“Zumbi, zomby. Mumbo-jumbo? Hobson-Jobson? Zumbi, jumby. Don’t talk about it! “Well. Let us make up another etymology. What about jumby, from jamby, from French jambe, from French jambe, leg. That is, the adjective would mean legged. Seem to recall. Morte Darthur? One with strong legs?”
A pause, but a brief one. “Not jumby: Jumpy! Because it jumps! It does jump! Oh God how it jumps!” On-leaper, midnight or midday; Limekiller’s leg twitched, his hand convulsed — his face -
“If, John Limekiller,” said “Pygore, in his tired, tired voice, “you must also jump, perhaps you could manage to spill your rum into my glass and not onto my sleeve. ” He at that moment looked up from his sleeve, their eyes met, and Pygore’s expression of mildest and almost bored concern turned (and very suddenly and very completely) into one of. something else.
Very lightly, very briefly, Pygore placed his hand on Limekiller’s shoulder.
Limekiller said nothing.
Pygore said nothing.
Pygore knew.
MANATEE GAL, WONT YOU COME OUT TONIGHT
The Cupid Club was the only waterhole on the Port Cockatoo waterfront. To be sure, there were two or three liquor booths back in the part where the tiny town ebbed away into the bush. But they were closed for siesta, certainly. And they sold nothing but watered rum and warm soft-drinks and loose cigarettes. Also, they were away from the breezes off the Bay which kept away the flies. In British Hidalgo gnats were flies, mosquitoes were flies, sand-flies — worst of all — were flies — flies were also flies: and if anyone were inclined to question this nomenclature, there was the unquestionable fact that mosquito itself was merely Spanish for little fly.
It was not really cool in the Cupid Club (Alfonso Key, prop., LICENSED TO SELL WINE, SPIRITS, BEER, ALE, CYDER AND PERRY). But it was certainly less hot than outside. Outside the sun burned the Bay, turning it into molten sparkles. Limekiller’s boat stood at mooring, by very slightly raising his head he could see her, and every so often he did raise it. There wasn’t much aboard to tempt thieves, and there weren’t many thieves in Port Cockatoo, anyway. On the other hand, what was aboard the Saccharissa he could not very well spare; and it only took one thief, after all. So every now and then he did raise his head and make sure that no small boat was out by his own. No skiff or dory.
Probably the only thief in town was taking his own siesta.
“Nutmeg P’int,” said Alfonso Key. “You been to Nutmeg P’int?”
“Been there.”
Every place needs another place to make light fun of. In King Town, the old colonial capital, it was Port Cockatoo. Limekiller wondered what it was they made fun of, down at Nutmeg Point.
“What brings it into your mind, Alfonso?” he asked, taking his eyes from the boat. All clear. Briefly he met his own face in the mirror. Wasn’t much of a face, in his own opinion. Someone had once called him “Young Count Tolstoy.” Wasn’t much point in shaving, anyway.
Key shrugged. “Sometimes somebody goes down there, goes up the river, along the old bush trails, buys cam. About now, you know, mon, cam bring good price, up in King Town.”
Limekiller knew that. He often did think about that. He could quote the prices Brad Welcome paid for corn: white, corn, yellow com, cracked and ground. “I know,” he said. “In King Town they have a lot of money and only a little corn. Along Nutmeg River they have a lot of com and only a little money. Someone who brings down money from the Town can buy com along the Nutmeg. Too bad I didn’t think of that before I left.”
Key allowed himself a small sigh. He knew that it wasn’t any lack of thought, and that Limekiller had had no money before he left, or, likely, he wouldn’t have left. “May-be they trust you down along the Nutmeg. They trust old Bob Blaine. Year after year he go up the Nutmeg, he go up and down the bush trail, he buy earn on credit, bring it bock up to King Town.”
Off in the shadow at the other end of the barroom someone began to sing, softly.
W’ol’ Bob Blaine, he done gone.
W’ol’ Bob Blaine, he done gone.
Ahl, ahl me money gone
Gone, to Spahnish Hidalgo..
In King Town, Old Bob Blaine had sold the corn, season after season. Old Bob Blaine had bought salt, he had bought shotgun shells, canned milk, white flour, cotton cloth from the Turkish merchants. Lish hooks, sweet candy, rubber boots, kerosene, lamp chimney. Old Bob Blaine had returned and paid for com in kind — not, to be sure, immediately after selling the corn. Things did not move that swiftly even today, in British Hidalgo, and certainly had not Back When. Old Bob Blaine returned with the merchandise on his next buying trip. It was more convenient, he did not have to make so many trips up and down the mangrove coast. By and by it must almost have seemed that he was paying in advance, when he came, buying corn down along the Nutmeg River, the boundary between the Colony of British Hidalgo and the country which the Colony still called Spanish Hidalgo, though it had not been Spain’s for a century and a half.
“Yes mon,” Alfonso Key agreed. “Only, that one last time, he not come bock. They say he buy one marine engine yard, down in Republican waters.”
“I heard,” Limekiller said, “that he bought a garage down there.”
The soft voice from the back of the bar said, “No, mon. Twas a coconut walk he bought. Yes, mon.”
Jack wondered why people, foreign people, usually, sometimes complained that it was difficult to get information in British Hidalgo. In his experience, information was the easiest thing in the world, there — all the information you wanted. In fact, sometimes you could get more than you wanted. Sometimes, of course, it was contradictory. Sometimes it was outright wrong. But that, of course, was another matter.
“Anybody else ever take up the trade down there?” Even if the information, the answer, if there was an answer, even if it were negative, what difference would it make?
“No,” said Key. “No-body. May-be you try, eh, Jock? May-be they trust you.”
There was no reason why the small cultivators, slashing their small cornfields by main force out of the almighty bush and, then burning the slash and then planting, corn in the, ashes, so to speak — maybe they would trust him, even though there was no reason why they should trust him. Still. Who knows. They might. They just might. Well. some of them just might. For a moment a brief hope rose in his mind.
“Naaa… I haven’t even got any crocus sacks.” There wasn’t much point in any of it after all. Not if he’d have to tote the corn wrapped up in his shirt. The jute sacks were fifty cents apiece in local currency; they were as good as money, sometimes even better than money.
Key, who had been watching rather unsleepingly as these thoughts were passing through Jack’s mind, slowly sank back in his chair. “Ah,” he said, very softly. “You haven’t got any crocus sock.”
“Een de w’ol’ days,” the voice from the back said, “every good ’oman, she di know which bush verb good fah wyes, fah kid-ney, which bush verb good fah heart, which bush verb good fah fever. But ahl of dem good w’ol’ ’omen, noew, dev dead, you see. Yes mon. Ahl poss ahway. Nobody know bush medicine nowadays. Only bush-doc-tor. And dev very few, sah, very few.”