Читать книгу Manchineel - John Ballem - Страница 10

Skye carefully removed the single strand of hair from the comb and flushed it down the toilet. From now on he would be careful not to leave anything connected with his person where Adrienne might be able to get at it. He let himself out of his bedroom suite and walked through the early evening darkness to the main building where Overfine would serve him a lonely dinner. The bright-eyed face of a mongoose stared at him from the dense green foliage of a “firecracker” plant and was quickly withdrawn as he passed.

As was the custom, Overfine reeled off the menu in his deep baritone voice. Callaloo soup—Skye’s favourite—sorbet to cleanse the palate, red snapper, which Skye had finally convinced Agatha to serve blackened, followed by Port-au-Prince salad and pawpaw custard for dessert. At Skye’s insistence, the staff had reluctantly eliminated the cheese course when he was in residence. The wine was a white California Chardonnay. Conscious of the night’s work that lay ahead, Skye was going to confine himself to one glass, but he motioned Overfine to pour another. It was Jocelyn’s favourite wine—Sterling Chardonnay—and he would toast her with it.

Two hours later, they set out with Overfine driving and Skye cradling the case in his lap. The entire island seemed to be aware of their mission. Obviously, Overfine had spread the word. A gibbous moon lent its fitful light to their passage as it ducked in and out of scudding clouds. Native children, almost invisible in the dark, peered curiously and fearfully from the side of the road. Skye tensed as they approached the seawall, the place where the youth of the island congregated at night to court, sing songs, and exchange gossip. The white dresses of the young women glimmered in the moonlight. He wondered how many of them had been wearing a very different white dress last night. The thin, almost transparent, dress of an acolyte. God, was it only last night?

All of the youths jumped down from the wall as the jeep drew nearer. Overfine glanced at Skye and shifted into second, ready to smash his way through if anyone tried to stop them. Skye relaxed when the men began to pull off the woolen caps that many of them wore. They stood silently as the jeep went past, some of them crossing themselves, and all of them standing with bowed heads.

“The mistress very popular with the people, Mister Skye.”

Skye nodded and tightened his grip on the case. “You’ll soon be at peace, darling,” he whispered.

The jetty seemed deserted, yet he had the feeling of being watched. If there was to be an attempt to steal the case, this was the most likely place. As well as being the last chance. But no one attempted to intercept them as the two men made their way to the whaler, the jetty’s wooden planks moving and shifting under their feet. The planks were uneven, forcing Skye to concentrate on his footing, so as not to stumble and fall. That would have been the final indignity for Jocelyn.

The Mercury outboard purred quietly in reverse as Overfine backed the whaler out into the narrow channel and headed for the open sea. As they neared the mouth of the channel, Skye stood up and pulled on the painter to raise the bow and keep them from being drenched by spray from the waves that piled up against the reef. When they were well offshore, they turned south, heading for Tamarind Beach on the southern tip of the island. Because it was more remote than the other equally beautiful cays and beaches, and because the rock-strewn goat track petered out a half-mile from the beach, hardly anyone went there. Except for Skye and Jocelyn, whose favourite picnic spot it was. One October afternoon, the year before Jocelyn was killed, they had revelled in its isolation as they feasted on cold lobster salad, washed down with white Chardonnay, and swam nude in the gentle surf, playfully touching each other until, unable to stand it any longer, they ran laughing hand-in-hand across the beach to make love beneath the tamarind trees.

They had led a golden life, he and Jocelyn. Deeply and equally in love with each other—that equal bit was not all that common in marriages and relationships—healthy, good looking—no, Jocelyn was beautiful—and with enough financial resources to possess that greatest luxury of all—time to enjoy themselves and pursue the things that interested them.

One cloud marred their happiness and at times threatened to come between them. At the age of 19 Skye had come down with a severe case of the mumps. Some years later, at the insistence of the family doctor, he underwent tests that determined he was sterile. Not impotent, Skye smiled to himself at the thought, but sterile.

Jocelyn occasionally remarked that this had done much to shape Skye’s character—that he compensated for it by flying airplanes, riding jumping horses, engaging in extreme-level skiing, and cultivating an insatiable curiosity about things. “It also,” she had once added, “is probably why you are so chivalrous.”

“Chivalrous? Me?”

“Yes, you. You are chivalrous, Skye. In the old-fashioned sense. You are quick to help people. Believe me, I’m not complaining. Far from it.”

In the early years of their marriage Skye’s infertility was not an issue but then Jocelyn began to long for a child. Skye was prepared to adopt a child, but that wasn’t enough for Jocelyn. She wanted to bear her own child, and in order to do that, she was prepared to be impregnated with sperm from an anonymous donor whose credentials would be thoroughly checked by the fertility clinic. The idea horrified Skye and for years he resisted it adamantly. But he loved his wife and finally couldn’t stand making her unhappy. Ironically, he had planned to tell her to go ahead on the last day of the fatal ski trip.

