The Cay

by Theodore Taylor

When the sky began to turn a deep blue, Timothy roused himself and looked around. He said, with just an unfriendly glance at me, “If luck be, d’flyin’ feesh will flop on d’raff. We can save a few biscuit by eatin’ d’feesh. Too, wattah is in d’feesh.”

  I was hungry but the thought of eating raw fish didn’t appeal to me. I said nothing.

  Just before dark, they began skimming across the water, their short, winglike fins taking them on flights of twenty or thirty feet, sometimes more.

  A large one shot out of the water, skimmed toward us, and then slammed into the raft flooring. Timothy grabbed it, shouting happily. He rapped its head with his knife handle and tossed it beneath the shelter. Soon another came aboard, not so large. Timothy grabbed it, too.

  Before total darkness, he had skinned them, deftly cutting meat from their sides. He handed me the two largest pieces. “Eat dem,” he ordered.

  I shook my head.

  He looked at me in the fading light and said softly, “We will ’ave no other food tonight. You bes’ eat dem, young bahss.” With that, he pressed a piece of the fish against his teeth, sucking at it noisily.

  Yes, they were different. They ate raw fish.

  I turned away from him, over on my stomach. I thought about Curaçao, warm and safe; about our gabled house in Scharloo, and about my father. Suddenly I blamed my mother because I was on the raft with this stubborn old black man. It was all her fault. She’d wanted to leave the island.

  I blurted out, “I wouldn’t even be here with you if it wasn’t for my mother.”

  I knew Timothy was staring at me through the darkness when he said, “She started dis terrible wahr, eh, young bahss?” He was a shadowy shape across the raft.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  TOTAL DARKNESS blotted out the sea, and it became cold and damp. Timothy took the shelter down, and we both pulled our shirts and pants back on. They were stiff from salt and felt clammy. The wind picked up, blowing fine chill spray across the raft. Then the stars came out.

  We stayed in the middle of the raft, side by side, as it drifted aimlessly over the sea. Stew Cat rubbed his back against the bottoms of my feet and then curled up down there. I was glad because he was warm.

  I was thinking that it was very strange for me, a boy from Virginia, to be lying beside this giant Negro out on the ocean. And I guess maybe Timothy was thinking the same thing.

  Once, our bodies touched. We both drew back, but I drew back faster. In Virginia, I knew they’d always lived in their sections of town, and us in ours. A few times, I’d gone down through the shacks of colored town with my father. They sold spicy crabs in one shack, I remember.

  I saw them mostly in the summer, down by the river, fishing or swimming naked, but I didn’t really know any of them. And in Willemstad, I didn’t know them very well either. Henrik van Boven did, though, and he was much easier with them.

  I asked, “Timothy, where is your home?”

  “St. Thomas,” he said. “Charlotte Amalie, on St. Thomas.” He added, “ ’Tis a Virgin Islan’.”

  “Then you are American,” I said. I remembered from school that we had bought the Virgins from Denmark.

  He laughed. “I suppose, young bahss. I nevar gave it much thought. I sail all d’islan’s, as well as Venezuela, Colombo, Panama.… I jus’ nevar gave it much thought I was American.”

  I said, “Your parents were African, Timothy?”

  He laughed, low and soft. “Young bahss, you want me to say I true come from Afre-ca?”

  “You say what you want.” It was just that Timothy looked very much like the men I’d seen in jungle pictures. Flat nose and heavy lips.

  He shook his head. “I ’ave no recollection o’ anythin’ ’cept dese islan’s. ’Tis pure outrageous, but I do not remember anythin’ ’about a place called Afre-ca.”

  I didn’t know if he was telling the truth or not. He looked pure African. I said, “What about your mother?”

  Now, there was deep laughter in his voice. “ ’Tis even more outrageous I do not remember a fatha or my mut-thur. I was raise by a woman call Hannah Gumbs.…”

  “Then you are an orphan,” I said.

  “I guess, young bahss, I guess.” He was chuckling to himself, rich and deep.

  I looked over toward him, but again, he was just a shadowy shape, a large mound. “How old are you, Timothy?” I asked.

