by Sarah Kelly
“What? What is it?” Xavier came running up. He gasped when he took in the scene, then plunged his hands in the boiling water and tugged on Fitzgerald’s shirt, trying to lift him out. But the shirt fell apart in Xavier’s hands, and his fingers and palms turned bright red.
“Go!” Lucius hollered at him from behind. “Go put your hands in cold water by the cottage. Now!”
Xavier ran, his camera hitting his torso again and again, his face screwed up in pain.
The bachelorette women trickled in, one by one, each as shocked as the last. Sam and Jazz both burst into tears and clutched each other. Mikey stood shell shocked, her eyes wide open. Freya’s face was so blank it was impossible to tell what she was feeling.
India looked down at Fitzgerald, knowing in her heart of hearts that this was no accident.
“I doubt he’s dead,” Lucius said, running toward the nature trail. He came back moments later with a short stick of bamboo. India was startled – she’d been sure Fitzgerald was gone. “Just lost consciousness when he hit the water.” Lucius gently pushed the bamboo into the water, underneath Fitzgerald. Then he used it like a lever, to push his body up and out of the water. Then he dragged it closer to the edge. “Hold that there!” he hollered at India, and when she did, he hooked his arms underneath Fitzgerald’s armpits and dragged him out. His clothes were beginning to stick to his body, and not just because of the water. Lucius hurried around to Fitzgerald’s side, pressing his hands on the man’s broad chest. “Someone ring an ambulance right now!” Lucius barked.
India had been frozen with shock, dazed as she held the bamboo down. But something in his command roused her. She felt more awake and alive than ever. She slid her iPhone out of her pocket and dialed 911. After she’d explained where they were to the operator, everything seemed to pass in a blur. Lucius found Fitzgerald’s heart was still beating, and he plied open his mouth so he could breathe better. But it was disturbing to see his flesh, reddening and reddening, looking almost like it was slowly eating itself. A huge mark on his throat completely changed the color of his skin, raw and rough and inflamed. India could barely dare to look.
In time the ambulance crew swept in with a stretcher and took him away. Lucius watched, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. His lips moved quickly but no sound came out. India was sure he was muttering prayers.
Once Fitzgerald was out of sight, India realized with a jolt she’d forgotten all about Xavier. She hurried over to the stone cottages to see if he was all right, and found him sitting on the porch. The motherly looking lady was smearing a gel over his hand and wrist. His other hand was in his lap, wrapped up in brown paper.
“Are you okay?” India said, rushing to him and kneeling down in front of him.
“Don’t worry about me. What about Fitzgerald?”
“Well, Lucius said he was breathing. The ambulance took him to the hospital.”
“That’s a relief,” Xavier said. “I was sure…”
India breathed and unexpectedly found herself laughing. She knew it was inappropriate, but it just spilled out. “Me too.”
Xavier grinned darkly. “Some vacation, huh?”
India burst out into fresh peals of laughter. “Some vacation!”
***
All the laughter had stopped on the taxi back to Angel’s Dune. The resort had sent a different driver to come collect them, and he wasn’t very chatty. He switched on a gospel music station and stared hard faced out the front window for the entire ride. The only time he spoke was to say hello when he first arrived, then to say, “Take this bag. Don’t you dare get sick in this taxi,” to Sam when she declared she was going to vomit. India supposed he was Fitzgerald’s friend, disturbed by the news.
When they reached the hotel, everyone looked thoroughly miserable. Hunger clawed at India’s belly, but the thought of going up to the restaurant or getting room service just felt wrong for some reason. She and Xavier stood in the middle of the hotel’s path, looking toward the restaurant but not moving.
“Let’s walk to town,” Xavier said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll just go put my camera back. Want anything?”
India shook her head. While he was gone, she strolled along the path, reaching out to touch beautiful flowers. She stroked the petals, and their delicate, exquisite beauty took her back to her question. How could there be so many wondrous things in the world, and yet so many horrors? How could they exist, side by side? Unexpectedly, an answer came. That question’s been troubling thinkers, magical and non magical, for since forever, mami, Luis sent. I doubt you’ll ever get the answer for that. But don’t stop asking the question. You never know who might come along to show you something new. Keep your eyes open.
All right, she sent back, quite wearily. Life just felt like one massive mystery she didn’t want to unpick right then.
When Xavier came running up and they started to make their way to town, the first thing he said was, “Fitzgerald must be about the unluckiest person I know.”
“Only since we came in his life,” India said. “He’s probably cursing our names right now. At least I hope he is.”
“Why?”
“Cause at least that would mean he’s conscious.”
Xavier nodded. “We can’t blame ourselves, though, In. We didn’t kill Charlie. And it wasn’t our fault he fell in.”
“Fell?” India said, incredulous. “You don’t think he was pushed?” She stared at him as they rounded the corner past a hibiscus bush with flame red flowers.
Xavier nodded slowly. “It seems likely, but we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” “Oh, come on. Charlie gets murdered, then as soon as Fitzgerald gets out he’s pushed into some steaming hot volcano water? He was definitely pushed.”
