Trafford Publishing: Season of Mist

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Season of Mist

by Mc Donald Dixon

256 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0950; ISBN 1-55395-236-7; US$22.50, C$25.83, EUR18.50, £13.00

Season of Mist salutes the triumph of the human spirit in the fact of adversity.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

Season of Mist salutes the triumph of the human spirit in the fact of adversity. Set during the years of the French Revolution on St. Lucia (a tiny island in the Caribbean). Against the backdrop of slavery, Madlienne Des Voeux, bent on a life long quest for vengeance, confronts its realities in an inevitable confrontation forty years later.

About the Author

Mc. Donald Dixon was born fifty-eight years ago in St. Lucia, West Indies. He received his early education at the Castries Anglican Infant and Primary Schools and St. Mary's College, the only secondary school for boys on the island at that time.
Dixon is best known for poetry, although being an accomplished painter and photographer. In 1993, his country honoured him with the St. Lucia Medal of Merit for his contribution to literature and photography.

Sample Excerpts

PROLOGUE

The period may not have been of any particular significance when viewed in retrospect against the colourful history of the colony, depending on what side of the fence your die was cast. Except for an occasional burst of musket fire in the hills, and the scream from a wild pig caught in the path of hot lead, nothing of importance appeared to be happening. It was a period of transition from a government that cared little for the life of its citizens, once there was a profit to be made from the fruits of the land, to one spawned from hatred and vengeance. There was a pall of silence about the streets, thick like the mist on La Sorciere at the height of the rainy season. Every man wore a traitor's face and the guillotine was as active as a well-oiled rat trap where citizens confronted their maker for the slightest indiscretion against the state. It was a means to end this sudden outburst of treason that had infested the colony from coast to coast. Fear lurked in the corners of eyes and men went about their daily chores afraid to glance over their shoulders, dreading the hangman on their tails.
The pounding of hooves on cobblestone stirring dust storms sufficiently large to smother a small village as they galloped through the streets in hot pursuit of an unseen enemy, together with the harsh uneven blares from a bugler's horn, at street corners, rallying the faithful under the flag, were the only reminders that a war was being nursed in the parliament halls of faraway lands. To those who lived in the colony their fortunes remained unchanged. Victor and vanquished drank from the same tankards in the little alehouses that sprang up overnight in the back streets, despite the noose of foreboding that had tightened its knot around the neck of the towns. They drank to the silence, allowing their fears a moment's reprieve, to ingratiate with the new order. Brother had drawn sword against brother in the name of causes they never understood, and enemies were hatched from the questioning look on a face. It was the time of the brigands' war; a king had lost his head in France. Words muttered in ignorance brought the "inquisiteurs" to your door. Citizens vanished without trace in the dead of the night. It was the edict of the new order. It had no friends...
To an old woman caught in the cough of a wind buffeting her driette as she raised her head to gaze at the burnt out shell of the fortress on the hill overlooking the town, squinting to protect her eyes from wisps of gray hair that carelessly flashed across her face, it was the season of remembrance. Forty years had rolled over these memories, had smoothed their raw edge with the persistence of the sea over its stones. She had worn well under her weight of years, immaculate in her strides. She remembered events to the last detail as though they had happened yesterday and they flared vividly on her mind... A red tunic, the colour of boiled crayfish shells; the sun dazzling off the brass buttons stuck to a chest in the form of a cross. A whiff of English lavender had turned her nose to the green thicket where she had heard a faint rustling between the leaves. She aimed her musket from the hip - a flick of flint - fired - It was her first kill...

