Kay sat. She had slept in her clothes, expecting the night to be cold, expecting to change to clean clothes in the morning and wash the slept-in ones at the first stream they reached. All that was unimportant now. She looked at Tina, then up at the woman's disfigured face. The child had stopped whimpering.
"She's asleep?"
"I think so, yes."
Joseph and Antoine were back in the room. They, too, sat. Both looked at Tina, then at Kay, no doubt waiting for an explanation. '
Don't she warned herself. You even try, and Joseph might decide to go back.
But they were not willing to sit there in silence. "M'selle," Joseph said, "what happened, please?" He had to be answered somehow.
"Well… I'm ashamed, but I believe I just had a bad dream. I don't remember what it was about, even. Only that it was frightening. Then I guess I woke Tina up, poor thing, and she began yelling. Really, I'm sorry."
"That is all?" Joseph asked.
"That's all."
But she could tell by the way they looked at her that they were not buying it.
14
Nothing could occur before dark, Alfred Oriol decided. The message he had sent the legless one could hardly be delivered before then. No one walked these trails more swiftly than young Kajo or knew more shortcuts, but the distance was still great. And, of course, the lad would not have employed an animal. Not when he had to leave Trou after dark and travel all night.
So then, relax. Just let the mules clop-clop along at their own good pace. Enjoy the journey and the anticipation of action later. Not to mention Margal's undoubted gratitude.
They had been riding since daybreak and it was now close to noon, the sun blazing brightly above the narrow gorge through which they traveled. Slowing his animal with a light pull on the reins, Oriol turned in the saddle and looked back at Mildred Bell. Loudly enough for his voice to carry the fifteen feet that separated them, he said, "Are you hungry, perhaps, M'selle? Should we stop to eat something?" He was certainly hungry.
She shook her head. "Not yet."
"As you say." Slouching in the saddle, he gave the mule its head again.
Twenty feet behind Mildred, Sam Norman heard the exchange and frowned. I don't like that bastard, Sam thought. I didn't like him when he was measuring out his flour and giving me the finger, and I don't like him one bit better now. I wish we hadn't hired him.
There was something he did like, though, to compensate for his negative feeling about Oriol. That was the unexpected durability and good nature of Mildred Bell. Whether because of her father's warning that she was not the outdoor type, or because of too early a judgment on his own part, he had expected this journey to be an ordeal. And, true, it was taking much longer than it would have taken, had he and Oriol been alone. There had been frequent stops because she was hurting. Who, subjected to the tortures of such a trail for the first time, would not be hurting? Yet she hadn't once complained, except to remark wryly that her bottom and the insides of her thighs would surely be black and blue for the rest of her life.
Okay, Milly, you're a gutsy gal. I guess I was wrong about you.
What, he wondered, was she thinking about as they pushed deeper and deeper into this tropical mountain wilderness which to her must seem as strange as something on another planet?
She was thinking about him. About their first meeting.
"Mildred," her father had said, "do you know that new man in agriculture? That fellow Sam Norman?"
"I'm afraid not, Daddy."
"Interesting man. He worked in Haiti for a number of years before coming here. I've asked him over for dinner on Sunday."
Strange. They seldom had callers. In fact, the rundown New England cottage they lived in, so inconveniently far from the campus, had been purely and simply an investment in privacy. Daddy's investment in privacy. Before Mother's death he had led a reasonably normal social life—she had demanded it—but since then, he'd been a loner, content to cocoon himself in with his research.
What kind of man would Professor Norman be? She was curious, naturally. Agriculture? Daddy had no interest in agriculture. The attraction was Norman's knowledge of Haiti, obviously. There were half a dozen books about Haiti on the shelves in the den. Herskovitz, Rigaud, Rodman… To Daddy, Haiti meant voodoo.
What ought she to have for Sunday dinner?
"What? Oh, the food. Good heavens, child, whatever you think best. You know that's not my department."
