Master of Paradise (18 page)

Her first awareness was of how wondrously
warm the water was. It opened to her, embracing her in summery arms
that rocked and soothed. She found herself hanging on to a large
piece of what felt like wood—flotsam from the ship, no doubt. In
her hand she clasped something cold as if her life depended on her
holding on. She wasn’t certain what it was. Her mind, clouded by
shock and the explosion, couldn’t seem to function. She felt
confused, disjointed.

For a time, all the world seemed still. Then,
as her shock receded, she became aware of pained cries all around
her. The explosions continued, splitting the night with blasts of
fire and fury. Eventually, the blasting stopped. She heard men’s
voices from above. Voices of enemies who would happily hang her for
her part in this night’s work.
Don’t make a sound,
she
willed herself.
Be dead.

She began to drift in the water, away from
the disaster. A small voice inside whispered that she must find
Rodrigo...find Cullen...She felt a stab of mourning for her
brother, and couldn’t remember why. It was lost in the darkness, in
her weariness and disorientation. As she slipped in and out of
consciousness, she tried to remember what it was she must do, and
couldn’t.

When she glanced up dizzily and saw the lamps
of the invading ships far away, she knew the tide was taking her to
safety. She’d have to trust the sea. Hoisting herself up on top of
her makeshift raft with the last of her stamina, she laid her head
in her arms and allowed her spent mind to rest.

When she awoke, it was getting light. She
wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she must have drifted for
hours, on the strength of some current. Her body was stiff and
sore, clammy from salt water. As she raised her head with
difficulty, she saw that she still clenched her sword in her fist.
When she pried it open, needles of pain shot through the numb hand.
She had to flex the fingers for minutes before she could get the
circulation going again.

Eventually, she roused herself sufficiently
to look about at her surroundings. She was surprised to see in the
dawn mist that she was in the middle of a pocket of three islands.
It took her a while to get her bearings. But when she did, she
recognized Praslin, the largest of the group. She remembered
Rodrigo’s words.
The Garden of Eden. It’s the most mystical
place I know. Meú avô always said if I was in trouble to go
there.

If Rodrigo was alive, he’d be there, waiting
for her.

Restored by this hope, she began to paddle
for land. Close in, she rode the surf, scraping herself up on the
thick coral reef as she was buffeted to shore. Only when she tried
to stand did she realize she’d badly injured her leg, no doubt in
the explosion that had blown apart the ship.

On inspection, she found that her leg was
uncut but frightfully bruised. She could find no evidence of broken
bones. Little more than a severe sprain, she guessed. With some
time off her feet, she should be fine. But there was no time, no
luxury to mend. She had to reach the valley Rodrigo had spoken
of.

After dragging herself along the beach toward
a cluster of trees, she scouted a likely-looking limb and set about
fashioning a staff. When that was finished, she was dripping with
perspiration. She still wasn’t accustomed to the punishing heat. It
was imperative that she keep her fluids replenished. Spying some
coconuts lying about, she cracked several open with her sword and
drank the milk. Further fortifying herself with the meat of the
nut, she resolutely set out for the interior of the island, praying
for the strength to find her way.

She didn’t know what to look for. She had no
descriptions, no landmarks to guide her way. All she knew was that
she must head directly for the middle of the island, and that she
had a sense she’d recognize the valley when she saw it.

So she set out on her solitary journey,
determined to be strong, resolving to be brave. She wouldn’t allow
herself to think. If she did, she’d think of Cullen, who, no doubt,
had died because of her, and of Rodrigo, who had likely been blown
to bits. So she turned off her mind, thinking only of her need to
reach the valley.

It was a horrifying journey. Alone, barely
able to move her leg, not certain of her direction once she’d left
the sight of shore behind, she battled exhaustion, and the impulse
to give up. On the second day, she began to penetrate the interior.
The terrain was rocky, and the growth so thick it was utterly
devoid of trails. It was dark in the jungle, so she could barely
see the filtered rays of the sun high above. She stumbled
continually. She was scraped by sharp branches and her bare feet
were raw and bruised from stepping on the protruding rocks she was
too tired to avoid.

