K. A. Teryna is an award-winning author, screenwriter, and illustrator. A number of her stories have been published in Russian SF magazines Esli, Mir Fantastiki, and others since 2008. English translations have appeared in Strange Horizons, Apex, Podcastle, Samovar, and elsewhere. She lives in Moscow.
I enter the bar and all conversation ceases, like in a trashy paperback novel. Patrons turn and stare at me. Francois must’ve already spread the news. Not that I was going to hide it—you can’t hide something like this, tomorrow it’ll be in the papers. But for now, I was unsettled.
What dragged me to Azure anyhow? I knew Francois couldn’t keep a secret; his nickname—Loose Lips—was well-earned, after all. The thing is, when your mind is preoccupied with difficult problems, your feet carry you along the familiar path. Doc César calls this a “behavioral pattern.”
Doc’s here too—where else would he be? Hidden away in a dark corner so you can only see his eyes. Those eyes are filled with a devil’s compassion. Others look at me with equal parts jealousy and genuine happiness for my fortune.
Their stares only serve to anger me. Especially César’s. If not for his stories, I’d be the happiest man in Port Henri. But now?
Now I feel like a man at the edge of the abyss.
Not that I can explain this to any of them.
They aren’t thinking of me, or of my son. They think of their own children who lost the most important lottery of their lives today. What future awaits them? They’ll become fishermen and prospectors. Some, who are very lucky, might join the Cayman Guard. The not-so-lucky ones will become miners.
I’ve seen child miners. Grim, exhausted faces. Eyes that have absorbed the darkness of the mine shafts. It’s as though they’ve seen things beneath the mountains that have changed them forever.
Any resident of Port Henri will tell you: the mountains are populated by demons who loathe parting with their treasure. They demand human souls in exchange. That’s why children make the best miners: their souls are purer, tastier for the demons. A child carries such a demon back from the mine inside them, like an incurable disease, and the demon slowly devours the young soul, leaving nothing but a walking skeleton.
At first glance the people of Port Henri are like everyone else. Not better, not worse. At first glance you can’t tell they carry the sorts of stories inside that make even my stomach turn.
“What are you standing over there for, Joe?” shouts Francois. “Buy a round for the good people, my friend. Surely you won’t forget your old pals now that you’re practically an Olympian?”
“That’s Mr. Joseph Fellow to you, Loose Lips.”
Francois grins a pocked smile at me.
They love nicknames in Port Henri. Seven years ago someone started calling me Convict. I had to break several noses to put an end to that.
I nod to the bartender. I’ve seen what’s to come time and time again. Whenever fortune smiles upon some poor prospector he becomes an instant celebrity for a day. His meager handful of emeralds will barely cover a round for the barflies. And he’ll spend it all, instead of buying a new dress for his wife, to bask in the smiles and approval of his buddies. That’s how things are done in Port Henri.
I have no choice but to undergo this ordeal. Congratulations, friendly slaps on the shoulder. Everyone tries to shake my hand. The bartender asks for an autographed photo to put up on the wall. And why not—the Azure will become a celebrity hangout now. They might even rename Caipirinha into Joe Fellow in my honor.
The thought makes me sick. I down a shot of cachaça and ask for another.
* * *
The tropical nights sneak up on you, quiet and stealthy, like dexterous thieves. Perhaps the night is a thief, but what does it pilfer? And if it doesn’t, then why does it sneak up on me so suddenly? Life taught me that every living thing has its agenda. But can the night be considered a living thing? When you think of it, even inanimate objects have a will of their own.
Take my grandfather’s favorite fishing rod, which he used on the Little Tennessee River. When it didn’t feel like working, the fish wouldn’t bite for anything. I don’t know what it whispered to the bass, but nearby fishermen reeled them in one after the other while Grandpa caught nothing but some peace and quiet.
I realize that last shot of cachaça was too much. My thoughts are tangled like the narrow Port Henri streets I’m traversing.
This won’t do, Joe, I tell myself. You can’t fall back on your usual solution of getting drunk instead of dealing with the problem. Not today. Sober up, convict. Sober up now.
Last time I got this drunk was five years ago. I was in my right, then. All fathers get drunk when their sons are born. The wives think of us as terrible egoists and weaklings for doing so.
The woman carries the child for nine months inside her. This miracle is a part of her, gradually becomes a part of her world. The same miracle catches the man by complete surprise. The new dimension opens in front of him, like a hole that leads into a parallel universe. Like a sunrise after a night that lasted a lifetime. As though he were falling into the abyss and realized, just above the ground, that he knew how to fly.
That’s why a real man must get drunk as many times as he has children. But no more than that. Not even if his son’s life is on the line. Especially not then.
I look around. The nights in Port Henri are murky and thick. It’s not easy to orient myself in the dark. But the sense of smell never fails me. I sniff at the air. Among the aromas of spices and the sea I smell the waft of typographer’s ink.
The sounds confirm it. I hear the rattle of the printing press from the basement of the nearby building. The lights are on within the second floor. No doubt, these are the offices of the Free Guanahani. The newspapermen work best at night. I imagine the editor, his hair unkept, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He stares grimly at his typewriter, dissolving his writer’s block with strong rum.
I don’t have to look over his shoulder to learn tomorrow’s headline. I already know it.
