by Ryder Stacy
In sunny weather, they headed on—not toward the fresh water island—for they had found that the tubular seaweed they exploded contained ample fresh water, which they drained into barrels. Instead, they limped toward Rarapani once more. As they sailed away from the seaweed, Rockson resumed his solitary night watch on deck. He thought a lot about the poor blind scurrying wretches aboard the Nimitz—one of the saddest post-nuke races he’d ever encountered! There must have been women sailors on the Nimitz to procreate. Then the odd seafood, isolation, radiation—all had combined to leave their great grandchildren the warped, frightened creatures that they were. The journey weighed heavily on him. The Rock team had gone through a lot already: one ship and all hands probably lost, three of their own crew dead, and they hadn’t even reached their first stop. Maybe this time the cards were stacked in Killov’s favor.
By the seventh day after leaving the “Sargasso,” they had less than a hundred knots to go if Rockson’s calculation were correct. He was using the sextant to take bearings on the sun and stars, while Murf was plotting their course on the old carrier’s charts. Plus he verified the readings with the battered gyro-compass.
There was a squall on the eighth day, but the restored and fortified Muscle Beach made it through handily. They even rigged a small second sail, thus taking advantage of the gusty winds to get ahead. When the clouds broke before dawn on the ninth day, Rock was gratified that they had kept on course. They passed a little island called Atu-mara according to the ancient maps, confirming their good course.
The tenth day was utterly still, and they were becalmed. They used the partially functioning solar-power converter to make a few knots an hour. At dusk they saw two odd, brown cumulus clouds on the starboard horizon.
“What do you make of that?” asked Rockson, handing the scope to Murf.
Murf replied, “Well, it could be the smoke of Rarapani’s twin volcanos. Or that could be a bad storm brewing dead ahead.”
“Yeah,” said Rock, cynically. “In which case we’d better tack away.”
“Your decision, Rockson,” Murf said.
After a few minutes of trying to get a feeling—danger or not—from his mutant senses, Rock announced, “Let’s take a heading toward the clouds.”
In an hour they were rewarded with the shout of “Land-ho!”
“You sure, Archer?”
In his best tremulous bass voice, Archer said, “MMMEEE SUURRE!”
“Yes, it’s definitely the twin volcanos,” said Murf, climbing up onto the rigging next to Archer. “Congratulations, Rockson, you’re right on course!”
“The congrats are for me and you Murf. The way you and I work, we should open a navigation school!”
They tacked their boat in toward the palm-covered shore. Soon they spotted a dozen war canoes with huge dragon-carved bowsprits heading their way. The telescope revealed the canoes’ crews: comely maidens, bare chested and vigorously rowing.
“We’re here—Rarapani,” Murf exclaimed happily.
“Better than that,” said Rockson. He had swept the telescope along the palmy atoll. “There’s the Surf City—safe and sound in the harbor! Both her masts are intact . . . and look—she’s firing up a welcome flare!”
“Ahoy!” came a muffled shout from the lead canoe. “Request permission to board.”
Murf took the scope. “My God, it’s Manny! He’s with the natives!”
The bulky Manny, now quite a bit trimmed down by the ardure of the voyage, was the first to board the Muscle Beach. He excitedly greeted one and all. Manny had thought all hands on the Muscle Beach were lost!
Murf explained about the three crew members lost, and then about the seaweed sea. They broke open some beers Manny had brought along and drank toasts for each of the departed.
“How long have you been here, Manny?” Rock asked.
“Three days. The natives are, well, spectacularly friendly. Especially the women, as Murf said.”
The war canoes were all pulled alongside now, and up the ropes came Murf’s special girl, Mirani, who threw herself at him passionately. They excused themselves for a bit in the below-deck privacy.
Rockson, Knudson and the other men got into the canoes with the giggling island girls and headed for the beach, their necks strewn with leis. On shore, Rockson saw that there were men on this island, too, but many less than women. The men wore short-cropped hair, had wavy dot-pattern tattoos and were muscular and deeply tanned. They each carried something that looked like a combination small boat paddle and bludgeon of heavy carved wood. A formidable weapon, but not against Soviet bullets.
