The Book of the Heathen

by Robert Edric

  When I woke it was evening. I had slept for six hours.

  I went outside. The deformed boy lay asleep on my step. I prodded him with my foot, and when he did not respond I kicked him harder. I told him to fetch Nash to me, but he made no attempt to rise. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at me. I saw that he was naked. He had shaved his head, and someone – he was unlikely to have done this himself – had followed the curved hump of his spine in a line of white thumbprints, extending this over his twisted shoulders and along each arm. I kicked him again and repeated the order before returning indoors.

  Nash came an hour later. He entered without announcing himself and cleared a space at my desk. He seemed intoxicated. He told me immediately that he had come as a courtesy to me, and that, regardless of what I had been told, what I now understood or believed to be the truth of the matter, he would not discuss with me any of the events Frere had related. The girl had been killed and Frere had willingly confessed to shooting her.

  But my outrage at this was uncontainable and I listed reason after reason why Frere should not now be facing trial.

  He listened to all this without speaking, unmoved by my protests and pleas. At one point he rose, took the bottle of brandy from beside my bed and drank from it.

  When I finally fell silent, he pulled his chair closer to me and handed me the bottle.

  ‘He killed the girl,’ he said. His words were slurred. He was unshaven, with a small cut above one eye which shone wetly each time he ran his hand across it. ‘It’s all that matters.’

  ‘But surely, the circumstances—’

  ‘Tell me, if you’re so concerned for the wretched child, what was her name, what was she called?’

  ‘What does it matter what she was called?’

  ‘Precisely.’ He retrieved the bottle. ‘Did he tell you that she was the feather-gatherer’s youngest daughter? No? Seven years old.’

  ‘Hammad’s lie. The man—’

  ‘And that, having come across Frere barely conscious, barely alive, on the bank of the river, the man was attempting to help him when Frere pulled out his pistol and fired at him without warning, missing him but striking the girl, who was unloading the canoe beside him.’

  ‘Even you can’t convince yourself of that.’

  ‘It’s the story the feather-gatherer tells.’

  ‘Rehearsed by Hammad, who wants his show trial. What about the testimony of the others present?’

  ‘What others? According to him, he, Frere and the girl were alone.’ He raised both his hands. He knew every protest I would make.

  ‘The burned body, then.’

  ‘She fell into the fire when Frere shot her. Her father was fighting with Frere to prevent him from re-loading and firing again. Hammad’s agent found the grieving man two days later at one of their usual rendezvous to trade the birds and feathers.’

  ‘And the man’s story was worth more to Hammad than his cargo?’

  ‘Incalculably more.’

  ‘Where is he now, the feather-gatherer?’

  ‘Presumably being measured up for a suit at Hammad’s expense ready for his visit to Stanleyville.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Nash shrugged. ‘Ask Hammad.’ He drank again from the bottle. ‘If it is any consolation to you, Frere denies none of it.’

  ‘But his own story is entirely different.’

  He acknowledged this in silence. ‘He killed the girl. He went in search of what he found. His journals tell the whole story.’

  ‘The journal Hammad brought to you.’

  ‘And others. The man was obsessed. Did he tell you that, had he not been exhausted and unwell, had he not been suffering and delirious, that he would in all likelihood have accepted the men’s offer to take part in what they were doing? Imagine that – he cannot deny, for all the extenuating circumstances, for all that did or didn’t happen, he cannot deny that he may have participated.’

  ‘And so his honesty will hang him.’

  ‘He was delirious. Who knows what he did or didn’t do?’ It was the last feeble echo of a broken argument.

  ‘You do,’ I said. ‘And I do.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘And he does,’ I added.

  But his work here was finished, and nothing I said would divert him in the slightest from the course he now followed.

  ‘I did what I was told to come here and do,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Of course you did.’

  I could see that my words stung him, but that he no longer possessed the strength or the will to persist in trying to convince me that, of everyone at the Station, I alone insisted on following this different course.

  ‘I shall leave Stanleyville as soon as it is expedient for me to do so,’ he said, as though in response to another question.

  ‘Of course you will. Expedient. And Frere will be long dead before you even reach the sea.’

  He rose at that, picked up the bottle and tipped it upside down so that what little remained of its contents splashed over the papers scattered at his feet.

  * * *

  I slept fitfully through that night. The colony of small apes returned and ran clattering over my roof until something scared them off two hours before dawn.

  I made a small pile of my spoiled papers and took them outside to start a fire. The boy sat and watched me. I cared little for him any longer. I asked him where the old boatman was, and he said, simply, ‘Gone,’ nodding upriver as he spoke. He, on the other hand, would fulfil his blighted dream of travelling downriver to the growing cities there. He insisted on helping me gather up more papers and feeding them to the blaze. Those soaked in brandy burst into blue flames and floated above the dying fire. The boy took some pleasure in watching all this, and he rolled on the ground like a satisfied dog. He picked up the blackened papers and crushed them to dust in his hands. In the darkness, the white markings along his spine gave him the appearance of a serpent curving back and forth, attracted and repelled in equal measure by the blaze. I fed more to the flames than I had intended, but I was as mesmerized by them as the boy was, and once started I did not want the fire to die.