“King Henri IX Chooses Heir” will be printed in huge letters across the top. A few lines about the poor young Henri IX will follow. They’ll praise his bravery, the strength and grace with which the young king faces certain death. Underneath, it will say:
“His Majesty has finally reached the decision all of us have been waiting for with baited breath. He chose the five-year-old Nicholas Fellow as his heir. As per tradition, Nicholas will adopt the name Henri, and under that name will become the tenth king of Guanahani.”
Next to that paragraph will be the photo of my son.
Then, in small print underneath, they might add:
“Keep in mind that all ports will be closed until Sunday night in celebration of the coronation.”
I hear a shuffling of steps behind me. I recognize them without turning. Doc César.
The stubborn old man gets right to the point. “What are you going to do?”
“Go to hell, Doc.”
“You won’t solve your problems by drinking cachaça, Joe.”
“Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Don’t be a fool, Joe. You have to do something. You can’t—”
I shove him. Not too hard by my standards, but he falls onto the ground anyway. This damned town has changed me. I fight old men now.
“Sorry, Doc.” I offer him my hand.
He gets up, dusts off his clothes, adjusts his glasses. He goes on as if nothing has happened. “You have to decide today, Joe. Tomorrow will be too late.”
As if I didn’t know this.
“When will they close the port?” I ask.
“They already closed it. They put up the celebratory flags.”
“So there’s no way to get the motor boat.”
“No, no way.”
I could take Francois’s boat, but there’s no point. It’s a slow tub. Won’t get far.
“No amount of money will rent you a motorboat,” says Doc. As though I had the money. The lack of funds is the one constant in my life. “But it’s possible to steal one.”
Doc raises an eyebrow at me, as if to say: You’re a thief, Joe. You could easily do this.
People in Port Henri are stubborn. Once they got it into their heads that Joe Fellow is a first-rate thief, it was impossible to dissuade them. They’ll nod as they listen to how I ended up in prison as an innocent man. How the jurors were idiots, the judge was a scoundrel, and my attorney was a hack. And how I was the fool who was doing research for a book about the Parisian underclass and decided to collect some material in person. How I had nothing to do with the robbery and especially the murder of that old man—I only waited by the car and smoked a bunch of cigarettes. They’ll nod and smile, and won’t believe a single word. Joe Fellow is a first-rate thief, but he loves to spin a yarn, they’ll say.
I tell Doc to get some sleep. Then I head to Madame Simone’s. Her establishment is open all night.
Simone greets me personally, seats me in an armchair and brings me strong coffee. The old woman knows more about men than any other woman. More than we know about ourselves.
“Is Monty upstairs?” I ask.
She shrugs, as in: where else would he be?
I’ll wait for him here. The important thing is not to fall asleep.
I stare at the faded figurine of the Virgin Mary in the corner for so long that Simone begins to make excuses: it’s well overdue to be painted, but there’s never enough time.
I don’t hear her, just like I don’t see the faded Virgin Mary.
I escaped Hell’s Island, the most heavily guarded prison in French Guiana, where escape was said to be impossible. Surely I can find a way to leave the peaceful, quiet Guanahani.
* * *
I had almost choked on my rum when César came to me a week ago and told me that Nicki would be made king. The sun had been setting in the blue sea. It had been devilishly beautiful.
I never really came to like Port Henri. It’s a shameful feeling, akin to hating one’s own father. Or rather, a stepfather. Port Henri accepted me as one of its own. It forgave my sins. Gave me a wife, a son, friends. Fed me and kept me warm. But in seven years I never acclimated. Two things made the town tolerable: its sunsets, and my son.
When the sun had set and Doc began telling me about the Sek, I had to go get the second bottle of rum.
We’d known each other for seven years. You might say I owe him my life. That was the only reason I hadn’t thrown him out and had politely listened to his nonsense instead.
I had listened and said, “Doc, this is nonsense.”
“Have you never wondered why, seven years ago, none of your compatriots had survived?”
Of course I had wondered that. Although I tended to frame the question differently: why had I survived?
We had been practically corpses when we reached Port Henri. We spent two weeks on the open water in a dilapidated river boat which nearly sunk in the first storm. Sun and salt had wounded our skins. Dehydration had made me hallucinate. I had thought I was back in my cell on Hell’s Island, and that all other prisoners were released due to amnesty but I had been forgotten in the dank, moldy basement. I had desperately knocked on the bottom of the boat, sending unrequited messages to an imaginary neighbor in the next cell. I had talked to dead people. They had shown up in the boat one by one, glaring at me silently from the next bench. I saw my grandfather, who died before the Great War. Saw my father and mother. Saw the German soldier whom I shot in the leg. The girl from Amiens whom I had once promised to marry. I was guilty of some slight toward all of them, and this guilt ate at my soul like salt that ate at my skin. I confessed and I prayed, but my only reply was silence.
When I had heard the cries of seagulls, I was certain it was another mirage.
Even the healthiest man might not recover from such a journey. I wasn’t healthy to begin with. I was a pale scarecrow who had crawled into the sunlight after five months spent in dungeons of Hell’s Island, where water flooded my cell up to my waist in high tide.
The three of us escaped together. Me, Antoine, and a kid whose name I never learned. None of us knew the ways of the mariner. It was a miracle our fragile vessel reached the shores of Guanahani.
Port Henri is the mecca for the convicts of French Guiana. It was the dream that gave me strength on Hell’s Island. The oasis in the middle of the watery desert. There were many stories about it, but I only cared about one: unlike Trinidad, Curaçao, and Grenada, it didn’t extradite runaway criminals.
