An Evil Guest (39 page)

Cassie struggled, but could not free her arms from the women’s grip.

“Bring him forth!
Lawe mai Mo’i
!”

Below them, the crowd of huge warriors parted. Reis, a big man, looked small beside them. Very small, Cassie thought, but proud and unafraid. His hands seemed to have been tied behind his back.

The last of the warriors who accompanied him carried a painted club the size of a softball bat, with a great knob of wood at its head.

King Kanoa spoke again in his own tongue. Then: “You cannot speak as we, O King, but you may now address those who wait in English speech.”

“I don’t want to,” Reis said. “I couldn’t make myself heard anyway.” He paused. There was fear in his eyes, but something else as well. “Can you hear me, Cassie?”

She could not reply, but she nodded.

“This storm isn’t even intended for us. We’re on the fringe here. The Navy’s gone after the Storm King, and he’s hoping to sink their ships. He’s probably sunk a few already.”

“Faster,” King Kanoa told Reis. “We haven’t got a lot of time.”

“Remember what I say, Cassie. I did what I could for humanity. I wanted to be of real help, and never gave a damn for what anybody thought of me. I succeeded. I love my son Rian. Tell him if you can.”

Cassie tried to nod, but King Kanoa’s hand had closed around the back of her head, holding it immovable.

“I love you. Don’t forget that, either. I loved you in life, and I’ll love you in death.”

King Kanoa spoke, and Reis was thrown down. At once he vanished, then reappeared only to vanish again. Visible or invisible his captors held him, positioning his head on a wide, dark stone near Cassie’s feet.

The warrior with the club moved to stand beside it, his club raised.

King Kanoa spoke again, his words followed by wild cheering and more shots. The beam of every lantern found her. It was as if she sat onstage, the target of hundreds of feeble spotlights.

During those cheers, King Kanoa had switched off his microphone; when he spoke again, in English, his voice was normal and only just loud enough for her to hear him above the shrieking wind. “How must it be, O Queen? Speak now. The high priest watches. Must High King Wiliama ’Aukailani die this day to save his people?” His hand forced her head down, raised it, forced it down again, and freed it.

The club struck; the thud of the blow and the sound of breaking bone would stay with Cassie as long as she lived.

King Kanoa spoke, and the women freed her arms. His strong fingers freed her mouth of the tape with a quick pull. “You remain our high queen,” he told her. “Thinking solely of your own good, I advise you to marry someone thoroughly familiar with the local situation who can assist your rule.”

Then her gun was in her hand and King Kanoa’s broad chest stretched before its muzzle. Afterward, she could not recall how many times she fired, only that the number was greater than two and probably greater than three.

Something seized her and jerked her upward, and her gun was no longer there.

Magically, the wind vanished. Driven by it, they were scudding over a tumultuous sea, and there were wings before them, wings darker even than that dark day.

T
HEY
landed her upon a coral beach in sunshine. “We can carry you no farther,” the tall being who had held her explained, “and could not have raised you as we did if it had not been for the wind. You may be happy here.”

Cassie could only gasp her thanks.

Then they were gone, flecks of black dwindling against a blank turquoise sky; she sat down and stared at the waves for a time, rose, found shade, and sat staring again. It was not until the sun touched the horizon that she shook herself, unstrapped the empty holster from her thigh, and threw it into the waves.

Fresh water trickling down to the sea betrayed itself by a chuckle. Cassie drank long, and slept on the beach. She slept soundly that night and spent the following day in search of food; but the next night was different.

After that, each day was like the last. She looked for food, always finding some but never finding enough. In time, it occurred to her that she should keep a tally of the days; but many had already passed, and she could not say
how many. She would be here until she died, which would be soon. Wasn’t that enough? When she died, the gulls would peck her corpse. How would the number of her days on the island matter?

It was not until she caught sight of the burning mountain that she realized where she was. After that she walked in good earnest, searching for the place where they had seen the coral blocks, the place where Reis had left his shoes.

She found it at last, took off her sandals, and went barefoot thereafter.

