The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  Poor girl, she thought, and then she left her, that native child, to her do-it-yourself purgatory.

  * * *

  It had been night on The Three Sirens for several hours, and Marc Hayden, returning to the village, was conscious that he was late for his final appointment on the island. When, from the sloping path, he could make out the basket silhouette of the Social Aid Hut directly below, he sagged with relief at having found his way and because what he had done until now had been done so well.

  Descending to the village, in the direction of his Tehura’s dwelling, he enjoyed a sense of well-being. It was as if, with each step, he was shedding one more hampering coat of his chrysalis. Soon he would be free, and in full flight.

  He was pleased with himself, with the way he had handled his last afternoon and evening. After hiding what Rex Garrity called the “single piece of corroborating evidence, that is, evidence that The Three Sirens exists and is what you say it is,” after covering it with brush, Marc had slipped into Tehura’s empty hut and partaken of a filling meal that would carry him until nightfall. When he was certain that he could not be seen, he had removed himself from her hut and any chance meeting with wife or team members by taking one of the few trails out of the village that he had traveled before. He had gone up the rise behind the Social Aid Hut until he arrived at the clearing where he and Tehura, as anthropologist and informant, had spent so many hours. After resting in the shade, he had strayed onward until he recognized the scene of his swimming fiasco, where surely no member of his group would venture on an ordinary working day.

  In the curb of harbor, below the cliff, he had seen several young native men preparing to launch their long canoes. Believing that he recognized Moreturi among them, he had made his way carefully down the ladder of rock (conscious, briefly, that here he had committed his foul on Huatoro and here, plainly, shown the extent of his love for Tehura). At last, he reached the curved bow of water. The natives had proved to be fishermen, and their leader was, indeed, none other than Moreturi.

  Much as Marc detested this one in particular, and all the natives in general, he saw the meeting could provide a means of escaping introspection. As he had expected, he was invited to join in the netting of albacore in deeper waters, and gratefully, he went along. He had offered his hand at the paddles, and his volunteering this, and subsequent amiability, had surprised Moreturi and pleased the others. The long dugout had been filled with the catch, and by the time they had returned to the shore, it was evening.

  Refreshed by his excursion on the water, Marc had followed the natives up the terraced rock. At the summit, one who had gone ahead of the others had prepared a bonfire. Then five or six of them had stayed on the cliff, and sat around the glowing coals, while fish and sweet potatoes roasted. Marc could not remember when he had savored a dinner more. Through the eating, the natives, as a courtesy to their visitor, had limited their conversations to English. There had been some discussion of the sea, and tales told of the exploits of ancestors. By adroitly leading Moreturi on, Marc had got a vague idea of the position of The Three Sirens in relation to other unnamed nearby islands. What he sought to confirm, and had had confirmed to his total satisfaction, was Tehura’s claim of an island two days and one night away. His confidence in Poma’s brother, the sailor-idiot Mataro, had been bolstered. The escape, he had decided, would present no problems.

  Because of his private plans, Marc, thanking the natives profusely, had left them while they still ate around the fire. The trip back to the village, because of the darkness, had taken twice as long. When he had come upon the clearing that he and Tehura had often used, he felt more secure. In that place, for some length of time, he sprawled and rested, dreaming of the glories that were ahead.

  Lying there, scanning the starry sky above, the immense and scornful roof that had seen so much of weakness, failure, folly, it gave him satisfaction again that he would not be one of the planet’s tramped-down ants. One death fear had always possessed him, that he would make this single passage on earth beneath that sky without achieving distinction. His inarticulated constant prayer had been that he not live and die a mere digit, one of so many statistical digits expiring on earth every new second. To leave this place and time so casually, remembered only as “the son of the eminent” and survived by others as anonymous as he, remembered by only a few friends who would themselves go soon, marked in time by only a few pitiful paid-for obituaries and chiseled engravings on a rock tablet, this had been the terror that haunted him. Now, by sheer strength of character, he had changed all of that. Henceforth, the world would know him as an artistocrat, crowned by celebrity, and thousands and thousands would mourn his passing, and columns would be studded with his pictures and praise of his accomplishments, and he would be alive as long as there were men on earth. Good-by, he thought, good-by old writ on water.