When I regained consciousness in the Port Henri hospital, I learned that my compatriots were dead. I was the only one granted the miracle of survival.
Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’m still there, on the boat, this life a fevered dream of a man dying of dehydration.
“I’ll listen to your theories, Doc. But I can’t promise to buy into them. You’re not yourself today.”
“These aren’t theories, Joe. When you were brought to the hospital, the first thing they did was check your blood type. Of the three of you, you were the only match. When His Majesty learned of this, he dispatched his personal doctor.”
“And who was this doctor?”
“Me, Joe. Me.”
Such news after seven years of acquaintanceship, almost friendship. I never suspected Doc to be so complicated a man. Outwardly he seemed a typical old man from Port Henri—dark skinned and short. A regular at Azure. Someone who enjoyed a good drink, telling a good story, and listening to one. Unbelievable.
“Are you saying the others were left to die?”
“No, they were treated. But they weren’t treated by me, so their chances weren’t good.”
“What’s so special about my blood?”
It was a surprise that old king Henri VIII, grandfather of the current king, Henri IX, took personal interest in my fate. It was almost something to be proud of.
I’ve always been impressed with the fair structure of the Guanahani monarchy. When the king lacked direct descendants, he chose an heir among the children of regular citizens. In one hundred plus years Guanahani had seen ten different monarchs. Five of them were from the families of miners and fishermen.
It wasn’t a big surprise. After all, the first King Henri had been a slave, bore the surname of his owner, and spent half his life roasting under the sun in the sugarcane fields, until the revolution of 1813. They say the rebels killed all the Europeans on the island. They had apologized later, but I suspect those apologies weren’t especially sincere.
“You can’t imagine, Joe, how important a thing blood is. Augusto Medina, my predecessor in the post of the royal doctor, once said that Henri planned on marrying one of the granddaughters of Queen Victoria. Believe me, had he made that decision, neither the Queen, nor the British parliament, nor the granddaughter herself would have been able to deny him. But Henri changed his mind when he learned that Victoria’s descendants suffer from hemophilia.”
“Which Henri was this? Fifth or sixth?”
“Joe, you haven’t been listening. There had been no fifth or sixth. Just like there had been no second, third, etc. There has ever only been one Henri. One and only.”
* * *
Heavy steps on the staircase. That must be Monty—Mr. Smith, the American consul.
The consul and I share a complicated relationship. Monty knows that it was I who taught everyone to call him by his first name. It annoys him, but there isn’t much he can do. He’d be thrilled to extradite me back home, but he doesn’t have the juice.
One thing I like about this portly gentleman: he knows how to keep a poker face. When he sees me, he only raises a single eyebrow.
Simone escorts us to a tiny room that serves as her office. Better than heading upstairs, to one of the bedrooms, I suppose.
I tell Monty Smith about the Sek, about the king, and about my son.
“Fellow, you aren’t making any sense. How much have you had to drink?” he asks.
“Not that much. Practically nothing. Listen, Monty, you don’t have to believe me. I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”
“Why would I piss off King Henri?”
“Because you get me. You’ll be a hero and finally get off this stupid island. Guanahani is a dead-end assignment for a diplomat. I can’t even imagine how you must’ve screwed up to get this post. But I bet you’ll be glad for the opportunity to fix things. To return to the civilized world where you’ll be Mr. Smith again. Admit it, you hate when everyone in Port Henri calls you Monty.”
“You suffer from delusions of grandeur, Fellow. Back on the mainland you’re nothing, zero, an empty space. A deserter, a thief, and an escaped convict who once managed to write a mediocre novel. No one remembers your name.”
“My name, dear Monty, is always on the mind of a certain senator who, I hear, stands an excellent chance of becoming the next president.”
I seem to have nailed the target. I don’t have a lot of skills, but I can read faces with the best of them.
“Why do you think your son will become king? I heard no such thing.”
Monty is especially funny when he puffs his cheeks like this.
The American consulate in Port Henri is mostly fiction. Words on a sheet of paper. Smith has a grand total of three marines and two clerks on his staff. Most of his activity is focused here, in Madame Simone’s establishment.
“Loose Lips—that is, Francois—and I finished early today. A wasted day, the fish weren’t biting. The Cayman Guard were waiting for us on the pier, handed me the official notice. Do you think Caymans joke about such matters?”
Monty frowns. “Okay, Joe. I’ll hear you out. But I warn you: I won’t do anything that might be interpreted as interfering in the internal affairs of Port Henri.”
That’s something already. He’s ready to discuss a plan, which is all I need. I have a good scheme, so long as Smith agrees to help.
“If you’re right and everything I told you is nonsense, then nothing will happen. It would mean that it makes no difference to the king whom to select as his heir. Some other boy will be selected to become Henri X.”
“Of course I’m right. Joe, you’re a writer, an educated man, even if you’re a criminal. How in the world did you come to believe this malarkey?”
I don’t believe because of words, or because of Doc César. I won’t say it out loud, but it’s because of the nightmares.
I never remembered my dreams before. Not even on Hell’s Island, in a cell, burning with fever. Not even then.
But now the nightmares come every night. The Port Henri of my nightmares is covered in gray spider silk. Its residents look like scarecrows with empty eyes and stitched mouths. All of their movements are controlled by the spider web—as though they’re marionettes in the paws of a spider. The spider is always nearby. Hiding behind the corner. Looking at me through the irises of a passerby. Waving at me with the dead hand of a doll held by a scarecrow child. And then there’s the screech. Barely audible but alarming, like whispers coming from the next room, when you’re certain no one but you is in the house.