After three days she returned to the spot, drawn by memories that were sweeter and more real there. For a time she followed a regular schedule, returning every third day to sit where they had sat together. When she closed her eyes, it seemed to her that Reis sat beside her. She could hear the soft sigh of his breath, and catch the spicy scent of his cologne.

Until at last she remembered the image they had found, the squat, worn image that devout hands had carved in coral long ago. She looked for it again.

And found no image, but Vincent Palma seated on a weathered block of coral.

His skin was almost black with tattoos; his headdress, which ought to have been of long red and yellow feathers, was now of leaping flame. And yet it was surely Vincent Palma, taller than most men, with his too-cunning eyes and tomcat smile.

“Vince!” she gasped. “Ohmygosh, Vince, what in the world are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to give you something, Cassie.” His voice was just as it had always been, a voice that made whatever he said sound important.

“You’ve given me plenty just by coming. I’ve been so lonely here, Vince. You can’t imagine how lonely.” She reached out to touch his hand, but it was so hot that she jerked her own away.

“I know it only too well,” he told her. There was a rumble less distinct than the surf, a deep drumming like distant thunder, from the burning mountain behind him.

“Remember the show? The banquet you made for me? The way you danced with Gil and me?”

“No . . . No.” He sighed, and it seemed to her there was a loneliness as deep as her own in the sigh. “May I ask a favor, Cassie? A great favor given freely to one who will afterward present you with a gift that will be precious to you?”

It sounded dangerous. “I can’t promise I’ll do it when I don’t know what it is.”

“But may I ask?”

Hesitantly, she nodded.

“We used to dance, you say. Dance with me now.”

“I—well, of course I’ll try, Vince. But there’s no music.”

“Listen. Only listen! How can you say there’s no music?”

She did. There were drums in the waves and a thousand strings in the palms. Sunbeams winded trumpets through the dark green leaves. She began to dance, and discovered that she could no longer dance as once she had, though she did her best for her partner’s sake, keeping time to the music and moving with quaint grace.

He rose and leaped higher than her head, circled her with a breathtaking series of leaps, seized her in hands that smoked where they touched her ragged dress and tossed her into the air so high that she turned head over heels at the apex.

And caught her as she fell.

It freed something that had been bound before; after it she danced as he did while the burning mountain pounded a kettledrum and birds of a hundred brilliant hues joined the music with strange songs. So they danced, and it did not matter to them that no one saw them, because they saw themselves.

Until at last she fell panting, and could dance no more.

He kissed her as she sprawled upon the black jungle loam—burning lips that brushed her own—seated himself once more upon his weathered coral block, and waited.

At length she sat up. “I’m awfully sorry, Vince. I gave out.” And then, “You’re not really Vince, are you? You just look like him.”

Sadly he shook his head.

“I like you better, whoever you are. I never liked Vince, or not much. But I like you a lot.”

“Then you will do as I ask.” He smiled Vince’s smile. “Gather wood, Cassie. Pile it on the sand. You know the place. Twigs and fallen branches. Driftwood. It may be wet or dry. That will not matter.”

She nodded as she rose. “How much?”

“You will know when there is enough.”

Something held her. “Will I ever see you again?”

“I think you may. Leave flowers.”

“All right,” she said, and began to collect wood. When the pile was as
high as her waist, and night had come with the breathtaking rush that only the tropics know, she searched for more wood by moonlight.

When she returned, her pile was ablaze.

A
FTER
that she had fire, a fire that she kept burning always, sometimes larger, sometimes smaller. She learned then to make a spear, burning the end of a hardwood sapling and scraping away the charcoal with a shell. It took hours of patient fishing to spear a fish. Little by little her aim improved, and she learned which kinds tasted best when wrapped in green leaves and roasted in the coals.

D
AWN
, and she woke to see a white ship. She screamed and leaped and waved, and piled all her wood onto her fire, which seemed almost to go out before it sprang up roaring.

And miracle of miracles, a boat, a swift white motor launch, put out from the ship. Then she raced through the jungle picking flowers and piled them at the feet of a weathered coral image, and met the boat on the beach with an armload more.

