Night Lights

by Melissa Glisan

  Watching the heavyset form of Sir Joseph Hooker hurrying forward to greet the feminine form, his attention sharpened. There was no purpose for the famous botanist turned explorer to bring a woman onboard his expedition. Supposedly, the good doctor was in search of a plant or mushroom to explain away the ‘burning eyes’ seen at night in the Cagayan jungles and fields. Glowing eyes the villagers attributed to the Berbalangs. Both Rizal and his father, Hari, had tried to explain to the man that there was no plant to match his description. Not to be ignored, the aging Englishman plied father and son with tales of mythic foxfire and how it was eventually proven to be nothing more than a mushroom. Stories of flying stags and more had Hari and Rizal exchanging amused glances.

  As entertaining as the stories from distant lands had been, Sir Joseph steadfastly refused to accept that there wasn't a plant to blame for their stories, either by their eerie night-glow or through hallucinations from ingesting them. His father had grown tired of explaining, “There is only that which exists, my friend. Nothing more or less.” However, when Rizal had left for the mainland to meet again with the American diplomats, the two had been swapping tall-tales about witches and ghouls like old women poling laundry in the river.

  Thoughts still swimming with the imaginary wash, Rizal was jerked out of his reverie when the figure in green swept off a straw hat hung with layers of lacy veils. Sunlight struck her bare head and gleamed as thick-coiled braids topped her perfection of form with a nimbus of hammered brass. Even at a distance, he could see the way it was twisted and netted along the nape of her neck, forming swirls of flax and honey tones melding together like woven sunshine.

  In one way Rizal was thwarted, he couldn't hear her voice. Between them was a cacophony of deck hands and traders moving baggage along the wharf, but his eyes hungrily followed the creamy light pink of her lips as they spoke. He had never seen skin so white in all his travels. He was caught by an urge to stoke her skin, strip the concealing clothes from her contours and discover if she were as smooth as she appeared. Imagining his tanned hands on that naked, milky flesh, his darkness against her whiteness, as their bodies twisted together in passion made his breath hitch and heart hammer. Even more, awareness built and slid across his skin. He felt trapped between lust and hunger, and the inner conflict caused the fine hairs on his neck to rise as quickly as passion stirred in his loins.

  He had to have this enchanting creature.

  Approaching her had been foolish, but he couldn't stop himself. Her allure was too great. The sweet scent of fruit wafted from the market and swirled around the boat before flowing out towards the islands. He watched as she closed her eyes and followed the tangy perfume with her nose. Painfully, his pants tightened as a vision of her nakedness sprawling over him, eyes closed as she memorized his body's scent with the same air of innocent fascination nearly brought him to his knees. On instinct, he circled behind her before engaging her in conversation. As the sensual nymph faltered and fell into confusion behind a wall of prim English practicality, he smiled at the opposing natures locked in her slim body. Which would win out?

  Forcing himself to focus on the heavyset older man, Rizal tried to steer his body away from reaching out and touching the woman perched scant inches away. Acceptance on the old man's foolish quest was such a minor thing to win, but the true bounty was being able to close the distance on owning the fair-haired beauty. Now that he stood over her, drawing her scent into his lungs, the need to claim her as his was so much stronger. Watching her quiver in fear made him want to sweep her off the chair she was balanced on and ravish her. As a warrior of his people, his duty was to protect, but with this exotic woman, there was little consideration for safety in his mind. Transfixed, Rizal watched the slim column of her throat as she reflexively swallowed. The telltale thrum of her heartbeat throbbing at one side caused another, deeper hunger to rise. One he tamped down with gentle, calming words.

  "Be at peace Miss, there is nothing for you to fear. The Berbalangs are a fierce warrior people. Whenever you have such, there are rumors and lies spread through ignorance and fear.” He made his voice as soothing as possible.

