The Strangely Wonderful: Tale of Count Balásházy

by Karen Mercury

  “My duck,” Sal murmured. It was good he remembered his endearing name for Tomaj, for there were more important things he didn’t seem to recall. “On the hill by the mine … before the ricemen came …”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “I overheard Bellingham and Dagny talking.” He looked up at Tomaj. Sal’s face was much improved, with nary any puffing; merely scrapes remained that would leave scars. “They said … that you had a wife, before.”

  “Oh, ah,” Tomaj gasped, eager to be off the bed now. “Let me get the tea, it must be warm.”

  “No,” Sal said calmly, sliding a hand up Tomaj’s chest. “I want an answer … I’ll not let you go.”

  Tomaj pushed ever so imperceptibly against the crown of Sal’s head. “That damnable Bellingham.” He covered Sal’s hand with his own, but with no force to remove it. “Come, let me bathe your face with the aloe and Solomon’s seal.” Sal said this would lessen the scarring.

  “No. I want to know. Did you love her?”

  “Yes,” Tomaj cried quietly. “My dove, I loved her more than life itself, is that good enough for you? Now stop—it’s unseemly to—”

  “And how did she die?”

  “She … she … she died in a fire,” Tomaj gasped, and lifted Sal to face him. “You know I’ve no wish to discuss this, yet you persist in forcing me—”

  A high shriek came from the drawing room. It wasn’t Dagny—Tomaj heard her shouting with a calming firmness, “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

  The two men disengaged when booted feet skittered down the hallway toward their bedchamber. The door boomed open as though a powder keg had exploded on the other side, and Lyall, distorted by fear, threw his body flat against a wall. “There’s a … there’s a …” His hands fluttered about his face, his side-whiskers trembled, but when his gaze lowered to the two men on the bed, he shrieked even louder, slapping his hands back to his face.

  “A what?” Tomaj demanded. Gently disentangling himself, he pressed Sal back into the mattress as he clambered over him.

  “Darling,” Dagny shouted from down the hall. “Where did you put your cutlass? It seems there’s a bit of a snake that has somehow gotten into our house.”

  Tomaj stood. “Cutlass? I’ve got it, I’m coming—by my ancestors who fought on their stumps!”

  A constrictor snake—how in the name of Thomas Jefferson had it crawled so fast?—of the type Tomaj knew to hunt at night in the eastern forest lay twined like a neat Flemish fake in the corner where Lyall shuddered with the fear of the devil, hands shielding his eyes. Eight feet long and of a jade color, it would not strike or bite but rather choke a victim, so Tomaj was not overly concerned, but it uncoiled itself and slithered for Lyall’s boot.

  “My malala,” Tomaj bellowed, drawing his cutlass. “Would you like for me to collect it for you?”

  “Oh no,” Dagny called gaily. “I already have a stuffed one. Can you come here and just lop its head off, or take it outside? It’s nearly strangled the crutch with which I’m fending it off.”

  Tomaj frowned. Come here? Without further ado he chopped the head of the snake just to the right of Lyall’s boot, causing Lyall to nearly climb the wall, shriek like a rutting fossa, and sob, “Serpents … androphiles … evil is everywhere …”

  Loping down the hall, Tomaj had to run through the dining room to reach Dagny’s stuffing table, where, to his bedevilment, yet another serpent slid up the legs of a dining room chair. He leaped to flick the thing to the floor with the tip of the cutlass before chopping its head, because he did not want to carve into the chair.

  The drawing room serpent, having discerned the end of its rope at the limit of the crutch, swayed the foremost three feet of its sinuous body in air to seek out Dagny’s warmth as she stood precariously on her broken leg, her other hand clutching the table.

  “Allow me.” Tomaj yanked the crutch from her, flung it to the floor, and hacked the snake’s head from the body. He unfurled the snake halves before handing the crutch back to Dagny.

  “Thank you, dearest,” Dagny said placidly. “Perhaps if you can retrieve Dr. Lyall, you can explain to him these are not poisonous snakes, but rather—”

  Tomaj pivoted about the room on his boot heel, seeking out more serpents. “I don’t want to alarm you unduly, malala, but this is the third one I’ve beheaded in the past minute. They do seem to be rather coming from the floorboards. I don’t know these snakes to be accustomed to seeking out people’s homes in order to annoy—Aha!”

