“When you are, beloved.” Then he yawned and, apparently, between one breath and the next, fell asleep. For another long moment, Killashandra heard the singing in her blood and for once did not regret its murmur. She repositioned her arm on his chest, placidly noting that the fine hairs across Lars’s pectoral muscles stirred upright. Well, they had more energy than he or she did. She closed her eyes and was also claimed by sleep.
Shouts startled them awake: the cheerful calls and laughter of people fishing on the beach. Killashandra couldn’t hear what was so exciting, but Lars smiled.
“A yellowback school has been forced into the cove.” He embraced her enthusiastically. “Once they’ve caught what’s needed, we’ll get our” – he looked about for the angle of sunlight – “our dinner. Hungry yet?”
“Hungry enough to go right out there bold-faced . . .” She made as if to rise, for her belly was almost painfully empty.
He pulled her back flat beside him, kissing her half-formed protest into silence. His eyes were unsmiling as he then gently stroked her cheek.
“My dear girl, with those bruises on you, I’d be hauled up in front of the Island Court and charged with rape.”
“What about the marks on you?”
“You resisted my improper advances – ”
“And you made enough of those – ”
“Precisely what the bruises say. So, since I have a reputation to maintain in this community, we will remain secluded.” He emphasized this decision with a gentle kiss. Then he stroked her hair back from her forehead his fingers lingering in the soft gold-streaked mass. “I don’t wish to share you yet, share even the sight of you with anyone. If I believed the ancient tales of witchcraft, sorcery, and enchantment, I’d name you ‘witch,’ so I would. But you’re not . . . though I am completely spell-bound ..” His fingers became insistent, and his expression was an urgent appeal. “D’you think you could possibly bear me . . . if I’m very careful . . .”
She chuckled and linked hands behind his head to bring his lips to hers.
The fishers were long gone before they finally got around to fishing. Together they waded out through the gentle tide.
“Stay here, Carrigana,” Lars directed, “and make a basin of your skirt.”
She did, first wringing water from the voluminous folds. Lars was thigh deep in the water when he suddenly bent down and scooping with both hands sent water, and fish, flying at her. She missed the first lot, laughing at her ineptitude, but neatly caught two fish in the second. After three more catches, she had to hold up her skirt lest the active yellowbacks flip out. Lars splashed back to inspect her catch, grinning at his success and her bemusement.
“This one’s too small.” He released it. “Two, four, six, seven. How many can you eat? Shall I get more?”
Before she could answer, he dove back toward his vantage point, and peered down into the clear water. With one last mighty heave, three big yellowbacks were sent flying in her direction. She cheered when she caught them in her skirt, closing the makeshift net and running awkwardly through the wavelets to the shore before any of the squirming fish could escape.
Helping her secure the bundle, Lars laughingly escorted her back to the bushes surrounding their secluded clearing.
“You clean ‘em and I’ll get firing, and see what else I can scrounge,” he said as he held the bushes back for her to enter.
Gutting fish was not one of Killashandra’s favorite chores, but she had finished half the catch before she realized it, washing them clean in the little brook. Lars was back as she slit the last one. In one crooked arm, he held twisted polly fronds that provided a quick hot fire, and another basket swung from his right hand. He found rocks by the stream to enclose their fire, hauled a frying sheet from the basket, and set out oil, seasonings bread, fruit, and another pot of the soft island cheese.
The quick tropical night had settled upon the island, enclosing them more securely in their clearing as they finished their supper, licking the last of the juices from their fingers.
“Going to be nice to me?” Lars asked, leering dramatically at her.
“Maybe I’ll just stay in the islands.” Killashandra surprised herself with the longing in her voice. “There’s all I could possibly need just for the taking. . .”
“Even me?”
Killashandra looked up at him. Despite his light words, his voice held a curious entreaty.
“I would be a right foolish dolt to consider you part of the taking.” She meant it, for quixotic though the man might appear, she sensed that Lars had an unshakeable integrity which she, or any other woman, would have to recognize and accept.
“We could stay in the islands, Carrigana, and make a go of the charter service.” Lars, too, was caught in the same thrall which infected her resolve. “Sailing’s never dull. The weather sees to that. It could be a good life, and I promise you wouldn’t have to hack polly!” His fingers caressed her hands.
“Lars . . .” She had to set the record fair.
He covered her lips with his hand. “No, beloved, this is not the time for life-shaping decisions. This is the time for loving. Love me again!”
Chapter 12
The idyll lasted another full day and into the early morning of the third, during which time Killashandra would have been quite willing to forego all the prestige of being a crystal singer to remain Lars’s companion. A totally impossible, improbable, and impractical ambition. But she had every intention of enjoying his companionship as long as it was physically possible. She was haunted by memories of Carrik and, as such traumas can, they colored, and augmented, her responses to Lars.
It was the change in the weather which necessitated their return to society. The drop in barometric pressure woke Killashandra just before dawn. She lay, wide awake, Lars’s lax arms draped about her, his legs overlapping hers, wondering what had returned her so abruptly to full consciousness. Then she smelled a change in weather on the early morning breeze. It had not occurred to Killashandra that her Ballybran symbiont would he agitated by other weather systems. And she pushed her sensitivity as far as she could, testing what the change might herald.
Storm, she decided, letting symbiotic instinct make the identification. And a heavy one. In these islands a hurricane more likely than not. A worrisome phenomenon for a reasonably flat land mass. No, there were heights on what Lars had termed the Head. She smiled, for yesterday, in between other felicitous activities, he had given her quite a history and geography lesson pertinent to the island economy.
“This island gets its name from the shape of the land mass,” he explained and drew a shape on the wet sands with a shell. They had just emerged from a morning swim. “It was seen first from the exploratory probe and named long before any settlers landed here. There’s even a sort of a halo of islets off the Head. We’re at the Wingtip. The settlement lies in the wing curve . . . see . . . and the western heights are the wings, complete with the ridge principle. This side of the island is much lower than the body side. We’ve two separate viable harbors, north and south, the angel’s outstretched hands completing the smaller, deeper one. My father’s offices are there, as the backbone sometimes interferes with reception from the mainland. You can’t see it from here because of Backbone Ridge, but there’s rather an impressive old volcano topping the Head.” He grinned mischievously, giving Killashandra an impression of the devilish child he must have been. “Some of us less reverent souls say the Angel blew her head when she knew who got possession of the planet. Not so, of course. It happened eons before we got here.”
Angel was not the largest of the islands but Lars told her that she’d soon see that it was the best. The southern sea was littered Lars said, with all kinds of land masses: some completely sterile, others bearing active volcanoes, and anything large enough to support polly plantations and other useful tropical vegetation did so.