Minnow. James E. McTeer II

could skip the soda and his mother wouldn't be mad, and it would be the same, really.

      He dug the billfold out and flung it open, spilling the dollar onto the bar. The man laughed and clapped one hand over the bill and dragged it across the wood until it dropped off the edge into his other hand. He took two quarters from a pocket on his apron and put them on the wood. They rang dully, and one spun in a circle before it lay flat.

      "You can get it at a place in Port Royal."

      Minnow took a step back and raised his eyebrows.

      "Port Royal?"

      "Yes."

      "No doctors are there."

      Sailors, fighters, travelers, and thieves—but no doctors.

      "I'm thinking of one you don't know about. Or maybe you do."

      Minnow stood there, arms limp. He shook his head.

      "Doctor Crow works out of Port Royal. Last of his kind. At least this far in."

      "Doctor Crow?"

      "Crow."

      "He comes to town sometimes," Minnow said.

      "You know him then."

      "He has purple glasses. So he can see inside your soul."

      The pharmacist laughed.

      "You believe in hoodoo, boy?"

      "No sir. I mean, I've never seen much of it, so I don't believe so."

      The man leaned in farther, this time close enough that Minnow could smell tobacco on his tongue.

      "Don't let him put the root on you, boy. You give him that money and get what you need and get out of there, or you'll wake up a stud boar out past the Island with negroes spear-hunting you."

      Minnow shook his head.

      "You're sure he has it?"

      "He's got lots. You go find out."

      "Where do I find him?"

      "Down by the oyster rake. He's got a place there."

      "What do I tell him?"

      "You don't tell him nothing. You give him that paper, and that money, and he'll give you what you need. And you most certainly don't tell him who sent you there. You got it?"

      "Yessir."

      "Now you need anything else from me?"

      "No sir."

      "If you come back here, it better be for a good reason."

      "Yessir."

      Minnow left the pharmacy for Bay Street. His billfold was lighter, but he'd found a way. He practically skipped away from the store, down the line of shops, weaving in and out of people on the street. Martin hollered from the opposite side, waving a dirty hand in the air. Minnow turned and waved but didn't stop. A rolling wagon blocked their sight of each other, and then Martin was lost in the crowd again.

      Minnow stopped at the end of the shops, where Bay Street widened and the stores ended, and only a few smaller buildings dotted the downtown boundary. The land dropped away farther up the road, falling into a steep grass bluff that overlooked the marsh and the river. Enormous live oaks towered from the bluff, holding their long arms out over the water as if to cool their leaves. White mansions stood opposite the trees on the other side of the lane: true mansions with wide porches and tall columns.

      He looked down Bay Street, busy and hot, and then up the shady bluff road. Port Royal was a half-hour walk, probably, way down the bend. He'd never been there, not even with his mother or father. Not with the gang, not with anybody. Only sailors went to Port Royal, and people who did business with sailors.

      Half-hour down, half-hour up. He could run some of the way back if he felt it, and his shoes held. His heart thrummed in his chest, and he started walking.

      The road led him past the mansions where planters came to escape the swamps in summer. That's what his father told him: that more colored folks than white folks were out on the islands this time of year, working the farms, tending gardens, taking care of things. He passed the houses and followed the road as it led along the bluff's edge. He gazed out over the river. Bay Street was off to his left, but way ahead down the wide river he could see the faded gray shape of Port Royal. Boats were anchored right off the bluff, and a little farther out, all manner of craft moved up and down the waterway.

      The broad vista of the river dropped from view, and he walked down the narrow road, turning gently to the left as the path followed the now-hidden river. The forest around him fell silent except for squirrels dashing through the understory around him. Now and then an oxcart came, moving between town and the port, carrying people or cargo or animals or a little bit of everything. Men rode by on horses in single file, but he was the only one who traveled alone, and on foot.

      The trees narrowed the road to a one-man path. A cart came, and he had to step into the woods to avoid being run down. He walked on, and the forest mixed with skinny water oaks and low saw palmettos that formed a solid underbrush. Pine trees stood like sentinels in the earth, limbless until high in the canopy where they stretched out their needle-spiked branches. The trunks leaked sap like orange blood, and the air smelled like sweet peppermint pine. The trunks caught the slightest breeze, and they swayed and groaned. He thought of the ghost stories his gang told at the hideout. The headless horseman. The golden arm. The hand. He'd never walked the forest road, never seen these woods. It was another world, even just out from town.

      The pines thinned and became sparse, and soon he could see through the trees again. He saw a log cabin in one spot. Another overgrown clearing showed old stone ruins like blunted teeth jutting from the floor of rotting pine needles. He passed a shanty and then an old campsite visible from the road. Charred tin cans ringed an ashy fire pit. The road widened and the trees fell away to allow two flanking ditches. He walked in one of the dry ditches, off the road, looking out into the trees. He let his eyes drift to the needles at his feet, and when he looked up, he was there.

      The trees let go, and the land cleared to show more houses and shacks clustered outside the busy port. Caravans and people gathered in clearings, preparing to set off down the road. He crouched on the edge of the woods and surveyed the place he was forbidden to go. It didn't look too bad.

      The buildings went out in front of him, growing taller and thicker until they formed another town, another village on the river. The town's structures had been whitewashed once, perhaps, but now the place was gray and dusty and smeared with mud and soot. He could not see the river or any sign of water from the forest path.

      Minnow walked past a courtyard formed by three squat houses. Bare-chested men sat on the stoops, some drinking from dark brown bottles, some smoking and sending white spirals from their lips. Another man stood at the center of the courtyard by a table. He was barefoot and wore loose gray slacks. He had a cigarette in his mouth and something like a machete in his hand. He chopped up and down at a long silver fish with its mouth hung open and one clear yellow eye shining in the sun. A negro took the cut parts of the fish and separated them into baskets. The negro's hands were covered in platinum fish scales that coated his dark skin to the elbows. Minnow felt their eyes tracking him as he walked by, moving deeper into the port. He kept his eyes down and tried not to be noticeable. His stomach twisted, and he gritted his teeth.

      The salty air carried sounds of clanking rigging from somewhere past the buildings. He passed a tavern and an inn, both completely wooden and boarded up so he couldn't see anything inside. He could hear music from a tinny instrument, and he could hear the sound of boots clomping against wood. The rest was a mystery.

      An open juke joint showed its insides through a wide door and thin-slatted windows. Women danced inside with men, and someone turned an organ that spurred a little monkey into a jig. The monkey smoked a cigarette while the organ grinder laughed.

      A dog barked nearby and brought his