The Mosquito Coast

  This made Father glad. He used me as his excuse to keep going. He heaved his pole and said, “If it wasn’t for you, Charlie, I would have made camp back there. Good drainage and a gravelly shore. I’m amazed. I think I’ve finally succeeded with you. Fourteen years old, and at last you’re showing some backbone.”

  But I wanted to reach Guampu. How had Father forgotten that name? Maybe because he hated to think about the past, the mistakes and failures. Turn your back and walk away fast—that was his motto. Invent any excuse for going. Just clear out. It had made him what he was—it was his genius. Don’t look back. Yet for me the past was the only real thing, it was my hope—the very word future frightened me. The future spoke to Father, but for me it was silent and blind and dark. Guampu was part of the past, and with this name in mind I pestered him to push further up the river.

  Father believed we were moving into the future. I felt the opposite—as if we might get a glimpse of the past. Anyway it was not far, and even if I was wrong I wanted the satisfaction of knowing whether or not my memory had tricked me.

  Five days after leaving the Thurtles’ village, at about noon, we heard an airplane. Its rumble-buzz came near. Though we could not see it, it brought me a familiar feeling: a plane going overhead was like getting a haircut. I ducked when I heard it, and I felt its shimmying teeth on the back of my neck. Father denied it was a plane. Crosswinds, he said. But he went silent—his face looked as if he had just sat on something like wet grass or cowflap. I was more hopeful then about Guampu.

  I stayed at the bow, searching the river. There were pools of oil slick, little striped and hairy bruises stretching in the current. I spotted a green bottle on the gravel bottom, and a can of Diet Pepsi floating upright, and a kind of suds, like the froth from soap flakes. I saw a submerged sheet of paper curling as it went downstream, and more, and I thought of home, because each thrown-away thing was part of the past. This was the trash of that other world. It looked wonderful to me.

  That same day, I heard singing—music muffled by trees. The water picked it up, and so did the light, the heat, the changes in the sky. I waited for someone else to speak.

  “Allie.” Mother listened. She had heard it.

  “Birds.”

  It was not birds. It was church music.

  Jerry said, “Who’s singing?”

  “Savages,” Father said.

  I said, “But this might be Guampu.”

  We rounded a bend, the jungle fell away, the sun was full on the bank. Set back from the river were bungalows with shiny corrugated roofs of new iron that caught the sun and flashed at us. At the center of the large clearing was a wooden white-framed church, with a steep roof and a belfry. It was all glorious and orderly and clean, a white harbor among the loopy trees and wild vines, standing straight on this crooked river.

  Father’s face was black. Paper peels of skin had burst on his nose and cheeks and left hot patches. He had seen the bungalows, the church, the flowerbeds. He lowered his head, looking doublecrossed, and sweat dripped down his neck like fury.

  “It must be a mission,” Mother said. Then, sensing Father’s rage—the smell he gave off when he was angry—she said no more.

  A mooring lay ahead of us. It was a little dock of planks fixed to a row of oil drums. A Boston whaler with a fringed awning and some smaller dinghies were tied up.

  Clover said, “Where are we, Dad?”

  Father’s mouth was shut tight, but there was fire in his eyes, the energy he called hunger. He clawed at his long hair and jammed his pole into the river, pushing us nearer the place, nearer the singing, and another sound—a generator chugging in a shed by the riverside. This was the back end of the mission. We saw a sewer pipe emptying into the river, and a little hill of bottles and cans and colored paper—more hope.

  The singing stopped. Now there was only the generator.

  We worked our way to the mooring. How lumpy and black our hut-boat looked next to the sleek hull of the whaler, with its yellow awning. What was our boat except a tarred and floating wreck of scavenged wood? It was ridiculous here, and made Father seem like a madman.

  “We’ll see about this.” Father’s voice was sand in a rusty bucket.

  Mother lost her nerve then. She said, “Let’s go on—let’s leave it. It’s got nothing to do with us. Allie, no!”

  “They have real houses,” April said.

