The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 5

Fat Boy was likewise frightened by Posey's opinion of Malou. He anxiously looked toward the cookstove where Posey kept the parasol under the pillow. He asked, 'That Malou witch, she done put a hex on that sunshade Miss Vicky done gives you, Miss Posey?'

Posey felt bolstered by the effect which his words were having on the two children. He beckoned them to come closer as he said, 'She tries! That black Voodoo b.i.t.c.h probably tries to cast hexes but Miss Vicky has her magic, too! She's a countess!'

'Miss Vicky's a... witch!'

'Not only witches have magic! But countesses, too,' Posey explained. 'And princesses. And saints. And. , .'

'Strong enough magic to fight bad witches like Malou?'

'Pooh' Posey said. 'African magic ain't so strong. I come from Africa once, too, didn't I? Least the woman who mothered me did. I gots my own magic, too. I gets some more from Storky who's now in Heaven with the White Lord G.o.d.'

'Storky's a saint?'

'One of the highest!' Posey bragged. 'And she gives me the power to protect us. You don't see that Malou coming into this kitchen, do you?'

The two children shook their heads.

Posey shrugged. The matter seemed to be settled by their agreement.

Fat Boy said, 'I sure feels safe now, Miss Posey. I scared thinking about a witch being here. But if you says that Miss Storky is a saint sitting in Heaven, and that Miss Storky gives you powers to protect us here in the kitchen-then 62.I sure feels safe, Miss Posey.' The boy leaned his shaved head forward to rest it against Posey's shoulder.

'Shoo!' Posey said, pushing Fat Boy away. 'What do you think I am? Some mother hen? Shoo!'

Lulu tattled, 'Fat Boy just trying to gets on the good side of you, Miss Posey. Fat Boy wants you to give him a piece of your fresh raisin bread with strawberry jam on it.'

'That true?' Posey said, eyeing the youth.

Fat Boy lowered his head and slowly began to shake it from side-to-side.

'That true?' Posey repeated louder, yanking for Fat Boy's ear.

'No, Miss Posey-' he began. 'Lulu done fibs.'

'Don't argue with me, Fat Boy. I has enough of you arguing in the kitchen. I has so much of you arguing lately that-'

Posey released his hold on Fat Boy's ear and, grabbing him by the shoulder, he slapped him across the face with the flat of his hand. He slapped him again, demanding, 'You lies to me, Fat Boy? You lies?'

jerking away from Posey's grasp, Fat Boy dashed across the kitchen, shrieking with pain as he ran behind the cook-stove.

'Ha! Don't think I'm going to chase you around the kitchen like a dog, Fat Boy! I don't need to act like no dog because when I wants you I gets you like. . . that!' Posey snapped his fingers. He turned to Lulu, saying, 'We got our own work to get on with, n.i.g.g.e.r girl. We ain't got all day to be chasing fat boys around. But I'll get him. I'll get him if he lies to me,'

Cowering behind the stove, Fat Boy no longer was listening to Posey's threats. He was thinking about seeking his own revenge. He spotted the silk unbrella which Miss Vicky had brought Posey from Cuba. Fat Boy wondered what terrible thing he could do with the silk umbrella, how he could destroy it and truly punish Posey for pulling his ears, slapping his face, being so proud of himself. Fat Boy hated Mis,s Posey.

63.A chapel set at the intersection of the two main dirt roads of Town, a small greyboard building with jalousies which had been hinged to swing open for Sunday services in the hot months of summer. But since the black man, Nero, had died there was no one to conduct religious meetings on Dragonard Hill and the chapel was used for storing corn for the chickens, nails for the carpenters, odds and ends of equipment and supplies which went wanting for a proper storage hut or shed on the plantation.

The black woman, Croney, walked from the chicken coop this morning with two empty buckets to fill with corn feed for her hens. Her mind was occupied with matters of the main house as she pushed open the door on this weathered building which had once been a chapel. Croney was thinking about the productivity of her hens, worrying if they could supply the vast quant.i.ty of eggs which Posey was suddenly demanding for the kitchen. She worried about Posey boiling too many chickens only for their stock. She was thinking about the sudden drain on her coop.

