Puckoo people. Dangerously, over the
years, Tillie had clung to the Puckoo beliefs and in times
of stress turned to their medicine man for aid. Also aware
that many of the plantation slaves despised the mulattos
for their distinction of class, she was fully cognizant of
the chance she took each time she joined the slave
gatherings for Puckoo rituals.

Through a chain of whispered messages, Tillie had
received word that the Puckoo people would meet that
night at the Conway plantation, and although she had not
attended a meeting of the cult in many months, she
moved steadily toward the meeting place with a deep
sense of purpose.

The darkness of evening had shrouded the worn trail
as Tillie arrived at the plantation, her clear, unmarked
brow covered with perspiration, her full breasts heaving
from the exertion of the strenuous pace she had
maintained for the past hour. Following the sound of
solemn, steady drumming, she arrived breathless at a
clearing where a huge fire burned, casting spirals of
brilliant light toward the sky while flickering shadows
played against the black faces surrounding it. A low, steady humming had already begun as the scantily
clothed bodies concentrated there began a slow, hypnotic
gyration in time with the gradually increasing tempo of
the drums. Lengthening orange and yellow flames
stretched up in long, increasingly greedy tongues to lick
the darkness overhead as Tillie followed a call more
ancient than time and slowly assumed a place in the
moving circle. Her body responding automatically to the
persistent drumming that seemed to dull her brain, she
moved steadily to the savage, hypnotic rhythm. The
momentum of the dancers grew gradually wilder, bodies
pumping and twisting with unrelenting fury, seeking to
hold and conquer the beat that heated their blood.
Inhaling and exhaling in gasping, choking coughs, they
instinctively followed the ritual of the dance, their short,
harsh barks growing increasingly louder until the
primitive chorus echoed in the surrounding darkness.
Accelerating violently, the drums began to throb in
thunderous fury, louder, louder, faster, faster, urging
the dancers to greater passion as they writhed and jerked
to its sensual rhythm, the short barks of breathing
gradually attaining a barbarous crescendo that shook the
small clearing with its intensity. And still the drums beat
on, throbbing, urging, pushing the entranced dancers to
the threshold of a sustained, ecstatic frenzy which
plummeted them sharply in increasing numbers to the
ground and insensibility, where they mumbled in
exhausted voices as their minds wandered aimlessly
through the gray, semi-conscious vale where only they
existed.

And still Tillie danced on, her tall, graceful figure
responding to the tempo of the drums, her full breasts
moving rhythmically under her blouse, her ample hips
rotating, her powerful legs whirling to stamp a steady
rhythm against the ground as her Negro blood pumped in
her ears, filling her brain with the power of the beating sound that seemed to sustain her, driving her with
endless vehemence beyond the endurance of the other
dancers. Finally, she alone danced in violent supplication
to Pucku, the possession god of her Negro people.
Heaving, gasping, her movement became more spasmatic
as her arms flailed about hysterically, carrying her to a
whirling, climactic peak that ended in a thin, piercing
scream as she swooned to the ground in semi-conscious
obeisance. Her body still quaking with the fury of
possession, Tillie mumbled indistinctly, her deep voice
muttering soft, unintelligible passages that ran endlessly
from her lips.

Picking his way carefully among the bodies strewn in
reckless confusion around the clearing, a short, wizened
old man came to stand above her, his ears tuning in the
sound of her voice to the exclusion of all others. Tillie
Swann had been truly possessed by Pucku and was
speaking in the tongues of his god. Tonight he would
listen to her alone. Crouching down beside the prostrate
woman, he listened silently until she spoke no more,
refusing to leave until the woman's eyes once again
looked clearly into his.

Slowly the gray veil lifted from Tillie's gaze. Still
disoriented, she felt the ground beneath her body, damp
and moist against her perspired skin. Her head was
aching, the pulse in her throat still throbbing violently.
Finally able to focus her gaze, Tillie was startled to see
two bright black eyes staring unblinkingly into hers.
Cowering from the piercing brightness of his stare, Tillie
awaited the witch doctor's words.

