The expedition suited Killashandra in may ways: Keralaw could supply her far more information than any terminal, however well programmed, and the little one in Keralaw’s shop was intended for tourists and had limited memory. Killashandra could doubtless discover just how closely the Harbor Master stuck to the letter of the law in granting travel permits. Just like the Optherians to need to know who went where and when. Though why they bothered, since their citizens weren’t allowed off the planet, Killashandra couldn’t see. She also needed more general information about the islanders and their customs if she was going to pass as one that evening.
For her purposes, the barbecue couldn’t have come at a better time; with everyone relaxed by a full belly and plenty of beer, she could discover more about the islanders’ politics and, just possibly, something about her abduction.
By the time they had returned from the polly plantation that evening, both laden with platters and baskets woven at speed by Keralaw’s deft hands, Killashandra knew a great deal more about island life, and had tremendous respect for it.
The easygoing gentleness of the style would be abhorrent to the persnickety mainlanders. In the early days of their subjugation of the islanders, the mainlanders had even tried to prohibit the use of the polly tree in their strict adherence to the letter of their Charter. The polly tree itself worked against the restriction, for it grew with such rapidity and profusion that pruning back the plantations was absolutely essential. The casual islander habit of cutting as needed to provide the essentials for daily life prevented overgrowth. The vigorous polly tree would take root on even a square meter of soil, which accounted for its proliferation in the islands.
Killashandra had been hard pressed to cut and strip enough polly fronds to keep up with Keralaw’s agile weaving but the crystal singer learned as she watched and, to support her adopted identity, wove a few baskets herself. The manufacture, which seemed to be easy when one watched an adept, took considerable manual strength and dexterity, which, fortunately, Killashandra possessed. Seeing the clever way in which Keralaw finished off her mats and baskets taught Killashandra the necessary final touches that spoke of long practice.
As they passed a small freshwater lake on their way back, Keralaw suddenly dropped her burden, shucked her clothing, and dashed into the water. Killashandra was quick to follow. Nudity was not, then, a problem. And the soft water was refreshing after the concentrated work of the day.
The tantalizing aroma of roasting meat reached them as they neared Keralaw’s dwelling. The rolled her eyes and smacked her lips appreciatively.
“Mandoll’s the cook!” Keralaw said with satisfaction. “I can smell his seasoning anywhere in the islands. Porson sure had better catch him a smacker to go with it. Nothing better than long beef and smacker. Oho, but we eat good tonight!” She rolled her eyes again in anticipation. “We’ll drop these off,” and she swung the tangle of baskets on their string, “and then we get us pretty. A barbecue night’s a good night for Angel Island!” And she winked broadly at Killashandra, who laughed.
Two barbecue pits had been dug on the beach front. In one a very long animal carcass was slowly turning over the sizzling coals. Four men were good-naturedly attempting to raise a massive fish onto the spit braces, urging each other to greater effort while the onlooking women taunted them for weakness.
Prominently centered on the beach was a long low table, already being laid with garlands of flowers, baskets of fruit and other delicacies which Killashandra couldn’t identify. An immensely plump woman, with a most luxurious growth of hair spilling down to her knees, greeted Keralaw with delight, chattering about the quantity and quality of the baskets and plates, and then fell silent, cocking her head inquiringly at Killashandra.
“Here is Carrigana, Ballala,” Keralaw said, taking Killashandra’s arm. “In from the outer islands. She wove with me.”
“You picked the right time to come,” Ballala said approvingly. “We have some good barbecue tonight. Long beef and a smacker!”
Suddenly a siren split the air with a hoot that occasioned loud cheers from everyone on the beach.
“Schooner’s on the last tack: Be here right quick,” Keralaw said and then began smoothing her arm in an absent minded way.
Killashandra cast it a quick look – all the fine hair was standing up. Killashandra rubbed her own brown arms to deflect comment. But Keralaw apparently did not notice the phenomenon.
“Come, Carrigana, we must get pretty now.”
Getting pretty meant decorating their hair with the scented flowers that grew on the low bushes under ancient polly trees. There seemed to be a community of possessions on Angel Island, for Keralaw visited several back gardens to find the colors she wanted for her own long tresses. And she had decided that only the tiny cream flowers would do as a garland for Killashandra’s head, since Killa’s hair was not long enough to braid. Keralaw offered to trim the dried ends, tutting over the exigencies that had deprived Killashandra of so many amenities on her distant island.
Then Keralaw decided that they’d have time to make some wreaths of the fragrant blossoms. Fortunately Killashandra was able to delay starting a wreath until she saw how Keralaw began hers and then the two twisted and tucked the stems in comfortable silence. Eventually, festive sounds drifted back to their ears from the beach and then cheering broke out.
“Schooner’s in.” Keralaw cried, jumping to her feet, her braids bouncing their floral tips against her waist. She grabbed Killashandra’s hand, jerking her up. “Pick yourself a handsome one, Carrigana. Of course, they’re all handsome on the schooner,” she said with an earthy giggle. “And away in the morning with no harm done, coming or going.”
Killashandra followed willingly, clutching her wreaths in her hand, hoping her crude manufacture would not break apart from the jostling.
There could be few sights more impressive than a schooner sailing effortlessly into the beautiful azure waters of a harbor under an evening sky rich with sun-tinged clouds, while colorfully dressed and beflowered people lined the pier and the beach. The odors of a delicious meal permeated the air and all present were happily anticipating an evening spent in joyful pursuits – of all kinds. Killashandra had no wish to resist the enticements so lavishly available and she cheered as hard as the rest of the inhabitants of Angel Island as sailors on the yard arms reefed the sails while the schooner glided toward the pier, and the shoremen waited to secure the lines tossed to them. She jumped about, yelling at the top of her lungs, as everyone else was doing, waggling at arm’s length her wreaths, as seemed to be the custom.
Then, suddenly, out of the crowd two men stood apart, grinning at the enthusiastic display but not joining in. Killashandra gasped, clutched the wreaths close to her face and stared, incredulous.
Corish von Mittelstern of the Beta Jungische system, purportedly in search of his uncle, was standing next to the bronzed young man of the corridor who had abducted and abandoned her on a miniscule island in the middle of nowhere!
Even as she reacted to their presence, she saw Corish was glancing about the crowd. Before she could duck, his gaze touched her face . . . and passed on without a blink of recognition.
Chapter 10
Shock rooted Killashandra in the sand. She ignored the surge of the islanders toward the pier, the vanguard already throwing their wreaths about the disembarking sailors. Fury that Corish didn’t recognize her – and relief that he didn’t – warred in her. To judge by his deep tan, Corish had been in the islands as long as she had. He looked comfortable in the shorts and sleeveless half-vest that the island men preferred, though his was modestly decorated. Not so the one Lars Dahl wore, which was thick with many-hued embroidery.