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Authors: Dean Vincent Carter

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BOOK: The Hand of the Devil
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The story was compelling and I was tempted to read on, curious to find out what it had to do with the mosquito, but my eyelids were like lead weights, and I no longer had the strength to keep them open. I put down the book on the bedside table, wondering if my grandmother had ever told me the story when I was younger. Some of my earliest memories are of her reading to me late at night, her enthusiasm for the folk tales of her native people and her talent for voices never failing to delight me. ‘
One more, Nanna! One more!
’ I’d insist, and she would nearly always give me another story, and another, until I fell asleep, feeling happy and loved.
With the bedside lamp off, the room fell into darkness. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I was able to make out the various shapes of the furniture. I felt a little homesick and longed for the comfort and familiarity of my own room. In the shadows the single bookcase opposite the bed was a black, angular monolith. Looking up at the ceiling, I remembered how imprecise the house’s dimensions had appeared from outside. There was a triangular gap between the top of the bookcase and the ceiling, which meant that one or the other wasn’t level. Staring at it for a few seconds, I began to feel queasy, so I shifted onto my left side and looked towards the window.
As I closed my eyes, I reflected that Mather had appeared to be a pretty friendly individual. But there was an element of mystery about him, as if he was holding something back. I had a feeling that his story, whether genuine or not, was certainly worth pursuing, if only to learn more about him. My thoughts remained centred on my host, the house and the promise Mather’s letter had held, until at some point my mind swam and sleep claimed me.
The next time my eyes opened there were tears in them. I was no longer in bed, but standing on a raft, floating down a wide stream with only a large casket for company. Suddenly the raft stopped at the foot of a huge, flower-carpeted mountain, from which drifted the most enchanting of scents. As though my body had a mind of its own, I stepped onto the land and soon found myself walking beneath colourful, fruit-laden trees. My ascent continued, until I stopped in a small clearing to regain my breath. It was then that I noticed the old man on the path before me, leaning on a curious bamboo staff. His hair was long and white and floated gently on the breeze; his skin was dark, leathery and wrinkled, but his large eyes were youthful, with a playful spark. A large white cape of thin, almost transparent material billowed out behind and around him, while his body was wrapped in a bright blue robe that sparkled in the sun.
He introduced himself as Tien Thai, the genie of medicine, and seemed to know who I was.
‘Ngoc Tam, I know of you and your virtues,’ the old man said. ‘You are a good and loving man.’
I told him all I cared about was my beloved.
‘Your wife’s hold on you is still strong, Ngoc Tam,’ he continued, ‘but you must allow the wound of your loss to heal. Accept that love is now denied you, then truly you can live.’
‘No,’ I insisted. ‘I won’t leave her like this. I cannot go on without the love of my life. I may as well be dead too!’
‘You must accept—’
‘No,’ I screamed in defiance. ‘I cannot!’ My hands were clenched into fists. A fierce torment was shaking my body, contracting my muscles into knots.
The old man looked long and hard at me, then seemed to adopt an expression of disappointed resignation. ‘Very well then,’ he conceded. ‘If that is your choice. Do this: pierce your finger with a thorn from one of the bushes over there and let three drops fall on the body of your departed wife. Do this and she shall return to you.’
I walked over to a large mass of rose bushes. I snapped off a particularly vicious-looking thorn, then ran off back down the path.
Leaping onto the raft, I lifted the lid from the casket and saw the pitiful, deflated body of what could once have been a beautiful woman. I pricked my left forefinger with the thorn and squeezed out three drops of blood, so that they fell on her exposed palm.
As she opened her eyes, I awoke.
III: EXPLORATION
For quite some time I lay in bed, just thinking about the dream. It had been so real, so unlike any I’d had before. Every dream is wild and unique in its own way, but the one I had that night was something else.
Before long I grew bored with watching the daylight claim the room. I got out of bed, had a quick wash and dressed. Finding the house quiet and Mather still in his room, I decided to get some fresh air and clear my head of the powerful and bizarre images left over from the dream. Although I was eager to record Mather’s story, he had said breakfast would be at eight o’clock, and I didn’t want to appear rude or ungrateful by disturbing him too early. My watch told me it was only ten minutes past seven.
I took pains to be quiet as I drew the large bolt across the top of the front door. Opening it, I was confronted by a great blanket of mist that lay close to the ground outside and gave the small clearing a strange, ethereal quality.
I walked some way from the house, wading through the mist. I was amazed at how thick it actually was. It swirled and parted as I made my way through the trees before emerging by the shore. The mist was thinner on the water, yet it hugged the surface for as far as I could see. I gazed across the lake and tried to spy the town and the dock, but the mist obscured them. I couldn’t see anything besides rocks, trees and water.
Gazing up at the sky, I fell into a kind of daze, hypnotized by the passing of the clouds. With some effort I wrenched my attention away and looked for traces of the boat I’d destroyed the day before. There was nothing, not even one piece of wood bobbing through the fog or lying on the shore. I wondered where Mather’s boat might be. I guessed it was sheltered somewhere, perhaps in a boathouse, where it would be safe from storms and unable to drift away. As there was still plenty of time before breakfast, I decided to take a further look around.
I returned to the house then walked past it to the left, where I found a rough footpath heading into the trees. I could feel the air getting warmer and saw that the mist around my ankles was already thinning. I had a good feeling that the day would turn out to be brighter and calmer than the one before, and I wished my journey from London had been delayed by a day. At least then I might have had a boat to give back to the harbour master.
Although the footpath was generally unobstructed, I still had to push my way through branches and bushes in order to make progress. There was a wonderful floral smell, and the silence that pervaded the whole area was soothing.
