The Thing with Feathers
NINETEEN
1
August 1893
I wonder where you are or will be as you read this. As you no doubt must know, there, in the unimaginable future, parts of the world I live in consider the written word to be a witch’s spell, black magic. And the fact that this communication can take place at all, between a dead woman of the time of Queen Victoria and—well, whoever you shall be, whenever you shall be, even, I have to admit, if you shall be—is a miraculous thing, nothing less than a braid woven over time and across the abyss itself, carrying me to you. I must tell you that here I am perceived as something of a crank, and that while I seem quite undaunted and even in some way morbidly fascinated with the awful facts of existence in equatorial French Africa as it has been reported to me by the other passengers on this ship, my jaunty demeanor is a hedge against climbing terror—the kind that leaps up your spine and douses you in a spiritual cold bath. No one, if I can help it, will know this, of course, but you. Obviously, I write this in the humble aspiration that somehow these particular letters of mine will make their way down the generations to you, and in full knowledge that the likelihood, the overwhelming chance, is that they will disappear with me.
I am sailing for the West African coast. I have a commission, through my friend Guillemard, to collect species of fish and insects from the rivers of that region. Guillemard, apart from his confidence in my genes, is fairly certain, I can guess—and fairly gloomy about that certainty I can hope—that he’s seen the last of me. I intend to collect species, but I am of course far more interested in fetish—the whys and wherefores of existence for human types on the surface of the earth.
Weather here is not kind, so far. Fast, raining breezes that flatten the columns of smoke that come from the stacks. This ship has sails, too, for softer weather. I have seen little of anyone, since we are all confined to our cabins while the seas remain so rough. What an odd combination of my parents I seem to be. My father’s lust for travel coupled with my mother’s retiring soul, people will say. I mean it in the opposite sense: my father, when it came to being with anyone, was retiring; my mother knew all the corners of intimacy. She will no doubt be seen as having overindulged in her own delicateness of health, or even to have brought it about. I was witness to the bravery of her days; I saw the cheerfulness with which she bore her suffering. And her suffering was real and perhaps you in your day will have a name for it. Heavy, daily pain wears down the humanity in us. And even so, she found the strength to be witty and a good companion. I saw the gift she had for being close—to me, to Charley, and to Father as well. That intimacy terrified my father, as it now terrifies me. The inclination to hide, and the wish to run out, are always warring in me, and I am beginning to believe that the bravery I have been able to muster to contend with my own nature and with the world come not from Father at all, but from Mother.
Mark that.
The weather continues to be bad. Even the young stewardess with whom she fought the renegade piano, as Mary calls it, seems to have disappeared into the workings of the ship. She takes some of her meals with Captain Murray, but spends most of her time in her cabin, reading.
When the stormy sea begins to calm, and the sun comes out, heavy clouds billowing into the stratosphere turning a snowy color, other passengers start appearing at Captain Murray’s table. There are two men, very used-looking and wrinkled about the eyes, whom Murray introduces as old coasters—traders from the West African coast. Another man is with them, and is returning for what will make his fifth year. Mary asks the others how long they have been going to the Congo—the older one, a man named Conklin, says he’s making his seventh journey, and that he has spent the better part of twenty-five years there. He turns to his comrade, and says:
—Deerforth, here, is close to fifteen years.
—Seventeen, says Deerforth. Get it right, will you.
—We are veterans, Conklin goes on. Something of an anomaly, actually. I trust you know the meaning of the word anomaly.
Mary tells him, with an edge of irritability, that she does.
—Forgive me for assuming anything to the contrary, he says.
She nods and gives him a pleasant smile.
—Do you ’appen to know a man named James ’enley Batty? she asks.
—Batty?
—She’s talking about old Cap, says Deerforth.
—And a Russian gentleman named Dolokov, says Mary.
Conklin nods, frowning, as if it is all coming back to him from distant memory, and says:
—We do know them.
He turns to the others, still frowning, and now scratching the back of his head.
—I thought Batty went back to England, he says.
—That’s where she knows him, says Deerforth.
—I met them both on Gran Canaria, says Mary. Las Palmas.
The biggest coaster, a man with a Dutch-or German-sounding name that Mary didn’t catch, looks from one to the other of them, but says nothing.
—I thought Batty might’ve died of the sleeping sickness, Deerforth says.
—No, Mary says. He’s quite well. And he said, last year when I saw him, that he was heading back to the Gabon.
There are several other passengers at the table, a young Methodist making his first journey to Africa, going down to serve in the missions in Sierra Leone; and his wife, a sour-looking but actually quite agreeable woman, with a mellifluous voice and a soft, self-deprecating manner, who watches over her husband as if he is a child (and he does appear rather childlike). A third passenger is a man on his way to Fernando Pó, also on government service. Still others are on various expeditions of religious mercy or business—a trader, a salt merchant, the family of a missionary already in Sierra Leone.
—That Batty, says Conklin. He’s tough as nails. He once fought a whole gang of Mpongwes, hand to hand, over a silk scarf they wanted that he didn’t wish to give them. They put a gash in his upper leg and they broke his arm. But they knew they were wrestling with the old biblical Jacob, though they were no angels. I think he killed two of them.
