When the Singing Stops Page 6

  ‘Big rains and high tides, de river flow all over de grass, round de house . . .’

  Matthew turned and smiled at the plump black African woman in a starched white uniform holding a large silver teapot. ‘Thank you for the explanation. You one of the locals?’

  ‘Yeah, I bin born here. My daddy work on the river boats. Dem were days, eh. Good days.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Bad days at the mine some years ago. Every place in Guyana, eh? Now tings still not good. Very quiet. Maybe they close down, yeah? Oh my, de parties dey used t’give here. Oh my.’ She chuckled.

  ‘My name’s Matthew Wright. I’ll be staying up here off and on I expect.’

  ‘I be Shanti. You tell me any ting you want, I get for yo.’

  Matthew gave her a smile. ‘Many thanks.’ He glanced across the river. ‘What’s out there, past the town? Can one go walking or exploring in the bush?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Now why you wanta go and do dat for, eh? You stick to the river. More nice. More safe. Over dere be jumbis. Big moon coming tonight, not safe for walking.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of going walking in the bush this evening actually . . .’

  Shanti peered through the louvres. ‘This bad time of year, rains, big moon and dis night de jumbi walks. You keep dem windows shut in yo room. Put on de air-conditioning.’

  ‘Oh no, the fans are fine. I like the fresh air. Now Shanti, what are jumbis?’

  ‘Dem be bad spirits . . . like ghosts. Come in many types. No good to meet a jumbi.’ She shivered at the thought. ‘I got to take dis silver down for lunch.’ She turned back to him at the stairs. ‘Yo take care tonight.’

  Matthew raised the subject of jumbis towards the end of the meal and Lennie threw back his head. ‘They’re a superstitious bunch. Man, oh man, can they bring up a story to get ’em out of doing something. But you hear some weird stories about spirits, their sort of African voodoo, I guess. But they certainly seem to believe it.’

  That night the Australians met Stewart Johns at his house to discuss their takeover of the mine. ‘It’s a damn shame, good people, a good resource, a good opportunity. But it’s one helluva mess, right?’ The CEO lapsed into one of his famous conference silences. It was a signal for the others to volunteer statements.

  ‘From a technical standpoint we can do it, but the cost will be horrendous,’ Kevin said bluntly.

  ‘And can we sell it to cover the cost?’ added Matthew.

  Johns didn’t answer right away but after a thoughtful pause said, ‘I believe so. AusGeo has never been known to walk away from a challenge, but obviously it would put the company in jeopardy if we took on too many lost causes like this. However, I think we can make Guyminco a reasonably viable proposition for privatisation in twelve months. We can begin by instilling a climate of confidence that’s sadly lacking at the moment.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Despite the government raping the whole operation financially, the current staff have done well given the lack of cash, spare parts, management back-up and overall support. But it can’t continue. They are facing six minutes to shut down,’ he concluded.

  ‘I suppose they all know that,’ said Kevin.

  ‘This is their future. The investment climate in Guyana is healthier now than it has been for a long time. If the people of this country want to get on their feet, then getting this plant running to full capacity and making a profit will be a signal to the government, the people and the rest of the world that there’s a new season starting here.’

  He looked at Matthew and Kevin, and the men nodded. If the CEO said it could be done, they’d do it, despite their reservations. That’s why they had stuck with AusGeo even when other opportunities presented themselves. Johns was an inspirational leader. They loved working for him because it often meant achieving the impossible.

  ‘Right then. We’ll put our thoughts and solutions into a detailed plan of action over the next few weeks. You each know the area you’re to focus on. Get to it, men. I’ll hold the usual daily whinge session at 4.30 Monday to Saturday. Sunday, you’re free.’

  Kevin and Matthew strolled across the lawns in bright moonlight back to Wanika House. ‘I don’t envy you drumming up a marketing campaign,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Got to have a much stronger product to sell first. They’ve lost a lot of ground, market wise, I agree.’

  They went quietly upstairs, had a nightcap together on the verandah and went into their rooms. Matthew noticed the bed was turned down, the windows shut tightly, the air-conditioner blasting cold air into the room. He turned it off, opened the louvres, switched off the light and, ignoring the mosquito net, fell into bed. He hadn’t noticed that the mosquitoes were bad and anyway he felt claustrophobic under a thick net.

