Sleep Well of Nights

An inexplicably underrated writer, Avram Davidson is one of the most eloquent and individual voices in modern SF and fantasy. During his thirty-year career, he has produced a long sequence of erudite and entertaining novels—including Masters of the Maze, Rogue Dragon, Peregrine: Primus, Rork!, The Enemy of My Enemy, Clash of Star Kings, and the justly renowned The Phoenix and the Mirror—and also firmly established himself as one of the finest short-story writers of our times. Davidson's stylish, witty, and elegant stories have been collected in The Best of Avram Davidson, Or All the Seas with Oysters, Strange Seas and Shores, The Redward Edward Papers, and the World Fantasy Award-winning The Enquiries of Doctor Esterhazy. Davidson had also won a Hugo and an Edgar Award. His most recent books are Collected Fantasies, a collection, and, as editor, the anthology Magic For Sale . Upcoming is a sequel to The Phoenix and the Mirror, entitled Vergil in Avemo.

In recent years, Davidson had been producing some of his best work ever in a series of stories (as yet uncollected, alas) detailing the strange adventures of Jack Limekiller. The Limekiller stories are set against the lushly evocative background of "British Hidalgo," Davidson's vividly realized, richly imagined version of one of those tiny, eccentric Central American nations that exist in near-total isolation on the edge of the busy twentieth-century world . . . a place somehow at once flamboyant and languorous, where strange things can—and do—happen, and magic is never very far away.

In "Sleep Well of Nights," probably the best of the Limekiller stories, he shows us that death need not necessarily deter the strong of will, and that even something as simple as a good night's sleep must somehow be earned. . . .

"Are those lahvly young ladies with you, then?" the Red Cross teacher asked.

Limekiller evaded the question by asking another, a technique at least as old as the Book of Genesis. "Which way did they go?" he asked.

But it did not work this time. "Bless me if I saw them gow anywhere! They were both just standing on the corner as I went by."

Limekiller gave up not so easily. "Ah, but which corner?"

A blank look. "Why . . . this corner."

This corner was the corner of Grand Arawack and Queen Alexandra Streets in the Town of St. Michael of the Mountains, capital of Mountains District in the Colony of British Hidalgo. Fretwork galleries dripping with potted plants and water provided shade as well as free shower baths. These were the first and second streets laid out and had originally been deer trails; Government desiring District Commissioner Bartholomew "Bajan" Bainbridge to supply the lanes with names, he had, with that fund of imagination which helped build the Empire, called them First and Second Streets: it was rather a while before anyone in Government next looked at a map and then decided that numbered streets should run parallel to each other and not, as in this instance, across each other. And as the Grand Arawack Hotel was by that time built and as Alexandra (long-suffering consort of Fat Edward) was by that time Queen, thus they were renamed and thus had remained.

"St. Michael's" or "Mountains" Town, one might take one's pick, had once been a caravan city in miniature. The average person does not think of caravan cities being located in the Americas, and, for that matter, neither does anyone else. Nevertheless, trains of a hundred and fifty mules laden with flour and rum and textiles and tinned foods coming in, and with chicle and chicle and chicle going out, had been common enough to keep anyone from bothering to count them each time the caravans went by. The labor of a thousand men and a thousand mules had been year by year spat out of the mouths of millions of North Americans in the form of chewing gum.

So far as Limekiller knew, Kipling had never been in either Hidalgo, but he might have thought to have been if one ignored biographical fact and judged only by his lines.

Across from the hotel stood the abattoir and the market building. The very early morning noises were a series of bellows, bleats, squeals, and screams which drowned out cockcrow and were succeeded by the rattle and clatter of vulture claws on the red-painted corrugated iron roofs. Then the high voices of women cheapening meat. But all of these had now died away. Beef and pork and mutton (sheep or goat) could be smelled stewing and roasting now and then as the mild currents of the air alternated the odors of food with those of woodsmoke. He even thought he detected incense; there was the church spire nearby.

But there were certainly no young ladies around, lovely or otherwise.

There had been no very lengthy mule trains for a very long time.

There had been no flotillas of tunnel boats at the Town Wharf for a long time, either, their inboard motors drawn as high-up in "tunnels" within the vessels as possible to avoid the sand and gravel and boulders which made river navigation so difficult on the upper reaches of the Ningoon. No mule trains, no tunnel boats, no very great quantities of chicle, and everything which proceeded to and from the colonial capital of King Town and St. Michael's going now by truck along the rutted and eroded Frontier Road. No Bay boat could ever, in any event, have gotten higher up the river than the narrows called Bomwell's Boom; and the Sacarissa (Jno. Limekiller, owner and Master and, usually—save for Skippy the Cat—sole crew) was at the moment Hired Out.

She had been chartered to a pair of twosomes from a Lake Winnipeg boat club, down to enjoy the long hours of sunshine. Jack had been glad enough of the money but the charter had left him at somewhat of a loss: leisure to him had for so long meant to haul his boat up and clean and caulk and paint her: all things in which boatmen delight. Leisure without the boat was something new. Something else.

To pay his currently few debts had not taken long. He had considered getting Porter Portugal to sew a new suit of sails, but old P.P. was not a slot machine; you could not put the price into P.P.'s gifted hands and expect, after a reasonable (or even an unreasonable) period of time, for the sails to pop out. If Port-Port were stone sober he would not work and if dead drunk he could not work. The matter of keeping him supplied with just the right flow of old Hidalgo dark rum to, so to speak, oil the mechanism, was a nice task indeed: many boat owners, National, North American, or otherwise, had started the process with intentions wise and good: but Old Port was a crazy-foxy old Port and all too often had drunk them under the table, downed palm and needle, and vanished with the advance-to-buy-supplies into any one of the several stews which flourished on his trade.("A debt of honor, me b'y," he would murmur, red-eyed sober, long days later. "Doesn't you gots to worry. I just hahs a touch ahv de ague, but soon as I bettah. . . .")

So that was one reason why John L. Limekiller had eventually decided to forget the new suit of sails for the time being.

Filial piety had prompted him to send a nice long letter home, but a tendency towards muscle spasms caused by holding a pen had prompted him to reduce the n.l.l. to a picture post card. He saw the women at the post office, one long and one short.

"What's a letter cost, to St. Michael's?" the Long was asking. "We could, telephone for a reservation," the Short suggested. Jack was about to tell them unsolicited, how fat the chance was of anybody in St. Michael's having a telephone or anything which could be reserved, let alone of understanding what a reservation was—then he took more than a peripheral look at them.

The Long had red hair and was wearing dungarees and a man's shirt. Not common, ordinary, just-plain-red: copper-red. Worn in loops. Her shirt was blue with a faint white stripe. Her eyes were "the color of the sherry which the guests leave in the glass." Or don't, as the case may be. The Short could have had green hair in braids and been covered to her toes in a yashmak for all Jack noticed.

At that moment the clerk had asked him, "What fah you?"—a local, entirely acceptable usage, even commonplace, being higher than "What you want?" and lower than "You does want something?"—and by the time he had sorted out even to his own satisfaction that he wanted postage for a card to Canada and not, say, to send an armadillo by registered mail to Mauritius, and had completed the transaction in haste and looked around, trying to appear casual, they were gone. Clean gone. Where they had been was a bright-eyed little figure in the cleanest rags imaginable, with a sprinkling of white hairs on its brown, nutcracker jaws.

Who even at once declared, " 'And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three, and the greatest of these is charity,' you would not deny the Apostle Paul, would you, then, sir?"

"Eh? Uh . . . no," said Limekiller. Pretense cast aside, craning and gaping all around: nothing.

"Anything to offer me?" demanded the wee and ancient, with logic inexorable.

So there had gone a dime. And then and there had come the decision to visit St. Michael of the Mountains, said to be so different, so picturesque, hard upon the frontier of "Spanish" Hidalgo, and where (he reminded himself) he had after all never been.

Sometimes being lonely it bothers the way a tiny pebble in the shoe bothers: enough to stop and do something. But if one is very lonely indeed, then it becomes an accustomed thing. Only now did Limekiller bethink himself how lonely he had been. The boat and the Bay and the beastie-cat had been company enough. The average National boatman had a home ashore. The two men and two women even now aboard the Sacarissa in jammed-together proximity—they had each other. (And even now, considering another definition of the verb to have and the possible permutations of two males and two females made him wiggle like a small boy who has to go—). There was always, to be sure, the Dating Game, played to its logical conclusion, for a fee, at any one of the several hotels in King Town, hard upon the sea. But as for any of the ladies accompanying him anywhere on his boat . . .

"Whattt? You tink I ahm crazy? Nutting like dot!"

Boats were gritty with sand to fill the boggy yards and lanes, smelly with fish. Boats had no connotations of romance.

Such brief affairs did something for his prostate gland ("Changing the acid," the English called it), but nothing whatsoever, he now realized, for his loneliness. Nor did conversation in the boatmen's bars, lately largely on the theme of, "New tax law, rum go up to 15¢ a glass, man!"

And so here he was, fifty miles from home, if King Town was "home"—and if the Sacarissa was home . . . well, who knew? St. Michael of the Mountains still had some faint air of its days as a port-and-caravan city, but that air was now faint indeed. Here the Bayfolk (Black, White, Colored, and Clear) were outnumbered by Turks and 'Paniar's, and there were hardly any Arawack at all.(There seldom were, anywhere out of the sound and smell of the sea.) There were a lot of old wooden houses, two stories tall, with carved grill work, lots of flowering plants, lots of hills: perhaps looking up and down the hilly lanes gave the prospects more quaintness and interest, perhaps even beauty, than they might have had, were they as level as the lanes of King Town, Port Cockatoo, Port Caroline, or Lime Walk. And, too, there were the mountains all about, all beautiful. And there was the Ningoon River, flowing round about the town in easy coils, all lovely, too: its name, though Indian in origin, allowing for any number of easy, Spanish-based puns:

"Suppose you drink de wat-tah here, say, you cahn-not stay away!"

"En otros paises, señor, otros lugares, dicen mañana. Pero, por acá, señor, se dice ningún!"

And so forth.

Limekiller had perambulated every street and lane, had circumambulated town. Like every town and the one sole city in British Hidalgo, St. Michael's had no suburbs. It was clustered thickly, with scarcely even a vacant lot, and where it stopped being the Town of St. Michael of the Mountains, it stopped. Abruptly. Here was the Incorporation; there were the farms and fields; about a mile outside the circumambient bush began again.

He could scarcely beat every tree, knock on every door. He was too shy to buttonhole people, ask if they had seen a knockout redhead. So he walked. And he looked. And he listened. But he heard no women's voices, speaking with accent from north of the northern border of Mexico. Finally he grew a little less circumspect.

To Mr. John Paul Peterson, Prop., the Emerging Nation Bar and Club:

"Say . . . are there any other North Americans here in town?"

As though Limekiller had pressed a button. Mr. Peterson, who until that moment had been only amiable, scowled an infuriated scowl and burst out, "What the Hell they want come here for? You think them people crazy? They got richest countries in the world, which they take good care keep it that way; so why the Hell they want come here? Leave me ask you one question. Turn your head all round. You see them table? You see them booth? How many people you see sitting and drinking at them table and them booth?"

Limekiller's eyes scanned the room. The question was rhetorical. He sighed. "No one," he said, turning back to his glass.

Mr. Peterson smote the bar with his hand. "Exactly!" he cried. "No one! You not bloody damn fool, boy. You have good eye in you head. Why you see no one? Because no one can afford come here and drink, is why you see no one. People can scarce afford eat! Flour cost nine cent! Rice cost fifteen cent! Lard cost thirty-four cent! Brown sugar at nine cent and white sugar at eleven! D.D. milk twenty-one cent! And yet the tax going up, boy! The tax going up!"

