Free Island Songs by Alex Wheatle

now.”
    Allowing the matter to drop, Amy decided that she would keep on chipping away in the hope that Joseph would one day lower his guard. “David, where yuh der?” Amy called. “Me an’ ya papa gone to we bed now. Nuh stay outside an’ let de duppy dem play wid yuh.”
    “Nuh trouble ya head, Mama. Ghost or duppy never trouble me. Me jus’ ketching de night breeze an’ ah lissen to de cricket dat ah talk. Me soon gone to me bed, Mama.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Joseph stretched out on his bed alongside his wife. As soon as Joseph’s eyes closed he found himself back in 1908. He was feeding the chickens when he heard his mother’s excited call.

Chapter Four
    Harvest Sunday morning. An arch of the sun had just crept over the eastern hills, showering light on the green Claremont valley and glittering the stream that hurried through the bush-banked ravines of the uplands. The flowing water rushed down and filled the clay and limestone gulleys, nourishing the vegetation of the lowlands. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and only a single Doctor bird gliding through the heavens, showcasing her full span of wings and her long, multi-coloured forked tail, surveyed the Eden-like land beneath her.
    The cooling breeze and rains that had moved away from the Caribbean sea during the night and swept through the higher places of Claremont and the surrounding districts, were now, in the uncompromising face of the rising sun, losing their potency. The damp leaves in the tree tops were now calm but Levi’s lofty domain remained cloaked in a stubborn mist, only the uppermost leaves of the Blue Mahoes visible to a bird’s eye. Mosquitoes, liking the dewy conditions, multiplied around shaded, still waters and muddy gulleys. On the ground, roosters challenged one another and the dogs tried to match them with their barks.
    But they had no need to sound their early morning alarm calls for the people of Claremont had already risen and had their ‘marnin fresh’. Indeed, the dogs in the village looked at each other, wondering when they would be thrown their next bones and why their owners had set off en masse, leaving them behind. Another morning in the ‘land of springs’.
    Along a squelchy mud path with steep grassy banks that curved and wriggled almost every step of the way, a long stream of Claremontonians were trekking downhill to Isaac’s church, intermittently shaded by palm leaves. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. All who were able carried a basket or what the localscalled a ‘bankra’ of harvest offerings that contained the fruits and vegetables of the Claremont valley; the firm-backed men, including David, were burdened with bigger baskets that they called ‘cutacoos’, the woven shoulder straps made of hemp.
    Donkeys, blinking away the flies buzzing around their eyes, made up the rear, carrying crocus sacks full of crops on their hind legs, their masters poised with sticks in case of disobedience. Other donkeys transported the elderly and infirm. At the head of the train was Neville, who was leading the people behind him in passionate song. He was striding out flamboyantly, dodging the puddles and denying his sixty-four years, his steps timed to an ancient drumbeat.
    “ Hear me Lord !” Neville sang, almost bursting his voice-box.
    “ HEAR ME LORD ,” the followers echoed.
    “ We gwarn give to de poor .”
    “ WE GWARN GIVE TO DE POOR .”
    “ De fruits of our harvest .”
    “ DE FRUITS OF OUR HARVEST .”
    “ An’ hunger shall be nuh more .”
    “ AN’ HUNGER SHALL BE NUH MORE .”
    “ We reap wha’ we sow .”
    “ WE REAP WHA’ WE SOW .”
    “ Inna de field an’ we soul .”
    “ INNA DE FIELD AN’ WE SOUL .”
    “ An’ we hope de Lord bless our land .”
    “ AN’ WE HOPE DE LORD BLESS OUR LAND .”
    “ So we cyan come again an’ bless ya mighty hand .”
    “ SO WE CYAN COME AGAIN AN’ BLESS YA MIGHTY HAND .”
    Walking with his family ten yards behind Neville, Joseph didn’t