A Handful Of Dust

CHAPTER SIX Du Côté de Chez Todd

ALTHOUGH Mr. Todd had lived in Amazonas for nearly sixty years, no one except a few families of Pie-wie Indians was aware of his existence. His house stood in a small savannah, one of those little patches of sand and grass that crop up occasionally in that neighbourhood, three miles or so across, bounded on all sides by forest.

The stream which watered it was not marked on any map; it ran through rapids, always dangerous and at most seasons of the year impassable, to join the upper waters of the river where Dr. Messinger had come to grief. None of the inhabitants of the district, except Mr. Todd, had ever heard of the governments of Brazil or Dutch Guiana, both of which, from time to time claimed its possession.

Mr. Todd's house was larger than those of his neighbours, but similar in character — a palm thatch roof, breast high walls of mud and wattle, and a mud floor. He owned the dozen or so head of puny cattle which grazed in the savannah, a plantation of cassava, some banana and mango trees, a dog and, unique in the neighbourhood, a single-barrelled breech-loading shot gun. The few commodities which he employed from the outside world came to him through a long succession of traders, passed from hand to hand, bartered for in a dozen languages at the extreme end of one of the longest threads in the web of commerce that spreads from Manaós into the remote fastness of the forest.

One day while Mr. Todd was engaged in filling some cartridges, a Pie-wie came to him with the news that a white man was approaching through the forest, alone and very sick. He closed the cartridge and loaded his gun with it, put those that were finished into his pocket and set out in the direction indicated.

The man was already clear of the bush when Mr. Todd reached him, sitting on the ground, clearly in a very bad way. He was without hat or boots, and his clothes were so torn that it was only by the dampness of his body that they adhered to it; his feet were cut and grossly swollen; every exposed surface of skin was scarred by insect and bat bites; his eyes were wild with fever. He was talking to himself in delirium but stopped when Todd approached and addressed him in English.

“You're the first person who's spoken to me for days,” said Tony. “The others won't stop. They keep bicycling by … I'm tired … Brenda was with me at first but she was frightened by a mechanical mouse, so she took the canoe and went off. She said she would come back that evening but she didn't. I expect she's staying with one of her new friends in Brazil … You haven't seen her have you?”

“You are the first stranger I have seen for a very long time.”

“She was wearing a top hat when she left. You can't miss her.” Then he began talking to someone at Mr. Todd's side, who was not there.

“Do you see that house over there? Do you think you can managed to walk to it? If not I can send some Indians to carry you.”

Tony squinted across the savannah at Mr. Todd's hut. “Architecture harmonizing with local character,” he said; “indigenous material employed throughout. Don't let Mrs. Beaver see it or she will cover it with chromium plating.”

“Try and walk.” Mr. Todd hoisted Tony to his feet and supported him with a stout arm.

“I'll ride your bicycle. It was you I passed just now on a bicycle wasn't it? … except that your beard is a different colour. His was green … green as mice.”

Mr. Todd led Tony across the hummocks of grass towards the house.

“It is a very short way. When we get there I will give you something to make you better.”

“Very kind of you … rotten thing for a man to have his wife go away in a canoe. That was a long time ago. Nothing to eat since.” Presently he said, “I say, you're English. I'm English too. My name is Last.”

“Well, Mr. Last, you aren't to bother about any thing more. You're ill and you've had a rough journey. I'll take care of you.”

Tony looked round him.

“Are you all English?”

“Yes, all of us.”

“That dark girl married a Moor … It's very lucky I met you all. I suppose you're some kind of cycling club?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I feel too tired for bicycling … never liked it much … you fellows ought to get motor bicycles you know, much faster and noisier … Let's stop here.”

“No, you must come as far as the house. It's not very much further.”

“All right … I suppose you would have some difficulty getting petrol here.”

They went very slowly, but at length reached the house.

“Lie there in the hammock.”

“That's what Messinger said. He's in love with John Beaver.”

“I will get something for you.”

“Very good of you. Just my usual morning tray — coffee, toast, fruit. And the morning papers. If her ladyship has been called I will have it with her …”

Mr. Todd went into the back room of the house and dragged a tin canister from under a heap of skins. It was full of a mixture of dried leaf and bark. He took a handful and went outside to the fire. When he returned his guest was bolt upright astride the hammock, talking angrily.

“… You would hear better and it would be more polite if you stood still when I addressed you instead of walking round in a circle. It is for your own good that I am telling you … I know you are friends of my wife and that is why you will not listen to me. But be careful. She will say nothing cruel, she will not raise her voice, there will be no hard words. She hopes you will be great friends afterwards as before. But she will leave you. She will go away quietly during the night. She will take her hammock and her rations of farine … Listen to me. I know I am not clever but … that is no reason why we should forget courtesy. Let us kill in the gentlest manner. I will tell you what I have learned in the forest, where time is different. There is no City. Mrs. Beaver has covered it with chromium plating and converted it into flats. Three guineas a week with a separate bathroom. Very suitable for base love. And Polly will be there. She and Mrs. Beaver under the fallen battlements …”

Mr. Todd put a hand behind Tony's head and held up the concoction of herbs in the calabash. Tony sipped and turned away his head.

“Nasty medicine,” he said, and began to cry.

