Chapter
6
Timor The Hunter
The cabin was gloomy inside
in spite of the bright sunshine filtering into
the alleyway outside the door. Two small oil lamps
were its only other source of light. In one corner
was a simple wooden bed covered by a colourful
intricately woven blanket. There was a rocking
chair and a small table close to a caste-iron
stove. Under one of the windows was a table and
two wooden chairs and in one corner of the room
was a wash-stand with a bowl and jug. The only
other pieces of furniture were a large wardrobe
and a well-stocked bookcase. A door led off to
a side room which appeared to be a kitchen and
pantry.
Hung on its white plaster walls
were some photographs of people and boats, a painting
of a Native American chief, another brightly coloured
oil painting of women sitting with cooking pots;
and there were various artefacts: a tomahawk,
a bugle with some tatty strands of blond hair
hanging from its handle, and a wooden mask decorated
with feathers and cowry shells. Timor guided mum
gracefully to the rocking chair. Dad and Prospero,
sat on either side of the table where Prospero
placed his hat and gloves. The rest of us were
wedged together on the bed. Timor sat cross-legged
on a small patterned carpet covering part of the
wooden floor.
“I can offer you cold tea
or lemonade. I’m afraid I have no ice,”
he said. Mum and dad asked for tea. “She’ll
have lemonade,” said dad, pointing to me.
“What about you boys?” Speaking on
my behalf was one of dad’s more annoying
habits. Timor rose, and pointed to each one of
us in turn, saying “Soda, soda, soda, soda,”
then turned theatrically and asked: “And
what will you have Prospero?”
Prospero puckered his face into
a coy smile and said: “I’ll have soda
too.” Timor laughed out loud, walked over
to the jug in the corner and carried it into the
side room.
“What was that all about?”
said Vince.
“Never mind,” said
dad, grinning. If it was some private joke my
mum and dad seemed to understand. “You need
to know your Laurel and Hardy,” said mum.
I hopped off the bed and went
to look at the bookcase. I love books. A good
bookcase tells you something about a person. The
bottom part of this one was filled with National
Geographic magazines. One shelf had novels by
people such as Hemingway, Melville, Conrad and
Somerset-Maugham. But most of the books were compendiums
of trees, birds and animals and the top shelf
was made up entirely of poetry books. One or two
large books had no title on the spine. I pulled
one out and found it contained photographs. Some
of them were in black and white and quite faded.
One of them showed someone who looked like Timor,
only with a full head of hair, standing next to
a big sail fish suspended from a hoist. Alongside
him was a bearded man who also looked familiar.
I looked up and saw Timor walking back into the
room.
“Do you normally look at people’s
things without asking?” he said.
“Put it back Mo. That’s
very rude,” said dad.
“It’s OK. Forget
it. So you’re Mo. I’m honoured,”
said Timor, “A fine young lady.”
“Her full name is Molly
Anne Johnson,” said Vince with a sense of
pride. He spoke so hurriedly the names came out
as if they were all part of the same word: “Molyanjunsen.”
“It sounds like an Indian
name,” said Timor as he passed around some
glasses. “What tribe is it?”
“Netherfield,” I
said.
“The Netherfield. I do
not know them. They must be a splendid people.
Very proud,” he said and raised his glass.
“Who is your chief?”
“Fireman Bob,” said
Vince.
“He sounds like a great
warrior. I would like to meet him.”
“This is the best lemonade
I’ve ever had. It’s got bits in,”
said Vince, downing his glass in one. He looked
around the room as if he was searching for something.
“Don’t you have a telly?” he
said.
“I don’t have electricity,
just a gas ring in the back,” said Timor.
“Even our boat has lights,”
said Vince, “But we don’t have a TV
either. I don’t miss it anymore.”
Dad looked at mum who smiled.
Vince had missed the TV more than anyone when
we left Whitby.
“I hear all the news I
need on my clockwork radio in the back there,”
said Timor. “Anyway again let me apologise
for my rudeness. You came on the Endeavour I understand.
How was Bermuda?”
