Rubicon Beach

by Steve Erickson

  * * *

  By evening the sailor was still there, uneaten by the watercreature. Catherine said to herself with grim dissatisfaction, It’s my own fauIt. I climbed the tree and tied myself to it with my hair. I signaled the boat all night when the sea and the sky had other plans for it. It might now be at the bottom of the ocean had I kept out of it.

  I must take command of things again, she told herself. As night fell and the sailor slept, she crept across the fallen tree that bridged the slough over to the other side. At one point on the bridge she looked into the water and saw her creature beside her, dim in the light of the moon. She angrily kicked it with her foot, almost toppling in. On the other side she walked calmly to the sailor and kneIt beside him. She listened to him sleep, then she began to roll him from where he slept into the river. She would kneel on his back and hold him under the water with all her weight. When he was dead she would sail him out into the mouth of the sea. She would point him in the direction of the maze’s worst and most confused dead-end passage. His disappearance in the morning would be accepted by the Crowd with the same fatalism as his appearance.

  He hadn’t touched the water, however, before she found him sitting up looking at her, one hand around her wrist. He had an amazed smile. With his other hand he reached out to hold her face, at which point with her other hand she hit him so hard his head would have made a complete pivot but for the stubborn intractability of his spinal cord. Given his mad-ness, he thought this fairly hilarious. He laughed as he had when he was pulled from the sea, throwing back his chin. She calmly beIted him again. He laughed some more and she did it again and again, each time without a flicker of fury anywhere but in the deep white lava of her eyes. She would have been content to beat him to death, but after she’d struck him five times he stopped laughing. His jaw tightened; he raised his hand to her and someone grabbed it.

  The sailor looked up to see her father. The other men of the Crowd stood with him. We rescue this man from the sea, they said in their language, and he tries to violate our young girls. This bitch, said the sailor in his language, tried to fucking drown me. What happened? Catherine’s father asked her. I was trying, she explained, to drown him. I was trying to sail him into the maze’s worst and most confused dead-end passage. The men looked at each other confused and slowly let the sailor go. Catherine’s father looked at the sailor in rage, but it was compromised rage. He looked at his daughter in exasperation but it was compromised exasperation. But why? he said. That he is here, she said to him, is a consequence of what I have done: I bear a responsibility for that consequence. Her father nodded as though he understood her.

  * * *

  Catherine took her face back across the fallen tree to the other side of the water. The men dispersed. The sailor watched and smiled his amazed smile. You touch my daughter, said Catherine’s father in his language, and I’ll make you yearn for the thighs of the sea. The sailor answered back in his language, Some night, huh, captain? Catherine, on the banks of her river, beat at the reflection of her face twenty minutes, splashing in the water until her flock of savage hair lay wet and listless on her back.

  From then on, the Crowd regarded Catherine with guiIt and dread. Their gratitude for the night she saved the village mixed with contempt for the madness of her sacrifice. When she attempted to drown the sailor, this perception of her madness was only affirmed. When she raged at herself in the water, the issue was placed beyond doubt. That her eyes held their own power inclined the Crowd to believe she was a sorceress. Her father feIt uneasy; he sensed a prevalent wish among the Crowd that Catherine had perished at her post high in the tree, for which they would only have had to deal with her martyrdom.

  * * *

  The sailor’s name was Coba. Fully revived some thirty-six hours after his rescue, he sauntered about the village jauntily mixing with the others. He continued telling jokes no one laughed at and conversing in a language no one fully understood, though the common Portuguese of their tongues served as an uncertain basis of communication. He also watched Catherine, and from her spot on the other side of the water she watched him. From his third spot on either side of the water Catherine’s father watched them both. When Coba saw Catherine and her father watching him watching her, he laughed as though it was one of his jokes. He plotted his revenge. From the chest that had washed up with him he pulled a deck of cards.

  * * *

  First he told them stories from the cards. He told stories of sensitive kings and aduIterous queens coupling with aduIterous jacks. The jokers fulfilled eponymous roles in these small dramas, but the aces might be anyone: a spy in the court, a magician, a sailor washed into port. Then after he’d been with them a week Coba took to playing solitaire across the back of a huge black pod from the reeds of the river. Once the men of the Crowd got the game, they laughed at the sailor’s defeats. He laughed too. Soon he was wagering fruit on the fate of his games. He lost a lot of fruit. Soon he wagered the scarves from his chest. He lost a lot of scarves. He’d mix up his act with more stories about adventurous jacks and chameleon aces; he’d finger the queen of clubs, flickering her image to the other men in the light of evening tires. This one, he said to them, has hair nearly as black as that one; at which he pointed across the slough to Catherine. The men watched the girl of no voluptuous value. Coba saw they didn’t understand the value of her face. Catherine’s father saw the way the men of the Crowd watched his daughter. Soon Coba wagered coins from his chest on the fate of his games. He lost the coins one by one. He laughed when he won but he laughed louder when he lost.

