Cross on the Drum

by Cave, Hugh

  "Darling, stop."

  He looked up at her. St. Juste put the paper on the desk and said, "This is awkward, Mr. Clinton. Aside from how you feel, I mean. What's going to happen if you tell the people?"

  "I don't know."

  "It isn't hard to guess. They won't believe the boy died in the hospital. They'll just be more certain than ever that he was dead when he left here."

  Barry was silent. He had spoken angrily in the first heat of emotion and knew that if he spoke again now his voice would break and he would be in tears. When he felt that he had control of himself he raised his head and looked at Edith again.

  "Jeff drove you to Anse Ange?" he asked.

  She nodded. "He wanted to come across with me. I couldn't see any need for it."

  She looked tired and hot, he thought. It was not a hot morning especially, but the very breeze that kept it cool would have made the channel crossing an ordeal, and of course the climb to the mission was always difficult. Her yellow cotton dress looked as though it had been wet by spray. Her hair was dishevelled. He stood up and said, "I'll tell Lucy to set another place for lunch." He went to the door.

  He saw two suitcases standing outside the door, and a boy squatting beside them. It wasn't a boy he knew. Turning back, he said with a frown, "You're going to stay?"

  "I thought I would for a few days," Edith said. "Do you mind?"

  "No, no, of course not."

  She was puzzled by his frown. Didn't he want her to stay? Didn't he remember what he had said to her on the beach that evening? She was sorry about Toto, of course she was, but actually this report from the hospital, handed to her last evening by Peter Ambrose, was just the excuse they had been waiting for. She could be with him now on his island.

  "You'll be going to the Lemkes'," Barry was saying. "Do they know you're here?"

  "No, they don't."

  "We'd better send the boy along with a note then, hadn't we? He can bring a horse back for you. I haven't one here."

  She thought that would be wise. She would write a note at once.

  "After lunch you'll want to rest," he said. "Then we can talk."

  "I think it's very unkind of you not to have a guest room here," she said.

  She meant it as a joke and expected him to smile. He didn't. He only looked at her strangely, as though wondering how she could joke at such a time. The death of the boy had shocked him deeply, she realized. He seemed numb. Her remark had been a mistake.

  "If you stay here, someone will have to sleep in the church," he said. He spoke slowly, almost stupidly. He was shaking his head and scowling.

  "I'll go to the Lemkes'," she said quickly. "I'll write the note now."

  "Yes," Barry said, and went out.

  When he returned from the kitchen, he handed the boy her note and told him what to do, wondering what the Lemkes would say when they learned they were to have a guest. Had he better warn Edith that all was not sweetness and light there? He decided not to. It was really none of his business, and the less he seemed to know about it, the better. Besides, he was not up to it. Not after that ghastly report from the hospital. Edith would have to solve her own problems.

  While Edith was removing the stains of travel in the little room behind the Christmas tablecloth, he and St. Juste walked in the shade of the campeche tree, talking. Was there any chance, St. Juste asked with a frown, that the boy's body would be brought to the island for burial?

  "No. No chance of that."

  "Will the aunt be notified? The one he was living with?"

  "It isn't likely. I'm supposed to do that, and see that the magistrate has the information for his records."

  "Well, then, why do you have to say anything at all about this? It can't do any good, Mr. Clinton."

  "No good at all." But it can do me a lot of harm, Barry thought, if I get caught keeping the information to myself. Felix Dufour, for one, could make a mountain of trouble for me.

  St. Juste said, "The situation couldn't be much worse than it is."

  "True, as far as building the church is concerned. But I've got other problems. I've got to convince these people I'm their friend and persuade them to trust me. If I deceive them about Toto and they find it out, I'm finished."

  "You know what I think, Mr. Clinton?"

  "No, Clement. What do you think?"

  "We ought to start work on the church ourselves, you and I. We could do it. Louis would probably pitch in, and when the others see themselves losing a chance to earn some money they might change their minds. What do you say?"

