‘Shall we?’
‘After you, Mr Soul.’
DeBrelt’s crew assembled themselves by the hut that Santiago reclined in. Greetings were exchanged with Doctor Forb Macmillan, his wife Myranda, and their eight year-old son, Lewys. He was small, tanned.
Manolin began to open a small file of papers and notes that he had prepared, began to sift through them.
It was at that moment when Manolin saw Myranda for the first time.
He drew in the moist air and his chest felt heavy. He pushed it out, sucked his stomach in. His vision followed the gentle ridges of muscle and her. He placed the folder under his arm.
She looked at him, shaking his hand when he offered it. She held it, and his gaze, for longer than he thought necessary. She dazzled him with the whiteness of her teeth. He wanted to speak to her more, to say anything in fact, but his throat had swelled.
Manolin dropped the folder then a breeze tore the notes from him, scattered them across the sand and sea. He cursed, looked on helplessly. He ran after them, across the beach. Pages unfurled on the wind, darting away whenever he tried to grasp them. They were his notes he made in the city, many of his essays an observations. There were maps, charts, even some leaflets back from Escha, should he begin to feel homesick. It was all he had to remind himself of home, of the city, and it was being lost on the island winds.
The doctor called out, ‘Don’t worry, young man. Leave your paperwork. There will be much more than can be put on paper here, anyway.’
Manolin didn’t acknowledge the words. He sighed, looked at Santiago, who simply shrugged. Reluctantly, trotted back to the group.
‘Let them be,’ Myranda said.
She offered him a piece of fruit. Manolin took it, examined the new specimen, then devoured it delicately, savouring every morsel. Sugary fruits burst in his mouth. His spirits soon picked up with the charm of this native woman. She paced away in a way that made sure his gaze remained on her.
The doctor turned to Myranda. ‘I say, what’ve you got lined up for this afternoon’s class?’
‘Well, I’m finishing off the painting lessons,’ she said. ‘Mhuela is proving to be quiet talented. I wanted you to take over next week, as they need to study plants a little more. Little Juhhn had a bad reaction to something in the forest, and his hand has swollen.’ ‘Okay.’ The doctor smiled. ‘Poor fella. Yes, tell them to bring some specimens they know of, and I’ll take it from there.’
Drinks of freshly squeezed juice were brought out. The foreigners didn’t feel as if they were exploring new shores, so much as going on a holiday. The doctor made his guests feel welcome, then took them to the human settlement, a few hundred yards south.
‘Luckily we have three cabins, which the ichthyocentaurs used to stay in, but they won’t come this close to the shore any more.’ Doctor Macmillan led the group, his son by his side, to the main village.
The sand was so bright that they could hardly look down and the soles of their feet felt hot. They were presented before a lagoon, by which forty or so huts clustered. This formed the village, and wooden shacks varied in shades of brown. The water of the lagoon was almost green and, to the right, Manolin could see dozens humans, working, playing. Some carved wood. Others wove fishing nets. He could see baskets in various stages of production and, from the forest, browned men carried nets of fruit. Children jumped into the green, hot water. Shrubs grew to the limits of the settlement and Manolin noticed three shacks that were on stilts, standing over the lagoon itself.
He said, ‘Doctor Macmillan, what are those houses for?’
‘Ah, glad you asked. Those were where the ichthyocentaurs stayed. That’ll be where you’ll be sleeping.’
‘Must we stay there?’ Mr Calyban said.
‘Indeed, I’d rather stay on firm land, if it’s all the same,’ Mr Soul said. ‘And I very much doubt there are any facilities?’
The doctor looked long and hard at the men in straw hats. He nodded. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll find other places for you. And yes, we do have facilities. There’s a pit just inside the forest. We collect all our faeces there so that it can be used as a fertilizer to grow specific things by the ichthyocentaurs.’
‘Charming,’ Mr Calyban said.
The doctor continued towards the lagoon. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask, what weaponry did you bring?’
‘Well, we’ve muskets and knives,’ Santiago said. ‘Why?’
