‘My plan is to survey the land before prospecting it, sir. I’ve got a fixer. Chi knows the interior a lot better than me. I figured the more I buy, the greater chance I have.’
Mr Wright studied the boundary. ‘I haven’t seen an application of this size in years. Mind you, we see so few applications. Nobody’s much interested in speculating on land. That’s the problem with most pork-knockers. They’re just in it for the day. No long-term thinking. You’ve had Father Holmes’ influence, of course. By the way, what do you think of this Father Lovett fellow. Have you met him yet ?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘He’s very young. Nineteen. To be a vicar in these parts.’
Song thought how he and Father Lovett were just a year apart. ‘Young might be good. He will need the vigour.’
Mr Wright took out his wooden ruler and was marking points on Song’s map. Song had deliberately drawn an irregular shape.
‘I’ll have to straighten out these lines. Too complicated otherwise.’
Mr Wright started scratching some sums on a scrap of paper. Finally he took off his spectacles. ‘Well, if there are no other claims, it’ll be about a shilling an acre.’
It was close to the number Song had in his head. ‘You know what, sir, I might have enough money to buy a bit more – if that’s all right with you.’ Song took a pencil out of his pocket and extended the lines. The area almost doubled in size. The land Song really wanted fell into the extension.
Mr Wright sucked the air in between his teeth. ‘More that gets surveyed the better for us. You know the rules. As long as you declare all your finds.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Wright sat back in his chair. ‘A man in my profession knows when he meets someone with more than a hunch. People don’t go buying up land in the hope it will make them rich.’
Song nodded. ‘You’re right, sir. As well as Chi I’m looking to some old friends. Father Holmes and I used to spend a lot of time in one particular village when we went upriver. We got to know the families there well. They taught me everything I know about the interior. I’ve asked them to guide me.’ That wasn’t strictly true but Song did have plans to call on Sammy and his friends.
‘Ah, now you’re talking. But they’ll kill you for a grain of rice I hear. Not to be trusted.’
‘Can’t trust anyone in this business,’ Song said.
Mr Wright had stopped listening. He was looking at the map and smoothing out the creases. ‘You couldn’t cover this much land in a lifetime.’
‘I’ll be hiring hands,’ Song said.
‘Pay them well, that’s my advice. A bitter man shows no mercy. You don’t want to end up floating down the river.’
Song wondered again about Chi and whether he was a man who would ever turn on him. He didn’t think so. It didn’t seem to take much to satisfy him. But Song needed to be cautious. The throes of gold fever could subjugate the usual manners of a man.
‘I’ll be careful,’ Song said.
‘I’ll send confirmation as soon as this is authorised. Payment is cash only.’
Song left the room to find Harrington squatting on the other side of the door.
Harrington dropped his voice. ‘I can make sure nobody finds out about this if you make it worth my while. Remember it was me who persuaded Mr Wright to see you.’
‘Good day, Harrington,’ Song said loudly.
‘Otherwise word’ll get out . . .’
*
Song had two copies of the deeds drawn up. He gave one to Jingy to put inside the box under her bed where she kept her wages, and he gave the other to Yan, who hid it in the biscuit tin on the top shelf of her kitchen. Song kept the original document between the pages of Father Holmes’ Bible. He wondered what Father Holmes would have thought about that. Song was following his dreams, that was for sure. Every now and then he flicked through the pages until he reached halfway into the Book of Leviticus to read the document through again. He pored over maps charting the area he was buying. Mr Wright was right. It would take a lifetime to survey. But Song’s eyes were trained on one location that was burning a hole in his mind. He wanted to believe that was the place that would change everything he knew.
CHAPTER 16
Song and Chi had to stay in town longer than they hoped, waiting on oil to arrive from Georgetown.
During that week Song spent much of his time in his room reading. At night he went to Ruby Lou’s to hear the B Boys play. He didn’t touch a drop of drink. Never again, he’d said to himself. But he listened to the music and let his mind wander. From the river to the sea to the river, remembering whatever it was that came into his head. Evenings with Father Holmes. That’s what he missed most. Their tos and fros on books, local politics, the injustices Father Holmes wanted to redress. Back and forth in the glow of lamplight.
