by Cave, Hugh
"There you have proof of its greatness, Catus. Despite all the foolish and hard-to-understand doctrine that misguided men have invented in their efforts to seem wise, there is something in Christianity that people grasp at."
"The hope of living again, you mean?"
"More than that, I'm sure. People feel in their hearts that Jesus found the one way for us to live together here and now without destroying one another."
"Perhaps you are right. But I could wish that the teachings of this man had been kept separate from all those silly stories. It would make everything much easier to understand."
It boiled down, Barry began to see, to the interesting fact that Catus accepted the teachings of Christ but rejected most of the rest. A peasant with a peasant's mind, albeit a shrewd one, he found truth in simplicity but refused to swallow the trappings, less simple, which even the theologians had to interpret as mystic symbols meaning more than they seemed to mean. He would accept the incredible if it contained something worth-while. He wanted no part of it if it didn't.
Well, he was certainly not alone in his reasoning. Many another doubter had been driven the whole way back by theology's learned efforts to make the Christ story all but incomprehensible. That Catus found it the inspiring tale of a great and good man was an interesting start.
Am I teaching him or learning from him, Barry wondered. Equally interesting had been his attendance at several vodun services in the village tonnelle. One had been a service to Erzulie at which a woman at least sixty years old, a rack of bones with a face that must have been designed for frightening small children, had got tippled on clairin. Nicely drunk, the old girl had gone mincing around the enclosure making obscene gestures at some of the men. Especially at Catus, who had turned from her in disgust.
Then the same impossible creature had become possessed—"mounted" they called it—by the goddess in whose honor the service was being held. And after being drenched in perfume and dressed in what was surely a wedding gown, she had taken Catus by the hand and marched him off into the darkness.
Barry would have been mystified by such a performance a few weeks before. His education in vodun was progressing, however, thanks to frequent talks with Catus. Erzulie was the goddess to whom Catus was "married." The green ring on the houngan's left hand was the symbol of the union. When Erzulie "came" to an affair, she could demand the services of her husband and must not be denied, no matter how unappetizing the human form she chose to occupy when presenting herself.
Catus and the drunken old witch had been absent from the ceremony a couple of hours. Later, Barry had questioned him about it.
"Was that Erzulie you slept with, or did that old bag of bones simply pretend to be Erzulie so she could force you to go with her?"
The question seemed to bewilder Catus. "It was Erzulie, of course."
"Don't say 'of course.' Did she talk to you?"
"She spoke in langage, as the gods often do. I was not able to understand what she said."
"Listen to me," Barry requested, and spoke rapidly for a few minutes in what sounded like Creole but was babbled out without thought. It was not a difficult demonstration. To speak Creole properly he had to concentrate. Simply by not concentrating, he achieved the effect he sought.
"What was I saying, Catus?"
Catus shrugged. "Nothing. Nothing that made sense, at any rate."
"It sounded something like langage though, didn't it?"
Catus fingered the gap where his front tooth was missing and studied Barry's face. "Are you trying to tell me that vodun is a fake?"
"Not necessarily. There may be a real Erzulie. But if a very ugly old woman took me to bed and spoke only a lot of easily faked language, telling me nothing about herself, asking nothing about me, I'd certainly suspect her of being just a shrewd old girl who craved attention."
Catus gazed into space, scowling.
"It's hard to be sure, isn't it?" Barry murmured.
He had scored again, he was sure, when the loa called Zaca turned up at another service. The person possessed was an old fellow from the village, a man whose daughter, Barry knew, sometimes defied him by coming to church on Sundays. As soon as the god's identity was established by the possessed man's speech and behavior, the fellow was led to the hounfor by Catus. There he was dressed in Zaca's traditional blue-denim blouse and straw hat, and given a pipe to smoke and a tasseled halford to wear over his shoulder. Zaca was a peasant farmer and should look like one. He then stayed an hour, having a gay old time for himself strutting up and down the tonnelle and pinching female bottoms while holes were dug in the tonnelle floor and food offerings placed in them to honor him. His only vocal contribution, so far as Barry could determine, was an occasional loud announcement to the effect that he was Zaca. "M'Zaca, ouiI M'Zac!"
