Mercy Cried No

Carol Sammy

Description

At the age of 18, Quintel Jones is faced with situations and challenges that demand a hasty step into maturity and manhood. In coping with a sick mother and impoverished circumstances, he is forced to grapple with realities that are often tough, while maintaining a heart for what is tender. Strong, determined and sometimes feeling battered, he stoically holds on to what is left of any dreams he harboured. He must fight for his mother's life, ensure his own survival and find joy in the people helping to shape the outcome of his existence.

Sujets

• Religion

Informations

• Publié par: Hansib Publications
• Date de parution: 01 février 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910553749
• Langue: English

Extrait

MERCY CRIED NO
Carol Sammy
First published by Hansib Publications in 2015

Hansib Publications Limited
P.O. Box 226, Hertford, Hertfordshire, SG14 3WY
United Kingdom
[e-mail]

www.hansibpublications.com

Copyright Carol Holas, 2015

ISBN: 978-1-910553-25-1
eISBN: 978-1-910553-74-9
Kindle ISBN: 978-1-910553-75-6

All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying
recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission
of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

Previous Title by Carol Sammy
Dilemmas of Deokie

Production
Hansib Publications Limited

Printed in Great Britain
To my mother,
For giving me the best start she could
So, show me, son
How to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
once upon a time when I was like you
- Gabriel Okara -
CHAPTER 1
Even on a Caribbean island there is, and doubtless always will be, something tragically intriguing about a person falling from a coconut tree to his death below. Notwithstanding, one time when it did happen, the incident in itself appeared not to be significant enough to inspire a more sympathetic headline in one small newspaper than Tree of Death .
The sight of a coconut tree, the most frivolous looking of all trees, elegantly curved and silhouetted against its celestial backdrop, has a certain effect on many people - it represents the tropics, where skies are blue, birds are colourful and noisy and life is pleasant and easygoing. When suddenly it forms a part of death, and no hurricane or other natural disaster has been involved in the case, the situation can take on an eerie, preternatural element within the subconscious.
Well, so it felt, and the feeling was strong, to the young man of eighteen standing under the very tree at that moment. Images of his friend falling off the top flashed across his memory, and grief seized him. Disbelief and perplexity got added to his sense of loss, charged his pain further, for he recalled they had both been up and down the tree so many times, and no matter how often he thought about it, it just didn t seem to make sense. Neither had suspected that they were up against any harm or danger. So to be suddenly faced with the reality of death, resulting from one of many innocent activities that supplied so much happiness to him and his friend, was hard to take. It kept striking him as whimsical and insane, leaving him in a state of angry confusion, like right now. He leaned against the tree, telling himself humourlessly he didn t care if a coconut fell on his head. It was a momentary aberration; his mother quickly came to mind. Arms folded, he stared down at the ground, a sad, desolate figure.
The boy stood under the tree in the front, left-hand corner of a large plot of land, belonging to an abandoned property that was surrounded by a sturdy wire fence. It was understood that the owner lived abroad and the place was in the care of someone who visited about once a month to clear the bush and preserve a semblance of order. It was a very small semblance, for the house, overhung by thick trees, had become dilapidated, and the land surrounding it was in bushy disarray. Not surprisingly, then, the property had taken on a secretive, mysterious quality that had drawn the friends like a magnet, where they spent idle hours whenever they could. The gate at the front was always padlocked, but they could scale this and any part of the fence and its high bollards with ease. There were also sections of the fence that were loose, enabling quick entry from beneath. They enjoyed occasional outdoor cooks behind the house, from where there was no risk of being seen, camped out under the stars on the odd occasion, and didn t allow the fruits on the trees to waste. They knew how to climb each of the larger ones with their eyes closed, including the tall coconut tree to the front. At times they did this only for the fun of it, not once suspecting that their activities, that tree and the overall situation would become their lasting enemies.
He heard again in his head the noise of the thud when the body hit the ground, of bones breaking. His efforts to eradicate sounds and images failed, and he felt once more the horror that followed. The quiet road running along the front of the property was only a few yards away, separated from him by the fence, and a man went jogging past. The large, pretty expanse of Palmiste Park was situated opposite, and the busy main road lay up ahead. This was the attractive, residential area of Palmiste, along the SS Erin road, and morning and evening residents made full use of the park for running and walking. The two boys used to watch them at times, marching out to and from the park - Indo, Afro and white Trinidadians, as well as expatriates of different races and nationalities.
