She heard voices outside, in what appeared to be heated discussion; over what to do with her she supposed.
But no one opened the door. No one came.
She brought her knees to her chest and tried not to think of what they might intend for her, and for Jorge. Nor about the scuffling, scratching noises in the thatch of the hut. Without light, she couldn’t see, but she imagined. The jungle was full of insects; cockroaches as big as your palm, Sebastian had once told her.
She suppressed a shudder.
There were worse things than cockroaches.
Somehow, through exhaustion, she dozed a little, to be woken by a gentle touch upon her arm. Jolting awake, she prepared to defend herself.
But it was only an old woman, sent to bring her food—a mush of something pale served upon a leaf. Though her stomach twisted, from fear and hunger, Bathsheba didn’t think she could bring herself to eat it.
The door was open, allowing Bathsheba to see a little of what was beyond: firelight, and the gathered crowd.
“Help me, please.” Bathsheba took hold of the woman’s hand, beseeching her, but she only smiled. Her teeth were worn by age, but her eyes twinkled bright.
She stroked Bathsheba’s cheek and drew out a long rope of shells from her basket, looping them three times before passing them over Bathsheba’s head.
Her wizened fingers touched the locket, tugging upon it.
“No!” Bathsheba scrabbled back. She wouldn’t let anyone take Sebastian’s gift. But the old woman only made soothing noises and let it be.
Other things emerged from the basket: a headdress of coral and a thick skirt of woven grasses, braided at the top to form a belt around the hips. The old woman tugged at Bathsheba’s camisole and drawers.
“No! I won’t!”
How could she? Take off her underthings and put on these primitive things?
Except that they weren’t really crude. Even in the dim light, she could see they were beautifully made, with feathers and shells interwoven through the grasses.
The old woman laid them on the floor, nodding for Bathsheba to see to herself.
The last thing from the basket was a scrap of cloth, which the old woman proceeded to lay across Jorge’s waist. Turning him onto his back, she exclaimed, laying an appreciative hand on his stomach and turning her mischievous eyes to Bathsheba.
Yes, he’s handsome, and strong. A man any woman would admire, thought Bathsheba.
She clung to the hope that perhaps no harm would come to them. If they were going to be killed, why take all this trouble? There was still a chance that all would be well. A chance, even, that the villagers knew where Sebastian was—or that he, too, was here, perhaps in one of the other huts.
Bathsheba willed herself to remain calm, putting on the costume. Though the shells barely covered her bosom, with her hair drawn across the front of either shoulder, she was decent enough.
Nodding her approval, the old woman smiled again before hobbling to the door.
As soon as it was closed, Bathsheba returned to de Silva’s side.
“Jorge! Wake up.”
What if he didn’t?
What if she was left alone to face whatever came next?
There were voices outside again, and a steady beat of drums. A relentless command to all who heard them.
A summons.
Whatever was going to happen, it would be soon.
Within her chest, her own heart pounded, faster than the sensual rhythm of the drums—a throbbing awareness of the flesh and blood of her body. The captain had never spoken of it overtly but she knew from reading her father’s publications what de Silva had been too politic to tell her outright—and what she’d tried to avoid admitting to herself.
The Bughotu of the Solomon Islands believed that the gods demanded food sacrifices, but not just pigs or goats or birds. In some places, such as the highlands of New Guinea, they sacrificed humans too, for special occasions—usually war captives or slaves.
And what was she?
“Jorge, please!”
What else could she do?
Leaning down, she gently brushed her lips to his.
There was no response at all.
“Jorge, it’s time to wake up!” She punched his shoulder in frustration, then buried her face in her hands. It was hardly his fault was it? That he’d been knocked senseless and might never wake up.
If it was anyone’s fault, it was hers. He hadn’t wanted to come; had made it plain from the start. She’d been the one to insist, despite his warning that the search would be futile, despite his telling her that the expedition was too dangerous.
If they died here, she would be to blame.
Nevertheless, a kernel of anger burned inside her. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed him!
If not to help her escape then simply to comfort her—to hold her one last time before she faced whatever was to come.
She kissed him again—roughly this time, biting his lip hard enough that she tasted blood but, wherever he was, it didn’t bring him back.
“Damn you, de Silva!”
There was only one thing left to try.
Yanking up the loincloth, she took his member in her palm and began stroking, just as he’d been doing at the waterfall. As she moved her hand faster, she heard him mumble something. Her name? She was sure it had been her name.
"Jorge. I'm here." She paused, still gripping him, now hard in her hand. “It’s me, Bathsheba. Give me a sign that you can hear me. Please. Anything!”
He stirred again and she heard her name distinctly. He was dreaming of her, she was sure--calling out to her from that place of deepest slumber. There was yearning in his voice--tormented grasping for what was out of reach. She knew that hunger, for she felt it too, that elemental need.
Was it wrong for her to touch him while he remained like this?
Perhaps it was, but she knew he desired her. If nothing else, she knew that his body sought hers.
She began moving her hand again and, this time, he murmured not only her name, calling her 'my Bathsheba', but mumbled 'yes'.
"Oh, Jorge!" She was so close to rousing him. What else could she do?