‘Precautionary, that’s all. It may be worthwhile installing someone to lookout at night, keeping an eye on the sea.’ He paused for a second, running the palm of his hand back over his head. ‘I suggest you give this role to a woman, because it seems that only males are affected.’
Santiago said, ‘The ichthyocentaurs-where are they now?’ ‘They’ve fled to the hills,’ the doctor said, indicating the dormant volcano that loomed above the forest. ‘It’s safer this way.’
Manolin looked up, saw birds with bright, colourful plumages scattering from the forests. In the village, the locals had stopped what they were doing, were massed in a long line of brown bodies, were standing still, staring.
‘By Arrahd’s loins, there’re hundreds of them,’ Jefry said. ‘I’d no idea that there were humans away from the mainland, on an island,’ Arth said. ‘Let alone this many.’
‘Oh yes,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ve about a hundred and fifty or so. Not forgetting the ichthyocentaurs. There’re about, what, another hundred of them. It should be two hundred, but as you know, they’re threatened.’
‘I see,’ Santiago said.
Manolin turned towards the lagoon and sea. Waves struck the sandbars that marked the rim of the lagoon, which was, he estimated, about fifty-yards wide and as long as he could see. The motion of the sea was distractingly repetitive.
Santiago said, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re awfully calm considering creatures are dying. And you don’t seem overwhelmed at us being here.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, have I not made you feel welcomed?’ the doctor said in earnest.
‘Well, yes, but-’
‘Mr DeBrelt-’
‘I’d prefer Santiago. We’re all friends here.’
The doctor said, ‘All right, Santiago, I’ve spent ten years here now. These killings have occurred before, but this time they’re rampant. I’ve asked for help only for their sakes, and to save my own curiosity before it’s too late. Neither me nor these islanders are particularly keen on outsiders.’
Santiago said, ‘You were one yourself, at one point, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, but I had to earn my right to be an islander. And I brought with me an inexhaustible supply of meat. I brought a pair of hares. They respected me for that and I hope that we can learn to respect you.’
Manolin looked at the doctor and recognised the concerns and scepticisms that flickered in his eyes. ‘We’ll earn your respect, Doctor Macmillan.’
‘Please, call me Forb.’ He smiled, nodding slightly. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your lodgings. There’re three empty huts here. You don’t mind sharing, do you?’
Their habitations were minimal, smelled of damp wood. To access it, you had to row a small raft, securing it to the stilts. Palm leaves were woven intricately for roofing, leaving strips of sunlight to filter through. If you sat on the doorsteps of the huts, you would be able to dangle feet in the sea at high tide. To the right was the beach, in front the lagoon. To the left, the ocean. The stilts on which the huts stood were capable of withstanding a storm. Santiago shared a hut with Manolin. Arth with Jefry. Yana with Becq.
Sunset: and a vast orange horizon proved warm, pleasant. This was the time when most of the islanders socialised, out of the extreme heat of midday, during which they appeared to do little. Men, women and children scampered on the shore with long shadows in the sand. Manolin had seen some sights in his life, but this was one of the most impressive he’d witnessed. Not only for the natural beauty, the almost inherent quality of the island, but for the feeling it presented him with. There was a
peace, a sense that you could be yourself here, find yourself. There were few people, none of the square and oppressive buildings in which he’d grow up with. None of the thick plumes of smoke trailing across the sky, the constant industry, the competition, the need to improve, get the next best thing, do this and that socially. No, there was peace here.
Myranda began to swim in the lagoon.
Manolin sat on the doorstep, his toes cooling in the water, watched her ooze out into the middle of the lagoon, about twenty feet in front of the huts. His breeches were rolled up, his shirt was out loose.
‘Why don’t you come in?’ she said, treading water. ‘It’ll make your body feel good.’ Her accent was clean, her voice almost hanging in the air above the lagoon. Manolin thought that the doctor must’ve educated her well.
He said, ‘Oh, no, thank you. It feels pretty good already.’
She laughed before spinning underwater then back up. Her skin shimmered in the low sun. He smiled. Water sparkled. She said, ‘It’s your loss, stranger.’ ‘Oh, I know,’ he said and was convinced she made sure she hell his gaze before swimming further out into the lagoon. There were small rafts out at sea, the inhabitants arcing nets over schools of fish, pulling in traps.
