Tell Me I'm Dreamin' (8 page)

“I bet it isn't.” Nadine smiled with understanding, picturing the homemade wine that Grandma Rose sometimes kept in the back of the kitchen cabinet. “I do have something planned a little later on today, but I'd love to see a real rum still.” She looked down at the green material that lay against her body. “But I'm sure this isn't what I need to be wearing.”

“Do not worry about that. Your clothes are waiting for you in your room, along with a couple of blouses and skirts I was able to dig up.”

“You're a blessing, Catherine,” Nadine stated appreciatively. “I'll go change and meet you on the lanai, say in about fifteen minutes?”

“Yes. Good. That will give me enough time to finish up a few chores.”

Nadine felt more alive than, she had felt since she was a child. She walked through the house, staring. On an American scale, this would have been considered a very large house with extraordinarily spacious rooms. Unlike the majority of the structures in the States, the rooms were very rarely placed directly off hallways. You simply stepped out of one room into another.

Nadine felt a heightened sense of anticipation as she closed the bedroom door. Removing the cord belt and taking off the chiton was simple. The pieces of material fell soundlessly to the floor when she unfastened the two brooches upon her shoulders. She turned the jewelry over in her hand for a closer look and was amazed at the weight and intricacy of the ornaments.

A satyr holding a wineskin in his hands was carved upon one of the pins. The other displayed an olive-wreathed nude male riding a panther. Both appeared to be made out of solid gold. Carefully, Nadine placed them back in their original container, conscious of their apparent value, and the trust placed in her by allowing her to wear them.

She felt almost buoyant as she dressed. What Nadine had experienced so far and what she hoped to experience was intoxicating. The island of Eros was proving to be more of a treasure than she ever imagined. Why, here, at Sovereign alone, was Ulysses, a rich historical, literary source, and a possible source for more intimate things.

With her thoughts in overdrive Nadine looked in the mirror. Her regular clothes were anticlimactic. The oversized top, like the majority of her wardrobe, had been bought to conceal her figure. Looking at it now, Nadine knew that it more than accomplished its purpose. A purpose contrary to her current plans. If she was going to play up Ulysses' interest in her as a woman, these clothes wouldn't do at all.

With a lifetime of being inconspicuous to encourage her, Nadine sorted through the small pile of clothes Catherine had provided. She chose a white linen blouse with long sleeves and large, lazy ruffles trimming a V-shaped neckline, knowing it was just what she needed. Nadine held it up in front of her. It was soft and utterly feminine. Quickly, she put it on, tucking the tail into her navy-blue pants. Looking in the mirror again, she noticed a little cleavage at the bottom of the V, and decided she had been progressive enough for one day. She arranged the bountiful ruffles to conceal it, her upbringing still influencing her.

With practiced fingers she unraveled her hair and found it was still a little damp from the night before. Through habit she began to comb it all to the back, placing it in its customary ball. Nadine stopped, then turned her face from side to side, examining it in the mirror. On impulse she let go of the auburn fibers, and shook her head vigorously. Using brisk movements she combed it out with her fingers. Nadine was pleased with the end result, and her eyes shone with more than the physical effort.

When she arrived Catherine was not waiting for her in the designated area. Nonplussed, Nadine assumed she was still completing her chores and she went to look for her in the kitchen. As she entered the room she could hear muffled snapping noises coming from the direction of a screened door. Through it, she could see Catherine shaking out a square linen tablecloth in the midst of a flurry of white flakes. The delicate hand-woven diamond designs that edged the fabric seemed to blend with the floating chips, creating an illusion of snow. Catherine's nose and mouth were covered with a red kerchief, protecting them from the flying material.

Nadine watched the housekeeper take another tablecloth, identical to the first, and cover it with a bucket of white wood ash that she removed from a large beehive-shaped oven. After treating the material with the ashes and removing them with several hardy shakes, the linen was the purest of whites. Nadine stepped aside as Catherine brought the neatly folded squares into the kitchen and placed them in a convenient linen closet. She dusted off her hands.

