Sin Killer

  All the waterfront was a boil of activity, heaps of goods piled here and there; and yet no one seemed to be in charge. Neither Jim nor Kit had any clear idea of how to locate the goods they were supposed to secure. While they were considering the problem two small men fell to cursing one another in a tongue neither Jim nor Kit could recognize. The men had blue bandannas on their heads. They quickly fell to fighting with knives—a crowd gathered, drawn by the possibility of violence: the crowd was not disappointed. Neither sailor was killed, but both were cut—the dusty ground beneath them was soon bloody. Finally the two combatants stopped and walked away together.

  Jim eventually managed to locate a wizened little man with long chin whiskers who seemed to be an inspector of some kind. When Jim mentioned the English boat that had supposedly unloaded, the little man nodded.

  “It’s about time somebody got here,” he said. “It’s six months now we’ve been putting up with that cannibal.”

  “Where’s a cannibal?” Kit asked, not pleased. The small inspector, whose name was Bailey, led them quickly through an alley where two pigs were quarreling over a fat brownish snake. When they came out of the alley Inspector Bailey pointed to a grassy spot under some huge trees draped with trailing whiskers of Spanish moss. The boxes and bales piled up were being guarded by an enormous black man, who sat comfortably on one of the bales, fanning himself with a hat.

  “That’s the cannibal—calls himself Juppy,” Inspector Bailey told them. “Take him with you, if you don’t mind.”

  Jim and Kit were startled by the size of the man, who was light brown rather than black. They had both seen tall men before, but none as tall as this man—and in most cases the tall men were skinny. But this man was thick in the trunk; his arms and legs were massive, as were his thighs.

  “Why do you think he’s a cannibal?” Jim asked. “People don’t get that big by eating regular food,” Inspector Bailey declared. “There’s a witch up the street that’s been trying to poison him, but the poison don’t take. That’s a sure sign of a cannibal.

  “Come by my shack and sign the bill of lading when you’re loaded,” the inspector told them.

  “Loaded? Loaded how?” Jim inquired. “We don’t have a wagon yet.”

  “Juppy’s got a wagon, and the mules to pull it,” the inspector informed them, before departing.

  The big black man was walking toward them now, seeming to cover the yards in only a step or two.

  “Would you be the gentlemen from Messieurs Bent, St. Vrain and Company, by any chance?” the large man asked, smiling agreeably. “I hope so because I’m ready to travel—too many little old black witches in this town. I’m Juppy.”

  He extended a very large hand—somewhat at a loss, Jim and Kit shook it.

  “I hope you’re not a cannibal,” Kit told him. He had begun to feel some anxiety on that score and felt it best to be frank.

  Juppy laughed an easy laugh. “See any tasty-looking people around here?” he asked. “All I see are some ugly sailors and a few old skinny witches. Nobody plump enough to eat.”

  Then Juppy laughed. “Just joking,” he said. “If you’re from the Bents I guess we better get loaded so we can be on our way.”

  Jim and Kit felt uneasy. Charles Bent had said nothing about a black giant named Juppy.

  “Nobody told us about you,” Jim admitted. The giant seemed perfectly friendly, but he certainly was a giant. On a practical level, bringing him with them posed problems. Could they expect to find a horse big enough to carry such a heavy man?

  “Don’t be worryin’,” Juppy said. “I’ve made all the arrangements, and I’ve got my mule, Jupiter— he’s been my mount since I was thirteen. My instructions from Father were to give you every assistance, but not to let his expensive new guns out of my sight, and they haven’t been out of my sight since I picked them up in London. As you’ll see I’ve not wasted my wait—I’ve got a good bunch of pack animals and a wagon we can use as long as the terrain permits wagon travel. The up-river steamer leaves at six. We better start loading, don’t you think?”

  Jim and Kit were deeply puzzled. Juppy was efficient, as well as friendly. He had got things ready. The pack mules looked healthy. And yet he referred to his father’s instructions. Who could his father be?

  “Why, Lord Berrybender, who else?” Juppy informed then. “I assumed you knew.”