  It was a clear, dry night, and the sky above me shone with the intensity of lacquer. The moon was gibbous and pale and it lay whole on the water, barely disturbed in its outline.

  The compound was in darkness, but a succession of lights still showed along the far shore. It was said the Station there was now so inundated with trade that vessels were filled and unloaded through the night. They were distant, but it was possible to make out the figures of men passing among these lights. Klaxons and whistles sounded, faint and distorted over the expanse of moving water; there was no peace there.

  The boy complained that the fire was burning low. I returned to my room, pulled the trunk from beneath my bed, and took from this the journals Frere had asked me to keep safe for him, those accounts of all our early wanderings together, of everything he had discovered and described. I took them all out to the boy and showed him how easily they burned if fed to the flames a page at a time. I could not bring myself to look at the writing, drawings and small paintings and maps they contained. But I knew that if I did not burn them, then someone else would, someone who had never known Frere, someone disgusted by the mention of his name.

  I burned packet after packet of his precious photographs.

  The boy looked more closely at the torn pages; he recognized the animals and birds, each of these identifications a small thrill for him. There were some pages he was reluctant to burn, and I stood over him to ensure that he concealed none of them and later took them away with him.

  The bindings and covers of the journals burned more slowly, with a strong and acrid smell, and the boards themselves cracked and spat like burning bark. We were at least an hour in the task.

  At some point before the fire died, Fletcher came out to us. He carried his pistol and wanted to know what I was doing. I told him to mind his own business. He looked from the blaze of c
onsumed papers to the boy and said that he too had been unable to sleep. He said that earlier in the night he had seen Abbot feeding a fire of his own, tending it some distance from the compound in the hope that no-one would see him.

  He left us after that.

  The boy held his hands close to the dead fire. He rubbed the soot from the charred paper and boards onto his forehead and cheeks. He spat into his palms and moulded a handful of this mess into a small ball, which he smeared over his lips and teeth, and which he then sucked as though it were some sweet fruit.

  Ensuring that nothing legible or identifiable remained, I left him and returned to my bed, the dawn’s first light already showing above the trees.

  29

  Later that morning, and ensuring I was not observed, I went to see Cornelius. The noise of hymns and of Klein berating his flock rose from the chapel, the voices amplified and distorted by the tin walls and roof which could not contain the racket.

  At first I thought Cornelius had fallen and that he lay unconscious on the floor, but as I knocked and entered he roused himself and rose slowly and stiffly from where he had spent the night. He wore only his trousers and boots. There were dark rings of sleeplessness around his eyes, and his usually neatly trimmed beard and moustache had started to spread over his neck and cheeks. He mumbled an apology for his appearance and told me to sit down. He pulled at a cloth tied around his upper arm and then flexed his arm back and forth. The cloth left a dark welt.

  I started to tell him what I had learned from Frere the previous day, but he remained distracted, unconcerned by what I said.

  Eventually he held up his hand to silence me and moved closer to the window to better hear the singing and the voice of the priest.

  ‘Listen to him,’ he said. ‘Listen.’

  I stopped speaking of Frere.

  ‘He antagonizes you deliberately,’ I said. ‘It’s a game to him.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to antagonize me,’ he said. ‘His very presence, his very existence is a constant reminder of my own failings and weaknesses.’ He took his crumpled jacket from the bed and put it on.

  ‘He knows that, too,’ I said. ‘But what do you imagine you will ever achieve by confronting him?’

  ‘All I want to know is the truth.’

  ‘About your wife?’

  ‘“Wife”,’ he repeated softly.

  ‘Your child’s mother,’ I said.

  ‘“Wife” will suffice. She was that in all but the eyes of the church, his church.’

  ‘Can’t you accept what Perpetua told you?’ I said.

  ‘And for which she was punished. Perhaps I will have to accept it, but I would much prefer to hear it from him before everything here is gone forever and we too are forgotten to the world.’

  ‘What do you intend doing?’ I asked cautiously.

  He finished buttoning up his jacket before turning to me and slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Are you going to see him?’ I knew he was. ‘Then let me come with you to—’

  ‘To what? To witness fair play? Save that for Frere. You are as useless to him in that respect as I ever was to her or my daughter.’

  The remark caught me unawares.

  ‘Yes, I intend going to see him. And, if necessary, I’ll pay him to find out exactly what happened to her, where she was sent, where she might still be.’

  We went outside together, and no sooner had we secured his door behind him than we heard a loud scream, followed by another and then another in rapid succession. There was a short silence, followed in turn by three more screams, as evenly spaced as the first three, and leaving us in no doubt that they came from inside the chapel.

  Cornelius ran ahead of me. I tried to grab him and stop him, to give us time to send for Fletcher, but he pulled himself free of me and ran panting to the chapel door, pushing it open just as a further three screams filled the air.

  I ran to join him.

  The chapel was full, the congregation on their feet and dancing in a common rhythm from side to side, men and women groaning aloud and shouting out. Some of them stood with their faces pressed to the corrugated walls and others lay writhing in the aisle and round the edges of the small room.

