SHADOWS

by Jonathan Nasaw

  Aldo hopped back from the bed and stood with his back to the curtained sliding glass door that led to the patio, adjusting the crotch of his trousers—his erection had begun to swell. "Over here," he called, waving both arms over his head.

  The body, by now fully engulfed, was in the process of flapping its arms and beating its hands against its breast, trying to smother the flames. It lurched off the bed, in the direction of Aldo's voice. Behind it, the bed was aflame. Aldo freed his engorged penis from his trousers, pulled off his left glove, and began masturbating earnestly with his bare hand as the burning man-shape lurched around the bedroom.

  "No, this way," Aldo shouted over the Greek's high-pitched whistling shriek; again and again he called, until finally the flaming body began staggering in his direction, arms reaching blindly like Frankenstein's monster.

  "You're getting warmer," joked Aldo, tucking the glove into his pocket. Just before Georgie reached him, Aldo let go of his penis and stepped aside, nimble as a matador. The burning man crashed into the sturdy glass door and bounced off it, but not before setting the curtains on fire, which was what Aldo had in mind in the first place.

  "Hoop-la. Colder now." Aldo backed out of the bedroom. "Over here, this way." The blazing thing seemed to hear him, even spun in his direction before toppling over onto the bed again.

  "Oh, bad luck," said Aldo philosophically. He'd been hoping the human torch would do him the favor of setting the living room afire as well, but obviously it was not to be. Then, encouragingly, "Good show, though!"

  For it looked as if the bedroom curtains were by no means fire retardant. They had gone up in a white blaze. Aldo backed across the living room in a hunched stoop, masturbating furiously again, picked up his kit bag from the floor, one-handed, and without taking his eyes off the flames that were now licking their way through the bedroom door, made his way backward to the front door. When he reached it, rather than let go of himself, he transferred the heavy kit bag to his mouth, biting down hard on the leather handle while he used his gloved hand to unbolt the door.

  Once outside, he hurried back around the side of the house, gripping himself tightly. By the time he reached the patio the glass door had already exploded, and the flames in the bedroom were dancing madly. Aldo dropped his kit bag, peeled off his right glove, and soldiered on two-handed, squinting from the effort until the fire was only a warm red blur in his vision.

  Then all movement stilled for a moment. His face raised to the warmth of the fire, the smell of the smoke sharp in his nostrils, Aldo squeezed himself tightly with one hand, using a peristaltic milking action, and grunted as he spurted into his other hand. When he was done, Aldo licked his hand clean, picked up his kit bag, and loped off into the night.

  CHAPTER 4

  « ^ »

  It was late afternoon when Selene opened her eyes and found herself staring up at the rust-flecked underside of a corrugated tin roof raised on corner poles for ventilation. Narrow-meshed plastic screening filled the gap between the top of the wall and the roof.

  "Where—" She started to ask where she was, then, at the sight of the weed woman bending over her, remembered, and changed her question. "Why?" She lifted her hand weakly to check out the bluish discoloration surrounding the pinprick.

  "Why you tink?" Granny asked, amused, as she helped Selene sit up. "You show up—poof!—where de Drinkers burn. Bewitch Joe-Pie—dot boy know better den bring a stranger to me house. Den you know all tree use of goatweed. How m'know you ain' obeah, you ain' sent by de mon burn Greathouse down?"

  Even in her dazed condition it struck her. "You mean you know who burned the Greathouse?"

  "Same mon burn your house."

  "How do you know about my house?"

  "Same way m'know you ain' obeah. Cha-cha bark."

  Selene thought about it. Some kind of truth serum? Cha-cha? But of course! Her mind went back twenty-five years. An outing with Morgana in Golden Gate Park. "Behold the Distachya," Morgana had declaimed, pointing out a stand of small fernlike trees with velvety dark green leaves. "Also known as the plume albizia. Albizia distachya in the Latin. Cha-cha in the Caribbean. Native to Australia. One of Mother Nature's gifts to witches. The seeds make a nearly undetectable poison; the victim drowns in his own fluids, but on the cellular level. The bark, however, makes a handy truth serum. The aborigines call it the Talking Tree."