The jogger, startled into breaking his momentum at the sight of the lonely figure standing so motionless, backed up a few paces and stopped. Through the wire he looked at the young person in silent distress, and bobbed his head in sudden recognition.
Quintel? Is that you?
Quintel swiftly looked up, and had no choice but to acknowledge the person addressing him. It was Carlyle Seecharan, one of the wealthy residents of Palmiste, who Quintel knew well and sometimes worked for.
Afternoon, Mr Carlyle, Quintel responded in a glum voice, and the older man frowned. Resting his hands on his hips he called out, What wrong, boy? Everything okay with you?
Quintel didn t answer, not because he didn t want to, he just couldn t figure what answer to give.
How is your mother? Carlyle suddenly asked. You look worried.
Quintel shifted and continued to hesitate, and Carlyle moved over to the grass verge to wipe his running shoes over it. He glanced at Quintel and then kept his gaze on him, calling out, Come, come over here, then, Climb over and come!
This time it was a benevolent command and the boy decided to obey. He scaled the wieldy fence like a monkey and landed on the other side with an acrobatic bounce, before moving towards the other man with some reluctance. Carlyle gave him a bright, inquisitive look.
I hope you re not in any trouble.
No, Quintel assured him.
So then, what s wrong?
Quintel mentioned his dead friend with respectful brevity and Carlyle knew immediately what he was talking about. The concern he showed was instant, and Quintel found himself appreciating what little comfort he got from it.
We really wondered who it was that got killed, Carlyle went on meditatively. What a way to die, eh?
Quintel gave an unhappy nod. Carlyle s tone changed and he said briskly, Well, walk home with me, nuh, I might have a little job for you.
They started walking together.
So you re really finished with school, or you re going to study something? Carlyle wanted to know.
I done with school, Quintel replied, looking a little shame-faced. So what exactly you plan to do with yourself, boy? Carlyle asked almost incredulously, on a half-laugh.
Quintel thought of his newly acquired weedwacker with sudden pride.
Plenty thing, he stated with confidence. I cut people grass for them, clean up around their house, wash their vehicles. Same sort o thing I do for you sometimes. And I get work with a building contractor on a regular basis.
Carlyle seemed pleased to hear this. If you re planning to become a full-time handyman, you have to treat it like a business. Accumulate regular clients, keep a ledger, save your money, all that.
I been trying. Quintel replied quietly, not bothering to add how hard it was.
Keep trying. It s easier said than done but you have to persevere.
Quintel knew that all too well, but he managed to look as if he was receiving good advice he had never heard before. He had always liked Mr Carlyle, a friendly Indian man with an amiable face and forthcoming way. He spoke casually with an interesting mixture of correct English and Trinidadian lingo, but there was the sense that at any time he could burst into erudite language, if he had a mind to. It was generally the case with many well-off, educated business-people, and Carlyle Seecharan fitted the bill.
They got to the house, large and opulent, with its sweeping drive, lawns and landscaped surrounds, and Quintel followed Carlyle to one of the trees at the back, looking around him with appreciation as they went. Carlyle stopped and looked up at his fruit tree.
This one needs trimming, he explained, but it have about five big djep nests up there. You think you could chop off those branches and make the tree look nice? I don t want to risk it and get stung.
That s right, Quintel thought, send me instead for them to kill me up there. Jack Spaniards were notorious for their excruciating poison, and Quintel had had enough run-ins with them in the past to render him pretty worried now. The wasps built their nests anywhere, especially on and around houses, effortlessly terrorising the home owners. Quintel remembered being stung on his upper lip once, so that he walked around for over two days looking as if his lower lip had disappeared from his face. Right now he was thinking fast.
I ll pay you extra for the risk, Carlyle said suddenly.
Quintel walked around the tree, carefully taking note of where each nest was situated. They were all covered with clusters of wasps, the vicious little creatures that everyone had to treat with respect. Quintel nodded.
Mr Carlyle, you have any kerosene and a small pan? I go need a long stick, too, and something to cover my face.
Fifteen minutes later Quintel was ready to climb the tree. He had tied a milo tin with wire to the end of a sturdy pole and filled the ti