by Toombs, Jane
Two of the men piled sticks at his feet. Romell stared blankly until the significance of this struck her. Dear God, they were going to burn Pieter alive!
"No!" she screamed and tried to jump off the bark stage. Her foot slipped in the sticky gray mess the medicine man had painted around her, and before she could recover, the men ran up to her. One lifted his waddy, a club made from a tree branch, and beat her about the shoulders until she screamed in pain. Satisfied, he jerked her to her feet and pointed to the stage. She wasn't to move from it. To make sure, he tethered her by one foot with a fiber rope.
A procession of naked strangers, natives painted with various tribal symbols, began filing along the trail that ran past the bark stage. Every man paused to take a long and careful look at Romell. Panic leaped in her breast:
She was on exhibition. To what purpose? To be sold to the highest bidder, like a slave? To be won by the strongest or cleverest in some competition? Or for some other hideous, unguessable design?
Chapter 14
Mooli crouched by her fire sadly. She had borne Kaoli three children and none had lived to grow up. She had seen her parents, two brothers, and her sister die. Then the ghosts from Alcheringa, the Dream Time, had appeared, and Mooli knew her dead sister, Angwah, had come back to keep her company, to bring her happiness.
Now Kaoli and the men had taken Angwah to be the prize the unmarried men of all the tribes competed for. Her ghost sister would belong to another tribe, and Mooli might never see her again. If she dared to interfere in the men's business, they would kill her. Women weren't allowed to see the rituals because of the sacred objects the men used.
Still, she might go to Angwah if she waited until the men withdrew. Angwah likely needed food and water and she could bring her those, could touch her and bid her farewell. Mooli crept timidly along the trail to the hollow among the hills. Night was settling in and everyone gathered about their fires. Mooli didn't like to be out alone at night, but she knew it was the safest time. On her back, in her dilly bag, she carried kangaroo meat and water and a flawed stone axe head Kaoli had thrown aside.
Angwah, who lay on the bark platform, hardly raised her head when Mooli stole up to her and said her name. A thong tied round one of Angwah's ankles tethered her to a peg under the bark.
"I bring food and water," Mooli said, reaching into her grass bag. Angwah stirred and sat up when Mooli offered the water container.
If only her ghost sister could stay longer with her, Mooli thought wistfully, could go back to the mia mia, the tribal camp. Already Angwah remembered some of the words of the people and didn't speak so often in gibberish. Mooli sighed.
Men must have wives, and other tribes, unlike hers, had more men than women. No doubt the men at this corroboree would think a ghost wife a fine prize.
There was no mistaking Angwah for anything but a ghost, for when anyone died, the dark skin was peeled off revealing the white skin underneath. White was the color of the dead.
Mooli handed Angwah the partially eaten haunch of kangaroo, but after taking two bites, Angwah made signs for Mooli to cut the thong binding her. Mooli considered. If she left the old axe head with Angwah when she went back to the women's camp, everyone in her tribe would know she'd been here, for it would be recognized as Kaoli's.
If she took the axe head back with her, though, they would have to wonder who had cut the thong. She smiled at Angwah and took out the axe head.
No sooner was Angwah freed than she picked up the meat and what was left of the water and, climbing down from the platform, hurried to the man ghost tied to the firestake.
Since this ghost had not been claimed as a relative or ancestor, he'd been given to a neighboring tribe, partly because he might be related to one of them and partly because he was troublesome. It might be dangerous to kill a ghost; to give him away was safest.
Mooli sidled closer to the pair of ghosts and watched as Angwah dribbled water between the man ghost's lips.
Was it possible ghosts married in the spirit world? Angwah had been a maiden when she died, but did that matter? Could the man ghost be Angwah's husband?
Mooli shook her head. The men had surely considered that and decided it wasn't so, otherwise they wouldn't have Angwah here to be fought for . . . unless they planned to burn the man ghost to free Angwah from a ghost marriage. The fire pile lay ready for him. Evidently it was considered safe to kill a ghost when all the tribes participated.
