The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales Read online

  “Thanks, man,” Fredrico said, handing Steven his pack.

  Steven walked past wood benches filled with sweaty people, and purchased a ticket at a small ticket booth that looked as if it belonged to an old movie theatre. The girl inside gave him change in colorful, animal-adorned Belizean bills.

  As he scanned for a seat, he noticed a woman in an orange tank top and jeans sitting on the second bench. Her skin, the light brown of murky water, glistened with perspiration. Slender legs crossed, she fanned herself with a delicate paper fan adorned with a heron. A hint of strong calves showed beneath her raised jeans and a clog balanced lazily on her foot. Like everyone else, she looked as if she had been waiting for a long time. Her impatience reminded him of Elise. Elise was never good at waiting, especially waiting to go diving. The woman watched Steven look at her.

  “1:30 to Caye Caulker here,” the man standing at the door called before Steven could find a seat.

  Still looking at Steven with her summer green eyes, the woman picked up her bag and smiled with her thin pink lips, the almost red of a lotus blossom ready to open. He got the feeling she smiled at everyone that way.

  She grabbed the wrist of a skinny young girl who couldn’t have been more than ten. The girl followed her, like a walking rag doll, into the line of people gathering to board the boat.

  The sweaty people filed out of the station, handed their blue paper tickets to the man at the door, and carefully stepped over the gap between the dock and the boat. Steven sat down on the narrow bench lining the inside of the deck, his shoulders pressed up against his neighbors. The woman in the orange tank top, wearing sunglasses now, carefully boarded. Her silver thumb rings and copper bracelets caught the sun as she stepped over the gap between the dock and the boat, creating a brief blinding flash. She sat down. The girl followed, quietly sitting next to her. Before the woman even settled into her seat, a young unshaven American wearing a UCLA cap a few seats down from Steven introduced himself to her.

  “Nice to meet you, Forrest,” she replied, with a thick Spanish accent. She didn’t give her name.

  Forrest took out a tube of sunscreen and began rubbing it onto his arms.

  “Want any?” he asked.

  “I don’t need any. I’m a gypsy,” she said with a smile.

  Steven thought her big gold-rimmed glasses were more suited to Beverly Hills. She did not offer the lotion to the young girl who stared, glassy-eyed, out to the water.

  The boys running the boat started the engine and slowly navigated the boat through the channel.

  “Can I have some?” Steven asked over the sound of the engine. “Mine’s in my pack.”

  “Sure,” Forrest said, handing the tube to Gypsy Woman who handed Steven the tube.

  Faded green and blue tattoo lines wrapped around her wrist, forming strange spirals and symbols. Glyphs and animals decorated her silver rings. A single charm, a Mayan character, hung around her neck. Steven wanted to ask what it meant but Forrest spoke.

  “You here on vacation?” he asked, apparently unaware the quiet little girl was with her.

  “Me? Vacation?” She laughed and looked at the girl. “No. I used to live here. Today I’m working.”

  Steven wondered what she did. The boat cleared the channel and picked up speed.

  “Your daughter?” Steven asked, nodding to the girl.

  “No. No,” Gypsy Woman said, shaking her head. “But I’m…taking care of her.”

  The girl continued to stare, seemingly unaware of the conversation about her. As the boat sped them further across the water, rushing air made it hard to hear. Forrest stopped talking and Gypsy Woman turned to the sea. Wind pressed her tank top against her, outlining the shape of her breasts, revealing her belly and slender waist. Steven closed his eyes partially, softened his gaze, and imagined the blurry form before him was Elise.

  In the shallows, just outside the channel markers which kept them in the safety of navigable depths, a blue heron seemingly walked on water.

  ****

  A half hour later the boat’s engines slowed as it pulled next to the long wooden dock. Boys with bicycle carts waited to take luggage.

  “Welcome to paradise,” they said in unison with the boat crew just after the engines were cut.

