The Outcasts (12 page)

A priest gone mad, conducting insane ritual for an invisible congregation. Embarrassed, chiding himself for an idiot. Philips would bellow laughter.

He mimed again, and then stared at the shifting shadows until the light was gone.

In full darkness he boarded the truck and drove back to the deserted camp. Ramesh's radio brought him music and missionaries and garbled news of the cabinet crisis. He worried. Heard gunfire, saw his forms impounded, Goray in prison, himself deported.

Alone in the silence of a tropical night, he considered the history of Bernard Morrison, a dismal series of pathetic anecdotes. But the boy in him lived yet, and his conviction grew: he had still a day coming to him. Life owed him that. A day of wrath or a day of laughter.

He was awake at dawn, and ate mango and drank water, hurrying, and drove the four miles, shattering a cool, rosy silence, vandalizing the new day. He left his truck in the shaded grove and shambled almost timidly toward the gorge; and saw the man immediately.

It was the same man. Morrison rushed forward. The bridge of vines was up.

Morrison nodded at the man, and showed both hands, empty. It seemed the thing to do. The man was carrying a crude machete, and with it he pointed to the bridge.

Morrison was afraid, and a closer look at the bridge did him no good. He had expected a catwalk, a floor, a walkway of some sort. He found one six-inch vine for the feet and two thinner vines for handrails. From one handrail to the other, passing beneath the heavy vine, looped about it and supporting it, were twenty or thirty thinner vines. A bridge. His throat closed. He looked down. A mistake.

But then it was all a mistake. A more terrible mistake because he could not turn back. Often enough he had been afraid, but this silent terror was new, and worse; it was self-inflicted. No one had commanded, Morrison, go to the gorge. And in the bright blush of daybreak he no longer believed that life, or destiny, or impish gods and demons, had driven him here. He saw himself driven by an invincible adolescence, by a flabby imagination nourished on illustrated tales of the frontier.

The native gestured impatiently.

Morrison cursed himself silently. He was playing at children's games, but he could not turn back. Once in his life he would follow a road to its true end.

He knew suddenly that even his terror was false. For generations men had crossed this bridge. He drew a long breath and made a joke: nothing can go wrong because I am a Master of Science.

Twenty meters. Thirty steps.

The native gestured again.

Morrison removed his sandals and slipped them into his pockets. Silly man: these people have been crossing it for years. Leaping like goats and singing.

He grasped the handrails and took one gingerly step. The bridge swayed. He shifted his weight and gave himself to the sway. Another step then, and more sway, and sweat came. With the third step he feared a wilder swing; the bridge bounced and quivered gently. The vine was rough and dry to his feet. He paused; the air here was cooler; he must not look down. Pigeon-toed, unbreathing, he went on, his palms sliding and clutching with each step, never leaving the handrails. He moved faster then, smoothly, swinging with the bridge, out and down, sliding and clutching, knees bent, balance, balance; then up, and the sway diminishing, and he took the last steps like a conqueror.

On the far lip he strode toward his host, and his knees gave way. Absolutely and without warning. He sat in the dust and smiled a friendly smile. The native edged around him at a good distance, and lowered the bridge.

God, Morrison thought: there is still the going back.

The sentry returned to stare. Morrison too stared. The sentry was naked. His body was almost hairless. He was a strong man. No scars, no tattoos. No fancy earrings or plates in the lip or bones through the nose. He might have been any man in a locker room. Except for the crude, jagged machete.

Morrison saw with shock that the man was circumcised. So was Morrison.

The native's expression never altered, and Morrison could not tell what he was thinking. The man motioned: stand up.

Morrison nodded, and put on his sandals, and rose.

The sentry stood away and waved him toward the hogback. Morrison moved forward and found a track; the man fell in behind him. They climbed the slope. The morning brightened suddenly to gold. Their track led into the brush, and then to the crest of the hill.

The view from the crest was stunning, but Morrison was given no time to marvel. A long slope of yellow grasses fell south to a wall of forest, and barely visible above the treetops was a distant range of pink mountains. Portagee mountains. They followed the track down the slope, and into the forest.

Again Morrison felt the strength in his own body, a private warmth, the sun within him. The forest murmured about them; unseen birds twittered and screeched. Bwana Tuan Sahib. He could disappear forever. Today. Right now. Never seen again. In good health but had been despondent. Hinted impotent. No life insurance. No will. Described by friends as moody. Will not be missed.

