The Clearing

by Dan Newman

  The nurse raised her eyebrows sharply. “No such nonsense,” she commanded, folding her arms sharply. “You gwan be fine. You jus’ need some res’.”

  Nate looked up at her and realized she thought he was talking about his condition. “No, I didn’t mean…”

  But she cut him off with a towel wiped firmly about his face again. “You gwan need a sponge bath. Or you can take de shower if you t’ink you able.”

  “I think I can manage with the shower,” he said, as much to himself as to the nurse. He took a moment perched on the side of the bed to assess his condition. His head hurt—dried out like a world class hangover—and he felt as frail as a reed. He was damp from sweating, and the motion of his body moving through the air—just the simple act of shifting to a seated position—was enough to start him shivering.

  Finally he stood, meekly waving away the assistance of the nurse, and made his way across the room to the bathroom. He paused and looked down at himself. He was completely naked—and mildly surprised that he didn’t care, even with the nurse still puttering around the room.

  In the bathroom mirror, he could see that his body was under attack. His face was drawn and hollow, and his eyes seemed to have receded into dark, bruised cavities beneath his brow. His lips were white and cracked, and in places it appeared they had bled during the night. The skin on his body was pale and seemed papery and tight, and he felt sure he was five or ten pounds lighter. He tried to remember his last decent meal but couldn’t place it; he couldn’t even remember the last time he had had an appetite.

  Nate showered off the sweat and spittle and settled back into the clean sheets of his freshly made bed, and slept again. When he awoke, he found Smiley beside him reading the paper.

  “Terrance Edwin?” asked Nate sarcastically.

  Smiley’s face dropped. He flopped the broadsheet in his lap. “Woman!” he yelled at the nurse. “What you been tellin’ dis man?”

  The nurse erupted in laughter and wobbled out of the room.

  “It’s Smiley. Don’t no one call me Terrance—not since I was a little one.”

  “Thanks for bringing me here,” said Nate. “And sorry about the car. And for being a dick.”

  “No problem, no problem. How you feelin’?”

  “Like shit, to be honest. My head hurts and it feels like my heart has been kicked around inside my chest.”

  “You think you all right for a drive?”

  “Now?”

  Smiley nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Nate shrugged. “Well, I guess, but the nurse…”

  “Don’t worry ’bout dat one,” he said, but at the same time cast a nervous eye toward the nurse’s station through the door.

  “Did they say what’s wrong with me? Is it the infection in my eye here?”

  Smiley looked at him solemnly. “Nate, man. I don’t think even you believe dat for true now.”

  He knew what Smiley was talking about. The conversation from the other night ran clear through his mind. The Obeah, Ma Joop, the car covered in red. “So why did you bring me here instead of right to Ma Joop, who I’m guessing you think can help me?”

  “I brought you here as a favor.”

  “To me?”

  “No, to an ol’ friend. I promised I would let de hospital doctors tend to you before anyt’ing else.”

  Nate was confused. “What old friend?”

  “Come—le’ we get out of dis place and into my car. We’ll talk den.”

  They dressed Nate in his clothes, which had been laundered while he slept, and the two slipped easily out of the small hospital and into the parking lot. In a few minutes, they were on the road again, heading out of town, up into the hills through stands of wild sugar cane, tangles of yellow hibiscus, and broad swathes of brilliant green Tanya the size of elephants ears. Nate recognized some of it from his days as a boy—a peak here, a bend in the road there—but much had changed. They were headed north to Gros Islet, back to the small roadside bar and, Nate suspected, to Ma Joop.

  Nate watched the land flit by. “Okay—so who is this old friend?”

  Smiley nodded slightly as he drove, and glanced over at Nate. He took a deep breath and spoke in even measured tones. “You remember when you firs’ contacted me at The Word? When you send de email tellin’ me you were finally ready to sit and speak wit me but that you needed…what did you call it now?”

  “A professional courtesy.”

  “Das it,” he said, smiling and raising a finger in punctuation. “A professional courtesy—you wanted to see everthin’ I had collected ’bout de mess at Ti Fenwe. Do you remember I asked you not to use my email address at de paper after that, but to use my personal one instead?”