  A group of old fishermen greeted Gypsy Woman and the girl and led them away down the sandy street

  “Where you going?” a kid asked Steven. “Let me take your luggage.”

  “I’m O.K.”

  “Come on, man. Just give me a job. If the hurricane comes there’ll be no money for a long time.”

  “O.K.” Steven threw his pack in the basket. “But I’m walking, I can’t have you pedaling me around in that thing.”

  “No problem, man. Go slow. That’s the only rule around here.”

  Steven didn’t want to go slow. The first time he dove, he remembered Elise had told him to breathe slow. Life moved fast, not like a snapshot image of a painting, but like animation—thousands of paintings in the blink of an eye. The day at Malibu he felt like he had blinked and all his happiness escaped with Elise’s last breath.

  “No worries,” the kid said. “I know a good place. The Caribbean Paradise, right on Front Street.”

  “Let’s go,” Steven said.

  The kid pedaled and Steven walked. They moved past lush red hibiscus, thriving bougainvillea and small orange flowers on a vine whose name he didn’t know. They passed rickety homes, many that doubled as restaurants or businesses. “Martine’s Grill,” “Anita’s Laundry,” “Fresh bait here,” the handmade signs read. A small jail stood next to the bank. A man with a rifle stood outside, apparently guarding both. The kid waved and the man smiled.

  “Do you happen to know someone named Matt Kensington?” Steven asked the kid, “Last I heard he was a dive captain around here.”

  “My boss might know.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Ricardo, he used to be a dive boat captain too. I sometimes help him with errands.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Today’s Bob Marley’s birthday,” he said with a look that suggested Steven should know. “Big party at the Lazy Iguana, tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s the tallest building on the island. You can’t miss it,” he said, pointing proudly to a big thatched roof poking up above the tattered palm trees.

  The three-story, rickety-framed building had no walls. Catwalks and uneven stairs branched off from it haphazardly, like a tree house.

  “You think Matt will be there?”

  The boy shrugged. “My boss will.”

  Outside the Caribbean Paradise, Steven handed the boy a rumpled American five and took his pack. A dozen cabanas jutted up from the beach fifty feet from the gentle reef-protected shore. A white stone wall separated the property from a small graveyard. Most of the stones were old and flat on the ground or leaning over. New white paint and bunches of fresh flowers adorned a few of the crosses.

  A young child swung from a tire in a tree just outside a small white picket fence enclosing the graveyard. She twirled her short dreadlocks and watched a European couple enthusiastically hit a ball back and forth with round wooden paddles.

  “Hello,” said a voice from inside the office’s screen door. Steven walked in, signed a piece of paper, and paid for the room.

  “Welcome to paradise,” the clean-cut young man said.

  In his room Steven threw his pack on the floor and flopped onto the bed. Within minutes the sound of wind and the lapping of waves on sand coaxed his tired body to sleep.

  ****

  Steven awoke with a jump from a choking dream. For a second he didn’t know where he was. Elise’s face and wind-swept hair filled his mind. As he caught his breath, he heard a mournful song underneath the rustle of the late afternoon breeze in the palms. He looked out the window and saw the gypsy woman standing in the graveyard.

  He ran his hand through his hair, and went outside. She stopped si
nging as he approached.

  “Hello, man from the boat,” she said.

  “Hello,” he said. Now that he was talking to her he didn’t know what to say or why he even came outside, other than to be near her.

  “What were you singing?” he asked.

  “I’m praying.”

  Steven looked at the small gravestone at her feet. “1997-2000,” it read.

  “What a place to be buried, huh?” he said.

  She looked at him as if he had just said the stupidest thing. “These people loved the island, loved the sea. It is as fitting a place as any if one must be buried at all.”

  A quick glance around revealed other stones with the years 2000 and 2001. Iris and Keith, he thought.

  “My daughter is here. Next to my grandfather,” she said, pointing to the white stone cross. “The rest of my family is buried on the other side of the island.”

  “I’m sorry,” Steven said.

  “You remind me of him.”

