Kimmisha Thomas - contributed

Dappled sunlight shifted its patterns over the polished darkness of Cerys's skin. Under the green forest canopy, partially hidden behind a chest-high shrub with bottle-green leaves, she watched, mesmerised, as the dark-winged rainbirds flitted in their numbers across the tranquil sky. The birds fascinated her - the way they came out sometimes before a single cloud was in the sky yet always presaged rain. She was on her way to the meadow above which they now circled, their little cheeps ruffling the still, hot, noon-time air, and had stopped at the edge of the trees to watch them. In the meadow was a jade dimple of a pond, almost hidden in the knee-high grass and wildflowers until one came upon it. It was Cerys's forbidden retreat. Mama told her that if she were ever to fall in, the dead reeds and mud at the bottom of the pond wouldn't let go until all the air had been sucked from her body and replaced by water.

Cerys knew that if she was to catch at least three of the libéluelas, the dragonflies with iridescent wings that hovered over the pond's smooth surface, she would have to move now, before the rain came. But half-an-hour passed and her glass jar was still empty, and the sky had darkened ominously to slate. She would have to leave without any. Then she saw the perfect one. It hovered over a wide lily pad, obviously intent on feeding on the minute larvae that wriggled in the water. Cerys stooped, the jar in one hand and its cover in the other, precariously poised-then one bare foot slid in the soft soil at the edge of the pond and she fell in. For a panicky moment, with the water over her head and her toes touching the sliding, slippery things at the bottom, she wondered if Mama had been telling the truth. Then she realised the pond was much too small for that, and she laboriously climbed back on to the grassy rim. Could she sneak through the back door? Mama would despair if she saw her, dripping mud and water from her cotton print dress.

Halfway through the stand of trees, a loud thrumming commenced: the rain had started. Good, Cerys thought. Mama wouldn't know she had been at the pond.

She almost made it. She had eased the door open, placing one hand flat against it so it wouldn't grate along the floor, when Mama's commanding whisper startled her. 'Cerys Selena Torres! Just you stop right there, right now. We have a guest and you were nowhere to be found. Get up to your room and change, quickly as you can.'

'Mama '

'No more, young lady. We'll discuss why you were out in the rain later. And you be on your best behaviour, this is an important visitor.'

Bewildered, Cerys changed into a fresh dress and vigorously brushed her curls into a quick bun. Who could it be, out here in the loneliness? Here on La Isla de Sapiro visitors were few and far between, especially on the 'African' side of the island? People here were separated by more than the rugged incline of El Pico de Sol. Cultural mores divided Hispanics and Negroes.

A broad-shouldered, Black man was sitting in the hall with her mother; he stood as she came into the room. 'Miss Davies.' He sketched a bow.

Before Cerys could focus on the fact that he was addressing her using her mother's maiden name, her mother spoke. 'Cerys, dear.' A small, pained smile played at the corners of her mouth. 'This is Mr. Jameson. Mr. Jameson is to be your husband.'

Cerys scarcely heard anything after that. Could this really be happening? Surely Mama couldn't, wouldn't marry her daughter to a stranger. If only Papa were still alive!

She went through the motions of conversation, responding automatically when someone spoke to her. Her mother left the room and came back with refreshments: lemonade and corned beef sandwiches. A moody silence descended on the three of them as they ate.

Soon after, Mr. Jameson brushed the crumbs from his jacket and stood. 'Se-ora Torres, Cerys, I'll visit again the day after tomorrow to finalise the plans. Good evening.'

Cerys felt his eyes on her and raised hers to stare at his face. It was a strong face, shaped, not unattractively, like an inverted triangle. Heavy brows dominated a wide flat forehead and he had thick hair which he had allowed to grow. His mouth was set in what Cerys thought a smirk.

As soon as the snick of the lock sounded, Se-ora Torres turned to her daughter, false enthusiasm bubbling in her voice. 'Now wasn't he the most wonderful match? He's an independent farmer and related to the Jeffersons from Mount Moira and he has two houses! He's never been married, so he has no one to compare you to. Anyway,' she finished with an indulgent smile, 'what's to compare?'

Cery's answer came unbidden from her mouth. 'Mama, is this payback? Do you want me to know what it feels like to be married to someone from the other side? Or do you just want be rid of anything that reminds you you were once married to Mauricio Torres? We are still supposed to be mourning your husband!' She ran for the stairs.

