Marooned on Eden

by Robert L. Forward; Martha Dodson Forward

  "The bark of this tree has a curious aroma, doesn't it, John? It smells like a really good soap—shall I try steeping a bit of it, and scrubbing, oh, say, someone's back with it?"

  "Ummm," responded John. "Of course, it really might be . . .safer . . .to do that, than to try it on skin as soft as yours!"

  Only Arielle reacts to all this nonsense with such genuine laughter that I, too, can smile—especially when that "soft soap" produced an itchy, though temporary, rash!

  There is obviously some serious courting going on, as well. Our duties are not so stringent as to disallow private conversations. And certain advantages are taken, when the occasion arises; Arielle seldom finds herself alone among the high branches where the ripe fruit grows, and when I return to the surface after my deepest dives, I frequently find company awaiting me aboard the raft.

  We have found another mutual pleasure, simple in the extreme but thrilling—it is singing! It began with some of the songs David was playing one night, when Shirley began, struggling to remember the words. Her voice is very sweet, and soon Cinnamon's lower voice began a harmonic addition. Nels' surprising tenor, and Richard's booming deep notes were added, and, to my own surprise, I heard myself in the high descant I had been born with, and which is so different from the husky tone when I speak. It was glorious, making such splendid sounds into the gloom around us. But it was very brief, because, apart from a few Welsh hymns and American folk songs, we could remember so little. David was delighted, however. One of the songs we had recalled was a Christmas carol, and after we'd finished, Jinjur said abruptly, "We ought to have a holiday."

  "Why?" asked John.

  "Why not? For fun!" said Arielle.

  "We can make up whatever we'd like, of course," said Jinjur, "And celebrate any way we want."

  "Birthdays!" said Carmen. "And Christmas and anniversaries, and . . ."

  "And dress up and act polite!" said Richard, glancing at me with a laugh.

  "Why not?" I retorted. "Refreshing, any change in a routine!"

  "How about the anniversary of the day we crash-landed?"

  "Rather grim, wouldn't that be?" responded Shirley to Jinjur's suggestion.

  "I think that's the most important one of all," said Cinnamon quietly. "And I think I'd be thinking about it anyway."

  "Traditions have a way of forming themselves, in time," I said comfortably. "We can start by remembering the dates, from my little journal. Any celebration can be left to inspiration!"

  Richard's invitations for a nightly stroll steadily persisted, and I continued to decline them. I am not sure, in my own mind, whether I do so out of genuine disinterest, or a hitherto unfamiliar perversity—I cannot deny I rather enjoy the invitations! All about me the little games go on and on, but I try to maintain my long-standing resolution: to be responsible for my own behavior, and not worry about that of others.

  However, when I last went foraging for firewood, I made an unsettling discovery. I had followed my favorite little stream for quite a distance, and plunged into a small clearing along its banks. What first caught my eye was one of our few blankets, neatly folded, and hanging over a low limb. As I stared around, I realized that the soft pile of leaves and branches in the center of the clearing was, literally, a sort of nest; a comfortable cushion for two people, private and secluded, and within the sound of the noisy ripples. I felt oddly shaken by the sight of this little retreat, and turned to leave, when I saw the imprint of a large bare foot in the soft earth. I bent over it to look more closely—there was no mistaking that distinctive shape, with only four strong toes!

  I straightened, and returned to my task. Arielle had requested a supply of a particular sort of wood—it burns very hot and is perfect for grilling fish. It is also difficult to cut, being very tough, but I found it much easier on this occasion! It was unreasonable of me to be so angry, and I was only thankful that I was out of sight and hearing of anyone, so that my helpless stamping could go unnoticed. I was still upset when I returned with my burden, dropped it beside the cooking fire, and walked away at some speed, determined to stay away until I was calm.

