The night gathered heat. The straw crackled and pricked. Once a board slipped to the floor.
But sleep!—endowed, concentrated!
Cycles of the day sped through Seenie's head. There was a fugitive line between them and the half-realized happenings in a dream. It was a work cycle; not one of song. Cooking, washing, ironing. Peccadilloes. Scraps for Water Spout. Reining herself in, and not exploding at the golden rancor of Miss Esteena. Ready at any time to do for the Sergeant, a grave, white-templed man, who rose at dawn and retired at midnight. Saying but a word which kept his niece in talk for a week. Men drowning like rats on the Essequibo. The river a tacabah nest. The Sergeant's men, dying by the dozens, of fever—worms breeding in the unemptied casks set to catch rain water—bringing in hossah, corass, for her to scale and stew—and bring home to stuff in Water Spout's hardening belly! Ah, the pepper soup did that. It had, about a barrel of it, straightened his legs; but at the expense of his gums and his belly which were hard as rock.
Suddenly—a flash back to reality.
Water Spout had begun to cry. About time. Had she been dozing long? There was no one to tell. And he was hungry, and he cried.
"Come," she said, awaking, "come to mahmie, son." And she put out a hand in the dark for him. Ah—there—there he was. Crying. Cockling. She seized him by the neck, frontwards. It was moist, swobbled. A bit cold. She drew him to her, forcing the tip of a breast in his mouth.
From her a luxuriant warmth flowed out to him. And she dozed back again.
Dream horses riding her. The Cayenne soup no doubt; whereas usually she would be dead, dead to the fires of the earthiest hell.
Nibbling at her breast.