Cross on the Drum

by Cave, Hugh

  Had he not reached the tiller at that moment, Barry would have been swept overboard in the mass of water that crashed against the vessel. Only the strength of his hands saved him. He felt himself horizontal in the sea's smothering rush, buried under tons of foam. Felt his arms being torn from his shoulders. Felt himself strangling.

  He heard, close to him, a cry of anguish and terror. Something grabbed at his face for a second.

  With awful slowness the boat began to right itself. He opened his mouth to gasp for air and the wind filled it with unbearable pressure. He turned his head for relief as the craft, like a living thing, continued its desperate struggle to reach an even keel. The tiller was against his chest. Somehow his arms had wrapped themselves around it. He pulled himself up by it.

  Ile du Vent and the mainland had disappeared behind a blinding wall of wind-driven rain. He saw with horror that Telemaque and the two chattering women had vanished too. Micheline, on her knees, clung to the base of the mast. The Channel of the Wind was a boundless fury under a sky filled with tumult.

  We're going to drown, he thought. He could feel the boat's timbers trembling beneath his feet, shaking themselves apart. Then it occurred to him that with the tiller in his hands he might turn the craft so that the sea would not pound it to pieces so soon. He pushed against the clumsy, hand-hewn timber and the boat's bow slowly came around.

  There was nothing he could do then but hold the tiller steady as the wind and sea swept the craft along and the rain roared down on it. At least he had no sail to contend with; he would have been quite helpless had there been canvas on the mast. This was bad enough. The boat rose and fell, lifted and plunged, in mountainous waves that seemed certain to shake it to pieces. The tiller burned his hands cruelly, though most of the time they were under the water that foamed about him, submerging all but his head and chest.

  There was a terrible moment when the boat struck something, when it stopped with a monstrous convulsion, swung half about, heeled far over and then was hurled free on a great wave. He knew then that they must be close to shore—the island shore, probably—and was seized with a wild impulse to throw himself overboard and swim for it. But even he knew that no man could last a moment in such a sea, and besides, there was Micheline, still clinging to the mast. Every wave that boiled over the boat seemed certain to carry her away, yet every time he was able to look, she was still there.

  The wind seemed to be abating a little. He thought he heard waves thundering against a shore and wondered whether he and Micheline would survive if the boat were hurled up on the sand or into a patch of mangroves. Perhaps the wind would carry them past the island. If it did, there was supposed to be a current at the western end that turned the island's tip and followed the outer, rocky coast eastward. Would an ocean current influence the direction of a craft being hurled along by such a tremendous wind? He had no idea.

  There was a dull pain in his left leg now and a sharper one in his chest, and his head felt heavier by the moment. He was not used to this sort of thing. He was even a poor swimmer. He wondered what time it was and how long he had been clinging to the tiller, enduring the endless battering of the seas that broke over him. He was very tired. He could not hold on much longer. . . .

  20

  HE MUST HAVE BEEN UNCONSCIOUS a long time, unless the storm had brought darkness prematurely. Daylight was gone when he opened his eyes and became aware that the boat had stopped its wild pitching. The sea seemed pounded flat by the relentless rain still falling into it. Micheline sat close to him. His head was in her lap. He could feel the wetness of her dress and the shape of her legs. Her hands mechanically stroked his face.

  He looked up at her. "Where are we?"

  "I am not sure, mon Père." She spoke quite calmly, as though she had never been afraid. "A moment ago I thought I heard a sound of waves on a rocky shore, but I hear nothing now."

  He struggled to sit up. The pain in his left leg, just below the knee, made him wince.

  "I let go the tiller," he remembered aloud, frowning at her. "You must have crawled back to me from the mast, or the next wave would have taken me overboard."

  "I was watching you."

  "Thank you for saving my life." He groped for her hand, failed to find it, and patted her leg instead.

  "Listen."

  He listened and heard something. By clinging to the tiller he was able to stand up. Was that dark mass to their right the island or only a night sky tortured by the downpour? The sound reached him again: surf crashing on rocks, surely.

  "I think you're right," he said. "We're near shore. But we may be drifting past."

  "No. If we are not too far out we'll drift onto the rocks. The current swings in close where the sea runs into the vodun cave."

  His leg was hurting. He had to sit again. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

  "I think so, except for some bruises."

  He shut his eyes, remembering the awful moment when the storm or squall or whatever it was had all but torn the boat to pieces. "Telemaque grabbed at me as he went overboard. If I had been quicker I might have saved him."

  "It was not your fault."

  "Did you know him?"

  "Not very well. His home is in Tete Cabrit."

  "He leaves a wife? Children?"

  "No. He had no family."

  Thank God for that, Barry thought. "And the women. Who were they?"

  "Marchandes from Petit Trou." She told him their names.

  I saved them a few pennies in taxes, he thought, and then caused their deaths by allowing them to take a needless risk.

  "You are not to blame for what happened," Micheline said. "I am."

  "You?"

  "I knew there was danger. You didn't. I thought it would be interesting to see you frightened."

  "Why?”

  "I had my reasons."

