"If this Duchamps gives any more trouble, Dad, why don't you shoot him and claim self-defense?"
"First," I said, "because I don't have a gun; and second, because the law wouldn't recognize an attack by witchcraft as a legitimate excuse for killing anybody."
Héloise said: "They'd convict him of murder, stupid, and cut off his head with a guillotine."
"Gee!" cried Priscille. "Wouldn't that be something to see? Of course, we'd miss you, Dad."
"Thanks," I said. "Actually, they don't use the guillotine here. They hang miscreants."
"Why?" asked Stephen.
"They tried a guillotine during the French Revolution, but it didn't work. The dampness warped the wooden uprights, so the slicer tended to stick on the way down. Sometimes the poor fellow's head would be cut only half off."
"Nowadays you could use a steel or aluminum frame—" began Stephen.
"What a conversation for breakfast!" said Denise.
"Oh," said Priscille, "I like a little blood and gore with my meals."
At cocktail time, Denise said: "Willy, we must get rid of that Claudine. She does nothing right, and I cannot teach her. I had a hundred times rather cook myself than to spend hours trying to beat sense into her thick head."
Jacques Lecouvreur overheard. He said: "Pardon me, Monsieur and Madame. Please do not do that."
"And why not, if we choose?" said Denise with hauteur.
"She would put a curse on the house. She is in with the bourhousses."
"Oh?" said I. "Then why did you hire her for us, Jacques?"
"Please, Monsieur, I did not know then. I am very sorry. I found out later that she has the power. If she cursed the house, not even a good Catholic exorcism could lift it. You would have to hire a team of chango dancers to drive out the evil spirits, and all the troupes hereabouts are under the control of Monsieur Duchamps."
"She is hardly the species of person we want for our cook," I said. "She might poison us. In fact, I sometimes suspect that she has been trying to do just that."
"I know, Monsieur, I know. But, if you dismiss her, I must go, too."
"Why? We don't want to lose you, Jacques."
"You do not understand, Monsieur. If she put a curse on this house, the misfortunes of those who stayed would descend on me, also. I must consider my family."
"We'll think it over," I said.
As often happens, we thought it over so long that we finally decided, tacitly, that with only a week more to stay, there was no use in stirring up unpleasantness. Besides, we had taken to driving in to Fort-de-France for dinner at The Hippopotamus, the Chez Etienne, and other establishments.
The drumming continued, becoming ever louder and more insistent. One morning, Jacques said:
"Monsieur, I have a message from Monsieur Duchamps. It was circulated to me through Claudine."
"Well?"
"He says that this is your last chance. If you have not departed by the fall of the night, he will not be responsible for your safety."
"Kind of him," I said. "Tell him that, while I regret the withdrawal of his protection, I shall have to manage the best possible."
"He also spoke a Créole proverb: 'Fer couper fer.' Do you understand, Monsieur?"
"I think he meant: 'Iron to cut iron,' or 'Extreme cases demand extreme remedies.' Right?"
"Oui. And, oh, there is one more thing." Jacques fidgeted, then brought out the hand he had held behind him. It gripped a human skull, minus the mandible and most of the teeth. "I found this on the sill of the door this morning."
I examined the skull. "Another wanga?"
Jacques frowned thoughtfully. "Not exactly, Monsieur. A veritable wanga is made of the parts of a bird or an animal, according to a formula. It is sung and danced over in a certain way, to reduce the spirits to one's service. This is more a simple warning gesture. I think I know where it came from."
"Where?"
"There is a beach on Guadeloupe where, they say, long ago the English and French soldiers killed in fighting the Caribs are buried. Now the sea is eroding it, and one can find all the bones and skulls one wants."
"Put it on the mantelpiece," I said. "I may take it home with me."
Jacques departed, shaking his head at the whims of these crazy Americans.
I drove into Fort-de-France to see my philosophical sergeant. Frot said: "We still have nothing to go on. This obeah man has been careful not to utter legally actionable threats—"
"Obeah man?" I said. "I thought Obeah was the Jamaican variety of vodun."
Frot smiled. "You do not know that there has been an ecumenical movement among the Afro-Caribbean supernaturalists. The obeah men, the houngans, and the quimboiseurs assemble in councils, to debate whether Obboney or Damballah shall be considered the number one god, or whether they are but different names for the same being. They have the same trouble in finding common ground that Christians have had under similar circumstances. But, despite some fierce theological disputes, they seem to be hammering out some species of unity. So the old distinctions no longer apply.
"We will, however, try to keep your section under closer surveillance. Be sure to report to me anything that could form the ground of a formal complaint."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I said. "You're very kind."
"It's nothing. It is just that I am enchanted to meet an American who speaks the good French. You know, your compatriots come here, counting on everyone to know their own language; and when people do not, they shout at them in an uncivilized manner. Bonne chance, Monsieur."
We put in a strenuous day on the beach, swimming and playing games. When it was over, we ate one of Claudine's indifferent dinners. The kids were tired enough to go to bed early, but I felt full of life. The drumming had died away, so the only sound was the chirp of a million crickets. I said to Denise:
"Let's take a walk on the beach. The moon is full."
So we did. Our stroll ended in an impromptu swim, and then we made love on the sand.
We dressed and, hand in hand, started back for the house. We had climbed halfway up the steep path when a man stepped out of the shadow of a banana tree. The moon threw silvery spots on him, so that I could not clearly make him out. I had an impression that he was white of skin and stout, with curly hair and a little beard.
Without a word, the man came towards us, down the slope of the path.
"Who are you?" I said.
The man continued his silent advance. The moon gleamed upon a machete blade.
"Run, Denise!" I said in English. "I'll hold this guy off. Get the cops!"
When I glanced around, Denise had vanished. I heard faint, receding footfalls. Although she, like me, was no longer so young as once, she still could run like a deer.
The man with the knife came on. My thought was to get around him to the house to telephone. Then I remembered we had no 'phone. Perhaps, if I could get to the station wagon, I could lock myself in. I might even use it as a weapon, if I could catch him on the roadway in front of the vehicle. But that would leave our sleeping children ...
While these thoughts ran through my head, the man kept coming. Another step, and he would be within slashing distance. If I ran back to the beach, I should lead him on Denise's trail.
Instead, I cut off at right angles to the path, into the wild growth. I blundered into shrubs and trees, sounding like a herd of stampeding elephants. I felt like one of those characters in Fenimore Cooper who, whenever there is the utmost need for silence, always steps on a dry twig.