The door squeaked on its leather hinges as Croney adjusted her eyes from the brightness of the June sun to the darkness here inside the old chapel. Knowing where the gunny sacks of corn feed were kept in a far corner, she turned toward that direction when she suddenly stopped. She saw a figure standing in the middle of the peak-ceil-inged room, a black woman with a white kerchief knotted over her forehead.

The black woman's voice was not warm and friendly when she spoke to Croney. But neither was she hostile. She said, 'Good morning, sister.'

'Who you?'

'Malou.'

Croney immediately recognized the name. She remembered the stories which the kitchen girl, Lulu, had brought from the main house, the tales that the black woman, Malou, from the island of Cuba was a voodoo witch.

'Don't look so scared, sister,' Malou said as she lifted her head to survey the rafters. "I'm just standing here feeling the spirits.'

Backing toward the door, Croney said, 'This be a house of the Lord. This be a good place of. . . worship.'

'All worship is good,' Malou answered as her eyes studied 64.the timber rafters, looking at the closed jalousies slanting light through the dust motes, glancing to the benches piled in the corner.

She asked, "When was the last time a meeting was held here, sister?'

'A good while back,' Croney said, feeling more confident now. Malou's questions did not sound like the words of a witch. "We ain't had a meeting here since Nero done died. He was once overseer here. Then he caught the deep shivers one winter. He died a hard death and-'

'Now you got no one.'

'We hears a preacher when Matty Kate was buried a short while back. He comes from Troy.'

Malou nodded. She said, 'But the black people got no one.'

'We got our songs. Our beliefs.'

The master here, he lets you sing, sister?'

'We sings. Sure we sings. Master Peter is a good master to us.'

'And dance? He lets you dance till the spirit takes over your soul and you . . . feel the spirit making you dance?'

Croney shook her head. 'There ain't no dancing on this place. Not that kind of dancing. We do reels and jigs on Sat.u.r.day nights sometimes but-'

'But not in church.' Malou shook her head, saying as she again raised her eyes to appraise the old chapel, I don't see no pictures hanging here, sister. I don't see no statues. No crosses. What happened to them?'

'This chapel never had no decoration,' Croney said. 'Nothing except cedar boughs on the floor to give it a nice perfume on Sundays.'

Feeling much more confident now, Croney stepped farther into the chapel and said, 'You Malou woman. I hear stories about you. I hears that you a voodoo gal.'

'What that word mean to you, sister? Voodoo?'

'Voodoo means blood sacrifices and black magic and stuff that gives n.i.g.g.e.rs bad names.'

'That's white people talk!'

'Well, it's white folks who owns this Sand. And owns us.'

'Owns our bodies!' Malou corrected her. 'Owns our bodies but not our souls. But because they can't ever own our souls they tries to destroy them. They try to say that if we 65.believe in spirits those spirits is bad. But all spirits be the same, sister. They only have different names. And the names of our spirits are the names of our people. The black people who come before us on this earth. That's why white people don't want us to believe. They don't want us to believe in... ourselves!'

Croney stood staring at the sober-faced black woman. She could not argue with her. The words did not sound like the words of a witch. She said, 'I guess there are some people on this place who might agree with you."

'Then you must take me to meet them, sister.'

Croney mumbled, 'I got to get feed for my chickens now. I done wasted enough time.'

Malou smiled. She had suspected that she had come to this distant land for a reason. Now she understood what that reason was. The white people had their missionaries spreading their religions. She herself now was carrying the words of the African G.o.ds to Dragonard Hill.

The activity at the main house escaped Belladonna's attention as she busily worked sewing three new dresses from the yardage which Imogen had purchased for her in Troy. Belladonna now had a dress length of yellow calico, a length of brown cotton sprigged with dainty pink roses, and a length of glazed blue cotton the colour of cornflowers.