It was also so humid, the ripped shirt she’d
tucked into her breeches was perpetually soaked, chafing her
fevered skin. Dizziness overwhelmed her and she had to stop at
intervals to lean against a tree while her senses settled once
again.

Finally, she was so exhausted, she thought
she couldn’t go on. But some instinct told her she was close.
Bleary with fatigue, she kept herself moving. At last, with
darkness falling fast, she heard the ripple of a stream. Nearly
delirious by now, she threw herself down and drank greedily from
its depths. Her thirst slaked, she rolled onto her back and
discovered she was in a wide valley that seemed to have been
landscaped with strange primeval plants, including a huge variety
of palms she’d never seen before. She gazed up at their heights and
noticed that some held fruit that looked shockingly like a large
male erection. At their bases, lay a collection of fallen coconuts
that were perfect replicas of the female vulva. The
coco de mer.
The forbidden fruit. When you see it, you’ll know why.

She was in the Vallée de Mai. The Garden of
Eden.

The next morning, as she awoke, she was aware
of feeling purged. As if all the poisons had been discharged from
her body. As if she’d been enlivened with a slowly building sense
of renewed strength. She heard birds singing sweetly in the trees.
A trickle of water teased her ears. The natural bed of leaves
beneath her felt soft and soothing. She stretched, feeling alive
and refreshed. And opened her eyes to a wondrous sight.

What in the dusk had seemed merely beautiful
now looked like an artist’s vision of heaven. Giant palms with
lushly green leaves as tall as a man draped over her. The sun
filtered through like rays of light through stained-glass windows.
It was the most magnificent display she’d ever seen. She felt
herself in a cathedral fashioned by God’s own hand.

Everywhere she looked, she was surrounded by
trees and fronds and prickly stalks the likes of which she’d never
imagined. Pushing herself up on one elbow, using a hand to shift
her tangled hair from her face, she saw that she lay by a streambed
that traversed the valley. Huge granite rocks lined a path,
creating a waterfall of the stream as it danced and slid along the
slopes.

She heard a scuffle and turned, expecting to
see Rodrigo smiling down at her in welcome. Instead, she spied a
green gecko a foot long scrambling for cover beneath a plant whose
leaves looked like fingers of a prickly hand.

Her impulse was to search the valley for
Rodrigo, but she knew she must attend to her own needs first. She
was battered and sore. She needed nourishment and rest. She needed
to care for the leg that was swollen and throbbing with every
touch.

Limping weakly, she set out to gather
tropical fruits and lay them aside as a cache of food. She had no
idea how long she’d have to be here, fending for herself. Then she
used her sword to build a small shelter, a crude structure
fashioned from thin tree-trunks draped with the gigantic palm
leaves. She washed her clothes, scrubbing them against the smooth
surface of rocks. As they dried slowly in the muggy atmosphere, she
bathed in the warm stream, absorbing the healing essence of the
garden around her.

Her surroundings were so exotic, a magical
valley of great proportions with cascading waterfalls, treetop
aeries, and shaded pathways guarded by massive granite boulders.
The paths meandered up and down steep hills, and the azure sky
seemed alive with birds. Some flew in pairs, some alone. Some were
white, some black, some showed flashes of brilliant orange or red.
They dipped and swayed, circling the island again and again as if
the most gleeful thing they could think of was to fly through the
air. She remembered how her mother loved the unique birds of
Seychelles. And she recalled her dream, where the multicolored
island birds had represented paradise and Rodrigo and his dark
passions had threatened it.

She wondered now who that woman was, the one
who’d rejected the man destiny had given her like a gift. She’d
give anything to turn a corner and find him standing there, whole
and compelling in his golden glory, his arms outstretched to
welcome her home.

But although she spent the next few days
searching the area for him, she never found a trace.

On the fourth day, a storm swooped down on
the island.

