rm.thenightboat-第15部分

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another　hatch　on　the　aft　deck；　covered　with　the　tendrils　of　cables；　and　he　couldn't　work　them　away　alone。　But　on　the　fore　deck；　near　the　gun's　snout；　there　was　a　third　hatch；　the　seam　line　marking　a　large　rectangular　opening。　It　was　covered　over　by　a　broken　planked　lid。
　　Turk　bent　down；　his　eyes　following　the　circle　of　the　light；　and　lifted　the　hatch　cover　to　examine　the　iron　again。　How　thick　would　this　bitch　be？　he　wondered。　He　banged　a　hand　against　the　iron　and　knew　it　was　going　to　be　a　hell　of　a　job。　He　sat　back　on　his　haunches　and　swung　the　light　toward　the　spear…point　of　the　bow　far　ahead。　Hell　of　a　big　mothafucker；　he　thought。　His　impulse　to　burn　through　was　stronger　than　ever；　though　he　was　oddly　unnerved　by　the　sheer　size　of　the　boat。　There　was　probably　no　gold　inside；　but　what　about　souvenirs？　he　wondered。　The　dealers　in　Kingston　and　Port…au…Prince　could　move　anything。　And　there　was　a　collector　for　everything　under　the　sun。　He　might　be　able　to　get　a　good　price　for　some　of　the　equipment　inside；　maybe　find　himself　the　skeleton　of　a　pistol　or　intact　instrument　gauges。　And　what　about　bodies？　Maybe　they　in　here；　may　they　ain't。　e　on；　e　on；　you　got　a　job　to　do。
　　Something　made　a　noise　on　the　other　side　of　the　shelter；　Turk　swung　his　light　around；　swearing　softly。　The　rattle　of　a　can。　The　flashlight　beam　shone　through　thick　clumps　of　brown　weed　that　hung　down　from　the　tower　bulwark；　and　he　could　smell　the　sea　in　them。　Another　rat；　Turk　told　himself。　The　shelter　was　filled　with　the　things；　big　bloated　wharf　rats　that　ate　the　dockside　roaches。　He'd　best　get　on　with　it。
　　Hidden　back　in　the　carpentry　shop；　covered　by　an　oily　tarpaulin；　was　a　cylinder　truck…an　apparatus　like　a　pushcart…with　a　cylinder　of　acetylene　gas　and　a　larger　cylinder　filled　with　oxygen。　From　the　two　cylinders　there　were　hoses　that　connected　to　the　welding…torch　unit；　providing　a　flammable　mix　of　the　gas；　in　this　case；　for　the　cutting　process。　Turk　had　wheeled　the　unit　over　to　the　shelter　just　before　quitting　time　and　had　hidden　it　in　the　carpentry　shop。　He　was　taking　a　chance；　if　Cochran　had　decided　to　take　a　check　of　the　supply　shed；　but　the　worker　in　charge　of　the　equipment　was　a　lazy　bastard；　Turk　thought。　Which　had　worked　out　fine　for　him。
　　Now　he　wheeled　the　truck　over　the　gangplank　onto　the　deck；　carefully　because　it　was　fairly　heavy　and　the　planks　groaned　beneath　its　weight。　He　got　the　truck　positioned　as　he　wanted　it　before　putting　on　the　welder's　mask　he'd　left　hanging　on　the　truck　frame。　Turning　on　the　valves　to　release　the　gas　and　oxygen　flow；　he　used　his　striker　to　spark　the　torch　tip　and　it　sprang　into　life；　a　soft　orange　glow　in　the　darkness。　He　adjusted　the　mix　until　he　was　ready；　then　bent　down　and　began　to　work；　his　hand　moving　in　a　smooth　semicircular　motion。
　　Over　the　soft　hissssss　of　the　burning　gas　he　heard　the　great　boat　moan；　like　a　sluggish　and　heavy　creature　awakening　from　sleep。
　　
　　In　the　small　bedroom　of　a　brown…painted　stucco　house　across　the　island；　Steven　Kip　jerked　suddenly　and　his　eyes　opened。