The man ghost raised his head and opened his eyes. Because of the dark, Mooli couldn't see their color, but she'd heard that he had rain eyes. Angwah broke off a chunk of meat and thrust it into his mouth, then turned to Mooli and indicated that she wanted the axe head.
Mooli watched Angwah cut the thongs binding the man ghost. He crumpled to the ground, too weak to stand, for his tribal marks were new and he had lost much blood. Angwah crouched by him, feeding him and forcing water down his throat.
All this was of no use, for the men would burn him tomorrow anyway, before Angwah was awarded to the winner of the fighting contests.
Angwah left him and came to Mooli, pointing and gesturing until Mooli understood that her ghost sister wanted her to help them both run away. Couldn't Angwah see that this was impossible? The man couldn't walk, and although Angwah might travel all night, still the men would catch her once daylight came since they were much faster.
Mooli tried to make Angwah understand this. When Angwah burst into tears, Mooli held her close, comforting her. But ghosts were stubborn. Angwah pulled away, turned and made for the trail, obviously intending to escape alone, since the man couldn't go with her. Hurriedly, Mooli gathered up the axe, the water container and the remains of the kangaroo meat, thrust them back into her bag and ran after Angwah.
If her ghost sister was determined to leave, then she would show her the way to the sea, for Angwah had come out of the sea and must wish to return. Yes, Mooli would point out the way for her ghost sister, then return and smooth away her footprints with feathers before returning to the women's camp.
Mooli hoped the men wouldn't punish Angwah too terribly when they brought her back tomorrow.
* * *
Romell walked briskly at first, fueled by the water and the food Mooli had brought her. A half-moon rose to show her the rocks and prickly plants in her path, and she made good time. But she tired and slowed, still trying to keep a steady pace. As the night advanced, so did Romell’s exhaustion. She staggered on until she fell to her knees, unable to stay on her feet. For awhile she crawled, but soon stretched out on the ground in exhausted sleep.
Romell woke with a start and saw with dismay that the moon was setting. She'd lost hours. She forced her aching body up and started again. The journey seemed like a dream she was having, a bad dream of sandy wastes where low scrubby plants whispered of desolation. The moonlight threw shadows so all was silver or dark, an eerie, alien landscape.
In the sun, Romell knew, the colors of this desert were ocher-red and blue-gray, barren except for sparse stands of strange trees, trees with thin blue-green leaves and naked splotched trunks where the bark had peeled away. A naked people living in a naked land. She didn't belong here.
Here Pieter would die. She had done what she could for him. Poor Pieter. Though he'd hurt and humiliated her, she had never wished such revenge for him as starvation, torture. And never an agonizing death by fire! But all of us here are starving anyway, Romell thought. And those gaping wounds across his chest and back—Perhaps, according to their customs, the natives had only meant to initiate him into their tribe, but it was torture for Pieter all the same.
And soon, death by fire. Romell shook her head. She must stop thinking about Pieter; crying would only exhaust her further. She couldn't afford to expend energy on anything but walking.
If the raft was still on the shore, could she haul it to the water? She would have to, for the raft was her only chance to escape. And if she did board it and float into the ocean, what then? Would she die there? W
hat were the chances of finding a more civilized land, or of a ship spotting her?
I'll try, she told herself determinedly; I must try.
Dawn tinted the sky with pale color and still Romell plodded on, her feet raw and beginning to bleed. She wasn't conscious of hunger, but she longed for water.
She began thinking she heard voices and looked about her. "Romell," they called, "Romell." Some-times it was her father and sometimes her mother, whose voice she didn’t even remember everhearing. Then it was Sir Thomas saying her name. The dead, she thought, the dead call me.
She found herself on her knees, not knowing how long it had been since she'd stopped walking.
The sun shimmered on the sand and rocks. In the distance, three men ran toward her. Then she saw they were not men—men did not leap great distances across the ground. Nearer and nearer the reddish-tan animals came, passing within yards of her, and Romell’s tired mind finally identified them as kangaroos, the first she'd seen alive.
