Mother La Blesse

Mother La Blesse

A ’tory under the big immortelle

Wait gul pickney, wait, yuh blood ent flow for nothing, yuh heart ent sorrow for nought. She go come, she cow-foot going clippity clop. All ah them man who take what they want from woman, who beat woman. Who use dey own gul pickney, who abuse we. Wait, just wait…

Lemme tell allyuh ’bout Mother La Blesse. The woman who raise girls on land she did own back in the days when we people didn’t even own the clothes on dey back far less for land. And worse yet ’oman who didn’t even own dey own self or pickney. And she walk the ground Massa make she people build long after she body leave this wretched place.

Long time when pomerac was sweet and juicy, Mother La Blesse used to sit down under the sprawling pomerac tree in she estate, skirt dragging in the dirt, bowl ah fruit resting in she lap. She fingers cutting quick, salting, sprinkling shadon beni, pepper, a little sugar for balance. She chow was so good it could bring a grown man to he knees. The girls played moral and hopscotch waiting for that delicious pomerac chow.

Mother La Blesse was an enigmatic soul, a stately looking mulatto, ivory cream skin, flowing hips and shoulder broad like she could carry a whole nation. A woman who knew her power. She always dress nice, long flattering gown, boots tight up to she calves. Never showing she bare feet. Not even to cross a river.

People whisper when she pass.

“She pretty, oui… but someting off.”

And then, more hush-hush. “You know her mother was an African obeah woman.”

“You know her father was Massa Bernard .”

“He left his whole estate for his mulatto child!”

“Can you imagine, hum.”

Town and country lift eyebrows and scorn face at the mulatto who “didn’t know her place.” She didn’t plant sugar to sweet up no overseer. She didn’t boil coffee to send to no white massa house. Instead, she estate was a safe place — for girls, for women, for those who get ketch with belly, for those who fed up getting cutarse, for those who couldn’t say no to unwanted hands on dey backside, for those who just wanted a little piece ah earth to breathe easy. And she well educate them girls too.

Men want she. Women envy she. Some plot. Some bless. But one thing everybody know, doh trouble Mother La Blesse. As much as tongues gossiped, they couldn’t touch she or she girls. They say the powers ah she ancestors who break back and loss blood on that land was buried in the field by she mother. And after that everything change on that estate.

’Round de estate you could’a find little carved figurines, water spirits, bisimbis, minkisi wrap in cloth, bowls with oil, milk, honey. The ngangás, healing women, from she mother side did live right there, tending altar, drawing firmas in the dirt, lighting candle, whispering prayer in language older than slavery. Was a powerful place, yes. A place way the ancestors step light but sure.

*

One blazing evening a stranger rode into town, a white burly man with freckled sharp face, tawny skin.

Asking loud-loud. “Directions to the La Blesse Estate!”

The whole street freeze. Fowl stop mid-scratch Nobody answer. Nobody does invite theyself to La Blesse estate unless they mad or they ready to meet something they can’t out-run. The man jump off he horse and declare.

“I am Bernard’s nephew! The legitimate descendant! I have come to claim the estate in the name of Queen and Crown!”

When he reach she yard, she standing tall, gown blowing like storm breeze, eyes sharp as cutlass. He show she papers, stamp up, seal up, sign up.

He say, “I will allow you and your women to stay… as long as you provide certain small services.” Like if it was honey, he was offering she.

Mother La Blesse watch him long enough for time to sit down and rest.

Then she say cool-cool, “Turn your horse round an’ go back where yuh come from.

And if yuh take this land…Yuh go get what come with it.”

He laugh like he don’t know them words is not threat — is prophecy. He don’t know Mother Blesse was waiting for he since long before time. She feel he spirit all the way ’cross the water from France.

*

That same night, de estate shake like beating drums under de earth rocking with the power ah the supreme mother, Nzambici. Mother La Blesse made the ultimate sacrifice, just like she mother.

Mother La Blesse call all de women an’ girls. She voice heavy, soaked in old magic.

She say, “Allyuh listen. Is time for me to go. Bury me under de silk cotton tree. Sacrifice one cow on de first moon each month. Put de cow foot by de bottom ah meh grave. On de seventh month, dig up meh tailbone. Grind it to powder. Chant de old words. Scatter it on de grave. When allyuh hear de Samba drum… I coming back.”

The girls start to cry. Women start to shake dey head. Before dawn break, she lay down quiet.

She spirit slip out like candle smoke. De ngangás wash she, dress she, bind she body in white cloth, and bury she under de ancient silk cotton tree that does hold secrets and spirits in its roots.

The clouds over the estate flashed purple and red, thunder rumbled and lightening zipped across the skies. Bernard’s descendant rode into the yard ah wailing women.

When he hear she dead, he clap he hands and say, “Well, fortune favours me indeed!”

All this black magic talk from these country bumpkins about I should leave. Haa… he tell heself.

The town waited one week two weeks, a month, two months Nothing happened to Bernard’s nephew. In fact, the estate seemed to thrive under his command. The women who were once formidable was nothing under him. People warmed. The obeah of La Blesse was a forgotten whisper.

Town people start to prapra dey mouth, “she obeah fail.”

