The Cay Read Online Free

skin was alligatored and cracked, tough from age and walking barefoot on the hot decks of schooners and freighters.
    He saw me examining him and said gently, “Put your ’ead back downg, young bahss, an’ rest awhile longer. Do not look direct at d’sun. ’Tis too powerful.”
    I felt seasick and crawled to the side to vomit. He came up beside me, holding my head in his great clamshell hands. It didn’t matter, at that moment,that he was black and ugly. He murmured, “Dis be good, dis be good.”
    When it was over, he helped me back to the center of the raft, saying, “ ’Tis mos’ natural for you to do dis. ’Tis d’shock o’ havin’ all dis mos’ terrible ting ’appen.”
    I then watched as he used his powerful arms and hands to rip up boards from the outside edges of the raft. He pounded them back together on cleats, forming two triangles; then he jammed the bases into slots between the raft boards. He stripped off his shirt and his pants, then demanded mine. I don’t know what happened to my leather jacket or my sweater. But soon, we had a flimsy shelter from the burning sun.
    Crawling under it to sprawl beside me, he said, “We ’ave rare good luck, young bahss. D’wattah kag did not bus’ when d’raff was launch, an’ we ’ave a few biscuit, some choclade, an’ d’matches in d’tin is dry. So we ’ave rare good luck.” He grinned at me then.
    I was thinking that our luck wasn’t so good. I was thinking about my mother on another boat or raft, not knowing I was all right. I was thinking about my father back in Willemstad. It was terrible not to be able to tell him where I was. He’d have boats and planes out within hours.
    I guess the big Negro saw the look on my face. He said, “Do not be despair, young bahss. Someonewill fin’ us. Many schooner go by dis way, an’ dis also be d’ship track to Jamaica, an’ on.”
    After a bit, lulled by the bobbing of the raft and by the soft, pleasant sounds of the sea against the oil barrel floats, I went to sleep again. I was very tired and my head still ached. The piece of timber must have struck a glancing blow on the left side.
    When I next awakened, it was late afternoon. The sun had edged down and the breeze across us was cool. But I felt very hot and the pain had not gone away. The Negro was sitting with his back toward me, humming something in calypso. His back was a great wall of black flesh, and I saw a cruel scar on one shoulder.
    I asked, “What is your name?”
    Hearing my voice, he turned with a wide grin. “Ah, you are back wit’ me. It ’as been lonesome dese veree hours.”
    I repeated, “What is your name?”
    “My own self? Timothy!”
    “Your last name?”
    He laughed, “I ’ave but one name. ’Tis Timothy.”
    “Mine is Phillip Enright, Timothy.” My father had always taught me to address anyone I took to be an adult as “mister,” but Timothy didn’t seem to be a mister. Besides, he was black.
    He said, “I knew a Phillip who feesh out of St. Jawn, but an outrageous mahn he was.” He laughed deep inside himself.
    I asked him for a drink of water.
    He nodded agreeably, saying, “D’sun do parch.” He lifted a hinged section of the raft flooring and drew out the keg, which was about two feet long. There was a tin cup lashed to it. Careful not to spill a drop, he said, “ ’Tis best to ’ave only an outrageous smahl amount. Jus’ enough to wet d’tongue.”
    “Why?” I asked. “That is a large keg.”
    He scanned the barren sea and then looked back at me, his old eyes growing remote. “D’large kag ’ave a way o’ losin’ its veree size.”
    “You said we would be picked up soon,” I reminded him.
    “Ah, yes,” he said instantly, “but we mus’ be wise ’bout what we ’ave.”
    I drank the tiny amount of water he’d poured out and asked for more. He regarded me silently a moment, then said, his eyes squinting, “A veree lil’ more, young bahss.”
    My lips were parched and my throat