Sometimes Dead Men DO Tell Tales!

by David W. Smith

  “Well, if’n you pay more’n fifty cents, you pay too much!”

  He gave a laugh at that. “I think Lance gave her two dollars for it.”

  “Ah, then, your boy there probably went to school in August and his best subject was recess.”

  Beth was the only one who laughed. “I’ll explain it to them later.”

  “If’n you have to explain, then it must be true! Okay, okay, I quit kidding round. You like soda or a Carib?” she offered, showing the hospitality of the island.

  The friends thanked her and said no. Adam asked her about an island legend the driver had mentioned.

  “Yes, yes, I know all about dat. It took place long time ago. Way before you came along on dis earth.” On another question from Lance, she added, “Probably thirty, forty years I know about it. Long time. Long time. Lots of good people gone now.… Was I around den? Oh yes. I been here all my life. Lots of changes to my island. Lots of good changes. Lots of bad.… Remember what?... Oh yes, I remember da Mister. He was very big man. Brings lotsa folks with him for his movie.” She chuckled to herself again at a memory. “We t’ink it strange, some of the t’ings he did. He brought lots of animals here dat didna belong. Oh, dat tiger! Now he was a Ba-John! Very bad. Nobody wanted to work when da tiger was around. We liked da zebras. Now dey were fancy t’ings. Many of us work for da Mister. Da roads, dey weren’t so good like dey are now. Der was only coupla trucks to tote da big t’ings. When da rains came, like dey come every day, all dem workers stop. Animals stop too. Mister, he got real upset. Oh, but one day very bad wind come. The Mister’s fancy set got all torn up. Nobody could get out dere to da Bay. My friend, now, he could. He best driver on dis island. He was special driver for Mister. One day real early before sun wakes up, he drives da Mister to da ruined set. He tell me later a big tree was torn out of ground. At first, Mister real upset. Den my friend say it was okay. Mister got all happy and dey drive back to the fancy hotel. Two days later da Mister left. He not come back, but movie people stay. My friend, he keep driving back and forth.” She paused and sat back in her chair, her fan never missing a slow beat, her eyes becoming distant.

  “Did something happen?” Into the story, Beth broke into Mooma’s reflection.

  Mooma nodded slowly, frowning. “It was my friend. After da last of da movie people left, he started playin’ social.” At their blank looks, she shook her head, “How you say? He t’inks he better dan us now. He talk like da Mister is best friend and will come back for him. Peoples say, ‘No, mon, you just goin’ ort’, you know? Crazy. Poor mon. He take it real bad nobody believe him, you know? Pretty soon he is a Nowherian. His home is gone. Even his little mutt dog who go wid him everywhere, he go away too. Da Mister loved that little mutt dog. He was dirty white and had des ugly black patches all over. He ride in da truck with ‘em every day. Anyway, now we get to legend. My friend showing everyone who will look this broken up gold piece he say da Mister gave him. He say it special and da Mister gave it just to him. Everybody just laugh. ‘You goin’ort, mon, you goin’ort.’ And finally, you know? He does. He goes crazy in da head because nobody believe him.” She trailed off, saddened by the memories. Her voice was low when she continued, “One day we find him. We find him face down in Barcolet Bay, not too far from remains of da movie set. There not much left of dat set. We had big hurricane come here. Never seen da likes of it since. My friend, he couldn’t take people not believe him. It kill him.” She picked the cheap necklace up off her counter and looked at it. “We felt like bad people. Dis was around his neck when we find him. We could do no more for da man hisself, so we do dis for his memory. To say we sorry. It still not enough.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper.

  Beth had tears in her eyes. Adam, his heart pounding again, knew he had to ask. “What was your friend’s name, if we might ask?”

  Mooma stared at the necklace a while longer. She put it back softly on the counter and smoothed the chain with her fingertips. “He was good mon. I shoulda believe him. All dos years and it still hurts so. His name? Yes, I be proud to say his name. His name was Jemybie.”

  Adam and Lance exchanged a look. “Jemybie?” Adam repeated, confused and disappointed.

  “I can show you where we bury him. I know little Missy here,” indicating the solemn Beth, “would like dat. We put up nice headstone for him. We might not understand but we carve nice and deep what he try to tell us. Poor mon. We jest call him Jemybie. His Christian name we put on da stone. Mr. Jeremy Bey.”

