The Cay (5 page)

Drawing back from the edge, I asked, “Are there many here?”

“Yes, many ’ere. But long as we ’ave our raff, they do not meliss us.”

Standing on the sea wall at Willemstad, sometimes I’d seen their fins in the water. I’d also seen them on the dock at the Ruyterkade market, their mouths open and those sharp teeth grinning.

I went back under the shelter, spending a long
time rubbing Stew Cat. He purred and pushed himself along my body. I was glad that I had seen him and had seen Timothy before going blind. I thought how awful it would have been to awaken on the raft and not know what they looked like.

Timothy must have been standing over us, for he said, “D’cot not good luck.” After a moment he added, “But to cause d’death of a cot is veree bad luck.”

“I don’t think Stew Cat is bad luck,” I said. “I’m glad he is here with us.”

Timothy did not answer, but turned back, I guess, to watch the sea again. I could imagine those bloodshot eyes, set in that massive, scarred black face, sweeping over the sea.

“Tell me what’s out there, Timothy,” I said. It was very important to know that now. I wanted to know everything that was out there.

He laughed. “Jus’ miles o’ blue wattah, miles o’ blue wattah.”

“Nothing else?”

He realized what I meant. “Oh, to be sure, young bahss, I see a feesh jump way fo’ward. Dat mean large feesh chase ’im. Den awhile back, a turtle pass us port side, but too far out to reach ’im back.…”

His eyes were becoming mine. “What’s in the sky, Timothy?”

“In d’sky?” He searched it. “No clouds, young
bahss, jus’ blue like ’twas yestiddy. But now an’ den, I see a petrel. While ago, a booby …”

I laughed for the first time all day. It was a funny name for a bird. “A booby?”

Timothy was quite serious. “Dis booby I saw was a blue face, mebbe nestin’ out o’ Serranilla Bank, mebbe not. Dey be feedin’ on d’flyin’ feesh. I true watchin’ d’birds ’cause dey tell us we veree close to d’shore.”

“How does a booby look, Timothy?”

“Nothin’ much,” he replied. “Tail like our choclade, sharp beak, mos’ white on ’is body.”

I tried to picture it, wondering if I’d ever see a bird again.

I
N THE EARLY MORNING
(I knew it was early because the air was still cool and there was dampness on the boards of the raft), I heard Timothy shout, “I see an islan’, true.”

In wild excitement, I stumbled up and fell overboard.

I went under the water, yelling for him, then came up, gasping. I heard a splash and knew he was in the water too.

Something slapped up against my leg, and I
thought it was Timothy. I knew how to swim, but didn’t know which way to go. So I was treading water. Then I heard Timothy’s frightened roar, “Sharks,” and he was thrashing about near me.

He grabbed my hair with one hand and used his other arm to drag me back toward the raft. I had turned on my face and was trying to hold my breath. Then I felt my body being thrown, and I was back on the boards of the raft, gasping for air. I knew that Timothy was still in the water because I could hear splashing and cursing.

The raft tilted down suddenly on one side. Timothy was back aboard. Panting, he bent over me. He yelled, “Damn fool mahn! I tol’ you ’bout d’shark!”

I knew Timothy was in a rage. I could hear his heavy breathing and knew he was staring at me. “Shark all ’round us, all d’time,” he roared.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

Timothy said, “On dis raff, you crawl, young bahss. You ’ear me?”

I nodded. His voice was thick with anger, but in a moment, after he took several deep breaths, he asked, “You all right, young bahss?”

I guess he sat down beside me to rest. His breathing was still heavy. Finally, he said, “Mahn die quick out dere.”

We’d both forgotten about the island. I said, “Timothy, you saw an island!”

He laughed. “Yes, d’islan’! Dere ’tis.…”

I said, “Where?”

Timothy answered scornfully, “Dere, look, mahn, look …”

Angrily, I said to him, “I can’t see.” He kept forgetting that.

