Days of the Python (Python Trilogy Book 1)

by David Jurk

  He wasted no time lighting his pipe, and settled back, contemplating us with squinted eyes.

  “Weel,” he said, “Ye need time awa' frae 'at boat, dornt ye?”

  Aulani spoke at once. “Do you think so, Charlie?

  I looked blankly from one to the other.

  “Time from the boat?”

  He grunted, poking the air with the pipe stem. “It's as obvioos as th' beak oan yer coopon 'at th' tois ay ye need some time oan dry lain.” He knocked the bowl against the enormous ashtray. “Ah hae bin oan boats myself, aye? Soggy things, arenae they?”

  Aulani was smiling. “Yes,” she said agreeably. “They can be damp.”

  “Eh'd say 'at settles it 'en, doesnae it?”

  I was completely befuddled. “Settles what?”

  He looked at me as if I were daft. “Sweit Jaisus, laddie. It settles it 'at ye an' Lani will bide haur fur puckle days. Gie a guid rest an' sleep wi' nae rockin'.”

  I turned to Aulani.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked.

  “He’s invited us to stay with him, Owen.” She smiled sweetly at me. “For a bit.”

  “Oh,” I said. There was silence all around, then Charlie suddenly stood.

  “Ah need tae use th' loo,” he announced, and left.

  I bent forward toward Aulani.

  “Don’t you like being on Windswept?” I whispered.

  “Oh, Owen, of course I do,” she replied, laying a hand on my arm. “But do you not see it means the world to him?” She searched my face and smiled. “And it would be an opportunity to do a thorough cleaning. We could pull everything out, all the bedding and clothes; all the stores. I can reorganize while you finish getting the instruments fixed.”

  I stared at her.

  “Do you think we need to reorganize?”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “I really do.”

  I sat back, trying to imagine what possibly was wrong with the way the boat was packed. Charlie ambled back in, pipe smoke preceding him, and sat back down.

  “Ur we settled, ‘en?” he asked without any preamble.

  “Yes, we’d love to,” Aulani said, and looked pointedly at me.

  “Yes, of course, we’d love to,” I said. “As long as it’s no trouble.”

  “Trooble? Weel, fur th' loove ay pete, laddie, th' tois ay ye arenae trouble.”

  “Well, good then,” I replied. “Apparently Aulani thinks that will give us an opportunity to reorganize.”

  He roared with laughter. “Och, son, ye hae it noo. When a hen says organize, ye willnae ken whit burst ye. Yoo'll be bangin' intae jobby fur days.”

  She winked at me, and what could I do, really? And now that it was decided, it seemed reasonable enough; I’d been on board Windswept since San Diego, which felt as if it were a lifetime ago. The thought of being in an actual bed, in an actual house, seemed suddenly appealing. No movement, no endless shifting about – and, yes – no dampness.

  So, we talked on for the next couple of hours as darkness grew outside, cheerfully putting plans together for the next day. The wood stove put out a steady, comforting warmth and Charlie pulled out the Laphroaig we’d brought him and insisted on pouring for us – as he put it – a “wee bevy affair scratcher.”

  We became languid, warmed by the Scotch; drowsiness overtaking us. It wasn’t late, I suppose, in actual hour, but it was dark and comfortable, and we’d had a long day. Charlie knocked out the pipe and got to his feet.

  “Aw reit ‘en,” he said. “time fur scratcher.”

  We followed him up the narrow stairway, climbing into a high-ceilinged loft. He lit another oil lamp at the top of the stairs and I saw a small room with a single window looking north over the sea. And I saw what I’d been ignoring all along with this talk of us staying with him; there was but one bed in the room.

  As he bustled about, the two of us stood quietly, each to our own thoughts. He pulled an extra quilt from a drawer, chattering on about being careful going down the stairs to the loo and encouraging us to keep an eye on the window; the night stars, he said, were exceptional. We listened, smiling and silent. He must’ve thought we were numb with exhaustion.