A line stirred in Limekiller's mind. "Yes—and, 'Pretty soon rum going to cost fifteen cents,'" he repeated. Then had the feeling that (in that case) something was wrong with the change from his two-shillings piece. And with his having made this quotation.

"What you mean, 'fifteen cent'?" demanded Mr. Peterson, in a towering rage. Literally, in a towering rage, he had been slumped on his backless chair behind the bar, now stood up to his full height . . . and it was a height, too. "Whattt? 'Fifteen-cent?' You think this some damn dirty liquor booth off in the bush, boy? You think you got swampy," referring to backwoods distilled goods, "in you glass? What 'fifteen cent?' No such thing. You got pure Governor Morgan in you glass, boy, never cost less than one shilling, and pretty soon going to be thirty cent, boy: thir-ty-cent! And for what? For the Queen can powder her nose with the extra five penny, boy?" Et cetera. Et cetera.

Edwin Rodney Augustine Bickerstaff, Royal British Hidalgo Police (sitting bolt-upright in his crisp uniform beneath a half-length photograph of the Queen's Own Majesty):

"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you, sir?"

"Uh . . . yes! I was wondering . . . uh . . . do you know if there are any North Americans in town?"

Police-sergeant Bickerstaff pondered the question, rubbed his long chin. "Any North Americans, you say, sir?"

Limekiller felt obliged to define his terms. "Any Canadians or people from the States."

Police-sergeant Bickerstaff nodded vigorously. "Ah, now I understand you, sir. Well. That would be a matter for the Immigration Officer, wouldn't you agree, sir?"

"Why . . . I suppose. Is he in right now?" This was turning out to be more complex than he had imagined.

"Yes, sir. He is in. Unofficially speaking, he is in. I am the police officer charged with the duties of Immigration Officer in the Mountains District, sir."

"Well—"

"Three to four, sir."

Limekiller blinked. Begged his pardon. The police-sergeant smiled slightly. "Every evening from three to four, sir, pleased to execute the duties of Immigration Officer, sir. At the present time," he glanced at the enormous clock on the wall, with just a touch of implied proof, "I am carrying out my official duties as Customs Officer. Have you anything to declare?"

And, So much for that suggestion, Limekiller thought, a feeling of having only slightly been saved from having made a fool of himself tangible in the form of something warmer than sunshine round about his face and neck.

The middle-aged woman at the Yohan Yahanoglu General Mdse. Establishment store sold him a small bar of Fry's chocolate, miraculously unmelted. Jack asked, "Is there another hotel in town, besides the Grand?"

A touch of something like hauteur came over the still-handsome face of Sra. "Yohanoglu. Best you ahsk wan of the men," she said. And, which one of the men? "Any men," said she.

So. Out into the sun-baked street went lonely Limekiller. Not that lonely at the moment, though, to want to find where the local hookers hung out. Gone too far to turn back. And, besides, turn back to what?

The next place along the street which was open was the El Dorado Club and Dancing (its sign, slightly uneven, said).

Someone large and burly thumped in just before he did, leaned heavily on the bar, "How much, rum?" he demanded.

The barkeep, a 'Paniard, maybe only one-quarter Indian (most of the Spanish-speaking Hidalgans were more than that), gave a slight yawn at this sudden access of trade. "Still only wan dime," he said. "Lahng as dees borrel lahst. When necessitate we broach nudder borrel, under new tox lah, iay! Pobrecito! Going be fifteen cent!"

"¡En el nombre del Queen!" proclaimed the other new customer, making the sign of the cross, then gesturing for a glass to be splashed.

Limekiller made the same gesture.

"What you vex weed de Queen, varón?" the barkeeper asked, pouring two fingers of "clear" into each glass. "You got new road, meb-be ah beet bum-py, but new; you got new wing on hospital, you got new generator for give ahl night, electricity: Whatt? You teenk you hahv ahl dees, ahn not pay uh new tox? No sotch teeng!"

"No me hace falta, 'ahl dees,'" said the other customer. "Resido en el bush, where no hahv not-ting like dot."

The barkeep yawned again. "Reside en el bush? Why you not live like old-time people? Dey not dreenk rum. Dey not smoke cigarette. Dey not use lahmp-ile. Ahn dey not pay toxes, not dem, no."

"Me no want leev like dot. Whattt? You cahl dot 'leev'?" He emptied his glass with a swallow, dismissed any suggestion that Walden Pond and its tax-free amenities might be his for the taking, turned to Limekiller his vast Afro-Indian face. "Filiberto Marín, señor, is de mahn to answer stranger question. Becahs God love de stranger, señor, ahn Filiberto Marín love God. Everybody know Filiberto Marín, ahn if anyone want know where he is, I am de mahn." Limekiller, having indeed questions, or at any rate, A Question, Limekiller opened his mouth.

But he was not to get off so easily.There followed a long, long conversation, or monologue, on various subjects, of which Filiberto Marín was the principal one. Filiberto Marín had once worked one entire year in the bush and was only home for a total of thirty-two days, a matter (he assured Jack) of public record. Filiberto Marín was born just over the line in Spanish Hidalgo, his mother being a Spanish Woman and his father a British Subject By Birth. Had helped build a canal, or perhaps it was The Canal. Had been in Spanish Hidalgo at the time of the next-to-last major revolution, during which he and his sweetheart had absquatulated for a more peaceful realm. Married in church! Filiberto Marín and his wife had produced one half a battalion for the British Queen! "Fifteen children—and puros varones! Ahl son, señor! So fahst we have children! Sixty-two-year-old, and work more tasks one day dan any young man! An I now desires to explain we hunting and fishing to you, becahs you stranger here, so you ignorance not you fahlt, señor."

Limekiller kept his eyes in the mirror, which reflected the passing scene through the open door, and ordered two more low-tax rums; while Filiberto Marín told him how to cast nets with weights to catch mullet in the lagoons, they not having the right mouths to take hooks; how to catch turtle, the tortuga blanca and the striped turtle (the latter not being popular locally because it was striped)—

"What difference does the stripe mean, Don Filiberto?"

"¡Seguro! Exoctly!!" beamed Don Filiberto, and, never pausing, swept on: how to use raw beef skin to bait lobsters ("Dey cahl him lobster, but is really de langusta, child of de crayfish."), how to tell the difference in color between saltwater and freshwater ones, how to fix a dory, how to catch tortuga "by dive for him—"

"—You want to know how to cotch croc-o-dile by dive for him? Who can tell you? Filiberto Marín will answer dose question," he said, and he shook Limekiller's hand with an awesome shake.

There seemed nothing boastful about the man. Evidently Filiberto Marín did know all these things and, out of a pure and disinterested desire to help a stranger, wanted merely to put his extensive knowledge at Jack's disposal. . . .

Of this much, Limekiller was quite clear the next day. He was far from clear, though, as to how he came to get there in the bush where many cheerful dark people were grilling strips of barbacoa over glowing coals—mutton it was, with a taste reminiscent of the best old-fashioned bacon, plus . . . well, mutton. He did not remember having later gone to bed, let alone to sleep. Nor know the man who came and stood at the foot of his bed, an elderly man with a sharp face which might have been cut out of ivory . . . this man had a long stick . . . a spear? . . . no . . .

Then Limekiller was on his feet. In the moon-speckled darkness he could see very little, certainly not another man. There was no lamp lit. He could hear someone breathing regularly, peacefully, nearby. He could hear water purling, not far off. After a moment, now able to see well enough, he made his way out of the cabin and along a wooden walkway. There was the Ningoon River below. A fine spray of rain began to fall; the river in the moonlight moved like watered silk. What had the man said to him? Something about showing him . . . showing him what? He could not recall at all. There had really been nothing menacing about the old man.

But neither had there been anything reassuring.

Jack made his way back into the cabin. The walls let the moonlight in, and the fine rain, too. But not so much of either as to prevent his falling asleep again.

Next day, passion—well, that was not exactly the right word—but what was? Infatuation? Scarcely even that. An uncommon interest in, plus a great desire for, an uncommonly comely young woman who also spoke his own language with familiar, or familiar enough accents—oh, well—Hell!—whatever the word was, whatever his own state of mind had been, next morning had given way to something more like common sense. Common sense, then, told him that if the young woman (vaguely he amended this to the young women) had intended to come to St. Michael of the Mountains to stay at a hotel . . . or wherever it was, which they thought might take a reservation . . . had even considered writing for the reservation, well, they had not intended to come here at once. In other words: enthusiasm (that was the word! . . . damn it . . .) enthusiasm had made him arrive early.

So, since he was already there, he might as well relax and enjoy it.

—He was already where?

Filiberto Marín plunged his hands into the river and was noisily splashing water onto his soapy face. Jack paused in the act of doing the same thing for himself, waited till his host had become a trifle less audible—how the man could snort!—"Don Fili, what is the name of this place?"

Don Fili beamed at him, reached for the towel. "These place?" He waved his broad hand to include the broad river and the broad clearing, with its scattered fields and cabins. "These place, Jock, se llame Pahrot Bend. You like reside here? Tell me, just. I build you house." He buried his face in his towel. Jack had no doubt that the man meant exactly what he said, gave another look around to see what was being so openhandedly—and openheartedly—offered him; this time he looked across to the other bank. Great boles of trees: Immense! Immense! The eye grew lost and dizzy gazing upward toward the lofty, distant crowns. Suddenly a flock of parrots, yellowheads, flew shrieking round and round; then vanished.

Was it-some kind of an omen? Any kind of an omen? To live here would not be to live just anywhere. He thought of the piss-soaked bogs which made up too large a part of the slums of King Town, wondered how anybody could live there when anybody could live here. But here was simply too far from the sea, and it was to live upon the sunwarm sea that he had come to this small country, so far from his vast own one. Still . . . might not be such a bad idea . . . well, not to live here all the time. But . . . a smaller version of the not-very-large cabins of the hamlet . . . a sort of country home . . . as it were . . . ha-ha . . . well, why not? Something to think about . . . anyway.

"Crahs de river, be one nice spot for build you cabanita," said Don Filiberto, reading his mind.

"Mmm . . . what might it cost?" he could not help asking, even though knowing whatever answer he might receive would almost certainly not in the long run prove accurate.

"Cahst?" Filiberto Marin, pulling his shirt over his huge dark torso, considered. Cost, clearly, was not a matter of daily concern. Calculations, muttering from his mouth, living and audible thoughts, struggling to take form: "Cahst. . .May-be, ooohhh, say-be torty dollar?"

"Forty dollars?"

Don Filiberto started to shake his head, reconsidered. "I suppose may-be. Not take lahng. May-be one hahf day, collect wild cane for make wall, bay leaf for make techo, roof. An may-be 'nother hahf day for put everything togedder. Cahst? So: Twenty dollar. Torty dollar. An ten dollar rum! Most eeem-por-tont!" He laughed. Rum! The oil which lubricates the neighbors' labors. A house-raising bee, Hidalgo style.

"And the land itself? The cost of the land?"

But Don Fili was done with figures. "What 'cahst of de lond?' Lond not cahst nah-ting. Lond belahng to Pike Estate."

A bell went ding-a-ling in Limekiller's ear. The Pike Estate. The great Pike Estate Case was the Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce of British Hidalgo. Half the lawyers in the colony lived off it. Was there a valid will? Where there valid heirs? Had old Pike died intestate? ¿Quien sabe? There were barroom barristers would talk your ears off about the First Codicil and the Second Codicil and the Alleged Statement of Intention and the Holograph Document and all the rest of it. Limekiller had heard enough about the Pike Estate Case. He followed after Don Fili up the bank. Ah, but—

"Well, maybe nobody would bother me now if I had a cabin built there. But what about when the estate is finally settled?"

