Green Eyes

  He rested his head on her forearm and was amazed by the peace that the warmth of her skin seemed to transmit, as if he had plunged his head into the arc of a prayer. He rubbed his cheek along her arm. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and he felt drifty. The lamplight shaded the skin of her arm from gold into pale olive, like delicate brushwork.

  ‘Jocundra?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He wanted to tell her something, something that would serve as a goodbye in case things didn’t do well; but everything he thought of sounded too final, too certain of disaster.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  She bent her head close to his and let out a shuddery breath. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she whispered.

  Her reassurance reminded him of Shadows, how she had comforted him about the brightness of his eyes, his aches and pains; he felt a rush of anger. It had never been all right, and chances were it never would be. He did not know who to blame. Jocundra had made it bearable, and everyone else was either too weak or too riddled with sickness to be held responsible: it seemed that the whole world had that excuse for villainy.

  There were footsteps and voices in the hall.

  He fumbled with the wire, uncoiled it, thrust it into her hand, making sure she had the grip, and ran to his position near the alcove.

  It almost didn’t work. She almost waited too long. Simpkins yelled ‘Hey!’ and came running in, and at first she thought the door had missed him. But then he pitched forward hard, as if someone had picked him up by the feet and slammed him down, and she saw that the door had pinned his ankle. The chubby man looked back at Simpkins just as Donnell swung, and the club glanced off the side of his head and sent him reeling against the wall. Simpkins screamed. The chubby man bounced off the wall and started walking dreamily toward Jocundra, his hands outstretched, a befuddled look on his face. Blood was trickling onto his ear. He heard Donnell behind him, turned, then - just as Jocundra swung - turned back, confused. She caught him flush on the mouth. He staggered away a step and dropped to his knees. He gave a weird, gurgling cry, and his hands fluttered about his mouth, afraid to touch it. A section of his lip was crushed and smeared up beneath his nose, and his gums were a mush of white fragments and blood. Donnell hit him on the neck, and he rolled under the table and lay still.

  Simpkins’ eyes were dilated, his face ashen, and he had begun to hyperventilate. The door had sunk a couple of inches into his leg above the ankle, and a crescent of his blood stained the wood. Just as they stooped to lift it, a pair of black hands slipped under from the other side and lifted it for them. Jocundra jumped back, Donnell readied his club. The door came up slowly, revealing a pair of brown trousers, a polo shirt, and then the sullen face of the Baron. Simpkins never noticed the door had been raised. His foot flopped at a ridiculous, straw-man angle, and he stared along the nap of the carpet with scrutinous intensity, as if he were reading a tricky green. His nostrils flared.

  ‘You people don’t need no damn help,’ said the Baron, surveying the carnage. Clea peeped out from behind him, depressed-looking and pale.

‘Where’s Otille?’ asked Donnell.

  ‘Seen her downstairs when we’s headin’ up,’ said the Baron; he kicked Simpkins’ leg out of the way and motioned for them to pass on through; then he let the door bang down. ‘What the hell is gon’ on ‘round here? Clea say…’

  ‘Stay away from the veve,’ said Donnell, taking Jocundra by the shoulders. ‘Understand? Find the tapes.’ And then, before she could respond, he said to the Baron, ‘Keep her here,’ and ran toward the stairs. Clea ran after him.

  Despite the warning, Jocundra started to follow, but the Baron blocked her way. ‘Do what he say, woman,’ he said. ‘Way I hear it, ain’t nothin’ we can do down there ‘cept die.’

  Dusk had settled over Maravillosa, and a silvery three-quarter moon had risen high above the shattered trees. Scraps of insulation and roofing blown from the cabins glittered among the debris of fronds and branches and vines. The only sound was of Donnell and Clea crunching through the denuded thickets. Because of Valcours’ weakness, Otille would be leading him along a circuitous and relatively uncluttered path to the veve, so Donnell had made a beeline for it. Clea was breathing hard, squeaking whenever a twig scratched her.

  ‘You should go back,’ he said. ‘You know what he did to Downey.’

  ‘I promise you,’ said Clea, hiccupping. ‘If you don’t get him, then I’m gonna.’

  Donnell glanced back and saw that she was crying.