Manolin turned to face Santiago in the cabin. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Becq’s legs dangling out of her hut. ‘Fine lady,’ Santiago said, standing over Manolin. ‘Very convenient to have an island beauty.’
‘Yeah, she’s pretty pleasant. Nice-looking sort.’
Santiago said, ‘Be careful. Remember what happens when you don’t follow the head and let that-’ he indicated Manolin’s groin’ think for you.’
‘Hey, I’m not thinking with that. I’m not thinking with anything.’
Manolin rested his head on the door frame, allowing the breeze to blow a few strands of black hair over his forehead. He reflected for a moment, was in no hurry to make a comment. ‘I tell you what, San, I could get used to this.’ He watched the silhouette of a gull glide in low over the beach.
‘I know what you mean. It’s easy to forget that we’re here to investigate and to survey the place.’ Santiago rested his hand on the doorway above Manolin’s head. The trees generated a sweet perfume, as they could open up in the cool evening climate.
Manolin said, ‘Don’t you feel a bit uneasy about staying in these huts, what with those creatures being killed? There’s talk about ghouls and ghosts from the islanders.’
‘Not really. There is always a rational explanation for these occurrences. I spoke to Forb earlier, and he suggested we look at some of the carcasses that were washed up a couple of days ago.’
‘I wonder what Mister Calyban and Mister Soul are up to?’ ‘I’ve no idea, Manolin. I really don’t know why they’re here at all apart from making sure I get up to no harm.’ Santiago smiled. ‘I forgot to ask you about that,’ Manolin said. ‘Why doesn’t he trust you?’
‘Oh, you mean the Mayor? Gio and I go way back. You see, I used to be a member of the Collectivist Party, and Gio, as the rest of Escha tends to be, is a devout capitalist. Our political history is ... colourful. Too many arguments and rivalries. He even tried to hit me once, in a debate.’
‘You’ve never mentioned this before?’ ‘No. No need to. Anyway, Escha is no place for a Collectivist. Not these days.’
Manolin nodded, looking down into the water, at the strange shapes that the light made. On the sides of the doorway symbols were carved. He’d seen them on the other huts too. ‘San, what d’you think of these? Some sort of tribal designs?’
Santiago looked closer. ‘They’re old mathematical and scientific symbols. Bizarre. They’re not used in this age. Some’ve changed, but we don’t use these ones. You seem them in the odd book, here and there. Old books, mind. They remind me of some that we saw way up north-that place a few weeks’ travel past Rhoam. Small village and that archaeological dig. ‘
Manolin nodded and could see that fires were being lit on the beach. ‘We going to this shindig then?’ ‘You know me,’ Santiago said. ‘Not one to miss a party.’
Becq sat in the doorway of her hut. She hung one leg over the side and reached for the rope, which secured the raft, with her toes. She kicked it, played with it. Then she glanced over at the fires that were burning on the beach, at the people gathering around. You could smell meat or fish being cooked on the fires. She felt the peace and beauty of the location, but her personal troubles brought her mind some imbalance that challenged her ability to appreciate it fully.
It was getting darker, the sky purpling. The temperature became much more bearable for her. Despite Escha being located on the edge of the desert of mainland Has-jahn, on the edge of permanent high temperatures, the island had proved stifling on arrival. Some part of her suspected it wasn’t an environmental factor. Perhaps the heat came from somewhere else more internal.
She turned towards Yana, who was changing into a white shirt and long black skirt. ‘Do you think he’ll ever actually notice me?’ Becq said, resting her head on the frame. She placed her hand palm down on the wooden floor and touched the panels almost affectionately.
‘Who?’ Yana said. She sat down on a small mat next to her luggage.
‘Manolin.’
‘Oh, him.’ Her face darkened. ‘I can’t say, I’m afraid. I think I’ve given up on men. I obviously never know what I’m doing with them.’
Becq stared in disbelief at this woman who she respected so much, almost aspired to be like. ‘You? But you could have any man you want. Look at you, every year you get better looking.’
Yana rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘My husband doesn’t seem to notice.’
