Pleasure Island [The Chronicles of Lidir]

by Aran Ashe

  Anya looked at that view for a long time. Then she heard banging sounds on the side. A longboat appeared, bearing eight men rowing briskly for the shore. How she wished she were aboard it. She watched it reach the sand and the men drag it ashore, then head towards the trees. It had not taken long for the boat to cover the distance and the water was calm. She ought to be able to swim to shore. She left her vantage point again and slipped to the ledge below. Looking up, she saw that the hawser disappeared into darkness. Below was the well with sloping sides draining to the hole that the rope passed through. She could easily fit through that hole. But the drop to it frightened her; she would have to lean too far out in order to reach the rope. She could jump across to it, but then what would happen on the other side of the hull, with the drop into the water? If it were too far, she would have burned her boats and never be able to reach the ledge again, even if she managed to climb back up the rope. Either she would have to wait for Ratchitt or she would have to find another way.

  She crept back along the low passageway and waited near the entrance. At first it was quiet. She was about to leave the safety of the darkness when she heard voices down below, then squealing sounds as if an animal was being strangled. Then she saw them heading up the stairs. Travix had Ratchitt by the ear. 'But I don't know where she is,' he wailed. 'I haven't seen her anywhere.'

  'Don't lie to me, Ratchitt. Kasger told me what you said, so we'll just keep checking each of your little hidey-holes until we find her. And when we do ...' There was another squeal.

  Anya banged her head in her wild rush back down the corridor. At the ledge, she only just managed to stop herself falling head first into the drop. The rope was her only escape; it seemed a very long way out and it angled away from her and down. She stood up fully, balancing giddily on the edge. When she stretched up on her toes, the rope seemed closer, but still too far and she felt even more unsteady when she reached. She lost her nerve and backed away, knowing she would have to jump. She kept advancing, but quailing when the rope retreated each time she neared the edge, then backing away again and wringing her hands in defeat. Wild horses could not have driven her to make that jump. Yet the echo of a woman's voice in the tunnel behind her was more than enough propulsion. Anya drew a deep breath, ran three steps and flung herself into the void.

  She caught the rope in her hands but missed it with her feet and, on the back swing, with the sudden pull of her body weight, she couldn't hold on. Her fingers slipped and she plummeted into the pit. Her body bounced then jammed beneath the rope. Her right ankle had twisted underneath her and her shoulder had slammed against the sloping wall. But there was no time to think about hurts. The voices were very close. She pushed her feet through the portal, trying to feel for the rope on the outside, but her feet couldn't touch it. In desperation she turned, slid through and hung. The anchor rope was in front of her as she faced the ship; it angled sharply underneath. As she reached for it with her feet, her hands gave way and she fell backwards, arms outstretched, and the water hit her with a vicious smack. Bright shapes all around her scattered and she was enveloped, drifting downwards, in a heavy opalescent world of shimmering, bubble-filled dusty turquoise. The bright shapes slowed and became fish about the anchor rope. The water was warm. Yellow patches slowly danced across the sand ripples on the sea floor. She drifted up beneath the overhang and held on to the rope. She was sure her ribs were broken. But she was exhilarated. She had escaped.

  Anya waited until she had regained her breath, then swam until she could see along the side of the ship. There was no sign of any activity, but she was too low down to be able to see anyone who might be at the rail. And if she were spotted swimming ashore, they would only need to send another boat, or alert the men on shore. She decided to risk it; there was nothing to lose. But she set off forwards along the line of the prow, hoping that in this direction, there would be less chance of being seen. The ship receded quickly at first. When she tired, she floated - the water was calm - then set off again, gradually veering shorewards. Nobody followed. Perhaps everyone's attention was still taken by the search. She smiled to herself - the first smile for a long time - and drifted. Sometimes, she would drift face down and watch the fish darting beneath her above the yellow sand, which rose ever nearer as the water shallowed. Once, in the distance, she saw a dark fin stretched like a lateen sail sweeping gracefully above the water, though she never saw the fish attached to this fin. She wondered if it might be a flying fish; she had heard that such fish existed.