“Do you need to tell Madame Deane that we are leaving?”

“No, she is fine. I mentioned the festival to her before she took her medication. I'm pretty sure she is sleeping by now. It will be a while before she wakes up again. Usually, she reads after her morning nap. She should be content until we get back,” Catherine assured her.

Chapter
7

The two women set off together down a well-trodden path lined with evergreen trees. The inspiring smell of pine helped to heighten Nadine's sense of adventure. The scent reminded her of the woods that bordered Grandma Rose's house, where she had embarked on countless flights of fancy as a child. She had always dreamed of traveling to far-off places. Books had been the medium that transported her there, and she loved the pictures and paintings of ancient cultures the most. In the Mississippi woods she had created her own imaginary world, using nature as her inspiration.

Nadine felt content. She followed the path that opened onto a grass-tufted hill sprinkled with rocks and pebbles. In the distance she could see various shades of green.

Seeing Nadine's delighted expression, Catherine felt compelled to praise her homeland. “Those are the sugarcane fields. Barbados is known all over the world for its rum and its sugar. The ones you are looking at belong to the Sharpes. They own the largest sugarcane fields on Eros. Some of their fields are hundreds of years old. But it has not been all good for them, the Sharpes I mean.” She pulled her head wrap further down upon her forehead until it nearly covered her eyebrows. “Through the years they have been accused of stealing land from innocent people. Madame Deane says their entire northwest field used to belong to Sovereign.” She whispered conspiratorially, as if she could be overheard. “There have been similar stories passed between the workers from other estates as well.”

“Do you believe it?” Nadine inquired, concerned.

“It does not matter what I believe. People like me have no power here. I only feel sympathy for madame. Her word along with the word of a few field hands or house servants carries no weight.”

“What does Ulysses think?” Nadine asked with contrived nonchalance.

“Ulysses believes in evidence. He says there is no proof to back up the stories, but if he had proof there would be hell to pay.” Catherine raised her head haughtily. “But as it is they remain just that, stories.” Reaching the top of the knoll she pointed at the view below. “Ah. There are some of the workers headed for the still.”

Several donkey carts filled with sugarcane were methodically making their way toward a large building. Bunches of men, women, and children followed on foot, some carrying bundles and baskets, others musical instruments. Unlike the carts filled with sugarcane, the workers and several other carts continued toward a clearing where a few islanders were busy near what Nadine assumed was the rum still. She took in the scene with appreciation.

A magnificent azure sky framed the backdrop of countless blossoms of red, yellow, pink, and white. She could hear cheerful voices carried toward them on the wind. Nadine was bewildered by the apparent joy generated by the group. “Are they always so happy about going to work?”

“Bajan people are merry by nature. But our emotions can run high no matter what the direction. Yet I believe happy music and dancing are our first love. See there,” Catherine pointed to a small group of men walking together, “some of them are carrying instruments. That is because we always look for a reason to have a festival. Running the still gives us a good reason.”

Descending the hill, Nadine enjoyed the wind whipping through her hair. The weather was breathtaking, and she wondered how Catherine and some of the others kept their heads bundled up beneath the head wraps. But she did not ask.

Greetings passed back and forth between Catherine and several of the workers as they merged with the crowd. They cast curious looks in Nadine's direction, along with low welcomes. She met them all with an enthusiastic nod of her head and a smile. As they reached their destination the men and women began to split up. The women and children situated themselves near a group of trees growing close to the still. Nadine couldn't help but notice the group that had gathered were all white people with hair that varied from straight to semi-wavy. Somehow they did not reflect the ethnic blend she had expected.

The women went straight to work, transforming their bundles into blankets to sit on. Once done, they put out baskets and containers of food and drink, buffet-style. Several yards away pots over open fires were being tended.

“Miss Nadine, do you like the black pudding?” a smiling Catherine inquired. She was helping another woman tie what looked like sections of intestines on both ends with string, then suspending them over waiting kettles of boiling water.

