Fugitive (10 page)

   Then the wind changed subtly, sending her fragrance wafting toward him. No sexual arousal this time, but it was a pleasing aroma, all the same. She smelled of contentment and an absorption in her work, and Manx could see her painting beginning to take shape even from where he stood. Her slender, graceful hands held her brush in a delicate grasp, stroking the canvas almost lovingly.

   Manx had no idea how long he stood watching, but he knew that a considerable amount of time must have passed because Klog came out and cleaned the beach and then later on brought out Drusilla's lunch. Manx's stomach grumbled at the mouth-watering aroma. He knew firsthand what a good cook Klog was. The droid—not caring that Manx was, in effect, a trespasser—had prepared meals for Manx before, setting his plate out on the table where Drusilla had enjoyed her dinner the previous evening. Before I starte
d purring and scared her off, Manx reminded himself. H
e wanted to kick himself for that—first purring and then leaving footprints! He knew she'd spotted him watching through the window as well. She was bound to be nervous as a result, and if Klog started fixing dinner for two, her anxiety level was sure to increase.

   Manx's mind drifted off as he considered what it would be like to share a meal with her. He could look into her eyes from across a table, see her up close, inhale her scent, and then mate with her. He began purring again without realizing it. She didn't hear him, though; the distance was too great and she was fully occupied.

   Manx had never watched an artist at work before and was impressed with Drusilla's dedication. It was a fascinating thing to observe, and he would have enjoyed it even if she hadn't been one to send his mind into erotic locales. Without realizing it, he began to admire her talent and skill along with her appearance. He liked the way she moved, too, along with her occasional mutterings to herself. Drawn to her like a magnet, he gradually moved to the edge of the woods and sat down on a fallen tree to observe.

***

Drusilla ate her lunch, once again astonished that Klog could somehow read her mind and know that she'd been craving grilled cheese and chicken soup. Calcu lating how many paintings she'd have to produce and sell to acquire a Klog of her own, she sighed wearily, doubting that she could accomplish enough in her life time. She hoped she was wrong about that and made a mental note to ask Lester when she saw him next. All the housekeeping and cook droids she'd ever dealt with had been noisy, irritating, and inept. This one was truly a gem.

   After lunch, the birds left the lake, but the butterflies were dancing over the water, so Drusilla decided to add a few of them into the painting. They were huge, with hues even more vivid than those of the birds, and, best of all, they seemed to enjoy landing on her so observing them up close wasn't a problem. The problem was trying to get them to go away.

   "Lester was a lot better at this than I am," she muttered. "Beat it!" she shouted, waving her hands furiously as the butterflies landed in droves on her hat and arms, several of them even attempting to kiss her cheeks.

   She was still batting at them without success when she heard a quiet giggle behind her. "They like the taste of you."

   Turning, she spotted Roger crossing the sand toward her. With a quick wave of his hands, the butterflies left her instantly.

   "Neat trick," she commented. "They've just been ignoring me. Don't guess you're going to tell me how you did that, are you?"

   The boy merely shook his head and laughed, sitting down in the sand beside her, his srakie perched on his shoulder. "Did you like the bolaka?"

   "Yes, I did," she replied. "I had some for a snack this morning. It tastes sort of like a mango."

   "My srakie can get you more," he said eagerly, gesturing toward his pet. "Or he can get something different."

   "I saw lots of fruit hanging from the trees when Lester drove me here. Are they all edible?"

   Roger nodded. "It is why we live in the trees."

   "I noticed that too. I heard there were no dangerous animals, so I wondered." Remembering that long, bumpy ride from the village, she asked, "What brings you out this far, Roger? It's a pretty long walk from the spaceport. Is it really worth one triplak to sell me more fruit?"

   "My mother sent me," he replied with a broad grin. "She wants to know if it's okay to visit you again." Pointing at her canvas, he said, "She and some of the other mothers want to see what you're doing."

   "Art lovers, huh? Well, they can come if they like, but they might want to wait until I've got more to show them."

"It takes a long time to do this?"

   Drusilla shrugged. "It depends on what I'm painting. Some take longer than others, but if I have plenty of time and few interruptions, I can get finished much faster."

   Roger was nothing if not intuitive. "So, we should not visit?"

