The Secret Life of Josephine: Napoleon's Bird of Paradise Page 2

  All my life, it seemed, we had been fighting the British. They coveted our islands, the Windward Islands. Above all they wanted our island of Martinique.

  “My father worries that they will invade Martinique and take our plantation.”

  “Then we must hope that if they come, I and my brother officers will defend you.” He smiled. ‘And in any event, I do not think they will come tonight.”

  I took off my slippers and stockings and we walked along the beach, in the smooth white sand, avoiding the scuttling crabs and staying out of the way of the incoming waves that flung themselves up onto the shore in a froth of white. Scipion held my hand tightly, and I gripped his in return. He bent down and brushed my cheek with his lips.

  “How old are you, Rose?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He drew back in surprise.

  “You look eighteen at least. But then, if you were eighteen, you would probably be married. Girls marry early here, I understand.” “I have no dowry.”

  “Ah. Good breeding but no money. A familiar situation. Still, you have beauty.”

  I warmed to his words, suddenly wishing my father wasn’t poor. Would Scipion want to marry me, I wondered, if I had a dowry of twenty thousand livres like my cousin Julie, Uncle Robert’s daughter?

  We walked on a ways in silence. Presently we came to a rocky outcrop that marked the end of the beach.

  “Behind these rocks there’s a cave,” I told Scipion. “The old Carib chiefs used to hold their ceremonies there. They sacrificed animals to their gods, and prayed for rain, and healed people of their diseases.”

  “The priests say that’s just heathen nonsense. Only the Christian God has such powers.”

  “A Carib chief healed our priest at Les Trois-Ilets when he nearly died of fever.”

  “It was your prayers, Bird of Paradise, that cured him.”

  I didn’t argue. I knew that many outsiders to our island did not believe in the power of the Carib gods, or the African gods the slaves worshipped. But then, there were many who no longer believed in the Christian god either, especially in France. Or so I had heard my father’s friends say.

  The last part of our walk was the best. I will never forget how I felt as Scipion escorted me back along the beach and through the garden to Uncle Robert’s mansion. We hardly spoke at all, but our feelings spoke for us. How my heart pounded when he kissed me under the mango tree! And how sad was our parting as he left me there, promising to Visit me at Les Trois-Ilets as soon as he could.

  I cried, I rejoiced, I danced, I despaired. I was not the same from one moment to the next. How could I be, when I was so giddy from the lateness of the hour, the exertion, the lingering effect of the rum punch—and most of all, the touch of his hand and the feel of his lips there in the dark garden, under the spreading mango tree.

  2

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON I SET OUT, all on my own, to climb the tall volcanic mountain called Morne Gantheaume in search of Orgulon, the most feared of all the quimboiseurs, our island sorcerers. It was a hot afternoon, but as soon as I entered the dim green rain forest that cloaked the hillside I felt cool under its shady canopy. Slippery wet leaves beneath my feet made walking difficult, and the farther I went into the greenish depths of the forest the more I had to push my way past liana vines and creepers that caught in my hair and clutched at my gown.

  No one except my maid Euphemia knew where I was. Had they known, my parents would have sent some of the slaves after me and punished me by locking me in my room or forbidding me to ride my mare for a month. Euphemia had tried to dissuade me from going to look for Orgulon, calling me a ninny and a lovesick fool.

  “Now I ask you,” she said to me as I was preparing to leave, “how stupid can one girl be? Don’t you know Orgulon can kill you with one look? Haven’t I told you about those bad quimboiseurs from the time you were a little girl, afraid of the dark and clinging to me while I sang you to sleep?”

  Euphemia had been there all my life, taking care of me, warning me about the things that come in the night to do harm. She seemed very old and wise and I had always heeded what she said. She wasn’t like the other

  African slaves on our plantation, for she had very light cafe-au-lait skin and she spoke the Creole French of the Grands Blancs with hardly a trace of an African accent. It was understood that she was my half-sister, the daughter of one of my father’s African mistresses. She was clearly worried about me now, and when she worried, she scolded.