  He took a final, critical look at the bed, seemed satisfied and bid us good night, disappearing slowly down the stairs. When we heard a door slam below, we looked at each other.

  “I’ll take the quilt and make a bed on the floor,” I said quickly.

  “No, you will not.”

  “Well, I’m surely not letting you do it.”

  “Well, then,” she said.

  “Well what, then?”

  “Owen,” she whispered, moving toward the bed. “Blow the light out, would you?”

  I did, and the blackness was immediate and total. I waited until I could see the outline of the window, then walked cautiously toward the bed, arms outstretched before me.

  “Shit,” I muttered, as my knees hit the mattress.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake, get in bed,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you dressed?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Aulani?”

  “Yes?”

  “I…I sleep naked.”

  She laughed. “So do I.”

  That stopped me. “Uh, well, what side are you on?”

  “Can’t you see anything?”

  “No, just the window.”

  “The left.”

  I slid around to the right, my fingers guiding me along the edge of the bed in the darkness. Finding the pillow, I sat down and took off my shoes, then my clothes. It was cold, but I sat naked for a few moments, shivering, then closed my eyes, pulled back the covers and slid in, the sheets like ice against my skin.

  I was tight up against the edge of the bed, as far to my side as I could be. The bed was small, a double, and though we weren’t touching, I could feel the heat from her body.

  Her small hand touched my shoulder, her fingers soft and warm.

  “You’re trembling,” she said softly. “Let me warm you.”

  “All right,” I whispered, and felt her encircle me, her soft breasts against my back, her knees tucked behind mine, arms around me. Her breath was warm against the back of my neck. She smelled of coconut.

  “Better?” she asked after a moment.

  I couldn’t find my voice, so I just nodded. The warmth from her was overpowering; I felt it penetrate me, slowly felt the muscles of my back and shoulders relax.

  Her arms squeezed me briefly.

  “Warmer now, yes?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, “warmer now.”

  She put a hand on my shoulder, pulled me gently over toward her.

  “Owen, come away from the edge.”

  She pulled back to give me room and I rolled toward her, onto my back in the center of the bed. She came to me, laid her head on my chest. I put my arm over her shoulders, let my fingers fall along her back. She pressed into my side, the soft hair between her legs burning my hip. I lay very still.

  “Owen?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Mostly.”

  “You’re uncomfortable.”

  I thought about it. “No, not exactly uncomfortable,” I said slowly. “Surprised, I suppose.”

  She raised her head, as if trying to see my face in the darkness.

  “At what?”

  I gently pressed her head back to my chest.

  “At how normal it feels. Here. Like this.”

  She sighed and was quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “When I woke in Windswept after you found me, I thought I had died.”

  “You did?”

  I felt her slow nod.

  “I remember hands putting water on my lips. I thought it was my Nana. I thought I’d gone to her. I could feel that I was on a boat, and I thought I had sailed in the canoe from this world to the next.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “N
o! Oh, no. I was very happy. I believed I would see her, and…” She paused for a moment. “And, I felt that my karma was settled – for letting the boy go; that I had paid my price.”

  “Aulani…”

  She put a finger to my lips.

  “And when I finally woke up, when I saw you, and came to understand it was not me that was dead, but them, it seemed a mistake. It was so wrong. I was the one prepared to die; death on the sea was a destiny for me, yes? And the boy should have had a life, should have had the chance to grow up and become a man.”

  “Listen,” I said. “Dying in a canoe wasn’t your destiny. Your husband and son leaving and going to New Zealand and this insane virus; it was just the way things happened. It wasn’t penalty from something you did or didn’t do – any of it.” I stopped to gather my thoughts.

  “That day on the ocean, when I found you – it…it was one of those moments that brings your life to a point, that collapses the whole of you into a single moment, a single decision. And…and for once in my life, I made the right decision, I did the right thing.”

  I waited a moment, but she was silent.

