I
Place and People, 1945
THE ISLAND RESTS like a gigantic prehistoric fish, tail fin stretching into the tempestuous waves of the Atlantic, head resting in the calm waters of the Caribbean Sea. On the hill at the cliff edge, where the eye of the fish protrudes, stands an ancient edifice.
The walls are of solid coral-stone, the spire soars taller than the tallest mile-tree and fades into the clouds until only the deep bell-toll sounds from on high. Rafters hewn from a variety of timbers criss-cross under the roof, the first settlers having axed the rainforest to make way for cane-fields and the enormous profits of sugar for the high teas of English lords and ladies. The arched door is cut from tamarind wood, the pews carved from giant mammee-apple trunks are decked with mats woven from the aerial roots of a bearded fig tree. On top of the altar is a simple cross of bamboo, and on the concrete floor alongside is a large clay pot containing a scarlet poinsettia plant, perchance representing the blood of a saviour. The pulpit is of the finest mahogany—polished and engraved with the image of a sea serpent, tongue on fire.
The stained-glass window above the altar is enormous—it would take thirty little children holding hands to encircle the rim. Five thousand, three hundred and twelve exquisite discs of glass are secured in the lead frame—each one in its place around the central moonstone. A rose window—round, though there is no pink. Instead, the colours of the rainbow display their brilliance in concentric circles. It is as if a deity had reached down from on high to flatten the universe by pressing a hand on the white light of the full moon down into the indigo of the night sky, onto the blue of the sea, the green cane-fields, the yellow of golden shower blooms, and out to the border of flamboyant blossoms in flaming red.
The people, numbering no more than two hundred or so, have made this place their home, named it Good Hope and adopted the church as their very own place of worship. The rainbow window is the heart and soul of their community—the symbol of solidarity and survival. All are aware, though, that should the slightest spark from a cane-fire find its way in, the age-old timber would catch and burn, the rainbow window melt in flames ten times higher and hotter than any from hell.
Yet their church and window have outlived all memory—the people have no idea when they were constructed nor by whom. And, perhaps, they prefer not to know, that it remains a timeless mystery, for they are disinclined to dwell in the past—let bygones be interred with their ancestors. How they would rather forget the exploitation and injustice, though both persist—all too evident. The Master’s Great House stands as a fortress overlooking the village, while they squat at his merciless gate. Massa, the old folks call him, for to them he owns not merely the land from which they eke out a living but their very being.
Still, the people look forward as one—England’s war is over, their own young men have returned with the King’s medals pinned to their chests and been celebrated as heroes. The Royal Commission Report has just been published, and the Mother Country pledged to make good on the recommendations therein. A glorious future lies ahead—there will be new schools, health clinics and proper employment, paved roads and decent housing with sanitation. All that is required on their part is patience, so colonial officialdom informs, for such extensive developmental endeavours require much planning and preparation.
*
THE MAN IN BLACK SHORTS and a vest that once was white sits with his back against a gravestone, motionless though his eyes are alert—fixed on the rainbow window yet all-seeing as if nothing could ever surprise him. He is slim and sinewy, possibly in his late thirties—which counted as middle-aged in those days, though a few hardy old folks made it into their nineties. Dreadlocks hang over his shoulders, his complexion is dark—as black as the feathers of a frigate bird that turn blue in the moonlight. A purple birthmark obliterates his left cheek. “Not he fault at all, at all,” the people agree. “Coulda happen tuh anybody, just so, when the mother expec’ing and she craving the sweet-sharpness o’ jamun plum juice.”
Birdman, they call him, for his yard is a sanctuary to countless cattle egrets, gaulins, yellow breasts, sparrows, and doctor booby hummingbirds—especially those that flap wings buffeted and broken by strong winds or limp after being trapped in chicken wire. There’s a wood-dove, slow to take off on creaking wings and hit by a pebble from the guttaperc of a thoughtless boy; a scarlet ibis blown off course by the trade winds; a frigate with spiked wings drooping, too exhausted to fly further; a pelican, its throat pouch ripped open by jagged black coral hidden under shallow waves.
He lives alone in the gully on the outskirts of the village, preferring the company of birds—understanding their language, imitating twitterings of contentment, calls of greeting, squawks of alarm and mating coos. No woman, no child and whatever family he has far away in the island of his birth—no one remembers which, or when it was he arrived. Thoughts private and feelings unknown, he is solitary and silent—“Like he neva had nuh mother tuh teach he how tuh speak.”
Yet he is a man of the village—no matter his naval string is buried elsewhere, he is well-loved without pity. It is to him that the people bring all essential items to be fixed—pan-carts and bicycles, pipes and drums, hoes and brooms loose on sticks, chairs with backs and seats to be recaned, jucking-boards to have notches re-carved so that sheets can be scrubbed clean and white. He is the one who invented the gadget that exterminates mosquitoes—saving many from the ague of high fevers, chills and shakes.
He is their champion stick-licker, winning every competition, every year.
And he is the custodian of their rainbow window. Every Sunday morning, just after the early blackbird chorus, he arrives with his harness and a bucket filled with pure spring water, a white cloth of the softest sea-island cotton tucked into his back pocket. He twists his locks into a yellow crocheted tam and slips off his sandals—just leather strips attached to old tractor-tire soles. He sits on the wooden bar of the harness, straps himself in with the coconut husk ropes and secures the bucket. Agile as a green monkey, he tugs on an elaborate pulley system and winches himself to the top of the window.
Wind saturated with sea salt is the main peril—it erodes everything, even glass. There is also ash and mould, the droppings of birds, lizards, ants and cockroaches, dust upon dust from the digging of graves beneath. He soaks the cloth and polishes the discs, one by one, until they sparkle like sunlight on seawater. At last, he spirals towards the centre—to caress the white moonstone.
It’s as if he hasn’t seen the raggle-taggle children sitting cross-legged ten feet below, sleepy-goggle-eyed yet spellbound, peering up at his dangling feet. Pearlita Jones, thirteen, the tallest among them and as ungainly as a fledgling emerging from its nest, clasps the back of her neck with both hands. Just as it’s about to crack, he flicks water onto her upturned face, into her wild brown eye—highlighting the golden sparks as bright as one of the polished discs.
He twirls the wet cloth to shower the other children, too. They shriek with glee then fall silent.
He spins the bucket overhead and around—not a drop spills.
The children are still.
He knows what they are waiting for and raises his eyebrows, a tease on his lips.
The children clench teeth, hold breaths, ready.
He kicks against the wall of the church, swings upside down like a trapeze artist, soars way up into the air, somersaults and lands on his toes—light as the breeze itself.
The children jump and cheer, “Again, more, gi’ we more.”
“Yes, Mista Birdman,” Pearlita whispers, “please tuh fly high one more time.”
But he bows with a flourish and untangles his harness, empties the bucket and loops its handle over his arm.
One Sunday, just as the first rays of sunlight appear over the horizon, he beckons the children into the church. They follow, sit on pews and stare up, up above the altar—hearts beating double time.
Lo and behold, the sun rises and shines through the rainbow window, casting a profusion of multicoloured lights that flicker along the rafters, beam across the walls and onto their outstretched hands, blessing them.
The children hold their breaths in wonderment. “Like magic,” Pearlita murmurs.
Birdman disappears down one side of the hill just as a tirade of mothers, aunties and older sisters march up the other to haul hard-ears children home to bathe, dress in their church best and return for the tedious-as-ever morning service and Sunday school.
