Tumbleweed

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Sha," Grijpstra said, and shuddered.

  "No, really, it was delicious. We get spoiled in the city, you know."

  Grijpstra had climbed on the cabin's roof and sat looking around him. He was mumbling.

  "Goat's cheese," Grijpstra said. "I suppose he picks stinging nettles and boils soup with them. I have a niece who does that. A nature girl, goes all the way to France to run about naked."

  "Good-looking girl?" de Gier asked.

  "Not bad," Grijpstra said. "Look, there's our plane."

  The spotter plane, a small Piper Cub, was gaining height.

  "I could have been a pilot," de Gier said.

  "No," Grijpstra interrupted. "Let's not have your fancies today. You might not enjoy it, you know, up mere in a mechanical fly. I was in one of them once."

  "Yes? What was it like?"

  "First I got scared, and later I fell asleep. You can't see much. Too high. You see a lot of green land and little cars."

  "Yes," de Gier said. "I have been in a plane. Everybody has. But not in a little plane, don't tell me it wasn't an adventure."

  "It wasn't. And the window wouldn't close, there was a draft."

  "A draft," de Gier said, and shook his head.

  Grijpstra pulled up his legs and clasped his arms around his knees. The sun was beginning to warm them. "Not bad," he said approvingly, "a lot better than all that mud. And those birds, they were really making me nervous. I don't mind them in the zoo, you can always get away from them. Holland was full of birds once, they say, billions of them. The whole country was marshland. Good thing we built dikes and drained the swamps. Imagine, living in a swamp with a billion birds flapping around and diving at you like that ballwit which had a go at you."

  "Peewit."

  "Peewit. Funny-looking bird. Some of them look all right but I still wouldn't like to live right in the middle of a whole flock of them, in a hut. The old tribes must have lived in huts, they were probably flooded twice a week." Grijpstra sneezed.

  "And they had colds," de Gier said, "and diarrhea."

  "Yes. So have I. And these damned oilcloth trousers. I couldn't get them off properly."

  De Gier began to laugh. Grijpstra turned around, looking hurt.

  "Listen," de Gier said.

  Adjutant Buisman was talking to the pilot on the radio. "A small yacht," he was saying, "white mainsail and white foresail, only one foresail. The foresail has two patches in it, large patches, you should be able to see them."

  "I only see a fishing boat," the pilot said.

  "No markings on the yacht's sails. The boat we want is some thirty feet long, built of oak."

  "Thanks," the pilot said. "Oak, you say. How do I spot oak from here?"

  "Brown wood."

  The radio crackled for a while.

  "I am going east," the pilot said, "there's nothing this side except a fishing boat and a very expensive looking blue yacht. There is a girl at the rudder, I think. A pretty girl maybe."

  "What's your rank?" Buisman asked.

  "Sergeant, and yours?"

  "Adjutant," Buisman said.

  "Adjutant is higher."

  "Go east," Buisman said.

  "Sir."

  "Here," the pilot said after a few minutes. "Small yacht, thirty feet. One man in it, or perhaps there is somebody in the cabin."

  "Our man wears a green suit, a ranger's uniform."

  "Green suit," the pilot confirmed. "I am very low now, shall I scare him?"

  "Turn a few circles," Buisman said. "Can we have his position?"

  "Just a minute," the pilot said. "Bring out your map, I am trying to find mine."

  The water-police sergeant moved a lever and the launch picked up speed suddenly. Grijpstra began to slide toward de Gier who couldn't hold him and they landed up together on the small afterdeck, next to the sergeant.

  "Let us know next time, will you?" Grijpstra said gruffly, picking himself up.

  "Sorry," the sergeant said. "I got excited. Maybe we'll have a nice chase."

  The launch went into a steep curve and its engine roared.

  "Don't get too close," de Gier said. "He's got a shotgun."

  "What have we got?" Grijpstra asked.

  "I am not armed," Buisman said. "Do you have anything in the launch, sergeant?"

  "A carbine, and I have a pistol."

  "Three pistols and a carbine against a shotgun," de Gier said. "That should be enough."

  The radio had been talking to them but nobody was listening.

  "Hello," it shouted.