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Madlienne had never set foot on a deck before and as the brig Reine des Antilles rode at anchor in the bay at Port Castries she felt the world skidding under her feet. The churning in her stomach brought with it the feeling of nausea and she wretched over the sides. There were slight remissions, regrets, particularly when she remembered it would be two days sailing before she reached her destination, with a stop at Martinique, but that indomitable will that was the backbone of her character would not surrender. She had sought the advice of her friend Duval the merchant, who knew Guadeloupe and he had given her a letter of introduction, for one Monsieur Raynal, a colleague who would assist her on arrival. He was a ship chandler and was well known in Point-A-Pitre. He would direct her to Colombette, which she understood was some thirty miles from the closet settlement. In her own inimitable fashion she had gleaned all the basic information that Monsieur Duval could give, memorizing street names, parishes, names that were considered important, discounting all the other superfluous appendages that would in no way advance her cause. She had began to recover from the shock dealt to her emotions by the experiences at Moulin-a-vent. For one who thought she had seen everything in life, these episodes were baffling. She had discovered pity, an emotion nature had suppressed, which in the yellowing of her years broke loose through her pores to blossom. Like a horseshoe on a blacksmith anvil, her mind was shaping new thoughts - though they suffered from lack of detail, unlike in her younger years, they would become her raison d 'etre.
The brig sailed just as the last rays of the setting sun sank below the horizon, the wind buffeting its sails. The promontories of Vigie to starboard and La Toc to port swept past. Gradually the weakness in her knees dissipated and the nerves of steel that was the basic fibre of her psyche returned. She stayed a long time on deck watching the lights of the town twinkle in the distance, shrinking as the brig turned north. Then to be swallowed by a dark void where only the violins of the wind played. Night had covered the water with its cloak. Madlienne was unable to see beyond her nose. She sank down on her bundle and slept. The red lantern and the green at opposite sides of the ship shared their light only with the sea. The lights of St. Pierre crept towards the brig as she drew closer to the land. The early morning air with a sprinkling of sea spray stung her face. Madlienne awoke to the sound of voices across the water. Wiping the last remnants of sleep from her face with the hem of her skirt, she peeped through a bunghole on the starboard side. The mizzens of the fishing fleet caught in the first crimson streaks of morning streamed past, their helmsmen shouting greetings to the few sailors milling about the deck. To Madlienne, the town nestling between the folds of a huge mountain bore similarities to Soufriere. She imagined Soufriere trapped on its riverbed, at the base of the hills that bordered the sea. They looked alike, except St. Pierre with its steeples, sprawled into the foothills was a much larger town. The wind was blowing across the land, seaward, the captain tacking leeward, caught the gusts in his sails, dawn had not yet broken, though signalled behind the mountain barrier. The voyage thus far was uneventful, her stomach had settled and although filled with anxiety at the sight of another country, her bowels felt at ease. The brig came alongside a wooden pier that jutted out to sea. There were other small boats already anchored there. A seaman standing in the bow with a brace of rope flung it over the sides fastening his end to a ballard on deck. A bell rang from one of the cabins and the crew was busy fixing the gangplank for passengers to disembark. A white couple was the first to go ashore, followed by two mulatto women. One was holding a child wrapped in flannel. She was the younger of the two. They came from the cabins where they had spent the night. Madlienne had not seen when they came aboard. She had thought she was the only passenger. A member of the crew in whose care Monsieur Duval had painstakingly placed her like an invalid, came with a tot of coffee and a lump of baked dough, ironically called a bake, which was made with flour kneaded to the density of a rock in salt water, finally firmed on a slow fire with capacity to dull the sharpest tooth. "When you finish, you can go and see St. Pierre," young Flavien said, as he gave her the tot of coffee, which was spiked with cognac. There was the usual mark of reverence in his eyes. Monsieur Duval had told him her whole history and being of French descent, it had intrigued him, causing him to repeat it to the other seamen and the captain. Riene Des Antilles sailed under the tricolour. The Captain and Crew were Frenchmen who plied an honest trade transporting passengers and cargo between the islands, far south as Trinidad and North to Guadeloupe, stopping at La Grenade, St. Lucie and Martinique along the route. Monsieur Duval had mentioned to Madlienne, the brig was once used