Rich Man's Coffin Page 9

  III

  Blue strawberries: Arthur was back home in a field on the plantation in Mississippi, naked, picking big, blue berries. Oddly, it was winter. The cold mist of the hoary frost mingled with the rays of the early morning sun. Stranger still, Arthur was lying down on the frozen black earth between the rows of low plants.

  The Master approached on his horse and shouted down to Arthur, “I found a way to cross the Blueberry with the Strawberry. Now we grow them in winter. Now that’s science, Alesworth!” The overlord laughed insanely as he cracked his whip, stinging Arthur in his exposed, fleshy flank.

  Black Jack swatted a mosquito biting his leg as he awoke, shivering. He had curled into a fetal position in his sleep. He now had clenched fingers and cramped legs as he attempted to unfurl extremities in all directions. Stretching out provided little relief. As the blood flowed back into his arms and legs, it took with it what little warmth was left in his core. The outside temperature was close to freezing, and it was a deep, solid, steady chill that made him think that he might never get warm again. As he tightened back into a ball, he peered out at the moonlit sky. The cold had sharpened his senses and cleared his mind, but he was still tired. As he closed his eyes and tried to drift off, he thought that it must be the dead of night, a no-man’s land for the sleepless.

  He awoke again sometime later, chilled to the bone, and cramping. At some point, he figured, his body had given up shivering. Now, he felt like a living dead man, accepting an inner lack of heat that was becoming intolerable. He tried to get used to it, but his efforts were futile. He could imagine only one solution for his situation: He must move. As Black Jack crawled from the cave, his stomach burned with hunger. The sensation was like drinking vinegar, and it intensified his agony. He felt as though he wanted to fling himself from the rocky cliffs to relieve his pain or maybe even run through the scratchy brush to generate heat upon his skin. He was miserable and desperate. He had not anticipated such an extreme swing between day and night.

  Checking his clothes on the bush, he found them still damp. He started running back and forth across the beach, but he shortly realized that he could not overcome the chill that his own wind created. Besides, his exertion only made him hungrier. Passing the rocks on the far end of the bay, he saw a glimmer in the shallow tide pool. He stopped to investigate.

  Gleaming in the moonlight with shells open were hundreds of mussels perched just above the water. They seemed to be staring up as if they were an audience captivated by the glowing orb in the night sky. Arthur had lucked upon low tide. He reached down to pluck one. As he touched the first mollusk, its shell snapped shut. That’s as tight as the lid on a rich man’s coffin, he thought, probing the seam with his fingertips. He remembered being an impromptu pallbearer for one of the funerals for the Master’s mother. They must have put all her good silver and china in there, he thought, as he remembered the overbearing weight of the casket.

  Black Jack studied the intriguing object in his hand, turning it side to side in front of his face. Funny, he thought, how even his close inspection would not reveal whether a creature lived inside, save for the fact that he already knew. Now with its casing sealed, the effort required to remove the innards from the shell would offset any benefit of food inside. It’s not worth it, he thought. But eat he must, so he hatched a plan. He would simply place his finger inside the open mussels as he picked them from the rocks, then pry loose their meat with a stroke of his strong thumb.

  His scheme worked well. The shellfish were tepid and slimy, yet chewy, rich, and salty at the same time. He ate continuously for nearly an hour, clutching and consuming roughly fifty mussels. Toward the end of his feast, he forgot the cold. He felt relaxed and energetic. He enjoyed the warmth of pleasure as his pain waned. His suffering and anxiety melted away, and he felt sleepy again.

  Sitting in the dark on the shimmering sand, he looked down at the pile of shells and then up at the stars. For the first time, he really took the time to look at them. He had gazed at them once or twice in Mississippi. He had been forced to look at them on the ship, but he thought of them then as mere objects for navigation. But nothing compared to the celestial view that spread out before his eyes now. Running across the sky, a thick band of light was brighter and crisper even in the full moon light, than he had ever seen before. The strong strand of light stood out, outlined by stark, dark holes throughout. Along its vast length, the formation had craggy depth and structure. Black Jack suddenly felt as though he were witnessing thousands of silver, jewel-encrusted fish swimming across the night sky.

