Coconut Dreams

by Derek Mascarenhas

  “I can’t wait for the cashews this week,” said Clara. The actual feast of St. Francis of Assisi was in September, but the village celebration took place in May to avoid the monsoon and take advantage of the children being on summer holidays.

  “And the kadio bodio.” Felix was just imagining the sugary pretzel stick covered in nuts when he remembered the anniversary of his mother’s death always fell a few days after the celebration; this year also marked his twelfth birthday.

  He then saw riders on horseback gaining on the cart from the rear, led by Diego on his white horse. A small spotted deer, freshly killed, was draped over the horse’s neck.

  “Quick, hide!” said Felix. They both tried to bury themselves in the hay.

  The riders passed on the right. Felix poked out his head to see if they were gone, but Diego was turning back to stop the driver, so he and Clara dove back under the hay as the cart pulled off the road outside Tinto’s, a tea stall famous for its homemade liquors.

  “Come out of there!”

  At Diego’s command, Felix and Clara jumped down from the cart without arguing and brushed the hay from their clothes. Diego waved his arm at the driver, and as the bullock cart resumed its journey, he whistled to his friends, telling them he’d catch up. Then he turned back to the stowaways, towering over them on his horse.

  “You two are old enough to know not to sneak on the back of a cart like that. You could get hurt if it tips over.”

  Felix cast his eyes to the dusty red earth.

  Diego softened, and pointed to Felix’s slingshot. “Have you been practising your shot?”

  “Every day,” Felix replied.

  Clara, eyeing the creature around the horse’s neck, asked, “Did you kill that cheetal in the forest?”

  “Yes, but you two please don’t get any ideas. The forest is much more dangerous than a bullock cart, especially at night.”

  At this point, Wagh Marea emerged from Tinto’s, staggering over with a bottle of cashew fenny. “I see you’ve caught a small animal, Diego,” he said, more confident with his words than with his gait.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I once killed a full-grown tiger on a hunt.” Wagh puffed his thin chest out like a proud child and took a swig from the bottle.

  Diego shook his head. “You shouldn’t drink that in front of children.”

  Wagh briefly eyed Felix and Clara, as if just noticing them. Felix’s father had used fenny to start a fire, and when his older brother Jacob snuck a swig, he coughed for two minutes.

  “But how many men have tugged a tiger by the tail and lived to tell of it?” demanded Wagh.

  Diego raised his voice. “We hadn’t set out on a hunt.”

  “Ah, so the hunt found you.”

  “There have been sightings of strange men in the forest coming from Chikhli. That’s what we went to investigate.” Diego turned back to Felix and Clara. “Another reason for you not to go there. Now, I suggest you two get going home.” Diego tipped his hat to Wagh, spurred his horse, and rode off.

  Wagh’s body deflated. But then he tensed and shouted, “Lousy packlo! Thinks he’s so much better than us.”

  “We’d like to hear your tiger story next time,” Felix said, as they turned to go.

  “Us outcasts have to stick together,” Wagh shouted back with a raised bottle, and Felix and Clara hurried home on foot.

  The last of the day’s light was fading as Felix parted ways with Clara at her home, a squat yellow building that sat behind a weathered stone wall and two papaya trees.

  Felix continued the short distance to his own home, picking up his pace as he passed Mrs. Rocha’s. From her porch, the old woman shot an unwelcoming stare at him, as if he were a black cat crossing her path. Mrs. Rocha did have the most beautiful bougainvilleas; the white and pink blooms covered the stone wall around her house. Felix often wondered how such a rotten person could sit behind such a pretty sight.

  He hurried along to his house, opened the low metal gate, and ran up the verandah to discover his Nunna ironing dress shirts for church the next morning.

  “So late you’ve come,” she remarked.

  “Are Nicholas and Jacob home?”

  “Your brothers are older, Felix. And they came home to bathe and eat already.” Felix’s Nunna dipped her hand into a bowl of water and flicked droplets onto the shirt’s front. The small iron had hot coals inside, and when she ran it across the shirt, steam rose to the ceiling.