When I leave Simone’s it’s still dark. But I’m well-familiar with the cunning of Caribbean nights. I have to hurry. I go to visit Jose. Somewhere ahead, the network of his little ragamuffins passes along the news of my impending arrival.
* * *
Seven years ago, when I first arrived on the island, Jose courted me in hopes of recruiting a first-rate thief into his operation. To be honest, I was somewhat disappointed that I wasn’t the man everyone took me for. I was curious to learn what sort of a heist required a professional thief on an island where no one locks their doors.
My refusal struck a blow to Jose’s ego, and then I managed to do so again by stealing his girl. At least that’s what Jose thinks. Truth is, Valerie chose me. This woman always gets what she wants.
I enter without knocking and head to the patio, where Jose is waiting for me. The bottle of cachaça and a plate of sliced limes are on the table. Knowing ahead of time about my visit and setting out my favorite drink is a special treat for Jose, a confirmation of his ephemeral power. The island has no organized crime in the usual sense of the word, but Jose is in charge of all the smugglers, unlicensed prospectors, and port beggars.
Jose’s skin is dark like charcoal. He looks down on the natives like a crown prince upon his bastard half-brother. Jose’s father walked on Africa’s soil, breathed its air, and was never a slave. Over a glass or rum, Jose likes to brag that he carries a small part of Africa within him.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Fellow. You’re no simple convict anymore. Now you’re convict, father of a king.”
One doesn’t have to beat around the bush with Jose. Without preamble I tell him everything. I watch his obsidian face, hoping to understand his reaction. I’m sure of one thing: Jose isn’t surprised.
This scares me more than my nightmares. What if they all know? Have always known, closed their eyes, hiding behind bright-colored walls, picturesque flags, cocooned in their benevolence so that darkness of this knowledge doesn’t disturb them?
But Jose says: “I’ve never heard a more foolish tale, Fellow. You stole my woman and now you want to steal a king? It’s no wonder you ended up in prison.”
He says more, but I can see past his sharp words: Jose will help me. This man truly is made of stone, and his feelings are etched into that stone. Several years are but a moment for stone. He still loves Valerie.
* * *
By the time I return home, it’s almost morning. I enter the bedroom. It always smells of cinnamon and lavender. Valerie is asleep.
Nicki is sleeping next to her.
I’m a bad person. Unlike most people, I recognize this fact about myself. Some will say it’s just pride talking, but to me, one sin more or one sin less doesn’t make much of a difference.
I was seventeen when I killed a man for the first time. It was an honest fight. My opponent, should fortune have been on his side, would have done the same without hesitation. The argument was over a woman. I don’t recall her face, her smell, or her voice. Only her name. Agnes. She couldn’t seem to choose between the two of us, so she gave herself to both of us.
This other man was the son of a senator. Even then I didn’t put my faith in a trial by jury, so I didn’t wait to be arrested. I hired on to the first ship heading for Europe. Decided to become a writer. But first, I had to experience more of life. In France I volunteered for the war. I was no ideologue. I didn’t care about the Germans, the French, the English and all their politics. I wanted to get to know war. One battle taught me everything I wanted to know about the subject. I deserted. Headed to Paris, wrote a stupid novel, which to my then surprise and current regret, was published in a small print run. I was so proud of myself. After the book came out I thought people would begin recognizing me in the streets. They didn’t. I bought my novel, reread it, and my disappointment was limitless. I decided to write another.
Instead, I got myself thrown in prison.
When Doc César nursed me back to life, I was certain that my time had come. Finally, I knew life and all the things I wanted to write about. I experienced adventure enough for ten men, first-hand. And, of course, I was very much inspired by Port Henri in those early days.
Port Henri is the sort of quiet place every writer dreams of. The writer tells themselves: one day I’ll go to a nice tropical island, sit under the palms and listen to the cries of seagulls as I shape all the thoughts that have accumulated in my mind into beautiful sentences.
Lies.
No one has ever written anything of note in a place like Port Henri.
I’m a murderer, a deserter, a worthless writer, and an escaped convict. But I hadn’t managed to commit my worst crime.
Seven years is a long time. Ever since I left Illinois at fifteen, I never spent more than three years in any once place. I intended to leave Guanahani several times. I had no qualms about leaving Valerie. When she told me she was pregnant, I decided I’d wait for her to give birth. I wanted to meet my son and leave with the memory of him.
But having held newborn Nicki in my hands I knew I would never leave him.
Valerie opens her eyes.
“Valerie, do you recall what Padre Anjel said when we got married?”
“Lots of things. Once Padre begins to talk, it’s not easy to stop him.”
Wrong opening. Padre Anjel isn’t an authority for Valerie. The old man likes to drink but isn’t any good at it. There’s no better way to disappoint a woman.
“There was something from St. Peter,” I say. If St. Peter isn’t an authority for her, then my plans are ruined.
She stares at the ceiling, remembering.
“Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. Do you love me, Joe Fellow?”
“I love you, Valerie.” A familiar lie. Love is a word and words, as is well known, were invented by women. “What else? There was something about an obedient wife.”
“As the Church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.” Valerie frowns.
“Exactly. I’ve never demanded such obedience from you, and I won’t now. But I’m going to beg. I beg you to be a good wife and ask no questions. Promise me.”
