a night to remember

         Misadventures were common at Dutchman's Jetty. After the curmudgeon died and his stout mansion was vacated by all, save a few Nazi ghosts (it could have been renovated into a splendid hotel; but no one wished to invest hard-earned money in what was now an eyesore surrounded by a wire fence), the jetty became an unofficial public pier. Its original purpose was to prevent beach erosion. Steadfastly it held the surf in check, causing waves to break violently against its embattled face. On its more peaceful side barnacles profited from tiny organisms seeking shelter from the deep. Stone crabs danced there like mambo kings and queens. At high tide the waves crashed across its craggy deck and could wash a person and fishing tackle into the sea. And there were rip-tides.
         Behind the seawall the mansion kept baleful watch. Counting the dead, keeping score.
         Massive stucco walls with thick wooden shutters covering magnificent stainglass windows and port-holes (good for signaling Unterzee Boots with flashing semaphor) had withstood many a hurricane. Coconuts would fly like cannonballs, smashing themselves into milky pulp. During the same storm that destroyed the lighthouse an entire tree was uprooted from the coconut grove on the south lawn. It slammed onto the roof, chipping away a clutch of Spanish tile. Island people sought refuge inside during big blows. They gathered in family huddles, setting up bedding and eating perishable foods, saving tinned fruit and meats for the hard days without electric power. At night as the storm clawed the sky the people sat in kerosine lanternlight. Wandering the darkened bowels of the house was verboten.


                                                                                      *

            The storm howled with unabated fury, trying to pry a way inside. A warm salty draught caused the lantern to flicker. Mango watched the shadows leap high off the floor like calypso dancers and then sink low as if bending beneath a limbo bar.
             "Momma, will the storm get us?"
             "No, child. Chango is our friend."
             Mango did not believe in Yoruban gods. It was nonsense for superstitious fools.
             He reached this conclusion through no influence from his atheist father. Henri Bertrand had departed before Mango was born.
             Like many bastards Mango spent childhood with a mythical father. His momma told stories of Henry Bertrand as if reading from a book of fairy tales.


                                                                                    *


             Kids his age preferred not to play with him. He was a gimp, wandering moodily about on a club foot. A precocious chatterbox, he spoke mainly to himself. Telling himself stories he had made up.
             Shadows beckoned that noisesome night like wraiths. And whispered like fabled sirens.
             Temptation was strong. So he crept away from his mother and sisters and stole deep into the dead Dutchman's lair.
             "Mango!" his mother shouted. "Mango, where are you? Come back!"
             His sisters shivered with cold terror. They screamed, "Mango!"
             They were certain he would wander into the maw of the black demon whose eyelids drooped to the floor. His body gobbled up, Mango's soul would walk the dim halls forever.