Sacred Hunger (77 page)

Memories are grafted together in ways beyond our choosing. He could not think of the child saved without some memory of his lost Ruth, though his thoughts of her in these days most often went back before the time of their misfortunes to the early days of courtship and marriage. Now there came to his mind a day in spring when they had walked together along the shore near her parents” home, in Norfolk. They had walked a long way, hand in hand, far beyond the harbour, to a deserted stretch of shore. The tide was out, he remembered. Levels of rippled sand, the pale blue of the tide-pools and the real sea beyond, darker, uniform to the horizon. Sunlight: the shingle was bright along the beach and the bunches of wet kelp were gleaming.

Terns were screaming overhead—he had brought his telescope to watch them plunging for fish. Ruth had felt cold in the ruffling breeze from the sea and he had used his tinder-box to make a fire of driftwood up among the dunes. Bright flame against the pale dune grass. They held out their hands to the flame and laughed at nothing but the joy of being there together. Her pale hands reddened by the chill and then the fire. She had gone a little way alone to gather the blue flowers that grew there, that kept their colour when dried—he could not remember the name. He had followed with his eyes the slight, lonely figure against the sweep of the dunes. On an impulse he had taken up the telescope and trained it on her.

She was brought suddenly close before him and he was amazed and deeply moved to see the cherishing and tentative way she put out her hand to the flowers.

All the gentleness of her nature was in it. He had realized then that this was the way she touched everything, and he had been swept by such love for her that his sight for the moment seemed darkened and her figure lost…

He was still standing in the same place half an hour later when Nadri approached, carrying a fish trap he had made, which he was intending to leave here while he attended the Palaver. In fact he could have left it anywhere with perfect security. Theft was rare in the settlement, the nature of life was too public. But in any case no one would have dreamed of carrying off his trap because it was instantly recognizable for Nadri’s: no one else made traps the equal of his, either for cunning or beauty. This one, which he set down at a corner of the sickroom, was quite large, a yard or so in diameter, cylindrical in shape, with one end open and a funnel-shaped passageway leading to the interior. Warp splints made of willow sticks curved inward, admitting entry of the fish into the maze-like filling of the trap, and the closed end had a wicker lid. “That’s a fish-trap?”’ Paris said. “I don’t believe it.” Nadri smiled.

His perfectionism in the matter of traps was a longstanding joke between them. ‘Why, what you think it is?”’

Sharing the same woman had thrown them together and over the years Nadri had picked up a good deal of English from Paris, helped in this by a good ear and a quick intelligence and also, Paris had learned, by a grasp of language derived from his education—he was a Moslem and had been taught as a child to read and write and figure in Arabic. Other things too Paris had learned by degrees. Nadri came from a region of high grasslands and wooded valleys behind the Ivory Coast and had been clerk to a merchant, subsequently marrying his employer’s daughter. It was while journeying on business for his father-in-law that he had been taken by a slaving party. He had a daughter who would be fourteen now if she was still alive.

“Mebbe looks good, I dunno,” he said now. “But this trap is going to catch plenty offish, I know that. One thing I find out, Matthew, while I have been here in this place.”

“What is that?”’

“A trap looks good gives good result, whether you after bird or fish or fox.” He smiled again. It was an attractive smile, lighting up the normally rather stern expression of his face with the prominent bones at the cheeks and temples. “Twelve summers here I learn one thing,” he said. “That is not so bad, I think.”

Paris was silent for a moment, looking at this man to whom he was close but who would never fully be his friend. Nadri was tall—the eyes that looked back at him were on a level with his own. They were the eyes that had looked into his in pain and bewilderment on the slaveship as Nadri was whipped forward to be examined and branded. He was naked now above the waist and the brandmark of Kemp showed livid on his chest.

He had been the first that Paris had violated with his touch, as Tabakali had been the first of the women he had looked at and wanted. Now they shared her together.

The woman had forgiven him, or so it seemed— perhaps because he had needed her so much; but for the man there could be no forgetting that first encounter, for all the affection that had grown between them.

“It is a great pity that what you say of traps is not true also of people,” Paris said. “At least then we would not be deceived.”