  The more Rizal studied the young woman, the more birdlike she appeared. Her wrists were thin with delicate bones disappearing into the tight cuffs of the ugly jacket. Her long, thin fingers tipped with oval nails grasped her pen intently. All he saw was the simple beauty of womanly talons. Eyes bright, they darted here and there, attracted by bright flashes of light or bursts of sound. Like watching laughter, he mused, as his own followed the dancing blue orbs. Her nose was a little larger than what the English desired, but he frankly appreciated the way it made her appear slightly arrogant.

  He fully intended her spirit to fly as free as her nature deserved.

  "Now, now, Miss Thawley,” Sir Joseph's voice was openly disproving, “didn't you read the dossier provided by the Society?"

  Margaret couldn't find her voice, being put on the spot always made her stammer and forget what was in her head. That Sir Joseph and the incredibly good-looking Rizal were both staring at her expectantly made it all the worse. Nervously, she readjusted her grip on the pen and tapped it on the paper as her mind searched for words.

  "M'una. Mag-awitan muna tayo bago...” the soft-spoken words drew her eyes to Rizal's face. Margaret had no idea what he said, but it sounded lyrical. Even more comely was the way his face darkened as Sir Joseph chuckled. “My apologies, young Miss, you remind me of a songbird. It is a saying in my native tongue, Tagalog. I simply said ‘take a minute, sing your song first’ to calm you, yes. Say words out loud to ease your upset."

  He knows, her deflated spirits caught an inner wind as understanding took hold. He meant not to be flirtatious but to help her overcome her fear of speaking. Without thinking, she smiled beatifically at the now silent Rizal and turned to Sir Joseph.

  "The papers I had been given said nothing about a tribe,” she offered with an apologetic air. “Indeed sir, they spoke not of men but of fantastical creatures with flame eyes and wings that moaned through the air as they attacked living men when there were no dead bodies to gnaw on."

  "What papers are these?” Rizal's sensual voice barked sharply. “You came to my island, told my datu you had heard vague tales from fishermen and became interested in hunting plants.” Anger radiated off his tense shoulders, Margaret was stunned at the sudden rage but empathized completely. His people should have been told the truth of why the Society had come to Malay.

  Sir Joseph quickly began speaking in what must be Tagalog, trying to placate the angry islander. His switching languages angered Margaret. Rizal spoke fluent English, assuredly much better than the adventuring botanist spoke the Filipino language, from the way he kept repeating certain words and phrases in different sputtering ways. The only reason for speaking in the Malay language was to exclude her from the conversation. Given Sir Joseph's warm welcome, she never thought to be shuttered from a conversation for being a woman. A sudden chill ran down her spine. Could there be another reason? Was the older man talking about something she was not supposed to know? But, that didn't make any sense if she truly was supposed to be the recorder of activities for the expedition. What purpose would it serve to keep her in the dark?

  Firmly, she plucked up her courage and interrupted the volley of words being lobbed over her head. “What is a datu?” The diversion worked. Sir Joseph looked flustered and knocked off kilter, but Rizal had a hooded, predatory look in his midnight eyes that made her think he knew exactly why she interrupted their argument.

  "It means ‘leader’ or ‘chief'. The datu of my clan is also my father, Hari. On our trip, little scribe, I will try to properly explain our ways.” He turned and leveled a glance at Sir Joseph that made the older man step back with a flinch. “It seems that a clear and accurate account of my people is needed to do battle with such terrible lies.” Rizal placed such force on the words that Sir Joseph stepped back as if each landed a blow.

  Margaret felt sweat break
out all over her body from the tension. It didn't help that the day was becoming so much hotter than expected, on par with the hottest day at home. What had the Captain said? That the islands were pleasant, the same average temperature year round. She hadn't counted on such heat; it had been turning cool in England before she had left, so she had foolishly packed her winter wardrobe. None of the famous female explorers she'd read about had gone to the Philippines, and she hadn't a clue on the weather.

  From sitting in the sun, sweat soaked through the thrice damned corset and into her blouse. Shifting in the chair had helped, air circulated better under the heavy jacket, but the arguing made everything worse. Fresh moisture dampened even the wool suit, and immediately she began to itch. The misery of feeling set upon by thousands of little ants made her want to moan and scratch. But she didn't dare move, not when Rizal seemed on the edge of doing violence at the smallest provocation and Sir Joseph seemed more inclined to chucking her over the side.