Marín waved an arm, as impatiently as his vast good nature would allow. "By dot time, hijo mio, what you care? You no hahv Squatter Rights by den? Meb-be you dead by den!"

Mrs. Don Filiberto, part American Indian, part East Indian, and altogether Amiable and Fat, was already fanning the coals on the raised fire-hearth for breakfast.

Nobody was boating back to town then, although earnest guarantees were offered that "by and by somebody" would be boating back, for sure. Limekiller knew such sureties. He knew, too, that he might certainly stay on with the Marín family at Parrot Bend until then—and longer—and be fully welcome. But he had after all come to "Mountains" for something else besides rural hospitality along the Ningoon River (a former Commissioner of Historical Sites and Antiquities had argued that the name came from an Indian word, or words, meaning Region of Bounteous Plenty; local Indians asserted that a more literal and less literary translation would be Big Wet). The fine rain of the night before began to fall again as he walked along, and soon he was soaked.

It did not bother him. By the time he got back into town the sun would have come out and dried him. Nobody bothered with oilskins or mackintoshes on the Bay of Hidalgo, nor did he intend to worry about his lack of them here in the Mountains of Saint Michael Archangel and Prince of Israel.

Along the road (to give it its courtesy title) he saw a beautiful flurry of white birds—were they indeed cattle egrets? living in symbiosis, or commensality, with the cattle? was one, indeed, heavy with egg, "blown over from Africa"? Whatever their name or origin, they did follow the kine around, heads bobbing as they, presumably, ate the insects the heavy cloven hooves stirred up. But what did the cattle get out of it? Company?

The rain stopped, sure enough.

It was a beautiful river, with clear water, green and bending banks. He wondered how high the highest flood waters came. A "top gallon flood," they called that. Was there a hint of an old tradition that the highest floods would come as high as the topgallant sails of a ship? Maybe.

The rain began again. Oh, well.

An oilcloth serving as door of a tiny cabin was hauled aside and an old woman appeared and gazed anxiously at Jack. "Oh, sah, why you wahk around in dis eager rain?" she cried at him. "Best you come in, bide, till eet stop!"

He laughed. "It doesn't seem all that eager to me, Grandy," he said, "but thank you anyway."

In a little while it had stopped. See?

Further on, a small girl under a tree called, "Oh, see what beauty harse, meester!"

Limekiller looked. Several horses were coming from a stable and down the path to the river; they were indeed beautiful, and several men were discussing a sad story of how the malfeasance of a jockey (evidently not present) had lost first place in a recent race for one of them to the famous Tigre Rojo, the Red Tiger, of which even Limekiller, not a racing buff, had heard.

"Bloody b'y just raggedy-ahss about wid him, an so Rojo win by just a nose. Son of a beach!" said one of the men, evidently the trainer of the beauty horse, a big bay.

"—otherwise he beat any harse in British Hidalgo!"

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes, Mr. Ruy!—dot he would!"

Ruy, his dark face enflamed by the memory of the loss, grew darker as he watched, cried, "Goddammit, oh Laard Jesus Christ, b'y! Lead him by de head till he in de wahter, den lead him by rope! When you goin to learn?—an watch out for boulder!—you know what one bloody fool mon want me to do? Want me to run harse dis marnin—not even just canter, he want run him!—No, no, b'y, just let him swim about be de best ting for him—

"Dis one harse no common harse—dis one harse foal by Garobo, from Mr. Pike stud! Just let him swim about, I say!"

The boy in the water continued, perhaps wisely, to say nothing, but another man now said, "Oh, yes. An blow aht de cold aht of he's head, too."

Mr. Ruy grunted, then, surveying the larger scene and the graceful sweep of it, he said, gesturing, "I cotch plenty fish in dis river—catfish, twenty-pound tarpon, too. I got nylon line, but three week now, becahs of race, I have no time for cotch fish." And his face, which had gradually smoothed, now grew rough and fierce again. "Bloody dom fool jockey b'y purely raggeddy-ahss around wid harse!" he cried. The other men sighed, shook their heads. Jack left them to their sorrow.

Here the river rolled through rolling pasture lands, green, with trees, some living and draped with vines, some dead and gaunt but still beautiful. The river passed a paddock of Brahma cattle like statues of weathered grey stone, beautiful us the trees they took the shade beneath, cattle with ears like leaf-shaped spearheads, with wattles and humps. Then came an even lovelier sight: black cattle in a green field with snow-white birds close by among them. Fat hogs, Barbados sheep, water meadows, sweet soft air.

He could see the higher roofs on the hills of the town, but the road seemed to go nowhere near there. Then along came a man who, despite his clearly having no nylon line, had—equally clearly—ample time to fish, carried his catch on a stick. "De toewn, sir? Straight acrahs de savannah, sir," he gestured, "is de road to toewn." And, giving his own interpretation to the text, I will not let thee go unless thou bless me, detained Limekiller with blessings of unsolicited information, mostly dealing with the former grandeur of St. Michael's Town, and concluding, "Yes, sir, in dose days hahv t'ree dahnce hahll. Twen-ty bar and club! Torkish Cat'edral w'open every day, sah—every day!—ahn. . ." he groped for further evidences of the glorious days of the past, "ahn ah fot fowl, sah, cahst two, t'ree shilling!"

Sic transit gloria mundi.

The room at the hotel was large and bare, and contained a dresser with a clouded mirror, a chair, and a bed with a broad mattress covered in red "brocade"; the sheet, however, would not encompass it. This was standard: the sheet never would, except in the highest of high class hotels. And as one went down the scale of classes and the size of the beds diminished so, proportionately, did the sheets: they were always too narrow and too short. Curious, the way this was always so. (In the famous, or infamous, Hotel Pelican in King Town, sheets were issued on application only, at an extra charge, for the beds were largely pro forma. The British soldiers of the Right Royal Regiment, who constituted the chief patrons, preferred to ignore the bed and used the wall, would you believe it, for their erotic revels. If that was quite the right word.)

There was a large mahogany wardrobe, called a "press" in the best Dickensian tradition, but there were no hangers in it. There was a large bathroom off the hall but no towels and no soap, and the urinal was definitely out of order, for it was tied up with brown paper and string and looked like a twelve-pound turkey ready for the oven.

But all these shortcomings were made up for by one thing which the Grand Hotel Arawack did have: out on the second-story verandah was a wide wooden-slatted swing of antique and heroic mold, the kind one used to see only at Auntie Mary's, deep in the interior of Prince Edward Island or other islands in time.—Did the Hiltons have wide wooden swings on their verandahs? Did the Hiltons have verandahs, for that matter?

Limekiller took his seat with rare pleasure: it was not every damned day that he could enjoy a nostalgia trip whilst at the same time rejoicing in an actual physical trip which was, really, giving him as much pleasure. For a moment he stayed immobile. (Surely, Great-uncle Leicester was just barely out of sight, reading the Charlottetown newspaper, and damning the Dirty Grits?) Then he gave his long legs a push and was off.

Up! and the mountains displayed their slopes and foothills. Down! and the flowery lanes of town came into sight again. And, at the end of the lanes was the open square where stood the flagpole with the Union Jack and the National Ensign flapping in the scented breeze . . . and, also, in sight, and well in sight (Limekiller had chosen well) was the concrete bench in front of which the bus from King Town had to disembogue its passengers. If they came by bus, and come by bus they must (he reasoned), being certainly tourists and not likely to try hitching. Also, the cost of a taxi for fifty miles was out of the reach of anyone but a land speculator. No, by bus, and there was where the bus would stop.

"Let me help you with your bags," he heard himself saying, ready to slip shillings into the hands of any boys brash enough to make the same offer.

There was only one fly in the ointment of his pleasure.

Swing as he would and as long as he would, no bus came.

"Bus? Bus, sir? No, sir. Bus ahlready come orlier today. Goin bock in evening. Come ahgain tomorrow."

With just a taste of bitterness, Limekiller said, "Mañana."

"¡Ah, Vd, si puede hablar en espanol, señor, Sí, señor. Mañna viene el bus, otra vez.—Con el favor de Dios." An the creek don't rise, thought Limekiller.

Suddenly he was hungry. There was a restaurant in plain sight, with a bill of fare five feet tall painted on its outer wall: such menus were only there for, so to speak, authenticity. To prove that the place was indeed a restaurant. And not a cinema. Certainly no one would ever be able to order and obtain anything which was not painted on them.—Besides, the place was closed.

"Be open tonight, sir," said a passerby, observing him observing.

Jack grunted. "Think they'll have that tonight?" he asked, pointing at random to Rost Muttons and to Beef Stakes.

An emphatic shake of the head. "No-sir. Rice and beans."

Somewhere nearby someone was cooking something besides rice and beans. The passerby, noticing the stranger's blunt and sunburned nose twitch, with truly Christian kindness said, "But Tía Sani be open now."

"Tía Sani?"

"Yes-sir. Miss Sanita. Aunt Sue. Directly down de lane."

Tía Sani had no sign, no giant menu. However, Tía Sani was open.

Outside, the famous Swift Sunset of the Tropics dallied and dallied. There was no sense of urgency in Hidalgo, be it British or Spanish. There was the throb of the light-plant generator, getting ready for the night. Watchman, what of the night?—what put that into his mind? He swung the screen door, went in.

Miss Sani, evidently the trim grey little woman just now looking up towards him from her stove, did not have a single item of Formica or plastic in her spotless place. Auntie Mary, back in P.E.I., would have approved. She addressed him in slow, sweet Spanish. "How may I serve you, sir?"

"What may I encounter for supper, señora?"

"We have, how do they call it in inglés, meat, milled, and formed together? ah! los mitbols! And also a caldo of meat with macaroni and verdants. Of what quality the meat? Of beef, señor."

Of course it was cheap, filling, tasty, and good.

One rum afterwards in a club. There might have been more than one, but just as the thought began to form (like a mitbol), someone approached the jukebox and slipped a coin into its slot—the only part of it not protected by a chickenwire cage against violent displays of dislike for whatever choice someone else might make. The management had been wise. At once, NOISE, slightly tinctured with music, filled the room. Glasses rattled on the bar. Limekiller winced, went out into the soft night.

Suddenly he felt sleepy. Whatever was there tonight would be there tomorrow night. He went back to his room, switched the sheet so that at least his head and torso would have its modest benefits, thumped the lumpy floc pillow until convinced of its being a hopeless task, and stretched out for slumber.

The ivory was tanned with age. The sharp face seemed a touch annoyed. The elder man did not exactly threaten Limekiller with his pole or spear, but . . . and why should Limekiller get up and go? Go where? For what? He had paid for his room, hadn't he? He wanted to sleep, didn't he? And he was damned well going to sleep, too. If old what's-his-name would only let him . . . off on soft green clouds he drifted. Up the river. Down the river. Old man smiled, slightly. And up the soft green mountains. Old man was frowning, now. Old man was—

"Will you get the Hell out of here?" Limekiller shouted, bolt upright in bed—poking him with that damned—

The old man was gone. The hotel maid was there. She was poking him with the stick of her broom. The light was on in the hall. He stared, feeling stupid and slow and confused. "Eh—?"

"You have bad dream," the woman said.

No doubt, he thought. Only—

"Uh, thanks. I—uh. Why did you poke me with the broomstick? And not just shake me?"

She snorted. "Whattt? You theenk I want cotch eet?"

He still stared. She smiled, slightly. He smiled, slightly, too. "Are bad dreams contagious, then?" he asked.

