The Salt Roads by Nalo Hopkinson

Author:Nalo Hopkinson [Hopkinson, Nalo]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), FIC014000
ISBN: 9780446539982
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2008-02-28T23:00:00+00:00

Don’t fret so, Georgine,” said Pierre irritably. Softly he was speaking, but his voice carried in the still twilight air.

“It’s curfew time,” Georgine said, quietly. Her little boy wrapped his fists in her skirt. So big and strong he was, at fourteen months. It was good to see a child fat with health. “The book-keeper might catch me not in our hut.”

“I am here,” Pierre told her. “You need not mind Thomas if you have a white man with you.” He swiped his hat off his head, then squatted himself down on the ground outside my hut. “Ask Mer your question, and then let us be off.” His little boy ran to him. Pierre smiled and gave the child his hat to play with.

“I . . .” Georgine was only wringing her hands over and over in her apron. Fine linen, that apron. And there she stood, dumb as any cow.

“Speak up, girl. I must go and make my supper before it’s time to be in bed.”

“Yes, matant. I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

And the addled child dipped me a curtsey! Eh. Like I was some white lady. It vexed me, and it pleased me, too. “No matter, child,” I said. “Just tell me what you have to tell me.”

She threw a nervous look Pierre’s way. But he and the boy were chuckling, playing catch with the hat. The boy held out his two hands, too far apart, as children will, then laughed like bells when the hat fell through them. Curls he had on his head. Light brown curls. What a thing.

They had no mind for her, Pierre and her child. She turned back to me. “Matant, I . . . you . . . would you let me plait your hair for you sometimes?”

“What?” Insolent girl.

She looked chagrined. “I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just . . . I’m feeling so much better now since you gave me the medicine, and I see that Tipingee’s not plaiting your hair any more, and I know that you like it nice.”

I scowled and busied myself, picking up trash that had blown into my garden.

Distress was creasing Georgine’s forehead. She pulled at the fingers of one hand with the other, to make the knuckles pop. “Don’t be angry, matant. It’s the only way I can think of to thank you.” She darted a look at Pierre. He saw it, smiled encouragement at her. Threw the hat for his healthy boy child to catch.

I sighed, straightened. “You’re right, Georgine. I would like someone to comb it and plait it for me.” I remained staring away from her so my face wouldn’t give itself away.

Georgine’s son shrieked with laughter just then, and ran into Pierre’s arms. Pierre laughed and held him close. It was full dark now. I couldn’t tell the little sand-coloured boy any different from his blan father. My belly was griping for hunger. I worked my throat, then said, “Can you come on Sunday? After church?” So hard to be the one asking for aid instead of giving it.

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