…and then,” the Robber went on, “I wrestle the warptenned flying ship from the ensorcelled dungmaster, the master plan blaster in his silver-fendered stratocaster with wings of phoenix flame, and I…”
Ione opened the window, stuck her hand out. “Here,” she called to the Robber. “Take this, and make we move on.” She held out money in her hand.
He was supposed to stop when offered payment, but he wouldn’t reach for it. “Avaunt!” he shouted. “Get thee behind me, horny horning whore of Babylon!” Someone in the crowd giggled. “Thine gelt shall not tempt me, too wise am I to be clasped by your thighs.”
“Take it,” Ione growled. “Is fight yard we going, you hear me?”
Fight yard. Fight yard… was whispered through the crowd. “Robber man,” someone yelled, “take she blasted money and let she get through. She going to see she husband duel.”
Ione threw the coin. The Robber leapt, swept off his hat, bent on one knee to catch the coin between his teeth and came up smiling. Tan-Tan clapped her hands and whistled to salute him. “Shut up, pickney,” Ione snapped. Tan-Tan pouted and slouched back against the seat.
The Robber stepped back to let them through, bowed and flourished his hat as they passed. The ring-bang ruction and the dancing started up round them again.
They reached the fight yard to find Quashee standing in the machète circle already, looking stiff and serious in his leather armour gleaming with jumbie oil, and holding his helmet under his arm. Ione made to wave to him, but pulled her hand back before the gesture was finished. She sucked in her bottom lip and hurried with Tan-Tan to a seat. Some people glared at her, some smiled. An old, white-haired woman with a cane made the kiss-teeth sound of disgust and leaned over to whisper with her companions, another old woman and an old man.
The fight yard had been rearranged to accommodate the only activity it would feature today: the duelling circle. The circle dominated the whole yard. It had rows of benches erected all round. Spectators sat on one side, everybody dressed to puss-foot, everybody excited. The duelling parties sat in two separate boxes on the other. A team of medics sat beside the fighters in one box, a stretcher propped up nearby. Higglers moved through the crowd of watchers, shouting, “Roast peanut? Topi-tambo? Chataigne? Who going buy my fresh roast peanut?”
Tan-Tan craned her neck, trying to see the fighters better. “Mummy, is where Daddy there?” Tan-Tan asked.
“I don’t know, darling. I don’t see he. Mama Nanny, tell me that after all this fret I fret, the blasted man not going to just forfeit.”
The fighters were all dressed differently, according to their fighting style: some armoured like Quashee; some in leotards; some in dhotis with bare chests or bubby-bands. They all looked jittery.
Daddy finally came striding out from the change rooms. Ben the gardener was running in front as squire, carrying Antonio’s helmet and machète.
Quashee ain’t have a squire.
The crowd went silent. Daddy walked into that ring tall and proud. You could tell he wasn’t ’fraid nobody. Tan-Tan’s heart was thumping like drums.
She had never seen Daddy look so fine as this day. His leather armour was all in black with silver joints for the elbow and knee. His matching black leather helmet had a silver mouth guard. His machète was sharp so till it caught the little bit of sunshine that had graced the day and flung the light into Tan-Tan’s eyes, sharp like a razor cut.
Tan-Tan could see the fear-sweat already on Quashee’s brow.
Quashee and Antonio stood opposite each other. The machète marshall examined both their armour, ran a black box over their bodies. “Mummy, what he doing?”
A woman beside them answered. “He checking to make sure them ain’t using electronic fields to protect themself.”
“Granny Nanny,” the marshall chanted in nannysong to the air, “let the record show: the combattants dress fair to fight fair.” His enhanced voice echoed. He put a hand on either man’s forearm and switched to patwa. “Gentlemen, I want you to inform the crowd who issue this machète challenge this Jour Ouvert morning.”
“Is me, Marshall. Antonio, mayor of Cockpit County, against Quashee, the man who take away me wife honour from me.”
Somebody muttered, “Eh-eh. Like her honour is yours to have or lose.”
Mummy shot a quick glare at the man, her lips set hard together. He returned her gaze sheepishly, shrugged. Mummy looked back at the ring.
The marshall boomed, “Quashee, you accept the challenge?”
“Yes, Marshall.” His voice trembled a little.
The marshall nodded and looked up at the stands. “People, listen good, for though Granny Nanny hearing we, you is the human eyes of the law this morning. This fight must go according to these rules:”
Tan-Tan whispered the rules along with the marshall.
“Them could only use bare machète, no other weapon or device.
“Them could wear leather armour for protection.
“If the fight going fair, nobody must interfere.
“The thing must continue until one of them beg mercy or can’t fight no more.
“The winner shouldn’t kill, but should show mercy.
“Them is the rules. Allyou go be witness?”
“Yes, Marshall,” the crowd yelled back. As the marshall turned and walked to safety at the edge of the ring, Tan-Tan could hear the excited voices of people all around her:
“Quashee, man, is Quashee go win! Put a ten rupees on Quashee there for me.”
“You know so! He been practising! He sure to beat out Antonio. Look my five rupees.”
“Nah, man. Is fool allyou fool. Antonio have more life experience. I bet you the dog have some tricks in he. I putting down twenty on Antonio, oui?”
From the edge of the ring the marshall called to the two fighters: “All right; allyou ready?”
They nodded. Quashee put on his helmet. Even from where she was sitting Tan-Tan could see how his trembling hands fumbled with the chin buckle. Ben made to put on Antonio’s helmet, but Antonio stopped him cool-cool. He swaggered over to Mummy and Tan-Tan. Ione giggled like a sob. She put her hand to her mouth.
“Doux-doux,” Antonio called out to his wife, “give me your favour, nuh? Your lace handkerchief to tie back me hair from out me eyes?”
Ione put her hand on her bosom. Her lips wavered into a smile. She reached into her bodice with two fingers, slow, the way molasses does run down the side of the bowl. She drew out a pretty lace kerchief from her blouse, dabbed it against the moisture gathered between her breasts, and then flung it to Antonio. He caught the little piece of lace and held it up to his face, inhaling the perfume of Ione’s skin. “Oh God,” a man whispered from the crowd. “Look how he love she, even though she did horn he.”
“Never mind that at all,” somebody replied. “Ain’t you would give anything to be that kerchief, and rest where it does rest?”
Antonio smiled at Ione and tied back his long black hair with the kerchief. Only then would he let Ben put on the helmet. Tan-Tan clutched at the Robber Queen cape Daddy had given her. She closed her eyes and said silently, The winner can’t kill. He must show mercy. The winner can’t kill…
Daddy and Quashee shook hands. Ben jogged to safety beside the marshall. Daddy and Quashee drew their machètes. They started to circle each other.
And the fight start! Quashee made the first feint. Antonio danced out of the way easy-easy. He swung his machète through the air. Quashee stumbled out of the way just in time. Somebody in the stands muttered, “Quashee too craven, oui.”
Antonio came back for another jab, but Quashee lunged beneath it. Antonio cried out as Quashee’s machète grazed across his thigh.