People had begun to gather as word spread. Some stepped into the deep ruts left in the earth as if measuring themselves against the enormity of the situation. Others observed how the vegetation had been disturbed violently, with fibrous yellow-brown roots now exposed. Their eyes followed the trail, clear down to the river, where on the bank, women wailed in grief, pointing at stalks of displaced bamboo now floating downstream, carried by the rushing water. The scene hung heavy, pregnant with dread.

“It’s just such a terrible tragedy,” observed John John, a local farmer in his sixties. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with a red rag he had pulled from a pocket on his navy blue overalls. Dismounting his donkey, he approached the area somewhat reverently. John John gave a nod to those around him. Then he used his mud-encrusted goulashes to return some of the vegetation to its place, patting it back into the earth gently as if attempting to close a wound inflicted on this rural community that had sent it reeling mid morning.

“I just saw a truck coming down off the hill like when a bull on a rampage!” exclaimed Arley Evans, propelling his feet in a galloping motion to illustrate to a group of his friends who had assembled along the road next to where tire tracks could first be seen. With increasing animation, Arley recounted how he had heard the sound of an engine racing and looked up just in time to see a truck tear through the underbrush, dart across the road, and plough down the embankment before disappearing beneath the blue-green water.

That truck was owned by Nugent Farm and Caleb Nugent was now the focus of all this grief. Caleb had grown up in Castleton, a town nestled in the hills of St. Mary, a parish with coffee, cocoa, and bananas among the crops grown. The area is known also for Castleton Gardens, a botanical wonder dating back to 1860. As a lad, Caleb used to join his friends for a swim in the Wag Water River, the same watercourse that had now consumed his truck, which, according to Arley Evans, still supplying eye-witness testimony, had zoomed across the Junction Main Road and in that mad dash, dispersed some of the majestic bamboo at the river’s edge before plunging beneath to a gurgling of bubbles.

“I can’t believe this!” Evangeline Nugent shrieked, comforted by her husband Peter. They had gathered at the scene, where emergency services had now deployed divers. Onlookers held their breath only to gasp each time a diver popped up. Arley Evans, who had stationed himself right at the action, had eagle eyes trained on the operation as if mentally recording every step. But with a suddenness that startled those near him, he spun around and bolted up the embankment, navigating against the flow of people still descending on the scene. What had caused Arley, the unofficial town gazette, to leave his vantage point at such a critical moment, to now retrace his steps?

Paul and Evangeline Nugent hugged each other. They had started Nugent Farm 30 years ago, a small cocoa and pimento holding on the outskirts of Jeffrey Town. It had grown over time, with Caleb, their son, now at the helm. Further expansion saw Caleb establish a pimento processing plant up in the hills in Castleton, which required the use of the truck. Paul Nugent had embraced the idea of the plant because it meant getting the value added from the pimento. But he had cautioned Caleb many times over about driving up into the hills due to the propensity for landslides, which were now becoming increasingly common in the area.

Special constables, in their distinctive blue-seamed trousers, had arrived to direct traffic as the spectacle down the embankment grew. Trucks laden with green bananas, taxis with passengers staring curiously, and an arriving fire engine, all contributed to the din. Down by the river, the crowd reacted as the divers surfaced, their wetsuits glistening in the sunlight. They made their way back on land, ambling clumsily in their flippers like penguins. Dumping their gear at the staging area, they huddled, stone-faced, with rescue officials. Soon after, the fire chief stepped forward to report that after several plunges, the divers were convinced that no one was trapped in the truck.

“That’s because who you are looking for is right over there,” came a voice from atop the embankment. It was none other than Arley Evans’s and he was pointing to a thicket on the other side of the road. With Moses-like effect, Arley led the crowd across the road and a little way into the brush, the same section that Caleb’s truck had torn through. And there he was! The sight of Caleb Nugent, semiconscious in the bush, caused two of the women who had been wailing at the riverside to faint by the roadside, falling to the ground with consecutive thuds. Instead of one, there were now three people the emergency services had to attend to.

“What a wonderful way this turned out,” declared John John, mounting his donkey. The animal’s hooves made a clip-clop sound on the asphalt as he guided it toward the path leading to the entrance to his farm. John John turned slightly to give a nod to people still milling about, including Arley Evans, who was holding court, reporting that as he had been watching the divers earlier, something struck him. Replaying scenes of the incident in his mind, particularly when Caleb’s truck rumbled across the road, he realized that he had overlooked a crucial detail: there had been no one in the cab as the vehicle shot past on its way down toward the river.

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