showed him the palm of his right hand where the line had cut an inch deep until the barra broke it. And one morning about ten o'clock, Wobert said, breathlessly, "Look downg, look downg!" Timothy looked down and there was a seven-foot barracuda swimming slowly by them, one big eye cocked at the boat.
Wobert's best story about
jumbis
was the one where Mama Geeches battled a
jumbi
under the stairwell of Hotel 1829. She was the "obeah" lady who lived in Back o' All and cast spells. The smoke
jumbi
was threatening to burn the hotel down until Mama Geeches, who was less than four feet tall, fought it and killed it with ground up butterflies. Her throat and private parts had gotten scratched. Wobert had seen her throat scratches but not the others.
Until he'd gotten a knee busted in a storm off Barbuda, Wobert had sailed the Caribbean and offshore Atlantic for forty-four years. "Fo'ty-foe," he reminded everybody. Now his right knee was about as stiff and useless as a gravestone. He walked peg legged, like his right one was wooden. He could no longer get around a sailing-ship deck.
Timothy liked to sail into the harbor when they had a good catch, Wobert blowing his conch shell,
A-ooouuuu, a-ooouuuu
, to announce they had fish for sale.
Timothy wanted to talk about being a slave, but Wobert had just accidentally hooked a goatfish in the gill and was taking great care in getting it off the hook, using a cloth to protect his hands from the sharp fins.
"Nevah eat dis feesh. Don' eben let 'im stick yuh."
Timothy had heard Wobert say that every time he'd hooked an unwanted goatfish. Wobert had an old man's habit of repeating himself. As he was expected to do, Timothy asked, "Why not?"
"Pozen. 'E meks whot yuh call 'gut-rot.' Dere's a Sponish word for it,
ciga
-somethin', dat means de same. Mek yuh veree sick."
Then Timothy knew that Wobert, who had a wizened face like a dark brown nutmeg, and crinkled gray hair, would tell him, once again, that goatfish could be poison off St. Thomas but good to eat off Guadalupe. Wobert had an idea that goatfish nibbled sour coral on some reefs, not on others.
Timothy listened him out, then said the
Amager
had sailed without him.
Wobert, looking sharply from under his straw hat's brim, said, "I heerd so. Mebbe yuh better off stayin' here. Doin' land wark. Lookit whot the sea did to me." He slapped the busted leg. Though he was sixty-odd, his eyes were those of a young eagle, sharp as knife tips.
Timothy shook his head to disagree, then said he'd keep trying and changed the subject. "Yuh eber a slave, Wobert?"
Clouds were drifting in and the sun had come up, dropping yellow patches over the waters east of Galosh Point. A vagrant easterly breeze notched the blue surface, rippling it, causing tiny waves to slap against the boat's port side with a hollow sound.
Wobert's sound was a half chuckle. He said, "Oh, yass; oh, yass..." Strange, like Tante Hannah, he'd never talked about it before, as if it was something to be ashamed of. He had been twenty the year of Emancipation, he said; it was the same year he'd gone to sea.
Timothy jerked on his line and soon landed a three-pound grouper that drummed the boat's bottom with its tail. Unhooked, it still flapped as Timothy angled the stringer cord through the gills and out of the mouth, then tossed it back overboard.
"Why yuh ast?"
Timothy said Tante Hannah had said how it was with her.
Wobert said, "We all de same. Me an' her jus' got lucky we didn't 'ave to mek the trip across. We born in Saint Thomas."
Timothy said he wanted to know how it was with Wobert when he was a boy. Wobert laughed again. "Dey made me tend chickens when ah was five. Ah had
caca
'tween my toes till I was twelve."
Caca
was chicken dung, Timothy knew.
"Den day put me in de feels, holing. We dug holes 'bout four feet square, an' nine inches deep, wid heavy hoes. By noon, mah arms ached. But Ah'd git a kick in mah behin' if Ah slowed up. Next we forked manure into de holes,
Wobert's best story about
jumbis
was the one where Mama Geeches battled a
jumbi
under the stairwell of Hotel 1829. She was the "obeah" lady who lived in Back o' All and cast spells. The smoke
jumbi
was threatening to burn the hotel down until Mama Geeches, who was less than four feet tall, fought it and killed it with ground up butterflies. Her throat and private parts had gotten scratched. Wobert had seen her throat scratches but not the others.
Until he'd gotten a knee busted in a storm off Barbuda, Wobert had sailed the Caribbean and offshore Atlantic for forty-four years. "Fo'ty-foe," he reminded everybody. Now his right knee was about as stiff and useless as a gravestone. He walked peg legged, like his right one was wooden. He could no longer get around a sailing-ship deck.
Timothy liked to sail into the harbor when they had a good catch, Wobert blowing his conch shell,
A-ooouuuu, a-ooouuuu
, to announce they had fish for sale.
Timothy wanted to talk about being a slave, but Wobert had just accidentally hooked a goatfish in the gill and was taking great care in getting it off the hook, using a cloth to protect his hands from the sharp fins.
"Nevah eat dis feesh. Don' eben let 'im stick yuh."
Timothy had heard Wobert say that every time he'd hooked an unwanted goatfish. Wobert had an old man's habit of repeating himself. As he was expected to do, Timothy asked, "Why not?"
"Pozen. 'E meks whot yuh call 'gut-rot.' Dere's a Sponish word for it,
ciga
-somethin', dat means de same. Mek yuh veree sick."
Then Timothy knew that Wobert, who had a wizened face like a dark brown nutmeg, and crinkled gray hair, would tell him, once again, that goatfish could be poison off St. Thomas but good to eat off Guadalupe. Wobert had an idea that goatfish nibbled sour coral on some reefs, not on others.
Timothy listened him out, then said the
Amager
had sailed without him.
Wobert, looking sharply from under his straw hat's brim, said, "I heerd so. Mebbe yuh better off stayin' here. Doin' land wark. Lookit whot the sea did to me." He slapped the busted leg. Though he was sixty-odd, his eyes were those of a young eagle, sharp as knife tips.
Timothy shook his head to disagree, then said he'd keep trying and changed the subject. "Yuh eber a slave, Wobert?"
Clouds were drifting in and the sun had come up, dropping yellow patches over the waters east of Galosh Point. A vagrant easterly breeze notched the blue surface, rippling it, causing tiny waves to slap against the boat's port side with a hollow sound.
Wobert's sound was a half chuckle. He said, "Oh, yass; oh, yass..." Strange, like Tante Hannah, he'd never talked about it before, as if it was something to be ashamed of. He had been twenty the year of Emancipation, he said; it was the same year he'd gone to sea.
Timothy jerked on his line and soon landed a three-pound grouper that drummed the boat's bottom with its tail. Unhooked, it still flapped as Timothy angled the stringer cord through the gills and out of the mouth, then tossed it back overboard.
"Why yuh ast?"
Timothy said Tante Hannah had said how it was with her.
Wobert said, "We all de same. Me an' her jus' got lucky we didn't 'ave to mek the trip across. We born in Saint Thomas."
Timothy said he wanted to know how it was with Wobert when he was a boy. Wobert laughed again. "Dey made me tend chickens when ah was five. Ah had
caca
'tween my toes till I was twelve."
Caca
was chicken dung, Timothy knew.
"Den day put me in de feels, holing. We dug holes 'bout four feet square, an' nine inches deep, wid heavy hoes. By noon, mah arms ached. But Ah'd git a kick in mah behin' if Ah slowed up. Next we forked manure into de holes,
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