Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1) Read Free

these jaded young libertines for their devotion to wine and native flesh. He walked alone.
    And how I despised my mother for this! For her desertion, not of me, but of him. When she wrote on occasion suggesting I join her in Paris, my reaction was so distressing my father never put me from him, a thing I believe caused her little grief. And as I grew older, I began to feel that I was the rightful one to have her place, for I worshipped that which she had scorned. My father was still a man in his prime, with broad shoulders and a masculine countenance graced with piercing hazel eyes, a face I never tired of contemplating. By the age of fourteen I sat as hostess, and took care to ensure what little comfort could be given him came from my hand, preparing his favorite foods, washing and pressing his clothes to perfection rather than allowing servants or slaves to do it, reading aloud to him in the evening. Though I sported with friends, ran free on the sand and rode bareback in the sun, these joys still paled in comparison to anything large or small I could do for him.
    It was at the same age of fourteen that I came to my womanhood, a painful and distasteful monthly annoyance that Nana seemed to feel a deep mystery, and cause for ritual celebration. Though my father still saw me as a little girl, Nana began to treat me more as a woman, revealing more of the truths of life. And I think it was Nana who understood, for as time passed I believe it contributed to a growing willfulness on my part.
    A willfulness that confounded my father. I had been a docile child, perhaps not so much from my nature as from a desperate desire to please him, and it was rare that any punishment was ever inflicted on me. But the most vivid awakening I experienced came at his hands, and without the slightest understanding on his part.
     
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
    The capricious willfulness reared its head after Epiphany, as the island prepared for its most joyous holiday, Carnivale, four days of wild celebration before the dreary self-denial of Lent. Many of the great families gave elaborate masqued balls, while the slaves had their own celebration, called Canboulay. I'd always wanted to see it, though Papa had forbidden this. Urged on by my friends, especially the chief provocateurs, the three sons of Marcel Ducasse, I played the truant, going with them to swim, then slipping into the hills by the river to join the festival.
    It was as nothing I'd ever seen, the lively cariso music, the chouval bwa of drums and bamboo flutes. The dancers spilled out from beneath the traditional kaiso bunting, many in costumes that were caricatures of the grand blanc masquerade. As night descended, the torches of cane were lit, the cannes brulées of its name, and the stick dancers, wearing tiny bells, engaged in sham combat as they leapt and caroused.
    It was primal and free, the rhythm intoxicating. We danced, hidden in the shadows, while the singers called out improvised lyrics, the crowd replying, like responses in the Mass. My patois was fluent, and I knew they were mocking the planters, which made it all the more daring. I stayed until the Vaval was lit and set adrift, a huge figure of twigs and papier-mâché that burned across the water, closing the gay evening.
    My father was under great pressure at that time, for the British had taken our island, and would hold it for more than a decade. In consequence, he was now dealing with the factors in London to sell his sugar, and the price had plummeted, putting him in debt to a race he despised. He'd spent several years building a second plantation where he could grow coffee, which fetched a better price, lavishing on the plants his every care. I suppose this toil and worry was the reason his patience snapped on discovering my petty misdemeanor.
    Calling me into his study the next afternoon, he intoned, "I've had a note, from Sister Celestine, informing me you were not in school yesterday, and don't bother lying