"When he departed, Barry had some questions ready. "This Zaca is the god who looks after your crops, isn't he, Catus?"
"He takes an interest," Catus said guardedly.
"You offer food and other things to him to insure his aid?"
"Yes, we do that."
"I wonder what he thinks of my garden on the ridge," Barry said, smiling.
All in all, these had been most interesting weeks.
He had expected to be lonely when Edith left. Surprisingly he had not been. His days were full, almost too full, and there was St. Juste to talk to in the evenings. There had been letters from Edith, too, the first one apologizing for what she called her "inexcusably selfish attitude" while on the island, the others very sweet and tender. She was planning another visit when the Bishop came to consecrate the church. If things were less strained at the Lemkes' she would stay two or three weeks.
He was looking forward to her visit and would certainly enjoy having her. But he was not impatient.
SOON AFTER BARRY LEFT THE RIDGE, Clement St. Juste had an argument with Pradon Beliard. It was not the first time.
Industriously wielding a shovel, St. Juste looked up to find Pradon shirking. At another time he might have said nothing, for Pradon's contribution to the job had never amounted to much. Now because of his own eagerness to get the rectory under way, he was annoyed.
"All right, you," he said. "Get your nose out of the air and be useful."
Pradon stood very straight and glared at him. "You can't talk to me like that!"
"I am talking to you like that."
"I don't work for you," Pradon retorted. "I work for Mr. Clinton."
Enough was enough. It was time for a showdown, St. Juste decided. He knew, of course, where he stood with Barry in the matter; he and Barry had discussed it a number of times. He knew what the trouble was, too. Coming here to his home island as Barry's "boy," handed his portfolio, so to speak, by none other than Jeff Barnett, Pradon had expected to do precious little actual work and be a big shot in the eyes of the islanders. Well—
St. Juste threw down his shovel, walked over and grasped a handful of the undershirt Pradon always wore. He held the boy helpless and glared at him. Louis and the others had stopped work to await the outcome.
"All right, you puffed-up little piece of donkey dirt," St. Juste said very carefully, "you've been asking for this. Now you listen to me. You don't work for Mr. Clinton. You work for Mr. Barnett at the Plantation Couronne, and at Couronne I'm your boss. Now you either get busy and do your share of the work here, or go back to Couronne in a damned big hurry and tell Mr. Barnett I sent you. Tell him I fired you because you're a worthless, lazy, stuck-up little pig-fart who thinks he's better than I am."
He straightened his arm and Pradon, pushed backward, stumbled over a mound of earth and sat down. St. Juste, turning away, at once took up his shovel again and paid the boy no further attention. The others returned to work too, but with an eye on Pradon as he struggled to get up.
He rose to his feet shaking with fury. His hands curled and his eyes were small, hard, vibrating beetles. For a moment it was a question whether he would snatch up his shovel and attack St. Juste with it, scre
am at him to continue the argument, or wheel and stalk off the job.
He did none of those things in the end. He went back to work. But he spoke to no one the rest of the day and when the day ended at last, instead of descending from the ridge with the others by the usual path, he limped off in another direction. He muttered as he walked, hobbling along at a pace that beaded his twitching face with sweat.
His destination was an old but larger than average caille on the outskirts of the channel-shore village called The Kabrit. A woman of sixty, sweeping beach-sand from the doorway, looked up at him and nodded as he entered the yard. When he inquired for her mari, she lifted the broom and pointed indifferently with it to a nearby cluster of coconut palms.
Pradon limped over to the trees. In their shade a man about the same age as the woman lay asleep on his back with his hands clasped under his head, his mouth open, and flies buzzing about his face. He wore only ragged trousers. Pradon kicked him lightly in the ribs.
The man sat up, grumbling. "Damn it, woman, can't you leave a man alone, no? What is it you—" He saw who it was and subsided. "Oh-oh. Excuse me, compère. What brings you here this morning?"