One afternoon Song met Father Lovett on the street. Thin, pale and freckled, he looked younger than Song remembered from his glimpse through the vicarage window. Song introduced himself.
‘Father Lovett, you don’t know me, but I was Father Holmes’ houseboy. I used to live in the vicarage. My name’s Song.’
‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard about you.’ His tone wasn’t friendly. ‘I’m surprised not to have seen you on a Sunday morning. I was under the impression Father Holmes put a lot of work into you. But I hear you’re on the river now.’
Jingy was right. Father Lovett would struggle in Bartica.
‘It was Father Holmes who first took me upriver, in fact. He loved the interior.’
‘He wasn’t looking for gold though, was he ? Saving souls. That was his business. I hear there are a hundred wretched souls for every mile. Is that true ?’
‘I’d examine my own soul before I judged another. My world up there is more about birds. Recording with illustrations and descriptions . . .’
‘Well, I’m not here for birds,’ Father Lovett interrupted. ‘I’m here to build a congregation. And I’m not impressed with where the town is with regard to that. I hope I can count on you this Sunday ?’
‘I’ll be back upriver by then.’
‘Disappointing.’
Father Lovett was not the only one on Song’s back. Tom Jameson also had a turn. ‘Do you know how much you meant to Father Holmes ? What would he say if he could see you drinking in the bars ?’
‘I’m not drinking in the bars. I’m there for the music.’
‘I don’t deny that we all need a bit of entertainment. I’m not about to cut that out of a man’s life. But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t ask you at least once to consider Father Holmes, that’s all.’
Even Bronco pestered Song. ‘Fever’ll take you downriver if you’re not careful,’ he warned.
‘Not me.’
‘You be careful.’
‘River hasn’t taken you yet, Bronco.’
‘I’se bigger than you.’
‘That’s why I’ve got you watching my door.’
‘Just saying.’ Bronco’s voice was gentle for such a big man. ‘Don’t matter what happens to a man like me. Different for a kid like you.’
‘I’m not a kid any more.’
‘Everyone’s smaller than me, so they’re a kid. And like I said you’se different. You got promise.’
He wanted Bronco to be right. Promise perhaps, not luck as Mr Leigh had said. ‘It’s a wonderful thing to have your whole life ahead of you, but it’s a crime to waste it,’ he’d told Song. Song wasn’t about to waste it, not with the plans he had. He wanted to do something that would have made Father Holmes proud.
Perhaps Jingy knew that, because she was the only one who let him be. She just inspected the state of his collar and pinched him hard in the stomach to see if he was eating enough. Not since the time he was passed out in Josie’s bar, when she hit him hard across the head, had she called him in on his behaviour. She had never again mentioned those drunken few weeks.
In the evening Song could be found at Ruby Lou’s and nowhere else. He’d
cross the threshold just as the B Boys began their first set.
The big room was yellowed by candlelight and sweat and hard sad music. The girls were sometimes tired and sometimes drunk and sometimes angry but whatever their mood they could always talk like honey. Not that they ever approached Song. They might offer up a nervous smile as they passed his table but only Ruby Lou ever sat with him. Song came for the music. He drifted into a dream as the boys hit their notes: Jackson on the stand-up piano, Short John strumming a banjo and Boney singing ratchety tunes with his beat-up smoky old voice.
Song rolled the sounds around in his head, mixing them up. He heard in the mix the chanting of a times-table; Mrs Boyle singing ‘Ave Maria’; Amalia’s sweet humming while she cooked; Lady’s voice, of course.
One-two, one-two. The rhythm beat on. Song could hear his sister Xiao Mei calling out numbers in her sing-song voice in the days before she had stopped talking. She hopped on one leg as the numbers increased and switched legs to count down. Then after the flood she didn’t make another sound. Song recalled her silence the day he left, and the figures of his family diminishing. ‘I’ll be back with sugar and gold and diamonds, I promise.’ Those were his words. ‘You wait and see.’