  I was soon on the shore of Rain Lake, and thought a swim might be therapeutic, but on impulse I stopped, and bent to see my reflection in its flat surface. I was dismayed to observe that the black curls I had been struggling to keep under some sort of control had got completely out of hand, writhing about my head until I bore a definite resemblance to portraits of Medusa. It had a barbarian aspect which distressed me very much, and I determined to enlist the assistance of the first person I met. Accordingly, I returned straightway to camp, found Shirley's scissors, and looked about. Richard was standing by the spring, dipping water into our biggest container. I quailed momentarily, but then my irritation returned and I marched briskly to him, and thrust the scissors into his hand.

  "Here! Please! Just pull on a curl, and when it's a couple inches from my head, cut it off!"

  "Cut off your head?"

  "Uurrgh!"

  "Okay, okay! Sit down and hold still."

  Tensely, I huddled on the rock while Richard was silent, lifting one lock and then another. Finally, joyfully, I heard a snip, and then another, and when he began to whistle idly, I relaxed, while the black pile grew around me. Finally he stopped, and I turned to face him.

  "Thank you very much! Does it look alright?" I asked anxiously, while he surveyed me coolly, grinned, and then grabbed my head and kissed the top of it. I was most inordinately pleased! However, I refused his invitation that evening with distinct coolness.

  We began a series of daily visits to the Jolly Giants, taking turns in pairs, and carefully selecting our most urgent questions. Useful information began to accumulate rapidly in my journal as the reports came in.

  "The slopes of the sides of the volcanoes look to be our best bet for a big garden," Nels enthused. "The soil is rich there, and the Jollys don't like to cultivate on such a slanting surface, so we won't be taking space they'd want."

  "Won't the heavy rains wash all the seedlings away?" asked Carmen. It was raining again, but not torrentially as before.

  "The Jollys say, if we plant now, the seedlings will be well established soon. This particular season brings only light rains, and by the time we get real storms, in about forty-five days, the new plants will have strong roots and be ready to assimilate all the moisture."

  From my own questioning, I had learned that the fishing in Sulfur Lake was equal to that in the ocean, and easier. Jinjur and John had, on the Jolly's advice, begun a small husbandry of the jookeejooks for our own use.

  In addition, Arielle and I had examined some of the cloths the big plants use for ceremonials; these are not woven, but are somehow formed from pounded sheets of bark, somewhat like the tapa cloth of Earth's Polynesia. It is very soft and almost white, and light and cool against the skin. Our own garments are becoming woefully threadbare; the fabric was never meant to be particularly durable, when the Christmas Bush was so capable of supplying more on demand. And, while the hot climate encourages us to shed excess clothing, none of us is willing to abandon it altogether! There are likely-looking fibers in the bamboo-like peethoo supports, but spinning and weaving them would be dauntingly time-consuming; we'd much prefer to use the bark-cloth. I held up one of the long sheets, studying it.

  "Look, Reiki!" Arielle summoned me to see her instant creation. I had been thinking along the lines of a simple tunic, possibly with straps of vine—there are plenty of sharp thorns to fashion into needles, and the peethoo fibers make serviceable thread. But Arielle had draped and folded the supple fabric into a sarong, as easy to move in as air, and endlessly adaptable. I was delighted.

  "Perfect, Arielle! And the dyed design along the border—I've never seen anything lovelier!"

  The fashion was an instant success, and we are eager to learn how to make the cloth ourselves, and how to obtain the bright dye from the clamshells.

  "Maybe we could trade something with the Jollys for a supply of the clo
th, and for instructions in how to make it," suggested Jinjur. "But what?"

  We considered the problem in silence, once more on Council Rock. Many of the hands are busy, now, in these nightly sessions, but all of the minds pounce as eagerly as ever on any new topic for discussion.

  "Let's see, we made the bridge," mused Shirley. "But though we've used it every day, I doubt if a Jolly will ever enjoy it!"

  "And they already have better knives and tools than we can make yet," said Carmen, looking ruefully at her own latest effort. John frowned over the meshes he was tying, sitting very close to Carmen.

  Our crude handicrafts must go on, despite the frivolity of the vanilla-scented flower tucked behind Cinnamon's ear, or the oh-so-casually twisted strip of cloth around Nels' massive biceps! I patted my own neatened head with curious pleasure.

