by V. E. Ulett
When he pushed inside her, she was sure it would not work. The pain was such that she whimpered in spite of a resolution not to. Aloka immediately stopped his movements atop her.
“Should I...”
“No, darling.”
She could barely choke out her answer, but she raised her knees and clasped him with her legs. Aloka groaned and sank deeper into her flesh. Somehow when he was all the way inside her, as Emma felt he must be now, it was less painful. The beginning part had been excruciating, but she now felt she could endure it until it was over. She stroked a hand down his chest, feeling his muscles winding and unwinding as he moved over her, and the beginnings of something other than discomfort stirred in her womb.
His face was once again very grave as she gazed up at him. His expression, the grunting sounds, it was almost as though he were in pain. Aloka opened his eyes, and gently caressed her cheek.
“It is not happening for you, is it my dearest love?”
Emma returned him a blank stare, not knowing what ‘it’ could mean. She pulled him against her, he thrust powerfully into her twice more, and then suddenly jerked himself away with a muted bellow. That was not pleasant either, to be so much one with him, and then suddenly bereft. Emma gasped, there was something wet on her belly.
Aloka rose with another groan.
“Do not stir, my love, I will be right with you.”
He went around the partition. Emma stared at his feet and calves beyond the edge of the hanging blanket. She thought in a rather disordered way that even his feet were manly.
She’d been quite obedient. She was still lying there uncovered, startled and wet, when he returned with two towels.
“Do not use the same one...” Aloka wiped his seed from her flat belly. He handed her the second towel.
He wrung out and hung both soiled flannels in the washing space, went to the makeshift table beside the bed and doused the light, before climbing back in with her. Aloka immediately took her in his arms.
“So you are thinking, that is what all the fuss is about?”
She didn’t know what to say, wondering how he could have guessed her thoughts so exactly. Emma hugged him tighter.
“It will get better, I promise you. Much, much better.”
Now she was worried. Had it not brought him pleasure, had it not been what he’d wanted and experienced with other women?
“Weren’t you pleased? Was I not...good with you,” she said in a small voice.
“Emma, my dearest, dearest love. You made me feel like a prince, an absolute king! No. I meant, in future, I hope and trust, my love, you shall feel exactly what I do.”
“Oh, how I hope so too!”
He made a noise of approval, and they were content and silent after that. She turned in his arms and lay with her back to him. This was the best part so far.
“Aloka?”
“Uh!”
“Forgive me, darling, you were asleep.”
“Well I’m not now. What is it?”
Neither his tone, nor the gentle touch of his hand was harsh.
“I was just wondering when we can be intimate again?”
Aloka chuckled, and kissed her shoulder.
“Tomorrow, earliest, I should think, my little minx. I don’t want you to be hurt, here.”
He spread his fingers over her womb.
“But...but, those bumboat women. They lie with one man after another, do they not? Why—”
“Those poor women are used, my love. You are to be loved and cherished.”
“Must you coddle me so?”
“Most certainly. When you are more used to me, than we shall see. Go to sleep now, I shall wake you early. I want to see this Lagunilla Jose Antonio told us of. I want a bath, and a frisk. With you. Naked. In a pool.”
Two hills away Kuanoa made his camp. He’d been tempted to take Emma when they’d walked out of the main house through the vineyard. But then he would have had to kill both Aloka and the young man belonging to the place. That would set the local people on his trail, a thing he did not at all desire. He’d followed them closely enough to hear their plan to visit a secluded pool next day, and Kuanoa decided to wait. It would be easy enough to kill the Blackwell whelp. He’d brought with him a killing club of his own making. The boy was still sickly, green, a puppy. By the time word reached Valparaiso, if it ever did, he should be long gone into the mountains with her. Kuanoa whiled away the remainder of the evening imagining all the things he would do to Emma once he captured her, and had broken her leg so she couldn’t run away.
Aloka was up early next morning saddling the two stringy horses to the sound of birdsong, but he hadn’t preceded the Carrera’s servants, who were already about their morning tasks. With the lead ropes of the horses’ bridles in his hand, Aloka stuck his head into the cooking house.
