by Eric Murphy
Yeats veered to kick over a full bag, bouncing potatoes along the path. A picker yelled. It was nothing compared to the cursing and yelling from the gang as potatoes twisted their scooters’ small wheels, sprawling half of them into the field’s red earth.
A long, mounded rectangle of stone and earth marked the end of one farm and the beginning of another. With only enough room for one horse, Yeats reined in his mount as they traversed farms, from a field of lettuce to a field of corn where the sound of hooves echoing off stone walls startled three of the feral chickens that roamed freely through Bermuda.
At the end of the second farm, Yeats swung his horse onto a narrow path that led them to a long, broader trail. In places it was on flat ground, while in others, it had been carved into the rock and Will wondered where they were and why there were no cars, even if the narrow path could only have accommodated one car at a time.
They slowed at a padlocked metal gate. There was a shin-high stile that allowed pedestrians and horses to cross.
They reined in at the first road that intersected their route. Will read a sign: “No motorized vehicles.” Another told him that they were riding on “The Bermuda Railway Trail,” built in the 1930s.
Yeats took advantage of a slowdown in car traffic to spur his horse forward by squeezing his heels into the ribs and clicking his tongue, just like Aubrey had done when he’d led Jason’s horse on that first walk.
There was a yell from behind. Will saw a man and a woman on the far side of the stile being jostled sideways as the Red Feather Gang roared down the Railway Trail two abreast.
While the gang members four-handed each scooter over the stile, Yeats led the horses further along the path. Here the trumpet-like flowers on the tall hibiscus bushes blared their passage in hues of blue, white and pink.
At a turn in the trail, a feral chicken leaping from a chest-high perch spooked Will’s mount. It shot sideways, the momentum flinging Will from the saddle, his hands unable to cling to the mane. He slid along the horse’s flank, spooking it even more.
Will grabbed one of the big curving branches lining the trail but it bowed under his weight. He landed on a clump of thick-leaved plants, which broke his fall instead of a rib. He rolled tight to the foliage to avoid Harley’s horse.
Yeats spun his horse around just as Will’s mount cantered past him. He circled back beside Will, slipped his left foot out of the stirrup and reached down. “C’mon, Will. Get up and get on.”
Harley reined her horse around as she pointed behind them. “They’re coming. You’ve got to move now, Will.”
The fall had knocked the wind out of Will. But the sight of the first scooter coming around the bend got him to his knees, then to his feet. He grabbed Yeats’s outstretched left hand and with his right, gripped the far side of his saddle. Yeats leaned way over, springing Will up till he could slip his left foot into the empty stirrup and swing his right leg over the horse’s rump.
Yeats took his stirrup back, saying, “Hang on there, Will.” For the second time in as many days, Will found himself gratefully wrapping both arms around Yeats as danger closed in on them. For a moment, Will wondered if this is what having a big brother would be like.
They rode into a tunnel and emerged at the far side to more stone walls where banyan tree roots tentacled up the vertical surfaces to the sun that hardly reached the railway floor.
Yeats pulled up. “Okay,” he said, catching his breath. “We can’t outrun them with two of us on a horse. So climb these roots to the top. Then go left along this road till you come to the next one. Sherman’s got his fish stand up there on the right and he’ll help you get to Aubrey’s place. Best if you’re not around Windy Farm right now. For you and the participants.”
“Can’t we go to the police now that Drury’s come to the farm and waved that gun around?” Will asked, sliding to the ground and patting Yeats’s horse above the white foam lathering its neck from the exertion in the heat. It wasn’t good for the horses to continue at a pace that scooters could maintain forever.
Yeats shook his head. “If we call the police, the gang will say they came to ask about riding horses or something. It’ll be our word against theirs. That guy Drury won’t be carrying a weapon when they arrest him. Then you’re back to proving you had nothing to do with smuggling gear aboard a boat that you still can’t find. And if you mention Brian Ord’s name, well then you’re really up against it because he won’t take lightly to being accused of kidnapping and plundering wrecks.”