  "That's the difficulty, isn't it," said John. "We've no idea of their needs, or even if they'll like anything we can do. What don't they have that we are used to having?" There was a brief silence, and then Jinjur and Cinnamon spoke at once.

  "A wheel!"

  "Of course!" said Shirley. "There's always a use for some sort of cart to haul things around in, isn't there!"

  "Pull instead of push for easier steering . . ."

  "Just a deep bin with two wheels in the back and two drawbars in front . . ."

  "A belt between the drawbars for their 'waist' so they can use all six legs for walking . . ."

  As in so many of our projects, enthusiasm and intelligence made up for lack of tools, and the resultant cart was soon completed. It went sadly against Jinjur's training to have no way to paint it!

  Although the Jolly's eyes had kept our construction effort under surveillance, we had not mentioned our purpose aloud, and when we trundled the bulky but maneuverable vehicle to the Jolly enclave, the plant's surprise and pleasure were apparent—the giants ripple visibly when having emotional feelings. Very shortly, the new device was in constant use in the Jolly camp, hauling food and other materials here and there.

  While the goodwill engendered by our gift was still most noticeable, we broached two subjects; one was our desire for some of the precious cloth, and help in creating some of our own, and the other was the proposed introduction to the flouwen. Both topics seemed agreeable to our large new friends.

  We had decided that there was no real need to explain the flouwen to the Jollys, nor the other way around, even if we were capable of doing so. The two aliens would have to work out their own relationship in any case, and would probably do so more quickly left to their own intelligence. Accordingly, Nels simply escorted three of the more curious Jollys down to the shore, at a place where the beach ran long and flat. Meantime, Jinjur and I went quickly to Flouwen Beach and summoned them; they had been staying close to the area for several days, hoping for just such a meeting.

  By the time the Jollys had approached the water as closely as they cared to, the flouwen had each formed an eye so they could look at things outside the ocean and were waiting with obvious delight, looking with their eyes at the approaching Jollys while at the same time trying to see the insides of the giant plants with their high-pitched ultrasonic pings.

  "Wow! Funny-looking plant!" chortled Little Red. The Jolly's eyes fluttered low over the water, and Little Red splashed playfully as he bombarded them with questions. "How do your eyes tell what they've seen? Do the pictures come up, like on the screens we saw on Prometheus? Do you see when eyes fly back, or all the time? How do you tell the eyes where to go?"

  Little Purple also spoke. "Greetings, strange creature! I must seem a strange creature to you, too, living in the water while you live always on land. I would like to know more about you, please!" Little Purple's sonorous words thrilled me; he is learning the arts of diplomacy! And, to my satisfaction, the Jolly elected to respond to him, ignoring the shouted comments of Little Red.

  "Greetings to you, there in the water! In all my life my eyes have not observed creatures like you in these seas!"

  Little White hurried to explain that they were newcomers indeed, modulating his tones and adopting the gentle courtesy of the other. While we listened, saying little, the amazing dialogue continued. The tall civilized plant then extended a root out over the water, to touch lightly the translucent color of the fluid civilized ocean-dweller. It was a sight to store with great care in our own minds, and I made sure to insert a number of still frames in the memory of my journal.

  At length, the meeting ended in mutual agreement to meet again. We may find ourselves serving as intermediaries, or the two species may simply seek each other out, but I am well pleased with their initial confrontation. It had been a conference with some possibility for misunderstanding, and I am relieved that it is successfully concluded.

  Richard's gentle invitations of an evening persisted, and I rejected them with increasing asperity—the memory of that pretty little private nest continues to rankle! Last night I could bear it no longer, and I declined, politely, and then burst out with a remark that I was "sure he could find more accustomed companionship, even perhaps in his very own—gazebo!" It was a stupid thing to say—I cannot understand myself these days!—and I was heartily discomfited when his eyes widened, and he retorted indignantly:

  "My private . . .Do you mean the little nest I saw you leaving, up there where you walk so often for . . .firewood?"

  The dark eyes were very serious, and I stammered some quick denial and ended the conversation abruptly.

