by Sandra Clark
Ever since the previous day the weather had taken a definite turn for the worse, and Belinda slipped into her new deerskin parka with a sense of relief. It was the first time she had had an opportunity to wear it since the day she had shown it to Mrs Mac, and when she felt the first icy blast of wind from off the lake on her face she was more than pleased that she had been persuaded to discard the pink quilted jacket for something no less attractive but certainly far more practical. She had taken Mac's advice in the foot department too, and sported a pair of sealskin boots over soft leather moccasins. In this gear she now stood hesitantly by the leaden lake. Her heart was beginning to beat over-rate at the thought of what she was about to do. Silly, she chided herself, anyone would think this was an interview for a new job, instead of a simple visit with a simple request. The man could only say no. She drew a breath, then turned her face resolutely towards the bluff of rock that thrust itself jaggedly into the sluggish waters of the inlet. She didn't know the exact location of his abode, nor even whether he was still around, but she had seen him several times walking either towards or away from the rocks, so she guessed he must live somewhere in that direction. If not, surely the unusual height of the bluff would give her an adequate view over the surrounding low-lying terrain.
She set off doggedly, head bowed against the biting wind which blew along the length of the inlet. Anything was better than sitting in the house waiting for news which didn't come, she told herself, and by the time she had reached the foot of the rocks, she had talked herself into a high feeling of expectation.
It was only a short climb to the top, but a sigh of disappointment escaped her when she saw nothing but the unending emptiness of the plain beyond. There was a track of sorts and, with eyes fixed intently on the faint markings on the ground before her, she set off to follow where it led. It was several minutes before she reached the scattering of stunted trees which had seemed to represent such a danger when she had been sitting white-lipped in Chuck's noisy- little Anson. Now the constant moaning of the wind through the branches seemed to accentuate the desolate silence which surrounded her. With a vicious little tug of fear she remembered that wolves and even bears were known to roam the region.
Surely the chances of their coming down so near to human habitation was remote in the extreme. Or was it? With the freeze approaching what could a greenhorn such as herself know about the habits of the local wildlife? Her assignment was a purely academic one. Such details when contemplated from the safety of her study had seemed irrelevant. She gave a shaky little laugh. This wouldn't do at all. Where was the girl who had told Derek to leave it all in her hands? Here she was now, shaking like a leaf simply because the wind moaned in that eerie way.
She set off at a run through the trees, and, breathless, came out on the other side in a wide shallow valley. Her eyes widened. She had certainly found her man. Or at least, she had found his lair.
Mouth open, she gazed incredulously at the little shack in front of her. The same familiar shape of the winter snow-houses, it was a simple frame structure covered with skins. Belinda paused for a moment, not sure whether to call out or what. Still goggling that anyone could actually live in such a primitive place, she started to make her way over the lichen-covered rocks. For some reason she felt a strange, prickling sensation running down the back of her neck. It made her stop abruptly. Then, almost without realising it, she began to turn slowly round to face the way she had just come. With a flicker of panic she saw, standing there on the path behind her, silent and unmoving, the man Barron. Fighting an irrational fear, she realised that her escape was barred. He must have followed her all the way through the wood. She shivered when she realised that he must have seen her stop in fright at the sound of the wind, and he must have been laughing to himself when he saw her hesitate outside his shack. He was laughing now—or at least, his lips were drawn back to reveal dangerously sharp white teeth, but his eyes glittered with an ambiguousness that could have owed more to malice than to humour.