Murf explained, “The Reds wiped out more than half of their menfolk. There’s a shortage of men on the island—all the more reason we’re welcome.”
Suddenly all the islanders parted way. A tall figure approached, masked in multicolor feathers. Her long jet-black hair was arranged in a halo of a hundred pigtails, tied with tiny shells and feathers. She wore a jacket of blue cowries and beads. Only by her shapely legs and her gait did Rock know for sure she was a woman.
The masked woman came over to Rock and tentatively touched the white streak in his hair. He felt a sudden electricity as he let the strange creature do so.
“Pretty, pretty. I like,” she said.
Rockson had been told that the natives spoke pidgin English and was please to have it verified.
“I like you eyes,” she said. She lifted one of her several shell necklaces over her head and placed it on the Doomsday Warrior. Then she left them, disappearing in the foliage.
“Ho, Rockson!” Murf laughed, “I think you’re being pursued already.” Rockson and the other men each had several girls clustered around them as they crossed the beach toward several large thatched huts arranged among the palms. In front of the huts, elderly people in blue flower-pattern sarongs were beating drums of welcome.
“WHOOOOO IS THHHATT?” Archer pointed with much excitement. His enthusiasm was usually reserved for food, but Rockson, following his gaze, saw an immense rolly-polly native woman crashing through the grass.
“That’s Hohanna,” said Murf. “Just your size, isn’t she?”
“MEEE LIKE!”
Rock winked when he caught Murf’s eyes. Archer stepped forward from the group of men and stared at Hohanna, who froze in her tracks and smiled shyly at him in return.
“My God,” said Murf, “they’re both petrified pink at the sight of one another. They’re—stupefied.”
“Mesmerized maybe is a better word,” Rock added. “I think it’s love at first sight.”
Later, as twilight set in, a large, succulent island boar was turned over a roaring campfire. A feast had been laid out in the village of thatch huts and longhouses for the adventurers. Archer and many of the other men had paired off with native girls. The mountain man had the seat of honor next to Chief Umauu because the chief’s oldest daughter, Hohanna, was sweet on him.
“See,” Murf said, slavering down a dollop of poi, “Hohanna feeds Arch from her own bowl!”
Rockson worried. “He won’t run into any sex taboo or something, will he Detroit?”
“Hell no,” said the team anthropologist, who sat next to Rock on his other side opposite Murf, “the native women are free and easy about such things. They’ve thrown off more than the bras that the missionaries foisted on them! They’ve restored their nature gods and destroyed the churches and the sex taboos of western man. I’ve been asking questions,” Detroit continued, between bites of hot pork ribs, “and discovered a lot. For instance, they call the nuclear war ‘when-the-western-god-turned-on-the-white-man.’ The natives, being so isolated, were not killed, though they heard much of the world was gone. They concluded their saviors were their gods-of-old. So we’re back to the way things used to be on this island and all over the Pacific—pure Polynesian!”
Rockson, when Murf pointed, turned to see Archer being trained to eat lobster correctly by Hohanna. “He usually eats the shells. It makes a horrible noise.” R
ock laughed. “Maybe she’ll tame him.”
The food was delicious and plentiful, but Rockson soon put it down. A beautiful creature—the epitome of female Polynesian beauty—came ambling toward them. “Who is that?” Rock exclaimed.
“That’s Leilani again, Rock,” Murf said. “You know, the feathery one that likes your hair?”
The saronged beauty squatted down in front of Rockson on the colorful blankets, amidst the fruit and meat plates. She smiled and started feeding him pieces of sweet-baked breadfruit.
“Leilani,” encouraged Murf, “is just your type, don’t you think, Rock?”
Rock’s heart pounded as he stared. The legs were the same. She had brushed back that tangle of black hair into a silky bun, tied with sea fronds, and removed the feather coat. He beheld true beauty, beauty which didn’t stop at the figure, like most of the island girls. Leilani had a beautiful face, too!
