Crimson Rapture (19 page)

After
the first feeding, the survivors were handwashed and cleaned, and their exposed
skin oiled. The worst sores were bandaged. Lady Knolls awakened as Christina
and Elsie gently oiled her face, scalp, neck, and arms. She seemed to be
dreaming, though, speaking unintelligibly. "I had to," she said in a
nearby inaudible voice. "Don't you see? Those filthy old hands... I had
to..."

"Who
is she?" Justin asked as he came to Christina's side to stare down at the
only surviving woman.

"Lady
Knolls—Caroline Knolls," Christina replied.

Justin
tried to recall where he had heard that name.

"She's
my lady," Elsie added, "and I daresay, she's the living proof that
God didn't favor the good on this trip—

"Elsie!"
Christina scolded.

'Tis
true." Elsie wrung the washcloth in the bucket, eyeing the woman with open
animosity. "Not a kind woman at all. Nothin' was ever good enough for the
likes of her, oh no. Uppity and insufferable. She 'ad airs enough for a queen,
she did."

Justin
chuckled at Elsie's description. "Rest assured, lassie, our island's
life-style will have no room for queens, even less for self-appointed
ones."

"And
I'm thankful for small mercies," Elsie promptly replied.

"Christina,"
Justin said, lifting her up by the arm. She looked up at him expectantly but he
paused, studying her. Her hair was lifted into a loose knot on the top of her
head and she wore what he knew was the last item of clothing in the trunk. A
pale pink long-sleeved nightdress hung loosely on her frame, tied with a hair
ribbon at her waist. He was not altogether comfortable with the angelic look
the garment created. It was just that much worse than the tattered chemise and
skirt that solicited his men's blatant admiration. And he'd be even less
comfortable when he cut the skirt and sleeves. But nothing, he realized, could
hide her beauty anyway.

"What
are you doing?" she asked as he knelt and removed his knife.

"I'm
afraid we need the extra cloth. It's the last left."

"But...
but what for?"

"Cajun
has to amputate that man's leg," he said on the heels of a solemn pause.

She
looked over where Colonel Carrington lay. "Oh no... Is he certain?"

Justin
nodded. "He'll die if it's not done."

"I'
m sorry..."

Justin
looked up to find an expression of guilt on her face. He quickly cut off the
skirt as high as he dared, and then rose. "That is not your fault,"
he said simply.

"But
if I hadn't been out on deck—"

"No,
I don't want to hear it." He stopped her. "I'll be forever amazed at
how women blame themselves, carrying the burden of guilt when it is the man who
violates them." He thought of the Arab countries that kill women for being
violated, this no matter what the circumstances, and then wondered sardonically
if death might not be preferable to the persecution most women received in
western countries. "No, Christina, it's not your fault," he continued
as he cut each sleeve at the seam. "That bastard should be glad he'll lose
only a limb and not his life, for had I not been—"

"No,
please," she interrupted in turn, not wanting to hear the rest. Justin
thoughtfully looked down at her and then leaned over to kiss her before leaving
for Cajun's side.

The
torchlight danced over Colonel Carrington's naked body, where he lay on a bed
of fresh moss. A pile of various torn clothes, a bucket of hot water, and
Cajun's saber waited to be put into use at his side. Cajun's ebony darkness,
his half-naked frame, the solemnity in his dark gaze as he knelt in silent
prayer at the man's side, all created the impression that some ancient
sacrificial rite was about to be performed. Elsie, Hanna, Brahms, and the few
others who had been helping had all left, not able to bear witness to the
operation.

Christina
hastened to join them.

She
stepped out from the dwelling to the dark rainy night. No one was in sight but
then darkness shielded any sight. The darkness was complete, and while she
would like to sleep with Hanna and Elsie tonight, she had little hope of
reaching their caves in the rain without light. The ladder up to their own cave
was somewhere around the side, but one thought of walking along the slippery
edge at the pond in the dark stopped her from any attempt to seek it.

Having
no choice, she sat inside the mouth of the cave, careful to keep her back to
the inside. She smiled hearing Beau's friendly whimper and feeling his wet fur
against her legs. She could barely make out his huge shape. "At least I
have some company now," she whispered and petted him affectionately.

She
felt the full effects of exhaustion. The air was heavy with moisture but still
warm and this, taken with the ever-present luring sound of rain falling into
the pond, put her into a light sleep, despite the uncomfortable position. A
light sleep that was instantly shattered with a long terrified scream.

All
Colonel Carrington saw was a huge, half-naked savage kneeling over him with a
raised saber. A vision from hell. He tried to form his scream into a
nooo
or
help or please, but his terror permitted only one expression. He could not stop
it. Then hands were upon him—

Christina
heard Justin trying to calm the man. She first thought the scream was the
result of pain, that the amputation was over, but as Justin tried to quiet him,
explaining what had happened and where he was, she realized that the operation
had not occurred yet. For several minutes the scream turned into incoherent
mutterings and questions until the situation finally became clear.

"No!
God no! I forbid... I—nooo!"

"You
will likely die unless it is removed," Cajun said softly.

"I'd
rather be dead! God knows I am familiar with death now. Too, too familiar with
death. I have learned to accept it. If I am to die, then so be it. But I will
not live as half a man!"

Christina
would have been surprised, even shocked, by Justin's strange expression of
understanding—an expression of admiration. She heard him say only, "It is
his decision, Cajun. Do what you can."

Holding
a torch upside down to combat the rain, Justin found Christina waiting outside.
He helped her up and brushed back a stray lock of wet hair, answering her
anxious look with a smile.

"Will
he die?"

"No,
I don't think so," he replied with an assurance he didn't understand. The
answer relieved her and together they made their way around to the ladder.

"Beau
can't follow," she said.