  Chapter Three

  Rizal stepped away from her desk and began pacing the ship. When Sir Joseph had his fill of looking at her in angry disgust, he hastened to the younger man's side and began trying again to engage him in conversation. Without being obvious, she considered the pair, one stalking up and down the deck like an annoyed cat, the other trundling along like a tubby toddler in chase. It should have been amusing but it wasn't, given the uncertain position she had on the boat and their foray into the Philippine Islands. If Sir Joseph should become annoyed enough with her performance ... well, it just didn't bear thinking about. At best, she'd be sent home, at worst dumped on the mainland.

  Margaret forced a deep relaxing breath, swallowed down her fears and began taking notes on the entire interchange, beginning with the moment the two men shook hands in greeting. She had a grim feeling that the minutest detail would prove important before long. Plus, the writing helped take her mind off of the growing urge to scratch at her irritated skin, abused by the damp, itchy wool suit.

  As the sun lifted on the clear azure horizon, she felt as if she were baking in the stylish jacket. More like boiling like a pea in the cook pot, she nearly groaned moisture from her body leeched into the fabric and began baking into the air around her. Being in public, she couldn't just remove the hateful jacket. It was unheard of, going half-naked in full view of so many people. Not that people had ever paid her much mind, she thought, squirming uncomfortably, she had a tendency to fade into the background.

  Convention didn't seem to bother Sir Joseph. She watched in covert jealousy as he stripped off his jacket and rolled his sleeves while he directed the placement of assorted boxes. At one point, he even removed his shoes and stockings, slipping on a pair of flimsy looking slippers as he padded about the deck inspecting all of the stores, rations, and equipment needed for the expedition to the center of Cagayan de Sulu.

  With the older man busy, her eyes cast about looking for the one person who truly caught and held her interest after so many weeks sequestered. No matter that her eyes hungered for a peek at his dark handsome frame, she couldn't see where Rizal had gotten to. Perhaps he decided to hell with us all and just left, she grumped. A drop of water fell on the paper and she stared hopefully at the cloudless sky. No such luck, she retrieved a handkerchief from her valise and dabbed lightly at her nose.

  By the time she finished recording the meaning of the word ‘datu', Margaret was ready to collapse. Begging a moment's leave of her distracted sponsor, she escaped into the cabin hoping to strip out of her cumbersome clothes. Instead, she walked into a wall of oppressive heat. The room was dark and airless, offering no respite. There wasn't even so much as a porthole to open and catch the air. The only thing the structure did was shield her from the merciless sun. She had sat on the deck for less than an hour, yet her cheeks burned as if she had been staked out all day.

  What was the matter with her? As a child, she had run free in farmers’ fields, climbed trees and splashed in ponds. Only the one time could she remember feeling so burned by the sun's rays, even then it had taken a full day of playing along the bank of the miller's stream. Her nurse had gently daubed her skin with water and milk, citing an old family remedy. Once her father had come home, that had stopped. He called the burn ‘God's own wrath’ and her punishment for acting like a hoyden instead of a proper young miss. She recalled the day perfectly, the deep hue of the evening sky making the purple-topped heather look almost black as she stared forlornly out of her bedroom window. It had marked her last day as a child.

  Did she remember the day so clearly because of the pain from the burn or because of the stark beauty of the night? She sighed in the darkness and tried to conjure memories of cold winters to cheer her into accepting the incredible heat. At least in the cabin she could remove the jacket. Sliding out of the tight garment, she felt as if she threw off a weight from her back. The itching didn't stop, but it did ease a little as she stretched her arms up and over her head. The cut of the cloth had almost pinned her upper arms to her sides.