Imogen returned tired in the evenings to the old house, often too exhausted from field work to speak to Belladonna. She never referred to her family's affairs in the main house. Nor did Belladonna press Imogen for facts. Not these days. She was too content deciding on what kind of sleeves-how long the sashes would be-for her three new dresses.

Belladonna also did not question Imogen about the reason she had been prompted to buy her such extravagant gifts. She remained ignorant of any ulterior plans until one night when Imogen announced that she was going to retire early to her bedroom upstairs. She informed Belladonna that she wanted her to accompany her upstairs, not to stay late again in the kitchen tonight but to come to bed now.

The corn husk mattress crunched on its leather straps as Belladonna climbed obediently into bed.

66.'Blow out the candle,' Imogen ordered. She was already under the flannel sheeting and quilt. Her bare arm lay outstretched on a pillow.

Belladonna obediently complied with her wishes.

'You ever been laid by a man, girl?' Imogen's voice was hard, not soft and loving.

Belladonna snuggled against Imogen's naked body, whispering, 'I tell you always I don't wants n.o.body but you.'

Imogen pushed her away. She said, I asked you a question, girl!'

Raising herself on the corn husk mattress, Belladonna said, 'You knows the answer to that! You knows a man tried to pester me. And you knows I would kills the next man who tries it!'

Imogen was silent.

Belladonna lowered herself to the mattress. She could not smell liquor on Imogen's breath but she knew that whisky often made her say crazy things like this.

Imogen spoke in the darkness. 'I wants you to make love to a man, girl.'

"You want me to-' Belladonna sat bolt upright in bed again.

'I don't have to explain myself to you, girl. I want you to make love to a man! I'll tell you who it is when the time's ready. For the moment I want you to ... pretend.'

'Pretend?'

'I want you to be ready. I want you to act like you enjoy him when it's happening.'

'Who is he? Who do you plan to have pester me?'

'd.a.m.nit, wench!' Imogen shouted, shoving Belladonna down onto the mattress. 'b.i.t.c.hes like you don't ask questions. They just. . . obey.'

Belladonna held one arm across her shut eyes, trying not to let Imogen see-nor hear-her sobbing. She felt the mattress crunch with the weight of Imogen's body leaning to one side. She knew that Imogen was reaching for the object she kepi on the floor under the bed. Belladonna had learned to enjoy Imogen protruding the object into her femininity. But that was when they made love together, using the phallus-shaped object as if it were part of Imogen's body. Belladonna next heard the sound of Imogen's hand slushing in a tin can next to the bed. Then she felt the 67.coldness of the phallus move between her legs. She heard Imogen issuing orders. She knew she must obey. She had no choice. And as Belladonna slowly opened her slim thighs, she whispered, I love you, Imogen. I does anything for you. But please let me pretend that this be ... you.'

'Shut up, b.i.t.c.h,' Imogen hissed. 'You'll understand soon enough. Now stick up your p.u.s.s.y for him . , . stick up your p.u.s.s.y.'

The crown of the wooden phallus was moist with goose grease from the tin can. Imogen slowly inched it between Belladonna's legs, whispering, 'Take the man in your p.u.s.s.y, wench. Open your p.u.s.s.y for him , . . That's right. . , take him into your p.u.s.s.y and tell him you love it.'

Choking back her tears, Belladonna whispered, '. . . / loves it.'

'Do you feel the man pushing inside you?' Imogen asked as she inched the blunt crown of the greased instrument deeper between Belladonna's legs.

*I feels-' Belladonna wanted to speak as she had done in the past, that she was enjoying Imogen as a man.

'You feels . . . what?'

'The p.e.c.k.e.r..." She began to move, to shift herself on the mattress.

'Don't squirm!' Imogen ordered, slapping her against one leg. 'Lay still. Be obedient. You're taking a... man. A man's p.e.c.k.e.r. Not me but... a man.'

