Father was fascinated by anything mechanical. He sat down and studied them. After he had meditated over them for several minutes and tried them, he said, "These were made by some very sophisticated instruments. See how that wire is twisted and joined? There's no soldering at all, and the angles and bends are perfectly formed."
He looked at me and winked.
"Charlie," he said, "I think someone's hiding tools from us. I had these people all wrong. I could use the kind of precision tools that made these."
He showed Mr. Maywit, who said sure enough, they were Drainy's. Drainy was summoned to the Gallery.
"Where did you get these?" Father asked.
"I make um."
"Take your time, son," Father said. "I want you to show me exactly how you made them. I'll give you some wire. Now you get your tools and make one for me."
Father gave the boy some fine strands of wire, but Drainy did not move. He held them dumbly in his dirty hand, and sucked his teeth.
"Don't you want to show me your tools?"
Mr. Maywit gave the boy a poke in the shoulder.
"Ain't got no tools."
Father said, "So you can't make them after all?"
"Kin," Drainy said. He squatted and took the wire in his teeth, and by chewing it and drawing it through the gaps like dental floss, and champing it like a marrow bone, he formed it into a sprocket and held it up for Father to admire.
Mr. Maywit's excitement made him gabble—"He make em wif his teef!"
Father said to Drainy, "You take care of those choppers and brush them every day. I'm going to need you later on."
13
IT WAS NOT an easy life these first weeks in Jeronimo. It was no coconut kingdom of free food and grass huts and sunny days, under the bam, under the boo. Wilderness was ugly and unusable, and where were the dangerous animals? There was something stubborn about jungle trees, the way they crowded each other and gave us no shade. I saw cruelty in the hanging vines and selfishness in their root systems. This was work, and more work, and a routine that took up every daylight hour. On the Unicorn and in La Ceiba, and even in Hatfield, we had done pretty much what we pleased. Father had left us alone and gone about his own business. Usually I had helped him, but sometimes not. Here, things were different.
There was a bell at sunup, by which time Father already had the fire going and the coffee on. The Maywits always joined us — they had stopped cooking for themselves the week we arrived in Jeronimo. After pineapple and oatmeal, Father yelled for the Zambus and told us our "targets" for the day. On Mondays he gave us our targets for the week: finish the house, or get so many bushels of stones, or clear a certain amount of land, or cut beanpoles, or dig trenches for culverts. The Maywits were mainly the gardeners, the Zambus mainly the landclearers and builders, and the children — the Maywits and us — the collectors and cleaners.
We did our jobs throughout the morning, and by lunchtime the heat was terrible — it was now July. Lunch was always hot soup, because Father had the idea that it was necessary for us to sweat buckets: it kept us cool, nature's way. Afternoon work was often interrupted by rain, but the downpours did not last long and we were soon back on the job. All work stopped in the late afternoon, for it was then that the black flies and mosquitoes appeared, and their bites were torture.
Just before sundown we took turns in the bathhouse, washing up. One of the rules was a shower bath every day. In Hatfield we had never kept so clean, but here Father became a maniac for cleanliness. He made us change our clothes every day, too. Clothes to be washed were dumped in a tub. and one of the smells of Jeronimo was this skunk stew of boiling clothes. Mrs. Maywit had always washed her family's clothes in the river, but now she used the tin clothes tub. Father was pleased that the Maywits had begun following our example in taking a daily shower Only the Zambus remained the same — they steamed like tomcats, as Father did when he was very angry.
In the early days, we spent the dark mosquito hours between supper and bedtime in the insect-proof gazebo. After the house was finished, we sat on the Gallery (also insect-proof) until it was time to turn in. The Maywits often joined us. Mr. Maywit told us about the Indians in the mountains and up the rivers. He liked giving information. He said it was true what Mr. Haddy had told us, about some of the Indians having long tails. He said one tribe of Indians was all giants, and another pygmies.
Mr. Maywit's strangest story was about some Indians he called Munchies. He said that Munchies lived in a certain part of Mosquitia, and he confessed that he had thought, on first seeing us, that we might be Munchies. The Munchies kept themselves hidden in secret cities in the jungle. They had been here longer than the Miskito Indians, or Payas, or Twahkas, or Zambus. But there was nothing to be afraid of in the Munchies, because they were peaceful and virtuous. They were also very tall, and built pyramids, and were in all respects a noble people.
Father said, "You forgot the important part, Mr. Maywit. They're white Indians. Whiter than me — even whiter than you."
The Maywits were the color of instant coffee powder and had burned hair and green eyes.
"You see them?" Mr. Maywit said.
"Dad knows everything," Clover said.
"I know about these Munchies," Father said. "Tell us about their gold, Mr. Maywit."
"I ain't know nothing about no gold."
"They've got gold mines," Father said. "Nuggets as big as walnuts. They hammer it thin and write on it. They roll it and make bangles. Gold dust and gold slabs — ingots a yard wide."
"Haddy tell you this?"
Father said, "Nope. But save your breath, Mr. Maywit. I don't want to hear about white Indians who are angels. I want to hear about the devils from Nicaragua."
"The ones they carry ruckboos?"
"Not only them, but the ones that make things go wrong, give you headaches and toothaches and flat tires, let the mosquitoes in, and hide things that belong to you, so you never find them again. The ones that make funny noises at night and keep you awake and pull your house down and set you on fire."
"Never hear of them," Mr. Maywit said. "Where you hear?"
"Stands to reason. If there's golden white Munchies in secret cities, there's got to be horrible devils that do you wrong, isn't that so?"
Mother said, "Allie's pulling your leg, Mr. Maywit. He doesn't mean a word he says. I think that's a darned interesting story about the Munchies."
"But he hear it before."
"Tell me something I don't know," Father said. "Forget the Munchies and the devils. If you believe in them, you never get anything done — spend half your life looking over your shoulder. Personally, I don't believe in Munchies, unless I'm a Munchy." He frowned. "Which is entirely within the realm of possibility."
Jerry said he did not believe in Munchies, and April said it was a silly superstition, like the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus and God.
Mr. Maywit said that we could think what we wanted, but for true he believed in God and so did Mrs. Maywit. They had seen God with their own eyes at the Shouter church over in Santa Rosa.
"What exactly did God look like?" Father asked.
"Like a bill-bird in a cloud," Mr. Maywit said. "That is what Ma Kennywick say."
"So you didn't see God?"
"No, Ma Kennywick see God, and I see Ma Kennywick."
"Up the Shouters," the chicken-eyed Mrs. Maywit said.
"It was a speerience," Mr. Maywit said.
"I'm sure," Father said. "Now tell me something I don't know."
"Know about Duppies?'"
I said, "Mr. Haddy knows about them."
"But Mr. Haddy has flown the coop," Father said. "So let's give this gentleman the floor. Go on. sir. you've given us your proof for the existence of God — that is. Ma Kennywick's shouting that the Almighty looks like a bill-bird in a cloud. Now tell us what a Duppy is."