by Kirk Adams
“In the past,” the doctor eventually whispered, “women used old rags. Literally.”
Ursula’s jaw dropped.
“You’ll,” Dr. Graves explained, “ just have to find clean cloth, cut and fold it, then ... I don’t need to go into details, do I?”
Ursula shook her head in disbelief.
“Just make sure,” the doctor advised, ”you wash the rags between use. Probably ought to be boiled clean.”
“Unbelievable,” Ursula said. “Just unbelievable.”
“I’m really sorry,” the doctor replied, “but there’s nothing more I can do.”
A minute later both women stood outside the medical tent—where they grumbled several minutes before heading for the nurse’s station to lament their plight to Nurse Fallows. While the nurse was far more understanding, even she could do no more than provide Ursula with a roll of gauze and suggest to Maria infertile means of sexual experimentation.
After picking up a bottle of aspirin, the western women took lunch at the base camp, then made their way to the supply center to collect a sewing kit, steel pots, and sets of snorkels and flippers. Ursula grabbed a roll of bleached-white cotton cloth and the women returned home via a scenic route around the coast, stopping near the south village for a midafternoon snack.
They reached their own village as dinner was being served.
Lisa sat alone by a beech tree whose roots dug deep into the soil underneath the Pishon River, upstream of the bridge—though not as far as the waterfall. Here the din of camp life was inaudible as she enjoyed the quiet of her thoughts. Her eyes were closed and she couldn’t see that her freckled cheeks were browned as she reclined against an aged beach tree—whose canopy stretched to the heights of the forest. Lisa closed her eyes and yawned, her back arched and chest thrust into a gentle breeze. She wore no shirt and her red hair waved in the wind such that the split ends brushed the pink of her breasts.
Lisa let the wind blow where it may.
The young woman reclined against the tree and tucked a folded shirt beneath the small of her back before closing her eyes to enjoy the whisper of the woods as birds flitted through the trees—chirping to reveal themselves—and the creak of jungle insects echoed from the leaves. Mostly, Lisa listened to the soft whisper of the breeze across treetops and the noisy trickle of the brook streaming through rocks. Peace stilled her thoughts and nature quieted her soul. Her spirit grew drowsy and her flesh languid; her hair fluttered. She felt the sun caress her eyelids and massage her breasts, its shafts penetrating the membranous clouds of the South Pacific and warming her thighs. She smiled as she hoped for another touch. It came soon and it wasn’t long before her legs felt aglow and her chest afire. Lisa opened her eyes and noticed that her breasts were freckled and legs tanned, even though the canopy of high trees had softened the sun’s hard touch, and wondered whether she could spend the whole day in this place and decided to stay until dusk. Indeed, she so loved the touch of heaven and earth that she swore to remain faithful to nature until the parting of death.
After some time, a bird sang out and Lisa whistled a response, singing her own song for several minutes: giddy from excitement and pleasure. Taking precautions against burning, Lisa squirted herbal sunscreen into the palm of her hands and spread it from chest to thigh, careful to massage the lotion into flesh virgin to the sun’s burning passion. She wiped the excess of the organic lotion into tall grass and then lay on her back. Following several minutes of agitated movement, she rolled to her belly (using the folded shirt as a pillow), stretched her legs, and pressed her forearms against earth. When she was comfortable, she sighed and relaxed. Soon enough, she slept—her breasts pressed to the earth, hips nestled into grass, and thighs hugged close. Her dreams were of love and nature as the sun pressed close until late in the afternoon.
Brent wore flip-flops and a dirty apron as he pulled the lid from a large iron pot simmering over hot coals to sample an early taste of dinner. His face didn’t show what he thought of the stew, but he did laugh out loud when he saw Sean’s lips curl after doing the same.
“Like it?” Brent asked.
“Like the plague,” Sean answered. “What is this shit?”
“Fish and vegetable stew.”
“What else is in there?”
“Diced gords and canned corn.”
“Anything good?”
“Linh’s making bread.”
“Any fresh fruit?” Sean groaned. “Something she hasn’t touched?”