  Margaret had long viewed the sleek traveling suits as stylish, but now regarded the wilted cloth as a cannily-crafted alternative to the Iron Maiden. No wonder her father had looked over the design of the popular garment with approval. Not only had it held her uncomfortably in perfect posture, it certainly kept her body covered from ankle and wrist to neck. Unlike other young women, she had the full front to her corset, quashing her aching breasts against the unwieldy whalebone and satin. What she wouldn't give to be able to untie the damned thing. But no, she'd been so eager to impress Sir Joseph that she had bribed the servant of another passenger to help her do up the restrictive undergarment.

  Fumbling in the dark, she moved around the room. Her fingers found the hard edge of a small table as she barked her knees against the first row of bunks. Blowing out, she puffed the super-heated air and counted to ten, urging restraint against cursing the dark room. Gingerly, she reached the rough sheet of material separating the front three sleeping cots from one to the rear. Given that she was the lone female aboard the boat, she felt her way to the isolated, thin, lumpy mattress and hoped it was hers, as she dropped to sit on its surface. Signing in resignation, Margaret accepted that this bed would be even more uncomfortable than the one on the last ship. For a moment, she considered digging out a candle to shed some light on her corner of the room, but changed her mind. It was so hot already that the idea of adding heat from even a candle made her want to melt into a puddle on the floor.

  Shifting about, she tugged the hem of her blouse out of the waistband of the skirt and found the slim buckles for the bustle. Standing and giving a weary shake, she heard the thump and rattle as the series of hoops fell to the floor. Sinking back to the mattress, she reached back and found the laces of the corset. Inches away from freedom and ... confound it! The young maid had tied the strings into knots. A series of knots at that, she mourned as her fingers felt along the lumpy silk. Margaret wanted to slump over and give in to the tears that had been building ever since she was hustled out of England.

  Behind her eyelids, she saw her father's furious face and shame added to the frustration as silent tears slid down her cheeks. At twenty-five she knew she was on the shelf—both of her younger sisters were happily married to men her father had chosen. Why couldn't she have a husband? Each time a young man had asked permission to court her, the Reverend Thawley had responded with the same furious refusal.

  Charitably, her nurse tried to ease the sting by telling Margaret it was because of how strongly she resembled her long-dead mother, Phoebe. The words had been a balm to her sixteen-year-old heart, but as the years passed, they began to chafe. It was painful enough to know the words were a well-intentioned lie. She became jealous of the mother she dimly remembered. Her mother had known love and laughter. That was one thing she did remember from when she was a child; the beautiful sound of her mother singing and laughing in the small kitchen garden behind the rectory every morning.

  "What took you from me moth
er?” She was glad for the darkness; no one could see her tearstained face. There had been times when she missed her mother terribly. Today was turning into another. All she clearly remembered was one day her mother was there, bright smiles, warm hugs and loving kisses, and the next she was gone. The house had turned so quiet that Margaret would hide under the stairs and practice talking in a tone that wouldn't stir the dust. Even that seemed overloud as the drifting motes settled into the corner to keep her company. Her father had always been stern, scary to a small girl, but he didn't bother much with her or her sisters, leaving them instead to her mother. All of that had changed when Phoebe died. That had been the only thing the trio of small girls had been told, their mother was dead and had gone to be with God.

  "God has a mommy, he doesn't need mine,” Theodora had cried, pressing her face into Margaret's shoulder. Little Elizabeth was too young to understand the words or their meaning, but her little face had screwed up in fear as she cried on the rug. Margaret had pulled the baby into her arms, but a six-year-old isn't big enough to hold two smaller sisters for long. In the end, they curled up in Theodora's bed, sharing tears and memories. Theodora had been so worried that Elizabeth would never remember their mother, Margaret remembered as her fingers tugged at the knotted cords. In the end, even Theodora had forgotten.

  Slowly, the worry from the day's events lessened as she let the memories wash over her mind. Keeping her mind occupied freed her fingers to work out the complex knots barring frustration from impairing their dexterity. It had always been that way; if Margaret wanted to get something done properly, she had to do another task at the same time. Her tutors had been confounded at how she couldn't learn Latin unless she was in the kitchen baking cookies for her sisters. That math and science were utter gibberish until she began working in the garden pulling weeds. Her peculiarity went from novelty to nuisance as she got older.