“Buenos dias, Señor,” one of the good women said.
“Bueños dias, Doña. Uh, chocolate? Mi mujer, chocolate.”
This was greeted with a flow of Spanish and indulgent smiles from the women in the kitchen. They produced a pewter mug, quite large and with a hinged lid, and briskly filled it with chocolate enough for two.
He plodded up the hill to the stone cottage, the horses behind him, with the chocolate clutched in his fist. Despite his dark skin, the people here in Chile considered him a thoroughbred Englishmen. At home in England, in spite of his perfect British accent, he was nothing more than a Black Savage. Aloka thought of this as a mere curiosity, such things could weigh little with him this morning. As long as that dearest of women continued to love and accept him, the rest of the world could think what it would.
Aloka imagined making a life in this gracious country with Emma, and a command of his own in the Chilean Navy. He tied the horses leads to a ring driven into a wood block in the lee of the house, and turned to the cottage door with a beating heart. This little outing would give him a chance to tell her of Lord Cochrane’s offer. Life was bursting with possibility. He longed to share everything with her, to make her feel that pleasure in intimacy he experienced most of all.
Emma was alone in the cottage when she woke, and she perfectly remembered Aloka’s plan for an early outing. She felt slightly bruised and sore, and she should have preferred to lie abed. Then she thought of that simpering Lady Cochrane, she was surely as tough as her, and that was sufficient motivation to rise and wash. She gathered up her riding clothes and came back to the bed to dress, frowning down at a blood stain on Mercedes’ bed linen. Emma stepped over and threw the latch on the door, so she should not be surprised, even by Aloka, as she put herself and a few other things in the room in order.
She had even packed their canvas bags, when the cottage door was tried.
“Is it you, Aloka?”
“Yes, my love.”
Emma opened the door. She was so used to life aboard the Blonde, she forgot she need not be concerned out here in the middle of the Chilean countryside. Aloka came in with a wide grin, beautiful white teeth flashing against his dark skin. He praised her for her continued caution, and her industry in gathering up their dunnage. Emma caressed his cheek, he was new shaved. She was delighted with the chocolate he brought her.
Emma and Aloka sat side by side on the estrada, trading sips of the delicious chocolate tempered with milk and cinnamon. They kissed, and said rather stupid, endearing things to one another. When they’d finished the shared breakfast, they took care of a few domestic chores. Aloka carried out the buckets of night soil and unused water, and Emma rinsed the pewter mug at a rain cask outside. Together they loaded the two horses with their baggage—the better to be quickly away with Don Pedro later—and with some regret left the little cottage that had witnessed their first union.
The beautiful lagoon proved compensation for their early departure from the cottage. Lagunilla was formed by a tributary of the river Aconcagua, where crystalline water pooled in a natural stone basin, fed by a cascade tumbling over boulders above, and running away into
the forest below. A thirty minute ride at a sedate pace, always climbing steadily uphill, brought them to the spot. Aloka hobbled the beasts in the manner he’d seen Pedro Gregorio do the day previous, in a grassy clearing below the lagoon.
“Come along, now.”
Aloka held out a hand to her. He’d unsaddled the horses, and piled their packs and the horse gear together. He tucked one of the sheepskin saddle rugs under his arm, looking excessively pleased with himself. There was a low rumbling sound and the ground beneath them vibrated strangely. Emma jumped toward Aloka.
“Earthquake,” he said. “There, its over.”
They’d experienced many minor tremors since arriving in Chile, and when they were sure it was over they went hand in hand to the bathing pool. Aloka dropped the blanket at the base of an evergreen tree, in a grove fringing one side of the pool. He had his clothes off in a trice, ran toward the pool, and with a great leap and war whoop somersaulted in.
“Cold, is it?” Emma asked when he surfaced. Still fully dressed, she minced up to the water’s edge. “It looks cold.”
