Wolf Creek Pass

Michael, in contrast, divined himself from the heart. He emerged from the central lineage of natural born residents, who by self-declared and original rights, and by subsequent courage and sacrifice, held claim though not dominion over the isles. For him, there could be no backtracking from the center, no room for retreat. There was no place to go beyond the deep encircling waters. There were only other island communities like their own, whose residents were already bound by civil rights or wrongs, in vague and distant relationships. Others had always told them how to live and what to grow and who to serve. In return they could receive the largess, as children, if they followed the rules. But did Michael really believe the war was providing a unique opportunity for change? she wondered. Did he believe the rules could be broken if no one was strong enough to back them up? What an ambition, to lead others to freedom, to explain the reality of self-interest. Yes, they’d the power to strike their enemy. But to reclaim their homeland? And make new rules for themselves? Soon, the Resolution was drifting lightly under gibsail across Possession Bay toward a small harbor at the far end. Schelle remained alone along the railing as Michael and the crew exchanged their familiar signals in clipped Creole. She leaned over the edge and peered into the sea bottom as the schooner glided over patches of seaweed and coral, and brought them slowly into the security of the slip. There were several other vessels of similar make and many smaller craft that had been dragged ashore and lay tilted like walruses in the morning stillness. As the schooner drifted in, they leapt to the floating dock and secured it to the cleats. They walked slowly up the ramp and across an open lot that was packed afoot with crushed shell gravel. “This is my vehicle,” he announced as he pointed to an old battered Land Rover. It was backed into a small open garage attached to a solid coral-stone and tile structure. “And that’s my office.” On the sea side of the building there was a large raised patio covered by a palm-thatched roof that had been recently added on. It was open on three sides to the ocean and collected its breezes. At its center was a solid round table made of bois de fer and several benches. A few people were milling about and waved to them as they passed. “I suppose you could say that’s my unofficial office,” he added as he waved back. “Not much but it serves us well. We built it as a terminal but lately it’s become quite a meeting place, or as some say, a kind of town hall. I like it because it encourages people to gather, to rest in the shade.” “And enjoy your hospitality, no doubt.” She smiled in their direction. “And why not? We’re all friends here. At least most of us think so.” “Are there any who don’t?” “There‘re a few. But we know who they are.” They had lunch with his great aunt, an old leathery-faced woman named Maria with straight gray hair tied back in a clasp of wildflowers. She’d raised Michael in a small cottage near Anse Volbert where he still resided. She was deeply pleased by their casual visit and had insisted they stay for lunch. In a short while they were enjoying a bouillabaisse of bourgeois and job fish with bowls of sliced mangoes, guavas and fruit-a-pain. All the while, Maria kept smiling at Schelle as she maintained a steady prattle of observations. “What a lovely child you are,” she praised. “And you’ve not been here before? My my,” she said with a tisk. “Well you must show her around Michael. And behave yourself! Make sure she has a good impression so she’ll return.” Then she turned to Schelle. “And many times I hope.” They followed the shore road stopping several times as Michael pointed out the many islands visible in the distance. They could see the faded outline of Mahe, from which they’d sailed that morning. La Digue, smaller and to the east, loomed larger in its proximity. It almost appeared as an extension of Praslin with its high granite ridges. He showed her his house, the one he grew up in, and described how he and his friends used to swim out to the small islets. Later in the afternoon, they crossed the Vallee de Mai and walked among the coco de mer palms. They continued on to the north side and parked at the base of Grand Fond near a high cascade of water. They spent the next hour climbing up through groves of takamaka and acacia and stopping to view the myriad arrays of wild orchids. From the summit they could see the entire island. They stood in the cool updrafts as Michael described his home. He pointed to the rich greens of the Vallee de Mai and beyond it to the small farms and villages that lined the seacoast. She listened as he spoke in his bright and assuring manner, with his voice resonant and vivacious as if nothing was more relevant than the present. She smiled serenely, feeling warm and comfortable, as she drifted between the past and present, her memories and his words. She gradually found herself caught up in the cadence of his voice, compelled by it to look at him as he described what she could see so clearly -- the distant islands embedded in the shimmer of aureolin waters. She followed his meaning, listening more directly to him, watching him laugh as he told story after story about all the foolish things they used to do. He’d drawn her out, engaging her mind with parallel memories until she was fully restored to the present, laughing and leaning toward him. After a time they returned to the path and broke into a run. He chased her down through groves of pandanus and stands of ebony. They could feel the temperature shift as they ran through glades of light and shadow and among the fragrances of gardenia and mimosa. He raced faster than her, following her motion, the sway of her turning, the sound of her loping footsteps in syncopation, and her voice, pitching squeals as she sensed his closing. Halfway down he caught up to her and grasped her shoulders from behind, slowing her to a walk. She was breathing hard, unaccustomed to running so fast, and yielded in exhaustion to his pull. From her shoulder he slipped one hand beneath her dark hair, and felt her neck, the sweat, the soft heat, and slid it up to her skull where the muscles entered. With the same hand, turned over now, he grasped the flow of her hair and twisted it slowly, pivoting her head, as with a halter, firmly and immediately along the axis of her spine until her body turned with the pressure and she faced him in the shade. Without pausing, he kissed her, his hand still firmly, gently pressing the back of her head toward him. She responded, still breathing hard, in a sudden and unexpected passion that she hadn’t felt in years. It was as if it had always been there waiting to flash and burn. She could feel her heart beating and fought for air as his strong arms enveloped her, and his hands pressed the fabric of her cotton chemise tightly into the contours of her back, leaving it clinging to the moisture even after they slid down over her bottom and up her sides. He followed the curves of her hips and waist and moved his hands up until they rested just under her uplifted arms. She sensed his heat, his muskiness mingling with the still air. She felt his thumbs on the softness where her shoulders curved into her breasts, and his fingers clinging to and shifting the hardness of her shoulder blades as he drew her toward him. They kissed again, closely and silently, lingering until their breathing subsided. Then they slowly pulled apart and looked into each other’s eyes while the sounds of parrots echoed from the forest chamber. Suddenly they laughed together and the birds fell silent. Then they turned and continued down, stepping more closely now, touching more freely, until they reached the base and could hear the waterfall again.