  He awoke during the night to a pleasant breeze on his face. But he felt uncomfortable. He stirred and rolled on his side and immediately recoiled and leapt up at the knowledge some creature was on him. Matthew bashed and slapped at his head. Flapping and scratching had suddenly brought him wide awake and he beat something off his neck and reached for the light. The sight of blood on the pillow and more running down the white T-shirt he was wearing, shocked him. He’d felt nothing. A spider, a snake, what . . . he went cold as he looked on the floor beside the bed where a small stunned bat lay, one of its wings beating feebly. For a moment it looked soft and innocuous until he saw the sharp nose, the long teeth, and he shuddered at the realisation it was a vampire bat. He put his hand to his neck and felt the blood trickling in a steady stream. God, how much blood had he lost, he wondered. He felt weak, was it from loss of blood or the horror of how he’d lost it?

  Still holding his fingers pressed against the puncture wound, he went out onto the enclosed verandah, but knew waking Kevin wouldn’t help him. He headed downstairs and went through the lounge and dining room and into the large kitchen. In the moonlight he could see bulky appliances, a refrigerator, a long table and free-standing work bench. He opened the fridge and groped for the tall jug of boiled water, opening cupboards to find a glass. He gulped down the water, refilling the tumbler several times and then pulled open two folding doors that revealed the pantry. Maybe there was a Red Cross kit in here, though what the hell did one put on a vampire bite?

  He was fumbling in the dimness, moving large cans about when the kitchen light snapped on and Shanti, in a faded floral wrapper, stood in the doorway, staring at him in surprise.

  ‘Yo still hungry, Mr Matthew?’

  Then as she saw the blood over him, she gasped. ‘Oh my, oh my Lordy. What happen to yo?’

  Matthew slumped into one of the chairs around the table. ‘Bat bit me. A blood sucker . . . vampire thing. Do they have diseases?’

  ‘Dey no good, no good. You bleed em out long time, Mr Matthew. Maybe is good we go to obeah man. Take on yo clothes and we go dere, right now. He fix you up good.’

  ‘Now? Is he a doctor? Is it far? How do we get there?’

  ‘Yo quit yo talking and get you ready. Yes, we go dere, right now.’ Shanti bustled, almost talking to herself as she hurried back to her room to dress.

  Matthew felt his neck. It was still sticky and oozing blood. He was too tired to argue. He trudged upstairs, pulled on his jeans and a cotton shirt, throwing the blood-stained T-shirt on the bed.

  They walked swiftly through the grounds and along the drive to the dirt road that led into the township. ‘It not be far,’ said Shanti.

  ‘Who is it again we’re seeing?’ asked Matthew, suddenly aware of how crazy the situation seemed. Why was he following the solid shape of the housekeeper through bright moonlight at some ungodly hour? He’d gone to bed close to midnight, it must be about 2 am, thought Matthew. He’d left his watch by the washbasin in his bathroom.

  Shanti turned into a lane beside darkened wooden shacks, partly screened by banana trees and straggly palms. ‘We see Pundit Silk, he good Indian obeah man.’

  ‘What’s an obeah man?’ It seemed to Matthew he had
heard stories about them at the Krupuks’ party, but now couldn’t recall what exactly.

  ‘He be spirit doctor. Take out bad blood and spells from the beast dat bite you.’

  Matthew stopped suddenly. ‘Wait a minute, you mean he’s like a witchdoctor? Not a doctor-doctor?’

  ‘He be doctor.’ Shanti took his arm and urged him forward. ‘You no fret yoself now. You must do dis or you get sick. Maybe die.’

  ‘From what exactly? Rabies?’

  Shanti looked at him in exasperation, pointing to his bleeding neck. ‘You have bad spirit put in you, maybe someone put spell on you. Maybe mean for someone else. But you got it, boy. You fix ’im up, Pundit fix you up. True, true.’

  ‘Isn’t there a western, a European doctor in the town?’ asked Matthew miserably, as he continued to follow Shanti.

  She stopped outside a simple wooden cottage. ‘You wait, I tell Silk we is here.’

  Matthew watched her go to the house and open the door. There was a murmur of voices and a dim light flowered inside. Shanti appeared in the front yard. ‘Come, Mister Matthew. Silk be here. He fix you. He say he knowed dere would be someone here tonight.’

