by Alys Clare
We strode on down the track to the village.
The sunny brightness of the early morning had vanished. The air felt cold, and as warmth from the ground met chill air falling, mist was forming. And forming with unnatural rapidity: descending the gentle slope into Tavy St Luke was like walking into a bowl of cloudy, icy moisture. Sounds were blanketed, and it was as if the village was totally deserted. One or two lights showed in windows where lamps had been lit against the eerie midday darkness, but it seemed that they were far away and nothing to do with Henry Wex or me.
A breeze blew a sudden hole in the mist and I saw the top of the church. Then the little zephyr died away and the enfolding whiteness closed in again.
I had lost my bearings. I thought we were heading out of the village again, along a path that ultimately leads up on to the moor, but I was by no means certain. Then we came to a row of dilapidated dwellings, and Henry slowed down.
I knew where we were then. These old buildings were largely deserted now, in a very poor state of repair and virtually uninhabitable. They had been constructed centuries ago in the old style, with a basic frame made from the trunk of an oak tree with a branch at the right height and angle, cut and bisected so that the two halves were roughly symmetrical. The dwellings were the most basic form of habitation: a single room with space for the animals at one end and for the humans at the other, a hearth in the middle of the floor, one or two roughly-made sticks of furniture and beaten earth beneath the feet. The interior would be blackened from centuries of smoke slowly escaping through the straw of the roof, and the place would stink of animal and human waste and the tarry residue left by the smoke.
Henry stopped by the closed door of the last house, pausing before pushing it open. He seemed to be listening.
This cottage had been empty for almost a year and I knew who had lived here: an elderly woman and her afflicted son. He had been a deeply troubled man who had heard voices and raged his frustrated, impotent fury to the world, and almost everybody in the village had shunned him, perhaps with good reason as he had frequently been violent. Whatever had gone awry in his mind meant he was unsuitable for employment, for marriage and a family, for life itself, in truth, and his mother had cared for him alone except for Jonathan Carew, who had visited regularly. I knew this not because Jonathan had told me but because the old woman had. Desperate, too tired, too sick and too beaten down to provide the day and night watch that her son had needed towards the end, she had begged me for something to make him sleep and I had provided it.
The son had died the previous winter of a rheum that turned into a killer cough. His mother, her purpose gone with his death, died in her sleep two weeks later.
Their sad little dwelling had remained empty ever since, like most of the neighbouring ones.
Until now.
Very carefully, Henry opened the door.
It seemed that he had difficulty pushing it; as if he was encountering firm resistance. Which was odd, because the door was flimsy and hung loose on the hinges.
Then as he stood on the doorstep, he drew a breath, muttered some words I didn’t understand and thrust himself forward, as if pushing against some force invisible to the eye.
Whatever it was, it broke – I distinctly heard a faint snap – and he was allowed to pass.
He stepped down into the interior and I followed. There were no welcoming bright flames – brushings, kindling and neatly-cut logs lay ready beside the hearth although no fire had been lit – but enough dim daylight seeped through the doorway into the darkness within for me to make out four human figures.
The first sat curled up in the far left corner. He was child-sized and he had a heavy woollen blanket clutched round his shoulders. His long thin legs were drawn up to his chest and he was hugging them in an impossibly tight grip with his equally long, thin arms. I had never seen a face quite like his before: the hair that fringed it was long, black and glossy, his skin was yellowish-brown, the nose broad, the forehead shallow and sloping back at a sharp angle; his eyes were very dark, set deep beneath pronounced brows. His teeth were rattling with cold and—
No.
I peered more closely, listening intently.
He was chattering to himself, gibbering, an interminable string of syllables that might have been words in an alien tongue, might have simply been noises such as an animal might make. But as I listened it seemed to me that there was a pattern: this poor, terrified boy was chanting an endlessly-repeated incantation. I judged from the look of horror he was giving me that his intention was to protect himself, and that I, along with everything else in a world turned inexplicably hostile, was the enemy.