  Growing weary, he got up and returned to his cave. He looked forward to the dawn and he began to plan the coming day. Sleep would come first, he thought, as he was blanketed by the still calm of the bay. Drifting off, he heard a distant lapping sound, like oars in the water. Through the slits of his sleepy eyes, he thought he saw shadowy figures rowing onto shore. The silhouettes soon dissolved in the cold mist, their ripples dying on the sand.

  You’re too old to be seeing ghosts, he told himself. What is happening to me? He wondered. His motivation shifted beneath him like wet sand. He was wavering in his purpose and plan. Pots of gold or godly paradise? He asked himself. At the moment, he realized that he was full, happy, and totally free, all thanks to God above. He felt like shouting, Hallelujah!

  On a whim, he got back up and checked the breast pocket of his shirt on the bush outside. Miraculously, his harmonica had come along for the wild ride. He grabbed it and held it tight, mouthing a thank you toward the sky. He became so excited that he ran out onto the beach and started hopping from one foot to the other while standing in place. He threw his arms in the air and spun in circles as he jumped for joy. He ran back and forth across the beach, shouting, “This is my bay, Lord. This is my bay! I’ll start my own whaling station here and get rich, Lord!” Convinced that he had found home, he walked back to his cave playing a tune. He lay down on his mat, warmed by the dry sand of the cavern floor, intending to sleep soundly through the night.

  IV

  “Who the hell do you think you are, boy?” his foreman snarled as he stared down at Black Jack and kicked sand on the fire. The man stood tall against the bright blue midday sky. Black Jack cowered in the cool shadows of his cave. “No one asked you; gave you permission to; wanted you to build this fire.” Said the white man. His long, brown riding leathers and his matching cowboy hat were unfamiliar to Arthur; and they made the man’s figure all the more intimidating. “Do you want to get us all killed?” He asked, as he kicked the last blast of sand into Black Jack’s eyes.

  Black Jack awoke again, this time rubbing his eyes. The first thing that he noticed was the darkness, then the cold. Did I make a fire? He wondered. He fumbled in the dark until he located an edge of moonlight and crawled toward it. He came upon the remnants of a fire and reached out to touch it. As his hand sank into a pile of warm ashes, his heart froze. His mind raced through all the ways that the fire could have gotten there. He thought either he must be going mad, or he had built a fire in his sleep; or there were other people about. He wondered if it could be his would-be rescuers, or worse, the local cannibals he had heard about. He prayed that his beloved cave did not become his tomb as he crawled back in and tried to sleep.

  V

  Arthur’s ear stung from slapping at a phantom mosquito in his sleep. As he began to wake, the low whining buzz sounded as though it was right outside his ear, and then far away, all at once. It bothered him immensely, and he wrestled with the urge to slap his ear again. As he began to focus with both ears, it became more like the twanging of a single guitar string. Who would pluck a single string this early in the morning? He wondered. He sat and looked out again at the dead fire and listened to the strange music coming in tiny waves. He imagined he heard other bizarre sounds around the instrument, and he pictured the scene of a small, primitive band. Then, from upstream he heard what sounded like moans. The noise lasted for a time and then fell away again to silence. The dawn
got lighter.

  Black Jack sat staring at the mysterious dead fire, wondering what cold thing he would have for breakfast. His hunger took hold of him more than his fear of the unknown noises. He reckoned that he could face any danger in the light of day. He told himself that he would not go looking for the source of the fire makers or the noises. He was ready for a fight should the occasion arise. Obtaining food was job one at the moment. Not knowing how to rekindle the fire, he decided on cold mussels again for his morning meal. Eyeing the surrounding fruit as is they were poison, Black Jack shot off to the rocks to grab some shellfish.

