Читать книгу This Finer Shadow - Harlan Cozad McIntosh - Страница 3

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The sea’s reaches moved blue and green from the western horizon to the Haitian coast. The small ship Verda disturbed the roll of water.

Martin gave the ship a little right wheel and she had her course, breaking the current. An offshore wind brought the jungle to him. He closed his eyes and felt its movement—the overcries of birds, animal musk and the heavy heat of clouds. There, facing the sun, lay a swan’s feather of beach shining up to the darker ridges. Oceanward, the sea bent into the brightest corner.

It was after supper. He knew the sailors were lounging on the poopdeck. Rio, naked to the waist, handsome, with his broken chest and heavy shoulders, would be telling the younger seamen of One Beer Annie and her electric finger. Martin looked at the clock and at the compass. He struck three bells and stepped away as his relief entered the wheelhouse.

“Thirty-two,” said Martin.

“Thirty-two,” repeated the quartermaster.

“Steering thirty-two,” called Martin to the mate on the bridge.

The officer nodded his head.

Later, on lookout, Martin leaned against the ship’s apron and watched the sky ring blue to blue. On the coastal side the bright wing faded under the hills. Seaward, the sun pressed into mist—sustained by color. He shaded his eyes against the shrill line, saw it strike the water, burn and recede. Catching the rim, it held once and fell, breathing up softer lights. Flame, gold and scarlet in procession shifted to turquoise and a rolling mauve—slowly turning the crystal till darkness caught one star.

The distant light trembled in his eyes. He crossed the deck and faced the shore. An aluminum crust broke the dark shoulder of mountain, rising higher till its bright shale covered the swing of beach with moontide. Burning from the painting ran the moonspindle, striking the ship. Martin dropped his head and stared into the blue foam.

Above him, Orion swung easily past the foremast and returned; Polaris grew in the north; and behind him, the Southern Cross lay on her side. He grabbed the mainstay, pulled himself up on the apron and lay on his back. His eyes followed the moon as she came toward him, changing softly from flesh to white, round and white like the abdomen of a woman.

Silence, dead and liquid, held the Verda from both sky and sea. A restless mist, moving downward, obscured the stars. On the land side heat-lightning followed in sheaves. A thin black cloud raised the horizon. It built higher and darker as it rushed at the ship.

Martin pulled off his skivy-shirt. The heat covered his face with perspiration and he drew his arm across his forehead. Isolated on the fo’c’sle head, away from the ship and its crew, there was no proportion. The wind dried his throat and he bent under the apron to breathe, closing his eyes against the lightning. A wave smashed on the bow and sounded through the forepeak. He ducked lower under the steel cover and rubbed the salt from his mouth. The rain struck. Falling solidly, it hammered his back and shoulders until, at last, to ease the pain, he turned his side against the pressure. When he looked aft he knew that he was blind, seeing neither mast nor running-lights. Living in this vacuum of noise, without sight, he knelt on the deck with his head in his arms and tried to breathe through the falling water. Still and bowed he waited.

Abruptly the wind stopped, and the rain. He looked up and saw the retreating clouds uncovering stars behind him. The moon shone more brightly. The scent of the jungle was deeper and the man with the sword in the sky smiled as he swung past the mast. Martin stripped off his dungarees and wrung the water from them. The stiffening cloth was still moist when he pulled them on again.

He was surprised toward the latter part of his watch by a heavy, amused voice.

“Get your end wet?”

He saw Rio smiling at him.

“I did,” he replied gravely.

Rio slapped his hands together.

“Why’d you go to sea?”

Martin rubbed his chin and looked away.

“I’m getting along,” he answered.

Rio leaned on the rail beside him.

“A woman’s place is in the home.”

Martin felt himself beset by an out-of-time capriciousness. Yet he knew these words, so like the emptying of a fool’s wounds, were no more idle than the turn of water and wind and all their purposes, though whistled through a child’s melody. He knew also that certain eccentricities of men, of winds, of waters, must be directed and employed; therefore, without looking at his friend, he spoke to him.

“The boundaries of the home have been extended. The boundaries of your mind are arbitrary.”

“That serves me up, I guess.” Rio yawned. “But you ain’t no seaman.”

Martin sighted over the rail.

“Scorpio’s tail light is out.”

