Dragons in the Waters

by Madeleine L'engle

  “That would be understandable, at least,” Dr. Eisenstein said. “I suppose the Orion will be swarming with police tomorrow morning when we dock.”

  Inés Wordsworth was white under her tan. Her hands clenched. “Oh, God! the police always look into everybody’s background in the case of murder. They’ll find out about me.”

  “Not necessarily. You have an American passport.”

  “But don’t you see how vulnerable I’ll be if the police get hold of my record?”

  “There’s no reason they should.”

  Dr. Wordsworth relaxed slightly, letting her hands unclench. “Thank you, dear Ruth. Jail once was enough for me. And there are the officers to consider. Lyolf Boon, for instance, watching the bridge games but refusing ever to take a hand. It was F.P. he was watching, not you and the Smiths.”

  “And the captain,” Dr. Eisenstein continued. “You mentioned only last night that the captain was formidably polite with Phair, the kind of rigid courtesy one reserves for someone one heartily dislikes.”

  Dr. Wordsworth smiled wryly. “In my youth I used to think I might like to be a spy or a secret-service agent. I don’t think I’m cut out for it after all. You’d better use some of my sun-tan lotion, Ruth. Your nose is getting red. You get a lot of reflection from the sun even under the canopy. Oh, God! I wish we were with your Quiztanos and all this behind us!”

  On the bridge the Master of the ship looked out to sea. Lyolf Boon was at the helm. Van Leyden said, “You were on the bridge this morning. Are you certain there was nothing on the radar?”

  “There were the usual fishing ships, but only a few, and they did not approach us; they remained well on the outer range of the radar.”

  Van Leyden’s jaw tightened. “My heart sank when I recognized the man, but in my most extreme pessimism I never thought of murder. It would seem that somebody attempted to steal the portrait, was caught by Phair, who was then murdered, and the portrait removed—do you have any ideas?”

  “Jan is the only person we know to have an interest in the portrait. But I cannot bring myself to believe that Jan ten Zwick would murder. But I do not know what his Quiztano blood might make him do.”

  “Jan is only a quarter Quiztano,” the captain said. “He is essentially Dutch.”

  “In looks. But there are many qualities in him which come from the Quiztanos.”

  The captain looked broodingly at the radar machine of which he was so proud. “That doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply—but I do not understand why he had the key to cabin 5. And why invent this wild tale of my having found the key on Phair’s crossword puzzle? His lying disturbs me greatly. Never before have I known Jan not to tell the truth.”

  “Nor I,” the captain said.

  “Geraldo should keep his key cupboard locked.”

  “I dare say he will from now on. But there has never before been an occasion to be concerned when we have been at sea.”

  “Perhaps the possibility of further trouble has occurred to Dr. O’Keefe? You remember, he’s changing cabins with Simon.”

  “A wise decision,” Van Leyden said. “But I do not wish the boy to be alone at any time until we’re certain no one wishes—wishes him harm. I’m not sure that such was in O’Keefe’s mind, otherwise wouldn’t he himself have shared his cabin with the boy? It seems likely he merely reasoned that it would hardly be pleasant for Simon to sleep alone in that cabin; that’s how I’d feel if it were my son. I think, Boon, that we must be careful not to make any assumptions about anything, or anybody.”

  Boon agreed. “It is a matter for the police.”

  Van Leyden put his hand heavily on the radar machine. “Yes. It’s all going to be very unpleasant. The police will be waiting when we land. And then Miss Phair’s plane from La Guaira will arrive by late afternoon tomorrow. I suppose the police will have her met.”

  “Yes,” Boon nodded thoughtfully. “It is all going to be very untidy. Was Phair a U.S. citizen?”

  Van Leyden hit the palm of his hand against his forehead. “No, as a matter of fact, he was not.”—How easily, he thought,—the is has become was on our tongues. “He carried a Venezuelan passport.”

  “How long do you think we’ll be detained? This plays havoc with our schedule.”

  “I wish I could give you an answer. I have no precedent for this experience. I had no fondness for Mr. Phair, but this is hardly the revenge I would have contemplated.”