—You saw this? Mary asks him.
He glances at her, and then looks down at the food on his plate.
—Well, I was in the vicinity.
Deerforth and the other coaster laugh, hard, and soon the whole table is laughing, though clearly some of them do not know what they are laughing at. Captain Murray, seated at the head of the table, sips red wine from a metal cup, and smacks his lips. Evidently the laughter has added to his enjoyment of the meal.
Mary watches him as the three coasters begin to talk about the dangers of the African bush, all the easy ways to fall into suffering and death.
—My father had a ranch in America, he interrupts them. Cattle. There are mountains in Montana that rival the Alps. And the spring there is as lovely as anywhere on earth.
Mr. Conklin asks the young Methodist, whose name is Withers, if he has brought any dress clothes with him.
—Why, yes, of course.
—Very good, says Conklin. You’ll need them for the funerals. You have the service quite memorized, do you?
Mr. Withers looks doubtfully at the others, then back at Mr. Conklin, obviously worried that this is a joke being played at his expense. It occurs to Mary, watching him, that his experience of life has led him to expect such things: a stranger making him look foolish. But he straightens, and having fought the interior battle with his own suspicions, he smiles, and says:
—Well, not quite. There is a text, you know.
—You won’t need it after the first week, says Conklin. Then he turns to Deerforth:—I wouldn’t imagine it’ll take him long to learn the service, do you?
Deerforth nods, smiling:
—No more than two weeks anyway.
—Do you know, Conklin says, my dress trousers did not get moldy once during last rainy season.
—Get along, says Deerforth. You can’t hang a thing up for twenty-four h
ours without its being fit to graze a cow on.
Another of the passengers, the gentleman on his way to Fernando Pó, says:
—Do you get anything else but fever down there?
Conklin sits back and thinks about this for a moment. The others are all watching him. Captain Murray clears his throat and starts to speak. But Conklin breaks in:
—Myself, I don’t have time for the fevers, as a general rule, but I’ve known some fellows to get the kraw kraw.
Mr. Withers turns an odd shade of gray. He places his napkin on the table and looks down at the captain:
—What is…excuse me. What is kraw kraw?
—Well, of course, says Deerforth, and begins counting off on his fingers. There’s the Portuguese itch, abscesses, and ulcers, Guinea worm, and the smallpox.
—Yes, says Conklin, as though it pains him to think that these diseases were not prevalent in his part of the coast. They are mostly on the southwest coast.
—I once seen a man pinned to the ground by lances, says Deerforth. And his private parts removed, if you’ll all excuse me for the reference to such things. Just to paint the picture, as it were. Six tall lances stuck right through him by, I think it was, members of the Fang, who are quite terrifying, a new tribe that has begun to show itself in the coastal areas. They’re from the darkest interior, you know, migrating toward civilization. Cannibals, they are, and I understand they like to take your sexual organs. This chap had stolen something from them, I believe, or done something that they perceived to be stealing from them. You can never tell with these people, and when they take offense, apparently they tend to want to take your organs in return. Although it’s also true that they don’t really need a reason. It’s all witchcraft. The whole world’s populated with witches and evil spirits. Overpopulated, if you ask me.
—I would like to know more about this, Mary says.
—Witchcraft?
—The African beliefs.
—They’ll teach you all right, says Deerforth. They’ll put you on spits and cook you.
Conklin looks up and down the table, and as Captain Murray makes an attempt to turn the conversation to the peaceful pursuit of cattle farming in the Americas, begins talking about the insects:
—When they attack, you absolutely cannot fight back. You must remove yourself. That is the only recourse you have. If they decide to occupy your sleeping place, you have to get up and find some other. You can’t even take anything with you, for they always have it in mind to spread themselves out. If you take anything along, you’re only providing a means of transport for more of them.
Deerforth holds out his left hand, to show them a scar that runs along the palm, up into the wrist. He says:
—That was done by a beetle of some kind. Never saw the like.
—There’s a species of red ant, says Conklin, that can strip a person down to his bones in less than a minute.
Deerforth indicates the coaster with the Dutch-German-sounding name, and says:
—This chap almost lost his head.
Everyone stares, one of the women actually leaning forward from her seat to get a better look at him. The man with the Dutch-German-sounding name is powerfully built, with wrists the size of Captain Murray’s upper arms, and huge hands, a massive chest. He’s heavy around the neck, thickly muscled there, and his head is enormous, with a high double crown of wiry hair, black as pitch. His face is globular—a protuberant nose; large, ruddy cheeks, thick brow, and squarish, stubbled chin. His lips are almost swollen-looking, the lower one hanging a little. He rarely utters a sound. There’s something almost prehistoric about him. It is evident that, in this instance, he knows Deerforth is speaking of him, and his passive face, the lack of any reaction from him, makes Deerforth hesitate.
Conklin looks up and down the table again, as if to make sure of their rapt attention. He nods, looking across at Mary, and says:
—Kurschstler, here, looked like a prize to some group of Fang. Well, that is, they wanted his head. They thought it might make a nice trophy. They liked the brow, you might say. Thought it might convey special powers.