  * * *

  Her father came to her one night and said, Co away. Why? she asked him. They don’t understand you anymore, he said to her. They haven’t understood you since the night you saved us. I haven’t asked that they understand me, she said. She said, Do you understand me? Something sad came into his eyes. I don’t ask to understand you, he said. She got up and went down to the riverside in the middle of the night. When she pulled the canoe up to the shore she looked at her father and said, Oh papa, and clutched at him angrily. Ile gently pushed her from him. She got in the boat and left.

  * * *

  She entered the maze of the river; on a continent in which every other river ran east, this one ran west. She slid her boat into one of the river’s green and blue boxes, expecting to trigger secret panels and swiveling walls; all that was constant was the sky above her, latticed by the coils of the trees. She pushed the boat along with the oar, letting it guide itself. She descended farther into the maze of the river as the dark turned to day and the day turned to dark. She followed what she supposed to be an unerring instinct, waiting to emerge from the other side, out beyond the edge of everything that had been her world.

  After many hours, when the sun rose to its apex and glared down into the river’s maze, Catherine saw her watercreature swimming right before her. Remembering how it had failed to devour the sailor at her command, she took the oar and smacked it on the head. A moment later it was there again, nagging her. I don’t want you here, she said angrily, go back to the village. It insisted on trailing along at the front of the boat. She made the disastrous mistake of turning her boat away from the creature in order to lose it behind her. Soon she was sailing down passages that looked distressingly familiar. Every time she glanced behind her the damned watercreature was still there, and the faster she sailed from it, the more familiar the maze became around her. She realized soon she was crossing her own path. She got so turned around in the maze that by dusk she was completely lost. In fury she stood in the boat and slammed the oar down hard on the watercreature over and over until the sun had set and, on a dark night, the creature vanished. If nothing else, she whispered to the water, I’ve finally killed you. She sailed on a little farther and came out of the maze, only to desperately discover she had emerged at the point she’d entered. A few minutes later she drifted back into her village, with the Crowd standing by the banks watching her return, and none too pleased about it
either. She saw her father at the end of the slough, his face in conflict between the part of him overjoyed to see her again—when he’d thought he never would—and the part of him that feared for her. He folded her in his arms. When they tied the boat in the torchlight of the harbor she saw the watercreature, unbloodied and very much alive. She cursed it and it cursed her back.

  * * *

  The men of the Crowd became increasingly consumed with two things: what they considered Catherine’s sorcerous inclinations, and gambling. They couldn’t have too little of the former or too much of the latter. Moreover, the sailor linked the two in their minds: the queen of clubs became the very emblem of Catherine in his games, and the very appearance of the queen turned the men of the Crowd black with hate. As time went by Coba continued to lose his nest egg bit by bit, one coin after another going the way of the men in the Crowd. Both the men and Coba enjoyed the spectacle of it more and more, with the Crowd’s passion becoming more frenzied. Soon Coba wouldn’t have many coins left.

  * * *

  Catherine’s father was beside himself with worry. He grew alarmed at the way the others looked at her; there wasn’t much doubt they considered her a witch. He spoke to his wife from whose long deep stoicism he hoped to gather reassurance. But his wife’s stoicism was founded on her own doubts. She’s my daughter, the girl’s mother said, but I don’t know her. The other children were estranged from their sister as well. It’s nature’s fauIt, said Catherine’s father, for giving her no voluptuous gifts, rendering her without value. It’s nature’s fauIt, said Catherine’s mother, for giving her the face of a spot in space or a place in the middle of the earth. When she was young I should never have let her hair grow, I should have sewn a mask to her skull. But we never noticed it before, the father said. No one ever noticed it before, said the mother, it took them a long time.

  It didn’t, said the father, take the sailor a long time.

  * * *

  The sailor had one coin left. He folded up his pack of cards in the squalid soggy little box from which it had come.

  The men in the Crowd were in a tizzy. The games had come to an end. No more gambling. No more laughter from the man with the faggy yellow hair. But listen, said Coba sadly, I have only one coin left. He held it up between his fingers, moving it slowly in the air around the borders of the night fire so everyone in the circle could see it. My luck’s been bad. Coba shook his head miserably. You understand now the premise of a gamble? It’s not just the number of what one has but its relation to the whole of what one has. Another man may have five hundred coins. I have only one. Yet my one is worth more than four hundred ninety-nine of his because should he lose his four hundred ninety-nine, he still has one coin left. Should I lose my one, I have nothing left.

  One more match, the men of the Crowd shouted. We’ll each put up ten of our coins against that one of yours.

  It’s nothing, shrugged the sailor. He sighed deeply. It’s nothing, ten from each of you, because you don’t risk what I risk. You don’t risk everything.

  All right, the men said. Twenty coins from each of us. Let’s play.

  You haven’t understood the game, Coba said. He kept sighing more and more deeply. Of course I’d like to give you a match but it’s a violation of the code of what one risks. You have to match not coin for coin but risk for risk.

  Meaning what? said the men.

  Meaning I risk everything, Coba said, when I risk this single coin. He held it up again between his fingers. Each man sitting around the fire with a stack of coins before him gazed at Coba’s single coin and smacked his lips. All right then, they shouted. You risk everything, we risk everything, but get those cards out and let’s play. They pushed their coins into a pile and started jumping around as if their feet were on fire, excited about the big game.

