Rolling Calf Retires

by Keisha Gaye-Anderson (Jamaica)

The roads that snaked up through the Blue Mountains to Bright Hill were so narrow, they were more like footpaths. And Bright Hill was more like an asterisk shaped arrangement of small, brightly colored homes pinned to those hillsides than what most people would consider to be a town.

As velvet night folded over the community, dissipating the July heat, the chorus of creatures that came alive in the darkness got louder and louder. The tree frog’s whistling trill dueted with the percussive chirp of crickets. And the guttural wails of owls echoed high from the branches of cotton trees.

The night sometimes brought out another sound that every child in Bright Hill was taught to fear. The faint clanking of chains dragging along the pavement and gravel grew louder as the rolling calf lumbered up the hill toward the town. Each hoof connected with the pavement thudding loudly like a fallen tree.

The massive black bull, said to be a restless, malevolent spirit, had razor sharp horns that had a metallic glint in the moonlight, and crackling red embers for eyes. It shot flames from its nostrils with each breath and the rusty chains around its neck trailed between its front legs. Its hind quarters were one hoof and one human-like leg.

On this night, the usually sleepy community was abuzz as people gathered at rum shops and on verandahs near the center of town to watch the World Cup. Jamaica vs. Ghana meant several pots of soup bubbling, meats roasting, and copious amounts of rum being consumed. Young men revved their motorcycles and as they did donuts near the old clock tower in the roundabout. Lover’s rock serenades glided on the bass rhythms thumping from the stacked speaker boxes, and men and women locked into games of dominoes while children played in the streets.

Christopher sat on his grandmother’s verandah glued to his ipad, its extra bright light illuminating his little face as the sun slinked under the horizon. After a long stretch of pasture on a small plateau, her compact pink wooden house was the first along the road leading into town.

“Ugh! I’m so bored!” Christopher sighed.

“These American children…” Aunt Gelnda took a deep breath and shook her head. “All you all want to do is play these damn video games, with all kinda ugly creatures.”

“Dragons.” He corrected her.

“Whatever. Come, Christopher.” Aunt Glenda extended her hand. “Your mother said you must put down these games and learn how to play with other children.”

“But I don’t want to! Do I have to?” Christopher pouted. He found these summers in the countryside so boring but didn’t want to tell his mother, who was always excited for him to spend time in her childhood home.

“Is ok Glen, ‘low di boy,” said his grandmother, who rocked slowly in her rocking chair. “Chris, go down a bottom to Mr. Johnson yard and bring me couple cane. He say he cut some for you.”

“Yes grandma!”

Christopher loved to go down the path behind the house and into the small valley next to the stream where Mr. Johnson’s property was. He had a huge plot with cane, bananas, mangos, star apples and all sorts of fruit behind his house. You couldn’t walk and pick fruit from a Brooklyn tree. At least this part of being here was good.

Christopher skipped down the dark path, illuminated only by the rising full moon, and hummed to himself.

As he approached the mango tree next to the stream, he stopped and searched the ground for a good one.

“Nice!” he said to himself. The critters hadn’t gotten to it yet. He rinsed the fruit and then sat near the river bank on a big rock to work on the mango, the sweet juices running down his hands and onto his Ninja Turtle t-shirt.

Amidst the echoes of loud music, car horns, and motorcycles coming from the town, as well as his own rapid devouring of the mango, he didn’t notice the sound of clanking chains. Christopher felt the air suddenly get hot in front of him and heard a loud thud that startled him and caused the half-eaten fruit to slip from his fingers.

He looked up and found himself face to face with a massive bull standing on the other side of the stream.

The corners of its drooling mouth pulled into what looked like a smile with crooked and jagged teeth that almost looked human. It scraped at the grass with its hoof as if preparing to charge. Christopher got up slowly but instead of running, he took one small step toward the creature. “What kind of cow are you?”

The creature huffed and flames shot from its nostrils. Christopher, startled, lost his footing and fell backward into the shallow stream. As he flopped around frantically on the slippery stones, trying to get to his feet, the rolling calf hovered over him, leaning down toward the water. His red ember eyes moved closer and closer to Christopher’s face, almost looking through him. Christopher froze.