  Adam, Beth and Lance felt the hair on their skin shoot straight up. Beth cleared her throat and swiped at her eyes. “We’d love to see his grave,” Beth sniffed. “Could you tell us where to find it?”

  “Yes, yes, you go see it. We pick most beautiful spot on da island. Just above Barcolet Bay. You see a little trail leading t’rou cotton trees. It go to clearing. We be keepin’ it beautiful for seem like forty years now. It still not enough,” her voice dropping off again. “You go say hello to my Jemybie. Tell him Mooma sends regards.”

  They thanked her for her hospitality. Mooma usually would have shown them other items in her shop, but she was lost in the memories of her departed friend. The shop door closed quietly behind them.

  Lance looked up at the waning sun. It was going to be another beautiful sunset. But, did they have enough time to find the grave site before darkness fell? He asked them what they thought.

  “That was the saddest thing I ever heard.” They both noticed Beth had a catch in her voice. Adam took the opportunity to put his arm around her and draw her close. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Not what I meant,” Lance clarified. “Do we look for the grave today or wait until tomorrow?”

  “Well, we have another full day tomorrow and we leave Friday. Let’s look tomorrow. This could be it.” Adam’s eyes were shining at the possibility. “Beth, you agree?”

  “Poor little dog.”

  “What?” Adam was confused until he remembered what Mooma had said. “Oh, the dog. Too bad Walt couldn’t take him back to the States with him. Would have been a better ending for that part of the story at least.”

  Lance suggested they go back to the hotel and discuss it there rather than on a busy city street. Waving down a passing taxi, it was the same driver they had yesterday. “You finding what you want from Mooma?” he asked. “Everybody get what they want from Mooma. If there is maco around, she know it and tell it!”

  Back in their rooms, they changed into their swimwear. The hotel was sponsoring a swim and barbecue on the beach tonight.

  Not feeling up to any rambunctious swimming, they paddled around on life rafts, drifting with the current. Facing the horizon, they watched another glowing, vibrant sunset, more pink tonight, fading to red. The smell of the barbecue drifted over them with the breeze, making their stomachs growl in hunger. It had been a long time since lunch.

  Beth wrapped a rainbow-hued sarong around her damp bikini and the men pulled on T-shirts when it was time to eat. A blazing bonfire lit the night, sending sparks up towards the palm fronds swaying over their heads. The meat was shark steaks served with pelau—pigeon peas and rice cooked with meat flavored with coconut milk. Dessert was called Black Cake which was a rich cake made with dried fruit, cherries, brandy and rum, iced and decorated like a traditional wedding cake. “Wow!” Adam sat back in his chair after trying a bite. “That cake will get your motor running! That’s a lot of proof in there.”

  After stuffing themselves, they sat on low wooden chairs at the water’s edge. Their feet played tag with the waves coming and going as the warmth of the bonfire kept their backs warm in the cool night air. Beth sat in the middle, both guys had taken her hand closest to them. It just seemed right for the moment, she thought. Lance held hers loosely while Adam’s thumb kept rubbing back and forth over the back of her hand. Without any preamble Lance got to his feet, saying he needed to make a call and would see them back in the rooms. “You all right, Lance?” Beth asked before r
elinquishing his hand. The high cheekbones in his face and his firm nose were highlighted in the firelight. He looked like the bronzed statue of a Roman god.

  “I think I will be now.” His voice was quiet as he bent to kiss her cheek and, turning, he left.

  Beth turned to Adam with questioning eyes. He just shrugged. “I don’t know, Beth. He’s changed. Something happened in Boston. Until he tells us, we won’t know. He won’t talk. You know that.”

  She had to agree whether she liked it or not. If Lance didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t talk. She sighed and listened to the lapping of the water. There were sounds coming from the jungle behind them, night sounds they couldn’t identify. Even with the muted sound of people talking somewhere behind them, she felt like they were alone on this island. It was a pleasant feeling. Looking over at Adam, she could see he was content. That was the perfect word to describe him.

  Feeling her gaze, he turned to look at her. Her hair had dried straight after the swim and now blew softly in the ocean breeze. Her face had the beginnings of a tan and looked clean and freckled across her nose. She looked lovely. That was his perfect word for her.