  As Anya floated to the shore, she heard cries. She turned and looked towards the ship, but could see nobody. The cries came again, to her right, from where the boat had landed. It must be the men shouting to each other but she could not see them. She found her feet and waded ashore, keeping low, creeping across the wet sand and hiding in a hollow at the margin of the bushes. The sand here was not like river sand. It felt very warm and dry; it was a strange substance indeed, made of tiny coloured grains, but flowing like liquid through her fingers and sticking like dust to her calves and feet. Yet it was not a dust that would leave you muddy when you wiped it free. And once your leg was dry it would not stick but would flow across it and tickle. There were bits of shell in it. When Anya squeezed the sand, it suddenly locked hard and squeaked. The last of the water on her skin had collected into oily salted droplets. She sat back and allowed her eyes to close while the warm air currents drifted heavily in the well of sand to caress her body and make the tiny oily droplets disappear.

  This place was truly beautiful. She had never imagined such a place could have existed. Trees with curving slender trunks bellied out above the sand; their long leaves rustled lazily in the breeze. She listened to the waves breaking gently on the shore, then sizzling as they swelled on to the hot dry sand. Behind her, she could hear many different bird calls as if the treetops were alive. And she could smell the rich and varied perfumes of the flowers mingling with the warm breeze from the sea. Now that her skin was dry, it felt tight. Small white crystals spangled in the fine hairs of her arms; the sand flowed through her toes. When she dug her hand into it, it felt cool below the surface. Then her fingers touched something hard. She brushed the sand away and saw that the surface she had touched was wood - the grain was clear - but it was cut and shaped wood. She cleared a larger area. The wood curved everywhere just below the surface of the sand and it was dished. Then she realised it was the remains of a small boat. Its upper planks had been worn away, leaving only the belly of the hull embedded in the sand to form the hollow in which she lay. She found a rowlock, then her hand touched something soft. Part of a coat projected from the sand. She shivered when she saw the buttons. The cloth had a dark stain - was it blood? Afraid to dig any deeper, Anya backed away, half crawling out of the hollow and moving towards the trees.

  Then she caught a glimpse of movement. She hid. Four sailors ran down the beach, short of breath, shouting, racing for the boat. One of them stumbled and let out a belly-churning scream as if terrified he might be left behind as the boat was pushed into the waves. His companions did not wait, but he managed to reach the water's edge and fling himself headlong into the surf. He was dragged, clinging on to the side, until they had made some distance from the shore. Only then did the boat slow while his crewmates drew the man aboard.

  There had been eight men on the boat originally, Anya was sure. Where were the other four? Why had their mates been in such a hurry? What did the half-buried boat mean? Did it contain a body?

  Though the smells and the sounds were still the same and the sand was still warm beneath her hands and feet as she crouched down even further, though the bush she hid behind was decked with lush red flowers, suddenly this place did not seem quite so attractive as before. Her eyes were fixed on the point ahead where the men had emerged from the trees. Then she heard a cry. Someone was leaping through the bushes, but parallel with the beach and heading straight for her. There was no time to get out of the way as the young sailor, his eyes wild with
fear, jumped over her crouched form then rolled, picked himself up and carried on running. His bare foot had touched her shoulder, yet so intent was he on getting away from whatever was chasing him that it was as if he had not seen her. There were more crashing sounds through the bushes, sharp whistles, soft cries - signals between his pursuers, Anya knew. They would never ignore her. She jumped to her feet and began running as fast as she possibly could in the direction the man had taken. She saw a shape behind her, flowing swiftly, before something lashed round her left ankle and she toppled to the sand.

