Other Islands

by Andrea Jones

  The flush remained to tinge Pierre-Jean’s cheek, showing that he, too, was pleased by his gamble. His work was quick but neat, and he soon stood before her again, settling the flagon in her hands. “Now you go, no madness from Meester Yulunga.”

  Mrs. Hanover allowed herself a moment of amusement. Pierre-Jean caught the light in her eye, and his Gallic grin lit up his face.

  “Ah! You are please to see manners. In France, I am most manners.”

  Mrs. Hanover chortled, then stifled the sound for fear of being overheard. Such a precaution was not one with which she was familiar. Mrs. Hanover almost never made noise, and rarely with her voice. Still, she indicated the drink in her hand and, as Mr. Yulunga insisted she do, she tried to articulate her thanks.

  As she opened her lips, Pierre-Jean shook his head. “No, not to speak. I see you. I see you enjoy not to speak.”

  As her shoulders relaxed, Pierre-Jean knew he’d hit upon the way to slip into the lady’s graces. He didn’t care about the soft swell of the child below her waist. Most sailors wouldn’t. Most were relieved to keep company with a woman enceinte by a man long gone. No blame would accrue to them, nor could another liability be conceived. And little Mrs. Hanover had months to go before the bulge got in the way. But Pierre-Jean’s infatuation ran deeper than convenience. Despite her condition, Mrs. Hanover wasn’t common like a fishwife. She was born a lady. She looked dainty, pretty in her own way, and even at her young age she handled a hard life. Daily, he loved her from afar, intending to watch and to wait. But he was young, he was French, and opportunity urged him to make the most of this privacy. He pressed his point, “I, too, enjoy not to speak, because I am no good to English.”

  The boy was tall and slender, and Mrs. Hanover found herself looking up into his earnest face. Only then did she realize how close he stood. She saw him every day, felt his interest and his courtesy following her. She even searched for his long blond pigtail wherever a cluster of sailors gathered, but she’d rarely had leisure to really gaze into his adoring countenance. With a flutter in her heart, she discovered the sensation to be pleasant.

  His sailor’s hands were calloused. She should have shaken them off, but in spite of their texture he touched her so subtly, so lightly, that he was stroking her face before she realized it. She melted, just a little.

  Pierre-Jean held her gaze. “I am no good to English, but I know why you enjoy not to speak.”

  Her eyes grew round.

  “He…your papa…”

  Mrs. Hanover, named for her liaison with her father, nearly dropped the drink. Only her cognizance of the consequences preserved it, and kept her from spilling as she turned on her heel and dashed away to serve Yulunga.

  Pierre-Jean appreciated her pretty figure as she hastened from him. He smiled, and he didn’t fret. In his twenty-two years, he had never mastered conversation, even in French. But he had always been good with his hands.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “It is as well, Lightly, that you were not among us when your foster father was captured and your mother pursued.” Panther’s face in the firelight was kind, but shadows danced upon it, showing Panther’s savage side, the side that craved the enemy’s blood.

  “I thank you for your understanding, Panther, and for telling us what happened this afternoon while we were dressing the tiger’s hide. Although I want what is best for my adopted people, I rejoice in my mother’s safety.”

  Rowan said, “I believe White Bear himself understands. If the People of the Other Island found a reason to make war upon us, he would walk the same path Lightly treads today.”

  Lightly nodded. “Sometimes, it is useful not to conquer, but to maintain equal footing with one’s foes.”

  Gazing with surprise on Lightly, Panther asked, “How did you learn such an old lesson in such a young life?”

  “My mother of the Red Hand possesses an old one’s soul. When we were children she counseled peace in the Golden Boy’s hideout. Not only to protect us, but also, I think, because she knew that if our pack routed the pirates, the bond of peril that united us might be so much the weaker. Perhaps the elders believe the same.”

  “You are both worthy braves,” Panther said. “But even if the council free you of fault tomorrow, I advise you to heed my mother’s warnings.” He unfolded his legs to stand, and his long, streaked braids fell forward. “The fire is dying and the dances are done. I go to my slumbers now, but tomorrow, before the sun hides his face, we will feast together at my tepee. I look forward to hearing the tale of your hunting.”

