The Lady's Guide to Escaping Cannibals

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  On three, he gave an almighty push under her left heel and a balancing shove under her ample right cheek, sending her sailing upward and over the edge.

  A short shriek carried down to him, then she was quiet. Lifting the lamp, he looked up to see her peering back over the edge, white faced and furious.

  “Well done!” He grinned. “You’re a natural.”

  Without wasting any more time, he threw his own sack upward and, stepping onto the first foothold, handed her the lamp. As she scooted back, he rested his forearms over the ledge and pushed himself up in one smooth motion.

  Rising to his feet, he offered her his hand. “Lead the way, Senhora.”

  Deeper they went into the rock, Bathsheba carrying the lamp and Captain de Silva behind, first whistling and then humming in an infinitely irritating fashion. Sea shanties she supposed, but at least he wasn’t singing them. She’d heard they were quite bawdy.

  He hadn’t apologized for man-handling her person, nor for having sent her sprawling into the wet.

  Not that she hadn’t needed help but, really!

  Since then, the way hadn’t been too arduous, needing her to climb only one or two steps at a time. Mostly, the ground rose with a steady incline.

  Certainly, they’d been right about the water. In several places, they paddled through shallow pools until there was a continual stream beneath their feet.

  At last, the pathway forked.

  “Left or right?” Holding the lantern high, Bathsheba turned to de Silva. He’d stopped the inane humming and his eyes were glittering darkly in the lamplight.

  She took a retreating step. Here was the man who’d intimidated her before—no longer smiling, his expression intent.

  Taking the lantern, he moved forward. To the left, the rock rose up, worn smooth by the passage of water. A rushing, whispering sound came from above. The rock was slick and without footholds. To even try climbing here would be insane. She’d most certainly slither back, and if she did, how far might she fall? What would she break? Her ankle? A wrist? Or her neck?

  To her relief, de Silva seemed to agree, for he resolutely turned to the right, taking the lead now and walking at a faster pace. There were several places where she needed his hand but she managed well.

  She gave silent thanks for her boots. Though her feet were damp, she hadn’t slipped. In fact, she was feeling more confident altogether. As long as one found something to grasp and a rougher piece of rock on which to wedge one’s toes, it wasn’t as difficult as she’d earlier thought.

  Bathsheba felt rather proud of herself.

  Moreover, de Silva surely had known what he was about, for the air was growing fresher.

  They were approaching an opening; she was sure of it. De Silva was increasing his pace such that she was quite breathless keeping up. And then, rounding a corner, there it was.

  Another cavern, such as they’d first entered from the shore and, at the far end, sunlight!

  A sob rose up, with unexpected force, from her chest. She’d believed they would find their way out; she truly had. But what a relief it was!

  De Silva had put down his pack and was walking back and forth, raising the lantern to every crevice and corner.

  Of course! Sebastian might be here! If he were injured, he’d seek somewhere safe to shelter. Captain de Silva was being exceptionally thorough, searching every part of the cave.

  Bathsheba felt ashamed of herself. He was taking his duty towards her most seriously, and for that she felt absurdly thankful. Naturally, she must help. Running her hand along the wall, moving towards the light, she called out.

  “Sebastian!” Her voice echoed loudly through the space. “Sebastian, where are you?” The final words repeated and repeated. He would surely hear. He must hear!

  She was about to shout again when a great hand closed over her mouth.

  “What the hell are you doing?” De Silva hissed in her ear.

  Shaking him off, she scowled back. “I’m helping, of course.”

  “You want to bring every damn soul to this place?” He glowered then sighed, passing his palm over his brow, looking suddenly weary. “Besides which, you’ll wake the bats.”

  Bats!

  She let out a shriek and his hand came over her mouth again. “Goddamn it. You’re a menace.”

  Rolling her eyes upward, she saw what she hadn’t before. High above them, the ceiling was fluttering and shivering. Inky waves shifted from one side to the other, accompanied by a high-pitched chittering, and a thousand tiny beads of vision, glossy in the darkness, reflected back the illumination of the lamp.

  She suppressed another scream, motioning with her eyes towards the light.

  “If you promise me there’ll be no more shrieking.” De Silva narrowed his eyes.

  “Anything! But let’s go!” She placed her own hand over her mouth as he removed his, hardly trusting herself.

  They’d only been inside the tunnels a few hours but the darkness felt infinite. She needed sunlight again. Yearned for it. Warmth and light and air.

  Kneeling to retrieve the lamp, she wobbled.

  Dash it all! She’d come this far; her legs mustn’t fail her now. She didn’t feel faint, but there was something strange. Her vision was quivering. Was she moving, or was it the cave?

  She tried to stand but her feet seemed barely able to feel the ground. The strangeness was building, growing stronger, making her jaw jump and her whole body tremble. At her side, de Silva was on his knees, reaching for her, pulling her towards him, wrapping her in his arms on the quaking ground.

  Bathsheba closed her eyes to the screeching, shadowy mass and the swoop of boundless wings.

  Chapter Nine

  “Are—are they gone?” As the shuddering around them subsided, the cave grew quiet but Bathsheba wasn’t ready yet to open her eyes.