His voice was low when he said, “Yes, young bahss. Dat be true! In all dis harassment wid d’shark, I did forget.”

Then I felt his hands on my shoulders. He twisted them. “Dat direction, young bahss.”

Straining to look where he had me pointed, I asked, “Are there any people on it?”

“ ’Tis a veree smahl islan’, outrageous low.”

I repeated, “Are there any people on it?” I thought they could contact my father and then send for help.

Timothy answered honestly, “No, young bahss. No people. People not be libin’ on d’islan’ dat ’as no wattah.”

No people. No water. No food. No phones. It was not any better than the raft. In fact, it might be worse. “How far away are we?”

“ ’Bout two mile,” Timothy said.

“Maybe we should stay on the raft. A schooner will see us, or an airplane.”

Timothy said positively, “No, we bettah off on lan’, an’ we driftin’ dat way. D’tide be runnin’ wid us.” His voice was happy. He wanted to be off the sea.

I was certain my father had planes and ships out
looking for us. I said, “Timothy, the Navy is searching for us. I know.”

Timothy did not answer me. He just said, “ ’Tis a pretty ting, to be sure. I see a white beach, an’ behin’ dat, low sea-grape bushes; den on d’hill, some palm. Mebbe twenty, thirty palm.”

I was sure he couldn’t even see that far.

I said, “Timothy, wouldn’t it be better if we stayed on the raft and found a big island with people on it?”

He ignored me. He said, “Bidin’ d’night, I saw surf washin’ white ovah banks off to port, but did not awaken you, young bahss. But knew we be gettin’ near d’cays.…”

I said, “I don’t want to go on that island.”

I don’t think there was anyone on earth as stubborn as old Timothy. There was steel in his voice when he answered, “We be goin’ on dat islan’, young bahss. Dat be true.”

But he knew how I felt now, because he added, “From dis islan’, we will get help. Be true, I swear.…”

I
T SEEMED HOURS
but it was probably only one until Timothy said, “Do not be alarm now, young bahss. I am goin’ to jump into d’wattah an’ kick dis raff to d’shore. Widout dat, we’ll pass d’islan’, by-’n’-by.”

In a moment, I heard a splash on one side of the raft and then Timothy’s feet began drumming the water. I guess he was not afraid of sharks this close in. Soon, he yelled, “Boddam, young bahss, boddam.” His feet had touched sand. In another few
minutes, the raft lurched and I knew it had grounded.

I listened for sounds from shore, hoping there would be a cheerful “hello,” but there were none. Just the wash of the low surf around the raft.

Timothy said, “ ’Ere, young bahss, on my shoulders an’ I’ll fetch you to d’lan’.” He helped me to his back.

I said, “Don’t forget Stew Cat.”

He laughed back heartily. “One at a time, young bahss.”

With me on his back, he splashed ashore, and judging from the time it took, the raft wasn’t very far out. Then he lifted me down again.

“Lan’,” he shouted.

The warm sand did feel good on my feet, and now I was almost glad that we wouldn’t have to spend another night on the hard, wet boards of the raft.

He said, “Touch it, young bahss. Feel d’lan’, ’Tis outrageous good.”

I reached down. The grains of sand felt very fine, almost like powder.

Timothy said, “ ’Tis a beautiful cay, dis cay. Nevah hab I seen dis cay.” Then he led me to sit under a clump of bushes. He said, “You res’ easy while I pull d’raff more out of d’wattah. We mus’ not lose it.”

I sat there in the shade, running sand through
my fingers, wondering where, among all those many islands in the Caribbean, we were.

Timothy shouted up from the water, “Many feesh ’ere.
Langosta
, too, I b’knowin’. We ros’ dem.”

Langosta, I knew, was the native lobster, the one without claws. I heard Timothy splashing around down by the surf and knew he was pulling the raft up as far as he could get it.

A moment later, puffing hard, he flopped down beside me. He said, “Cotch me breath, den I will tour d’islan’, an’ select a place for d’camp.…”

He put Stew Cat into my lap.