  "Yes, pilot," Buisman said.

  "Do you want the position or don't you?"

  "Please."

  They found the position on their map and the sergeant looked grim. The launch was going at full speed now, planing on the sea's calm surface, its two propellers churning the water behind into deep swirling eddies, its engine going at a steady low roar. De Gier was holding on to the cabin, trying to see everything at the same time and getting so excited that he was having trouble breathing. Buisman was arming the carbine, his eyes contracted into slits, and even Grijpstra felt the sensation of the hunt and was beginning to forget the pain in his lungs and the burning of his bowels.

  "Hello," the radio shouted.

  "Go ahead," Buisman said.

  "He is going to Englishman's Bank," the pilot said. "I can see both of you now but you can't cut him off. He is very close already, his engine is going and he has lowered his mainsail. I'll dive at him."

  "No," Buisman shouted, "he has got a shotgun."

  "That what it is, is it? He is pointing something at me now."

  "Get away," Buisman shouted.

  "I have got away. What do you want me to do now?"

  The launch was turning around the southern tip of the island and suddenly they saw both the yacht and the Piper Cub.

  "Go home," the adjutant said. "We can see him. I don't think there's anything you can do now."

  "O.K.," the pilot said.

  "Thanks, sergeant, you've been a great help."

  "You are welcome," the radio said. "Out.'

  * * *

  "We can't go any faster," the water-police sergeant said, "and he is almost there."

  Buisman and Grijpstra were watching the small green figure through their binoculars. Rammy was standing in the bow of his yacht. They saw him jump and land on the sandbank. He was still wearing his hat and holding the shotgun.

  The sergeant throttled the engine down until it was merely idling.

  "What does he want out there?" the sergeant asked. "The bank is two square miles perhaps and nothing grows on it, not a blade of grass. In four hours time it will be almost flooded. He'll have a few square yards left to run about in."

  "He is going to the hut," Buisman said.

  They saw the hut, a small cabin built on high poles, thirty feet high. The cabin looked pretty, with a sloping roof, a narrow balcony on all sides, and windows.

  "What's that?" de Gier asked.

  "It's just there," Buisman said. "Waterworks put it up. I think they may have planned it for a watchman but there's never been a watchman in it as far as I can remember. There's nothing to watch anyway. Seals sometimes sun themselves on the bank, and there are birds, of course."

  "It serves some purpose," the sergeant said. "If anyone gets stranded on the bank he can sit in the hut and wait for help. When the sea is very high the bank gets completely flooded but the cabin will always be dry. There's some food up there, emergency rations, and water, and a pistol with flares. I collected a stranded crew once who had spent half a day in it."

  "He is climbing the stairs," de Gier said.

  Buisman sighed. "You know what he is planning to do, don't you?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said.

  The sergeant was lowering the anchor.

  "You can switch the engine off," the adjutant said. "We may be here for some time."

  The four men were looking at each other.

  "You," Grijpstra said to d
e Gier. "You sometimes have bright ideas. Now what?"

  De Gier grinned. "Wait," he said. "What else? He's got food and he's got water and he is armed. When we get too close he'll spend a couple of shells on us. With the carbine we could probably outshoot him but he has some cover in there and we'll be on the open bank. And it wouldn't be nice, popping away at him. We'll have to starve him out, taking turns. We can probably get some men from the mainland to relieve us." He looked at the sergeant. "You'll have to get back to the island, do you have somebody out there?"

  "Riekers," the sergeant said. "He is the only policeman on the island now and he can't be everywhere at the same time. We are supposed to meet the ferries and patrol the camps. There are a few hundred tourists out there and some hippies, and nine hundred islanders. We can't spend all day here."

  "We can try and talk to him," Grijpstra said, looking at Buisman.

  "Do you know him well, sergeant?' Buisman asked.

  The water-police sergeant scratched his neck. "Well, I have talked to him, of course, but we aren't close friends. He isn't an easy man to get along with. He doesn't drink."

  "No," Buisman agreed, "and when he talks it's Bible talk. Old Testament."

  "The God of vengeance," de Gier said, "Jehovah."

