An Evil Guest

THE STORM — AND THE CALM

Hearing stealthy noises as she composed herself for sleep, Cassie opened her eyes, sat up, and found a woman on either side of her bed. To her right, the assassin’s large, pale eyes seemed luminous in the dim light; a faint smile played around her mouth.

On the other side, the dead woman stood erect and motionless, her face a mask, her eyes two darker stains upon that mask.

“Mate in three moves.” The assassin tittered. “I’ve come to tell you the game’s as good as over. That it is over in the intellectual sense. It’s over, dear, darling, sweet, plump Queen Cassie, and you’ll be a widow before you’re ever a bride.”

Cassie stared. “How did you get in here?”

“How could you keep me out?”

From the other side of the big bed, the dead woman whispered, “I unlocked her chain.”

Cassie turned to look at her. “Why?”

“A witness. I must write my report.”

The assassin tittered.

“I don’t understand.”

“When I’ve written it, I will have peace.”

The assassin said, “We are the halves, Cassie dearest. Together we make a whole. I’m the hunted, she’s the hunter. I’m the vixen, she’s the bitch baying on my trail. Without a fox she’s just a pet, one who’d soon be replaced by a poodle like you. Without a hound, what glory would I have in the court of the Storm King?”

The dead woman said, “We’re going to steal Reis’s hopper. We’ll return to the Bay Area.”

The assassin tittered again. “I to San Francisco, she to Oakland. But first, we visited you. You don’t have to offer refreshments.”

“Really? I’m sure you’d like a nice glass of blood.”

The dead woman said, “You’re my sister. You’ve seen what I saw. You felt what I felt. Please find my grave, in Oakland or Orinda. I may not be in it, but I’d like you to lay flowers there.”

“She’ll die, too!” The assassin snarled.

“You will live. Lay the flowers.”

“I will,” Cassie whispered. “I promise.”

“We’ve won!” The assassin’s hand, small and thin, grasped Cassie’s shoulder. “Listen! What do you hear?”

Cassie did. “The wind. Only the wind.” Although her windows were closed, it seemed to her that her drapes were stirring.

“Yes, the wind!” There was no giggle or titter now, but the wild, unnatural laughter of a thoroughly bad child. “Come out on the terrace. Tell us what you see.”

The dead woman was already pulling down the sheet. Cassie rose and found her slippers. The dead woman and the assassin held her robe. She recalled it long afterward, and nothing in all their strange interview seemed stranger than that.

When the terrace door opened, the song of the wind filled her bedroom; the wind itself ballooned her robe and knocked over something in another room.

Outside, she felt she had gone blind. She struggled to keep her feet, while her robe snapped behind her like a banner. The assassin and the dead woman who had been Pat Gomez had vanished into the howling night.

She was putting on her shoes when the lights went out. Her watch swore that it was day; no daylight came, only the crashing of waves not far enough below.

A window blew in, showering the room with broken glass.

She fled into the hall and ran toward the only light she saw. Hiapo held it, a clumsy lantern in which the flame of a fat candle flickered and smoked. He said, “You are dressed, O Queen. That is well.”

“Why should I be dressed?”

“We would dress you.” He whistled, abrupt and shrill. Two women came and took her arms. When she protested, he said, “These are needful, O Queen. These are needful. You must go with us.”

She had recognized one of the women and whispered, “What is this, Iulani?”

“Justice, O Queen. You bring the judgment of the Sky Gods.”

Only that, of all her questions, evoked an answer.

They left the palace for a rough tunnel cut into the living rock of the mountain, and left that for a long, worn stair that mounted up and up, turning and sometime coiling upon itself like a snake — or so it seemed to Cassie. Her little Italian automatic was strapped to her right thigh; had it been back in Kingsport, it could not have been less accessible.

The wind screamed. She heard it faintly at first, but nearer and louder with each step they mounted, a wind that shrieked in agony like a witch in labor. The devil’s son, she thought, will be born tonight.