'It'll be fine, Cerys!' her mother called after her. 'Papa would have been glad that you made a match so early!'

No, Papa wouldn't. Papa wouldn't have married her to a forty-year-old man before she was eighteen. Papa would have allowed her to make her own match, even if she waited to the age of thirty before she did it. Her mother had always thought him too lenient of what she called Cerys's childish foibles - like running barefooted outside and picking wildflowers for her hair, or reading all day.

'Katherine, leave the child alone, I'll keep her safe.'

But Papa had lied. Papa had gone fishing last Eastertide with the Estevez twins and their boat had capsised and Papa was dead and she would never be safe again. Not even from her mother.

'You got the good hair from my grandmother's side.' Her mother set the veil carefully in Cerys's hair. Her hair had been treated with egg yolks and aloe vera, then teased with water and hair pomade until it formed perfect curls which dangled to her shoulders.

Cerys stared stonily at her image in the mirror. Mama refused to admit she had inherited any traits from her father or his family but she had always been obviously her father's daughter and Mama had always been jealous. Her reflection was the feminine version of her father's face - the large, dark-brown eyes which Mama claimed she had gotten from her grandmother, Mama's mother, who Mama said had Indian blood, and the straight nose and finely shaped lips which were thankfully not African. Still, her mother could do nothing about her complexion, no matter how many miracle skin-clearing creams she found for Cerys to try. Cerys's skin remained smooth and dark, with a glow akin to that of polished wood - skin, Cerys thought bitterly, that was just like her mother's.

As if privy to her thoughts, her mother smoothed a palm down her cheek. 'I hope Lansford doesn't mind your skin, he's so much lighter.'

'Se-ora Torres, ma'am?' Cecelia was calling from the foot of the stairs.

'Cecelia, how many times must I tell you not to shout inside the house?'

'The car's here, ma'am!'

They descended the stairs together, the hem of Cerys's hurriedly made but still very beautiful dress brushing the buffed wooden floor. Cerys curled her lace-encased hands into fists, pointedly refusing to take the hand her mother proferred. She felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.

It was over, the embarrassment of a wedding in a church where whispers echoed. The groom's side was conspicuously empty and only two pews on the bride's side were occupied, by Cerys's few friends and a few of her mother's and some old women who attended every wedding and funeral in the town. Cerys was forbidden to contact her uncles, even for this special occasion, and definitely not Papa's mother. Mama told her Abuelita Torres was no longer a part of her life.

The grubby children who begged on the church steps threw rice at her as she came down the steps. There was a quick luncheon in the courtyard of the local hotel. Then everyone dispersed with self-conscious smiles, and the driver took her and Lansford to his home, a plain, two-storied building surrounded by great fields of grass, with the blue Caribbean sea shimmering like a mirage far away in the sun. The dark bulk of El Pico del Sol rose, reassuringly steadfast, at the end of the western meadow.

Helping Cerys from the car, Lansford gave her a smile, 'I hope you like your new home, Cerys.'

He went straight upstairs, changed into riding clothes, and, without another word to his new wife, rode off towards the grey-green blur to the east. He didn't return until the egrets were flying low over the pasture and the cattle in it were tinged golden by the setting sun. Cerys had prepared a light supper and arranged it in the small eating nook off the kitchen, sure the dining room would be too formal. Then, since he still hadn't returned, she had retreated upstairs to prepare for the night ahead. She was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair when he came into the room. Their eyes met in the mirror. Lansford took the brush from her hand and began brushing her hair. Then he put it down and began to massage her scalp. Cerys's eyes fluttered closed.

Then, however, they flew open again, widening with surprise and distress as he yanked her hair in a painful grip.

'Please!' Her hand went up to touch his with hesitant fingers. He took hold of it and brought it to his mouth, laving her fingers with his tongue.

'Relax, my dear.' His voice was gentle, as soothing as were his hands as he stripped her nightgown from her body.

Cerys stretched her legs along the length of the bed, willing herself to be calm. Then she felt his hands around her throat. A cruel smile twisted his mouth as his grip tightened. 'Cerys, my darling, my wife.' His free hand stroked the hair back from her face; its fingers ran down her cheek. Then, swiftly, unexpectedly, he slapped her, hard. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. The hard weight of his body covered hers, pressing her down into the softness of the mattress.

