‘Dance-dance!’ yelled his mob.
He threw an end of his garland to one of his mates, measured out half of it, then handed the middle of it to Clancy, grinning widely and saying something in his own language. Clancy took it, but scowling, muttering, ‘What’s this business?’
The rest of the mob did likewise with their lengths of bindweed. Stretched out, silvery green with big red flowers nodding, it looked very pretty. Clancy accepted a few proffered strands, said to Rifkah, whom he still held about the waist, ‘All right with you? They evidently only want to be friendly.’ She smiled, although looking a little scared. He said to the leader, ‘No rough stuff, now.’
But the leader was only concerned with his preparations. He let out a shout that started the mob prancing round the couple, while himself leaping in to grab up the strands that Clancy had let drop and force them on him. Then he yelled at the accordionist, who stood outside the circle, and who started a wild sort of tarantella, to which the mob, the leader among them, began to circle the couple, prancing a dance-step and singing to the music.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ cried Clancy, but laughing.
It was a sort of maypole dance, the design of which soon was seen to be to bind the couple with the garlands, which in spite of Clancy’s good-humoured efforts to prevent it, happened in no time. There they stood, embraced and immobilised, while the mob pressed round them, still clutching their ends of the bonds and shouting their wild song and now to their prancing adding definite erotic movements.
The blacks, emboldened, were now crowding in, but to stop at a respectful distance.
Again the leader shouted above the uproar. Someone brought him a bottle from one of a couple of wet sacks lying on the sand. He turned to the couple, waving the bottle, crying, ‘Drink-drink!’ It was beer. He tore the metal cap off with his teeth, then shoved the bottle at Clancy, again with the cry, ‘Drink-drink!’ which the mob echoed. Trussed as he was, Clancy couldn’t take the bottle. The man put it to his mouth, and avoiding all attempts to dodge it, made him drink, made him drink half of it. Then the man gave the bottle to Rifkah for a couple of sips. This done, he put the bottle to his own lips and guzzled off what remained, to hurl the bottle away. ‘Now how about letting us go?’ demanded Clancy.
But there was more to it. Again the leader gave the cue. While the others formed up he addressed the couple in his mangled language which suggested that a nuptial dance was about to be performed for them. He struck a pose, extended arms sideways, began to click fingers. The others followed him. The accordion wailed and coughed in rapid rhythm. The dancers kicked up the sand in intricate steps with which they weaved in and out amongst each other, with tempo increasing to the frenetic, until the leader, with the last of his breath, gasped, ‘Hey!’ when they all stopped dead. For a moment they hung pumping for breath. Then up went the cry again: ‘Drink-drink!’ There was a dive on the bottles.
Panting and laughing, the leader and a couple of others disentangled Clancy and Rifkah, but before letting them go, hung small garlands about their necks so that they remained linked. The leader thrust out his hand, saying, ‘Good lucky.’ Others coming with bottles did the same. A bottle was given to Clancy to drink a toast that all shouted, ‘Good lucky!’
Then the leader said, ‘Okay, finish. You go bed!’ Someone else said something that raised a whoop of laughter.
Clancy laughed, tucked his arm under hers, looked at her, saying, ‘Looks like we got married sooner than we expected.’ She giggled.
‘Goodnight!’ cried the leader. The others echoed him, grabbed up their wet sacks, turned back towards the rocks. Some rushed in amongst the blacks and grabbed girls, to drag them off squealing. In a minute all had vanished.
Clancy chuckled, ‘Well, what d’you know!’ He added: ‘Seeing we’re married, what’re we going to do about it?’ She shrugged and smiled. He would have kissed her. She dodged away. He said, ‘Looks like we’re stuck here for the night, anyway. Look . . . the launch’s on one of those mad sand-banks. You mind?’
She smiled. ‘I like to stay here.’
He drew a deep breath. ‘Ah . . . that’s fine!’
He kissed her lightly. ‘Let’s have a drink of our own cold beer, eh?’
They went back to the table under the trees, to sit with Igulgul winking through the leaves, looking for Wrong side even here, perhaps, when there was plenty of it going on behind the rocks, judging from the sounds from there. Clancy showed annoyance over the evident cavorting of black-haired satyrs with black-skinned nymphs, saying he ought to hunt ’em, but doing nothing more than cast scowling glances in the direction of it. He kept hold of Rifkah’s hand, caressing it, kissing it now and again. He was evidently restless, far from tired himself, but kept on asking if she was tired. She sat seemingly content, looking out on the rapidly shrinking sea, the rising backbone of the Old One’s Shade and his head with its myriad eyes.