   "Once in a while is fine, but, like I said, I'm here to work."

   Nodding, Roger put down his srakie and it bounded over to the trees and quickly climbed one. "I will let you try some trelas fruit and see if you like it," he said, adding with a grin, "A 'free sample.'"

   "You're quite the little entrepreneur, aren't you?" Drusilla said approvingly. "You catch on quickly."

   The srakie ran back to Roger, jumped into his arms, and handed over a soft, purple fruit. "I did not think about visitors not knowing what our fruits taste like," he said. "But I will give them a free one from now on."

   Drusilla took the trelas from him and bit into it. Her lips went into an immediate pucker and her tongue felt as though all of the moisture had been sucked out of it. "Is it ripe?" she asked in dismay. "Tastes like a green persimmon to me."

   "Oh, yes," Roger replied. "But it is more the effect than the taste that our people enjoy."

   "Effect, huh?" Drusilla said doubtfully. "You like the inside of your mouth feeling like it's full of sour sand?" Reaching for her glass of tea, which was empty, she let out a sob.

   "No," said Roger with a shake of his head, "it makes you sleepy."

   "Well, maybe so, but I'm not sure I could sleep with this taste in my mouth—even if I could stop drinking long enough to doze off."

   Klog came floating out just then with a refill. "Thanks, Klog," she gasped gratefully. "I needed that!"

   Roger looked at Klog with awe. "I have heard about this thing," he said. "It does work for you?"

   "Yes, and he can read minds too," Drusilla said with a nod. "I just wish I knew how he does it."

   Klog beeped once as a small compartment opened near the upper rings of his body, from which Klog removed something that looked suspiciously like a Twinkie and held it out to Roger.

   "What is this?" Roger asked after a careful inspection.

   "It's a very popular snack food on Earth," Drusilla replied. "Go ahead. Try it."

   Roger took one bite and immediately spat it out. "That is not food!"

   "That has been a topic of debate for about a thousand years," Drusilla said dryly. "But where I come from, most people love them."

   "I believe I will go home now," Roger said, giving the remainder of the Twinkie back to Klog. "I will tell my mother to visit again when you have been here longer."

   "Okay," Drusilla said. "Give me a couple of weeks and I'll have more to show them."

   As Roger trotted off, Drusilla looked questioningly at Klog, who beeped twice.

   "I've never known you to make a mistake like that," she said. "And I know I'd rather not be inundated with visitors. Did you do that to get rid of him?"

   Klog chirped and floated off to the house.

   Obviously he could be counted on to fulfill more wishes than what she wanted for dinner. Too bad he couldn't pull her "fantasy man" out of a hat.

***

Drusilla couldn't have said if it was the trelas that was responsible, but something was making her feel sleepy, so she pulled a lounge chair closer to the shore and settled down to lie in the sun for a while. It was peaceful and still, with only the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves and the occasional bird call to break the silence. As she lay on the verge of sleep, the calls became more frequent, eventually joining together to form a melody. Hauntingly beautiful, it continued on, gaining strength until she realized it couldn't possibly be a bird song. She'd been to many different worlds and had heard a lot of birds before, but never any who could sing like that.

   She knew very little about Baradan culture but had to assume that they had some form of music—nearly every culture did. This was simply someone off in the distance playing a flute—it might even have been Roger, though she hadn't noticed him carrying anything but his srakie. She was trying to imagine the sort of mouthpiece such an instrument would have to have for a wide-mouthed Baradan to play it, when the song ended.

   She waited for a time to see if it would begin again, and when it didn't, she considered going for a swim or a ride in the boat. Both sounded good, so she went out to the dock and climbed aboard. The boat was a large pontoon; rectangular in shape with a flat deck surrounded by padded seats on all sides and a safety rail at the outer edge to keep the careless—or intoxicated—from falling overboard. She'd piloted a similar craft in her youth and, knowing that it took very little skill to maneuver, had no qualms about taking it out alone. Rummaging around beneath the pilot's console, she found a visor to shade her eyes from the sun's glare and then gave the engine the command to start. It engaged without as much as a sputter, and, after casting off the mooring lines, she settled herself into the large, contoured pilot's chair, took the wheel, and steered it easily away from the dock and out toward the open water. The lake was relatively narrow near the house—an easy swim from shore to shore—but further to the east, it widened out to a vast expanse of water that seemed to be very deep. After a relaxing cruise of its full length, she returned to the center of the lake, stopped the engine, dropped the anchor, and dove in.