“Those women know their place now,” the crème de la crème muttered under hats.

And the men shook hands with vigour with Bernard’s nephew.

Foolishness. Dead does sleep, but obeah does wait…

*

Bernard’s nephew waste no time. He turn de estate into a gentlemen paradise. A place where business deals were brokered under the warmth of rum, food, cards, girls forced to smile and do lord knows what till dey jawbone dropping with cramp.

He let de women keep dey monthly ritual.

“Primitive superstition,” he call it. Laughing. “Doesn’t hurt to let them have something.”

Each month de heifer bawl, de women chant, de grave get its offering. But nothing happen to him. Not a rash. Not a fever. Not a nightmare.

By de sixth month he feeling so big and bold, he fly to France to visit he family, gifts flowing from the Caribbean, talking ’bout business thriving and money sweet.

Town people say, “That black magic dead with Mother La Blesse, look at how Bernard’s nephew getting along.”

Allyuh ever hear old people does say, “Trouble does take long to boil, but when it start to bubble, it fall out pot and flow over quick.”

*

De night ah de seventh moon come. Moon bright like somebody paste it in coconut oil.

De silk cotton tree tremble. De Women gather round de grave, drums calling spirits from far.

Ngangás draw firmas in white chalk, smoke rise, oil cackle like hen in a yard, candle flame dance like leggo beast in a forest. Drum sound echo across the town making ripples in the river water. They sacrifice de heifer, place de cow foot by de grave and chant de secret words. De Ngangas dance till dey foot bleed connecting to nfumbe the spirits ah the dead.

Babies scream, mothers peep through shrouded blinds, grown men secretly wish for the loving arms ah dey mothers.

People ask from behind dey cane walls, “What in the name of God are they up to over there?”

Then, peace, a lull suddenly fell over the town. Deep silence you could hear a spirit turn over in it sleep. Something rise to the sky, hovering. Waiting…

***

Next morning Bernard nephew come back, bright and chipper, ready to run he club. Tonight, would be grand he telling heself. By now some ah the men restless for the meals he offered at the club. So, he was making the preparations for the night, he hear a voice calling he name. He stop, looking at the girls. Nothing… He shake he head tiredness from the journey, he tell heself.

He hear woman voice calling he name, again. Soft. Sweet. Like sugar on fire. He shake off de feeling. Gone to he library. Drink rum. Splash water on he face.

But de voice come again.

When de knock on he door sound, he nearly jump outta he skin.

“Massa… eh… a woman by de door asking fuh you.”

“A woman? Here?”

“Yes massa. She eh from ’round here.”

He curious now. He tell dem bring she in. And when she walk in? Father God. A quadroon woman step through de door like she floating. Cream skin glowing like shiny pearl. Hair plait long. Eyes shimmer deep like water that hiding jumbie spirits.

He nearly bite he own tongue.

She curtsy. “Massa, meh name Belle, ah come lookin fuh wuk. Ah hear yuh is a good man.”

He smile like snake. “Well, Belle, I always help those in need…”

She talk ’tory ’bout running from trouble, needing shelter. He lap it up like rum punch.

What a lucky bugger I am, if her story checks out, she would surely be of great use here. If not, I’ll call a price when her master comes knocking. He tell heself. In the meantime, tonight I will have this one. Master or no master.

He carry she upstairs and gone to see ’bout he guest.

“I will be back with some food and clothing and some shoes that boots you are wearing click cloks like a cow’s hooves, my gosh”

“Yes, Massa,” she replied.

He give she room, his own room, something he never do before. He blood boiling.

He desire twist him up, belly burning whole night. He en’t know desire does call spirit same way it does call man. Midnight come, club in full swing. He slip ’way, heart pounding.

“I’d be back soon, gentlemen,”

***

Belle quite in de room, back turned. She stand up facing him with a curtsy as he come in. Smile slow. He outstretched arms bearing offerings, fresh nightgown, shoes and food. He put down the food and bag and uncoil the heavy braid that tumble down she back.

“Step closer Belle.” He throat dry with thirst.

He unzip she dress. Bend she back on de bed. And just as he put hand on she.

He hear Mother La Blesse voice, clear as a bell, “Now yuh go get what come with it.”

Belle face still sweet. But she foot — Lord Father — the foot shining in de moonlight like fresh-cut meat. A Cow foot. He try to scream. He whole body lock. He fall heavy. Dead weight. Dead man with open mouth and bulging red eyes.

Belle lean in, whispering. “Trouble tell yuh it was coming.”

*

From that night, every man who ever drink, play card, or put hand where it wasn’t welcome on that estate meet dey own doom. Quietly, suddenly, badly.

One fall off ah he horse. One drown in one inch ah water.

One gone mad, bawling in St. Ann’s, “She coming for me! De woman with de cow foot coming for me!”

Women on de estate? Safe. Stronger than ever.

Mother La Blesse estate return to peace; guarded by spirit, bone, blood, and justice.

And if yuh pass by that silk cotton tree on a Samba night, sometimes yuh does hear hoof beat and a woman voice laughing sweet like pomerac chow.

“Doh trouble trouble if trouble doh trouble yuh.”

If yuh trouble woman, Mother La Blesse she go come…