  She pulled, but it was no good; her foot was held fast by the tendril of a whip. A knee pressed into her back and pinned her belly to the sand. Her arms were quickly pulled behind her and bound at the wrists. She heard the handle of the whip being knocked into the sand. Then she was turned over. Above her stood a woman, bronzed and lissom, completely nude apart from a thin skin belt around her middle and a ropework thong sheathed in gold wire which was knotted about her upper arm. Anya's eyes widened, but her captor seemed astonished, for she gasped and momentarily backed away, then stood there looking by turns anxiously over her shoulder then frowning at Anya and muttering or singing something under her breath. Anya did not understand her words, if they were words, for she might have been humming a tune. There was a low bird-whistle and another woman appeared. She too seemed very surprised indeed. It was as if they had never seen another woman and now were afraid to approach. They murmured to each other without ever taking their eyes from Anya. The new arrival, presumably deciding that Anya, however unexpected, was not a threat, replaced her knife in her belt. But Anya was not untied. She lay on her back looking up at the two. They had no belly hair and the skin between their thighs was painted in a pattern of lines and dots.

  'Niri ...' whispered Anya, for even apart from these markings, they were very like Niri - dark-haired and dark-eyed, though much longer limbed and with their hair tied back in a tail. At the mention of the name, the two women immediately stopped talking. Their mouths fell open; they understood. Perhaps they knew Niri. 'Niri,' Anya said again, more loudly, though her voice was shaking. The women looked at each other, then one began to giggle. The other tried to speak to Anya but couldn't complete what she was saying without laughing. Then she tried to whistle - there must be others about, Anya realised - but again, the whistle failed and erupted as a giggle as the smooth bronze belly shuddered uncontrollably. Anya now recalled the strange circumstances in which Niri had been made to cry her name and suddenly she turned crimson with embarrassment. What had she allowed herself to say?

  As they helped her to a sitting position, two more women appeared from the direction Anya had been running towards. They had the young sailor, his head was bowed and he looked beaten. But when the women stopped to look at Anya, the sailor tried to break away. Though neither woman took a step in pursuit, one whip lashed out and caught him round the ankle and a second wrapped around his wrist. He was tugged to the ground and the handle of each whip was driven into the sand. He could have unleashed himself easily with his free hand, yet it seemed that, with all four women now standing over him, he was disinclined to try. He lay on his back shaking, his eyes darting from one woman to the other. The leading woman drew her knife, which had a thick spatulate double-edged blade. She twirled it through the air and caught it. The man began to plead. She shouted at him in her own tongue. He shut up. Then she knelt beside him, placed the blade beneath the neckline of his shirt and slit it down the front. He swallowed; the apple in his throat bobbed up and down. She slit the sleeves, which fell away, leaving his upper body bare. The women began to chatter excitedly. They descended on him, touching the curls on his chest and making small appreciative cries. The leading woman spoke again; she must have instructed them to stand back, for they moved away and fell silent while she continued the operation on his trousers. Anya watched the fascination in the faces of those beautiful bronzed forms as they stood, hips angled, slim thighs moving gently, toes kneading the sand and thumbs tucked into each fur-skin belt. She watched the fingertips then reaching to the lips, or behind the neck, to stretch across a smooth-skinned shoulder blade while perhaps the head was tilted and a lifted foot began to scratch behind a knee.

  On the ground, against the faint pleas, the trouser legs were slit to the waistline, the belt was unbuckled and the prisoner's sex lay revealed, surrounded by a thick dark bush of hair. Next, his legs were parted fully. His cockstem lolled. The leading woman then moved so rapidly that the man cried out from fear. She lifted back the cockstem and placed the blade flat against the bag. He gasped when the cold threat touched him. She gritted her teeth and cried, 'Abaata!' He did not understand her, but his eyes were wide with fear. 'Abaata!' she screamed again and pressed the knife-blade harder. One down-swipe of a blade such as this would surely have severed his ballocks from his body, and he knew it. His breathing came in sobbing gulps; his cheeks became wet with tears, but the woman would show no mercy. She screamed the word again. The knife was taken away and his bag was gathered in the woman's hand; then the blade returned to press against him more threateningly than ever. 'Abaata!' the woman cried again, though clearly her patience now was running low, as the man's sobs welled ever freer.

