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.
AFTER 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.
DAWN, 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.”