"Tillie Swann be chosen of Pucku t'night. Him speak
through you t' him people here. You white blood be
weak, you black blood strong. What you want from dis
old man t'night?"

Looking purposefully into the old man's face, Tillie
said firmly, "My soul-child, him make the white obeah man turn against him. My soul-child hard-ears, not listen
to Tillie. Obeah-man leave house rygin against my soulchild. You speak to Pucku. Break obeah-man's magic."

"Who dis obeah-man be, Tillie Swann?"

"Him be the Captain Damien Straith."

His eyes flaring revealingly, the old man slowly stood
and turned to walk away. Quickly scrambling to her feet,
Tillie swayed momentarily before turning to run after
him. Reaching his side, Tillie took his arm to stay him.

"What you say, old man? You help Tillie Swann?
Amassa, old man," she pleaded again.

His face once again inscrutable, the old man muttered
almost inaudibly, "Cap'n Straith have strong obeah..."

"You help Tillie Swann, old man?" Tillie repeated, her
dark eyes glued to the man's face in wordless appeal.

For long silent moments the old man stared into her
face, his mesmerizing glance seeming to slip beyond
her eyes into her very mind. Suddenly shaking off her
restraining hand, he turned to walk toward a small hut at
the edge of the clearing, and slipped inside. Reappearing a
few minutes later, he carried a small cloth bag. Reaching
inside, he handed her a dried, shriveled fowl's foot,
mumbling softly, "Foot of fowl dat scratch earth of de
dead, him bring strength of spirits t' protect you soulchild. Keep it near you child, 'n obeah-man's duppy stay
away."

Having finished speaking, the old man turned on his
heel and walked away, leaving Tillie staring gratefully
behind him.

"Tenky, old man. Tillie Swann say tenky."

Making no response, the old man walked into his hut
and out of her sight.

Swiftly turning, Tillie noticed most of the dancers
were on their feet and milling around the clearing.
Anxious to return home, she tucked the charm into her
pocket and snatching up her lantern, walked quickly to the edge of the forest. She was still unsure of her
reception here. Many of the men and women nursed
grudges against her as a free woman of color, and the old
man was gone, unable to stand between her and any
possible antagonists. Relieved when she had reached the
edge of the clearing to step at last onto the forest path,
she had gone only a few feet when a hand firmly clasped
her shoulder, freezing her into immobility.

The unyielding grip turned her slowly to face a
powerful shadow towering a head and shoulders above
her, the massive masculine frame almost indiscernible in
the light of the small lantern. But there was only one man
who dwarfed Tillie Swann to that extent. Gradually
raising her lantern, Tillie's glance caught and held the
steely stare of sharp black eyes. Slowly, her gaze moved
over the broad, flat features, the full lips compressed into
an angry line, the dark brown skin still smooth despite
the gray scattered amongst the short-cropped hair on
his well shaped head.

"Why you not look fe Raymond, Tillie Swann? You
gowan run fe home n' run frem Raymond?"

In a hard voice contrasting vividly with the familiar
weakness besetting her, Tillie responded harshly, "This
be important business, Raymond. Tillie have no time to
look fe any old slave..."

"Raymond not `any ole slave,' Tillie." The hand on
Tillie's shoulder tightened spontaneously and a slight
trembling began inside her.

"Besides," Tillie continued with a vague negative
gesture as if he had not spoken, diverting her eyes from
his intense stare, "Tillie getting' too old to play
games..."

The large calloused hand gripping her shoulder moved
to smooth back the wisps at her hairline which had
worked loose from the tight bun at the base of her neck.
Raising her chin with his hand, Raymond forced her to resume contact with his eyes.

"Tillie not too old fe Raymond. Tillie Swann be
beautiful woman.. .woman fe me...fe me..."

"Tillie not you woman, Raymond!" Jerking her face
from his caress, Tillie responded heatedly, "Tillie be free
woman! Belong to no one! And you be slave, Raymond!"
Her glance filled with contempt she continued, "Slave
man, him got no woman!"