She nodded, solemnly, surprised that he should ask.

"Oh. Well, uh, then . . . then how about helping me have some good ones?" He took her, gently, by the hand. And, gently, pulled. She pulled her hand away. Gently. Walked towards the open door. Closed it.

Returned.

"Ahl right," she said. "We help each other." And she laughed.

He heard her getting up, in the cool of the early day. And he moved towards her, in body and speech. And fell at once asleep again.

Later, still early, he heard her singing as she swept the hall, with, almost certainly, that same broom. He burst out and cheerfully grabbed at her. Only, it wasn't her. "What you want?" the woman asked. Older, stouter. Looking at him in mild surprise, but with no dislike or disapproval.

"Oh, I uh, are, ah. Ha-ha. Hmm. Where is the other lady? Here last night? Works here?" He hadn't worded that as tactfully as he might have. But it didn't seem to matter.

"She? She not work here. She come help out for just one night. Becahs my sister, lahst night, she hahv wan lee pick-ney—gorl behbee. So I go ahn she stay." The pronouns were a bit prolix, but the meaning was clear. "Now she go bock. Becahs truck fah go Macaw Falls di leave, señor." And, as she looked at the play of expression on his face, the woman burst into hearty, good-willed laughter. And bounced down the hall, still chuckling, vigorously plying her besom.

Oh, well.

And they had been good dreams, too.

Tía Sani was open. Breakfast: two fried eggs, buttered toast of thick-sliced home-baked bread, beans (mashed), tea with tinned milk, orange juice. Cost: $1.00, National Currency—say, 60 cents, 65 cents, US or Canadian. On the wall, benignly approving, the Queen, in her gown, her tiara, and her Smile of State; also, the National Premier, in open shirt, eyeglasses, and a much broader smile.

Jack found himself still waiting for the bus. Despite the Night Before. See (he told himself), so it isn't Just Sex . . . Also waiting, besides the retired chicle-tappers and superannuated mahogany-cutters, all of them authorized bench-sitters, was a younger and brisker man.

"You are waiting for the bus, I take it," he now said.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I am."

And so was he. "I am expecting a repair part for my tractor. Because, beside my shop, I have a farm. You see my shop?" He companionably took Limekiller by the arm, pointed to a pink-washed building with the indispensable red-painted corrugated iron roof (indispensable because the rains rolled off them and into immense wooden cisterns) and overhanging gallery. "Well, I find that I cannot wait any longer, Captain Sneed is watching the shop for me, so I would like to ahsk you one favor. If you are here. If the bus comes. Would you be so kind as to give me a hail?"

Limekiller said, "Of course. Be glad to," suddenly realized that he had, after all, other hopes for If The Bus Come; hastily added, "And if not, I will send someone to hail you."

The dark (but not local-dark) keen face was split by a warm smile. "Yes, do—Tony Mikeloglu," he added, giving Jack's hand a hearty, hasty shake; strode away. (Tony Mikeloglu could trust Captain Sneed not to pop anything under his shirt, not to raid the till, not to get too suddenly and soddenly drunk and smash the glass goods. But, suppose some junior customer were to appear during the owner's absence and, the order being added up and its price announced, pronounce the well-known words, Ma say, "write eet doewn"—could he trust Captain Sneed to demand cash and not "write it down?"—no, he could not.)

Long Limekiller waited, soft talk floating on around him, of oldtime "rounds" of sapodilla trees and tapping them for chicle, talk of "hunting"—that is, of climbing the tallest hills and scouting out for the telltale reddish sheen which mean mahogany—talk of the bush camps and the high-jinks when the seasons were over. But for them, now, all seasons were over, and it was only that: talk. Great-uncle Leicester had talked a lot, too; only his had been other trees, elsewhere.

Still, no bus.

Presently he became aware of feeling somewhat ill at ease, he could not say why. He pulled his long fair beard, and scowled.

One of the aged veterans said, softly, "Sir, de mon hailing you."

With an effort, Limekiller focused his eyes. There. There in front of the pink store building. Someone in the street, calling, beckoning.

"De Tork hailing you, sir. Best go see what he want."

Tony Mikeloglu wanted to tell him something? Limekiller, with long strides strolled down to see. "I did not wish to allow you to remain standing in the sun, sir. I am afraid I did not ask your name. Mr. Limekiller?—Interesting name. Ah. Yes. My brother-in-law's brother has just telephoned me from King Town, Mr. Limekiller. I am afraid that the bus is not coming today. Breakdown?"

Under his breath, Limekiller muttered something coarse and disappointed.

"Pit-ty about the railroad," a deep voice said, from inside the store. "Klondike to Cape Horn. Excellent idea. Vi-sion. But they never built it. Pit-ty."

Limekiller shifted from one foot to another. Half, he would go back to the hotel. Half, he would go somewhere else. (They, she, no one was coming. What did it matter)? Anywhere. Where? But the problem was swiftly solved. Once again, and again without offense, the merchant took him by the arm. "Do not stand outside in the sun, sir. Do come inside the shop. In the shade. And have something cold to drink." And by this time Jack was already there. "Do you know Captain Sneed?"

Small, khaki-clad, scarlet-faced. Sitting at the counter, which was serving as an unofficial bar. "I suppose you must have often wondered," said Captain Sneed, in a quarterdeck voice, "why the Spaniard didn't settle British Hidalgo when he'd settled everywhere else round about?"

"—Well—"

"Didn't know it was here, Old Boy! Couldn't have gotten here if he did, you see. First of all," he said, drawing on the counter with his finger dipped in the water which had distilled from his glass (Tony now sliding another glass, tinkling with, could it be?—yes, it was! Ice!—over to Jack, who nodded true thanks, sipped)—"First of all, you see, coming from east to west, there's Pharaoh's Reef—quite enough to make them sheer off south in a bit of a damned hurry, don't you see. Then there's the Anne of Denmark Island's Reef, even bigger! And suppose they'd sailed south to avoid Anne of Denmark Island's Reef? Eh? What would they find, will you tell me that?"

"Carpenter's Reef. . .unless it's been moved," said Jack.

Sneed gave a great snort, went on, "Exactly! Well, then—now, even if they'd missed Pharaoh's Reef and got pahst it . . . even if they'd missed Anne of Denmark Island's Reef and got pahst it . . . even if they'd missed Carpenter's Reef and got pahst it . . . why, then there's that great long Barrier Reef, don't you see, one of the biggest in the world. (Of course, Australia's the biggest one. . . .) No. No, Old Boy. Only the British lads knew the way through the Reef, and you may be sure that they were not pahssing out the information to the Spaniard, no, ho-ho!"

Well (thought Jack, in the grateful shade of the shop), maybe so. It was an impressive thought, that, of infinite millions of coral polyps laboring and dying and depositing their stony "bones" in order to protect British Hidalgo (and, incidentally, though elsewhere, Australia) from "the Spaniard."

"Well!" Captain Sneed obliterated his watery map with a sweep of his hand. "Mustn't mind me, Old Boy. This is my own King Charles's head, if you want to know. It's just the damnable cheek of those Spaniards there, there, in Spanish Hidalgo, still claiming this blessed little land of ours as their own, when they had never even set their foot upon it!" And he blew out his scarlet face and actually said "Herrumph"—a word which Jack had often seen but never, till now, actually heard.

And then Tony Mikeloglu, who had evidently gone through all, all of this many, many times before, said, softly, "My brother-in-law's brother had just told me on the telephone from King Town—"

"Phantom relay, it has—the telephone, you know—sorry, Tony, forgive me—what does your damned crook of a kinsman tell you from King Town?"

". . .tells me that there is a rumor that the Pike Estate has finally been settled, you know."

Not again? Always . . . thought Limekiller.

But Captain Sneed said, Don't you believe it! "Oh. What? 'A rumor,' yes, well, you may believe that. Always a rumor. Why didn't the damned fellow make a proper will? Eh? For that matter, why don't you, Old Christopher?"

There was a sound more like a crackle of cellophane than anything else. Jack turned to look; there in an especially shadowy corner was a man even older, even smaller, than Captain Sneed; and exposed toothless gums as he chuckled.

"Yes, why you do not, Uncle Christopher?" asked Tony.

In the voice of a cricket who has learned to speak English with a strong Turkish accent, Uncle Christopher said that he didn't believe in wills.

"What's going to become of all your damned doubloons, then, when you go pop?" asked Captain Sneed. Uncle Christopher only smirked and shrugged. "Where have you concealed all that damned money which you accumulated all those years you used to peddle bad rum and rusty roast-beef tins round about the bush camps? Who's going to get it all, eh?"

Uncle Christopher went hickle-hickle. "I know who going get it," he said. Sh'sh, sh'sh, sh'sh . . . His shoulders, thin as a butterfly 's bones, heaved his amusement.

"Yes, but how are they going to get it? What? How are you going to take care of that? Once you're dead."

Uncle Christopher, with a concluding crackle, said, "I going do like the Indians do. . . ."

Limekiller hadn't a clue what the old man meant, but evidently Captain Sneed had. "What?" demanded Captain Sneed. "Come now, come now, you don't really believe all that, do you? You do? You do! Tush. Piffle. The smoke of all those bush camps has addled your brains. Shame on you. Dirty old pagan. Disgusting. Do you call yourself a Christian and a member of a church holding the Apostolic Succession? Stuff!"

The amiable wrangle went on. And, losing interest in it, Limekiller once again became aware of feeling ill at ease. Or . . . was it . . . could it be? . . . ill?

In came a child, a little girl; Limekiller had seen her before. She was perhaps eight years old. Where had he seen her?

"Ah," said Mikeloglu, briskly the merchant again. "Here is me best customer. She going make me rich, not true, me Betty gyel? What fah you, chaparita?"

White rice and red beans were for her, and some coconut oil in her own bottle was for her, and some tea and some chile peppers (not very much of any of these items, though) and the inevitable tin of milk. (The chief difference between small shops and large shops in St. Michael's was that the large ones had a much larger selection of tinned milk.) Tony weighed and poured, wrapped and tied. And looked at her expectantly.

She untied her handkerchief, knot by knot, and counted out the money. Dime by dime. Penny by penny. Gave them all a shy smile, left. "No fahget me when you rich, me Bet-ty gyel," Tony called after her. "Would you believe, Mr. Limekiller, she is one of the grandchildren of old Mr. Pike?"

"Then why isn't she rich already? Did the others get it all?—Oh. I forgot. Estate not settled."

Captain Sneed grunted. "Wouldn't help her even if the damned estate were settled. An outside child of an outside child. Couldn't inherit if the courts ever decide that he died intestate, and of course: no mention of her in any will . . . if there is any will . . ." An outside child. How well Jack knew that phrase by now. Marriage and giving in marriage was one thing in British Hidalgo; begetting and bearing of children, quite another thing. No necessary connection. "Do you have any children?" "Well, I has four children." Afterthought: "Ahnd t'ree oetside." Commonest thing in the world. Down here.

"What's wrong with you, Old Boy?" asked Captain Sneed. "You look quite dicky."

"Feel rotten," Limekiller muttered, suddenly aware of feeling so. "Bones all hurt."

Immediate murmurs of sympathy. And: "Oh, my. You weren't caught in that rain yesterday morning, were you?"

Jack considered. "Yesterday morning in the daytime. And . . . before . . . in the night time, too—Why?"

Sneed was upset. " 'Why?' Why, when the rain comes down like that, from the north, at this time of year, they call it 'a fever rain. . . ."

Ah. That was what the old woman had called out to him, urging him in out of the drizzle. Bide, she'd said. Not an "eager" rain—a fever rain!

