Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Six
Water pours from the sky, hard and fast, crashing into the earth like a locomotive slamming into a brick wall. I sit up in my cot, wide awake, peering out of the small hole in my hut where a window would be if I lived in a civilized town.
Massive sheets of rain tumble from the endless black sky. Thoughts of Noah’s ark cross my mind. If the rain never stops, will Accompong float away? Will I be washed out to sea? How far am I from the nearest ocean?
The rain crashes against the ground: splat, boom, splat, boom. I hide my head under a thin cloth, hoping the noise will cease. I remain this way for hours, curled into a ball, trembling and praying until exhaustion overcomes my fear and I fall asleep.
Silence awakens me. My first instinct is to peer through the hole in the wall. Is the hut a raft now? Am I floating on a river?
Surprise! Accompong is dry. Aside from a few puddles, dawn’s sunlight has already burned off any water that might have pooled.
I quickly get dressed and leave the house, calling out to Katherine to let her know I’m heading out early to gather bugs. I want to talk to Robbie about the rain. What does he think of the storms, the heavy downpour, and the howling winds?
“Honestly, it’s not that much rain.”
“It’s not raining that much?” I exclaim in horrified disbelief. “You must be crazy.”
He laughs. “It’s the season. We should expect sudden heavy rainstorms, strong winds, and hurricanes. These intense bursts of rainfall are nature’s way of releasing the earth’s tension—that’s all.”
“We didn’t have hurricanes in Chicago.”
“It’s just a lot more wind and rain—similar to the storm on the SSTalamanca, but on land instead of at sea.”
I feel as though he’s laughing at me, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t have much fondness for Robbie Barnes.
A few days later, I’m over my hurt feelings and have forgiven him. I am also getting used to Accompong’s heat, mud, mosquitoes, and even the occasional snake slithering through the grass. Just don’t let me get cornered by one of those giant rats the Jamaicans call mongooses. I’ll have to pull out my switchblade.
On the other hand, I believe Momma Hazel likes me. She has come to my rescue, giving me ointments and herbal potions—Obeah magic, I call it—for my insect bites, irritated skin from so much sweating, and the sore back I’ve developed from helping Robbie dig in the dirt for plants I’ve never heard of.
Accompong is no heaven, but it’s better than the hell I was dealing with in Chicago, minus the gin and the Italian beef. Especially now that I’ve discovered I have so many talents. Not only the dance notation for Katherine, but I have somethingfor Robbie, too. I can draw. Details, details, details. I guess I love them.
“Today, we’re going to study limestone karst formations,” Robbie begins each day we’re together with a lesson. It feels like being back in school.
“Karst what?” I ask as we walk through a valley filled with the Cockpit’s limestone karst topography—fancy words for sinkholes, caves, underground rivers, and steep, rugged hills. Robbie also describes the region as having limited seasonal water, a lie he repeats to taunt me after that scare when the deluge of rain terrified me.
“Today, we’re checking on the pimento trees,” Robbie says, explaining that the dried berries from these trees produce allspice. “Zinzi’s mother uses it in almost everything she cooks. Tomorrow, we’ll focus on the Jamaican mahogany trees. There are many species in the Cockpit.” There is so much to learn, but that memory of mine helps. He shows me the hardwood trees, wild ginger, agave plants, and orchids that thrive in limestone. He’s always adding definitions for terms like ecology, caverns, sinkholes, and topography. I admit his ramblings are sounding less and less annoying.
Robbie takes notes while I sketch, and he switches to a new topic. “The wood from the pimento tree is used in jerk cooking. And you have a talent.”
“What do you mean?”
“You never damage a single specimen while digging for tiny seeds or delicate plant parts.”
“Are you praising me?”
He laughs. “Yes, and you don’t need magnifying glasses. Your eyesight is as sharp as a hawk’s.”
“Thank you. I also credit my long, slender fingers. They are nimble and steady.” I wiggle them, proving my point. “Didn’t you know? In Chicago, they called me the queen of the fingersmiths?”
“That sounds like an appropriate nickname for you even in the Cockpit.”
“I agree.” We laugh for a few minutes but don’t stray far from the task at hand. It’s good to have fun while you work, especially a different kind of fun than I’m accustomed to.
This is one of those days when I feel like Robbie is someone I could fall for, or maybe I already have. Sure, we’ve been flirting since we first met at Mr. Abbott’s house, then on the train and the SSTalamanca. He has learned a lot about me, even the nasty bits about Perry and Jerry, or at least as much as I dared to reveal.
Pinky swear. I can trust him. We’re best friends.
We kiss, too—sometimes a lot. But that’s it, and boy, is that ever different for me. It’s romantic. He never paws at me or demands anything from me. Robbie is what folks call a gentleman.