  “I heard a story in the marketplace about Orgulon,” she went on. “He made a man’s heart shrivel up inside his body, just because he didn’t like the way the man was whistling!”

  “That’s just another idle tale from the marketplace. Most of what you hear there isn’t true, Euphemia, and you know it.”

  “Oh, I believe this. This really happened.”

  “I’ve heard frightening stories too. But now I need Orgulon’s help. I must have a charm to make Scipion du Roure love me. I must know my future. Will I marry him?”

  “This man you just met last night, at the ball. This Scipion. This is the one you want to risk your life over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you may never see him again.”

  “My heart tells me I will see him—and that he will love me. But I must be sure. I must have a charm! And Orgulon has the best ones. The strongest ones. Everybody says so.”

  Euphemia threw up her hands and said something in her mother’s language, the Ibo tongue, and turned away from me. She said nothing further until I was going out the door.

  “Don’t go blaming me if you get killed up there on Morne Gantheaume. I tried to tell you not to go.”

  “If I get killed, I can’t very well blame anybody, can I?”

  As I made my way along beneath the green canopy, my feet slipping on the rotting leaves, I began to feel uneasy. I had heard that Orgulon lived in a cave high up on the mountain, at a place called the Sacred Crossroads, a place of ceremonies, but I had never been there and only knew of it from hearing the slaves gossip as they went about their work. I trusted that all paths going up the mountainside would lead to the Sacred Crossroads. But as the path turned upward and became steep, and the going got much harder, I began to wonder whether my assumption was correct.

  The path twisted and turned, winding upward out of the jungle and around sharp jutting boulders, past shallow caves where water dripped and formed pools. Birds called in the thick underbrush and on the higher slopes above I could glimpse mountain goats with tall horns. Here and there a rockslide obscured the path and made the climb so difficult that I almost turned back. But just then I caught sight of something strange: a cairn of rocks with the bodies of many small birds, their entrails spilling out, arranged in a circle.

  It must be a sign, I thought. A sign that I am on the path to the Sacred Crossroads.

  My slippers had become clumps of mud and my toes squelched with each step. My gown too was muddy, and my long hair, which was full of twigs, had come free of its fastenings and spilled down my back and over my cheeks. I longed for a cool drink and a bath, but I kept on, climbing higher, heartened by fresh discoveries of cairns with the bodies of slain toucans and macaws.

  Clouds covered the top of Morne Gantheaume and it was beginning to rain, a hard rain that pelted down on the rotting leaves, when I first heard the drumming. It was a low, distant sound, hardly more than a whisper at first, but as I climbed higher the noise became louder and more distinct. I had often heard the slaves drumming at night at Les Trois-Ilets, I knew the sound well. I moved toward it now, confident that I was close to finding Orgulon.

  The sound of the drums grew louder, and I could discern singing and clapping. There was an electricity in the air, I sensed the presence of others though I could not yet see them.

  Suddenly the growth on either side of the path gave way and I found myself at the edge of a large clearing. There must have been a hundred slaves, the men in nothing but loincloths, the women
in thin shifts, some with babies in their arms, all moving to the rhythm of the drums. At the center of the clearing was a thick tree trunk, the tree having been severed, and standing on the trunk was a tall, thin old man wearing a red cloak and with red feathers in his scraggly grey hair. Though clearly elderly he was powerful, with his necklace of shark’s teeth and bits of what looked like shriveled flesh, his skin a rich glowing black and his long, thin arms outstretched, his head flung back as if in rapturous expectation.

  I was so awestruck at the sight of the clearing, the dancing people and above all the red-cloaked man that I forgot to consider what effect I myself might have. A dishevelled young girl in a muddy linen gown and dirty slippers, a girl of the Grand Blancs, entering the ceremonies at the

  Sacred Crossroads—for that is what I assumed the place to be—was bound to evoke a reaction.

  But to my amazement, the dancers appeared to take no notice of me whatsoever. So intent were they on their dancing and singing, so caught up in the rhythm of the drums, that I was not even a momentary distraction. Hurriedly I retreated to the safety of the path, and hid in the thick wet undergrowth.