This forest was not what he had known. It was steamier. More presence. Of what? Possibilities. Vipers. Orchids.

A hot, yearning happiness almost dizzied him. Never go back. Learn the roots, the flowers. Wildfowl. Fish. Take a bride, round, greedy. Meditate. Prescribe cathartics. The holy man, and they will set bowls of rice before me. Interpret dreams. Scatter blessings.

The trail dipped into a great hollow of shade like a cavern. On the far side of the hollow, under a huge broadleaf, stood another man. Awaiting Morrison. His hair was gray and he wore a loincloth. Morrison's heart quickened. The man was fat, and stared gravely. He was not tall but seemed majestic. He might have been the lord of these trees, these shadows, these sounds; of all he surveyed.

When Morrison was six feet from him, the man laughed gleefully and said, “Vairy fuckin hallo.”

His name was Bawi. “Bawi,” he said, and jabbed a finger at Morrison's breast: “you Tami.”

All right. Me Tami. “Tami,” and Morrison nodded.

Bawi spoke to the sentry, who loped off toward the gorge, and then Bawi and Morrison were alone on the trail, sauntering homeward and gossiping. Bawi's face was broad and open, his smile ready, a free and undisciplined smile, lips stretched, teeth overwhite, cheeks popping up, eyes drowned in a fat squint, head slightly back: glee, glee, glee.

The smile said that he was no chief. He was the official greeter. Or the head poisoner; God alone knew. What was a nice fellow like Morrison doing in a place like this? He saw himself in a pot of water and Bawi rubbing two sticks together.

“You kinjo man,” Bawi said with assurance.

“Yes.” Whatever you say. Actually I am an American engineer. I am not Tami and not kinjo man. But then how could he be sure? They walked in single file, Bawi leading, through sparse jungle broken by sunny clearings, and downhill, amid bird-call and monkey-chatter. Bawi rolled gently as he walked, shoulder and buttock rising and falling; his eyes were downcast, as though there might be snakes or scorpions, but now and then he turned to flash that joyful pumpkin grin. Morrison imitated his strut. Perhaps he was, after all, Tami. And kinjo man. Bawi gestured languidly at a blood-red blossom: “Flar.”

“Yes. Flower. Pretty.”

“Pitty?”

“Beautiful.”

Bawi shook his head.

“Good-looking.”

Bawi grinned. “Ah lookah.”

“Ah lookah.”

“Dis bint ah lookah.” Bawi laughed aloud. “Plenny bint. You see.”

What was bint?

Insects chirred. The forest thinned soon, and after half an hour Morrison saw a dark blue gleam, and a curl of black smoke. His heart thudded; he heard it. He shook with it. Clammy hands and sudden sweat. And great thirst.

Here too there were suburbs: disused huts and a tiny goat, white and frisking. A wet smell. The huts were small and low, three posts and a grass roof. They approached a thin wall of shrubbery; a skinny dog rose from the grass and barked twice.

“Dog.”

“Dog.”

They breasted the shrubbery, and their journey was over.

Ten or fifteen huts stood scattered in a small clearing. At the edge of the clearing a blue creek glided lazily. Beyond the village, across the creek, the land dropped away, tangled and scrubby forest sloping off suddenly; green hills rolled to the distant mountains. Portagee side. It would be a long climb for the Portagees. The nearest Portagee town was ninety miles away, its population about three hundred; it seemed somehow closer and larger. The border was at hand, slicing through that scrubby jungle. Morrison was lonely.

The villagers were waiting, and a babble rose. Morrison tried to look agreeable but was struck blind by breasts and buttocks and hairless sexes, and cursed himself in disgust. There were faces, too, gawking at him, and he nodded regally. There were many children, all laughing; the men and women stared in silence. Some wore loincloths. The old ones. They made a lane for the travelers. At the end of the lane, sitting cross-legged before a hut, was the chief. He was much younger than Morrison. Bawi led Morrison to him and made the formal presentation: a slight bow with his hands open, palms up, one indicating Morrison and the other the chief.

The chief bowed his head twice, and Morrison did the same.

“Tami,” Bawi said. “Dulani.”

“Dulani,” Morrison said, and bowed again.

