Mr Leigh pressed him. ‘Do you want to go back one day ?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not ever ?’
‘My family could have come with me, if they had wanted. There were lots of families on my ship.’ Song remembered what Hai had said to him: ‘Anyway, at least by my leaving it was one less mouth to feed.’
‘You weren’t just a mouth to feed, Song.’
Song swatted away the comment. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. It churned him up too much. He turned the line of questioning on Mr Leigh. ‘What about your family ?’
Mr Leigh smiled. ‘Well, I have a beautiful, unfaithful wife who I still love. And four boys who adore their mother. And a beautiful daughter who had polio and cannot walk very well, but she’s an angel. Everybody knows about my wife’s philandering except the children. Or perhaps they do know and they’re trying to protect me because that’s what children do. I guess they know their parents only talk to each other in public. When we’re all home she doesn’t even look at me. She resents me for taking away her freedom. She resents them, too, for getting in the way of her dreams. She never wanted to raise a family. She wanted to see the world. And now I get to go off to far-off lands, and she has to stay at home. You see, Song, no family is perfect. Like mine, like yours.’
Song was surprised at Mr Leigh’s candour, but pleased that the man trusted him enough to confide in him this way. He talked about children as if Song wasn’t one himself. Perhaps he was no longer a child, or at least didn’t seem to be one to Mr Leigh. Maybe he was toughening up, as Li Bai had told him to.
‘I thought you of anyone would have the perfect family,’ Song said.
‘We ask too much of life,’ Mr Leigh said. ‘I’m lucky to have five wonderful children. I live in a nice house. I like my job; it pays me well. I’m lucky to have met a fine young man like you, Song. You’re lucky too. Remember that. If you believe hard enough that you’re lucky, you will be.’
Father Holmes came to Song’s room late one evening. Song put his book to one side.
‘What are you reading ?’ Father Holmes asked.
‘Moby Dick.’
‘Again ?’
‘I love it. I’ve read it seven times.’
‘It’s a wondrous, imaginative, extraordinary book. What do you love about it ?’
‘Ishmael. A wanderer, like me. And Queequeg the harpooner. Do you mind me saying that he sometimes reminds me of you ?’
Father Holmes shook his head. ‘I’ll have to study him more closely.’
‘Can I read you a passage ?’
‘Of course. Please.’
Song had slipped strips of paper between the leaves of the book at points he wanted to return to. He opened it at the one he’d marked with a Q. Then he took a breath and began to read: ‘I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is – which was the only way he could get there – thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving.’ Song looked up. ‘I thought of you when I read that,’ he said.
‘And I think of you.’
Song blushed. ‘Not me, Father.’ But Song was touched Father Holmes thought so. Not that he might be like Queequeg, but like Father Holmes. Song continued, trying to deflect the attention. ‘Do you remember what it says about where Queequeg from ? “It is not down in any map; true places never are.” That’s how I feel about home. I think if I wanted to get back there, I could never find it. That’s why I can never send money home. Nobody can ever find it.’
‘That’s not true, Song.’
‘I don’t think that man who went to Hong Kong found it. We waited, but we never heard back.’
‘You’re right, we didn’t. But we cannot assume he never got there. We must believe he did.’
For a short moment, and for the first time, Song let himself believe the man travelling to Hong Kong had found his family. He closed his eyes and imagined their happiness, his mother’s relief, his brothers’ and sisters’ incredulity, and all the food they would buy with the money the man gave them. But then, too fast, the shadow of doubt fell across Song again. He didn’t want Father Holmes to see him falter.
‘Maybe he did,’ Song said positively, for Father Holmes, not himself, before he lightened the conversation. ‘Although let’s hope he wasn’t on the Pequod. That boat makes me feel better about the Dartmouth, you know. I wouldn’t have much liked to have been aboard that vessel.’
Father Holmes smiled. ‘You know so much now, Song. Talking of boat trips, I’m leaving in a few days to go upriver. Mr Leigh will be coming on this trip and I was wondering if you would like to join us ?’
Song sat straight up. ‘Really ?’
‘I’ve wanted to take you on the river for a while now. I know how fond you are of Mr Leigh and it might be nice for you to spend some time upriver together before he leaves. These trips can sometimes be rough though. Do you think you can handle it ?’
Song wasn’t afraid, not of going upriver. It was so different to going to sea. ‘I can handle it.’
‘I thought you might say that. You can work on the book. There are hundreds of new birds upriver.’
Song thought about his best friend. This was an opportunity to get him away from Kiddo. ‘Do you think Jon can come with us ?’
‘Jon ? Why not ? If you think his mother will let him.’
‘If you ask her, she will.’
Father Holmes smiled. ‘Then I’ll ask her.’
Father Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out something small wrapped in newspaper which fitted snugly in the palm of his hand. ‘I think you might find this useful.’
Song unfolded the paper. Inside there was a black-handled pocket knife.
‘It’s horn,’ Father Holmes. ‘Open it up.’
Song swivelled out the blade. He thought how this wasn’t the kind of present you gave to a child. Mr Leigh’s adult talk. Father Holmes’ knife. Perhaps nobody saw him as a child any more. He pressed his finger against the sharp edge.