Spray from an errant wave splashed Skye, snapping him out of his reverie. The whaler was closing the south coast, and Frigate Island, Manchineel’s closest neighbour, loomed out of the darkness. The few scattered pinpricks of light attested to the fact that it was virtually uninhabited, save for a skeleton caretaking crew. Skye sometimes thought of it as Manchineel’s dark sister. The island took its name from the frigate birds who soared in from their endless oceanic wanderings to nest in the mangrove swamp on its windward coast.

The island had been purchased four years ago by the Frigate Company, a company incorporated under the laws of the Turks & Caicos, one of several Caribbean tax havens. The intent had been to turn it into an exclusive resort, like Manchineel. But the company had encountered difficulties in raising money; it was rumoured that some potential investors were scared off by the fact that the island lacked a suitable beach. It was indented with many coves and cays, but they were ringed with rock and gravel, not powder-soft sand. And it also seemed that the market wasn’t ready for another expensive resort. Whatever the reason, Frigate remained undeveloped and deserted.

Once, Skye and Jocelyn had taken the whaler and a picnic lunch into Hurricane Hole, a deeply indented mangrove swamp on the leeward side. They intended to explore the island, but had been warned off by a rifle-toting guard. Adrienne had once let slip that one of the guards was a high-ranking houngan, but this one had looked much too young for that exalted office.

Jocelyn had been researching Manchineel’s history, beginning with its days as a sugar plantation. She intended to publish a booklet on the subject. In the course of her research she had come across some interesting material about the neighbouring islands, including the fact that Frigate had a history of failed enterprises. Years ago some enterprising souls set up a fish packing plant on the windward side. Tumbledown plant buildings were the sole reminders of that ill-fated venture. Some local farmers tried to raise goats on the island, but even they failed to thrive on its barren soil.

Skye raised his hand and Overfine throttled back. With the motor idling, the only motion was the gentle swell of the sea. Unexpectedly, Overfine began to sing in his powerful, choir-trained voice. Skye remained seated, his head bowed, as the familiar, comforting words of “Abide With Me” rolled out across the dark sea. When it was over, he reached down and lifted the bronze urn from its case. Unscrewing the top, he stood up, the soft onshore breeze cool on his face. Exchanging places with Overfine, he tilted the urn over the stern, the ashes fanning out in a fine, grey veil. Fragments of bone made a small splash as they fell into the water. For an appalled moment Skye thought they were going to float, until they began to slip beneath the surface, the teeth sinking first. Upending the urn, he shook out the last remnants of ash, then rinsed it in the sea. Now Jocelyn’s memory was safe. The urn. He hadn’t thought about that. He hesitated for a moment, then filled it with water and watched it sink, throwing the top in after it.

Standing on the shore, Adrienne Jones focused the 3 Ox spotting scope Skye had given her after she had let him watch his first voodoo ceremony, and smiled her satisfaction. She had been sure that Skye would scatter the ashes off Tamarind Beach.

Skye was about to put the motor in gear, when he caught a movement on the periphery of his vision. A native pirogue, travelling without lights, its long, low silhouette barely visible in the faint sky glow, was heading south. With four men paddling, its passage was silent and swift. It was carrying a cargo of some sort; a large shapeless hump rose above the gunwales between the two pairs of paddlers. It was covered with some material.

“I wonder what they’re up to?” murmured Skye, wishing he had brought binoculars. As he and Overfine watched, the pirogue changed course onto a southeast heading.

“They be going to Frigate. Probably some of the guards reporting for duty.” Overfine reached out and held Skye’s hand before he could touch the throttle. “Best we wait till they be further away.”

“Funny that they’re paddling. I would have thought that the guards would have insisted on having at least an outboard for transportation.”

“Paddles don’t make no noise. Outboards do.”

The pirogue disappeared around a headland but there was no doubt that it was headed for Frigate. A few minutes later, the whaler got underway. But instead of heading back up the coast, Skye pointed it south. Overfine shot Skye an uneasy, puzzled look, then stood up and grabbed the painter as they cleared the headland and smacked into the waves surging through the channel between the two islands after an uninterrupted journey from the coast of Africa, thousands of miles away. It was called Commotion Channel because of the choppy seas churned up by the sudden constriction of the waves.

Adrienne cursed softly and lowered the spotting scope. What was Skye playing at? Being thrown around in the Commotion Channel in a tiny whaler wasn’t what you would call a pleasure trip. He would probably turn back soon. Just in time to catch her in the act. Shit! She shook her head at her companion and pounded a stake in the sand, lining it up with a lighthouse on Mayreau. The riding lights of an anchored yacht off the same island provided a third triangulation point. Then she sat down on the gunwale of the pirogue and checked out her diving equipment one more time.

Despite Overfine’s efforts to hold the bow up, both he and Skye were soon thoroughly drenched with spray. Wiping his eyes, Skye throttled back and peered ahead. The pirogue had disappeared into the darkness of the night. Effortlessly keeping his balance as the whaler lost speed, Overfine looked over his shoulder at Skye. His look was questioning, as if asking what had made Skye go tearing off in pursuit of the native craft. Skye couldn’t have told him; he had reacted instinctively, without conscious thought. Still, there had been something sinister about the pirogue as it slipped silently through the night with its mysterious cargo. He waited for a gap in the rolling waves and quickly turned the whaler around. The ride back to the shelter of Manchineel’s leeward coast was much smoother, with the waves quartering their stern.

