‘I like ’em when they’re quiet,’ Jesus said. ‘Don’t think you’re bothering me by your quiet. Hate a boy who talks too much.’
Jesus began to eat. The only sound from the camp was the scraping of his metal spoon and the odd belch. When he was done Jesus threw his plate down.
‘Best food you’ve made so far,’ he said. ‘You’re the kind that needs a bit of a beating to get you working, isn’t that right ? Not the first time you’ve heard that. Seen the scars on your back. Well, you got some more now, boy. You can show ’em off to some whore and say you got ’em fighting a caiman. Get you laid that kind of talk. You’ll be thanking me later.’
Jesus was chuckling to himself. He reached out to the fire as if to pick up one of the burning logs.
Song jumped to his feet.
‘Got ya,’ Jesus hooted with laughter. ‘You scared of a bit of burning firewood ?’
Song shook his head. ‘I’m not scared.’
Jesus’ voice hardened. ‘If you not scared, boy, sounds like I got some teaching to do yet.’
Song did not move.
Jesus laughed again. ‘You try and be all tough. You’re learning the river, boy. That’s what you’re doing. Tough is how we want ’em. Now get on and clean up and tell me then how well you can sleep with that new fear in your belly. You’ve slept your last good night’s sleep.’
Song collected the plates and went down to the river to wash up. As he squatted by the water’s edge he felt the pinched tautness of his back’s burned skin. His head was pounding. He stood up, steadied himself, and slowly walked back to camp.
Jesus was already in his hammock. Song was on him before the man had a chance to move. The pots and plates clattered to the ground. Song’s knife was open and he carved it across Jesus’ throat, pressing the blade deep into the hard flesh. The way Song held him down Jesus could not put up a struggle. His breathing turned to wheezing, then choking. Song knew the sound of dying. He felt the heat of the thickening blood between his fingers. He did not give up on the pressure. He pushed himself and his knife harder into the man, and waited.
It surprised him how fast it had happened, how easy it had been. In only a few minutes Jesus was dead. Song eventually lessened his force but his body remained tense. He wanted to be sure there was not another breath of life in the man.
Song carried Jesus’s body down to the river across his raw shoulders. Jesus’ swinging arms thwacked against Song’s back with every step but Song drove on in the darkness. When he reached the bank he let Jesus fall off him, and heard the splash in the water. He remembered that same sound as Li Bai tossed dead bodies into the sea, and how Song had wished for those deaths every night just so he could go up on deck.
Song pushed Jesus’ body towards the faster flowing current and watched the dark shape carried away. Bartica takes care of its own troubles, Song thought. That’s what Tom Jameson had once said. Revenge. That’s the law. Someone wrongs you, and they’ll be bobbing up and down on the river the next day. Song got into the water himself to wash off the blood and rinse out his clothes.
By the next morning the river had risen sharply. Song walked down to where they had been working and where he had dumped Jesus’ body. Dead Man’s Bend, he called it in his head, as a warning to himself. He had taken a man’s life. It was easy. That made it all the more horrific.
Song collected the tools together. He felt inside the pouches of Jesus’ leather belt and checked inside the battel. Nothing.
Song studied the site. The river was rough here. He knew Jesus hated working in strong current; the man had not even known how to swim. Song undressed and slipped into the shallows, remembering what Sammy had taught him about studying the shape of the river and the feel of gravel underfoot. Song’s eyes flicked around the lines of trees. He felt as if he was being watched. By some God he no longer believed in. Probably never had.
He wiggled his toes deep into the riverbed, probing for more grainy material before diving down to grab handfuls of earth. He flung the wet gravel onto the bank. After a dozen dives he pulled himself out and lay on his back to catch his breath. The mating call of a hermit hummingbird drew his eyes to the trees and he blocked out the sun with his hand. As he did he caught a glint of light under his nails, still stained around the cuticles with the blood of Jesus. He flicked out the dirt and smeared it across his forearm. There was a glimmer in the dark streak. He rubbed the dirt into his skin and saw again the flicker of reflected sunlight.