“You’re well informed,”
said dad. “We had some bad weather and one
of our party was injured but the damage has all
been repaired thanks to Prospero here. I’m
told you know each other?”
Timor nodded. “The harbourmaster
is a friend. He told me you were coming in to
Nantucket. But he never mentioned Prospero.”
“That’s because he
doesn’t know I’m here,” said
Prospero, “And I trust you’re going
to keep it that way.”
“You trust too much. You
shouldn’t be here. You must go back.”
Dad stood up. “Look Mr…look
Timor, or is it Mr Hunter, I’m sorry, we
haven’t been introduced. My name’s
Rory by the way, howdyado. Look we’re not
looking for any trouble here. We want to be on
our way. We didn’t know that Prospero had
no passport. Then there’s the monkey and
the parrot.”
“Macaw,” said Prospero.
Dad told Timor about our plans
to head for the Caribbean. Timor frowned. “You
shouldn’t go down there yet. It’s
the hurricane season. I would wait if I were you.”
He turned to Prospero, “You’re up
to your old tricks again. You don’t care
about anybody but yourself do you? I’m going
to watch you like a hawk.”
Prospero looked mortified. “You
have me all wrong Timor. I’ve been helping
these people and I onlies came here to Nantucket
to see you. Nothing else, nothing else.”
“That’s true,”
said dad. “He’s been a great friend
to us.”
“What about the treasure?”
said Vince.
Prospero almost jumped out of
his skin. He rolled his eyes and cast Vince a
scowl.
“And what about the whale?
You said Timor was with you.”
Timor had folded his arms. “What
have you been telling these children Prospero?”
“Only the truth,”
said Prospero. “Well mainly the truth. I
told them about the whale swallowing that messmate
that time; told them you wuz there too. It’s
true ain’t it? You tell ‘em Timor.”
“We shouldn’t talk
about such things.”
“So it is true?”
said Vince. “You were there. The whale did
swallow a man. Wow.”
There was a pause, as if everyone
was thinking inwardly, projecting personal images
in the theatre of the mind. Dad filled the silence:
“My friend Bob saw a sperm whale once in
the southern ocean…….”
Timor interrupted. Dad might
never have spoken. “Look young Vince. I
was a whaler. I’ve seen many strange things
at sea and on land for that matter. But I don’t
go whaling any more. That’s passed. Whales
are beautiful creatures and we almost killed them
all. It was a crime. We have killed too much.
I killed too much; I was a hunter, I was brought
up to kill animals. We killed to live and we used
their skins and bones for tools and fur to keep
warm. I’m not saying I won’t kill
again but I will never again kill another whale.”
“What did he look like?”
asked Vince.
“Who?”
“The man who was swallowed
by a whale.”
Timor turned his back in exasperation
and walked away. “I have things to do. Let
Prospero tell you his stories.”
“I think we should go,”
said Dad, glowering at Vince. “We’re
all tired.” He turned to Timor. “I
hope we shall meet again. And please, if you can,
please don’t mention Prospero being here
to anyone.”
“I won’t. I should
but I won’t. Yes let’s meet again
soon. Besides I think Prospero and I have some
talking to do. In fact Prospero why don’t
you stay while these good people do what they
have to do?”
Prospero did not look as if he
relished this opportunity to catch up with his
old friend. The rest of us filed out of the cabin
and said our goodbyes. Walking down the alley
I tugged Badger’s arm and we dawdled a minute.
“Let’s go back,” I said. He
nodded and we walked quietly back to the cabin.
The door was partly opened so we squatted down
and edged as close as we dared. It was hard to
pick up the conversation but some of it came across.
Timor seemed to be accusing Prospero
of something. “Leave it alone,” he
said. “You don’t need it. Nobody needs
it. It’s cursed. It’s cursed and it’s
bad.”
Prospero said something I couldn’t
make out. Then he said something odd: “But
the girl knows. Anyway I don’t even think
I need you.”
Then Timor said: “You will
always need me Prospero. I cared for you when
you had no-one. I promised our mother that I would
be there for you but you have let me down so many
times. If you let me down again …..”