  “You would have contemplated revenge?”

  Van Leyden looked surprised. “That was merely a figure of speech. My captain did not need a raw young sailor to avenge him. It was, in any case, not my prerogative. It’s nearly time for lunch. I doubt if it will be a pleasant meal.”

  It was not. In the dining room the fans whirred heavily through the silence. The passengers picked at their food. The meal was over early, and nobody lingered in the salon for coffee.

  After lunch the children did not know what to do. They could not go to the Dragon’s Lair, past the hearse with its terrible passenger, even had the captain not put the lower deck out of bounds. The adults, instead of repairing to their cabins for a siesta, went out on the aft deck, seeking the breeze, too uneasy to rest. Dr. Wordsworth and Dr. Eisenstein went up to the boat deck and grimly began their pacing, up, down, around, up, down, around.

  Poly went off to talk with Geraldo.

  Charles followed his father around.

  Boon took Simon into his office and showed him a tattered book of pictures of Venezuela. Simon leafed through it politely, pausing to study a large colored photograph, taken from a plane, of Dragonlake, with the Quiztano huts high on their stilts, far out into the lake.

  There was a knock on the doorframe and Mr. Theo looked in.

  “Come and amuse me, young Simon.”

  Boon nodded. “I have work to do. I must lock my officer.” He spoke heavily. “We are locking everything as though we were in port.”

  Mr. Theo took Simon out onto the deck. “It is hardhearted of me,” he said, “but my main concern is that I get to Caracas in time for Emily’s concert.”

  “I guess I feel pretty hardhearted, too,” Simon said. “I didn’t want him to die or anything, but he did make me feel very uncomfortable, and I didn’t want him taking the portrait away from Aunt Leonis and me, and I felt that he was glad to be getting me away from Poly and Charles, and that he didn’t want me ever to see them again. And he frightened me.”

  Mr. Theo asked quickly, “How?”

  Simon shook his head slowly. He could not say that it was because Dr. Wordsworth had made him realize that Cousin Forsyth was somebody very different from the elderly bachelor, overly tidy, impeccably courteous, that he had appeared to be during the month in South Carolina. So he said, “He was always quiet and polite, but there was something underneath.”

  “What?”

  “Poly and Charles think he didn’t like me, and I think they’re right.”

  The wind blew through Mr. Theo’s hair, ruffling it leoninely. “Let us be grateful for this breeze. We may not have it after we dock. Have you noticed how quiet the ship has become? No more music.”

  “I guess they don’t feel like singing.”

  “The sound of guitar and flute was part of the breathing of the ship. I feel an emptiness.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Come on, then. Let us gird up our lions. The captain suggests that I bring you to the bridge. There’ll be fishing boats for you to see on his radar machine.”

  It seemed to Simon that the captain was careful to see that he was always with an adult, never left alone. It was this which made him accept the unpleasant fact that somebody had already tried to take his life, that this somebody might be as interested in disposing of him as of Cousin Forsyth—but why? why? none of it made sense. He began counting the hours until Aunt Leonis would arrive. It was no more than twenty-four hours, now, or hardly more, only a day. But would a frail old woman be a
ble to protect him? Was she, too, coming into danger?

  At bedtime Simon felt strange in the O’Keefe cabin, no matter how easy he was with Charles. But Charles was in one of his silences; he seemed to be completely withdrawn from Simon; his face was cold and forbidding.

  It was not until the lights were turned off, earlier than usual, that Charles spoke. “Simon, I think I have to talk to you.” He paused.

  “I’m listening,” Simon said after a while.

  “What I have to tell you doesn’t seem to have much to do with Cousin Forsyth and the portrait, but it does have to do with you.” And in a cold, completely emotionless voice he told Simon all he had learned from Jan. “Of course it’s all muddled,” he concluded. “It’s an old story and stories tend to get exaggerated and changed. But too much of it fits in with my dreams, and Jan said the Englishman is called the Fair—Jan said he’s always thought of it as spelled F-a-i-r—but it’s too close to Phair for comfort, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing’s comfortable,” Simon said, “and it does have to do with the portrait, since Umar is written on the back.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. It’s just Cousin Forsyth who doesn’t seem to fit in. Simon, I’m sorry.”

