Cross on the Drum

by Cave, Hugh

  "Right. I'll get him." He crossed the yard again, urged almost to a run by his thoughts. Then caution curbed his eagerness. What the devil was he to say to her? How was he to manage it? She wasn't like the rest of them, this girl; she was smart. There was her houngan brother to be considered too: a devil when aroused, according to all reports. I don't want him for an enemy, Lemke thought. This has to be handled with care.

  She was waiting with a pail of water when he led the horse to the doorway. She handed him the pail without comment. All the time the animal was drinking, Lemke was aware of her leaning in the doorway behind him. He thought of and discarded a dozen things to say to her.

  He handed back the empty pail. "How is it I never see you at my end of the island? Do all the pretty girls stay in Terre Rouge?"

  She laughed. So that was what he wanted, was it? She allowed her gaze to grow bold, passing it over him from head to foot, and laughed again more softly. He had quite a time for himself at his end of the island, according to rumors she had heard. She could see why. He was attractive and had the peasant's way of making himself understood with a few words and a look.

  "My parents are very strict," she said.

  "I'm sure they are. But you do go swimming sometimes, don't you?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Then you ought to try the beaches by the plantation some evening. Especially the little one with the malfini bushes. That one's the best on the island, really. Especially in the evening." Lemke smiled at her. "I go there often."

  "I was there a few days ago," Micheline said.

  "I know. I saw you."

  She read the unspoken words in his eyes. His eyes were like hands sliding over her body and she felt herself tingling to their touch as though it were real. He was a bigger man than Father Clinton. A more powerful man. He was even better looking. How far away had he been when she stripped off her dress and went striding into the sea to help those stupid women? Close?

  "So you see," he was saying, "we're not exactly strangers, are we?" She continued to return his gaze. "Did you come all the way from the plantation to get water here?"

  Lemke was forced to laugh. "No. I'm on my way to the mission."

  "Oh? You and Father Clinton are friends?"

  Careful, he thought; she's a houngan's sister. "We know each other," he shrugged. "But never mind that. Are you going to accept my invitation?"

  So he is a friend of the Father, Micheline thought. Probably a very close friend, since they are the only two white men on the island.

  They must have known each other when Lemke worked at Fond Marie. She raised her arms and clasped her hands behind her neck, gazing over Lemke's head at the tops of the trees beyond the yard, quite aware that the movement drew her dress tight over her breasts and that Lemke was devouring her with his eyes. It was an interesting situation. She wondered how she might turn it to her advantage. If this man and the Father were good friends—

  Lemke took a step toward her. She lowered her arms and he halted, breathing heavily.

  "Tonight?" he said. "Tonight, Micheline?"

  "Perhaps. If I can get away."

  BARRY HAD GONE to a peasant caille to look at a sick girl whose young husband had come to him pleading for help. She had needed help. He had extracted no fewer than nine chigres from her feet—nasty little beasts that laid eggs under the skin and could cause real trouble if neglected. He had given the husband a can of DDT to spray the floor of the hut, obviously infested with the things. He returned to the rectory to find Catus Laroche waiting for him.

  Catus sat in the office, as poised as a diplomat despite the fact that he wore only ragged khaki trousers. What a handsome specimen of savage he was, Barry thought. If only something could be done about that missing front tooth . . .

  "I came to tell you there is to be a service this week," Catus said. "It will be Thursday evening and will last all night. If you care to attend, you will be welcome."

  "What time shall I be there?"

  "It will not be at my place. I'll call for you here about nine."

  "This is a special service then?"

  "One that will interest you, I think. Just as this book of yours"—nodding toward a Bible on the desk—"interests me."

  Barry took the book in his hands and sat down, frowning. "But this is in English."

  "I looked at the pictures."

  "Oh, I see." Barry had forgotten there were pictures in the book. It was an old Bible given him years ago by his parents, one he seldom opened. St. Juste had been looking at it.

  "Besides," Catus said, "Père Mitchell had some paper-covered books of Bible stories in Creole when he was here, and a friend gave me one. I can read Creole. Salmador taught me. I have studied Père Mitchell's book a long time."

  Oh Lord, Barry thought. He had seen that little book of Mitchell's. It was one used in the capital to instruct children. It contained, perversely, almost everything in the Bible that was hard to explain. Who wrote such books, anyway?

  "These pictures in your big book puzzle me," Catus said. "They show men fighting one another, women being dragged off as captives, people being beaten and killed. Is this what your faith is about?"

  "If you've studied Père Mitchell's book, you must know that our Bible is in two parts," Barry said. "This part you've been looking at is simply a history, very old and perhaps not very accurate, of the people who lived in Christ's part of the world before he was born. With, at the start, an ancient explanation of how the world began."

  Catus sat down. "It is not necessary, then, to believe all this?"

  "It doesn't matter whether you believe it or not. I wonder sometimes why it is thought important. Actually it's a history book and should be considered as such, quite apart from the story of Christ and his teachings."

  Catus nodded. "My people too have a history. Whether it is written down in such a book I don't know, but we know some of the old tales. This Our Father you prayed to in church this morning, is he the same one we salute in vodun?"