The launch’s crew of three, three lean, sun-bronzed sailors who spoke a language that Cassie felt sure was not French, smiled their welcome and patted her back gently. The young officer who commanded the launch was English, and reserved with that young man’s reserve that is at least half embarrassment. “Shipwrecked, I’d say?”

It seemed safest to nod, so Cassie did.

“Bit of a time, I’d say. You look it. Should’ve brought you a sheet or something. Back aboard and bob’s your uncle.”

After which he would not look at her.

The captain was American, formerly of the Coast Guard. He made her sit, and there was coffee and a coffee cake well sprinkled with nuts.

“I haven’t had coffee . . .” Cassie began, and began to cry.

“You’ll have to meet the owner,” the captain told her. “She’s still in bed, but after her breakfast. Try not to cry, Mrs. Casey. She doesn’t like it.”

Cassie nodded, and cried the more.

“Want to tell me how you got on the island?”

She shook her head. “You’d never believe me.”

“Try me.” He sounded serious. “Tell me the truth. If it’s the truth, I’ll know it.”

“May I think for a minute? It seems like a long, long time ago now. What year is this?”

He told her, and she said, “It was last year when I got to the island. I—I was always hungry. Always. Sometimes I could find some food. Fish or fruit, almost always. I don’t think I’ll ever eat fish or fruit again.” She picked up the nearest pastry, bit it, chewed it slowly, and swallowed. “I thought I’d die there. Right there. Do you believe me?”

“I do. You’re telling the truth. How did you get there?”

“I was on Takanga. One of the Takangas. Do you know those islands?”

He shook his head. “I know they exist. I’ve never been there.”

“I met my husband there. I mean, I went there and after a week or so he came there, too. He’d been away on business.”

“I understand.”

“We lived there for a while. Sometimes he’d go away—he had this hopper. But I was there all the time. There was a big storm.” Cassie began to cry again.

“I heard about that. Thousands died.”

She nodded, dabbing at her tears with a napkin.

“You were in it?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Wally was k-killed. Wally was my husband. I—you must think I’m a terrible liar.”

The captain shook his head. “Not so far, Mrs. Casey.”

“I’m trying to tell the truth. I really am. Only the truth. My husband’s name wasn’t Wally. Not really. It was Bill. I called him Wally a—a lot. It was a little private joke we had. Oh, gosh! I hope you understand.”

The captain smiled. “I won’t tell you what my wife calls me.”

“Then you do understand.” Another deep breath. “All right. Here’s the other thing. A lot of people would have said we weren’t married at all. That’s not right, but it’s what lots of people would’ve said. It’s called common-law marriage. We lived together and told everybody we were married. If you do that, you enter a common-law marriage. Please believe me. It’s the truth.”

“I know it is,” the captain said.

“This is true, too. We were going to have a regular marriage, a big ceremony. One of the missionaries on Great Takanga would do it. We were going to be married on the grass in front of some embassy. Bill had it all set up, and a dressmaker was making my wedding dress. Then the st-storm . . .”

“I understand,” the captain told her, “but how did you get on that island?”

“Wally d-d-died, and I was g-going to die, too. I kn-knew it. I wanted to die.” Cassie sighed. “I really did. I w-wanted to get it all over.”

The captain nodded. “Go on.”

“Some friends came. It was v-very unexpected, but they did and they were going to fly me out. Only they were o-overloaded and c-couldn’t carry me anymore.”

He nodded again. “Did they have a seaplane?”

“N-no. They landed on the beach and told me I’d be all right there, that I might even be h-happy. I guess I thought they would come back for me, but they never did.”

“Did it ever occur to you that they might have gone down at sea after they let you out?”

Cassie shook her head.

“A light plane, heavily loaded, trying to fly out through a storm? It could have happened very easily.”

T
HE
owner, Madame Pavlatos, was a rake-thin brunette who had once (there were photos and oil paintings everywhere) been a great beauty. Her stateroom was large even for such a large yacht, and where her pictures were not, there were mirrors. Cassie had taken one and one-half steps into the stateroom when she glimpsed herself in one—a wasted face, sunburned and deeply lined, surmounted by dirty, graying hair. A bent and barefoot old woman dressed in rags, with arms and legs like sticks.