by Cave, Hugh
As he bumped along the road to Anse Ange in the Fond Marie jeep, with Peter Ambrose at the wheel and Jeff Barnett and Jeff's daughter Edith sitting behind, the Bishop found himself wondering about the letter he had received from Warner Lemke.
Odd, that letter. He didn't question its contents, of course; as a matter of fact he had rather expected something of this sort to happen when young Clinton took the island over. The surprise lay in the fact that Lemke had bothered to write him. He hadn't known the plantation man was interested in church affairs to that extent. It would be enlightening to talk to him. The fellow knew a great deal about his islanders, obviously. Much more than Clinton did.
Though the sun was only just up, the morning was hot and the Bishop wiped his face frequently with a large linen handkerchief. He was a large man, badly proportioned for riding in a jeep, even in front. The two small shift-sticks bristling from the floor kept thumping his left leg. He tried moving that leg to the right and resting his right foot on the little metal step outside, but found the position uncomfortable and resigned himself at last to sitting very straight with his plump red hands folded in his lap. He had long since given up trying to sit sideways so as to talk to Jeff and Edith, on the seat behind him. As for conversing with Peter, the growl of the engine made it all but impossible. He could shout when he had to, but preferred to save his voice for occasions that justified the effort.
He was greatly relieved when at eight o'clock the jeep rolled into Anse Ange, where Barry and Warner Lemke were waiting with the local rector. At sight of a huge pitcher of iced citronade on the veranda table, the Bishop smiled for the first time since dragging himself out of bed that morning in the dark.
Stoop-shouldered Peter Ambrose was glad to get out of the jeep too. The Bishop had been his guest at Fond Marie the night before, and Peter was puzzled by certain references to an "interesting" letter from Warner Lemke. What was in the letter he did not know; the Bishop had not chosen to show it to him. But apparently it had to do with Barry, and Peter was worried.
He watched closely as Barry greeted the Bishop, and was relieved when nothing happened. You never knew with Bishop Laxson. He might blow up in your face; he might say nothing at all. Of course, if he said nothing when there were things that ought to be said, you could be sure of getting your comeuppance later, in some form perhaps harder to take than the postponed explosion. But this first potential crisis was past, at any rate.
Peter shook Barry's hand. "It's good to see you, boy. You look as though you'd been on vacation rather than working harder than ever before in your life."
"I've never felt better in my life. Wait till you see my island, Peter." The bright blue eyes twinkled.
"It's your island now, eh?"
"I hope it always will be."
Peter wondered at the remarkable change in his former assistant. Had Barry got religion, by any chance? 'Whatever it was, it was a good thing, he was sure. No bad thing could light up a man's face this way.
He saw the Bishop glancing at them and offered a prayer that Barry's hope of staying on Ile du Vent was not doomed to disappointment.
WHEN THEY WERE WALKING to the beach to go aboard the plantation launch, which Lemke had brought over on radioed instructions from Jeff Barnett, Barry had a chance to talk to Edith alone. He and she dropped back to the tail of the procession, and her hand found his and squeezed it.
"Am I forgiven for being so selfish the last time I came?" she asked.
He smiled at her. She wore a plain white dress, dusty now from the jeep ride but still most attractive, and a white cloth about her hair, and white shoes that were little more than straps. The costume made her seem very slight and young.
"You know there's nothing to forgive," Barry said.
"I never should have come at such a time. You're not so busy now, are you?"
"I'll try very hard not to be, after the Bishop goes."
"Are things any better at the Lemkes', do you suppose?"
"Well, I think you'll find that Alma has changed a good deal."
"Oh? With helping you at the clinic, you mean?" He had, of course, written her about that. Possibly the enthusiasm of his written remarks was responsible for the way she now looked at him, with a little frown, as she put her question.
"She's a different person, really," Barry said. "You'll see." Edith changed the subject.
Her father, she told him, would be going back with the Bishop and Peter that afternoon. She could stay as long as she liked. "Perhaps I can be useful at the clinic, too," she suggested. "I'd like to try, if you think you could stand having me underfoot."