She nods. Good.
“Get dressed. Pack Nicki’s things.”
“Something happened,” she says. It’s not a question.
“When you’re ready, we’ll go visit Mr. Monty Smith.”
“He’s disgusting.”
“It’s not for long. You and Nicki are going to take a boat to Florida.”
“Without you?”
Clever girl.
“I have to stay behind for a day or two. I’ll catch up.” This lie comes almost effortlessly.
Valerie’s eyes grow wide. I know what she’s going to say. Two years ago I tried to leave Guanahani—along with Valerie and my son—and take an English ship to Wales, where they say there’s no better reference than being convicted by the French. Valerie refused. She said no seafaring adventures until Nicki turned at least ten years old. Valerie knew what they do with children aboard ships.
Every ship has a special person whose job is to find homeless boys in port and recruit them by promising work, food, and a hammock. Hungry demons who live in the ocean demand tributes from every ship that dares a cross-continental journey. Small dark-skinned children are mercilessly thrown into the ocean while rich Europeans dance on the upper decks to the Caribbean music. The bodies of those children forever wander the ocean floor, searching for the way home. Worse yet, some of them find it.
I don’t want to hear her agonize about that again. Such tales make me nauseous. So I rush to say, “Jose is going to escort you.”
I pause, but there’s no reaction. She’s stone-faced. It seems she has realized that things are serious.
* * *
Port Henri is waking up early. In the morning it looks like a shiny toy or a bright picture in a children’s book. One-story houses are painted in every bright color imaginable.
We walk past the barber where I get my hair cut each week. Raul waves his greetings. Old men sit on wooden stools outside the barbershop and discuss baseball as they wait their turn. In front of their houses, owners put out tables filled with merchandise. Everyone in Port Henri sells everything. Dried herbs, rocks of every shape, fruit, spices, painted clay figures of animals, jars and pots, bottles with lizards preserved in formaldehyde, stuffed birds, amulets for all occasions, home-rolled cigars, and home-distilled cachaça. During siesta the sellers rest on their patios, leaving the merchandise in the street.
Valerie stops in front of a friendly dark-skinned old woman, picks out a blue necklace and begins to haggle with her in earnest. I whisper in her ear that we’re in a hurry.
Valerie tells me, “Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies,” and I pay for the necklace.
Nicki is enthralled by the wooden knives set out right on the ground by another seller. I buy him one. I figure he’ll have something to remember me by.
We pass by an old mustached greengrocer. He pushes his cart slowly, deliberately, as though each step is measured in advance to help him last the entire day. A young man on a bicycle races past us. When he sees Valerie he begins to show off; he lets go off the handles and stretches, interlocking his hands behind his head. He nearly rides into a tree.
I ask for today’s newspaper at the cigarette stand.
“They haven’t come in yet,” says the merchant. “Rumor is, the king has selected an heir. Something like this has to be written about using special words, so they’re taking their time.”
I look around. Could it be that no one is spying on us? They must be, otherwise this entire performance is for naught. I notice a dark-skinned sailor in a blue uniform who takes a suspiciously long time studying his reflection in a store window. He doesn’t look away even when a gaggle of girls in airy, bright clothes showing a lot of skin pass him by. No sailor would resist staring at a sexy woman.
So they are spying on us, then. Good.
We turn toward the consulate, toward the old Spanish quarter which was built back in the days of Cortez, when the town was still called Santa Anna. The colors are less bright here, the lines more severe. Dark walls stare in opprobrium at neighboring streets.
* * *
Valerie and my son are on the patio, flipping through a world atlas. Every once in a while Valerie sighs theatrically. Smith and I are sitting in the study.
Smith tugs nervously at his mustache. He is sweating profusely.
“When will your man be here?”
“Soon.”
When I asked him to send a marine to the underground tunnel that led to the southern piers from the basement of the consulate, Monty gasped in surprise.
“How do you know about the tunnel?”
“Please, Monty. The entire town knows about it.”
Jose left in the morning to get the boat. I’m beginning to worry too, but I’m not letting it show.
An hour ago Doc César had joined us. Knowing that he was going to worry, I called him from the consulate. Doc brought a basket of food for Valerie and Nick. Idiot that I am, I hadn’t even thought about packing food.
Finally, I hear steps in the kitchen. A marine who was sent to the pier comes in. Jose follows him.
Jose’s shirt is soaked in blood.
“The guy didn’t want to give up the boat,” Jose explains. He sees the grimace on Smith’s face. “Be calm, Yankee. Everything is all right. He’s going to live.”
While César tends to Jose’s wound, I pull Smith aside.
“Send at least one marine along,” I ask of him. “You can see Jose isn’t doing great.”
Smith doesn’t budge.
“No marines, Fellow. It’s one thing to host an American citizen in the consulate. It’s another to assist in the kidnapping of the future king of Guanahani. Do you understand the difference?”
Damn politician. Of course, he won’t let me go, either. The plan I proposed is too appealing to him.
Doc César says, “I’ll go with them.”
He’s a saint of a man. Useless in a fight, but it still makes me feel better.
I say goodbye to them in the basement. I kiss Valerie and tell her everything will be all right. I hug Nick.
I tell Smith to lock the door and to order the marines not to let anyone in. Under any circumstances.
* * *
By nightfall Monty feels more confident.