  "Jehovah wasn't easy to get on with either," Grijpstra said. "Well, as you say, we can't sit here all day. If you lower that dinghy, sergeant, I'll row myself ashore and see if I can get close to him. He won't kill me in cold blood."

  "No," de Gier said, "I'll go. I can pull my gun faster than you can. I won second prize at the rifle range last week. If he does grab his shotgun I can shoot him in the arm perhaps."

  "Lower the dinghy, sergeant," Buisman said in a low voice. "I'll go. I do know him after all."

  Grijpstra protested and the sergeant offered to go but Buisman insisted.

  The three men watched the dinghy approach the bank.

  "Look," de Gier said, and pointed at the cabin on stilts. Rammy Scheffer had appeared on the balcony.

  Buisman was clambering out of the dinghy, being careful not to upset it. They saw him walking to the cabin and they saw Rammy shouldering the shotgun. Buisman stopped. He was shouting through cupped hands. De Gier saw Rammy shake his head slowly. They heard the deep bark of the shotgun.

  Buisman was still on his feet. They saw him turn around. He was holding his chest and staggering.

  "The bastard," the sergeant said, pumping up a second dinghy furiously. De Gier took the carbine and the two of them gingerly boarded the small rubber boat.

  The sergeant was a skillful rower and the dinghy shot through the small waves which a weak breeze had begun to form. They reached the bank in minutes and de Gier shouldered the carbine. He missed Rammy Scheffer deliberately but the bullet struck the cabin close to his head and Rammy disappeared into the cabin.

  "Run," de Gier shouted at the sergeant as he fired at the cabin, hitting it just under the roof. The adjutant was still on his feet but moving slowly. The sergeant sprinted and picked Buisman up, talking to him softly.

  "You'll be all right, Buisman, hold on to my neck."

  De Gier fired once more but there was no sign of either Rammy or his weapon.

  "Never mind now," the sergeant said. "He can't hit us here. I'll take Buisman and you can take the other dinghy. Can you row?"

  "Yes," de Gier said.

  The two dinghies got to the launch at the same time and Grijpstra helped the sergeant to get Buisman aboard. Together they opened his coat. The fine shot had drawn a lot of blood but the wounds weren't deep. Buisman's jacket had protected him somewhat. He hadn't been hurt in the face.

  "You deal with it," the sergeant said. "I'll see if we can get help."

  The island didn't answer. The sergeant kept on trying.

  "Riekers must have left the station," the sergeant muttered. "He is probably trying to find us. He could have called me, the idiot."

  "You were on another frequency," de Gier said, "talking to the plane."

  "True," the sergeant said. "Now what? We can't leave that murdering rat alone, he'll escape in his boat."

  "We can take his boat with us, can't we?"

  "No," the sergeant said. "He may swim off the bank. He is a good swimmer."

  A jetfighter came screaming over, throwing its shadow at them and drowning them in noise.

  "When you have had everything," de Gier said when the airplane had disappeared.

  "The jets," Grijpstra suddenly shouted. 'Wow they can help."

  De Gier and the sergeant looked at Grijpstra.

  "Don't you understand?" Grijpstra shouted. "Get them on the radio and tell them to fly at that cabin. They'll scare him out in no time at all."

  "Genius," de Gier said.

  The sergeant was on the radio again.

  "Can you get the fighter base for me, sir?"

  "Why?" a gruff voice answered.

  The sergeant explained. He had to explain several times.

  "Very irregular," the gruff voice said.

  "Rather an irregular situation, sir," the sergeant said.

  "How is your adjutant?"

  "Needs medical help."

  "All right," the voice said. "We'll send you a boat with a doctor. It will take an hour, two hours maybe, and I'll telephone the island and tell them to send your doctor out as well, in somebody's yacht. And I'll speak to the fighter base about this. I'll probably get into trouble but that'll be later. Out."

  The first jet appeared within five minutes. It circled to make sure of its target, climbed and roared down. The men in the boat were covering their ears and trying to get as low down as possible. De Gier suddenly stopped regretting that he had never been in a war. The immense whine of the jet chilled his body and made tears spring to his eyes. He forced himself to keep his eyes open and he saw the plane grow in size until it was blotting out the sky. Then he turned his head and saw the fighter skim the cabin's roof with seemingly no more than a few feet to spare. When he looked around again the second fighter entered its dive while the first was climbing and going into a bank to regain its original position. The second fighter got even closer to the cabin's roof than the first.