  She finished the last shirt with a few deft presses and hung it on a hanger. She then walked over to Felix, her bad knee causing a slight limp, and gave him a kiss on the forehead with her wrinkled lips. “Go eat. I kept your food out.” Then she added: “And go quietly past your father. He might still be asleep.”

  Felix was blessed with his mother’s dimpled smile and he shared it with his Nunna. He had learned not to smile this way to his father; it triggered a slow and sad remembrance in him.

  The hard cow-dung floor was cool against Felix’s bare feet. He tiptoed past the bedroom but jumped when he heard his father’s voice.

  “Felix. Come here.”

  Miguel was sitting on the bed, feet on the ground and shirtless. The room smelled of cigarettes.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Just out playing with Clara.”

  “Let me see your hands.”

  Felix held out his hands, eyeing the thin bamboo cane standing in the corner.

  When Miguel saw the purple stains, he shouted, “You know what they say about those trees!”

  “But it wasn’t afternoon.”

  “Do you want the schoolteacher haunting us?” Miguel made a move toward the cane but stopped himself. “And involving Clara. You’re going to lose your only friend. Now go wash your hands of that evil.”

  The twilit sky reflected in the water at the bottom of the backyard well, shattered by the pail as it crashed below. Washing his hands, Felix thought about how his Nunna had told him that it was only after his mother had died that his father had become superstitious. She’d told Felix this to make him feel better, but it had the opposite effect—and everything became even worse when the anniversary of his mother’s death approached each year.

  Only the week before, Miguel had erupted when they were collecting mangoes. Felix had been using his slingshot to knock the fruit from their backyard tree. His aim was excellent—he fired stones through the tree’s foliage and hit only the stems, so the ripe mangoes dropped down to his brothers below. Jacob and Nicholas jostled one another to catch the falling fruit. “Great job, Felix,” Nicholas said. With their father watching from the kitchen window, Felix felt proud and useful. But then Jacob smirked and said, “Yeah, almost makes up for killing our mom.” Enraged, Felix took aim at Jacob with the slingshot, holding it taut. He wanted to hurt his eldest brother, but something made him miss, and the stone landed in a hole in the yard, beside the stone fence.

  Miguel rushed outside. “There’s a snake living in that hole! Are you trying to bring more curses on this family? It will remember our scents and come to take revenge at night. Now go see the Shinari.”

  Obediently Felix went to the holy man, who gave him rice blessed with prayers. The Shinari wouldn’t take money, for fear of losing his God-given powers, so in exchange Felix had to give him the mangoes he’d collected, along with a week’s worth of bananas, and when he returned home, Miguel made Felix spread the rice around the entire perimeter of their house so the snake wouldn’t enter.

  The sun was down by the time Felix washed most of the purple from his hands. He remembered his dad’s warning about the schoolteacher, and before going back inside, he paused and stared at the almost full moon, thankful that at least his mother hadn’t also been turned into a ghost that haunted the village.

  Felix sat with his family at Sunday-morning mass, and Clara with hers, bu
t they caught each other’s eye when Father Constantine fell asleep after Communion. Felix tilted his head on his flattened palm to mimic a pillow, and Clara nodded. The priest was old, and it was sometimes difficult to tell if his eyes were open or not, but as the hymn ended it became clear he was asleep. The altar servers had already put the gold chalices away and returned to their seats. The rest of the congregation knelt in their pews, waiting for Father to stand, but he remained sitting.

  Felix motioned to Clara to look at a few of the younger children, who had also sensed what was happening. The kids swivelled around looking for confirmation, their eyes full of delight. The adults managed to keep the children in line before their laughter spread.

  Eventually, the organist started a new hymn, skilfully emphasizing some of the deeper notes. When he saw Father rousing, he quickly concluded the piece. Unaware of any aberration, Father rose, and the rest of the congregation followed.

  After mass, Felix and Clara walked home together to change out of their church clothes, then reunited under the bright yellow flowers of the golden rain tree—Clara’s choice.