Yeats’s horse nodded his head as if the truth of his statement was too obvious for a whinny. The rock face echoed the collective rumble of scooters closing in. Yeats flicked his chin upward to hurry them.
Harley edged her horse closer to the webbing of big gray roots. She handed Yeats her reins and put her right foot into a gap in the overlapping vegetation, finding toe and hand holds as she went.
Will waited till she was at the top of the fifteen-foot climb before following suit.
Yeats waited and watched. “What about my horse?” asked Will before stepping off the banyan tree to grip the stone wall like Harley was doing.
“She’ll be fine. I’ll catch her up and take them home through some paths those scooters can’t follow.” And with a click of his tongue their horses trotted off down the path.
Will and Harley slipped over the stone fence and walked in the direction Yeats had directed them to go. They stopped to watch Yeats spur the horses up a three-foot rise in the wall and disappear into a thicket.
They dropped to a crouch and peeked through a crack in the wall as the Red Feather Gang pulled up and stared in the direction Yeats had disappeared.
“Where the hell are the other two?” bellowed Drury as he raced his scooter up and down the path, peering into the foliage to find them. “Oh hell, Claire’s gonna be some steamed —” He looked up and saw Will and Harley, who ducked down too late.
“They’ve climbed to the road above. Let’s get ’em,” screamed Drury.
Chapter Seventeen
The Fish that Got Away
Old man’s beard: Pale green lichen that grows in trees in various parts of the world and looks like a beard.
Will and Harley hurried on to the next road where Sherman had a big tent extending from his van onto the sidewalk. Sherman had six big coolers out and a number of people had stopped to buy fish from him.
Sherman’s smile when he saw them faded as he took in Will’s bruised face, torn shirt, and the trickle of blood where he’d strained one of Aubrey’s stitches in his fall. He picked up on their nervousness as they kept checking over their shoulder. He signaled for Will and Harley to duck through the van’s sliding door. The cousins slumped to the floor of the vehicle and caught their breath, so grateful for the safety of the van that they weren’t bothered by the odor. They might have smelled like a fish but they’d be the ones that got away.
Sherman had almost sold his whole catch. He passed them a big bottle of water and finished up with two customers.
After a brief explanation from the cousins, Sherman packed up and drove them to Aubrey’s house. On the way, Will fell asleep with his head on Harley’s shoulder. The chase, the ride, the fall, and the eventual escape had exhausted him and his eyelids closed on their own.
They pulled into Aubrey’s place and this time it didn’t look like the house was getting ready to be shut down. As soon as they stepped out, Harley flattened him and herself against the side of Sherman’s truck, forcing Will to crouch with her. She put her finger to her lips, then made a twisting motion with her hand, like one would twist the throttle on a scooter. Sure enough, as the rattle of Sherman’s diesel motor ebbed, Will could hear the putt-putt of an idling scooter.
Will followed Harley in behind a breeze block wall. Peering through one of the openings, they saw a rider with a red-feathered helmet slowly come into view. When Sherman strode around to look at him, the rider took off.
“You think he saw us?” asked Will.
Sherman insisted they take a big red snapper for dinner. He casually asked Aubrey what he was up to and Aubrey said that he was “Adjusting my plans around young Jason.” It was good to hear that Aubrey had plans.
Yeats had stopped by to drop off their personal belongings and had apparently brought Aubrey up to speed on the goings-on with the Red Feather Gang.
Will had a shower, changed his clothes and immediately felt better.
When Harley went in for her shower, Will sat down on the back patio that overlooked the quarry in the distance, and sipped a very tart ginger beer Aubrey served him in a tall glass full of ice.
Will looked at the moss hanging from the tree at the back of the property. Aubrey said it was called “old man’s beard.”