“Camp?” I asked, stroking big Stew.

Timothy replied, “We mebbe ’ere two, tree days. So we be libin’ comfortable.”

He could tell I was discouraged because we had come to the island and there were no people on it. He said confidently, “We be rescue, true. Before d’night, I build a great fire pile o’ brush an’ wood. So d’nex’ aircraft dat fly ovah, we set it off.”

“Where are we, Timothy? Near Panama?”

He answered slowly, “I cannot be sure, young bahss. Not veree sure.”

“But you said you knew about the banks and the cays that are near the banks.” I wondered if he knew anything, really, or if he was just a stupid old black man.

Timothy said, “Lissen, I know dat many banks an’ cays are roun’ fifteen north an’ eighty long. Dere is Roncador an’ Serranno; Quito Sueño an’ Serranilla
an’ Rosalind; den dere is Beacon an’ North Cay. Off to d’wes’, somewhere, is Providencia an’ San Andrés …” He paused a moment and then said, “Far ’way, up dere, I tink, is d’Caymens, an’ den Jamaica.”

“But you are not sure of this island?”

Timothy answered gravely, “True, I am not sure.”

“Do the schooners usually come close by here?” I asked.

Again very gravely, Timothy said, “D’mahn who feeshes follows d’feesh. Sartainly, d’feesh be ’ere. I be seein’ wid my own self eyes.”

I kept feeling that Timothy was holding something back from me. It was the tone of his voice. I’d heard my father talk that way a few times. Once, when he didn’t want to tell me my grandfather was about to die; another time was when a car ran over my dog in Virginia.

Of course, both times happened when I was younger. Now, my father was always honest with me, I thought, because he said that in the end that was better. I wished Timothy would be honest with me.

Instead he got up to take a walk around the cay, saying he’d be back in a few minutes. Then Stew Cat wandered away. I called to him but he seemed to be exploring too. Realizing that I was alone on the beach I became frightened.

I knew how helpless I was without Timothy. First I began calling for Stew Cat but when he didn’t
return I began shouting for Timothy. There was no answer. I wondered if he’d fallen down and was hurt. I began to crawl along the beach and ran head on into a clump of low hanging brush.

I sat down again, batting at gnats that were buzzing around my face. Something brushed against my arm, and I yelled out in terror. But I heard a meow and knew it was only Stew Cat. I reached for him and held him tight until I heard brush crackling and sang out, “Timothy?”

“Yes, young bahss,” he called back from quite a distance.

When he was closer, I said harshly, “Never leave me again. Don’t you ever leave me again!”

He laughed. “Dere is nothin’ to fear ’ere. I walked roun’ d’whole islan’, an’ dere is nothin’ but sea grape, sand, a few lil’ lizzard, an’ dose palm tree …”

I repeated, “Never leave me alone, Timothy.”

“All right, young bahss, I promise,” he said.

He must have been looking all around, for he said, “No wattah ’ere, but ’Tis no problem. We still ’ave wattah in d’kag, an’ we will trap more on d’firs’ rain.”

Still believing he wasn’t telling me everything, I said, “You were gone a long time.”

He answered uneasily, “Thirty minutes at mos’. D’islan’ is ’bout one mile long, an’ a half wide, shaped like d’melon. I foun’ a place to make our camp, up near d’palm. ‘Twill be a good place for a lookout. D’rise is ’bout forty feet from d’sea.”

I nodded, then said, “I’m hungry, Timothy.”

We were both hungry. He went back to the raft, took out the keg of water and the tin of biscuits and chocolate.

While we were eating, I said, “You are worried about something, Timothy. Please tell me the truth. I’m old enough to know.”

Timothy waited a long time before answering, probably trying to choose the right words. Finally, he said, “Young bahss, dere is, in dis part of d’sea, a few lil’ cays like dis one, surround on bot’ sides by hombug banks. Dey are cut off from d’res’ o’ d’sea by dese banks.…”