Read Online Timothy of the Cay by Theodore Taylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Theodore Taylor
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miniature
jumbi
-chaser as he was. Always had been, always would be.
Like
bamboola
drums, Mama Geeches got into everybody's head and gullet with her words. Because they were mysterious words, powerful words, everybody listened.
Within his memory, Tante Hannah had paid Mama Geeches to rid their yard and hut of visiting
jumbis
several times. Once, Mama Geeches sat on the doorstep holding a chicken in her lap, talking to the chicken until it fell asleep. She sat there all night and at daybreak the chicken awakened and the
jumbi,
circling the hut like a rope of fog, departed.
Another time a
jumbi
got into Tante Hannah's left foot through a spider-bite hole and wouldn't leave. The foot swelled up like a big red banana. Weeds wouldn't cure it but Mama Geeches did. She went to the graveyard and got some dust, then added ground up chalk and pieces of snakeroot. Tante Hannah soaked her foot all night in the nearly boiling cure water, and by morning the
jumbi
swelling had gone.
So Timothy, too, believed in Mama Geeches's obeah, and that night on the plantain leaves he decided to start saving
øre
until he had two
kroner
, to make sure he wouldn't get a goat-mout' ship when he finally went to sea.
12. Dr. Pohl
Dr. Lars Pohl's hand was firm when it shook mine, and his voice was deep and strong, even gruff. His shaving lotion smelled crisp. He soon asked the same questions that Dr. Boomstra had asked, taking notes, I think, but he wasn't as much interested in what happened on the island. He was more concerned about the headaches I'd had.
Later, my parents described him as square faced and gray haired, a large man with bushy eyebrows and a big nose. His cheeks were red. He was Danish. They said he had powerful hands with long fingers. Along with his diplomas, my father said, there were autographed pictures on his office walls. Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, baseball stars of that time, among them.
He shone a light into my eyes, asking what I could see. Nothing. He felt the back of my head.
"Will I always be blind?" Instantly, I didn't want him to answer that question.
He paused, likely studying my face, then said, "To tell you the truth, Phillip, I can't say. There's a possibility that what has happened can't be reversed. In fact, there are a variety of possibilities here..." He paused again.
A variety of possibilities?
Doctor talk. I said, "Butâ"
"Let me finish! I've studied your X rays but cannot judge from them just how much damage has been done..."
My father had arrived in the morning, and now I felt his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it to remind me that he was there.
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"Another procedure, and I'll get to that. But first let me try to explain, as simply as possible, what I
think,
just
think,
happened to you, Phillip. I believe that whatever struck you in the back of the head caused internal bleeding in the area of the occipital lobes..."
I frowned.
What were those?
"The function of the occipital lobes is to receive sensory information from the optic nerves, the eye nerves, and process it. They are the center of the brain for vision. Your eyes are only cameras. I think you have an AV malformation, an artery-vein malformation..."
My frown must have deepened.
"I'm showing pictures in a medical book to your parents and will also explain them to you.... Here are the normal blood vessels in Plate Eighty-four, like little bending hoses. Now we see them damaged in Plate Eighty-five. They look like clusters of grapes. With stalks. A vessel bleeds and stops and clots. Pressure builds up and another starts to bleed, and it clots. Another does the same thingâseeps and clots. I think these clots, these grape clusters, are causing your problem."
He paused to let it all sink in.
"What can you do to fix them?" I asked.
"Every one of the damaged multiple little vessels would have to be cauterized and then repaired with a metal clip or stitch to stop the bleeding. Each one would have to be
jumbi
-chaser as he was. Always had been, always would be.
Like
bamboola
drums, Mama Geeches got into everybody's head and gullet with her words. Because they were mysterious words, powerful words, everybody listened.
Within his memory, Tante Hannah had paid Mama Geeches to rid their yard and hut of visiting
jumbis
several times. Once, Mama Geeches sat on the doorstep holding a chicken in her lap, talking to the chicken until it fell asleep. She sat there all night and at daybreak the chicken awakened and the
jumbi,
circling the hut like a rope of fog, departed.
Another time a
jumbi
got into Tante Hannah's left foot through a spider-bite hole and wouldn't leave. The foot swelled up like a big red banana. Weeds wouldn't cure it but Mama Geeches did. She went to the graveyard and got some dust, then added ground up chalk and pieces of snakeroot. Tante Hannah soaked her foot all night in the nearly boiling cure water, and by morning the
jumbi
swelling had gone.
So Timothy, too, believed in Mama Geeches's obeah, and that night on the plantain leaves he decided to start saving
øre
until he had two
kroner
, to make sure he wouldn't get a goat-mout' ship when he finally went to sea.
12. Dr. Pohl
Dr. Lars Pohl's hand was firm when it shook mine, and his voice was deep and strong, even gruff. His shaving lotion smelled crisp. He soon asked the same questions that Dr. Boomstra had asked, taking notes, I think, but he wasn't as much interested in what happened on the island. He was more concerned about the headaches I'd had.
Later, my parents described him as square faced and gray haired, a large man with bushy eyebrows and a big nose. His cheeks were red. He was Danish. They said he had powerful hands with long fingers. Along with his diplomas, my father said, there were autographed pictures on his office walls. Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, baseball stars of that time, among them.
He shone a light into my eyes, asking what I could see. Nothing. He felt the back of my head.
"Will I always be blind?" Instantly, I didn't want him to answer that question.
He paused, likely studying my face, then said, "To tell you the truth, Phillip, I can't say. There's a possibility that what has happened can't be reversed. In fact, there are a variety of possibilities here..." He paused again.
A variety of possibilities?
Doctor talk. I said, "Butâ"
"Let me finish! I've studied your X rays but cannot judge from them just how much damage has been done..."
My father had arrived in the morning, and now I felt his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it to remind me that he was there.
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"Another procedure, and I'll get to that. But first let me try to explain, as simply as possible, what I
think,
just
think,
happened to you, Phillip. I believe that whatever struck you in the back of the head caused internal bleeding in the area of the occipital lobes..."
I frowned.
What were those?
"The function of the occipital lobes is to receive sensory information from the optic nerves, the eye nerves, and process it. They are the center of the brain for vision. Your eyes are only cameras. I think you have an AV malformation, an artery-vein malformation..."
My frown must have deepened.
"I'm showing pictures in a medical book to your parents and will also explain them to you.... Here are the normal blood vessels in Plate Eighty-four, like little bending hoses. Now we see them damaged in Plate Eighty-five. They look like clusters of grapes. With stalks. A vessel bleeds and stops and clots. Pressure builds up and another starts to bleed, and it clots. Another does the same thingâseeps and clots. I think these clots, these grape clusters, are causing your problem."
He paused to let it all sink in.
"What can you do to fix them?" I asked.
"Every one of the damaged multiple little vessels would have to be cauterized and then repaired with a metal clip or stitch to stop the bleeding. Each one would have to be
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