Laird touched Keegan’s shoulder. “It’s an impressive specimen, isn’t it? The men said it didn’t even try to run. Stood in the middle of the street as if daring them to go past.”
“Impressive, hell,” said Rich. “It’s us or them.”
Keegan said, “Yeah, he’s something.”
Rich kicked the body. “You got more ammo, ice cream man? We’ve hunting to do.”
The ice cream man’s back cracked when he stood. I’m getting old, he thought. The rest of the men faced him, none of them under fifty. The last of their kind. We’re all getting old.
“So, what about it? How many bullets can you get for us?”
Keegan thought about the little ones running after the truck. Some of them could speak. Some just pointed at a picture of a flavor. They held their hands open, ready for their treats. He thought about the rooms full of trade goods at the bank, the shiny shells on the floor.
Scavenging’s been tough,” said Keegan. “I don’t think there’s any ammo to be had.”
As he left he played “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf,” and within a block the people came out for their ice cream.
SACRIFICE
Waves lapped against the ceremonial canoe, and Jermone let them lick his fingers while Cynda rowed. When they fished together, they both took a paddle, but today was special, the Whale’s run first day, and she rowed him, the king. People pampered the king. They said, “As goes the king, so goes the island.” Ever since last year when blonde-haired Glinn handed him the crown, it was true. They pampered him. They served him roasted bananas and flavored goat’s milk. He picked the best fish from the day’s catch, and Cynda’s mother, the Queen’s mother, spitted it on a stick to cook separately from the community’s meals. He was key to the Whale’s run ceremony.
When Cynda once winked conspiratorially across the fire to remind him they were friends the silliness came to him, and he laughed. The Queen’s mother laughed too, and so did the others close enough to hear. After all, he was king.
“I like the music the boat makes.” His voice sounded oddly deep to him, as it had since the last Whale’s run. The ocean’s emptiness swallowed it. It was something to say, at least. Something to lighten her mood. “Have you ever listened to it?”
Cynda said nothing for a while, and Jermone let the surge of her paddling lull him. He offered a small prayer to the ocean gods to keep the waves calm and to speed their journey.
Ahead, the waves rippled to the mist that hid the Land. He turned on his shoulder to look at Cynda. Beneath him the damp wood cooled his skin, and the sun burnished his face. Cynda knelt in the stern. She bent forward on each stroke, and her breastcloth flapped; the intricately painted, beaded strings clicked together as they swung against her firm belly. It fitted loosely because it had been tailored for her sister, and no one had changed it. Making the clothes required all year, and the fit mattered less than the ritual. Jermone hid his grin, thinking warm thoughts. He’d dreamed today often, the ritual day.
Cynda’s strong and dark arms, much darker than his, tensed with the effort; her face serious; black hair tied back and braided. Her legs, too, below the short, brightly feathered skirt, rippled with muscle. She and Jermone had run races along the beach from Shark Point to the old wreck, and he barely beat her. He’d slap the rust encrusted spaceship an instant before her, and they’d collapse into the shadows, laughing until they could breathe again. The wreck stretched into the sea where the broken and sagging corroded metal slabs merged with orange and red corals. He couldn’t tell where the ship’s remains stopped and where the sea creatures began.
“Do you believe in the gods?” she said, leaning into the next stroke. “I mean, do you really believe in them?” She always asked questions. Jermone recognized Bundi’s influence, and he scowled. Trust Bundi to ruin the day. An old, stupid, bitter man from an insignificant family with no daughters, so his name would die with him.
Jermone closed his eyes, sighing. “The gods are in everything, of course.” He tried to imagine the sea gods, but instead her ghost image floated, pale and featureless. The sun floated behind, a dark ball in a dark sky. “Gods in the tuna and the clams, in typhoons and in us.” He squinted. The sun glared behind her. A few loose hairs caught the light in a silvery halo. “Gods in my hands, Cynda, in my body, just like yours.”
“That’s not what Bundi says. He told me there are no gods—we didn’t believe in gods in the old days. There was no need for ritual.”
Jermone’s drew a sharp breath and held it for a second. He asked, “You’re not thinking… you wouldn’t…”
“No, of course not. I’ll go through with it. I’m just talking. That’s all. Remember, you’ve been training for this for a season. I’ve just had a few weeks.”
He relaxed and rested his back again against the boat’s moist wood. “We have a responsibility, you know. Glinn did his duty, and so did your sister.” Jermone remembered Glinn, tall and startlingly blonde—few islanders were blonde—stepping into the canoe before the last Whale’s run. He wore dignity like a robe. All season since the people spoke with admiration of Glinn’s departure.
Cynda continued rowing, her expression dark. “She should have never bathed in the river. She was foolish.”
“Proud, you mean, don’t you? The river gods know a proud person when they see one. Would you rather I was here with her instead of you?” He waited for an answer. He’d envisioned a different version of the trip. The Whale’s run first day was supposed to be special, and he’d been waiting for a year. And she was Cynda, his friend.
Her voice softened. “I didn’t mean that. What I mean is I don’t want to be here at all.” Cynda laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. “Do you know why we are doing the ceremony today and not a few days ago or days from now?”
“The whales, naturally. They spoke to the Queen’s mother and told her today is the first day of their run.”
“No, I don’t think so. Whale’s run in the spring, but no one knows the first day. No, mother watched me, not the sea. She watched me to decide when we should go.”
He didn’t understand. But Cynda’s beauty fascinated him, and the sky glowed above like a glad expression, so he remained silent.
She rested the paddle across her legs and let the boat drift. “Jaimie and Clurk declared for each other yesterday.”
Jermone rolled to dangle his fingers into the ocean again. “It’s a good time to declare. Good omens come with the Whale’s run.”
“They’re a season younger than us.”
Water splashed into his hand. He closed his fist, but the water ran out, and he held nothing. A few evenings weeks ago, before the river monster rose up and killed Cynda’s sister, Jermone and Cynda had gone into the forest to gather firewood. After a while, they had rested in soft grass in a stand of palm trees, and she had tickled him. He tickled her back, but instead of squirming away, she’d pushed herself against him, and her fingers against his ribs had become a caress. Her dusty and smooth skin slid beneath his hand. Her breath filled him, sweet and deep. For a moment, he forgot his kingship, and reached his hand down over her hip bone.
“We can’t,” she had gasped, “you are promised,” but she held him still, and nothing remained in his head but her feel, her back’s curve, the pulse pounding in her breast, and they moved. She murmured something throaty; it could have been a plea. But a plea for what? He couldn’t tell.
In the distance of the trees, the Queen’s mother called for them, and, breathing hard, they had pushed away.
Since then, replaying that evening consumed Jermone’s thoughts. Until then, the Whale’s run seemed spiritual but unreal. He didn’t think about it. Since then, the ritual swamped his imagination. He’d wake in a sweat from dreams. A part of him (he blushed to think) was pleased Cynda’s sister had died. He prayed and made sacrifice to the forest gods to ask forgiveness, but the omens were ambiguous and hard to read.