Transit

TWENTY-ONE

Apart from Mary’s morning sickness—which, exasperatingly, sometimes became an afternoon sickness or an evening sickness—the next few days developed into a sort of halcyon period at Camp Two.

The first thing Avery did was draw a map of the island —although ‘map’ was far too grand a term for what was, essentially, a simple diagram based upon hazy recollections and measurements that were little more than imaginative guesswork. However, his calculations of the length of the Grand Tour, about forty-five miles, was derived from time spent actually on the move. It seemed reasonably sound, give or take a few miles.

That, then, was the perimeter of the island. He thought, though he could not be sure, that its oudine was roughly that of a Chianti bottle. On the first day and part of the second he had the impression that, allowing for local irregularities, the coast tended to curve gently in one direction only. Then it appeared to go reasonably straight until it twisted quite sharply at the Chianti bottle’s neck. By coast, he estimated that the camp of the golden people was about twenty miles away. But if his idea of the island’s shape was right, both camps were roughly opposite each other—on the wide part of the bulge. Overland, the distance from Camp Two to that of the golden people should be about eight or ten miles.

‘Now that we know roughly how near they live,’ said Tom, ‘I begin to feel a little less secure. Something tells me we are going to have real trouble on our hands, sooner or later.’

‘Possibly,’ said Avery. ‘But life has been reasonably peaceful so far—apart from that little frolic of theirs in Camp One. Maybe they, too, have enough sense not to press their luck. If we had found out earlier where they were, and retaliated, the cold war would have been a pretty hot one by now.’

‘I’d like to take a good look at their camp, all the same,’ remarked Tom. ‘You never know, we might learn something useful.’

Avery shook his head. ‘There’s too much risk of provoking them. Barbara and I were lucky. Next time—if there is a next time—the luck may run out. Eventually, we’ll try to find some way of establishing friendly contact; but it’s the sort of thing that’s best done slowly— very slowly.’

And that was how the matter was left for the time being. However, spurred on by what the golden people had achieved, Tom and Avery began to think very seriously of building some sort of permanent accommodation. In the cold fight of day, Mary’s pregnancy presented many problems. There was no serious obstacle to bringing up a baby in a tent; but it seemed, somehow, incongruous. Besides, on the assumption—which, as time passed, was growing into a certainty—that They did not intend to provide return tickets to Earth, it was clear that Camp Two could not be regarded as a suitable base for ever. A more spacious settlement would be needed; for as Tom said—only half jokingly—if they were going to found a tribe, they ought to choose a good strip of land with lebensraum.

The weather seemed to be getting steadily hotter. Mary was the one to suffer most. The heat and the morning sickness sapped her energy, and she became listless. But fortunately, about ten days after Barbara and Avery had returned, rain came—not just a downpour, but a miniature monsoon. It lasted over a week, and during that time the air began to grow cooler and fresher. Apart from necessary excursions for food and water, they spent most of the time in their tents, reading, listening to the record player or making love.

Barbara was quite delighted about the monsoon because it meant that she and Avery were thrust into close proximity most of the time, and there was still so much of him that she wanted to discover, still so many things to be shared. The only real drawback to the monsoon was that it made cooking impossible; and although there was a great variety of fruit that they could eat, after a time they began to long for meat and fish.

The rain ended suddenly at dawn one morning. They came out of their tents to find a steaming and iridescent world….

Avery began to paint. He began to paint like a man possessed—or like one who was suddenly trying to recover all the wasted years.

The paints and canvas boards had lain in his trunk for months, untouched, unwanted. But now he was suddenly and profoundly grateful for them. He was grateful that They should have provided them. Above all, he was simply grateful for being alive.

Now that the fever of painting was on him once more, he could think of hardly anything else—except Barbara. Hunting, fishing, collecting fruit, looking for a site for the camp—even swimming—all these had become annoying irrelevancies. They irritated him. The real things in life were problems of form and texture and composition. He began to look with new eyes at the alien world in which he found himself. He began to see it as if for the first time. What painter in the whole history of art had ever had such a glorious opportunity! As he worked, Avery decided that he was a very lucky man indeed.

