Serpents in the Sun

by Cave, Hugh

  "Hurricane Flora made it clear to us that our highest fields are too vulnerable to such storms to warrant the expense of keeping them in coffee. After a family conference we decided to remove all the coffee trees left in Fields 25, 26, 27, and 28 and replant those elsewhere. Some of the pine trees, too, were lost to Flora. Also part of the warehouse roof."

  Ah, yes, the warehouse roof.

  Morant Bay boasted an excellent small-town hardware store established years before by a Chinese gentleman and presently operated by his two sons, George and Vincent. While in the store one morning soon after Flora's destructive visit to the island, Cliff decided to carry some sheets of metal roofing home with him. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. He was driving a small car that morning, not the plantation pickup.

  "Vincent," he said after purchasing some smaller items, "I need a dozen roofing sheets, but I'm driving the Prefect. How am I going to get them home?"

  Younger-son Vincent had a boyish grin and a heart of gold. "I can fix, Mr. Bennett."

  In no time at all, the ever-helpful Vincent had lugged a dozen long sheets of metal across the road from his storage yard and stacked them on the sidewalk beside the car. He walked around the car a time or two, solving the problem in his head, and then disappeared again to return with an armload of empty burlap bags. By this time a crowd had gathered. From it, by slyly asking for advice, Vincent recruited eager helpers.

  He and his helpers lined the car-top with the crocus bags and hoisted the metal sheets into position. Then came rope, yards and yards of rope. It went around and around the load, in and out of the car windows, around bumpers and bumper brackets and door handles and every other part of the little car's anatomy that stuck out far enough to be useful. The rope would cost more than the roofing, Cliff thought in dismay. But when the job was done, he could have driven through another hurricane without losing the tied-on roofing sheets, he was certain.

  He trailed Vincent into the store to pay the bill. The rope? Vincent shrugged it off. "No charge for the rope, Mr. Bennett."

  "Well thanks. Next time I come, I'll bring it back."

  "No, no. Keep it!"

  Cliff went out to the car and found he couldn't get into it. Every door was roped shut.

  He didn't have the heart to call Vincent. The windows being open, he wriggled in through the web of rope that criss-crossed one of them, while the crowd gleefully applauded. Then with the car looking like some strange top-winged beetle from a distant planet, he started for home.

  People in the Bay stopped and stared with their mouths agape. On the outskirts of Trinity Ville, near Kim Tulloch's gate, a man on a bicycle was so startled he ran his vehicle into a ditch. In Rainy Ridge a woman with a tray of coconuts on her head bent forward so far to stare that the tray slid to the ground and coconuts went rolling downhill through the village with yelling kids in hot pursuit.

  But when the little car reached Glencoe, the load was still in place.

  BOOK FIVE

  1965

  The rain began during the night, and by eight o'clock, when the bell rang, the water in the schoolyard was inches deep. Sister Maude had to wipe the mist from her office window to watch the children pass along the veranda to their classrooms.

  It was time to provide Antoine with longer crutches, she observed; the ones he had made him stoop. Little Jeanette was a quick learner—only a week here, and see how she halted when the boy in front of her did, as though she could see him do it. "Good girl," Sister Maude said aloud.

  But when she looked at her watch, the smile on her face disappeared, to be replaced by an expression of sadness. It was time now to go to the girls' dormitory and tell Virgilie Valcin the bad news.

  As she started toward the door, someone knocked on it.

  Sister Maude opened it, and the smile reappeared on her face. "Well, hello, Lee!" she said. "What brings you here this morning?"

  Lee Aldred returned the smile. "I came to town last evening for Ginny Beaulieu's birthday party. May I say goodbye to Virgilie before she goes home?"

  Sister Maude's face changed again. "She isn't going home. That's what I have to tell her—right now—and it's breaking my heart. She's been talking about nothing else for days."

  "What's gone wrong?"

  "Sister's down with this flu that's going around. As a matter of fact, two of the others aren't feeling very good either. So, of course, with that many out we can't spare anyone to—Oh, oh! —" As the sound of a car's engine intruded, Sister Maude turned to look at the window. "That must be Martin now. He took the station wagon home last night to work on it."