"Some say that the rain makes the sanitary drains overflow. And some say that it raises the mosquitoes. I don't know. And some laugh at the old people, for saying that. But I don't laugh. . . . You're not laughing, either, are you? Well. What are we going to do for this man, Mik? Doctor in, right now?"

But the District Medical Officer was not in right now. It was his day to make the rounds in the bush hamlets in one half of the circuit. On one other day he would visit the other half. And in between, he was in town holding clinics, walking his wards in the hospital there on one of the hills, and attending to his private patients. Uncle Christopher produced from somewhere a weathered bottle of immense pills which he assured them were quinine, shook it and rattled it like some juju gourd as he prepared to pour them out.

But Captain Sneed demurred. "Best save that till we can be sure that it is malaria. Not they use quinine nowadays. Mmm. No chills, no fever? Mmm. Let me see you to your room at the hotel." And he walked Limekiller back, saw him not only into his room but into his bed, called for "some decent sheets and some blankets, what sort of a kip are you running here, Antonoglu?" Antonoglu's mother, a very large woman in a dress as black and voluminous as the tents of Kedar, came waddling in with sighs and groans and applied her own remedy: a string of limes, to be worn around the neck. The maid aspersed the room with holy water.

"I shall go and speak to the pharmacist," Captain Sneed said, briskly. "What—?" For Limekiller, already feeling not merely rotten but odd, had beckoned to him. "Yes?"

Rotten, aching, odd or not, there was something that Limekiller wanted taken care of. "Would you ask anyone to check," he said, carefully. "To check the bus? The bus when it comes in. Two young ladies. One red-haired. When it comes in. Would you check. Ask anyone. Bus. Red-haired. Check. If no breakdown. Beautiful. Would you. Any. Please? Oh."

Captain Sneed and the others exchanged looks.

"Of course, Old Boy. Don't worry about it. All taken care of. Now." He had asked for something. It had not come. "What, not even a thermometer? What? Why, what do you mean, 'You had one but the children broke it'? Get another one at once. Do you wish to lose your license? Never mind. I shall get another one at once. And speak to the pharmacist. Antonoglu-khan-um, the moment he begins to sweat, or his teeth chatter, send me word.

"Be back directly," he said, over his shoulder.

But he was not back directly.

Juan Antonoglu was presently called away to take care of Home incoming guests from the lumber camps. He repeated Captain Sneed's words to his mother, who, in effect, told him not to tell her how to make yogurt. She was as dutiful as anyone could be, and, after a while, her widower son's children coming home, duty called her to start dinner. She repeated the instructions to the maid, whose name was Purificación. Purificación watched the sick man carefully. Then, his eyes remaining closed, she tiptoed out to look for something certain to be of help for him, namely a small booklet of devotions to the Señor de Esquipulas, whose cultus was very popular in her native republic. But it began to drizzle again: out she rushed to, first, get the clothes off the line and, second, to hang them up in the lower rear hall.

Limekiller was alone.

The mahogany press had been waiting for this. It now assumed its rightful shape, which was that of an elderly gentleman rather expensively dressed in clothes rather old-fashioned in cut, and, carrying a long . . . something . . . in one hand, came over to Jack's bed and looked at him most earnestly. Almost reproachfully. Giving him a hand to help him out of bed, in a very few moments he had Limekiller down the stairs and then, somehow, they were out on the river; and then . . . somehow . . . they were in the river. No.

Not exactly.

Not at all.

They were under the river.

Odd.

Very odd.

A hundred veiled eyes looked at them.

Such a dim light. Not like anything familiar. Wavering. What was that. A crocodile. I am getting out of here, said Limekiller, beginning to sweat profusely. This was the signal for everyone to let Captain Sneed know. But nobody was there. Except Limekiller. And, of course, the old man.

And, of course, the crocodile.

And, it now became clear, quite a number of other creatures. All reptilian. Why was he not terrified, instead of being merely alarmed? He was in fact, now that he came to consider it, not even all that alarmed. The creatures were looking at him. But there was somehow nothing terrifying in this. It seemed quite all right for him to be there.

The old man made that quite clear.

Quite clear.

"Is he delirious?" the redhead asked. Not just plain ordinary red. Copper-red.

"I don't have enough Spanish to know if saying 'barba amarilla' means that you're delirious, or not. Are you delirious?" asked the other one. The Short. Brown hair. Plain ordinary Brown.

" 'Barba amarilla' means 'yellow beard,' " Limekiller explained. Carefully.

"Then you aren't delirious. I guess—What does 'yellow beard' mean, in this context?"

But he could only shake his head.

"I mean, we can see that you do have a blond beard. Well, blond in parts. Is that your nickname? No."

Coppertop said, anxiously, "His pulse seems so funny, May!" She was the Long. So here they were. The Long and the Short of it. Them. He gave a sudden snort of laughter.

"An insane cackle if ever I heard one," said the Short. "Hm, Hmm. You're right, Felix. It does seem so funny. Mumping all around the place—Oh, hello!"

Old Mrs. Antonoglu was steaming slowly down the lake, all the other vessels bobbing as her wake reached them. Very odd. Because it still was old Mrs. Antonoglu in her black dress and not really the old Lake Mickinuckee ferry boat. And this wasn't a lake. Or a river. They were all back in his room. And the steam was coming from something in her hand.

Where was the old man with the sharp face? Tan old man. Clear. Things were far from clear, but—

"What I bring," the old woman said, slowly and carefully and heavily, just the way in which she walked, "I bring 'im to drink for 'ealth, poor sick! Call the . . . call the . . . country yerba," she said, dismissing the missing words.

The red-haired Long said. "Oh, good!"

Spoon by bitter spoonful she fed it to him. Sticks of something. Boiled in water. A lot of it dribbled down his beard. "Felix," what an odd name. She wiped it carefully with Kleenex.

"But 'Limekiller' is just as odd," he felt it only fair to point out.

"Yes," said the Short. "You certainly are. How did you know we were coming? We weren't sure, ourselves. Nor do we know you. Not that it matters. We are emancipated women. Ride bicycles. But we don't smoke cheroots, and we are not going to open an actuarial office with distempered walls, and the nature of Mrs. Warren's profession does not bother us in the least: in fact, we have thought, now and then, of entering it in a subordinate capacity. Probably won't, though. Still . . ."

Long giggled. Short said that the fact of her calling her Felix instead of Felicia shouldn't be allowed to give any wrong ideas. It was just that Felicia always sounded so goddamn silly. They were both talking at once. The sound was very comforting.

The current of the river carried them all off, and then it got so very still.

Quite early next morning.

Limekiller felt fine.

So he got up and got dressed. Someone, probably Purificación, had carefully washed his clothes and dried and ironed them. He hadn't imagined everything: there was the very large cup with the twigs of country yerba in it. He went downstairs in the early morning quiet, cocking an ear. Not even a buzzard scrabbled on the iron roof. There on the hall table was the old record book used as a register. On the impulse, he opened it. Disappointment washed over him. John L. Limekiller, sloop Sacarissa, out of King Town. There were several names after that, all male, all ending in -oglu, and all from the various lumber camps round about in the back bush: Wild Hog Eddy, Funny Gal Hat, Garobo Stream. . . .

Garobo.

Struck a faint echo. Too faint to bother with.

But no one named Felix. Or even Felicia. Or May.

Shite and onions.

There on the corner was someone.

"Lahvly morning," said someone. "Just come from hospital, seeing about the accident victims. Name is Pauls, George Pauls. Teach the Red Cross clahsses. British. You?"

"Jack Limekiller. Canadian. Have you seen two women, one a redhead?"

The Red Cross teacher had seen them, right there on that corner, but knew nothing more helpful than that. So, anyway, that hadn't been any delirium or dreams, either, thank God. (For how often had he not dreamed of fine friends and comely companions, only to wake and know that they had not been and would never be.)

At Tía Sani's. In came Captain Sneed. "I say! Terribly sorry! Shameful of me—I don't know how—Well. There'd been a motor accident, lorry overturned, eight people injured, so we all had to pitch in, there in hospital—Ah, by the way. I did meet your young ladies, thought you'd imagined them, you know—District Engineer gave them a ride from King Town—I told them about you, went on up to hospital, then there was this damned accident—By the time we had taken care of them, poor chaps, fact is, I am ashamed to say, I'd forgotten all about you.—But you look all right, now." He scanned Limekiller closely. "Hm, still, you should see the doctor. I wonder. . . ."

He walked back to the restaurant door, looked up the street, looked down the street. "Doc-tor!—Here he comes now."

In came a slender Eurasian man; the District Medical Officer himself. (Things were always happening like that in Hidalgo. Sometimes it was, "You should see the Premier. Ah, here he comes now. Prem-ier!") The D.M.O. felt Limekiller's pulse, pulled down his lower eyelid, poked at spleen and liver, listened to an account of yesterday. Said, "Evidently you have had a brief though severe fever. Something like the one-day flu. Feeling all right now? Good. Well, eat your usual breakfast, and if you can't hold it down, come see me at my office."

And was gone.

"Where are they now? The young women, I mean."

Captain Sneed said that he was blessed if he knew, adding immediately, "Ah. Here they come now."

Both talking at once, they asked Jack if he felt all right, assured him that he looked well, said that they'd spent the night at Government Guest House (there was one of these in every out-district capital and was best not confused with Government House, which existed only in the colonial capital itself: the Royal Governor lived there, and he was not prepared to put up guests below the rank of, well, Governor).

"Mr. Boyd arranged it. We met him in King Town. He was coming here anyway," said Felix, looking long and lovely. "He's an engineer. He's . . . how would you describe him, May?"

"He's an engineer," May said.

Felix's sherry-colored eyes met Limekiller's. "Come and live on my boat with me and we will sail the Spanish Main together and I will tell you all about myself and frequently make love to you," he said at once. Out loud, however, all he could say was, "Uh . . . thanks for wiping my beard last night . . . uh. . . ."

"Don't mention it," she said.

May said, "I want lots and lots of exotic foods for breakfast." She got two fried eggs, buttered toast of thick-sliced, home-baked bread, beans (mashed), tea, orange juice. "There is nothing like these exotic foods," she said.

Felix got egg on her chin. Jack took his napkin and wiped. She said that turnabout was fair play. He said that one good turn deserved another. She asked him if he had ever been to Kettle Point Lagoon, said by They to be beautiful. A spirit touched his lips with a glowing coal.

"I am going there today!" he exclaimed. He had never heard of it.

"Oh, good! Then we can all go together!"

Whom did he see as they walked towards the river, but Filiberto Marín. Who greeted him with glad cries, and a wink, evidently intended as compliments on Jack's company. "Don Fili, can you take us to Kettle Point Lagoon?"

Don Fili, who had at once begun to nod, stopped nodding. "Oh, Juanito, only wan mon hahv boat which go to Kettle Point Lagoon, ahn dot is Very Big Bakeman. He get so vex, do anybody else try for go dot side, none ahv we odder boatmen adventure do it. But I bring you to him. May-be he go today. Veremos."

Very Big Bakeman, so-called to distinguish him from his cousin, Big Bakeman, was very big indeed. What he might be like when "vex," Limekiller (no squab himself) thought he would pass up knowing.

Bakeman's was the only tunnel boat in sight, probably the only one still in service. His answer was short. "Not before Torsday, becahs not enough wah-teh get me boat ahcross de bar. Torsday," he concluded and, yawning, leaned back against the cabin. Monopolists the world over see no reason to prolong conversation with the public.

Felix said something which sounded like, "Oh, spit," but wasn't. Limekiller blinked. Could those lovely lips have uttered That Word? If so, he concluded without much difficulty, he would learn to like it. Love it. "Don Fili will take us to," he racked his brains, "somewhere just as interesting," he wound up with almost no pause. And looked at Don Fili, appealingly.