He looked at the piles of wet earth by his side and took up the sieve. Removing the larger pebbles he searched among the finer material. Nothing. Again he sieved the filtered matter, swirling around the water and shingle. He squinted down into the battel, shading it from the bright sunlight. Was the sun tricking him ? There were a hundred specks of golden light between the granules. One was about the size of a sesame seed. He plucked it out and bit it between his teeth. Gold. Finally. This was rough justice, Song thought. He surprised himself at how he was without feeling towards Jesus. He had killed a man at the age of seventeen with a knife given to him by a vicar, but he felt nothing.
Song spent another two days panning the bend of the river. At the end of the day he melted his finds down and sewed them inside the hem of his shirt. He was going to close up camp and head back to Bartica.
Before he left Song made discreet markings on each side of the riverbank and sketched out a rough map of the site in the pages of his book. Then he loaded the boat and headed downstream.
Song always knew the journey back to Bartica would be difficult, even though he had made rigorous notes on the journey out. He stuck to the smaller rivers. If he started down one waterway and lost his nerve, he’d continue anyway. That’s what Sammy had said: don’t change your mind, push on against your fears. Song was determined and tired in equal measure; he found himself nodding off even as he rowed. By the time he arrived in town he had been gone sixty-two days. It was not two weeks since he had killed Jesus and thrown him into the river like scrap. Before he arrived back in Bartica he scrubbed himself once more and rinsed out his clothes. He tried to dig the dried blood out from under his fingernails. He wanted to be sure there was no sign when he arrived at the jetty.
‘Look at you,’ Dory said. ‘Skin an’ bone. Done with life, boy ?’
‘Ain’t you been bothering to eat ?’ Joseph asked.
Dory threw him a guava from the dock. ‘Where’s Jesus ?’
Song didn’t reply to any of their questions.
‘Looks like you ’bout ready to die, boy,’ Joseph said.
‘Maybe I am,’ Song said, cracking open the guava and sucking at the flesh.
‘Boy’s become a man, that’s for sure.’
‘Where’s Jesus ?’
‘Is he here ?’ Song asked.
Basil whistled. ‘Ain’t he with you ?’
Song shook his head. ‘I thought he could be back here.’
‘Ain’t seen no Jesus for a couple thousand years,’ Dory said. Everyone laughed.
Song threw a rope to the boys. Joseph helped him up to the jetty.
‘I lost him,’ Song shrugged.
Basil whistled again. ‘Kill ’im ?’
Song didn’t flinch but he felt his throat tighten. He needed to get away from the dock and all their loose banter.
‘Shut your big mouth,’ Joseph said. ‘This boy’s the son of a preacher.’
The son of a preacher. Song couldn’t bear to hear their talk. He shuddered to think what Father Holmes would think of him now.
‘Lost him to the river,’ Song said. ‘The current was rough. Don’t think he could swim. Maybe he didn’t make it. Maybe he did.’
‘Drowned ?’
‘I waited around but he never showed up.’
‘Ain’t gonna resurrect himself, boy,’ Dory said. ‘Even if he was called Jesus.’
Song turned to go.
‘If I was you I’d be hoping he wouldn’t ever show up again,’ Basil said. ‘He’ll be ’bo
ut ready to kill you.’
‘You don’t know nothing, Basil,’ Joseph said. ‘The man’s dead and gone and about time, I say. Jesus lived too long as it was.’
‘Never found his body, eh ?’ Basil said. ‘Just like Jesus, son of God. Preacher’s son’ll know all about that, of course.’
Song didn’t want to be reminded again. ‘What’s going on here ?’ he asked.
‘Bad times. Ever since Father Holmes gone, place has gone back to its old ways. Like a boat without a mooring.’
‘He couldn’t keep this place in check either,’ Song said.
‘Used to be better with him in town. Kind of a compass telling us which way to point. He made you feel like you didn’t want to let him down, you know.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Song.
‘So you find any gold ?’ Dory asked.
‘A bit.’