  Jim and Kit could only shake their heads. Of course both of them had heard that Lord Berry-bender had fathered a great many bastards, but no one had informed them that one of his bastards was a brown giant.

  “He probably didn’t mention me because he wants to surprise the girls—my half sisters,” Juppy speculated. “Papa met my mother in a circus—she was the giantess.”

  Jim and Kit were still startled, but Juppy produced the wagon and the pack animals and loaded most of the bundles and bales. By six they were on an upriver steamer. There had been some awkwardness at the customs shed. Jim and Kit were forced to admit that neither of them could write their name. The bills of lading were incomprehensible to them. Inspector Bailey handed the papers to Juppy, who inspected them closely and signed them “Jupiter.”

  “Jupiter, same name as my mule,” Juppy said, with a smile.

  Soon they were aboard the boat, watching the great river pour on toward the sea.

  21

  . . . knocking over a bowl of pudding . . .

  WHEN PETAL LOOKED UP and saw the brown giant in the doorway of the nursery she screamed as loud as she could and raced for Little Onion, who was rather surprised herself. Jim Snow, just returned, had already been in for a visit with Tasmin, but he had said nothing about the brown giant. Juppy wanted to be a surprise.

  Only that morning Petal had caused trouble in the kitchen, knocking over a bowl of pudding in her eagerness to lick the spoon; she compounded her disgrace by allowing Mopsy to eat most of her porridge. Efforts to make her behave were met with the usual defiance, exasperating Cook so that she told Petal that a big black giant would soon arrive to carry her off.

  Petal was used to such threats from Cook—indeed, used to threats from everybody. Very few of them were ever carried out; Petal merrily went on doing as she pleased, which was why the sight of the big brown giant was such a tremendous shock. She had never thought a real giant would appear—and yet there one stood. Worse yet, he was blocking the doorway. There was no way she could flee the room.

  Tasmin was bending over Petey, tending a rash he had broken out with, when Petal screamed. Petal was hoping her mother might know a way to kill the giant, but instead her mother forgot Petey and, with a big smile of happiness, jumped into the giant’s arms, kissing him warmly.

  “Oh, Juppy!” she cried. “Mary, Buffum—Juppy’s come!”

  Soon, to Petal’s astonishment, her two aunts had run into the room and were hugging the brown giant. Then her grandfather came—he began to weep at the sight of the giant.

  “Why, Juppy boy—here you are at last,” Lord Berrybender exclaimed. “Did you bring my leg and my guns?”

  “Got the leg, got the guns—looks like I should have brought you a few fingers, while I was at it,” Juppy said.

  Then Cook, who rarely left her pots and kettles, came and gave Juppy a hug. The five little boys watched, astonished. Petey even forgot to scratch his rash. Mopsy raced around, frenzied with excitement, until Kate Berrybender caught him and insisted that he calm down.

  “I hid him at Kit’s,” Jim admitted, when Tasmin wanted to know why he had shown up before her half brother. “He wanted to be a big surprise, and I guess he was.”

  Despite the fact that her mother and her aunts and even Cook were clearly fond of Juppy, Petal did not entirely lose her initial apprehension. What if the giant was only pretending to be good? What if his real purpose was to carry her off?

  “So what’s the news from Northamptonshire, Juppy?” Tasmin asked. Petey was sitting in Juppy’s lap, a sight that greatly pleased her.

  “The worst news is that
Nanny Craigie died,” Juppy reported—the news sobered them all.

  “Not Nanny Craigie!” Tasmin exclaimed. “I don’t know why, but I thought she’d live forever.”

  “She didn’t,” Juppy said simply. “Then who’s looking after the younger brats?” Mary wanted to know.

  “Nobody, they’re running wild,” Juppy admitted.

  Tasmin felt a sudden stab of homesickness, a deep longing to be back in the home of her youth: back in their green and gray England. It was a brief stab, but intense. She leaned her head against Juppy’s big arm.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “We’re all glad—very glad.”

