Limekiller!

Limekiller was saved from having to defend himself from the charge; “Never knew the good lady myself,” said Daddy; “now, what is your asking price for this lovely piece of land, now, John? It is lovely, I don’t deny that, not trying to beatchew down, told m’wife I wouldn’t, ‘No, that’s not your way, and isn’t my way either,’ she said. Eh?”

Limekiller: “Well.

“Might as well ask, before we go into some in-depth explorations, they call it; course, can’t be expected to sign-seal-deliver right here and now: still."

One thousand dollars an acre was Limekiller’s price, not his “asking price,” his price. Nor would he care to sell less than the whole piece, although of course the buyer could do that himself, if he wished. (And, of course, if he wished to do that too much, he- the-buyer might soon find himself being asked if he had an estate broker’s license, or was registered as a land agent under the Act of 20th Victoria, cap. VI, or the other way round: or stuff)

Doctor Ed Duckerson nodded slowly, gravely, thoughtfully. It was not a totally outrageous price, he did not say that he would Think It Over, though of course he would not only think, he would talk it over. out loud. with, eventually, someone besides his wife. As why not? Inevitable as well as reasonable. Inevitably, if one hell of a lot less reasonably, someone to whom he would mention it would guffaw, express incredulity, question Limekiller’s being more than a mere rogue or scaped tom o’bedlam, wind up saying, “Doctor, I can get you five thousand acres. now mark and mind what I say, Doctor. five thousand acres. at fifty cents an acre. local currency.!”

And, unless this one were a mere rogue: he could!

Sooner or later, Dr. Ed, being no simon-pure fool, would find out that the five thousand acres were either all under water, or mostly mud-and-mangrove, unreachable by road, not on anything like a real river or creek navigable by any reasonable vessel. But the sound of LAND AT 50c PER ACRE would remain in his mind like a taste in his mouth. And poison the taste of Land At $1,000 an Acre.

Daddy was really not going to buy.

Johnny was not really wanting to sell.

Daddy would have had a real nice trip at a real cheap price.

Limekiller would have delayed pellagra, the patron, and the gaol, for another month or tw?o.

But the talk between them went on. And on. And on. Climate. Politics. Prices. Costs. The whole Caribbean Scene. And on. And

Doctor Ed said, “Well, now, a country the size ofjamaica, now' Ella and I w'ere, hev, Ella? Say, Ella? Mommy? Now', shucks. Where’s she got to?”

“Oh Christ I could kick myself. I hope she isn’t lost!”

The bird sang sorrowfully in the vine-clasped trees.

Something made a sudden tiny sound; something flashed. another flash. another tiny sound. something landed, exquisitely. perfectly… in a cupped leaf he barely had to stoop to reach… it must have fallen and struck a few other leaves on its wav down: down from where? For a second more he stayed his hand, looked up. The bird was darting down, saw his face, darted aw ay again, did neither wait nor pause. Something flashed in its beak: had it somehow eluded him, and — no.

In the hollow' of the leaf w'as still. whatever it had been a moment ago.

It was so tiny, so fragile-looking, his fingers seemed enormous as he shook it into his palm rather than try picking it up and loosing it: once on the forest floor he might never find it: what was it? A golden ring. A ring so tiny that it must have been made for the finger of, not alone a child, a small child. Either that: or it was faerie gold: and perhaps it was!

Perhaps, also, and this was likelier and perhaps at least as marvelous, it w'as of Amerindian workmanship. Not modern Amerindian; those descendants of the Chipchaks who had returned, after an absence of a thousand years to this land abandoned by their ancestors, they did not work in gold, they bought their gold already-wrought from jew'elers — non-national Spanish, moved also here from elsew'here — or from Turks — no matter. Ancient American Indian. Old Kingdom… or maybe even earlier than that. He gave one tiny moment more of thought to the tiny child whose tiny brown finger had w'orn the ring, oh, God, heartbreakingly long centuries before. He looked up.

The bird was gone, what kind of bird he could not even say: amid the stuff which legends are made on he forced himself to the stuff of known facts: jackdaws were noted for stealing glittery things; crows often did, and no doubt not they alone: somewhere, somewhere, somewhere nearly by, it seemed, the bird had found the ring: no: had found two, at least tw'o rings: one had dropped; one it still had. Begrudge not.

He grudged not. but what did it mean?