  They continued to gaze into each other’s eyes. Giving a slight tug on her hand, he invited her to come closer. She studied his familiar, handsome face a moment longer. Without a word, she came over to sit sideways in his lap, her legs dangling over the side of his chair as she snuggled her head onto his shoulder. Looking out over the moonlit water, he hid his surprise and put his arms around her, holding her close. He had just wanted her to bring her chair closer but this was much better. At her deep sigh of contentment, Adam turned his face to place a soft kiss on her forehead.

  They sat silently together on the white sand beach. The bonfire was burning down and the other couples headed arm-in-arm back to the hotel while the staff quietly cleaned up the remains of the dinner. And still they sat, content in each other’s arms.

  Alone now on the dark, secluded beach, he lifted her chin with his fingers. The moon reflected in her eyes. She never looked lovelier. “Can I tell you something?” he whispered. Any sound louder than a whisper would have been wrong. He felt her nod against his fingers. “I’m really sorry for what I did to you that day.” He heard her breathe in. “I don’t think I ever told you that before. But I am. Will you forgive me?”

  She reached up with her hand and gently drew his face lower. Her kiss was his answer.

  Lance came down the path, a heavy cotton robe in his arms, figuring Beth would be plenty cold by now if Adam kept her out this long. He stopped when he got close enough to see her chair was empty and her legs dangled over the edge of Adam’s chair. Lance watched her bare legs slowly swing out and back. His face expressionless, he looked out over the moonlit ocean. Coming to a decision, he softly laid the robe over the back of the empty chair and made his way back to the hotel. Going to the bar, he ordered a drink and found a quiet table in the corner to listen to the band. He wasn’t sure how he felt right then but he knew he would wait a long time before going back to their suite tonight.

  The morning broke cloudy and damp. The daily rain shower would be early. Dressed in shorts and light shirts, the threesome headed to the beach to look for Mooma’s trail. The beach was less than five hundred feet long and very narrow, stretched out in a long, curving crescent ringed by tall palms and cotton trees.

  They found the trail more than halfway down the beach. Well-trod and easy to follow, it led them up a fern-covered hill. Mooma was right. The view was superb. They could see the pink of their hotel peeking through the dense vegetation and the whole ocean spread out below them. The grave was sitting in the middle of a large clearing. A Bird-of-Paradise was planted behind the marker, its orange and red flowers leaning over the top. A flame tree stood alone off to the side, its crown a mass of red blooms. River rocks had been placed evenly all around the marker in a perfect circle. The marker was clean of moss and mold. His name was carved deep. ‘Mr. Jeremy Bey.’ It gave his date of birth and the day he died. He had been twenty-eight—the same age I am, Beth thought to herself, sad. Carved below was the apology from all the people—‘we believe you.’ Below that, though, was what made their mouths go dry. Hands shaking, Adam got a little notebook out of his pocket and copied it down exactly as the people of Tobago had carved it long ago: X. Marc the Spot

  1960

  The tropical storm raged on all night. Filming had stopped as the set, so carefully constructed, was blown to bits piece by piece. There was nothing anyone could do. The actors, safely ensconced in their hotel suites, soon adopted a party attitude, took over the dining room and began swap stories and compare notes on their varied lives and careers. The animals, bitterly complaining about the screaming wind, were safe in their shelters. Their handlers griped about ‘working conditions’ and quickly forgot the early days of balmy tropical breezes and warm hospitality.

  Very early in the morning, just before the sun rose, a beat-up, dirty brown truck that must have looked old in 1940 slowly made its way over swollen streams that hadn’t been there the day before. Through the spattering raindrops, the dim headlights illuminated destruction. Palm fronds littered what little there was of a road; an occasional uprooted tree blocked part of the road and had to be driven around; water and sand still blowing across the road which was made of leaves, dirt, and mud. There was no beauty in that early hour as the truck bumped and bounced toward what was left of the movie set, the truck’s worn-out springs screaming in protest. The driver concentrated only on the road. Even though he was being thrown around the small cab like a rag doll, the only passenger was thoughtful as he contemplated what he might find on his wonderful set. A wet white and black dog was shivering on the floorboard at the passenger’s feet. Now and then the man would reach down to comfort the dog that gratefully licked his fingers.