Brent pointed to a table filled with peeled bananas—already blackened from an afternoon in the sun. “She put them out early.”
“Can’t someone,” Sean growled, “teach her to cook?”
“You can lead a horse to water ...” Brent said, “but you can’t make him drink. Especially if Linh filled the trough.”
Both men laughed.
Sean said he wasn’t hungry after all and jogged toward the orchard. Linh returned a moment later and with her the first of the villagers hungry to eat. As Brent ladled generous helpings of stew, Linh pulled burned rolls from the fire pit—though several villagers declined the burned bread and what was rumored to be dead fish stew. Even those who actually tried to eat some of the soup left half-filled bowls beside the dirty dishes, politely apologizing that they’d eaten heavy lunches. Brent dumped the leftovers into a compost bucket while Linh scrubbed empty bowls with handfuls of sand and fresh water.
After the dishes were stacked, Brent announced he planned to construct a real oven. Instead of baking bread on a cooking stone, he hoped to use brick and mortar to make an oven that could be used to bake loaves and cakes. He asked only for help moving materials. When Linh promised to do all the cooking if he could find volunteers to haul construction materials from New Plymouth, Brent approached several villagers chatting around the campfire and requested help to bring bricks from New Plymouth. When no one volunteered, he singled out candidates.
“Jose and Ryan,” Brent asked, “can you give me a hand?”
Before the two men could answer, Hilary protested. “Why just the guys?” she asked.
“We’re carrying bricks and iron over the hill.”
“And so it begins.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Patriarchy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then I’ll explain,” Hilary said, “because the minute you categorize women’s bodies as physically weaker, you set in motion the whole range of patronizing platitudes that inevitably lead to male dominance. Men are made soldiers while women are made mothers. Men are made kings while women are perceived as princesses. Men ...”
Brent cut her short. “What d’you propose?”
“We women,” Hilary declared, “will get the bricks while you men tend domestic duties.”
“Fine by me,” Brent said. “My shoulders still ache from carrying crates up the mountain. I’m all for equal rights.”
After Brent told her what tools and supplies he needed, Hilary turned to the women for help.
“I need volunteers,” she said, “to get supplies.”
Linh walked from the dining tent to the fire and asked what kind of supplies were needed.
“Bricks and an iron grill,” Hilary replied.
“Ask Viet,” Linh said as she pointed to her tent. “He’s strong.”
Hilary told her not to be such a chauvinist.
“Chauvinist, my aching bones,” Linh said. “It’s physics, not politics. He can carry twice the weight I can.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Getting the bricks isn’t the point?”
“Exactly,” Hilary said. “If we base our economy upon natural efficiency, we’ll end up capitalists and chauvinists for sure. We need to organize ourselves to overcome appearances and prejudices.”
“How?” Linh asked.
“In the States,” Hilary said, “we’d use technology.”
Linh rolled her eyes. “We’re not in the States and I’m no
t lugging bricks up that hill.”
“I’m perfectly aware of our present state. Anyway, I have a solution: water power.”
Linh waited for an explanation.
“We’ll use the boats,” Hilary said.
“Up the stream?”
“Around the lagoon.”
“The launch,” Linh said with a frown, “can’t be fired up except for emergencies.”
“The rowboat can.”
“And?”
“And we’ll load the bricks into the rowboat and push it along the shore.”
Linh’s face relaxed. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Or maybe we can hoist a sail.”
“Maybe we can,” Linh said, “but it’d still be easier to make the men lug the things.”
Hilary shook her head and Linh laughed before conscripting Joan and Deidra as volunteers. When villagers realized Linh would be removed from kitchen duty for the day, the majority applauded the proposal to send the women to New Plymouth for supplies.
Heather crawled from her own tent and walked to an adjacent one. She had fallen asleep after an early dinner and now the sun was setting and the forest quieting for the night. The teenager shook the front flap.
“Mom. Dad. Are you home?”
When there was no answer, Heather unzipped the door and looked in. Two bedrolls were neatly rolled and a plastic jug of water sat in the corner, still capped. Several books were stacked atop an otherwise empty rucksack and grooming items were set neatly beside the books. When her eyes fixed on a nylon brush and hand-held mirror, Heather stepped in to retrieve them and soon walked toward the stream.
