Stormspell

Anne Mather

The lush night released undreamed-of passions
When a tropical storm battered the tiny Caribbean island of Indigo, Ruth Jason's sheltered life was dramatically changed. Young and vulnerable, having lived virtually alone with her father on the island, she lost her heart, not surprisingly, to the shipwrecked Dominic Howard. Worldly, mysterious and handsome, he exuded a powerful attraction.
Later, in London, Ruth struggled to build a new life for herself, always haunted by her lover's image. But she knew their love was impossible. For although Dominic's spell still held her, he was bound to another woman....

It was a rain-washed morning, yet as calm as the night that preceded it had been violent. It was a dull morning, a muted morning, when even the song of the birds had a tentative sound. The earth was recovering from the savagery of the storm, a watery sun thrusting out fingers of promise—as if to pledge atonement for the barbarity of darkness.

Ruth was awake at dawn. The uncanny silence after the howling of the wind, that had whistled beneath the corrugated roof of the bungalow, was as unnatural in its way as the tempest had been, and she lay for several minutes listening to the blessed peace.

Then, pushing back the single sheet which was all that covered her, she padded barefoot to the window. unfastening the shutters and pushing them wide.

Everywhere, the consequences of the storm were evident. Trees had been torn up at the roots, and those that had survived were still crushed and cowed by the torrential downpour that had danced like silver pennies along the verandah. Lightning had left arrowed lesions in the trunks of trees still standing, stripping the bark and laying them bare.

The verandah was littered with debris—leaves and twigs, seaweed from the beach, nuts and shells, and tiny pebbles that had rattled against the shutters, like hailstones. Ruth couldn't remember ever having seen hailstones, but her father had made the comparison.

Now. however, the warmth of the day was beginning to send spirals of steam rising from the damp wood, to mingle with the low-lying mist that swirled around the roots of the trees. It gave the garden below the bungalow a faintly mysterious appearance. shrouding the earth in eddying folds of opacity.

Aware of the coolness of the air against her warm skin. Ruth turned back into the room with undisguised eagerness. She would dress and go down to the beach. Who knew what one might find on the beach after such a storm, and she had time before breakfast to make a preliminary exploration.

Stripping off the cotton nightshirt which was all that covered her. she sluiced her face and hands in cold water poured from a tall jug on the nearby stand. Then, after giving her hair the most perfunctory of brushes, she pulled on the shorts and tee-shirt that were her usual mode of dress. A leather thong secured her hair at her nape, and without even looking at her reflection in the fly-spotted mirror of her dressing table, she left the room.

She paused long enough to check that her father was still sleeping, opening his door, and examining his increasingly pain-racked features with anxious eyes. The strain of his illness was rapidly depriving him of all flesh, and the bones of his skull had a skeletal appearance. Ruth's lower lip was caught painfully' between her teeth as she closed his door again, and much of the excitement went out of the morning. How much longer could the medicine Doctor Francis had supplied succeed in holding the pain at bay? How much longer before that drug-induced inertia gave way to tortured consciousness?

Shaking her head, she continued along the hall that divided the bungalow into two separate halves, with the kitchen, dining room and bathroom on one side, and the living room and bedrooms on the other. There was no point in agonising over something she could do nothing about. Doctor Francis had told her—her father's condition was terminal. It was only a matter of time before the strain on his heart became unbearable. It was hard, and it was unfair, but somehow she had to accept it. Her father had accepted it. It was not fair to him that she should allow her own anxieties to impinge on what little time they had left together.

Nevertheless, as she stepped out on to the verandah. her heart plunged a little at the thought of how lonely she would be. For as long as she could remember there had been just the two of them, and while she was not afraid of being alone, she dreaded the isolation. Indigo was such a small island. Its population was not more than thirty. And aside from themselves, there was only one other white man on the island: the priest. Father Andreas. She could not see herself having the same conversations with Father Andreas that she enjoyed with her father, and the priest himself would miss their sometimes rancorous games of chess.

She sighed. She was wasting time. Her father would not approve of such maudlin sentimentality. She had a job of work to do—to go down to the beach and make sure no serious damage had been done, so that she could- give her father a first-hand report at breakfast.

Celeste's hens were pecking in the twig-strewn ruins of the vegetable garden, and Ruth clapped her hands in mock aggression, driving them out. The feathery bodies scattered noisily into the yard at the back of the bungalow, and a smile lifted Ruth's lips as she picked her way over the dunes towards the beach. Poor creatures, they probably thought the storm had returned, she thought in some amusement, bending to pick up a narrow twig. She doubted Celeste would find many unbroken eggs today.

The rain had ceased by the time she reached the ridge of crab grass above the beach, and the sun's rays picked out the evidence of devastation. What had been an unbroken stretch of almost-white coral sand was now strewn with all the debris of the island, and that of the sea as well. Torn branches, stricken saplings, seaweed, rocks and shells—the whole place had an air of desolation, the shredded blossoms of an oleander like scattered petals at a funeral. Somehow the sea had dredged up its bounty, and as Ruth stepped carefully along the beach, she found rusted strips of metal, and shards of broken pottery, as if torn from some long-sunken vessel, ravaged on the jagged ramparts of the reef. Some Spanish galleon perhaps, she mused, examining a shining object, which she discovered to be a coin. Swashbuckling pirates and pieces of eight, she thought, remembering the stories her father had told her of the fleets of vessels Bearing Spanish gold from the Americas, that had floundered in these waters in the seventeenth century. Who knew what treasure still lay buried beneath the blue-green waters of the Caribbean? Only now and then did the ocean allow a glimpse of the riches still stored beneath the waves.

