Davenport gripped the handle of the blade lightly, anticipating a trick, then released it.
Belial watched him, ending his demonstration with a smug speech. “Exactly right. If either of us were to attack the other, we would be exposed. You would be exposed and the Subject will know you are not who you say you are. And I can see you have acclimated yourself just enough that I cannot easily rid myself of you without also provoking unhealthy curiosity in the Subject. So we have a sort of balance between us, you and I, am I understood? This may be the last mission remaining for our kind, Davenport. If you are anything like me, nothing would make you give it up.” He extended his hand toward the other bookaneer. “Let us have honor enough to fulfill our mission. Let us call this what we know it must be: a truce. Your shadow shall be our witness.”
“Had you been here ten years, it would make no difference to me. I will have what I came for.”
“Well! I fancy you must be pleased I am here, then.”
“Is that right?”
“It gives you the chance you have been waiting for. To try to prove you can surpass me as a bookaneer and justify sweet little Kitty’s faith in you. Doesn’t that satisfy you as much as any ugly amount of money?”
“I surpassed you years ago,” Davenport said.
“You’ll have to be able to control your emotions, all those feelings eating at your soul since she’s gone. Do you think you’re capable?”
My pulse raced at the mention of Kitten, hoping Davenport would not lose his composure.
“When I’m finished here, carrying Stevenson’s masterpiece in my hands, you’ll see what I am capable of.”
“Tusitala,” Belial said, correcting Davenport. “Tusitala’s masterpiece. Take care you’re not so reckless around him or this will be too easy for me. Could you ever have dreamed it? Delicious prospect.” He passed the cutlass back to Samu. “If we are not going to kill each other today, let us return to work. I will give you one last piece of information about Tusitala, about why we must be here now.”
“I know his health is grave.”
Belial shook his head. “Oh, he is dying, yes—that is obvious, no matter what he says—but that is not what his time in Upolu is about. His deepest wish is that he were not a writer.”
“Why do you say that?”
Belial ignored the question. “It is not when a man is at the end of his life, but when a man is at the end of his profession, that his soul shows itself. Tusitala’s soul decays and withers, and all his regrets come out that he lived a life of words rather than bravery. He will do what he can to rectify that. You have been warned.”
He and his native companion walked at a crisp pace back toward his wagon. The very march of his boots cried out that he had so much to do to outwit us that he could not spare another second.
? ? ?
DAVENPORT KEPT OUR PRESENCE around Vailima inconspicuous, coming and going with little notice or fanfare, but Belial’s strategy was dramatically different. He’d interjected himself deeply into life at the estate. He had made himself noticeable and indispensable, an unorthodox choice for a man who was there to spy and plot. When “Pope Thomas,” as the servants called him, was on the grounds, the entire household knew. The conch shell would be blown to announce him, as though something was happening, like a meal or an earthquake.
Belial ministered regularly to four or five of the Stevensons’ domestics. The previous missionary had been there for twenty years before retiring to England, Belial worming himself into the position at just the right time to pursue Stevenson’s impending masterpiece. Among their beads and fish bones, the Samoans who’d converted to Catholicism also wore crucifixes around their necks to distinguish themselves from the Protestant converts, as well as from the savages who had not been taken by one of the white religions and still worshipped their own deities. Belial led group prayers in the mornings, clutching his big, polished cane to his heart; at other times he heard their private confessions, a clever way of learning about life at Vailima without ever asking. Vao was the only servant who seemed opposed to his popularity. I noticed when Belial came from one direction, the beautiful girl left the other way, then the diminutive attendant of hers, who would frown and puff to keep up with her quick steps, fire and smoke in his eyes for anyone who made the mistake of looking at her.
Belial also had an effect on the other Stevensons. Though not a Catholic, Stevenson’s mother, Margaret, would sit with a look of utter joy across her face as she listened to his Bible discussions. Lloyd would consult with “Pope Thomas” about how to best manage a recalcitrant outside boy. Belle would blush and stammer and twirl her hair while telling him about her terrible ex-husband. He did not exactly flatter her, but his whole manner was flattering to women. She had so intently studied Davenport since our arrival, trying to decide whether she fancied him, but now forgot he was there. The household had changed with the return of the supposed missionary.
I was listening to Belial lead a prayer in the next room on one occasion when I noticed Charlie staring out a window over the grounds, his face tight and fearful.
“Charlie, what is the matter?” I asked.
“There,” he said in a gasp.
It appeared the stout islander with the kind eyes was looking into the forest bordering Vailima. I could see nothing but the trees blowing in the wind.
“They’re out there!” Charlie exclaimed, blinking rapidly. “In the bushes.”
“Who?”
“My family.”
Still I saw nothing and nobody. Charlie seemed more frightened every second. He clutched at the wooden crucifix hanging in the middle of his chest.
“Do you need help, Charlie? Charlie, can you hear me?”