I didn’t try to touch him; in fact, I began to back away. I smiled in the faint hope of reassuring him, and murmured something that I hoped sounded soothing. He blinked a couple of times, surprised into a momentary silence, then his eyes rolled back in his head so that only the whites showed and the gibbering began again.
The second figure, an old man, lay on the opposite side of the room on a low platform roughly made of offcuts of wood. Underneath him, perhaps affording a little comfort, there was a thin, straw-filled sacking mattress. He was propped into a half-sitting position and supported by two pillows, and he too had a thick blanket tucked round him.
The third figure was almost invisible in the shadows, leaning against the cracked daub of the rear wall of the dwelling between the old man and the dark, thin boy. It was very small, stiffly upright, and it was swathed in garments of white, with a pale headdress intricately arranged on the head. A strand of silver hair lay across the forehead. Through the slits between the eyelids I thought I caught a glimmer of brilliant light.
I stared at those eyes. I couldn’t look away. I was held firmly yet not uncomfortably, and I had the feeling that an intelligence was looking right inside me.
Then the sensation was gone.
The fourth figure knelt beside the old man’s bed and held a coarse pottery bowl containing thin broth. The broth smelt delicious, and a curl or two of steam rose from it. The man by the bed was spooning it into the old man’s mouth, slowly, patiently, waiting until he nodded his readiness before supplying the next spoonful.
Jonathan Carew said over his shoulder, ‘He has eaten almost half, Gabriel, and also a piece of bread dipped in the broth to soften it.’
‘It’s good,’ pronounced the old man in a surprisingly deep, powerful voice.
Henry Wex pushed past me and knelt down beside Jonathan. ‘How do you feel, Father?’ he asked anxiously.
The old man considered the question, then said, ‘Better. Stronger.’ He glanced at Jonathan. ‘The priest here has not only brought blankets and pillows, but he knows how to cook.’
I studied him as he worked his way through the rest of the broth. He wasn’t as old as I’d first thought: younger by some years than the man washed up by the river, and perhaps around fifty. He was thin, like all of them, and what little hair remained was grey. His cheekbones stood out from the filthy skin of his face and he was missing many of his teeth. He too had suffered from scurvy, but I did not think that was the worst of his complaints.
I crouched down next to Henry. ‘Have you been eating fresh vegetables or fruit since you got here?’ I asked the older man.
He grinned. ‘Oh, yes, Doctor. We know how necessary it is to do so,’ he added, ‘and, believe me, such foods were what we most craved when at last we had some choice over what we ate.’
Jonathan moved away from the bed head, and I took his place.
I looked down into the sick man’s light eyes.
‘I was a ship’s doctor,’ I said. ‘I have spent many years treating sailors, which I assume you once were, and now I look after landlubbers too, so whatever is wrong with you, I expect I’ll be able to treat it.’ He was staring up at me and I thought I saw amusement in his eyes. ‘As long as you’re not pregnant,’ I added. ‘I’ve delivered a few babies, but I’m not well versed in the arts of the midwife.’
/> Now the old man was smiling. ‘Reckon you’re safe on that one, Doctor,’ he replied. Under the blanket he made a pretence of patting his belly, then said, ‘No, as I thought,’ withdrew his arm and held out his hand to me. ‘Simoun Wex,’ he said.
As I took it, I noticed that his hand and forearm were stained deep blue.
Jonathan and Henry withdrew discreetly to the far side of the room while I examined Simoun Wex. As I had begun to suspect, the trouble stemmed from his heart, and its beat was faint and irregular. Mentally I went through the contents of my bag. Yes, I had the right potions with me.
‘I need hot water,’ I said.
‘No fire!’ the old man said firmly, and I heard Henry mutter something similar.
I looked down at Simoun Wex. ‘I understand that you wish your presence here to remain a secret,’ I said. ‘But you are sick, you need a preparation for which I require hot water, the mist is gathering outside and the temperature is rapidly falling. Without heat you will probably die.’
He stared up at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. ‘Light it, Henry,’ he said.
I thought Henry would protest but he said nothing, merely stood up and set about making the fire. And I knew, if I hadn’t before, just who was in command here.
