by David Jurk
And she answered, her voice so clear that I was enraptured by the sound of it, and I silently wept for the pure sweetness of it. Maybe I truly was going insane; maybe I didn’t care.
“In for a penny,” she said, laughing, “in for a pound.”
It filled me, her laugh, so familiar; a laugh that denied the possibility of darkness, that illuminated everything within the sound of it. She could be stubborn and insistent, she really could, but there was a light inside her that could overcome anything, even her death.
I stayed out in the cockpit for the next couple of hours, occasionally peering down in through the companionway at my ‘patient’, making sure she appeared comfortable. At noon, I took a sight and worked the position, glad that I’d adjusted our course; we were obviously dealing with a strong westerly current. At some point I went below and made a sandwich and brought it back on deck to enjoy in the sunshine, then spent the rest of the afternoon in the cockpit. Twice I ducked below to give her another cup of water; both of which she very greedily swallowed, still apparently with no conscious awareness.
By early evening, she was still asleep, but I saw she had turned onto her side, which I took to be a very good sign. The sheet had slid from her, and with her back to me I could see how badly bruised she was, angry purple welts along the backs of her legs and deep bruising from shoulder to shoulder. Her skin was encrusted with salt and I rinsed the washcloth and sponged it from her as best I could. The salt had damaged her back as badly as her face and chest and I put the rest of the ointment over the worst of it. The ice had refilled, and I split the it into just three of the bags, putting them under her arms and neck. She seemed out of danger of dying, and I didn’t want her to wake and feel self-conscious about a stranger having placed something between her legs.
Dusk was falling and there really was little else I could think of to do for her, other than let her rest as long as she needed to. I was restless and decided in typical fashion that eating would be a grand thing to do next. And in any case, the cat – having stayed conspicuously absent during all of this – had apparently decided the stranger shouldn’t be an impediment to her usual mealtime and was letting me know that some food was definitely in order.
Perhaps it was the smell, or the noise of my moving about the galley, but at some point, I heard a light cough and turned to find her staring at me, her hands grasping the upper edge of the sheet. Her face was drawn and pained, but her eyes were quite a different matter; fierce and arresting; compelling eyes of the deepest green I’d ever seen, intelligent, inquisitive.
I smiled and turned off the burner.
“Hi,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
She tried to speak; her hand rose to her throat and she choked momentarily, seemed to be trying to swallow. No words came, and I thought again of the first aid kit.
“Hey – I’ve got some lozenges.” She closed her eyes and I went forward to the first aid kit and found them. I walked back, tore one free and held it out to her.
“Give this a try.”
She took it with a shaking hand, looked at it, and put it in her mouth. As she sucked it, her eyes closed, whether in relief or fatigue, I had no idea.
“Would you like some water?”
Those impossibly green eyes again, and a quick nod. I took the cup and filled it, turning to her, not exactly sure how best to do this.
“Do you want me to help,” I asked, “or do you want to try it yourself?”
She swallowed, cleared her throat, swallowed again.
“Please,” she said, “do help.” Her voice came painfully, as if dragged from her throat, yet for all of the coarse rasp of it, there was a hint of melodiousness, a perceptible sense of rhythm even in those few words.
I reached slowly behind her head as she struggled to sit up higher and slid my hand to the base of her neck. With the cup to her lips, she drank greedily, coughing, and I pulled it back.
“Maybe go slow for a while?” I suggested.
She shook her head briefly. “Please, more.”
“Just a second,” I said. “Let me get something larger.”
I got up and searched through a galley locker, finding a liter bottle and filled it with water. Taking one of the smaller sail bags from the settee, I helped her lean forward and propped the bag behind her. As she settled back against it, the sheet fell from her, exposing her breasts and her eyes flashed up at me as she pulled it back to her shoulders.
“My clothes?” she asked.
“Um, your wrap, I… I took it off you. It was wet and full of salt. I’m sorry.”
She continued to stare at me and I stood in complete confusion, uncertain what I could do, until it finally occurred to me how exposed and vulnerable she must feel.
“Let me get you something to put on,” I said quickly, and rummaged through my clothes locker, finding an over-large t-shirt that Rachel had worn as a nightgown many times.
Going back to the settee, I saw she had managed to get some of the water down and I handed the shirt to her. She took it and waited, watching me.
“I’ll go on deck for a bit, so you can get dressed.”
For the first time, a weak smile.
Out in the cockpit, I watched the lowering sun ignite a few cottony clouds on the western horizon. With the end of daylight, the wind was dying so I took the time to shake out the reef and unfurl the genoa to its fullest. I stood at the mast, feeling the familiar movements of the boat. I was untroubled – at least, for someone who’d probably been exposed to a deadly virus. Aside from that little supposition, and the awareness that I now had a third mouth to feed, I felt that we were in fine shape. It did occur to me to wonder what this woman would want to do, where had she come from and where she would she want to go.
When I went back below, making a bit of noise to warn of my approach, I found her on the settee in the t-shirt, propped against the sail bag and fast asleep, the little white cat curled in her lap purring with abandon.