At last Clancy said, ‘Come on into the house. I can’t stand that billy-goat business over there any longer.’ On the front verandah, he suggested that they take beds on the northern side verandah, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. ‘Ready for bed-o yet?’ he asked. She nodded.
The latticed verandah was grown with creeper, but bright enough from moonlight to need no other lighting. She chose one of four beds there, as yet not made up. He went inside for linen, brought only that. He insisted on making the bed for her, dropped the net, even hastily, but showed no haste in departing to let her strip. He set about fixing the next bed for himself, saying, ‘Better keep an eye on you, case that handsome big Ox comes snoopin’ round . . . aheeee!’ It was not until she asked where she could undress that he took the tip and said he’d better go and undress himself. Quickly she slipped out of the play-suit, hung it on a chair, and clad in silk shift and pants, got into bed, pulled the sheet to her chin, despite the muggy warmth.
He was soon back, wearing only pyjama shorts. He peered through her net, asking, ‘Comfy?’
She murmured, ‘Zang you, yes.’
He hung there for a moment, then said, ‘I didn’t kiss you Goodnight.’
She was silent. He sank to haunches, shoved his head in under the net. Now the lovely face was plain to see, dark ivory against the whiteness of the pillow, the large eyes, looking dark, fixed on him. The arm that pulled up the sheet lay bent across her bosom, enticingly bare to the neck, to the little ear peeping whitely from the blood-dark spill of hair, except for a slip of silken shoulder-strap. His hand, comparatively dark, reached to fiddle with the bit of silk. He breathed, vibrantly, ‘I love you, you know.’ The dark eyes blinked.
The fingers went caressingly up her neck, round behind it. As he bent to her lips he drew her head up, slipped the other arm over and round her, clasped her close, kissed her fiercely. She did not struggle, but was plainly resistant in expression when at length he withdrew from her, while still keeping hold. She swallowed, murmured, ‘Goodnight.’
He swallowed too. ‘You’re not sending me away yet, are you?’
She moved to slip out of his arms. He held on, bent again, this time lying across her bosom to keep her down, and kissed her again with ardour. When he released her lips, she pushed him back. Complainingly, he asked, ‘Why . . . what’s the matter . . . don’t you like me kissing you?’
‘You are too ’ungry. You eat my mouse . . .’
He gave her a hug, chuckling, ‘You lovely mouse! I told you you make me want to eat you.’
‘You haf mek my mouse sore.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry . . . poor little mouse!’ This time he kissed her shoulder. A tiny whisp of dark axillary hair was showing now. He drew back to pluck at it gently, then inserted his finger into the fold, and withdrawing the other arm from round her, raised her arm to expose the axilla, and bending, vented his ardour on that. He looked up, chuckling, ‘Ate you with salt that time. You taste lovely!’
She smiled at him, but quickly held him off when he would have kissed her lips again. He sank back to knees, holding the hand
that had checked him, staring at her. Then he said, ‘You must be hot under that sheet.’
Promptly she said, ‘No,’ and repeated it sharply, ‘No, no!’ when he grabbed the top of the sheet and pulled it down over her bosom. She grabbed and held it.
‘What’s the matter? he asked. ‘You’re quite decently clad.’ But he heaved for the breath to say it. What lay under the film of silk was all too evident. She tried to pull the sheet back. He restrained her, muttering, ‘No . . . don’t cover yourself up. I . . . I . . .’ He took a deep breath, added with a rush, ‘I’ve seen you naked, you know!’
After another long moment of staring, he asked tremulously, ‘Wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . I see you . . . like that . . . again?’
She breathed, ‘Pliss . . . no.’
‘But we’re going to be married.’ He drew again at the sheet.
Still she clung to it, murmuring more urgently, ‘No, no . . . pliss.’
He laughed feebly, ‘They all think we’re married already.’
Again the spell of staring, of laboured breathing, while the hands counter-clutched. At length he muttered, ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I love you. I . . . I . . . I only want to see you.’ Then with a swift movement he snatched the sheet completely off her.