I knelt by the swiftly-waxing fire and opened my bag, flipping through the folded papers containing prepared herbal mixtures until I found what I wanted. It was my usual cardio-tonic and contained among other substances digitalis from foxglove leaves, dried and powdered flower stems and leaves of lily-of-the-valley, valerian and lime to reduce anxiety and promote a sense of calm. Henry had suspended a battered old pot over the fire and fetched water from the well behind the row of dwellings, and as soon as it was hot enough I took one of the old mugs from the crooked shelf over the bed, rinsed it well and then prepared the potion.
I made it strong. The old man’s heart was stuttering and he needed help. He drank his medicine slowly, grimacing at the bitter taste. I spoke softly to Jonathan, and, nodding, he got up and left the dwelling, returning a short time later with a bottle, four cups and a platter of thick slices of bread spread with butter and honey.
Jonathan Carew is proving to be a good village priest, despite the unsuitability for such a role which others may suspect but only he and I know of with certainty, and the villagers’ favourable opinion of him is demonstrated in the little gifts they leave outside his door. Jonathan has no need to keep bees, bake bread or make butter for himself, and I am all but sure he doesn’t acquire his own brandy.
Henry fell upon his share of the food and welcomed Jonathan’s proffered brandy as if he were a man dying of thirst and unexpectedly given a sip of water. Simoun too ate the bread and accepted a few sips of brandy. The long thin boy, however, would not be drawn out of his corner.
‘He should eat,’ I said, to no-one in particular.
‘Aye, I know,’ Simoun said heavily. ‘But he’s deep in the magic.’
The magic. Yes, I thought, there was something strange in the atmosphere here, although I couldn’t recall being aware of it other than as a sort of background hum since that weird moment when I’d first come inside. I risked a glance at the tiny, white-clad figure. Perhaps she was asleep, or deep in meditation, or even …
I pulled myself up sharply. She wasn’t anything. She was dead.
‘He won’t touch food or drink until he’s released and it is permitted,’ Simoun was saying, nodding in the direction of the silent figure in the corner.
‘Permitted by whom?’ I demanded.
But the old man shook his head. ‘You can’t use your science and your logic here, Doctor. It won’t do any good.’
‘But—’
‘Puma will eat when he’s ready,’ Simoun said, with such firm finality that I knew it was no good arguing.
I sat with my back against the old man’s bed, realizing suddenly how tired I was. The sweetness of the honey, the nourishment in the good bread and the strong alcohol seemed to have had a beneficial effect on all of us, and there was a mood of somnolence in the room; a peaceful silence, broken only by the faint, incessant chattering of the thin boy. Puma. Yes, of course, he had to be Puma.
Presently Simoun sat up a little higher in his bed, and Henry hurried to adjust his pillows. I noticed an object tucked away under the pillows: it was a box, made of some reddish wood that I didn’t recognize, and about eight or nine inches long by perhaps four or five across. Noticing my eyes upon it, Simoun pushed it out of sight. He looked up at me. ‘Thank you for your potion, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Whatever you’ve given me has done me good.’
I stood up, then bent over to him to feel the heart’s beat in his wrist. He was right: it was stronger and more regular now. ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said.
‘So, make yourself comfortable. You too, your reverence’ – he glanced at Jonathan – ‘for you have likewise offered help and kindness when you could so easily have demonstrated the opposite. I will now repay you by telling you why we did what we did.’
‘Father!’ Henry exclaimed.
But Simoun held up a blue hand. ‘Son, if they were going to betray us they’d have done it by now,’ he said. ‘And the doctor here has made my old heart beat like it hasn’t done since I was twenty years younger’ – he shot me a grin – ‘so I think the least I can do is satisfy their curiosity.’
I looked at Henry. He didn’t seem at all happy about the incipient revelations, but he made no further protest.