  How long I stayed there I do not remember. Quite possibly I too was caught up in the sounds and rhythms around me, and lost track of time. The afternoon sun was already below the top of Morne Gantheaume and the sky was beginning to glow with the fiery reds and pinks of sunset when the drumming stopped and Orgulon (I had no doubt it was the great quimboiseur Orgulon himself) began to speak. In a loud voice he half-talked, half-chanted in an African language, while a fire was lit and scented herbs were thrown into it to suffuse the air with pungent odors.

  A huge sow was led in, squealing and protesting, and Orgulon took a cane knife and slit her throat. Immediately the celebrants rushed forward to catch the blood of the dying animal in hollow coconut shells and drink it, anointing themselves with what remained until the entire clearing, or so it seemed from my vantage point, was red with gore.

  I had had nothing to eat or drink since leaving home hours earlier, and I was beginning to feel queasy and ill. The metallic smell of the sow’s blood turned my stomach. I longed to run down the mountain and return home, but I was far too tired. I lay flat on the sodden earth and closed my eyes, willing my nausea to pass.

  3

  I MUST HAVE SLEPT, for when I again became aware of my surroundings it was dark, I was very cold and the sky was full of stars—the brilliant stars of Martinique, which are not like white diamonds in the sky but come in many colors: flashing red, bright yellow, brilliant blue. I raised myself up on one elbow and saw that the clearing was empty, the fire gone to glowing embers. I had an urge to go nearer to the fire, to draw whatever warmth I could from it. I began to stand up, feeling my limbs stiff and sore, when a voice stopped me.

  “Don’t move!” I recognized the voice. It was Orgulon, and the words he spoke were French. But I could not see him. “Stay where you are, girl!”

  Shivering with cold and fear, I obeyed as best I could. I heard a loud thump, then another and another. I shut my eyes tightly and gritted my teeth.

  “There. It is all right now. It’s dead.”

  I opened my eyes. Orgulon, in his red cloak, stood before me, holding a long dangling thing by its tail.

  “The fer-de-lance. It came for you. I felt it coming. I knew you must not die. So I killed it.” He turned and walked into the clearing, and as he passed the dying fire he threw the carcass of the snake into it.

  My heart was beating very fast and I was panting for breath. Orgulon had killed the snake that was going to kill me—for the bite of the dreaded fer-de-lance is always deadly. Orgulon saved my life. The great quimboiseur who might have killed me with a glance had used his power to preserve me.

  I scrambled to my feet and followed him to the opposite end of the clearing, where an open-fronted tent had been erected and a blanket spread out on the wet earth. A calabash full of water, a plate of fried plantains and a flagon of rum were laid on the blanket. Orgulon stretched himself out and began to eat and drink.

  I approached the tent slowly. With a rough, impatient gesture he beckoned me to come closer. I saw that his hands were clawlike, with long cracked yellow nails. I wondered how old he was. Quimboiseurs were said to live for centuries, and to have no fear of death.

  “Revered Monsieur Orgulon, I thank you for saving my life.” I heard my voice tremble as I spoke, and realized that I was still recovering from the terror I had felt only moments earlier.

  He looked up from his plate of plantains. I saw that he was grotesquely ugly, blind in one eye and with few remaining teeth. An odor of rot emanated from him, a stink so strong it made me want to draw back.

  “You think you are here to see me. No. I will tell you what you need to know. You have a life across the great water. I saved you so you could live that life. A demon sent the snake. Beware of that demon! I killed the creature, but not the one that sent him.”

  Impulsively I interrupted Orgulon. “Will I marry Scipion du Roure?”

  The old man waved his hand dismissively. “He does not matter. You do. You have been saved for a purpose.” He went back to his food and drink, and though I asked him several more questions, he ignored me. I stood waiting, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth, unsure what I should do. At length he ate the last of the plantains and drank deeply from the flagon, wiping his mouth with the back of his clawlike hand.