The chief spoke in his own language.

“You here, good,” Bawi said.

“Thank you.”

Dulani spoke again.

“Eat?” Bawi said. “Drink? Bint?”

“Water, thank you.” The sun beat at the back of his neck; he remembered then and removed the purple jockey cap.

Bawi translated, and the chief spoke again. There was a stir, and soon a young woman came to Morrison with a gourd full of water.

At her ripeness he trembled, as though he had never before seen the flesh. He closed his eyes and drank slowly, but the image of her sturdy breasts and lightly downed cleft entered him with the cool water. He drained the gourd and handed it back blindly. She went away.

The chief spoke.

Bawi grinned again, and said, “What you want here?”

Morrison stood stupidly for a time, and then returned the smile. “I don't know,” he said. “I never thought of that.”

After that his fears vanished. Dulani was uncertain about his last answer but remained the polite host. He instructed Bawi to show Morrison the village, and said that they would eat and drink afterward. He then retired to his hut. Women fluttered about him. He was not chiefly: a thin young man of gloomy countenance. As Bawi and Morrison strolled among the huts, they heard Dulani call out orders, and the crowd dispersed slowly.

“Work,” Bawi said. “Plenny work.”

“What work?” The huts were almost bare: earth floors, a pot, skins, feathers.

Bawi raised one finger. “Hunt.” Another finger. “Mmmm—cassawa.”

“Cassava.”

“Yis sor.” Another finger. “Mmmm—” It was too much for him: he placed a hand on a grass roof and made weaving motions.

“Yes,” Morrison said.

“What dis?”

“Hut.”

“Hut.” He had once known the word.

“Bawi: how do you know English?”

“En'ish?”

“You talk my words.”

Oh, that grin. Deafening. The sun stood still when Bawi smiled. “Tami,” he said. “Ol' Tami.”

“Ol' Tami.”

“Yis sor. He come much rains.” With his hands he counted twenty-two. “I show.” He gestured urgently.

At the last hut, a few feet from the forest and still in shadow, Bawi said, “Kinjo.” He stooped, scuttled within, and rooted in a corner. Morrison thought he saw canvas and grommets, a buckle. Bawi popped out. He was wriggling into a khaki shirt, and Morrison saw an inverted chevron on either sleeve.

“Tommy,” Morrison said.

“Tami.” Bawi grinned again. “Oh fine Tami. Vairy fuckin fine Tami.”

“Tommy stay here?”

“Tami here one rain. Rain go, he go.”

“Where he go?”

“Portagee side.” Bawi waved southward.

A deserter. “He come back?”

Bawi shook his head sadly, and said something that Morrison could not understand, but not in the chief's language. Portuguese, he realized suddenly.

“You talk Portagee?”

“Oh yis sor. You talk Portagee?”

“No. How come you talk Portagee?”

“Talk Portagee fine,” Bawi said. “T'ree rain, Portagee come. T'ree rain, come back. T'ree rain, t'ree rain, Portagee come. I show.”

Their audience was gathering again; they trailed a retinue. Morrison could look at them now; it was a perfectly normal day in a perfectly normal year and he was paying a call on some perfectly normal old friends. He waved. Children giggled. The boys were not circumcised; the men were. Painful. There were old women he remembered from magazines, with breasts like wattles.

But Bawi tugged him along, and at another hut—they were all alike to Morrison—he scuttled again and emerged with a small roll of white cloth. “Portagee.” It was ordinary thin cotton. He replaced it and pushed Morrison forward. “I show.”

At Dulani's hut he squatted, and his finger traced whorls in the dust as he chattered. Dulani grunted and nodded wearily and spoke to a woman, who slipped away. Morrison watched her go; she was young. Dulani's eyes were cloudy. He did not look; he peered.

“Soon,” Bawi said.

So Morrison squatted beside him, hunkered down with his behind on his heels, and traced letters in the same dust until his civilized arches gave way. He rocked back on his heels then and stood up. But the woman was back, and with her an old man in a cotton cloth, not merely a loincloth but draped about his middle like a kirtle or whatever it was that Gandhi wore.

“Malani,” Bawi said, rising. “Him pop,” pointing at Dulani and doubtless meaning that the chief was the old man's son, which did not seem right, but Morrison was far from home and disinclined to pry.