　　He　lay　very　still；　listening　to　the　repetitious　voice　of　the　surf；　wondered　what　it　was　that　had　awakened　him。　Beside　him　his　wife；　Myra；　was　sleeping　peacefully；　one　slender　arm　thrown　out　across　his　chest；　her　body　pressed　against　his　side。　He　turned　his　head　and　kissed　her　very　softly　on　the　cheek；　and　she　rustled　the　sheet　and　smiled。　They　had　been　through　a　lot　together；　and　though　the　years　had　made　Kip　tougher　and　more　cynical；　they　had　been　gentle　with　her。　There　were　laugh　lines　around　her　eyes　and　mouth；　but　they　were　lines　of　good　living。　He　kissed　her　again。　He　was　a　light　sleeper；　so　anything　could　have　awakened　him：　a　wave　breaking；　the　clatter　of　a　coconut　palm；　the　shrill　of　a　nightbird。　He　waited　for　a　few　moments。　Still　nothing。　All　familiar　sounds　he　had　heard　a　thousand　times　before。　He　lay　his　head　back　on　the　pillow　beside　hers；　and　closed　his　eyes。
　　Then　he　heard　it　again。
　　A　muffled　stacatto　of　drums；　echoing　from　somewhere　distant。
　　He　sat　up；　drew　the　covers　aside；　and　rose　from　the　bed。　Myra　stirred　and　lifted　her　head。　〃It's　nothing；　baby；〃　he　whispered。　〃Go　back　to　sleep。　I'm　going　to　have　to　go　out。〃
　　〃Where　are　you　going？〃　she　asked；　rubbing　her　eyes。　〃What　time　is　it？〃
　　〃After　three。　Lie　back　now；　and　sleep。　I　won't　be　long。〃　Already　he　was　getting　into　his　trousers；　then　buttoning　his　shirt。　Myra　pulled　the　sheet　up　around　her；　and　Kip　crossed　the　room　to　peer　out　through　a　window　that　faced　the　harbor。　It　was　pitch　black　out　there　except　for　the　stars；　tiny　clusters　of　light　in　the　sky　like　the　wheelhouse　lanterns　of　a　thousand　spectral　ships　against　a　black　ocean。
　　Then；　again；　echoing　through　the　jungle；　the　sharp　rattle　of　the　drums；　Kip's　skin　tightened　at　the　back　of　his　neck。　Damn　it　to　hell！　he　thought；　pulling　on　his　shoes　and　leaving　the　house　as　quietly　as　possible。
　　He　drove　the　jeep　to　Front　Street；　turned　along　the　dark　shanty　village　on　the　harbor　rim　and　toward　the　jungle；　the　wind　sharp　in　his　face。　He　watched　the　windows　for　lights　and　searched　the　streets　for　moving　figures；　but　no　one　was　stirring。　Who　else　was　listening　to　those　drums？　How　many　lay　in　the　dark；　eyes　open；　trying　to　read　the　message　that　was　swept　across　the　island　with　the　early　breezes？　Kip　knew　what　it　had　to　be：　Boniface　conducting　a　ritual　over　the　boat。　Damn　the　man！　Kip　cursed　silently；　still　watching　for　lights。　I'm　the　law　here；　the　only　law；　above　and　beyond　Boniface's　voodoo　gods。
　　Along　Front　Street　where　the　jungle　bent　down　low　in　strange　shadowy　shapes；　he　saw　several　men　standing　in　the　road。　When　his　headlights　touched　them　they　twisted　away　before　he　had　a　chance　to　recognize　any　of　them。　They　leaped　into　the　surrounding　underbrush　and　were　gone　in　a　few　seconds。　When　Kip　came　to　the　church；　he　found　it　darkened　and　deserted。　He　stopped　the　jeep　and　sat　there　for　a　few　moments；　listening。　When　the　next　brief　flurry　of　drums　came；　still　somewhat　distant；　Kip　caught　their　direction。　He　took　a　flashlight　from　a　storage　box　on　the　rear　floorboard；　clicked　it　on；　and　climbed　down　from　the　jeep。
　　There　was　a　narrow　path　leading　past　the　chicken　coop　and　Kip　walked　along　it　as　silently　as　he　could；　the　thorns　catching　at　his　shirt。　The　jungle　was　densely　black　on　all　sides　and　quiet　but　for　the　persistent；　steady　drone　of　insects。　In　a　few　more　minutes　he　could　hear　fragments　of　voices；　the　sudden　crying　out　of　what　sounded　like　several　women　at　once；　the　forceful　voice　of　a　man；　all　punctuated　by　sudden　bursts　of　the　rapid　drums。　He　went　on；　following　the　path　even　when　he　was　forced　to　crawl　beneath　a　thick　cluster　of　wiry　brush。　The　voices　became　progressively　louder；　more　frantic；　and　at　last　he　caught　a　glimmer　of　light　ahead。　