Barry smiled and pressed her fingers.
ON THE WAY ACROSS THE CHANNEL Warner Lemke wondered if the Bishop would question him about his letter. He was proud of that letter. Of course, he had a knack with words; everyone said so. One of these days he ought to sit down and write a book about life in the tropics. A real book, not the moonlight-and-palm-trees pap passed off as truth by the travel writers. He certainly could do it.
He sent a triumphant glance at Barry. There was a story to make readers sit up and take notice, by God. The angelic do-gooder sleeping with another man's wife while pretending to be a saint. Clinton was sleeping with Alma, he was positive. She wasn't visiting his clinic every day just to look after a lot of sick peasants.
Yes, that letter to the Bishop had been an inspiration. There was nothing in it about Alma, of course. If he made that charge he would have to prove it. But there was plenty about Catus Laroche and vodun, and the Reverend Mr. Clinton's attendance at vodun services. That could be proved. The Bishop must have sat up straight when he read it. Everyone in St. Joseph knew what Laxson thought about vodun.
It served Clinton right. The trouble with Alma was all his fault. If he'd kept his meddling mouth shut, she never would have known a thing.
Cupping a match in his hands to shield it from the brisk wind blowing down the channel, Lemke lit a cigarette and glanced at the sky. A beautiful morning. No sign of the storm the radio had reported last night, supposed to be picking up speed in the vicinity of Saint Lucia and heading this way. It was too soon, of course. There might be some wind tonight or tomorrow.
With satisfaction he eyed his companions. Dear Mr. Clinton and Edith Barnett had their heads together, talking. Alma ought to see that; Clinton would find out then what a jealous bitch she could be. Laxson and Jeff Barnett were gazing ahead at the green slopes of the island. Old Ambrose sat with his hands against his stomach and his eyes shut, looking as though he could do with some of his own pills. The boat boy ignored them all.
The next time dear Mr. Clinton crossed the Channel of the Wind would probably be his last. A one-way trip out. And good riddance.
BARRY HAD BORROWED HORSES from the plantation, but there were not enough for everyone. The Bishop rode, of course, and there were mounts for Edith, Peter, and Jeff. Barry and Warner Lemke climbed the trail to the mission on foot, followed by boys burdened with suitcases. Two of the cases were Edith's. The others contained Peter's and the Bishop's vestments.
Leading the way, Barry set a fast pace, aware that the Bishop had a tight schedule. He was grateful for that, really. It might have been flattering to have such an important guest stay overnight, and certainly it would have impressed the islanders, but a brief visit was a good deal safer. Bishop Laxson had a well-developed talent for asking embarrassing questions.
On entering the clearing he saw the Bishop talking to Clement St. Juste in front of the old church. St. Juste looked uncomfortable. With his hands clasped behind his back he kept glancing at the Bishop's face and away again, as though he felt trapped and longed to escape. Barry frowned, wondering what they could be talking about, or rather what sort of questions the Bishop was asking. He hurried toward them but the clearing was crowded with people. The whole island, it seemed, knew that the fine new church was to be "blessed" this morning.
Before he could reach them, the Bishop turned from St. Juste with a brisk nod and wa
lked toward the rectory, where Jeff Barnett and others from the boat were talking to Alma. St. Juste came forward to look after the luggage. Halting beside Barry, he spoke quickly under his breath.
"He was pumping me for information, Mr. Clinton. I don't like it."
"What did he ask you?"
"About the vodun here. How many services you've been to. If you and Laroche are friendly."
"I see."
"I couldn't avoid telling him something. He's too sharp. I hope I haven't hurt you." St. Juste looked distressed.
"I'm sure it's all right," Barry said.
Was it?
When he joined the group at the rectory, the Bishop's gaze lingered on his face longer than was necessary, he thought. Still, the big man seemed entirely matter-of-fact when he spoke.