“You’re a fine thing,” I told her. “First woman that comes along, off you go. Where’s your loyalty?” She stared back at me with those china blue eyes, as if to say, “Who, me?”
I’d completely forgotten about my dinner. It was cold now, but I put it on a plate anyway with a few of the Big Save canned vegetables and took it outside and began to eat. As I expected, the cat magically appeared, coming up to me and caressing my ankles.
“You have no loyalty at all, you little beast,” I told her. “You’ll abandon anyone for some dinner.” She agreed completely as I slipped her a few pieces of salmon.
Later, I took the plate below as quietly as I could and put it in the sink, breaking one of my cardinal galley rules – though shalt leave no dishes overnight. I grabbed a wool throw and a book, checked that she was covered, and went back on deck, closing the hatch. Where had I stowed the hammock? It took a few minutes rummaging through the cockpit lockers, but I finally found it and strung it up between the mast and the forestay. I climbed in, covered myself with the throw and opened the book. But I was tired, the book fell unread on my chest, the hammock swung to the rhythm of the sea and I slept.
Late in the night, steering manually beneath the stars on the second night watch, I heard a soft call from below and went to her, flicking on one of the galley lights, keeping it dimmed.
“Sorry,” I called out. “I hope my walking about didn’t wake you.”
“No,” she replied softly, “I was awake.” She was less breathless, her voice smoother, though it was obvious she was still tired.
“How’s the water holding out?” I asked, sitting down at the galley table, swiveled around toward her. She lay back against the sail bag, her knees against her chest. In the low light, I could see the ointment on her face reflecting the light.
“Empty,” she replied. I rose to take it, to refill it, but she held out a hand. “Bathroom?”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure.” Thinking about it, I hesitated.
“Listen, sorry - I think I�
�ll have to show you. It’s kind of a special thing, the head – the toilet, I mean. It’s sort of a recycle deal, not complicated really, but…”
For the second time, a quick reflection of a smile from her, transforming her face. I stopped talking.
“OK,” she replied quietly. “Would you help me, please?” In the rhythm of her voice, for the first time I caught the hint of an islander’s accent – a bit of Samoa and Hawaii rolled together, it seemed to me. Whatever it was, there was a fluidity to it that I found beautiful.
I leaned forward, held out a hand and she took it, leveraging it to swing her legs out from under the sheet, carefully holding the t-shirt in place over her thighs. She was very unsteady, but I was reluctant to put an arm around her, both in concern for her sunburn, as well as the fact that she was wearing nothing but my shirt. She wasn’t tall, coming to about my shoulder, but there was a physical elegance about her, an athleticism evident even in her current weakness. We slowly walked forward together to the head; she occasionally needing to reach a hand to my arm for support. At the door, I ducked in and switched on the light.
“This is called a compost toilet, though it’s really not – it just dries things, so it’s really a desiccating toilet.” She just looked at me, staring blankly.
“You know,” I added weakly, “it dries the…the stuff out.”
Again, that hint of a smile.
“So,” I went on, “here’s the deal. If you look inside, there’s two sections; one in back for solids and one in front for liquids.” She looked in, then nodded.
“So, for me, well I can aim, right?” Christ, I sounded like a moron, or maybe a twelve-year-old. “Uh, well, that was before I started sitting down.”
Her eyes were pools of deep green in the light from the head; something sparkled in them.
“Anyway. I think for a woman, uh, you might… you might need to sit forward on the seat, right?”
Her smile revealed beautiful, perfect teeth for just a moment.
“Yes,” she murmured. “And to flush?”
“You actually don’t. The… the liquid flows through a one-way valve into a container. I pointed. “Can’t dry it, so it just gets dumped overboard when it gets full. Maybe every couple of days or so. Depending.”
She was watching me, listening.
“If you need to… if you use the solids part, then you open this handle here…” and I pointed at what I’d always called the poop valve.
“Then you do your business, close the handle, then give this wheel down here a couple of quick turns, which mixes the solids into this sawdust where it dries out really quickly.”
“OK,” she said. “I think I have it.”
She let go of my arm and stood there waiting.
“Oh, right,” I said, and pulled back out of the head. “Just pull the door shut, it’ll latch by itself.”
She smiled again and went in, pulling the door shut behind her very slowly. I heard it latch.
“Yell when you’re done,” I called through the door.
“Yes,” came the faint reply.
I walked back to the settee and sat down, thinking how very awkward this was going to be. Windswept was not built for privacy; she had a small cabin and though she’d been designed for two people, the two people I’d had in mind were Rachel and I – not two strangers. I looked over at the settee, from which a low rumble still registered. Right, I reminded myself; two strangers and a cat.
After a few minutes, the door of the head swung slowly open and I heard her call weakly out to me. I hurried forward and again offered my arm, which she took. We repeated our slow amble down the aisle and got her settled in against the sail bag. It occurred to me that she’d probably gone as long without food as she had without water.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
“Yes,” she replied, then added, “But if your food is low…”
“Of course not,” I said. “I have a pretty good selection of canned food and some pasta and rice. And there’s some freeze-dried stuff too.” I considered; what else? “Oh yeah,” I added, “I also have some smoked Wahoo.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Wahoo?”
