The Orchid Hunter

by Jill Marie Landis

  For so long had she been at odds with her father and with her feelings that it had been a relief when Trevor Mandeville made his surprise appearance and then his startling revelation. Even though the truth still eluded her, it glimmered in her future, flirting with them all.

  Umbaba walked behind her, a constant shadow and protector. Her best friend. Countless times they had laughed and swam together, fished in the lagoon, shared meals with his family in their fadu and in her home.

  She had grown up with many close Matarengi friends, but then, when they all began to mature, everything suddenly changed. One by one, her childhood companions were taken to the initiation hut—the girls, as soon as they began to bleed in rhythm with the moon; the boys, when their voices hummed with the timbre of a man.

  When signs of her own womanhood had come upon her, when she proudly announced to her mother that she was ready for initiation, her mother, Clara, forbade her going to the Matarengi women to prepare for the ceremony. She told Joya that it was time to give up her childish ways, to cover her budding breasts. She would not be allowed to run wild with Umbaba or the other Matarengi boys and girls anymore.

  The ceremonies, her mother said, were not for her. Joya had become upset, and had asked why she was not told this before. Clara only sighed and said wistfully, “You have grown up so fast. The years slipped by so quickly.”

  Joya could still recall lying awake that night, despondent, confused, listening to her parents as they argued in hushed, rough whispers. She heard her mother tell her father that she had warned him this day was coming.

  “I fear we’ve let her run with the Matarengi far too long already. She is almost more native than English,” Mama whispered.

  “I don’t need civilization. You’ve been content with our life here.” Papa’s voice was a deep, raspy hush.

  “But it was our choice to leave England. Joya had no choice. What sort of future will she have if we keep her here? If not to England, perhaps we could send her to one of the colonies. Or would you condemn her to a lifetime alone?”

  “She has everything she needs.”

  “For now.” Her mother had lowered her voice so much that Joya had been forced to press her ear against the bamboo wall. …a woman…needs…fear that she will grow too close to one of the young men…the unthinkable.”

  “Spoken…the high chief…already made certain… The sound of her father’s words had drifted away. Then, louder, he begged, “Please, Clara. Not yet. Wait a year. I could not bear to lose either of you. I can’t let my girl go yet.”

  They sounded so scared that she became afraid for them, and for herself. Time passed, as time does, and after her mother died of fever and the weeks slipped into years, there were long periods when she forgot exactly what she had heard that night.

  She and her father both missed her mother sorely. In unspoken agreement, together they threw themselves into the hunt for more orchids. Dustin Penn was much revered on Matarenga, not only for his wisdom but for the shipments of supplies and goods he provided the Matarengi: tools, tea, and all the other items they could not produce. Even Faraki, the high chief, deferred to him.

  Over time, Joya had finally convinced herself that she had misunderstood the fearful tone of her parents’ argument that night long ago. What could ever touch them here?

  Then, last night in the camp, when she had seen the fear in her papa’s eyes, all of it had come back to her. What in the world was he so afraid of?

  * * *

  The party stopped beside a stream rushing down from the mountaintop. As the men drank from water gourds, Joya watched Trevor Mandeville refill his canteen.

  She did not know what to expect of a proper Englishman. The only white men she had ever seen had been among a group of German missionaries or the occasional trader or boat captain who came to pick up one of the orchid shipments. None of them had ever been bold enough to stand up to her father, even if they had wanted to stay. She could still see the shock on the German preacher’s face when her papa had told him to take his religion and get off Matarenga. He said that the natives had plenty of gods of their own. They did not need to import any more.

  Near the stream, Mandeville stood with one foot on a rock, the other firmly on the trail. He put the lip of the canteen to his mouth, tipped his head back, and took a long drink. She watched his throat work as a drop of sweat trickled down the corded muscles in his neck.

  When he lowered the canteen, he caught her watching him. She smiled. He did not. With his dark eyes shaded by his sun helmet, she could not read what was in them. She longed to talk to him alone again, to be near him and listen to his finely accented speech, to look deep into his eyes.

  The head man shouted orders to the others. Her father, at the front of the line, was already on his way again. She had never known him to set such a breakneck pace.

  * * *

  Trevor waited until Dustin Penn disappeared around a bend in the trail before he stopped and shifted his pack. Motioning the bearers around him, he lingered until Joya caught up to him and then fell into step directly behind her.

  The trail was too narrow to walk side by side, so he contented himself with watching the way she held her shoulders, the way her hips swayed. He tore his gaze away and looked around, studying the trail. If his recollections were correct, they were almost to the top of the grade where he had nearly lost his life.

  He raised his voice over the sound of the trade winds. “Warn them the trail is out just before that next turn. That is the place where I fell.”

  She called out to the Matarengi in front of her. Word quickly passed through the line and the party halted. The men put down their burdens. Some squatted in the middle of the trail; others stared out toward the horizon where the sea disappeared into sky.

