First Chapter: "The Salt Roads"

He started walking out, stopped in the doorway. Looked back at John. Bit his lip. John had been making him laugh just before the centipede stung, telling him the story about the screech owl who went a-courting. The book-keeper shook his head, jumped onto a cart that was heading back to the fields that were being cut. Tipingee watched until the book-keeper was well gone before she went to kneel by John. Handsome, he was. Strong and tall with dark, smooth skin. Vain, too; she could smell the coconut oil he had used to make his hair gleam. "John? Hopping John?" No answer. John was curled up into a ball, breathing in little sips. Not good. Mer had taught Tipingee to look out for that. Nothing to do till she got here, though.

For all that he was good-looking, John's breath was bad, like boiled rice that had gone rotten. From eating poorly, most of the slaves lost their teeth, one by one.

"Don't know. Mer's coming." The overseer shouted at Oreste, so he got back to loading the crushers. Before the overseer could see, Tipingee tossed the gnawed cane trash onto the floor and kicked leaves over it. She looked through the door that led deeper into the factory. The heavy odour of hot syrup from the big copper boilers climbed up inside her nose. Over by the boilers, Martinique dipped her thumb and forefinger into the smallest copper, testing the teache inside to see if it was thick enough. She was skilled at it, was training Hector. No chatter in the factory this time. Everyone was waiting to see if Hopping John would live.

Tipingee peered outside again. There she came. Ti-Bois was dragging her by the hand, like he didn't realise she was getting old. Sometimes Tipingee forgot too; could only remember Mer's strong hands, her eyes deep, the muscles of her thighs as she scissored her legs around Tipingee's waist. Mer always been there for her: shipmates; sisters before Tipingee's blood came; wives to each other after, even when they had had husbands. Tipingee stepped out the door. "Honour, matant!" she called out over the racket of the sugar-making. "Hopping John's in here!" "Respect!" Mer cried, returning Tipingee's greeting. In a sudden trough of silence, Tipingee heard when John pushed out one quiet breath.

All of the Ginen on Sacré Coeur plantation were grateful to have Mer as their doctress. Belle Espoir further down the way had only Jean Rigaud; the young, timid white man whose job it was to treat the Ginen on both Belle Espoir and Sacré Coeur when they sickened. People died faster on Belle Espoir; after six years of labour, maybe eight. Living twelve years in this land- the time it had taken for Mer to lose a child and a husband- meant that Mer had earned her place among the Ginen as one of the elders. So if she and Tipingee wanted to play madivinèz with each other like some young girls did while they were waiting for marriage, well, plenty of the Ginen felt life was too brief to fret about that. So long as Tipingee was doing her duty by her husband, most people swallowed their bile and left them be. Tipingee esteemed her Patrice for that, how he had never tried to take the joy of Mer from her. Another man would have beat her. Patrice had gotten to know that her love was bigger for having so many to love: him; her child Marie-Claire; Mer. She thought about Patrice often; hoped he was happy on his grand marronage, run away from the plantation and left her more than a year now. She missed his laugh and the feel in their bed of his strong hand on her hip. She missed dancing the kalenda too with her sweet light-footed man, but she hoped he was still free.

Mer came in, took one look at John, shooed Ti-Bois back off to the field to pick up cane trash. He whined he wanted to stay, but she got that voice. Tipingee knew that voice well. You never thought but to obey it. She'd seen the book-keeper himself hop quick sometimes when Mer used that voice. So off went Ti-Bois. Mer looked around. People could see them, so she just touched Tipingee on her shoulder, quick and then gone.

"Tipingee, soul." That warm touch would stay with Tipingee till evening, when she could see her Mer again, run her hands under Mer's dress, feel the smooth hard of her flesh.

Mer knelt by John, called his name, put her cheek to his mouth to feel his breathing. His lids were slack. Tipingee could see crescent moons of his eyeballs, peeking out. Not good. Mer touched John's cheek and his eyes fluttered, opened. He grasped Mer's wrist, tried to lift his head. Mer helped. Tipingee could see John's lips moving, but she couldn't hear over the racket. What was he saying?

He stopped talking, but didn't close his mouth. His stare stayed planted over Mer's shoulder. Mer lowered him back down, put a gentle hand on his chest. She stayed so a little while, then looked over at Tipingee, grinning a smile sharp enough to cut. "Gone," she hissed. A tear oozed down her cheek; another. "Gods be praised, Tipingee! Another one has escaped."

Copyright © 2003 by Nalo Hopkinson