  At first no-one appeared to notice our arrival and the commotion continued unabated. It was difficult to see what was happening at the front of the chapel because of this throng of shifting bodies, but Cornelius pushed through them, shouting for people to get out of his way as he went. Those he pushed aside complied without resistance, and many became silent in his wake; some even fell back into their seats, exhausted by their exertions.

  I followed a short distance behind him, and as I passed into the body of the crowd, and as the men and women gave way around me, a further three screams filled the small space, echoing against the walls and low roof so that this time there was no silence between them, and so that the three were drawn out into a single, prolonged cry.

  Ahead of me, Cornelius continued to push through those at the front of the crowd and emerged into the space before the altar. He called out at what he finally saw there, and the people closest to him moved away in alarm. I hurried to join him. A woman fell at my feet and shook on her back as though having a fit. I stepped over her; no-one else made any approach to her, merely moving further beyond her reach as she continued to twist and turn and bang her head and palms on the ground. Everyone in the overheated room was bathed in sweat, their faces dripping with it as though they had all been doused.

  I finally arrived where Cornelius stood and saw what he saw.

  There, beneath the altar, on a rack resembling a slanting cross, lay Perpetua, bound by her ankles and wrists to the upright and cross-piece in some semblance and mockery of the crucified Christ. She was naked but for a cloth fastened around her groin, and upon her head was a crown of thorns, pushed hard into her flesh so that she bled where it pierced her. I looked at all this, unable to fully comprehend what I was seeing, looked closer and saw the welts across her legs, breasts and stomach, saw where these bled in lines over her black skin.

  Only then did I see that to one side of her stood Felicity, her eyes closed, her hands clasped in prayer. She was once again wearing her nun’s habit, the hood of which covered most of her face. She kept her head bowed, intoning whatever useless prayer she uttered.

  And at the other side of the woman on the rack stood Klein, his slender cane in his hand, held above his head, as though he had stopped mid-stroke at Cornelius’s sudden intrusion. The man seemed unperturbed at his discovery. He looked hard at Cornelius, at the disgust and incredulity which filled his eyes, and he smiled, almost as though he had anticipated this interruption, as though Cornelius’s arrival were part of the ritual and the punishment, and as though the ceremony and the woman’s suffering were now enhanced by Cornelius bearing witness to it.

  And from Cornelius, Klein looked briefly to me, and I saw a flicker of uncertainty and anger cross his face. I looked from him to the cane he held, and almost as though in response to this, reminded of the act he had interrupted, he brought it sharply down across Perpetua’s breasts.

  Before either Cornelius or I could respond to this, Klein swung the cane and struck her again, and then again, this time not looking where his blows landed, but instead keeping his eyes on Cornelius. The first of the blows landed across Perpetua’s stomach, and the second caught her on her neck and immediately raised a welt there. Her screams were louder than before and I felt each one as though it were a blow to my own face.

  Unable to tolerate any longer what was happening, Cornelius ran at Klein and pushed the man so harshly that he fell back against the wall, where he stood for a moment recovering from the blow. Cornelius turned to Perpetua. He took out a knife and cut her from the cross. I anticipated that the rest of the congregation might finally make some move against him, but instead they cleared an even wider space around us and watched us in fright. Cornelius pulled down the embroidered altar cloth and gave it to Perpetua to cover her nakednes
s. She trembled uncontrollably and needed his support to remain standing. Cornelius called for Felicity to help him, but the woman remained where she stood, still refusing to raise her head.

  By this time, Klein had regained his composure. He ran at Cornelius and struck him across his back with his cane. Cornelius turned, grabbed the stick and snapped it easily in half. Klein backed away from him. He stabbed his finger at Perpetua and told her to remove the altar cloth, accusing her of desecration. Cornelius positioned himself between the priest and the woman. Klein called to his congregation to help him, but despite the ripple of fear his words sent through the crowd, no-one approached the altar to carry out his command.

  Cornelius took the crown of thorns from Perpetua’s head, causing her to cry out as each of its points was prised free of her. He gave her a handkerchief to wipe the bloody mess of her brow.

  Klein exhorted the men who stood closest to him to seize Cornelius, but they too refused to obey him, looking at each other over his head and then backing away from him.

  ‘She is possessed!’ Klein screamed at Cornelius. ‘By devils. By her own admission. This is for her own good. She will not be allowed entry into our new church until she is rid of them. It is what she wants. Ask her. Ask her!’

  ‘You have no intention of taking her with you,’ Cornelius said loudly. ‘Nor Felicity. They know too much of you. They’ve seen the dirt on your hands.’

  ‘Such eloquence, such insight,’ Klein said, raising his hands in mock surprise.

  Cornelius turned back to Perpetua and again wiped her brow. ‘I know you understand what I’m saying,’ he said to her. ‘I know you won’t speak, won’t answer me.’

  She held his hand briefly as he wiped the blood from her eyes. She still trembled beneath the gold-embroidered cloth.

  ‘You, too,’ Cornelius said to Felicity, who raised her head barely an inch in acknowledgement before lowering it again.

  Then Cornelius turned back to Klein. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I did want answers from you, I did want to know what happened to the child’s mother and—’