The Jellyfish Kingdom

Aunt Mercy’s Toe

Chapter 4

I awoke to unexpected news the next morning. I was to spend the rest of the summer at my Aunt Mercy who lived some miles away in Ochos Rios, assumed loosely to be so named for its numerous rivers and waterfalls. Though it was only ten miles east, the rapidly growing town sat in the more famous neighbouring parish of St. Ann. Of course the news that shook me. The summer had just begun, and that meant it would be the better part of six weeks before I could return home and to the beach. It wasn’t the first time that this had occurred. I remember a previous occasion when I was not yet ten and the only chapter of my life when I would hear my parents constantly bickering at each other. The arguments were daily and had had a great effect on my own mood. Such unpleasant episodes had been during the summer months and I was shipped off to Aunt Mercy, presumably as a result. I also remember that, on my return, I had been met with the warm atmosphere I had become accustomed to, and that a sense of normalcy had been returned to my person.

Of course I was unsure what to think of these plans and confusion set in. Things were going quite well at home and I could find no reason for my intended absence. The sudden realization that my nightly escapades could have been the catalyst for this sudden decision froze my thoughts. Even now, I have never discovered the reasons for this unexpected decision. My immediate thoughts were on Lir, not my friends of the summer or my impending divorce from the times on the beach. But the anguish I experienced provided an insightful measure as to the impact he was having on my consciousness.

I managed to pull my thoughts to the person of Aunt Mercy. She wasn’t really my aunt but my grand-aunt, an indomitable contradiction of both piety and malcontent. She was, oddly, not much older than my own parents, but I knew she had been born towards the end of the last century. From the stories told, I had learned that her grandparents had been amongst the last generation subject to the humiliation of slavery. She, Mercy, had never been married and had also remained childless. Not that one would have imagined it otherwise. The maternal side of my family — (from which my grandaunt had been conceived), were devout advocates of the church — and never had there been a child born out of wedlock within that line. Certainly not in the period following the presumed spark of conscience that had fomented the passing of abolition. She had lived alone in the large port town even before my birth, preferring the bustle of the parish capital to what she must have seen as dull, rural life. She visited with us for weekends on occasions such as Easter and Christmas — though of late it appeared that she had become more consistent in her arrivals. . My mother had confided in me that this was likely because of loneliness, but Aunt Mercy would hardly have admitted such a thing. Mother’s confidings did, however, offer me some understanding as to why Aunt Mercy had always seemed pleased to see me, often bringing simple gifts on her visits. Somehow, despite these overtures, I had remained a bit intimidated by her.

Outside my own family, it seemed most people found her to be quite cantankerous, a truth I was well aware of. In fact, the first I had heard of the word it was in service to her shrewish behavior. She had earned the uncomplimentary assignation during one of her numerous visits to our district. On that occasion, she had somehow managed to incite the usually mild mannered Missus Campbell to the boundaries of her patience. Now that near breach of Missus Cambell’s generous nature had been near miraculous, because everyone from that area had known that the middle-aged widow was given to the sweetest disposition one was ever likely to encounter. Nevertheless the injudicious Mercy had managed to grate on her, far beyond any reasonable persuasion the widowed angel could gather. She could be quite spiteful too, my aunt. Though she went about her business at times whilst pretending an air of tender disposition, her combative nature was often exposed when some unfortunate adversary drew her ire. She was a couple of pounds heavier than healthy and was not above bristling in physical threat to emphasize her point of view. I myself had observed this innate trait of hers once she was brought to a good temper.

These memories of that time fills me pleasantly now, though a far cry from the mood I had been in when I discovered I was to spend time away. Riddled with disappointment, I had carefully planned how to escape again to the beach that night, for I was to leave on the morrow and I desperately wanted to inform Lir of these developments. He would have been expecting my now nightly arrivals, but what was not expected that day was the premature arrival of Mercy.

On the previous occasion that I was sent to her, my mother had made the roughly twenty mile trip with me by bus. I had been disappointed by this as the railway had just recently been established close to where we lived, and I had dearly wanted the novel experience of travelling by train. As it was, the large bus that plied its way between districts and towns was how I had taken the trip. It was one of those huge transports — brought in from Britain — that was a feature of most parishes as they relied heavily on the patronage of those who sold in the market. Though afforded a new option, most people stuck to the familiarity of the buses, and for a long time they would still prove to be the most vital ally in the commerce between farmers and the townships — colourful old coaches that were as much a part of island culture as the beaches and cane fields that dotted the countryside.

The local bus traversed thrice daily within the parish, the more heavily populated town of Ocho Rios acting as its base. Mercy had made the trip on the earliest departure available and had arrived not long after I had awakened. Her arrival signaled a further change that I had not anticipated. Instead of making the trip next morning as I had believed, I was to travel back with her that very evening. I had been disconsolate and heartbroken at this new development and considered heading off to the beach during the early afternoon. The persistent rain of the last few days had once again surrendered to the sun of summer, so a seeming final visit by me to the beaches would not appear awkward. I quickly conceded the futility in this and was instead left to brew in my growing frustration. Time flew, as if an adversary to my desires — and as it so often does when one requires its benevolent mercies. All too soon, it was time to head to the small shop that sat on the main thoroughfare, where a small crowd would have already amassed to catch the evening bus back into town. I had headed off disconsolately, though outwardly obediently, behind Aunt Mercy. The brief trek had stayed long in my mind, for I recall that it had been very difficult to quell the tears that threatened to betray my absolute misery. No one had noticed my morose demeanour throughout the course of that day — a fact that served to enhance my insurmountable feeling of loneliness.