  “I do? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Don’t. He was stubborn and had his nose in everything. You Americans have your noses in everything.”

  “We mean well, at least I do.”

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t that how the old saying goes?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that there are things you are not supposed to interfere with.” She turned from him and arranged flowers around the tall glass candle holder at the base of the cross. Steven watched as she placed chicken bones next to the flowers.

  He thought of asking who the candle was for and telling her why he was here. He wanted to kiss her and to forget Elise and Matt and everything. His desire felt potent and strange.

  “I don’t want to hear your story,” she said. “I don’t care if you are ignorant or disconnected or whatever you are or think you want from this island.”

  Steven watched her as she spoke. She smelled like sand and sweat and incense.

  “You’ve talked to the pretty girl from the boat, now be on your way. There’s work to be done.”

  She lit the candle beneath the cross. Its dim light flickered on the stone. Steven opened his mouth to ask her anyway, but decided to go.

  ****

  Storm clouds gathered on the horizon above the dive boats returning to shore. A group of pelicans sped by in a line just above the reflection of the red setting sun rippling on the waves. Sandrine was coming. Steven could almost hear her voice in the rustling fronds.

  He walked the short distance to the Lazy Iguana. Reggae emanated from its three-story haphazard frame. People were already celebrating. He pushed his way past lanky, dreadlocked teens crowding the rickety stairs. Barefooted vacationers surrounded the second floor’s bar. Divers well on their way to being drunk sat on swings and tires hanging from the rafters.

  Steven bought a rum punch, then saw the kid who’d helped with his pack. The kid saw Steven and ran to a man, not much taller than the kid himself, and pulled on his sleeve. The short man looked Steven’s way and whispered something back. The kid disappeared into the crowd. The short man and the American-looking blonde girl he was chatting with turned and smiled as Steven approached. The man’s ears were pierced with dozens of hoops. A six-inch shark tooth hung from a leather band around his neck. He looked like a little pirate.

  “Nice necklace, I didn’t think they made them that big,” Steven said.

  “Not anymore, this is a fossil. The shark that once owned this has been extinct for a hundred thousand years.”

  “It ate whales,” the girl said.

  The short man shrugged. “This is my girl Angie,” he said. “I’m Ricardo. Do a shot with us.”

  “Steven,” he said, shaking Ricardo’s small strong hand. “I have a rum punch.”

  Ricardo pointed over his shoulder to a sign nailed to a beam that read “body shot table.”

  “Rum punch is for girls. That’s what the little girls from the States who say they want to run away to Belize to live with me drink.”

  Angie smiled and clicked her tongue piercing on her teeth.

  The kid re-appeared, squeezing his way through the crowd. He precariously held a bottle of tequila, a stack of glasses, a saltshaker, and a cup of cut limes.

  “I’m looking for Matt Kensington, you know him?”

  “Go slow man, we got tequila here.”

  “Why don’t you just do me a favor and point him out to me?”

  Steven didn’t want to be drinking. He wanted to find Matt and say, “why the hell did you miss her funeral. What are you running away from down here?” Maybe he’d punch him.

  “He don’t come out and party no more,” Ricardo said. “Why you want to see him so bad? He fuck your girlfriend or something?”

  Angie giggled and rubbed salt on her neck.

  “You’re at the body shot table. Do a shot.” He laughed.

  Angie laughed again and put the lime in her mouth.

  Ricardo moved closer to Steven and stood on tip-toe to whisper in his ear. “My girl thinks you’re cute. Win me some points. Do a shot with her and then we’ll go find your friend. Don’t be so stiff.”

  Steven shook his head.

  “No takers then.”

  Ricardo salted his lips on Angie’s neck and then downed a shot of tequila. He placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her down to take the lime from her mouth. The men around Ricardo let out a cheer followed by “Bob” in unison as another Marley song came on.

  A diver passed Ricardo a joint.

  “Happy Bob’s Birthday,” he said.

  “A happy day indeed. The storm has gone away,” Ricardo replied. He took a hit and passed it to Angie.