"You can't stay here," she told herself aloud, her voice a croak that dissolved into the emptiness around her. A large bronze lizard scurried away from her as she struggled to stand.
Every step she took seemed to thrust red-hot needles into the soles of her feet, the pain stabbing all the way through her body to her head. She no longer thought about why she must go on, or even where she was going.
"Adrien," she moaned. "Adrien . . . help me."
She pictured Pieter tied to the post, the fire burning at his feet, searing his flesh. Will they eat him when he's roasted? she asked herself. Will Mooli be thrown a piece of Pieter when the men are gorged?
She began to giggle, then to whimper, finally collapsing in shuddering sobs.
When she quieted again, she found she couldn't rise. She closed her eyes to shut out the glare of the sun. If you don't move, you'll die here, she thought dimly. Is death better than being some savage's mate and bearing his children?
"Daddy," she whispered childishly. But her father was dead. Dead. Dead. The word beat with the throb in her head. Romell opened her eyes and managed to struggle to her hands and knees.
She crawled over to a large rock and, by clinging to it, got to her feet.
Across the expanse of sand she saw a stand of the multi-crowned trees with the thin aromatic leaves. Coming from among the trees were two . . . were they men? She stared, waiting. They didn't leap like kangaroos; they really were men. Somehow the natives must have gotten ahead of her or else she'd traveled in circles.
Her name floated on a wind that held a hint of the sea.
"Romell . . . Romell. ..."
They were calling her. How strange; was she seeing men at all or was she hearing the ghosts of her dead, seeing them walk the sand? She no longer cared. Staggering out from behind the rock, she raised her hands in the air and croaked out, "Here I am."
Then everything blurred and she fell forward.
In a dream, Romell heard Adrien's voice, tender and concerned. She drifted along, hoping never to wake, to be forever in this pleasant nothingness with Adrien nearby. But the pain in her feet dissolved the mist and she opened her eyes.
She must still be dreaming! Adrien's face was above her, his blue eyes somber. He sat on the ground, holding her, her head and shoulders supported by his body.
"Rest," he said. "Conradt's gone back for a blanket so we can carry you."
"Adrien," she whispered wonderingly. "Are you real?"
"My poor darling," he said and she marveled at the pain in his voice. "Don't worry, I'm here."
She tried to sit up. "The natives ..."
"I'll not let them near you. We'll have you aboard the ship in no time."
"They've got Pieter."
"He deserves his fate." Adriens’s tone was grim. "In Batavia he’d hang with the others."
Romell became aware that he'd wrapped his shirt around her. She had been naked so long she'd forgotten to be ashamed of it. She tried to smile at him.
"Oh, Adrien," she said, "I thought I'd never get away. I thought I'd die here and never see you again."
He held her close, without speaking, and she drifted off into an exhausted sleep. A jostling woke her and she found she was being carried in a blanket slung between Adrien and another man.
"Listen to them devils," the man said in Dutch. "We won't make the boat."
"Coo-ee!" The warning call made Romell shiver and she realized that that was what had roused her.
They lowered her to the ground. She flinched when a gun was fired immediately above her.
"That will give them pause," Adrien said.
The two men half ran when they picked Romell up again--the blanket swayed and jolted alarmingly. She heard the natives' call repeated again and again, each time closer. Then there were Dutch voices. The blanket Romell lay in was shifted, raised, lowered. A gun blasted, then another. She felt the rocking of a boat beneath her, heard the creak of oars.
"Cocky buggers," a man said. "They're going to wade out and throw them spears. Watch it!"
A gun went off in her very ear it seemed and a man shouted, "Got the bastard. That scared 'em."
When Romell felt herself lifted again, she knew she was being put aboard a ship. Once she was over the side, she clutched at the blanket lest it fall away. What must she look like—covered with charcoal, stinking of cook fires and rancid grease, so thin her bones showed, and naked besides. She didn't even want to think about her hair, all knotted and snarled. This was how Adrien had seen her. Even in her desperate weariness and pain, she mourned her awful appearance.
