“January 2, 1919.”
“You’ll have to speak a trifle louder, Mr. Waxman,” Two Moons said apologetically. “My old rooster’s getting deaf, and I don’t believe he heard you.”
I repeated my birthday loudly, enunciating carefully for the rooster’s benefit.
Two Moons walked counterclockwise about the circle, dropping a grain of corn in the exact center of each letter, and then sat down beside me. He signaled the gamecock with his pointed stick, and the bird crowed, wheeled about, and pecked up the grain of corn on the letter M. Two Moons wrote M on the ground, and followed it with the O, R, and T as the chicken pecked up each grain. After eating the fourth grain of corn, the rooster returned to the center of the circle, leaned wearily against the stake, and hung his head down to the ground. We waited, but it was evident from the apathy of the chicken that he was through.
“Maybe he isn’t hungry?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Two Moons Wainscoting untied the cord from the rooster’s left leg and carried him out of the circle. He scattered a few grains of corn, released the cock, and the bird scratched and gobbled down the food as if it were famished.
“He was hungry, all right, Mr. Waxman. Your reading is complete. M.O.R.T.” Two Moons muttered, savoring each letter with half-closed eyes. “Mort. Is your middle name Mort, by any chance?”
“Harry Waxman, only. I dropped my middle name when I became a writer, but it wasn’t Mort.”
“Any relatives named Mort?”
“No.” I thought carefully. “No, none at all.”
“That’s too bad.” Two Moons shook his head. “I had hoped—”
“Hoped what?”
“That Mort didn’t mean what I knew in my heart it meant.” He thumped his breast with a closed fist. “Mort is a French word meaning death, Mr. Waxman.”
“So? How does it apply to me? I’m not a Frenchman; I’m an American. If the rooster’s predicting anything for me, he should do so in English.”
“He doesn’t know any English,” Two Moons explained patiently. “I bought the chicken in Martinique, after my last rooster died. All he knows is French. On difficult readings I often have to consult a French-English dictionary—”
“Maybe he was going to write ‘MORTGAGE’?” I broke in.
“I sympathize with you, Mr. Waxman.” Two Moons shook his head, dislodging his dirty turban. “But in alectryomancy we can go only by what the gamecock does write, not by what he does not.”
“Let’s try another reading.”
“Another time, perhaps. It’s a great strain on my chicken, making predictions, and I only allow him to make one a day.”
“Tomorrow, then,” I said, getting to my feet.
“Perhaps tomorrow.” He agreed reluctantly.
I took my wallet out of my hip pocket. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” The alectryomancer spread his arms wide, palms up, and shrugged. “I would appreciate it, however, if you autographed my copy of your pamphlet, Cockfighting in the Zone of Interior.”
I tapped my shirt pocket. “When I come up tomorrow. I didn’t bring my fountain pen with me today—”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Waxman,” Two Moons said reasonably. “In view of the prediction, I would prefer to have the autograph today. If you’ll wait a minute, I have a ballpoint pen inside the house …”
I SLEPT FITFULLY that night, but I had slept fitfully every night of the three months I had been on Bequia. No one had informed me of the fierceness of the sand flies and mosquitoes on Princess Margaret Beach, and I had neglected to purchase a mosquito bar before departing Trinidad. But between waking and sleeping, the prediction of the Whitehackle cross gave me something to think about. I was far from satisfied with Two Moon’s interpretation of the word “mort.”
It was too pat. And yet, no other meaning suggested itself to me. Toward two A.M. I was reduced to considering M.O.R.T. as initials standing for something else. During the war I used to get letters from a girl in California with S.W.A.K. written across the back of the envelope. This meant “Sealed With A Kiss.” When this piece of tripe crossed my mind, I cursed myself for a fool, downed three quick tumblers of Mount Gay rum, and slept soundly until dawn.
By eight-thirty A.M. I was on the mountain trail to Two Moon’s metal residence. Halfway up the mountain I stopped for breath and a slow cigarette, and almost changed my mind about obtaining a second reading. Curiosity got the better of my judgment and I climbed on. When I topped the last rise to the clearing, Two Moons was sitting cross-legged in the sunlight before his shack, humming happily, and plaiting a basket out of green palm leaves. He dropped his lower jaw the moment he saw me, and his yellow eyes popped in their sockets.