The instrument's crown had pa.s.sed beyond the lips of Belladonna's v.a.g.i.n.a; she could feel th<^ cold="" greasiness="" gliding="" deeper="" inside="" her.="" the="" sensation="" was="" impersonal,="" debasing,="" not="" similar="" in="" any="" way="" to="" the="" movements="" when="" imogen="" used="" the="" instrument="" on="" her="" during="" their="" love-making="" in="" the="" past.="" this="" was="" not="" love.="" it="" was="" torture,="" 'take="" him="" .="" .="" .="" deeper,'="" imogen="" said,="" smiling="" as="" she="" now="" knelt="" between="" belladonna's="" naked="" legs="" and="" thrust="" the="" instrument="" farther="" into="" the="" black="" girl.="" 'close="" your="" eyes.="" think="" that="" a="" man="" is="" mounting="" you.="" raise="" up="" your="" legs="" to="" take="" him="" deeper.="" raise="" up="" your="" legs,="">

Slowly, Belladonna lifted her slim legs. She kept her eyes firmly shut.

'You feel him?'

'I feels him ..."

'You feel the man?'

68.Belladonna knew that Imogen wanted her to perform a complete scene for her and, fearing the consequences if she did not, Belladonna obediently raised her legs as if she were wrapping them around a man. She lifted her arms to hug the imaginary lover. She pushed her midsection higher in the air, stretching to take the wooden-and-leather phallus. She whispered, 'I feels you ... I feels you . . . Oh, I feels you.' She began tossing her head back and forth on the pillow as Imogen worked the phallus faster in the greased v.a.g.i.n.al course. Imogen smiled to herself as she saw what a good actress Belladonna was becoming under her guidance, that the black girl would soon be ready to confront a real male, to receive a real phallus.

Chapter Four.

GROUSE HOLLOW.

The farms and plantations in the northern Louisiana wilderness received news about important local events- births, deaths, reports of runaway slaves-from pedlars who travelled through the countryside, at church or social gatherings, or around the potbelly stoves at the mercantile stores of small towns such as Carterville and Troy.

Newspapers were a rarity in upcountry Louisiana; the nearest newspaper was printed in New Orleans. The largest publication was the 'New Orleans Bee'-printed in French as L'Abeille de la Nouvelle Orleans-and the second largest was the 'Louisiana Courier', also known as Le Courier de Louisiane. A smaller, more conservative paper called the "Louisiana Whig' seldom travelled from the city; a new weekly was rumoured soon to be appearing but the 'Times-Picayune' had yet to be published in the year, I836.

The popularity of the 'New Orleans Bee' was due to the fact that it included both stories about the city and the upcountry plantations. Circulation outside the city depended entirely on travellers taking copies in wagons or coaches, though, and the stories in the 'New Orleans Bee' were often out-dated by the time that a copy reached the hinderlands. Thus, the most effective method of keeping well-informed in the countryside was still by the various word-of-mouth circuits.

A strict social caste amongst the white country people prevented much of the populace from learning about events 70.in their vicinity from neighbours. The excluded parties were often small farmers-settlers who owned only a modic.u.m of land and a few slaves, people who were referred to by both Negroes and their more affluent neighbours as 'white trash.'

The widow, Claudia Goss, was considered by many people to be 'white trash", a label reinforced by her occupation as a travelling slave-pedlar. But Mrs Goss was a vindictive woman; she seldom repeated any of the news gleaned in her travels to those people who refused to impart any news to her.

During the month of June in the year, I836, Claudia Goss again was suffering from an old recurring illness to which she referred as her 'ague'. The mysterious malady kept the woman confined to a cabin on her farm, Grouse Hollow, a small patch of acreage which she had inherited from her last husband.

Claudia Goss received no callers at Grouse Hollow. Nor did her two slaves, jack and Mary, travel to other plantations and bring news home to their mistress. Claudia Goss could not depend on them either to learn what was happening in the outside world.