  “So,” I went on, “if there was any saving that day, it was you that saved me. If you want to think of it as karma, then any redemption you feel was due has been settled.”

  I waited in the quiet darkness for what seemed like a long time, feeling her breathing softly against me.

  “I’m happy it was you,” she whispered finally, “that it was you that found me.”

  Long into that night, the air sharpening around us, I lay sleepless. The stars were a panorama of brilliance through the little window and I thought of Rachel, wondering what she’d say to the picture of me here in this bed with Aulani. I thought I knew. Be alive, my love. Be happy.

  And at last, Aulani long asleep against me, I felt sleep reaching for me. I brushed her hair with my lips, closed my eyes.

  “G’night, ye bonnie lass,” I whispered. “Fai se miti malie.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A FEW DAYS turned into a week and then a week into two and still we stayed on. The first few days were consumed with an unhurried urgency to go through Windswept stem to stern, clearing her of every object she held, taking the time to check every system, every wire, every line, every tool, every spare. Over and over, I told myself how fortunate we’d been to make it to the volcanic lake, for the southeast trades returned with a vengeance, bringing icy air. Inside the sheltered volcano, it was nearly calm and easily ten degrees warmer than on the bluffs. We used Two Cherries to ferry load after load to the concrete pier, lay it out and cover it with tarps, accounting for it on the growing inventory that Aulani kept.

  And she would brook no more of Charlie insisting on treating us as guests. The first morning after we’d awakened and gone downstairs to find breakfast waiting, she’d made it clear to him that if we were to accept his invitation to stay, he’d have to accept her help. And he did. At first, the two of them rotated the cooking while I was delegated to dishwashing and laundry, apparently too amateurish in the kitchen to deserve chef status. Fine, I told them, if they were going to be snooty about it, I was going to be an unrelenting critic. It was a fool’s errand; enabled by a full kitchen and a vast supply of canned goods – he truly did seem to have enough to feed an army – Aulani proved herself to be a true gourmet. Even Charlie admitted he’d met his match, and the two of them took turns producing meals that kept us eating like kings.

  She also completely managed the repacking of Windswept. At first, I’d wanted to discuss each decision with her, but soon, like the cooking, it proved wiser to surrender to her endless energy and boundless talent and simply let her lead. Her sense of efficiency and utility was manifest in the smallest of details and each time I returned to the boat to get clothes or look for a tool, I was freshly amazed at the way things fell naturally to hand.

  And I had to admit – living a land life in the cottage was a pleasant break from the confines of Windswept’s cabin. I enjoyed being there very much indeed – especially the evenings around the stove, filled with enticing food, conversation and laughter. After yet another fine supper, with my role as dishwasher fulfilled and everything put away, we’d find our places around the stove, Charlie filling the air with pipe smoke, and we’d talk endlessly. Reminiscing of our lives in the ‘old world’ and predicting what conditions were like elsewhere in this new one was a favorite topic. As was engaging in boisterous debate over the refinements and expansion that could be done on Raoul. It was clear to me as the days went on that these discussions, usually raised by Charlie, had a deeper purpose behind them. He never tired of energetically promoting the idea of clearing more land, harvesting trees for additional building timber and creating what he called a ‘wee settlement’. His flocks, he said, were hardly begun and could be greatly expanded, providing renewable sustenance indefinitely. It would take little more than an extra pair of hands or two he claimed, his eyes sparkling as he looked at Aulani and I, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to know where he was headed with it all.