Curious about the white cylinders that she recognized as stuffed pig intestines, Nadine felt squeamish when she realized the black in black pudding was blood. But she did not want to spoil Catherine's obvious pleasure. Nadine hunched her shoulders and smiled as she thought, Oh, God, don't tell me I'm going to end up eating cooked blood! Why couldn't they be fond of turnip greens or sweet potatoes?

“You will! We will boil it until it is cooked well. It is delicious with a glass of rum.”

Nadine kept the smile in place as she walked toward the still. It fascinated her. She watched as several men with sleeves and trousers rolled high began to scrub their feet in a nearby stream. Others removed medium-sized barrels of molasses that hung along the sides of the carts, then carried the ponderous objects upon their heads while holding convenient handles. Soon a production line of sorts had formed. Some men, usually the older ones, removed the barrels while others transported the molasses. Still another set stood by to ensure the molasses tumbled directly into the openings of the still, and not on the ground. Large vats were placed at the end of tubular shoots, ready to catch the precious vapors that transformed into rum once the distilling process had begun.

Conversation was at a minimum during this process. Nondescript grunts and sounds passed between the men, who knew the job as well as they knew themselves. Only the men working near the still talked and laughed as if pumping themselves up for a football game. Nadine smiled when an occasional lyric burst forth from an extremely motivated worker.

As the men traded jobs, keeping the molasses supply high, the vapors filled the tubes, forcing brown rum downward into the colorful vats. As time passed Nadine wondered if more rum was flowing from the still or was being consumed by the men working there. The potent liquid flowed all around. The women drank more modestly than the men; the musicians imbibed the most.

Catherine had been right. Nadine found black pudding delicious, and even the small glass of rum she drank along with it was beginning to taste pretty good.

“You know what? This is the second glass of alcohol I have ever drank,” Nadine confided to Catherine. “The first time was about five years ago. Afterwards, I was a total mess. Everything was funny to me, and on top of that, I fell asleep while the party was still going on.”

“Sometimes it is good to be free of control, Miss Nadine. Enjoy yourself, I will make sure no harm comes to you here,” Catherine encouraged, passing her another piece of pudding.

Nadine took the pudding and Catherine at her word, but she also determined to make the one glass of rum last her until she returned to the house.

A stirring melody from a flat string instrument rose above all the other sounds as the musicians' festive mood heightened. The workers' movements became dance-like. Amorous females even handed them an occasional blossom. The men laughed boisterously as they placed the flowers behind their ears with undaunted flair.

The musicians had set up their ensemble near the donkey carts. Not far away, three men stepped in unison from side to side, dipping, swaying, then leaping. Nadine snapped her fingers along with the dancers as their steps became faster and more elaborate.

Suddenly, the sounds of gaiety trickled into silence. One of the workers pointed in the direction of the hill. A small band of people approaching the still could be seen in the distance. All eyes fixed upon them. As they came closer, Nadine realized all of the men were wearing their kerchiefs like headbands, while the women wore no head wraps at all. Instead they too wore headbands made of tiny stone tablets strung together like beads. As a matter of fact, all of their jewelry was made from the same beautiful material, carved with intricate patterns. The strangers wore it on their ears and necks, wrists and ankles. The sunshine amplified the polished earthen colors which ranged from orange to a slate-gray.

The strangers were somewhat darker, more muscular, and shorter than the workers. Somehow Nadine knew they
were
different in more than looks. Their clothing reminded her of the traditional clothing worn by some Native Americans. They used the same linen material worn by the workers, but the strangers decorated the cloth with stones and patterns of woven reed. The men's tops were long, accompanied by calf-length trousers, whereas the women wore skirts fringed and decorated with a combination of frayed reeds and stones. Their waist-length tops were finished in the same manner.

Even Catherine, who had become quite animated under the influence of the rum, was observing them with a watchful eye.