Some nights, when the memories were too raw, too bloody, Song went straight home. It was too much. He’d yearn for Maia but could not bear for her to see him so broken.
Song made his way over to Chi’s. He had heard the oil from Georgetown was arriving later that day and he wanted Chi to be ready to receive it on the jetty. If everything else was in order, they could head upriver the following day.
Nina, Chi’s eldest, was on the porch shelling peas.
‘Hello, Nina. Your papa around ?’
‘I thought he was with you. Said he was meeting you at the dock.’
‘Missed him then. Yan in ?’
‘She’s gone to market.’
Song pulled up a chair. ‘Strange to see the house so quiet.’
‘Hell glad for half a minute. ’Bout driving me crazy.’
Song laughed.
‘You can laugh but you never had to run after a brother or sister. Just you being spoilt by that Father man. Teaching you fine and everything.’
Song thought how Nina didn’t know the half of it. But he was amused by her straight talk.
‘You lucky to be living in a nice quiet room in town,’ she continued. ‘Can do what you want anytime of the day or night. No one to think about or worry about or fret none.’
Song watched her hands deftly squeeze each pod as the peas popped into the bowl.
‘Some might feel sorry for me, that I’ve got no family,’ Song said.
‘Not me,’ Nina said. ‘’Bout done with family.’ She held out a handful of peas. ‘Want some ?’
‘Sure.’
She trickled a handful of peas into Song’s cupped palm.
‘Where’s everyone else ?’ Song said.
‘I don’t know and don’t care. School. Bibi’s with Mama. I sent the rest of them playing. Hope they fall in the river and drown.’
Song laughed again. ‘Nina, what’s up with you ? Yan giving you a hard time ?’
‘Everyone’s giving me a hard time,’ she said. ‘I want my own time that I can choose what to do with. Why can’t I go upriver ? Like you and Papa.’
Song thought back to when he’d barely even noticed Nina; she’d been just a shadow on the edge of the porch. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ he said.
‘Tell that to Papa.’
He upturned his handful of peas into his mouth. ‘We can take you on the river one day.’
Nina snorted. ‘When ?’
‘I don’t know. That’s not up to me.’
‘Will you ask Papa ?’
‘Ask him what ?’
There was irritation in Nina’s voice. ‘If I can go upriver ?’
‘Sure.’
‘Promise ?’
‘Sure, I promise.’
‘I got dreams, you know. I’m not spending the rest of my life on a porch shelling peas.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Can you ?’
‘I can. I like your spirit, Nina. It’s good to have dreams.’
‘What else do you like about me ?’
Song heard a slight change in her tone. He got up to go. ‘Ah, I like all the things I see in your mother and father. Your mama’s straight talk. Your papa’s sense of adventure.’
Nina also got to her feet. The bowl fell and peas rolled across the floor. She giggled. The sound of a girl, not the woman she was trying to be.
Song bent down to collect them up but Nina caught his hands. ‘Nobody’s here,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside.’
‘No, Nina. Not me. I don’t want to be the same as every other man in Bartica. I’m off to find your papa. You look after yourself, you hear.’
Song and Chi left the next day. They were wary of being followed and planned a late departure, when most men would already be drunk or on their way. Only the jetty boys were around and most of them were fuzzy in the head.
‘Hey, leaving in the dark,’ Basil said. ‘You two got something to hide ?’
‘We like counting stars,’ Chi said.
Basil laughed, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m banking on you boys. I’m putting in my order for some of that gold – but a dose of luck’ll do just as well. God help us, we need some luck around here, too.’
Neither responded. They went quietly on their way.
‘It feels different this time,’ Song said to Chi, under his breath. ‘Feel different to you ?’
‘Sure it feels different,’ Chi said. ‘Feeling jumpy. Knowing everyone knows where we’re headed.’