Filiberto Marín was equal to the occasion. "Verdad. In wan leetle while I going up de Right Branch. Muy linda. You will have pleasure. I telling Juanito about it, day before yesterday.

Limekiller recalled no such conversation, but he would have corroborated a deal with the devil, rather than let her out of his sight for a long while yet. He nodded knowingly. "Fascinating," he said.

"We'll get that nice lady to pack us a lunch."

Jack had a quick vision of Tía Sani packing them fried eggs, toast, beans, tea, and orange juice. But that nice lady fooled him. Her sandwiches were immense. Her eggs were deviled. She gave them empenadas and she gave them "crusts"—pastries with coconut and other sweet fillings—and then, behaving like aunts the whole world over, she ladled soup into a huge jar and capped it and handed it to Limekiller with the caution to hold it like this so that it didn't leak. . . . Not having any intention to have his hands thus occupied the whole trip, he lashed it and shimmed it securely in the stern of Marín's boat.

He had barely known that the Ningoon River had two branches. Parrot Bend was on the left one, then. The dory, or dugout, in use today was the largest he had seen so far. Captain Sneed at once decided it had room enough for him to come along, too. Jack was not overjoyed at first. The elderly Englishman was a decent sort. But he talked, damn it! How he talked. Before long, however, Limekiller found he talked to May, which left Felix alone to talk to Jack.

"John Lutwidge Limekiller," she said, having asked to see his inscribed watch, "there's a name. Beats Felicia Fox." He thought "fox" of all words in the world the most appropriate for her. He didn't say so."—Why Lutwidge?"

"Lewis Carroll? Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, his real name? Distant cousin. Or so my Aunty Mary used to say."

This impressed her, anyway a little. "And what does Limekiller mean? How do you kill a lime? And why?"

"You take a limestone," he said, "and you burn it in a kiln. Often pronounced kill. Or, well you make lime, for cement or whitewash or whatever, by burning stuff. Not just limestone. Marble. Oyster shells. Old orange rinds, maybe, I don't know, I've never done it. Family name," he said.

She murmured, "I see . . ." She wound up her sleeves. He found himself staring, fascinated, at a blue vein in the inside of her arm near the bend. Caught her gaze. Cleared his throat, sought for something subject-changing and ever so interesting and novel to say. "Tell me about yourself," was what he found.

She gave a soft sigh, looked up at the high-borne trees. There was another blue vein, in her neck, this time. Woman was one mass of sexy veins, damn it! He would simply lean over and he would kiss—"Well, I was an Art Major at Harrison State U. and I said the hell with it and May is my cousin and she wanted to go someplace, too, and so we're here. . . . Look at the bridge!"

They looked at its great shadow, at its reflection, broken by the passing boat into wavering fragments and ripples. The bridge loomed overhead, so high and so impressive in this remote place, one might forget that its rotting road-planks, instead of being replaced, were merely covered with new ones . . . or, at the least, newer ones. "In ten years," they heard Captain Sneed say, "the roadbed will be ten feet tall . . . if it lasts that long."

May: "Be sure and let us know when it's going to fall and we'll come down and watch it. Ffff-loppp!—Like San Luis Rey."

"Like whom, my dear May?"

The river today was at middle strength: shallow-draft vessels could and still did navigate, but much dry shingle was visible near town. Impressions rushed in swiftly. The day was neither too warm nor too wet, the water so clear that Limekiller was convinced that he could walk across it. Felix lifted her hand, pointed in wordless wonder. There, on a far-outlying branch of a tree over the river was an absolutely monstrous lizard of a beautiful buff color; it could not have been less than five full feet from snout to end of tail, and the buff shaded into orange and into red along the spiky crenelations on the spiny back ridge. He had seen it before. Had he seen it before? He had seen it before.

"Iguana!" he cried.

Correction was polite but firm. "No, sir, Juanito. Iguana is embra, female. Dat wan be macho. Male. Se llama 'garobo'. . . ."

Something flickered in Limekiller's mind. "¡Mira! ¡Mira! Dat wan dere, she be iguana!" And that one there, smaller than the buff dragon, was of a beautiful blue-green-slate-grey color. "Usual," said Filiberto, "residen en de bomboo t'icket, which is why de reason is call in English, 'Bomboo chicken'. . . ."

"You eat it?"—Felix.

"Exotic food, exotic food!"—May.

"Generalmente, only de hine leg ahn de tail. But is very good to eat de she of dem when she have egg, because de egg so very nice eating, in May, June; but even noew, de she of dem have red egg, nice and hard. Muy sabroso."

Jack turned and watched till the next bend hid the place from sight. After that he watched for them—he did not know why he watched for them, were they watching for him?—and he saw them at regular intervals, always in the topmost branches; immense. Why so high? Did they eat insects? And were there more insects to be taken, way up there? They surely did not eat birds? Some said, he now recalled in a vague way, that they ate only leaves; but were the top leaves so much more succulent? Besides, they seemed not to be eating anything at all, not a jaw moved. Questions perhaps not unanswerable, but, certainly, at the moment unanswered. Perhaps they had climbed so high only for the view: absurd.

"Didn't use to be so many of them, time was.—Eh, Fil?" asked Captain Sneed. ("Correct, Copitan. Not.") "Only in the pahst five, six years . . . it seems. Don't know why. . . ."

But whatever, it made the river even more like a scene in a baroque faery tale, with dragons, or, at least, dragonets, looking and lurking in the gigant trees.

The bed of the river seemed predominantly rocky, with some stretches of sand. The river ran very sinuously, with banks tending towards the precipitate, and the east bank was generally the higher. "When river get high," explained Don Fili, "she get white, ahn come up to de crutch of dem tree—" he pointed to a fork high up. "It can rise in wan hour. Ahn if she rise in de night, we people cahn loose we boat. Very . . . peligroso . . . dangerous—¡Jesus Maria! Many stick tear loose wid roots ahn ahl, even big stick like dot wan," he pointed to another massy trunk.

Here and there was open land, limpiado, "cleaned," they said hereabouts, for "cleared." "Clear. . . ." Something flickered in Limekiller's mind as he recollected this. Then it flickered away. There seemed, he realized, feeling odd about it, that quite a lot of flickering was and had been going on his mind. Nothing that would come into focus, though. The scenes of this Right Branch, now: why did they persist in seeming . . . almost . . . familiar?. . . when he had never been here before?

"What did you say just then, Don Fili?" he demanded, abruptly, not even knowing why he asked.

The monumental face half turned. "¿Qué? What I just say, Juanito! Why . . . I say, too bod I forgot bring ahlong my fisga, my pike . . . take some of dem iguana, garobo, cook dem fah you.—Fah we," he amended, as one of the women said, Gik.

"We would say, 'harpoon' ": Captain Sneed, judiciously. "Local term: 'pike.' "

The penny dropped. "Pike! Pike! It was a pike!" cried Limekiller. His body shook, suddenly, briefly. Not a lance or a spear. A pike!

They turned to look at him. Abashed, low-voiced, he muttered, "Sorry. Nothing. Something in a dream . . ." Shock was succeeded by embarrassment.

Felix, also low-voiced, asked, "Are you feverish again?" He shook his head. Then he felt her hand take his. His heart bounced. Then—Oh. She was only feeling his pulse. Evidently it felt all right. She started to release the hand. He took hers. She let it stay.

Captain Sneed said, "Speaking of Pike. All this land, all of it, far as the eye can reach, is part of the Estate of the Late Leopold Albert Edward Pike, you know, of fame and story and, for the last five or six years, since he died, of interminable litigation. He made a great deal of money, out of all these precious hardwoods, and he put it all back into land—Did I know him? Of course I knew him! That is," he cleared his throat, "as well as anyone, knew him. Odd chap in a multitude of ways. Damnably odd. . . ."

Of course that was not the end of the subject.

"Mr. Pike, he reetch. But he no di trust bonks. He say, bonks di go bust, mon. People say he'm, now-ah-days, bonks ahl insure. Mr. Pike, he di say, Suh-pose insure company di go bust, too? ¿Ai, como no? Ahn he di say ah good word. He di say, 'Who shall guard de guards demselves?' "

Some one of the boatmen, who had theretofore said nothing, but silently plied his paddle, now spoke. "Dey say. . .Meester Pike. . .dey say, he deal. . . ." And his voice dropped low on this last word. Something went through all the boatmen at that. It was not exactly a shudder. But it was there.

Sneed cleared his throat again as though he were going to cry Stuff! or Piffle! Though what he said was, "Hm, I wouldn't go that far. He was pagan enough not to believe in our Devil, let alone try to deal with him. He did, well, he did, you know, study things better left unstudied . . . my opinion. Indian legends of a certain sort, things like that. Called it 'the Old Wisdom'. . . ."

Limekiller found his tongue. "Was he an Englishman?"

The matter was considered; heads were shaken. "He mosely Blanco. He lee bit Indio. And he hahv some lee bit Block generation in he'm too."

Sneed said, "His coloring was what they call in The Islands, bright. Light, in other words, you would say. Though color makes no difference here. Never did."

Marin added, "What dey cahl Light, here we cahl Clear." He gestured towards shore, said, "Limestone." Much of the bankside was composed of that one same sort of rock, grey-white and in great masses, with many holes and caves: limestone was susceptible to such water-caused decay. In Yucatan the water had corroded deep pits in it, immense deep wells and pools.

"Now, up ahead," said Captain Sneed, "towards the right bank of the river is a sort of cove called Crocodile Pool—No No, ladies, no need for alarm. Just stay in the boat. And almost directly opposite the cove, is what's called the Garobo Church; you'll see why."

Often in the savannahs they saw the white egrets with the orange bills, usually ashore amidst the cattle. Another kind of egret seemed to prefer the sand and gravel bars and the stumps or sawyers in midstream, and these were a distinctive shade of blue mixed with green, though lighter than the blue-green of the iguanas. Something like a blackbird took its perch and uttered a variety of long, sweet notes and calls.

Swallows skimmed and brighter colored birds darted and drank. And like great sentinels in livery, the great buff garobo-dragons peered down from the tall trees and the tall stones. Clouds of lemon-yellow and butter-yellow butterflies floated round the wild star-apples. Here, the stones lay in layers, like brickwork; there, the layers were warped and buckled, signs—perhaps—of some ancient strain or quake. But mostly, mostly, the stone rose and loomed and hung in bulbous worm-eaten masses. And over them, among them, behind them and between them, the tall cotton trees, the green-leaved cedars, the white-trunked Santa Maria, and the giant wild fig.

"Now, as to how you catch the crocodile," Captain Sneed answered an unasked question; "simple: one man stays in the dory and paddles her in a small circle, one or two men hold the rope—"

"—rope tie around odder mahn belly," Marín said.

"Quite so. And that chap dives. Machete in his teeth. And he ties up the croc and then he tugs. And then they haul them up you see. Simple."

Felix said, "Not that simple!"

May said, "Seems simple enough to me. Long as you've got a sound set of teeth."

Limekiller knew what was coming next. He had been here before. That was a mistake about his never having been here before, of course he had been here; never mind, Right Branch, Left Branch; or how else could he know? Down the steepy bluff a branch came falling with a crash of its Crack! falling with it; and the monstrous garobo hit the water with a tremendous sound and spray. It went down and it did not come up and it did not come up.

And then, distant but clear; the echo. And another echo. And—but that was too many echoes. Jack, who had been looking back, now turned. Spray was still flying up, falling down. Ahead: One after another the garobo were falling into the river. And then several at once, together. And then—

"Call that, 'The Garobo Church,' " said Captain Sneed.