  Just as Tomaj raised his cutlass to hack another that must have slid underneath the front entry, feet pounded up the portico steps and the door burst open. Bellingham, ever the youthful grig, was a ball of limbs that somersaulted across the floor, nearly into the dining room. Tomaj slammed and locked the door, decapitated the freshest snake, and gave Dagny his axe. “In case there are more,” he said.

  “By the Holy Father!” Bellingham shouted, leaping to his feet with his cutlass at the ready. “What’s that lot of touched gumps doing out in the street, wailing away and brandishing these—ah! They’re here like little snakesmen!” With voracity he slashed at another serpent that had climbed a console table, utterly smashing Dagny’s statue of a sheepherder.

  Dagny said, “I heard the chanting out in the street—I just assumed it was more tromba singers.”

  “Not any as I’ve seen,” said a crazy-eyed Bellingham. “They’re waving all sorts of snakes around, and it seems they’re wailing about this Ramahavaly idol or other, just sneering like sneaksbies—appears it has something to do with Dr. Lyall. They don’t like him at all. Seen a few of those fetish priest coves what back the queen.”

  “Those bastards! Don’t they know we live here, too?” Tomaj shouted, stomping for the entry.

  “Darling, no!” Dagny yelped. “I don’t think it would be advisable! Remember—if they’re sent by the queen, they are no friends of mine, and also could have been sent by … “

  Exhaling, Tomaj turned back to her slowly. He savvied, but he didn’t much like it, and by now Lyall was tearing like a rigger down the hallway, hollering with a constrictor twined around his ankle.

  Tomaj shoved Bellingham. “Go see to Sal!” By the time he reached an arm out to grab Lyall to extricate him from the serpent, the British agent had unlocked the door, torn it open, and had tripped off down the street, away from the jeering crowd.

  Tomaj could not resist shouting at the mob, “Veloma!” Goodbye! “Get away with you! The British doctor is gone, now I want every last one of you to leave!” before slamming the door.

  The three ambulatory vazaha spent another hour seeking out snakes, lacerating at least seven more, including one that had snuggled down into the bottom of the bathtub for a light snooze. Tomaj tossed the snake parts into a pile in the back garden. Zeke, having heard the commotion from his tavern, joined them, discovering two last serpents in the backhouse when he went to piss.

  “Well,” Zeke grumped when they at last settled down in Sal’s room with various glasses of booze. “That was enough to scare the rumplestiltskin out of me for a good long time.”

  Tomaj and Bellingham grinned, but Dagny did not laugh. She sipped her champagne, curled up like a young girl beside Sal in bed. “I’d say that just about decides it.”

  Tomaj inquired, “Decides what, my pet?”

  She looked to Sal, whose face gleamed with liveliness, propped up on pillows Dagny had placed behind his head. “Well, it really depends upon how Sal feels,” she sighed. “But I don’t see how we can remain in this house any longer. I’m foolishly endangering my family by insisting on continuing to stay here.”

  Tomaj glanced at Dagny coquettishly from under his lashes, and blinked. “That’s the best decision,” he said solemnly.

  “Oh, devilish!” Bellingham howled, clutching a snifter of the brandy that never seemed to stand him in good stead. “I don’t like it in this town full of dunghills anyway. It’s full of filthy scrubs. I want to get back to my
mates and live the rum life of Barataria!”

  Everyone stared at him blankly, so he adjusted the lapels of his monkey jacket and composed himself. “I mean to say … it’s the best decision.”

  Dagny laughed, a beautiful sound of bells. She smoothed a lock of hair from Sal’s forehead. “When Sal’s ready to travel, of course.”

  “Oh!” Sal said softly. “You can just pile me onto a filanzana alongside your specimens. I’m ready any time.”

  Zeke sighed. “I can send a few lubberly coves around tomorrow to help you pack up things, a few gents that owe me rent. You know I can’t go.”

  “You’re welcome, any time they start putting snakes in your backhouse,” Tomaj told him. “Come visit when you’re ready to hand the tiller to Izaro for a couple of days.”

  Zeke nodded grimly at him.

  “Yes,” Dagny said. “I suppose we have no option but to join the pirates now.”

  Dagny’s leg splint was removed the same day Antoine Youx returned from Zanzibar.