  "How much did I tell you?" Selene asked the old woman, swinging her legs down from the old army surplus cot.

  "Everyting." Granny had a hand at the small of her back, steadying her. "Fire and Fair Lady, Mr. Whistler, devilish mon—oh, every damn ting."

  "And you think it was the same man who burned the Great-house? Somebody saw him down here?"

  "Joe-Pie!" the weed woman called, by way of reply.

  The boy skidded through the back door of the cabin. "Miss Selene! Oh good, you're up. Granny said you was tired, was all dot was wrong wit you. Did you have a good sleep?"

  "Apparently," replied Selene. She didn't remember a thing—but as she was beginning to appreciate, any sleep you woke up from was a good one.

  "Joe-Pie, tell Miss Selene about de mon you saw coming down de dundo track last week."

  "Ain' no mon," the boy asserted to his grandmother, then turned to Selene and repeated it. "Ain' no mon, Miss Selene. He de devil for damn sure."

  "A white man? Slightly built? Light hair, goatee"—she stroked her chin by way of illustration—"pointy eyebrows?"

  The boy nodded, eyes wide. Granny gave him a pat on the head. "Tank you, m'son. Now go back out in de yard and mind kettle." When he was gone, she turned back to Selene. "Child ain' need to know what we know—he still of an age where he troubled by dreams."

  "You mean you grow out of it?" joked Selene. The room had stopped spinning, but she was still woozy. "What was on that pin you stuck me with first, anyway?"

  "Dis 'n dot," was the self-satisfied reply.

  Selene recognized the smug tone: she'd been guilty of employing it herself from time to time. "Please. If you know what I'm doing down here, then you know I need your help."

  A chuckle, and a pat on the knee. "True as cha-cha." Then the smile faded; the crone leaned forward and peered into Selene's eyes. "If you want help from Granny, you must ask for it."

  Again, Selene drew on her only point of reference—the crones in the myths weren't exactly warm and fuzzy nurturers either. "Will you help me, Granny?"

  A shrug. "Might be. Might be too, you can teach me how you fly?"

  "The Fair Lady? I'd have to send for some. But sure, why not?" Selene found herself searching the bright black eyes that were searching hers. It occurred to her that as long as she found herself in such a mythic damn situation, she might as well see if she could pick up any pointers as to the direction her path might be leading, as well as get some help with her task. "Can I ask you something, Granny? What you do, what you practice, how you use the herbs? Does it have anything to do with… you know, religion?"

  The old woman thought about it for a moment. "One time Reverend Edger come to Granny for bed trouble. Give him caper-berry. Missus Edger bear him a fine son nine months later."

  * * *

  Shortly before midnight a three-wheeled cart drawn by two goats clip-clopped straight down the middle of Three Kings Street, the Old Town's main drag, scattering yelping dogs in its path. The dogs that did not scatter quickly enough felt the bite of the Rastaman's whip; the alpha male of the pack held his ground, yellow teeth bared, and got himself butted halfway down the block for his pains, to the great amusement of the loafers outside the saloon.

  The cart pulled to the curb at the entrance to the Kings Frederick and Christian Arms and Selene hopped down from the buck-board. "Thank you for the ride, Mr. Munger. And for everything else."

  "De pleasure's ahl mine, Miss Weiss." The Rastaman tipped his battered white yachting cap, and his dreadlocks spilled out around his face like a lion's mane. His eyes were red as a vampire's, but then so were Selene
's: they'd shared a spliff the size of a cigar on the ride down from the rain forest.

  Selene, who rarely smoked, was good and blitzed, in a contented sort of way. After she and Granny had concluded their business, they had dined on fresh island lobster snared by Joe-Pie that afternoon and boiled alive in the great cauldron. Then Granny had sent Joe-Pie to fetch the Rastaman, who at Granny's urging told Selene all about his unseen visitor the previous Friday night. It was nice to have a little evidence—or in this case absence of evidence: the missing titi bread, etc.—to shore up her conviction that Jamey Whistler had survived the fire.

  And the ride home had been memorable: the hypnotic clipclopping of the goats' hooves, the flat round stars above, the cane-brake stretching to either side, the graceful roadside palms silhouetted against a soft gray-black horizon. She could have done without the odor, though; either the Rastaman had begun to smell like his goats after all these years, or else his goats had begun to smell like him.

