The younger brother had climbed on to the rim, was shouting down like an umpire at the antics of two other boys, one his brother, the other Torn Juranda, a tall broad-shouldered youth in a space cadet's jerkin. They were standing at the edge of the fish-pool, stones and salt blocks in their hands, hurling them into the pool.
Leaving Granger, Holliday sprinted on ahead, shouting at the top of his voice. Too preoccupied to hear him, the boys continued to throw their missiles into the pool, while the younger Merryweather egged them on from the platform above. Just before Holliday reached them Torn Juranda ran a few yards along the bank and began to kick the mud-wall into the air, then resumed his target throwing.
'Juranda! Get away from there I' Holliday bellowed. 'Put those stones down I'
He reached Juranda as the youth was about to hurl a brick-sized lump of salt into the pool, seized him by the shoulder and flung him round, knocking the salt out of his hand into a shower of damp crystals, then lunged at the elder Merryweather boy, kicking him away.
The pool had been drained. A deep breach had been cut through the bank and the water had poured out into the surrounding gulleys and pools. Down in the centre of the basin, in a litter of stones and spattered salt, was the crushed but still wriggling body of the dog-fish, twisting itself helplessly in the bare inch of water that remained. Dark red blood poured from wounds in its body, staining the salt.
Holliday hurled himself at Juranda, shook the youth savagely by the shoulders.
'Juranda! Do you realize what you've done, you -' Exhausted, Holliday released him and staggered down into the centre of the pool, kicked away the stones and stood looking at the fish twitching at his feet.
'Sorry, Holliday,' the older Merryweather boy said tentatively behind him. 'We didn't know it was your fish.'
Holliday waved him away, then let his arms fall limply to his sides. He felt numbed and baffled, unable to resolve his anger and frustration.
Torn Juranda began to laugh, and shouted something derisively. Their tension broken, the boys turned and ran off together across the dunes towards their car, yelling and playing catch with each other, mimicking Holliday's outrage.
Granger let them go by, then walked across the pool, wincing when he saw the empty basin.
'Holliday,' he called. 'Come on.'
Holliday shook his head, staring at the beaten body of the fish.
Granger stepped down the bank to him. Sirens hooted in the distance as the Buick roared off. 'Those damn children.'
He took Holliday gently by the arm. 'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'But it's not the end of the world.'
Bending down, Holliday reached towards the fish, lying still now, the mud around it slick with blood. His hands hesitated, then retreated.
'Nothing we can do, is there?' he said impersonally.
Granger examined the fish. Apart from the large wound in its side and the flattened skull the skin was intact. 'Why not have it stuffed?' he suggested seriously.
Holliday stared at him incredulously, his face contorting.
For a moment he said nothing. Then, almost berserk, he shouted: 'Have it stuffed? Are you crazy? Do you think I want to make a dummy of myself, fill my own head with straw?'
Turning on his heel, he shouldered past Granger and swung himself roughly out of the pool.
The Volcano Dances
They lived in a house on the mountain Tlaxlhuatl half a mile below the summit. The house was built on a lava flow like the hide of an elephant. In the afternoon and evening the man, Charles Vandervell, sat by the window in the lounge, watching the fire displays that came from the crater. The noise rolled down the mountain side like a series of avalanches. At intervals a falling cinder hissed as it extinguished itself in the water tank on the roof. The woman slept most of the time in the bedroom overlooking the valley or, when she wished to be close to Vandervell, on the settee in the lounge.
In the afternoon she woke briefly when the 'devil-sticks' man performed his dance by the road a quarter of a mile from the house. This mendicant had come to the mountain for the benefit of the people in the village below the summit, but his dance had failed to subdue the volcano and prevent the villagers from leaving. As they passed him pushing their carts he would rattle his spears and dance, but they walked on without looking up. When he became discouraged and seemed likely to leave, Vandervell sent the house-boy out to him with an American dollar. From then on the stick-dancer came every day.
'Is he still here?' the womal'asked. She walked into the lounge, folding her robe around her waist. 'What's he supposed to be doing?'
'He's fighting a duel with the spirit of the volcano,' Vandervell said. 'He's putting a lot of thought and energy into it, but he hasn't a chance.'
'I thought you were on his side,' the woman said. 'Aren't you paying him a retainer?'
'That's only to formalize the relationship. To show him that I understand what's going on. Strictly speaking, I'm on the volcano's side.'
A shower of cinders rose a hundred feet above the erater illuminating the jumping stickman.
'Are you sure it's safe here?'
Vandervell waved her away 'Of course. Go back to bed rest. This thin air is bad for the complexion.'
‘Can't feel all right. I heard the ground move.'
'It's been moving for weeks.' He watched the stickman conclude his performance with a series of hops, as if leapfrogging over a partner. 'On his diet that's not bad.'
'You should take him back to Mexico City and put him in one of the cabarets. He'd make more than a dollar.'
'He wouldn't be interested. He's a serious artist, this Nijinsky of the mountain side. Can't you see that?'
The woman haft-filled a tumbler from the decanter on the table. 'How long are you going to keep him out there?'
'As long as he'll stay.' He turned to face the woman. 'Remember that. When he leaves it will be time to go.'
The stick-man, a collection of tatters when not in motion, disappeared into his lair, one of the holes in the lava beside the road.
'I wonder if he met Springman?' Vandervell said. 'On balance it's possible. Springman would have come up the south face. This is the only road to the village.'
'Ask him. Offer him another dollar.'
'Pointless - he'd say he had seen him just to keep me happy.'
'What makes you so sure Springman is here?'
'He was here,' Vandervell corrected. 'He won't be here any longer. I was with Springman in Acapulco when he looked at the map. He came here.'
The woman carried her tumbler into the bedroom.
'We'll have dinner at nine,' Vandervell called to her. TII let you know if he dances again.'
Left alone, Vandervell watched the fire displays. The glow shone through the windows of the houses in the village so that they seemed to glow like charcoal. At night the collection of hovels was deserted, but a few of the men returned during the day.
In the morning two men came from the garage in Ecuatan to reclaim the car which Vandervell had hired. He offered to pay a month's rent in advance, but they rejected this and pointed at the clinkers that had fallen on to the car from the sky, None of them was hot enough to burn the paint-work. Vandervell gave them each fifty dollars and promised to cover the car with a tarpaulin. Satisfied, the men drove away.
After breakfast Vandervell walked out across the lava seams to the road. The stick-dancer stood by his hole above the bank, resting his hands on the two spears. The cone of the volcano, partly hidden by the dust, trembled behind his back. He watched Vandervell when he shouted across the road. Vandervell took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it under a stone. The stick-man began to hum and rock on the balls of his feet.