‘Sounds like a lot. Let’s take a look.’
‘Give the boy a break,’ Joseph said. ‘Look at the state of him. He deserves everything he got.’
‘It’s not a lot,’ Song said. ‘But I’ll be going back up.’
‘Course you are, boy. They always do.’
The vicarage seemed smaller and quieter. Song fingered the gold in the seam of his shirt to be sure it was still there. He went around to the back of the house.
‘Hey, Jingy.’
Jingy slapped her chest. ‘Whatch you doin’ giving me a heart attack ? Look at you, what’s left of you.’
Song bent his head to walk under the doorframe into the kitchen. He smelled the burned brown sugar of pepper pot. The lid of boiling rice rattled. ‘You got guests ?’ Song asked.
‘Look like one just walked in. Don’t you think there’s people worryin’ ’bout you ? Sit yourself down. I’m gonna break my own rules given you look like you do.’ Jingy steered him out of her kitchen. ‘You eat before you wash to save me from being accused of murder. Can count your ribs through your shirt. What you been doing, starving yourself ? Growin’ up and not out. I’ve letters for you.’
Song thought how the dining room looked like a framed still-life. It seemed like it hadn’t changed since Father Holmes was last there. Jingy handed him the post before heading back into the kitchen muttering. Song looked over the letters. The first was from Queen’s College. He tore open the envelope. He had won the scholarship. A full bursary for tuition and board. Term had started a month earlier. He slipped the letter back into the envelope. Father Holmes would have been proud he’d won a place, but not if he had let it go.
The next one was from London. It had a stamp from the Royal Ornithological Society. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Royal Ornithological Society
London
14 February 1887
Master Song Holmes, Esq.,
The Vicarage,
Parish of Bartica,
British Guiana
Dear Master Holmes,
We have studied your commendable books regarding the Birds of British Guiana, gratefully received from your guardian Father Holmes (Vicar, Parish of Bartica, British Guiana) on 24 November 1886.
We were most interested in the observation of species Number 11. Given the professional nature of the recordings in these books, The Royal Ornithological Society has taken upon itself to confirm the existence of the ‘Whiskered white-headed song warbler’, so named as per Father Holmes’ request.
Song stopped reading. The page blurred through his tears. He began to sob uncontrollably, like the day he had walked into Father Holmes’ room, missing him, willing him to return. He missed him again now, unbearably.
A scholarship. A letter from the Royal Ornithological Society. A bird named after him. And he had killed a man.
*
The following day Song went to see Old Ivor. He remembered their first exchange all those years ago, the old man teasing Song with a handful of diamonds.
‘Ah, so the boy finally made it upriver. Not looking so good though. How long were you gone ?’
‘Couple months.’
‘That’ll grow you up. How much you come back with ?’
Song put the lump of melted gold on the table.
Old Ivor whistled. ‘Work that hard for only this and you’ll be in your grave before long. You didn’t have much luck up there, did you ?’
‘Never much believed in luck.’
‘Wrong business you in then.’
Song wanted to get in and out of there quickly. ‘How much ?’
Old Ivor weighed the gold and slid a few groats across the table. Song picked up the coins one by one. He felt their weight, the cool metal, the worn edges. Hard-earned. This money hadn’t come easily, but it felt good.
He then headed to market to buy oil, sugar and pulses for Jingy. While he was there he ran into Jon and his sister, Sonia. Song greeted them awkwardly. Seeing Jon reminded Song of his childhood, more innocent times. He felt like he’d betrayed all of that by committing an act reserved for grown men. Sonia mustn’t have noticed Song’s uneasiness because she reached up and hugged him.
Jon looked him over. ‘You okay ?’
‘Fine. Long time on the river, but I’m fine.’ Song was impatient to hear about Jon’s art scholarship. ‘Did you hear back from Q.C. ?’
‘Yes. I got it.’
‘You did ?’
‘Full scholarship. Mama wouldn’t let me go, of course.’
‘No. You can’t waste this. Go anyway. Even if it means going against her.’