  Puzzled, he tried to read her expression but could see too little of her face in the rain and darkness. He eased himself into a more comfortable position and drew up his trouser leg, feeling for the hurt below his knee. There was a lump, tender to the touch, but no break in the skin. The tiller must have slammed back against him when he lost his grip on it. He turned his head to the sound of breaking seas, now much louder. Micheline was right. They were drifting ashore.

  "I'll never be able to climb that cliff in the dark, even if we make a safe landing," he said. "Not with this leg."

  "We can go into the cave." She gripped his arm. "Hang on, mon Père!"

  His ears filled with a roaring and he braced himself, anticipating a great crash that would shatter the boat and hurl them into the sea. The bow swung in a wide arc, rose on a wave and surged forward.

  There was no crash. The craft rode in among the rocks and came to rest with a gentle grating sound. Very slowly it slid over on its side.

  They clambered onto the rocks. Micheline gazed into the darkness for a moment and then nodded. "Follow me," she said confidently. He never could have found the grotto by himself. Even in daylight, from the top of the ridge, this whole stretch of inhospitable shore looked the same to him. But Micheline led him to the entrance with only a few brief halts to orient herself, and once more he found himself following a guide along that strange passageway into the cliff. The tide was low, apparently. There was ankle-deep water at the entrance, but they soon left it behind. It was a relief to be out of the rain.

  When they reached the big room, Micheline led him unerringly to the bench from which he had watched the kanzo service. "Sit here, mon Père, while I find a lantern," she instructed. He heard her going across the chamber to the tunnel where the hounfor was.

  A light flickered in the far darkness.

  She lit two lanterns. One she left burning on the altar; the other she carried back across the chamber. As she came, he saw that the white dress she had worn so proudly was torn now and barely covered her. She reminded him of the inevitable female figure in South Sea films, one dusky shoulder bare, her breasts only half covered, the ripped s
kirt revealing a smooth, bare thigh as she walked.

  She halted before him, smiling. "Well, mon Père. This isn't so bad, is it?"

  "It's a good deal more than I expected," Barry said. "We've a lot to be thankful for."

  "There is some rum on the altar over there. Would you like me to get you some?"

  "No. No, thanks."

  "A drink of water?"

  He made a face. "I've had enough water to last for a while, thank you."

  She placed the lantern on the floor and sat beside it, facing him, with her arms about her drawn-up knees. For a moment she appraised him in silence and he wondered what she was thinking about. He found out soon enough.

  "I have a bad cut on my side, mon Père," she said.

  "Have you? How bad?"

  She stood up and drew down the torn shoulder of her dress. She could not get it down far enough. She pulled the dress off and tossed it onto the bench. She stepped toward him. "See?"

  If she had hoped to shock him by standing before him in only thin panties through which the darkness of her body was clearly visible, she failed. He had examined too many women at the clinic. Even with Alma looking on it no longer embarrassed him to see a woman nearly naked. He leaned forward to look at the four-inch welt on her side where a timber on the boat must have rubbed against her. When his fingers touched her, she gave a little start.

  "It's only a bruise, I'm sure. It must hurt, though."

  "I got it when I was crawling to the tiller to help you, mon Père."

  Meaning what, he wondered, scowling. That I ought to kiss it better? "There's really nothing I can do now," he said firmly. "If you'll come to the clinic tomorrow I'll give you some salve for it."

  "Have you looked at yourself?"

  "I will presently. You can put your dress on." He leaned away from her and settled himself on the bench again.

  She frowned at him. "I don't like wet clothes," she complained.

  "Nevertheless you'd better put it on. It will dry soon enough in here."

  "Are you afraid someone might come here and find us?"

  "I hardly think anyone's likely to." He smiled.

  "Then the dress can dry first."

  Barry was annoyed. Rising, he picked the dress up and put it in her hands. "I looked at you because I'm a doctor," he said. "Try to understand that, will you? I haven't any intention of making love to you just because we're alone here. Your brother is my friend." He walked away, toward the lantern she had left burning in the hounfor. Turning his head, he said sharply over his shoulder, "Please get dressed, Micheline."

  At the altar he unscrewed the cap from a rum bottle and took a small drink, being careful to smell the bottle's contents first to be sure he would not swallow a mouthful of the hot-pepper trempe prepared for Guedé. When he returned after a quick look at his own bruises by the light of the altar lantern, he found Micheline sitting on the bench, gazing glumly at the floor. The dress was on.

  She had nothing to say. When the silence became awkward, he sat beside her and touched her hand. "I didn't mean to scold you," he said. "I'm sorry, Micheline."

  She lifted her head.

  "I'm very fond of you, really," Barry went on. "But we can't possibly become involved in a love affair."

  "Why?" she asked in a low voice. "Because I'm black?"

  "No. Because I'm not."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that I don't think of you or anyone else as being black. It makes absolutely no difference to me. I mean that. But it makes a great deal of difference to a lot of other people, both black and white, including those I work for and your own brother."

  His hand was resting on hers. She suddenly turned hers and gripped his wrist fiercely, moving closer to him on the bench. She was not sulking now.

  "No one need ever know, mon Père!" she whispered.

  Barry shook his head. "They'd find out. In a place like this, people know everything."