  Waves broke at the edge of the coral reef that surrounded the volcanic island. Between the open water and the beach, a clear turquoise lagoon sparkled in the bright sunlight. There was no sign of a sizable Matarengi village hidden by the palms and other trees growing along the shoreline. The only indication a settlement was there at all were wisps of smoke rising from cook fires.

  Trevor took off his helmet, wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, and took comfort from the slight breeze. His hair was matted, his scalp sweaty. He was in need of a shave, a long soak, and an opportunity to convince Dustin Penn that the man needed Mandeville Imports as much as it needed him.

  As Trevor put his hat on again, Dustin Penn called his name. The bearers stepped back, forced to lean into the hillside to let him pass. He worked his way to the head of the line, to find Penn staring at the spot where the mountain trail had given way beneath him.

  The jacaranda root that had saved him still protruded from the earth like a scarred and jagged bone. Trevor’s stomach lurched when he looked down into the valley.

  Penn stood with his back to him and shook his head. “How in the hell did you make it?”

  “I refused to die before I presented you with my offer.”

  Penn made no comment. Trevor took the silence as an opening.

  “If I agree not to mention my sister’s likeness to your daughter again, will you listen to my business proposal?”

  Penn’s face grew florid. He squinted against the sun but at least he did not erupt.

  “You really don’t give up, do you, Mandeville?”

  “No, sir. Not if I can help it. It’s a family trait.”

  Dustin Penn looked at him with something akin to grudging admiration. “If you leave my girl out of it, I’ll hear you out when we get home. But I won’t make any promises.”

  Trevor thanked him but made no promises either.

  The broken trail gaped like a yawning pit. Penn stared down into the abyss, then up the mountainside.

  “We’ll have to wait while the men cut a new trail.” He called over his shoulder, “Umbaba!”

  The young man who had protectively stood by Joya last night separated himself from the other Matarengi and joined them. Penn q
uickly explained what he wanted done and Umbaba started gathering a crew.

  “Don’t they speak English?” Trevor asked.

  Penn seemed to have set aside his anger for the moment. “No. I thought it a waste of time to teach them English when they have a perfectly good language of their own.”

  Trevor wondered if the man kept the Matarengi as isolated as he had his daughter in order to keep his own whereabouts a secret.

  “You don’t have to like me, Mandeville. I could not care less.” Penn was watching him closely.

  “No, I don’t,” Trevor agreed. “But I need your expertise and I think you’ll like the money you stand to make when you agree to my offer.”

  Men were shouting directions to each other from the hillside, sweating profusely as they cut a new section of the trail into the side of the mountain.

  Trevor looked back and saw Joya sitting alone on the edge of the old trail with her legs dangling over the side of the precipice. The sun beat down upon her golden hair and turned her cheeks an even brighter shade.

  He tried to imagine Janelle sitting on the edge of the narrow mountain trail, casually swinging her bare legs over a thousand-foot drop as she feasted on dried fruit and coconut.

  He had always admired his sister for her intelligence, her stubborn grit and intuitiveness, but hard as he might try, he could not imagine her ever adapting to Joya Penn’s way of life. Janelle enjoyed her painting, her colorful and eccentric friends, and her discussion groups and salons far too much to give them up.

  As if she felt his stare, Joya looked his way, lifting her hand in a discreet wave. After he nodded in acknowledgment, she turned her gaze to the open sea, shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare, and looked over the lagoon toward the far horizon.

  Toward the mainland of Africa. Toward the island of Zanzibar.

  Chapter Five

  Time is running out.

  Trevor’s impending departure was all Joya could think about on the way down Mount Kibatante. As the hunting party headed along the road to the beach, she found herself trying to memorize every detail of the Englishman’s appearance and dress, his haunting dark eyes, the way the sunlight glistened in his black hair, the way he moved.

  She continually found herself drawn to him in an inexplicable way, and not only that, but whenever she looked at him, she felt a curious need unraveling inside her. The thought of telling him good-bye so soon filled her with mounting panic.

  They came to a fork in the road where the Matarengi village lay off to the right. She could see it in the distance, a gathering of fadu that blended into the trees bordering the beach. Monkeys chattered high above them, announcing their return. A dog barked. Naked children chased loose hens and roosters as they darted between the huts. A few older boys and girls ran along the beach, carefree, laughing, teasing the water where it lapped against the shore.

  An old fisherman walked along with a bundle of fishnet slung over his shoulder. Here and there, a few Matarengi women moved about, ducking in and out of low doorways. Some carried infants in colorful, woven cloth slings as they engaged in what Joya suspected was the same women’s work all over the world: weaving mats, preparing food, collecting water, and tending small garden plots behind the fadu.

  Everything was so tranquil, so normal. Almost too quiet.

  How much longer would Mandeville be allowed to stay? Would her father hear him out or would the next few minutes be his last on the island? If she asked him to do so, would he consider taking her to London? Would she ever see this sister of his if he refused?

  The bearers followed her father to the left, toward the main house with long greenhouse sheds beside it. As they all walked beneath the trees, dappled shade sparing them the heat of the blazing sun, she was very aware of Trevor walking ahead of her.