I struggled to remember. “Ono, I think it’s called around here. At least that’s what they call it in Hawaii.”
She smiled. “Here too. If I may, the Wahoo sounds perfect.” Again, the momentary drawn brow. “But it’s late; you must have been sleeping.”
I smiled at her. “Sleep and I have an understanding. The boat comes first. I was awake on a watch.”
“If you’re sure, then.”
“I am.” I turned away to the galley, then abruptly turned back, holding out my hand awkwardly.
“Owen,” I said, smiling. “That’s me. Owen Joyce.”
She took my hand, briefly squeezing, and said very softly, “Owen.” She pronounced it as a single syllable, drawn out. It was as though she were singing it.
“Yes,” I said, “though I’ve never heard it pronounced quite so beautifully.”
She smiled.
“I am Aulani,” she said. “Aulani Lotulelei.” This wasn’t just a song, it was an entire symphonic movement. I smiled and bowed slightly, still holding her hand.
“Hello, Aulani,” I said. “Very good to meet you.”
“And you,” she replied. She stared very directly at me, holding my gaze with those startling green eyes, which now in the low light seemed the color of jade.
“Thank you, Owen,” she whispered. “You saved my life.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, given that what I’d actually done was ensure we’d both be dying of the plague fairly soon.
“I didn’t really do anything,” I finally said. “It was the sheerest luck that I came upon you - just blind chance.”
She looked at me for a moment, then shook her head slightly.
“I haven’t much belief in chance,” she said simply.
“Right,” I replied, and turned back to the galley to fix her something to eat.
She was obviously ravenous and managed to get down two large pieces of the Wahoo and some canned asparagus before I suggested she might want to be careful at first. Despite her hunger, she ate with a delicacy and grace of movement that was quite mesmerizing; every motion seemed choreographed with elegance. Watching her eat, I was oddly reminded of the cat; fastidious, yet somehow with a feral quality just beneath the surface.
We said little while she ate, and afterwards as I was rinsing the dishes, I heard an indrawn breath and looked over to see her asleep. I shut off all the lights and went out on deck. The mutinous little cat stayed below with her, and I laughed to myself as I climbed back into the hammock. I was asleep before it stopped swaying.
When I next opened my eyes, it was into a pale blue morning. The wind had picked up again, enough that I furled in a third of the genny, then went about the usual check for chafe and wear; shivering a bit in the wind. The temperatures had dropped further; wearing only shorts, I was chilled.
I went below as quietly as I could and saw her still sleeping. The cat, on the settee with her, jumped down when she saw me, coming to me to rub against my ankle, softly mewling a complaint about what she apparently considered a late breakfast.
“Little brat,” I said to her softly and pulled out the last of the dried cat food, dumped it into her dish. “You’re going to be eating like a people for a while,” I told her. She ignored me, settling down to eat.
I went forward to the v-berth, rummaged in my ditty bag and yanked out a long-sleeved shirt, slipping it over my head. The warmth was wonderful. I went to the head, almost forgetting to close the door.
When I came out, Aulani was sitting on the settee, watching me. I stopped, smiled at her.
“Good morning,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” she replied. And a smile broke through, her face radiant. “And very hungry!” She caught herself short. “But,” she added, “please, if you are worried about your food, I…�
�
“Aulani,” I said, interrupting, “please do not concern yourself with food. There is plenty for all of us, including that little four-legged empty hole.” I nodded toward the cat.
I recalled then what I’d read about Pacific islanders and their culture of sharing. “I’m honored you’re here,” I told her, “and I insist that what food I have is equally yours.”
She knew immediately what I was about.
“And I accept your kindness with gratitude,” she replied solemnly. A flicker of smile.
“Right then,” I said, slapping my hands together. “What’ll it be? Fish? Rice? Cereal? Eggs? Pancakes?”
She hesitated. “You have cereal? Raisin Bran?”
I stared at her. “You’d like some Raisin Bran?”
“Only if you’re not saving it for yourself. Only if you have enough.”
I laughed out loud. “You are more than welcome to all the Raisin Bran you can eat.”
Looking through the food lockers, I found the cereal; how is it she’d asked for the one kind of cereal I had? She attacked it with unabashed ferocity and I had to laugh. She paused, the spoon half way to her mouth and looked at me.
“What is it?”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just nice to see someone enjoy their food. Other than the cat, I mean.”
I set myself about the task of my own breakfast – a mix of eggs and pancake batter that my father had made for us from the time I was a little boy. I no longer remembered the word he’d used for it, only the sound of his laughter as he set them on the table and watched his boisterous son go at them like a starving wolf.
When they’d cooked, I added some of the precious maple syrup and sat at the galley table, eating slowly, watching her from time to time. I offered her a taste, which she took, and smiled her approval of.
“Aulani,” I asked hesitantly, “where are you from?”
She turned to look at me, and her answer was slow in coming. “I am from an island that was once a nation; now it is part of New Zealand. A place called Niue.” She paused. “There is no one left there. I was the last.”