  “Look, there’s a backboard,” Jerry said. “They play basketball!” I braced myself and said, “It’s the Spellgoods.”

  “Booshwah!”

  Mother said, “Tell us what you know, Charlie.”

  “The Spellgoods—don’t you remember? They said they lived in Guampu. Emily said so. That preacher, with the family, from the—”

  “Who’s Emily?”

  “One of the girls. She was on the Unicorn. The people who prayed.”

  “I knew it was savages,” Father said.

  “Allie, maybe they can help us.”

  “We don’t need help!”

  “We’re filthy. Look at us.”

  Father said, “Those moral sneaks have been hiding here, polluting this place. You’d think they’d have more sense. There’s no more world left!”

  He leaped to the mooring and rocked on the planks in anger.

  “I’ve got news for these people.”

  We followed him—chased him—up the stairs to where paths were laid out with borders of whitewashed stones. There were no more than ten bungalows, but they were neat, with flowerbeds in front of the piazzas and a vapory shimmer of heat rising from their metal roofs. Beyond them was a runway of mown grass, a landing strip cut into the jungle. But there was no plane, and no people came to meet us. We saw no one.

  But the shutters of the church were open, and now we heard what was certainly Rev. Spellgood’s voice.

  “Jee-doof,” he said slowly.

  “I’ll knock his block off,” Father said.

  Jerry said, “Is this the future, too?”

  “I’m going to remember that, sonny!” Father kicked at the whitewashed stones. “Keep behind me.”

  “Let’s go back to the boat, Allie. Let’s get out of here.”

  “She’s afraid,” Father said.

  “I’ve never seen you so angry.”

  “That’s right,” Father said. “Belittle me in front of the kids.”

  Spellgood was preaching in a high-pitched parroty voice, quoting Scripture. Sam-yool, he said, and something about ten cheeses and the Philistine of Gath.

  “He’ll wish he was in Gath.”

  We looked through the open window. I waited for Father’s yell. It didn’t come—only a hiss of disgust that traveled from deep in his throat, like poison gas escaping from a pipe, like Fat Boy on the boil.

  The church was shadowy, but at the front, propped up on a table and being watched by a whole congregation of Indians in white shirts and white dresses, was a television set.

  The set had a large screen, about the size of a car door, and there was Spellgood’s face yapping on the screen. He was in color, but greeny-yellow, holding a slingshot and telling a story. Beside him was a giant green man with a gorilla face, plastic-looking, with fangs and a helmet. As Spellgood preached, he fitted a stone into the slingshot and made ready to snap it at the giant dummy next to him.

  “They have TV here,” Jerry said.

  The Indians were so amazed by the program that they did not see us. It was a miracle to them—it was a miracle to me.

  I said, “That program must be coming from somewhere. Maybe it’s being relayed by satellite from the States.”

  “Impossible,” Father said. His voice sounded tearful and thin, as it had the day he cried when Jeronimo was burned. “America’s been destroyed.”

  “Where’s the program coming from?”

  “From inside that box. It’s a video cassette. A tape, a trick, the old technology. The Indians think it’s magic. Pathetic!”

  He ran into the church and marched u
p the aisle and pulled out the plug. He started lecturing them, then “Wait!” he cried, for just as the picture fizzed and faded the Indians stood up. They filed out of the church. They were not startled, only bored and talkative when Father cut off the program. Before long, the church was empty and the Indians in white cotton were heading for the jungle.

  The Spellgoods were nowhere to be seen.

  “Back to the boat,” Father said.

  “Can’t we look around?” Clover said.

  “This place doesn’t exist!”

  He was not content to let us sit on the deck, watching the bungalows and enjoying this sight of the past. He ordered us into the cabin—the four of us kids—and pushed a board against the door. We sat there in the hut, wondering what was coming next.

  “I think we’re moving,” Jerry said.

  We were. I said, “He’s taking us away.”

  But ten minutes later the cabin was still again. We heard the splash of the anchor and Father fumbling with ropes. He muttered to Mother, but none of his words were clear.