Xavier sounded stressed. “I already said it seems likely but how can we know? We didn’t see it.”
Something hot and indignant rose in India’s chest. It wasn’t directed at Xavier, more at the world, at life, at the injustice of things. It made her voice sharp and loud and forceful. “Of course he was pushed. It’s no coincidence. Not at all.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” India said, hot tears stinging her eyes. “Whoever killed Charlie just tried to kill Fitzgerald.” Her voice cracked. “And maybe they’ve succeeded, who knows? I’m going to ring the hospital.” She was about to lift her iPhone out of her pocket, but then changed her mind. The mystery felt too pressing. “It was either Freya, Sam, Mikey, or Jazz. It wasn’t you or me. We can rule Tony out.”
“Out of Fitzgerald’s accident, yes,” Xavier said, “but not out of Charlie’s murder. We don’t know if it was necessarily the same person.”
“Yes,” India said, feeling something burn inside her, just as Fitzgerald’s skin had been burning away.
“Or think about this.” Xavier continued. “One of them could want to kill Charlie for their own reasons. We don’t know about their history together, right? But why would they want to kill Fitzgerald?”
“Maybe he saw something,” India said.
Xavier frowned. “But wouldn’t he have told us?”
As they walked down the hill, a woman vending from a stall called out to them to buy her things, but they didn’t even notice her, they were so wrapped up in their conversation.
“I guess he would,” India said. “Unless he was threatened?”
“I still think he would tell. He just looks that kind of person. He seems like he’d be courageous, no matter what the cost.”
“Even if his family was threatened?”
Xavier nodded. “Good point.”
India looked over the sea. While they were in the taxi on the way back, a wild formula had put itself together in her head. She knew it was pure conjecture, and had planned to keep it to herself, but she found herself saying, “I do have one theory.”
“Shoot.”
“Freya. What if… Now this is all just a wild guess, okay? So don’t hold me to it. What if… you know they said
that both Sam and her fiancé had had affairs, right? What if Sam’s affair was with Freya?”
Xavier’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.
“Just hear me out. Because I was wondering why was Freya even invited, if she was being so horrible to Sam. And I know this is messed up, but when people are… romantically involved… they seem to tolerate a lot more horrible stuff from each other. Some partners shout and scream at each other sometimes, right? Friends rarely do. I don’t know why, and it’s real messed up, but it’s true.”
Xavier still looked doubtful. “So you think, potentially, they’re still together?”
“I have no idea,” India said. “Maybe, maybe not. But my theory was, maybe that’s why she was so against Charlie. Because Charlie really wanted Sam’s wedding to go forward and be really good. But maybe Freya’s in love with Sam. And she killed Charlie to get her out of the way. Freya seems determined to ruin this trip as much as she can. Until today.”
Xavier’s eyes lit up. “Maybe she really did push Fitzgerald. Because why all of a sudden was she so happy and cooperative today? It was such a change of character. Maybe she did that to look innocent.” Then he frowned again. “But why would she kill him? Because he knew something?”
“I don’t know,” India said. “Really, we don’t know any of this, do we? It could still be Sam herself. Or Mikey. Or Jazz.”
“I can’t see many motives there, though,” Xavier argued.
“Yeah, well, we still don’t know enough about them.”
Xavier nodded. “We need to get them to talk.”
India already had a person in mind. “I’ll get Mikey on her own. She’ll spill everything.”
Xavier agreed, and they walked on in silence for a while as they descended into the town. There were rows and rows of small wooden houses with long shared porches. A group of old men sat on one, slapping down dominoes and laughing. When Xavier and India passed, they all raised their hands to wave and said, “Good afternoon.”
Xavier and India waved back and returned the greeting.
“I just love how friendly everyone is,” India said. “So warm, you know? Like they know you.” But a short while later, someone else seemed to know her far too much.
As they came upon a lovely little restaurant, raised to look out over the sea, an old woman approached them. She was fragile and bent over, her white fuzzy hair pulled into two braids. She wore a long flowery dress in pastel colors, as pretty as a nightgown. Her dark skin was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and her light blue eyes, that looked almost lilac or lavender, peered out in the most intense way. “Good afternoon,” she said in a wavering voice.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” India and Xavier said together.
That made her chuckle. She placed a gnarled hand on India’s arm, with some authority. “Are you a friend of Luis’, dear?”
India felt her heart stop for a moment. Her voice was lost somewhere deep inside her.
“No, ma’am,” Xavier said. “We don’t know any Luis.”
“Not you, my boy,” she said. “You, my girl.”
India’s mouth was dryer than a desert, but somehow she managed to say, “Yes.”
“Ah, my mind tell me the right thing,” the old woman said. “Now, you’ll come with me and I’ll show you something.”
India walked along with the lady, feeling dazed. Xavier walked behind, saying, “What? India, come on. Let’s go eat. You don’t know this lady.” Then, ever the pinnacle of good manners, he added, “I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am.”