“’Course it’s cold, my love, its melted snow from those grand mountains,” Aloka called to her. “But it ain’t worse than the Wandle, and it’s considerably cleaner.”
Emma pursed her lips. She’d been taught to swim in the river outside their door at Merton Place. Mercedes had never allowed her to swim alone with Aloka, but he had always been there in the water. An expert swimmer, ready to assist her, at the same time jeering and laughing at her, and calling instructions.
“Faint hearted, is it?” Aloka cried out.
She gave him a sharp look, ran back to where his clothes were and doffed her own. Emma raced forward and dove into the pool, almost upon his head. They were like river otters then, swimming, diving, jumping in while holding hands. They did indeed have a frisk. Aloka kicked down to the bottom of the pool, and judged it to be three or four fathoms deep. He climbed high upon the granite boulders on the cascade side of the lagoon, beat his chest and yelled, and jumped off into a neat swan dive. Emma tried jumping from the lower rocks, but she didn’t care for the sensation of water forced up her nose.
Aloka surfaced in back of her from his last dive. He reached out a hand and touched the goose flesh on her shoulder.
“You are cold, and I am winded. Care to get out, my love?”
They scrambled out of the pool, and Aloka brought the sheepskin rug into the sun near the water’s edge, and close against the protection of the tumbled boulders.
“Come, Emma, I’ll warm you.”
She was standing there with her arms clutched over her breasts shivering, and thinking of running to put on her clothes. Instead she took his outstretched hand, and let him lay her down upon the rug. He stretched out over her, the long muscles of his legs and torso pressed against her. Emma felt warm and shielded. Then he started kissing her, and she forgot the cold.
“Emma, I want to try...will you turn over, my love.”
Emma opened her eyes, looked up at him. She’d been waiting for him to pierce her, for the pain, and then the pleasure she trusted him to make follow. Emma’s eyes refocused away from his face and widened. With all the strength of her arms and legs she shoved Aloka from her, rolling towards him as she did.
The force with which Kuanoa brought the killing club down on the spot where they’d lain jarred the weapon from his hand. Aloka and Emma jumped to their feet. Aloka gave a swiping kick to the club with the side of his foot, sending it spinning into the pool. Made of hard wood, it immediately sank. He pushed Emma behind him with one arm.
“Run, Emma. Don’t stop, don’t look back. Go!”
Emma bolted, scrambling up over the rocks in the direction of the cascade. She could not run the faster way round the lagoon without passing Kuanoa. She crawled out as far as she could along the edge of the rocks, and then she jumped into the lagoon, came up and stroked for all she was worth to the opposite side of the pool. Hauling herself out, panting, Emma glanced back at the men.
They were circling one another, Aloka crouched with one arm extended toward Kuanoa, as though to keep him off. Kuanoa was jumping about, splay legged, slapping his thighs and displaying a distended tongue. Emma sprinted for the horses, her heart beating painfully. Once there she reached into her pack with shaking hands for clothing, and stopped.
Her only thought up to then had been run, dress, ride. But where was she to go for help? To the Carrera women and young Jose Antonio? A half hour ride to the hacienda, another half hour back. By then all would be over. And if Kuanoa were the victor? The thought made her blood cold. He would come after her, he’d come this far. Aloka must survive, not he.
There was Aloka’s sword belt with the light cavalry sword and purser’s dirk in it’s sheath. She took up the sword belt and moved back through the trees in the direction of the men, a vague notion of throwing the sword to Aloka forming in her mind. As she neared Emma heard the sounds of close combat, grunts, and the smack of flesh on flesh. She halted and watched Aloka land a series of blows. He was no stranger to a close fight, but Emma remembered her father saying the Pacific islanders practiced wrestling from boyhood.
And then Aloka did not retreat fast enough after closing to engage, and Kuanoa caught him in a cross-buttock move. He threw Aloka to the ground and landed atop his chest. Aloka was no light weight but Kuanoa was heavier, and he got both hands round Aloka’s neck.