Nadri spread his hands, revealing the paler, vulnerable-seeming skin of the palms. “Trap is a very simple thing,” he said. “Only has one purpose. When we say the name of it we say what it is. People are not like that. I dunno why it is, Matthew, you are all the time wanting to make some kind of laws for people. Why you never content to look at one person then another person?”’

There was a note of reproof in this, stronger, as it seemed to Paris, than his own rather mild words had warranted. Some of the warmth left his face. He took no more kindly now than he ever had to being told how to shape his thoughts, and Nadri’s constitutional unwillingness to generalize about human behaviour had caused arguments between them before. “If we cannot proceed from particular truths to general ones our thoughts will get nowhere,” he said.

“Better for us you get nowhere,” Nadri said.

“Partikklar to gen’ral is story of the slave trade, I think.”

“That is not fair, Nadri. If you bring everything down to that, we cannot discuss things at all.”

However, he had seen quite suddenly that Nadri’s resentment came from wanting to be separate and free, not wanting to be herded as it were into a law of human nature. “It is only an attempt at understanding,” he said more gently. “We are all here by accident.”

“No, excuse me, you are here by accident, I am here because you bringed me. For accident there must be choosing somewhere. That is one big difference between us, Matthew. The crew people here because they kill the captain. You say an attempt understanding but it is only an attempt proving your ideas the right ones.

First you bringed us, say we are free, then you want to make us serve some idea in your head. But the people cannot serve your idea, you cannot make them do that.”

Paris did not reply at once. He was not so much dashed by the argument—he could not see how he could be held guilty of coercion simply by virtue of his own mental processes—as hurt in some obscure way by Nadri’s remark about the difference between them. It was true he bore a responsibility that none of the black people could be expected to share. Even the people of the crew he felt to be less accountable than himself. They had shared the physical misery of the negroes in a way he had not, they had been flogged in the negroes’ view, they had begged from the negroes’ bowls. No doubt it was for this reason they had been able to settle here together on equal terms. Paris had found happiness here, he knew himself to be useful and respected. But he knew also that in certain essential respects he was quite alone.

“Only way to live here is day by day, same as anywhere,” Nadri said in a different tone. “A wise man know his limits. Like the trokki, you know?”’

“What is trokki?”’

Nadri was fond of Paris and had seen that he was hurt. He allowed his face to assume the expression, sly and slightly ironic, which it always wore on his excursions into folk wisdom.

“Trokki is tortos”,” he said. ‘Mebbe tortos” wan’ fight but he sabee him arm short.”

‘allyou arm long nuff,” Paris said, smiling in sudden relief. “You arm long pas” anyone dis place.” A surge of affection for Nadri came with the words. The use of pidgin often released feeling between them in this way. Between those men who shared a woman, which was still the case with most, feelings were rarely neutral. There sometimes grew enmity and sometimes a close bond. But Paris knew that the grace of the friendship came from Nadri and the sense of this, a feeling close to gratitude, pained his throat still when he thought of it. Now, true to the restraints of his upringing, he sought for a way to continue that would not betray his feeling. ‘Tabakali,” he said, “dat one woman look good an” good insai.”

‘Dat de perfec” trut,” Nadri said gravely. ‘She one fine woman.”

The two nodded together on this and the silence of total accord fell upon them, broken after some time by Nadri. “Time for Palaver,” he said. “They are coming together.”

They left the sickroom and made their way across to the wide clearing before the stockade gates, where people were already assembled, men, women and children, seated on mats brought for the purpose, in two files facing inwards, separated by the space of a dozen feet or so.

Paris noticed Hughes among them and Amos and Cavana—men often away from the settlement.

Cavana, of course, would have returned for the naming. Tabakali and the youngest child were there already and Paris and Nadri joined them.

The beck-man, or holder of the stick, elected for this occasion, was Billy Blair, a man without discernible interest to serve save that of justice, having no cultivation in common or trade connection with either of the disputing parties. He sat between the files, at one end, holding the elegant, silver-headed cane that had once belonged to Delblanc; he it was who, a year or so before his death, had introduced this regulating device into the chaos of their earlier debates. No one could address the assembly unless he was on his feet between the files and holding the cane; and it was the task of the beck-man to make sure this rule was observed.

