Limekiller’s mouth fell open. “Oh, my God!” he groaned. In his ear now, he heard the old, old, quavering voice of Captain Cudgel (once Cudjoe): “Mon, een Ahfrica, dc mon-ah-tee hahv leg, I tell you. Een Ahfrica eet be ah poerful beast, come up on de land, I tell you… dc w’ol’ people, dey tell me so, fah true…”
He heard the old voice, repeating the old words, no longer even half-understood: but, in some measure, at least half-true.
Refer legend of were-animals, universal. Were-wolf, were-tiger, were-shark, were-dolphin. Quest.: Were-manatee?
“Mon-ah-tee ces hahfah mon…hahv teats like a womahn…Dere ees wahn mon, mehk mellow meet mon-ah-tee, hahv pickney by mon-ah-tee . . .”
And he heard another voice saying, not only once, saying, “Mon, eef you tie ah rattlesnake doewn fah me, I weel freeg eet…”
He thought of the wretched captives in the Spanish slave ship, set free to fend for themselves in a bush by far wilder than the one left behind. Few, to begin with, fewer as time went on; marrying and intermarrying, no new blood, no new thoughts. And, finally, the one road in to them, destroyed. Left alone. Left quite alone. Or…almost…
He shuddered.
How desperate for refuge must Blaine have been, to have sought to hide himself anywhere near Cape Mantee—
And what miserable happenstance had brought he himself, Jack Limekiller, to improvise on that old song that dreadful night?—And what had he called up out of the darkness…out of the bush…out of the mindless present which was the past and future and the timeless tropical forever?...
There was something pressing gently against his finger, something on the other side of the card. He turned it over. A clipping from a magazine had been roughly pasted there.
Valentry has pointed out that, despite a seeming resemblance to such aquatic mammals as seals and walrus, the manatee is actually more closely related anatomically to the elephant.
... out of the bush ... out of the darkness ... out of the mindless present which was also the past and the timeless tropical forever…
“They are like elephants. They never forget.”
“Ukh,” he said, though clenched teeth. “My God. Uff. Jesus…”
The card was suddenly, swiftly, snatched from his hands. He looked up still in a state of shock, to see Doctor Rafael tearing it into pieces.
“Doña ‘Sana!”
A moment. Then the housekeeper, old, all in white. “Doctor?”
“Burn this.”
A moment passed. Just the two of them again. Then Rafael, in a tone which was nothing but kindly, said, “Jack, you are still young and you are still healthy. My advice to you: Go away. Go to a cooler climate. One with cooler ways and cooler memories.” The old woman called something from the back of the house. The old man sighed. “It is the summons to supper,” he said. “Not only must I eat in haste because I have my clinic in less than half an hour, but suddenly-invited guests make Doña ‘Sana very nervous. Good night, then, Jack.”
Jack had had two gin drinks. He felt that he needed two more. At least two more. Or, if not gin, rum. Beer would not do. He wanted to pull the blanket of booze over him, awfully, awfully quickly. He had this in his mind as though it were a vow as he walked up the front street towards the Cupid Club.
Someone hailed him, someone out of the gathering dusk.
‘Jock! Hey, mon, Jock! Hey, b’y! Where you gweyn so fahst? Bide, b’y, bide a bit!”
The voice was familiar. It was that of Harry Hazeed, his principal creditor in King Town. Ah, well. He had had his chance, Limekiller had. He could have gone on down the coast, down into the Republican waters, where the Queen’s writ runneth not. Now it was too late.
“Oh, hello, Harry,” he said, dully.
Hazeed took him by the hand. Took him by both hands. “Mon, show me where is your boat? She serviceable? She is? Good: Mon, you don’t hear de news: Welcome’s warehouse take fire and born up! Yes, mon. Ahl de earn in King Town born up! No earn ah-tahclass="underline" No tortilla, no empinada, no tamale, no carn-cake! Oh, mon, how de people going to punish! Soon as I hear de news, I drah me money from de bonk, I buy ahl de crocus sock I can find, I jump on de pocket-boat—and here I am, oh, mon, I pray fah you ... I pray I fine you!”
Limekiller shook his head. It had been one daze, one shock after another. The only thing clear was that Harry Hazeed didn’t seem angry. “You no understand?” Hazeed cried. “Mon! We going take your boat, we going doewn to Nutmeg P’int, we going to buy carn, mon! We going to buy ahl de carn dere is to buy! Nevah mine dat lee’ bit money you di owe me, b’y! We going make plenty money, mon! And we going make de cultivators plenty money, too! What you theenk of eet, Jock, me b’y? Eh? Hey? What you theenk?”
Jack put his forefinger in his mouth, held it up. The wind was in the right quarter. The wind would, if it held up, and, somehow, it felt like a wind which would hold up, the wind would carry them straight and clear to Nutmeg Point: the clear, clean wind in the clear and starry night.
Softly, he said—and, old Hazeed leaning closer to make the words out, Limekiller said them again, louder, “I think it’s great. Just great. I think it’s great.”