Island in the Sea of Time (35 page)

He poured a little oil into the iron frying pan and set it to heat, mixed the dry ingredients and beat the wholewheat flour into the water and eggs, and added some of the syrup to make up for the lack of richening milk. The oil was ready when a drop of water flicked off the end of a finger hopped and sputtered. One big spoonful three times, and you could do three at a time.

“Baking soda . . .” she said thoughtfully, straightening her bathrobe and hair. “Sodium bicarbonate and an acid. Cynthia at the high school might know. I’ll look into it.”

“These’ll be better when the blueberries ripen in July,” he said mildly. “Here we go.”

He edged the spatula under the crackly, lacy brown rim of the griddle cake; the top surface was just browning a little, and spotted with bubbles. He slid the first three onto a plate, covered it with a dishtowel, and put it on the warming tray at the rear of the cast-iron stove. When there were enough for two he took the lot back to the table with the crock of maple syrup.
Now, all we lack is—no, by God, we don’t.
There was a little bit left of the wedding present from Angelica.

“Here you are,” he said cheerfully, putting a tray with a lump of butter the size of a peach pit down beside the pancakes and removing the cover with a flourish. “Luxuries of the island elite; welcome to the ruling class.”

Martha looked cheerful herself, in her subdued way, as she loaded her plate. Right up to the moment she raised the first forkful to her mouth.

“Oh, dear,” she said then, swallowing and staring at the syrup-laden pancake. “Oh, my. Oh
shit.
”

Her fork clattered to the plate and she bolted from the kitchen. He sat frozen for an instant, fear tasting of acid at the back of his mouth. Then he levered himself to his feet and followed her; she’d made it as far as the small downstairs bathroom, and he could see her kneeling in front of the toilet. A hand waved him away.

All right, then,
he thought, a little of the fist that was squeezing under his breastbone relaxing.
Bad fish?
They’d had problems with that. He padded back into the kitchen, his slippers scuffing on the floorboards, and got a dry towel, a damp one, and a glass of water—there were a couple of large buckets sitting on the counter, filled during the hour the town mains were running. He carried the glass and cloth back into the small washroom after a discreet pause, and found Martha sitting on the closed seat lid of the toilet, breathing deeply.

“Here,” he said. She rinsed, spat into the sink, and wiped her face gratefully. “Shall I go get Doc Coleman?”

His wife shook her head. There was a little color back in her face again. “Later. It’s not urgent.”

“It isn’t?” he said, puzzled. “Food poisoning can—”

“It isn’t that . . . I think. We’ll check with Coleman, but I think the bunny just died.”

“The . . . oh, sh—, ah, oh dear.”

Her smile flickered wan; she stood, bracing herself with one arm against the wall. He gathered her to him, lips shaping a silent whistle over her shoulder.

“What was that saying on the tombstone?” she asked. “
I expected this, but not so soon?
At our ages . . . and on this diet, I’ve been irregular anyway, thought it might be early menopause coming on. . . .”

He nodded into her graying brown hair. They’d discussed the possibility, but only in an abstract sort of way. This . . .

“Sort of risky,” he said after a moment.

“At my age, you mean?” she replied. “Jared, we’re in the year
1250 B.C.
Risk . . .” She sighed and shrugged. “Risk has assumed a whole new meaning. Let’s go talk about this. There’s still some RU-486 if that’s what we decide, but let’s go talk.” A moment. “I’m even hungry again.”

“Turnabout’s fair play,” Alice Hong said, pouting.

“Nope,” William Walker said, pulling on his trousers.

“Well, untie me then. I’ve got roomies, remember.”

“I believe in spreading the joy of life.”

