Jack considered. "Yesterday morning in the daytime. And . . . before . . . in the night time, too—Why?"
Sneed was upset. " 'Why?' Why, when the rain comes down like that, from the north, at this time of year, they call it 'a fever rain. . . ."
Ah. That was what the old woman had called out to him, urging him in out of the drizzle. Bide, she'd said. Not an "eager" rain—a fever rain!
"Some say that the rain makes the sanitary drains overflow. And some say that it raises the mosquitoes. I don't know. And some laugh at the old people, for saying that. But I don't laugh. . . . You're not laughing, either, are you? Well. What are we going to do for this man, Mik? Doctor in, right now?"
But the District Medical Officer was not in right now. It was his day to make the rounds in the bush hamlets in one half of the circuit. On one other day he would visit the other half. And in between, he was in town holding clinics, walking his wards in the hospital there on one of the hills, and attending to his private patients. Uncle Christopher produced from somewhere a weathered bottle of immense pills which he assured them were quinine, shook it and rattled it like some juju gourd as he prepared to pour them out.
But Captain Sneed demurred. "Best save that till we can be sure that it is malaria. Not they use quinine nowadays. Mmm. No chills, no fever? Mmm. Let me see you to your room at the hotel." And he walked Limekiller back, saw him not only into his room but into his bed, called for "some decent sheets and some blankets, what sort of a kip are you running here, Antonoglu?" Antonoglu's mother, a very large woman in a dress as black and voluminous as the tents of Kedar, came waddling in with sighs and groans and applied her own remedy: a string of limes, to be worn around the neck. The maid aspersed the room with holy water.
"I shall go and speak to the pharmacist," Captain Sneed said, briskly. "What—?" For Limekiller, already feeling not merely rotten but odd, had beckoned to him. "Yes?"
Rotten, aching, odd or not, there was something that Limekiller wanted taken care of. "Would you ask anyone to check," he said, carefully. "To check the bus? The bus when it comes in. Two young ladies. One red-haired. When it comes in. Would you check. Ask anyone. Bus. Red-haired. Check. If no breakdown. Beautiful. Would you. Any. Please? Oh."
Captain Sneed and the others exchanged looks.
"Of course, Old Boy. Don't worry about it. All taken care of. Now." He had asked for something. It had not come. "What, not even a thermometer? What? Why, what do you mean, 'You had one but the children broke it'? Get another one at once. Do you wish to lose your license? Never mind. I shall get another one at once. And speak to the pharmacist. Antonoglu-khan-um, the moment he begins to sweat, or his teeth chatter, send me word.
"Be back directly," he said, over his shoulder.
But he was not back directly.
Juan Antonoglu was presently called away to take care of Home incoming guests from the lumber camps. He repeated Captain Sneed's words to his mother, who, in effect, told him not to tell her how to make yogurt. She was as dutiful as anyone could be, and, after a while, her widower son's children coming home, duty called her to start dinner. She repeated the instructions to the maid, whose name was Purificación. Purificación watched the sick man carefully. Then, his eyes remaining closed, she tiptoed out to look for something certain to be of help for him, namely a small booklet of devotions to the Señor de Esquipulas, whose cultus was very popular in her native republic. But it began to drizzle again: out she rushed to, first, get the clothes off the line and, second, to hang them up in the lower rear hall.
Limekiller was alone.
The mahogany press had been waiting for this. It now assumed its rightful shape, which was that of an elderly gentleman rather expensively dressed in clothes rather old-fashioned in cut, and, carrying a long . . . something . . . in one hand, came over to Jack's bed and looked at him most earnestly. Almost reproachfully. Giving him a hand to help him out of bed, in a very few moments he had Limekiller down the stairs and then, somehow, they were out on the river; and then . . . somehow . . . they were in the river. No.
Not exactly.
Not at all.
They were under the river.
Odd.
Very odd.
A hundred veiled eyes looked at them.
Such a dim light. Not like anything familiar. Wavering. What was that. A crocodile. I am getting out of here, said Limekiller, beginning to sweat profusely. This was the signal for everyone to let Captain Sneed know. But nobody was there. Except Limekiller. And, of course, the old man.
And, of course, the crocodile.
And, it now became clear, quite a number of other creatures. All reptilian. Why was he not terrified, instead of being merely alarmed? He was in fact, now that he came to consider it, not even all that alarmed. The creatures were looking at him. But there was somehow nothing terrifying in this. It seemed quite all right for him to be there.
The old man made that quite clear.
Quite clear.
"Is he delirious?" the redhead asked. Not just plain ordinary red. Copper-red.
"I don't have enough Spanish to know if saying 'barba amarilla' means that you're delirious, or not. Are you delirious?" asked the other one. The Short. Brown hair. Plain ordinary Brown.
" 'Barba amarilla' means 'yellow beard,' " Limekiller explained. Carefully.
"Then you aren't delirious. I guess—What does 'yellow beard' mean, in this context?"
But he could only shake his head.
"I mean, we can see that you do have a blond beard. Well, blond in parts. Is that your nickname? No."
Coppertop said, anxiously, "His pulse seems so funny, May!" She was the Long. So here they were. The Long and the Short of it. Them. He gave a sudden snort of laughter.
"An insane cackle if ever I heard one," said the Short. "Hm, Hmm. You're right, Felix. It does seem so funny. Mumping all around the place—Oh, hello!"
Old Mrs. Antonoglu was steaming slowly down the lake, all the other vessels bobbing as her wake reached them. Very odd. Because it still was old Mrs. Antonoglu in her black dress and not really the old Lake Mickinuckee ferry boat. And this wasn't a lake. Or a river. They were all back in his room. And the steam was coming from something in her hand.
Where was the old man with the sharp face? Tan old man. Clear. Things were far from clear, but—
"What I bring," the old woman said, slowly and carefully and heavily, just the way in which she walked, "I bring 'im to drink for 'ealth, poor sick! Call the . . . call the . . . country yerba," she said, dismissing the missing words.
The red-haired Long said. "Oh, good!"
Spoon by bitter spoonful she fed it to him. Sticks of something. Boiled in water. A lot of it dribbled down his beard. "Felix," what an odd name. She wiped it carefully with Kleenex.
"But 'Limekiller' is just as odd," he felt it only fair to point out.
"Yes," said the Short. "You certainly are. How did you know we were coming? We weren't sure, ourselves. Nor do we know you. Not that it matters. We are emancipated women. Ride bicycles. But we don't smoke cheroots, and we are not going to open an actuarial office with distempered walls, and the nature of Mrs. Warren's profession does not bother us in the least: in fact, we have thought, now and then, of entering it in a subordinate capacity. Probably won't, though. Still . . ."