  As the sun faded in the cabin’s cracks and the air grew cooler, we heard a plane overhead. It came in low, as loud as hair clippers, then there was silence.

  Clover asked me why Dad was acting so funny, and April said she wanted a drink. They annoyed me with questions, until finally they went to sleep. I fell asleep too, but woke up in the dark. Why not take the dugout ashore?

  Jerry was already awake and ready to do whatever I said.

  We crept through the hatchway that Mr. Haddy had broken the night he gave me the spark plugs and gas. We were anchored across the wide river, a little above Guampu. We could hear the generator and see the Guampu lights. But even without the lights there was enough moonshine on the river for us to see that the dugout was gone.

  Jerry put his mouth against my ear and said, “He’s taken it.”

  “Maybe he just cut it loose,” I whispered. “So we couldn’t leave.”

  “Let’s swim.”

  We slipped over the side and made for the far bank, frog kicking and floating with the current so we wouldn’t splash. All the lights in the mission were burning in a friendly winking way. I had never thought I would see an electric light again in my life. The only sound we heard was the generator down below, its chugging.

  We started toward the bungalows, staying in what shadows we could find, then duck-walked to the largest house, where we saw a flickering light. It was the Spellgoods’ parlor. They were all inside, watching television in the hypnotized way the Indians had watched the church-service program. The Spellgoods were eating ice cream out of big bowls, lifting the spoons to their blue faces. Off and on, they laughed. The show was puppets—a green cloth frog and a rubber pig with silky hair—and a real man in a suit talked to them as if they were human—the sort of show that gave Father fits.

  Emily Spellgood was stretched out on the floor. She was only a year older since I had last seen her, but she was much bigger and skinnier. She had short hair and wore blue jeans and sneakers. Seeing how well-dressed she was, I got worried. Jerry and I had long hair. We were covered in river mud. The only thing we wore was short pants, which were sopping wet. I felt like a savage. I did not want to stay.

  The Spellgoods were enjoying the puppet show, and even Jerry laughed until I made him sit down under the window with me so we could figure out what to do next.

  We stayed there, listening to the program and the Spellgoods’ remarks. After about twenty minutes, the program ended. There was an argument then, and lots of suggestions.

  “Let’s play Space Invaders,” one of the little Spellgoods said. “I want to send your module into hyperspace!”

  “No, let’s run The Muppets again. I liked the part about the singing babies. They’re cute.”

  “What about Star Trek?” Emily said. “We can see if they got out of that time warp.”

  Gurney Spellgood said, “No. It’s late. We want something wholesome.”

  He clapped a cassette into the black box, and a program with organ music and preaching came on, called World Crusade for Christ. Then they all had more ice cream and sang the television hymns.

  “We’ll be here all night,” I whispered.

  “I don’t care,” Jerry said. He looked like a wolf cub. “At least it’s real. I wish Dad could see this. Where is he, anyway?”

  I was just going to say I’m glad he’s not here, when the screen door banged out front. There was a skid of sneaker soles on the piazza, like rubber erasers. Someone was outside. I crawled to the piazza and saw a boy about Jerry’s age looking dreamily at the bugs clustering around the lights—one of the little Spellgoods.

  He was so neat and clean, with his wiffle and his white T-shirt, that he gave me a good idea. I shook my hair loose—it was down to my shoulders—and crouched below the piazza in the shadows. I gave a low whistle. The little boy jumped.

  “Who are you?” he said. But he wasn’t worried.

  “Soy una amiga de su hermana, Emily.” By whispering, I could give myself a girl’s singsong voice.

  He said in English, “What’s your name?”

  “Rosa,” I squeaked. “Emily a casa?”

  “She’s watching TV.”

  I told him, still in squeaky Indian Spanish, that I wanted to talk to her.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “Twahkas aren’t allowed at night.”

  I pretended to whimper, then said sadly—and I was sad!—“Lo mucho siento, chico. Voy a mi kiamp,” telling him I was very sorry and that I would go home.

  “Aw, wait a sec,” he said. He yelled “Emily!” and went into the house.

