Jack slipped out the way he'd come, leaving me and Sister Eileen waiting tense and alone together at the table. She handled his rudeness so well, and it made me glad of her sterling character even as the situation made me angry. There was much more to her than you might expect from a small lady in a habit, but isn't that the way it always goes? Once every blue moon, and once in a royal flush—people will surprise you.
He unnerved her, though—as he unnerved me. I couldn't say how I knew he was nearby, and watching. When I called him out, I only meant to invite him in, but if he was going to behave so badly, it was just as well that he'd shown himself the door.
So I could not understand why his leaving did not relieve me.
Sister Eileen released a deep breath she'd been holding. "He's mad," she said, as if that explained everything. "Perfectly mad."
"That may be," I agreed.
"He's dangerous, you know. Or don't you think?"
I don't know why she added the last part, undoing her statement a little by asking for my opinion. I wondered why she felt the need to do that. "I do think he could be, as any madman might be a danger to himself and others."
"We are the only others here, Mr. Cooper."
I knew it then—how she already knew more than I did. I could see it in the way she wasn't blinking, and in the way the muscles in her hands were taut like small ropes. She shifted in her chair as if she'd make herself more comfortable there, then changed her mind and rose to her feet.
"I appreciate your chivalrous defense, but I think it would be best if you'll let him be. Don't antagonize him on my behalf, please. I do not trust him, and I think that—given precious little instigation—he would do you harm. He needs only the smallest excuse."
"I beg your pardon? My dear lady—"
She interrupted me. "Something is wrong tonight. It's the weather, I think. Isn't it funny how it affects us sometimes?"
"It's very loud. The thunder is devilish, suddenly. But the captain has dropped anchor now and we'll wait it out. The rain will clear and we'll be on our way again soon. God knows there's no frowning for the weather."
"God knows it, and so do I."
"What do you mean?" I asked, increasingly curious as she grew increasingly cryptic. "I wish you'd do me the favor of speaking directly, instead of these little riddles."
She pushed her chair aside to leave the table and waited, with one hand on its back. "It's easier to tell the truth in allegory and riddles though, don't you think? Jesus did it, with his parables."
"Like the Good Samaritan."
"Indeed—just like that one. Do you think there was ever a real man, injured beside the road? Or might he have invented it to convey a point?"
"I'm sure I can't say. So tell me a parable, then. Make me understand what sets us all on edge tonight, and why you think poor Jack is taking it with such difficulty."
I thought she'd sit again, but she did not—she simply leaned herself forward against the chair.
"All right. Let us say, then, that there are two men in jail, awaiting execution. In eight hours they will be hanged. One man asks for a clock, so that he may be reminded of how much time is left. He takes comfort in watching the time pass—telling himself, 'Now I have three whole hours left to live, and I will appreciate these three hours.' Or, 'Now I have a whole hour left to live, and I will appreciate this hour.'"
"What about the other man?" I asked.
"The other man asks for a clock as well, but he is told that there is only one—and it's already been given to the other prisoner. Without the clock to judge by, the other prisoner is agitated and confused. He'd rather see the time crawl by and know how much is left to him; without the clock, he drives himself mad wondering how long he must wait for the hangman's noose. Because he cannot stand the wait, he fashions his own noose from the bedsheets and hangs himself before the executioner can arrive."
"I think I see. That's quite a morbid parable you've spun for me. Am I to gather that your mythic clock is the weather?"
"You would be quite clever to surmise as much, yes. Some of us—it helps us to gaze up and know. But when we can't. . .." Her voice ran out of air and she let the thought hang.
"I wish I understood better what you were trying to—" I began to press her further, but I was cut off by a most ferocious and terrifying sound.
It echoed loud through the boat, in that omnipresent way that refuses to tell you where the source originates. We both jumped, startled and afraid, as it pealed and rang and roared. I clapped my hands over my ears, but the nun held her ground—eyes narrowing and hands clamping up tight into fists.
The kitchen girl, Laura, came running in, hands over her ears also. The sound—it wouldn't stop! It followed her and surrounded us, filling the room and the decks and the sky.
The girl looked at us and we saw our own fear reflected there in her round, brown face. "It's nothing," I tried to tell her—I didn't try to tell the sister, though. She was already steeled against it. "It's only the mud drums. They're blowing out the mud drums down below, by the boiler. It makes a sound, it's terrible, I know. But you hear it sometimes when you ride these things a long time."
"I know what the mud drums are you fool-headed man," she told me—in a panic, forgetting her place, I'm sure. "I've heard them before and I know what they mean. But this ain't that, and you know it sure as I do."
We were shouting to each other. We had to. The hoarse, unending blast was filling us and swallowing us whole. It was drilling into my skull, past my ears and under my scalp, into the meat of my brain.
There was thunder, too—though you could hardly hear it.
Sister Eileen released her death grip upon the chair and fled the room with a determined sort of stride that I would not have cared to interrupt. I called after her anyway, because it seemed that someone must. "Sister—stay here. Stay with us."
She paused in the doorway, one hand grasping the frame as if to hold herself in place while she spoke. "You stay here—both of you. Get into the galley and stay close together. Get the cook, too. Wake him up. I've seen him, he's a big man, like you—Christopher. Grab the biggest knives you find and stay low."
"Sister!" Laura reached out like she might grab her, but the small nun was faster than she looked. Her skirts swished fast behind her and she was gone.
Laura and I stared back and forth between ourselves, hands on ears, wishing for the terrible roar to subside and shaking as it failed to do so. "Maybe you should—" I started to say, but she knew the rest already.
"I'll get the cook," she nodded, and she was off. A moment later she dashed back past me, into the galley. She emerged holding a great carving knife; she held it point down, by the handle, and her wrists were as tight as leather.
I wanted to tell her that I thought this was unnecessary, that it was too much. I wanted to tell her she was going to frighten someone, but I was already more frightened of the warbling howl than I was of this strong-boned black girl.
Still, as she dashed past me I thought that she did not look like a creature to be trifled with. I wished her all the luck in the world. She was gone. And abruptly—with a gurgle and a gasp—the sound stopped altogether.