“Why were you hoping not to come home the other day? The day you saved us when we were being chased. Was it because of your son Anthony’s death?” Will asked, not quite believing he was being so bold.
Aubrey chased an ice cube with his index finger before saying, “I thought my world was built around my son. But in truth it was built around a belief about my son. A belief that didn’t square with the truth. When I heard he was killed and had killed another man because of his reckless pursuit of pleasure, well, my world crumbled, Will.”
Sensing that emotions were running high, Hamlet slinked under the table and thumped the table leg with his tail.
“Who’s a good boy, who’s a good boy? You are, Hammy, Hamlet. Yes, yes,” said Aubrey, splaying his rake-like fingers and ruffling the dog’s coat. “Who’s a good-looking beast, hmmm? Yes, yes, that’s what the world needs is more good-looking beasts.”
When Aubrey looked up, Will still fixed him in his gaze, not allowing the interlude with the dog to take his question off the table.
“I made a deal with God. I said that if I had worn out my time here on earth, I would let him sweep me out to sea. Instead, He swept you and Harley to me.”
Aubrey cast a sad look back at the family home then brought it back to the ocean that lapped at the old concrete dock down the path.
“See, Will, I had an idea of who I was, what I had made of myself. And it was bound up with who I thought my son was. He had taken to drinking and driving on a regular basis and I didn’t know it. So it was just a question of time before … But after I heard what had happened, I realized I wasn’t what I believed myself to be. I was a shrinking man.”
Will cleared the catch from his voice and said, “Well, Aubrey, that may be but I can distinguish between who you are and who your son was. I like you and I don’t like your son. I hate him for what he’s done to you.”
“You didn’t know my son so you can’t say you don’t like him.”
“He’s making you shrink.”
“Children don’t think of the impact their decisions and actions will have upon themselves and others. It’s called ‘inconsequential thinking’ because they don’t think of the consequences, about how it will impact their parents, their families, others. It’s a shortcoming. Can’t hate a person for that.”
“Okay, Aubrey. I’ll stop hating him if you stop shrinking. Deal?” Will thrust his hand out to shake on it. “Promise?”
“All right, Will, I won’t shrink anymore. I won’t go into the water and I won’t shrink anymore.” Aubrey blinked back the sadness and inched his hand up until his big, powerful stonecutter’s hand swallowed Will’s.
“You hear that, Hamlet? You’re going to be able to keep nesting on Aubrey’s pillow,” said Will, his voice faltering as he fought back a tear.
That night the tree frogs gave him more encouragement than he needed with their cry to sleep, sleep, sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
A Moving Disguise
Banyan tree: Also called a Ficus tree, it has the unusual habit of sending a mesh of secondary roots to the ground from its branches.
Will knew he’d slept late by the intensity of the sun prying its way through the bamboo blinds. Harley’s bed had been made. He hadn’t heard a thing and thought he hadn’t moved after his head had hit the pillow right after they’d finished the steamed red snapper. Will made for the kitchen.
There was a bowl on the table with two, still tepid, boiled eggs and toast waiting for him. Will disposed of each egg in two mouthfuls, then pinched a piece of toast and stepped outside. The screen door clacked behind him. He took a bite from the toast and waved to Harley, who was sorting clothes in the laundry room that backed onto the house.
The slingshot he’d found in Aubrey’s son’s room was lying on the table. Aubrey had replaced the sagging rubber with a strip of bicycle tire inner tube. There were a handful of palm grapes nestled up against it. Will couldn’t resist shooting one of the hard palm grapes into the air. He watched it arc its way through the humid air and whack a large palm frond.
A persistent scraping noise from the far back of Aubrey’s property drew his attention. He looked at Harley, who shrugged.
Will dropped some grapes into his left cargo pocket to balance the cellphone he had in the right pocket. He ambled out into the sunshine in pursuit of the source of the scraping sound, shooting grapes here and there with the slingshot as he went.