  But never mind—the man's heart was sweet as the perfumes of Araby, and his weed beyond reproach. She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then mounted the wooden sidewalk and waved good-bye as the Rastaman lifted the reins and clucked his tongue; the goats executed a smart U-turn and parked themselves in front of the bar across the street, where the usual domino games were in full noisy swing.

  Selene was just about to step into the shower a few minutes later when the phone rang. "Taxi driver here to see you, Miz Weiss," the desk clerk informed her. "He say urgent business."

  "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes," she replied, smiling inwardly.

  A muffled whisper; then: "He say he ga wait."

  I bet he will, thought Selene, on her way into the shower. She made it a long one—it was badly needed—then donned a clean "Free Tibet" T-shirt and jeans and took the stairs down to the lobby, where Rutherford Macintosh was waiting for her with his Dolphins cap in one hand and her twenty-dollar bill in the other.

  "Me ain' know you be friends wit Granny Weed," he said hurriedly, thrusting the bill in her direction.

  "I'm sure you didn't. But that doesn't justify stranding me in the middle of the rain forest."

  "Sometime a mon just act from fear."

  Selene's first instinct was to go easy on the fellow—the same sort of counterinstinct that had kept her from praying to the Goddess lately, or turning over Eihwaz that morning. Then she remembered how it had felt running after the taxi, sucking exhaust, the sense of powerlessness, hopelessness. She looked down at the proffered bill disdainfully. "I don't think I'll take the money back, Mr. Rutherford. Or is it Mr. Macintosh?"

  "Rutterford is me Christian name, ma'am, but everyone call me Tosh."

  "Tosh, then. I'm afraid just giving back the money isn't going to cut it, Tosh. But I do believe in second chances, so I am going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. You see, I'm going to be on the island for another few days, and I can certainly use a driver, but I have no use for the sort of driver who steals off and leaves me in the middle of the forest, forcing me to hike all the way down to my old friend Granny Weed's house to tell her my troubles again. Because according to what Granny tells me, that's the sort of driver whose balls are apt to swell up to the size of coconuts in the middle of the night, for no reason any doctor will ever be able to figure out. Or cure. Granny also tells me they call such a condition bamacoo, and they call the man who has it a windward gobi. Windward Gobi—do I have that right?"

  Rutherford opened his mouth, but the rest of the speaking apparatus was not under his control. He settled for nodding, his jaw dropped foolishly. Gobi was the Luzan name for the calabash.

  "And if that happened, such a driver would be of even less use to me," continued Selene. "As I understand it, with his balls blown up like that a man can't sit. And if he can't sit, he can't drive, don't you agree?"

  Another nod. One of his drinking buddies had come down with bamacoo once. A St. Vincent man who'd never done any harm to the weed woman personally, but whose wife had stiffed her for the price of an herbal menstrual tonic. Poor bastard required two chairs at the saloon for the next few weeks, one for himself and one for his testicles. Eventually the wife, at great trouble and expense, had been permitted to settle up with the weed woman. Not long after that the husband recovered, but the haunted look never quite left the fellow's eyes. Reluctantly Tosh stuffed the wrinkled Jackson back into his pocket and raised his eyes to meet Selene's. "At your service, ma'am."

  "Good. Be here early tomorrow morning—I'll need a ride back to Granny's. Oh, and one more thing, Tosh. Granny tells me you taxi drivers know more about what's going on around here than the police. I want you to ask around for me, see if anyone has any information about Mr. Whistler. Did he have any unusual visitors in the last few months? I'm particularly interested in a white man with pointy eyebrows and a pointy goatee, but anything else you can find out, anything out of the ordinary…"

  Tosh flashed her a wry look as he settled his cap on his head. "Anyting not out of de ordinary up deh be out of de ordinary, ma'am."

  As soon as she got back to her room, Selene placed a call to California. Martha answered on the third ring. "Selene, are you okay? We were so worried when you didn't call last night."

  "I was going to, honey, but I pretty much collapsed from exhaustion."