Was he rigid enough that she might make love to him properly?
He couldn’t possibly sleep through that.
But, if their roles were reversed, how would she feel, having him take her in such a way? It would be an imposition--for him to touch her so intimately, to penetrate her without her conscious consent, to move inside her while she slept.
Even in extremis, it was not a decision to take lightly. But what choice did she have? She needed him to wake and, if this didn’t work, nothing would.
She clasped her hand tighter about his girth and, in response, a groan of profound need escaped him.
It was enough.
Lifting her skirts, she straddled him, guiding the moist head of his erection between her legs. Little by little, she took him, surprised at how easy it was—that her body accepted what she was doing.
“Feel this, Jorge. Feel it, and come back to me.” She moved her hips in a circle, pulled at the hair on his chest, then ran her hands down, to the flat of his stomach. She bucked, making him move inside her, then plunged again, riding him harder.
Even like this, he was capable of giving her pleasure but, though his moans continued, he lay unmoving. Would she need to bring him all the way to his release? With each motion of her body, she cursed and implored him.
“Jorge!” She brushed away a tear that spilled onto her nose. “If you love me, wake up. Wake up. Wake up!”
With each thrust, her inner muscles clenched. Something was building inside her like the drumbeats outside. With tears falling, she gasped and pushed her hips forward again.
It was she who was having her release.
And, as the searing pleasure hit her, the man beneath her shuddered and gasped.
Jorge was aware of a weight on his pelvis, and warmth, but he couldn’t see anything.
He had a blinding headache though, and his mouth was dry as dust.
Had he been drinking?
The weight lifted and a woman’s voice hissed in his ear. “Jorge, thank God! I thought you’d never—”
A hand came to his face. “Are you alright?”
How long had he been lying like this? He could hardly feel his body. Wetting his lips, he found his voice.
“Yes, but I can’t move.”
“You’re bound. I wanted to untie you but I was worried what might happen if I did.”
He took a deep breath, attempting again to move his limbs, feeling for the bonds around his wrists. They were tight, but she might work them free.
“I can pull apart some of the wall, maybe—enough for us to squeeze through, but I’m going to need my hands, Bathsheba. And my feet, too, if I’m to walk out of here.”
“Yes, of course.” He heard her scuffle round.
Finding his hands, she tugged at the knots.
“I’m so glad you’re awake. It’s been hours, and I was so worried. I thought…that is…I was starting to think…” She jerked at the ties and he felt something slip free. “Oh, that’s it.”
He winced, rubbing to get the blood back. “I’m going to get us out of here, Bathsheba.”
“I know you will.” She moved to his ankles. “We’ll manage, together.”
He flexed his feet as the final bonds came free. They were yet too numb to stand upon, but he could crawl, and he’d dig their way out if necessary.
However, he’d gotten no further than pushing onto his elbows when the door flew open. He squinted against the sudden illumination of the room, able to see only the silhouettes of those standing on the threshold.
He was out of time.
And, as they dragged him upright, he saw the costume they’d given Bathsheba to wear.
The coral headdress and ceremonial belt of a bride.
Chapter Thirteen
Bathsheba pushed the tribesmen away and lashed out with her feet as they lifted her between them.
Jorge was dragged behind, still barely able to stand, though he remained unbound, at least.
“Don’t hurt him!” Bathsheba’s heart raced wildly. Never had she felt so powerless.
Through the darkness, she heard the drum beat: louder, harder, more insistent.
Hundreds of eyes met her—the eyes of those who knew what was to happen, though she did not.
Carried through the crowd, this time, no one reached for her. They drew back as she passed. Where the chieftain sat, before a central fire, they lowered her to the ground, pushing upon her shoulders to indicate that she should kneel. Deposited unceremoniously beside her, Jorge was given rougher treatment—kicked behind the knees, then jerked up by his hair.
At the chieftain’s feet sat a host of women—wives or daughters, she couldn’t have said, but their looks were far from kindly.
Beside, stood a younger man whose eyes, ringed white, bored into her.
Thirty or more surrounded them, each adorned with bracelets of leaves round ankles and arms, and faces hidden by masks carved in grotesque exaggeration. But still she was aware of their eyes, glinting behind open slits in the wood.
At the signal of a single, resonant beat, they moved in unison. With stamping feet, they turned, reaching high then crouching low, hands twisting as they danced to the slow and measured drum.
One among them received a flaming branch and, running to the outer edge, lit something upon the ground—a substance that took the flame, running fast to encircle them.
To the drumbeat, their stamping grew more frenzied and they leapt through the fire, within the circle and without, whirling and spinning, ever faster.
Whatever was feeding the flames, its fragrance was sweet—a heady, potent scent that made Bathsheba’s head grow heavy and her vision blur. Flying sparks and shapes moved into her sight and out again.
The drumming pulsed through her bones and her heart, making her head thrum and her blood pound.
And then it stopped.
The night was still and there was no sound, but for that of the forest beyond—the ever-present hum and croak of nocturnal life.
“Jorge, I’m frightened.” Even to her own ear, her voice was small, but he must have heard her, for his whispered reply came.