to smuggle guns and ammunition for the insurgents during the revolution and was quite old. Once he had owned a share in it, but had sold it to the present captain, who did favours for him from time to time in return. Two masts like a schooner, a set of square sails and a sleek hull. She hurtled through the water like a javelin, darting to and fro, between the shoal of islands, with incredible speed, once the trade winds blew. The sun was shining in a hazy copper shade over the slate rooftops that lined the promenade along the waterfront. The town folk were hurrying about their morning chores, busy like ants, scurrying in and out of the narrow streets that ended abruptly at the water's edge. There was an innate beauty about this place, compelling almost. Madlienne, nailed to her station on deck, gaped with her mouth wide open, in amazement, at the quaint shapes of masonry with their rustic verandahs uniformly covering the edges of the streets, forming a shelter from the sun. There, in the shade the citizens walked in pairs, leaving the centre of the road for carriages and carts. The Reine des Antilles was scheduled to be in port for six hours. Flavien had repeatedly coaxed Madlienne to go ashore, but she decided to stay aboard. A new set of faces arrived haggling with porters on a price to carry their trunks aboard. It seemed that they had packed the heaviest items in those trunks as each one took two men to lift, straining every sinew in the process. From their bulging eyes and taut veins in their necks as they struggled under their load to earn every farthing they charged. It was not difficult to surmise that those trunks were lined in real gold. The men in the group continued to haggle with the porters, going back on their word once their load was aboard. Madlienne found it comical, suppressing the laughter churning in her gut. The carriages came, discharged their passengers and left, following the rhythm of others before, along the promenade at the edge of the bay, smoothing the cobble stones as they clipped leisurely over them, to disappear into one of the many side streets. As the hour of departure drew nearer they came in threes and fours. The haggling continued but the trunks came aboard. The deck had become crowded with faces. Everyone seemed to know each other, in a town of dandies and powdered women. No one paid any attention to the old black woman in the corner huddling against her haversack, pretending to be asleep, but all the while observing them under her eyelids. Flavien visited her as often as he could between heaving the cumbersome monstrosities into the hold. "We will be at sea soon," he said to her, "after the last passengers come aboard." Every conceivable shape and size were drifting about, their mouths begging for relief, from the babel of hysteria that swept the deck. It was like old friends greeting each other after twenty years' absence. There was not a black face among them, even the mullatoes passed for white as they mingled aimlessly devouring the latest gossips. They were all over her, their spittle drizzled her face. Their conversations flowed like rivers after the rain, no one bothered to observe the animate lump of clay at their feet. She knew in that island her people were still chattels, traded like cattle, without a name, without possessions. She clutched her certificate of manumission pinned to her bodice inside her bosom and smiled. An elderly gentleman, astigmatic, almost stumbled over her. After retrieving his leg stuck in her bundle, he carried on with his business without the slightest hint of an apology.
The brig sailed precisely at noon heading northward alongside a rugged coastline, where the mountains rose from the sea to the clouds. It was a clear day, in the distance ahead the shape of another island appeared on the horizon, more mountainous than Martinique, which they had just left behind, but still within view to the Southeast. They sailed the greater part of the day along the coastline of this island, which she would later learn from Flavien was called Dominique. Late that evening, with the sun already low down in the western skies; its orange globe washing its face in an amber sea, blotting the azure light that blinded her all day, bringing with it a soothing wind, which felt chilly when in ran across her skin mixed with sea spray. Another large landmass appeared ahead, guarded by a sprinkling of islands. It appeared like a barrier rising over the bow of the ship, stretching as far as the eye could see. Someone among the passengers shouted, "Guadeloupe!" There was the scurrying of feet to starboard, everyone rushing for a closer look, causing a panic among the crew as the brig listed dangerously to starboard. It took the captain's twenty years' experience and a manta ray that rose suddenly from the depths darting through the air like the gens gage from their own creole myths to get them to settle again in their little niches on deck. Madlienne felt their fears collectively pouring from eyes that had seen the devil. The old women brought out their rosaries and blessed themselves. The ship passed through a shoal of islands, some bare rocks, jutting like bald-heads