  Rowan and Lightly rose in respect, wishing Panther good night. Only a few braves remained by the fire, chatting and smoking their pipes to the dregs of their bowls, the warm, sweet tobacco smoke curling round their heads. When Panther left, Rowan spoke quietly.

  “Panther is right. We must listen to the Old One’s words. We violate the same taboo that banished my mother. If we wish to remain among the People, we must keep our distance from the pirates.”

  “I’d have been sorry to miss seeing Jill conquer that tiger. I’m glad we were able to hunt with her today, and to return her weapons to her when we found them. But from now on, I’ll arrange to see her when she’s alone.”

  “And your brothers, Nibs and Tom?”

  Lightly flashed a grin. “We can meet them at the Lagoon, where the People rarely venture. My brothers will appreciate an excuse to dive after mermaids.”

  Rowan smiled. “We will bring enchanted moss from the Fairy Glade, to stuff our ears against the siren song.”

  “And against Tom’s vocal chords. His voice has become booming since he went to sea. He’ll make an excellent captain one day, bellowing orders to his men.”

  “Perhaps he will rise to commodore, like his foster father.”

  “Yes, although I understand that Hook never bellows. He’s much more subtle. I notice that Nibs has taken after him.”

  Rowan grew serious. “Using subtlety. As the Old One advises us to do.” He and Lightly exchanged a sober look. “From her hints tonight, I gather that Panther has spoken to her of his hopes for Ayasha’s marriage.”

  In his new life as a brave, Lightly had learned self-discipline. His pale skin rarely blushed anymore. But now, he felt his cheeks begin to burn with emotion. He couldn’t help it. “Rowan.”

  Rowan motioned toward their tepee on the outskirts of the dwellings. The two young men stole away from the bonfire. The chill of evening descended upon them as they left the social circle to enter their private space. Once inside, Rowan pinned the door flap closed and wrapped his arms around Lightly. A glow from the smoke hole illuminated their tepee, and the weakening firelight seeped through the tawny sides. Feeling one another’s chests swell with their breathing, they stood together in the soft light, two men forming a single entity. A partnership.

  “Lightly. I feel your heartbeat. I know it beats for me.” Rowan laid his head on Lightly’s shoulder. “When Panther speaks to me of his daughter, I will find a way to refuse her, without offense.”

  “But should you refuse her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lightly waited for his spirit to calm. He had considered the question all afternoon, but time had not made the answer easier. “Ayasha adores you. That much is clear. She will make a devoted wife. And if you decline to accept her, she will be only the first of many brides who will be offered to you.”

  “It is your affection that speaks, Lightly, not the voice of my conceit.”

  “But Ayasha will bear you sons, and joining her family will assure you of a place on the council, some day.”

  “A place on the council. Instead of the revilement that one day, you and I, as lovers, might encounter.”

  “It would be better for you, after all, to follow tradition. To live the rest of your life in the certainty that you have a home among your people, in the knowledge that you have won and kept their respect.” Lightly swallowed, and lifted his chin. “Rowan. This is my counsel. You must take Ayasha t
o wife.”

  They stood quiet for a long time. Even the tree frogs hushed their trilling. Finally, Rowan asked, “And what would you do if I married, Lightly of the Air?”

  At stake lay the future of the person who meant existence itself to Lightly, the fortunes of the brave aptly named ‘Life-Giver.’ Lightly took command of his voice so that it would not falter.

  “I will always be as I am. Your friend and blood brother, who wishes the best for you.” But even as he said it, Lightly knew he spoke a lie. Not in his intentions toward Rowan, but about himself. If Rowan married, the elders would have to choose a new name for Lightly. He would no longer be Lightly of the Air. He would never fly again.

  Rowan stayed silent. For the first time since their meeting, Lightly was unsure of Rowan’s feeling. The dim light on Rowan’s eyes revealed only their smooth charcoal surfaces. Did relief lurk there? Did gratitude? An owl hooted in a tree high above the tepee.

  Rowan released his companion. “The wise-bird tells us to sleep.” He stepped to the blankets, untied his leggings, and knelt. “In the morning, Lightly, when the sun no longer hides his face, you will know how I answered you.” He stretched out his hand.