"It happens to be afternoon," Pradon retorted, "though I doubt if you'd know the difference. Believe me, you'd know it if you had to swing a shovel all day as I do. As for why I'm here, I came because I've changed my mind about waiting for the rectory to be finished. Get a shirt on. We're going to see the magistrate now."
"Now?"
"This very minute."
"I must have time to think about this."
"You've had time enough to think!" Pradon was furious again and began stamping his good foot on the sand. "You've been thinking for two weeks now! You gave me your word and I'm holding you to it!"
Antoine Constant, who had been magistrate of Ile du Vent until four years ago and had done little but lie in the shade of his palm trees since—he was rich, after all, from the sale of valuable property to Père Mitchell—let his heavy eyelids droop a little and studied the angry face of his caller. True, he had given his word and he was a man of honor. But it would never do to let this shrewd dandy think him eager. He would get up in a minute, yes, and put on a shirt if his insufferably critical wife had washed one, and go with Beliard to the house of Felix Dufour and do what had to be done. But all in good time. A slow fire cooked a better stew; everyone knew that.
The impatience of his caller disturbed him a little. Something had happened, apparently, for only a few days ago Beliard had advised him to be more patient. Besides, he didn't trust this dandy. It was all very well for Beliard to keep saying "You want to be magistrate again, don't you?" Of course he did, as would any man who'd been cheated out of his rights by a scheming rascal. But Beliard ought to be honest enough to say what he wanted. Just the privilege of doing an acquaintance a favor, or the pleasure of seeing a wrong righted? Oh-oh. The pig didn't root up tidbits for the goat; everyone knew that. No man was going to put himself to this much trouble for nothing.
Well, it was a personal thing, most likely. A feud of some sort between Pradon and the new Father. There was no sense asking, because the answer would be only an evasion. The big thing was to make sure that he, Antoine, was going to get the reward promised him, meaning the honor of being magistrate again, and that he wasn't sticking his head into a noose. He'd have to be careful.
He stood up, brushing the sand from the seat of his pants. "Rest yourself while I make myself presentable," he said.
FELIX DUFOUR WAS SITTING On his veranda when his callers came up the road. He was surprised and instantly suspicious. Only a matter of real importance could have induced Antoine Constant to visit him, he knew. Usually when passing the magistrate's house Antoine spat in the dirt or muttered insults.
The sun had just set and the village street was in shadow. Dufour ushered his guests inside and lit a lamp. When they were seated on the hard mahogany-plank chairs, Pradon Beliard came directly to the point of the visit.
"I have discovered a most interesting fact, my friend."
"What interesting fact?" Dufour countered warily.
"As you know, a certain piece of land on the top of this island is now being transformed into a mission."
"I am aware of it."
"Said land was originally purchased by old Father Mitchell from three of our islanders."
"I was here at the time."
"One of the three was Antoine Constant."
"That I know too."
"Whose particular piece of land now lies under the new church and will eventually support the rectory."
"I have no reason to doubt your word," Dufour said impatiently. "What are you driving at?"
"This, my friend." And Pradon leaned forward on his chair, his eyes shining brightly in the lamplight. "Antoine has sworn to me that he never signed the papers!"
Dufour gazed at his callers and sighed. He was genuinely disappointed. Their coming here together, their air of secrecy and hint of something tremendous to be divulged had actually had him trembling with eagerness. He sighed again.
"What nonsense is this? Of course he signed."
"Did you witness the signing?" Pradon insisted.
"Well, no. I was attending a cousin's wedding on the mainland that particular day. But there were witnesses."
"Two of them," Pradon said, smiling. "And both are dead now. They died last January, you will recall, when the Dieu Protege turned over in the channel."
Dufour studied Pradon's confident smile and began to be interested. This young man with the limp was, after all, no fool. "So?" he said, eager again in spite of himself.
"So Antoine here insists that he signed nothing, and the only two men who saw him do it are dead."
