by April Hill
“But why isn’t anyone looking for us?” Meredith asked miserably, her voice taking on the annoying whiney quality that sometimes made Emma want to drown her.
McLean shook his head. “They might have done, but we may have been considerably off course, in that bloody awful storm, and whatever search was undertaken could have simply been looking in the wrong place. This is a very small island, and there are hundreds just like it out here, most of them uninhabited. I’ve been burning a signal fire every day, and haven’t seen a sign of another ship, of any description. That’s when I decided to try to walk around a bit, and explore.”
Emma nodded. “Same thing, here. The wind blows all the time, really hard, but we kept a fire going for over a week, every night, and we’ve still got a big bonfire set up on the beach, in case we see anything, but…” Her voice trailed off. “Do you think we’ll ever be found?”
He smiled. “Oh, I should think so, eventually. It’s a smaller world than it used to be. It hasn’t really been all that long, and this island isn’t not so bad, except for the lack of fresh water, of which I’m afraid we’ll be getting a great deal more fairly soon—more than we’ll like, probably. The monsoon season’s about due, I should think.”
Meredith groaned. “Monsoon? Damn it! I told you things would get worse, Emma!” She paused for a moment. “So, what’s a monsoon?”
McLean explained monsoons, then shaded his eyes and looked out over the ocean. “How have you found the fishing?”
Emma shook her head. “We’re not very good at it. We see lots of fish, but it’s not that easy spearing them. We’ve also seen a few sharks, so wading out too far is sort of scary. I tried using a line from the beach, but I haven’t caught a single fish even when I used some of our precious rat meat for bait.”
“Ah, yes!” McLean exclaimed. “Rat meat, the choice of shipwrecked gourmets everywhere. I’ve consumed rather a lot of the filthy buggers, myself.”
“We’re turning into unwilling vegetarians,” Emma said, laughing. “Now that the rats have gone into hiding.”
“It’s the fruit,” he explained. “They go deeper in the trees, there, for the fruit.”
“Fruit!” the two women yelled at almost the same time. “What fruit?”
He smiled. “I very much doubt it’s the sort of fruit you’d want to eat it.”
“Try us,” Emma replied. “We’ve eaten things these last few months I don’t even like to think about.”
“This particular item smells as though it’s rotted,” McLean explained, “but the rats appear to thrive on it.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “I know the plant you mean. I’ve seen it—and smelled it! He’s right, Merrie. Stick to the seaweed and coconuts. And thank heavens for the coconuts!”
Meredith explained. “Emma is our leader, sort of. She does the hunting and cooking and things like that. I’m the … I don’t know, the class clown, maybe, or the village idiot?”
She winked at McLean, tossed her lovely hair back, and flashed him a dazzling smile.
Emma wiped a smear of mud from her face, and tried to push her own snarled hair from her face. “Yeah, well, as you can see, Merrie’s obviously the more decorative. If this were a rerun of Gilligan’s Island, I give you one guess who’d be Ginger.” She laughed self-consciously, and changed the subject quickly. “Would you say this side of the island is better, or the other side—for survival, I mean?”
He looked around the clearing, and then at the simple shelter Emma had built almost single-handedly of leaves and palm fronds. “About the same, although this side appears to be a tad better protected from the wind, and there seems to be a good supply of building materials. I noticed as I came up the beach that there’s a stone outcropping, sort of a ledge up there that would be a good spot for a signal fire, if we can cut a pathway up to it. That’s assuming you ladies wouldn’t object to my staying.”
“Can you cook?” Meredith asked plaintively.
“Not especially well, I’m afraid.”
“Merrie doesn’t like my cooking,” Emma grinned. “I’m working on a rat cook book, though. I’ll call it 1000 Nutritious Thinks to Do With Rat Meat. Did you say you had a boat, by the way?”
“Had is the correct word. The rats have almost finished it off.”
“I hate rats,” Meredith whined.
Emma rolled her eyes heavenward. “Does that mean I can have your share of the next one?”