  The owl hooted again, asking Lightly, who-woo, who-woo?

  Who might Lightly be, when, in the morning, the wise-bird folded its wings and closed its eyes to the air?

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The evening had cooled, but White Bear was not cold. He was a temperate man. Only tonight, while he danced the dance of a suitor, did his waiting body come awake. As Willow’s pregnancy advanced, he knew the aches of abstinence. And when charged by the Old One to speak for the council, White Bear felt his physical being take on new dimensions, seeming to grow in girth and in greatness.

  White Bear understood the power that flowed under his feet as the Earth Mother manifested her force, in her pouring waters and in her budding fruits. But not until he allowed himself to dance, preparing to claim Raven, had Earth’s energy transferred itself to his body. He hadn’t looked at the woman; he hadn’t needed to do so. The culmination of this day’s events was incentive enough. He had asserted himself as master of his home; he judged wisely in the case of the boy captive; and, trusted by the council, he established his shrewdness as a negotiator in the face of the Black Chief. White Bear; Black Chief. These opposites were now known to the tribe as a balance of power. White Bear’s spirit, measured as he was, possessed much in which he could take pride tonight.

  And, after tonight, no foolish rumors regarding his sister-in-law would cast doubt on the warrior White Bear. This slim female with her hair too short to catch a man’s fingers now submitted to his authority. His companion and competitor Lean Wolf, who had done his best to delay this union right up to the moment of White Bear’s entry to the tepee, must stop his badgering. All the People would resume their proper roles, and the elders would approve.

  The People had honored White Bear today. Now, as he lay with Raven upon her pallet, he set tribal concerns aside and turned his mind to the command of domestic matters. A feeling of contentment made him patient. A feeling of triumph made him impatient, to conquer the pride and the problem of his wife’s older sister.

  The warrior White Bear, temperate and tempered, turned toward his sister-in-law— unpredictable as a comet. Disposed for their roles or no, the two must join, tonight.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Raven lay alert. She felt she could hear every sound the world was making, beginning with White Bear’s breathing and ending with the songs of the stars. The smoke of the bonfire lingered in her hair and on her skin, and the musk of the man who lay covering her, as if she were his wife, mingled with the scent of his victory. With an abundance of stimulation, and only this single moment to wrestle her body into submission, Raven’s spirit dwindled to the form of Shadow Woman.

  White Bear’s weight pressed her down. The solidity of his branch against her abdomen shocked her, urging Raven to stir from hibernation, to reawaken her wifelike role, rouse herself to the pulse of the seasons. She closed her mind from the present. She turned to her inner woman, and hid away, as she had in reality fled this morning from the men who wished to tame her wearied heart.

  Denying impulse— to push and claw or to succumb to desire— Raven lay immobile. Her wide eyes stared in the darkness. She perceived the ghostly bear skin that covered her sister. The darker form of White Bear loomed above her. She looked beyond his shoulder to the tepee’s skin, and, in her mind, she looked far beyond its enclosing wall…to the cliff, to the sea. To an island.

  Another island.

  When White Bear gripped her shoulders, his manhood hard in anticipation of the conquest just to come, he was surprised at the change in Raven’s manner. She seemed restless no longer; an air of serenity surrounded her. White Bear was even more surprised when, graciously, she rolled on her side, guiding him likewise, as if to grant equal claim to her pallet. With a dubious look, he settled himself to face her, aroused anew by her changed, yielding attitude, and by the warmth of her wrappings. He watched her face.

  “Brother,” she said, in a conciliatory tone. With her hand she traced his arm to his wrist, lingering on his marriage bracelet. “Brother. If you and I are to share a blanket, if I am no longer to call you my brother, then,” Raven hesitated. Her eyes, in the dimness, acknowledged his power, and appealed to him. “Please tell me, White Bear. Tell me about the home of your birth. Speak to me…of the Other Island.”

  Like sands in a stream, White Bear’s patience trickled away. “The Other Island lies far from our village, and even farther from my thoughts, this evening. Headstrong woman, I will not travel there tonight.”