  “Dat fact is also veree mysterious. Lil’ more dan sixty, ’cause d’muscle in my legs b’speakin’ to me, complain all d’time. But to be true, I do not know exact.”

  I was amazed that any man shouldn’t know his own age. I was almost certain now that Timothy had indeed come from Africa, but I didn’t tell him that. I said, “I’m almost twelve.” I wanted him to know I was almost twelve so that he would stop treating me as though I were half that age.

  “Dat is a veree important age,” Timothy agreed. “Now, you mus’ get some natural sleep. Tomorrow might be a veree long day, an’ we ’ave much to do.”

  I laughed. There we were on that bucking raft with nothing to do except watch for schooners or aircraft. “What do we have to do?” I asked.

  His eyes groped through the darkness for mine. He came up on his elbows. “Stay alive, young bahss, dat’s what we ’ave to do.”

  Soon, it became very cold and I began shivering. Part of it was coldness, but there was also fear. If the raft tipped over, sharks would slash at us, I knew.

  My head was aching violently again. During the day, the pain had been dull, but now it was shooting along both sides of my head. Once, sometime during the early night I felt his horny hand on my forehead. Then he shifted my body, placing it on the other side of him.

  He murmured, “Young bahss, d’wind ’as shift. You’ll be warmer on dis side.”

  I was still shivering, and soon he gathered me against him, and Stew Cat came back to be a warm ball against my feet. I could now smell Timothy, tucked up against him. He didn’t smell like my father or my mother. Father always smelled of bay rum, the shaving lotion he used, and Mother smelled of some kind of perfume or cologne. Timothy smelled different and strong, like the black men who worked on the decks of the tankers when they were loading. After a while, I didn’t mind the smell because Timothy’s back was very warm.

  The raft plunged on across the light swells throughout the long night.

  I do not think he slept much during the night, but I’d been told that old people didn’t sleep much anyway. I woke up when there was a pale band of light to the east, and Timothy said, “You fare well, young bahss? How is d’ead?”

  “It still hurts,” I admitted.

  Timothy said, “A crack on d’ead takes a few days to go ’way.” He opened the trap on the raft to pull out the water keg and the tin containing the biscuits, the chocolate squares, and dry matches.

  I sat up, feeling dizzy. He allowed me half a cup of water and two hard biscuits, then fed Stew Cat with a wedge of leftover flying fish. We ate in silence as the light crept steadily over the smooth, oily sea. The wind had died and already the sun was beginning to scorch.

  Timothy chewed slowly on half a biscuit. “Today, young bahss, a schooner will pass. I’d bet a jum on dat.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “I do tink we are not too far from Providencia an’ San Andrés.”

  I looked hard at Timothy. “Are they islands?”

  He nodded.

  I kept looking at him. It seemed there was a film, a haze, separating us. I rubbed my eyes and opened them again. But the haze was still there. I glanced over at the red ball of sun, now clear of the horizon. It seemed dim. I said, “I think there is something wrong with my eyes.”

  Timothy said, “I warn you! You look direct at d’sun yestiddy.”

  Yes, that was it! I’d looked at the sun too much.

  “Today,” Timothy said, “do not eben look at d’wattah. D’glare is bad too.”

  He went about setting up the triangles for our shelter, and I took off
my clothes. After he had draped my pants and shirt, I got under the shelter. The pain in my head was almost unbearable now, and I remember moaning. Timothy tore off a piece of his shirt from the shelter roof, soaked it in fresh water and placed it over my eyes. There was worry in his voice as he talked.

  Awhile later, I took the cloth off my eyes and looked up. The inside of our shelter was shadowy and dark, but the pain had begun to go away. “It doesn’t hurt as much any more,” I said.

  “Ah, see, it jus’ takes time, young bahss.”

  I put the cool cloth back over my eyes and went to sleep again. When I woke up, it was night. Yet the air felt hot, and the breeze that came across the raft was warm. I lay there thinking.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “ ’bout ten.”

  “At night?”

  There was puzzlement in his voice. “ ’Tis day.”

  I put my hand in front of my face. Even in the very blackest night, you can see your own hand. But I could not see mine.

  I screamed to Timothy, “I’m blind, I’m blind.”