  "The same, Catus."

  "I don't understand how that can be. I would like it explained to me."

  "Very well, I'll try. When your people were first brought to this country as slaves, St. Joseph was a Catholic island." And still is for the most part, Barry thought, but that's beside the point. "Your ancestors had no Our Father. They had only the gods of Africa. But your people were ordered to go to church. In church they learned about the Catholic religion. The priests talked about a god who was the greatest of all gods, and your people accepted him. Perhaps they associated him in their minds with your own creator of all things, Nananbouclou, or with the great Chango, though I think your conception of the world's beginning is rather vague."

  "Go on, please."

  "Well, at the same time, your people identified certain Christian saints with vodun mystères and adopted those as well. For example, Moses and St. Patrick are associated in Christianity with snakes. You accepted them as likenesses of Damballa, because Damballa's symbol is the snake. The mother of Christ you took to be Maîtresse Erzulie, because both are held in the highest esteem among women. St. Peter, who guards the gates of heaven, was compared by some of your people with Legba, who guards the entrance to the hounfor. Others were sure St. Anthony the hermit must be Legba, because Legba is a kind old man."

  Barry waited for an answer. None was forthcoming. Catus only stared at him.

  "You can see what happened," he went on. "The priests insisted that Catholicism was the only true faith. They, like the planters, were white men, to be feared and respected. So your ancestors took what they could understand of Catholicism—or Christianity, if you will—and down through the years they've borrowed more and more. Some Christian things were adopted through a process of identification. Others found their way into vodun because your people thought them attractive or valuable. I'm told that you begin your services with a prayer to Our Father, the Grand Maitre, that you call on Christian saints as well as the loa, that you recite parts of the Lord's
Prayer and the Hail Mary. I've been told you really believe in these things. Do you?"

  "Perhaps," Catus said. "But I don't think we understand them. In Pare Mitchell's little book it says, for instance, that your God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit are all one person. How can three persons be one?"

  Barry's hands tightened on the Bible. Articles of Religion, his mind recited, as established by the Bishops, the Clergy, and the Laity of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, in Convention, on the twelfth day of September in the Year of our Lord, 1801. Article I: Of Faith in the Holy Trinity. There is but one living and true God, everlasting, without body, parts, or passions; of infinite power, wisdom, and goodness; the Maker, and Preserver of all things both visible and invisible. And in unity of this Godhead there be three Persons, of one substance, power, and eternity; the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. He faltered under the houngan's challenging gaze. A man could struggle for hours to explain the holy trinity and still fail, even with listeners to whom all the pat phrases were familiar. How to explain it in Creole to a vodun-practicing peasant?

  "In vodun, Catus, you believe in many gods."

  "That is so. The Grand Maître we do not understand too well, I think—perhaps because he was borrowed from your faith and does not live in the hearts of our people. But we have many gods of our own."

  "Christianity is different. We worship only the god you call the Grand Maitre or Our Father. He created the world. He made man and woman, or at least gave them souls. Then when the world became wicked and turned away from him, he came to earth in the form of a man, to set things straight."

  "This man was your Jesus Christ?"

  "Yes."

  "Père Mitchell's book says that he called himself the Son of God. If he was God, why did he call himself God's son? How can a man be his own son?"

  Barry silently groaned, wishing he could sit the author of Mitchell's book down and make him answer the questions. For a moment he was tempted to say what he thought and hang the consequences. Then he sighed. He had been trapped into trying to explain the trinity after all.

  He did his best.

  Catus frowned at him. "I still do not understand. I find it impossible to believe that the greatest of all gods would change himself into a man and allow other men to kill him."

  Which probably explains, Barry thought, why Jesus plays such a small part in vodun. The peasants can understand God, the creator and master of all things; they can accept countless saints who have the personal characteristics of vodun loa; but Jesus mystifies them and is ignored. He said, shaking his head, "There are some things in Christianity, Catus, that are hard to understand, just as there must be some in vodun that you find puzzling. Most Christians believe that Jesus was God himself, though I think some of them don't quite know why they believe it. Others don't believe that he was even the son of God. They say he was only an inspired man who—"

  "What do you believe, mon Père?"

  This time Barry did not compromise. "I don't know. Some day I shall know what I believe, but at this moment I do not." He leaned forward, aware that he was perspiring. "But does it matter, Catus? Think a moment. This man we call Jesus Christ, this inspired teacher or son of God or God himself, was no ordinary person. If he was only a man, he was the most remarkable man who ever lived. That is why the faith he taught did not die with him."

  "The teachings of Jesus are what you believe in, then?"

  "They are what we believe in. They are all that matters, believe me. The rest of what is in Père Mitchell's book, the stories of Adam and Eve, the great flood that drowned the world, the wars and travels and long lists of hard-to-pronounce names are all unimportant. Even the story of the manger and the star and the shepherds and the wise men is unimportant, really. Begin with Christ's teachings. Those are everything. Those are the hope of mankind."

  "What are they?"

  Barry had to smile. "It would take a little time to cover that. But I can sum them up for you, I think. Love God and love one another."

  Catus nodded. "This God you love, where does he live?"