Rio, persistent, glanced at him sideways.

“You ain’t happy here, and I am.” He breathed the hot, moist wind and looked at the moon and the quiet length under it. “I’m happy. This is the kind of night I live for. It’s clean and hot. It burns the yellow out of your blood. Some day,” he nodded toward the island fading behind them, “I’m goin’ to get a little shack over there with a shakedown roof, and maybe a small stove.”

“So you’re happy,” answered Martin. “Happy!” he repeated in a louder voice. “That word doesn’t belong on this deck.”

Rio grinned.

“You’re a Christian, then.”

Martin stepped closer to him.

“I believe I am.”

The lights of a ship came up on the port bow. Martin crossed the deck and struck two bells. When he returned he spoke abstractedly.

“I’d like to find a quiet beach myself. A beach that walks with you in the daytime and sings with you at night.... A place to rest.... But I can’t rest.”

Rio became confused. He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and for a second they stood motionless, like mildewed lovers in a gloom proportionately obscure. Then Rio whispered, “I’ll do my bit, my friend. I’ll take your last illusion.”

Martin saw the fluid, hurt eyes and the bitter smile. He struck Rio’s arms from his shoulders.

“How do you know that I still possess this ‘last illusion?’ ... Why do you follow me?... You call for the water and the heat. You’re part of the land we passed and of your buccaneering ancestors. That doesn’t include me. I’m a foreigner.”

Rio looked at him with hatred.

“Meanin’, my fine lad, I ain’t part of you? Well, maybe I ain’t.” He brought one fist down on the rail, then pointed at the water. “Christ, you’re wrong about it all, though. You ain’t no sailor—but you are the ‘part of.’ I’m the foreigner. My father buccaneered from the pulpit. A hard-shell, hell-fire Baptist, he cheapened a pirate’s trade with pennies out of a palm leaf.... I remember him well; a dirty man from the west, with green eyes and a thin beard. He showed me your English and your habits and shouted his bad theology. And all the time, my native mother, with the sound of the beach for religion, stared at him——” He turned clumsily, more like an anthropoid than a man. “I don’t get myself, Martin. Maybe I’m starved. It’s been a long time. I’ve lived in a monastery since a brown girl——”

“I hear every word,” said Martin. “I hear ‘monastery,’ ‘brown girl,’ ‘pirate’—but I can’t put them together. I can’t think logically. They’re disconnected pictures.”

“Keep your pictures.” Rio moved closer. “I said I’m crazy to-night.”

Now Martin could see an intentional grace, eager and sharp.

“Hold your Baptist’s head then, Rio. That’s not for us.” Martin’s waist was slim in the moonlight. He knew the night was wrong—something to fight or there would be a mistake. He turned away. “It’s nearly eight bells, Rio, and the squarehead relieves me too fast.”

Rio held his fist against the moon. His face seemed breaking.

“You ain’t right, Martin, but you make me think you are.”

He climbed down the ladder, walked across the foredeck and aft to his bunk. He took his bath in a bucket, put on clean skivies, turned in and tried to sleep.

On lookout, Martin watched dew form on the steel rail and rubbed his hand across it. The sun had burned his hair lighter than his skin; and as the moist wind pushed it from his temples, a smile, restrained by the unfathomable hurt of one who, for escape, has taken to the sea, formed on his lips. That he could dream well could be told by the changing color of his eyes according to that which was about him; and by the fact or the illusion that he saw great distances or none at all. His conversation with Rio had been a short but a disturbing one. At the climactic moment it had seemed obvious. Not now; and deliberately Martin turned his thoughts to the ocean. His union with the ship and all that was about him was brief and precisioned. Perhaps it was his quietness or perhaps a quality in the sky; but his silent figure was adjusted in the small cosmos. His eyes, indecisive of both moon and ocean, had found the properties of each. Thus, filled with iron and dull gold, he wore the uniform and restlessness of the tides and knew that although his own desire had been encompassed, it had not been lost. He pressed against the rail, his arms braced, his bronze hair damp against the deeper bronze of his skin. Through the clarity of a sudden, stern compassion, he swung around to where Rio had stood. In the recurring consciousness of the presence of his friend, he drew the solemn colors about them. Against his feet the steel plates trembled with the ship’s engines. The wind changed. A thousand mirrors broke under the high moon.