  “Yes. There’s nothing to fear.” He rubbed her arm. “Up you get.”

  Bathsheba pressed her temples. Though the ground appeared still, the inside of her head was throbbing. “Everything was shaking.”

  “Several of the islands are part of ranges that behave like this. It doesn’t mean anything’s about to happen, but…” De Silva’s voice trailed off. He was clearly unwilling to speculate. “We’ve some hours until dusk. We should get going, unless you’d like to make shelter here. The bats won’t return until just before dawn.”

  Stay? Her chest constricted. “Not here. I couldn’t!”

  “Fair enough.” Handing her the lamp, he picked up the two packs and cast a final glance around them.

  How disappointed he looked. It occurred to Bathsheba that he must have been hoping for some sign of Sebastian.

  A rush of gratitude rose from deep inside—that she wasn’t alone, that he was helping her; no matter that she was paying him to do so. A less worthy man might have taken her on a wild goose chase—on some safer part of the island.

  For whatever reason, Captain de Silva was fulfilling his duty to the letter.

  “Thank you, truly.” She gave a half-smile. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

  “Nothing to thank me for.” For a moment, he looked as if he might say more but only motioned for her to walk ahead.

  From beyond the cave, there was the rushing noise again, much louder than before. Outside, Bathsheba’s eyes were dazzled, so that she barely took in the vista before her. They were high indeed, level with a huge expanse of sky, the lush foliage some way below—an uninterrupted domain of textured green.

  The air was moist.

  Humid, certainly, but more than that; there was a fine mist in the air.

  Turning her head, she realized why. A wide ribbon of water gushed full and strong some way to her left.

  So close. All this time. The spray must have been seeping back through the rock. Here was the source of the damp they’d encountered in the tunnels. The movement of the water was mesmerizing, plunging unstoppable from the precipice, into the depths of the chasm.

 
How high up were they? Some impossible, terrible height. And what was she standing upon?

  Realizing that the ledge was no more than three steps deep, and she was almost at its edge, she swayed. Choking with fear, she wanted to step back, to press herself flat against the rock behind her, but her legs felt as if they would crumple. A strangled sound escaped her. She was going to tumble headlong, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

  “Goddamit!” Hands grabbed her shoulders, yanking her back, slamming her not into rock but into de Silva’s embrace. “You have a death wish? Leaning over to marvel at the view?”

  Closing her eyes, she fought to regain her balance. “I didn’t mean to.” She tried to swallow, but her throat was tight.

  “It’s alright.” His arms were round her, the hairs on his dark-skinned forearm brushing her cheek. He clasped her so close she could hear his heart hammering.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” She was brought up short by his palm cupping her face, his thumb drifting to the edge of her lip. When she lifted her chin, he was gazing back at her with heavy eyelids.

  His head dipped a fraction and his lips parted.

  Inside her chest, something fluttered madly and she waited for his mouth upon hers, but he drew back suddenly, with a startled expression.

  Abruptly, he returned his hand to her shoulder. “No harm done.”

  Without letting go, he led her to where the ledge broadened considerably and descended downwards on a gentle incline. “Just keep walking.”

  With soothing noises, he coaxed her on, only gradually loosening his hold. She was vaguely aware of placing one foot before the other, and the hard warmth of his chest, to which she was pressed.

  When he stopped, letting go of her altogether, she saw they’d come quite far, hugging the edge of the cliffside—now almost level with the treetops—and that the light was fading.

  “We’ll camp here.” He began taking out items from the pack. “This overhang will protect us against the weather coming in.”

  “Weather?” The sky had been so bright earlier but the clouds had gathered, it was true—their undersides threateningly dark.

  He motioned for her to sit on the oilskin sheet he’d spread out. “Mostly ship’s biscuit and goat’s cheese—some cold yam. Not very exciting; my aunts wouldn’t approve.”

  She received the food gratefully, making herself take small bites so that it would last. “Your aunts?”

  Of course he would have family. Everyone did. She just couldn’t imagine fussing aunts. He was so very much his own man, as the commander of his ship. The idea of him being pestered by nagging women amused her.

  “They’re very good cooks.” He chewed thoughtfully. “No one makes poi like Aunt Malisa. She serves hers with breadfruit, sweet potatoes and pan-fried mahi-mahi, finished in coconut milk.”

  “Poi? What’s that?” Whatever it was, it all sounded delicious. Her mouth was watering. They’d eaten a lot of fish on board The Marguerite, but always as a rather watery stew.

  “It’s made from taro roots, mashed up and fermented—like your porridge, but tastier.” He looked at the last mouthful of yam wistfully.

  At that moment, a long, low rumble came from above, making her start.

  “What’s that? The volcano again?” Instinctively, she moved closer, seeking his protection.

  “Not this time.” He gave a patient smile. “Just thunder. Look.”

  The sky had changed greatly in the last few minutes. One cloud, directly overhead, was ominously black. As the accompanying flash lit the heavens, the deluge began—a heavy sheet descending so thick that the view was obscured entirely. She tucked in her feet but he’d chosen well, for the rock shielded them.