That's right, Daddy, the meals and the house are not your concern, are they? They weren't when Mother was alive, and they're not now. And that's partly the reason for the buried way we live, isn't it? For you buying this house. Because with Mother gone and you so helpless about ordinary, everyday things, you have to have me around in order to survive. So I'm kept under wraps. Were I to get married you'd be… well, darling, to use a phrase that would shock you, you'd be up shit's creek, wouldn't you?
The very thought of using such language to her father had made her gasp.
A leg of lamb, she had decided. She and Daddy ate chicken every Sunday, and this Sunday ought to be different. Sam Norman was tall, handsome, and young. Not more than a year or two older than she, she was certain. It wasn't true that she didn't know him. While she hadn't actually met him, she knew who he was. Daddy might try to keep her bottled up like Stevenson's imp, but she did visit the college now and then, chiefly on errands for him. And one day, driving past the college farm and seeing a group of students and their instructor lining out a field for something which to her was totally mysterious, she had stopped to watch. And a girl student in the car with her had said, "Isn't he refreshing in this stuffy old place?"
"Isn't who refreshing?"
"Professor Norman. The good-looking one in khaki."
No … not chicken for dinner. Even leg of lamb was awfully ordinary, but unless she was prepared to drive twenty miles, she couldn't do better.
Then, damn it, Daddy had gone and wasted it all.
Not intentionally, of course. Food just didn't mean anything to him. If she ever did leave him, he would probably exist on kippered herring snacks and crackers. "Perfectly adequate food, Mildred; we pamper our stomachs too much, anyway." So the roast of lamb, the mint sauce, the potatoes and cauliflower and Vermont apple pie came and went while Daddy dug for information on Haiti like a miner digging for gold and afraid his claims would run out before he reached it.
It was that kind of evening, Daddy doing his best to be relaxed and friendly but all the time entirely too tense to bring it off. At fifty-one he simply was not a relaxed and friendly man, no matter how much effort he expended. Slight of build, short of stature, he brought to mind a determined and rather unfriendly Scottish terrier. All through the meal she felt the Scottie had backed Sam Norman into a corner and was barking at him.
Toward the end, when Daddy's bladder, thank God, had forced him to excuse himself—a thing it could be relied on to do with some frequency—she had been able to talk to Sam alone for a few minutes. To her total astonishment, he had asked if she would like to go to a basketball game with him. The school was playing Rhode Island, he said, and the game was sure to be a good one. Did she care for basketball?
Not wanting to refuse, but afraid to accept without consulting her father, she had asked if she might call him with her answer, and he jokingly said he would be sitting by the phone. All of which seemed to indicate that he found her attractive. Which was something, even though one had to remember that few women other than students were available to him there.
After his departure, Daddy had said, "Well, Mildred, what do you think of him? Like him, do you?"
Be careful, she warned herself. "I think so. I don't dislike him."
Daddy wore the expression that usually meant his mind was hard at work. With a little effort, she probably could have read his thoughts. "Fascinating, the things he told us about Haiti. I'd like to know him better, Mildred."
"Would you? He asked if I'd go to the basketball game wi
th him Wednesday evening."
"And you said?"
"That I'd call him. I didn't want to say yes without asking you. But if you approve—"
"I certainly do."
"You're getting really keen about Haiti, aren't you?"
"Stop reading my mind."
"I don't have to. You can be pretty obvious at times, you know."
"Now, Mildred—"
Sensing he was annoyed, she had stepped forward and touched her lips to his cheek. "It's all right, Daddy," she said. "I'll cooperate."
Things kept reminding Sam Norman of the time he had ridden this same trail with Jack Ulinsky from the U.N.
There had been no special reason for that trip. They had become friends through their work—trying to help the Haitian peasant farmer produce more and better food—and both were interested in seeing as much of the country as possible before their tours of duty ended.
Getting two weeks off at the same time, with a jeep available, they had explored the Hinche area, visiting that hard-to-reach but marvelous Bassin Zim waterfall, then driving the incredible road from there to Cap Haitien and headed for Fort Liberté along the north-coast highway.
