Skye stared at Armijo’s nose as the man’s hand lowered into the tawny earthen pot. He could not look at the man’s hand.
“Don Manuel!”
The voice was familiar. The governor paused. Childress stepped forward, pushing his way to the front of the rapt crowd. A long dialogue ensued and Skye understood none of it. But strangely, Childress kept pointing at the monkey, and Armijo kept examining the monkey, as if Fate were somehow connected with the simian.
Skye felt his knees buckle. There was only so much a man could endure.
Then, finally, the governor nodded to the black-clad clerk who had translated for Skye. The clerk gestured toward Childress. “That hombre is a high official of the government of England; I don’t quite know his title. That ape of his is a prodigy. What this Englishman said is this: Your Excellency, you must not take into your hands the will of God. Only a poor dumb creature like this monkey of mine should draw the bean. He does that all the time, reaches into things and pulls them out. Let him do it, and then the will of God will truly be known. And the governor, he says, well, he doesn’t like that, but maybe it is best; the blood of a man will not be
upon him but upon the monkey. And so it is to be.”
Skye gripped himself. He was in the hands of that miserable little spider monkey. His life was in the monkey’s hands. Well, no; his life was already over. Nine black beans, one white. The monkey would make no difference. This was nothing but another small entertainment for the Mexicans, and they would soon be calling Shine the Death Monkey.
Skye nodded. The mode by which he was to be condemned to death, by monkey paw or human, did not matter.
And with that, the clerk stepped back and Childress led the monkey by the hand. It jumped up to the table where the clay pot rested malignantly, its earthen belly filled with death and life.
Now the silence deepened into unbearable tautness.
“Fetch,” said Childress.
The monkey peered in, rattled the beans, battered the sides of the pot until it rocked on the table, thumped and hammered, a living thing as the monkey’s paw pillaged its interior. And then, slowly, the monkey lifted its paw and held it open for all to see.
A white bean.
Skye stared, mesmerized. The monkey held the bean high. White, white, no mistake.
Armijo stared at the monkey, stared hard at Childress, stared hard at Skye, stared bleakly at the women with Childress.
Skye felt wobbly, faint, and caught himself before he fell to the floor.
“Miragro,” breathed the clerk. Miracle.
The monkey chittered and grinned and licked the bean.
Governor Armijo held out a hand, and the monkey dutifully deposited the bean into the governor’s hand. He inspected it, peered into the pot, squinted darkly at Childress, and finally nodded.
“Ah, señor, he says, so be it. God above has spoken. You are free.”
But Armijo was still muttering.
“He says, Señor Skye, that if you are guilty, you will be found out and executed without a trial, so that no monkey can conspire against the justice of the Republic of Mexico.”
Skye nodded. “Tell him justice was done. That’s all I have to say.”
“Ah, senor, I will say so.”
The crowd didn’t drift apart; on the contrary, people gathered around Skye, touching him, this man saved from death. One woman kissed the sleeve of his rough shirt, and then made the sign of the cross.
But Armijo stared, first at Skye, then at Childress, and at the monkey.
Childress pushed forward, the women trailing.
“My dear sir, let me introduce myself: Sir Arthur Childress, first baronet of Wiltshire, and an emissary of the queen. Let me congratulate you on your good fortune, Sah.”
Skye was speechless. The clerk hovered closely, registering every word. It would soon be filtered into Armijo’s ear in another tongue.
“I wish to introduce you to two ladies traveling with me, their highnesses the queens of Zanzibar and Sheba. I am viceroy of Ceylon and Andaman Islands, looking for investment opportunities in this magnificent land.”
“The monkey saved me.”
“No, my good sir, it was the will of God.”
Skye supposed he should be grateful, but the bitterness at having been betrayed did not leave him so swiftly.
“I will be on my way, sir.”
“I hear some England in your voice, Sah.”
“London.”
“I thought so! A fellow subject!”
“I am no one’s subject.”
Childress looked astonished.
Skye moved away, not wanting any more to do with Childress.
“Wait, Sah, how about some tea, eh?”
“Some other time.” Maybe Childress thought he was acting, for the benefit of the watchful governor, but Skye had no intention of rubbing shoulders with Childress again. There would be no more deadly accusations, or rescue by means of a clever monkey.
He pushed through the gawking people and out the door. No one stayed him. He sucked air into his lungs and surveyed the deserted plaza. His knees were close to buckling. People still swirled around him, pointing, whispering, the man who had escaped death, but he ignored them.
He found Victoria staring at him, and he nodded. There were tears in her eyes. Somehow, they would need to unite, but not now; not for this crowd to witness. He saw Standing Alone there too, and there were tears in her eyes. They simply stood in the warm sun, under the free blue heavens, and stared at him, and he stared back, shaken to the core.
Childress was smart enough to stay away. Skye was ready to punch him in his fat gut.
A Mexican approached him: “Come with me, sir,” he said in flawless English.
Skye did.
The thin, handsome man, with a hawk’s nose and a raptor’s air about him, led him into a handsome mercantile on the south side of the plaza, built entirely of wood rather than adobe, and well stocked with manufactured goods that plainly came from afar.
“Manuel Alvarez, United States consul. I am a Spaniard, actually, not a Mexican.”
Skye shook the man’s hand. “Mister Skye, sir. Formerly a subject of Great Britain.”
“And?”
“And now a man without a country.”
“You must wonder why I’ve asked you to come here.” He led Skye toward a large and cluttered desk in an elevated
cubicle in the center of the store. “Here,” he said, handing Skye a note.
It read:
Steer clear. Shine will fetch you. We are working on plans. I have asked Alvarez to help you. He has seen this.
It was unsigned.
“I don’t know what it means, Mister Skye, but I will assist if I can.”
“Is there anyone who needs labor?”
He surveyed Skye, who remained clad in the soldiers’ castoffs. “You have no means, eh?”
“None.”
“What did you do before you came here?”
“I was employed at Bent’s Fort.”
“Bent! He is a great friend of mine.” Alvarez paused. “You are on good terms?”
“Yes, sir.”
The merchant seemed to be coming to some conclusion. “I suppose you could pick out your necessaries, and I could send the bill to William. Would he honor it, and would you repay him with labor or by whatever your means?”
Skye nodded, too exhausted to talk. He was so tired from his scrape with death that he couldn’t speak.
“Help yourself, Mister Skye.”
‘Thank you.” But Skye lacked even the strength to shop, and slumped into a chair.
Alvarez took one look at him and trotted off, leaving Skye to gather his strength. When the consul did return, it was with a steaming pot of tea and a cup.
“You English need your spot of tea,” he said, pouring into the cup. The smoky pungence of Oolong filled the raised office that overlooked the whole floor.
Skye sipped, and nodded to Alvarez.
“Mister Skye, if you’re not occupied, perhaps you will join my wife and me for supper. We follow the custom of our old country, and eat rather late by your standards. Around nine. When the bells of La Parroquia ring at sundown, that’ll be vespers, and you just show up here after that. We’re upstairs.”
“That’s a great kindness.”
“No, not really; I want to get your story. You interest me.”
An hour later, wearing a blue ready-made shirt and gray twill woolen pants and some squeaking ready-made shoes that didn’t fit well, Skye left the emporium.
He wandered aimlessly, still reeling, and found himself drifting along an alley.
There, before a butcher shop just off a corner of the plaza, hung the pink, fly-specked carcasses of two small hogs.