“Won’t be long with the sun right in position. Beer or juice?”
“Island brewed?”
“Best there is.” Keralaw’s smile was proud. She went to the heavy bushes growing beyond the solar hearth and, pushing them aside, disclosed a dull gray container a meter high and half that wide. Lifting its heavy insulated lid, she extracted two beaded bottles.
“Been a long time dry,” Killashandra said, receiving her chilled bottle with considerable anticipation. She flipped back the stopper and took a swallow. “Whhhhoooee but it’s good.” And it was-the equal of a Yarran! But Killashandra stopped herself from making that comparison aloud just in time, smiling instead at Keralaw.
Already the sun was broiling their lunch and the smell was a suitable accompaniment to the taste of the cool beer. Killashandra began to relax. Keralaw tossed the greens into a wooden bowl, slipped two wooden platters to the hearth side, along with two-tined forks and knives with intricately carved handles accentuating the natural dark grain of the wood, and divided the now completed meal.
“That was what I needed most,” Killashandra said, closing her eyes in a sincere appreciation for the simple but satisfying meal. “I’ve been living too long off the polly tree!”
Keralaw chuckled fruitily. “You and your man farming? Or are you fishing for the gray?”
Killashandra hesitated, wondering what cover story wouldn’t become an embarrassment later. She felt a curious reluctance to mislead Keralaw.
Keralaw reached over and touched Killashandra’s forearm, just the barest touch, her mobile face suddenly expressionless.
“Don’t need to tell me, woman. I been out in the islands and I know what can happen to humans out there. Sometimes the credit ain’t worth the agony getting it. I won’t pry.” Her smile returned. “Not my place to, anyhow. You picked a good day to land on Angel Island. Schooner’s making port this evening!”
“It is!” Killashandra picked up the cue to wax enthusiastic.
Keralaw nodded, pleased to surprise. “Beach barbecue and a keg of beer for sure! That’s why the harbor’s so deserted.” She chuckled again, an earthy rich laugh. “Even the little ones are out foraging.”
“Everyone contributes to the barbecue?”
Keralaw nodded, her smile wide with anticipation. “How well do you weave polly?” she asked, tilting her head sideways. When Killashandra groaned, Keralaw looked sympathetic. “Well, perhaps you cut and strip while I weave. Chore goes fast in company.”
With fluid gestures, she collected a hatchet hanging from a nail under the eaves and a large cariall, which she handed to Killashandra. With a grin and a jerk of her head, she indicated the way.
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.