Dragons in the Waters

by Madeleine L'engle

  Shortly after ten o’clock in the morning Lyolf Boon took Simon up to the bridge. “You are privileged,” Boon said. “The one time the passengers are never allowed near the bridge is when we are taking on the pilot and bringing the ship in to dock. You must stand out of the way and not ask questions.”

  The captain gave Simon the briefest of preoccupied nods. Simon stood just outside the bridge cabin and watched a small bug of a boat approach them from the direction of land. The bug sidled up beside the Orion, and a man sprang out, clambered up a rope ladder, and landed lightly on the lower deck.

  “The pilot. Keep out of the way,” Lyolf Boon warned Simon. “He’ll be up on the bridge in a minute. Stand here. Don’t ask questions. The captain has a very short temper when we’re docking. Watch, and anything you want to know I’ll tell you later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Simon pressed against the rail, where he could see everything and not be underfoot. Ahead of him was the busy harbor of Port of Dragons; above it rose what appeared to be hundreds of tiny shacks crowding up the steep hillside above the harbor. The wind was sultry and saturated with moisture. He pulled Geraldo’s cap farther forward to keep his hair from blowing in his eyes, and to shade them from the brilliance of sun on water. Under the cap he could feel perspiration. His shirt began to cling moistly. The weight of the unknown future lay on him as heavily as the heat.

  The other passengers stood in little groups on the promenade deck.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with the pilot,” Dr. Wordsworth remarked to the Smiths. “We’ve been backing and filling in a most inept manner. I gather the captain has a low tolerance for fools. This certainly must have broken his tolerance level.”

  “It seems to be a problem in parallel parking,” Mr. Smith said. “I find parallel parking difficult with an automobile, and it must be far more of a problem for a ship. There’s only one berth left free, with a freighter on either side. Port of Dragons surely is a busy harbor.”

  Mr. Theo and Dr. O’Keefe stood side by side. “The fork lifts are just sitting there,” Mr. Theo remarked. “I suppose we won’t be allowed to unload anything until the police have been all over the ship. I expect Tom by mid-afternoon.”

  His words were drowned out by shouting on the dock. Sailors from the Orion threw heavy ropes across the dark water between ship and shore; the ropes were caught by longshoremen and hitched around iron stanchions. Slowly the ship inched landward to bump gently against the old tires which were fastened to the wooden pilings of the dock—primitive but excellent bumpers.

  On the quay stood a bevy of uniformed officials, talking loudly and with much gesturing and flinging of arms, shouting to the longshoremen, who in turn shouted to the sailors on the Orion, until the gangplank was dropped with a clatter and ship and shore were connected. The officials bustled into the ship and disappeared.

  Charles said to his sister, “Jan and Geraldo have drinks and cigars set out in the salon.”

  “For the customs men,” Poly said. “Geraldo says they always do, not just when there’s a murder. Ouch. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? ‘Just when there’s a murder.’ Oh dear, are we getting hardened?”

  “Inured, maybe.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not quite. You can get used to something without being hardened. The cigars and stuff aren’t just for the customs officers this time,” Charles said. “I wonder what they’ll do?”

  “The customs officers?”

  “The police.”

  Poly said in an overly matter-of-fact voice, “They’d better get Cousin Forsyth out of that hearse and onto some ice pretty quickly. In this weather by this time he stinketh.”

  Charles asked, “Will they want an autopsy?”

  “I suppose so. It’s what’s done. But there wouldn’t seem to be much doubt about the cause of death. Not much point in sticking a dagger into the heart of someone who’s already dead, for instance. And the dagger doesn’t afford a clue. It’s Venezuelan, the kind that can be picked up in any port, and most of the sailors have them, because they’re decorative, and they take them home for presents. Oh, Charles, I’ve been trying to look at it all objectively, like Uncle Father, but the thing that throws me is that I thought Cousin Forsyth was after Simon, and now—”

  Charles spoke quietly. “I still think he was. I have the strongest feeling that if Cousin Forsyth hadn’t been got out of the way he might have succeeded in killing Simon.”