On inquiring at the Catholic church in Trou for a priest he had expected to find there, Ulinsky was told the man had been transferred to Vallière, back in the mountains. "Sam, let's go to Vallière!"
"Why not?"
"Gentlemen, you will need mules and a guide."
"Oh, come on, Father, we don't want a guide. We know this country."
"You don't know that part of this country." The priest smiled. "But all right, I'll draw a map and brief you. Sorry I can't put you up tonight—we're a bit crowded just now—but I'm sure my good friend Paul Lafontant will be able to, and obtain some mules for you as well"
It had been an adventure. And this trip was bringing it all back. The sound of the mules' hoofs in a deep green stillness. The sight of a mongoose streaking belly-down across the trail, turning its ratty head for a lightning look at the intruders before disappearing again. The sudden loud flutter of a big ground dove startled into flight. The haunting flute-notes of the musician bird, a creature so shy you almost never saw one. All just great.
He was remembering the stream crossings, the steep descents where high mossy walls shut out the light, the stiff climbs to heights from which the views were breathtaking. Most of all, he was recalling feelings. Especially the feeling that life was pretty damned good after all, and could properly be addressed with a yell of exultation while waving one's hat in the air. And this even without the rum he and Ulinsky had lugged along.
Feeling good, he fixed his gaze on Mildred, riding ahead of him behind their guide. Not the worst woman to be here with, he decided. But somewhere ahead was another one, bound for a village not far from the place they were headed for.
Would he overtake Kay Gilbert? Probably not, unless the youngster she was escorting slowed her down. But he might meet her in Bois Sauvage, or on her way back, if she returned at once.
Of course, she might just shake hands and say, "How are you, Sam Norman?" while looking straight through him. When you'd been monopolizing a woman for months, even sleeping with her, you were supposed to keep in touch, no? Letters, certainly. And telephone calls from Vermont to the West Indies were not earth-to-Mars, for God's sake.
When you hurt someone, you could at least apologize. Of course, she'll look right through you, Norman. What the hell do you expect? What else do you deserve?
Their guide had stopped. "M'selle, I think we should eat something, no?"
Mildred turned to Sam as he rode up. "What do you think, Sam?"
"He's right, I suppose. I know you're eager to get there and find out what's happened, but we have to stop for the night in Vallière, anyway." It would be nice to see Père Turnier again, he thought. Nice guy. Heart of gold and great sense of humor. And, oh, brother, those wild Chinese checker tournaments and dart games!
Seated beside the trail, with the mules tied twenty yards away so as not to flavor the food with sweat-smell, they ate Haitian bread rolls and canned corned beef from Paul Lafontant's shop in Trou and washed it down with water from canteens. You didn't drink the water in these mountain streams unless you were a Haitian peasant, immune to assorted micro-demons. There were almost always people upstream, even in the most remote districts, washing themselves, their babies, their clothes, and even their animals in the same water.
"How much farther is it to Vallière, Sam?"
"My memory's not that good. Oriol? How much more?"
"We will be there before dark," Oriol said. And then it will begin, perhaps. In any case, it will begin before morning, for the legless one won't want you coming closer than Valliêre.
"Then there's no need for us to push on as if the devil's after us, is there?"
"None at all, M'sieu." Because the devil will wait.
"Damn it, I should have brought some rum," Sam said.
Their guide rose and went to the mules. From a saddlebag on his own animal, he lifted a bottle of five-star Barbancourt which, on returning, he solemnly held out.
Sam opened the bottle and motioned the others to hold out their canteen cups. "Thanks, Oriol, I underestimated you."
Silently, their guide returned his grin.
15
The approach to Vallière was along a widening trail worn smooth over the years by bare feet with leather-tough bottoms. Crowds of near-naked youngsters lugged water from the river in gourds, lengths of bamboo, and such civilized containers as lard tins, most of them facing a wearying uphill walk as they struggled to supply their households before dark.
