The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [147]
“Fokir, tell me something,” said Kanai.
“What?”
“If you’re afraid, then why do you want to go there — to that island?”
“My mother told me,” Fokir said, “that this was a place where you had to learn not to be afraid. And if you did, then you might find the answer to your troubles.”
“Is that why you come here?”
“Who’s to say?” He shrugged, smiling, and then he said, “Now, can I ask you something, Kanai-babu?”
He was smiling broadly, leading Kanai to expect he would make some kind of joke. “What?”
“Are you a clean man, Kanai-babu?”
Kanai sat up, startled. “What do you mean?”
Fokir shrugged. “You know — are you good at heart?”
“I think so,” Kanai said. “My intentions are good, anyway. As for the rest, who knows?”
“But don’t you ever want to know for sure?”
“How can anyone ever know for sure?”
“My mother used to say that here in Garjontola, Bon Bibi would show you whatever you wanted to know.”
“How?”
Fokir shrugged again. “That’s just what she used to say.”
As they drew close to the island a flock of birds took wing, breaking away from the upper level of the canopy and swirling in a cloud before settling down again. The birds were parrots, of a color almost indistinguishable from the emerald tint of the mangroves; for a moment, when they rose in the air together, it was as though a green mane had risen from the treetops, like a wig lifted by a gust of wind.
The boat picked up speed as it approached the bank and Fokir’s final stroke rammed the prow deep into the mud. Tucking his lungi between his legs, he dropped over the side of the boat and went running over the bank to examine the marks.
“I was right,” cried Fokir triumphantly, dropping to his knees. “These marks are so fresh they must have been made within the hour.”
To Kanai the depressions looked just as shapeless as they had before. “I don’t see anything,” he said.
“How could you?” Fokir looked up at the boat and smiled. “You’re too far away. You’ll have to get off the boat. Come over here and look. You’ll see how they go all the way up.” He pointed up the slope to the barrier of mangrove looming above.
“All right, I’m coming.” Kanai was turning to jump when Fokir stopped him. “No. Wait. First roll up your pants and then take your slippers off, or else you’ll lose them in the mud. It’s better to be barefoot.”
Kanai kicked off his sandals and rolled his trousers up to his knees. Then, swinging his feet over the gunwale, he dropped over the side and sank into the mud. His body lurched forward and he reached quickly for the boat, steadying himself against the gunwale: to fall in the mud now would be a humiliation too painful to contemplate. He pulled his right foot carefully out of the mud and planted it a little way ahead. In this fashion, by repeating these childlike steps, he was able to get across to Fokir’s side without mishap.
“Look,” said Fokir, gesturing at the ground. “Here are the claws and there’s the pad.” He turned to point up the slope. “And see, that’s the way it went, past those trees. It might be watching you even now.”
There was a mocking note in his voice that stung Kanai. He stood up straight and said, “What are you trying to do, Fokir? Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Frighten you?” said Fokir, smiling. “But why would you be frightened? Didn’t I tell you what my mother said? No one who is good at heart has anything to fear in this place.”
Then, turning on his heel, Fokir went back to the boat, across the mudbank, and reached under the hood. When he straightened up again, Kanai saw that he had drawn out his dá.
As Fokir advanced toward him, blade in hand, Kanai recoiled reflexively. “What’s that for?” he said, raising his eyes from the instrument’s glistening edge.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Fokir. “It’s for the jungle. Don’t you want to go and see if we can find the maker of these marks?”
Even in that moment of distraction, Kanai noticed