  Emily came out a moment later, but while she was still looking for me in the dark, I stood up and said, “It’s me, Charlie Fox, from the banana boat, the one who killed the seagull. Don’t be worried, I won’t hurt you. Remember me?”

  She made a goofy face and said, “What are you doing here? Hey, this is weird!”

  “That’s Jerry,” I said, because he had just come out from behind the house, like a wolf. “We’re going upriver with my folks. We’re kind of stuck.”

  She came near me and said, “Hey, what happened to you? You’re all dirty. You got smaller. Is there something wrong? Your hair’s gross!”

  I shushed her and said, “Can we talk where no one will hear us?”

  But it was too late. Gurney Spellgood was at the window. “Keep it down, Emily.” And then he saw me. He said, “Your parents are going to be wondering where you are, young lady. There’ll be plenty of time for talking tomorrow.”

  Only my head showed above the piazza, and a good thing, too, because I wasn’t wearing a shirt. But I had an Indian girl’s long hair.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Emily said. “It’s just a couple of Twahkas who want to be baptized.”

  “God loves you,” Spellgood said. “Take their names, sweetie, and give them a shower bath and some Kool-Aid.”

  “Follow me,” Emily said. She giggled as she led us across the field to the church, which was in darkness. We went behind it and sat under a tree. “He thought you were Indians. So did I! Hey, are you in trouble or something?”

  “Kind of,” I said. “We got here this afternoon.”

  “We were holding a baptism in Pautabusna. It’s real gross there. We all went in the plane. Did you see our plane? It’s a Cessna Directorial, a nine seater! Dad’s got a license. He’s logged five hundred hours. It’s real neat, with a radio and fans and everything.”

  “How did you get it?”

  I meant how in the world, but she said, “Contributions. We bought it in Baltimore. Dad flew it here. We came back on the Unicorn. I thought you might be on it, too. I looked for you, I really did. Hey, the things that were going through my mind about you were really X-rated! Why is your hair—”

  “Emily,” I said, “is Baltimore okay?”

  “It’s sorta freaky now. They closed down Dad’s drive-in church. They couldn’t pay the taxes—not enough peo
ple. That’s why they gave him the plane.”

  Jerry said, “Is America still there?”

  “Are you nuts or something?” Emily laughed. “Hey, this kid’s really strange!”

  I said, “My father says America’s been wiped out. There’s no one left but us. Because we’re here. That’s what he said.”

  “That’s stupid,” Emily said.

  A whole country rose up and began to shine the moment she spoke those simple words. And Father seemed tiny and scuttling, like a cockroach when a light goes on.

  Jerry said, “Yeah!”

  “Gee, I thought my dad was weird!”

  “That it all went up in flames,” I said. “That’s what he thinks.”

  “We were there three weeks ago. It’s the same. It’s real neat. I learned roller disco. But we had to come back here. If it wasn’t for the plane, it’d be really bummy. But anyway we bought some new cassettes. We’ve got a video system, with games. And Rocky. Dad even lets us watch it. He says it has a wholesome message. It’s about boxing—this real neat guy.”

  Jerry started hitting me. “I knew it,” he said. “He was lying the whole time. The liar! I’m going home. I ain’t going up the river in no boat!”

  “Your brother’s real strange.”

  I said, “Emily, we’re in bad trouble.”

  “Really? That’s incredible.”

  “Will you help us?”

  “Sure! I want to. Hey, I used to think about you a whole lot. You can stay here.”

  “No. We have to get down to the coast.”

  “My dad can take you in the plane. It’s only an hour and a half!” “Isn’t there another way?”

  “The river.”

  “That’s the way we came. My father would follow us. What about the roads?”

  “There’s only one. It’s over there”—she lifted her hand and pointed to the darkness across the river. “It goes to Awawas, on the Wonks. That’s where our jeep is, parked on the road on the other side. You can see it from the river. It’s a Toyota Landcruiser. Four-wheel drive. Green, with black upholstery. We hold baptisms in Awawas. The Wonks is a real neat river. You can get to the coast that way. There’s plenty of boats.”