  Ah, how good he felt this night.

  Then it was that his soaring mind came down to more earthly rewards. One immediate reward was minor, the other major. The minor one was that, after tomorrow, he could abandon anthropology forever. He had gone into it while living under a tyranny. There had been no free and open ballot. A son of Adley and Maud Hayden could have only one party to join, one way to vote. Nine years before, he had received his B.A., and had gone thereafter into the field for a year. This trip was followed by the two years of graduate seminars needed for his doctorate. The field trip with Adley and Maud had been the worst period. He had been in the field with his parents earlier, as a child, but even as an adult fortified with a B.A., the earlier terror haunted him. In the remote high Andes (his parents’ second visit there, to accommodate him), cut off from civilization, every fiber of his being had resisted the isolation. He had been obsessed by the possibility of an accident, to himself or to his parents. If it happened to him, he would be left behind. If it happened to them, he would be left alone. He had never fully shaken off these fears, and he dreaded a life in which this periodic isolation was required for advancement. He dreaded it almost as much as he detested a life wasted upon the anonymity of teaching a roomful of nobodys for the possible recompense of—maybe someday—twenty thousand dollars a year.

  Now, that terror was exorcised. Enjoying this minor reward, he could also enjoy the major one so near at hand. He conjured up the person of Tehura, whom he had come to know and would soon see. He imagined their reunion. She had promised him herself this night. What had so long been elusive would be his to possess, to possess tonight and for all the nights that he wished it. He envisioned her both as she was, and as he had not yet seen her, his stripped vessel, and the vividness of what he saw so stimulated him, that he roused himself from his rest, and resumed his journey to the village.

  It was almost ten o’clock in the evening when he passed the outskirts of the village compound. Except for a few natives strolling in the distance, none of the enemy was in sight. Cautiously, he traversed the area deep beneath the overhang. By counting off the huts, so alike, as he progressed behind them, he was able to locate Tehura’s residence in the darkness. He could see the yellow illumination behind the shuttered windows. Nothing had gone wrong. His woman was waiting.

  There was one last act before joining her. He burrowed into the tangled foliage, parting the bushes, uncovering his cache, until he had both knapsack and bundle of film. Shouldering one, carrying the other, he moved speedily to Tehura’s door, and without knocking, he went inside.

  It was a moment before he could see her. She was seated lazily in a shadowed corner of the front room, outside of the circle of burning candlenut lights. She was as provocative as ever, bare-breasted, barelegged, wearing only the short grass skirt, and now, he saw, a lovely white hibiscus in her black hair. She was reposeful, sipping liquid from a half-shell.

  “I was worried, Marc,” she said. “You are late.”

  He dropped his knapsack and bundle of film beside the stone idol near the door. “I was in hiding,” he said. “I was far from the village. It took time
to get back in the dark.”

  “Anyway, you are here. I am pleased.”

  “Is there any more news?”

  “None. The arrangements are made. Poma’s brother will be waiting on the far beach with his outrigger. He will expect us to be there just as the tomorrow’s light comes. Soon, we will go. We will be far and safe before we are missed.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “We will leave the village at midnight. Everyone will be asleep. We will go behind the huts to the other side, and take the long path by which you first came here.”

  “Isn’t there a shorter route?”

  “Yes, but bad in the night. The long way is easier and more certain.”

  “Fine.”

  “We have two hours, Marc,” she said. “Let us drink to a safe journey. And let us nap a short time to be strong.” She offered her half-shell. “Have some of our palm juice. I have just begun.”

  “Thanks, Tehura,” he said, “but not enough kick. I have a couple of pints of Scotch in my sack. That’ll go down better.”