That was an immense wild fig tree, hung out at an impossible angle; later, Limekiller was to learn that it had died of extreme age and of the storm which finally brought half of its roots out of the ground and forward into the water and canted it, thus, between heaven, earth, and river. It was a skeletal and spectral white against the green green of the bush. Three separate and distinct ecologies were along that great tangled length of great gaunt tree: at least three!—things crept and crawled, leaped and lurched or lay quiescent, grew and decayed, lived and multiplied and died—and the topmost branches belonged to the iguana and the garobo—

—that were now abandoning it, as men might abandon a threatened ship. Crash! Crash! Down they came, simply letting go and falling. Crash!

Sound and spray.

"Won't the crocodiles eat them?" cried Felix, tightening her hold on Jack's hand.

The boatmen, to whom this was clearly no new thing, all shook their heads, said No.

"Dey going wahrn he'm, el legarto, dot we comin. So dot he no come oet. So cahn tehk care. Horita el tiene cuidado."

"Tush," said Sneed. "Pif-fle. Damned reptiles are simply getting out of our way, they don't know that we haven't any pike. Damned old creepy-crawlies. . . ."

Only the sound of their crashings, no other sound now, and Limekiller, saying in a calm flat voice, "Yes, of course," went out of his shirt and trousers and into the river.

He heard the men cry out, the women scream. But for one second only. Then the sounds muffled and died away. He was in the river. He saw a hundred eyes gazing at him. He swam, he felt bottom, he broke surface, he came up on his hands and knees. He did not try to stand. He was under the river. He was someplace else. Someplace with a dim, suffused, wavering light. An odd place. A very odd place. With a very bad smell. He was alone. No, he was not. The garobo were all around and about him. The crocodile was very near up ahead of him. Something else was there, and he knew it had crawled there from the surface through a very narrow fissure. And some thing else was there. That! He had to take it and so he took it, wrenching it loose. It squilched, but it came. The crocodile gazed at him. The garobo moved aside for him. He backed away. He was in the water again. He—

"Into the boat, for Christ's sake!" old Sneed was shouting, his red face almost pale. The boatmen were reaching out to him, holding hands to be grasped by him, smacking the waters with their paddles and banging the paddles against the sides of the boat. The women looked like death. He gasped, spat, trod water, held up something—

—then it was in the boat. Then, all grace gone, he was half in and half out of the boat, his skin scraping the hard sides of it, struggling, being pulled and tugged, wet skin slipping. . . .

He was in the boat.

He leaned over the side, and, as they pulled and pressed, fearful of his going back again, he vomited into the waters.

Captain Sneed had never been so angry. "Well, what did you expect crocodile's den to smell like?" he demanded. "Attar of roses? Damndest foolishest crack-brainedest thing I ever saw—!"

Felix said, smoothing Jack's wet, wet hair, "I think it was brave!"

"You know nothing whatsoever about it, my dear child!—No, damn it, don't keep waving that damned old pipkin pot you managed to drag up, you damned Canuck! Seven hours under fire at Jutland, and I never had such an infernal shock, it was reckless, it was heedless, it was thoughtless, it was devil-may-care and a louse for the hangman; what was the reason for it, may I ask? To impress whom? Eh? Me? These good men? These young women? Why did you do it?"

All Limekiller could say was, "I dreamed that I had to."

Captain Sneed looked at him, mouth open. Then he said, almost in a mutter, "Oh, I say, poor old boy, he's still rambling, ill, looked well enough, must have the fever. . . ." He was a moment silent. Then he blinked, gaped; almost in a whisper, he asked. "You dreamed. . . . Whom did you see in your dream?"

Limekiller shrugged. "Don't know who. . . . Oldish man. Sharp face. Tan. Old-fashioned clothes. Looked like a sort of a dandy, you might say."

And Captain Sneed's face, which had gone from scarlet to pink and then to scarlet again, now went muddy. They distinctly heard him swallow. Then he looked at the earthenware jar with its faded umber pattern. Then, his lips parting with a sort of dry smack: ". . . perhaps it isn't stuff and piffle, then. . . ."

Ashore.

Sneed had insisted that the police be present. It was customary in Hidalgo to use the police in many ways not customary in the northern nations: to record business agreements, for instance, in places where there were no lawyers. And to witness. Sergeant Bickerstaff said that he agreed with Sneed. He said, also, that he had seen more than one old Indian jar opened and that when they were not empty they usually contained mud and that when they did not contain mud they usually contained "grahss-seed, cahrn-ker-nel, thing like that. Never find any gold in one, not before my eye, no, sirs and ladies—But best you go ahead and open it."

The cover pried off, right-tight to the brim was a mass of dark and odorous substance, pronounced to be wild beeswax.

The last crumble of it evaded the knife, sank down into the small jar, which was evidently not filled but only plugged with it. They turned it upside down and the crumble of unbleached beeswax fell upon the table. And so did something else.

"Plastic," said May. "To think that the ancient Indians had invented plastic. Create a furor in academic circles. Invalidate God knows how many patents."

Sergeant Bickerstaff, unmoved by irony, said, "Best unwrop it, Coptain."

The plastic contained one dead wasp or similar insect, and two slips of paper. On one was written, in a firm old-fashioned hand, the words, Page 36, Liber 100. Registers of Deeds of Gift, Mountains District. The other was more complex. It seemed to be a diagram of sorts, and along the top and sides of it the same hand had written several sentences, beginning, From the great rock behind Crocodile Cove and proceeding five hundred feet due North into the area called Richardson's Mahogany Lines. . . .

It was signed, L.A.E. Pike.

There was a silence. Then Felix said, not exactly jumping up and down, but almost, her loops of coppery hair giving a bounce, "A treasure map! Jack! Oh, good!"

So far as he could recall, she had never called him by name before. His heart echoed: Oh, good!

Captain Sneed, pondering, seemingly by no means entirely recovered from his several shocks, but recovered enough, said:

'Too late to go poking about in the bush, today. First thing tomorrow, get some men, some machetes, axes, shovels—Eh?"

He turned to Police-sergeant Bickerstaff, who had spoken softly. And now repeated his words, still softly. But firmly. "First thing, sir. First thing supposed to be to notify the District Commissioner. Mister Jefferson Pike."

He was of course correct. As Captain Sneed agreed at once. Limekiller asked, "Any relation to the late Mr. Leopold Pike?" Bickerstaff nodded. "He is a bahstard son of the late Mr. Leopold Pike." The qualifying adjective implied neither insult nor disrespect. He said it as calmly, as mildly, as if he had said step-son. Cousin. Uncle. It was merely a civil answer to a civil question. A point of identification had been raised, been settled.

D.C. Jefferson Pike was taller than his father had been, but the resemblance, once suggested, was evident. If any thoughts of an estate which he could never inherit were in his mind, they were not obvious. "Well, this is something new," was all his initial comment. Then, "I will ask my chief clark. . . . Roberts. Fetch us Liber 100, Register of Deeds of Gift. Oh, and see if they cannot bring some cups of tea for our visitors, please."

The tea was made and half drunk before Roberts, who did not look dilatory, returned, wiping dust and spiderwebs off the large old book. Which was now opened. Pages turned. "Well, well," said the District Commissioner. "This is something new!

"Don't know how they came to overlook this," he wondered. "The lawyers," he added. "Who registered it? Oh. Ahah. I see. Old Mr. Athelny; been dead several years. And always kept his own counsel, too. Quite proper. Well." He cleared his throat, began to read:

I, Leopold Albert Edward Pike, Woodcutter and Timber Merchant, Retired, a resident of the Town of Saint Michael of the Mountains, Mountains District, in the Colony of British Hidalgo, and a British subject by birth . . . do execute this Deed of Gift . . . videlicet one collection of gold and silver coins, not being Coin of the Realm or Legal Tender, as follows, Item, one hundred pieces of eight reales, Item, fifty-five gold Lewises or louis d'or, Item . . .

He read them all, the rich and rolling old names, the gold moidores and gold mohurs, the golden guineas, the silver byzants and all the rest, as calmly as though he were reading off an inventory of office supplies; came finally to:

and all these and any others which by inadvertancy may not be herein listed which are found in the same place and location I do hereby give and devise to one Elizabeth Mendoza also known as Betty Mendoza a.k.a. Elizabeth Pike a.k.a. Betty Pike, an infant now resident in the aforesaid Mountains District, which Gift I make for good and sufficient reason and of my own mere whim and fancy . . .

Here the D.C. paused, raised his eyes, looked at Captain Sneed. Who nodded. Said, "His own sound and voice. Yes. How like him!"

. . . and fancy; the aforesaid collection of gold and silver coins being secured in this same District in a place which I do not herein designate or describe other than to say that it be situate on my own freehold lands in this same District. And if anyone attempt to resist or set aside this my Intention, I do herewith and hereafter declare that he, she or they shall not sleep well of nights.

After he had finished, there was a long pause. Then everybody began to talk at once. Then—

Sneed: Well, suppose we shall have to inform the lawyers, but don't see what they can do about it. Deed was executed whilst the old fellow was alive and has nothing to do with any question of the estate.

D.C. Pike: I quite agree with you. Unofficially, of course. Officially, all I am to do is to make my report. The child? Why, yes, of course I know her. She is an outside child of my brother Harrison, who died even before the late Mr. Pike died. The late Mr. Pike seemed rather fond of her. The late Mr. Pike did, I believe, always give something to the child's old woman to keep her in clothes and find her food. As we ourselves have sometimes done, as best we could. But of course this will make a difference.

Sneed: As it should. As it should. He had put you big chaps to school and helped you make your own way in the world, but this was a mere babe. Do you suppose that he knew that such an estate was bound to be involved in litigation and that was why he tried to help the child with all this . . . this treasure business?

Marín: Mis-tah Pike, he ahlways give ah lahf ahn he say, nobody gweyn molest he treasure, seguro, no, becahs he di set such watchies roun ah-bote eet as no mahn adventure fi trifle wid day.

May: I can't help feeling that it's someone's cue to say, "This all seems highly irregular."

Roberts, Chief Clerk (softly but firmly): Oh, no, Miss. The Stamp Tax was paid according to regulations, Miss. Everything seems in regular order, Miss.

Watchies. A "watchie" was a watchman, sometimes registered as a private constable, thus giving him . . . Jack was not sure exactly what it gave him: except a certain status. But it was obvious that this was not what "the late Mr. Pike" had had in mind.

Finally, the District Commissioner said, "Well, well. Tomorrow is another day.—Richardson's Mahogany Lines! Who would have thought to look there? Nobody! It took eighty years after Richardson cut down all the mahogany before it was worthwhile for anybody to go that side again. And . . . how long since the late Mr. Pike cut down the last of the 'new' mahogany? Ten to fifteen years ago. So it would be sixty-five to seventy-five years before anybody would have gone that side again. Even to look. Whatever we may find there would not have been stumbled upon before then, we may be sure. Well, Well.

"Sergeant Bickerstaff, please take these gentlemen's and ladies' statements. Meanwhile, perhaps we can have some further cups of tea. . . ."

Taking the statement, that action so dearly beloved of police officials wherever the Union Jack flies or has flown, went full smoothly. That is, until the moment (Limekiller later realized it was inevitable, but he had not been waiting for it, then), the moment when Sgt. Bickerstaff looked up, raised his pen, asked, "And what made you go and seek for this Indian jar, sir, which gave the clue to this alleged treasure, Mr. Limekiller? That is, in other words, how did you come to know that it was there?"

Limekiller started to speak. Fell silent beyond possibility of speech. But not Captain Sneed.