Belinda's throat went dry. She tried too speak, but no words would come. Cursing herself, she thrust her hands deep into her jacket pockets and regarded Barron with frightened eyes. His glance caught and held her own. Slowly, not letting her drop her glance, he began to walk down the path towards her. All Mac's warnings came flooding back, to her. There was no escape. She stood her ground, but as he got closer she could feel her lungs bursting with held breath and the nails of her fingers cut into her palms. He came to within a few yards of where she stood. Not knowing whether he was going to strike her or—she let out her breath, gulping in air, poised ready for fight or flight. Once again she felt overwhelmed by the sheer physical presence of the man, by the primitive savagery of his face, by the startling icy blue eyes, which were now fixed unwaveringly upon hers as if to draw the very soul from her body. A barely perceptible groan escaped her lips and she felt powerless to move. For what seemed a long time, neither of them spoke. Then, in a voice of surprising quietness he said: 'Forgive me. I'm not used to visitors.' He moved slowly away in the direction of his shack. 'It's not the Ritz,' he smiled ironically over his shoulder, 'but it is home. Come and have some tea.' It was a sort of command.
Belinda found herself obeying instantly. Only a yard or two down the path, though, she stopped with a little gesture of her hand. He sensed this at once and turned back. He had an expression on his face which she found hard to read. It was watchful and cautious, like that of a hunter waiting to see which way an animal will spring, so much in tune with his captive's mind that every impulse is reflected there in the hunter's face. Belinda tried to take a hold on her flying thoughts. She couldn't explain the feeling of being drawn into something dangerous. There was no visible coercion, nothing tangible to make her feel this overwhelming sense of being in the man's power. Yet when she feebly tried to turn back she knew it was only a vain gesture of defiance.
'I haven't much time,' she demurred. 'I have to get back to the settlement.'
His lip curled in a smile. 'Of course, I forgot. You're busy making notes about the tribe you haven't met. That must be quite a task. You obviously have talent.'
Stung, Belinda opened her mouth to reply, then checked herself. It was no good getting on the wrong side of the man at this point. Despite his strange compelling power, the sneering manner, she was determined to play it cool, to get what she wanted. She shrugged and turned back, her eyes lowering demurely to the ground in front of him.
'I knew it wasn't going to be a picnic when I came out here.' She lifted her clear blue eyes to his, and a shudder' went through her body as their eyes locked. A steely glint of battle showed briefly in the sapphire depths and Belinda put up a hand as if to brush back a curl of blonde hair, averting her glance once again.
Abruptly the man turned to his house. 'You've time for a mug-up. Don't go bringing your urban manners here. Time means something in the Arctic. Life isn't a series of deadlines.'
He pulled aside the skin which covered the doorway and Belinda felt herself drawing nearer to where he stood. He moved back as she approached and though she felt only the slightest touch as his arm brushed against her cheek, she felt her body recoil as if stung. He let the door flap down behind them and it seemed as though they were both suddenly and intimately more alone together than was possible even in the desolate outdoors.
Belinda tried to move away from him, to lessen the strange sensation such proximity aroused in her. Her eyes darted about the place, observant and anxiously alert. The house was lighter than she had expected, there being an opening near the roof from which an extra skin had been tied back to let in some light. But it was cramped inside, with only just enough room to stand upright. There was what she took to be a sleeping platform, about twenty inches high, which filled up almost half the floor space. It was covered thickly with skins, and when Barron told her abruptly to sit, she placed herself gingerly on the edge of the luxuriously cushioned platform.
In one corner of it was a bright sleeping bag
like the ones used by mountaineers, but apart from that one concession to the world Belinda knew, everything else was defiantly native.
At one side, neatly arrayed, were some pots and pans, a small stove and a stone lamp like the ones she had seen at the settlement. Mac had said they used seal blubber and had been in use by the Eskimos for centuries.
Barron was now lighting the stove and was balancing an already filled enamel kettle on it. His movements were relaxed and easy, like a man thoroughly at one with his habitat. Once again Belinda was struck by the sheer muscular strength of the man. Even in his fur parka she could see the broad vigour of his shoulders, the slow supple movements of his limbs as he went about his task. He came to sit on the platform a few feet away from her while the kettle came to the boil. She wanted to blurt out her request, to get it over with at once, but something in the quizzical glance he gave her made her realise that she should bide her time until the mood was ripe. There was something different about the sense of timing here, she mused, a sense of leisurely acceptance that everything had its own pace, and she remembered that even Mac and Mrs Mac, even though they had a busy trading post to run, rarely used clock time in their conversation. She had heard Mac talking about a journey he had made up to a lake, saying it was only four sleeps away in good weather.