  “Yeah, sure. I think you said something about it being a more reliable address.”

  “Right, man. I did, but dat was a fabrication. In truth it was because I needed to keep our communications very, very quiet and away from the paper. You see, there is some history here dat you don’t know ’bout. About three and a half years ago there was another email that came through the general mailbox in the editorial department. It was a reques’ asking for details ’bout de incident at the De Villiers estate in 1976, ’bout Richard’s death. I had no idea dat email came in at de time. It was picked up by a colleague of mine, Desmond Bailey.

  “Now, Desmond and I were friends, colleagues for sure, but we also competing, you know, for good stories. We had been talking ’bout the De Villiers incident for years and years, both of us coming up with theories and suppositions, but gettin’ nowhere. As I said, I had no idea ’bout de email dat come in to de editorial department, or dat Desmond had since started seriously working on dis story. It still hard to believe.” For a moment Smiley drifted off in thought.

  “And?” said Nate impatiently.

  “Well, man. Dis mystery at Ti Fenwe had always fascinated me even back when I was a young reporter, back in my twenties. I had been collecting pieces of information over the years, here and there, trying to get people to tell me their stories, but I had nothing serious. Nothing concrete. I was pretty sure the truth, the real story, had left the island in ’76. Desmond, on the other hand, had been workin’ hard to put everything together since the email he collected. But him do it all on his own, in secret, gatherin’ information, photographs—everything he could. In fact, most of what I gave you at Vigie Beach came from the stuff Des gathered over the years.

  “Of course, I knew nuttin’ ’bout dis at de time. Des kept everything real quiet—maybe so he could trump me and claim braggin’ rights—it was like dat between us—or maybe because he knew he was in something dangerous. Plenty dangerous. Back den I was not even workin’ de crime beat, just de city scene. You know, local happenings, celebrity sightings on de island. Lot a parties, man, I could tell you.”

  Nate couldn’t help himself. “Sorry Smiley—the story—the information Desmond collected.”

  “Right man, right. So Des apparently collected all dis information, and then I get a call from his mother one night. She all upset. Crying and carryin’ on. Tellin’ me to come down to de police station because dey won’t let her see Desmond. So down to the police station I go. But in my mind I’m thinking why she want me to go to the police station? After all, Desmond workin’ de crime beat and knows every constable on de island by name. If anyone has sway down there, it’s Desmond.

  “Anyhow, I go on down to de Bridge Street station an’ I find his mother. She inconsolable. Weepin’. Cryin’. Head in hands. And I’m not understanding what’s going on. Finally she blurt it out: Desmond is dead. Jesus. Let me tell you. Here I am thinking my friend Desmond is drunk an’ locked up for de night and that because of dis his mother is joliman upset. Very much upset with him. Then I find out he dead! Jesus, man. Anyway, I ask de sergeant what’s going on, what happen to Desmond an’ he tell me him drown.

  “Desmond drowning—dis struck me as odd. I know Desmond, an’ him nevah like de water. Nevah.”
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  “And yet he lived on an island.”

  “Not so unusual. Many island people stay clear of de water, man. Maybe couple splashes ’round de ankles. But swimmin’? Desmond? Nevah. Anyway, then de policeman tell me Desmond fell out of a boat and drowned. A boat! Man, something inside me just freeze up. Just like that. Desmond in a boat? Nevah,” he said, chopping the air sideways with his free hand.

  “So you think…”

  “Mm hmm. Me think. I say nuttin’ to de policeman. I jus’ ask if there was any personal effects dat his mother should have—he say dey have nuttin’—an’ I take his mother home.”

  Nate looked back out of the window as the island rushed past. “Wow,” he said quietly, as much to Smiley’s story as to the scenery around them. They were winding their way up through the hills now, on a narrow road that followed the contours of what was probably better described as a small mountain. St. Lucia was a volcanic island, thrust up violently from the ocean floor eons ago and made of jagged steep shapes all dressed in brilliant green. To their left, the terrain rose sharply, and water from the undergrowth leached out and ran across the road in broad shimmering sheets. And to their right the land fell away steeply, disappearing into a lush emerald valley lined with trees that clung to the cliff-side at impossible angles. There were no people on this stretch, and no other cars, save a battered blue Honda a few hundred yards behind them.