  That was fortunate, as the joiner Smit was the one who’d fashioned the splint around her leg. Smit returned to Barataria along with the rest of the joyous crew, full of tidings regarding a “prize” they had obtained in the Mozambique Channel. Smit described it to Dagny as an Indiaman laden with silks and spices, her capstan and binnacle cased in fluted mahogany. She was now in the anchorage at Mavasarona Bay, the whole of the Harmony Row crew going over her doing bright woodwork and boot-topping.

  The entire plantation was awash with goodwill and bustle, Hector tearing after Zaleski entreating him to teach new science books written in Arabic, and Broadhecker constantly fore and aft through the portico, wondering where to stow new stores, as the godowns in Tamatave were a thing of the past. Slushy was suddenly chief cook and bottle washer in the kitchen, imbued with fresh importance as he lectured Ramonja on the importance of cinnamon in the piquant concoction that was curry, and how one must crush all of the spices in a mortar and pestle made of marble.

  Tomaj in particular was distracted by all the commotion. Dagny had hoped that when the leg splint was removed, he would have a newfound interest in her. Ever since the Bay of Antongil junk fire, he had been somewhat remote. Dagny knew the presence of Lyall in the cottage had stayed his interest in her. Now Lyall was gone (to the Mauritius, awaiting recall, some said), and Tomaj still evinced no more excitement toward her than an elephant bird displayed to a tenrec.

  Alexander Cameron came visiting the same day, further adding to the confusion. Dagny reclined in a chaise longue on the front lawn, among the scattered remnants of the leg splint.

  “Leg’s a bit shriveled,” Smit opined, stuffing his saw and other tools into a knapsack. “That’s bound to happen. Wood tends to shrink when encased for awhile. I wouldn’t get cacothymia over it. Once it’s exposed to air—”

  “Her leg’s not made of wood!” Broadhecker remarked. “Is that all you can think about—wood? Cameron!” He hailed Cameron as the filanzana bearers set him down in the coral drive. “Good to see you’re still here.”

  “I’ll always be here,” Cameron grunted, struggling to stand with the help of Broadhecker. He brushed off his waistcoat, farted, then took note of Dagny in her chaise. “Miss Ravenhurst!” New brisk color came into his face.

  Dagny teetered to one side as she stood, still needing the assistance of the crutch. She was glad her skirts covered her shriveled leg. “Alexander. What brings you here?”

  Cameron cleared his throat. “Well. I have news that’s perhaps best… best told to Count Balásházy. Where is he?”

  “Oh. And it’s something that Slushy doesn’t already know? Ellie!” Dagny waved an arm at the woman on the portico. “Where is the captain?”

  Cameron prated on about the price of rubber in the Guinea Coast. It may as well have been the status of copra in Zanzibar for all Dagny knew or cared when the captain himself emerged, clad in a plush gentleman’s coat of velvet shot through with silver lace. For whom did he dress so gallantly? Did she interest him so little since she’d broken her desiccated leg? He appeared more caring of Sal. Did one have to nearly die in order to warrant his love?

  No one saw her stagger on her crutch, for all eyes were upon the glorious captain, sauntering down the steps and greeting Cameron, as though he’d just come from a thorough Turkish bath. His tourmaline eyes glimmered, his lusciously obsidian hair flowed into a queue-knot that seemed to be made of rare gems, and indeed, he even had roses in his cheeks. How could he thrive so, while barely batting an eye at her? The velvet coat was so long that it brushed against the ankles of a new pair of Hessian boots, most likely shined by Slushy himself.

  “Your Boston whaler friends have been rejected from Tamatave port,” Cameron told him. “But then, we knew that would happen.”

  “Yes, I know that. I expect them any moment down in the harbor. I’ve hidden all of the kippered herring, so they don’t need to vomit in my reception room. Will you come in and share some Burgundy with me?”

  “Ah, you know I’d like that more than anything, Tomaj. But my chief filanzana bearer was discovered this morning, and he appeared to be lacking a …” Cameron coughed some more, and stared at the crushed coral at his feet.

  Tomaj even laughed! “Lacking a head? No worry, Cameron, that’s happening all over. Come inside and—”

  Cameron drew himself up to a haughty level. “I have other news, Tomaj. The queen is bamboozled.”

  Dagny looked sideways at Broadhecker, who seemed equally perplexed. “Drunk?” she whispered.

  Perhaps Cameron heard her, for he cleared his throat again and clarified, “She’s in a delicate condition.”