  “It would be more of a shock,” Simon said in a small, chill voice, “if Poly and Geraldo hadn’t suggested it to me already. I tried to put it away as speculation and dream and not reality. But so much has happened, I don’t seem to know which is which any more.”

  Charles said softly into the darkness, “It doesn’t mean Quentin wasn’t—wasn’t—I know how much he means to you—how you admire—”

  The cabin fan whirred softly and steadily.

  “It means he wasn’t the kind of person I thought he was. And that changes me, too.” The breeze lifted and blew gently through the open windows. Then Simon asked, “Do you think somebody killed Cousin Forsyth in order to get the portrait?”

  “Maybe. But who? And where did the portrait vanish to?”

  “The only person who …” Simon paused, said, “Jan …”

  “If Jan were going to steal the portrait and kill Cousin Forsyth he’d hardly have told me all he did … But either he or Mr. Boon is lying about the key.”

  “All this wanting to be revenged on—on the Phair—I don’t really understand.”

  “I do,” Charles said quietly. “You may remember that Poly told you that two years ago a friend of ours was murdered in Lisbon. And Poly and I wanted him avenged, all right. There were several people we hated ferociously. And then we ended up with Daddy having to help the person who was most responsible for his death. So I understand. I just don’t understand its going on and on this way.”

  “No.”

  “Uncle Father. It’s important for him to know all this.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Maybe Quentin had a reason for not coming back, Simon.”

  “Niniane,” Simon said bitterly.

  “But you love Niniane. And Aunt Leonis talks to her.”

  “I’m very confused,” Simon said. “Quentin broke his word.”

  “Words sometimes do get broken, Simon.”

  “Not Quentin Phair’s! I know a lot of politicians nowadays, and even presidents, don’t take promises seriously, and even lie under oath, but I was brought up to speak the truth. My father’s newspaper was sometimes in trouble because he uncovered truths, and cared about honor. And Quentin Phair was always our ideal of a man of perfect honor, who cared for the truth above all things, and who spent his youth helping to free an oppressed continent.”

  “Well, he did do that,” Charles pointed out. “He spent his youth with Bolivar.”

  Simon was silent.

  After a while Charles suggested, “Why don’t you cry?”

  “I’m too old.”

  “Mother says it’s silly for men to feel they shouldn’t cry at appropriate times.”

  “Have you ever seen your father cry?”

  “At appropriate times.”

  “Do you consider this an appropriate time?”

  “It’s a death.”

  “I don’t feel like crying about Cousin Forsyth.”

  “Quentin. The man you wanted to be like is dead. He never was. As Poly said, he was too good to be true. So maybe if you cry about him, then you’ll be ready to find the real Quentin Phair.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  Charles pointed out, “He’s brought us all into quite an adventure, you’ll have to say that much for him.”

  9

  PORT OF CALL

  Simon woke up suddenly, not knowing where he was. The early-morning light shimmered on the white ceiling of the cabin—not the cabin he had shared with Cousin Forsyth, where drawn curtains kept the light to a minimum, where Cousin Forsyth’s snores were now only an echo. No. He was in Dr. O’Keefe’s cabin. He was in Dr. O’Keefe’s bunk.

  He raised himself on his elbow and looked across to the other bunk. Charles was lying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. When Simon moved he sat up and smiled.

  Simon smiled back. But he still felt empty; something was missing; the loss of Quentin Phair was far larger than the loss of Cousin Forsyth. He did not want to talk about it, so he said, “It’s not nearly time for breakfast.” He stretched. His pajamas were slightly damp with perspiration. The cabin fan was whirring and they had slept without even a sheet.

  “The Herald Angel is probably in the galley making early coffee for the Smiths.” Charles assumed his Buddha position and lapsed into silence.

  Simon broke the silence by asking, “Is he one?”