Becq said, ‘Jefry does, I’m sure of it.’
‘Whether he does or not, I can barely look at him.’
‘Why?’ Becq sat up.
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I would. I know he loves you.’
‘But I can’t stand him,’ Yana said. ‘I can’t bear to listen to every crude thing he says anymore. I can’t stand the way he eats. I detest his smell. He doesn’t care about himself, let alone me.’
‘Are you sure it’s not because he’s a rumel or something?’
Yana said, ‘I wouldn’t have married him if that were the case. Anyway, hardly anyone’s bothered by that these days, much the same as if he were human and black. No, my prejudices against him are different. They were planted years ago. You know, I can’t even remember the last time we had sex. Not that I can’t get turned on you see. I do, I love sex, and more so as I get older. I have desires, but I can’t if he is there, touching me.’ She screwed up her face and Becq could see her tendons lifting in her neck as she turned away. ‘He does try but, well, I’d rather not go to all the effort. Not with him anyway.’
There was a lingering silence.
‘So, you don’t know if Manolin likes me?’ Becq said. ‘You know, I’d do anything for him. I just want to hold him because he looks so sad sometimes. What his wife did ...’
‘It’s not always enough, Becq, not always enough. He’s had a tough time. Just hang on in there if you really feel that way. I’m not sure you can fix his problems. He was seriously scarred by her. He puts a brave face on it, but deep down something fundamental has shifted. These things always do, if you dig deep enough.’
‘I think he’s interested in that Myranda girl.’ Becq turned her gaze to the floor. ‘She’s so damn pretty and her body is so much more bloody attractive than mine. Just like yours. That’s what he wants, not me.’
Yana smiled inwardly. ‘Men always look for something better, Becq. They’re never satisfied. They’ll give you explanations like “men aren’t meant to settle down with just one woman”. They’re just weak and will use any philosophy to justify what happens in their pants.’ Then, ‘It’s amazing how, these days, any immoral act can appear to be justified.’
‘I think Manolin’s different. He’s really shy usually. He’s an absolute gentleman, too. Unlike dad.
No, Manolin is a different guy.’
‘Is he a man?’ Yana asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then he’ll do anything in his powers to possess a girl like Myranda. It may be a subtle effort, but he’ll try. Half the time he won’t even realise he’s doing it. But I think it’ll do him some good to have a flirt with someone different and new. It’ll make him feel mildly alive again. Don’t hate him for it. He’s one of those guys that will ride waves for years, being taken in many directions, and he’ll cling on to whatever he can to survive.’
‘He can cling on to me.’
‘I think he needs someone to order him about. Tell him what to do. And a stereotypical island girl maybe the thing to help mend his shattered ego.’
‘It’s so unfair. She’s gorgeous.’
‘And she knows that these new foreign men that have arrived think that too.’
Becq nodded in agreement, turned her head. She leaned out of the hut, above the water and looked up at the sky. ‘Yana, look. I’ve never seen so many stars.’
Yana stood up, leant over Becq to see the sky. It wasn’t yet fully night. The stars littered the sky in powder trails or thin white smears. The light pollution in Escha had always prevented such a sight. Becq sat up as Yana lingered in the doorway. She sat back down near her bags and after she had rummaged for a moment, drew out a stuffed doll and some thread.
She closed her bag, drew the doll over her lap. It was about a foot and a half long, had a thick crop of black wool for hair. She had made two brown eyes from small gemstones, had dressed the doll in a white shirt and black breeches.
Yana turned from stargazing and glanced towards her. ‘Oh, that’s nice. Did you make that yourself?’
‘Yeah, d’you like it?’
Yana leaned down over. ‘Can I have a look?’
Becq passed the doll carefully across.
‘Yes, that’s really good. The stitching’s very tidy. How long did it take you to make?’ ‘Oh, I’ve been making it for a couple of months before we came over. I’ve made a few before, but none as good as this one.’
‘Yes, it’s good.’ Yana paused. ‘You know, it kind of reminds me of Manolin.’ She examined the doll further. ‘Yeah, now I mention it, it looks quite a lot like him.’
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