Evil

by Cave, Hugh

  The sensation of being pulled at was beginning to make Sam uneasy. He rose, nodding.

  As he followed Victor to the door, he wondered whether Dr. Roger Laurence Bell did indeed have some peculiar power. And whether his daughter might have inherited some of it. She was a lot like Daddy in many other ways.

  4

  In front of the red, red house

  in the mountain clearing,

  in the faint light of the false dawn,

  Ti Pierre Bastien waits with two mules.

  Wide-shouldered, wasp-waisted and impatient,

  he keeps glancing at the door of the house

  until at last

  the bearded white man shuffles out of it

  like one walking in sleep.

  "Are you ready, Dr. Bell?"

  "I think so."

  "We can go now?"

  "He says we can."

  Bastien helps the smaller man to mount,

  then swings onto his own mule

  and clucks to it.

  They ride from the compound slowly.

  The false dawn

  is followed swiftly by renewed darkness.

  The trail is difficult.

  The mules' hoofs clatter against unseen rocks

  and strike drumbeats from the dark earth,

  and the snort of their breaths

  is loud in the mountain stillness.

  Beyond the village of Bois Sauvage

  Bastien turns from the trail

  to a faintly marked side track.

  Bell calls to him,

  "Wait. This is not the way we came."

  "We are not returning the way we came."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Ask Margal. He gave me my instructions."

  "How can I ask him now? Talk sense."

  "You can ask him, Dr. Bell. You know how."

  The white man struggles against what he must do,

  but listens.

  Listens to what?

  The mountain stillness?

  The thudding of his heart?

  Into his head comes a voice,

  a whisper, a murmur,

  then louder.

  "Yes, Dr. Bell,

  I told your guide not to take you out

  the way you came.

  I prefer to have people think

  you are still here in these mountains.

  Have you other questions, Dr. Bell?"

  "Stop doing this to me, Margal!

  Give me back my mind!"

  "When I am finished with it, Dr. Bell.

  Remember,

  you came to me,

  not I to you."

  5

  The youngster's family name was Sam, or she said it was, and that presented a problem. All the whole damned way I'm going to be reminded of the guy, Kay Gilbert thought. Then she shrugged. What was the difference? She thought of him most of the time anyway.

  Sam. There were more than a few Sams in Haiti. She knew a doctor with that name in Port-au-Prince. Had heard of a lawyer and a merchant. And hadn't there been a President Guillaume Sam who was dragged from his refuge in the French legation and dismembered by a mob some years ago, during an uprising? History was not her best subject.

  Now, this nine-year-old girl child on the jeep seat beside her, with the skinny body and sad, little-bird face and expressive eyes—oh, those eyes!—had dredged the name Tina Louise Christine Sam out of her impaired memory only a few days ago, along with the name of her home village. So now at last she could go home. She had been living in the Schweitzer compound for months, with nurse Kay Gilbert, her self-appointed big sister.

  Big-sister Kay, of course, had volunteered to be the one to take her home. Who else would the child have agreed to go with? Kay was wearing not a nurse's uniform, but khaki pants and shirt in anticipation of what lay ahead for the next few days.

  "Are you feeling okay now, ti-fi? The headache gone?"

  Tina had headaches often. She had been immobilized by one most of the morning, which was why the expedition had got off to a late start and now, in midafternoon, was only just passing through the town of Ennery at the foot of the big climb.

  "Thank you, I'm fine."

  "Tell me again the name of this place we're going to."

  "Bois Sauvage."

  "You're sure now? You didn't just hear that name somewhere?"

  "No, Miss Kay. That's where I live. Honest."

  "Why couldn't you remember it before?"

  "Well, I don't know. If I couldn't remember my name, how could I remember where I lived? All I know is that one of the doctors was reading me names from a map, and when he read Bois Sauvage it was as if a light flashed on in my head."

  Bless that doctor. They had tried for so long to cure this child's amnesia.