  He opened his knapsack and tugged free a bottle. With a twist, he unscrewed the cap, brought the bottle to his mouth, and took three swallows. The whiskey burned his throat, and fanned hotly through his chest, and was followed by the soothing afterwave of delivery from self.

  “What did you do today?” he asked.

  “Saw my kin family. It was for farewell, but they did not know it.”

  “Did you see Huatoro?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Courtney?”

  “No. Why do you ask? What is in your head?”

  These first drinks always made him uncommonly suspicious and aggressive. He must watch himself. He swallowed from the bottle again, and said, “Nothing is in my head. I just wondered about the people you saw the last time around. Did you see anyone else?”

  “Poma, to be certain everything was ready.”

  “And that was all?”

  She hesitated, then said emphatically, “No one else but you.”

  “Good.”

  “Who have you seen?” she demanded in turn.

  “Since I left my wife this morning, no one. Except, this afternoon, I went fishing with some of your friends. Moreturi, and several others.” The whiskey had crept up behind his eyes, and he squeezed them to bring her into focus. “You packed?”

  “Very little to take. It is in the other room.”

  “Tehura, where we’re going, you can’t go around like that.”

  “I know, Marc. I have learned. I have packed my binding for here—” She touched her breasts. “—and my long tapa skirts, the ones for ceremonies.”

  He was gulping down whiskey once more. The bottle was almost empty. He set it on the floor, and considered her. “Not that I mind you as you are. You’re beautiful tonight, Tehura.”

  “Thank you.”

  He went to her, waiting until she had finished with the half-shell and removed it from her lips. He lowered himself beside her, and encircled her naked back with his arm. “I’m in love with you, Tehura.”

  She nodded, and looked into his face.

  His other hand went to her breasts, and slowly, he began to stroke them, the curve of one, and then the other.

  “I want you, Tehura, right now. I want to begin our love tonight.”

  “Not tonight,” she said, but she did not remove his hand.

  “You promised me.”

  “There is not enough time,” she said.

  “There’s more than an hour.”

  She peered at him strangely. “That is not enough time for love.”

  “It is more than enough time.”

  “Not enough in my country,” she persisted.

  He laughed without conviction, but felt the fire of the whiskey in his shoulders and groin. “That’s big talk for a little girl.”

  “I do not know what you mean, Marc.”

  “I mean love is love, and you do it when you feel like it. I feel like it now. I’m sure you do. We’ll have time to rest a little afterwards, and then we can go. Look, Tehura, you said we would—”

  “I said we would,” she agreed flatly.

  “I want you here just once. I’ve got it bad.”

  Her smooth young face had been stoical. Suddenly, examining his, it reflected a small curiosity. “Yes,” she said, “we will make love.” With that, she removed his hand from her bosom, and stood up. “In the back room,” she said. “It is better.”

  She went into the rear room. Eagerly, Marc came to his feet, then halted, detoured to his bottle, finished the last of the whiskey, and entered the back room. In the darkness, he could make her out in the middle of the room, still with the flower in her hair and the grass skirt around her torso.

  “Let’s have at least one light here,” he said. “I want to see you.”

  He handed her his matches, and she struck one, and lighted a wick that had been set in a container of coconut oil. The illumination was low, unsteady, but it overcame all but the deepest shadows.

  As she remained standing in the center of the room, he studied her figure possessively. With rising desire, he unbuttoned and discarded his sport shirt. Next, he pulled off his shoes and socks. Watching her, in her immobility, he unbuckled his belt, let his trousers drop, and kicked them aside. Now, he wore only his white jock shorts. He pulled himself to his full height, having pride in the athletic hardness of his body and his obvious virility.

  “You look like one of us,” she said.

  “You’ll find me better,” he said, smelling the fumes of his own whiskey. “I’m better for you, Tehura.”

