One of the islanders he’d come to know told Dupont he’d introduce him to the drug itself. But since he was a stranger, the islander certainly couldn’t allow him into the secret religious rituals associated with the fish-licking — the drumming, the chanting, the costumes, the ceremonial trappings, and so on. So, for the demonstration, he brought Dupont to his own home and took him out onto the balcony after sunset.
The scene was quite domestic. The man’s wife had caught a fresh fish — a very small one, since Dupont wasn’t experienced with the drug — and she now brought it out on a saucer, along with a glass of water for cleansing the palate after the licking.
The fish was about six inches long, light green in colour, and plump for its size.
Following the islander’s example, Dupont slowly ran his tongue from the head to the tail of the fish, twice. Then they sat back in their chairs and let the drug do its work.
Dupont was almost instantly transformed into a swimming creature. He felt the chill of the highland stream as he patrolled its pebbled beds in search of food. His heart thudded at the sight of monstrous rats, eels, frogs, and even slit-eyed crocodiles prowling the water around him. Once, a huge bird swooped down from above and tried to grasp him in its claws. Not long afterwards, Dupont became a thing that crawled on its belly on the mossy shore, burrowing and eating, turning the earth into compost, tasting its world. Language by now had slipped away and his mind was filled with images so harrowing he feared he’d go mad.
Fortunately the effects of the drug were already beginning to ebb. Dupont was relieved but at the same time regretful as his perceptions shrank once more to those of a human being.
When his eyes were able to focus again, he saw that the islander had long returned from what, for him, had been a mild experience. Dupont wanted to talk about what he’d seen — what he’d been — but could barely find the words. The islander assured him that even if he were a master of language, it would be no more possible to reconstruct the fish-licking experience in words than to turn the bungalow in which they sat back into the vesi trees from which it was built.
After that introductory experience, Dupont spent two years on the island and participated in the fish-licking a number of times. He noticed that each time he came out of his ecstasy, he was equally speechless. But he also now began to feel a keen fellowship with the islanders and intuitively grasped something of their world view.
The reason they wouldn’t come to his clinic, for example, was that they believed in a form of reincarnation that completely negated Western ideas of medicine. Fish-licking had taught them that human life was only one of the innumerable life forms each spirit would inhabit and that nothing must be allowed to interfere with that continuity. Likewise, all afflictions of the physical sort must be endured. Indeed, if any attempt were made to moderate them, they’d have to be undergone again in subsequent lives in even more virulent forms.
Obviously, then, no islander with any sense had the slightest use for Dupont’s services. If the international agency that had sent him to build the clinic had first done the groundwork to grasp this basic tenet of island culture, they’d have saved themselves both time and money.
NOW, IN HIS CABIN aboard the SS Otago, Dupont concluded his story.
“I think if I’d stayed on that island a little longer, I might have become a total convert,” he said. “I just needed a few more fish-licking sessions to clarify my thinking.”
He laughed, and I laughed, too. I couldn’t always be sure what to make of him. He’d admitted before that his desire to work in various exotic parts of the world satisfied his love of risk and danger as much as any humanitarian impulse. No doubt, that conflicted with my idealistic notions about the kind of man a doctor ought to be.
“Well, Harry,” he said, “all this talk about the good old days makes me feel like having a smoke.” Then, in a stage whisper: “I just happen to have some kief handy.”
He went to his desk and returned with one of those pipes I’d seen the crew use. He filled it, lit it up, and sucked on it. Then, holding his breath, he offered it to me.
Not wanting to offend him, I took the pipe and inhaled. The smoke smelled fine, but the taste was awful. I choked and coughed until my lungs were clear.
Dupont’s beard jingled from laughing.
“Kief’s just like life,” he said. “Sometimes it takes your breath away.”
4
The Otago had been at sea more than two weeks now. The skies were still overcast for the most part, but the water was much smoother and the air was becoming so steamy that the crew worked on deck without shirts. My seasickness, if that’s what it was, hadn’t abated even with the pills Dupont had given me. One day on deck when he was talking about its persistence he made a suggestion.
“Look, why don’t you disembark at Racca,” he said. “You could travel with me to the hospital and see a bit of the country while you’re at it. If it’s just seasickness you’re suffering from, being on land for a while should get rid of it. If it’s something else, I can treat it properly when we get to the hospital.”
The hospital was a hundred miles inland from the port of Racca. Dupont had worked there for the last few years and brought it up to date. It had been built to cater to the needs of scattered tribal peoples on the fringes of the desert, mainly women with complications from childbirth.
“Clara’s the head nurse — you’d meet her if you come with me,” he said. His eyes softened at the mention of her name. He’d referred to her often, so I guessed he was very fond of her. “What do you think? It might be fun.”
The idea of leaving the ship appealed to me, as I was still an outcast amongst the crew. But there was the matter of my contract: I’d signed on for the return voyage, too.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Dupont said. “I’ll speak to the captain right away.”
HE WAS AS GOOD as his word. He advised the captain that it would be wise to release me from the contract because of my health problems.
The captain was quite agreeable.
“He’ll have no trouble replacing you,” Dupont told me. “It seems there’s no shortage of sailors in Racca looking for ships. They don’t like being stuck there, so they’ll sign on with any ship that’s leaving.”
I found that hard to believe, for by then I’d had more than enough of ships. Terra firma couldn’t possibly be worse.
THE DAWN AIR was stifling when the SS Otago arrived at the port city of Racca. Or, at least, near the port, which was on the northern outskirts of the city. Ships of our tonnage had to anchor in the deep water just beyond the breakers, a half mile out from the shoreline. The water inshore was too shallow for them.
The Otago came to a halt and the engine was cut. A welcoming party of a million mosquitoes and stinging flies came rushing aboard to greet us.
THE PERILOUS operation of unloading the cargo soon began. Everything had to be transferred into shallower draft rowboats that came out from the port and surrounded the Otago like kittens suckling on a restless mother cat. My shipmates disliked this transferring of cargo. There was a grisly history of mutilations and drownings that had occurred during the process.
As it turned out, my last job as a member of the crew was a good deal less dangerous. Instead of unloading the mute and uncooperative cargo, I was to help ferry Dupont and the other three passengers ashore in the ship’s boat.