Paradise
Chapter 1
The ships came today. From my place working among Father’s sugarcane fields, I saw the tips of their sails rising over the cane, ominous white triangles against the blue sky, like predator sharks in the ocean. The ships come to our island every other summer—just once—anytime from mid-May to late June, before the monsoons begin. They come to cull girls from the poorest island families, those desperate enough to sell one child so the others may eat.
Thankfully, my family is not poor—not that poor, at least. Father has promised he will never take me to town when the ships, and the men who sail them, are here. He will never put me on display in the public square to see what price I can fetch. He will never.
But he told me this before Caden was born. Now I wonder.
There are six of us to feed, plus my five cousins. Eleven mouths. Eleven growing bodies, I have heard Father lament to Mother late at night when they thought me asleep.
I am the oldest, and we are all daughters except the last. You’d have thought that when my little brother was born, there would have been much rejoicing in our home. I rejoiced, if for no other reason than because it meant the plantation would stay in our family. It would become my brother’s someday and not end up in the hands of one of my despicable cousins. It was a false hope. We did not celebrate my brother.
Each time after my mother gave birth, Father left her room and met our eager faces, smiling as he told us the name of our newest sister. After my brother’s birth, nearly two years ago, he did not leave Mother’s side for many hours. And when he did finally come to greet the anxious faces of his daughters, he bore no gentle smile.
“You have a brother. We have not named him. He may not live another day.”
But Caden did live. He lived all that day, and the next and the next, defying the odds, and at last my parents dared name him, their little boy whose frail body had more wrong than right about it.
I think of Caden now, of the way I left him this morning, the way I leave him every morning, lying on his back on the floor. Mother has made many soft blankets to cushion his skin from the sores that come from lying in the same position day after day. My sisters take turns holding him. They carry him around and speak to him, telling of all the things he cannot see.
The evenings are my time with Caden. Each night I hold him and help him eat his dinner. His misshapen lips and teeth make eating difficult. Feeding him takes much patience, and afterward we are often both a mess. I never mind. He is my brother, and I love him.
Once, a physician visiting our town told my mother that Caden’s mouth and legs could be fixed. It would require a trip to the largest of our group of islands. It would also require money our family does not have. So at night, I continue to feed my brother. And I hope and pray for a miracle that will mend at least some of his parts that came broken.
My thoughts have left me distracted from work. As I begin to swing my machete again, I glance over my shoulder, wondering that Father has not scolded me. The cane is ripe, and we must harvest it all. Every minute of every day counts during the gathering. We work from dawn to dark without stopping for more than a dipper of water or a bite of bread.
I turn to look behind me, but Father is gone.
I work longer than usual, both hoping to make up for Father’s continued absence and to put off returning to the house and facing . . . what? I do not know. But the feeling of unease growing inside since I saw the sails is now a stone weighing me down so I can hardly move. My arms and legs and back scream at me to stop working. My mind tells me to stay hidden among the cane. I am safe here.
I am safe at home, too. He promised.
By now the day’s events in the square are over. Tomorrow they will resume, and in the evening the men will take their prizes and row toward their ships, anchored in the deep water of the harbor. Mothers and daughters will weep. Fathers and brothers will wear grim expressions. In the quiet of my bedroom, I will fall to my knees and thank God that I am not among those leaving.
The dinner bell rings. In the fields, it is only a faint sound. My cousins will have left by now, cleaned up, and be lingering near the house. Mother will worry when I am not with them.
What if Father is not there either? I gather my skirt and run along the cleared rows. If Father is not at the house, I do not want Mother to be afraid for me—the way I have been afraid for myself.
I arrive in the yard, breathless and dirty, as the last person files into the house. I make quick use of the water pump, wiping sweat from my face and grime from my fingers as best I can. It is now full dark; I can scarce see to take two steps. Inside, lamps are lit, and light shines from my home. The kitchen curtains are tied back, and I watch from outside as everyone crowds onto the benches on either side of the long table. They talk and laugh amongst themselves. Mother carries the steaming platters. My sister Morsenna holds Caden.
Does he miss me? Does he even realize I am late?
Lewella and Glynis chase each other around the table. Mother scolds them. Elain sits in the window seat, her nose buried in a book as usual, her mind, no doubt, in another world. Jealousy surges through me. Mere months separate Elain and me, yet our responsibilities are vastly different. I work with Father; she stays in to help Mother—or so she claims. Though we both love books, she seems to find far more time than I to enjoy them.
On the heels of my jealousy, fear for her crawls up my spine. Father has promised that I should never be sold in the square, but what of Elain? Has he made that same promise to her? To each of my sisters? Elain’s time at home has left her far better prepared than I to be a wife. And while Mother would miss her help, one of our younger sisters could step in to take Elain’s place. But I am the only one who knows how to work the fields of cane. Countless times Father has told me our plantation would not survive without my help.
You are as valuable as two of your male cousins, he has told me. For that reason alone, I should never worry over being sold or sent away. Yet I do, and now I add worry for my sister to the burden.
The closer I come to the house, the more the scene I view through the window haunts me. They would carry on like this, just like this, if I were not here.
Where is Father? With nearly everyone seated, his chair remains vacant.
As I hurry across the yard, I see him at last. He is standing beneath the eave of the front porch, waiting, watching me. His hands hang at his sides, slack and open, as if they are about to be raised in appeal to—what? He looks more tense than tired. His shirt is not dirty as it should be after a day of harvesting.
“You are late.” There is neither accusation nor question in his voice.
“You were gone.” There are both accusation and question in mine. I lift my head to look straight into his eyes as he has taught me.
He does not flinch or turn away, and the bleakness I see in his expression turns my fear to an almost tangible thing. I want to run away but instead climb the steps to go into the house. He places his hand on my shoulder as I pass. It feels heavy, far heavier than I ever remember.
“Ceri, I went to town. I am sorry.”