"We should ascend to the ridge on foot, I think. That way the people will be able to fall in behind and make a procession of it. We want this to be impressive, something they will remember. I suggest we make ourselves ready."
There was no clinic this morning. The three men donned their vestments in the crowded little office where, with the door shut, the stifling air smelled of alcohol and iodine. When they emerged, the Bishop said, "It might be best if you went on ahead, Mr. Clinton, to greet us at the church. We'll give you a few minutes' start."
Barry hurried across the clearing, aware that all eyes were on him. He was breathing hard. Was the morning really this hot or was he sweating from nervousness? His vestments seemed heavy as a set of chains dangling from his shoulders. He would be glad when this was over. He wanted the church consecrated, of course—he was eager to use it—but he would be relieved when Bishop Laxson was safely off the island. There was something in the air this morning. A threat of disaster. Or was he only imagining things?
He was half way to the ridge-top, passing the steep gardens now planted with good seed and producing respectable vegetables, when he became aware of someone in white on the path ahead of him. It was Edith.
"I guessed you'd be the first one along," she said brightly, "so I slipped away." Her happy smile exorcised some of his apprehension. Surely if there were anything really wrong, she would know it. The Bishop would have made some comment on the journey from Fond Marie.
At the top of the trail Edith caught her breath and gave a start. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's beautiful, Barry!"
"It does look a little better than the old one, doesn't it?"
"And the new rectory!" This, of course, was still under construction, but the work was far enough along so that she could visualize the house as it would look when completed. "Darling, it will be nice for you here, won't it?" She looked at him with shining eyes. "It's a big house, and you'll have so much more privacy here away from the village."
He was startled for a moment, and then had a mental picture of the peasants who would be trooping up here when he moved the clinic. "It won't seem so crowded, anyway, with all this fresh air and space," he conceded.
"You can have guests."
"Yes, there'll be room for visitors."
She leaned against him as they walked toward the church. "Do you know what was the matter with me before, darling? I was frightened for you. The thought of you living here on such a small island terrified me. I was foolish, wasn't I? You won't be buried here. You do get vacations."
He felt the weight of his vestments again.
"And it won't be forever, will it?" she went on, smiling at him. No doubt she thought it a brave smile. "You will be transferred eventually, won't you?"
"I suppose I will."
"I ought to disappear now, hadn't I? They'll be coming."
"Yes. I'd better meet them alone."
She went off through the pomme-rose trees, and he stationed himself in the wide doorway of the church. Why was he sweating so this morning? It was never really hot up here. There was a breeze. Yet as he looked along the ridge, waiting for the Bishop's formidable figure to appear, he could feel a dozen separate streams of moisture running down his body.
What had come over Edith? Did she think he wanted to leave Ile du Vent? Didn't she know yet what the island meant to him? Here came the Bishop . . .
He watched them approach along the ridge and was impressed. It was a stirring climax to the weeks of toil, the days on end when he had labored here stripped to the waist under a fiery sun, the endless trips to Anse Ange for tools and materials, the thousand and one petty annoyances, the long nights when he and St. Juste had stared hollow-eyed at each other, struggling to find solutions to seemingly insoluble problems. His spirits soared.
The Bishop led the parade, followed by little Peter Ambrose, Jeff Barnett, Edith, Alma, Alma's husband (he would walk with a slouch), and St. Juste. Barry had to smile at the careful attention to rank, but felt a touch of annoyance that St. Juste should be at the end of the line. Without him there would be no church to consecrate.
Then came the islanders. No protocol there. No single line carefully spaced. They flowed after the procession like a Mardi Gras crowd after a line of slow-moving floats. Colorful as Mardi Gras too, in their Sunday attire. Never before, he was sure, had so many of them been on the ridge at one time. He ought to have a picture of this in color, one that could be enlarged and hung in the rectory.
He stepped forward. On an occasion such as this the Bishop should be received by wardens and vestrymen, of course, but when you had none . . . He smiled a greeting. They went slowly up the aisle over the clean, smooth concrete floor, their shoe soles whispering an accompaniment to the words of the psalm.