  Aiming for the middle of the beach, the driver pulled to a squeaking stop, the one working windshield wiper finally keeping up with the waning rain. Now that they were safely stopped, he turned his worried eyes to his passenger, not liking what little he could see outside the truck in the narrow beam of light. “You sure you want to get out, Mister? It be nasty out dere.”

  As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Mister wasn’t sure at all he wanted to get out. The ground floor of the treehouse was in tatters. What remained of the furnishings was strewn about everywhere he looked. He only hoped the remains of the ship were still out in the Bay. They weren’t done filming out there yet. Too dark to tell, he told himself.

  Never one to shirk from what had to be done, he forced open the rusty passenger door and jumped down onto the wet sand. The dog elected to stay put, hopping up on the deserted, warm seat. Holding his fedora firmly in place against the wind, the man made a slow inspection of the set. The sun finally peeped timidly over the horizon behind the mass of retreating storm clouds that blended seamlessly with the grey, churning ocean. Face grim, he mentally calculated how long it would take to rebuild and reset. Not the cost of the repairs; the cost never entered into his mind. Just the time. Time was always the enemy. He had to leave in two days. They would have to have the repairs done by then.

  He knew they would.

  Now that the issue was settled in his mind, he changed the direction of his thoughts and wondered if they should film the destruction of the set first, in case he wanted to add something later.… Yeah, that was good. Maybe there could be a hurricane that hit the island.… He wandered around the ruined set and thought about angles and lighting.… Father could be holding the ropes while Ernst and Fritz tried to tie down the furniture. Mother could be huddled under the banyan tree with Frances. The dogs Turk and Duke would be running everywhere barking….

  While he turned the scene over and over in his mind, he continued walking around the set. He wasn’t seeing what was actually in front of him; he was seeing the finished movie playing in the theater. Walking backward, he turned as a camera would turn to pan the set and didn’t hear his driver calling to him to wat
ch out. Suddenly finding himself flat on his back in the mud, the movie in his head faded to black. He looked around with a chuckle as the driver rushed over to help him to his feet.

  “You okay, Mister? You no hurt?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. A man needs to be knocked on his backside once in a while.” He gave a chuckle as the driver helped seat him on an uprooted palm trunk that had smashed their wooden walkway. “Some storm, huh, Jeremy?”

  “Yes, Mister. Bad winds. Dis not look too good.”

  Walt looked around, nodding his head. His glance took in the overturned props, the dangling floors of the treehouse, and finally the uprooted tree on which he was seated. Its roots were massive, creating a huge hole that would have to be filled in. He would get them to use the elephants to pull the tree off the beach. Both men looked toward the truck as the dog began furiously barking at something on the beach. Checking on the dog, it jumped from the seat as soon as Jeremy opened the door. Chasing some birds, the dog disappeared down the beach with Jeremy running after the animal. Smiling, Walt looked back at the hole he had stumbled across. It had been formed by the heavy runoff of rain being funneled from the fallen trees. The sky was lighter now and Walt could see the dull glint of something metallic reflecting the early light. From his vantage point he could tell the protruding object had been buried. Walt stood up, unconsciously brushing his legs of wet sand, and walked toward the hole. Now curious, he knelt down and started brushing away the sand and vegetation around the object.

  It was a small, ugly chest made of flat-sided, unadorned silver metal that was slightly corroded. It measured about eighteen inches wide and ten inches deep and about ten inches tall. An ancient lock dangled from the holes, broken open either by time or the elements; sturdy metal handles were still firmly attached to each side. The chest was heavy, but not so much so that he couldn’t lift it. Walt, however, drug the box across the sand, leaving deep tracks. Sitting on the ground, his back against the fallen tree, he rested a moment with the chest straddled between his outstretched legs. Curious, he wiggled the old lock off the metal hinged latch, looked it over for a moment before setting it on the sand. With the sun casting new rays of light through broken clouds and across the ocean, the beams illuminated the man as he slowly opened the lid. It creaked on the rusty hinges and stuck half-way. Pushing harder to get the lid to open all the way, Walt broke one hinge. The other hinge held as the lid fell against the back of the box.