Again the little magistrate felt deflated. "It won't do. His name is on the papers no matter what he says. It can be compared with other papers he signed when he was magistrate."
"Give me a piece of paper and a pencil, please."
Puzzled, Dufour did so. Pradon handed them to Antoine, who placed the paper on the table, hunched himself over it and laboriously drew his signature, letter by letter, as though building a fence. It took him almost as long.
"That," Pradon said, thrusting the paper triumphantly at the magistrate, "is the signature that appears on the land transfer. Now go and look at the dozens of official papers Antoine signed when he was magistrate."
Felix Dufour sensed something of great importance again and hurried across the room. From his desk he snatched some dog-eared notebooks and a great handful of papers. He began to flip through them. He put them down and swung himself about, frowning.
"This I don't understand. Explain it, please."
A look of embarrassment settled on Antoine's face. He glanced helplessly at Pradon.
Pradon laughed. "In all the time he was magistrate, he wrote his name only once."
"What?"
"That was the time Père Mitchell stood over him and he had to. He was always ashamed of this duck-track signature of his. You saw how long it takes him."
"But these official papers—"
"His wife, who came from Anse Ange and has had some schooling, always signed them for him. Every official paper you have here, and every one of those sent to the capital, was signed by Antoine's wife. But Antoine himself signed the land transfer. You see?"
Suddenly the little magistrate, who had been standing all this time, groped back to his chair and dropped with a thud into it. The possibilities had exploded in him like a swallowed firecracker. He sat with his mouth open, trembling.
Pradon patiently waited, watching him.
Dufour came to at last. Running his fingers through his bushy hair, he leaned forward. Suddenly he jabbed a finger at Antoine.
"You will have to learn to write like your wife, of course. You understand that? They will almost certainly ask you to sign your name."
"I can teach him," Pradon said.
"Mother of God, the Father will have to tear that church down again!"
>
"And the rectory. Or lose them. Whatever is on the land when Antoine gets it back will be his."
They sat and stared at one another. It was too tremendous to be talked about.
At last, with a shout, the magistrate shot to his feet. "Rum!" he cried. "We must have rum! No, by God, this is an occasion. I have a bottle of gin I have been saving. Antoine, Pradon, we celebrate! We have that meddling prayer-prattler right where the hair grows short. What a time we'll have watching him squirm!"
ANTOINE WAS UNSTEADY ON HIS FEET when he and Pradon left the magistrate's house. Pradon was not much better. It was a dark night. As the two of them stumbled through the village, Pradon decided he had better see his companion home. Otherwise Antoine might fall in with acquaintances and talk too much.
Arm in arm they wobbled along the footpath to Tête Kabrit. Presently Antoine looked at his companion and giggled.
"Tell me again how this affair with Dufour will result in my getting to be magistrate."
"I will explain when you are sober."
Antoine halted. "Tell me now. I don't go another step until I know!"
Pradon sighed. "Very well, this is how. When you have your land back, that will be the end of Père Clinton. For his stupidity in building an expensive new church and rectory on land that did not belong to him, he will be the laughing-stock of the island. He will have to leave. That much is clear to you?"
"Of course it is clear. Am I stupid?"
Stupid enough, Pradon thought; and for that I am extremely grateful, my tipsy friend. "Well, in a short while a new Father will be sent here to take Père Clinton's place. He will of course have to use the old church because the new one will belong to you. So you will start going to church and you will make friends with this man, which will not be difficult because he will be trying to undo the damage done by Père Clinton and will be most anxious to make friends. This is clear?"
"I become the new Father's friend, oui. Then what?"
"You become his very good friend. Then one day you go to him and say you wish to confess a terrible thing. You say that your statement about not signing the land-transfer papers was untrue, and the land really belongs to the church after all. It was a wicked, wicked thing you did and you are full of shame and sorrow, but really it was not your fault. Felix Dufour made you do it. You are only an ignorant peasant. Dufour threatened you with all sorts of abuses if you refused to say what he told you to say, and you were afraid to anger him. Then there will be another hearing."