"He knew that it was there because Old Pike had dreamed it to him that it was there," said Captain Sneed.

Bickerstaff gave a deep nod, raised his pen. Set it down. Lifted it up. Looked at Jack. "This is the case, Mr. Limekiller, sir?"

Jack said, "Yes, it is." He had, so suddenly, realized it to be so.

"Doubt" was not the word for the emotion on the police-sergeant's face. "Perplexity," it was. He looked at his superior, the District Commissioner, but the District Commissioner had nothing to advise. It has been said by scholars that the Byzantine Empire was kept alive by its bureaucracy. Chief Clerk Roberts cleared his throat. In the tones of one dictating a routine turn of phrase, he produced the magic words.

" 'Acting upon information received,' " he said, " 'I went to the region called Crocodile Cove, accompanied by,' and so carry on from there, Sergeant Bickerstaff," he said.

In life, if not in literature, there is always anticlimax. By rights—by dramatic right, that is—they should all have gone somewhere and talked it all over. Talked it all out. And so tied up all the loose ends. But in fact there was nowhere for them all to go and do this. The police were finished when the statement was finished. District Officer Pike, who had had a long, hard day, did not suggest further cups of tea. Tía Sani's was closed. The Emerging Nation Bar and Club was closed, and in the other clubs and bars local usage and common custom held that the presence of "ladies" was contra-indicated: so did common sense.

Wherever Captain Sneed lived, Captain Sneed was clearly not about to offer open house. "Exhausted," he said. And looked it. "Come along, ladies, I will walk along with you as far as the Guest House. Limekiller. Tomorrow."

What should Limekiller do? Carry them off to his landing at the Grand Arawack? Hospitality at Government Guest House, that relic of days when visitors, gaunt and sore from mule transport, would arrive at an even smaller St. Michael's, hospitality there was reported to be of a limited nature; but surely it was better than a place where the urinals were tied up in brown paper and string?(—Not that they'd use them anyway, the thought occurred.)

May said, "Well, if you get sick again, yell like Hell for us."

Felix said, reaching out her slender hand, whose every freckle he had come to know and love, she said, "Will you be all right, Jack?" Will you be all right, Jack? Not, mind you, You'll be all right, Jack. It was enough. (And if it wasn't, this was not the time and place to say what would be.)

"I'll be all right," he assured her.

But, back on his absurdly sheeted bed, more than slightly fearful of falling asleep at all, the river, the moment he closed his eyes, the river began to unfold before him, mile after beautiful and haunted mile. But this was a fairly familiar effect of fatigue. He had known it to happen with the roads and the wheatfields, in the Prairie Provinces.

It was on awakening to the familiar cockeling chorus of, I make the sun to rise! that he realized that he had not dreamed at all.

St. Michael's did not have a single bank; and, what was more—or less—it did not have a single lawyer. Attorneys for the Estate (alerted perhaps by the telephone's phantom relay) arrived early. But they did not arrive early enough . . . early enough to delay the digging. By the time the first lawyeriferous automobile came spinning to a stop before the local courthouse, the expedition was already on its way. The attorney for the Estate requested a delay, the attorneys for the several groups of claimants requested a delay. But the Estate's local agent had already given a consent, and the magistrate declined to set it aside. He did not, however, forbid them to attend.

Also in attendance was one old woman and one small girl. Limekiller thought that both of them looked familiar. And he was right. One was the same old woman who had urged him in out of the "fever rain." The other was the child who had urged him to see "the beauty harse" and had next day made the meager purchases in Mikeloglu's shop . . . whom the merchant had addressed as "Bet-ty me gyel," and urged her (with questionable humor) not to forget him when she was rich.

The crocodile stayed unvexed in his lair beneath the roots of the old Garobo Tree, though, seemingly, half the dragons along the river had dived to alert him.

To walk five hundred feet, as a start, is no great feat if one is in reasonable health. To cut and hack and ax and slash one's way through bush whose clearings require to be cleared twice a year if they are not to vanish: this is something else. However, the first hundred feet proved to be the hardest (and hard enough to eliminate all but the hardiest of the lawyers). At the end of that first line they found their second marker: a lichen-studded rock growing right out of the primal bones of the earth. From there on, the task was easier. Clearly, though "the late Mr. Pike" had not intended it to be impossible, he had intended it to be difficult.

Sneed had discouraged, Marín had discouraged, others had discouraged May and Felix from coming: uselessly. Mere weight of male authority having proven to be obsolescent, Captain Sneed appealed to common sense. "My dear ladies," he pleaded, "can either of you handle a machete? Can either of you use an ax? Can—"

"Can either of us carry food?" was May's counter-question.

"And water?" asked Felix. "Both of us can," she said.

"Well, good for both of you," declared Captain Sneed, making an honorable capitulation of the fortress.

May had a question of her own. "Why do we all have to wear boots?" she asked, "when there are hardly any wet places along here."

"Plenty tommygoff, Mees."

"Tommy Goff? Who is he?"

"Don't know who he was, common enough name, though, among English-speaking people in this part of the Caribbean. Don't know why they named a snake after the chap, either "

A slight pause. "A . . . snake . . . ?"

"And such a snake, too! The dreaded fer-de-lance, as they call it in the French Islands."

"Uhh . . . Poisonous?"

Sneed wiped his sweating head, nodded his Digger-style bush hat. "Deadly poisonous. If it's in full venom, bite can kill a horse. Sometimes does. So do be exceedingly cautious. Please."

There was a further word on the subject, from Filiberto Marín. "En castellano, se llame 'barba amarilla.' "

This took a moment to sink in. Then one of the North Americans asked, "Doesn't that mean 'yellow beard'?"

"Quite right. In fact, the tommygoff's other name in English is 'yellow jaw.' But the Spanish is, literally, yes, it's yellow beard."

All three North Americans said, as one, "Oh." And looked at each other with a wild surmise.

The noises went on all around them. Slash—! Hack—! And, Chop! Chop! Chop! After another moment, May went on, "Well, I must say that seems like quite a collection of watchies that your late Mr. Leopold Pike appointed. Crocodiles. Poison serpents. What else. Oh. Do garobo bite?"

"Bite your nose or finger off if you vex him from the front; yes."

May said, thoughtfully, "I'm not sure that I really like your late Mr. Leopold Pike—"

Another flash of daytime lightning. Limekiller said, and remembered saying it the day before in the same startled tone, videlicet: "Pike! Pike!" Adding, this time, "Fer-de-lance. . . !"

Felix gave him her swift look. Her face said, No, he was not feverish. . . . Next she said, " 'Fer,' that's French for 'iron,' and. . .Oh. I see. Yes. Jesus. Fer-de-lance, lance-iron, or spear-head. Or spear-point. Or—"

"Or in other words," May wound up, "Pike. . . . You dreamed that, too, small John?"

He swung his ax again, nodded. Thunk. "Sort of . . . one way or another." Thunk. "He had a, sort of a, pike with him." Thunk. "Trying to get his point—ha-ha—across. Did I dream the snake, too? Must have . . . I guess. . . ." Thunk.

"No. I do not like your late Mr. Leopold Pike."

Sneed declared a break. Took sips of water, slowly, carefully. Wiped his face. Said, "You might have liked Old Pike, though. A hard man in his way. Not without a sense of humor, though. And . . . after all . . . he hasn't hurt our friend John Limekiller . . . has he? Old chap Pike was simply trying to do his best for his dead son's child. May seem an odd way, to us. May be. Fact o'the matter: Is. Why didn't he do it another way? Who's to say. Didn't have too much trust in the law and the law's delays. I'll sum it up. Pike liked to do things in his own way. A lot of them were Indian ways. Old Indian ways. Used to burn copal gum when he went deer hunting. Always got his deer. And as for this little business, well . . . the old Indians had no probate courts. What's the consequence? How does one guarantee that one's bequest reaches one's intended heir?

"Why . . . one dreams it to him! Or, for that matter, her. In this case, however, the her is a small child. So—"

One of the woodsmen put down his tin cup, and, thinking Sneed had done, said to Limekiller, "Mon, you doesn't holds de ox de same way we does. But you holds eet well. Where you learns dis?"

"Oh . . ." said Limekiller, vaguely, "I've helped cut down a very small part of Canada without benefit of chain saw. In my even younger days." Would he, too, he wondered, in his even older days, would he too ramble on about the trees he had felled?—the deeds he had done?

Probably.

Why not?

A wooden chest would have moldered away. An iron one would have rusted. Perhaps for these reasons the "collection of gold and silver coins, not being Coin of the Realm or Legal Tender," had been lodged in more Indian jars. Larger ones, this time. An examination of one of them showed that the contents were as described. Once again the machetes were put to use; branches, vines, ropes, were cut and trimmed. Litters, or slings, rough but serviceable, were made. Was some collective ethnic unconscious at work here? Had not the Incas, Aztecs, Mayas, ridden in palanquins?

Now for the first time the old woman raised her voice. "Ahl dis fah you, Bet-ty," she said, touching the ancient urns. "Bet-tah food. Fah you. Bet-tah house: Fah you, Bet-tah school. Fah you." Her gaze was triumphant. "Ahl dis fah you!"

One of the few lawyers who had not dropped out along the long, hard way, had a caveat. "Would the Law of Treasure Trove apply?" he wondered. "In which case, the Crown would own it. Although, to be sure, where there is no attempt at concealment the Crown would allow a finder's fee . . . Mr. Limekiller. . . ?"

And if anyone attempt to resist or set aside this my Intention, I do herewith and hereafter declare that he, she, or they shall not sleep well of nights. . . .

Limekiller said, "I'll pass."

And Captain Sneed cried, "Piffle! Tush! Was the Deed of Gift registered, or was it not? Was the Stamp Tax paid, or was it not?"

One of the policemen said, "If you have the Queen's head on your paper, you cahn't go wrong."

"Nol. con.," the lawyer said. And said no more.

That had been that. The rest were details. (One of the details was found in one of the large jars: another piece of plastic-wrapped paper, on which was written in a now-familiar hand. He who led you hither, he may now sleep well of nights. And in the resolution of these other details the three North Americans had no part. Nor had Marín and friends: back to Parrot Bend they went. Nor had Captain Sneed. "Holiday is over," he said. "If I don't get back to my farm, the wee-wee ants will carry away my fruit. Come and visit, all of you. Whenever you like. Anyone will tell you where it is," he said. And was gone, the brave old Digger bush-hat bobbing away down the lane: wearing an invisible plume.

And the major (and the minor) currents of life in St. Michael of the Mountains went on—as they had gone on for a century without them.

There was the inevitable letdown.

May said, with a yawn, "I need a nice, long rest. And I know just where I'm going to find it. After we get back to King Town. I'm going to take a room at that hotel near the National Library."

Felix asked, "Why?"

"Why? I'll be like a kid in a candy warehouse. Do you realize that on the second floor of the National Library is the largest collection of 19th century English novels which I have ever seen in any one place? EVerything EVer written by EVerybody. Mrs. Edgeworth, Mrs. Trollope, Mrs. Gaskell, Mrs. Oliphant, Mrs. This and Mrs. That."

"Mrs. That. I remember her. Say, she wasn't bad at all—"

"No, she wasn't. Although, personally, I prefer Mrs. This."

Felix and Limekiller found that they were looking at each other. Speak now, he told himself. Aren't you tired of holding your own piece? "And what are you going to be doing, then?" he asked.

She considered. Said she wasn't sure.

There was a silence.

"Did I tell you about my boat?"

"No. You didn't." Her look at him was a steady one. She didn't seem impatient. She seemed to have all the time in the world. "Tell me about your boat," she said.