by Cave, Hugh
Someone at the ceremony could have set the fire, simply by slipping out this way when the others were too busy to notice. Why hadn't Catus mentioned that possibility? Or was the existence of this route a secret not to be shared with outsiders?
Who on Ile du Vent smoked American cigarettes?
The passage began to level off. They were only about halfway to the top of the cliff, he guessed, so it was not a route to the top after all. It must come out on the other side of the ridge, perhaps near the village. Was the whole of Ile du Vent honeycombed with tunnels like this? Parts of the mainland were, he knew. In the old days, before the coming of Columbus, the Arawaks had used these underworlds for ceremonies . . .
The roof dipped. Now for long stretches there was not room for him to walk erect and he had to proceed at a crouch. Micheline was far ahead, the light of her lantern disappearing whenever the tunnel curved. He tried to quicken his pace.
His leg hurt. He was very tired.
A sudden sharp bend in the passage revealed a flight of steps fashioned of logs imbedded horizontally in familiar red earth. Micheline was waiting. When she saw him coming she turned at once and began climbing.
With his stiff leg he found the logs difficult and was out of breath when he completed the ascent. To his astonishment he was standing inside a caille, one that he recognized at once as a special kind of caille used in vodun. It contained a stone altar littered with paraphernalia. The door to the outside was open and Micheline waited there in a rectangle of daylight for him to follow her. When he did, he found himself in the tonnelle where he had witnessed so many of her brother's ceremonies.
A light, steady rain was falling. The day was about two hours old.
Still clutching the lantern that had lighted his way from the grotto, he followed the girl across the compound, now a sea of mud from the hours of rain. She was halfway to her house when the door of Catus' caille opened and Catus saw her. Astonishment stopped the houngan in his tracks for an instant. Then he spoke her name with a gasp and hurried toward her.
She brushed him aside with a curt comment and went past him without pausing. Catus gazed after her, frowning. He turned to look at Barry.
At sight of Barry a change came over the houngan's face. It might have turned to stone. He thrust his thumbs into his belt and put his bare feet wide apart in the mud, filling his chest with a slow, deep breath. The rain danced on his shoulders.
Barry halted. He understood the man's anger but not what he ought to do about it. In Anse Ange he had not reached a decision. There had been no time for thinking since. He put his lantern down and stepped forward.
"May we talk for a moment, Catus?"
"I have nothing to say to you."
"I know how you feel. But if we could thrash this thing out, we might find that we have a few thoughts in common."
Catus returned his gaze without replying.
Barry tried once more. "It wasn't I who spoke out against you. You know that."
Still no answer.
Barry sighed and turned away. It was too soon, he supposed. Despite all that had happened since the consecration of the church, it was actually less than twenty-four hours ago that the Bishop had thundered his challenge.
Much too tired to tackle such a weighty problem, Barry limped across the inundated clearing to the gate in the cactus hedge.
CATUS WATCHED HIM GO. The stone face softened a little.
Was it possible, Catus wondered, that the Father wished things to be as they had been, and did not mean to carry out the Bishop's threat? He had been thinking about it ever since striding out of the church yesterday morning. All afternoon he had thought about it, while the island was being battered by wind and rain. He had sat up the best part of the night thinking, while the rain drowned the clearing and all but washed the houses away.
He wished to be fair. He did not think the Father had plotted with the Bishop to turn the church service into a denunciation of vodun. He was certain he had seen a look of disbelief on the Father's face while the Bishop was speaking.
Still, a Bishop was High Authority. Would Père Clinton dare disobey him? Could he, even if he wished?
Catus frowned. Perhaps when the rain stopped he would go down to the mission and hear what the Father had to say. At the moment he had something else to settle. He turned and walked rapidly across the compound to the caille occupied by Micheline and his parents.
Micheline, seated on a chair, lifted her head to look at him as he entered. The two old people stood together by a little table in the center of the room, staring at her. Catus saw that his sister was angry. He nodded to his parents and sat down.
"You and the Father came from the hounfor with lanterns. Does that mean you came up from the grotto?"
"Yes. "
"Why were you there?"
"Our boat was caught in the storm. It went ashore there."
Catus gripped his knees. "You came across from the mainland yesterday? I thought you stayed in Anse Ange last night!"
"We came across yesterday. The storm caught us and we spent the night in the grotto."
He sucked in a breath. "The two of you alone?"
She shrugged. In a voice she might have used to describe a walk in the village, she told him what had happened. "I thought if we stayed in the grotto until morning his leg would be stronger and we could climb the cliff," she lied. "But it was still stiff and I had to bring him out by the inside passage."
Catus' thoughts were whirling. He stood up quickly and began to pace. So his sister and the Father had spent the night alone together in a place where both knew they would not be disturbed. Had anything happened? He knew how his sister felt about the Father. But would the Father have let anything happen? He stopped pacing and tried to read Micheline's face. What was she so angry about? He could tell by her eyes and the set of her mouth that she was furious.
"Have you told me all that happened?" he demanded suddenly.
"I've told you everything."
"Why are you angry?"
"Who says I'm angry? I'm tired. Do you expect me to be gay when I was nearly drowned? When three people I know were drowned?"