   The water was cool and silky on her bare skin and the quiet stillness surrounded her completely. The only sounds were the birds and other jungle creatures—none of which were dangerous, she reminded herself as a snake skimmed along the water's edge. She swam lazily for a while and then lay on her back and floated.

   After a bit, she heard the sound of something emerging from the water and wasn't surprised to hear Zef's voice.

   "Isn't this just the best damn lake you've ever seen?" Zef said, lolling nearby.

   "Sure is," she replied. Somehow, her previous conversation with Zef had removed the aversion she felt toward him, and the idea of swimming in the same lake with him didn't bother her anymore. For such a hideous creature, he moved through the water as gracefully and effortlessly as an otter, and he disturbed her no more than the fish—until he spoke, of course.

   "My friend's been watching you," Zef blurted out.

   "Is that right?"

   "Yeah. Says you're nice to look at."

   Memories of the Ionian Impressionist returned. He'd said the same thing, though Drusilla didn't return the sentiment. "Sweet of him to say so."

   "Told you he was a nice fellow, didn't I?"

   "Yes, you did."

   "Don't mind him watching you?"

   "Not particularly."

   It was obvious that this lack of interest disturbed Zef, for he made another sound like that of an exasperated snort. "Don't feel interested or irritated?"

   "No."

   "Want to meet him?"

   "Not really."

   "Sure about that?"

   "Yes," Drusilla replied. "No men, no worries."

   "He's pretty."

   "Pretty what?"

   "Just pretty."

   "I prefer handsome to pretty," Drusilla sniffed, "but I don't want either one right now." She had her fantasy man, after all, who was much better than any real one could ever be. "Besides, what you would call pretty, I'd probably call…" Momentarily at a loss for the right word, she realized it didn't matter. Nothing did. She was drifting, floating, relaxed, and nothing mattered. "I don't mean to be rude, Zef, but I'd rather not talk about him."

"Later on, perhaps?" suggested Zef.

"No. Not ever," she said firmly. "And Zef?"

"Yeah?"

   "I don't want to talk at all right now," she murmured. "I'm sure you'll think it sounds completely boring, but right now, I just want to…
be."

   "Well, all right," he grumbled. "Just promise me you won't drown in my lake."

   "I'll try not to."

   "Lester would give me hell for letting anyone drown," Zef went on, but then paused for a moment as though struck with a novel thought. "You could drown, couldn't you?"

   "Well, yes," Drusilla admitted. "I
could.
But I think I'd rather not."

   "Well, what if my friend were to rescue you… save you from drowning?"

   "I'd be eternally grateful, I'm sure," Drusilla said amiably. "But I'll try not to put him to the trouble."

***

Meanwhile, hoping her eyes weren't as good as his, Manx had ventured nearer to the shore. He never dreamed he'd ever be jealous of Zef, but he was now. She was wet, practically naked, and floating on the water like the answer to his deepest needs and wildest dreams. All he had to do was pluck her out of the lake…

   Drusilla chose that moment to right herself in the water and glance toward the shore. Manx, elusive as ever, was visible for only a second before retreating behind a nearby tree.

***

It had only been a moment, but the fleeting glimpse of a humanoid male with long, black hair imprinted itself on her mind—a humanoid male even more naked than she was herself. He'd had something around his waist, and what might have been a bow and quiver slung across his back, but that was all. That's
got
to be him, she thought. Hmm. Might not be a bad idea to… No, she wouldn't. She couldn't. It was a
very
bad idea.

   Three months, she reminded herself. Three long months painting birds, swimming in the lake—and talking to no one but Zef. For a fleeting moment she thought that Ralph—good old matchmaking Ralph—must have set up this entire scenario to get her to fall for… someone. She wouldn't have put it past him to plant this guy on Barada just for her to find, but she dismissed the idea immedi ately; even Ralph wouldn't go to the trouble to concoct such an elaborate scheme. No, this had to be a simple coincidence. The way Zef talked, this guy was a friend of his, which meant he'd been there for some time.