‘Careful,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I’ll get the boys to teach you how to skin a labba and scale a fish. The fish upriver are thicker-skinned. The scales can slice off a hand. There’s a special technique to avoid cutting yourself. I love the river, Song, and I hope you will too.’
‘I will,’ Song said.
‘You know I was about your age now when I entered the seminary,’ Father Holmes said. ‘All I wanted to do was to go off and find some adventure. Like this. I’m glad we can do this together.’
‘Did you not want to be a vicar ?’
Father Holmes became wistful. ‘Just not so young, perhaps. I lost some freedom. I don’t want you to lose yours.’
Song looked again at this man who had opened up his home, opened up his life to him. He choked down the feelings of love rising inside, not worried about losing his freedom but about losing Father Holmes.
‘Going upriver has its risks,’ Father Holmes continued. ‘You’ve probably been ready for this trip for some time now. It’s me that hasn’t been ready to take you. Gosh, you’ve come to mean an enormous amount to me. Do you know that ?’
Song looked steadily at Father Holmes. He didn’t reply, but he did know that and he hoped Father Holmes understood how much he meant to Song, too.
CHAPTER 10
Morning slowly coloured the dark river. The depthless water lightened t
o a pearly grey. The smudge of trees began to create patterns of green. On the bank a family of capybara came to drink, their coarse hairs silvery through the layer of mist. They lapped at the water, eyeing the narrow boats that glided past. Above, a lonely indistinguishable stork sailed against the light. Song felt like he immediately belonged to this mystical place he’d always called ‘upriver’.
The party of twelve left before sunrise. This is what Song had long dreamed of. Upriver. Ever since hearing about it from Old Ivor, then Jesus. This is where he’d wanted to be.
In the first boat Song sat with Jon and Father Holmes. Behind them in a second boat were Jim Groves, Bartica’s post office clerk, and Dr Foo, who was the town’s medical practitioner. Song didn’t know either man well. Jingy called Jim Groves a ‘bad sort’, and said she held him personally responsible for any parcels that went missing at the post office. Which they often did. ‘Not to be trusted, that one,’ she’d say, when she and Song passed him in the street. He was tall and balding with an awkward gait, usually carrying large sacks of mail on him.
Dr Foo was a large, round-faced man with an easy smile, though he was missing half a dozen teeth at the front. Song always wondered how he could be in charge of helping people get well when he himself looked so unkempt.
Behind their boat, Mr Leigh followed with two fixers. There was a fourth boat laden with supplies roped at the rear. At the back of each boat an oarsman steered with paddles or a pole.
Song munched on dough sticks Jingy had fried earlier that morning. There was a claggy chill in the air. He picked out the quiet whistling of drongos between more unfamiliar cries and cackles. A pair of macaws flapped across the strip of sky above him but the light was still too grey to make out their colours. Monkeys tore up the air with throaty howls.
Around him the trees towered as if they might uproot and morph into beasts. They soared up from the thick dark mulch in search of light. At their ends a filigree of leaves breathed out a swirling mist. Specks of birds billowed up, chattering from their roosts. Like the forest was exhaling, Song thought.
As the hours passed the sun rose higher and beat down on the river. The boats kept close to the banks for shade. Song had drifted off, lulled by the ripple on the surface of the water, to be woken abruptly by light laughter. He looked up and saw more than a dozen children waving and dancing, some with infants on their hips. The women were bare-breasted carrying swaddled babies close to their bodies. Song felt shy seeing the women without clothes, and he didn’t stare.
As the boats drew left and slid into the mud, Father Holmes leaned backwards to whisper to Song.
‘This is Yupukama,’ he said. ‘One of the most resourceful villages I’ve come across. I’ve been looking forward to bringing you here.’
Father Holmes stepped out and the children crowded around him, calling his name and clapping. He led them across to the open ground and began a service in the clearing. The children started to sing.
Song watched on. It surprised him to come across all these children who felt comfortable enough to call out Father Holmes’ name in this way, and who clearly liked him so much. An unfamiliar wave of jealousy passed through him, but he was also grateful to be the boy living with a man so loved. He felt a welling up of pride, increasingly aware of how he had come to think of this man as a father. He loved him.
He turned to the task of the bird book, hoping this might be a way to show him his word, his love. He skirted the edge of the village listening for new calls. Yupukama wasn’t large. It was a collection of a few dozen huts, flanked on every side by thick rainforest. The river offered the most light, and the bank was steep down to the water. A few small boats were tied to a short jetty. Song scanned for movement in the branches, venturing deeper into the trees, before he turned back to the village.
Father Holmes was still taking the service. Dr Foo was conducting medical checks, child by child. Mr Leigh was busy speaking to some of the villagers, putting together a smaller expedition to survey the area. Jim Groves was handing out large packages. Song approached quietly. ‘Who are they from ?’ he asked.
Jim looked up. ‘Some of the villagers take jobs in town. They buy stuff in Bartica and send it home. Oil, soap, sugar, that kind of thing. I’m a busy man. You run off now.’
Sending things home. Song wished he could be sending things home in the same way. He thought how he would like his family to be receiving a large package of oil, of soap, of sugar.
