Limekiller!

There were rumors of mules, of ox-carts, or of horse-drawn drays. People assured Limekiller that they had seen them. But, then, people assured Limekiller that they had seen Jesus, too.

And so, speaking of which

— Or, rather. Whom.

The Anglican Church in Port Caroline, a fortress — for the most part — of old-time Methodism, was very, very small, and very, very white. Father Nollekens, on the other hand, though also very, very small, was very, very black. He was not a native of the colony, he had been born in Barbados, and educated at Coddrington College, that ancient (and, incidentally, also Anglican) foundation there.

“Why, yes, Mr. Limekiller. I had word from His Grace that you might be around. You are having difficulties in gathering the building supplies for His Lordship’s bungalow.” These were not questions, they were statements. “Now suppose that you give me a list of the places which you will need to visit. And we will inform you.” Father Nollekens did not say of what they would inform him

“Well, thank you, Father. Let’s see, I will be. 1 will be. ”

Father Nollekens waves his small hand. “Oh, do not concern yourself, sir. We will find you.”

Jack waited until he was outside before he shrugged.

He was moodily loading up on the fish-tea and country peppers at the My Dream Restaurant, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Proprietors, when a heavy-set man whom he recognized as Peter Bennetson, the trucker, approached, and said, “You muss eat fahster, Mr. Limekiller, as we do has quite a journey to mehk.”

Jack blinked. “I thought you don’t go beyond Mile Ten.”

“Well, sah, tell de truf, seldom does I do so. But when Fahder Nollekens mehk requess, muss obey.” Bennetson smiled. Limekiller left a tiny tip, paid for his meal, followed Peter out the door. The truck was enormous, it was not the same one at all which the man had been driving the last time. Had Jack underestimated the powers of the Church of England? “You’re an Anglican, then —?”

Bennetson was polite, but he was firm. He was a Catholic, a Roman Catholic. But he was also a member of the local Lodge of the Wise Men of Wales: not only was Rev. Fr. Nollekens also one, but he was also one of the Grand Chaplains of the Grand Lodge of the Wise Men of Wales, an organization not previously known to Jack — and perhaps equally unknown to Wales. “Yes, sah. When ah bruddah ahsk, ahl we uddah bruddah muss obey.”

It took the whole day, but they got it all, ever)' last bit of it. even the seasoned timber from Bamboo Point, which was connected to the known world only by what was termed, on the official map, a “Truck Pass” — a term not having anything to do with motor vehicles at all, as many a foreigner had learned the hard way — a truck pass, in Hidalgo, was a trail passable by ox-drawn wagons, of which one or two were rumored to survive, still, in the remoter regions. In the five years since this trail had last been used by anything larger than an iguana, it had been considerably overgrown. and, in Hidalgo, overgrowth grew over very, very rapidly. But it all yielded. Sometimes, more easily than others. Fortunately there were three of them; somewhere along the way, on or about Mile 20, they had picked up what would in North America be called a hitchhiker: here, there was not a name: one simply “hailed” a passing vehicle with a wig-wag motion, the car (or truck) either stopped or didn’t; and it was customary for the hailer to ask, at the conclusion, “How much I have for you?” It was customary for the driver to tell him. Limekiller never learned the young man’s name — he thought of him as Mile 20 — but the young man was a not-so-easy-rider and evidently thought the labor he helped put in was worth the free trip… to say nothing of the time. but perhaps, without this lift (“or drop”) he might have stood back at the milepost all the long, hot day.

The sun was declining behind the green mountain, if not the green sea, when they made their last trip through Port Caroline on route to the pier. Limekiller suggested that they stop at The Fisherman Wharf for a cool drink. No protests were received. Inside the bar-room, its massive arches made in a style of masonry no longer practiced locally (and perhaps nowhere else), a polite degree of polite interest was shown in their day’s work and its purpose.

“Eendiahn fof-shup going lo-cate een Curasow Cove.”

“Very good teeng, mon. Very good teeng.”

“Me weesh he ahlready dere noew!”

This sentiment, innocuous to Limekiller, seemed freighted with more meaning than was universally welcome; and the man who announced it was several times invited to hush his mouth: and did so.

“Say, that reminds me,” Limekiller said, looking up. Many eyes looked at him, waiting politely to hear what he had been reminded of. “I’ll need a crew. Say, two men? To help me? There’s no pier down there. Help me unload, and so on.” There was a slow silence. “Anybody interested?”