  “You mean maybe someone killed him to save Simon?” Poly asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know. There are a whole lot of threads and they’re all tangled up. But I still think Cousin Forsyth boded no good for Simon.” He held up a hand and pointed.

  All the passengers hurried to the rail and watched as a short, excited official ran down the gangplank to the dock and began shouting and gesticulating. A large elevator lift maneuvered alongside the Orion. The passengers could not see what was happening on the foredeck, but it was obvious from the increased shouting and excitement that it was something important.

  A great yellow metal arm reached out across the dock and over the Orion. Then it moved slowly back and the hearse, in a cradle of ropes, wavered in the air over the oily water between the Orion and the pier. The passengers watched in fascination as the hearse swung back and forth, tilted, righted, and finally, with a bump, was set down on the dock. A second official ran down the gangplank, shouted in unintelligible Spanish to the men on the dock, ran to the first official, shouted some more, and then the two chief officials got into the hearse and it drove off.

  “Could you understand what they were saying?” Charles asked.

  “Only a few words. It was some kind of dialect. I think they’re driving right to the morgue.”

  Charles poked her, and she looked up to see Boon coming out to the promenade deck with Simon, and then going back into the ship.

  Simon hurried toward them. His voice was studiedly casual. “I wish yawl could have been up on the bridge with me. I had to stay way out of the way, and even so, the captain got in a towering rage and yelled all kinds of things in both Dutch and Spanish at Mynheer Boon and the pilot—I couldn’t understand a word, but he obviously was giving them Hades. Mynheer Boon says he doesn’t really mean it, and this was a difficult docking and everybody is all uptight—I mean, even more than usual.” Then he said in a voice so low that they could hardly hear him. “He’s gone. Cousin Forsyth.”

  “Yes, Simon,” Poly said. “We saw.”

  His eyes looked dark in his pale face. “It seemed so strange to think of him being in the hearse when it was swinging there, over the water and the edge of the dock and it tilted and—”

  Poly said in a matter-of-fact way, “A freighter doesn’t have a hospital, and it was the most prompt and effective way to get him directly to the morgue.”

  Charles said, “Simon, just remember that Aunt Leonis is coming, that she’ll be here before dinner. Do you think you’ll be allowed to go to the airport to meet her?”

  “The captain says it depends on the local police, but he’ll try to arrange it.”

  “Think about that, then.”

  The heat bore down.

  After lunch the captain came out to the promenade deck and called Simon. “El señor jefe de policía Gutiérrez, chief of police in Port of Dragons, will take you out to the airport to meet Miss Phair.” He smiled at the boy. “Come.”

  Simon followed van Leyden, through the ship, down the gangplank, to an official-looking black car with a seal on the door. A small, potbellied man with shiny dark hair and a perspiring face was introduced as el señor jefe de policía Gutiérrez. His black waxed moustache was far more impressive than Cousin Forsyth’s had been, its points curling up to the middle of his cheeks, but it was the only impressive thing about him. His white summer uniform was wrinkled and dark with sweat, and he was dancing about impatiently.

  Simon shook hands. “How do you do, sir?” he queried in careful Spanish.

/>   Simon’s Spanish words evidently relieved el señor Gutiérrez, who began to gabble away until Simon stopped him and asked him please to slow down. This appeared to be a difficult request. Sr. Gutiérrez blew a small silver whistle and was almost immediately surrounded by excited subordinates. He exhaled a stream of incomprehensible Spanish, his voice rising to a high pitch. Minions ran in every direction, and then Gutiérrez bowed politely to Simon and said, “We will drive to the airport now, and you will answer me some questions, yes? It will not be difficult for you. Then we will arrange a happy meeting with the elderly lady, yes?”

  “Yes, please, sir.”

  Gutiérrez opened the right-hand door to the front seat for Simon. Then he got in behind the wheel. “I myself will drive so that we will be private.” He took out a large silk handkerchief, flicked some imaginary dust off the steering wheel, and mopped his brow.

