Chapter 4 4

4 I stepped on the ferry hesitantly, with one foot on the boat and the other on the floating pier. For a moment, I was attracted by the streamer on the sea surface of Bull Bay.Five or six beautiful and white egrets soared up from the nearby swamp, making low-pitched calls.I stepped aboard the ferry and watched them through the plastic windows as they weaved a familiar ribbon over the bay, then turned neatly and headed for Egret Island.The ferry is actually an old flat-bottomed boat named Haichao Ferry.I leaned my suitcase against an off-white cooler above which hung two red tide gauges made of cardboard.I sit down on a bench.Hugh arranged for a driver to take me from the airport to the Oindo ferry terminal.I just caught the last ferry.The time is four o'clock in the afternoon.There were only five other passengers on board, presumably because it was the time when winter tourists hadn't flocked.Tourists usually come here in spring and summer to watch the egrets that roam the marshes.Groups of egrets fell into the woods on both sides of the stream, perched quietly, like clusters of light.A handful of tourists—authentic history buffs here and there from the city of Charleston—came for Hepjiba’s “Cultural Day Tour,” which included a visit to a slave cemetery.Hepujiba is the island's guardian of culture, or, as she likes to call herself, a teller of African stories.She knew a thousand folktales and was fluent in Guerr, a language that slaves derived from English and their native African languages.I carefully looked at the passengers on board, wondering if I could recognize a certain islander.Apart from the monks, there are less than a hundred people still living on the island, and most of them have lived there since I was a little boy.I found out that all the people on board were tourists.One was wearing a T-shirt that read "Hard Rock Café - From Cancun, Mexico" and a red bandanna wrapped around his head.I think he must be freezing.

Seeing me looking at him, he asked: Have you ever stayed at the Island Dog Hotel? ""No, but, that hotel is very good.you will like it. "I said. I had to speak at the top of my voice amid the roar of the ferry engine. The Island Dog Hotel is the only bed and breakfast on the island, a light blue two-story building with white storm windows board. I wonder if Bonnie Langston is still an innkeeper. She's one of those people that Hepjibba calls "Laija," which means outsider in Gullah. If your ancestors ever lived On the island, then, you are a "Zai Ya". "Lai Ya" are rare on Bailu Island, but they do exist. Since I was ten years old, my only wish is to leave the island." I want to be a 'to teeth'. "I said this to Hepjibba once, and she started laughing, but then she stopped laughing and looked at me, and she saw that sad place in my heart that made me want to leave." You can't leave the house ,' she said in a very tender tone, "you can go somewhere else, that's all right - you can live on the other side of the world, but you can never leave home. "I feel now that I've proven her wrong." You must go to Max's for a meal, "I said to the tourist," and ask for a shrimp grits. "Actually, if he wanted to eat, the coffee shop was his only option. Like the bed and breakfast, the coffee shop was named after Max, a black Labrador retriever whom Belle reportedly En could read his mind. He greeted the ferry twice a day, rather like a local celebrity. In warm weather, when the tables were set out on the sidewalk, Max would trot around with a kind of Taken for granted, canine-specific superiority, giving poor humans a chance to appreciate it. People hastily grabbed the camera, as if Lacey from "Lacy the Dog" appeared on the set. Max is famous for more than just Because of its ability to meet the ferry with extraordinary accuracy, and because of its immortality. It is said that it is twenty-seven years old this year. Bane swore it, but the fact is that the current Max is the fourth generation in a series of Max. Since I was a child, I have loved different Max. On the front of the island, there is a beach called Boneyard, so named because the driftwood on the water forms a large and twisted group of sculptures on the shore. There are almost no People like to come here because the water is too fast to swim and it's full of sand mosquitos. You only have to stop there to understand that the sea will take the island back one day. Most tourists come to visit the monastery on the island— —The Abbey of St. Cynara. The abbey is named after a Celtic saint who was a mermaid before her conversion. The abbey was originally an abbey of a monastery in Cornwall, England—or, As the monks call it, "a daughter's house". It used to be a summer fishing camp for a Catholic family in Baltimore. In the 1930s, the monks built the current monastery on this donated land.

At first the Abbey was so unpopular that the people of Egret Island - all Protestants - called it the Church of Holy Sin.Protestants have largely disappeared now.Local guidebooks exaggerate the abbey as a "swale" sub-attraction, largely because of a mermaid chair in the abbey chapel.A "charming chair", that's how guidebooks always describe it, and there's a lot to be said for it.This chair is a replica of a very old and well-known chair in the Mother House of the Abbey.Two winged mermaids were carved on the arms of the chair in brilliant oil paint—vermilion fish tails, white wings, golden hair.As children, Mike and I used to sneak into church when no one was around, and the thing that tempted us there was, of course, the nipples on the mermaid's bare breasts-four sparkling garnets inlaid on the breasts.I used to pick on Mike and make him sit in a chair with his hands over his breasts.The memory made me laugh out loud, and I looked up to see if the other passengers had noticed.If the tourists are lucky and the chapel is not blocked by ropes, they can sit on the mermaid chairs and pray to the mermaid saint Xinara.But, for whatever reason, sitting in a chair and praying is said to guarantee you an answer.At least that's a tradition.Overall, it's like throwing change into a fountain and saying a prayer silently.But, every once in a while you'll see an actual pilgrim, a man in a wheelchair disembarking from a ferry, or, perhaps, a man with a small oxygen cylinder.The ferry sailed slowly in the salt water stream and passed many small swamp islands, where withered yellow silt grass swayed.The tide had gone out, exposing oyster rakes miles away.Everything is naked and uncovered.We picked up speed as the creek widened and flowed into the bay.Brown pelicans lined up in a V shape flapped past the boat and flew forward.I focused on them, and when they were gone, I stared at the lifelines on the ferryboat that hung haphazardly on the wall.I don't want to think about my mother.On the plane, I was terrified inside, but here, maybe because of the sea breeze and freedom, my mood has been lighter.I leaned my head against the window and breathed in the sulfurous smell from the swamp.The captain, wearing a faded red cap and pair of rimmed metal sunglasses, began speaking into the microphone.His voice came leisurely from a small speaker above my head, which was a commentary he had memorized in advance specially prepared for tourists.He told them where to rent golf carts for tours of the island, and he gushed about egret habitat and fishing boat rentals.He ended his presentation with the same joke I heard the last time I was back: "Guys, just remember that there are crocodiles on the island. I don't think you'll see them this season, but if you do When you get there, remember, you can't outrun an alligator. No matter who is with you, you just have to outrun him." The tourists all chuckled, nodded to each other, and headed to a barrier in the Carolinas The experience of sightseeing in the island was suddenly covered with a fresh and slightly adventurous color.