  Barry was astonished. "Are you serious?"

  "Certainly I'm serious. You have five or six patients a day at your clinic, don't you? You don't charge them anything. Well, make them pay a day's work—half a day, anyway—for the medicines you hand out. If it's kids you treat, make the fathers pay. I'll put them to work lugging the stone, and once we get the stone we can lay it up ourselves." St. Juste turned to face him. "That's how half the mountain chapels on the mainland are built, Mr. Clinton. You think about it."

  BARRY AND EDITH returned to the mission at four o'clock, walking hand in hand, slowly. They had been to the top of the island. For more than an hour they had sat there on the ridge, undisturbed, enjoying the fresh breeze and the view and the nearness of each other. They had not talked much. Barry was thinking of the dead boy, Edith supposed. She herself was content to have his arm around her. There would be time enough for talk later. There would be whole days for talking.

  "Shall I be seeing you tonight?" she asked as they entered the clearing.

  "I'm afraid not. I'd have to walk it. I haven't ridden a mule since the accident." He thought it best not to mention the vodun service he was pledged to attend. She might not approve.

  "You should buy a horse."

  "The rector in Anse Ange is trying to find me one. There aren't any for sale on the island."

  She tightened her grip on his hand. "May I come tomorrow, darling?"

  "Of course. I have a hunch you'll find me on the ridge, working."

  The boy who had carried her note to the plantation was sitting on a chair by the office door, waiting. Alma Lemke's horse stood near, saddled and ready. The two suitcases were thrust into a palm-fiber saddlebag on the back of a small donkey.

  "The boy will walk along with you," Barry said. "I'll go too, as far as the village. There's someone I want to see."

  He said good-bye to her at the gate in the cactus hedge. When she had gone, he made his way across the yard to Catus' house, but the door was shut and no one answered his knock.

  Micheline came from the middle house to speak to him. "Are you looking for my brother, Father?"

  "I'd like to speak to him."

  "He's out, getting things ready for the service tonight." What did he want to see Catus about, she wondered. Had he changed his mind about going to the service? If so, her brother would be disappointed. Catus had made quite a point of telling people the Father would be there tonight, as though it were a personal triumph.

  Barry frowned at her. "Is he likely to be back soon?"

  "No, mon Père. He left only an hour ago."

  "Is it far? Could I go there?"

  "I could take you. You'd never find it by yourself. It's a long way, though, if you're going again tonight."

  Barry made no effort to hide his disappointment. "I'd better talk to Louis then. He's here, isn't he?"

  She walked with him across the yard to Louis' house. At sight of him the little girl, Fifine, cried out in delight and came running to clasp his legs. He picked her up and kissed her, tingling with pleasure at her acceptance of him. At least the children liked him. That was something.

  The child's mother took her from him when he reached the doorway. "Fifine is fond of you, Father," she said, smiling.

  "I'm fond of her. Any time you want to get rid of her, just send her over to the mission." It wouldn't be long, he noticed again, before Fifine had a brother or sister. Only a few days now. Would he be summoned
when the time came? Probably not, unless something went wrong. Shaking hands with Louis, he said, "Can you step outside for a minute, Louis? Something has happened."

  They talked under the big mapou that kept the yard so cool and pleasant, and Barry told of the report from the hospital. Louis' ugly-gentle face revealed deep concern.

  "This is bad, Father." The speech impediment, always more noticeable when he was agitated, made the words almost unintelligible.

  "I know it's bad. But the truth has got to be told."

  "You'll never get your church built. Even the few who helped before will turn against you."

  "You think I ought to keep silent then?"

  The big man tugged at his misshapen mouth for a moment. "No, that would be worse, I think. I don't know. This is very bad. You should talk to Catus. It would be a mistake to do anything until you have seen Catus."

  Barry had felt the same way. "But the boy's aunt is entitled to know what happened," he argued.

  "That is not important. She cared nothing for him. She only took him in because she had to."