He looked around the room. A little untidy for his tastes—he was a man of fastidious neatness—but not bad. A series of Escher prints, and others he didn’t recognize, heavy-metal varieties with a lot of skulls, candle flames behind their eyes, and people tied up with barbed wire, pentagrams, bat wings, real symbolism. A good modern bed, not the four-posters so common in this antique-happy town. Alice Hong was lying on her stomach in the middle of that bed, ankles lashed to wrists behind her back with padded ties. A number of her other toys were scattered about. She squirmed over, which left her arched like a bow and spread-eagled. He admired the view; she was deeply into this stuff, and it had its points. Probably tedious as a full-time diet, but not bad as a change. There was a full-length mirror opposite the bed; he admired the view in that, too.
In even better shape than I was,
he decided smugly. Washboard stomach carrying a full six-pack, broad shoulders, narrow waist, every muscle moving just so under tanned skin. A heavy investment there, but worth it. William Walker had to live in that temple, after all. He smiled at himself.

“Yeah, you’re gorgeous,” Alice said, collapsing onto her side. “
Sure
you don’t want to try it from this side? It can be fun.”

He stepped over to the bed and jerked her head back by her hair. She gave a gasp, smiling at him. The sweat running into the marks the cane had made across her back had to sting too, but she didn’t look any the worse for it.

“I’m strictly a pitcher S&M-wise, darling,” he said. “Not a catcher, and you shouldn’t have been quite so honest on why you got blacklisted in every pain club on the East Coast. Besides, I’m on duty in a while. The captain has an uncivilized attitude toward unpunctuality.
”

“Mmm,” Alice said, the tip of her tongue touching her lips. “You’re a workaholic too. . . .”

“It’s how you get places, babe.” He pulled her head back a little farther; she shivered and clenched her teeth. “How’d you get that medical degree?”

“Took a five-year holiday from life,” she said. “Everyone needs holidays. What’s the captain like, anyway? Everyone talks about her. Real mysterious. Cute, too.”

“I don’t think you’re her type, Alice,” he said. “She’s surprisingly straitlaced, if you know what I mean.” They both laughed.

“And you get to go back to those fascinating places with her,” Alice said enviously. “That sacrifice, that was
wild.
Sure looks like more fun than dancing around in nightgowns with a bunch of middle-aged hausfrau geeks who think they’re witches. All the stupid bitches ever want to do is bless the crops, anyway. Dull.”

“Why, I don’t think Pamela Lisketter would like to hear you talking that way,” Walker chuckled.

“Fuck Lisketter—on second thought, no thanks.”

“You know, Alice, I really like you. You’re my kind of lady. How’d you like to travel to beautiful Bronze Age Europe yourself?”

“Oh,
yeah,
” she said, skeptical.

“I mean it. Can’t you see yourself as the Great White Queen—Great Asian-American Queen—of a tribe of adoring barbarians? Stone palaces, silk blowing in the wind, some
really
kinky stuff. Sacrifices. Flames in the dark. Screams. No more make-believe, no taking turns . . .”

She gave a complex shudder. “Tease. Now let me loose, c’mon. Rosita’s coming back any minute, and Isketerol will be with her.”

He buttoned his shirt and tucked it in, tying his tie and picking up the uniform cap from a dresser. “I’m sure all three of you will enjoy that thoroughly,” he said. “
Hasta la vista,
and call me when you’re not all tied up.”

“Asshole!” she cried after him.

He stopped, turned, and stuck his head back around the doorjamb.

“Yes,” he said, with a brilliant grin. “I am. But I am no
ordinary
asshole.”

Walker went down the stairs two at a time, chuckling, with the woman’s curses ringing in his ears.
She is my kind of girl,
he thought.
And maybe . . .
A doctor could be very useful, in a number of different ways.

 

The
katana
flashed in the evening sunlight, halting just above the ragged surface of the grass. Marian Alston looked critically out of the kitchen window; Swindapa was still hard at it, doing the
kata
long after Alston had gone in to oversee dinner. Saturday afternoons were supposed to be free time; she’d been doing paperwork until noon herself. Doreen was running through staff forms doggedly. She’d never be really good, no natural talent, but she’d improved considerably. Ian was watching from a deck chair, his thumb keeping place in his book.