above the water - Les Saintes. It is here, along this desolate strip of water, after passing Dominica enroute to Guadeloupe, where caution becomes a watchword in the minds of sailors: never to be caught in a squall, or on a dark night without the comfort of a full moon. The superstitious French always say silent prayers over the bow, remembering it was here Admiral Rodney encountered Count De Grasse on April 12th, 1782 and in a decisive battle gave the British dominion over the wave. The calm waters of the strait disguised these fragments of history. The flotsam of battle had long since floated away and the wrecks lodged in the watery depths had solidified like coral in their lots. Waves no longer moaned for those bitten by the cannon. An ominous peace had cast her net in the place where the sea devil soared.
The sun that had gallantly held its head above the water had taken its final plunge below the horizon. Twilight, with its golden touch, transformed islands and sea into masses of gold. A sprinkling of hills appeared to the Northeast, the first Madlienne had seen after leaving Dominique, like fins on a sailfish, bristling in anger at the sky. Twilight was short lived. Soon the night was dotted with tiny sparks, flickering like fireflies in the distance. A brisk wind, blowing in spurts, fanned the sails pushing the Riene des Antilles towards the land that became a gigantic black wall stemming the flow of the sea. Lights from the little settlements along the coast stretched across the water bathing the faces on deck with their light. The wind stopped when the Riene des Antilles entered Petit Cul-de-sac, guided by flambeaus strategically placed on stacks pointing to the narrow passage of deep water that would take the ship into safe harbour at Pointe-a-Pitre.
Pointe-a-Pitre was a shabby little town, prone to the wind blowing in from the sea, unlike St. Pierre nestling at the feet of its guardian hills. Darkness had enveloped the huts, undistinguishable despite the combined efforts of oil lamps spluttering behind their blind of jalousies. Madlienne heard voices coming from the shore, but saw nothing beyond the radius of the ship's lanterns - the green for starboard and the red for port. Flavien came to her after he and the other sailors had secured the heavy canvass sails and the ship fastened to the wooden pier that groaned when the heave of waves rocked its wooden pillars. He had asked her to wait until all the passengers had disembarked. To accompany her to Monsieur Raynal who had the responsibility of making arrangements for her journey to Colombette. Uncertain of her steps, but her mind alive with the memory of her brothers, she clutched the fretted rope that formed rails for the gangway to begin her slow descent. Flavien clutched her haversack in which she had packed a few personal things, including a change of clothes. Sparring forward like a solider crab, her face appeared at the top of the rails directly behind him.
Monsieur Raynal was already in his nightclothes when Flavien rapped on the side door where he kept a small office to conduct his trade. He was expecting them and did not appear perturbed by the apparent intrusion on his rest. He had made arrangements for her to spend the night with his housekeeper, Feyette, a huge negresse, who lived in the yard with her five mulatto children, which local rumour had insisted was fathered by Raynal. The fact that Raynal was a bachelor did not help. Madlienne took an instant liking to Feyette whose arms reminded her of hams, garnished for a Christmas table, and whose smile was as soothing as the early morning love call of toutrelles on a grit road. Flavien returned to his ship. They would be sailing early next morning. "You can stay with me as long as you want," Feyette said after they had returned to her little hut in the yard. The children were curious, the eldest not being more than eight and the youngest had just discovered his toes. Feyette was a voluptuous creature, with a loud infectious laugh, who had never ventured beyond the narrow alleyways of Point-a-Pitre. As far back as her memory allowed she had worked in kitchens and mastered her craft under the tutelage of many an accomplished cuisiniere. By the time she was sold to Monsieur Raynal by an old retiring spinster, who had decided that it was time to return to France to die, there was not a meal she had not prepared under the careful eye of her mistress, who managed a boarding house for bachelors. It was there that she first met Monsieur Raynal - then barely sixteen. When the boarding house closed, on retirement of the spinster, Monsieur Raynal purchased Feyette at a bargain rate of ninety francs along with the house.