“If you don’t mind a suggestion,” McLean interceded, before the threatening quarrel erupted, “I think we should do something about your shelter. It seems a bit on the flimsy side.”
Emma gave the side of the shelter a small tap and watched as it leaned precariously. “You think?”
* * *
Several miles away, on the opposite side of the island, Jack and Robin were celebrating their third week on the island with a quarrel of their own, brought on when Jack’s newly improved lean-to, (expanded now to what might properly be called a hut) collapsed due to some unforeseen engineering flaw. The collapse left Jack with a deep, bleeding cut on his left thigh, and Robin doubled over with laughter. He was still applying wet seaweed to the wound when she made an obscene remark about his carpentry skills and walked away. Jack followed her down the beach, and apprehended her after only a hundred yards. Suspecting that something disagreeable was about to happen, Robin threw a large coconut at his head, and luckily (for her as well as him) missed her target entirely.
Jack’s actual plan, if it could be called that, had been to administer a quick three or four open-handed swats to Robin’s backside in payment for the disrespect, but he took the coconut whizzing past his ear as an act of war, and responded in kind by dumping her across the trunk of an uprooted palm-tree and pulling down her tattered shorts. Whipping off his belt and doubling it in one hand, he gave vent to the simmering anger that had been building for three weeks. It was the second time since they had been shipwrecked together that Robin had pushed Jack Garrison’s usual good-humor to the limit. It was the first time, however, that she had felt a belt across her backside.
In her humiliating position, upended over the downed palm tree, Robin could do little to help herself, other than keeping both hands on the ground to keep from being dumped on her head. He was holding her by one ankle, and the swats were landing on some very vulnerable areas with a dull thudding thwack sound that didn’t sound anywhere near as important or as painful the blows felt. She lay there with her teeth gritted and gasping for breath as the belt striped both cheeks, the backs of her thighs, and occasionally—when an unfavorable gust of wind happened by—between her opened legs. Each time this happened, Robin cursed the wind and Jack with equal fervor, and with equal result. Neither one cared, or listened.
“You sonuvabitch pervert!” she wailed, as a whimsical gust of wind allowed the belt to bite deftly between the previously untouched crevice of her scorched cheeks. “Ow! Stop! OW! OH! Damn IT! OWW!”
He pulled her up, gave her right cheek one final open-handed smack, and then watched with undisguised pleasure as she grabbed at her beet-red buttocks and blasted him with another volley of obscenities.
“Sticks and stones,” he said mildly, when she had apparently exhausted her vocabulary of expletives. “Now, I’m going back to The House That Jack Built and rethink my design problem. If you get your well-spanked ass up there and help me put it back up again, and if you can keep a civil tongue in your foul mouth, you can sleep there tonight in the bunk that Jack also built—with no help from you.”
“I’d rather sleep in the fucking gutter!” she snarled.
“If you can find one, go for it,” he said. “Just keep an eye out for those big brown snakes. Five minutes, and it’s all over, I understand. A quick death, but agonizing.” He slipped his belt back through its frayed loops, and walked away up the beach, leaving Robin with her shorts around her ankles, and her backside ablaze.
They ate dinner in silence, and went to bed. The next morning, Robin came out t
o find Jack again studying the mountain that rose behind them.
“Tell me you’re not still thinking about that stupid expedition of yours,” she grumbled.
Jack shook his head. “I’d like to get a look at the other side of the island.”
“Why the hell would you do something that dumb?” she asked. “It’s probably exactly like this side.”
“Not exactly,” he said affably. “It wouldn’t have you, for instance.”
“Very funny. With your luck, you’ll probably find a tribe of cannibals. On second thought,” she said sweetly, “you should go. The walk would do you good. Maybe even improve your disposition.”
“And how will you survive while I’m gone?” he asked pointedly. “Call for a pizza every night?”
Robin picked up one of the sharpened sticks he had made for fishing, and walked off toward the water. “I’ll do just fine, thank you. I’m going for a swim in the lagoon, and try my luck at fishing.”
“No you’re not,” he said, grabbing for her elbow.
“Why not?”