  “Are you hunting bats with your brothers tonight?” Clara asked.

  “It’s a full moon, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know why you go with them. They’re so mean to you.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Felix looked past her, eyeing a carriage coming down the road. It was small, but fancier than most he had seen.

  “Why, because I’m a girl? They only invite you because you’re the best shot,” Clara said, but Felix ignored her: the horse pulling the carriage was as white as Diego’s, and the driver wore all black. This was odd, as few people wore black in the heat of summer, unless they were in mourning. But then, as the carriage slowed to a stop next to them, Felix noticed the driver’s white collar.

  “Hello, could either of you direct me to the church?” The priest had neatly parted, coffee-coloured hair, his skin as smooth as a boy’s and lighter than that of the native Goans in the village.

  Felix stepped forward, pointing. “Just down the road and to the left.”

  “Much appreciated.” The priest bowed his head slightly. “My name is Salvador Barroso, your new priest.”

  Both Felix’s and Clara’s eyes lit up, unaware they were getting a new priest and excited to be the first in the village to meet him.

  “Where did you come from?” Felix asked.

  “All the way from Lisbon, my young man.”

  “You met him?” Jacob asked Felix. Felix sat with his older brothers near the edge of the forest around a small fire they’d made from dry palm leaves and sticks. Nicholas held a stick over the fire with one of the flying fox bats impaled on it. The bat’s hair was singed off and the smell of roasted meat hung in the air.

  “Yeah, I talked to him for a while and told him where the church was,” Felix said. He was surprised how fast news had spread through the village. People who normally wouldn’t talk to him had asked about the new priest. Felix’s father even said they’d all meet him tomorrow on the feast day; usually when his family talked to Father Constantine after mass, he was excluded.

  “I heard Father Constantine didn’t even know the bishop was sending anyone.” Nicholas removed the bat from the fire and broke off a piece of steaming meat before he passed it around. The flying foxes gorged on fruit and nectar, so their flesh was more tender and tasty than any chicken or pork.

  The boys had snuck out of their home with flashlights to visit the guava and chikoo trees where the bats fed. The full moon made it easier to locate the bats high up in the trees, and then they used the flashlights to stun them. Although all three brothers fired rocks with their slingshots, only Felix’s shot hit: tonight he’d killed both bats.

  “He’s so old, he probably just forgot,” Jacob said, a piece of the cooked meat in his mouth. The way Jacob talked while eating annoyed Felix, the food smacking noisily around. Then he proceeded to lick his fingers.

  Nicholas said, “Do you remember the story of how Father Constantine tried to exorcise that haunted house at the top of the hill?”

  “Yeah, the door slammed shut when he started saying prayers, and his cap disappeared,” said Jacob, inserting another piece of meat in his mouth, “so he ran from the house with his Bible in his hand.”

  His brothers’ laughter bothered Felix. “Every year that story gets more exaggerated. When I first heard it, there was no door slamming or cap disappearing.”

  “Our brother doesn’t believe in ghosts,” Jacob said to Nicholas, “despite being born among them.”

  Felix was reminded of what Clara had said about his brothers. Maybe she was right. He speared the second bat through its mouth with a stick and held it over the flame. The fire crackled, then sizzled as fat dripped down into it.

  “If you really don’t believe in ghosts, then go into that house.” Jacob stared at Felix. “I bet you won’t.”

  The moon lit the way as the brothers walked past the cemetery where their mother was buried and past the statue of St. Francis of Assisi, up the hill to the haunted house.

  “What’s that noise?” Jacob asked.

  “What noise?” Nicholas said.

  “You don’t hear that banging?”

  Felix couldn’t hear anything, but judging by the smirk on Jacob’s face, he knew what his brother was going to say next.

  “Must be the schoolteacher. You know what they say—he roams these paths. If you keep walking, he’ll protect you, but if you look back, he’ll get you for sure.”

  “Felix, you better hope he protects you,” Nicholas added.

  Felix, silent, kept walking up the hill, but as they approached the top and he saw the property overrun by vegetation, his toes tingled with each step.