  He moved swiftly to her, wanting to bring her down fast, and took her into his arms and pressed his lips against her mouth. He worked fiercely at her mouth, until it was open, and then he tried to use his tongue, but from the way her head swerved, he sensed that this was repugnant to her. His hands were upon her breasts, caressing them, waiting for the telltale sharpness of the nipples. The nipples remained flaccid, and she remained passive.

  He paused, and demanded crossly of her, “What’s wrong?”

  Her arm snaked around him, and upwards, playing with his hair. “Marc,” she said softly, “I have told you that I do not know of kissing, and the breast play does not arouse me. There are other parts to caress, after the dance.”

  Desire had so consumed him, that he found it almost impossible to speak. “Dance?”

  “You will see.” She disengaged herself. “Let us both be naked and dance close; do as I do, and we will both be in passion.”

  He nodded silently, pulled down his jock shorts, threw them away, and straightened. She was taking the flower from her hair, loosening her hair, when she saw him. She smiled. “Our men are not so hairy,” she said.

  He vibrated with the wanting of her, but waited, for she was untying the band of her skirt. She had freed it, and suddenly, she opened the skirt, drew it off her body, and flung it against the wall. “There.” she said. “We are as we should be.”

  He stared at what he had not seen before, and was overcome by the magnificent sheath of her brown skin, all a flawless texture, top to bottom, head to toe.

  She was holding out her arms. “Come, Marc, the love dance.”

  Dazed, he went into her arms, while he embraced her, he felt her arms go around his back, and her fingers play down to his buttocks. He felt her breasts tormenting his chest, and her sweet insinuating voice humming in his ear, and then the slow gyrating of her hips as her large thighs touched his and moved away and touched his again. “Do as I do. Marc,” she whispered, and hummed again, and sensuously, she revolved her hips toward him and away, toward him and away. Instinctively, he imitated her motions, and gradually, he realized that her nipples were hard against his chest.

  “Goddammit, honey, let’s—” he tried to pull her toward the pile of matting that was her bed, but she resisted.

  “No. Marc, we are only beginning. This, and caresses, and after that—”

  “No!�
� he shouted, and with his entire strength, his fingers vises on her arms, he lifted her off her feet, and dumped her on the bedding.

  She tried to sit up. “Marc, wait—”

  “I’m ready and so are you, and stop the tease, dammit, I’ve had enough of it.”

  He shoved her on her back, and laid both of his hands on her thighs.

  “Please, Marc—” she protested.

  “You’ll love me,” he said angrily, and without another word, he entered her.

  She resigned herself to the act at once. “Yes, Marc, I want to be like you. Love me well, and I will love you.”

  There was little grace or finesse in his movement. Frenziedly, he pounded at her, as if she were an inanimate mound of flesh.

  “Marc, Marc, Marc,” she kept calling into his ear, “let us love.” He had no idea what she meant, and did not care, for she was not there, and he continued to punish her with all his power.

  She tried and tried, but he had no interest in her skill. Her hands were inside his thighs, massaging them, and her fingers pressed firmly over his perineum, so that his virility grew. She was swinging her hips now in wide, rounding rotary motions, as in her erotic dance, and he was despising her for what was happening.

  “Another position, Marc,” she was calling into his ear. “It is our way—many positions—better—”

  “Shut up,” he groaned.

  He mounted high, and then down and down, and felt all his strength and maleness seep out of him, and he flattened upon her like a great gas balloon suddenly deflated.

  “Whew,” he said, rolling off her and to his side, “that was something.”

  She was watching him with bewilderment. “No more?” she asked.

  “No more what?”

  “It was only a few minutes,” she pleaded, “there must be more, more strength from you, or when you are weak, more love after.”

  He felt his face reddening. Another Claire, the bitch. The world was full of Claires, the bitches. “What the hell are you complaining about?” he demanded. “That was the best humping you ever got, and you know it. You were squealing in my ear every minute. You enjoyed it.”