The grass on the path was trampled and the trail already was two feet wide: vines cut back and every blocking limb removed. The track threaded around a grove of beech trees before it reached the bridge over the Pishon River—where Heather now sat down. To her right, the village was marked by a thin column of smoke dissipating into the tropical dusk and a few indistinct shouts echoing from the forest. To her left, a trail cut through the forests on the slopes of Mount Zion. Water streamed beneath the bridge.
Heather thought about wading toward the falls, then looked at the descending sun and decided against it. With her feet dangling into the stream and toiletries beside her, the young woman reached into the water and lapped water over her legs, careful not to splash her shorts. After she washed her face and arms, she pulled a toothbrush from her pocket and brushed her teeth. When this too was done, she slurped from an open hand to rinse and pulled a can of shaving cream from her bag. While lathering her legs, she inspected a used razor—only to judge it too dull for further use after a single swipe. Replacing the worn blade with a new one, she shaved the stubble from her legs with long strokes toward her hips. It took five minutes to clear her legs and several more to remove the stubble under her arms.
Afterwards, the teenager rinsed the shaving cream and whisker cuts away with handfuls of water before cleaning her razor—being careful to cover the blade with its removable lid; razors weren’t replaceable in the jungle. With her shaving finished, Heather spent several minutes brushing her hair—stroking it from forehead to neck to untangle the worst knots. When every strand was separated, she watched the sun descend below the trees before retiring to early bed.
Dawn would bring a full week of work.
11
And They Knew No Shame
Ursula lay in Sean’s arms, her head resting on his shoulder. When Sean pulled a sheet over both of them, the dark-skinned woman snuggled even closer. Already the dawn of life stirred: birds sang, insects chirped, and early risers stoked the village fire. Ursula spoke with a quiet voice and Sean answered the same. The indiscernible rustle of their touches drew no notice beyond their nylon-walled enclave.
“That was paradise,” Ursula said as she smacked her lips and pressed close. “I hope we didn’t wake anyone.”
“It is a little early,” Sean said, “for a work day.”
“You’ve already put in your quota,” Ursula giggled. “Take the rest of the day off on me.”
“I’ll be on you,” Sean said, “the rest of the day. And the night too.”
“I guess it’s been a couple days.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling a little better.”
Ursula pulled Sean closer still—wrapping her arms tight around his neck. “Is this all you need from me?” she asked.
“That a trick question?” Sean lifted Ursula’s chin with a forefinger as he looked at her face.
Ursula just batted her eyes.
“What I need,” Sean continued, “is you and no one else. You’re the best thing I’ve ever had and I don’t want anyone to interfere with us. Or anything.”
“I like that answer.”
“It’s even better between us here than in the States. No bills, no politics, no worries. Just you and I together.”
“No more bigots saying we’re black and white.”
“Here we’re only man and woman and no one can keep us apart now. No prejudice or hatred.”
“Nothing between us,” Ursula said. “Ever.”
“Promise?”
“I swear it.”
“That’s what I like about you,” Sean said. “No agenda. Too many women want a man’s whole life. You’re happy with the day. With us.”
“Live for each day they used to sing.”
“It’s not day yet,” Sean said. “There’s a little more dark to enjoy.”
Ursula’s dark flesh grew warm as Sean slid fair-skinned hands down her belly. A moment later he pressed his lips against hers and passion stirred. Half an hour later they emerged to take breakfast and prepare for daily chores. Sean was asked to build a box for gathering sea salt (a wooden frame to be filled with seawater left to evaporate, leaving dried salt behind) while Ursula was sent to fish.
Lisa had set out early to inspect the district. Carrying a day’s rations and a shovel, she slipped from her tent before the sun broke over the horizon. As a courtesy, she threw logs into the remaining coals and built a stack of kindling around them. It didn’t take the wood long to ignite and soon a fire burned. When the wind blew smoke into her face, she wondered what effect air pollution might have on the flora and fauna: especially birds whose nests were choked by the acrid smoke. Before she started east, Lisa wrote a few lines in a notebook that the day hadn’t begun well since she herself was an air polluter and likely to become a repeat offender—at least if she desired hot food or boiled water.