Adrienne watched the whaler’s approaching lights with relief mixed with puzzlement. She couldn’t figure out what Skye had been doing out in the channel. Had he been heading for Frigate? Anyway, he would be safely out of the way before the restless sea had a chance to make away with her prize. She waited until the whaler’s lights disappeared behind Seabird Point, halfway up the coast, then nodded to her companion. She taped a flashlight, with its beam pointing down, to the stake; then the two women, both wearing black bathing suits, half-dragged, half-carried, the pirogue across the beach and pushed it into the small waves that curled against the shore. The companion rowed, while Adrienne strapped on her scuba equipment and buckled weights around her waist. She was sitting backward on the thwart to keep the light on the beach in view. When she was satisfied that they were the right distance from the shore, she signalled the woman, the same one who had assisted her at last night’s rituals, to stop paddling. Inserting the mouthpiece, she slipped over the side.

Thirty feet down, she switched on a powerful underwater floodlight. As she continued to descend, it illuminated the sandy bottom, revealing the waving arms of an anemone clinging to a coral encrusted rock. A school of crevalle jacks, their sides burnished silver by the floodlight, darted away, then, attracted by the light, swirled back again. A sand-coloured stingray flapped past, and a barracuda with a bar jack, its tiny companion, staying close to its pectoral fin, came nosing up to the light, and followed Adrienne down until she landed softly on the bottom, tiny puffs of sand swirling around her ankles.

Adrienne wasn’t particularly concerned about the barracuda. They abounded in the local waters and encountering one was an everyday experience for her. If she had her spear gun with her, she would usually kill one. Their flesh was firm and remarkably tasty. Despite their fearsome reputation, they almost never attacked humans, but seemed to be intensely curious about these alien invaders of their underwater world, often swimming alongside them for considerable distances. Still, this one was the largest specimen she had ever seen. His cylindrical, streamlined body was at least four feet long. She kept a wary eye on the sinister, silvery-green shape with its ferocious pointed jaw, as it circled around her, following the beam of the floodlight as she searched the bottom.

She reckoned Skye had been about a quarter of a mile out from the reef when he tossed the urn overboard. The ocean floor was smooth rippled sand with scattered outcroppings of coral and thick clumps of seaweed. Adrienne was confident she was in the right place, but there was no sign of the urn as she swept the area with the powerful floodlight, keeping her eye on the circling barracuda. The mask restricted her range of vision, so she had to constantly turn her head to keep him in view. It wasn’t helping her search any. Suddenly the barracuda ceased circling and darted off to one side. Pectoral fins fanning the water, the little bar jack still glued to his side, evil-looking head pointing down at a 45-degree angle, he hung poised over a large clump of brown seaweed. Adrienne’s heart jumped as she caught a tiny glint in the middle of the waving fronds. With strong kicks of her flippers, she glided over to it and pushed the fronds aside. Although she had never seen it before, she knew that she was looking at the cover of the urn that held Jocelyn’s ashes. Despite her elation, she was almost frightened to reach for it. Its glint had attracted the barracuda and he might snap at it with his terrible teeth if she picked it up. But the giant fish had disappeared into the darkness beyond the light. It was as though his mission had been completed. Holding the bronze lid reverently in her hands, gazing at the intricate, almost cabalistic, design etched on its top, Adrienne knew that a new loa had joined the pantheon of voodoo gods. Henceforth, Lord Barracuda would be her personal god. Never again would she offend its spirit by killing one of its brethren.

Carefully placing the precious object in a net bag, Adrienne paused to think the situation through. The urn had to be somewhere in the near vicinity. It would sink more slowly than the solid cover and the slight current off Tamarind Beach ran in a southeast direction. She would shift her search a little further south and closer to the shore. Barely moving her flippers, she swam a few feet above the ocean floor. There was something caught up in a sea-fan. Adrienne plucked it out and her heart began to race wildly as she saw it was a tooth, a molar from the shape of it. Using her light, she located two more, plus a front tooth. Then she spotted a small piece of what she first thought was coral. It was slightly larger than a thumbnail, and when she picked it up she found it was solid, not porous as coral would be. There was a honeycomb of brown matter on one side of the fragment. She had sacrificed enough animals to know it was marrow. She searched the surrounding area without finding anything more. But that didn’t matter. She held pieces of Jocelyn MacLeod’s body in her hands. Already she could feel their power flowing through her.

After that, finding the urn itself was almost anti-climactic. It had come to rest on the far side of a miniature reef, considerably further south than she had thought it would be. Adrienne switched off the light and headed for the surface with her trophies. She was in a state of ecstasy as she began to plan the ceremony that would welcome the new god. A god who would give her power even over non-believers like Skye.