  "Let me take Virgilie," Lee said.

  "You?"

  "Why not? We're long-time buddies; she won't be afraid. And I'm not due back at the hospital until tomorrow."

  The face changed expression again. "Would you? Really? Oh, I do so hate to tell her she can't go today, after all she's done to get herself up for it!"

  "If I could just call Carey—"

  "Of course, of course!"

  Lee went to the phone on the desk and with a mental crossing of fingers, because Port-au-Prince phones were notoriously unreliable, dialed the hospital's number. Fortunately, Carey was free to answer.

  "Do you know how to get there?" he asked.

  "I won't be driving. Martin's outside right now with the school Jeep. The station wagon."

  "Does he know how to get there? No one from the school has ever been to Malrouge, far as I know."

  "He'll have studied a map. You know him."

  "Well . . . all right, love. Say goodbye to Virgilie for me. I'm fond of that little girl too, you know."

  Lee smiled into the phone. "I know. So does she."

  "So long, then. Safe journey. See you tonight."

  With Sister Maude, Lee hurried along the corridor to the girls' dormitory. The big room was empty except for the child from Malrouge, who sat on a cot, waiting. Virgilie Valcin wore a new dress of blue denim this morning, the kind a country girl would be expected to wear, and new black shoes, brightly polished, and long black stockings, oddly out of place in this Caribbean country where legs were almost always bare. When she stood up, the attempt was quick but the result a shade less so, with a trace of awkwardness.

  "Ready, Virgilie?" Sister Maude asked.

  The child looked frightened. "Isn't La Directrice going with me?"

  "No, dear. She's sick, so Nurse Lee will go in her place."

  "Oh. Well then, I'm ready."

  "Have you said all your goodbyes?"

  "Yes, Sister."

  Lee noticed the mist in the child's eyes—knowing Virgilie well at this point, she would have been surprised not to see it— and said gently, "Are you sure? There's no hurry, you know." She put out her hand, and the child came forward to clutch it.

  "I'm ready. And I'm not scared. Honest."

  With a nod to the sister, Lee led the child out to the car. The driver, a tall man of thirty, sprang from it to help them get in, then scowled at Lee and said, "La Directrice is not coming?"

  "She's sick, Martin."

  He turned to aim his scowl at the paved street beyond the gate. Rain still fell, and water rushed down the gutters. "This is not the best kind of day to be going into the mountains, Nurse Lee."

  "I know, but Sister sent word that Virgilie would be coming home today. We can't disappoint a whole village."

  Martin made a grunting sound and then, in silence, drove through the city's snarl of morning traffic. It was a more complicated snarl than usual this morning because many streets were flooded. The main highway beyond the city was all but deserted, though, because the city-bound peasants who usually thronged it had sought shelter from the rain.

  Lee reached for the hand of the child beside her. "It must be exciting to know you're going home."

  "Yes, Nurse Lee."

  "Just think. It's two years since you saw any of the children you grew up with."

  "I like the children at the school."

  "I know an
d I'm glad. But they'll be going home too when they're well enough. Jacques is going next week. You wouldn't want to stay at the school forever."

  "Yes, I would."

  "And never see your aunt again? Or your friends?" Lee pretended to be shocked. "What a thing to say!"

  "I don't care. At home everyone will say I'm different."

  Lee frowned. The sister in charge of the Ecole Pour Les Enfants Handicapes—the one people affectionately called La Petite Directrice—had said once that it was bad when children became too fond of the school. All of them had to leave eventually; even the homeless ones had to go on to other schools once they learned to live with their handicaps. There was often a waiting list of new youngsters who needed help. "How does your leg feel?" she asked.

  "It's all right, thank you."

  "The straps don't rub?"

  "No."

  Lee gave the leg a little pat and said, "Good!" Then she looked out the car window, which she had rolled part way down in spite of the rain. The city was behind them. The sky was gray, the rain an opaque sheet of glass. Martin was right: this was no day to be going into the mountains. "Tell me about the village you live in," she said.