She looked hesitantly into Barron's face. He was smiling inwardly as if laughing at her again. Something seemed to stir deep in the icy depths of his eyes. It was a dangerous spark which made her suddenly conscious of the folly of stepping into his lair, and memories of their previous encounter came flooding back.
He's like a fox or a wolf, she thought, playing with his victim. She checked herself again. She must try to be levelheaded. It must be the strange isolation of her situation which was flooding her mind with such disturbing thoughts.
Now he was staring intently at her parka as she looked up and caught his glance. She involuntarily glanced down to see what was wrong. Perhaps he was surprised to find that she had discarded the pink quilted affair so soon. That was one in the eye for him, if he thought she was just an empty-headed fashion-plate. She fiddled with the long fringing on the cuff, wishing he would say something.
Fortunately the kettle came to the boil and, still without exchanging a word with her, he rose lazily to his feet and filled two mugs with the golden brown liquid. Shakily she gulped the steaming brew, eyes darting anywhere but in his direction. It seemed he was adept at playing a waiting game. With a determined uptilt of her chin Belinda cradled the mug of tea and gazed steadily across at him. A suitable space of time had surely elapsed, she decided at last. It was now or never.
After a brief attempt at polite nothings which drew no more than the most laconic yes and no from her host, she put down her mug and turned to face him squarely.
'Last time we met you said you might have something to tell me. I know it's rather soon—' she began.
'Still no news,' he told her positively.
'Then I suppose I'm really here to ask your help,' she went on.
He gave a short laugh.
'I didn't expect this to be a social call,' he replied. 'I can tell you now, the answer's no.'
'But you don't know what I'm going to ask,' she protested.
'No?' he regarded her quizzically again, the hard gleam coming into his eyes. His lips curved into a malicious smile and he leaned back lazily among the furs. 'It doesn't take a shaman to divine your purpose.' He watched her carefully. For a moment Belinda didn't know whether to speak or wait for him to go on. But he continued with: 'You want me to take you to the Nasaq—wherever they are. You want me to run them to ground for you—as well as no doubt carting all your expensive recording equipment across the tundra just so you can pry into the lives of people who've had the good sense to make themselves as inaccessible as possible to' people like you. Well, the answer's no. They're my friends, and I don't inflict your sort on my friends.' He paused.
Belinda took a sip of the still steaming tea. All her hopes had come crashing down. But even worse was the rage which had risen in her at the injustice in his words. Her blood boiled. What right had he to make her feel like this? What did he know of her that he could speak so disparagingly of her? She took a firm grip on the tea mug, so that her knuckles showed white. She would not let him make her lose her temper. Her breath came jaggedly at first, but she fought to bring it under control. When at last she spoke her voice was calm.
'I think you must have some sort of second sight to guess why I came to see you.' She paused, hoping he would be disarmed by the flattery in her voice. 'But—' she paused again and tried to sneak a look at his expression. He was watching her intently. She averted her glance at once and tried to lean casually against the piles of furs. She sighed as if hopelessly and allowed her tongue to caress her upper lip. 'I'm not interested in prying into anyone's life.' She gave him a slow look from beneath her lashes. 'Not anyone's, whoever they are. What people do is their own business.' She hoped he got her meaning. She was fighting to control her anger, but there was no sign of this in her voice.
She turned towards him fully. 'I don't want to change or hunt down the Nasaq. I simply need to record their language. My professor in England chose me out of several other candidates in the department, and I would hate to let him down. It's a sort of personal debt I owe him.' She looked up at him slowly from under her lashes again. 'Only you can help me, so everyone says.' She paused for effect, then let her voice drop intimately and added, 'I'd be so grateful.'