  "Well, all right, baby, I believe you," Kay said and devoted her full attention to the climb. It certainly demanded one's attention. This ascent to the top of the world was a fantastic corkscrew paved with blocks of stone. The hairpin curves made your wrists ache.

  At the crest, she stopped to let the jeep quit boiling, and sat limp behind the wheel while she took in the awesome view of northern Haiti, surely one of the most spectacular chunks of landscape in the Caribbean. "Dèyê morne gange morne," went the Creole proverb: "Beyond the mountains are mountains." Looking east, she wondered which of the tortured ridges in that direction concealed the Bois Sauvage she was bound for.

  How would she ever get there if it was where the map said it was?

  Suddenly the view was gone, wiped out by scudding clouds that smothered the road and jeep in a sneaky swift assault. Scared, she looked at the watch on her wrist. "Baby, we shouldn't have stopped. And we can't just sit here." Gingerly, she started the motor and let the clutch in, holding the vehicle to a crawl as she first tried the headlights, then put them out when the mist reflected them back at her.

  In low gear at two or three miles an hour, the jeep crept down through the clouds while she strained to see the edge of the road. Nothing but space lay beyond that curving edge in places, and after ten minutes, she was so tense, she was ready to scream. Then, slowly the mist dissolved; the road became clear again.

  "Whew!" She reached out and patted the child's knee. "What a time that would have been to meet a bus!"

  A little later, when she had just relaxed enough to peer down at the switchbacks awaiting her below, they did indeed encounter a camion. Crudely painted orange and red, resembling an outsize roller-coaster car, it stood by the side of the road, pointed north in the direction they were traveling. Its crazy tilt indicated wheel trouble or a broken axle. Disembarked passengers paced up and down the road's edge or stood watching two men at work under the vehicle.

  As the jeep approached at a crawl and she sought a way past, a man stepped into the road and held up a hand to stop her.

  "Bon soir, Madame. Are you going to Cap Haitien?"

  "Well . . ." The hesitation was caused by his ugliness. He was a huge man, and his face looked as hard as the paving stones she had been driving over. The whites of his eyes were as red as parts of the camion. He had almost no ears.

  How did the old folk song go? "Black men with little ears are wild men." It was supposed to have a hidden meaning.

  "I beg you a lift," he said, and it was more threat than entreaty, the way he glared at her and stepped closer. One heavy hand grasped the edge of the windshield. "I absolutely must get to Le Cap today!"

  Oh, brother, she thought. All that way with a creature like this in the car? But she was afraid to say no to him. He looked capable of preventing the jeep from moving if she attempted to drive on without him.

  "Well . . . all right. Get in."

  He let go the windshield and stepped to the rear, where he climbed in over the tailgate with fluid ease. Choosing the metal bench-seat on her side of the vehicle, he said, "Merci, Madame," and then was silent. Kay put the jeep in motion, his closeness frightening her so much that she needed a bathroom. How could she stop with a m
an like him there?

  The road descended, and after a while she found herself negotiating the hairpin turns she had looked down on from so far above. They were in the Plaisance River valley now, with the big climb and descent behind them and the countryside now so green and pretty—so much more so than the part of Haiti she worked in—that she began to feel less tense. Presently, she heard their passenger saying, "And what is your name, little girl?"

  Evidently, Tina did not think him intimidating. Without hesitation she replied brightly, "My name is Tina, M'sieu."

  "Tina what?"

  "Sam."

  There it was again, damn it. And, as always, her mind produced a picture for her to concentrate her feelings on. This time it was a picture of him standing bareheaded in the blazing Jacmel sun, forking up a patch of red earth while a couple dozen barefoot farmers stood around watching in astonishment. It was the weekend he had persuaded her to drive out there with him and see what he was trying to accomplish.

  What he'd been doing was teaching a few hundred peasant farmers some of the things he knew about agriculture that they didn't know. And, unlike some other such people she had heard about, he didn't just talk.

  They loved him. "Sure, M'sieu Sam. Of course, M'sieu Sam." Lots of laughter. Many willing hands.