“Do nothing to endanger yourself. Above all—”
Before he could finish, a foot upon his back sent him sprawling, but he was yanked to his knees again, and the man whose fist held Jorge’s hair gave harsh reprimand.
“Don’t!” Bathsheba cried, but the sight of the bone dagger at Jorge’s throat took her voice entirely.
Was this the end?
She gasped in horror, but the tribesman only looked down at her and smiled.
Those teeth—so pointed, and so red!
Cannibals!
Bathsheba whimpered as the blade pressed harder to Jorge’s neck, drawing blood that trickled dark. Inside, she screamed, but there was no sound—only the rushing of her heart, buffeting helplessly in its cage.
A man’s voice barked out and Bathsheba snapped up her head to see who’d spoken.
Would the chieftain intervene? Might she beg?
But it was the younger man who stepped forward. In five strides he took the knife in his grasp, his eyes filled with determination and, to Bathsheba’s terror, turned that gaze again upon her. The pressure of his leg pushed against her shoulder and his hand swept through her hair. Taking a large handful, he pulled tight and the sharpened edge of the blade flashed close to her face.
She squeezed shut her eyes, awaiting the piercing of her skin, the slicing sting that must come.
But there was only the tugging of the blade through her hair. Opening her eyes again, she saw the long skein he held, glinting red in the firelight glow.
And, upon his finger, a golden flame of another sort.
An oval gemstone she knew so well.
Topaz.
The ring could only be his. Only her brother’s. Only Sebastian’s. The ring he’d worn since his twenty-first birthday—an heirloom passed through their family for generations. The ring he would have been wearing when he disappeared.
He was dead, then—for he would never have relinquished his ring alive.
And this man had killed him?
She wanted to take the knife and plunge it into his heart herself, to avenge her brother’s murder. But, he was quickly away. With a shout of triumph, he threw the locks he’d shorn into the central fire. Boldly brandishing the blade, he pointed at her and shouted at the chieftain, who rose, drawing out his own knife, his face dark with displeasure.
“Jorge?” Bathsheba reached for his hand.
His face was ashen. “You must marry as they tell you. Promise me!”
Marry?
“I don’t understand.” The fragrant smoke was growing ever thicker, and her head drowsy.
Jorge squeezed her fingers. “There’s a chance for you. It’s your hair—red like the volcano’s heart.”
“Jorge! No!”
“The volcano must be appeased. The chieftain will drink my blood, offering it as libation, and promises your first child to the volcano’s depths.”
Bathsheba recoiled. How could such cruelty be?
“This we must hope for.” His eyes implored her. “His son would take us both immediately, casting us into the volcano himself.”
Bathsheba shook her head wildly, trying to make sense of what he told her. She must stand by while they killed him? Then lie with another man—possibly this night.
Lie with him until she was with child, and then have the babe taken from her—given as sacrifice?
It was too horrible.
Insane!
She wouldn’t let this happen.
How could Jorge tell her to accept such a thing? He was strong. He could fight them. They would fight together. Better to die quickly now than endure what he was proposing.
“They act only as they believe they
must.” Jorge squeezed her hand harder. “Stay alive, then flee when you can. Remember, the ship returns one full day from now, at dawn.”
“No!” With a shout, she rose to her feet and, as she did, felt a shivering of the soil—a rising wave of surging power, a quaking that moved through the earth and into the bones of her body.
Her eyes flew to Jorge’s.
It was happening again.
As the tremors gathered force, there were cries of fear. Women shouted to their children, and husbands to their wives. Some ran, staggering blindly; others fell to the ground, prostrate.
The world was in commotion.
With smoke from the surrounding fire drifting thick and the pandemonium of panic, no one was watching them.
Bathsheba gave Jorge her hand and he nodded.
With hands clasped firm, they threw themselves through the ring of fire, rolling safe upon the other side.
“The beach; their canoes…” Jorge choked against the drifting smoke. “I can try to hold the oars. You can help.”
Bathsheba’s mind whirled. Perhaps they could, but the canoes were large—designed for more than two people to paddle. As soon as the tremors stopped, the islanders would be in pursuit. How long would it be before they caught up with them?
“No, the waterfall.” Bathsheba tugged Jorge towards the path. “We can hide more easily—in the jungle, then the caves.”
Another great rolling rumble shook the ground beneath them, as if thunder inhabited the very earth and Bathsheba fell, but Jorge raised her up again.
With their arms about one another, stumbling, staggering, they reached the jungle’s edge, pushing through. With little moonlight and the canopy dense above them, it was hard to see the path, but the tribesmen had brought her first up a steep incline, then down again to the village, which overlooked the bay. As long as she and Jorge mounted the crest of the hill, they should find the pools on the other side.
From behind came more shouting, a child’s wail, screams that drifted to them as they climbed, scrabbling upward.
At last, they reached the summit and Bathsheba sagged to the ground, lungs burning and legs aching. The soles of her feet were scratched and blistered, hands and knees too, but they had far yet to go, and still the ground shook beneath them, making every step near impossible.
The Lady's Guide to Escaping Cannibals Page 10