“A bookaneer without her trade is a farmer without land. It was Kitten who told me that. You stripped her bare. You left her rudderless.”
“How did I put it a minute ago? Yes, to quote myself: ‘All races have their eccentricities about killing each other.’ But I shan’t take so much credit, certainly not for her death. Really, Davenport, it was you two who were engaged in a depraved relationship. A woman with a man almost half her age. That damaged her, made her feel as though she had to remain young and noticeable forever. An unnatural state for a woman.”
“You pushed her into the hole.”
Belial stuck his powerful chest out. “All I did was clear the field a bit. Made a profit, too.”
“I want that Shelley novelette back. It cost her life and I won’t permit it to be passed around for money. Tell me where it is.”
“Certainly. I sold it to a wealthy Russian, a man who liked to dress like a peasant, and apparently took some perverse pleasure in destroying manuscripts.”
Davenport cringed. His head was spinning madly. “Not long after that, you were also involved in seeing Molasses arrested, spoon-feeding evidence to the police.”
“Who says that?”
“Whiskey Bill was a nuisance, never skilled enough to risk your crown, so you left him to destroy himself, and for the most part he complied. Kitten, Molasses, those were your closest competitors for years. And me. But you never tried to push me out.”
“You wish I had?” A mocking laugh.
“Why do I deserve the sorry fate of being your last rival? If you were intent on clearing out the competition, why leave me alone?”
“I didn’t think I had to do more.” He let out a sigh that broke through as unusually sincere. “When I heard what happened to Kitty, I was certain you would fold up, that you would leave our line without any effort on my part. You may think me devious, Davenport, and maybe sometimes I have had to be. But I do try to be efficient. One fell swoop. Still, you proved me wrong. You persisted—your soul cleaved in half, perhaps, but persisted nevertheless.”
“What you did to Kitten . . . What were you after that was worth that?”
“The same thing as you, the same as she. The same as anyone who has ever been doubted or told to go away. To prove myself better.”
Davenport grabbed Belial’s arm and leaned into his face. “I haven’t gone away.”
“You’re right, Davenport.” He acted as though he did not even feel the other man’s grip. “I thought you would fall to pieces like a poorly bound book. But no. You are more like me than I ever knew.” He slipped his arm out and turned his back, hands in his trouser pockets.
“You’ve made a mistake this time, Belial. I have you by the throat.” Davenport’s voice lost its usual hush completely, the words roaring out with the rage he could no longer contain on Kitten’s behalf.
Belial slowed down his pace to listen, but did not turn around.
“Assaulting Vao. Let us pretend the young girl’s word would not be trusted. There were witnesses. The dwarf, for one, and me, and Mr. Fergins. You’ve no doubt seen Tusitala angry. If the chief of Vailima hears that the trusted missionary was attempting to force his will on one of his beloved servants, you’ll be thrown out of his sight, probably put in jail to rot. Then you can say all you want to Tusitala about me. At that point, nothing you say would be believed and I would be the only one left close enough to him to get the manuscript.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to break our truce, would you, my friend?” He seemed morally troubled by the idea.
“I’ll warn you one time. Stay away from Vao.”
Coconuts torn from trees by the wind flew overhead. Both men looked up at the sky. Now it was Davenport who turned and began walking away. The last glimpse he had of Belial showed his features contorted with uncharacteristic ire. I did not hear any of these particulars until late that night, hours after a bloody, soaked Davenport collapsed at the doorstep of Vailima.
? ? ?
“THE SKY WAS FILLED with branches and coconuts used like missiles by the wind in a war of divine forces. We both fled as the downpour started. The water became torrents around us. I’m afraid his foot got caught in a spontaneous mudslide. Poor Mr. Porter—he truly tumbled. Never saw a man fall so hard, so suddenly.” Belial was telling the story to the rapt household after some of the servants helped him carry Davenport inside.
“Please. I’m well enough,” Davenport said, struggling not to show any discomfort and to shoo away the solicitous natives (and me). There were cuts and abrasions all over his body from his fall, but the pain seemed to me to be concentrated in his right leg.
“How did you ever get back, you poor idiot?” Belle asked, taking his hand. Her eyes were wide and wet.
“Father Thomas found me, and helped me, thank heavens,” Davenport said, and I would venture to say never had my companion wanted to chew and swallow his own words so much.
Belial’s grin, inimitable as always, could not have been contained if his life depended on it.
After the mud was washed off him, Davenport was carried to his room and tended to by Vao, who cleaned and bandaged his leg, and Belle, who mostly sat and blinked at him. I had followed them in. He screamed in pain when Belle poured what she said was perchloride of iron on the deepest gash.
“Imagine the luck,” he said to me after we were alone, “that he would be the only man there to rescue me.”