I had opened my eyes to thoughts of Lir. A thousand questions assailed me. What would he think of my sudden absence? Would he think I had abandoned him? Would I ever see him again? Amongst them, some new considerations arose. He had told me that I was the only human in over a century that had seen him. What then of the strange creatures that had saved him that fateful day? What of his fellow captives that had also been fated to a watery grave? There had no further mention of them by him and I was left to puzzle over these things that I could not presently know.

The smell and sounds of sizzling fish on an early fire drifted into me and my stomach growled in familiar anticipation. I thought back to my arrival the previous evening. The house wasn’t as grand and large as I had imagined from my visit four years earlier. The things of our youth, as we all have come to know, are often magnified in our childish reflections. Her dwelling, however, was certainly still a far cry from my more humble rural accommodations. Even under the gaze of the freshly lit lamp, I could see that the wooden floorboards were polished to a lively sheen. There had also been an omnipresent scent of freshness that was a pleasant newness to me.

I spent the next week in consistent fashion, never once leaving the house. I was very careful to keep to myself, because though Aunt Mercy had always behaved generously towards me, I had from even then, tried to limit my interactions with her, determined to tip-toe around any path to her possible displeasure. The meals at Aunt Mercy were among the first of the benefits of spending time with her. Though I had been a reluctant visitor, I found myself eagerly anticipating the results of her time spent in the kitchen. She was an excellent cook, and I had marveled at her great skill and the casual ease in which she went about her business. At times, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of disloyalty, for though my mother was quite capable around a stove, I had to acknowledge that their agilities in this regard were worlds apart.

A smile tickles my lips as I recall one particular memory of Mercy. Though she has been long gone from this earth, I am left to trust in her grudging forgiveness. I had set off to bed early for there was not much to do once dusk had descended and the evening meal digested. Aunt Mercy, to my everlasting knowledge, had done exactly the same. She had retired to bed exactly as she had risen that day, free from affliction and pain. At some point, not long into the night, I had heard the sounds of dissatisfied muttering, growing increasingly animated with the passing minutes. Though we had separate rooms, they were but a few scant feet apart. Aunt Mercy routinely closed her own door, the practiced prudency of those older than me and was a habit I, myself, had refrained from because of the distaste I felt for the dark. I was not at all alarmed at the sounds coming from her room. The fact that she babbled incoherently while she dreamt was something I had become attuned to very early into my stay. On this night, however, her voice had been particularly strident. Whatever had been antagonizing her dreams seemed to have ignited her unrestricted venom. This went on for quite some time before it was punctuated by a sudden thump and a low howl. I had listened carefully into the abrupt silence with mild concern but no more sounds escaped to greet me. After a bit, thinking no more of it, I floated finally into peaceful sleep.

The next morning I awoke to the usual sounds of Aunt Mercy fussing about the kitchen. The smell of sizzling fish on an early fire had sped my approach into the room. Almost immediately I noticed a slight hobble in Mercy’s movements. I hadn’t thought much about it, for I knew that, at times, she was given to afflictions of mild discomfort. But after she had taken a step that elicited a tiny squeal of pain, my attention had returned to her obvious plight. Mercy offered no explanation, continuing about her business as if nothing was amiss. That night, I listened carefully, for I suspected that an answer might lie there, but there had been only silence filling the house.

The next day was very much like the one that had preceded it. I watched more attentively now and there was no mistaking that, once more she was struggling with her movements. I have already been careful to explain that I was, (even for a long time after), very cautious regarding my interactions with her. Because of this, days would pass before I actually discovered the mysterious source of her discomfort. When that had finally happened it had been quite by accident.

A couple days on, when she had thought me not to be about, I was loitering by the open window that looked over at her neighbour’s home. I didn’t necessarily mean to be eavesdropping, but the lacy curtain that covered the opening meant that I could not be observed from the yard. It so happened that the unfriendly woman next door, the dour Mrs. Edwards, was the only adult person — other than my own mother — whom I had ever observed Mercy in a kind word with. That day, Mercy was at the low fence that divided their yards, idling away the time in trivial chatter. I had been passing the open window when their bantering drifted to my ears. About to step away in pursuit of more worthwhile entertainment, I suddenly realized she had been discussing the issue of her toe. Of course her mention of this arrested my departure, as I had, by now, become a bit more curious about the source of the mysterious malady. As she persisted in her complaints to the consoling Mrs. Edwards, a hint of what had transpired became clearer to me. My mind flickered back to the night of animated mutterings and the innocuous thump I had heard. Apparently, she had been in imaginary dispute with a concocted antagonist. The disagreement had stemmed over ownership of a succulent mango he had claimed. Mangoes for the eating in our parts were as numerous as the sands of the beach, so I could not myself imagine the reason for the fuss. In her rage and frustration, Mercy had attempted to land an imprudent kick to his person. However, her would-be nemesis had displayed a turn of unexpected agility. Unfortunately, and maybe deservedly, she had only succeeded in making hefty contact with the concrete wall alongside her bed. Luckily for her, she had escaped with only the ignominy of a sprained toe for her ill-advised descent into unseemly temper. The humour of such a thing had bubbled up within me, and it became a memory, often called upon, when I am in need of silent humour, though I have never spoken about it until now.

It’s strange to me now that I hadn’t thought of Aunt Mercy in years. The recollections of Lir have summoned her intrusion into my thoughts. As so they should, if for the fact that she too had helped to shape my blossoming awareness throughout that strange summer. As I would later realize, it was a period of my life that, though brief, was to forever alter my views on the world I inhabited and the nature of my fellow man.