“Drink?” he offers. “I’ll have one. It seems all deadlines are past. No one is searching for you, except maybe a psychiatrist. What a story you made up, Fellow! I’m not upset. I have you, and an excellent anecdote to tell.”
“Shut up,” I tell him.
He shuts up. I think I can hear the sound of footsteps over broken glass.
Imagine you’re having tea on the veranda with your favorite aunt when you realize there’s a pack of velociraptors hiding in the back yard. There’s no evidence of this other than a strange whistling noise, but that could be anything—perhaps a neighbor kid who snuck onto your property to pick apples. But no, you’re absolutely sure: it’s velociraptors. You look at your aunt and realize she feels the same thing. The world around you hasn’t changed, the tea tastes the same, the air smells of autumn and fallen apples, but the velociraptors are about to charge from around the corner.
That’s how I feel now. Nothing appears to have changed—the lights haven’t gone out or even blinked. Birds are chirping in the palm trees. But I realize: it’s beginning.
Smith plays the role of the aunt to perfection. His head shrinks into his shoulders and he shudders like a bird. He regains control of himself and moves toward the door.
“Don’t you dare open it, Monty,” I whisper.
“Nonsense,” he says.
He opens the door wide and catches a bullet in his stomach.
The Cayman guards enter the study. Through the door frame behind them I see a marine on the ground, with a surprised expression and a cut throat.
* * *
The road leads uphill, which means I’m being taken to the citadel.
The citadel is the highest point of Guanahani. The fortress built by the first King Henri after the revolution. They say more slaves lie dead in the foundation of the citadel than perished in the war with the French. Even so, the residents of Port Henri are proud of their fortress.
In my dreams the citadel is the huge ink blot inside of which hides the spider.
In my seven years in Port Henri I’ve never quite seen the citadel. It’s difficult to see it from the town below. Even on the brightest of days, the sky seems to find a few clouds to obscure it. On a rare day when there are no clouds, the citadel looks like one itself. Its walls are painted blinding white.
The truck shakes as it traverses the boulders on the road, but I don’t care. I think about little Nick, and about Valerie. In a few hours they’ll be in Key West.
The truck stops. Cayman guards roughly toss me outside, and I scrape my knees and palms on the rocks. It’s nothing compared to what awaits me. Probably execution by firing squad. I’m surprised to realize that I’m not afraid at all.
I look around. Close up the fortress doesn’t look all white. Its stones are covered with red moss. The walls are three times as tall as an average person. This wouldn’t be an easy place to escape from. Good thing I don’t plan on running.
* * *
A wooden cot is set against stone walls of my cell. The moss turns to dust and falls from the barest touch. A narrow window is situated just below the ceiling. If I stand on my toes I can just make out the shoes of the Cayman guards by the lights of their torches.
This isn’t the worst dungeon I’ve ever been in. At least it’s dry and devoid of woodlice.
The door creaks open behind my back. I don’t turn around, preserving what’s left of my dignity.
“Leave us. I wish to talk to him alone.”
A woman’s voice. That intrigues me. I turn around.
She’s wearing a severe dark dress, closed to the neck. Something that’s gone out of fashion two generations ago. A wooden cross dangles on a strap of leather over the dress. Her hands are gloved. She places a kerosene lamp on the cot. She looks like Valerie, but older by about fifteen years. Her light-brown skin, blue almond eyes, ink-black hair. The Port Henri women are very beautiful. Sun mixed with spices, sea salt, and clear sky. This island has collected the best of many different peoples and gifted it to its daughters.
There’s only one woman for whom all doors of this fortress are opened. Camilla. Cami, as the locals call her. The daughter of old king Henri, who died six years ago. The mother of the current King Henri.
I sit down on the cot, breaking etiquette. It’s a tiny, indulgent form of rebellion.
She’s silent. I don’t rush her. Perhaps she wants to see the man who voluntarily refused the throne for his son? Who knows what’s in the woman’s head?
“Do you know what the Sek is?”
The question catches me by surprise, but I don’t let it show. I shrug. “César told me.”
She frowns at the mention of his name. Is it anger? Contempt?
“You know the word, but the meaning escapes you.”
“I don’t believe in the afterlife.”
“The Sek isn’t an afterlife, Mr. Fellow. The Sek is like a sealed room where you relive the worst moments of your life, time after time.”
What was the worst moment of my life? The cell filled with woodlice? The boat shared with dying men? The battle of Somme? The moment my blade entered the heart of a senator’s son?
“If there’s a hell, we’ll all get there. I’ve never met a man who managed to remain innocent by the time he reached adulthood.”
“My son was seven when old Henri decided it was time to begin a new life. How much do you think he had managed to sin?”
I don’t know what to tell her. Now that Jose took Valerie and Nick away from here, all of this seems like an illusion. Even the memory of Consul Smith’s death is uncertain. Perhaps I have gone mad.
“You’re a fool to think your family is safe. No one ever leaves this town without Henri’s knowledge. Everything happens according to his plan. Every time. If he has decided to steal your son’s body, then he will. You won’t be able to stop him. Your boy’s soul will go to the Sek, following the souls of all the others. They’ll wander there forever. Think about that, convict. Eternity is worse than death.”
Damn, I think. Word for word, she’s repeating what César had told me. What if they’re in cahoots? Fed a bunch of lies to a trusting gringo. Is all of this about the throne? Perhaps she wants to become queen after her son dies? She could have convinced the Doc to spin some tales and set all this in motion.