  "I'm not surprised. Hey, good news: Carson went up with me this afternoon to check out your house—he says structurally the place looks pretty good. You might need some new beams to shore up the loft, but the roofs fine."

  "Be sure to thank him for me. How's Daddy Don doing?"

  "He misses you. We both do. How's the search for Mr. Whistler going?"

  "I've made some progress, but I need you to do something for me. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to go up into the herb garden and pick five ripe cherries from the nightshade bush." She described the technique for determining if a cherry was ripe. "Be very careful not to crush them, or get any juice on you. If you do, wash it off right away. Wrap them in something sturdy—maybe hide them in a videocassette box—and overnight them to me."

  "You're not going to take belladonna again, are you? It practically killed you last time!"

  "It's not for me, it's for the weed woman."

  "What's that?"

  "Like a witch, but without the Wicca. She's forgotten more about herbal lore than I'll ever know, but she was fascinated by the idea of flying. We're swapping a few recipes, is all."

  "Okay, but be careful, Selene. That guy hasn't shown up around here again. Maybe he's back down there."

  "You be careful, too: I'm pretty sure this thing isn't over yet."

  "Yeah, but Selene—what thing?"

  A sigh. "I wish to hell I knew, dearie. I wish to hell I knew."

  CHAPTER 5

  « ^ »

  The next morning Selene awoke just before dawn, donned safari shorts and a lightweight, long-sleeved khaki blouse over her bathing suit, crept down the stairs, and tiptoed past the sleeping night clerk and out the front door. The yellow Checker was parked at the curb, the cabbie asleep behind the wheel.

  Selene opened the back door and slid in; Rutherford Macintosh awoke with a start. "Mornin', ma'am."

  "Good morning, Tosh. Have you been out here all night?"

  "You say you ga leave early, ma'am, but y'ain' say how early. M'tink, better ready den gobi." He made a cupping gesture in the vicinity of his crotch.

  The sun was just coming up over the mountain when the Checker turned off the highway; the dew on the canebrake was sparkling like refined sugar. Joe-Pie sat waiting for her on the front steps of the cabin. He sprang to his feet waving a machete half as long as he was. "Mornin', Miss Selene!"

  The boy opened Selene's door for her, leaned in to tell Tosh that Granny said he wouldn't be needed again until midafternoon.

  Tosh touched his cap brim with two fingers, and the Checker roared off; the morning dew damped its standard cloud of dust as Tosh executed a five-point t
urn and raced back down the track.

  "Dot mon still scairt," grinned Joe-Pie, waggling his eyebrows comically under his worn red Hess Oil cap; an oversized "Santa Luz: The Last Unspoiled Virgin" T-shirt, yesterday's baggy red shorts, and last year's shredded Nikes completed his ensemble. "Ready?" Without waiting for an answer, he slung the machete over his shoulder, darted across the road, ducked through the feathery divi-divi trees that camouflaged the entrance to his footpath, ducked back to beckon Selene, then disappeared again up the green tunnel.

  Selene caught up to the boy a few hundred yards up the trail. He had a finger to his lips. She held her breath and peeked through the wall of brush to see three tiny rain forest deer drinking at a shallow pool that was no more than a wide spot in a sluggish stream. She smiled and touched her hand to her heart.

  When the deer had drunk their fill they bounded off across the stream; a clatter of pebbles, a flicker of white tail, and they had disappeared into the bush. Joe-Pie ducked under a low-hanging branch, lifted it for Selene, then led her down to the edge of the little pond. He knelt and whisked his hand around in the green scum that covered the surface; beneath it the water, only a foot or so deep, was so clear that she could see the delicate stems of a watercresslike plant undulating in the gentle current.

  The boy plucked a few of these, slipped them into a Baggie, slipped that back into his pocket, and stood up. "Dot's just for go-wit," he explained.

  "What's go wit?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Go wit—a ting what go along wit a ting."

  "Oh."

  The next stop was a stand of gray-green bushes growing by the bank of the creek. Joe-Pie plucked a few leaves, stuffed them into a separate Baggie, then led Selene farther up the stream, where he shinnied up a tall tree with a slender trunk that bowed and swayed under his weight, and returned with a handful of brilliant purple flowers. "More go-wit."