The Coral Crown

The Coral Crown

1830

Plaine Magnien Sugar Plantation, Mauritius

The Overseer

I wake before the bell, like always. The air presses on my chest, thick and wet, mosquitoes whining at the shutters. Another day, another hundred souls broken on the rocks.

The letter from England lies crumpled where I left it. Mary’s handwriting has run, the ink blotched by the island’s damp. She begs me to return home. The tropics didn't suit them. Too much fever. Too many insects. They left. I stayed.

I lace my boots and step into the half-light. The grass glistens under its morning shroud. A few hens scratch under the barracks' verandah.

That’s when I see it.

At first, just a shape. A strange, unnatural lump at the edge of the fields where the women have been tasked all week with clearing the rocks ready for planting.

My gut tightens. As I draw closer, the shape sharpens. Stones. Stacked. Rising.

A pyramid.

A bloody pyramid has appeared overnight.

The women stand in a loose circle, heads low. And there, perched like some dark bird atop the structure, is young Ria. Slim, barefoot, her scarf loose in the breeze. She slots another stone into place. Deliberate. Unhurried.

This isn’t mischief. This is rebellion.

I shout up.

"Ria! What in God’s name is this?"

She doesn’t even glance at me.

"We’re building," she says softly, "a way home."

I step closer, lowering my voice, softening it.

"Come down, girl. You’ve made your point."

A flicker of something crosses her face. Not fear. Pity, perhaps.

"You build your monuments. Why shouldn’t we build ours?"

She’s never been afraid to talk back. That's why I remember her name.

"All very good, Ria. But you’re Indian. Not Egyptian."

I drop my voice further. This close, I can see the sweat glistening on her collarbone.

"You’re not like the others, Ria. I can protect you. Comfort. Privilege. A life above the others. Interested? Many would jump at the chance of sharing my quarters."

She holds my gaze, steady.

"I belong to no man. Not even you."

Something inside me twists. The rejection stings, but not because she refuses me. Because I know she’s right. I've always known she is strong and that makes me want her more.

The pounding of hooves cuts across the field. Sir Nigh arrives unannounced, as he often does. Wearing that ridiculous uniform he insists on. I served six years in the Peninsular War as a colour sergeant, and know what it's like to kill a man; he, he is just a glorified civil servant who lives off his father's fame and fortune. Yet he prances round like he's Wellington himself.

His white charger snorts as he dismounts, eyes narrowing at the sight before him.

"What in God's name is this?"

Ria is still like an angel atop a Christmas tree. She lowers to all fours and watches him below like a cat stalking prey. He circles the structure, hands behind his back, cock proud, disgust twisting his mouth. He ignores her as if she doesn't exist, only engages me.

"Since when do we employ Pharaohs, Pinnock?"

I stammer, sweat pricking my neck.

"I, I was about to handle it, sir."

"The fact they had time and energy to build this monstrosity is remarkable." His voice hardens. "You're not maximising them, Pinnock. You disappoint me."

He leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper so the women cannot hear. "We rule eighty thousand souls on this island with barely a hundred men between us. It takes one spark, Pinnock. One spark, and everything burns."

He straightens. Louder now so everyone can hear. "This is blasphemy. Blasphemy, I say. You lot get paid when a few years ago you would have been slaves. And still, you defile Christian mercy. Ungrateful heathens the lot of you!" He turns to me and I feel myself flinch as if he’s about to strike me. "You’ve allowed it, Pinnock. Do your duty, man, and tear it down. But first show these women how we rule the world with a firm hand!"

The women freeze. All eyes fall on me.

I climb the stones, my boots scraping. Ria stays still. She doesn't struggle, even as I pull her down by her hair and throw her to the dirt.

Nigh glares at me. "Make sure she doesn't insult your authority again, Mr Pinnock. Or I will send you back to that sickly cow of a wife of yours."

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, Sir."

I reach down and tear her rags from the neckline down. to her lower back. My belt slides from my waist like a serpent. The first lash lands across her spine, raising a welt. She doesn’t cry out.

I strike again. And again.

