The Opal-Eyed Fan

  “She is right there.”

  “You can see her?” his voice was still undisturbed.

  “Not—not really. Not until I close my eyes. But the fan—she’s holding the fan! Those little dancing lights—Can’t you see them?”

  She was so hungry for some collaboration, needed to know that her mind was clear and not overcast by this night’s work.

  “I cannot see her—”

  Persis felt as if she were shriveling inside. So this is how it felt to lose one’s mind—to—to go mad!

  “But then she has never appeared to a man.”

  For a moment Persis could not take in what he meant. He—he sounded as if he believed her! But how could he? Such superstitions were only born of unsteady and hysterical minds. She laughed and that laughter grew more wildly loud, until an open palm met her cheek with bruising force, choking off the laughter, returning her with the shock to some manner of control.

  “I’m—I’m not insane—” She did not know whether that was a question or a statement.

  Crewe Leverett made no comment in answer to her half plea. Instead, still holding to Persis with his one usable hand, he asked with that old ring of authority in his voice, a shadow out of her past to draw the truth out of her:

  “Where is she?”

  “Just ahead, by the corner of the house.”

  “Does she face us or away?”

  Persis could not understand his reasons for accepting what surely must be a hallucination as a truth of some consequence to them.

  “She passed us. Now she is—she is moving on!” For it seemed that that strange whisper of wide skirts again filled the air, the fan was fluttering a little faster.

  “Good—then we follow—”

  “Why—? There is nothing there—there can’t be anything!”

  Persis struggled to free herself from his grip. If he had been weakened by the exertions of this night he seemed to have recovered much of his strength again, for the girl discovered she could not twist free.

  “We follow,” was all he said. And because Persis was too weak herself to fight him, she obeyed. However they both wavered and staggered as they went. And she cried out twice as her bare feet scraped on broken shells. But she did not try anymore to reason with her companion. The kitchen doorway lay not too far ahead. She fastened her eyes on the dim wall and the break in it which marked that opening. If she could only get in the house—in spite of all which had happened this night, the thick walls promised safety.

  But when she would have broken free from her companion, turned in that direction, his grip tightened even more until she could have cried out at the pressure on her upper arm. It would seem that the last thing in the world Crewe Leverett intended to do was enter his own house. Instead he forced her along as the swish of invisible skirts could still be heard. And always she saw the glinting of the jeweled fan. They were both mad, Persis decided at last, with an unnatural calmness spreading over her exacerbated nerves—that was the only possible answer.

  16

  T hey limped over the causeway toward that part of the Key beyond the mound where the cabins of the islanders straggled along. And there was the brightness of moonlight in the full, so that Crewe drew her back into what small shadow might protect them. They had passed the house which appeared to Persis the only refuge she could trust. In this black-and-white night anything might be stealing on them.

  Then—it was gone!

  The chill of the air passed; there was no more fluttering of the jewel-sparked fan, no faint swish of skirts unseen. Just ahead was the first of the cabins.

  “She’s gone—” Persis somehow got out the two words in a voice which was near a whimper.

  Beside her Crewe wavered and almost fell. Persis drew his good arm around her nearly bare shoulders, supporting him. They staggered on together until they reached the first of the huts.

  Crewe’s voice came in a breathy rasp. “Pound on the door—now!”

  She was so near exhaustion that it was hard to raise her free hand, obey his order.

  There was no light showing behind the windows of the cabin where matting was tied down. But as Persis’ fist arose weakly and fell again on the door there came a muttering and finally someone who must have been standing very close to the door, or crept there during her assault, said:

  “Who be you?”

  “Mason—” There was a muffled exclamation from within. Persis heard a bar thud away from its hoops. Now the door opened inward—though they still looked into the dark.

  “Cap’n! It be you?”

  “What is left of me.” Again Crewe’s voice strengthened as it had when he had asked for help from Askra at the landing. “Let me in, man, and be quick about it!”

  “Truly will, Cap’n.”

  As they tottered forward stronger arms caught Crewe, drew him along. Persis freed from his weight had to catch at the side of that doorway or she might have slipped to the ground. Then a hold was on her also and she was pulled within, to have the door slammed, and hear, through the dark, the bar thud back into place once more.

  “Cap’n—what’s been happenin’?”

  “Grillon’s ashore, with I don’t know how many of his bully boys. Can you scout out our men—those at the hotel? He thinks I’m dead—or maybe just hopes it.”

  “Cap’n—! Here you, Carrie—light up the dish light—T’ain’t much, Cap’n, but it’s better than a lantern.”

  There was a tiny flicker in the dark, the sound of a tinderbox, and then indeed a light so faint it reached hardly beyond the border of the crude bowl in which a twist of fiber was awash with oil from which came a very strong smell of fish. So strong Persis’ stomach near heaved.

  She was sitting on a stool where she had been pushed, her battered and bleeding hands lying limply on her knees, every bruise she had met with that night adding to the ache of her body.

  “Carrie,” she heard Crewe’s voice now as if it had come from a much farther distance. Her head was so light that when she tried to look at anything it spun in a slow but dizzy whirl. “Carrie, take care of the lady.”