As the ferry crept into the narrow stretch of water criss-crossing the swamp on the back of the island, I got up and went on deck.The stream swelled and flowed backwards, the color of which was like strong tea.Watching the track behind me, watching the distance we traveled, I realized how isolated I had been growing up on an island with no bridges.I was completely besieged by the sea, however, I never felt alone until I started high school on dry land.I remember Shem Watkins sending us a bunch of kids, maybe five or six, over Bull Bay every morning in his shrimp boat and picking us up in the afternoon.We called that shrimp boat the "Shrimp Bus."Mike and I imagined ourselves as the "Swiss Robinsons". Mike rowed a boat through the creek, we kept stopping and jumping into the swamp to catch fiddler crabs, and then sold them as bait on the ferry pier. Pound fifty cents.We knew every waterway and sandbar and knew exactly where the oyster rakes would run the boat aground at low tide.The summer when I was nine, before the world fell apart, we were two intrepid children, tracking turkeys and spotting alligators.At night, when the palm trees around the house were flapping in the high wind, we slipped out the window and ran to the slave cemetery, and again and again challenged the ghosts to see if they dared to come out.Where did that girl go?I stared at the tannin-like stream, and a strong longing for that girl surged in my heart.I marvel at the weight of memory, and the imprinting of family and residence.

I remember my father piloting his twenty-foot Chris Clough pleasure boat with the meerschaum pipe I gave him between his teeth, pinching me between his chest and the rudder.I could almost hear him yell, "Jessie, the dolphins are coming." I saw myself running towards the railing, listening to the dolphins snort, admiring the black line as their bodies broke through the water.When the northwest corner of the island appeared in view, I was already recalling the explosion of his cruise ship.Memories of newspaper clippings in my mother's drawer. "Police speculate that sparks from his pipe set off a fire at the leaking fuel line." I glanced across the water, staring at the scene for a moment, then turned my head away.I walked from one end of the railing of the ferry to the other, watching the island get closer.The island was only five miles long and two and a half miles wide, but from the boat it appeared smaller.Black-tailed gulls circled the roofs of shops behind the ferry quay, and behind them was the green heart of the island, full of live oaks, palms, and clumps of myrtle. .The engine slowed as the ferry approached the pier.Someone threw a rope and fastened our boat to the stakes, and I heard the creak of the old planks.On the pier, several people are sitting on beach chairs, fishing for red bass.However, there is no shadow of Kate and Bane.Kate promised to come and pick me up.I walked back to the cabin, picked up my suitcase, and stood by the window, waiting for the other passengers to disembark.A few minutes later, they hurried over, Max trotting behind them.They were holding hands, Kate in her high heels and thin socks, and Bane seemed to be half dragging her along.Kate’s dark red hair, which my mother described as the color of “Portuguese red wine,” was pulled high in a bun on the top of her head.Locks of hair had fallen, covering her face.They stopped on the edge of the pier and looked up at the boat.Max squatted between them, wagging half of his tail as if it had two tails.Kate caught a glimpse of me at the window, and I saw her breasts rise and fall. "Hey, don't stand there stupidly! Come down!" she yelled.Bane suddenly danced into a funny jig, raising his feet and standing still. "J-Cee, J-Cee," she chanted, and Max barked, startling a flock of seagulls on the water's edge on the pier.The other passengers stopped to watch, and then looked at each other with embarrassing expressions.Home.I had no choice but to grab my suitcase and trudge inside.Kate had dark circles under her eyes, like two yellowish shadows.She held me in her arms, and at the same moment, the smell of the island was in my nostrils, a strong mixture of smells - mud, old crab pots, salty air and vibrant black mud On the beach, the slimy mud is covered with thorny creatures. "You're back at last," Kate said, and I smiled at her.Bane leaned her round face against the sleeve of my coat, clinging to me like a barnacle.I put an arm around her and hugged her hard. "You didn't want to come," she said, you hated coming here. "Kate cleared her throat. All right, Bane, stop talking." However, Bane didn't finish.Mom, you're standing on a bloodstain. ' she said. I looked down. Everyone looked down. A dark splatter of blood was visible under Kate's feet. I imagined them rushing in panic to the ferry pier, across the bay , my mother's hand was wrapped in a JC Penney towel. Kate pulled her foot back and we stood in the late sunlight, in perfect silence, staring at my mother's blood.