When Lisa reached the bridge, she removed her boots and waded barefoot downstream, looking for signs of human habitation. She saw only smooth stones worn by steady erosion and unsevered vines knotted across the streambed when she first stepped across the stones and crouched beneath the vines—careful to do no harm. It was with considerable disgust, however, that she soon came to a logjam fifty yards downstream: an obstructing dam comprised of cut branches and trimmed foliage. After she broke the dam and pulled the man-made clippings to shore (leaving natural fallen logs to flow on), she made a note to collect the cuttings and continued her walk to the sea—scouring every bend of the stream for pollution. She found only two MRE wrappers trapped between large rocks and a rum bottle sunk in a shallow pool, which she stowed in her backpack for recycling. Lisa wasn’t completely displeased with the state of the stream: several long weeks of human habitation left only a few scraps of pollution. She collected more trash from her front lawn in Connecticut every Sunday morning.
As the sound of falling water came to ear, Lisa picked up her pace. Each step was a little more difficult than the previous one as she waded through knee-deep water. At the three-foot drop of the stream to the sea, Lisa dropped her backpack and removed her outer garments—circling the shore looking for trash and then swimming the narrow channel to do the same across the bay.
It was on the far side of the bay where Lisa first found death: two fish floating in the shallows, their vacant eyes showing blank, uncomprehending stares as the sun flashed from si
lver bellies and seawater lapped into rigid, unmoving gills. Lisa lifted the larger of the dead fish by a dorsal fin to examine it. When she saw that the other fish bore no obvious marks of parasites or an aggressor, she double-bagged both carcasses and stowed them in her knapsack for additional analysis. Once her inspection was completed, Lisa slipped into her shorts and headed for the main beach, where she found the leftovers of Saturday’s party: a bit of boiled crab, a pile of fish bones, and several cigarette butts. She also came across a used condom and a torn pair of panties—at which she shook her head in despair at human sloppiness while fitting herself with rubber gloves to move the debris into the ever-filling trash bag slung over her shoulder.
Ashes from the bonfire were thrown into the grass as fertilizer and the fire pit was filled with clean sand, though even Lisa thought it pointless to wipe every smudge of soot since rains would sift ashes through sand far better than any human hand. When the mess was cleaned, Lisa sat amongst the trees to eat—only to discover her lunch ruined by the stench of dead fish. The outer bag had worked itself open and death’s reek had penetrated the knapsack: a problem discovered too late to correct. Hungry and disgusted, Lisa disposed her bread and soup into the waste bag and started home. Along the way, she picked up cigarette butts, an empty water jug, and three coconut husks. It didn’t take her long to reach the recycling center where she sorted an overflowing trash bag held at arm’s length as her face and stomach alike turned.
The recycling center, which Lisa herself had designed, was fifty yards beyond the village perimeter and consisted of three distinct components: recyclables, slow decomposables, and compost piles. The recycling area stored non-compostable goods like wire bands from cargo crates, torn plastic jugs, MRE wrappers, empty medical containers, and old cans. Most supplies brought to the island were environmentally friendly, so the recycling area wasn’t allotted much ground. Slow decomposables included combustible materials like coconuts husks, pieces of wood, shards of cloth, and scraps of paper which could be buried or burned and were kept together for aesthetic and environmental reasons. The compost piles were knee-high mounds of dirt into which unneeded fish guts and food scraps were covered with layers of mulch. Because bacteria and other microorganisms flourished in the tropical sun, compost could be reduced to organic material in days and weeks. Compost piles also included inflow from sewage trenches through which rains carried human sludge flowing from the public toilets—which were located closer to camp, atop a shallow rise where men relieved themselves beyond a wood wall at the end of the trenches and women sat on hand carved toilets shaded beneath canvas. Several buckets of fresh water for rinsing the toilet permitted at least tolerable hygiene and were replenished every morning.