  ‘Is that so.’ Matthew felt defeated and figured he’d go along with this unless it got really weird. He walked into the house.

  He couldn’t see much because it was dark, then Shanti took his arm and they went into a room where a lantern burned. A tall thin man, who looked to be in his sixties, stood before them. He was clean shaven though his hair was long and he wore what at first seemed to be pyjamas but Matthew then realised was a long, loose, collarless shirt over baggy cotton pants. He had an imposing air, he held himself very straight and he gestured to Matthew to be seated as though receiving guests in a well-to-do establishment. His poise and confidence inspired a sense of trust and Matthew sat on the stool he indicated. ‘I am Silk. Pundit Silk. So, you have been attacked. This is not good. But have no fear, Silk will attend to you.’

  He leaned forward and began examining Matthew, probing the glands in his neck, peering at the small wound. He was as professional as a western medical practitioner. He directed Shanti to light candles while he reached for a bowl partly filled with water. With a clean square of cloth, he began to cleanse the wound. Matthew started to relax slightly.

  ‘Is it infected? What do these creatures carry? I guess I shouldn’t have opened the windows.’

  Silk raised a hand to still Matthew’s talk. ‘They be after you. Now, first we stop the blood.’

  In the additional light from the candles lit by Shanti, Matthew saw an array of small jars and pots and dried grasses. Silk began painting a variety of creams and oils across the puncture marks on Matthew’s neck. The smells were strange and Matthew closed his eyes asking, ‘What’s that, what’s that one?’

  In a slightly singsong voice, Silk reeled them off. ‘White lavender oil, dragon’s blood, indigo blue, bergamot, oil of seven planets. Now you hold these musk leaves while I say the prayers.’

  ‘Oh, here it comes,’ thought Matthew. But he sat still because after an initial flush of heat, his neck felt looser, the swelling and tightness seemed to have lessened. He supposed this was some sort of herbal remedy. But within minutes he felt sleepy, and he struggled to open his eyes. He was aware Silk was saying something about the Book of Moses, psalm 29, casting out evil spirits and then he heard no more.

  Kevin arose early after a restless night. He was not normally a dawn riser, but he padded out onto the verandah and, noticing Matthew’s door open, stuck his head inside.

  ‘Matthew?’

  Seeing the room empty he was about to turn away but something caught his eye. He went to the bed and picked up the bloodied T-shirt. ‘Matthew . . . ?’ He slammed into the bathroom, finding it empty but noting the blood in the sink and a bloodied towel. ‘Jesus, what’s happened . . .’ he ran from the room.

  In a few minutes a wide-eyed houseman and one of the maids stood gazing about Matthew’s room. ‘We no hear nothin’, chief.’

  ‘I’d better call Stewart Johns . . .’ The houseman stooped by the bed. ‘Oh ma Lordy, dis be de devil. He bin bit.’

  ‘What?’ Kevin spun around as the African man pointed at the floor. He hurried to his side. ‘What, what are you saying?’

  ‘Dere, chief. De devil bat.’

  ‘My God, is it a vampire bat?’

  Matthew opened his eyes to discover he was lying on a small bed and the daylight was bright outside. He sat bolt upright, his hand going to his neck. There was a neat white cotton square taped in place. He suddenly felt stronger and ravenously hungry.

  As soon as his feet hit the floor a smiling Shanti appeared in the room. ‘You all better now, me tinks, eh?’

  ‘God, what time is it? What happened?’

  ‘Silk said spirits suck away yo blood, put in bad tings. Silk take dem out. He put in good tings. He wash you with dead water and use de medicine and say de prayers. Now you good Guyanese, go to obeah man, eh?’

  ‘I guess so. I feel better, that’s for sure. What’s dead water, Shanti?’

  She busied herself and didn’t look at him but answered matter of factly. ‘Water dey wash dead people with.’

  A shiver of revulsion went through Matthew and his stomach turned over but he refused to dwell on this. ‘I’d better get back to Wanika House before anyone panics.’

  ‘I got to do de breakfast, come, we go. You say farewell to Silk ’nother time. He busy.’

  ‘Don’t I have to pay him something?’

  ‘Yeah, Mister Matthew. Just little bit. You got American dollar?’

  ‘No. Now only Guyanese money’

  Shanti laughed. ‘Lotta Guyanese money no buy too much, eh? You give him ten dollars. Silk say you easy one.’