‘They don’t.’
‘They know more than they did before. That good-for-nothing Harrington mouthing off about town.’
‘The only thing they know is that we made a purchase.’
‘Still.’
‘You’re the one making me jumpy, Chi.’
Silence enveloped them. There was the sound of their paddles dipping in the water and a nightjar’s call, like ‘who are you, who are you’ – and Song wondered himself. From the outside a pork-knocker, but he had much more in him than that. This was more than prospecting, more than even discovering gold, but instead finding a sense of worth. He didn’t want to ever feel hungry again, yes, but he had also promised to live a life that was a story worth telling. Whatever that story might yet be.
Song was glad for the darkness. The night was moonless and soft high cloud obscured the stars. He and Chi fell into a good rhythm and they drove the boat forward on memory and hope.
It was six days and five nights before they reached camp. They had been moving slower than usual, travelling only at night.
Chi got a fire going. They drank hot strong sweet tea and chewed stale churros. The first of the screaming pihas whooped just as the sun threw its first blades of light into camp.
Song spent a night with Chi before he left on his own for Yupukama. Chi was to stay behind and make a start.
Song carried with him a gallon of cooking oil, two jars of molasses, four bars of soap and a sack of sugar. He had a basket of cooked rice for the two days he should be on the river.
It was several years since Song had visited Yupukama but the villagers welcomed him back like a son. ‘They’d share their last bowl of rice with you,’ Father Holmes used to say. ‘They’re more Christian than the Christians.’
When he saw his old friends he was thrust back to his first trip upriver, when Jim Groves had gotten sick. When Father Holmes was alive and Mr Leigh was visiting from the United States of America. Both men lost to him now. But he didn’t feel alone. He felt their company with him, even now.
Song spotted Molson and Kai first, then Sammy. Song had grown taller than him, but Sammy was stockier. His hair still hung in front of his eyes. He squinted through the tresses, and smiled.
‘Where you been ?’
‘Finding my wa
y,’ Song said.
‘Good to see you again.’ He turned to the girl by his side. ‘This is my wife, Veronique. You got yourself a wife yet ?’
Song was taken aback that Sammy might have a wife. She seemed much younger than either of them with her adolescent figure, but she held a steady adult gaze. Like Sammy, her hair fell about her face. She smiled at Song.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ she replied.
‘Never thought of a wife,’ Song admitted. The idea of a woman forever by his side was a strange new idea. He couldn’t help but stare at her – intrigued and wary in equal measure.
Sammy continued, seeming not to notice Song’s reaction.
‘We heard about the Father’s passing,’ he said. ‘Sorry for that.’
‘His ship went down,’ Song said simply.
‘Never trusted the sea. Trust the rivers.’
‘I like that,’ Song said.
‘How’s that friend of yours ? Still drawing ?’
‘Jon ? He’s doing all right. Found his calling. That in itself is a lot to be thankful for.’
‘And the American ?’
‘Never heard from him again after he went back.’ Song tried not to show his hurt. ‘Another reason not to trust the sea, I guess.’
‘Some come back, some don’t.’
‘You come back,’ Molson said.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Song said.
‘You still come back,’ Molson said.
Song handed out the gifts he had brought. Jars of dark brown molasses. ‘It’s thick and extra sweet.’ He gave the soap to Sammy’s wife. ‘This kind doesn’t use up so fast.’
Song dug into a bowl of hot stew sweetened with cassareep but declined a second serving in spite of his hunger. He didn’t need to be eating their food. Then they stayed up late talking about Omaia. The others got drunk but Song stayed sober.
‘Had a run-in with the stuff,’ he said. ‘Not touching it again.’
‘That’s a reason,’ Sammy said.
‘Gotta keep a clear head. Too much to lose now. Too much to live for.’
Sammy travelled in Song’s boat. Kai and Molson took a second, lighter vessel. The women made them enough food for a week. The children ran down to the bank to see them off, clapping as the boats eased away. Song watched them wave until the boats turned out of sight.
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