Limekiller!

Now, had either the United Church of Canada or the Continuing Presbyterian Church thereof been in charge of Jack’s constitution (repatriated or otherwise), he would and should have awakened with all the full horrors of hangover, but — and although the words drunkenness and fornication did mumble faintly in his ears — he merely felt faintly faint and queasy as the rosy-fingered dawn poked him in both eyes. So much for his ears and eyes; his mouth? God’s Wownds. His nose? His nose reminded him that he was moored off Corn Meal Wharf and that on Corn Meal Wharf Grandy Janedy always had a pot (a cauldron, rather) of cow-foot soup for sale to early-bird boatmen. He was somewhat draggy, getting to her stall, but once there no words were necessary. He didn’t even need to point, just gave over a shilling, helped himself to a battered bowl and spoon, she dipped him a dipper of the gluey but oh-so-savory and nourishing pottage, he sat down on the curb, clattered a moment with the spoon, then simply lifted the bowl, and drank. and drank. with occasional pauses to chew the solids. which bv now were fairlv soft and merelv semi-solids anyway. and drank.

Immediately he felt better. After a second bowl he felt fairly fine. Grandy Janedy, understanding All, had allowed him his silence. For a while. He no longer needing it, “I see you does have you jumble beans,” said the oldest practicing alchemist in King Town.

“Beg pardon, Grandy Janedy?”

“You jumble beans. Dot is good.” She had made a gesture before turning to another customer. Limekiller looked where she had pointed. On his left wrist was a, well, a sort of bracelet of strong thread on which were threaded a number of black-and-red colored berries. He would not have thought of them as beans, but, what the hell. Funny thing to wake up with: much to be preferred, however, to a tattoo and a case of clap. In between each “bean” was a knot, and, seaman though he thought himself to be, these knots he did not recognize. Well… Oh-

Yes. He had “shouted” a drink of rum for an old Bavwoman, in The Bucket, last night, and he retained some morsel of memory of her placing the bracelet round his wrist. What it meant, God only knew, maybe they had plighted their troth; at this hour of the day and after those hours of the night, if Brandy Janedy’s only comment was, good, well, so be it and be it so: instantly he forgot all about it, and, handing back bowl and spoon and adding his thanks, he considered the tasks the day held for him.

The voyage, or Luttle Trup, as he by now half-thought of it himself, could not last less than one long day, and could last as long as two. Or three. Fresh or even cooked meat could last as long as the ice, and the ice, in the styrofoam cooler, would last. well. not very long. Fish he might catch, he might not, the Duckersons might like the way he cooked it, they might not, Mrs. Duckerson might wish to cook it herself, she might not. So: canned goods (tinned, here), and in sufficient quantity, was a must. Rice and beans and the coconut oil to cook them with would they eat them/it? He had found that adding annatto, the native. was it pimiento?. added not only an exotic taste but also a reddish- orange color; otherwise, “rice-ahn-bean” did tend to look lustreless; Jack himself was not an annatto fan especially, but business was business. Fruit: yes! fresh fruit. Bananas for snacks, plantains to cook, breadfruit chiefly so that they could say they’d eaten breadfruit, maybe find some good oranges and if lucky something both unusual and tasty enough to bother taking. Star-apple, mawmee-apple, if in season -

Had he thought, when contemplating with joy the prospect of restoring his newlv-acquired (but oh by no means new) boat from its draggle-tailed and half-tipsv state, that in becoming a boatman he would become a caterer, too? No, he had not —

— What might be in season, though, might not necessarily be on sale in the Central, or Main, Market (or any other King Town market, for that matter). It had, earlv-on, seemed to him that the local economy had holes in it, large and gaping holes in the matter not so much of production (it had those, too) but of distribution; and he had the flashing thought that somehow he might help fill those holes; he was awhile in finding out that this amounted to hoping to fill the holes in a piece of lace: the holes were part of the pattern.

Time for a drink.

By the rarest coincidence, there was the Democracy Club, aptly-named, and wide open for trade: tlot-tlot in he went; “Hello, John,” said a familiar voice in familiar tones. In what war in which regiment Pygore had served as Colonel, Limekiller did not know, anymore than he knew why Pygore was as Pygore was: unless.

“Hello, Peter, Have a drink.”