  Petal soon came to be of the opinion that the big giant was harmless, after all. Ordinarily she would have gone over and shoved Petey out of his lap—on principle—but with her mother sitting so close she didn’t quite dare. Her mother was too likely to take Petey’s side. Petal had three times been spanked, for treating Petey roughly—an outrageous abuse. Still, it was not her way to allow anyone to deny her pride of place for long. After studying the situation for a moment, Petal moved. She marched over to the big man and squeezed into his lap, next to her twin.

  “You have a big lap,” she announced. “It can hold two.”

  “It sure can, little miss,” Juppy said.

  22

  Even peasants gave way to hot impulse.

  JULIETTA OLIVARIES HAD BECOME Lord Berrybender’s mistress without hesitation—the very first time she was seated next to him at a formal dinner, she had signified her readiness by fondling him under the table. She even managed to get his cock out of his pants, and this before the dinner guests had quite finished their soup. Across the table Lord Berrybender’s wife was watching them closely— very likely she had fondled him at table at some point herself. Lady Berrybender was a full-bosomed, beautiful woman, if a commoner. Julietta felt no overwhelming physical attraction to the tipsy old lord, but she did like his aristocratic manner, a manner that tolerated no scruples when it came to amorous activity. In Santa Fe only Lord Berrybender and herself could naturally assume the prerogatives of high aristocracy. Her own aunt, Doña Eleanora, was a settled housewife now. Lady Tasmin was certainly aristocratic, and looked to be a creature of hot impulse, but then, in Julietta’s view, hot impulse was common. Even peasants gave way to hot impulse. What attracted her to Lord Berrybender was that his impulses were cool, not hot. He simply disregarded rules; he did as he pleased, not fastidiously but boldly.

  Julietta felt just as privileged when it came to disregarding restrictions on her behavior. It infuriated her that she had been sent to Santa Fe—she meant to get back to Europe as soon as possible, but in the meantime, she meant to take her pleasures where she found them—and in the case most troubling to her aunt Eleanora, she found them with a blacksmith.

  “A blacksmith—a peon! Surely not!” Doña Eleanora exclaimed, when Julietta casually confirmed a rumor that had been going around.

  “We’ll be disgraced,” she added.

  Julietta shrugged. “An Olivaries can be disliked but not disgraced,” she pointed out. “We can do as we please. You’ve been stuck in this little place too long. You’re becoming dull.”

  “I’d rather be dull than give myself to a blacksmith,” Eleanora replied.

  “But that’s dull—be dull,” Julietta retorted.

  The blacksmith looked half Indian. He was very dark; he had sturdy legs. He worked with his shirt off—Julietta had often watched him; sweat made his arms and belly shiny. She watched him for two weeks before she took him, looking down from her window. Watching him work, all sweaty and greasy, Julietta began to excite herself with the thought of how it might be with a peon. She watched him from shadows, gently exciting herself. Then one day at dusk, when the Plaza was all but empty, she walked across to the blacksmith’s and simply lifted her skirts. The blacksmith was so startled that he burned his hand on a horseshoe he had been straightening. Julietta pushed past him, into the little dark room where he slept. She waited for him to come. For a bed there were only a few rags. At first the man was so frightened that he couldn’t stiffen. His name was Joaquin; his experience with women had been brief and crude. Julietta refused to let his nervousness defeat her. She took his balls in her hand; she bit his lip. Then she took off all her clothing—something none of the whores or native girls ever did. Instead of being as brief as possible in copulation, which was what Joaquin was used to, Julietta, once she had him in her, took her time. She did not seem to mind his sweat, his grease, the scratchy rags. She made him work, offered him her backside, made him lie down beneath her. She returned to her room filthy, soiled, her face and breasts red from the scrapings of the young man’s stubble.

  Every night for a week Julietta went to the blacksmith’s—she offered caresses that Joaquin had never known before. Doña Eleanora thought her niece had lost her mind. She didn’t bathe, her clothes were sweated through, she reeked. But when she attempted to remonstrate, Julietta merely looked scornful.

  “You should try Joaquin sometime,” she advised her aunt. “He’s learning a few tricks. If you tried him you wouldn’t be so dull.”

  “You’re mad,” Eleanora told her. “You should be locked up.”

  But she did sometimes think of what Julietta suggested.