"The earth is the Lord's, and all that therein is . . ."
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of Glory shall come in . . ."
The Bishop's voice was loud and clear. Those of Barry and Peter Ambrose, reciting the alternate verses, were less so. In Peter's there was a quavering that to Barry sounded strangely like a sob.
It was the Bishop's service now.
"Dearly beloved in the Lord; forasmuch as devout and holy men . . . have erected houses for the public worship of God, and separated them from all unhallowed, worldly, and common uses . . . let us faithfully and devoutly beg his blessing on this our undertaking."
"O Eternal God, mighty in power . . ."
On his knees Barry looked under lowered lids at the congregation. They had all entered the church. Those for whom there was not room in the pews were standing at the rear. How many? More than a hundred; more nearly two hundred. He was startled. Last Sunday at the old church there had been eleven.
Their curiosity had brought them, of course. He had no illusions. This was an event—a new church to be blessed, the great Christian houngan here from the world outside. In days to come it would be a thing to talk about. "I was there. I saw it." Yet they must be aware too of the true significance of the occasion. Even in vodun the drums had to be consecrated before use.
The Bishop had risen. His voice filled the church.
"And grant that whosoever in this house shall be received by Baptism into the congregation of Christ's flock, may be sanctified . . ."
Had Catus come? Yes, there he was on the aisle, toward the rear, with Louis and Daure. He sat like a statue, gazing at the Bishop.
What was he thinking? That this new church might be a challenge to him that the old one had never been? Or had he realized at last that the Reverend Arthur Barry Clinton had no wish to destroy him but desired his help?
"Grant, O Lord, that they who at this place shall . . . renew the promises and vows of their Baptism, and be Confirmed . . ."
How proud Edith looked. How lovely in her white dress. Like a little girl at confirmation.
"Grant, O Lord, that by thy holy Word which shall be read and blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ . . ."
And Alma. Was she happy for him too? He could not help comparing her with Edith; they sat next to each other. Two such different women, one a child, bright-eyed, taking everything in with quick movements of her
head; the other so still, so grave. A stranger might have mistaken them for mother and daughter, though they were nearly the same age. That comes of suffering, Barry thought
"Grant, O Lord, that by thy holy Word which shall be read and preached in this place . . . the hearers thereof may both perceive and know what things they ought to do . . ."
What ought Alma to do about the man sitting on the other side of her? Should she divorce him? The situation was hopeless the way it was. Dangerous, too. Sooner or later he was bound to get drunk enough to force himself upon her, or try to.
"Grant, O Lord, that whosoever shall be joined together in this place in the holy estate of Matrimony . . . may remain in perfect love together unto their life's end."
Edith was looking straight at him, her thoughts in the brightness of her eyes, as though she would compel him to see her at that special moment. Her lips were parted. He could almost hear her say, "We shall be joined together here, darling. In your church. Soon!" He kept his head down until the Bishop's prayers came to an end. It was so hot in here. What had happened to the breeze?
Peter Ambrose read the Sentence of Consecration. The congregation was very quiet through the prayers that followed. The Bishop rose from his chair and stepped forward. Barry saw him wet his lips.
"My friends, this is an occasion of great meaning to all of us, but especially to you who dwell here on Ile du Vent." The Bishop's Creole was rich and fluent, his voice a little louder than it had been. "I wish to talk to you for a few moments about what has happened here, so that you may more fully understand it.
"As you know, the Reverend Mr. Mitchell came to this island to establish a mission and bring you the word of God. He worked hard in your interests, and though he wrought no miracles here, he did lay a foundation. You know, I think, why he was not able to do more. To put it very simply, you would not let him.
"Now you have a new minister. He is a younger man than Mr. Mitchell. He is stronger, more energetic. Since his coming he has made great progress here. You have a clinic. You have been taught how to farm your land more profitably. I was told this morning that Mr. Clinton has ambitious plans for turning the old church and rectory into a school for your children and asking the government to send teachers."