  Afterward, at the pension where he lived and she would be staying overnight, she had been impressed again. He had warned her that the food was sometimes pretty awful. "But he does his best with what he can scrounge up, so don't blame him too much, hey?" Actually, the rice and black mushrooms—djon-djon, they called it—were truly tasty, and the chicken, though tough, was good too. It had been a cousin, no doubt, to the hens that wandered in and out of the dining room all through the meal. And the important thing in any case was not the food, but the way the Haitian proprietor so fondly laid a hand on Sam's shoulder when he came to ask if everything was satisfactory.

  "It's great, Leon. Thanks."

  "And your lady?"

  "1 enjoyed every mouthful, M'sieu," she had said.

  "Thank you, M'selle. Thank you very much."

  Afterward: "Now, look, Kay. This pension is a crazy kind of place, but the town itself is one of the most interesting in the country. Want to see some of it?"

  "You bet."

  So they had gone walking . . . past the open market with its iron posts and roof and mobs of people milling about; down the steep hill to the waterfront to look at ruggedly basic sailboats that carried goods and passengers around the coast; up again under all those overhanging balconies with lacy iron railings that glistened like spider webs in the moonlight. Then, intrigued by a sound of drumming, they had sought its source and suddenly found themselves caught up in a Saturday night street dance.

  Those people knew him, too. "Bon soir, M'sieu Sam!" "Woy, woy, M'sieu Sam!" Even "Hi, M'sieu Sam, come join us with your lady!"

  Your lady, Sam. I got a kick out of that. But then—everything that happened later.

  The child at her side and the ugly man behind her were having quite a conversation, she suddenly realized. "So you see," Tina was saying, "I have been at the hospital a long time because I couldn't remember anything. Not my name or where I lived or anything. But I'm all right now, so I can go home."

  "I'm glad."

  "Now tell me your name and where you live."

  "Well, little one, my name is Emile Polinard and I live in Cap Haitien. I have a shop there where I make furniture."

  "What kind of furniture?"

  "Chairs and tables mostly. It's not a really big shop. But I use good wood, like mahogany and tavernon. That's why I went to Port-au-Prince, to buy some tavernon."

  "And you were on your way home when the camion broke down, huh?"

  "When it broke an axle, yes. And how that driver and his helper expect to fix it is beyond me. I'm certainly grateful to Le Bon Dieu for causing you to come along when you did."

  Seeing something odd in the road ahead, Kay moved her foot from the gas pedal. It was a length of green bamboo stuck upright in a pothole, its slender leaves fluttering in the wind. Tapping her on the shoulder as the jeep slowed to a halt, Emile Polinard said, "The Limbé bridge has been damaged in a flash flood, Madame. It is necessary to drive through the river."

  "How do I get down to the river?"

  "There is a turn-off just ahead on your right, where that girl is standing." He pointed to a girl about eighteen. She was barefoot, and bore on her head a battered galvanized wash pan full of laundry. She peered out from under it as the jeep approached.

  When it was abreast of her she suddenly flung up a hand and cried. "Wait! Wait!"

  Again, Kay stopped.

  The girl came closer and peered in at her. "But, yes! It is Nurse Gilbert from the hospital!" She might have been greeting a dear friend not seen in years. "How are you, M'selle! You remember me?"

  It happened sometimes. People Kay had taken care of at the Schweitzer remembered her much later and expected her to remember them. And sometimes she did, but not this time. The girl with the laundry laughed at her embarrassment and said cheerfully, "Of course you don't. At least, not by name. How could you, with all those people to look after?" She turned to peer down the road. "You are crossing the river, M'selle?"

  "Well, yes. We're on our way to Le Cap."

  "Follow me, please."

  Briskly, she turned from the road and went trudging down a steep, rutted slope. The jeep crept after her. The ruts continued for a short distance across a weedy flat, and then Kay saw the stream ahead. It was wider than she remembered it. Two low islands of dark, stony sand separated channels of swift water.