  As if at a signal two men with lit torches came toward the tent and removed the plate and brought Orgulon a long pipe, which he began to smoke. He spoke a few words to the men in a language I did not understand. They went back into the bush and reemerged with a sort of hammock slung between two poles. They motioned to me to lie down in the hammock and, exhausted as I was, I gladly did as they indicated. I felt no fear, only weariness as, hoisting the sling onto their shoulders so that I was suspended between them, the two men set off along the path that led down the mountain, under the brilliant stars.

  4

  I HAD EXPECTED to find Les Trois-Ilets in turmoil on my return from Morne Gantheaume. My father, I thought, would be out looking for me with search parties of slaves and members of the local militia, which he commanded. My mother and grandmother would be frantic with worry, Euphemia would be weeping hysterically and even my sister Manette, young as she was at only eleven, would be awake and wondering where I had gone and why I had stayed there so long.

  But in fact, all was quiet when I was set down on the veranda by the two men who had carried me down the mountain. The plantation buildings were in darkness. I made my way inside the converted sugar mill where we lived and along the hallway to my bedroom where Euphemia, wrapped in a voluminous pink nightgown, sat quietly reading by candlelight.

  “So you’re back,” she said. “At last. Now I can go to sleep.”

  Instead of being relieved and thankful that I had gotten away with my dangerous escapade I was a little annoyed. No one had missed me, apparently. Was I of such little consequence?

  Euphemia was chuckling to herself.

  “I told them you couldn’t come down to dinner because you ate some bad crabs and you were throwing up all over everything. That kept them away, I can tell you!”

  “Didn’t father come to look in on me after dinner?”

  Euphemia sniffed. “Your father is in Fort-Royal. With his quatroon mistress. Your mother was very upset. She said she had a headache and went to bed early.”

  I yawned and lay on my bed without even turning down the covers, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was.

  “I assume you did not find Orgulon.”

  “Oh, I found him,” I answered sleepily “And he talked to me.” Euphemia got up from her chair, suddenly alert, and came over to my bed.

  “Yes? What did he say? Did he frighten you?” “A snake frightened me. A fer-de-lance.”

  She gasped, crossed herself and murmured a prayer in her mother’s speech.

  “It’s all right. Orgulon killed it. He saved my
life.”

  Euphemia would not let me sleep. She demanded to know all about my journey up Morne Gantheaume and every detail of my encounter with the quimboiseur at the Sacred Crossroads. Her eyes were wide as I told her what Orgulon had said about Scipion du Roure and about my being an important person, saved for a purpose. And about the demon, and the life I would have across the great water.

  As I told the story it sounded almost too farfetched to be believed, yet she believed me. Was I imagining it, or was she a bit in awe of me from that time on, because of what Orgulon had said? She took off my muddy slippers and ruined stockings and brought a quilt to cover me, sitting beside my bed in her rocking chair and watching over me until I fell asleep.

  I slept until well past noon the next day, and when I awoke I sat in the big metal bathing tub for what seemed like hours, while Euphemia poured scalding water over me again and again, washing away the grime and mud from my scratched legs and arms. Finally I felt clean, and put on a fresh gown of lilac-colored linen for the evening meal.

  “Ah, Yeyette,” my father greeted me when I came to the table, “we’ve just been talking about you. Are you recovered?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “Good.” I sensed tension in the room, and noticed that neither my mother nor my grandmother was looking directly at me; they kept their eyes on the floor, looked out the windows, glanced at each other—but did not look in my direction.

  My father cleared his throat and took a drink from his cup of rum. “Yeyette, we have had another letter from your Aunt Edmee in Paris.”

  Aunt Edmee, my father’s lovely blond sister, wrote to us often, always urging that my sisters and I be sent to France to stay with her so that we could go to a good convent school and acquire a pure Parisian accent to replace our provincial Creole speech. We must be turned into Frenchwomen, my aunt said in all her letters, so that we could marry well and enter good society. Aunt Edmee always spoke of us in her letters as “the three sisters,” though of course we were now only two. My father replied to most of Edmee’s letters, and always said the same thing: that he could not afford to send us to France. I regretted our lack of money deeply. Nothing would have delighted me more than to make the journey to Paris.