  "But they don't! Lots of things happen that even my brother doesn't know about."

  He shrugged. "If you mean your affair with Lemke—no. And I hope to heaven he never finds out about it. But I know."

  She was suddenly on her feet, her dark eyes glowing like two new lantern flames. "You know about Lemke? So that's why you push me away!"

  "No, that isn't why." He shook his head at her, knowing it was hopeless. He could never make her understand. "Lemke means nothing to me," he said. "What you did with him means nothing, except that I know something terrible is bound to happen if Catus finds out about it."

  She said, staring down into his face, "I went with that man because I wanted you, mon Père. He said he was your friend. He promised to tell you how I felt."

  "He's no friend of mine, believe me."

  "Then I did it for nothing?"

  "I'm afraid you made a mistake."

  Barry saw tears in her eyes and stood up, putting his hands on her shoulders. "We need sleep, both of us," he said. "We need to forget all this. Good God, girl, we've just been through a terrible storm. We were nearly drowned. Three people on that boat with us were drowned. Even if I wanted to make love to you—even if it were possible—do you think I could possibly be in a mood for it now, here, at a time like this?"

  "We—we have never been alone together before, mon Père," she whispered.

  "Well, we're not alone now. At least I'm not. All I have to do is close my eyes for a second and Telemaque and those two women are here with us."

  He walked away from her, out of the lantern's glow into darkness, limping a little because his leg was stiff. Thirty feet from the bench he eased himself to the floor of the cave.

  There was no sound from the bench. When he raised himself on an elbow and looked in that direction a moment later, Micheline was nowhere to be seen. The lantern still burned on the floor.

  He called experimentally, "Micheline?"

  Her voice came from the darkness beyond the bench. "Yes, mon Pare?"

  "Good night."

  "Good night, mon Père."

  He closed his eyes.

  HE AWOKE without realizing where he was. He was no more conscious of his surroundings than on many a night when the heat of his stuffy little bedroom at the rectory had interrupted his slumber.

  He felt a stirring beside him and turned sleepily to face it. A hand touched his cheek. He still was not sufficiently awake to be aware of what was going on. He moved an arm without knowing he moved it. It fell across something warm and smooth that instantly began quivering.

  Micheline, he thought vaguely. Then before the thought could crystallize, her mouth was hot against his and she was forcing herself violently into his embrace. She must have been lying there at his side waiting for him to wake.

  He was too startled to move. In an instant she had made herself as completely one with him as his position on the floor would permit. Even when he struggled to his knees she clung to him.

  He broke the grip of her arms and pushed her away, shocked by the realization that she was undressed. "Stop it!" he said hoarsely. Then more quietly but still in anger, "Don't be a fool, Micheline."

  He stood up, aware that the harsh, heavy sound in the darkness was the sound of her breathing. He was shaken, not so much by what she had done as by the violence of it. He waited for her to get up but she remained where his push had left her, looking up at him. Except for the distant gleam of the lantern on the altar the chamber was dark. The nearer lantern, by the bench, was out. He could see clearly only the whites of her eyes. She gazed at him without blinking.

  "Please get up," he said. "Please put your clothes on, Micheline." He spoke gently now, wanting her not to hate him. After all, she had done this because she felt something for him. She was very young. Perhaps she did not understand that what she felt was only passion. He was no prude. At least he hoped he wasn't. He too had felt something in the past when this girl was close to him. He'd be the last to deny it. She was unusually attractive. Even now he found it hard not to star
e at her. Something quite different might have happened here tonight if he were not a minister, or even if he had not known about her affair with Lemke.

  Unexpectedly she spoke. "Is this your answer?"

  "It has to be. I'm sorry, Micheline."

  She rose to her feet before him and looked down at herself, as though her beautifully formed body belonged to some other woman and she were dispassionately appraising it. Her gaze fastened on his face again, appraising that. Then abruptly she turned away.

  He watched her disappear into the darkness where the bench was, and then could follow her movements only by sound. A soft rustling told him she was putting her clothes on. He heard her pick up the lantern—which, he guessed, she had extinguished before lying down beside him—and go across the chamber toward the altar.

  She returned carrying both lanterns. She handed him one. "We can go now, Père Clinton."

  His watch had stopped and he had no idea of the time. He frowned at her. "It can't be daylight yet."

  "We're not going up the cliff."

  She walked away and he followed in bewilderment. What did she mean? Was there another way out of here? She led him across the chamber and into the altar tunnel which he had been led to believe, or at any rate had believed, was only a niche. At the rear of the altar it curved and became a steep, narrow passageway.

  He had no chance to question her. She set a fast pace, no doubt because she was angry with him, and with the pain increasing in his leg he had trouble keeping up. The tunnel branched. She turned her head, called sharply "A gauche!" and took the steeper fork. As he hurried after her he was surprised to see an empty cigarette package on the floor. On an impulse he picked it up.

  Did they all use this passage then? If so, why had Catus taken him down the face of the cliff?

  Twice more the tunnel branched. The route she chose was a steady climb. They had been climbing since leaving the vodun room. Barry took the cigarette package from his pocket and looked at it. The thought came to him that he could have been mistaken about the fire in the old church.