  A shape moved forward between her and that tiny wisp of light and she found herself once more on her feet, being guided over to the far side of the hut and there settled on a pallet while a woman’s voice murmured in the thick dialect of the islanders which Persis could not understand. She closed her eyes to fight that terrible giddiness and lapsed into a darkness more complete than that of the night outside.

  If dreams pursued her in that dark, none of them lingered when she again roused. For several moments as she looked about her, she was dully amazed. This was not her bed—her room—It was as if she had awakened into another world.

  The walls about her were rough stone fitted together as if they had been quarried of broken pieces. The spaces for two windows had irregular edging, just stones left out from the wall. Over her head was a framework of palm fronds based on timbers. There were two stools, a table rough-made but scrubbed clean. And, on the far wall, a rack in which rested two of those heavy swordlike knives the islanders used to cut away fast-growing underbrush. The mats which had closed both windows at night were now pushed out and held so by sticks braced against the wall.

  This was—this was the cabin to which they had won their way last night. But she was alone in it. Persis struggled to sit up, the rags of her chemise, her stays, and her torn drawers had been taken from her. She was glad to find she was decently covered by a kind of loose robe which had a neck opening wide enough to slip over her head. Her hands hurt when she tried to move her fingers and she saw that they had been liberally smeared with a thick substance which had dried and which carried a pungent odor, some sort of herbal remedy she decided.

  The giddiness, which had struck at her in the last moments of consciousness she could remember, was still enough to make her lean quickly back against the wall. But she was listening intently. There came the usual sounds of birds and insects from outside. And in addition, from not
too far away, the sound of several voices rising and falling in the island dialect which Lydia had informed her very few not of native blood could hope to understand. A mixture it was of Indian, African, and a few Spanish words—reflecting those who had in turn subdued the Key and held it for a space.

  Lydia! And Grillon! And Crewe!

  All Persis’ anxieties flooded back and she got to her knees on the pallet. It was then her eyes fell on what must have been carefully laid beside her head as she slept—the false fan with its hidden steel. This time she had no compunction in picking it up, even though the curling of her fingers around the hilt made her wince with pain. It had served them well last night. There was no place in this robe she could hide it, but keep it with her she would!

  The door was unbarred, she saw now, partially ajar. And as a figure appeared in that gap, Persis held tightly to the dagger hilt. But the dark-faced woman who entered was one she remembered vaguely having seen in the washhouse conventionally employed in sudsing clothes. She wore a loose blouse of cotton which must have once been sun-bright yellow but was now faded in uneven streaks. And her skirt was full, though above ankle-length, patterned with a border of colored thread in a strange design.

  She carried a bowl in both hands, steam arising from it. Seeing Persis awake she smiled widely, displaying two gaps in her front teeth. Her frizzled hair was caught up under a bright red kerchief, save for a fringe across her forehead. And certainly there was nothing more alarming about her than there had been in Mam Rose or Sukie, though she was clearly not a house-servant.

  “Missie feel good?” She set the bowl down on the table, produced from a box a carved wooden spoon she dropped into it and then brought it to Persis. “Eat—eat—good—give strength—” She hesitated between words as if she needed to translate from her own speech into one Persis could understand.

  “Captain Leverett—where is he?” Persis accepted the bowl, laying the fan dagger down beside her. She was instantly aware that the woman’s eyes had flickered quickly to it and away again as if it were something she refused to acknowledge had any existence in her world.

  “Th’ Cap’n–he be doin’ what needful–” The woman watched Persis spoon up the stew. To the girl’s taste it was overseasoned, too peppery, but once she had started to eat she discovered that she was hungry, hungry enough to even relish this. And when she had emptied the bowl her turbaned hostess produced some fruit, the coolness of which relieved her mouth and throat.

  She wondered what was “needful” for Captain Leverett. Surely to take care of his shoulder which might well have been reinjured during their activities of the night. But that she had any influence over him, or even over this woman, she doubted.

  That she had not been returned to the house both puzzled and alarmed her. Now that she tried to remember those scraps of conversation she had overheard before Ralph Grillon left Crewe to what he believed a certain death, she wondered if the Bahamian had not after all ever planned to leave Lost Lady, but rather, with Lydia very much under his control, had seen a good chance to take over the whole operation. He could well have landed men (just as Crewe kept insisting through the night) and perhaps more than just Mrs. Pryor, Molly, and Shubal had had doctored food or drink served them, keeping them helpless while Grillon had moved in.

  Molly! If the maid had recovered and discovered her own absence Persis imagined what an outburst there had been. Were the three she had seen sleeping in the house now under guard? And what of the remainder of the Arrow’s men, and those from the Dutch ship—as well as Dr. Veering and the islanders?

  How much could Crewe depend upon the latter? They were a mixture of races whose ancestors had seen many masters here and a new one might philosophically be accepted. While perhaps the rescued seafarers at the hotel might be persuaded that this was no fight of theirs, only a personal quarrel between two wreckers.

  But where was Crewe—and what could he be doing?