  Joaquin proved to be good for a week, but only a week. By the time he had become bolder, Julietta was bored. One night she abruptly left him; he was erect and pleading—but she left, went home, ordered the sleepy servant girls to draw a good bath. She threw away her sweaty clothes, bathed, slept soundly. Joaquin often looked at her window but Julietta didn’t allow him even a glimpse.

  A week later she told Lord Berrybender exactly what she had done with the blacksmith. She went into detail, described intimacies that she had not yet permitted His Lordship. Lord Berrybender was eating a bowl of green chili stew at the time. He looked idly up at his outrageous young mistress, but didn’t lay down his spoon.

  “So that’s where you’ve been,” he said mildly. “A blacksmith—sturdy specimens, I suppose.

  “And younger than me,” he added. “That’s the crucial point. Age is rarely kind to lechers. I suppose he was a bit grubby, this fellow—part of the appeal. I enjoy a grubby girl myself, from time to time. Get my fill of ladies with their pouts. Juppy’s mother was rather a grubby girl. Giantess from Santo Domingo. Juppy’s nearly the size of his mother.”

  “Now there’s a stallion,” Julietta remarked. “I wonder what he’s like.”

  “Juppy doesn’t carry on with women,” Lord Berrybender told her. “Never known him to.”

  “What a pity,” Julietta said.

  23

  . . . for some hours she could not be consoled.

  I WISH YOU’D just stop meddling,” Jim told his wife. “It’s better to just let people be.”

  Tasmin was in a mood to agree. She had made an attempt to settle the matter of Little Onion’s divorce from Jim—in view of her obviously deepening bond with Signor Claricia—only to have everything go wrong. When Buffum, with High Shoulders’ help, explained the matter to Little Onion, the girl burst into tears—for some hours she could not be consoled. Tasmin was horrified. She had meant to help the girl yet had only hurt her. That bringing up divorce might make Little Onion feel a failure had not occurred to her—and yet that was exactly what Little Onion felt. If her husband no longer wanted her for a wife, then she had not been good enough, and the only thing to do was go back to her people, a discarded woman. That Jim had never tried to be a husband did not seem very important to Little Onion—she had done her very best to be a good wife anyway—she had done the chores and kept the children. And yet it was over; she was not wanted, she had failed.

  When it was explained to her that no criticism was intended, that they had merely supposed she might want to marry her Mr. Aldo, Little Onion looked even more horrified and burst into tears again. She shook her head vigorously; she wanted nothing of the sort. Mr. Aldo was her friend, a
nd she wanted it to stay that way. Jim, finding himself in the middle of an unnecessary crisis, went to Little Onion himself and did his best to smooth things over. He assured her that she had been a fine wife—he had never wished to divorce her. Little Onion had already packed her few things, intent on leaving; but Jim persuaded her to stay, and Tasmin and the family, deeply embarrassed, lavished affection on her. Little Onion agreed to stay, but she was skeptical and, for a time, sad.

  A little later she realized that her friendship with Mr. Aldo might have just confused the white people. She liked the old man and wanted to see that he took care of himself. She fed him, kept his clothes mended, doctored him when he was ill; but she did not want to lie with him—nothing of the sort. Lately, it was true, he had become feisty; she sometimes had to fight him off. But that was merely the way of men. Finally Little Onion realized that it was Mr. Aldo’s behavior, not hers, that had confused the white people. Slowly, she recovered from her sense of hurt. Someone should just have asked her point-blank about her feelings for Mr. Aldo—then they could have all laughed about it together.

  All the Berrybender women were sorry to have hurt Little Onion, but Tasmin was the one who felt the deepest self-reproach. Jim was right; she ought not to meddle. She loved Little Onion—she didn’t suppose her children would have survived the dark months of her grief without her Little Onion’s loving attention. She did her best to win back the girl’s trust—and, in time, she did.

  “I suppose it’s hopeless, trying to know what others are feeling,” she confessed to Jim. “I don’t even know what you’re feeling unless you hit me—then I know you’re angry. I could have sworn a romance was brewing between those two—and I was completely wrong.”