But the old lady was not listening to him in the least. India doubted she even heard him.
India turned to Xavier, her eyes pleading, hoping he’d understand. “Go ahead without me,” she said. “Order for me.” And then she said something that could have been a lie. She wasn’t sure if it was true or not. “I’ll be back soon.”
Xavier watched her a long while, confusion etched in his face. Then he shook his head and turned away.
CHAPTER 8
India knew instinctively the woman was a witch. Even the grip of her wrinkled hands on India’s wrist felt somehow electric, like a low level current was flowing from the woman’s stooped over body and into India’s.
She barely dared to speak, but as they passed through a street of market sellers, their stalls packed high with papayas and breadfruits and bananas and yams and plantains, she plucked up the courage to ask, “Where are we going, please, ma’am?”
“Not ma’am,” the woman said under her breath, between smiling and waving at the market sellers who greeted her. “Mama Josephine.” But she did not answer the question, and India didn’t feel bold enough to ask again.
They turned into a quiet alleyway, where only a black cat padded around. Otherwise it was empty. Mama Josephine turned to stare at India straight in the eyes, her own eyes flashing a pale, somehow powerful lilac, so bright in contrast with her dark skin. India felt a sense of fear close in around her as she gazed back into Mama Josephine’s eyes. This woman was obviously immensely powerful. And as soon as she’d had that thought, the scene around them went black. The noise of the market sellers faded away gradually, beginning to echo quietly in the distance. It was as if India and Mama Josephine were traveling through some pitch black tunnel without moving at all. The cat mewed, and India’s eyes were locked onto Mama Josephine’s, almost like a magnet she had no control over.
In a couple of moments, the blackness began to take on hints of light, and soon it all seeped away, absorbed into the new background. The black cat had come along with them, and leapt off to explore what looked like a coconut grove. A cow took a lazy meal of grass between the towering coconut trunks. Beyond the grove was a shallow hill, leading up to an old style wooden house. It looked like something out of a storybook. It was showing its age, with some of the sun-stained boards beginning to rot. Rust had chomped into the tin roof. And yet it was gorgeous, with reams of white filigree detailing – such complicated woodwork. The shutters were painted a frothy mint green shade. India wasn’t one of those people for whom taste and object and color and sound melded and blended and matched up, but since taking on her witchy abilities, sometimes she got flashes of synaesthesia. The shutter color tasted just like cream soda, somehow.
Mama Josephine began to make her slow way up the hill, and India offered her arm. As they got closer, India saw the front of the house was an extensive herb garden. She didn’t know all that much about herbs, but she recognized the enormous rosemary bush they went past on their way to the door. She rubbed her fingers against it and smelled them – that sharp, warm scent that reminded her of her mother’s roast potatoes. She’d always place sprigs of rosemary in the pan and before long the whole kitchen would smell delicious and feel warmer than ever. That was one of India’s favorite memories, sitting at the kitchen table and watching the snow fall outside, feeling warm and safe and toasty, and spearing a crunchy, soft roast potato on her fork.
As they walked through, she also recognized thyme and took guesses at coriander and basil. The rest were totally unfamiliar.
“Sit,” Mama Josephine said, gesturing toward a makeshift bench by the little stairway that led up to the house. Mama Josephine went up into the house and India did as she was told, wondering what she was in for. Though she’d learned with magic that she was always in safe hands, it was still nervewracking nonetheless. Every time Luis came around she tried to steel herself for another part of what she thought was reality to come crashing down. It was both terrifying and exhilarating to know just how much life could be bent and manipulated to your will. And when you were working for justice, “it’s important not to be shy of really getting stuck in,” Luis had said. Because there were people out there working nefarious, selfish magic, and they had no qualms. “Neither should you.” Luis had nodded his head decisively and his voice was firm.
Mama Josephine appeared on the step a couple of minutes later. “Come in.”
India took the rickety wooden steps and entere
d. All the shutters were closed, and the house, once Mama Josephine had shut the door behind India, was dark as night. Candles flickered inside jars placed on the wooden floor, lapping the room with white pools of light and dark shadows that danced in chaos. There were four candles, in a square arrangement. Mama Josephine handed India a pair of scissors. The blades were cold against India’s hands. “Cut a piece of your hair,” Mama Josephine said. India did so. She knew there was no use questioning anything. Besides, it would have felt disrespectful. She could imagine those lavender eyes piercing into her, and flash, she’d be back outside the restaurant, with no help or assistance. She watched as Mama Josephine pinched the dark hair out of India’s hand with her soft-padded fingers. The candle washed light over her hands as she placed the hair in a white cotton bag.
“Now,” Mama Josephine said, “take this. Look at it. How it make you feel?” She placed a rounded pebble into India’s palm.
India could see, though faintly in the dim candlelight, a drawing of an eye on the stone’s smooth face. A calmness washed over her as she regarded it. The comforting smell of old wood and dust and spice seemed to thicken in the air with each passing moment. “Safe,” India said eventually.