Stoddard sat quietly with his elbow resting in the open window of the passenger car as the train slowly made its way up into the hills. He watched the sun stream through the lush jungle canopy as the scant breeze did little to quell the island heat.
Stepping off the train, he gazed incredulously up at the massive heaps of harvested sugar cane, each the size of a two-storey house.
The distillery tour was unremarkable — a dry explanation of boilers and fermentation tanks in the guide’s thick patois soon lost Stoddard’s interest. Maybe it was the air, the sun, the heat — the cloying stickiness of the sugar cane that suffused every breath taken in the humid tropical clime.
Even in his discomforting pique, his mind drifted back to the
sands of Montego.
The goddesse layde, beckonende bihofþe the man
as the billows did crash upon the strand
Stoddard stepped back outside but even there every draw of air tasted of hot, syrupy thickness. He again marveled at the mountains of sugar cane.
“Young man! Take! Bless up!” The tour guide was suddenly beside him proffering a paper cup. “Di rum punch ours,” he pointed at the drink.
Stoddard stared at the pink liquid. What furley young man would turn down free alcohol in a tropical setting, let alone anywhere?
In his mishmash of queasiness and longing, Stoddard politely declined and headed back to the train.
Sche basketh in the sonne, and alle is wel
sche clepeth to me, and I desyre to answere...