  "Can we make it?" she asked Polinard.

  "I believe so, Madame. The bus came through yesterday on its way to the capital, though the stream was lower then. Rain must have fallen again last night."

  Without even removing the pan from her head, their guide strode up along the river's edge for fifty yards, then turned and waded across the first rush of water to the nearest island. Kay followed. Gripping the wheel, she could feel the force of the current against the vehicle, and water gurgled in around her feet.

  The girl trudged on, now and then turning her head to make sure the jeep was still following. Traversing the bar, she chose a zigzag route through the next channel, then went far to her right on the second bar before challenging the last swift flow of water between it and the far bank. Good Lord, Kay thought, I never would have found a way across here by myself.

  When the jeep struggled up onto dry land again, the girl was waiting, the pan of clothes still balanced on her head, and a bright smile on her face. Kay stopped beside her. "What can I say? If you hadn't done that, I'd be stuck somewhere in the river right now, and if we had more rain . . ." She was trembling, she realized, reacting now that the crossing was safely behind them. Her hand refused to be steady as she reached into her bag for some money.

  The girl stepped back, shaking her head. "No, M'selle!"

  "But you must. After what you've done—"

  "No!" She shook her head so emphatically, that for the first time she was in danger of losing her laundry.

  "Then tell me your name, please."

  "Celestine Cassagnol, M'selle."

  "I'll never forget it again, believe me." Kay reached out to grasp and squeeze her hand. "Thank you, Celestine."

  "It seems you have a lot of friends," Emile Polinard commented as they climbed to the road beyond the broken bridge and put the Limbé behind them.

  She only nodded, too wrung out to be drawn into a conversation with him. His remark stuck in her mind, though, perhaps because Sam had said almost the same thing that night in Jacmel. But was it so surprising? She had been at the Schweitzer a longtime, and people from all over the country came there for treatment. In a crowd of maybe two hundred at the bamboche that night, three had called her by name. "Crashing my territory," Sam had said, obviously delighted. "Don't you know this is my town, woman?"

  The kind of street dance called a bam
boche was strictly a peasant romp and not a thing outsiders usually took part in, but she had enjoyed this one as an off-beat adventure, even though the night air was soon musty with body odors and the drumming gave her a headache. Sam, of course, ate it up. Yet he, not she, had been the one to call a halt.

  "What's the matter?" They had been dancing face to face about a foot apart and she had stepped back to frown at him, sensing a sudden change. Then she realized the change was not in him alone; the noise level all through the crowd had dropped significantly, and the dancing had slowed to a shuffle.

  She followed Sam's gaze and saw, on the sidewalk, under a street lamp, a motionless figure that seemed to be staring back at him with almost savage intensity. A man of middle age, thinner than most, wearing dark pants and a long-sleeved scarlet shirt. The crowd watched him as Sam did, as though waiting to see what he would do.

  "Sam, what is it?"

  "I think we'd better leave, Kay. We're spoiling the party."

  "But—"

  "Tell you later. Come on, but don't make it too obvious that we're running." Casually waving a hand to the dancers, he put an arm around her waist and led her away, and she sensed that he was, if not scared, at least apprehensive. Not until they were well clear of the crowd and walking down the street toward the pension did he speak again.

  "That was a fellow named Fenelon, Kay. He hates my guts."

  "Why?"

  "He's the voodoo priest, or bocor—Godknows which. Most of my farmers go to him. An unconscionable leech who bleeds them dry. I work like the devil teaching them how to make a little money from their farming, and he gets too much of it away from them."

  "And you've been putting him down?"

  "I've been telling them he's a phony and to stay clear of him. To hell with it." His arm tightened about her. "Let's just sit at Leon's little bar with a drink and decide what to do with the rest of the night."

  She didn't want to remember the rest of that night now. She had other problems, chief of which was a bladder that at any moment might demonstrate its independence. How, dear God, could she go to the bathroom?