  Still, thoughts of the volcano troubled her. What would happen when it erupted—to the islanders, and to Sebastian, if he were still alive?

  “Captain de Silva, the people here—they can’t stay, surely?”

  He regarded her before turning to stare at the barrage of rain. “I can’t answer for how they think; every island is different, in customs and dialect. But, for generations, they’ve lived under the shadow of this volcano.”

  A sick feeling twisted her stomach. There would be families—and young children.

  “They have boats, I suppose, that could take them somewhere else. Of the hundreds of islands, some must be uninhabited.”

  He nodded. “The nearest is Maratu, almost a day’s canoeing distance. It’s where they take their dead, to bury them.”

  “All that way?” She hugged her knees. How strange some of the customs were. It hardly seemed practical.

  “Many believe that spirits linger, unwilling to part from loved ones and the vitality of life they represent. They take the bodies to Maratu, away from their community, that those spirits may grow neither jealous nor mischievous, causing harm. It’s a place of taboo—where only men may visit.”

  “Not somewhere they’d wish to make a home…” It was the sort of thing Sebastian would find fascinating; perhaps one of the reasons he’d been drawn here.

  “But you’re right.” De Silva shifted, making himself more comfortable. “There are other islands, further out. They have boats; they can take their families and their belongings.”

  “Perhaps they’re preparing.” She wanted to think so—that the islanders would take action to save themselves.

  De Silva said nothing, merely offering her the flask of water, and they sat for some time in silence, watching the rain. He lit the lantern again.

  Not for the first time, Bathsheba was struck by the absurdity of her situation. What was she doing? And what did she know of the man who was here to protect and help her? Were they to remain like this for the coming two days, remaining almost strangers to one another?

  She might begin, she supposed, by asking him about himself.

  The map had been bogus—probably sold to the Senhora’s naïve brother for some stupid sum, and he’d been lured here after treasure that never existed.

  It was just as he’d suspected.

  This brother of hers wasn’t quite as noble as she believed. He’d hoped to find something of value and take it away. Something that, if it belonged to anyone, belonged here, on Vanuaka.

  He was glad, almost, that the map had proven worthless.

  His own curiosity had been piqued and he’d been disappointed, at first, to find nothing—until he realized the trap he was falling into.

  He’d no intention of robbing fellow islanders. At the first opportunity, he’d destroy the paper folded in his pocket. It would be as if it never existed.

  “Are you married?” Her question came so abruptly that Jorge spluttered on the flask he’d just brought to his lips.

  He wiped the water from his chin. He’d a mind not to answer her, but she was leaning forward intently. He’d have to humour her or she’d give him no peace.

  “No.” He adopted a surly tone. “You marry and then regret at leisure. People don’t realize what they’re getting into until it’s too late.”

  To his surprise, she appeared to agree. “I know what you mean. Too much risk. My parents made each other thoroughly miserable.”

  He grunted his assent.

  She angled herself so that it was almost impossible for him to look anywhere but at her. Not that he was averse to doing so, but her proximity was unsettling. How much of the day had he spent helping her clamber over obstacles within the tunnels? One way or another, she kept ending up in his arms, and he was only flesh and blood.

  He’d almost kissed her, back there, and only just stopped himself. He was still thinking about it, but this was supposed to be business—three days only. All he had to do was keep her alive and get her back to Moresby, then collect the money.

  No matter his attraction, it would be a mistake, wouldn’t it, to act upon it?

  She was still talking, telling him about her husband of all things—as if he’d be interested. If the swine was more than a figment of her imagination, he
ought to be flogged, letting his wife set off on an expedition such as this alone.

  “It was three years ago that he died.”

  His ears pricked up suddenly.

  She paused, and he lowered his eyes. There was only one answer to such a statement. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you, but—” She cleared her throat. “It was really rather a relief.”

  Dear God! Not that he cared about the dead husband, but did she have any thoughts she could keep to herself?

  She carried on.

  “Not that I wouldn’t ever consider it again, but I’d have to feel the other person really knew me—that they loved me for what I am rather than what they thought I might be.” She looked at him enquiringly, as if he might have an opinion on the subject. “It’s important, don’t you think, for a husband and wife to share their feelings? And for them to understand what the other needs to make them happy?”

  He couldn’t help but snort at that. “It’s rather a tall order, isn’t it, since most people don’t know themselves what it takes to make them happy.”

  She shrank back a little and he regretted his manner immediately. “I don’t mean to be rude. Everyone has their own way of thinking. But a man can only be himself. If that’s not good enough, then…”

  He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t intended to dredge up what he’d rather forget, but he supposed he’d better explain himself.

  “There was someone I had feelings for—and I thought she cared for me, but it was all a sham. I sailed in one day and she’d left with another man. I’ve accepted since then that you can’t ever know what someone else is thinking.”

  She was staring at him, a crease between her brows. He could almost see the steam from a hundred questions whirling and the struggle of her deciding which to ask first.

  “Did you tell her how you felt? That you loved her?”

  Jorge rubbed at his chin. “Of course. At least, I’m pretty sure.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You planned your future together? You proposed marriage?”