I nearly slap my forehead. What a simple answer. Goddamned Occam’s Razor. All of this adds up, even the delay in the morning papers. I drive away thoughts of nightmares and Monty Smith’s death.
If this turns out to be a run-of-the-mill palace intrigue, I’ll be quite relieved.
“Why have you come?” I ask, stressing frustration in my voice.
Cami looks at the door fearfully, as though she hears some distant sound. There’s nothing there, woman. No one needs us. She comes closer and whispers: “I never loved my father. He’s not easy to love. It’s like loving this fortress, with its darkness and rot. But I was an obedient daughter. I had borne him an heir. If I knew then what he had planned I would have killed my son with my own hands. Do you believe me?”
She asks the question, but doesn’t seem to expect an answer. She smells like Valerie, of vanilla and cinnamon.
“He told me everything after the coronation. Pride, Mr. Fellow. He sought a witness. Someone to appreciate his greatness. He’s frustrated that everyone around him sees only a child. He needs fear. He came to me and told me in detail of everyone he had sent to the Sek. He told me that entering another’s body is akin to rape. He said this in a voice of a seven-year-old child, looking up at me with the clear eyes of my son. Can you imagine?”
Fine, I’ll play her game. “Why didn’t you kill him? It’s easy, especially now. His illness has done half the work for you.”
“He forbade it,” she says, a bitter smile on her lips. “His power is limitless. You’ll murder your own mother, if he orders it.”
“You could’ve told someone. Like you’re telling me now.”
“He forbade to talk about it outside the walls of the citadel. Left himself an opportunity to be amused. Because of me, three people have died. He forced a young Cayman, a god-fearing Catholic, to open his own veins. He forbade the second man to drink. He locked me in the room with him for several days, along with many jugs of water.”
“What happened to the third man?”
Why do I ask this? I don’t want to know. None of it can be true. Just ravings of an insane woman.
“He killed the third one by my hand.”
Cami says this evenly, with no emotion in her voice.
She gingerly removes her cross.
“Don’t move,” she says. “Be still. He didn’t forbid me from coming here. Didn’t forbid me from giving you a gift. Lower your head.”
I obey. I’ve learned not to argue with the insane. Cami puts the string with the cross on my neck. The silk of her gloves tickles my ears.
She holds me by my wrists. Leans in. Whispers: “Don’t touch this cross unless you want to die.”
“Magic again?”
“No, foolish Yankee. It’s poison. If it gets into the bloodstream, it’ll kill in seconds. An adult or a child. Think about that, Mr. Fellow. Think hard. You can’t kill Henri. But if you kill your son, Henri will be stuck in his current body. And then he’ll die. If that happens, all of them will be free. Do you understand? All his victims, free. He’ll go to the Sek in their place.”
“Don’t mess with me, woman. I’ll never kill my son.”
She stares into my eyes, as if trying to see the contents of my mind through them. I know this look. It’s how I look at people.
Read me, woman. I have nothing to hide.
She lets go off my wrist. She says, regretfully: “No. You will not.”
And then the door creaks and she’s gone. The women of Port Henri are like the tropical nights. They arrive when you least expect them, and leave before you can come to understand them.
I shake my head. Was she ever here? I reach for the cross but stop myself from touching it.
* * *
I can tell time pretty well when I’m sober. I learned this on Hell’s Island. Time can be measured in breaths, heartbeats, steps of the guards.
The door opens again an hour and a half after Cami leaves. The grim Cayman tells me to follow him.
We go through a maze of corridors, descending and ascending again via staircases. This fortress was built by a madman. Somehow I’m certain I’m about to meet the king. The newspapermen describe him as a kind child, very polite and considerate. I’m sure he’ll gently inquire as to why I’d caused all this drama, kidnapping my own son. I have no idea what I’ll tell him. I feel like an idiot, to be honest. Much worse than when the French policemen accused me of murdering that old man and I responded by mumbling something about seeking inspiration for writing a novel.
We arrive. The room doesn’t look like a child’s bedroom, and even less like a royal hall. A low-hanging lamp with a dozen candles barely illuminates the center of the room. The walls and ceiling drown in darkness. The room is empty. Our steps echo.
The Cayman pushes me so I enter the circle of light. He remains by the door.
A small silhouette moves toward me from the darkness. A boy in a wheelchair. King Henri IX.
The residents of Port Henri are in awe of their king. He was only seven when the old Henri died. His illness has turned him into a skeleton. His dark skin has acquired a greenish tint. His eyes are sunk deep. For a moment he looks more like an old man than a child.
“Thank you, Jorge. You may go.”
His voice is low and weak. Very boyish. But in it I hear pure, unadulterated power.
After Jorge leaves and closes the door behind him, Henri says: “The Caymans are loyal to me, but they’re like children. Never tell children the entire truth, Joe. Their souls are too fragile.”
The axles of his wheelchair emit a barely audible screech. I recognize this sound. I’ve heard it in my nightmares.
He’s right next to me. I realize that I’m lost.
I believe. I believe every word of what César had told me. Of what Cami had told me.
I could kill him right now. But Henri says, “Stay in place,” and my legs refuse to move. They feel like lead.
Henri smiles winningly, like a child. His eyes are blue. Just like Valerie’s. Just like my son’s.
I don’t want to look into these eyes, but I can’t turn away. It’s as though an enormous hand is holding me by the back of my head, forcing me to look. As if I’m falling into the abyss. No twelve-year-old boy can have eyes like these. Not even a hundred-year-old man could. I’m staring into the succession of centuries.