  The radio was muttering and the sergeant turned up the volume.

  "Are they there?" the police officer on the mainland was asking.

  "Just listen, sir," the sergeant said, and held the microphone above his head as the first fighter came screaming down again.

  "They aren't firing their guns, are they?" the voice asked.

  "No, sir, just diving."

  "It sounds like the end of the world."

  "Here the other one comes again," the sergeant said.

  "That's it," de Gier shouted.

  They saw the green-clad figure of Rammy appearing on the balcony. He was waving his hands. He didn't have the shotgun. "Come down," de Gier shouted, forgetting that Rammy couldn't hear him.

  Rammy was coming down, he was falling down the staircase in his hurry to reach the ground. They saw him running toward them. The jetfighters had seen him too and they stopped diving and began to circle.

  De Gier grabbed the carbine and lowered himself into a dinghy.

  "Wait," Grijpstra shouted, and put his leg over the side of the launch.

  Grijpstra rowed while de Gier covered Rammy with his carbine. Rammy was waiting for them, quietly, his arms dangling down. When they came close they saw that his mouth was open and that spittle was trickling down its corners.

  "Put your hands up," de Gier said in a loud voice, thinking of the long knife which would be somewhere under the green jacket, but Rammy didn't hear him.

  Grijpstra walked around the prisoner and patted his jacket He found the knife and put it away. The handcuffs clicked. Rammy began to mutter.

  "What's he saying?" de Gier asked Grijpstra.

  Rammy's voice was very low and Grijpstra bent his head trying to catch the meaning of the words.

  "I don't know," he said after a while, "something about Satan."


  "Come with us, Rammy," de Gier said gently. "Nobody is going to harm you. Just get into the dinghy and we'll go to the launch. Soon you will have a nice sleep."

  Rammy looked up.

  "You'll be fine," Grijpstra said.

  16

  "You ARE NOT TOO BADLY HURT," THE DOCTOR SAID, "but you are hurt. How is die pain?"

  "All right," Buisman said, and groaned.

  "I'll have to get that shot out of your chest. Most of it sits in your clothes but there's some in your skin as well. We can take you to the mainland and keep you in hospital for a while."

  "No."

  "You prefer to go home?"

  "Please," Buisman said. "The food is better."

  The doctor nodded and turned toward the shape of Rammy, who was sitting on the floorboards of the launch. He was shaking and his teeth were chattering.

  "How are you, Rammy?" the doctor asked.

  The doctor touched his head, very lightly, but die small ranger didn't notice.

  "Shock," the doctor said to de Gier. "Bad shock. He'll have to go to the mainland. You want to come with us?"

  De Gier didn't answer but looked down at Rammy Scheffer.

  "How bad is he, doctor?"

  "Bad."

  "Where will you take him?"

  "To a mental home," the doctor said.

  "Yes?" de Gier asked, surprised. "That bad?"

  They had walked over to the other side of the launch and were leaning over the railing, watching the sea, as the launch returned to the island's harbor. The little private yacht which had brought the doctor was following them at a hundred yards' distance.

  "Yes," the doctor said, "his mind is shaken all right. I have known Rammy ever since he came to the island. He lived under stress. He is a regular patient of mine."

  "What was the matter with him?"

  "Ulcers, and other nervous complaints. Breathing trouble, he often thought he would choke. Once he came in the middle of the night, holding his throat. Told me I had to operate straightaway."

  "What was it?" de Gier asked. "Asthma?"

  "Nothing I could diagnose," the doctor said.

  "So?"

  "I recommended a psychiatrist."

  "Did he go to see one?"

  "No."

  "What do you think was the matter with him?"

  "No," the doctor said, "that's all I will tell you. Perhaps the psychiatrist in the mental home I'll take him to will say more. But you can't arrest him, that's for sure. You'll have to take the handcuffs off. I'll give him something to keep him calm and the police launch can take us to the mainland. I'll go with him. You want to come?"