“Why, it’s Mr. Waxman!” He said with genuine astonishment. “I didn’t expect you this morning!”
“You needn’t act so surprised. I said I’d be back this morning.”
“I apologize for my astonishment. But your case was remarkably similar to a reading I gave a student at Oxford, and I—”
“You attended Oxford?” It was my turn to be surprised.
“For a year and a half only,” Two Moons admitted modestly. “I was putting myself through Oxford by practicing alectryomancy in the West End. I had a poor but steady clientele, actors, actresses, producers, and two or three dozen playwrights.”
“I fail to see how an Oxford man could end up on Bequia,” I said, looking at the alectryomancer with new respect.
“An English Dom did it,” Two Moons said sorrowfully.
“Got mixed up with a woman?”
“No, sir. Not a woman, a Dom. A truly beautiful gamefowl, the English Dom. Pure white, with a yellow bill and feet. I bought the rooster in Sussex, and before utilizing his services for my clients, I had him make a practice prediction for me. Without hesitating the Dom pecked out BEQUIA. I ate the fowl for supper, packed my belongings, and left on the next ship leaving England for Barbados. I’ve been on Bequia ever since, thirty-two years in October.”
“At any rate,” I said, moved by the simple story, “one of your predictions came true.”
“They all come true.”
“We’ll see. How about my second reading?”
“Yes, sir.” Two Moons held out his right hand. “That will be ten dollars, in advance.”
“Very well.” I parted with a brown BWI ten-dollar bill. “Bring on your French-pecking rooster.”
The rigmarole was unchanged from the day before. Two Moons Wainscoting changed from ragged blue denim shorts into his homemade costume and turban, tethered the gamecock, and drew the circle and block-letter alphabet as carefully as he had done for my first reading. He signaled with the pointed stick, and the idiotic rooster pecked M, O, R, T and stopped. After crowing half-heartedly, the bird leaned against the stake and hung his head down, bill touching the ground. I was unable to understand how the mere pecking up of four lousy grains of corn could make the chicken so tired.
“Let’s wait a bit, Two Moons.” I cleared my dry throat. “Maybe he’ll continue.”
“As you wish, Mr. Waxman.”
The minutes ticked away. The sun was hot. The back of my neck stung with prickly heat. Mango flies and tiny gnats buzzed and feinted about my perspiring face, but I waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and the stupid rooster still remained immobilized in the center of the circle.
“Mort comes to us all, in time,” Two Moons said pityingly.
“A truth that can’t be denied,” I agreed, getting to my feet and stretching. “Well, thanks for the prediction, Mr. Wainscoting. But it’s a hot day and I’m going for a swim.” I started down the trail, my hands balled into fists inside the pockets of my khaki shorts.
“Watch out for barracuda!” Two Moons shouted after me. “And dangerous crosscurrents.”
“Thanks!” I called back drily.
I didn’t go swimming. I didn’t do anything. I brooded, sitting in the tiny living room of my screenless cottage, sta
ring out the window at the bright blue, cheerful waters of the bay. The first mort wasn’t so bad, but when it came to two morts I was forced to do a little quiet thinking. Like all Americans, I laugh at superstition. Ha, ha! The pinch of salt, tossed carelessly over the left shoulder. A needless precaution, but I did it all the time. Did I ever place a hat upon a bed? Never. Why not? Well, just because, that’s why. Did I ever walk under a ladder? No, of course not. A can of paint might cover one from above; that was prudence, not superstition. I wasn’t really superstitious. Not really. But that gamecock had been so positive …!
Three days later I fired my maid. The woman refused to taste my food, claiming falsely that she didn’t like canned pork-and-beans. I issued an ultimatum, and when she still flatly refused to eat a bite, and prevent me from being poisoned, I gave her the sack and tossed the beans into the bay.