“You shouldn’t have staged this circus with the consulate. Smith’s death is on your conscience. Come to the window, Joe. Look outside.”
I watch a pickup truck drive up to the gates. Valerie, César, and two Caymans climb out. One of them is holding my sleeping son.
“No one leaves Port Henri without me knowing, Joe.”
All of this was for nothing.
“My plan worked, as it always does. You see, Joe, I don’t need your son. I’m too tired of being a child. To be five again? No, thanks. Let him grow up a bit first. For now, I’m going to be you. The father of the king. That was the plan, Joe. All I needed from you was to believe. And Doctor César, a man of immense value in every sense of the word, has provided that for me.”
The Caymans come in, followed by César. Valerie follows, holding the now awake Nick by his hand. She runs up to me, ignoring the king. She wants to hug me but I catch her by the shoulders and kiss her forehead.
“They killed Jose,” she whispers. “He shot one of them in the leg, but there were too many of them. They cut his throat and threw him into the water, to the sharks. It was a bad death.”
A bad man died a bad death for the woman who doesn’t love him. If there really is an afterlife, I hope this will outweigh many of the other things he had done.
“I think,” says Henri sweetly, “that your wife and son should rest after their journey. What do you say, Joe? You’ll see each other again soon. All will be well.”
“Go with the Caymans, Valerie.” I take her hand into mine. “I love you. And I love Nick. I love you both.”
Perhaps for the first time, I’m telling the truth.
“Belief is a funny thing,” says Henri after they leave. “If you didn’t believe in my powers, I wouldn’t have been able to stop you from killing me. Have you heard about President Harding’s death? It was quite painful. He made two mistakes. First, he wouldn’t leave Guanahani alone. You Yankees love to appropriate others’ belongings. You know this better than most, thief. Do you want to know what his second mistake was? He believed. He believed that his death was within my power, and it became true. Now I have no problems with America. Harding’s successors remember what happens to disobedient presidents.”
I don’t give a damn about Harding. I stare at César, who is rummaging through his medicine bag. I’m trying to understand how he’s so calm. Is he under Henri’s power or is he helping him of his own volition?
“Listen carefully, Joe. This is an order,” says Henri. “Come closer, and look at me.”
My feet make several steps against my will. My head turns. I try to close my eyes, but I can’t.
“Do you know why I showed you your wife and son, Joe? I wanted to be certain that you won’t pull some sort of trick at the last moment. I want to make sure that you let me in, voluntarily. I can’t order this. You have to let me in yourself. I hate it when they try to resist. Fools. I can’t be stopped. I’ll break past any door if I have to. Have you ever had to break a door, Joe? It’s somewhat painful, but worse, there’s this feeling like you’re not respected. Like they didn’t prepare for your arrival. Didn’t tidy up. They twitch and scream. Then I have to clean up myself. Wash off the blood. Repair the door. That isn’t nice, Joe. You can’t treat guests that way. That’s why I like children. They’re so nice, so trusting. It’s easy to fool them. But I’ll be honest with you, Joe. Our dear doctor is going to finish the necessary procedures and you’re going to be a good boy. You’ll open the door, let me in, and head into the Sek. The doctor told you about the Sek, yes? I won’t lie, you won’t like it there. Just think about your wife and son. It could be much worse for them here. Do you understand me, Joe? Nod if you understand.”
I nod.
César picks up a curved knife and approaches the king. Henri tilts his head forward. The doctor makes a cut along the nape, just under the hairline. Then he retrieves a syringe and quickly draws blood from Henri’s vein.
He walks toward me, blood dripping from the syringe across the floor. I let César make a shallow cut on my neck.
I wonder, what will happen with the body of the child in the wheelchair when the spirit of Henri leaves it to occupy mine?
It’s as though Henri can read my mind.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’ll last until the coronation. Just like Consul Smith, by the way. Have you heard of chickens who seem alive even after you cut off their heads? They run. They worry. You wouldn’t guess that they’re dead. People aren’t much different from chickens. So long as you know a few tricks. César, leave us.”
César backs up toward the door.
“That’s it,” says Henri. “Wait for me, Joe. I’ll be there soon.”
His eyes gloss over. His head falls onto his chest, and then the boy’s entire body falls forward until he’s lying on the floor, unconscious.
Then nothing happens.
Except for the spider which climbs from the cut in Henri’s nape. This is impossible. Spiders don’t live in human heads. Yet here it is, in front of me. It descends to the stone floor and runs toward me along the path of blood left for him by the doctor. If I could only take a few steps, the spider would never find me. But Henri forbade me from walking away.
That’s okay. I have another plan.
The spider jumps onto the hem of my trousers and climbs up my back. I feel its cold legs on my nape.
It’s time.
Once I feel the spider inside me, binding, I grab hold of the cross gifted to me by Queen Cami.
I hope, my dear, that your poison is truly strong.
Of all the deaths, I chose the most ridiculous.
I could’ve died from the knife wound to the heart.
I could’ve caught a German bullet in the battle of Somme.
Could’ve perished in the cell of Hell’s Island.
Could’ve drowned in the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
My last thought is: who knows? Perhaps that’s what happened. Perhaps I died a long, long time ago.
Copyright © 2020 by K. A. Teryna.
Translation Copyright © 2020 by Alex Shvartsman.