  The boys passed under the giant zamblam tree in the front yard, their feet crunching through stray palm fronds, greedy shrubs, and dead leaves that hid the red-stoned earth, and stopped in front of the house. The roof and walls were covered in vines that had been dried by the summer heat and were waiting for the monsoon to grow green again.

  “Well?” Nicholas finally said.

  Felix marched up to the house to show he was not afraid, though he swallowed as he neared the door, hoping it was locked. No luck: the door was slightly ajar, with a crack leading to darkness. As he pulled it open, the door scraped on the dirt ground. Moonlight illuminated the entrance, but no further, and Felix swept his flashlight ahead of him as he entered.

  The main room, other than a small table and rocking chair, was empty of furniture, and the air was stale. Felix took slow steps to the rocking chair. He could hear his brothers talking outside. As he was peering down the hallway, the front door slammed shut behind him. The moonlight vanished and Felix was left with the single beam of his flashlight. The seclusion sent a fright through him, and he shone the light erratically at different spots in the room, expecting to find the schoolteacher rising out of the dark.

  Laughter filtered in from outside. Felix went to the door and tried pushing it open, but something was blocking it. “Nicholas! Let me out!” Felix banged on the door. “Jacob!”

  No response.

  When he got out, he would fire so many stones at them, and never again miss on purpose. Felix slammed his shoulder into the door once more. When it didn’t budge, he turned and, following the beam of his flashlight, began to inch down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, brushing away spiderwebs and passing dark doorways he didn’t dare point his flashlight into.

  The hallway opened to a backroom. The windows were shuttered yet permitted slices of moonlight into the room. The back door was locked and one of the window shutters was jammed, but Felix was able to open the other window with some effort. Peering outside, he was glad to see the ground a few feet below. He turned off his flashlight and climbed out.

  In the backyard was an outhouse covered
in the same vines that thickened into the forest. As Felix began creeping around the house, he noticed a light in the forest. It looked like a bonfire with two dark shadows standing in front of it: one broad and looming, the other skinny and sticklike.

  A loud twang of metal hitting stone rang out. Felix cowered and looked all around. The figures had vanished. Another twang reverberated and the bonfire disappeared, too.

  When the sound came a third time, he ran.

  Heading into the front yard, he tripped in the weeds and dropped his flashlight, which went out as it hit the ground. He didn’t pick it up, just kept running, the sound ringing out behind him.

  Felix’s brothers were gone, but the sound had him scrambling down the hill. He slid and braced himself, and somehow managed not to tumble over on the way down. At the bottom he diverted his eyes from the statue and church and graves, sprinting past. It wasn’t until, doubled over and breathing hard, he stopped at Mrs. Rocha’s bougainvillea that he realized he couldn’t hear the sound anymore.

  A hand grabbed his arm.

  “Stupid child!” Felix’s father yelled. He was wearing a white cotton undershirt and shorts. “What were you thinking going to that house?”

  “I—”

  “I’ve already caught your brothers. Don’t you lie to me!” Miguel pulled Felix away by the arm. “I told you not to go messing with ghosts.”

  “There are no such things as ghosts!” Felix blurted out, then cowered, expecting to be hit.

  “I’ll teach you,” his father growled, dragging Felix through the front door of the house and slamming it behind him.

  The next morning at mass there wasn’t an empty seat in the church. The feast celebration usually attracted more parishioners than the normal weekly service, but the whole village had shown up to meet the new priest.

  Felix sat in the back row with his brothers, Nunna, and father. The boys squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, their bottoms raw and swollen. Miguel had given Nicholas and Jacob two whacks each with the cane, but Felix got five for talking back. He could still hear the whir of the cane cutting through the air. In the morning, Felix’s Nunna had given them all fresh gel from the aloe plant for their sores, and both Nicholas and Jacob apologized to Felix, looking genuinely sorry. “We were going to let you out but then heard the schoolteacher’s noise for real and couldn’t go back,” Nicholas said. “Did you hear it, too?” Jacob asked.