As was customary, the accuser spoke first. Hambo walked to and fro between the lines, gesturing fiercely with the cane. Iboti, he said, had tried to kill him by making a powerful fetish and attaching it to the roof of his hut. He had returned to his hut to find the fetish-bundle in the thatch. Danka had seen him find it. The bundle contained dried leaves, two sticks, one of them sharpened, and two cane whistles, one of them filled with dust. He knew Iboti had put it there because Iboti had threatened to kill him.

He had threatened this in the hearing of Arifa, the woman they shared. “He say he kill me,”

Hambo said, with a prolonged flourish of the stick.

“He say make me eye blind, gut rot, spit blood. Arifa hear him say it.”

“Dat lie,” Iboti shouted suddenly from his place beside Tongman. “Hambo, you say lie.” He swallowed and the whites of his eyes showed prominently as he glanced from side to side of him.

“You call me lie?”’ Hambo stopped near Iboti and glowered down at him. “You pig Bulum, you call me lie I break you troat,” he said.

“Iboti,” Billy said, “you turn come baimbai. Hambo got de stick now. Hambo, you talk badmowf, I take back stick, you altagedder finish.”

Sullenly Hambo gave back a little and after a moment resumed his pacing. He was shorter than the other Shantee, stocky in build and deep-chested.

The column of his neck was not much narrower than the back of his head, which gave him the look of having been hewn from a single block. In contrast to his fierce gestures, he spoke rather slowly, pausing sometimes to marshal his thoughts. In these pauses, he made loud spitting sounds in token of the truth of his words. Arifa, he said, had not only heard the threats but had seen Iboti gathering dust from a footprint, as she would shortly be telling them. “Now I show fetish, you sabee I speak trut”,” he said. He went to his place, took up the bundle and held it above his head for all to see. ‘Leaf look like dey
bombiri
leaf,” he said. “Mebbe Iboti find
bombiri
tree.”

Tongman rose. It was the right of the accused person, or the one speaking for him, to address questions to the beck-man. “What dis sarve?”’ he said.

“I ask what puppose all dis sarvin’. Whedder dey bombiri leaf or no, who care bout dat?”’

‘What de puppose?”’ Billy asked Hambo.

“Bombiri leaf fall quick when him stick cut from tree. Dat mean bad fetish, make house fall down me. Tongman, you head go soft, you sabee dat before.”

Billy thought for some time, his small, pugnacious face tight with the seriousness of his office. There was tension in the air of the meeting and he was feeling it along with everybody else. Apart from the occasional voices of the smaller children, complete silence reigned among the people gathered there. “Hambo got de right,”

Billy said. “He tryin” show us dis fetish strong too much, capsai him house.”

Encouraged thus, and aware of the intense interest of his audience, Hambo went on to draw attention to the two sticks, one blunt and one sharpened, the sharp one being unkumba, the second spear of witchcraft.

Finally he held up the dust-stopped whistle.

‘Dust under him foot,” he said. “Arifa see him take it. Dust in whissul make Hambo die, foul him win’pipe.”

He strode back and forth some time longer, still waving the cane, but it was clear that he had stated his case and was now merely repeating it, a favoured rhetorical device of the Shan tee.

After some minutes of this Billy asked for the return of the stick, which passed next to Arifa. She was a big woman, built on voluptuous lines, with heavy features and a stolid expression, somewhat redeemed by the coquetry of luxuriant eyelashes. She had taken particular care with her appearance for this public occasion: white cowrie shells, exactly matched, adorned the large lobes of her ears and a gold coin, found on the beach by Calley and obtained from him by means everyone knew of, hung shining between her breasts. These were not very much concealed by the cotton wrap thrown with studied negligence over her shoulders, and they swayed and swung magnificently with the motions of her narrative. Yes, she had heard Iboti utter the death threats. He had threatened, among other things, to open up Hambo from
puga
to chin and to cut off his testicles and compel him to eat them. Some laughter came from the audience at this, whether from the sense that a man with his belly cut open would not be in a fit state to eat his own testicles or at the very evident contrast in physique between the two men. But the silence of total absorption returned when Arifa began to tell of seeing Iboti gather up the dust.