And found herself shouting it, not at the women whose strong hands pinioned her arms but at Hiapo’s broad back. “The devil’s son! Listen to me! The devil’s son is born tonight!”

If Hiapo heard her, he gave no sign.

The arch at the top of the stair appeared, fitfully lit at times by vagrant beams that slipped away — swallowed by a night blacker far than any night should be.

The wind was terrible, alive with cold anger.

Then her arms were freed. She used them to hold down her skirt, which threatened to climb about her waist. Her hair had become a red mop — or so she thought, and did not care. As she saw now, the fitful beams came from hundreds of big lanterns of pierced tin lanterns held by warriors Hiapo’s size.

Then Hiapo was gone, and King Kanoa was coming toward her. “You have not been injured, I hope.” King Kanoa’s face was in shadow; his booming voice, which so often held a smile, was not smiling on this black morning. “Are you hurt?”

“Scared,” Cassie admitted. “Just scared.”

“You needn’t be. No one here intends you harm.” He took her arm. “I shall protect you. Come with me to the seat of justice.”

More steps, narrow and steep and lit from below by the flickering beams, steps she surmounted one by one on legs that already ached.

The seat of justice was of stone; when she was seated upon it — with her arms pinned to its armrests by the two women — her fingers found carvings.

“This,” King Kanoa told her, “is the ancient throne of my ancestors. It is here that our high king or high queen sits to announce to our assembled nation the justice of the Sky Gods.” His tone was conversational but not light. “At present the only god in our sky is the Storm King. He has raised this typhoon. Do you recall the village where we landed?”

Cassie managed to say yes, although it was difficult to make herself heard above the wind. “Yes, I do.”

“It is gone, every stick of it. At this point I would guess that a hundred such villages have been destroyed and two thousand or more of us drowned.”

“How terrible!”

“It is.” He had moved behind her now, but Cassie felt sure he was nodding. “You have a good, loud voice, as is to be expected of an actress. I had hoped this wouldn’t be necessary. Close your mouth, please.”

She did not, but his powerful hand closed it for her, forcing her chin up until the back of her head was firmly against the high stone back of the throne, then farther until her teeth locked. A moment later, a strip of tape covered her mouth.

“You can still breathe, I hope. I’ll take that off as soon as this is over. Or you can.”

Suddenly his voice boomed forth, speaking his own tongue. Clearly, Cassie decided, he had a microphone, and there were loudspeakers below — loudspeakers that had not lost power when the palace had, or to which power had been restored.

Minutes passed. King Kanoa finished, and was cheered wildly. Several men fired into the air.

“Let me speak English.” For the second time, his voice thundered from the speakers.

“There are those here, our high king among them, who do not understand our tongue. They, too, deserve to know.”

Cassie’s eyes searched for Reis, but did not find him.

“In righteous anger, the Storm King has raised this typhoon. We, his devout worshippers, perish. We have begged him to mitigate his displeasure, and he has answered us. If we offer our greatest sacrifice, his storm shall abate. Here we do as he asks. Our high king will die for us, his people.”

Cassie struggled, but could not free her arms from the women’s grip.

“Bring him forth! Lawe mai Mo’i!”

Below them, the crowd of huge warriors parted. Reis, a big man, looked small beside them. Very small, Cassie thought, but proud and unafraid. His hands seemed to have been tied behind his back.

The last of the warriors who accompanied him carried a painted club the size of a softball bat, with a great knob of wood at its head.

King Kanoa spoke again in his own tongue. Then: “You cannot speak as we, O King, but you may now address those who wait in English speech.”

“I don’t want to,” Reis said. “I couldn’t make myself heard anyway.” He paused. There was fear in his eyes, but something else as well. “Can you hear me, Cassie?”

She could not reply, but she nodded.

