Killashandra

Chapter 9

What Killashandra required most was a credit outlet. She would need more clothing – a proper, decorated overdress – if she was to blend in with the islanders. As well, she needed some sort of accommodation and enough credit to get her back to the mainland or wherever the City was located.

None of the commercial buildings facing thc harbor appeared to have credit outlets, though all had intake units. One of them had to, or this planet was more backward than she’d previously thought. Every inhabited planet utilized the standard credit facilities.

She had a bit of a fright, too, while she was making her initial reconnaissance – the sight of herself in a reflective surface. Sun had streaked the top layer of her dark hair almost blonde, had bleached her eyebrows to nonexistence. This, plus the deep brown of her tan, altered her appearance so that she had almost not recognized herself. The whites and the intense green of her eyes with the filtering lenses were emphasized by the tan and dominated her face. The exertions of the last few days had thinned all the flesh which she had acquired with easy living on the voyage. She was as gaunt as if she’d been in the Crystal Ranges for weeks. Furthermore she felt like she had. Why was it, when she was tired, she still felt the crystal surging through her bones?

There was only one other building on the waterfront, set off a little from the others, looking rather more prosperous. A factor’s residence? She made for it, having little choice, ignoring the covert glances of the few pedestrians. Was the community so small that any stranger was remarkable? Or was it indeed her lack of the proper attire that occasioned their scrutiny?

She recognized the building’s function as soon as she climbed the short flight of stairs to the wide verandah which surrounded all four sides. The smell of stale beer and spirits was manifest, as well as a burned-vegetable odor, pungent and not altogether unpleasant. It was always good to know where the brew was served.

The main room of the tavern was empty and dark and, despite the sea breezes wafting through, stank of a long night’s drinking. Chairs were neatly piled on the tables, the floor had been swept and glistened wetly to one side, where mop and pail propped open a door. She gave the room a sweeping glance, which stopped at the reassuring shape of a credit outlet.

Hoping she could make her transaction in private, she glided across the floor on her bare feet. Slipping her I.D. under the visiplate, she tapped out a modest credit demand. The sound of the outlet’s whirring and burping was unnaturally loud in the deserted room. She grabbed the credit notes, compressing them quickly into a wad in one hand while she tapped out the security code that would erase the transaction from all but the central credit facility on the planet.

“Ya wanted something?” An unshaven face peered around the half-open door.

“I got it,” Killashandra said, ducking her head and making a speedy exit before she could be detained.

While this island town had more in the way of merchandise establishments that catered to fishermen and planters, she had marked the soft goods store in her search for the credit outlet. It was unoccupied and automated so that she didn’t need to manufacture explanations to a salesperson. It only struck her then that in none of the shops on the waterfront had she seen human attendants. She shrugged it off as another island oddity. She bought two changes of the brightly decorated, and rather charmingly patterned, outer garments, additional underskirts – for custom apparently demanded a plethora of female skirts – sandals of plaited polly tree fiber, a matching belt and pouch, and a carisak of a similar manufacture. She also got some toilet articles and a tube of moisturizing cream for her dry skin.

The little shop boasted a rather archaic information unit, a service Killashandra needed almost as badly as credit. She dialed first for hostel information and was somewhat daunted by the fact that all the listed facilities were closed until the Season. Well, she’d slept on island beaches for nearly four weeks and come to no harm. She queried about eating places and found that these also were closed until the Season. Irritated because she didn’t wish to spend time gathering food in a large settlement, she tapped out a request for transport facilities.

Quite an astonishing variety of ships were available for charter: for fishing, pleasure cruising, and underwater assisted exploration “with requisite official permits. Travel documents are required for passengers or cargo. Apply Harbor Master.”

“Which I can’t do until I know more about this place,” Killashandra muttered as a stately woman entered the premises. “And how many in sympathy with my kidnappers.”

“Did you find all you needed?” the woman said in a liquidly melodic voice, her large and expressive brown eyes showing concern.

“Yes, yes, I did,” Killashandra said, surprised into a nervous response.

“I’m so glad. We don’t have much here yet. No call, with everyone making their own, and the Season not started.” She tilted her head, her long thick braid falling over her shoulder. Her fingers moved to check the position of the blossom twisted into the end of the plait. Her smile was luminous. “You’ve not been here before?” The question was asked in such a gentle voice that it was almost a statement of fact and not an intrusion on Privacy.

“I just came in from one of the outer islands.”

“That’s lonely.” The woman nodded gently.

“Lost my canoe in that squall, “ Killashandra said and began to embroider slightly. “Came ashore with nothing to my name but my I.D.” She flashed her left wrist at the woman who nodded once again.

“If you’re hungry, I’ve fresh fish and greens, and there’s whiteroot to make a good fry.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Killashandra began, even as her mouth was watering. When the woman tilted her head again, a broad smile spreading across her serene features, Killashandra added, “But I certainly would appreciate it.”