My life became more complicated without anyone else around, but I preferred to be alone. I now had to make up the list of foodstuffs to send to St. Vincent, and I had to meet the MV Madinina when it steamed into the harbor on Friday to get them. But I didn’t mind the activity. I wasn’t hungry either, and the little I did eat was better prepared by myself. I worried, however. A bad tin of corned beef, a can of sour condensed milk, and pouf! Mort. I drank a lot of Mount Gay rum and a little water.
Three weeks following my second reading, I paid my third visit to Two Moons Wainscoting. I was unable to stand the fear and suspense any longer. I hadn’t shaved for several days. Suppose I had cut myself with a rusty razor blade? Where could I get a tetanus shot on Bequia? My sleep was no longer fitful; I couldn’t sleep at all. Three full inches had disappeared from my waistline.
“Two Moons,” I said anxiously, as soon as I entered his clearing, “I’ve got to have another reading.”
“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Waxman,” Two Moons said soothingly. “That is, I’ve been expecting word concerning you, but I must turn down your request for a third reading. This is not an arbitrary decision. The life of an alectryomancer on Bequia isn’t an easy one, and I would welcome another ten-dollar bill, but I am not totally lacking in compassion, so I must refuse.”
“I’ll give you twenty dollars—”
Two Moons held up a hand to silence me. “Please, Mr. Waxman. This isn’t a question of money! Let me summarize: you have had now two flat predictions, both of them identical. Mort! An ugly word, whether in French or English, but mort all the same. Suppose, on a third prediction, my gamecock were to peck out W.E.D.S. or a simple F.R.I.? Do you see the implication? You’re a writer, Mr. Waxman, and do not lack imagination. A gamecock is incapable of telling a falsehood, and if my rooster pecked an F.R.I.—which he could do in all innocence—this is the abbreviation for Friday. Today is Tuesday. How would you feel tomorrow, on Wednesday? And then Thursday? The next day would be Friday, and Friday would be the day for what? Mort!” He pointed his finger at my chest and shook his head.
I shuddered as the pit of my stomach chilled. “But—”
“Please, Mr. Waxman. I cannot risk another reading. An alectryomancer has a conscience, just like everyone else, and I would suffer along with you. I must refuse your request for a third reading. I cannot; I will not do it!”
“I’m a young man,” I croaked hoarsely, “and I’m not ready to die. I won’t even be forty until my next birthday.”
“There’s an alternative.” Two Moons pursed his lips and peered at me intently. “But I hesitate to mention it to a man with so little faith.”
“Mention it,” I said sharply. “By all means, mention it.”
“You are cognizant of the West Indian obeah?”
“I think so. It’s a spell or charm of some kind, isn’t it?”
“In a way, yes. There are all kinds of obeahs; they can be made for good or evil, in the same manner African ju-jus are made for good or evil. Unfortunately, many West Indians have a vindictive character and often cast about for a means of vengeance for a very small grievance. This deplorable character trait, I am happy to state, is not a universal West Indian—”
“I’m not interested in the character traits of the average West Indian. I have problems of my own.”
“To be sure. To shorten the rather interesting story, I possess an obeah that will ward off mort for an indefinite period.”
“Let me take a look at it.”
“Not so fast. Like every spell or charm or ju-ju, an obeah has a condition attached.”
“What are the conditions?”
“Condition.” He held up a long forefinger. “Singular, Mr. Waxman. A simple condition, but a condition nevertheless. Belief. Blind, unquestioning belief. So long as you believe in the obeah you shall have life. Not everlasting life, as promised by your optimistic Christian obeahs, but life for a reasonable period. The Grenadian who fashioned this obeah lived to be one hundred and ten.”
“That’s a long time.”
“A very long time.”
“I believe,” I said desperately. “Give me the obeah!”
“You’re an impulsive young man, Mr. Waxman. This is a valuable obeah, and before I can give it to you, I must test your belief. The obeah has a price of seventy-five dollars.”
I passed the test. Happier than I had been in days, I ran lightly down the mountain trail, a small leather sack tied around my neck. The sack was securely fastened with a square knot in the rawhide thong at the back of my neck, and from time to time I fingered the knot to make certain it wouldn’t slip.