He took a morsel of meat from her tan outstretched fingers, and she smiled a perfect white-toothed grin.
“Gonna be fun for you tonight,” Chen said, mockingly.
Rock nodded, mesmerized by the dark doe-eyes of the island woman.
Seven
Murf told him he could expect the beautiful Leilani’s visit, but Rock, to his great surprise, had a night of uninterrupted sleep in his small hut. Over a breakfast of ship’s-store coffee and fried breadfruit, the other men boasted of various nocturnal pleasure visits by the island girls. Rock was silent.
Detroit called him aside, explaining, “Rock, your girl Leilani—she’s—well, I found out she’s a high-priestess . . .”
“So?”
“So she’s—a virgin, Rock. And has to remain so. Don’t mess with the local customs, that’s Century City’s prime order you know.”
Rock frowned but nodded. So that was it!
Detroit said, “Murf tells me the chief wants us to wait for the propitious day tomorrow before talking business. Today we’re supposed to enjoy.”
Leilani showed up to “help Rock eat” lunch, and then they went down to a lonely part of the beach to swim. They stripped off their clothing and stood looking out at the waves. Leilani had on a bikini-type bottom of some sort, made with beads and shells, and nothing else. Rock was very turned on. She said, “Surf not high on this side of island—and water no shark.”
He wanted to hold her to him but would not try. There was a very gentle childlike feeling coming from Leilani—not a sexual feeling. She was so damned innocent, he wouldn’t push it—yet. He brushed her hair back and said, “You shouldn’t hide your beauty.” He stared at her dark eyes and high-cheekboned Polynesian features. She pulled away, laughing, running into the crystal-clear water. “Want to get pretty shells,” she implored, “then you follow me! We make necklace at my hut.”
“Sounds good,” Rockson said, imagining seclusion with Leilani. Eagerly he dove into the lapping surf beside her.
They pushed down below the surface into a silent beautiful world of shimmering colored, mirror fish and corals. The bottom looked like a fantasy realm, too: beautiful mother-of-pearl, lustrous shells, castlelike coral. An undersea paradise.
She touched his arm and directed Rock’s attention to a particular bed of seashells. Oysters—large, colored-shelled oysters. They gathered some and broke for air, then gathered again, each time depositing their booty in a net bag that she tied to a driftwood log on the beach.
Once they had gathered enough, they went ashore. Rock broke open several oysters and slavered them down.
“Hey,” he exclaimed, biting into something hard. He pulled a black pearl—worth maybe ten thousand dollars—from his mouth.
“Throw away,” she said, “it bad. Most these oysters good taste but have bad things in them! Only thing black things good for is girl use for necklace.” She spat one out, making a face.
“Leilani,” Rock asked, “are there little black things like this in all these oysters?”
“So? Who need them, ’cept for necklaces. Coral make more pretty color necklace and bracelets—not so common!”
“These are rare and expensive in the outside world,” Rockson said. But after a while he too spat them out like Leilani did, leaving them on the pristine sands of the paradise beach.
Rockson was hot for Leilani, and he saw the same look in her eyes; but he was worried about the consequences for the mission if he let his control go.
Later, Rockson tracked down Murf at the chief’s house. “Take a walk with me,” he urged. As they walked on a jungle path Rock asked, “What else do you know about Leilani?”
Murf said, “Leilani is the priestess of the Cult of the Gnaa—a virgin chosen from one ‘pure’ family line. By pure I think they mean psychic. Leilani has to remain pure. Don’t push her, Rockson. She is one of the keys to getting help from the native chief. These natives are friendly, if you don’t abuse their beliefs and gods.”
“What’s this Gnaa?”
“That’s actually their name for the crystal weapon, Rockson. The natives worshipped it. Leilani was the priestess that performed rites at its site.”
“I see,” Rock said, thinking that Leilani could be a source of information about the crystal that he had to plumb.
Rock spent the evening with Leilani—hands off—attempting to draw her out about the Gnaa crystal. They spoke little, creating a silent empathy. They had an uncanny ability to sense one another’s thoughts. Rock had some ESP ability and was sure hers was far stronger. He could feel her desire, too, her warm femininity. He wished to hell she wasn’t a virgin priestess!