The mules found the uphill track to the church and rectory just as rugged. They used their last reserves of strength to negotiate it and were shining with sweat when at last allowed to halt.
Through the open rectory gate, which was made of tall wooden slats, paced a small woman wearing a white work dress and a red bandanna. She peered out, to see why the strangers had stopped. She was not one of the servants Sam remembered.
"Bon soir, Madame. Is Père Turnier here?"
"Who?"
"Pêre Turnier. I'm Sam Norman. He may remember me."
Frowning up at him, she wagged her head. "Père Turnier has not been here for a long time, M'sieu. The vicar is Père Remy now, but he is not here. He and his curé are in Grosse Roche for a week." She was the fathers' housekeeper, she added.
There was a chapel in the tiny village of Grosse Roche, some five hours distant by mule. He and Ulinsky had ridden there with Father Turnier one day just to keep the man company. He hooked a leg over the saddle, not without wincing, and dropped to the ground. "Madame, this is embarrassing." Chin in hand, he solemnly gazed at her. "We need a place to sleep tonight and were counting on Père Turnier's hospitality. I've stayed here before."
"There is no problem, M'sieu. We have beds."
"Bless you."
"Please come in."
He helped Mildred dismount, and Oriol began removing the gear from the animals.
"You can tie them to the hedge for now," the woman said, indicating the hibiscus hedge that gave the priests' residence a little privacy. "I'll have someone show you later where to put them for the night." To Sam and Mildred: "Come, please."
Inside the house she led them through a living room to the long, narrow bedroom Sam had used with Ulinsky. It contained two cots. "This will be all right?"
"I'm afraid we need two rooms."
"Oh?" She hesitated, looking distressed. "Then we do have a problem. We have only this one guest room now. There is another at the back, but when the fathers are away I use it." To Sam's amusement, she actually wrung her long-fingered hands. "I wouldn't dare let one of you use the vicar's room or the curé's. Not without their permission:"
"It's all right." Sam stepped to the door and peered into the living room. Damn. There was no couch, no sofa, nothing at all he could be horizontal on. "I can sleep out here on one of these chairs," he said grudgin
gly.
Mildred said, "After being on a mule since daybreak, and with more of the same tomorrow? No, Sam."
"But—"
"We can both use this room," she said firmly to the woman, forgetting the housekeeper did not speak English. Getting a blank look that made her aware of her mistake, she turned impatiently to Sam. "Tell her, will you?"
"Daddy's not going to like it," Sam said.
"Daddy isn't here and needn't know. I won't have you scrunched up in a chair or sleeping on a floor all night!"
Sam said to the housekeeper, "The m'selle says we can use this room. No problem."
"Good." She was obviously much relieved. "Then I'll go and see about your man and the mules, and start supper."
"We have some food."
"No need. I bought a goat today."
Where, Sam wondered, would friend Oriol sleep? On a mat somewhere, no doubt. He didn't care enough to bother asking. To hell with you, Jack; go measure your flour.
He looked at Mildred. She must be dead tired, yet she looked more alive than he had ever seen her look in Vermont. "All day long you've been surprising me," he said. "Now this."
When she smiled, something altogether unexpected happened to her daughter-of-Daddy face. "You know something?" she said. "If I weren't worried about my father, I'd be having the time of my life. All this is so new."
"You're liking it?"
"Loving it."
"Why? Tell me why."
"Later," she said. "Right now I want to draw a bath. I must smell as high as that beast I've been sitting on."
"Both of us. There used to be a shower out back. Let me check."
There still was, he discovered, but he wondered how Daddy's little Vermont girl would like it. You stood under a bucket that had holes punched in its bottom, and you pulled a chain. This allowed water to flow from a pipe into the bucket and down through the holes. Cold water, of course. Returning to the room, he found Mildred awaiting him in a black bikini.
"Don't laugh," she said when his eyes popped. "I bought it at least two years ago and have never worn it. I only brought it along because it weighs nothing."
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