"I'll
have to build some stairs for him," Justin replied, petting his dog.
"To Cajun, Beau." He pointed. But Beau waited to watch them climb the
ladder before turning back with a half whimper, half bark.

The
ledge was slippery but wide enough for safe passage under the waterfall and
through the opening of the cave. Torches were lit inside and it was dry and
warm. A bed of fresh moss covered the middle of the floor, her trunk rested
against the side of the cavern and, on it, Hanna had at some point during the
long day placed a turtle shell bowl filled with fresh fruit. Directly over the
bed and in the center of the cave was the skylight, covered now with the canvas
sail to catch the rain. This was their home.

The
shadows lengthened and the light died as Justin put out all but one of the
torches. He removed his belt and wet breeches, smiling when he caught Christina
suddenly lower her eyes. As he came to her and untied the ribbon at her waist,
then lifted the wet shift over her head, he wondered about this innocence of
hers.

Christina
thought he was going to kiss her. But after setting the wet shift on the trunk
to dry, he stretched out on the bed. "Come here," was all he said.

She
paused in a sudden understanding of something, something important. The passion
between them, the startling force of it, came not from her love but from her
uncertainty of this love and her fear of him. Without words, Justin understood
this too and as though to tip the scales in his favor, he forced her to
relinquish everything—self and love, her very will—in each act of love.

She
felt his eyes upon her as she came to him. She lay down alongside him, front to
front, entwining herself in his warmth with a naturalness that still surprised
her. She felt his lips tenderly caressing her forehead. Passion lay dormant,
waiting for another time and she closed her eyes and almost instantly fell
asleep.

Sleep
did not come as easily for Justin. It was not just his ever-present desire for
her, especially difficult to suppress with her small figure pressed so
intimately against him but his thoughts rested uneasily on his mind. He, too,
was thinking of their love and her innocence. She would always be this way,
nothing and no one could destroy it. Certainly not time. A part of himself saw,
too, that in a strange way he was just as innocent. By the time of his tenth
and eighth year and countless couplings, he learned to separate infatuation and
lust for women from love. He never made the mistake again.

He
knew now that he was in love. And his love for her was both powerful and
profound. His vulnerability sometimes shocked him and made him think of Brahms;
made him wonder if she knew just how easily she could destroy such a large and
vital part of himself.

Theirs
was not a perfect match, he knew. The startling gentleness of her person would
always find a part of his world frighteningly harsh. But he could not change.
He lived in a world he would always have to change, usually from necessity and
sometimes for the better, destruction for creation.

Hopefully,
she would come to understand this, to accept all of him...

* * * * *

Cajun
gently pinched one of the colonel's toes and the man grimaced with pain,
nodding. "Yes, I can feel it."

"It
is a good sign," Cajun replied.

The
colonel watched as Cajun first washed his battered leg, then began applying the
thick salve, a salve made from God-knew-what concoctions this man had found on
the island. It smelled vaguely like rotting earth, though oddly not altogether
unpleasant. Perhaps he was just getting used to the putrid scent of it. In any
case, whenever the mixture was applied he felt a cool soothing relief soak
through his skin, much like the sweet sensation one finds in an after-dinner
mint.

After
a mere five days, he was getting stronger and, as the savage said, his leg
showed signs of mending. Watching the man skillfully wrap his leg in a moist
cloth, tightly but not too, he was beginning to see he owed the astonishing
fact that he still belonged to the living to this strange man, Cajun. He felt
an odd sense of gratitude and this was an entirely new experience for him.

The
colonel thanked Cajun, attempting to sound sincere, sounding awkward instead.
It was as if the savage knew he had trouble with such sentiments, for with the
nod of acknowledgment came a glint of amusement. He had learned, too, that
Cajun spoke little, at least to him. As a matter of fact the only time Cajun said
anything not related to his health had been the first time he could focus his
gaze and he saw Christina Marks.

She
looked like a starving man's delusion. Christina Marks had been pretty before
but now, with her skin slightly colored, the long hair left unbound, and her
figure barely concealed in the short shift, he had thought he was dreaming. Her
picture looked drawn from the most exotic imagination, perhaps a fairy queen or
some such fanciful creature. His thoughts must have been plain to read, for Cajun
had simply said, "She belongs to another. Conceal your thoughts."

He
did not have to be warned twice.

Two
of the patients had recovered enough to leave what they had taken to call the
sick room and only six remained. Each day their recovery seemed to leap in
larger increments. Caring for them became easier and more routine. Christina
and Elsie had just finished the noon feeding when Christina noticed a cut on
Lady Knolls's arm that did not seem to be healing.

"Cajun,"
she said, coming to his side. "The Lady has a cut that needs your
medicine."

Sitting
up to finish the potion of daily gruel, Carolyn Knolls watched the huge savage
come to her pallet and kneel to examine her bare arm. He held a coconut shell
of wretched-smelling ointment. He was obviously intent on using it. "Just
what do you think you're doing?"

Spoon-feeding
another with Elsie's help, Christina called over, "That cut on your arm
needs some medicine."

"I'll
not have him touch me."

Christina
and Elsie both stopped what they were doing and looked over.

"You
heard me," she addressed Cajun. "Just because the others may not care
if they are defiled so doesn't mean I would stoop so low. I may be stuck on
this god-forsaken island, almost dead—certainly wishing I were—but that doesn't
mean I'll let a nigger's hands touch my skin."

"Christina,"
Cajun called softly.

Christina
quickly handed Marianna's food to Elsie, hastening to Cajun's side. She
searched his face for a sign of hurt or insult and seeing this made Cajun
almost smile. "No,
la niña,
I cannot be hurt by the workings of a
small mind." He handed her the shell of salve and finished evenly.
"Apply it as thickly as possible, then bandage the arm loosely." And
he left.