As the creature’s drooling mouth inched closer to Christopher, the beast saw the reflection of the full moon in the gently rippling water. Just then, a swirling cloud of black smoke violently enveloped the beast. It made a terrible howling sound, like the shriek of hurricane winds tearing through the trees.

When Christopher finally got to his feet, shivering, he stood face to face with a small boy about his age and height. The boy was a richer brown than Christopher, and on his cheeks were what looked like dark horizontal lines etched into his skin, three on each side. He wore a tattered shirt and drawstring pants, and he was barefoot. There were heavy, rusty iron shackles around his wrists and feet. The boy’s eyes glowed red like the bull’s, but as the light faded, they became ordinary. And sad.

Christopher stepped closer to the boy, who look frightened and moved back.

“Wait!” said Christoper. “Don’t be scared. It’s ok…I think.” Just then, Christopher remembered his iPad in the side pocket of his cargo shorts. “Hang on!” The boy looked lost and confused, like a sleepwalker.

Christopher pulled out the device to check if it was still working and then turned on the flashlight app. He pointed a light at the boy’s face to get a better look. The boy, frightened, jumped back and stubbled over his shackles. He fell flat on his bottom. He hugged his knees close to his chest and rocked back and forth.

Christopher bent down and touched the boy’s shoulder. “How…where did you come from? What’s your name? Are you ok?” The boy reached out and grabbed Christopher’s forearm tightly.

“Hey!” Christopher tried to wriggle away. “Let me go!” But his grip was stronger than it should have been for a boy his size.

The boy took Christopher’s hand and pressed it to his chest. Instantly, Christopher’s mind became flooded with images, fast moving like a video game cycling through different levels. It was as if he stood inside a room where images appeared rapidly all around him at once, flickering in and out, and he was also inside the images, feeling all the sensations.

He now saw the shackled boy wearing clean white clothes and smiling as he hung his two arms over a long stick that rested across his shoulders and walked behind a group of older men chatting and making their way through hundreds of cattle with massive horns. Then, there was a beautiful tall woman with long, thick braids, a colorful shawl, and many bangles caressing his head as she stooped down to feed him porridge as she sang a song to him.

Next, he heard screams of terror and smelled suffocating black smoke emanating from burning homes in the distance as people scattered and ran in different directions, some hiding behind cattle that had been shot. Ghostly men in dirty clothes walked through the village, hauling away children like himself.

Christopher then saw himself as the boy, squeezing his knees to his chest and rocking to sooth himself inside a tight, suffocating space full of foul stenches, endless wailing, and rattling of chains. Through burning hunger pains, he peeped up through a small hole in the ceiling to watch the full moon move into and out of his line of sight as the room bobbed left and right, up and down, making him feel sick.

He felt the electric zing of a tar-dipped whip slice the skin on his back as he tried to shuffle quickly on bare feet through red dirt behind strangers in the same condition that he was chained too.

Christopher dropped to his knees, squinted his eyes and screamed, hoping for the images and painful sensations to vanish. And they did. Swirling away like sand storm or the cloud of black smoke that produced the boy from the raging bull.

Hot tears streamed down Christopher’s face as he sniffled and wiped his nose with his left hand. The boy now sat very still and stone faced across from Christopher. He slowly released his grip on Christopher’s arm but Christopher held his hands. He looked into the boy’s sad eyes, slid closer to him, and gave him a hug as he sobbed. The boy inhaled and exhaled slowly as he hugged Christopher back.

The boy looked at Christopher. “Thank you,” he said, without moving his lips.

He smiled widely and looked up at the full moon. Christopher noticed that the shackles had vanished from the boy’s hands and feet, and he was now wearing the bright white garments he wore in the vision when he was smiling and walking among the cattle.

The cloud of smoke rose up from the ground and encircled the boy once again. When it dissipated, out flew a little black bird that took off over the top of the large breadfruit tree behind Mr. Johnson’s house, and it flew up and up, until it could be seen no more.