Limekiller!

‘“The fetish Zumbi,’” repeated the Professor. “Never heard of it as a fetish… or an animal. and as for a tree, well, they say it hates the silky-tree. Hates and fears it. No one knows why. Anymore than one knows why it hates those berry beads. Perhaps they each — tree, beads — have a scent or odor it can’t stand… — But I never dreamed of it as a fetish or an animal —”

Pygore rubbed his tired grey eyes, formed, seemingly, to see (or seer?) on cooler, greyer seas than these. And 1 beneath a rougher Sea, / And whelmed in deeper Gulphs than he.. Said, “There are more things in West Africa, Brolly — and, for that matter, closer or farther than there — than are dreamed of. ”

Now it was the professor who murmured. “Zumbi,” he said. “Zomby. Duppy. and. There is a connection. Has to be.”

“All Hobson-Jobson, Brolly,” Pygore said. “One hears a word, or words, which one doesn’t know, one assimilates it to a word or words one does. So: can the natives in India be chanting Hassan! Hussein!.? No. What they’re chanting is, obviously, Hobson! Jobson! And, as wre’re talking Hobson-Jobson, let us talk about ‘duppy’

Now it was Limekiller who spoke. Somewhat to his own surprise. Though not much. Wanted, somehow, much, to say: Don’t talk about it. Prevented himself. Said, instead: “Barkeep: my round.” if you won’t accept ‘doppelganger’

“I won’t.”

„— what about dumby — with the b not silent?”

“Why should the b not be silent?”

Limekiller, silent, drank. And drank.

“Suppose one were attempting to pronounce the word and one’s native language was not English?”

Brolly said, “Suppose… is what you mean. the b was not silent, but the dumfy was?”

Not so damned silent, echoed. echoed? shrieked… in Limekiller’s inner ears.

“Zumbi, zomby. Mumbo-jumbo? Hobson-Jobson? Zumbi, jumby. Don’t talk about it! “Well. Let us make up another etymology. What about jumby, from jamby, from French jambe, from French jambe, leg. That is, the adjective would mean legged. Seem to recall. Morte Darthur? One with strong legs?”

A pause, but a brief one. “Not jumby: Jumpy! Because it jumps! It does jump! Oh God how it jumps!” On-leaper, midnight or midday; Limekiller’s leg twitched, his hand convulsed — his face -

“If, John Limekiller,” said “Pygore, in his tired, tired voice, “you must also jump, perhaps you could manage to spill your rum into my glass and not onto my sleeve. ” He at that moment looked up from his sleeve, their eyes met, and Pygore’s expression of mildest and almost bored concern turned (and very suddenly and very completely) into one of. something else.

Very lightly, very briefly, Pygore placed his hand on Limekiller’s shoulder.

Limekiller said nothing.

Pygore said nothing.

Pygore knew.

MANATEE GAL, WONT YOU COME OUT TONIGHT

The Cupid Club was the only waterhole on the Port Cockatoo waterfront. To be sure, there were two or three liquor booths back in the part where the tiny town ebbed away into the bush. But they were closed for siesta, certainly. And they sold nothing but watered rum and warm soft-drinks and loose cigarettes. Also, they were away from the breezes off the Bay which kept away the flies. In British Hidalgo gnats were flies, mosquitoes were flies, sand-flies — worst of all — were flies — flies were also flies: and if anyone were inclined to question this nomenclature, there was the unquestionable fact that mosquito itself was merely Spanish for little fly.

It was not really cool in the Cupid Club (Alfonso Key, prop., LICENSED TO SELL WINE, SPIRITS, BEER, ALE, CYDER AND PERRY). But it was certainly less hot than outside. Outside the sun burned the Bay, turning it into molten sparkles. Limekiller’s boat stood at mooring, by very slightly raising his head he could see her, and every so often he did raise it. There wasn’t much aboard to tempt thieves, and there weren’t many thieves in Port Cockatoo, anyway. On the other hand, what was aboard the Saccharissa he could not very well spare; and it only took one thief, after all. So every now and then he did raise his head and make sure that no small boat was out by his own. No skiff or dory.

Probably the only thief in town was taking his own siesta.

“Nutmeg P’int,” said Alfonso Key. “You been to Nutmeg P’int?”

“Been there.”

Every place needs another place to make light fun of. In King Town, the old colonial capital, it was Port Cockatoo. Limekiller wondered what it was they made fun of, down at Nutmeg Point.

“What brings it into your mind, Alfonso?” he asked, taking his eyes from the boat. All clear. Briefly he met his own face in the mirror. Wasn’t much of a face, in his own opinion. Someone had once called him “Young Count Tolstoy.” Wasn’t much point in shaving, anyway.