  Simon reached out to make sure that his window was open. The car was a hot box.

  Gutiérrez took a cigar from several in his breast pocket —Dutch cigars—and lit up. The smoke made Simon feel queasy, but he tried to think only that he was on his way to meet Aunt Leonis.

  Gutiérrez drove rapidly away from the port, waving in a lordly fashion at the soldiers with machine guns who stood formidably at the exit. They drove along a narrow road above the sea.

  Gutiérrez snapped, “Where is this portrait of Bolivar?”

  “It has been stolen, sir.”

  “Aha!” said el señor jefe de policía Gutiérrez. “This is what the Captain van Leyden and the señor Boon have told me. The wooden crate was found open, and the portrait had vanished, and all this at sea!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gutiérrez drove with his foot down on the accelerator until they were traveling on a lonely road with jungle above them to the left, sea below to the right. “How did this portrait of our General come into your possession?” It was an accusation. Gutiérrez obviously did not think that Simon had any right to a portrait of Bolivar.

  But the boy answered courteously. “Not my possession, sir. It belonged to my Aunt Leonis and she sold it to Cousin Forsyth.”

  “Sold it. Aha! Ahem! Why would she sell such a valuable thing?”

  “Well, because it was valuable, sir, the only valuable thing she had left, and she had no money.”

  “Impossible. All Americans are rich.” The cigar smoke blew heavily through the car. “If she had no money, how could she have bought such a valuable portrait in the first place?”

  “She didn’t buy it, sir. It was hers. It has always been in our family.”

  “Always? Incredible. How would an aged American have had a portrait of Bolivar in her family? This is a most unlikely story.” Gutiérrez spoke around the cigar. Simon’s nausea began to be acute. “Why do you speak Spanish?”

  Simon countered, “Would you prefer me to speak English? It would be much easier for me.”

  “That is not what I am asking. Where did you learn Spanish?”

  “From my Aunt Leonis—sir.”

  Simon had decided definitely that he did not like el señor jefe de policía Gutiérrez, who gave him no more confidence in the police than had Dr. Curds in the ministry.

  “Your cigar is making me sick, sir,” Simon said, “and I don’t think I can speak any more Spanish for a while.”

  Gutiérrez frowned his disapproval, but put out his cigar. “You are withholding information.”

  They drove in silence for perhaps five minutes. Simon felt sweat trickling down his back between his shoulder blades. Gutiérrez’s face glistened like melting lard. The landscape widened out and flattened, with a broad savannah between the road and the forest. Gutiérrez made a long U-turn, and there was the ocean on their left, pounding into shore. “We are here,” Gutiérrez said.

  The airport for Port of Dragons was little more than a short runway along a strip of dirty beach. The surf was pounding in heavily, and the spume was a mustardy yellow instead of white. Everything brassily reflected the heat of the sun. There was a bird’s nest in the wind sock. A small plane was parked like a clumsy bird on the airstrip: Aunt Leonis’s plane? If so, where was she? Across the airstrip from the ocean was a small wooden shack outside which a soldier lounged, a rifle swung from his shoulder. By the shack a hearse stood, black and shining and hot.

  The hearse.

  The sun smacked against the bullet hole in the windshield, and light burst back.

  “The hearse—” Simon’s throat was dry. “Why is the hearse—”

  Gutiérrez did not reply. He drew the car close up to the rear of the hearse.

  “Is—is Cousin Forsyth—”

  “No, no,” Gutiérrez answered soothingly. “He is in the morgue. It is all right. Come, I will show you.”

  “Aunt Leonis—”

  “Her plane is not yet in. There are head winds. We have time. Come.” He opened his door and pushed himself out from under the wheel.

  Simon did not move.

  Gutiérrez walked around the car and opened the door on Simon’s side. “Come.”

  Simon pressed back, his bare legs below his shorts sticking to the seat. His dislike of Gutiérrez had turned to anger, and the anger to terror.