  When he arrived, he found himself staring down through the tidal pool at his familiar, rich bed of mollusks. It was high tide. Bugger, he thought, happy to use a word he had picked up on the ship. He would have to wade into cold water, or forego the better part of his breakfast. He stared out over the bay toward the rising sun. Suddenly, he was stunned by a blast of sound from behind. It was like a blow from the Master’s hunting horn, only twofold deeper and more striking. Black Jack’s neck spun around to face the threat. His eyes met a sight ten times more frightening than the sound itself.

  Across the beach he had crossed only moments before were a hundred huge men, with the massive conch shell blower standing in their midst. Black Jack’s eyes filled with horror. He surmised that these men were natives. Their bulging eyes seemed to mimic his. He suddenly forgot about his nakedness. He lost control of his faculties. The men launched into a march toward Black Jack. He remained anchored to his spot like cold iron.

  The men wore facial tattoos, their long hair tied back, and a loincloth in lieu of the white man’s clothes. They seemed extremely angry at Black Jack. He watched, frozen, as they advanced in unison. They each threw out a foot and lunged down on their forward bent leg, slapped their knee, lunged forward again onto the other leg, slapped their chest with both hands, snapped their head to the side, stuck out their tongues as far as possible, and protruded their eyes again; all in a heavy, jerky rhythm dominated by what sounded to Black Jack like loud, mad cursing. After a few seconds, Black Jack realized that their movements had the timing and coordination of a precise ritual, rather than an act of aggression; and his fear abated at least as much as he was sure that they were not going to charge upon him and kill him immediately. They did seem intent on scaring the hell out of him, though, he thought. Aside from the fear of being killed and eaten for breakfast, Arthur began to view the onslaught as a loud, scary show. The men wielded spears, which they twirled like batons; and made threatening gestures in the air. They were obviously warriors; however, they occasionally pranced as if dancing. The rhythm they created came mostly from their voices with low, loud blasts of ooh and ah. Their chests and legs served as drums. It was a far cry from the prim and proper parade detail of the militia back home, Arthur thought, but different still from the snatches of primitive dance that the old-timers had often demonstrated to him late at night. If the African beat he knew was rich, heavy and musky in character; then the rhythm being displayed before him was slightly lighter and sweeter, with a dash of harmony tying the music into a mixed melody and heavy overtones.

  As for the words, Black Jack swore that they were profane insults. Some of them sounded English, and his mind began to piece together recognizable syllables. The chant went, in English sounds:

  TALK-ee, TALK-ee, TALK-in-TAH-mee;

  NOT, MAN-you, O THE WRONG-ee

  FALK AT YOU, AH REE KEE;

  FALK AT YOU, AH REE KEE;

  WHERE you, KEE tay, RAY cow, FALK AH RAH;

  WHERE you, KEE tay, RAY cow, TAP POO;

  WHERE you, KEE tay, RAY cow, FALK ah WAH HA;

  RAY ah, TAY ee hee

  RAY ah, TAY MAH HA

  RAY ah, TAY TAP POO

  Unbeknownst to Black Jack, the heavy chant actually contained a beautiful spiritual meaning:

  Arise and come forth

  Illustrious offspring of the gods;

  Come forth illustrious ones;

  Come forth illustrious ones;

  Here the token of alertness;

  Here the token of sacredness;

  Here the token of acceptance;

  Reveal your excellence,

  Reveal your power,

  Reveal your sacredness.

  As he extolled his ballad, one warrior broke from the ranks, pranced in front of Black Jack with high kicks, and retreated. Black Jack felt threatened by this sudden advance, and he held his ground. Soon, another warrior advanced and retreated with similar gesturing. Finally, a third warrior moved forward and placed something on the ground. At the precise moment that the third warrior fell back into line, all of the men stopped moving and went silent. They all stared bug-eyed at Black Jack from their frozen positions. The entire experience was overwhelming. Black Jack was unsure what to do next. He guessed that the object on the ground was either a welcome or a warning. The men seemed to be waiting for Black Jack to make the next move. He thought that the object could be an offer of some sort.