—They shot him in the legs, says Deerforth. They didn’t want to ruin the prize.
—He fought them off.
Kurschstler looks briefly at the captain, then concentrates on his food.
—Does he never speak? asks Mr. Withers.
—He’s a quiet sort, Conklin says. Unless you rile him.
—Don’t rile him, says Deerforth.
—And what tends to rile him? Mary asks.
Deerforth cracks the shell of a walnut, and says:
—Well, I’m inclined to believe trying to take his head riles him. What’s your opinion on the subject, Conklin?
—Yes, says Conklin, laughing. As I recall, that was a riling influence on our friend.
The others do not laugh now. They merely regard the big Dutch-German coaster, who continues to brood over his food, eating slowly, looking neither to the left nor the right, now.
2
AT LAS PALMAS, several of the passengers say good-bye to Mary, clearly believing that she’s disembarking there for good. She goes ashore for a few hours, hoping to catch sight of Marco. At the English Quarters, she finds Dolokov, sitting in a chair outside against the tan wall, smoking a pipe. At first, Dolokov looks better than she remembers him, but when he stands at her approach, reaching for his scruffy black hat and removing it, she sees that he’s very drunk. Close up, his eyes are darkly bloodshot.
—Hello, Mary says to him. Do you remember me?
He squints at her, holding the hat at his chest. Finally he nods, but there’s no conviction in it.
Mary asks if he has seen Marco.
—No, miss.
—And has Batty gone back to the coast?
—Oh, yes, miss. He’s gone for the coast, miss.
She steps to one side of him, glancing into the lobby. There is a tall brown man on the far side, under a drooping palm plant, standing with his back to her, and as she has the sense that this might be Marco, she realizes she doesn’t want to see him again. She bows at the Russian, who holds his hat out as if to offer it to her, and then she turns and starts back toward the harbor.
Dolokov hurries, drunkenly, to catch up.
—I will walk with you, miss.
—There’s no need, sir.
—I do remember you, he says. Miss Kingsley.
She stops, turns, shading her eyes with one hand, and regards him in the brightness. She smells the liquor on him; it seems to be coming from his very pores. He stands there unsteadily, gazing at her with an expression on his face that is close to pleading.
—I’m glad, she says.
—I have not much long to live, he says in his heavy accent. I have just found this out. Gravid liver.
She casts about for something to say.
—I hope you would take pity on me, he continues, it is little to ask.
He reaches into his shirt pocket and brings out a small packet of letters, wrapped in a dark blue ribbon.
—There is friend of mine in Soho, a woman.
—I’m not going to London, says Mary. I may not ever see it again.
He puts the packet into her free hand, and closes her fingers over it with his own.
—You will deliver them, please.
—I’m not going there, Mr. Dolokov.
—Please. I ask you, as God is judge.
She stares into the blood-engorged and yellow eyes, and finally she nods, and puts the packet into her reticule.
—It will be months before I return, she says. You understand me, I hope.
He nods, and seems about to weep. This startles her, even with the knowledge he has given her of his unfortunate state. His eyes are moist, his lips tremble so faintly that she can’t be sure.
—It is good for my seeing you, he says in a shaky voice.
—Yes, good, says Mary.
—You will not read them?
—No.
—Is all right, you read them. It cannot make difference, as God is judge.
—I will deliver them unopened, Mary tells him.
He nods, he has understood. He says:
—Is no difference. I have lost her, I am sure.
Then he turns and starts back to the Quarters.
—Just a moment, Mary says.
He stops, and looks back at her.
—Do you know Conklin?
There is nothing in his look.—Deerforth? Kurschstler?
Nothing.—Good-bye, she says.—Yes, he says. Good-bye.
3
AS THE LAGOS sails from the Canaries, she stands on deck, watching the islands drift below the horizon, to the north. She’s aware of the strangeness of it, the ship heading southward, taking her farther than she has ever been from home—if there were such a thing anymore. No one else is on deck for a time. The waves tumble over themselves, beautifully crested swells of dark water, and in a little while she can see some porpoises riding along in the wake of the ship, playing in it, a whole school of them. Everything about them suggests delight in their circumstances.
She follows them, walks to the stern to see them better, and when they disappear she spends an hour continuing to watch for them. The big coaster, Kurschstler, strides past her, heavy hands clasped at his back. He looks out to sea, barely noticing her.
But at dinner, as she steps into the galley and takes her seat at Captain Murray’s table, the others stare at her. For once their talk—even that of Conklin and Deerforth—is stilted and sporadic. For the most part, they eat in silence. It seems that there is now a rather concerted effort not to look her in the eye.
Deerforth clears his throat and addresses her:
—We thought you were headed for the Canaries.
—No, Mary tells him. I’m for Sierra Leone. She gazes down the table at Captain Murray, who, glancing back at her, occupies himself with his meal, cutting a strip of salt pork into small pieces.
The others look at each other, and then return to their own meals. The reticence continues. It’s as if they are all trying to process the information.
Conklin speaks briefly about the rainy season in the tropics, and then about the great mountain peak in Cameroon, a desire he has always had to climb to the top of it—what a view it must provide of the coast and the sea.
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