With a shrug of her slim shoulders, Ruth pocketed the coin and continued her beachcombing. With the sun increasing in warmth, and the air fresh and clean after the storm, she felt a growing feeling of exhilaration. and the anxieties she had experienced earlier were forced into perspective. People lived for years in her father's condition. Doctors were making continual progress in their search for a cure. And with such sophisticated medication, surely life could be sustained indefinitely.

The cries of the seabirds accompanied her, herring gulls scavenging among the debris. Sand crabs scuttled sideways out of her path, and fat waders paddled expectantly at the water's edge. There was a whole world of life on the island, she thought with sudden anticipation. How could anyone be lonely with so many companions?

Beyond the curve of the beach, where a rocky headland laced the surging waters of the lagoon with foam, she paused to shade her eyes against the glare. A clump of mangrove trees grew almost to the water's edge, their twisted trunks gnarled and dark against the brightness. As she watched, she seemed to see something move against the roots of one of the trees, and as her eyes adjusted to the shadow, she was almost convinced it was some huge sea-creature, washed up upon their shores.

Curiosity set her legs moving forward, although doubt, and Celeste's superstition, made her wary. Could it be a shark, or a barracuda, tossed into the lagoon by the force of the storm, or was it just the bole of a tree, torn up and moving with the tide? She automatically crossed herself as she drew nearer to the object, then chided herself severely for the blasphemy. Her fears were based on a belief in the old religion, and Celeste's stories of possession and destruction stirred a kind of panic inside her.

It was a man!

As she reached the stretching shadows of the trees, she saw him distinctly in the sun-dappled light. He was lying on his face, with one hand outstretched, as if grasping for the shore, and the other trapped beneath him. hidden from her sight. He was naked to the waist, wearing a pair of the denim trousers that were so popular among the young people of St Vincent, and which her father found so objectionable, and his bare feet were lapped by the waters of the lagoon.

Ruth stood still for several seconds, just staring, and then apprehension sent her running across the damp sand to drop to her knees beside him. Her fingers probed his neck, trembling at the intimacy, finding the pulse behind his ear before her shoulders sagged in relief. He was alive. He was unconscious, but his pulse was not unsteady. How on earth had he got here?

With timid fingers she rolled him on to his back, sitting back on her heels in sudden trepidation when he made a protesting sound. But he didn't open his eyes, and she licked her lips in consternation as she gazed down at him.

He was a white man. that much was obvious, even though his skin was darkly tanned, as if he had spent some time out of doors. His hair was blond, silvery pale against his brown skin, and thick and smooth-straight. His lashes were long and gold-tipped, fanning against narrow cheekbones and a strong nose, and a mouth that was thin-lipped yet sensitive. Ruth knew an almost overwhelming impulse to touch that pale hair, so unlike her own long rope of black silk, but she restrained herself and allowed her eyes to move lower.

Immediately, her breath escaped her on a gasp. There was blood on his chest, some of it dried and encrusted, and coated with sand. Her hands went automatically to her lips, and she pressed her fingertips to them as she glanced around helplessly for something to cleanse the wound.

There was nothing suitable, and out of desperation she tore a strip from the hem of her tee-shirt and dipped it into the water. It would have to do. It was clean at least, and it might serve as a bandage. Then she would have to leave him while she went for assistance.

She moved the arm he still held clasped to his chest, and as she did so she blanched as she saw the source of the oozing blood. In one way she was relieved. It was not his chest that was injured, but his arm. However, the ill-advised movement had exposed the ugly gash that gaped wetly from just below his elbow to his wrist, and more blood smeared her fingers as she returned the limb to its resting place.

Dear God. she thought faintly. How much blood had he lost? Did he require a transfusion? Then she remembered the steadiness of his pulse. It was not critical, but it could become so. if she didn't get help soon.

After a moment's hesitation she bound the improvised bandage tightly round his upper arm. At least that would stop the bleeding, she thought, although prolonged absence of blood from the arm could be dangerous. Her father had taught her elementary first aid. Without the free flow of blood, gangrene could set in. and the man. whoever he was, would not thank her for depriving him of an arm.

Satisfied that she had done all she could, she endeavoured to pull the man farther up the beach. But it was hopeless. Even with her hands firmly beneath his arms, she could not move him. and she sweated in the aftermath of so much wasted effort.

He stirred as she squatted panting beside him, and to her amazement his eyes opened. She had not speculated on what colour his eyes might be. If she had been asked, she would most likely have guessed blue. But they were not. They were brown, with curious yellow flecks in them, like amber, and when they alighted on her. they narrowed in obvious lack of recognition.

Ruth scrambled on to her knees, bending beside him anxiously. 'Hello,' she said, realising the greeting must sound foolish, but unable to think of an alternative. 'How—how do you feel?'

The man continued to stare at her, but he didn't say Anything, and she stumbled into further speech.

'You're injured,' she said. 'You've got a gash on your arm. I've stopped the bleeding, but I have to go for help. If you'll just lie here, I shan't be long—'

Her words broke off abruptly as his hand reached out with unexpected strength and gripped her arm. 'Where am I?' he demanded, in a curiously harsh voice. 'And who the hell are you?'

No one. least of all her father, had ever used such words to Ruth before, and her indignation kindled as his fingers bit deeply into her soft flesh. She would not have believed him capable of asserting such energy, and her own miscalculation added to her sense of outrage.

'You—you're on Indigo.' she answered him. somewhat stiffly. 'And I'm Ruth Jason. My father and I live here.'