"When the Father found out there was another way out of the grotto, did he say anything?"
"We didn't talk. We were too tired to talk."
Catus ran his tongue over the gap in his teeth. She would not hesitate to lie to him; he knew that. "How did your dress get torn like that?" he demanded.
"I tore it on the boat."
"Very well." He glanced at the two old people and moved toward the door. "When you've rested, I want to talk to you again."
"I've told you everything," she said sullenly.
"Perhaps. But I have something to tell you."
BARRY SLEPT FOR TWO HOURS and was having a late breakfast, with Lucy fussing over him, when Alma and Edith arrived at the mission.
They had come from the plantation together. Both thought that he had stayed on the mainland overnight and were astonished when he told them what had happened. Edith looked at him strangely.
"You spent the night in a vodun cave with that man's sister?"
He had to smile at her concern. "I don't think Catus will hold it against me. It wasn't exactly prearranged, you know."
"But what will the people say?"
"All sorts of things, probably, if they find out about it. I don't think they're very likely to find out. They won't get the story from me, you can be sure."
Edith had come at this early hour to help at the clinic. When she said so, Barry shook his head.
"There won't be any clinic."
She was shocked. "You mean you're discontinuing it? Just because you're angry with the Bishop?"
"I mean no one will come. The Bishop has made them angry with me."
"I'm sure you're wrong, Barry."
He hoped he was, but it was a small hope. "Anyway, I've got to call on the families of those two women who were drowned, and then on the magistrate to report the deaths. I'll l
eave you two in charge here."
Would anyone come to the clinic, he wondered as he set out on his depressing errand. He doubted it, after the way Catus had stormed out of the church. He doubted, too, that St. Juste would have any help at the rectory from now on, though Lucy had reported he had gone up the ridge as usual right after having his breakfast. The situation was grave, Barry realized. Catus had become an enemy, and unless he could do something about that he was finished. Oh, in time he might manage to baptize a handful of islanders in the fine new church, but there was no use fooling himself. Catus Laroche was king of Ile du Vent, not he. What Catus told the people to do they would do.
It was after eleven when he rode up the main street of Petit Trou and dismounted at Felix Dufour's house. The rain had stopped an hour ago but the village lay steaming in the heat, with mud on everything. Dufour opened the door at his knock. The little man with the untrimmed hair and bad teeth wore faded pink pajamas and showed his surprise by widening his eyes.
"Père Clinton! Why, I was planning to visit you today!"
"I've come to report a tragedy," Barry said.
"Sit down, please. Sit down."
When the tale was told and the magistrate had taken down the names of the victims, Barry frowned at him. "What did you want to see me about?"
Dufour drew a long face. "A most important matter. One that will make you terribly unhappy, I am afraid."
Barry waited.
"It has to do with Père Mitchell's purchase of the land on which you have built your church," the magistrate said.
"Well?"
"A mistake has been made."
Barry leaned back on his uncomfortable chair and eyed the man. He was in for a long session, he realized, and resigned himself to it. There was no use trying to hurry the fellow. Dufour had something on his mind and obviously intended to give it the full treatment. He might at least offer me a drink, Barry thought. Dufour's failure to do so was significant.
The magistrate lisped his way slowly and painfully through the story, covering all the important details at least twice. By the time he was finished, Barry's hands were clenched on the chair arms.
"Dufour, I don't believe this. You're up to something."
The magistrate waved his arms in protest. "But I have Antoine Constant's sworn statement, mon Père. He did not sign any land transfer. He refused to sell the land on the ridge. Père Mitchell must have signed his name without his knowledge."
Barry knew he was pale. He stood up. "Just what do you propose to do about it?"
"As Antoine's representative, it is my duty to see that justice is done, mon Père."
Barry looked at him, not failing to note a flicker of triumph in the beady eyes. This, he supposed, was an attempt to get even for the tax business. Dufour had been enormously angry that day. But unless the magistrate could back up his claims with some proof, the thing was fantastic.
Was it fantastic? Whatever else Dufour was, he was no fool. He must have planned this with great care. He must have some evidence.
What sort of evidence could he have? Barry tried desperately to reduce the lisped repetitions of the past half hour to something comprehensible. The claim was that old Mitchell, unable to get the land away from Antoine Constant by persuasion, had forged Constant's name to a land transfer. As proof, Dufour would offer various books and papers Constant had signed while magistrate. The "official" signatures would prove the land-transfer signature a forgery.
It didn't hold water. Even if old Mitchell had done anything so dishonest, which of course he hadn't, he at least would have obtained a genuine signature in some way, or such a carefully forged copy that the forgery couldn't be detected except by experts. It certainly wouldn't be anything "obvious to a child," as Dufour claimed.
What the devil was the fellow up to?
Barry decided to play the game on the chance of obtaining more information. "You're not a lawyer, Dufour," he said quietly.
"No," with a shrug. "But as magistrate here I can request legal counsel from the capital. A lawyer will come here and make an investigation. Then he will return to the capital and file charges."
And I, Barry thought, will have to go there and answer them. "I think I'd like to have a talk with this Antoine Constant," he said. "Where can I find him?"
