He was running out of the jungle toward Father's hole. No one ever ran here. Something serious had happened.
"Peaselee say they is some fellers on the path!"
He yelled this down the hole.
We watched. Father climbed out and chucked his shovel aside.
"What did I tell you? It's the Maywits."
"He run down to tell me."
"Where is he?"
"Still running. Maybe Swampmouth by now."
Father saw us watching him.
"Don't anyone say a word. We can't blame them for going. We're glad to have them back. We'll pretend they never left — they've had a rough time. You think it's dry here? It's soaking wet compared to the drought they've got out there. Listen, the world is a terrible place for anyone who's had a taste of Jeronimo. Those poor folks will need all the sympathy they can get. Be nice to them. Give them some peas to shell, put them to work. We've got some extra hands for my Hole!"
Mother said, "It could be some people who want ice."
"I know it's the Maywits," Father said.
But this time Father was wrong. The Maywits were not on the path.
"Men," Mother said, looking up. We crowded behind her. "There's three of them, Allie."
"I was expecting them, too," Father said, but his voice had gone cold. "They're slaves."
"Then why do they have guns, Dad?" Clover asked.
The Zambus seemed terrified. I heard, "Ruckbooses."
20
AT THAT MOMENT, I knew how the people in Seville felt, the river Creoles and the mountain Indians, or anyone else who watched us Foxes coming out of the jungle. We stepped into their villages like this, big and strange and uninvited. So we deserved this visit, but that did not make it easier.
The three scarecrows were dressed differently from the way they had been in the Indian village in Olancho — sweat-stained shirts and dirty pants and boots. We had not chosen them — they had chosen us. This was what savages saw. They were heading straight for us, not looking left or right. They seemed worse-off in clothes than they had half-naked in the village. One had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and the other two had pistols in their hands. They were listening and blinking, a little stupid and a little angry, as if they were out hunting cats.
Father's face twitched. It was not worry. He was doing a rapid calculation in his head, adding, subtracting, figuring odds, doing the algebra of what they might want. I recognized the men's clothes — they were the ones I had seen the Indian women washing in the stream. The Zambus watched from the lip of the hole with their round blackbird's eyes.
"Tell them to put their guns down, Allie."
"Let me handle this." Father met the men and said in Spanish, "What goes?"
The men smiled at him, but their hands stayed put. They glanced around Jeronimo, holding us silent with the guns. They wore no insignia, although their clothes were similar and looked like uniforms. Their long hair and beards made them seem like brothers. I had remembered them as tall, but here they did not appear tall — they were Mother's height. One of the pistol carriers wore a belt with a large brass buckle. He seemed more intelligent, less violent than the other two, but maybe it was because the other two had teeth missing. And the one with the rifle had a bandage on his hand — it was a filthy bandage and could only have been covering an infection.
Among the Indians in that village they had been shifty, almost timid — they had whispered to us and brought us food and warned us about the squatting Indians. But here they had none of that sneaking slyness. They looked strong, as if they were used to entering villages and sizing them up. They took their time, they did not even reply to Father until after they mumbled among themselves.
"We did not think we would find you." It was the one with the brass buckle who spoke. His teeth were too large for his mouth, and now I saw that he was not smiling. It was just his big yellow teeth stretching his lips.
"Here we are," Father said flatly.
"How many are you?"
"Thousands—"
The men looked behind them quickly.
"— counting the white ants," Father said. "We're infested."
Mr. Haddy whispered to me, "I ain't like this men," and then, "Hey, Lungley."
But the Zambus had gone: climbed out of Father's hole and backed into the woods.
"You are just in time for breakfast," Father said. "Scramble some eggs for our friends here, Mother" — he was still speaking in Spanish—"they have a long trip ahead of them."
We all went to the Gallery, and there the men put their guns down. They sat on the floor and ate eggs and beans, while Father talked about the white ants. Termites, he said, had gotten into everything — food, plants, even the roofs and floors of the houses. "They are eating us alive!"
It was the first we had heard of the white ants, but no one contradicted Father then, because no one ever contradicted him. The men listened and wolfed their food. When they finished, they stared at us with pale skinny faces. Eating did not soften their expressions, it only made them look hungrier and more dangerous.
The man with the teeth, who had spoken before, said that they had run out of water and then lost their way searching for water. They had camped on the mountain.
"I know how it is," Father said.
Mother gathered the plates, and that same man — Big Teeth did all the talking — said, "Your husband told us he had water and food. He invited us here. He told us he has everything. Up there, over the mountains, they have nothing."
"It's the end of the dry season," Father said. "We're feeling it. Everything is dead or dying. We won't see rain for weeks. But the white ants are getting fat!"
No one reminded him of his boast that Jeronimo was termite-proof.
"If it goes on like this, we'll have to start eating the termites."
The man with the teeth said "Pleh" — the thought disgusted him.
"City boys," Father said to Mother.
The men were still breathing hard, as if with hunger.
"See, around here, if there's no rain, there's nothing to eat. Ask anyone. We're down to our last provisions. The ants are all over the place. Our river's turned into a creek. The next time you come, things will be different."
"Where are your Zambus?"
Father wrinkled his nose. "Probably thought you were soldiers. They saw your ruckbooses."
"We do not understand."
"Arquebuses — guns. You're in Mosquitia now," Father said. "I didn't have time to tell them you were friendly. I imagine they are out dipping their arrows in poison, aren't they, Charlie?"
He was casual in the way he said this. And I knew from his voice what he wanted me to reply. I said, "Yes."
"You sure had them fooled!" He had become jolly. He turned away from them and looked off the Gallery to where the river lay stinking and almost motionless. "Where are you going?"
"It is very pretty here."
Father faced them. "It is crawling with ants!"
"We do not see any ants."
"Of course. If you could see them, you could kill them."
"Where is this ice you told us about?"
"We are not making ice. Look at that river — it is like a sewer. We need all the water we've got for the crops."
The man who had done all the talking said clearly to the others, "He is not making ice."
"There is not much river left," Father said. "But there is enough to float a cayuka. This is the Bonito. It flows into the Aguan. I could draw you a map. It is about a day to the coast. You will like it there."
"We like it here."
"I wish I had room for you. But most of the houses have infestation. Ants. You're lucky — you won't find any ants on the coast."