  "We don't think of him as living in any specific place."

  "In church you say, 'Our Father which art in heaven.— “

  "You say the same thing in the hounfor. What do you mean by it?"

  Catus shrugged. "My ancestors borrowed the prayer from your priests. If you don't know what it means, how can you expect me to?"

  "Well, heaven is simply a name for God's dwelling place. If it is a specific place we don't know where it is. God is all around us, watching us all the time."

  "He was in church this morning?"

  "I'm sure he was."

  "Did you see him there?"

  "No, but we believe he was there."

  Catus frowned. "This, too, I find hard to understand. We know where the gods of vodun live. They are on their island under the sea or in the Guinea of our ancestors, or in the sacred trees and waterfalls. When they come to a service we know they are present because they enter into our heads and speak to us. You saw that yourself."

  Barry nodded, remembering the session in the tonnelle two Sundays ago. "I saw it. And if you find it hard to understand my faith, think what a time I have understanding yours. I'd like to talk to that girl," he added, frowning. "There are some questions I'd like to ask her. With your permission, of course."

  "Thursday night there will be others you can talk to. If you wish, you may speak with the loa themselves." Catus stood up and held out his hand. "I will ask you not to wear any priestly clothing. The loa might not like it, though of course they will know what you are in any case. Thank you for answering my questions, Father."

  Barry stood in the doorway, watching him go. Had he, in fact, answered any questions? He doubted it. What Catus needed was someone like Peter Ambrose, who played the game strictly according to the rule book. I have too many questions of my own, Barry thought.

  TEN MINUTES after the houngan's departure, Warner Lemke rode into the mission clearing, wearing a smug smile and looking pleased as punch with himself. "Jeff told me about your new church and asked me to look in on you," he said.

  "That's certainly good of him. Of you too."

  "Anything I can do to help?"

  "I've no doubt there would be if I could get workers. I'm afraid that's impossible, though, until young Toto returns. You've heard the story going around?"

  "Alma told me," Lemke said, nodding. "It's fantastic what these people will believe."

  Especially when Pradon Beliard goes to work on them, he thought with a secret grin. That boy will be magistrate here before he's finished, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's thought of that too. Of course this latest bit of deviltry on Pradon's part would collapse when the injured Toto came back, but it wasn't to be shrugged aside on that account. Little drops of water . . . And if for some reason the lad didn't return, dear Mr. Clinton would have a problem. Indeed he would.

  "When do you expect the boy?" Lemke asked.

  "I should think in about two weeks, unless there are complications."

  "Isn't that pretty serious, a punctured lung?"

  "It can be. It isn't always."

  "Well, if you're able to start sooner, you know where to find me."

  "I'm grateful to you for coming," Barry said. "Can I offer you a drink?"

  Lemke still had a headache from his last session with the bottle. "No, thanks," he said, swinging himself into the saddle. He wanted a clear head this evening. A clean breath, too. It would never do to let the girl think he had to be drunk to appreciate her. "See you later, padre," he called back, turning to wave.

  Barry stood in the office doorway, thoughtfully gazing after his caller. Queer, the fellow's riding all the way from the plantation to offer his services, when he must have known there was nothing he could do. Today, especially. Sunday afternoon was the time a working man would normally take a longer than usual siesta and then go to the beach with his wife.

 
But something had happened between Lemke and Alma. She had as much as said so. Only this morning, when he had inquired after her husband, she had answered with an odd sort of laugh and changed the subject.

  What, really, had Lemke wanted just now?

  11

  IT WAS EDITH BARNETT who brought the report from the hospital Thursday morning. Crossing the channel from Anse Ange in a native sailboat, she climbed straight to the mission and arrived there just at noon. Barry was in his office, talking to Clement St. Juste.

  She took the report from her handbag and gave it to him. "If I had waited for the radio schedule to ask Warner to meet me with the launch, I couldn't have come until tomorrow," she explained. "I knew you'd want to see this right away."

  Barry unfolded the paper. He had been talking to St. Juste about the church. Less than an hour ago the Couronne man had discovered a ledge of limestone not far from the building site, just over the ridge toward the edge of the great cliff, and he was bursting with eagerness. They could begin work the moment the injured Toto Anestor returned to the island, he had been saying. Now he was silent, watching Barry's face. Edith, too, was silent.

  Barry read the report and felt his hands shaking, felt the paper shaking in them. He shut his eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened his eyes, Edith and St. Juste were still staring, still waiting. St. Juste's face was an uneasy question mark. Edith's was all compassion.

  "He's dead."

  "Dead!" St. Juste gasped.

  "Complications, they call it. They mean post-operative neglect, bad nursing, lack of care." In the wake of shock came a wave of bitterness, and Barry's voice was sandpaper against the office walls. Then weakness overcame him and he groped for a chair.

  Edith moved to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't anything you could have prevented."

  "Just a few days ago he was playing in the village."

  "He did run behind your mule."

  "To pick up my handkerchief. To do me a favor." He pressed his hands to his face in helpless rage. "It isn't fair. A handkerchief drops out of your pocket and a boy dies. A boy nine years old, his whole life ahead of him."