The blanket was gently tugged away from her face and she saw Adrien's smile.
"You're safe now. I shan't let you out of my sight again."
She heard the shocked mutters of the sailors and knew they'd seen her darkened face, her matted hair. Adrien lifted her, blanket and all, into his arms and carried her along the deck.
Safe. Yes, she was safe here, safe with him.
"What you need is a good bath and then a long rest," he told her, smiling down at her.
She could only look at him, at the bright blue eyes, the sharp planes of his face, the dark hair that curled on his collar. How wonderful to be able to stare at him all she wanted.
The brightness of his eyes clouded with tenderness and he bent his head to hers.
"So you found her after all," Margitte's voice said from behind Adrien. He raised his head without kissing Romell.
Margitte came around him to peer at Romell, then clutched at Adrien's arm.
"Good God!" she exclaimed. "How disgusting. Why the girl looks scarcely human!"
Chapter 15
During the first few days aboard the ship, Romell did nothing but eat and sleep. When she regained enough strength to take an interest in her surroundings, she found Margitte at her side. Romell sat up, aware that her head felt strangely weightless. As she raised a hand to find out why, Margitte spoke.
"I had no choice but to cut most of it off, you know."
Romell stared at Margitte's sleek blondeness as her fingers encountered her cropped head.
"Actually, you don't look too awful, rather like a charming young boy. With the weight you've lost, you might even pass for one."
Margitte's hair was piled elegantly atop her head. She wore a black silk gown with an overskirt trimmed in green and gold brocade. The gown was cut to emphasize her breasts, and every inch of her was feminine—and fashionable.
Romell tried to smile, despite her feeling that Margitte was deliberately trying to undermine her confidence, she took her hand away from her short curls and studied the thinness of her arm.
"Thank you for taking care of me," she said.
Margitte shrugged. "I can’t claim aught but directing Tima in your nursing," she said.
"Tima?"
Margitte gestured and Rommel blinked as a small sepia-skinned girl stepped into the cabin, head bowed. No, not a girl, for her draped garment showed the rise of breasts.
A woman, even though
she came only to Margitte’s shoulder. Tima wore no shoes and didn’t meet Romell’s eyes, keeping her head bowed.
"She’s certainly an improvement over Loulie. The Javanese make excellent servants." Margitte grasped Tima's shoulder, pushing her away from the bed.
Tima backed soundlessly from the cabin.
"A quiet, unobtrusive but efficient maid." Margitte smiled. "I am liking Batavia very, very much so far."
Romell belatedly remembered that Margitte's purpose in sailing for Batavia had been to join her husband.
"I trust your husband is in good health," she said, feeling as if talking was a task almost too difficult to perform.
Margitte extracted a lace-edged handkerchief from a pocket in her overskirt and dabbed at her eyes. "Alas, no. Poor Dirk succumbed to the dysentery even before the Zuiderwind set sail from Amsterdam. I've been a widow all this time and didn't know it until after we arrived in Batavia on the rescue ship. They were afraid to tell me before we docked."
"I'm sorry to hear about your husband." Romell's voice wavered with the strain of speaking.
"Ah, well, I weep, but perhaps not so much as I would have if we'd lived together longer. Poor Dirk was off to Batavia scarcely two years after our wedding."
Margitte bent forward and pulled Romell's covers straight. "But I mustn't tire you, you're still very weak. You must rest. Tima will stay with you in case you need anything."
Romell started to protest, to ask her to take a message to Adrien, but Margitte put a mug of milky liquid to Romell's lips and she was too weak to re-sist.
"Here, you must drink this," Margitte ordered. "I do believe it is what saved your life, for you were barely breathing at the first."
Romell obediently swallowed several mouthfuls of the slightly sweet, thick mixture and dimly recalled the brew as one she'd tasted before.