The　drums　pounded　a　steady　rhythm；　three　or　four　patterns　intertwining；　louder　and　louder；　each　beat　acpanied　by　a　scream　or　a　shout　as　if　the　drums　themselves　were　crying　out　in　either　pain　or　ecstasy。　The　noise　grew　until　the　drumming　was　inside　Kip's　head；　a　wild　and　unconfined　frenzy　of　sound。　And　through　the　drum　voices　there　was　the　voice　of　a　man；　rising　from　a　whisper　to　a　shout：　〃Serpent；　serpent…o；　Damballah…wedo　papa；　you　are　a　serpent。　Serpent；　serpent…o；　I　WILL　CALL　THE　SERPENT！　Serpent；　serpent…o；　Damballah…wedo　papa；　you　are　a　serpent。。。〃
　　The　jungle　was　suddenly　cut　away　to　make　a　clearing；　Kip　quickly　turned　off　his　light　and　stayed　hidden　in　darkness。　Blazing　torches　formed　a　wide　circle　around　a　small　three…sided；　straw…roofed　hut。　Directly　in　front　of　the　hut；　surrounded　by　black　and　red　painted　stones；　was　a　fire　that　licked　up　toward　the　jungle　ceiling　high　overhead。　A　strange　geometric　figure　had　been　traced　in　flour　in　front　of　the　fire；　and　placed　at　points　on　the　figure　were　various　objects：　bottles；　a　white…painted　steel　pot；　a　dead　white　rooster；　and　something　wrapped　in　newspapers。　The　drummers　sat　behind　the　fire；　and　thirty…five　or　forty　people　made　a　ring　around　them…some　lying　on　their　bellies　in　the　soft　dirt；　some　twirling　madly　in　circles；　still　others　sitting　on　the　ground；　staring　with　open；　glazed　eyes　into　the　depths　of　the　flames。　The　drumming　was　furious　now；　and　Kip　saw　beads　of　sweat　fly　off　the　half…nude　forms　that　circled　the　fire。　One　of　the　dancers　lifted　a　bottle　of　rum　and　let　the　liquor　pour　down　into　his　mouth；　then　he　doused　the　rest　of　it　over　his　face　and　head　before　spinning　away　again。　Empty　bottles　lay　scattered　about。　Sweat　streamed　from　faces　and　over　torsos；　and　Kip　caught　the　powerful　smell　of　strong；　sweet　incense　in　the　air。　One　of　the　dancers　whirled　in　and　threw　a　handful　of　powder　into　the　flames；　there　was　a　burst　of　white　and　the　fire　leaped　up　wildly　for　a　few　seconds；　illuminating　the　entire　clearing　with　red　light。　A　man　in　a　black　suit　leaped　in　the　air　and　crouched　down　at　the　base　of　the　flames；　shaking　a　rattle　over　his　head。　It　was　Boniface；　the　fires　glinting　off　his　glasses。　Sweat　dripped　off　his　chin　as　he　shook　the　rattle　and　cried　out；　〃Damballah…wedo　papa；　here；　Damballah…wedo　papa；　here。。。〃
　　A　woman　in　a　white　headdress　fell　down　beside　him；　her　chest　heaving　with　exertion；　her　head　revolving　in　circles　and　her　eyes　glistening　with　either　rum　or　ganja。　She　lay　on　her　belly；　snaking　along　as　if　she　were　trying　to　crawl　into　the　flames。　It　was　the　Kephas　woman；　the　same　woman　Kip　had　seen　that　very　afternoon　sitting　in　a　dark　corner　of　her　house　muttering　something　he　had　failed　to　understand。
　　Boniface　shook　the　rattle；　now　in　time　with　the　drum　beating；　and　reached　into　the　white　pot　with　his　free　hand　to　withdraw　a　thick　snake　that　instantly　coiled　about　his　forearm。　At　the　sight　of　the　snake　there　was　a　chorus　of　screams　and　shouts。　He　held　it　up；　crying　out；　〃Damballah…wedo　papa；　you　are　a　Serpent。　Serpent；　serpent…o；　I　WILL　CALL　THE　SERPENT！〃
　　Kip's　heart　was　hammering；　his　head　about　to　crack　from　the　noise。　The　drummers　stepped　up　their　rhythms；　the　muscles　standing　out　on　their　arms；　droplets　of　sweat　flying　in　all　directions。　Kip　could　barely　hear　himself　think；　the　screaming　and　the　drums　were　bothering　him；　reaching　a　part　of　his　past　he　had　closed　tight；　to　a　place　of　fearful　memories　and　grinning　faces　hanging　from　st