The Ghosts of Eden

by Andrew JH Sharp

  Stella looked at Bernard. Bernard was looking up the valley, clearly lost in thought, but she guessed that he was not solving the wheel problem but was likely cracking the particular translation dilemma that she had broken him away from. Bernard’s physical site and circumstance rarely bore relationship to the location of his thoughts. Early in their marriage she hoped certain situations would bring Bernard’s mind and body together, but even in these she was frequently frustrated – even when she tried to seduce him away from the missionary position. The conception of Michael had been a rare occurrence of internal fusion in Bernard, resulting in two more successful fusions; the first their bodily union and the second a fertilised ovum. The conception of little Rachel, still asleep in the house, was similarly wondrous.

  A shrill bicycle bell announced the arrival of the Milk Man. More trouble. She would have to leave Bernard to sort things out in his own time. When he finally brought his supertanker brain around it could be unstoppably effective. She told Michael that Daddy would work something out, and to go and play.

  ‘Hey, Dad! You’ll have to get a new car, a Zephyr 6,’ she heard Michael shout as she left.

  A milk delivery could not be missed as it happened haphazardly and infrequently. The Milk Man, the Chicken Man, the Banana Man, the Pineapple Man, the Egg Man, all arrived on black bicycles with curvaceous chrome handlebars. Their wares dwarfed their cycles and did credit to the strength of the frames. When the Banana Man lost control, crashed and knocked himself unconscious in the village down the road, the stolen bananas, it was said, fed the entire village for a week.

  Strapped to the back pannier with strips of inner bicycle tube was a large plastic milk container, which had once contained something combustible judging by the aftertaste left on the tongue. The Milk Man used a smaller container to ladle milk into Stella’s saucepan. She would boil it before she put it in the larder. First she dropped in her densitometer to check that the milk had not been diluted. It disappeared under the surface.

  ‘This milk has been watered down,’ she said.

  The Milk Man looked downcast for a moment, and then he looked accusingly at the milk. ‘How can this have happened?’

  ‘My husband and I have other more pressing investigations this morning so I’m not very interested in looking into that. I’m awfully sorry but I can’t buy this milk.’

  ‘Maybe you will pay half. Then you will not pay for any water.’

  ‘A generous offer but no thank you.’

  Stella often found herself converting anger into sarcasm. Delivered amiably it did not translate bitterly but it gave her a little satisfaction. Bernard did not approve, hinting that it was not a sign of a Renewed Mind. ‘How do I know that the water is clean?’ she added.

  ‘Madam, the water is too clean.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m asking if the water is clean. I don’t care if the water is from an Elysian spring. I don’t want diluted milk.’

  ‘The water is from Bakoto spring,’ the Milk Man said hopefully.

  Stella felt her well of inner peace, filled at Quiet Time only an hour ago, draining away. ‘My son is home for the holidays and I want to bake him a cake. When will you return with proper milk?’

  ‘I’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘If you mean the day after tonight, then I’ll be here if you come early. And I’ll have my water finder again.’

  The Milk Man rode away, ringing his bell and whistling. A few seconds later he was back, his bicycle wobbling under his excitement.

  ‘Madam you have no wheels on your car.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing that out. We were just thinking what to do about it when you came with the whitened water.’

  ‘This morning, on my bicycle, I stopped to . . . to go to the bathroom . . . in some bushes, you understand me, and there I saw them. Now you will praise God that I brought you milk this morning.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your wheels, madam. They were hiding there. In the bathroom.’

  Michael and Tomasi had returned and were hovering, listening. ‘I don’t expect they’re our wheels,’ Michael said, shaking his head dolefully.

  Bernard walked the half mile with the Milk Man, Silas and a chastened looking Kapere to retrieve the wheels. When they returned, the Milk Man said to Stella, ‘There are many bad people these days. But me, I’m an honest man. Perhaps you’ll buy milk tomorrow, madam.’

  She said she would happily do so. ‘But I’ll still have my water finder.’

  Silas lifted the first wheel onto an axle.

  ‘Those wheels must be fixed on in some way; screw devices I would say,’ Bernard said, stroking his chin. He adjusted his glasses as if seeing more clearly would present a solution.