  He was constantly watching her as if there were nothing else of interest on the island. Her cheeks burned whenever she caught him staring, but she could not look away. If only she knew what he was thinking, or what to say to a man so foreign in every way—and yet a man who seemed so familiar.

  When she saw her house through the trees, she tried to set aside her anxiety, but for some reason, today she did not enjoy the comforting sight of home. Instead, as she looked at the house, she felt an intense surge of emotion that she could not name.

  Thick-stemmed frangipani trees lined the stone path, abundant with creamy white blooms; their sweet, cloying scent perfumed the air. Doum and coconut palms grew around a once-semiformal garden, gone wild without her mother to tame it. Usually parrots were shrieking in the trees, but today they were silent.

  Concentrating on the house, she didn’t notice that Trevor had fallen back a few paces until he was suddenly walking beside her. Her stomach was making a habit of fluttering wildly whenever he smiled down at her. A huge, iridescent dragonfly hovered in the air between them for a second and then flitted on.

  “It appears there’s a welcoming party to meet us,” he said.

  With no little regret, she looked away. A gathering of Matarengi waited in the side garden. When she noticed they were surrounding the porch, her anxiety mounted.

  Just then, a youth of twelve spotted her father and the lead bearers. A cry went up as he came running along the path. Drums started beating. The boy stopped before her father and began to speak excitedly, loud enough for Joya to hear. He gestured toward the house, pointing as he spoke, his words punctuated with fear.

  Her father listened, staring at the crowd. Slowly, his face drained of color. The lines etched on his suntanned skin seemed to deepen, almost as if he were aging before her eyes.

  Joya’s heart pounded as hard as storm waves upon the reef. She grabbed Trevor’s hand and whispered, “She’s here!”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Your sister. It must be her. The boy just told my father that a jimbwa, a spirit, my spirit, stepped out of a canoe a while ago, even though everyone saw me go up the mountain. They were afraid when I suddenly appeared on the beach without my father. She is waiting on the porch.” She shivered as a chill ran down her spine. “Everyone knows, only a spirit can be two places at once.”

  Her heart was still matching the rhythm of the drum. Joya looked at the house again and knew where her unsettled feelings had come from, just as she knew that from this day forward, her life would never be the same.

  * * *

  Surely she has misunderstood, Trevor thought.

  He had left Janelle safely ensconced in their lodgings on Zanzibar where, she had assured him, she would await him, content to finish her latest painting. He should have suspected his sister was planning something. Now that he thought about it, she had acquiesced far too easily.

  He watched as Dustin Penn spoke to the Matarengi boy. Penn was staring at his home as if loath to take another step.

  Beside Trevor, Joya did not move a muscle. She, too, was staring at the house. Trevor’s gaze swept the yard, taking in the natives gathered there—a few women, some children, but mostly silent, solemn-faced men holding shields made of sea turtle shells and long spears. As the drumbeat intensified, the air became charged with anticipation.

  An unsettling feeling came over him. He scanned the shadows of the veranda. A woman stood so far beneath the wide overhang of the porch that her features were cast in shadow, but he recognized the embroidered fabric of her full skirt and the way Janelle sometimes planted her hands on her hips. He could not tell whether his sister had seen the hunting party yet, but from where he stood, she appeared to be watching the Matarengi in the garden.

  Dustin Penn started down the path, his heavy boots pounding along the volcanic stone walkway. Trevor took off after him at a trot. He doubted Janelle would back down, even if confronted by Penn.

  The drums suddenly stopped.

  Trevor shouldered the natives aside as he and Penn reached the garden at virtually the same time. It was not until then that Trevor realized Joya had not kept pace. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing alone at
the far end of the garden walk, framed between the profusely blooming frangipani.

  Then Janelle called out to him from the veranda.

  “Trevor! Thank God. I was beginning to think I was never going to see you again.”

  Beside him, Dustin Penn had gone still and white as a corpse.

  “What in God’s name were you thinking?” Trevor kept his voice down and his temper under control as he cleared two low steps to stand beside Janelle. “How did you get here?”

  “The same way you did. I hired a sailing canoe and I have to say, I have never seen a more motley-looking captain or crew.” She waved her hand toward the crowd. “Trevor, these people have been staring at me since I arrived. It’s quite disconcerting.”

  She frowned as she pushed the wire frame of her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a cursory once-over. She looked fit, although her cheeks were stained with high color and her face a bit paler than usual. She blinked her wide, blue eyes, which always appeared owlish behind her thick spectacles.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Of course, but this has been a little unnerving. The natives don’t seem to want to get near me, although they haven’t left me alone. If I take a step forward, they all step back.” She paused to demonstrate for him. “It’s very curious, really. I tried speaking a few words of the dialects that we have learned, but they don’t seem to understand me at all.”

  “They think you are a ghost, a jimbwa.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story. Where is your maid?”

  “I was sick of Betty crying with homesickness day and night and when she refused to come with me, I thought to myself, what’s the use of torturing her any longer? There was a ship departing for England and so I bought her a ticket and put her aboard.” She shrugged as if it were that simple. “And here I am. Did you find Dustin Penn?”