  “What?” His voice was a frightened roar.

  Then I knew he was bending over me. I felt his breath in my face. He said, “Young bahss, you cannot be blin’.” He pulled me roughly from the shelter.

  “Look at d’sun,” he ordered. His hands pointed my face. I felt the strong warmth against it, but everything was black.

  The silence seemed to last forever as he held my face toward the sun. Then a long, shuddering sigh came from his great body. He said, very gently, “Now, young bahss, you mus’ lie downg an’ rest. What ’as happen will go ’way. ’Tis all natural temporary.” But his voice was hollow.

  I got down on the hot boards, blinking my eyes again and again, trying to lift the curtain of blackness. I touched them. They did not feel any different. Then I realized that the pain had gone away. It had gone away but left me blind.

  I could hear my voice saying, far off, “I don’t feel any pain, Timothy. The pain has gone away.”

  I guess he was trying to think it all out. In a few minutes, he answered, “Once, ovah ’round Barbados, a mahn ’ad an outrageous crack on d’ead when a sailin’ boom shift. Dis mahn was blin’ too. Tree whole day ’e saw d’night. Den it true went away.”

  “Do you think that is what will happen to me?”

  “I tink dat be true, young bahss,” he said.

  Then he became very quiet.

  After a moment, lying there in darkness, hearing the creak of the raft and feeling its motion, it all hit me. I was blind and we were lost at sea.

  I began to crawl, screaming for my mother and my father, but felt his hard hands on my arms. He held me tight and said, low and soft, “Young bahss, young bahss.” He kept repeating it.

  I’ll never forget that first hour of knowing I was blind. I was so frightened that it was hard for me to breathe. It was as if I’d been put inside something that was all dark and I couldn’t get out.

  I remember that at one point my fear turned to anger. Anger at Timothy for not letting me stay in the water with my mother, and anger at her because I was on the raft. I began hitting him and I remember him saying, “If dat will make you bettah, go ’ead.”

  After a while, I felt very tired and fell back on the hot boards.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  I GUESS IT WAS TOWARD NOON on the third day aboard the raft that Timothy said tensely, “I ’ear a motah.”

  “A motah?”

  “Sssssh.”

  I listened. Yes, there was a far-off engine sound coming in faintly above the slap of the sea. Then I could hear Timothy moving around. “ ’Tis an aircraft,” he said.

  My heart began to pound. They were looking for us. I felt around, then crawled from beneath the shelter to look toward the sound. But I could see nothing.

  I heard the hinges on the trap door creak. Timothy said quietly, as though afraid to chase the sound away, “It knowin’ what we doin’ ’ere by seein’ smoke, I do believe.”

  He ripped down one of the triangle legs, and I heard cloth tearing. Soon he said, “We made d’torch, young bahss. D’mahn up dere be seein’ d’smoke all right, all right.”

  The faint drone of the aircraft seemed closer now. In a moment, I smelled cloth burning and knew he was holding the wrapped piece of wood toward the sky.

  He shouted, “Look downg ’ere.”

  But already the drone seemed to be fading.

  Timothy yelled, “I see it, I see it! Way to port!”

  I tried to make my eyes cut through the darkness. “Is he coming our way?”

  “Don’ know, don’ know, young bahss,” Timothy replied anxiously.

  I said, “I can’t hear it now.” There was nothing in the air but the sea sounds.

  Timothy shouted, “Look downg ’ere! Dere is a raff wit a lil’ blin’ boy, an’ old mahn, an’ Stew Cat. Look downg ’ere, I tell you.”

  The drone could not be heard. Just the slap of the water and the sound of the light wind making our shelter flap.

  We were alone again on the ocean.

  After a moment of silence, I heard the sizzle of the water as Timothy doused the torch. He sighed deeply, “I be ready next time for true. Let d’torch dry, den I be ready.”

  Soon he sat down beside me. “ ’Tis a good ting not to harass d’soul ovah dis. We are edgin’ into d’aircraft track, same as d’ship dey run.”

  I said nothing but put my head down on my knees.

  “Do not be dishearten, young bahss. Today, we will be foun’, to be true.”