Mr. Todd stood by him holding the calabash. Presently Tony drank some more, screwing up his face and shuddering slightly at the bitterness. Mr. Todd stood beside him until the draught was finished; then he threw out the dregs on to the mud floor. Tony lay back in the hammock sobbing quietly. Soon he fell into a deep sleep.

Tony's recovery was slow. At first, days of lucidity alternated with delirium; then his temperature dropped and he was conscious even when most ill. The days of fever grew less frequent, finally occurring in the normal system of the tropics, between long periods of comparative health. Mr. Todd dosed him regularly with herbal remedies.

“It's very nasty,” said Tony, “but it does do good.”

“There is medicine for everything in the forest,” said Mr. Todd; “to make you well and to make you ill. My mother was an Indian and she taught me many of them. I have learned others from time to time from my wives. There are plants to cure you and give you fever, to kill you and send you mad, to keep away snakes, to intoxicate fish so that you can pick them out of the water with your hands like fruit from a tree. There are medicines even I do not know. They say that it is possible to bring dead people to life after they have begun to stink, but I have not seen it done.”

“But surely you are English?”

“My father was — at least a Barbadian. He came to Guiana as a missionary. He was married to a white woman but he left her in Guiana to look for gold. Then he took my mother. The Pie-wie women are ugly but very devoted. I have had many. Most of the men and women living in this savannah are my children. That is why they obey — for that reason and because I have the gun. My father lived to a great age. It is not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot.”

Tony laughed apologetically. “But I suppose you haven't much opportunity here.”

“Oh yes, that is just it. I have a great many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman — at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better.”

“I shall be delighted to.”

“Yes, you shall read to me,” Mr. Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash.

During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host; he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking, about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours, each, passed without distinction. Mr. Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning — a hand-woven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat — to keep away vampire bats.

The first time that Tony left the house Mr. Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm.

“I will show you the black man's grave,” he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. “He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross — to commemorate his death and your arrival — a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?”

“I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much.”

“I have thought about it a great deal and I still do not know … Dickens did.”

“I suppose so.”

“Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see.”

That afternoon Mr. Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spokeshave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal.

At last when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr. Todd said, “Now I think you are well enough to see the books.”

At one end of the but there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the caves of the roof. Mr. Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr. Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of small bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide.

“It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful.”

He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf bound book. It was an early American edition of Bleak House.

“It does not matter which we take first.”

“You are fond of Dickens?”

“Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man … and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words … I have all Dickens books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all — more than two years.”

“Well,” said Tony lightly, “they will well last out my visit.”

“Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire.”

They took down the first volume of Bleak House and that afternoon Tony had his first reading.

He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr. Todd was a unique audience.

The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, “Repeat the name, I have forgotten him,” or “Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman.” He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story — such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him — but always about the characters. “Now why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?” He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times; and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in “Tom-all-alones” tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. “I think that Dedlock is a very proud man,” or, “Mrs. Jellyby does not take enough care of her children.”

Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, “You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again.” And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. “I enjoyed that very much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember rightly, it will all turn out well.”

By the time that they were in the second volume however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr. Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints.

One day, running his thumb through the pages of Bleak House that remained to be read, Tony said, “We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Todd. “Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend.”

For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.

“You know, Mr. Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality for too long.”

Mr. Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.

“How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? … I said how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say but …”

“My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again.”

“Well I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back …”

“Yes,” said Mr. Todd. “The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here …”

Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject but his host was evasive. Finally he said, “Forgive me, Mr. Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?”

“There is no boat.”

“Well, the Indians can build one.”

“You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now.”

“How long will that be?”

“A month … two months …”

They had finished Bleak House and were nearing the end of Dombey and Son when the rain came.

“Now it is time to make preparations to go.”

“Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season — it is one of their superstitions.”

“You might have told me.”

“Did I not mention it? I forgot.”

Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied.

At their midday meal Mr. Todd said, “Mr. Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe.”

“So they gave me to understand … and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book.”

They finished Dombey and Son; nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters.

Year 1919.

I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished.

There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: Mr. Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington.

“Mr. Todd,” said Tony, “I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released.”

“But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like.”

“You know very well that I can't get away without your help.”

“In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter.”

“Mr. Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Manaós I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day.”

But I have no need of another man. You read so well.”

“I have read for the last time.”

“I hope not,” said Mr. Todd politely.

That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr. Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.

Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr. Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of Martin Chuzzlewit where it had been interrupted.

Weeks passed hopelessly. They read Nicholas Nickleby and Little Dorrit and Oliver Twist. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars' worth of gold hung around their necks. Mr. Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and tasso and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand.

From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr. Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and tasso at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and tasso and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation.

Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now probably there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming — the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Manaós, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her … “Darling, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost …”)

And then Mr. Todd interrupted. “May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy.”

The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour, he proposed a celebration.

“It is one of the local feast days,” he explained, “and they have been making piwari. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home tonight.”

Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr. Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.

“You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette.”

Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours' journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of piwari was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep.

He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party.

I must have been tight last night,” he reflected. “Treacherous drink that.” He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On the way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr. Todd sitting there.

“Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?”

“Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me.”

“I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep.”

“You haven't seen my watch anywhere?”

“You have missed it?”

“Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept long.”

“Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days.”

“Nonsense. I can't have.”

“Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests.”

“Guests?”

“Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so — I thought you would not mind — as you could not greet them yourself I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired … no pleasures except reading … I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again … well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not? … We will not have any Dickens today … but tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read Little Dorrit again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep.”