“Too many guys already in the pool,” he said. “Sharks.”
“I’ve never seen a shark in the lagoon,” she scoffed.
“I saw one in there the other day—small, but he just might have an older brother somewhere. The problem is, they can get into the lagoon fast, and get back out just as fast. You won’t get much warning.”
She yawned. “I read that sharks really only like seals, and only eat people by mistake.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t risk that theory, if I were you. Given a choice, of course, I’d rather be eaten on purpose than by mistake. Seems like a more worthwhile way to go. You know, rather than being nibbled at and spat out, like someone sampling grapes at the supermarket? On the other hand, if the shark only gets one leg, you can always fix yourself up with an eye-patch and a parrot and get a job at Disney World at Pirates of the Caribbean?”
Robin smirked. “Not funny, as usual. Your problem is you’re a rotten fisherman, and you’d rather eat rats than take a little risk. All you’ve caught so far is those nasty little silver things you dry out and then try to force on me. Well, I’m hungry, and I’m not afraid of sharks.
“They’re hungry, too,” he observed, taking the stick from her hand and slapping it in his palm menacingly. “One last time. Stay out of the lagoon.”
“Is that an order, Captain Bligh?” she shouted after him as he walked away.
He grinned. “Yes it is, and since we’re in a nautical mode, here, try imagining the feel of a cat o’ nine tails across your own tail before you put that first toe in that lagoon. It could save your life, to say nothing of another blistered butt. I hate to tell you this, but after yesterday, yours looks like it could use a few days’ rest.”
Robin stuck her tongue out at his departing back, and dropped to the sand on her rear end before she gave a thought to the consequences. With a yelp, she jumped back up quickly.
“Shit!” she groaned, rubbing her still-tender cheeks. When she glanced over at the emerald green lagoon, the cool water seemed to beckon to her, sparkling in the brilliant sun. Only the sting in her backside led her to decide against a swim. Instead, she wandered down to the tide pools by the rocks to check what edible wildlife might have washed up. Yesterday, when she found two sea urchins, she had scooped them up on a palm frond and thrown them back in the lagoon, disgusted by their appearance, and a little afraid of touching them. Still, she knew that the Japanese ate sea urchins, and apparently loved them. Anyone who could design and build all those Toyotas and Hondas couldn’t be too dumb, right?
Two minutes later, Robin sprinted up the beach to the hut, whooping triumphantly. When Jack came out to see what the shouting was about, she proudly held up the twelve-inch black ray she had found in the shallows.
“We eat!” she gloated. Jack grinned, and to her amazement, kissed her on the forehead.
While Jack worked at getting a fire started, Robin held her nose and gutted the ray, then skewered it on a sharp stick and waited for the fire.
“Seeing you do that is like magic,” she commented, watching as he spun the spindle-like device on a stone until the dried moss at the spindle’s tip began to smoke, and then bloom into a tiny flame.
Jack thrust the burning moss beneath a small pile of kindling, and when it was burning well, added more wood. “Weren’t you ever a girl scout?” he asked, poking the fire and reaching for the prepared fish.
“I was a Brownie for a year,” she said, “but all we ever did was make Indian tepees out of paper cups and tempera paint. If you ever need an Iroquois village, though, I’m your girl.”
As they tore the cooked ray apart and devoured it greedily, Robin pointed to the last morsel she was about to eat. “Rays and sharks are like the same family, aren’t they?”
Jack looked at her suspiciously. “Yeah. And?”
“Well, then, if I were to catch a shark, just a medium-sized one, it would be like a banquet, right?” she asked.
He grinned. “Before or after the world-record spanking?”
She ignored him, and drew a quick sketch in the sand. “We could trap it, like in a net.”
“Good idea. Right after dinner, I’ll run over to the Bass Pro Shop and charge a couple to my Visa. Any preferences as to color?”
Robin licked her fingers. “Well, anyway,” she said, ignoring the sarcasm, “I think it’s a good idea.”
“I think you need to come with me when I go exploring,” he said.
“You don’t trust me?” she asked sweetly.