  The confusion, and the shifting alliances all around, are disturbing. The lovely hours of single-minded work, and peaceful evening discussions have been altered, perhaps permanently, by all this physical uncertainty. Within a week, of course, the situation may settle down temporarily, but I foresee the whole absurd cycle will have to be gone through again and again. Almost I wish they would all get pregnant soon, if that is what they wish, so that we could have peace! Struggling with these elemental drives is so much harder than coping with the mild demands this gentle world places upon us!

  My little boat has been my own delight, and escape—I'm drifting on it at the moment, contemplating the shifting water beneath me with calming mind and heart. The boat was a tremendous joy from the very beginning! At my determined insistence, Shirley kept it both small and very flexible.

  "But, Reiki, that's not big enough to hold more than . . .two"—she gave a sidelong glance at John—"and, just flat like that, you'll be right out in the open, sort of vulnerable . . .exposed . . ." I could have smacked her!

  "It's just perfect, Shirley!" I said sweetly. "I only need it for a diving platform, mostly, and I know you're anxious to get to work on building that outrigger from the boobaa treetrunks!"

  From her expression, I saw she had completely forgotten that earlier idea. For Shirley, the passionate engineer, to have become so dreamy as to abandon a new project was such a shock to me that I instantly forgave her—she really is helpless, just now. I left, quietly, tugging my new little raft into the shallows, while behind me John began talking in deep tones about cutting down the largest tree single-handed with an obsidian axe.

  Since then I've spent happy hours tinkering with the small craft. The slender poles bound together with strong vines make it both light and limber, and it was not too difficult to shape the front and the back into an upcurving sheaf. The low box along one edge serves as both seat and storage. I succeeded in stepping a short mast, and affixed an even shorter boom, but the skimpy sail is not very satisfactory, and without a keel my control over my direction is sporadic at best. Still, it is endlessly fascinating to play with, and has served, at any rate, to give myself the appearance of industrious activity, while absenting myself a little from the group idiocy.

  But I must begin, now, to try to sail home for the night—it's growing late, and I fled early today. I've come a fair distance—my view of the volcano shows that—but the wind has shifted and will speed me homeward. Perhaps there'll be some change—my own menstrual period is already seriously
delayed, no doubt due to the recent operation—but if one of the others' is beginning, there may be a resultant improvement in behavior. I dearly hope so!

  I heard the laughter before I landed and moored the raft. It was so relaxed and delightful-sounding I hurried, hopefully, to the group about the fire.

  "Here's Reiki! Home is the sailor, home from the sea—or lake, whatever. We've a discovery for you, Reiki, come have a drink!"

  I stopped, startled. I'd been heading for the shelter to tidy myself for the evening, but this new statement called for investigation.

  "A drink?" David was extending a cup to me, and I saw everyone was holding something—the liquid within was clear and pale, and I took a cautious sip. It was pretty bad—rather worse than the homemade parsnip wine I had once had from a villager in France—but it was most definitely wine.

  "Where on earth—or Eden—did you get this?" I asked, incredulously.

  "We made it! Ourselves!" David laughed. "Nels, and John, and I—and Jinjur helped. But you deserve some credit too, Reiki!"

  "That's right!" Richard boomed. "You know those bitter little grapes we found, growing next to the sour fruits? Well, they both seemed pretty hopeless, so we decided to try the Reiki Technique!"

  I heard the capital letters, but was too puzzled to interrupt.

  "Yes, Reiki," said Jinjur, chortling. "We added some water to the little grapes, and went off and left 'em for a week. Then we took the sour things and boiled them until they were unrecognizable!"

  I was a trifle miffed at that, but couldn't think of much of a reply. Fortunately, Cinnamon took pity on me and explained.

  "The grapes fermented, Reiki, and these clever people just let the process go along naturally. The sour things cooked down into a sort of syrup, oddly enough—it's really too bland and cloying to be good on its own, but it's going to be very useful as sweetening—and it certainly helped the wine!"

  I took another, more generous sip. The stuff tasted better, now, and its warmth was very pleasant going down.