  "Are you sure of that, Louis? He seemed a good boy."

  "He was a good boy. But the aunt is not a good woman. Wait, Father."

  Barry made up his mind. "Very well, I will." He placed a hand on the man's arm. "St. Juste thinks we should start work on the church ourselves. He wants to begin tomorrow. Can I count on you to help?"

  "I will help."

  "Good." Barry lifted a hand toward the house in farewell and turned away. Perhaps tonight he would have a chance to talk to Catus. He had done all that was possible for the time being.

  As he went toward the gate, Micheline Laroche followed him with her eyes, and a petulant frown formed on her mouth. He hadn't looked at her. He hadn't even noticed that she had done her hair for the service tonight and was wearing a dress he had never seen before. Strange, that he and M'sieu Lemke should be such good friends. They certainly hadn't much in common where girls were concerned.

  Yet they were friends, and had been for a long time. Hadn't Lemke told her so on the beach?

  Well, the Father had something on his mind this afternoon, that was obvious. He had looked at her before, hadn't he? Perhaps that white woman from the plantation on the mainland, that M'selle Barnett, had brought him bad news.

  It had better be only that, she told herself fiercely. He had better not be in love with her.

  NIGHT DESCENDED on Ile du Vent at approximately the same hour the year around. Soon after six o'clock the sun slid into the sea beyond the western tip of the island, and for the next ten minutes or so the ridge blazed as though on fire. Then the crimson fled from the sky and the stark contours of the land merged with a haze of mauve streaked with gold, swiftly changing shape and suddenly losing identity altogether.

  By six-thirty the display was over. The island paths were lost in darkness and the houses of the peasants were distinguishable only as narrow doorways framing the pale orange-yellow glow of kerosene lamps. Later those doors would be shut against evil spirits.

  Promptly at nine, Catus Laroche emerged from the trees at the edge of the mission clearing and crossed swiftly to the rectory. He carried a flashlight and wore dark trousers and a white shirt. His black feet were bare. Barry saw him coming and with a brief "See you later, Clement" to St. Juste, stepped from the rectory to meet him.

  "You are ready, Father?"

  "Ready, Catus."

  "We have a long way to go. I will try not to walk too fast. Have you a flashlight?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Come, then."

  The path they followed took them up to the ridge, but it was not the route Barry was familiar with. When they emerged on the grassy, windswept peak of the island he sensed they were some distance east of the site selected for the church. Catus stopped to rest a moment.

  "Louis told me about the death of young Toto Anestor. That is a very bad thing, Father. What will you do about it?"

  "There's only one thing I can do. Tell them."

  "They won't believe you. They will only be more certain he was dead when he left here."

  "I can't help that."

  "There is a better way, I think. Write a letter to the hospital. Have them send a report of the boy's death to the magistrate. That way it will be official; you will have nothing to do with it."

  "But that would take several days," Barry protested.

  "It's the only way, though. Think about it."

  Catus went on again, following the ridge. Presently he turned toward the high cliff which on the north side of the island rose like a wall from the sea. “Be very careful now," he warned. "The path here is steep."

  It was no understatement. Cut like a corkscrew in the cliff face, the trail descended among boulders and twisted trees, looping back on itself interminably and at times shooting straight down in slides of shale. The houngan felt his way down it with caution, halting every few minutes to turn and point his light at Barry's feet.

  No doubt the darkness made the descent more difficult, yet Barry welcomed it. He was not a man who felt comfortable in high places, and guessed that were he able to see what lay below, his heart would be in his mouth. He could hear the deep-throated snarl of the sea as it rushed in among the rocks. After twenty minutes the sound was like a fist smashing at his face, and there was a thin cool mist in the air that must be spray carried on the sea-wind. The very cliff trembled to the impact of the waves.