  The child crinkled her eyes in concentration, as though she had been asked to write a composition in class. "Well, it isn't a very big village, but it's nice because it's on a river and we don't have to walk for water. The river comes down from the high mountains, and there is a big pool below the bridge; but if you play there you have to be careful. That's where Marc and I were when I got hurt. We were in the pool, and this big tree—"

  "I know about that," Lee said quickly. "Just tell me about the village."

  "Well, almost all the houses are on one side of the river, but they built the school on the other side so we can study without being disturbed. The biggest house belongs to M'sieu Deltier, the Chef de Section. He's Marc's father. And, and—"

  "Thank you," Lee said. "That's a very good description."

  The car had left the coastal highway, and she put an arm around the child's small shoulders, drawing her closer, because the road was unpaved now and rough. At least there was a road, she thought. Some of the children came from remote mountain communities connected to the outside world only by footpaths. Being married to a certain Dr. Carey Aldred, who had once walked her across the Massif du Sud, she knew more than most about trudging such trails and riding mules over them.

  The rain seemed less ominous here, though. Tall trees spread heavy limbsover the road to reduce the force of the downpour.

  But the heat was intense. She could feel a film of moisture forming on her face and see one on the child's. Her leg must bother her, she thought. It always does when she's hot.

  At the first of the stream crossings, Martin stopped the station wagon and got out. The water was high, Lee saw with misgivings. It boiled over scattered large boulders and pulled at the tree branches dropping into it, tugging the branches forward and letting them snap back again. Martin returned to the car and worked the two shift levers. "Hold on," he advised.

  He drove through at a crawl, but just before reaching the opposite bank, which was soft and steep, he trod hard on the accelerator pedal. The car came alive with a lurch. Virgilie cried out in alarm.

  But the child was not hurt. Lee's arms were about her, holding her close. In a moment the vehicle was on safe ground again.

  There were two more stream crossings before they reached the halfway village of Bodiere, where the road ran between rows of old wooden shops and houses. Martin scowled at the sky when he stopped.

  "Le Bon Dieu should turn off this rain," he said. "Doesn't He know it's His business we're attending to?"

  "It's also His business to provide water for people who need it," Lee reminded him. "Can webuy some oranges or bananas here to eat for lunch, Martin?"

  "I bought some in town, Nurse."

  "Good for you."

  He got out and raised the hood. Trust him to do that. He checked the oil, the water in the radiator, the battery, then dropped the hood and walked around the car to check each tire. No precaution was too much trouble on these roads—not when he had one of the children in his charge. By the time he was finished, a small group of villagers had gathered. Few cars came this far when the rains began.

  Men and women in workday clothes, politely peering in, said in Creole "Good morning" and "Where are you going?" Lee answered them. They said "Good-bye" and "Safe journey" when Martin got behind the wheel again. They waved, and Lee put her hand out the window to wave back. Then, turning to Virgilie, she said with a happy smile, "You see? They didn't notice a thing."

  "They didn't look at me," the child said.

  "They certainly did. Country people always look at strangers, and you know it. But they didn't see a thing to wonder at. Everything's going to be exactly the way it used to be."

  The child's mouth trembled. "I—hope so, Nurse Lee."

  The final stream marked the end of their Jeep journey. It was the one Virgilie had told them about, and the driving road ended at its bank. With rain still falling, the water was swift and brown and looked dangerously deep. "I'm not even sure we can walk across this morning," the child said.

  Martin removed his shoes, hung them about his neck and walked in to test the bottom with his bare feet. "I can get you across, I think," he said. Lifting the child in his arms, he crossed with great care and set her gently on the opposite bank under a sheltering ceiba, then returned for Lee, who laughed at his outstretched arms and told him to turn around. With her arms about his neck and her legs gripping his waist, she rode him across. There she said, "Do you want to come with us, or wait for me here?"