  The woman took away the second bowl she had offered when Persis signaled that she could eat no more. However, just as she placed it on the table, she turned sharply toward the doorway. And her attitude was such that Persis put out her hand once more to close on the fan dagger.

  The man who ducked his head a little to enter was not an islander and Persis got to her feet quickly.

  “Dr. Veering—! What is happening? Where is Captain Leverett? And—?”

  He held up one hand defensively. “Not so fast, Miss Rooke. Though I can well understand your present bewilderment. Captain Leverett has sent me with a message—as well as to report upon how you fared after your ordeal. For reasons he himself shall later explain to you, he wishes you to keep out of sight. However, as soon as it grows dusk, Carrie here will get you into the house. If you will then at once go to your own chamber and dress as if for a regular dinner and then wait—”

  “I don’t understand—”

  Dr. Veering had come up to her and had taken her hands, seeming more intent on inspecting the damage now hidden by Carrie’s treatment than he was upon her beginning protest.

  “Yes, yes, excellent. You may wash this off when you reach the house, Miss Rooke. I shall see some healing salve is there ready for you. Then I would suggest that you wear gloves upon your appearance. As for what Crewe Leverett plans—well, I left him growling like a veritable tiger because I would not let him undertake the first of it himself. Luckily he did not put out that shoulder again. No thanks to the strain with which he used it last night—”

  “He might have died!” Persis said hotly.

  “So he told me, very much to the point I must say. And how you, a slight female as you are and unable to swim, managed—” The doctor shook his head, “Though I have long ago learned that with females a man may never judge by appearance. The most fragile of ladies can on occasion develop the toughness of sword steel. Anyway—I would suggest that you rest all you can. The news I can give you is limited, for the simple fact that success depends on a number of ‘ifs,’ ‘ands,’ and ‘buts’—and had anyone but Crewe mapped out such a piece of recklessness I would not have given a fig for its chances.

  “Briefly, he has rounded up a force of volunteers–most of his own men on shore had been drugged and locked into the warehouse. Thanks to the help of Mason they are out, with the door still locked behind them and a group of island boys left inside to hammer and yell at intervals. With his crew, six from the Arrow and two of the Dutchmen, they have taken off to intercept the Stormy Luck—with Lan Harvery in command—much to Crewe’s disgust. Though he had finally to admit that a willing spirit cannot induce a broken body only half-healed to do its best.”

  “And Grillon—Lydia—?” Persis wanted to know.

  “Grillon is patrolling the south beach and Miss Lydia has been, shall we say, persuaded, to return to the house. She believes Grillon will come for her. There is a guard of his men, but those have been judiciously whittled down by the islanders. If Crewe’s force can board and take the Stormy Luck, then Grillon is bottled up here—in a manner marooned. And by evening we shall know one way or the other.”

  “But Captain Leverett is all right?” Persis returned to the question uppermost in her mind. That time they had spent in the water-filled darkness beneath the house had somehow lengthened in her own thoughts to such a space that she would never think of Crewe Leverett again as a stranger. It was as if their shared danger had somehow tied them together whether they would have originally willed it or no.

  “Good enough,” Dr. Veering assured her. “He has an amazingly strong constitution and I can’t find that he has done anything to disturb the knitting of the broken bones. Had I had my way, of course, he would be in bed and asleep, if I had to pour a potion down his throat to assure that state. But with matters as they now are I cannot argue with him. You can help him best now by doing exactly as he asks—remain here in concealment until Carrie can get you into the house—”

  “Molly, Mrs. Pryor—Shubal—?” she made a question of their names.


  “They have all recovered from an amazing sleep. I had good reason to visit your man Shubal and so looked in upon the others. Mrs. Pryor is well aware of the situation and of what Captain Leverett intends. Your maid, after the manner of these island fevers, has again a temperature and so I gave her a soothing draft.”

  Persis looked down at her glazed and discolored hands. “Dr. Veering, will the plan be a success?”

  He shrugged. “I am no gambler, Miss Rooke. I know the men Crewe Leverett has chosen and if anything can be accomplished—they are the ones to do so. It is no more foolhardy than other ventures they have tried in the past. But we can only possess our souls in patience and hope for the best. And—”

  His attention had shifted from Persis to the dagger fan lying beside her on the pallet.

  “The opal-eyed fan—but how—why?”

  The girl shook her head. “It is not that one—the one Lydia keeps. Look,” with ease of practice she slid the blade out of the mock fan.

  “But where–?”

  Dr. Veering was a man of science, a believer in the possible as ranked against those impossible things which had been happening. He might consider her bereft of part of her wits, but Persis needed his shrewd common sense to back her in her own belief that she was not under some disillusion.

  She made her tale brief, of her finding the box after the second storm, of the strange way the fan had returned to her keeping even after she had repudiated it.

  “But I was wrong in hating it,” she added now. “Had I not had it with me last night Captain Leverett might well have been drowned—or even both of us ended dead.”

  Dr. Veering picked it up almost as if his hand moved against his will. He drew forth the dagger, sent it plunging back into its sheath again with a quick smack of his palm against its pommel. Then he inspected carefully the carving of the cats with their narrowed opal eyes which appeared to return his gaze with a knowingness that no artifact could have.