Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [290]
He had a sense that the sky was beginning to lighten. They would be returning soon. They would have fish to take back, perhaps half a dozen good-sized snappers. In the self-congratulation of this thought the sense of being on the brink of some momentous discovery faded. But Billy knew at that moment that he was happy and that he would not change places with an earl or a duke.
However, in returning Inchebe suffered an accident which, though slight enough, set the two men arguing. While drawing the canoe up the bankside in the first light of day, he slipped and fell against the hull, grazing his knuckles rather badly. He swore at this in a language unknown to Billy. Then he declared, with bad-tempered glances at the bush all around, that his accident, without a shadow of doubt, had been due to kudala, witchcraft.
Billy stopped short on the path. ‘You on dat tack agin? I real sorry for you, Cheeby. Everything kudala, eh? We no fin’ fish, you say kudala, we fin’ fish, you cut you han’, you say kudala. You no sabee such a ting acciden’ dis world? Man cut him han’, dat acciden’. Jus’ happen, nobody wan’ it.’ He saw the usual dignified, slightly somnolent expression of dissent come to Inchebe’s face. ‘You allus puttin’ on airs,’ he said, with the beginnings of exasperation. ‘Dat you big fault. Puff youself up, make youself big man, fust rainstone, now somebody put badyai on you. You soso ’portant, you tink somebody care you fall on you arse?’
Inchebe made no reply to this, keeping his eyes turned away. ‘Who wish it on you?’ Billy demanded. ‘Nobody care dat much.’ He swung his basket of fish to indicate the world around them indifferently waking to daylight, taking form from moment to moment in the misty air, the thick-leaved mangroves that seemed to guard the last of the darkness, the marshes beyond lying shrouded in mist, the blanched moon above them. ‘Nobody wish it, nobody care dat much,’ he said.
Inchebe resumed his way along the path. ‘Tell you before,’ he said, ‘tell you agin now, no such ting acciden’ dis world. Plant yam bad get bad crop. Nobody say kudala, say fool man. Plant yam good, get bad crop – dat is kudala. Inchebe allus riggin’ trim sharp, look where he steppin’. So dis is kudala. Any dabo ken see dat.’
‘Jesus save us! Dat not kudala, dat de law of bleddy evridge,’ Billy said. ‘Man pull a boat up hunnerd time, one time he fall down de bank. Jus’ happen like dat.’
‘Jus’ happen like dat,’ Inchebe repeated scornfully. Annoyance at his fall and badly grazed knuckles, and conviction of malpractice against him, had combined to sour his temper. ‘Dat all you ken say?’ He glanced at Billy with his small bright eyes. ‘Tell me one ting, you soso clever. Why it happen dis partikkler mornin’?’
At this, Billy’s previously clear view of the matter began to mist over from the edges. It was a strange fact that although they had argued about kudala intermittently over the years, this question of particularity always caught him unprepared. ‘Why dis partikkler mornin’?’ he repeated now, with an instinct of prevarication. ‘What kin’ question dat? Dere no answer dat question.’
‘Dat anadder ting bout you, Billy, same-same all buckra white man, you say dere no answer mean you no have answer. I pull up de boat hunnerd time, do same ting every time, dis one time fall down. Why dis time? Why not anadder time? Boat same, bank same, Inchebe same. Why dis time?’
‘Bank wet,’ Billy said. ‘You put you foot wrong.’
Inchebe smiled sadly. He had Billy on the run and knew it. ‘My fren’,’ he said, ‘you sabee good dat not de right answer. Bank wet many time before. Inchebe foot same-same adder time. I ask you why dis time, you say foot wrong. I ask you why dis time foot wrong you say jus’ happen dis time. You go roun’ in circle, Billy. I tell you bout one uncle now.’
‘Curse me,’ Billy said, stopping short again to glare at his companion. ‘What de fuck you uncle got to do with it?’ This unexpected intrusion of a relative had fogged his mind further.
‘Middle of de day uncle sit under roof of