The path zigzagged through the trees until it opened out into another, smaller clearing. To the left was a large pile of rocks, beyond which was a wide open view of the lake. I walked over and saw that a rough dirt slope ran down to a small sandy beach. Almost hidden amongst overhanging branches from the trees above was a shed. It was green, but the paint had faded and flaked from years in the sun. I approached it for a closer inspection.
The shed had been constructed, rather hastily by the look of it, from vertical planks of wood. The door was padlocked, but through a thin gap between two of the planks I was able to get a glimpse of the interior. Shafts of light penetrated inside, revealing a large blue plastic sheet covering what I assumed was a boat. On impulse, I tried pulling the padlock apart, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock, unlike the shed, was designed to withstand the rigours of nature.
As I turned from the shed and began to stroll along the small beach, I heard a sound like a door slamming somewhere far off. Mather must have become aware of my absence and was now out looking for me.
I headed back to the house, thinking as I did so that living on the island might not be so bad after all. In summer the lake must be beautiful. I walked briskly, enjoying the feel of the early morning sun on my face. Once back in the clearing, I caught a glimpse of Mather as he disappeared through the trees towards the other beach. I followed, and found him in a state of bewilderment, pacing up and down the sand, squinting and scanning the horizon. I stood for a while and watched as he went a few paces into the water, soaking his shoes and socks.
‘Mr Mather,’ I called, feeling it was time to put an end to his agitation.
He turned, and though he was startled by the sound of my voice, his relief was immediate. A smile lit up his face and he advanced towards me, apparently unaware of the water he was splashing onto his trousers. ‘Thank goodness,’ he said, his eyes wide open, making his expression all the more odd. ‘For a minute I was . . . I thought I’d lost you.’
‘No, no. I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep so I decided to go for a walk.’
Mather paused a moment, as though examining my face for evidence of something. ‘I’m sorry there’s so little to see here.’ He looked down at his legs, noticing for the first time that his ankles were underwater. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Look at me.’ He hopped about comically until he was back on the sand.
‘I really am sorry to have worried you,’ I said.
‘That’s no problem. How . . . how far did you get?’
We started walking back up the bank to the trees, Mather shaking his drenched trousers in vain.
‘Just to the beach on the other side of the island. The one with the shed.’
‘Ah, the boathouse.’ There was a nervousness in his voice that confused me. I hadn’t been trying to leave the island. It may simply have been my safety he’d been concerned about, but he’d still seemed a little over-anxious about my whereabouts. ‘I keep it locked,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘You’re not worried about the boat being stolen though, are you? I had the impression that you didn’t have many visitors.’
‘No, I don’t. It’s just that’ – he smiled a little in embarrassment – ‘I have a tendency to be rather obsessive about security. I know it’s silly, being so isolated, but, well, I can’t help it. If the boat did disappear then I’d—’
‘Don’t worry, I understand. And you’ve no need to worry about me taking off with it.’
‘No, of course not. I wasn’t implying that – I suppose I get anxious too easily.’ He laughed. ‘Please ignore me – think no more of it.’
Mather opened the front door and we went back into the house.
‘Why don’t you take a seat in the living room while I make us some breakfast?’ he said, trailing his words behind him as he left the room.
‘OK,’ I replied, hoping we would get to the matter in hand soon. ‘Thank you. I hope it will be all right to get stuck into the story in a little while. I really should be getting back to work as soon as possible.’
‘I perfectly understand,’ came the reply from the kitchen. ‘And I do apologize for detaining you. Blasted weather! I assure you it will be a story worth waiting for though. The Lady will quite take your breath away.’ I presumed by ‘the Lady’ he meant the mosquito, but it seemed an odd choice of words.
‘Excellent,’ I replied, though Mather may have been out of earshot. I felt a little uneasy being left there on my own, not really knowing what to do with myself. Unable to sit still, I left the living room and crossed the hall to the kitchen.
This was also at the front of the house, its window looking out onto the clearing. It wasn’t as big as I had expected, but since Mather lived on his own, I guessed it was more than adequate. There was, as I had expected, a gas cooker, but there were also a number of electrical appliances – a refrigerator, kettle and toaster. Mather stood with his back to me, absorbed in thought.
‘So where’s the generator?’ I asked, startling him for the second time that morning.
He scratched his forehead and nodded towards the back of the building. ‘The previous owner had it installed inside a sound-proofed hut behind the house. It’s a fairly small petrol-powered model. Thankfully I don’t need to go in there and replace the fuel very often. I use little electricity really, but God forbid it should ever break down.’
‘Yes, that must be quite a scary thought. So are there any other buildings on the island?’ I asked as he filled the kettle with water. He set it on its plastic cradle and pressed the switch, then turned to me with a look that implied he didn’t welcome my curiosity.
‘Sorry if I’m being nosy,’ I said. ‘It comes with the job, I’m afraid.’
Mather chuckled at this. ‘Not at all. I should have been prepared for it.’ He opened the breadbin and took out a sliced loaf. ‘No, this is the only building on the island.’ I wondered how often he went to the mainland for food. He must have made frequent trips, if he used bread and fresh foods rather than tinned comestibles. Either that or he arranged to have his groceries delivered. He took out four thin slices of bread and put them into the toaster.
‘You’ll love the Lady. I really can’t wait for you to see her.’
‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’ I wasn’t quite sure if I meant this or not. I still didn’t know if Mather was telling the truth, or whether his story about this mosquito being the only one of its kind was a pack of lies. He turned from the toaster and took some plates out of the cupboard above the sink.
‘So, Mr Reeves . . . how are you with mosquitoes?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What do you know of them?’
BOOK: The Hand of the Devil
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