  Matthew reached into the hip pocket of his jeans to pull out his wallet and discovered a small pouch tucked in beside it. He turned over the little leather bag. ‘What’s this?’ He lifted it up to open it. ‘God, it smells awful.’

  ‘Dat be yo talisman. Obeah man say you keep it by you. Keep you safe.’

  ‘No more bat bites, eh?’ Matthew was slightly bemused at the neatly stitched waterproof pouch. He opened it to find a scrap of paper with Hindi characters written on it and a sliver of strong-smelling gum resin.

  ‘Asafoetida . . . smell bad but keep evil spirits away,’ explained Shanti.

  ‘And possibly friends too.’ Matthew grinned and slid the little bag back in his pocket, pulled out ten dollars and left it on the table by a candle and fresh flower.

  They strolled back along the little road now active with early morning traffic. Matthew pondered at the difference between walking this unknown path at night, fearful and faint, and now in sunlight, feeling extraordinarily well and cheerful.

  They walked down the drive and Matthew delighted in the scarlet flowers on a tree, the grand white Wanika House, the greenness of the lawns and the vista of the river behind. Life felt good. He liked this place, this country. He was overwhelmed with a sense of well-being and he decided he would persuade Madison to come out here and join him.

  ‘What’s for breakfast, Shanti? I’m starving.’

  At that moment a shout rang out. ‘There he is! Christ, Matthew, what happened to you?’ Kevin came sprinting towards him. Several other men appeared around the guesthouse and at windows that faced the front drive.

  ‘Oh God, you’re all looking for me. Sorry.’

  ‘At first we thought you’d been murdered. Then we saw the bat and thought you might be bleeding to death or fallen in the river. The groundsman started telling us these bloody horror stories.’

  Johns joined them. ‘You gave us a bit of a fright, Matthew. You look all right. Where did you go? I tried to find the local doctor in case you’d tried to get medical attention.’

  ‘Is there a regular doctor here?’

  ‘Not full-time.’

  ‘Shanti took me to the obeah man. Pundit Silk. I guess I’d lost more blood than I thought. I passed out
, I think. But I’m fine now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Johns glanced at Shanti going into the kitchen entrance of the house. ‘These magic men can be a bit . . . dubious.’

  ‘What did he do to you? Smells a bit off.’ Kevin peered at Matthew’s neck dressing.

  Matthew was reluctant to pass on too much of what happened. It now seemed like a strange dream. He pulled the cotton bandage to one side showing the bites on his neck, now just slightly red. ‘It was hard to stop the bleeding. They must use something to help the blood coagulate. I’ll make sure I shut the windows tonight.’

  ‘They’re not common. It was a million to one chance. Don’t let it put you off the place,’ said Johns.

  ‘Funny thing is, it hasn’t. In fact, I feel like I’m on some sort of high. Thrilled to be here, can’t wait to get involved in the rich tapestry of Guyana . . .’

  They all laughed and headed towards the dining room.

  ‘That toast and bacon smells good,’ declared Kevin.

  ‘I’ll just have a quick shower and be right with you,’ said Matthew.

  Standing under the hot water was a relief, despite the erratic pressure. Matthew wanted to wash away the dead water and whatever else was on his skin. But his sense of euphoria didn’t fade and he couldn’t shake the idea that Guyana was going to be a very significant experience in his life.

  FOUR

  It was a fat envelope and Madison studied the large bright Guyanese stamps. One was a purple orchid—Cattleya violacea, Queen of the orchids was printed in small letters. The other stamp was a strange bird—Opisthocomus hoatzin (Canje Pheasant) National Bird of Guyana—which looked like a prehistoric winged reptile. The small coloured squares gave her a feeling of anticipation and excitement. Savouring the delight to come, she slid the unopened envelope into her handbag. Her brother’s letter would be a treat to have with a cappuccino.

  She felt utterly wicked as she browsed through dress shops debating whether to buy a new suit for work. Yet here she was for the first time she could remember, taking a ‘sickie’, a day off work for no good reason. Well, she did have a reason, even if it was vague and would not please her boss or the doctor. She was unsettled. It wasn’t tiredness or depression or a feeling of not coping. It was an uncomfortable sense that life had no essence to it. No real meaning. She was going through the motions.