  Then all at once it happened. Perhaps it was the way the knife pressed against him; perhaps it was the attention, so closely directed there; perhaps it was the way that anxiety had gripped him in its thrall. But whatever the driving pressure, the cockstem suddenly began to swell. Though no one touched it, it rolled across his lower belly, sufflated strongly and lifted. The women looked at each other, murmured softly, 'Abaata ...' and nodded knowingly. The leader released the bag and stood up, pointing the knife at the man. 'Abaata,' she said firmly, and the man understood. His cock, curving very stiffly up above his belly, had pulsed when she had pointed. She tucked her knife away and folded her arms. For a while all the women watched the cockstem throbbing gently on the otherwise immobile frightened body on the ground.

  They made the man kneel up while they tied his wrists behind him, then the youngest of the women knelt before him, spread his knees apart and touched his stem and bag. But her fingertips kept returning to stroke his curls as if they held a special fascination. The others watched her and advised. Each time one of them spoke, she would look up at her and listen carefully, then touch him in some way that she had evidently instructed. There were many nips in places on the underside of the stem and beneath, in places Anya could not fully see. But it was not clear whether she did it to hurt him or to cause him pleasure. The young woman then closed her hand around the dangling bag as if it were a fruit on a twig and she would pick this fruit by cupping it and twisting. The man groaned gently with what Anya assumed must be pain. But the women nodded sagely as the cockstem stood up harder than before. And Anya was stirred inside by witnessing these women take a man like this and use him in such ways, as if he were their plaything.

  When the whip was produced again, he tried to back away on his knees until the leader threatened him again. He was made to lean back on his elbows with his cock pushed in the air while the bag was gathered up with it and the end of the whip was wrapped for three times round the entire collection. A leather collar was tied round his neck. Attached to this collar was a length of twine which, once he was lifted to his knees, dangled down his back to the level of his waist. The twine was wrapped once around the cord between his wrists. At the end of the twine was a small loop. He was made to stand while the whip was drawn back between his legs, up between his buttocks and was threaded through the loop at his waist. Now the handle was tightly pulled until his head was forced back sharply, the whip strands bedded deeply between the cheeks of his buttocks and his cockstem, drawn down by the tension, stood straight out from his body. The women seemed satisfied with this arrangement. The leader then came over to Anya, still pinned by her ankle, with her hands tied behind her. The woman pushed her back on to the sand and Anya's fear welled up to choke her as she read the woman's lips before
the word was uttered.

  'Abaata,' said the woman firmly as her hand went to the knife. And at that word, Anya felt the fear sinking back down again, very deep inside her, pushing out hard as she spread her thighs. The woman reached; she stroked the bright red curls between the legs and touched the sun-warmed flesh; she lifted back the swollen lips and deep delicious fear pushed out - a small hard ball of excited shame, for all to see. 'Abaata,' the woman murmured, nodding gently as the others crowded round to look at it and Anya's cheeks flushed crimson.

  And though Anya was not trussed in the way the man was, with one of the women behind him, controlling the traction in the thong between his legs, keeping him hard and bobbing, still she remained in that state as they were driven before the women, who would not leave her be but kept stroking her curls and touching her in that one place even as they hurried her onwards through the open bushes. When one woman left her side, another would take over. Momentarily, they would stop. 'Abaata,' the new woman would say. Anya, her breathing now deliciously shallow, would feel her legs slowly bowing outwards as the hard bud swelled again to meet the specific predilections of these new and urgent fingers.

  They would touch her in ways she had not known; there would be things - small polished objects - held between their fingers when they touched and soft things pressed against her. While the fingers or the objects touched her, she would be watching the tethered cock throb gently beneath the stroking fingers of the youngest as the other two women waited, seemingly indifferent to the young man's murmurs, and advised the young girl how to edge his pleasure forwards. As the cockstem swelled up harder, as its colour deepened, as the throbbing turned to thrusts, the leather would be tightened, the man would moan, he would be rubbed, then the plum would be held between two cupped palms, then rubbed again and all this while the small polished thing would be investigating Anya between the legs, or the fingertips would be taking the measure of her ever swelling bud. When it was judged the man could take no more, he would be driven onwards once again, his head back, his cockstem stiff and throbbing purple, tethered, drawn down to make it project horizontally and sleeved intermittently in a slim bronze hand until it was decided that a halt should once again be called while the young girl was instructed further.