  "I'll wait. And don't waste any time, please. The sooner we start back in this rain, the better." He sat on his heels and drew the child into his arms. His eyes looked into hers, and his smile was but an inch from her face. "Don't forget, little one. You are to write to Martin. It was a promise."

  "I won't forget, Martin."

  "And come to the city to see us sometimes?"

  "Oh, yes, Martin!"

  He drew her in against his chest. "When La Petite Directrice is not watching, I'll borrow a car and come to visit you. Only I won't be fooling her, you know that, eh? She'll guess my thoughts before I think them, and when I go for the car she'll be in it already, waiting to come with me." He laughed, and kissed her on the cheek. "Good-bye, little one."

  "Good-bye, Martin."

  Lee took the child's hand and for Virgilie's sake walked slowly. The path was red mud and boulders. Off to the left, through dripping trees, the swollen river hissed and growled in its trench. Presently there were thatch-roofed houses forlornly standing in yards of mud, and an empty marketplace that resembled a forest of crooked poles, and a few small wooden shops with verandas and rusty iron roofs. This was road's end, the village of Malrouge, Virgilie's home.

  "Where is everyone?" Lee wondered aloud.

  Virgilie knew the answer. In a rain such as this, she explained, the men would be at their mountainside gardens, piling rocks and tree limbs to keep the precious soil from being washed into the river. Their women and older children would be toiling with them. The young were in school. The very young were at home with their grandparents.

  "I see." Lee looked at the child with new appreciation.

  At the house occupied by Virgilie's aunt, the rain cascaded from the roof's overhang and splashed on the ground behind them while they waited for an answer to Virgilie's knock. When no one responded, Lee used her knuckles with some force. When the door still failed to open, she said with a frown, "Your aunt must be out."

  A door across the road opened, and an old woman came waddling over, holding a palm-leaf tray above her head to keep off the rain. She peered at Virgilie. "Oh, oh!" she said, startled.

  "You've come back!" But she was not too startled to peer sharply at the child's legs before turning to Lee and saying, "You are looking for someone, yes?"

  "For Madame Gautier."

&nbs
p; "She is at the school." Again, as though drawn by a magnet, the woman's gaze dropped to the child's legs. "The teacher had to look after his land this morning," she added absently, "so this one's aunt took his place."

  "Then we'll go to the school. Thank you." Lee took Virgilie's hand again.

  The child had to show her the way, of course. A series of muddy paths led them to the river, where Lee was appalled to find the swift brown water spanned by a footbridge only two planks wide, with flimsy handrails of bamboo. With Virgilie in the lead, they started across. But presently Lee paused to look down at the stream, and felt herself shiver.

  This was where it had happened: just below the bridge here, where huge gray boulders reared their ugly heads from the swirling water. Was it possible the two children had not seen the uprooted tree bearing down on them, as Virgilie insisted. From the bridge it seemed they must have. But, of course, they had not been on the bridge. They had been in the water, among the boulders.

  She saw that Virgilie, too, had stopped to look down, and knew the child must be remembering. "Is the river often this high?" Lee asked quickly.

  "No, Nurse." The child was frowning in that way she had, with her lower lip drawn in. "I don't think I ever saw it this high before."

  "I should hope not. Well . . ." Lee followed her across, and they climbed a winding, slippery path through dripping trees that shut the river from sight. Then at the top of a low hill the ground leveled, and they hurried through the rain across the open schoolyard.

  The building was of wood, unpainted, and an overhanging metal roof sheltered its open door and windows. One window was partly open—perhaps because the room would be a steam bath if it were not. From it flowed the voices of children reciting in unison; but the recitation stopped when Lee and Virgilie entered.

  Twenty-three pairs of eyes focused on them. In the sudden stillness, the sound of rain on the roof seemed as loud as that of the river.

  Virgilie's aunt rose quickly from a desk at the front—a woman in her thirties with some of the child's own beauty but obviously under a strain here. She was a sometime dressmaker, Virgilie had said, not a teacher. Introducingherself, Lee saw displeasure on the aunt's face and wondered for the first time if it had been a good idea to return the child to Malrouge.