  Raven knew his hands upon her, she closed her eyes and shrank her being into shadow. High above them, as if it felt her anguish, the wise-bird hooted in alarm and flapped away. Raven tried to hear nothing, to see nothing, inhale nothing, feel nothing.

  She knew her efforts had failed when the whoop of a warrior rent the night, above the dwellings. The mocking voice of Lean Wolf Silent Hunter called from the branches, “If I could fly tonight, old wise-one, your feathers would fletch my arrows tomorrow!”

  As White Bear stiffened in anger, laughter rose from tepees far and near. Dogs barked. Willow woke, and turned to sigh aloud, calling to her husband.

  The Shadow Woman rose, to clothe herself and stir the embers of the cooking fire, and to warm a soothing broth. She still wondered about the Other Island, but a welcome— a wondrous— feeling of contentment made her patient.

  Somehow, she would join her stranger-friend again, on his cliff top. Tomorrow, when the sun sails high overhead.

  CHAPTER 13

  A Pilgrim’s Progress

  When David ascended to the glory of the morning, his desire to make pilgrimage to Jill’s private quarters was dashed. Smee steered him astray toward the quarterdeck, and just as quickly David lost hope of talking with her alone. Though he genuflected before her, a worshipper, he knew he stood no chance of coming close enough to kiss the hem of her skirt, let alone to win a kiss from her lips again. The space in his chest where he’d cherished these aspirations felt hollow.

  Across the bay, David recognized the stretch of sand where he washed ashore, and he was relieved to feel ship’s timbers beneath his feet again. But once he got his bearings, David devoted his full attention to Jill. She asked for his story, and he confessed it— most of it. He summed up his narrative as a penitent.

  “…and please, Lady, accept my apologies for keeping the commodore’s ring, and for running, and for taking you into danger. I’m so very thankful that you found me and rescued me from that wilderness.” Short of breath by now, David concluded, “If you hadn’t, I’d be dead within days, murdered by the natives or eaten by beasts, or just plain starved, with my bones laid to rot in a foul, stinking crypt.”

  As David had answered Jill’s inquiry, the silver shamrock he gave her upon the Unity twinkled at her breast. He’d avoided looking that direction, in order to re
late his trials in a coherent manner. Now he allowed himself the bliss of watching the shamrock shimmer with her breathing. He felt that any dizziness that resulted would be perceived as the effect of his misadventures.

  To David’s adoring eye, Jill looked heavenly. She wore her deep green gown today, the one he remembered from her wedding day, sewn of satin whose sheen rivaled her hair. The color was perhaps intended to complement the shamrock, or maybe to match the hues of the Island lurking on the horizon behind her. She sat enthroned under a canopy of sailcloth rigged for shade. The pirate flag streamed high on the mainmast, and below it played a banner of white displaying two mismatched, blood-red hands. David guessed what that flag symbolized: Jill Red-Hand’s union with her pirates. How strange, and how…magical, David thought, glancing at her hands, that this woman could appear at once so saintly and so savage.

  She reached up to touch the talisman, hiding it beneath those ruby fingertips. David’s eyes returned to her face.

  She said, “I accept your apology, David, although you stole from the People of the Clearing when you might have asked for their help. But I know that you possess a more selfless side. This shamrock you kindly gave to me brought luck to us both, yesterday.”

  The boy cleared his throat, but his voice cracked anyway. “Yes, Madam.” A sour comment from Mr. Smee reminded David of his presence, and he felt the throb of the bo’sun’s blow again.

  “I’m thinking you’d have caught the lad before meeting up with that tiger, Ma’am, if you’d had your whip along.” Smee stood straight as a staff against the taffrail, damning David with his eyes. A set of manacles dangled over his shoulder.

  Smee’s two young bo’sun’s mates looked daggers at David, too. They manned a post next to the ship’s bell, by the stairs that descended to the main deck. The one with the orange kerchief bound about his head was tall and dark complected, the other barrel-chested and beefy. Hostility radiated from both of them. Obviously, none of Jill’s crewmen absolved David for the peril in which he’d placed her. Even he condemned himself, for the purple bruise on her shoulder, the sight of which rebuked him more severely than the bo’sun’s mates’ glares.