  The Milk Man appeared pleased to have another opportunity to help. ‘The robbers have thrown them away.’

  Stella suggested that Michael and Tomasi help look for the screw things.

  Michael seemed reluctant. ‘I expect the robbers have taken them,’ he said. ‘It’ll be better just to get a Zephyr 6.’

  Stella gave Michael a hard look.

  Kapere was standing nearby, shifting from foot to foot and twisting his face into all manner of contorted expressions. At first Stella had been pleased to see him squirm but now she took pity. ‘Do go home, Kapere, we’ll finish this off ourselves,’ she said.

  Kapere’s eyes co-ordinated for an instant to look directly at her. ‘Madam?’

  She felt she had better say something. ‘Well, Kapere, it is a disappointment. We don’t ask much of you.’

  ‘Maybe I was confused.’

  Stella struggled to contain a rising irritation. ‘I would say “confused” is not the correct word, although I suppose a deep sleep is a form of bewilderment.’

  Kapere’s face started to buck again. Then he reached inside a deep pocket in his coat and pulled something out.

  ‘The little master told me you wanted me to do this, madam.’ He opened his hand to display a heap of shiny wheelnuts. ‘They are washed, madam.’

  Stella saw it all. She turned to Michael. He was standing still, not jiggling as he normally did. He hung his head while he looked dejectedly up at her.

  ‘I think I’d better have a word with you inside, Michael.’

  Tomasi had been watching Stella with a wary expression. Now he turned suddenly and ran off as quick as a pursued rabbit, the pale soles of his bare feet flicking up and down like a scut. Stella watched him go, then turned back to face the others: there was Kapere, looking to the sky, still holding out the wheelnuts, a hopeful smile breaking out; the Milk Man leaning on his bike looking baffled, absentmindedly ringing his bell; Silas standing watching now, a fistful of magenta geraniums in his hand; Michael, big eyed and pensive; Bernard adjusting his glasses again to better look at Kapere. All trying to understand each other, all not quite succeeding. Stella started laughing.

  Five

  Until he had met Tomasi, Michael had been repeatedly frustrated when he tried to play with the local children – they either wanted to squat and stare, or laugh and jeer, or they took fright and ran away. All except Tomasi. He first met Tomasi when he was exploring a banana grove, looking for big leaves to make a house. He came across a boy widdling against a tree. The boy turned towards him unabashed so that Michael had to step back to avoid being splashed. They tried to outstare each other while the boy waited for his stream to finish. Then Michael said, ‘Go away.’ But the boy did not go away. He let his only clothing – a dirty white vest – fall to his knees, beckoned Michael to follow him and set off through the trees. Michael had seen a gleam in the boy’s eyes and followed. They entered the thickest part of the banana grove where the ground was black from rotting leaves and the green-lit canopy was high above them, as if they were at the bottom of a lake. Michael heard the sound of water trickling down a rivulet. The boy squatted next to a small pool and pointed to a twisted copper pipe lying partially submerged in the water like a gold serpent. On the edge of th
e pool a pile of still-hot charcoal made an occasional clink sound as it cooled. A rich, fruity smell lingered over the surface of the water.

  ‘Waragi,’ said the boy as he lifted the pipe, being careful to keep it level. He lifted one end to his lips and tipped it gently. A few drops of clear liquid wet his extended tongue.

  ‘It’s good, drink it,’ the boy said in Rukiga.

  Michael reached for the pipe but the boy pulled it back and indicated that he should open his mouth. He saw that the boy was not to be dictated to and, just as interesting, knew secrets.

  Michael tilted his head back and opened his mouth as the boy tipped up the other end of the pipe. He waited for – what he imagined from the sweet smell – would be bubble-gum-flavoured water. Nothing came from the pipe until the boy became impatient and tilted it to near vertical.