His voice lowered and we lost the words.
“Now go,” said Timor.
Badger looked at me. We edged away from the door
and dodged down the side of the cabin. We heard
the door close and Prospero walked past and along
the alley. He hadn’t seen us. We took another
route back to the main street where the others
had gathered. No-one seemed to have missed us.
Prospero was nowhere to be seen.
“OK,” said Dad, “I’m
not sure what’s going on between those two
but the most important thing, as far as we’re
concerned is that we stay out of jail. If we’re
caught concealing Prospero and those pets we’ll
be in real trouble. But let’s stay calm.”
“Why not leave him here
and head north to Boston,” said Pat. “We
can crew the boat without him.”
“And what about the pets?
Would you throw them into the sea? No, when the
weather’s clear enough we’re heading
for the Caribbean.”
“Where exactly?”
“I thought we’d head for Nassau in
the Bahamas. Now let’s me and you get back
to the boat, Joy. If you kids want to look around
town a while that’s fine with me.”
No-one seemed enthusiastic about
the boat so we opted to look at the shops. A few
minutes later, peering in to a window full of
copper kettles and brassware I could see the outline
of what looked like a chimney pot reflected in
the window.
“Pssst.” It was Prospero
in his top hat.
“Did Mr Rory, that’s
Mr Johnson sir say Nassau? Nassau? Is he mad?
Nassau’s a bad place. I know a good place,
the best place. We should go to Grand Cayman.
You knows this place? It’s grand, Ah, Ah!
Nassau’s a rough old haunt. Grand Cayman
has lots of class. Not so Miss Mo, Miss Molly?”
He winked at me.
“How should I know? I’ve
never been there in my life.”
“Maybe not but you knows
it. You knows it in your pocket.”
I’d had just about enough
of Prospero for one day. This talking in riddles
made no sense at all. “Please Prospero you
shouldn’t be talking to us here. Just let
us be for today. Please?”
“Prospero knows when he’s
not wanted Mr Badger, Mr Pat, Master Vince, Miss
Mo. I got plenty friends in Nantucket but mark
my words, Nassau’s a bad place. See you
around.”
“What did he mean?”
said Badger when Prospero was out of sight. “And
what did he mean back at the house when he said
‘the girl knows’. What girl? Did he
mean you Mo?”
Now Pat was looking puzzled.
We motioned Pat aside - we didn’t want Vince
to blurt it out - and explained how we overheard
the conversation. Pat and Badger were looking
at me as if they were waiting for more explanation.
Vince was still distracted in the shopwindow so
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the piece
of paper. “I think he was talking about
this.”
I told them the whole story about
the museum and the map. Now I needed to see a
map of Grand Cayman. As soon as Prospero mentioned
the place I made the connection. Supposing “Gr”
was referring to Grand Cayman? Could Prospero
have seen my map? It’s possible he had crept
into my cabin as I slept. Is that what he meant
when he said ‘the girl knows’? Is
my map somehow connected to Prospero’s treasure?
Should I confront him about all of this? What
should we do? For the time being, advised Pat,
we should do nothing.
“Remember what Prospero
said about the map. He said Timor wouldn’t
give him his bit. They had two parts of a map.
I wonder how they came by them? Anyway we know
that Timor wouldn’t let Prospero see a vital
bit of the picture. Now he’s telling Timor
he doesn’t think he needs him. Is this because
Mo’s fragment tells him all he needs? I
bet it is.”
“Remember what else Timor
said,” said Badger. “He said the treasure
was cursed.”
“Do you really believe
that?” asked Vince. We hadn’t noticed
he had rejoined us. I put my hands on each of
his shoulders and stood squarely before him, eye
to eye. “Vince. How much did you hear of
that?” I asked him. Vince looked worried.
“All of it.”
“Vince this is very serious.
You must promise all of us that you will not tell
anyone what you know. Not mum, not my dad and
not your dad. They wouldn’t believe us anyway.
This can not go beyond the four of us. Got it?”