She prattled with Madlienne about her life with Monsieur Raynal, wiping the rosary beads of contentment that sprang from her pores as she spoke with the hem of her skirt, transforming the most intimate details into jokes about herself. Madlienne was needling to ask her about Guadeloupe, but could not get her to pause, even to catch her breath. It was clear that opportunities to speak about herself, were rare and she grasped this one with both hands. Her body reeked of leeks and thyme but the odour was not in her clothes. In the four hours they spent together, Madlienne was able to deduce that Feyette was the mistress of the household and maintained a firm control over Monsieur Raynal and his purse, although she knew he could not marry her even in extremis. She also admitted to Madlienne having several side affairs while Monsieur Raynal was away in the country gathering provisions for his trade. He was thirty years her senior and his appetite for her came now only on those rare occasions when the wine had bolstered his urge and his energy allowed a brief respite. She knew all the sailors who worked the ships for which Monsieur Raynal took responsibility while in port, and picked her men according to her fancy. Her laughter was like the common cold and the manner in which she told the stories about herself, had Madlienne in stitches. Not being a prude, Madlienne understood. The conversations were like a tonic, after a day of virtual silence among faces that did not acknowledge her, listening to Feyette was a hot tisane that warmed inside. Sleep claimed her with a vengeance. They were not wakened until next morning, with a loud rap on the door.
Raynal was up early and already dressed for the journey. He had decided the evening before that he would take Madlienne to Colombette himself, immediately as she arrived. This was but a small favour for his good friend Monsieur Duval who had stood for him in numerous transactions that enriched his purse, even in his absence and for the woman whom he had never met until then, whose name had been spoken in the same breath as Jeanne d'Arc, among the old soldiers of the revolution, regardless of race. She had carried the colours and had restored the honour and glory of his motherland in a small corner of the world. There was old Giles Duprey at Place les Cordonnieres, who plied his trade as a cobbler praising each day the woman that gave him a drink of water and hauled him to safety in the bushes at Rabot, under the red glare of enemy flares. There was Pascal and Aphos, who had boasted how she had taught them to shoot, all wanting to see her again when Raynal broke the news of her intended visit. He was overjoyed. He had not taken part in the wars and was only a boy then, too young to serve. He remembered running about the streets of Point-a-Pitre cheering when the wind blew news of victories. He had wanted to be a soldier, but his ailing mother protested. During the Napoleonic Wars, as a young man, he began his trade, which rewarded him with a small fortune. Their names she did not remember; their faces buried deep in the folds of her subconscious, and could not be resurrected. Raynal knew more about her life than she wished to remember. She had lived it and forgotten. It was difficult for her to believe all that was accredited to her, was true. A simple march under the cover of darkness had become a crushing defeat for the enemy, the defense of a garrison translated in time into a major victory.
It was a good day to visit Colombette. Raynal had seen the Reine Des Antilles sail at first light and consulted his diary at the office to verify that none of the ships in his care was due in port until later in the week. On their journey out of town, Monsieur Raynal passed through the tiny corridor that was Place les Cordonnieres, where the shoemakers and cobblers congregated in a vacant lot, their heads bent nursing the shoes on their lasts, in varying stages of wear, back to shape. He searched for Giles among the constellation of colourful characters that inhabited the place and spotted him digging into his box. Giles looked up acknowledging, but his eyes darted swiftly across to the old woman seated besides Raynal on the cart. It could not be her, he thought, to himself. She seemed quite frail. There was no resemblance to the young buxom woman, whose eyes were ablaze with fury, flaring like coal fire on the battlefield, who moved with the swiftness of a mongoose, with hands that ripped steel. "Madlienne?" He asked, wiping sweat from his hands on the leather apron - the symbol of his trade. Madlienne looked at him and smiled, she could not remember the face. "This woman saved my life!" Giles proclaimed. "This woman saved my life!" He repeated, wanting everyone to hear. The commotion attracted a few passersby and the shoemakers working adjacent to his stall, but none showed more than a cursory interest. It was pointless. History had closed its book on this minor episode. He alone treasured the memory. The pace of everyday life had deafened ears. There was no time for legends. Pascal came to the side of the cart where she sat. "Thank God!" He exclaimed, "I live long enough to see you again...I never get the chance to tell you thanks." Madlienne stretched out her hand and placed it on his head like a bishop. She said nothing, except gesturing to Monsieur Raynal to move on. Memories from the past weighed on her conscience, faces flew like bats from dark corners in her mind, both living and dead. She had long repented the evils of war, the atrocities committed in the name of liberty, fraternity, and equality. She had purged her body from the lust for vengeance that had driven