Oil on Water by Helon Habila Page B

garden taking pictures of the statues, asking the tall priest questions. In the daylight the still figures didn’t look as menacing as they had the night before. All their faces were carefully aligned to face east or west. The ones facing east had a happy, ecstatic, worshipful expression, their clumpy, broken-fingered hands open, raised as though to receive the morning sun, while the figures facing west had their heads bowed, their lips turned down. There was a contorted and tortuous quality to the figures that made them appear grotesquely lifelike, elemental, like seedlings that had just now sprouted from the earth, still learning how to stand straight. There were dozens of them, some old and decaying, some looking newer.
    —We believe the sun rising brings a renewal. All of creation is born anew with the new day. Whatever goes wrong in the night has a chance for redemption after a cycle.
    —Who made the figures?
    —The worshippers, that’s what we call ourselves. Some of these figures go back almost a hundred years to the founding of the shrine. The sculpture garden is the shrine to which this whole island is dedicated.
    The priest stood a little detached from the journalists, maintaining his smile, his hands clasped behind him; the blanket from yesterday was gone and in its place was a white cotton robe that shook and sparkled in the morning breeze. He turned when he heard the truck approaching.
    —Ah, here’s your transportation to the ferry.
    I turned to Zaq, who was seated with his back against the tree; his head was bowed, and his eyes when he raised them looked dull.
    —The truck is here, Zaq.
    —I can see that.
    —Time to go.
    —I can’t stand up.
    —I’ll help you, come on. Take my hand.
    —I think I’ll stay here.
    —What? But you can’t stay here.
    I looked around, trying to involve the others in our exchange, but most of them were scrambling for the truck.
    —We have to get you to a doctor.
    —I’ll stay another day, if they’ll have me.
    —Well . . . that is no problem.
    The urbane priest was just behind me, a smile on his infinitely kind face.
    —Are you sure? He needs a doctor.
    —We have a nurse here and she will attend to you. But perhaps you won’t need her. The air alone will heal you. I have seen it happen. But I must warn you that it will be several days before the ferry is back this way.
    —I don’t mind.
    —Listen, Zaq . . . are you sure?
    He slumped, all the effort leaving his shoulders.
    —Will you take a message for me, Rufus? It’s for my editor, Beke Johnson. Here’s his card. Call him and tell him I’ll be back in a few days.
    I took the card. For the first time since our arrival at the destroyed militant camp, he had a smile on his face. He motioned for me to come closer, and when I leaned forward I could smell stale drink on his breath and see clearly into his watery and red and yellow eyes.
    —I like the air here. It’s pure. Who knows, I might even get some sort of religion.
    I nodded, unsure if he was serious or joking. The truck honked twice and the journalists waved impatiently for me to hurry up.
    —Have a safe trip.
    The priest walked me to the truck.
    —Your friend will be fine with us. Don’t worry.
    I gave him my office number, and Zaq’s editor’s number, just in case Zaq became seriously ill.
    —But we don’t have phones here.
    —Just keep it. In case of emergency.
    As the truck bumped its way through the dew-soaked morning vegetation toward the pier at the other end of the island, my mind kept returning to Zaq. I had an image of him in that hut, alone, sweating, pining for a drink, haunted by whatever memories were pursuing him. As we got to the village center the landscape changed: the huts disappeared, and gray brick houses with rusty zinc roofs lined the single dirt road. The houses were grouped into compounds by walls of mud and straw, and behind every compound was a little field of vegetables and cassava, their climbers circling over