‘You know how hard she has it at home. I can’t leave right now.’
‘But this is big, Jon.’
‘Don’t blame her. I don’t think she really knows what it means. I did worry what Father Holmes would have thought though.’
‘He’d have persuaded your mama, I guess,’ Song said.
‘You’re right, he would.’ Jon had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was imagining that life.
‘I could try and talk to her,’ Song said.
Jon shook his head. ‘What about you ?’
‘Same.’
‘You got it, too ? Then what are you doing here ?’
‘I only read the letter yesterday. I missed the deadline by weeks.’
Jon became animated. ‘They’d still take you if you explained. You could easily catch up. You probably wouldn’t even need to catch up. You’d be ahead of half the class. You’ve got to go, Song. For both of us. You’ve got nothing keeping you here.’
‘Haven’t I ?’ He’d heard words like that before. Father Holmes had once said he’d got nobody else. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I haven’t. Anyway it’s too late.’
Jon shook his head. ‘It’s not too late.’
Song shrugged. He felt tired suddenly. Tired of trying to justify his choices.
‘I can’t believe we both got it and neither of us took it,’ Jon said. ‘He’d have been crushed.’
Song flinched. ‘Would he ?’
‘I think he would, yes,’ Jon said solemnly.
‘Poor Jon,’ Sonia said, sensing the sadness in the air.
Song changed the subject. ‘I came back to Bartica on my own, you know.’
‘What happened to Jesus ?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead ?’
Song suddenly wanted to tell Jon everything that had happened. To confide. To share his dark secret. But then he looked at Sonia and all her sweetness, and couldn’t bear to sully her with that kind of talk.
‘How’d he die ?’ Jon asked.
‘Just on the river.’
Jon nodded and asked no more.
Song picked Sonia up and looked into her eyes. He remembered the little girl as a baby. He recalled the milk pouring down the walls of Jon’s house. It seemed like a hundred years ago but it was five. ‘It’s so good to see you both again.’
Sonia tried to wriggle free and Song set her back down again.
Jon whistled. ‘How the hell was travelling back on your own ?’
‘Hell,’ Sonia
repeated.
‘Shh,’ Jon said to his sister.
‘Thank our time with Sammy for getting me through. Remember what he said ? How the ones who hesitate are goners. Push on against your fears. Wasn’t easy but I wasn’t about to give up neither. Caught a labba, which saw me through those last days, although, hell, I was almost too weak to skin the thing.’
‘Hell,’ Sonia repeated again.
Jon rolled his eyes at her.
‘I’ll be going back up,’ Song added.
‘You always loved it upriver,’ Jon said. ‘It always scared me a bit.’
‘Town scares me more,’ Song said. ‘Give me birds over people.’
‘You’re right about that.’
‘So what are you going to do next ?’ Song asked.
‘I’ll finish school. Then maybe Georgetown. How’s this ? I wrote a letter to the governor asking if he might need an illustrator. Not just for birds but other stuff, too. Documenting Guiana life, that kind of thing. I’d never have had the courage without Father Holmes.’
‘Braver stuff than going upriver,’ Song said, wanting to sound a note of encouragement to his friend. ‘Father Holmes would have been proud of you.’
There was silence between the boys.
‘You get any gold ?’ Sonia asked.
‘Sure,’ Song said crouching down to her height. ‘Everyone does. It’s how much that’s important.’
Sonia’s eyes widened. ‘Can I see it ?’
Song lifted his bag of shopping. ‘It’s here. Oil and lentils. Sorry. Next time I’ll show you before I sell.’
She pouted. ‘Hell.’
The boys laughed.
‘What do you think Father Holmes would’ve thought about you going upriver ?’ Jon asked.
‘I don’t know. Said he wanted me to do whatever I wanted to do. Even gold.’
‘He was the one who first took us upriver, you know. You could even pin it on him.’
Song smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ll remember that the next time I have to defend my choices.’
Jon was lost in his own thoughts. ‘Those few weeks were the best of my life, I swear.’
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