  His mama had always told him about offers: You don’t ever want to refuse ‘em lest you really want to insult your host. Black Jack took his mother’s advice to heart at this moment. He uprooted himself from his spot and picked up the small feather.

  At the instant he picked it up, the shift in mood within the confined bay was so great, it was as if a large stone had been rolled away from the entrance of an awesome and sacred cave somewhere. He felt as if he had been granted sanctuary among all the people of this new world. In the recesses of his mind he heard a large tower bell tolling the strokes of twelve Noon in some distant imaginary square.

  A hundred women in full Maori dress began to sing and dance in a lovely harmony even more refined than that of their men. Black Jack was led up the hill by the huge entourage into the forest. He was amazed to see a full Maori village just a few hundred yards from where he had spent the last couple of days. Hidden among the trees and brush were many huts, canoes, and one structure which actually resembled an English house. Its frontal facade consisted of large red beams joined in a sloping gable, covered with elaborate carvings. It reminded him of his recent tryst.

  Being brought into the great house, Black Jack was offered a robe of soft skins and feathers by several women. Upon being clothed, he was led to a great table at which sat three large men in similar robes and feather caps.

  “Kia Ora.” Said the biggest man. Greetings.

  Black Jack felt very welcome now. He began to feel more so when the women started bringing in the food. They brought in various dishes, one after the other, until the table was full of steaming delicacies much like those at Black Jack’s first feast. He was introduced to two new delicacies: Duck and fern bulbs. Another new item caught Black Jack’s eye, a basket of big, orange, egg-shaped vegetables. As the men gestured for him to eat, Arthur went straight for these strange objects and discovered that they were sweet potatoes. The familiar flavor of yams brought back a multitude of memories and emotions for Black Jack. He felt closer to his present company, despite the cultural gap. He felt a bond forming.

  A large man spread out his arms over the table, then up at the ceiling. He looked around with a distant gaze that seemed to penetrate the walls and encompass infinity. He declared, “Pukatea!”

  The other feathered men grimaced, which was really their smile. Through their teeth and tight lips, they said, “Pukatea!” Then they resumed stuffing their faces with food using both hands.

  Black Jack kept pace, not slowing down in his eating. He and the men had been left alone in the large hall, with women scurrying in occasionally to replenish certain dishes or attend to one thing or another. The men did not talk for an hour. The food was excellent. Black Jack felt very relaxed. He realized that the men were very important within this villa. He was being treated, at least for now, as an equal. It was a very honoring yet humbling experience. As the meal proceeded into the second hour, Black Jack saw that the rest of the pa was getting on with its daily activities, l
eaving him with the impression that perhaps he and the men would be attended to hand-and-foot for some time to come. His theory proved correct. When the men were through eating, they made no movements that suggested that they intended to rush off to work. Black Jack was game for that plan. He leaned back with them, and waited for them to initiate conversation. The first thing they did was break out their pipes and light up a smoke. Then they commenced to engage in animated chitchat and manly laughter. Black Jack remained the pleasant observer, sitting there attentive and smiling. He wondered how he would ever communicate with them.

  In the middle of one of their exchanges, the largest man turned from his compatriots in mid-sentence and began to address Black Jack in Maori, as if he were saying, “Yes, yes, dear fellows; and what do you think of the matter, chap?” His friendly inquisitor looked at Black Jack and smiled. The awkwardness became painful. And after such a lovely breakfast, thought Black Jack. All four men seemed to empathize with Black Jack’s embarrassment. Their sensibilities took hold, and they relied on the simpler social niceties. They pointed to Black Jack’s hand. He suddenly realized that he had been clutching his harmonica the whole time. He nervously blew a few notes, then stopped. The men laughed.