He painted anything and everything. He painted landscapes and seascapes. He painted Camp Two and a still-life with fruit, rabbitype skins and tomahawks. He painted Tom and Mary swimming, and a nude and a head of Barbara. He even painted crabs in a rock pool.

After a time, Tom, who was getting more than a little impatient with Avery’s obsession, took to going off on hunting or fruit-collecting expeditions by himself. Sometimes, when she was well enough, he took Mary: sometimes, when she could be distracted from her admiration of the greatest painter since Leonardo, he took Barbara.

It was one of these hunting expeditions that brought the halcyon period to an end.

Avery had begun a portrait of Mary—which was to be, he announced, a birthday present to her son…. Or daughter Mary’s sickness was slowly diminishing;

but mornings were still an uneasy time for her. She was lethargic, and strenuous activity tended to produce unwelcome responses in her stomach. So mornings were an excellent opportunity to sit for the portrait. She felt she ought to be working; but Avery’s contention that sitting was working helped to reduce her feelings of guilt at seeing Barbara do all the chores.

On this particular morning, however, she and Avery were alone in camp. The meat supply was down to zero, and so, almost, was the fruit supply. Tom and Barbara had gone to remedy the situation. They had not taken the gun because it was a standing rule that it should be kept at Camp Two for purely defensive purposes.

Time passed—with Avery quite oblivious of its passing—and Mary became tired of the sitting. They abandoned it for a spell, while Avery went to freshen up in the sea and Mary lay on the shore, relaxing and watching him. Presently, he came out.

‘How about another short session before lunch? Or will it be too tiring?’

She nodded. ‘I’m fine now, thanks. But it will only have to be a short one, because Tom and Barbara will be coming back any time.’

‘Nonsense. They only left about an hour ago.’

She laughed. ‘Tom’s right. This painting mania has done a mischief to your faculties…. They have been away about three hours.’

Avery said nothing. He was already back at his painting. He had just seen something spontaneous in her eyes that he might otherwise have missed completely.

Presently, he saw that she was fidgeting. ‘Do be still, dear—otherwise your left breast is going to look like a dented melon.’

‘Sorry…. My back has been aching a bit.’

He was solicitous. ‘Hell, you should have said so as soon as it started… . No, it’s not your fault, it’s mine for being too bloody obsessional. Tom will murder me if he finds I’ve made you tired Shall I rub it a bit for you?’

She shook her head. ‘I wish they’d get back. They’ve been away ages. Do you think anything can have happened?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Avery confidently. ‘Tom can take care of most things. So can Barbara, too, for that matter.’ Mary stretched, then lay back on the sand. ‘It’s not most things I’m worried about,’ she retorted.

Avery continued to add a few touches to the portrait. Presently he said: ‘I’ve just thought of a name for our island. It ought to have a name. How about El DoradoT Mary smiled. ‘Apart from golden spheres and golden people, it somehow doesn’t seem like the sort of place where there is any real gold.’

He put down his brushes and stared critically at the portrait. Then he turned to her. ‘If you’ll excuse a hoary old platitude, my dear, the real gold is always only where you find it Somehow, my resentment of Them is growing less and less—because you and Tom, Barbara and I all seem to have found something that may or may not be gold, but if it isn’t, by the Lord, it seems a dam good substitute. Personally, I’m happier now, I think, than I have ever been…. Yes, El Dorado sounds all right. Let’s go democratic and take a vote on it when they get back.’

Mary sat up, looking anxiously along the shore and then at the luxuriant green wall of trees and vegetation. ‘I wish they’d hurry up. I’m beginning to get worried. Something must have happened.’

‘Nonsense,’ began Avery. ‘It’s your condition that makes ’ He stopped. The words froze.

About forty yards away, a figure had just emerged from among the trees. It was Tom. He swayed and reeled uncertainly—like a drunken man trying to find his way home. As he stumbled towards them, Avery saw that his tattered brown shirt was ominously red.

Mary gave a pathetic cry and jumped to her feet. Avery ran towards Tom.

He blinked at them both and screwed his eyes up as if trying to focus. ‘Sorry, old man,’ he mumbled thickly. ‘Not much good…. The bastards got Barbara. I—I.’ Suddenly he crumpled. The broken shaft of a javelin was sticking out of his back—high, near the shoulder.