"You would be wasting your time, mon Père. He will not talk to you."
"I see. You've laid your groundwork pretty thoroughly, haven't you?"
"I must see justice done."
"Of course. You're a great one for justice, Dufour. If this does go before a court, I imagine the judge will be interested in the justice of your selling me a man-killing mule and robbing the market women."
Dufour smiled, showing the black tops of his teeth. "Are you threatening me, Père Clinton?"
"No. But I'll fight you right down to the finish."
And God help me if I lose, Barry thought, for if the church goes, the Bishop won't blame old Mitchell for blundering; he'll blame me for not finding out before I began to build.
On the way back to the mission he totaled up his troubles and the burden seemed unbearable. Catus Laroche had declared war. Micheline was savagely angry with him and very likely to do something about it. Edith was annoyed with him. Now Felix Dufour, with this fantastic but apparently well-thought-out legal claim, was threatening to seize the church.
What would happen next?
He found out soon enough. As he rode into the clearing, St. Juste came from the rectory to help with the horse. The man had a long, glum face.
"No one turned up on the ridge this morning, Mr. Clinton. Not even Louis."
"I see."
"And the girls tell me there hasn't been a soul at the clinic." So now we sit, Barry thought, and twiddle our thumbs. Unless, somehow, I can persuade Catus to listen to me.
21
THREE TIMES IN THE NEXT THREE DAYS Barry trudged through the gate in the cactus hedge and requested an audience with Catus Laroche. Three times the houngan refused to see him. On the fourth try Catus hesitated, shrugged, and motioned him into the house.
They talked the whole morning.
When Barry had departed, Catus summoned his two sisters and big Louis Cesar for a conference. "I must make up my mind on a matter of grave importance," he said. "I wish your advice."
He told them of his talk with Barry. "The Father assured me he will not try to destroy us in spite of what the Bishop said. We had a long talk about what we believe in. With some of the things done in vodun he is impatient, and he will speak out against them. At the same time he is equally impatient with some things taught by his own church, and he will not try to make us believe anything he does not believe himself. He asked me to help him teach our people to respect and help one another, to stop lying and cheating and taking advantage of one another. He would make us one big family here, with better crops on our land, coffee to sell, a school for our children, and a great many other things we sorely need but can't possibly have unless we accept him. What do you think?"
He folded his arms and looked at Louis, at Daure, at Micheline, studying their expressions. It was Micheline who answered first.
"If the Father disobeys the Bishop he will be ordered to leave this island."
"I have an answer to that. We will discuss it later."
"If he stays, he will grow to be dangerous," Micheline persisted. "Our people will become fond of him. They will learn to rely on him instead of you, first for advice on how to keep well and improve their farms, then for other things. They will turn away from the loa to worship his god."
"A possibility," Catus acknowledged with a scowl. "Yet much of what we do in vodun is of doubtful value. I am convinced of it. We would not lose our belief in the mystères, however; we would only see them in a different light. As a matter of fact, the mystères might be more useful to us if we changed our way of thinking about them."
Louis said, shaking his head, "Those sound like dangerous words, Catus."
"Do they? Let me
ask you a question. At a service for Guedé we expect certain things of him. We expect him to drink trempes and generally misbehave, to insult us and make fools of us. Now I ask you, does Guedé do these things because they please him or because we expect it? Suppose we expected him to be understanding and dignified?"
"Guedé would never change," Louis said.
"Have we ever given him the chance?" Catus frowned, aware that he was perilously close to being a mere mouthpiece for disturbing thoughts put into his head by the Father. Still, they were thoughts worth pondering. Over the past several weeks the Father had put forth many such ideas, and this morning he had summed them up.
Daure said quietly, "I do not think the Father would do anything to make the loa angry with us. He truly wants to help us."
"He will do what the Bishop tells him to!" Micheline declared fiercely.
Big Louis looked at Catus and shrugged. "This is a thing you will have to decide for yourself, Catus. You're wiser than we are."
Am I? Catus wondered uneasily. Or have I fallen under the spell of that man and only think myself wise? There is a strange force at work here somewhere. That man's coming to Ile du Vent was no accident. I knew it the moment I saw him.
If only old Salmador were alive, so he could go to him for advice. And especially so he could question him about that old Guinea belief that every man had a marassa. Why did the thought keep returning to him that Père Clinton and he were men with a single mind who must eventually find a way to work together? Why did the word "brother" hang between them like a white-hot bar of iron waiting for them to grasp it?
He sighed. "Very well, I will think about it some more. Now I wish to tell you why I feel sure the Father will not be ordered to leave this island even if he does not completely obey the Bishop."
He was tired of sitting. He stood up and leaned against the wall.
"When the altar in the old church was set on fire and the Father's mule was slain in front of it," he went on, "I thought very hard about who might have done such a thing. The Father was sure no one at the service could have done it because of the tide in the tunnel. I let him think so. I didn't want any outsider to know about our inner passage. But I personally suspected Pradon Beliard, and I assigned spies to watch him. Now I'm convinced he has done many things to discredit the Father here, and I think I know why."