“This storm isn’t even intended for us. We’re on the fringe here. The Navy’s gone after the Storm King, and he’s hoping to sink their ships. He’s probably sunk a few already.”

“Faster,” King Kanoa told Reis. “We haven’t got a lot of time.”

“Remember what I say, Cassie. I did what I could for humanity. I wanted to be of real help, and never gave a damn for what anybody thought of me. I succeeded. I love my son Rian. Tell him if you can.”

Cassie tried to nod, but King Kanoa’s hand had closed around the back of her head, holding it immovable.

“I love you. Don’t forget that, either. I loved you in life, and I’ll love you in death.”

King Kanoa spoke, and Reis was thrown down. At once he vanished, then reappeared only to vanish again. Visible or invisible his captors held him, positioning his head on a wide, dark stone near Cassie’s feet.

The warrior with the club moved to stand beside it, his club raised.

King Kanoa spoke again, his words followed by wild cheering and more shots. The beam of every lantern found her. It was as if she sat onstage, the target of hundreds of feeble spotlights.

During those cheers, King Kanoa had switched off his microphone; when he spoke again, in English, his voice was normal and only just loud enough for her to hear him above the shrieking wind. “How must it be, O Queen? Speak now. The high priest watches. Must High King Wiliama ’Aukailani die this day to save his people?” His hand forced her head down, raised it, forced it down again, and freed it.

The club struck; the thud of the blow and the sound of breaking bone would stay with Cassie as long as she lived.

King Kanoa spoke, and the women freed her arms. His strong fingers freed her mouth of the tape with a quick pull. “You remain our high queen,” he told her. “Thinking solely of your own good, I advise you to marry someone thoroughly familiar with the local situation who can assist your rule.”

Then her gun was in her hand and King Kanoa’s broad chest stretched before its muzzle. Afterward, she could not recall how many times she fired, only that the number was greater than two and probably greater than three.

Something seized her and jerked her upward, and her gun was no longer there.

Magically, the wind vanished. Driven by it, they were scudding over a tumultuous sea, and there were wings before them, wings darker even than that dark day.

THEY landed her upon a coral beach in sunshine. “We can carry you no farther,” the tall being who had held her explained, “and could not have raised you as we did if it had not been for the wind. You may be happy here.”

Cassie could only gasp her thanks.

Then they were gone, flecks of black dwindling against a blank turquoise sky; she sat down and stared at the waves for a time, rose, found shade, and sat staring again. It was not until the sun touched the horizon that she shook herself, unstrapped the empty holster from her thigh, and threw it into the waves.

Fresh water trickling down to the sea betrayed itself by a chuckle. Cassie drank long, and slept on the beach. She slept soundly that night and spent the following day in search of food; but the next night was different.

After that, each day was like the last. She looked for food, always finding some but never finding enough. In time, it occurred to her that she should keep a tally of the days; but many had already passed, and she could not say how many. She would be here until she died, which would be soon. Wasn’t that enough? When she died, the gulls would peck her corpse. How would the number of her days on the island matter?

It was not until she caught sight of the burning mountain that she realized where she was. After that she walked in good earnest, searching for the place where they had seen the coral blocks, the place where Reis had left his shoes.

She found it at last, took off her sandals, and went barefoot thereafter.

After three days she returned to the spot, drawn by memories that were sweeter and more real there. For a time she followed a regular schedule, returning every third day to sit where they had sat together. When she closed her eyes, it seemed to her that Reis sat beside her. She could hear the soft sigh of his breath, and catch the spicy scent of his cologne.

Until at last she remembered the image they had found, the squat, worn image that devout hands had carved in coral long ago. She looked for it again.

And found no image, but Vincent Palma seated on a weathered block of coral.

His skin was almost black with tattoos; his headdress, which ought to have been of long red and yellow feathers, was now of leaping flame. And yet it was surely Vincent Palma, taller than most men, with his too-cunning eyes and tomcat smile.

