Page 43 of The Bedlam Stacks

‘You’re right, I probably could,’ Raphael said. He pushed the door open and dropped a towel on Clem. ‘So don’t do that again.’

‘Is that what happened to the last expeditions?’ I said. ‘They crossed the border?’

He nodded.

‘Why would they do that?’ Clem asked.

‘Because the cinchona woods are that way.’ I pointed. ‘Through the forest. The river path traces a big loop. They thought they could save time.’

Clem looked towards the salt line again, then the path that stretched on around the river – or what should have been the path. It was nothing now except a space where snow heaped five feet high against the tree trunks. ‘How long did you say the snow would be here for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Raphael said, ‘but I doubt it will be long. It’s summer now, it should be warm. Why? Just be patient; it won’t kill you. Crossing the border will.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not impatience. We’re going to have timing problems if we wait too long. If we hit the Indian monsoons, we won’t be able to plant anything. They start in June and last until September. We need to be well clear of them, which means we have to arrive in Ceylon at the end of May, at the latest. It will take a month to get back to port from here, and another three weeks at sea, if everything goes smoothly. If we’re to have any kind of safe leeway, we need to leave in three weeks. If we don’t stick to that, we’ll reach India with nothing but a handful of very expensive firewood, even if we manage to retrieve cuttings.’

He watched me for a second and I thought he would hit me. I leaned both hands on my cane and decided he would just have to do it, because I wouldn’t be moving.

‘That it’s problematic for you doesn’t change anything. You can’t cross the border.’

‘Can we employ someone to help clear the snow on the path around?’

‘No. People here aren’t fit enough and you can’t take the fitter ones from the cocoa farm. They have to hit their quotas or Mr Martel won’t pay. Just wait,’ he said quietly. ‘Wait another week. No one knows what the weather’s doing. This might all be gone tomorrow. This is summer. There shouldn’t be snow at all.’

‘Then I can write to Martel and ask him to send men to help clear the path,’ I said, aware I was rubbing him up the wrong way but I didn’t want to think of what I was meant to do if we couldn’t get through. ‘We can say the coffee we want is down in the valleys. After this snow, the stuff you grow around here is definitely dead now.’

‘Someone would have to walk on the river back to Azangaro for you to send a letter to him,’ Raphael said, a little dangerously.

‘We can pay. Money isn’t in short supply,’ Clem broke in. ‘I think that’s an excellent idea.’

Raphael didn’t reply at once and I could see him making a survey of the possible futures. If he forbade us from sending the letter and the snow stayed, there would be no choice this time next week but to try through the forest, and he couldn’t watch us for every minute of every day. If he said yes, we would wait for Martel. He didn’t seem angry about it any more; we were making him anxious. Not even anxious. He was starting to look frightened.

‘You won’t make yourself any friends if he comes in two days’ time only to find the snow has already gone,’ he said.

‘I’ll say I made you. He can’t be angry with you.’

‘Fine,’ he said, almost too quietly. ‘Ask around town, find someone who has the time.’

He had brought his bag out as well as the towel for Clem and he went back to the St Thomas statue to wind Maria’s prayer around its wrist properly. Once he’d done that, he took out the same glass-handled brush and wax he’d used on the way here. When he began to clean the statue’s breastplate this time, though, his hand left soft trails in the pollen and before long there was a perfect geometric pattern hanging in the light.

Everyone had gone by then and the morning mist had cleared just enough to show the farmland. It was a patchwork of allotments, crammed into the space between the cliff and the border. I helped Clem up.

‘Let’s write that letter and see if we can’t find someone to take it,’ he said. ‘I’d feel a damn sight better with twenty strong men keeping an eye on Raphael, even if they can’t do much about the snow.’

‘Yes. Good idea. And we should send off your maps too. And make a sketch of the one on his wall.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then if we’re killed, the India Office will still have their charts. Which is what will be important, for whoever comes next.’

He looked queasy at that. ‘They do train you up a particular way, don’t they,’ he said.

‘I know, I’m sorry. But we still should.’

‘No, no, you’re right. The map’s done.’ He paused. ‘Em, what the hell are we going to do? It will take days for Martel to come, if he even feels like coming.’

‘Settle in, do some drawing.’

‘And wait for his temper to fray?’ He nodded back at Raphael, then winced and mouthed a much worse word than he would have said aloud. ‘It’s pretty damn frayed already and we shot ourselves in the foot telling him about the cinchona plan. All he has to say is that we were here for quinine after all and judging from what you told me, Martel would be only too glad for us to be killed by Chuncho instead of caught by quinine barons who might hold him responsible for letting us through in the first place.’