  The waragi found its way around a bend in the copper and gushed from the end of the tube. Michael thought his mouth had been filled with ice; and then with fire. He spat it out; it ran like a hot blade down his chin; he scooped water from the pool, swilled out his mouth and splashed his chin and neck. When he looked up he expected to see that the boy had run off to tell the village about how he had tricked the Muzungu, but the boy was busy twisting the pipe above his own head, trying to coax out another shot of the waragi. Michael felt a rush of excitement. He ran his tongue around his cheeks; his mouth had cooled and he was left with a sickly, tangy taste – with a hint of rotten banana. He didn’t like it. He preferred chapattis.

  ‘It’s the black man’s Holy Spirit,’ the boy said solemnly. ‘That’s what my uncle says. He says it comes to the men like a fire on the head, like the spirits in the Bible.’

  Michael felt he knew better but he was not going to give the boy a scripture lesson. He wanted to show him that he had secrets to match. They introduced themselves.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, and Tomasi followed him home.

  When Michael went through the front door, Tomasi stopped. When Michael insisted he come he followed warily, staring around him. Michael led him into his bedroom and took down the screw top jar from the shelf above his bed. His preserved appendix floated in formalin. It took him some time to gain Tomasi’s attention for he was looking with astonishment around his room, poking the bed, peering intently at the picture on the cover of the Boy Adventurer Annual, and laughing out loud when he saw the Corgi miniature car on the windowsill.

  Michael had difficulty explaining the thick, worm-like object in the bottle – his Rukiga failed on medical terms.

  ‘Should I taste it?’

  Michael shook his head, laughed, hitched up his shirt and displayed his scar. ‘The worm came from here.’

  Tomasi took a step back and looked respectfully at the worm as if he looked on a fearsome creature indeed to have made such a hole in Michael. Michael wondered if Tomasi thought he had single-handedly killed it.

  And so Michael and Tomasi played together every holiday, initially trying to impress each other: Tomasi giving Michael fried flying ants to eat, Michael giving Tomasi a boiled sweet, Tomasi showing Michael how to climb the giant avocado trees, Michael showing Tomasi his Spirograph, Tomasi showing Michael a civet cat his brother had caught in a trap. This game continued until Michael showed Tomasi how to make a chameleon change colour; Tomasi recoiled with fear when Michael picked the chameleon off the bush.

  ‘Are you afraid of chameleons?’ Michael asked, pleased to have found he could out-impress Tomasi.

  Tomasi shrank back, bravado flying away. ‘They have evil spirits,’ he said, and waved his hands frantically at Michael, pleading with him to put it back in the bush.

  ‘Jesus is stronger than the evil spirits,’ Michael said, and to prove that Jesus would let no harm come to Tomasi stretched out his hand to bring the chameleon near to Tomasi’s face. Tomasi shrieked, then turned and ran home as if pursued by every spirit in the hills. It was three days before he returned to play.

  After his mother had told him off about telling lies to Kapere and involving him in his scheme (she had been angrier about that than the bother they had all had fetching the wheels), Michael wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t look at him with a worried frown (his mother), or as a little red man from the moon (Tomasi), or as an annoying buzzing bee (his father); someone who thought him clever and funny and brave. They had no dog, but he did have a sister.

  Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the porch opposite Floppy, her teddy, who sat propped up against the wall, one ear furless – she sucked on Floppy’s ear when she went to sleep. When she saw Michael she shuffled beside Floppy and said, ‘Let’s play schools. You be teacher.’

  Rachel and Floppy were looking at him so eagerly that he put his arms behind his back like Auntie Beryl, walked up and down, turning quickly on his heels, and said, ‘Today we’re going to learn about diamonds.’

  ‘Mummy’s got diamonds.’

  Michael looked over his imaginary glasses and said, ‘You can only talk when I ask you a question.’

  ‘Naughty Floppy! Wait for teacher.’ She put Floppy’s floppy arms across each other in his lap. Floppy slumped forward so that she had to sit him up again.

  ‘You have to dig in the ground very deep to find a diamond and . . .’ He stopped.

  Rachel nodded as if her head was on a spring. ‘What other things?’

  ‘Hey Rachel, this is a secret. Promise you won’t tell Mum.’

  ‘Floppy, don’t tell Mummy.’

  ‘I’m not teacher any more, Rachel. This is very serious; say, I swear on the Bible I won’t tell Mum.’