  But it’s nothing, Coba said, gesturing at the pile of coins. The men of the Crowd stopped dancing around and blinked at him, dumbfounded. How can you insuIt me this way? Coba said. You offer me my own money, which was never yours to begin with, and argue that you’re risking everything. He allowed himself a small smile. You see how it isn’t so, he said. What do you want, the men said, the whole fucking village? The sailor saw he couldn’t push things much further. Not necessary, he answered, waving his hands. Not necessary at all. The money, of course, is a good start, he said, pointing at the pile, but something of value of yours . . .

  Such as, the men said.

  Such as your best boat. Not a fleet, mind you. One very good boat.

  Anything else? the men asked dryly.

  Coba locked the fingers of his two hands behind his head and moved his shoulders up and down. He considered the cool pleasant air of the evening. Not too obviously he let his eyes drift as though he were thinking. As though it had never occurred to him. He grimaced a little as though with the difficuIty of the decision before him. The men tapped their feet impatiently. Then he nodded. I think so, yes, he agreed. And he watched her across the water as he had done every day since he’d come. They don’t know what she has anyway, he thought. They don’t understand the irrational, nonfunctional, unprogenitive beauty of a woman’s face.

  The queen of clubs, he said.

  The men looked at him and at each other and back at him. There was silence and then one of them chortled. Another man laughed and then another, and soon they were all laughing, slapping the sides of trees and kicking red embers with hilarity. The witch, they said, you want the witch? Sailor, if you lose you can have the witch as far as we’re concerned. The sailor laughed along with them as if to say, Yes, it’s foolish, isn’t it? What an idea, gambling the witch. Then they stopped laughing and there was a nervous moment and it started up again for a while. They were all struck by the oddest notion that the sailor wasn’t joking, this wasn’t another of his wild stories. The men looked around for Catherine’s father and then back at Coba. He wouldn’t think this was so funny, they said, your gambling for his daughter.

  He wouldn’t think it so funny, Coba said, your putting her up for stakes. But then, you know, my luck’s been bad.

  They looked around once more and then back at him with dull leaden eyes. They crouched in the light of the fire.

  They whispered, Deal.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Coba explained One’s luck changes. He had before him a very large pile of money and a Crowd of decidedly nonplussed former gamblers. The fire seemed to burn low very quickly. Coba put the cards away in his pocket. That’s the way of luck, he said smiling. The men glowered and he scooped up the winnings into his chest, which just happened to be a few feet away, out of view of the others. It had all the appearances of someone planning to leave soon.

  The boat, he said. The boat and the girl.

  Later it would strike him that he had saved the day by insisting on the girl. Later it would strike him that the men of the Crowd had very well determined it was worth giving the sailor a boat and returning his nest egg to have him transport the witch from their village. But there was the matter of Catherine’s family, so the men were careful about it. We gambled the witch, they said to him, because your luck has been so bad.

  One’s luck changes, Coba said.

  Yes, you’ve explained that to us, said the men. But the girl, there’s her father and family to deal with, they said.

  But I won the wager, Coba said.

  You have fairly won her in our eyes, answered the men, and we’ll do nothing to stop you from taking her. But the taking is up to you.

  Coba glanced across the slough with some anxiety; Catherine was nowhere to be seen. He quickly pulled together his chest and his few belongings and went down to the banks where a boat was now waiting for him. It wasn’t the best boat in the village, as had been agreed upon, but it was a solid enough boat, and Coba decided he’d get while the getting was good. But the getting wasn’t finished. He looked back over to the other side of the water and pushed the boat to the other bank. He stepped up on shore and turned to see the men wa
tching him. He pointed in the direction of the trees and they pointed in the same direction, and he inhaled and nodded.

  He went into the trees, where the mouth of the sea flooded the roots and the low thick branches formed a mass of walkways. He came to the sheIter where Catherine lived with her family. Catherine was lying on her bed in the back of the hut, where she’d been the night of the storm when her father wept in his hand. Coba walked right up to her, took one wrist in one hand and another in the other hand, and pulled the girl to her feet before she was aware of what was happening. He drew Catherine out among the trees and pulled her along the branches to the land; they were halfway to the boat before she’d figured out enough to wrap his hair around her hand and give it a very earnest yank. He responded by bringing his fist not across her face, ever aware as he was of his investment, but into her belly. She went stone-white. At this moment her father could be heard yelling from the thicket and nearing the slough. Coba threw Catherine into the bottom of the boat as her father came running out of the trees.

  He shouted to the men that the sailor had his daughter, as though the men of the Crowd, standing there on the banks of the river, didn’t know this. He shouted to them to stop the boat. The men didn’t move. Coba in the boat pushed away with the oar. The father kept screaming to no avail. Behind him ran Catherine’s mother, also crying, and the brothers. Their tumuIt was utterly isolated, a smudge of action and noise in the midst of the silent still jungle, before the silent still witness of the Crowd.