Back among the huts, Song saw that Jon had found three toucans with clipped wings hopping about the cooking area. They had never seen these birds so close. They clacked their luminous beaks and Jon took his time sketching their form, their colours.
Some of the children were curious. They approached to watch Jon drawing, looking on in wonder.
‘I’m Sammy,’ one of the boys said in English. Song thought he must be about his age. They were about the same height but Sammy was slightly heavier. His hair was shaggy, long over his eyes, and he had a habit of flicking back his head so that he could see. There was only a cloth tied around his waist.
‘I’m Song. This is Jon.’
‘So why d’you come ?’
‘I live with Father Holmes. He wanted to show us upriver. And we’re putting together this book on birds. There are so many more birds upriver than in Bartica.’
Sammy nodded. He wasn’t the biggest of the children but Song sensed he was the unspoken leader.
‘You can come with me, if you like,’ Sammy said. ‘We’re off hunting for labba and tapir. We can teach you how to make curare, if you don’t know how.’
‘What is it ?’ Song asked.
‘Kills an adult with one drop,’ Sammy said. ‘Kills a child with a sniff. You need to mix together a hundred different plants. Then you dip in your arrowhead and shoot. You better not touch the poison though. Or you’ll be dead like the labba.’
The boys did as Sammy said, mixing together the ingredients he had harvested before dipping in their arrows. Jon hit a monkey which instantly fell out of a tree with a plump thud. The power of the poison shocked them both. Going forward they were even more careful with the sticky black liquid. Song looked down at the dead monkey and felt sorry for it.
‘Can you eat it ?’ Song asked.
‘If you get the arrow out quickly. Otherwise, the meat becomes poisonous.’
That evening they waded in the creek pools to catch peacock bass with wire trace using live minnows as bait. They roasted their catches on embers and used the thick bones of the fish to pick their teeth while inspecting each other’s skin for leeches and ticks. Song had never felt freer. He wanted to stay on, living out the same life as Sammy and his friends.
‘We’ll see them in a few days, Song,’ Father Holmes said, when they had to leave Yupukama. ‘We’ll be coming back in a week or so to pick up Mr Leigh.’
Song was glad to hear they’d be returning. Meanwhile he and Jon and the rest of the Bartica party slowly got on their way to head further upriver. For the next week, they passed through a dozen villages, sometimes spending a few hours, sometimes a day.
They travelled along the western bank of the Essequibo, setting up camp on the riverbank, stringing up hammocks between trees. The drapes of mosquito netting hung like thick giant cobwebs in the gloom of the forest. Song lay in the darkness listening to the noise of the bush and the sound of the river. He felt a strange sense of belonging here. Upriver. Like he knew this place from another time, from another life. It was an unusually settling feeling. Believe you’ll be lucky. That’s what Mr Leigh had said. Believe you’ll be lucky and you will be.
On their way back to Bartica they stopped at Yupukama again. Song was happy to be back.
‘How was it ?’ he asked Mr Leigh.
‘Indian knowledge, that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of gold here, that’s for sure, and they know how to find it.’
‘Where is it ?’ Song asked.
‘In the rivers,’ Mr Leigh said. ‘De
ep in the ground, too. Seems like it’s everywhere you look. I’ll be coming back.’
‘I’m glad about that,’ Song said.
Mr Leigh gave him a friendly shove, and Song felt pleased to be on such terms with the American.
Then Song saw Sammy. He ran up to him. ‘We’re back, Sammy.’
Sammy smiled. ‘Everyone says they’re coming back but not everyone does.’
‘I’m always going to come back,’ Song said. ‘Say, you going hunting sometime ? Or fishing ?’
‘No. Just back. Do you want to find gold instead ?’
Song could hardly believe the words he was hearing. ‘How ?’
‘Follow me.’
Song trailed Sammy into the trees till they came across running water. ‘Got to find a bend in a stream,’ he said. He took up his battel and swirled it around and around, rinsing the shingle from the riverbed in the shallow wooden dish.
‘See, here ?’ he said. Sammy pointed at a glimmer in the dark dish.
Song could see the fine flecks. ‘That’s it ?’ He could feel his mouth go dry.
‘That’s it,’ Sammy said. ‘It’s heavy so it sinks to the bottom.
Song plucked it out of the sediment. It shone in the sun. He felt a lightness pass through his body.
Then Song copied Sammy’s actions, mixing a small amount of water with shingle from the riverbed. He swirled it around and around, dish after dish, until Song also saw a glint of gold in the base. He touched it, studying it on the end of his fingertip. It wasn’t so hard to find gold, he thought. He could do this. This was only the beginning.
The boys melted their finds together, cooling it quickly in river water with a fizz. Song rushed to show the bead of metal to Robert Leigh who turned it over in his palm, bit it between his teeth and nodded in approval. ‘Not quite heavy enough to put on my scales, Song, but you’re on your way.’
The plan was to leave later that day and return to Bartica, but Jim Groves came down with a sudden fever. Song watched on as the man sweated and shouted, seemingly in his sleep. At times he shook violently, and thrashed about his arms.
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