  ‘Floppy can’t say that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Listen, this is the secret: if we sell Mum’s diamonds we could get Dad a Zephyr 6.’

  Rachel leant down and put her ear to Floppy’s face. Her hair was the same dark-bear colour as Floppy’s. ‘But Floppy says, then Mummy won’t have a diamond.’

  ‘Tell Floppy I could get her another one, easily.’

  ‘Floppy says it’s going to rain.’

  Michael had also noticed a change in the air. He turned to look down the valley. The rain was coming like a battle: a wall of gun smoke and the cannon rumbling. Rachel picked up Floppy and held him hard to her chest so that the bear’s arms and legs stuck out like a squashed creature. A single raindrop, as large as a bullet, hit the brick step of the porch with a sharp slap, hurting an ant which started going round in circles before it was washed off the step. There was a roaring from the roof like a furnace. On the road near the house Michael saw children running for cover; old women tried to protect themselves under goatskins, only to be splattered with the bursting of the rain on the hot ground, making their legs run red. Banana leaves pattered, sputtered and split. His mother’s black-eyed susans were stripped of their petals.

  Rachel screamed, ‘I don’t like it. I want to go in.’

  When Michael opened the door he saw his mother. ‘It’s raining,’ he shouted. Then he saw his mother’s Bible class girls. ‘It’s raining,’ he whispered.

  The Bible class girls, from the boarding school down the road, sat on the worn sisal mat, smart in their white blouses and blue skirts. They were all gazing with happy faces at his mother. Rachel ran to sit on a girl’s lap, then rocked back and forward with excitement. His mother was telling the story of Ruth, using her Flannelgraph kit. Michael had heard his mother and father discussing the class, and his mother saying firmly, ‘I know I can get across the gospel with felt.’ He decided to stay and listen until it stopped raining. His mother was sticking the soft figures of Naomi, Ruth and Boaz on the backcloth of blue sky and lush grass. The girls laughed when Boaz fell off just as Ruth lay down at his feet. His mother laughed with them and said that it showed what a fright Boaz got when he woke to find Ruth beside him. Michael found it difficult to understand everything: she spoke in Rukiga, which she had learnt when she was little at her father’s hospital on the plains beyond the hills. Michael’s father always said that she spoke like the cattle people. Lis
tening by the door, Michael understood enough to know that she spoke of sheep and goats, of the wise and of the foolish, of immoral foreign tribes, of brides, of wedding feasts, of important ancestors and of the creator. The girls would understand all those things. And then she told them what the stories meant: of widewideastheocean, deepdeepasthedeepestsea love; telling of burdens rolledawayrolledawayrolledaway; of Peace That Endureth, Bright Hope For Tomorrow. The girls burst into a chorus about being washed whiter than the snow – the snow that they had never seen but was whiter than their blouses.

  Michael looked at his mother and got a proud feeling that he was her son. On the outside she looked like anyone else’s mother (except a little smaller and her eyes darker and her lips more smiley), but on the inside she was like all the best women in the Bible in one. She was especially good at explaining God’s Kingdom – all anyone had to do was listen, and then they would understand and be happy. Outside, Michael saw that the rain had swept on and a rainbow marked the return of the sun, as if wrong things had been washed from the world.

  When his mother said prayers with him that night, Michael wondered whether to tell her what Simon had said about his father having a demon but, although he had started having nightmares, he decided against it – he did not want to be prevented from going. Only one more day to wait. As she finished praying he took his mother’s hand and touched her ring. There were three diamonds in a row – he thought them small but they shone out bigger than their size.

  ‘Can we sell just one diamond so Dad can get a Zephyr 6?’

  ‘I don’t think Dad would like us to do that.’

  ‘He would, I know he would.’

  ‘One day my ring may pass on to Rachel, so it would be a shame if it’s missing a diamond.’

  He dropped her hand in disgust. She ran her fingers across his hair and smiled.

  He said grumpily, ‘What will Rachel do with it?’

  ‘She might keep it – to remind her of her mum – or she might want someone special to have it.’

  ‘Someone special?’