“Vince!” she gasped. “Ohmygosh, Vince, what in the world are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to give you something, Cassie.” His voice was just as it had always been, a voice that made whatever he said sound important.

“You’ve given me plenty just by coming. I’ve been so lonely here, Vince. You can’t imagine how lonely.” She reached out to touch his hand, but it was so hot that she jerked her own away.

“I know it only too well,” he told her. There was a rumble less distinct than the surf, a deep drumming like distant thunder, from the burning mountain behind him.

“Remember the show? The banquet you made for me? The way you danced with Gil and me?”

“No... No.” He sighed, and it seemed to her there was a loneliness as deep as her own in the sigh. “May I ask a favor, Cassie? A great favor given freely to one who will afterward present you with a gift that will be precious to you?”

It sounded dangerous. “I can’t promise I’ll do it when I don’t know what it is.”

“But may I ask?”

Hesitantly, she nodded.

“We used to dance, you say. Dance with me now.”

“I — well, of course I’ll try, Vince. But there’s no music.”

“Listen. Only listen! How can you say there’s no music?”

She did. There were drums in the waves and a thousand strings in the palms. Sunbeams winded trumpets through the dark green leaves. She began to dance, and discovered that she could no longer dance as once she had, though she did her best for her partner’s sake, keeping time to the music and moving with quaint grace.

He rose and leaped higher than her head, circled her with a breathtaking series of leaps, seized her in hands that smoked where they touched her ragged dress and tossed her into the air so high that she turned head over heels at the apex.

And caught her as she fell.

It freed something that had been bound before; after it she danced as he did while the burning mountain pounded a kettledrum and birds of a hundred brilliant hues joined the music with strange songs. So they danced, and it did not matter to them that no one saw them, because they saw themselves.

Until at last she fell panting, and could dance no more.

He kissed her as she sprawled upon the black jungle loam — burning lips that brushed her own — seated himself once more upon his weathered coral block, and waited.

At length she sat up. “I’m awfully sorry, Vince. I gave out.” And then, “You’re not really Vince, are you? You just look like him.”

Sadly he shook his head.

“I like you better, whoever you are. I never liked Vince, or not much. But I like you a lot.”

“Then you will do as I ask.” He smiled Vince’s smile. “Gather wood, Cassie. Pile it on the sand. You know the place. Twigs and fallen branches. Driftwood. It may be wet or dry. That will not matter.”

She nodded as she rose. “How much?”

“You will know when there is enough.”

Something held her. “Will I ever see you again?”

“I think you may. Leave flowers.”

“All right,” she said, and began to collect wood. When the pile was as high as her waist, and night had come with the breathtaking rush that only the tropics know, she searched for more wood by moonlight.

When she returned, her pile was ablaze.

AFTER that she had fire, a fire that she kept burning always, sometimes larger, sometimes smaller. She learned then to make a spear, burning the end of a hardwood sapling and scraping away the charcoal with a shell. It took hours of patient fishing to spear a fish. Little by little her aim improved, and she learned which kinds tasted best when wrapped in green leaves and roasted in the coals.

DAWN, and she woke to see a white ship. She screamed and leaped and waved, and piled all her wood onto her fire, which seemed almost to go out before it sprang up roaring.

And miracle of miracles, a boat, a swift white motor launch, put out from the ship. Then she raced through the jungle picking flowers and piled them at the feet of a weathered coral image, and met the boat on the beach with an armload more.

The launch’s crew of three, three lean, sun-bronzed sailors who spoke a language that Cassie felt sure was not French, smiled their welcome and patted her back gently. The young officer who commanded the launch was English, and reserved with that young man’s reserve that is at least half embarrassment. “Shipwrecked, I’d say?”

It seemed safest to nod, so Cassie did.

“Bit of a time, I’d say. You look it. Should’ve brought you a sheet or something. Back aboard and bob’s your uncle.”

After which he would not look at her.