“I don’t trust you, and I don’t want to be stuck taking care of a one legged woman until we get off this island. You’re a big enough pain the way you are. Besides, I don’t do bedpans.”
“Why is it you think you have to take care of me?” she asked, and before he could answer, she added a second question. “And who gave you the right to make the rules around here?”
“I read once that once you’ve save a person’s life, that life belongs to you,” he explained. “It’s your responsibility, forever. And the reason I get to make the rules is because I’m bigger than you, stronger than you, and because—unlike you—I do my best not to be an idiot.”
“That’s not fair,” she said sullenly.
“Nope, it sure isn’t. Now, let’s get to bed. I’m thinking of leaving tomorrow—for the other side of the island, and it’s going to be a hell of a hike up that mountain.”
“I keep telling you,” she insisted, “ I am not going!”
Jack smiled. “You wouldn’t want to make a bet on that, would you?”
* * *
On the other side of the island, Emma and Andrew McLean were putting the finishing touches on their new, sturdier shelter. From her reclining position in the shade, Meredith promptly dubbed the structure The Hyatt Hovel.
“My backyard playhouse was bigger than that thing,” she complained, “when I was four.”
“I’m sure it was, “Emma said. “But you have to remember that we’re in a very upscale, beachfront neighborhood. Besides, who said you could sleep here. You didn’t lift a finger to help.”
“Why should I?” Meredith pouted. “With you manly men both on the job?” When Emma ignored the barb, looked away and said nothing in reply, McLean shot a stern look of warning in Meredith’s direction. Unfazed, Meredith merely checked her nails, frowning at their ragged condition.
“You and that young lady need to straighten things out,” McLean advised Emma, later.
“She has a very odd way of treating a friend.”
Emma flushed. “You can’t take Merrie too seriously. She always gets kind of bitchy when things go wrong. This has been hard on her.”
“It may well become a good deal harder,” he observed mildly.
Emma nodded, and hurried away to do something else, then sat and surreptitiously watched McLean from a distance as he finished thatching the Hovel’s newly-installed roof. He was a very good-looking man, tall, tanned,
and in excellent condition, and bore a remarkable resemblance to another Scot, actor Sean Connery—when Connery was younger. Her guess was that Andrew McLean was close to fifty, with his hair going white at the temples. His short gray beard was turning white around the edges, as well, but even here, he always managed to keep it neatly trimmed.
It flustered Emma to think this way about a man she hardly knew, and embarrassed her, as well. Andrew McLean was probably close to twenty years her senior, and in all likelihood, married with kids—maybe grandchildren. In any case, he probably wouldn’t find her especially appealing—not when she was standing next to Meredith, anyway. Emma looked down at her bitten nails, scratched at an already badly scratched bug-bite on her leg, and sighed. Lovely.
Annoyed with herself for daydreaming about a man she’d just met, Emma got up and wandered over to Meredith, who was sulking on the beach, at the water’s edge.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” Meredith apologized. “It was mean.”
“That’s all right, Merrie,” Emma lied. “It didn’t bother me.”
“I know you can take a joke, “ Meredith sulked, “but did you see the way he looked at me? You’d think I’d run over his damned dog. It’s kind of a shame, really. He’s sort of cute, don’t you think?”
Emma’s heart sank. “Cute?”
“Well, you know, for an old guy, like that? I don’t usually like guys with beards, but on him, it’s not bad. God! I must be bored out of my skull to even be thinking like this, huh?”
Emma nodded dismally. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, it’s easy for you, Emma,” Meredith explained. “You’re never interested in a guy unless he’s some computer nerd with thick glasses and a ketchup stain on his shirt. And then you always screw it up by being too nice. Listen to mother, and take notes. Real men like women who give them trouble. It keeps things interesting.”
“And I’m boring, right?”
“Not boring, exactly, more like … Listen, hon, you want me to be honest, don’t you?”
Emma sighed. “Not really.”
“Well, someone needs to. You’re like a damned doormat around men, and that’s the honest truth!” She hesitated for a moment. “You could do something about your … Well, about the way you look.”