For a moment there was a silence. Barron's face was impassive and she had no idea what he was going to do. When he leant across so that his face was within a few inches of her own she was totally unprepared for the harsh look of suppressed rage which filled his eyes and compressed his lips into a cruel line. One hand shot out and he grabbed hold of her wrist with a vicelike strength that made her cry out, but unheeding he dragged her towards him. Before she had time to protest he was pulling her to her feet with an angry snarl. 'Get out!' he snapped hoarsely. 'Get out now while you've got the chance. Do you think I'm some sort of fool, that you can come here and try those tricks on me? What do you take me for? Is it so important to you that you'll debase yourself like this for your career? Who is this man in England who can send a girl like you to this sort of place?' He shook her, both hands holding her tightly by the upper arms so that she was powerless to move. 'What sort of woman are you? Do you think I'm so desperate for a white woman that I would betray my friends for…' He stopped with an exclamation of disgust.
In horror Belinda realised what he had thought. He had mistaken a little gentle flirtation for an offer of her body. Her heart plunged sickeningly. He still gripped her tightly as she began wildly to protest her innocence, and at the same time she tried to struggle desperately to free herself. 'I didn't mean that,' she cried. 'How could you think such a thing!'
'No?' he looked at her in derision. 'It was a promise, was it? A promise you would fail to keep after you'd got what you wanted? That's exactly what I'd have expected.' He flung her from him with an expression of disgust.
Belinda lay where she had fallen for a moment, tears of anger and hurt humiliation springing to her eyes. She glared up at him. 'Do you seriously think I would offer myself in return for a favour from you?' she spat. 'Maybe that's the sort of woman you're used to. Well, count me out! I wouldn't touch you if you were the last man on earth!'
She rose shakily to her feet. The bruising of her wrists gave an added dimension to her scorn. 'You?' She looked him insolently up and down. 'Every girl's dream. God's gift!' Her voice rose in a peal of laughter. 'You've lived in the backwoods too long, my friend. Styles have changed. The look of the roughneck desperado isn't popular any more. Most women of my acquaintance prefer something a little more elegant, a little cleaner, a little less redolent of honest sweat and toil, perhaps.' She smiled calmly into his face. Her words had wiped it of all expression. 'The squalid and the primitive has only a limited appeal, I'm afraid. Civilisation ha
s much to offer, and I welcome it all.' Her eyes shone as icily as his own. 'In my world women work on equal terms with men. We don't have a to barter our bodies for a little help. There are enough people around with sufficient generosity of spirit to give help without any expectation of gain.' She let her gaze sweep insultingly round his home. 'You do have delusions of grandeur, my friend. What you can offer a woman seems to me to be precisely nothing.' With a toss of her head she turned to the door.
All this time he had been staring at her without saying a word. His eyes showed no expression, but a pallor seemed to have spread over his face. Suddenly she felt mean. It was like kicking a man when he was down, she thought. His hovel was ample proof of his poverty. But given the circumstances of his situation she had to admit that her jibe about cleanliness was unfounded. Poor though his possessions were, everything shone with the gleam of the well cared for, and the only smell was the natural tang of fur and leather. But it Was too late to backtrack on what she had said now. She turned with as much dignity as she could muster and moved the few paces to the exit.
As she reached out to pull back the flap she turned to look at him. He was still standing absolutely motionless near the sleeping platform as if her words had turned him to stone. Not a muscle moved. He seemed coiled within himself. His eyes stared at her without any flicker of interest or feeling.
To her surprise he let her go with no attempt to add or to change what had happened between them, as if he accepted that as the final word between them, so that all the way back to the copse Belinda's thoughts were triumphantly running over what she had told him. Obviously a few home truths were enough to make him go speechless. It must be a shock for anyone to speak to him like that. He had had things his own way too long, playing the big man around the settlement, setting himself apart as if his standards were the only ones worth having. Her triumph gave way to anger when she recalled the feeling of contempt in his eyes when he had looked down at her as she crouched on the floor where he had flung her, and her anger with him gave way to anger with herself when she realised what a dreadful mess she had made of her request.