her insane. She was sure that her father had forgiven her; she was seeing him more often in her dreams. The call of birds in the morning light took her mind back to the wilderness of her childhood and with it, peace. The land was flat, the fields of cane stretched out before her, like the sea, billowing in an endless flood of leaves towards a green horizon. The unpaved road, hemmed on either side by the canes, was littered with ground doves, pecking at the driblets of quartz ingrained in the clay marl of the land. Although from the sea, Madlienne had seen the hills, under the shadow of night, it was difficult to believe it was the same country. A myriad of colour flowed before her eyes, the bold red of the flamboyant merging with the pinks of the gloricedar, flowing into the whites of the frangipani, filling the air with a fragrance, thick and stifling, inducing sleep. The hours crawled slowly by. The sun beating on the dirt road sapped their energy. It was noon when Monsieur Raynal steered his cart in the shade of a mango tree, to water his horse in a nearby stream that ran parallel with the road. When he dismounted, Madlienne led the horse by its bridle to the water's edge, whilst M. Raynal removed his jacket and spread it on the ground like a tablecloth. Feyette had packed a bottle of wine and a baguette broken in two, buttered and over brimming with ham and sausage - a hurried sandwich. Madlienne washed her face in the soothing water, before using the pail tied to the side of the cart, primarily to mop up droppings when tethered in the town, to bathe the horse. She sprinkled water sparingly on its head and flanks to cool the sweat that was steaming from its body. When she returned, the bottle of wine was already half empty while Monsieur Raynal was mercilessly devouring the sandwich. He offered the other half in the box to Madlienne, who daintily broke a small piece and nibbled at the edges. She did not feel hungry. The excitement of seeing the rest of her clan, before the day was through had drained her appetite. She did experience a vague sense of nausea, brought on by the humidity, which stuck to her clothes. The wind that blew across the pasture was hot even in the shade. It did not affect Monsieur Raynal, for the minute he had finished his share of the loaf, he laid his head down on the grass and began to snore. Madlienne tied the horse in a patch of cane and returned to the stream. She soaked her feet in the water, wading through eddies until she reached a spot deep enough to wet her knees without bending. The heat of the day drove her to duck her head beneath the surface to wet her hair. Memories from a distant childhood flicked across her mind. She had done this on hundreds of occasions when her body was drained under the weight of the day, surrounded by the laughter of those same companions she was about to visit. They were all young then, fired by the heat of youth and the novelty of the salve of clear water against their skins, naked, soaked in the innocence that ingrained their lives. She rose, her clothes sticking to her body and walked up the little path in the sun towards the mango tree. Monsieur Raynal was fast asleep. She continued into the cane field watching the young stalks wave to the wind. It was many years since she had been this happy.
Monsieur Raynal slept for the full two-hour siesta unperturbed by the occasional wasp or honeybee that hovered in his vicinity. He did not hear them. When he awoke Madlienne's clothes had dried, although the clammy feeling in her undergarments next to her skin was proving to be a slight but bearable irritant. He picked up his jacket and drank the last dregs from the wine bottle then ambled towards the cart where Madlienne had sat patiently waiting, without the slightest signs of wear on his face. The nap had refreshed him. The sun had crossed the sky but still high in the west as they continued on their journey. The cane fields patterned out into rocky grasslands where a mixture of sheep and cows were grazing undisturbed. Gradually, they approached some hilly terrain, where the road meandered to avoid crevices in the earth, deep fissures where water had eaten through the sandstone. It was a desolate country. The number of animal carcasses they passed putrefying in the heat, endorsed that feeling. In the distance, the blue shapes of the mountains leapt like a tidal wave above the horizon. There were no rivers in sight. "The river flows through at the height of the rainy season, but disappears as soon as the rains cease," Monsieur Raynal explained. He was familiar with the place. Their journey took them through a small village, Monsieur Raynal did not immediately remember the name, except that it was in the middle of nowhere and populated only by black faces, "Gens libre!" He muttered to Madlienne, who was instantly curious to find a reason for free blacks having to settle on this God forsaken strip of nowhere, when most of the country was uninhabited. The answer was probably in the opaque sheen of lethargy reflected in their eyes when they looked up from their doorsteps as Monsieur Raynal rode past....

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