The Fiernan flicked the sword aside to shed imaginary blood, sheathed it, and went to one knee. A long quiet moment and then she drew and thrust straight back without turning, flicked the blade up for a straight cut, blocked, blocked, backing . . . Alston looked at her feet and the set of her shoulders.

“You’re forcing it,” she called through the open kitchen window. “Relax. No tension until the end of the stroke. Let the sword do it.”

“Do,” Swindapa panted. “I that.”

She stood, relaxing and shaking out one wrist and then the other, then began the
kata
again.

Still hasn’t got English syntax
quite
down,
Alston thought, smiling. She caught her own expression in the slanted glass of the window.
Uh-oh,
she thought.
Watch it, woman
. There was enough grief in life without courting it.

Instead she looked down at the loaves, tapping them out of the sheet-metal pans with a cloth to protect her hands. The bottom of the bread was light honey-brown; she tapped it with a fingernail. Just the right sound, slightly hollow.

The kitchen door opened. “Damn, but that smells great, Skipper,” Sandy Rapczewicz said. “What is it?”

Rapczewicz and Lieutenant Victor Ortiz went over to one of the sinks and washed their hands, using economical dippers of water from the buckets beside it. Both the Coast Guard officers looked worn—everyone did—and their working blues were stained with engine oil.

“Duck,” Alston said. “Bread-and-sage stuffing.” That didn’t get the groans that seafood would have. “Sea lettuce and pickerelweed salad, courtesy of the Guides. Cattail stalks and dock. And fresh bread, of course.”

“Good,” Rapczewicz said, sitting down at the kitchen table and slumping wearily. “Max is up and running, Skipper,” she went on. “But God alone knows for how long. Those bearings . . .”

“We’re almost out of diesel oil anyway,” Ortiz said.

“Worth it, to keep the trawlers running as long as we could,” Alston said, wrapping a corner of her apron around her hand and opening the oven door, blinking through a cloud of fragrant steam. She prodded a serving fork into the birds and looked at the color of the juice. “Ah, just about—”

Swindapa bounced up the steps into the kitchen, ducking into the sunroom for a second to rack her sheathed sword.

“I help can I?” she said. The two scholars followed her, Doreen still panting.

“That’s
can I help
, ’dapa. Toss me those potholders, and get those cattail stalks ready, would you?”

They worked in companionable silence for a few moments as Alston finished the gravy and began to dismember the ducks.

“Shouldn’t—” Alston began. Then: “Speak of the devil.”

Dr. Coleman came through the door; Sandy had invited him again.
Hmmm. Seeing a lot of each other,
Alston thought.

“Not exactly the devil,” he said. “Been mistaken for Daniel Webster, though.” His long nose quivered. “Smells wonderful.”

“All the more dishes to wash,” she said. “And it’s served.”

Everyone carried plates to the pinewood table, and for a few minutes there was no sound but concentrated eating. Long days of hard physical labor had taught them all exactly what
hungry
was, and it wasn’t much like just being ready for dinner. The duck was good if she said so herself, and the boiled dock tasted hauntingly like spinach, or like spinach with a squeeze of lemon; cattail turned out to have a flavor a little like sweet corn. Alston sat next to the Fiernan girl, conscious of a slight summery odor of clean sweat; more agreeable than a lot of islanders, with soap and hot water both difficult to get.

Coleman plied his fork with a will. “Wouldn’t have thought you were a chef, on top of everything else,” he said to the Coast Guard officer.

“I’m not fancy enough to be a chef,” she said. “I’m a cook . . . it’s, mmm, relaxin’. Everyone should have a hobby.”

“Better this butter—” Swindapa stopped and frowned. “This would be better with butter,” she went on carefully, dipping a piece of the bread into the fat.

“So it would,” Alston said. “We don’t have enough cows yet.”

Swindapa frowned. “Why not?” she said. “Understand that the island Nantucket is-and-was only part of United States, here, but every part of the White Isle has always cows—how could not? Everyone needs butter, and cheese and milk and hides and meat.”