  Not a facial muscle moved for many long moments, there on the lawn. A lone whistling frog twittered from the eastern forest. It was obviously Tomaj’s place to make the next remark.

  “Well, then. That just about settles things.”

  He looked at Dagny. A remote smile played about the edges of his mouth. “Will you come upstairs with me? Here, let me assist you.”

  Dagny was so astonished that her arm was limp as he took it in his hand, and he steered her back to the house.

  Tossing down the crutch, Tomaj bent and gallantly carried her up the curving staircase.

  He carried her lightly, effortlessly, like the day he’d caught her in his arms when she’d jumped from the longboat. He smiled, as if this was something he did every day, occasionally glancing down at her.

  What’s he doing? I have one boot on, and he’s looking at my deformed leg. He’s probably going to show me an animal skeleton.

  He carried her past a tall landing window of stained glass, elongated images of Saint Peter and the dragon casting rich shadows across his shoulders. His long gentleman’s coat was imbued with a wonderful aroma of eucalyptus that lulled Dagny into relaxation. Allowing her head to lie against his warm shoulder, she breathed deeply of his scent.

  He had sentries posted upstairs, too. One bent stiffly at the waist to shove open a heavy door. The sentry looked like the same cove that had stood outside the great cabin on the Bombay Oyster.

  After walking what seemed like an entire mile, his boots sounding against the wooden floor, he laid her down upon a soft bed that was canopied, draped with bright oriental silks. Smoothing her hair back from her forehead, his enigmatic smile gave her the confidence to unfurl her arms above her head and squirm, the elegant fabrics slithering beneath her limbs. She felt like a princess sitting atop one tiny pea.

  His thumb caressed her cheekbone. “Now.”

  He stood, going to a sideboard of some sort, and she heard the crisp clink of glassware.

  Now. Dagny breathed deeply. He’ll give me a glass of champagne, and all will be made right. She hid her leg under her skirts. A pencil etching on the wall looked to have been drawn by Tomaj’s mother, a street scene that Dagny could almost identify as being the Sixth Ward in New York. She turned her head to rub her face against a pillow. This is where he sleeps. The vision of him sliding
lightly beneath the silken sheets, stretching sinuously in his naked glory, filled her with joy. She spread her fingers out. The cracking in her hand bones felt glorious.

  He came back to the bed with two glasses of champagne. He sat, bowling her over so that she draped her arm across his thigh. His smile was profoundly sad, as it had always been during the first months she’d known him. “My love. That entire … incident aboard the junk put the fear of… well, the fear of death into me. Not my own death, for I have no fear of that. But yours. I felt I’d failed you, failed to keep you safe, for it was only because of me that those barbarians were even in these waters.”

  He spoke softly, reflectively. Tears burned in Dagny’s eyes, and she couldn’t stop her lower lip from trembling. “You know that my wife perished in a fire in Louisiana.” Dagny brought a hand to her mouth, but Tomaj rushed on, as though to distract her from the impact of that revelation. “I felt then that I hadn’t protected her with all the means at my behest, so if I never loved again, this would never happen. But I did love again.”

  “Yves.”

  “I thought since it was another man, the pain of loss couldn’t possibly go as deep. I thought I was safe, but … I wasn’t. I thought if I only shared my bed with ramatoas and another man that I would become immune to the pain of loss. Now I have fallen in love with you and …”

  Dagny closed her eyes briefly, squeezing a tear from each. “Oh, Tomaj.”

  He removed the champagne glass from her hand and kissed her palm. A thrilling shiver exploded up her arm, stiffening her nipples. The things the man could do with merely his mouth …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A KEG OF GREEN TURTLE SOUP

  HOW ODD IT FELT, SPEAKING SO PLAINLY OF HIS FEELings. It had taken Tomaj weeks merely to piece his odd internal logic together, to analyze the pieces, to understand why he’d been reacting so violently to the fire aboard the junk. To be sure, he’d managed to shoot and hack a few ricemen into pulp before discovering Dagny, Sal, and Bellingham crawling beneath the snakes of smoke on deck. That mitigated the impotent feeling somewhat. But it had wrenched his heart in two to feel once again that he was the cause of his loved one’s demise. He could not look at Dagny without thinking of Madeline, burned to death by the American navy because she loved a mariner who worked for Jean Lafitte.