Night fell. I sat in my tiny living room. The pale light of my kerosene lamp—there isn’t any electricity on Bequia—made my shadow dance on the wall like a boxer. The wind was responsible for my flickering shadow, but I felt like a boxer, fighting the deadly logic of the gamecock’s prediction. I clutched the sack at my neck, feeling the strange objects inside it through the leather, wondering what in the devil they were. Two Moons had warned me not to look inside—“Never look a gift horse in the mouth”—were his exact words, but I was curious all the same. If I stopped believing in the obeah, mort could strike suddenly at any moment. The wisdom of Two Moons Wainscoting, in denying me a third prediction, was the only bright spot in my thinking. But even with the obeah in my possession I couldn’t live forever …
Not that I had any particular reason to go on living. I wasn’t happy, and never had been. I was single, no dependents, no real purpose in life—really, except for writing an occasional novel or short story. But I wanted to hang on, if for no other reason than to see what would happen next. I had lost all desire to write an article on alectryomancy …
I felt the objects inside the obeah with my fingers. What were they? I jerked my hand away quickly. What if my fingers recognized one or more of the objects inside the leather sack? How could I go on believing in the efficacy of the obeah if I once found out what the sack contained? A nasty situation to be in, all the way around.
In the daytime, life wasn’t so bad. The bright sunlight chased away the problems of the night. But everything I did, which wasn’t much, was done judiciously. I still swam every day, but never ventured more than a few yards from the shore, fearing the riptides and crosscurrents. I continued to take daily hikes, but I walked slowly, like an old man with brittle bones. And I carried a cane. Most of the time I sat quietly on the narrow front porch of my cottage drinking rum-and-water. Sometimes, I wished that mort would come to me in the night, in my sleep, so that it would be all over and done with.
After a few lonely evenings I began to go to the hotel at night, picking my way along the beach path, playing my flashlight on every shadow before taking another step. There wasn’t any electricity at the hotel either, but the porch was lighted by Coleman lanterns, and they didn’t cast shadows …
Just a few short hours ago I was sitting at a table on the hotel verandah, staring glumly into my glass, when Bob Corbett sat down across from me. One quick glance at his red, serious face and orange moustache, and I shook my head.
“No nattering tonight, Bob
,” I said firmly. “I’m not up to it.”
Bob Corbett is a British civil servant who makes periodic trips to the various islands, looking for fungus or something, but the government maintains a house for him on Bequia. Like many of the bored civil servants posted to the Windward Islands for three years, Bob has become addicted to the game of nattering. Nattering is a game where two persons hurl insults at each other until one of them gets angry enough to fight. During the early years of my writing career, I had served time as a desk clerk at a New York hotel for almost two years, and as a consequence, I had bested Bob Corbett in every nattering session he started. In the last session we played, Bob had taken a swing at me with an empty Black & White bottle.
“No nattering,” Bob agreed readily, signaling the barmaid to refill our glasses. “I really came over to make amends. I’ve been standing at the bar for almost an hour without a sign of recognition from you, and if you want an apology you can have it. But I really didn’t hit you with that bottle—”
“I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t cut you; I just didn’t see you,” I apologized. All at once, I felt an overwhelming desire to confide in Bob Corbett, and I yielded impulsively to the desire. The dark thoughts had been bottled up inside me too long. “Listen, Bob,” I began, “did you ever hear of alectryomancy?” And I unfolded the whole story.
“Ho-ho-ho!” Bob laughed, when I had finished. “You’ve been had, old man!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Had! Taken! Bilked! And you’re a New Yorker, too. That’s what makes it so funny!” Another string of bubbling ho-ho-hos followed, and I drummed my fingers on the table impatiently.
“Old Two Moons is a notorious character in the islands,” Bob said at last, wiping his streaming eyes with the back of a freckled hand. “This old faker and his trained rooster have caused I don’t know how many complaints to the administrator on St. Vincent from irate tourists. His rooster, you see, is trained to peck out the word ‘mort’! And the convincing mumbo-jumbo that Two Moons puts with it has sucked you in.”
“I don’t believe it. I’d like to but I can’t.”
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