“My name is Keralaw. My man is mate on the Crescent Moon, been gone four weeks and I do miss company.” She rolled her eyes slightly, her grin twisting upward another fraction of an inch so that Killashandra knew very well what Keralaw missed.

“My name is Carrigana.” Killashandra suppressed her amusement; the former owner of that name would be livid at her presumption.

Keralaw led her to the back of the shop, through the storage section to the living quarters in the rear: a small catering area, a small toilet room, and a large living room that was open on three sides, screened against the depredations of insects. The furnishings consisted of low tables, many pillows. and hammocks secured to bolts in the ceiling. Of the modern accoutrements there was only a small screen, blank, with a fine coating of dust and a very primitive terminal. On the one solid wall hung a variety of spears, their barbed heads differing in design and weight, a small stringed instrument, a hand drum that looked well used, four wooden pipes of different lengths and circumferences, and an ancient tambourine, its trailing ribbons sun-faded to shades of gray and beige.

Keralaw led her through this room, out the screened door to the rear and to a stone hearth. Checking the position of the sun over her shoulder, Keralaw altered the arrangement of a mirror and a bright metal sheet to her satisfaction and began to arrange the fish and white root on the sheet.

“Won’t be long with the sun right in position. Beer or juice?”

“Island brewed?”

“Best there is.” Keralaw’s smile was proud. She went to the heavy bushes growing beyond the solar hearth and, pushing them aside, disclosed a dull gray container a meter high and half that wide. Lifting its heavy insulated lid, she extracted two beaded bottles.

“Been a long time dry,” Killashandra said, receiving her chilled bottle with considerable anticipation. She flipped back the stopper and took a swallow. “Whhhhoooee but it’s good.” And it was-the equal of a Yarran! But Killashandra stopped herself from making that comparison aloud just in time, smiling instead at Keralaw.

Already the sun was broiling their lunch and the smell was a suitable accompaniment to the taste of the cool beer. Killashandra began to relax. Keralaw tossed the greens into a wooden bowl, slipped two wooden platters to the hearth side, along with two-tined forks and knives with intricately carved handles accentuating the natural dark grain of the wood, and divided the now completed meal.

“That was what I needed most,” Killashandra said, closing her eyes in a sincere appreciation for the simple but satisfying meal. “I’ve been living too long off the polly tree!”

Keralaw chuckled fruitily. “You and your man farming? Or are you fishing for the gray?”

Killashandra hesitated, wondering what cover story wouldn’t become an embarrassment later. She felt a curious reluctance to mislead Keralaw.

Keralaw reached over and touched Killashandra’s forearm, just the barest touch, her mobile face suddenly expressionless.

“Don’t need to tell me, woman. I been out in the islands and I know what can happen to humans out there. Sometimes the credit ain’t worth the agony getting it. I won’t pry.” Her smile returned. “Not my place to, anyhow. You picked a good day to land on Angel Island. Schooner’s making port this evening!”

“It is!” Killashandra picked up the cue to wax enthusiastic.

Keralaw nodded, pleased to surprise. “Beach barbecue and a keg of beer for sure! That’s why the harbor’s so deserted.” She chuckled again, an earthy rich laugh. “Even the little ones are out foraging.”

“Everyone contributes to the barbecue?”

Keralaw nodded, her smile wide with anticipation. “How well do you weave polly?” she asked, tilting her head sideways. When Killashandra groaned, Keralaw looked sympathetic. “Well, perhaps you cut and strip while I weave. Chore goes fast in company.”

With fluid gestures, she collected a hatchet hanging from a nail under the eaves and a large cariall, which she handed to Killashandra. With a grin and a jerk of her head, she indicated the way.

The expedition suited Killashandra in may ways: Keralaw could supply her far more information than any terminal, however well programmed, and the little one in Keralaw’s shop was intended for tourists and had limited memory. Killashandra could doubtless discover just how closely the Harbor Master stuck to the letter of the law in granting travel permits. Just like the Optherians to need to know who went where and when. Though why they bothered, since their citizens weren’t allowed off the planet, Killashandra couldn’t see. She also needed more general information about the islanders and their customs if she was going to pass as one that evening.

For her purposes, the barbecue couldn’t have come at a better time; with everyone relaxed by a full belly and plenty of beer, she could discover more about the islanders’ politics and, just possibly, something about her abduction.

By the time they had returned from the polly plantation that evening, both laden with platters and baskets woven at speed by Keralaw’s deft hands, Killashandra knew a great deal more about island life, and had tremendous respect for it.

The easygoing gentleness of the style would be abhorrent to the persnickety mainlanders. In the early days of their subjugation of the islanders, the mainlanders had even tried to prohibit the use of the polly tree in their strict adherence to the letter of their Charter. The polly tree itself worked against the restriction, for it grew with such rapidity and profusion that pruning back the plantations was absolutely essential. The casual islander habit of cutting as needed to provide the essentials for daily life prevented overgrowth. The vigorous polly tree would take root on even a square meter of soil, which accounted for its proliferation in the islands.