  At the bottom Catus suggested a rest. "We have only a little more to go, but these rocks are difficult." Barry shone his light about and saw that they were a hundred feet or so from the sea's edge, with the cliff looming above them. It looked ready to topple onto their heads. Between cliff and sea lay a nightmare stretch of boulders piled on boulders. Crabs scuttled into secret hiding places as the light touched them.

  Again Catus led the way, this time along the base of the cliff, over and around the boulders. There were openings, Barry saw, in the base of the wall, some large, some small. Were these the caves used in the old days for storage of treasure by the pirates who had made Ile du Vent their base? It might be fun to explore them some day. He aimed his light into some as he passed. The walls and ceiling of one were covered with bats. From the depths of another a pair of red eyes, low to the ground, gazed out at him.

  After ten minutes Catus halted again, this time at the mouth of a cave. He was smiling. "Are you wondering why we go to all this trouble when we could hold a service in the village, Father?"

  "I was, a little."

  "As I told you, many of the loa live in the sea. We use this grotto because the sea comes into it at high tide. It has been sacred to vodun for as long as anyone can remember. Long before anyone now living on Ile du Vent was born."

  Barry played his light over the expanse of boulders between the cave mouth and the water's edge and saw that the shore here was a broad depression. Even now at low tide the sea was close to the base of the cliff here. He nodded, and Catus entered the grotto.

  The walls were close and wet. The passage was a winding tube floored with smooth stones and shells. The ceiling was beyond reach. For five minutes Catus led the way in silence, without a halt. Then Barry heard drums. They seemed distant, muffled, but a sudden sharp turn in the tunnel loosed the sound like thunder all about him. Directly ahead lay an enormous room filled with people.

  The women wore white, and some wore white kerchiefs about their heads. The men wore white shirts, most of them, and their Sunday trousers. The drums throbbed. A score of women danced about a painted wooden post in the center of the chamber, hands on thighs, shoulders undulating. More than a hundred spectators stood about the walls or sat on the floor with their arms looped about their knees. High on the walls, kerosene lanterns had been placed in niches to illuminate the scene.

  The drumming ceased as Catus entered. The dancing stopped. Seated spectators rose to their feet and all faces were turned toward the houngan. Barry recognized a number of persons. Micheline and her sister D
aure were among the dancers. Big Louis Cesar was one of the drummers. Against the wall stood Pradon Beliard. There were others.

  Was he imagining things, or were they staring at him and not at Catus? He was suddenly uneasy. There was something hostile in the silence. Catus must have felt it too. The houngan halted, looked about him with a frown and said almost inaudibly, "Wait, Father." He beckoned to Louis. Louis left his drum and came forward.

  "What is it?" Catus asked in a low voice. "I told them the Father would be here."

  The big man's face was heavy with concern. "It is not that. They know about the boy."

  "The boy!" Catus turned impatiently to Barry. "How can they know? Did you tell anyone?"

  "Only Louis and St. Juste," Barry said, feeling a nervous perspiration form under his clothes.

  "How can they know then? How is it possible?"

  Louis said, "Where the Father's affairs are concerned, they seem to know everything. Perhaps the woman from the mainland told someone. Perhaps the Father's housekeeper or St. Juste—" He shook his head. "Anyway, they know. They have been muttering about it for the past hour."

  Catus hesitated, then ordered curtly, "Start the drumming." He took hold of Barry's arm. "Come with me," he said, and led Barry back toward the tunnel. An empty wooden bench stood just inside the chamber to the right of the tunnel mouth. He waited for Barry to sit down.

  "I will have Micheline sit beside you and explain the service," he said. "There is nothing we can do now about this other thing."

  The three drums were creating thunder again. Catus made his way to the central post. Micheline detached herself from the group of white-robed women and came to sit at Barry's side.

  12

  THE SERVICE, Micheline explained to Barry, was a kanzo. Parts of it were secret and would take place in the hounfor, which in this case was a small tunnel on the far side of the chamber. Indeed, some of the secret portions of the ceremony had already taken place in the hounfor in the village.