  “So what did you do?” asked Nate.

  “Man, at first, nuttin’. The whole t’ing seemed wrong to me. So I just lef’ it be. But it trouble me. Trouble, trouble, trouble. I can’t let it go, you know? I find myself thinkin’ ’bout it all de time. But me a little worried because of how de police handle this. All a little strange, man. But still it trouble me. Finally, I can’t take it no more. I go to my editor an’ tell him something not right here. He say have a look. So I have a look.

  “I collect everything Des had at his desk, on his computer, in his car. Everything. And I start readin’. That’s when I find everything Des had collected—all de information ’bout de whole t’ing in ’76, ’bout the De Villiers boy. Dat’s when I realize what he been secretly workin’ on.”

  “Richard’s death.”

  “Mm hmm. Richard’s death. And as I read all de research an’ notes Desmond made, I start to see two mysteries—not jus’ de one. Firs’, what happened to Desmond and de others on dat boat—I mean, what really happened?”

  Nate interrupted. “Others…?”

  Smiley put up a hand; Nate would have to let him tell it his way. “Second: what happened to Richard De Villiers in 1976? No one was charged back den, and no one gave evidence. All very strange, no?” he said, glancing over at Nate again, who was now suddenly very uncomfortable.

  Smiley went on. “Now, I made some headway with what happened to Desmond specifically—nuttin’ I could prove, mind you, but I pretty damn sure I know what happened. And now you here, and I pretty damn sure you know what happened at Ti Fenwe in 1976. You were there. But your father invoked diplomatic immunity an’ had you out of de police station an’ off de island before anyone could get any answers.” Finally he said, “I nah placing any judgement, Nate. I would do the same for my son if I had one. You mus’ protect your own. I understand that. But there is a connection between de deaths three years ago, Richard’s death in 1976, an’ events transpiring around you today.”

  Nate looked at Smiley with a face like a man who had just bitten a lemon. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. “You said deaths, not death.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You said the deaths three years ago. Plural. One was your reporter friend, Desmond, but who else? Who else died?”

  The car hit them hard from behind and to the right, violently forcing the front of Smiley’s Gallant around and pointing it toward the edge of the road where it dropped away into the endless green. The impact jerked Smiley’s hands from the wheel, and both he and Nate were driven momentarily back into their seats, and then pitched instantly forward again hard against the seat belts. The wind was forced from their lungs and they simultaneously grunted like prize-fighters eating body shots.

  Smiley grabbed wildly at the air trying to regain his grip on the wheel, desperate to spin the car back toward the road. But it was too late. The engine raced, the wheels bit in and the small blue Gallant roared off the road and into the yawning green.

  • • •

  To Nate, things seemed to be going downhill quickly.

  He stood on top of his foam mattress, watching Tristan and Vincent bound across the darkened bedroom toward the door, unable to move at all. All he could do was hover in a state of quivering hyper-readiness. It was coming.

  There was one door to the room and Tristan and Vincent were jamming their meaty hands against the locks to make sure they were secured. “Tristan, the gun case! Quickly!” Vincent pointed at the cupboard. The thing in the attic was now thundering down the stairs, and the nutmeg in the loft above was still howling and rattling in murderous anticipation. The footfalls hit the main hall in a single floor-shuddering thump, as if the thing had cleared the last few steps in a single leap. In an instant it was running again, and while the nutmeg chatter slowed and died, the sound of its approach intensified, the darkness around them making it somehow more awful. The boys could feel each step now, and each one seemed loaded with malice and bile. It thundered through the main hall, down the corridor, past the kitchen until it was right outside the door.

  And then it stopped.

  All four of the boys were now standing, every muscle and sinew humming, every hair raised. Pip was the worst off. His hands were curled into tight fists, and then pressed into his lips so tightly he was close to drawing blood. His cheeks were wet with tears, and the only thing stopping him from screaming was the intensity of the silence. The nutmeg had stopped rolling. The creature outside the door was still. The boys strained to hear something, anything, but apart from the trembling breaths being drawn inside the room, there was nothing.