She gasped, ‘Oh!’ and sat up quickly.
As quickly he pushed her down again, himself gasping, ‘No, no . . . don’t get up.’ He held her down by the shoulders, looking into her face now wildly staring. ‘Truly I’m not going to hurt you. I . . . I only want to . . . worship you. I love you!’
When she relaxed, he drew his hands down from her shoulders to her breasts, which he fondled, while staring at her. Although rigid again, she made no move. When he smiled she only blinked. He lowered his cheek to the breast near him, still looking into the great watchful eyes. He raised his head and smiled again. Then, as quickly as he had pulled down the sheet, now he pulled up the chemise, exposing her from throat to navel. She grabbed at the silk at her throat, but could do nothing with it because at once he obstructed her by dropping his head, to apply lips to the near breast, a hand to the other. When he lifted his head, he slid his hands up so that the silk slid over her head, even while she kept hold of it. He was trembling now, his voice quavering: ‘I told you I’d seen you naked. I’ve loved you ever since. You’re so lovely. No, I loved you before that . . . when I first saw you. You’re so lovely. Don’t be mean with your loveliness!’ He pulled the shift away from her, leaned on it with elbows, on the edge of the bed, looking her over, sighing, saying tremulously, ‘So lovely . . . lovely!’
She tried to bring down her arms, still bent where he had pulled the silk over them, down to cover her breasts. He immobilised one arm with an elbow and the other with the same hand. Then with his free hand he caressed the glowing loveliness from breasts to belly, ran a finger round the navel, stabbed it gently, looked back from what he was doing at her stiff face. He smiled, at the same time slipping his hand down under the elastic of her drawers. She started, but could not raise herself. He chuckled shakily. ‘Take ’em off, eh?’
Her bosom heaved. ‘No . . . no!’
‘But I’ve seen you naked already . . .’
‘No, no!’
Fondling her down below, he faltered, ‘But we’re getting married . . .’
‘No . . . pliss . . . Clancy!’
‘Someone’ll marry us. No one’ll take you away from me . . .’
‘Oh, Clancy . . . you vill spoil . . . oh!’ Her voice rose up as he pulled the pants down. As she heaved up against the pressure of his imprisoning arm, he yanked at the pants, tore them clean off her, hurled them away, and on the instant had his hand between her legs at the crotch. Forcing her back, not looking at all he had revealed, but at her distorted face, he panted, ‘Don’t struggle, darling . . . don’t fight me . . .’
She gasped, ‘Let me go!’ She tried to tear his hand from her loins.
‘But I love you . . . I want you . . .’
She was sobbing now: ‘Pliss, Clancy . . . you vill spoil . . . pliss . . . so mooch haf I been hurt . . . oh, pliss!’
‘I’m not going to hurt you . . . I love you!’
‘No, pliss, no pliss . . . do not spoil!’
He turned from her to look below. She heaved up against his relaxed restraint, broke it, reached with a hand for the edge of the bed, swung a leg over it. The action suddenly maddened him. Hissing now, he flung her back to the pillow and raising a leg from the floor, thrust the knee between her widely parted thighs. She tore at his restraining hands, shrieking now, ‘No, no, no!’
Ignoring her, pressing her down with the weight of his bare torso, he turned again and began tearing at his own pants.
She shrieked, ‘I vill kill meinself you do!’
He grunted, ‘Shut up!’
He got entangled in his pants, had to pull away from her a little thus freeing her inner leg. She brought her knee up into his engorged genitals. He gasped, heaved up, fell back clutching the net, half-slid out of the bed. Quick as a flash she drew up her legs, swung them under the net, ducked under it. Her chemise tangled with her feet, nearly tripping her. She snatched it up, went running down the verandah towards the blaze of the sea.
She stopped at the edge of the front verandah, looked back. Sounds of scraping and mumbling there. She would be silhouetted. She dodged out of line of sight from the side verandah. Amongst the cane furniture she shook out the chemise, pulled it over her head, then looked about, as if for something to add to this flimsy thing that barely reached her hips.
‘Rifkah!’ Sound of scuffling steps.
She ran along the verandah to the other end, turned as she reached it, looked back to see him come round the corner. She leapt off onto the sand. He called to her, ‘Where you going? Don’t be silly!’