Emma was close enough to make out his words, “...weak Haole,” she understood the Hawaiian perfectly well. “You couldn’t survive a week in those mountains. I can. I will take her into those mountains, where no one will follow. No one will find us. I’ll fuck her until the fierce spirit goes out of her eyes, and beat her until the only will she knows is my own.”
She didn’t want to hear any more, she didn’t want to see any more. Aloka’s face was turning purple, his tongue lolling from his mouth. With her heart in her throat, Emma realized the sword would not do: she might injure Aloka. She slipped the knife from its sheath, dropping the sword and sword belt. Emma fixed the blade, spiked end out, clenched her teeth and ran forward.
She launched herself onto Kuanoa’s back. He reared back in astonishment, driving the knife she aimed at the base of his skull even farther in. Blood sprayed into her face, bathed her hand. Hot, horrible smell. It covered Aloka’s face and chest too. Kuanoa sagged. Emma let go her terrible grip and slid off Kuanoa’s slick back. She crawled to the edge of the pool and tumbled in. Underwater Emma let her breath out in a prolonged scream.
Aloka spat out blood, choking and gasping for breath. He pushed the heavy weight off him and rolled onto all fours. He remained there head down like a dog, sucking air and gagging up a mixture of chocolate, blood, and bile. His breath returned at last and he looked up, blood dripping from his hair and upper body. Emma’s head popped up out in the lagoon, their eyes met. He caught a flash of her horror and pain and she instantly sank down again.
He turned his head to look at Kuanoa. Dead. Thank God. Thank Emma. She’d saved him, again. Aloka struggled to his feet, stumbled to the pool, and tipped in. He kicked down deep under water, and scrubbed the blood from his skin and hair. When he surfaced Aloka spotted Emma at the far end of the lagoon, bobbing up out of the water and then sinking down.
He swam the length of the pool underwater, to further cleanse himself, and came up just in back of her.
“Get out now, Emma. Come.”
She was trembling. Aloka put his body between her and Kuanoa.
“Don’t look,” he said. Though she’d not obeyed him in anything yet, and saved them both.
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her along to their packs. Aloka had to dress her, putting a shift over her head and doing up the laces of her corset, she was shaking too much to do it. Her teeth clacked together. When Emma was clothed right down to her boots, he shouldered the packs, picked up the saddles and rugs and led her to the horses.
The dear animals greeted them with big eyed, i
nnocent gazes. Still naked, Aloka quickly saddled both the horses. He took the hobble from his own animal’s legs, and untied the leather thongs securing a length of native line, the laza, to the saddle.
“Where are you going? You’re not leaving me?” Emma spoke for the first time.
He took her in his arms. She did not cry, but she trembled as though she would shake to pieces.
“Listen now, listen. You did what you had to do. I am going to move the body. People come to this place, and we cannot leave it out in the open. Then I shall be with you at once.”
Aloka looked into Emma’s face. She was a practical, intelligent, even fierce woman. She’d just proved it. He willed her to summon up her reserves of strength. Emma nodded and moved away to her horse, leaning against it, her face turned from him. The poor dear soul. Once they were away from this place, that had seemed such a paradise but a half hour ago, he would stop and hold her for a long, long time.
He found his sword belt and sword on the ground near Kuanoa’s body. The horse was restive, its ears twitching back and forth, snorting and blowing. The smell of blood was probably the reason why, there was certainly enough of it. The horse blanket Aloka brought to the pool edge was ruined with blood. He would have to compensate Don Pedro, or whoever owned it, the Chileans were particular about their equipage. He averted his face as he yanked out his knife, remembering the popping sound it had made going in. And then he rolled Kuanoa over onto the blanket, and looked into the face of obsession.
Sexual obsession had an ugly aspect. Kuanoa’s tongue hung from his mouth, a terrible grimace on his face. Aloka had a flash of recognition; images carved on the prows of canoes. He bundled Kuanoa in the rug as they did bodies in their hammocks at sea, securing it round with twelve neat turns of the laza. The other end of the long braided hide line he knotted round the horse’s neck, with his shirt and trousers beneath like mats. He led the animal forward.