‘We reckoned we’d done well to get as far as Hispaniola,’ the old man began, ‘bearing in mind where we’d escaped from and the ruthless and determined nature of those who followed so hard on our heels’ – I thought he gave a shudder, as if in reaction to some remembered fear – ‘but if we thought it would be easy from then on, that we’d find a ship to carry us home and that some captain – some fellow sailor – would be glad to have us, it didn’t take us long to find out how wrong we were. They were all on the alert for runaways, every last man of them, the chiefs and the lawmen and the officers because that was the law, the ordinary men – and women – because there was a price on our heads and they wouldn’t hesitate to turn us in and claim it.’ He paused. Then: ‘Not just us, mind; I don’t mean anyone was on the look-out specifically for the six of us, because I’m sure they weren’t. Any runaway would do, and everyone there in that blasted hellhole of a port knew how to recognize us. Especially men who had worked on the plan-tations.’ He held up his blue-stained hands.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
He shot me a slightly contemptuous glance. ‘You don’t know, wise, learned doctor?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s indigo.’
‘So you—’
‘I’ll tell my story my own way, if you please,’ Simoun said curtly. ‘We were in Hispaniola, desperate to get away, and old Job Allcorn says, we’re going to have to creep aboard a ship bound for home, lads, and hide away somewhere, and then pray all the way across the Atlantic that nobody spots us. To begin with we all shouted him down – it was too risky, we’d be discovered without a doubt, and then we’d be hanged at best, thrown over the side at worst – if that is worse – but then Philpot came back from one of our regular patrols and told us what he’d seen, and we all knew we’d die if we stayed where we were, so we found an English ship – the Falco – and managed to get on board, and Puma wormed his way right to the furthest, deepest, darkest hold and that’s where we stowed ourselves.’ He chuckled, although it was a harsh sound totally without humour. ‘Us and our piss and shit barrel.’
‘I saw where you hid,’ I said. ‘So did he.’ I nodded towards Jonathan. ‘I have no idea how you survived.’
Simoun shrugged. ‘No choice, Doctor. We had to suffer it or die, and two of our number did just that.’
‘He knows about Philpot and Job,’ Henry said softly. Simoun raised his eyebrows in query. ‘It was he who tended their bodies. I told him who they were.’
‘I see.’ Simoun was thoughtful for a few moments, t
hen said, ‘We had a bit of luck when it came to making our way to Hispaniola, even if it had deserted us by the time we left. Either luck or something else.’ He glanced to his right, to where the silent white-shrouded figure stood against the wall. ‘Got away from the plantation, all six of us, and a succession of local fishermen and sailors took us where we wanted to go. Us and … her.’ The last word was a whisper.
Then, before I could ask him to explain, he looked at Jonathan and at me and said, ‘Got any idea, Doctor, Father, what it’s like on an indigo plantation?’ Both Jonathan and I shook our heads. ‘It’s hell. Hot as hell, leastways, only the air’s so full of moisture that it’s a wet hell, not a flaming one, and your skin never dries, you’re always running with sweat, and then your flesh gets thin and peels off your body at the slightest touch and you get this fungus growing on you.’
I was about to make a comment, for I’d come across such conditions in the Caribbean, but Simoun Wex spoke on.
‘It’s a pretty plant, indigo. Dark green leaves, oval in shape, flowers like little butterflies that develop into pea pods. It’s the leaves you need, see, because the dye comes from them. Apparently it grows in India – a Spanish priest told me that – but they don’t produce enough to feed the growing market and so the priest’s fellow countrymen decided they could line their purses with gold by cultivating it on the Spanish Main. Guatemala was the focus of their endeavours, and that’s where we were sent.’
He stopped to take a sip of brandy. Henry was watching him, a worried expression on his face, but Simoun gave him a nod of reassurance.
‘The hardest months are July, August and into September,’ he resumed, ‘which also happen to be the hottest, just to make conditions even better.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘They need a great deal of labour for the cutting, and the locals do that because the Spanish masters discovered pretty quickly that they’re not tough enough for the fermentation vats and all the sicknesses that lurk in the foul, stinking air that clouds above them, and too many of the locals kept falling down dead. Nowadays it’s the slaves that extract the dye, and that usually means the black slaves brought from Africa.’ He paused. ‘Them, and us.’