He found Aubrey, his T-shirt speckled with perspiration, drawing a saw through a block of stone. The long saw blade bristled with big, widespread teeth, unlike the fine-tooth wood saws his father used. Will assumed the spacing between the teeth worked better on the soft Bermuda stone.
Will watched Aubrey saw through a two-inch-thick slice and wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. He waved Will over. “This is what the first island houses were made of. Many still are. And the best quality stone is kept for roofing. Early Bermudians were quick to understand that a stone roof has a better chance of surviving a hurricane than, say, a thatched roof. It also allows us to gather water into the cisterns that are found under most houses on the island.”
“So,” said Will with a grin, “You just decided to come out and saw stone to remind yourself of how you used to do things?”
“No, because I believe there’s a market for hand-cut stone … and I may be doing this for a living again,” replied Aubrey in a quiet voice.
“You mean on top of your water company and the stone-cutting company you already own?”
Aubrey leaned his hips against the big block of stone and stared at the ground. “See, Will, when I thought I wasn’t coming back, before we met on the ocean, before I promised you I wouldn’t shrink anymore, well I gave away my two companies. One went to the family of the boy my son killed when he hit him with my truck and the other to my workers who’ve been with me since forever.”
Will shook his head. “You mean, you gave away your means of living?”
“Well, Will, I wasn’t planning on needing them, now, was I? And before you get into it, no, I can’t undo it. My lawyer warned me it would be a done deal, irrevocable-like. And even if I could, to tell them that I’d made, well, let’s call it a mistake, well now that would be a heartbreak I’m not prepared to inflict on all of those good people. Been enough of that going ’round,” explained Aubrey.
“But,” protested Will, “You’re a —.”
Before he could complete his sentence, Harley crashed through the bushes.
“The Red Feather Gang,” was all she managed to blurt between gasps, waving her hand in the direction of the house.
Will and Aubrey cocked an ear. A menacing chorus of scooters could be heard approaching, slowly so as not to alert their prey.
Will scrambled up the nearest banyan tree and, leaning onto his hands, made his way up a large branch, stepping from one split in the branches to another till he could see above the canopy.
Ten scooters snuck into Aubrey’s lane. Although he coul
dn’t see the color from this distance, Will knew that the tufts on the riders’ helmets were red. They pulled their scooters onto their center stands, then, on Drury’s signal, fanned out around the house.
Will retraced his path back down and splayed the fingers of both hands so they’d know there were ten gang members. “They’ve surrounded the house.”
Aubrey looked back to his house. “Once they realize we’re not there, they’ll come looking for us back here. We need to get to the van.”
“How can we get to the van without being seen?” asked Will.
They each searched around for a solution when Harley said, “The old man’s beard. We camouflage ourselves in that. Do you have your pocket knife?” she asked Aubrey.
When he handed it to her, she opened it and motioned for them to follow her into the woods. She cut strips of old man’s beard down and slipped one of the stringy, green-gray tufts into each of Will’s shirt pockets. Aubrey’s face brightened in comprehension and he and Will joined Harley in stuffing his pockets and belt with strands of camouflage. They then knotted strands together and draped them over each other’s heads as they heard the gang members getting closer.
Chapter Nineteen
Go Karts
Dumbwaiter: A small elevator that carries items, usually food, from one floor to another.
Draped in old man’s beard, Will, Harley, and Aubrey stood inside the line of trees, and when members of the gang approached, they froze behind the branches of the closest tree. With a light breeze, the tufts of stringy lichen moved around just as it would on a tree.
When the gang members’ attention was drawn away, the three slipped farther along the trees toward the house, the lane and closer to Aubrey’s van, which promised their escape.
One of the gang members stopped to light a cigarette, apparently determined to just stay in front of them on the path instead of moving.
As furtively as he could, Will pulled a few palm grapes from his left pocket and the slingshot from his back pocket, loaded the rubber band with a grape, and let it fly behind the gang member as he exhaled smoke skyward.