"Raymond, him have you, Tillie Swann." Raymond's
whispered statement bore the power of conviction as he
slowly perused her countenance, sending the blood
flooding into her face.

"No!" Taking a step backward, Tillie shook her head
emphatically. "No! I gowan find a fine mulatto man fe
me. No more games with black Guerney Bird!"

His eyes flaring with anger at her insult, Raymond's
voice was a low hiss. "Raymond Creole black, Tillie. Him
born on island, jes' like you!"

"That be right, Raymond," Tillie hissed in return,
"but before my father lose him plantation and die, my
father own you and you mama!"

"Yaw, you faddah own Raymond, Tillie, but him own
you mama, too!"

"But him not own Tillie!" Tillie countered hotly.
"Tillie be free woman, too good for old slave that belong
another man now."

All trace of anger suddenly leaving his face, Raymond
stared intently into Tillie's flashing eyes for a few long
moments. Slowly reaching for her hand, he tugged gently
as he spoke in a firm voice. "You come wid Raymond
now, Tillie. No more hallah. I'se put up new place to lay.
Fraish 'n clean, jes' like Tillie want. Tillie come lay wid
Raymond... Raymond be mightly lonesome fe Tillie."

The simple sincerity in the black eyes looking down
into hers eating steadily into her resistance, Tillie
mumbled with a valiant attempt to retain her reserve, "Lonesome! Hmph! How many women you take since
Tillie see you last, Raymond?"

His dark eyes holding hers intently, Raymond
responded softly, "Raymond take no woman. Tillie him
woman."

Swallowing tightly against the emotion choking her
throat, Tillie nodded slightly, allowing Raymond to take
the lantern from her hand and pull her against his side as
he turned to move slowly along the dark path. Within a
few minutes they had reached a small clearing where,
standing back, Raymond pointed to a barely visible
structure dominating the area. "Dis place be fe Raymond
n' fe Tillie ...fe when Tillie come t' Raymond."

Urging her forward once again, Raymond led her
silently into a small wooden hut about twenty feet
square, and put the lantern on the ground. His head
almost touching the thatched roof as he stood inside,
Raymond searched Tillie's face for her first sign of
acceptance, watching her expression intently as her eyes
traveled the rough dwelling. Her glance trailing the earth
floor, Tillie's eyes moved to the simple, handmade table
and two stools that dominated one corner and slid slowly
to the large platform in the center of the room on which
lay a fresh mat and blanket. "Fraish 'n clean, jes' like
Tillie want..."

Her great, dark eyes filling with tears, Tillie turned in a
quick sure movement to put her arms around the neck of
the huge man standing beside her. Experiencing a
familiar thrill as his long powerful arms closed around
her, Tillie reveled at the touch of his broad chest against
her cheek as she whispered softly in a voice rich with
emotion, "Yaw, Raymond, this be the place we come
together. My father gone. Him not hallah anymore. No
one see us. We be alone here." Raising her hand, Tillie
slowly caressed the firm cheek of the man she had loved
since childhood, drawing his mouth down to hers as she whispered softly, "Raymond not belong Massa Conway
...Raymond belong Tillie Swann..."

The sound of the conch broke the morning stillness of
Conway Plantation, sending its shrill call to endless
labor. Startled from his sleep, Raymond reached out
instinctively to the mat beside him to find it empty,
already cool to the touch. Raising his hand, he covered
his eyes for a few long seconds as a familiar sense of loss
pervaded his senses. Slowly pulling his great, naked
frame to a standing position, he paused one moment
longer to stare down at the mat beside his feet, the
memory of the night past flashing before his mind. A
small smile curving his lips for the first time, he mumbled
huskily under his breath, "Tillie Swann be free woman n'
Raymond be slave, but Tillie be woman fe Raymond. No
fine mulatto man fe Tillie Swann. Jes' Raymond...
Raymond n' Tillie Swann."