By the fourth blow, my own stomach turns. She whimpers as she bleeds, but refuses to shed tears.

Nigh nods at my work. "One more Pinnock. For good luck."

The smack is followed by a scream that cuts through me.

"Good work Pinnock." Nigh smiles. Mounts his charger. "See what happens when you don't do your duty, Pinnock? We all suffer, especially your women. Don't let this happen again."

"I won't,sir."

Nigh looks down at Ria who struggles to her knees. Her back wet with blood, her face angry.

"She’s a feisty little one. Probably dynamite in the sack. They all are these dusky women. It's why there's so many of them. If I were you, Pinnock, I’d know exactly where to spend my nights." He waves dismissively toward the half-built mound. "Now. When I return in the morning, I want to see a field ripe for sugarcane. Not the Valley of the Kings. Understand?"

I turn to the women who can't meet my eyes. "Break it down," I bark pointing at the pyramid and step off Ria. "All of it."

They obey. The stones soon scatter once more.

Night falls heavy. The air hangs still, as if even the wind fears to stir.

I sit awake, staring at the empty bottle on my table. My shirt sticks to my skin. Her silent tears echo louder than her final scream.

The bottle rolls from my fingers, clinking against the wooden floorboards. My throat burns. The night outside presses against the shutters, thick and heavy as judgement.

Out beyond the shutters, faint whispers rise. The scrape of stone on stone. I step outside and watch from the shadows.

And though I see only silhouettes, I know it's the women rebuilding.

That night, I dream.

The crucifix hangs before me. Christ’s eyes open, staring into mine. His lips move.

"Shame on you."

Blood trickles down his brow. But as I blink, the face changes.

Ria wearing a coral crown.

Her back striped red, but her large eyes burning with something far stronger than pain.

My own back sears as if lashed. The agony folds me in half.

I wake before dawn, sweat-soaked and gasping. Tears streak my face. My hands shake.

Before the sun rises, I walk barefoot into the fields.

The pyramid stands, taller now. Twice the height of a man. Several more are at various stages of completion on the same dirt field.

The women freeze when they see me. No one moves. Except Ria. She picks up a stone, steps forward, and places it in my hands.

I say nothing. I bend, fit the stone into place.

"For every stone, a sin," I whisper.

Another stone.

"Shame on me."

The women join me. Silent. Steady.

Our hands bleed together.

Sir Nigh

I rein in sharply at the field's edge. The infernal humidity clings to my collar like a leech. Damn this blasted colony.

There it stands.

The pyramid. Fully formed. Insolent. Pagan.

There are six more now.

Pinnock will pay for his weakness.

And then I see him.

My breath catches. My stomach twists in my gut.

There, nailed to the peak of the tallest pyramid, hangs Pinnock. Arms spread. His wrists nailed to timber crossbeam wedged between the final stones. A crown of coral twists around his brow, its red branches clawing at his skin as blood pools beneath.

My grip tightens around the reins. For a moment, I cannot breathe.

The women, vanished. The barracks, empty. My plantation, hollow.

I dismount slowly. My lip curls.

This cannot be known or I will be ruined. May even cause rebellion on this wretched island.

I pull him down myself. Dead weight, limp and sunburnt yet cold to the touch. My boots sink into red soil as I drag him to the planted field.

I dig with my own hands beneath the tallest stalks and bury him where no man will speak of it. No reports. No scandal. No questions.

But as I rise to give his last rights, the whispers return.

They emerge from the cane. One by one. Silent. Dozens. Perhaps more. Faces gleaming in the half-light.

They form a circle around me and cut me off from my horse.

The circle parts.

The young woman who Sebastian flogged steps forward.

Her eyes meet mine.

She lifts a stone and offers it to me.

I do not take it. My hand moves instead to the pistol at my hip.

The women begin to chant. Low. Building. They step forward as one.

I draw my pistol and shout, “Get back! Get back, I say. Or I'll shoot you like the vermin you are.”

My fingers close around the grip.

I know it is not loaded. Like my uniform, it was to give the impression of power which has always been enough for these simple minded folk.

My voice breaks.

"Christ, forgive me."

And the night swallows us whole.