Rockson and Leilani walked the beautiful orchid-laden paths of the island, communing while the others repaired the Muscle Beach with the aid of the natives. He asked many questions.
Leilani explained her ESP. “I have what the island people call ‘knowing-of-what-is.’ My duties to the Gnaa were the pouring of ablutions on the set of shrines on Mother and Father Fire mountains.”
“Mother and Father Fire—oh, the volcanos.”
“Yes, the volcanos.”
“I want to see where the crystal—the Gnaa god—was located,” Rockson asked her. Her wide pupils shrank in fear.
“No, that place is taboo. Only I go to the sacred temple area. No man, no girl, can go there—taboo. Only Leilani go there—at round moon—and I then think on crystal, sit still, smell flowers. Then after hour, the power comes, the ‘knowing-of-what-is’ in my head—no explain possible. My mind of pure crystal glow like blue moonstone. The island rejoice, for I have power. I high priestess, I power-woman!”
Stopping, he held her arm. “Leilani, we can get the Gnaa god back—if you help. But I must go to where it was located before Killalowee came.”
After a long time, she sighed. “Killalowee already break taboo. Okay, you will see—but after purity water. You bathe in sacred fountain first, and I give you cowrie shells to adorn your head like Leilani has.”
Rock found himself being led to and immersed in a bubbling, warm blue lagoon under the full moon. She placed the cowrie crown on his black locks, and she smiled. “Now you sacred, too. Come to temple with me, Priest of Gnaa.”
He couldn’t help it. He moved to kiss her, and she obliged. “I like this thing you call kiss men do with other girls! I wish to lay down with you, too, but I am the Gnaa priestess. Pure . . .” She looked sad. “Come. Come.”
They set out for Mother Mountain in the moonlight, having dressed in white robes. Rockson, as they climbed, felt the gentle touch of Leilani’s mind on his. She climbed rapidly ahead, then waited for him, silhouetted in the windswept gossamer gown against the yellow moon—a vision glowing with untouched sensuality.
They were soon lost in the white mists of the barren pumice slope.
They reached a ledge about fifty feet wide. “The volcano is quiet now,” she said. “She likes you—accepts you.” She laughed as the Father Mountain belched a plume of smoke. “The Father-of-mine is less sure of you. Look—” She pointed to the lava flowing red on the far mountain.
“He will see you good,” Leilani encouraged and pulled him onward, even higher. Rock hoped she knew the path very well, for he could hardly see to walk.
They then came to an area with huge totemlike poles; the mossy terrain here was scarred with huge truck-tire gouges.
“This was sacred, beautiful,” she said, “but now much destruction.”
They moved on to a flagstoned area, and Rock stumbled on a copper cable. He found that it issued from the ground itself and ran to a circular, raised area of concrete. There he found more torn cables. It was just like in Murf’s sketch. Something big had been in the center of those clipped cables!
“This is where Gnaa—you call crystal—stood,” she lamented.
Rockson examined the cables. Where had the power come from? The ground— Of course! Geothermal source.
“Where’s the blockhouse, Leilani?”
“Over there.” She pointed higher. He saw a square shape silhouetted against the stars. “I’ll look at it next.”
“Wait, Rockson,” she pleaded. “Show me the kiss again, and I tell you something important.”
“I’m willing to be bribed,” he said, “for information.” He kissed her long and hard.
“Well?”
She smiled, “I can tell you where the Gnaa went!”
“Where?”
“Far—over there.” She pointed at the sea. “I have a feeling for crystal.” She stood, her hair streaming in the wind, her bare feet secure on the pumice. “It calls to me from that direction.”
Rockson carefully noted where she pointed. To the west, down the atoll’s reef. “Another island?”
“I feel yes,” she said, hesitantly. “It—the Gnaa—misses me.”
“This blockhouse—” Rock said again, “I must go in it and see what I can learn from any writings from the past inside. It could help me understand the Gnaa and its power.”