  “The Herald? I think so. You know the clouds we’ve been watching after lunch? Very light and transparent, and they seem to be throwing themselves into the wind, and we’ve all said they look as though they’re having such fun … ?”

  “I remember. I’ve never seen clouds like them before.”

  “Well, I dreamed last night that Geraldo and Jan both had wings of clouds and that they were flying above the ship—but flying is too heavy a word. It was a lovely dream to have had last night. Geraldo and Jan—they’re on the side of the angels, as the saying goes. Don’t worry about Geraldo. He won’t do anything to hurt Poly.”

  Simon thought about this for a moment. Then he said, “Thank you, Charles. I’ve been being jealous. I know Poly’s still my friend even if she’s friends with Geraldo in a different way. That was a lovely dream.”

  A shadow moved across Charles’s eyes. “They’re not always lovely. But Canon Tallis tells me that I may not reject the gift, because God does not give us more than we can bear.”

  “If there is a God.”

  “Poly was very upset when Daddy wouldn’t cable him.”

  “God?” Simon asked in surprise.

  “Uncle Father—Canon Tallis. But I think Daddy was really very relieved that Mr. Theo just went ahead and phoned. You’ll like Uncle Father, Simon.”

  “I suppose if you and Poly like him, then I will.”

  “He’s not going to be like anybody you’ve ever met before. One of our friends described him as looking like a highly intelligent teddy bear, but that’s not a very good description, because teddy bears are hairy, and he’s completely bald—I mean completely, even to having ridges of bone showing above his eyes where most people have eyebrows.”

  “How come he’s completely bald?”

  Charles was standing by the washbowl, starting to brush his teeth. He took his toothbrush out of his mouth and spat. “He was tortured, way back in some war—one of those awful ones in the Far East. They used electric shock on him and it was so strong that it killed all his hair follicles, and it almost killed him, but he didn’t betray his men.”

  “He was a soldier?”

  “A chaplain. But he went with the men wherever they went. That’s the kind of person he is. And that’s why Poly wanted Daddy to send for him, and it’s also why Daddy didn’t want to. Shall we get dressed and go out on deck?”

  “Is it all right?�
�� Simon asked. “Your father told us to keep the door locked …”

  “I think it’s all right as long as we stay together. Let’s see if the pool is filled. Salt water’s much nicer than a shower.”

  They made their way along the quiet passage. The passengers were still in their cabins behind the chintz curtains. The rest of the ship was silent. No early-morning sounds of laughter, of music. The silence was as oppressive as the heat, and Simon tried to break it by whistling a few bars of “I met her in Venezuela,” and broke off in mid-melody, thinking that Quentin might almost have been the man in the song. The song was even more painful now than it had been after his mother’s death. The words would not leave him alone.

  When the moon was out to sea,

  The moon was out to sea,

  And she was taking leave of me,

  I said, Cheer up, there’ll always be

  Sailors ashore in Venezuela,

  Ashore in Venezuela.

  Was that all it had meant to Quentin? It could not have been all. Simon pushed open the screen door to the promenade deck with a furious gesture.

  Much of the water in the pool had splashed over the wooden sides during the night. Nevertheless, Simon and Charles chose the foot of cool ocean water rather than the cabin shower. When they had rolled about till they were thoroughly wet, one of the sailors climbed up to the deck and indicated to them that he was going to drain and refill the pool. Simon and Charles got out and stood at the deck rail, looking across the water to a long dim shadow on the horizon.

  “South America,” Charles said. “It’s really very exciting.”

  But Simon felt nothing but an aching sadness.

  He continued to be passed from person to person, never left on his own. He was silently grateful. He did not want to be left alone with his thoughts. His flesh prickled with apprehension. He was sure that Mr. Theo was not a secret murderer. His pheromones told him that Dr. Wordsworth had a violent temper and cause to dislike Cousin Forsyth but that, except in a moment of passion, she would not murder. The carefully stacked wood from the portrait’s crate spoke of premeditation, or at least a kind of cool surrounding the murder which he did not think was part of Dr. Wordsworth’s personality. But that left everybody else on the ship to be afraid of. Nobody and nothing was to be trusted, not even his memories.