Lansford stayed home all week, hardly ever leaving Cerys's side, lending her his agonising attentions whenever he felt like it. Cerys learnt not to struggle during those time, realising that struggling invariably led to a beating, but she had no way of escaping the punishing blow to whatever part of her body her husband chose. He allowed her to leave their room only to prepare meals - meals which often were cruel games themselves.

Early on a grey Saturday morning, seven days after their wedding, he left the house. She watched as he disappeared around it to where she assumed there were stables and emerged from the cottony December mists and rode off across the meadows. A full hour passed before she touched the phone.

'Mama, it's Cerys.'

'Cerys, you and Lansford have been positive recluses. I just knew you'd delight in each other!'

'Mama, I need to leave. Lansford is - he hurts me, Mama.'

'Hurts you how? ... Nonsense! A little slap is nothing. He's just showing you he's the man of the house.' Then, after a pause, her mother said: 'I have to go; I have a luncheon to attend. Delores is entertaining.'

Cerys sat and listened to the dial tone for what seemed like an eternity. Then something inside her went still as her husband whispered in her ear, 'Who were you talking to, Cerys?'

'My Mama.' Her mouth was dry.

'You mustn't bother your Mama, she is still a young woman. She needs to get on with her life, and you with yours. Come.' He extracted the receiver from her hand and led her upstairs.

Their life together fell into a pattern. Cerys stayed home and minded the house; Lansford refused to employ a maid, who, he said, would stick her nose where it wasn't wanted. Besides, why should two people need a maid? He went to his farms everyday and she waited until he returned. On an island where everyone minded their own business - and in her case the people you cared about forsook you - there was no one to save her. And, as Lansford re-minded her, there was nowhere to run. Cerys longed for the carefree days of her youth when Papa was still alive and used to take her over the mountains to Abuelita's, the house of uncles who all loved her to pieces, and where the children ran, catching libélibés all day. But when she was twelve Mama had refused to let Papa take her there anymore and she had never seen them again, except for a fleeting glance of her grandmother, shrouded by a black lace mantilla, at the edge of the crowd as they lowered Papa's coffin into the ground. She had a secret now, though, one that she hoped would save her. She was carrying Lansford's child.

Today she was going to tell him. She prepared his favorite dishes and cleaned the house from top to bottom. In the hot-afternoon air, rainbirds circled and cried overhead; the wind was beginning to rise. The sheets were flapping on the line and she hurried to remove them before the rain.

Lansford came home when the clouds had darkened. Cerys met him in her best dress at the foot of the stairs. She opened her mouth to greet him and got no further.

'Upstairs!'

'But,' Her smile faltered and fell.

Lansford spun her around and pushed her up the first treads.

For some reason, this beating was worse than the others; Lansford actually seemed angry, and Cerys realised he didn't like to see her beautiful. He had always taken pleasure in punishing her with words, belittling her worth until she was half-crazy between the beatings and ready to believe him, and now he punctuated each slap and punch with words. Though this beating was worse, the words were the same. Hazily through the pain Cerys heard 'A burden to your Mama, nobody wants you, nobody loves you, nobody wants you, I own you now, you have nothing, no one, nowhere to run.'

Cerys mustered all her strength and tried to push past him and run for the door. She should have known better than to try: Lansford grabbed her arm, twisted it, and threw her down the stairs. The world went black.

When Cerys awoke, the clock in the hall was tolling six o'clock. The house was dark and silent. Cerys raised herself on her elbows and tried to get up; then she fell back with a gasp as a sharp pain ran around her lower belly and lodged in her side. She subsided to the floor as dizziness overcame her; the folds of her dress fell limply between her thighs, which felt damp and itchy. She felt herself there, then in the dim light brought her fingers up to her eyes. They were sticky with blood.

How long she lay there, the thoughts furring her head, Cerys could not later remember. Finally she got up suddenly; though the thoughts were displaced by a rush of blood, she managed to remain upright. Reaching behind her, she unbuttoned the dress and allowed it to pool around her feet. Then her underwear. And then she walked to the door and flung it wide open and felt the cool spray of wind-driven rain on her bruised face, like a balm. She climbed painfully over the fence and walked, unsteadily but determinedly, through the wet meadow grass.

Huddled in groups, the rainbirds, dripping bundles of black feathers on the electric wires, turned their heads to watch a naked girl making her way through misting rain towards the mountains.

- Kimmisha Thomas