Killashandra had been hard pressed to cut and strip enough polly fronds to keep up with Keralaw’s agile weaving but the crystal singer learned as she watched and, to support her adopted identity, wove a few baskets herself. The manufacture, which seemed to be easy when one watched an adept, took considerable manual strength and dexterity, which, fortunately, Killashandra possessed. Seeing the clever way in which Keralaw finished off her mats and baskets taught Killashandra the necessary final touches that spoke of long practice.

As they passed a small freshwater lake on their way back, Keralaw suddenly dropped her burden, shucked her clothing, and dashed into the water. Killashandra was quick to follow. Nudity was not, then, a problem. And the soft water was refreshing after the concentrated work of the day.

The tantalizing aroma of roasting meat reached them as they neared Keralaw’s dwelling. The rolled her eyes and smacked her lips appreciatively.

“Mandoll’s the cook!” Keralaw said with satisfaction. “I can smell his seasoning anywhere in the islands. Porson sure had better catch him a smacker to go with it. Nothing better than long beef and smacker. Oho, but we eat good tonight!” She rolled her eyes again in anticipation. “We’ll drop these off,” and she swung the tangle of baskets on their string, “and then we get us pretty. A barbecue night’s a good night for Angel Island!” And she winked broadly at Killashandra, who laughed.

Two barbecue pits had been dug on the beach front. In one a very long animal carcass was slowly turning over the sizzling coals. Four men were good-naturedly attempting to raise a massive fish onto the spit braces, urging each other to greater effort while the onlooking women taunted them for weakness.

Prominently centered on the beach was a long low table, already being laid with garlands of flowers, baskets of fruit and other delicacies which Killashandra couldn’t identify. An immensely plump woman, with a most luxurious growth of hair spilling down to her knees, greeted Keralaw with delight, chattering about the quantity and quality of the baskets and plates, and then fell silent, cocking her head inquiringly at Killashandra.

“Here is Carrigana, Ballala,” Keralaw said, taking Killashandra’s arm. “In from the outer islands. She wove with me.”

“You picked the right time to come,” Ballala said approvingly. “We have some good barbecue tonight. Long beef and a smacker!”

Suddenly a siren split the air with a hoot that occasioned loud cheers from everyone on the beach.

“Schooner’s on the last tack: Be here right quick,” Keralaw said and then began smoothing her arm in an absent minded way.

Killashandra cast it a quick look – all the fine hair was standing up. Killashandra rubbed her own brown arms to deflect comment. But Keralaw apparently did not notice the phenomenon.

“Come, Carrigana, we must get pretty now.”

Getting pretty meant decorating their hair with the scented flowers that grew on the low bushes under ancient polly trees. There seemed to be a community of possessions on Angel Island, for Keralaw visited several back gardens to find the colors she wanted for her own long tresses. And she had decided that only the tiny cream flowers would do as a garland for Killashandra’s head, since Killa’s hair was not long enough to braid. Keralaw offered to trim the dried ends, tutting over the exigencies that had deprived Killashandra of so many amenities on her distant island.

Then Keralaw decided that they’d have time to make some wreaths of the fragrant blossoms. Fortunately Killashandra was able to delay starting a wreath until she saw how Keralaw began hers and then the two twisted and tucked the stems in comfortable silence. Eventually, festive sounds drifted back to their ears from the beach and then cheering broke out.

“Schooner’s in.” Keralaw cried, jumping to her feet, her braids bouncing their floral tips against her waist. She grabbed Killashandra’s hand, jerking her up. “Pick yourself a handsome one, Carrigana. Of course, they’re all handsome on the schooner,” she said with an earthy giggle. “And away in the morning with no harm done, coming or going.”

Killashandra followed willingly, clutching her wreaths in her hand, hoping her crude manufacture would not break apart from the jostling.

There could be few sights more impressive than a schooner sailing effortlessly into the beautiful azure waters of a harbor under an evening sky rich with sun-tinged clouds, while colorfully dressed and beflowered people lined the pier and the beach. The odors of a delicious meal permeated the air and all present were happily anticipating an evening spent in joyful pursuits – of all kinds. Killashandra had no wish to resist the enticements so lavishly available and she cheered as hard as the rest of the inhabitants of Angel Island as sailors on the yard arms reefed the sails while the schooner glided toward the pier, and the shoremen waited to secure the lines tossed to them. She jumped about, yelling at the top of her lungs, as everyone else was doing, waggling at arm’s length her wreaths, as seemed to be the custom.

Then, suddenly, out of the crowd two men stood apart, grinning at the enthusiastic display but not joining in. Killashandra gasped, clutched the wreaths close to her face and stared, incredulous.

Corish von Mittelstern of the Beta Jungische system, purportedly in search of his uncle, was standing next to the bronzed young man of the corridor who had abducted and abandoned her on a miniscule island in the middle of nowhere!

Even as she reacted to their presence, she saw Corish was glancing about the crowd. Before she could duck, his gaze touched her face . . . and passed on without a blink of recognition.