Vince nodded.
We ambled round the shops a while
trying to digest what we’d heard. I wanted
to go back to the bookshop. I love bookshops.
This one had a second hand book section. Pat said
he would wait outside. He hated books. Badger
was looking at the travel section. I was running
my finger across the spines of the old books.
I liked to touch them and sometimes I liked to
smell them. I loved the fusty smell of old books.
It’s the smell of history, the lives of
all their past readers. My finger came to rest
on a title called Pirates, Fact and Fable. I looked
inside briefly but I closed it quickly when I
heard the bell ring as someone entered. It was
Pat.
“Hurry up, I’m bored,”
he said. “There’s a model shop over
there. I’ll be inside it with Vince.”
Badger was buying a book. “We
might need this,” he said. It was a guide
book to Grand Cayman. I asked the price of the
old book in my hand. Fifteen dollars seemed quite
expensive but I had enough in my pocket. Vince
and Pat were just stepping out of the model shop
when we heard a commotion down the street. A small
blond-haired boy, wearing a striped tee shirt
was crying and pointing to the drainpipe of a
house. Inching up the drainpipe was Caliban with
what looked like an ice cream cone in his hand.
The boy was wailing to his portly father. “It’s
gotten my ice cream.”
“Gee son, I’m sorry,”
said the man. A small crowd was gathering and
people were pointing to a window. Caliban was
sitting on a window box among a clump of trailing
red geraniums. He sniffed the pink ice cream,
bit into it then gave a high pitched chatter and
pelted the ice cream at the people below. It landed
smack on the back of the man’s balding head
and slid down his neck beneath the collar of his
large garish Hawaiian shirt.
“Oh my god,” said
the man and began to dance. His son’s face
changed almost immediately and the boy collapsed
into a fit of giggles. So did some of the onlookers.
The monkey took advantage of the distraction and
climbed on to the roof, then hopped from house
to house along the length of the street.
“I’ll go tell Bob,”
said Pat. “You keep an eye on the monkey.”
“Caliban, get down here now,” shouted
Vince. Badger grabbed him and put a hand over
his mouth.
“Say kid, is that your
monkey? What did you say?” said a shopkeeper
who had stepped out of his store.
“No, not our’s sir.
My little brother here was shouting ‘call
the man’. He meant the man we saw with the
monkey a few minutes back,” said Badger.
“What did this guy look
like?”
“Well he had a white sports
shirt, shorts, a baseball cap, white socks and
sneakers.” Looking around us he could have
been describing more than half the men in the
street.
“Hey Frank, over here.”
said the shopkeeper. We looked to where he was
calling and saw a police officer with his hands
on his hips, surveying the rooftops. He looked
over, then began to amble in our direction.
“Frank these kids here
seen that monkey with a guy just a few minutes
back. Tell Frank what you saw kid. Is the guy
still around?”
Badger had loosened his grip
on Vince which was a shame because Vince decided
to embroider on the fiction. “He’s
over there,” he said. “The one in
the sunglasses with the moustache.”
“Now you kids just stay
here,” said the policeman. “I’ll
need to take a statement.” He broke into
a jog which lasted all of three yards until it
subsided into the hip-swinging gate he used earlier.
We couldn’t see the conversation but the
officer was pointing towards us. The man looked
angry and prodded the policeman in the chest.
“I think it’s time
to go,” whispered Pat, he pulled Vince by
the arm, “Come on.”
“Hey kids where you going?”
said the shopkeeper. He called out: “Frank,
Frank, over here.” But officer Frank was
busy. He had wrestled the man with the moustache
to the floor and was snapping on a pair of handcuffs.
We ran up the street towards
the big houses then turned down a familiar alley.
We could see Timor’s cabin at the end. I
knocked hard on the door. “Please let us
in Timor. Please,” I half shouted, half
whispered. The door opened and we stumbled through
into the gloom. Timor shut it quickly. Vince began
to cry. “It’s the monkey. It’s
got out. We’ll be put in jail. I want my
daddy.”