  But the long, hot day was passing without sight of anything. I knew Timothy was constantly scanning the sea. It was all so calm now that the raft didn’t even seem to be drifting. Once, I crawled over to the edge to touch the warm water and felt Timothy right behind me.

  He said, “Careful, young bahss. D’sharks always hungry, always waitin’ for d’mahn to fall ovah-board.”

  Drawing back from the edge, I asked, “Are there many here?”

  “Yes, many ’ere. But long as we ’ave our raff, they do not meliss us.”

  Standing on the sea wall at Willemstad, sometimes I’d seen their fins in the water. I’d also seen them on the dock at the Ruyterkade market, their mouths open and those sharp teeth grinning.

  I went back under the shelter, spending a long time rubbing Stew Cat. He purred and pushed himself along my body. I was glad that I had seen him and had seen Timothy before going blind. I thought how awful it would have been to awaken on the raft and not know what they looked like.

  Timothy must have been standing over us, for he said, “D’cot not good luck.” After a moment he added, “But to cause d’death of a cot is veree bad luck.”

  “I don’t think Stew Cat is bad luck,” I said. “I’m glad he is here with us.”

  Timothy did not answer, but turned back, I guess, to watch the sea again. I could imagine those bloodshot eyes, set in that massive, scarred black face, sweeping over the sea.

  “Tell me what’s out there, Timothy,” I said. It was very important to know that now. I wanted to know everything that was out there.

  He laughed. “Jus’ miles o’ blue wattah, miles o’ blue wattah.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He realized what I meant. “Oh, to be sure, young bahss, I see a feesh jump way fo’ward. Dat mean large feesh chase ’im. Den awhile back, a turtle pass us port side, but too far out to reach ’im back.…”

  His eyes were becoming mine. “What’s in the sky, Timothy?”

  “In d’sky?” He searched it. “No clouds, young bahss, jus’ blue like ’twas yestiddy. But now an’ den, I see a petrel. While ago, a booby …”

  I laughed for the first time all day. It was a funny name for a bird. “A booby?”

  Timothy was quite serious. “Dis booby I saw was a blue face, mebbe nestin’ out o’ Serranilla Bank, mebbe not. Dey be feedin’ on d’flyin’ feesh. I true watchin’ d’birds ’cause dey tell us we veree close t
o d’shore.”

  “How does a booby look, Timothy?”

  “Nothin’ much,” he replied. “Tail like our choclade, sharp beak, mos’ white on ’is body.”

  I tried to picture it, wondering if I’d ever see a bird again.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  IN THE EARLY MORNING (I knew it was early because the air was still cool and there was dampness on the boards of the raft), I heard Timothy shout, “I see an islan’, true.”

  In wild excitement, I stumbled up and fell overboard.

  I went under the water, yelling for him, then came up, gasping. I heard a splash and knew he was in the water too.

  Something slapped up against my leg, and I thought it was Timothy. I knew how to swim, but didn’t know which way to go. So I was treading water. Then I heard Timothy’s frightened roar, “Sharks,” and he was thrashing about near me.

  He grabbed my hair with one hand and used his other arm to drag me back toward the raft. I had turned on my face and was trying to hold my breath. Then I felt my body being thrown, and I was back on the boards of the raft, gasping for air. I knew that Timothy was still in the water because I could hear splashing and cursing.

  The raft tilted down suddenly on one side. Timothy was back aboard. Panting, he bent over me. He yelled, “Damn fool mahn! I tol’ you ’bout d’shark!”

  I knew Timothy was in a rage. I could hear his heavy breathing and knew he was staring at me. “Shark all ’round us, all d’time,” he roared.

  I said, “I’m sorry.”

  Timothy said, “On dis raff, you crawl, young bahss. You ’ear me?”

  I nodded. His voice was thick with anger, but in a moment, after he took several deep breaths, he asked, “You all right, young bahss?”

  I guess he sat down beside me to rest. His breathing was still heavy. Finally, he said, “Mahn die quick out dere.”

  We’d both forgotten about the island. I said, “Timothy, you saw an island!”

  He laughed. “Yes, d’islan’! Dere ’tis.…”