  Some evenings, while Aulani read or sewed, Charlie and I would retreat to the alcove beneath the stairway and scan the frequency bands with his transceiver. He had lovely equipment, fully computerized and very powerful. His shortwave antenna stretched from the rear of the cottage to a tree more than two hundred meters away; if there was something being broadcast, he undoubtedly had the means to receive it. Exactly why Aulani never joined us I couldn’t say with certainty; when I asked, she’d said only that there was nothing she cared to hear. And as it was, she may have been quite right; in truth, we found little to hang our hats on. As the days ticked away, we picked up less and less. In half a dozen sessions, not once did we succeed in pulling in a broadcast from what we felt was a legitimate government; not once. We did – several times - pick up lone survivors, one claiming to be an American, broadcasting from the mountains in Chiapas, Mexico. He seemed half-crazed, quoting the bible and speaking of his many wives, vowing to repopulate the earth as God instructed him. Within minutes, he’d broken the conversation off, fearful he said, that we were tracking his location. He called us devil worshippers, I suppose because we demurred when he insisted we pray with him.

  There were others, a few anyway, a couple or a family on a boat, usually desperate. It left me depressed, listening to it, and Charlie fuming, his pipe belching great clouds of smoke, and Scottish curses blazing forth from him. Most were unintelligible to me, though I couldn’t have been more sympathetic to his. But as I say, over time we turned to the radio less and less, spoke more and more of cutting trees, expanding the chicken coop, and taking up a serious pursuit of fishing – as well as enthusiastic ruminations on the dozens of development projects that Raoul offered us.

  And, of course, there were the endless card games; this became our favorite evening activity, with Charlie and I forging an ever-doomed unity against what we perceived as the ungodly good fortune of Aulani. She sat gently smiling, night after night, receiving one hand after another of cards that Charlie and I would swear had been pre-arranged in the deck. And if she wasn’t dealt what she needed, she soon drew them, and left the two of us sputtering and frustrated.

  For all of that, the evenings flew by, the hours warm and sociable with endless conversation and trays of cheeses, crackers, pickles, fruit, and bread. As the evening grew late – as we judged it in any case - Charlie would pull out the Laphroaig, pouring each of us a small dram as the woodstove settled down into its overnight glowering, pinging as the room began to cool. We’d sip slowly, then he would rise, bid us good night and Aulani and I would climb the stairway, turn the light off and undress in the darkness. We’d slide into the cold bed and hold each other.

  I would be freezing in those first few moments, shivering with the iciness of the room and the bed, then her nude body would surround me, supple and warm, and the sensations that rose within me as ice turned to fire were overwhelming. Lying there, her body became my univ
erse. I could feel each nipple against me as they warmed and softened, feel her flat belly with the rounded swell of her pubis against my hip. Her head would rest on my shoulder, hair draped over me in coconut-scented profusion. We’d often fall asleep like that, something I – the lightest of sleepers - would have thought impossible. Sometimes I’d wake on my side with her curled before, my arms around her, our fingers entwined. I often grew hard against her, at first a terrible embarrassment to me, but she treated it the same way she treated everything, with easy acceptance, something so natural it warranted no reaction or comment.

  It wasn’t as though we rejected sex or made a conscious decision to avoid it; there just seemed no rush about it. The sensuality, the utter intimacy of curling up naked together, night after night – this was a universe I’d never experienced before. It broadened my understanding of what love making could be, gentled it into something far more eloquent.

  Most nights we lay together and talked. Sleepily climbing the stairs after bidding Charlie good-night, the cool air of the loft revived us, and we chatted like magpies as we warmed each other. From the totally banal to philosophies of existence – we learned to freely put our thoughts into speech without fear of judgement. For me, it was a revival, a catharsis; it opened up an outlet that had long been closed. For her - I think it was an entirely new experience; once she knew there was nothing she could say that would compromise her, the words and feelings flowed from her.

  I was curious, of course, about her husband and son, and in a quiet moment one night, I asked her. I felt her take a deep breath.

  “Don’t talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable,” I said.

  “It’s not that,” she replied. “I’m trying to think how to describe it, so you’ll understand.” She hesitated a moment more.

  “He was…” she finally began, then stopped. “We… were an arrangement.”

  “An arrangement? You mean the marriage was arranged? Like in India? Your parents set it up, and all that?”

  “Not exactly like that,” she replied. “My parents were both dead by then. It was my Nana – my grandmother – who did the arranging.”