  Gutiérrez reached in and took his arm in a firm grip. The rotund little man was far stronger than he looked. Simon was hauled forcibly out of the car, yanked from the stuffy, smoky, sweaty heat of the interior into the blazing broil of the sun. Was Aunt Leonis waiting in the shade inside the shack? Was Gutiérrez lying to him? —Please, please, be there.

  He struggled to get loose and run to the shack, but Gutiérrez’s flabby-looking arms were like iron and he dragged the boy toward the hearse.

  The Venezuelan’s voice was gentle in contrast to his fingers, which were bruising Simon’s arms. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t fight me and you won’t get hurt. I just want to show you something.”

  The rifle-slung soldier moved swiftly from the shack over the short distance to the hearse and flung open the double doors. Then he and Gutiérrez together picked Simon up bodily and threw him into the hearse and slammed the doors shut behind him.

  Simon landed on something. Something pliable.

  Someone.

  A body.

  10

  THE BODY IN THE HEARSE

  His terror was so great that he could not even cry out.

  The body gave a very living grunt as Simon almost knocked the wind out of—who was it? Not Cousin Forsyth …

  The grunt was followed by muffled sounds, but no words.

  Simon was almost thrown to the floor as the hearse began to move, accelerating rapidly. The shirred lavender funereal curtains covered the windows, and Simon precipitated himself across the hearse and struggled to open them, but they were tacked down. While he was trying to pull them loose his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he turned to the still-grunting body on the stretcher.

  There lay a man, trussed up like a fowl; a blindfold covered his eyes, and a gag was rammed into his mouth. With trembling fingers Simon untied both, to reveal a rather pale face and a completely bald head.

  “Uncle Father!” Simon cried.

  Dark eyes widened in surprise. “Who are you? How do you know me?”

  “You’re Poly’s godfather,” Simon said, starting to work on the knots; he was slowed down by the rocking of the hearse, which appeared to be traveling much too rapidly for the state of the road.

  “Make haste slowly,” Canon Tallis advised as the hearse jounced over a rut and Simon was thrown against him. “And while you’re working tell me who you are. And keep your voice down.”

  “I’m Simon Renier, Simon Bolivar Quentin Phair Renier, and I’ve been on the Orion with Poly and Charles and Dr. O’Keefe, and Mr. Theo, too, of course.” The terrifying yet tedious job of loosening the canon’s bonds was finally done, and Simon helped him to sit up.

  Canon Tallis pursed his mouth as though to whistle, but his lips were so sore and bruised from the gag that only a small pu
ff came out. He asked, “Where’s the rest of the family?”

  “Home, on Benne Seed Island. Dr. O’Keefe brought Poly and Charles with him when he was asked to spend a month in Venezuela—you really are Canon Tallis?”

  The bald man nodded thoughtfully. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “I guess Mr. Theo didn’t tell you much when he called you.”

  “So right.”

  “But you came anyhow. He said you would.”

  “When I got an unexpected and extremely cryptic phone call from him, I thought I’d better come see what was up. I shall want you to tell me what is up, Simon, but first we’d better try to look out and see where we’re going.” Between them they managed to loosen a corner of the lavender curtain, which had been tacked down very thoroughly indeed. They peered out. The hearse was bouncing along what was no more than a double rut cut through the jungle. Trailing vines brushed against the windows. A ferocious-looking wild hog tore through the underbrush and vanished into green.

  “We’re not moving as quickly as it seems,” Canon Tallis said. “I wonder if we could get out?” He tried to open the rear doors. “We’re locked in. Do you have a knife on you?”

  “No, sir,” Simon said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No matter. I doubt if it would help. This is a solid lock, not the thing one would normally expect on a hearse. It may be padlocked from the outside.” The hearse jolted and veered violently to one side. “They’re not going to be able to drive much farther. Not unless this path turns into a road, and somehow I doubt if it will. Can you tell me quickly what’s been happening?”

  As quickly as possible, prompted by astute questions, Simon told Canon Tallis what had happened since the fork-lift incident on the dock at Savannah.