She started running towards the halfcastes’ quarters. She came out of the shadow of the trees to shine like a wraith in the full blaze of moonlight. He bawled after her, ‘Come back here!’
She went racing, for all her awkwardness on sore feet, for the trees on the other side. She reached them, to be greeted by the dogs, snarling, yapping. She halted, panted, ‘Goot tog . . . goot tog!’ But the bigger, a shaggy blue cattle-dog, came at her with flashing teeth, leapt for her throat, missed as she started back, ripped the chemise down the front. She screamed, wheeled, rushed back into the moonlight, now heading for the sea. She screamed again as teeth nipped her heel.
Black heads popped over and through the glistening wall of rock. Naked white bodies and black bodies leapt out behind her. A shout went up. A yelp as the dogs were kicked off. Then laughter, whooping: ‘Aphrodite, Aphrodite.’ Howls and squeals of mirth and sound of pounding feet.
There in what looked like a gully amongst the sandbanks was the dinghy, tethered to the oar, and still floating on a strip of silver. She flew to it, scattering the tiny hordes foraging in the ooze above the water-line, went floundering through water and quicksand. She fell into the dinghy with white bottom presented to smirking Igulgul above and the howling mob crowded to a halt at the water’s edge. She snatched at the mooring line. It came in, but without the oar. The tide snatched the boat away. Running stern-first, the boat rounded a bend, to meet doubly swift water from another channel. It spun. She grabbed up the oar lying on the thwarts, tried to control the boat, only succeeded in turning it broadside to the stream, which flung it into a crumbling bank and nearly capsized it. She fell into the bottom of the little vessel, to sit clutching the gunnels, gaping.
The tiered walls of the channels were left behind, with only an island or two of sand about. The shore was lost to view in the westerning moon-glare — all except the winking head of Tchamala. Now the tide stream was running like a river, parallel with the shore, as if drawn to the headland, then as if spurned by it, to swing sharply away, inevitably it seemed, towards those shadowy serpent-like humps of the reef.
Soon little boat and helpless voyager were caught in the play of the Old Ones, Tchamal
a and his mate Igulgul, drawn into a wild race, in which ran flank to flank, frail timber and frailer flesh, with those slimy iron humps that bounced them off and sucked — at last to engulf them, drag them down into luminescent chaos, tear them apart.
A silver surge flung the lost voyager as a lump of whiteness onto a flattish hump, rolled her in weeds that held her from being washed off. Another surge. Another. The weeds entangled her more. The surges fell away. The creatures popped out, with glistening eyes and gaping maws. Meat? The clutching weeds relaxed their grip with deflation of air-bladders. The tiny monsters came circling. Time was subordinate to Tide out here. Back would come the surging waters to fling the Meat to hungry others. They came circling. The Meat moved. The creatures scattered.
She raised her head, coughed, sneezed, puked, heaved in the agony of pumping out the water. A strange sight, that writhing whiteness amongst the black and silver weed, with glints of burnished copper. So strange a sight that a brace of sea-kweeluks, winging over, wheeled back to take another look, circled, landed on the beacon a rock away, screamed above the tumult of the waters: Kwee-luk, kwee-luk . . . Somebody is lost!
The great eyes of the lost one regarded them blankly.
Igulgul smirked. The Head of Tchamala seemed to be looking back along his monstrous swimming length, winking. The tiny monsters began to advance again — for there was the tang of blood, blood!
Out of the dark mass of her wet hair with its fringe of fire, blood was running down a pale cheek. Blood was running down the right arm from a bloody mess that was torn white flesh and the remaining rags of the chemise. She struggled to rise, fell back to haunches, causing another retreat of those who had designs on her.
She groaned, dropped head to hands, so that the blood streamed over them. She swayed, keeled over, went through a spasm of ague. When at length she fell still, the impatient waiting ones grew bold again.
She was not dead. That was to be seen in the gentle rise and fall of whiteness under shroud of weeds. But the Tide, the Tide, already on the turn, and all that meat and blood, blood! The boldest of the creatures tackled her torn feet. Unwaking she kicked them off. Some tried her shoulder, others her head. At last they swarmed over her. She started up, with bloody mouth opened to what should have been a shriek, but came out only as a croak. She sat up, blinking.
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