Perched on a huge boulder just at the
entrance of the valley, she heard the rumble of thunder in the
distance, smelled the tang of rain in the thick, sodden air. The
wind gusted, and the strange palms looked menacing as they bent and
swayed in the gale.

Panicked at the thought of being alone in the
on-rushing storm, she lowered herself to the ground, intent on
reaching her shelter quickly. As she made her way along the path of
dead brush and leaves, darkness descended like a theater curtain.
She realized with horror that she could no longer make out even the
haziest forms. The storm was upon her now, as if the sky had opened
and let drop a flood. Rain beat against the canopy of the towering
palms, drenching her in a relentless shower.

She was terrified. She heard the noises of
creatures scattering in her path, but she couldn’t see them. In her
bare feet, leaning heavily on her staff, she blindly scampered
ahead. But her camp wasn’t where she’d thought it was. She’d lost
her bearings.

She was stumbling now, tripping at every
step. As a flash of lightning split the night, she jumped and lost
her staff. Her frantic fumblings couldn’t locate it, so she was
forced to go on without it. Many times she fell and scraped her
arms against the jagged edge of rocks or the prickly skewers of the
ghostly palms. She’d been so brave for so long, keeping her
apprehension at bay. But the storm had rooted up all the worst of
her fears. This paradise that had offered her safety had suddenly
become an arena of unimaginable horror.

And just as she reached her moment of total
despair, she heard a human voice calling through the squall. It was
thickly accented, and full of the same alarm she felt coursing
through her veins.

The voice seemed demonic, a cruel joke, part
and parcel of the aberrant ether of the night. She rushed from
it—and collided hard with something coming her way. She was
startled by the contact, by the abrupt halt of her flight against a
barricade as strong and unyielding as any prehistoric tree. By the
unexpected warmth of bare flesh as her hands reached out to right
herself and came in contact with human form.

“
Carícia,
thank God.”

In one glorious moment, she felt his lips on
hers. She was drowning in his kiss in the pouring rain. Then he
heaved her up into his arms, his mouth devouring hers as he swept
her away.

“Rodrigo...Rodrigo...Rodrigo...” she called
above the wind.

“I thought you were dead, Gabé. I thought you
were dead!”

He was sobbing with relief. She could taste
the salt of his tears.

Whatever questions she might have asked went
unspoken in the heat of his touch. Those questions could wait for a
more dispassionate time. The turbulence of the storm, his finding
her in such an untamed state, had fueled his desperation for her as
surely as her awareness of it fueled her own. It suddenly seemed
like the most natural thing in the world that he should show up
from out of nowhere in the midst of a violent storm to swing her
into his arms.

Slowly, as if in a trance, she slid from his
arms to stand before him. In the flash of the lightning, she saw
his gaze fixed on her breasts beneath the plastered shirt. They
felt on fire, as if he’d set them to flame. He didn’t touch her,
yet in her mind, she could feel his mouth clamp on her nipple. She
could hear her moans low in her throat...

“I love you,” she sighed into his ear. She
couldn’t bring herself to stop saying it. “I love you.
I love
you!
”

“As I’ve always loved you.”

She could feel him against her, hard as any
granite boulder, his body steaming with heated rain and untempered
desire. She pushed away so she could see his face in the spasmodic
streaks of light.

“I need you so, Rodrigo.”

Somewhere above, thunder crashed and a streak
of lightning split the blackness of the sky. In the flash, she
looked up and caught a glimpse of a long, thick fruit that jutted
above her like a man’s erection ready for the plunge.
The coco
de mer.

By now the wind was lashing strands of
drenched hair like whips across her face. She felt his hands reach
for it, clench the tendrils in tight fists, felt him tug her to him
by her hair. Felt the warm, heart-stopping contact as he slammed
her up against his chest. In an instant his mouth was on hers,
claiming her as his own.

His mouth moved to her breast, sucking
through the damp cotton, savoring with persuasive skill. He raised
his head. Her breast felt cold without the succor of his warm
mouth, but his hand quickly took its place. It yanked down the
shirt so she felt herself exposed to the storm.