“Hush now,” said
Timor in a kindly voice. “Did anyone see
you?”
“Just about everybody,”
said Pat. “But I don’t think they
saw us come here. What shall we do? Is Vince right?
Will they do that?” I felt a slight twinge
of satisfaction that Pat seemed to be as worried
as Vince. We told Timor everything that had happened.
If he was listening he didn’t seem too concerned.
So you’re going to Grand Cayman,”
he said, looking at Badger’s book. Is this
Prospero’s idea?
“No,” I said, “We
want to go there too. It has nice beaches. Anyway
Uncle Bob says we’re going to Nassau.”
“Nassau? I wouldn’t
go there. Full of gambling dens and hustlers.
But then there could be trouble in Cayman too,
especially if Prospero’s about. Wherever
you go I think you’re going to have to leave
here and quickly. Your boat spells trouble and
people here don’t like trouble of any kind.
Haven’t you noticed the shops? This is Tweeville
USA.”
He opened the door and let out
a shrill, high pitched whistle. As if from nowhere
we could see Caliban’s agile form tripping
over the low roofs. He walked through the doorway,
his tail held high and his nose in the air as
if he had been having a Sunday afternoon stroll,
then climbed up Timor’s leg and perched
himself on his shoulder.
“Caliban, you old rascal,”
said Timor. “Causing trouble again? Where’s
your rascal friend?” He passed the monkey
to me then opened a large drawer at the bottom
of his wardrobe, pulled out a canvas ruck sack
and started to pack a few clothes. “I think
you’re going to need me on this trip,”
he said. He pulled the tomahawk off the wall and
packed that, then slipped on a belt carrying a
large hunting knife.
“You taking the bugle?”
asked Badger.
“No, that’s far too
precious. That bugle was collected from the battlefield
of Little Big Horn by one of my uncles. Those
are his battle scalps hanging from the handle.”
“I didn’t want to
know that,” I said.
“Wow,” said Vince,
feeling the top of his head.
“Now come. We must go.
This way. He locked the door and took us down
a winding path leading further from the town to
a short jetty. “See that canoe there. That’s
mine. Get in.” We had to climb down the
ladder. Caliban was perched on my shoulder. Just
as I stepped into the canoe he jumped off and
started swinging in the woodwork under the jetty.
“Leave him, we have to
go quickly,” said Timor, slicing the water
with his paddle. Taking the canoe allowed us to
skirt around the main town and within five minutes
we were drawing up alongside the Endeavour. Uncle
Bob came up the steps, looking concerned. “We
have to go quickly,” said Timor. “I
need to come with you. Don’t worry you can
drop me off in a while if you don’t want
me on board. There’s no time. Get ready
to cast off. Someone pull the canoe on board.”
No-one said a word. Pat and Badger
went to the moorings as we began a by now familiar
routine. Bob started the engine. I secured the
canoe. I noticed that strapped inside it was a
large harpoon I had not noticed earlier. “I
thought you had broken your harpoon, “ I
said to Timor.
“That’s a spare,”
he said “just in case,” then jumped
on to the quay and skipped into the harbourmaster’s
office. Two minutes later he was back. Pat cast
off for’ard and Badger cast off aft, throwing
the ropes to mum and me on the deck. Mum and dad
grabbed Badger as he jumped for the boat. We looked
back and saw a gaggle of people at the town end
of the jetty.
“Get him,” shouted
someone. A man with a top hat sprang out of the
melee and dashed down the quay. “Waits for
me,” called Prospero, holding on to his
hat with one hand and his cane with the other.
The boat was moving away from the quayside as
Prospero leaped athletically for the stern. He
missed the boat but Timor grabbed the other end
of the cane. With what seemed enormous strength
he hauled Prospero out of the harbour like a fisherman
landing a giant cod. All the while Prospero had
been clasping his hat with his three-fingered
hand. People were standing on the quay shouting
and shaking their fists at him.
The dripping figure of Prospero
smiled back, bowed and raised his hat to them.
Sitting on his head was a grinning, chattering
Caliban.
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