The captain was American, formerly of the Coast Guard. He made her sit, and there was coffee and a coffee cake well sprinkled with nuts.

“I haven’t had coffee...” Cassie began, and began to cry.

“You’ll have to meet the owner,” the captain told her. “She’s still in bed, but after her breakfast. Try not to cry, Mrs. Casey. She doesn’t like it.”

Cassie nodded, and cried the more.

“Want to tell me how you got on the island?”

She shook her head. “You’d never believe me.”

“Try me.” He sounded serious. “Tell me the truth. If it’s the truth, I’ll know it.”

“May I think for a minute? It seems like a long, long time ago now. What year is this?”

He told her, and she said, “It was last year when I got to the island. I — I was always hungry. Always. Sometimes I could find some food. Fish or fruit, almost always. I don’t think I’ll ever eat fish or fruit again.” She picked up the nearest pastry, bit it, chewed it slowly, and swallowed. “I thought I’d die there. Right there. Do you believe me?”

“I do. You’re telling the truth. How did you get there?”

“I was on Takanga. One of the Takangas. Do you know those islands?”

He shook his head. “I know they exist. I’ve never been there.”

“I met my husband there. I mean, I went there and after a week or so he came there, too. He’d been away on business.”

“I understand.”

“We lived there for a while. Sometimes he’d go away — he had this hopper. But I was there all the time. There was a big storm.” Cassie began to cry again.

“I heard about that. Thousands died.”

She nodded, dabbing at her tears with a napkin.

“You were in it?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Wally was k-killed. Wally was my husband. I — you must think I’m a terrible liar.”

The captain shook his head. “Not so far, Mrs. Casey.”

“I’m trying to tell the truth. I really am. Only the truth. My husband’s name wasn’t Wally. Not really. It was Bill. I called him Wally a — a lot. It was a little private joke we had. Oh, gosh! I hope you understand.”

The captain smiled. “I won’t tell you what my wife calls me.”

“Then you do understand.” Another deep breath. “All right. Here’s the other thing. A lot of people would have said we weren’t married at all. That’s not right, but it’s what lots of people would’ve said. It’s called common-law marriage. We lived together and told everybody we were married. If you do that, you enter a common-law marriage. Please believe me. It’s the truth.”

“I know it is,” the captain said.

“This is true, too. We were going to have a regular marriage, a big ceremony. One of the missionaries on Great Takanga would do it. We were going to be married on the grass in front of some embassy. Bill had it all set up, and a dressmaker was making my wedding dress. Then the st-storm...”

“I understand,” the captain told her, “but how did you get on that island?”

“Wally d-d-died, and I was g-going to die, too. I kn-knew it. I wanted to die.” Cassie sighed. “I really did. I w-wanted to get it all over.”

The captain nodded. “Go on.”

“Some friends came. It was v-very unexpected, but they did and they were going to fly me out. Only they were o-overloaded and c-couldn’t carry me anymore.”

He nodded again. “Did they have a seaplane?”

“N-no. They landed on the beach and told me I’d be all right there, that I might even be h-happy. I guess I thought they would come back for me, but they never did.”

“Did it ever occur to you that they might have gone down at sea after they let you out?”

Cassie shook her head.

“A light plane, heavily loaded, trying to fly out through a storm? It could have happened very easily.”

THE owner, Madame Pavlatos, was a rake-thin brunette who had once (there were photos and oil paintings everywhere) been a great beauty. Her stateroom was large even for such a large yacht, and where her pictures were not, there were mirrors. Cassie had taken one and one-half steps into the stateroom when she glimpsed herself in one — a wasted face, sunburned and deeply lined, surmounted by dirty, graying hair. A bent and barefoot old woman dressed in rags, with arms and legs like sticks.

She screamed and sobbed and choked, and pounded the little table that held Madame Pavlatos’s tray with futile fists, while Madame Pavlatos (that austere mistress of a thousand millions) comforted her like a mother.