  All four of the boys flicked their heads suddenly toward the door, toward the metallic snicker of the hammer being drawn back on the pistol. It was Vincent. He was holding the pistol close to the door, making sure the sound of the hammer being drawn back was clearly audible in the corridor outside. Something on the other side of the door shifted at the sound, like a half step back, and Vincent smiled.

  “Yes,” he said in a long drawn out breath. “You know what that is, don’t you.” He seemed to be talking to himself, or perhaps to whatever was outside in the hall. Then Vincent fell quiet, and pressed his ear against the door. The silence became so complete that Nate was sure he could hear the heartbeats of everyone in the room, and his own loudest of all. A moment later came a soft padding sound from outside the door. It retreated hesitantly through the house and when it left, the whole structure seemed to exhale.

  Vincent seated the hammer again and placed the pistol on the chair beside his bed. “At ease,” he said to the boys, who were all as rigid as soldiers on parade. “One of these days, my boy,” he began, speaking to Tristan in inclusive, fatherly tones. “One of these days you’re going to piss that thing off with all your teasing and he’ll get in here while he’s all hot and bothered. He can be a mean son of a bitch when he’s upset.” He slapped his son on the back in that chip-off-the-old-block kind of way, and then noticed Pip. “Hey, Pip. Come on, toughen up.”

  Pip turned away and sat heavily on his mattress.

  But Vincent wouldn’t let it go. “You know you can’t go through life crying about—”

  “He’s okay,” interjected Nate in a tone more bold than he had intended. “He’s just tired. We all are.” And with that Nate turned away and sat on his own mattress, trying not to let any of the others see the trembling in his hands and legs.

  “Right, well,” said Vincent awkwardly. And then, shrugging it all off, “Look boys, it’s after four. We normally check the copra oven at five, but it’s close enough. Then we can all have a bit of
a sleep-in once we come back.”

  Nate looked at each of the others and could see none of them wanted to leave the room just now. None of them moved.

  Finally Richard spoke up. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea, Uncle Vince? I mean, it’s pretty upset, no?”

  “Ah, come now boys. Don’t worry about all that,” he said, waving one hand casually around in the air. “We’ve been living with that little bugger for generations. He cools off quickly. Probably over at the Kinnock estate by now. Long gone.”

  “I don’t want to go out there,” said Pip bluntly without looking up.

  Vincent’s face pinched with annoyance. “Pip, son, it’s just an animal…”

  Again that fine seam of defiance rose up in Pip. “That’s not what Augustine said.”

  Vincent shook his head in exaggerated frustration. “Don’t listen to that old witch. She’s just very old and very bored. And probably senile. Now everyone get your shoes on. We’re going to check the copra.” It was an order, and the boys quietly complied.

  The walk through the darkened house was unnerving, and not just because of the long shadows cast by the flashlights: the fact that Vince put the pistol in his pocket rather than back in the gun cabinet was not lost on any of the boys.

  They made their way through the corridor, past the kitchen and into the empty main hall. Vincent, at the front, paused for a moment and panned the beam of his flashlight around the room.

  “What’s wrong?” said Richard from the back of the line.

  “Nothing,” replied Vincent casually. “Just checking.”

  Tristan put a hefty elbow into Richard. “Chicken shit,” he said snidely.

  The line moved off again, across the hall and out of the house through the open doorway, and then down the worn concrete steps. The night was much louder outside; the wind stole through the forest all around them, and the chorus of crickets and other night insects chirped and clicked incessantly. It was a short walk to the brick copra oven, but Nate spent it with his head swivelling all around, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever had been running through the house. Invisible my ass, he thought. Whatever it was, if it was running around in the house and he could hear it, he could damn well see it too. It was probably just one of the laborers. Paid a little extra to scare the crap out of a bunch of kids. He’d have to get paid pretty damn well though, thought Nate. That attic was seriously dark and scary.