  Steven noticed the sky had cleared and the wind died.

  “You’re next,” Ricardo said to Steven.

  Steven shook his head.

  “I don’t trust no one who don’t smoke with me when Bob is playing,” Ricardo said.

  Angie inhaled deeply off the joint. She grabbed Steven’s face and planted a kiss on his lips, blowing the smoke into him.

  Steven struggled but Ricardo put a reassuring hand on his back.

  “Hold it now,” he said.

  Steven held it, then extended his lower jaw, releasing the smoke. He sucked it back though his nose.

  “Take another hit. Blow it into me.” Angie said.

  Steven took a drag and blew the smoke into her as instructed.

  “I feel so much closer to you,” Angie said, tendrils of smoke wafting from her mouth. “What’s been inside me has been inside you.”

  “Satisfied?” Steven asked Ricardo.

  Ricardo leaned in to whisper in Steven’s ear again. “Do one shot with us, I’m tryin’ to liquor her up, take her to the jungle—know what I mean?”

  The kid poured another round of shots. Steven noticed the drinks looked a bit milky.

  Ricardo toasted, and they downed their shots. Steven drank a sip and purposefully spilled most of his all over his face. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “O.K. Let’s go,” Ricardo said and slid his arm around Angie’s waist.

  They weaved through the crowd to the stairs and stumbled down.

  As they walked through the yard, Ricardo lit another joint. Steven checked his pocket for his wallet.

  As they walked away from the Lazy Iguana, the sounds of the night replaced the fading reggae bass lines. Ricardo frowned and looked at the trees.

  “What?” Steven asked.

  “Something’s wrong. Geckos are chirping,” Ricardo replied. “Means it’s gonna storm.”

  ****

  Ricardo walked along the moonlit road with Angie slumped against him.

  Steven followed, noticing the rag-tag houses giving way to trees and dense undergrowth. At the end of the road, near some abandoned remnants of a house, a cluster of headstones and crosses jutted from the light, almost white sand.

  “Where you taking me?” Steven
asked.

  “To your friend, may the bastard rest in peace.”

  Angie murmured something, but her speech was too slurred for Steven to understand.

  Steven ran the few steps to the small graveyard. He could smell the ocean and hear the waves on the beach, stronger now than the afternoon. He looked at some of the newer, less weathered stones and found Matt’s name chiseled into a simple unadorned stone.

  Ricardo had moved up behind him. Angie was sitting down in the middle of the road, her head slumped on her shoulder. Ricardo looked at Steven as if he expected him to slump over like her.

  “You could have just told me, what the hell?” Steven said. Then he noticed the hilt of a knife tucked into Ricardo’s shorts.

  “Maybe you’ll understand now,” Ricardo said.

  “Understand what?”

  “Most people come here and see what they want to see: the sun, the sand, the stars, happy people living on an island.”

  Ricardo twitched his head nervously, as if looking to see if anyone was around, then kicked the sandy road.

  “People here are angry, I’m angry,” he said. “We get our lives wrecked by every passing storm.”

  Steven quickly glanced at Ricardo’s hands, then back at his face.

  “The sun and the sand. You take that away and we have nothing. Your friend Matt didn’t understand that. He always had America to go back to. He wasn’t willing to do what needed to be done, and the hurricane claimed him.”

  “Ricardo,” Angie yelled from the road.

  Ricardo looked at Steven, shook his head, and turned away toward Angie.

  “You are lucky tonight,” he said. “The storm is gone and I have a girl waiting. Things could have gone a lot worse for you.”

  Ricardo walked to Angie muttering under his breath. Together they headed back toward the Lazy Iguana. Steven stood in the graveyard. There was so much he wanted to know about Elise that he had hoped Matt would tell him. Now, there was no chance at all.

  Steven followed the path through the old stones toward the water. A few lonely boats rocked in the lagoon, attached to a private dock littered with cans, crates, fishing poles, fishing sling spears, and pails.