BETWEEN THE ADVENTURES I
Disclaimer: They really don't belong to me. In fact, sometimes I wish they'd get out of my head and leave me alone. (nottruenottruenottrue)
Vignettes
A Rock with a View
By The Inner Genie
7/14/03
The young man stirred in his sleep. The rough bark of the tree that cradled his head was not the softest of pillows. His leg twitched and the red covered journal in which he had been writing slipped from his lap and landed softly on the mossy ground.
The small book had no sooner settled onto the velvet, green moss that had so enticed the man to sit down when a dark shadow raced over the ground right towards it. In mere seconds the rosy cover of the reporter's journal was covered by a shiny black, undulating river of coal. Thousands and thousands of single-minded army ants swarmed out of the ground and over the jungle floor letting nothing, not even the sleeping human, stand in their way. One platoon of the inexorable army, having conquered the cover of the journal, marched up and over the man's pants legs. While most of the troops made their way to the ground on the other side, several hundred of them took the low road and streamed into his boots and the small gap around the waistband of his trousers.
With a cry that would have done Tarzan proud, the man leapt to his feet and began brushing the confused insects from his apparel. His frantic actions stirred some innate response from those trapped between the coarse fabric of his trousers and the pale, hairy smoothness of his skin. They attacked en masse.
With pain giving wings to his fingers, it was but the work of a moment for the man to kick off his boots and divest himself of the offending trousers. That action, however, wasn't enough to end the attack. The ants not dispersed by this brilliant strategy and panicked by the alien sounds and smells of this moving mountain sought cover under the sole remaining garment that covered the man's nether regions, while others stampeded north and found as yet untouched fields of flesh to plunder.
The effect of this latest assault was instantaneous. The man ripped off his shirt, buttons flying like miniature UFO's, and shimmied out of his drawers. Like an incoming missile complete with sound effects, he ran straight to the deep, sparkling waters of the small river and dove in. The sound of his torment ended abruptly. Concentric rings spread out from the epicenter of his entry and small bubbles rose slowly to the surface of the water.
Two men and two women were sitting on a blanket beside the cool, shaded stream. The raven-haired beauty was leaning ever so lightly on the shoulder of the handsome, distinguished-looking dark-haired man who, feeling the sweet pressure and seeing they weren't observed, ran his finger gently down her porcelain cheek.
The ginger-haired man and the stunningly beautiful blond woman had their backs to the water as they put the last of the picnic things into a woven basket.
"What was that?" the blond asked whipping around, her hand on the knife in her boot.
The dark-haired man, who had witnessed the whole affair, shifted lazily and drawled, "Just Malone."
His ladylove smiled contentedly and spoke with unusual restraint. "He must have fallen asleep on an anthill again." She laughed. "What is this? The third time?"
"Indeed," the red-bearded scientist agreed, nodding his head sagely. "One would think he'd learned that lesson by now."
With a naughty gleam in her eye, the blond beauty smirked and moved to sit on a rock just above the fast dispersing bubbles.
She grinned at her friends.
"I love this part," she said and fastened her eyes on the area of the water where the naked man was sure to emerge.
*****************************
Finders, Keepers
By The Inner Genie
8/7/03
"Veronica," Marguerite hissed.
Looking up from the pot of soup she was stirring, the jungle girl frowned. "What?" she asked, her tone none too friendly. The dark-haired heiress was supposed to be helping her with lunch, and, so far, she hadn't so much as chopped a vegetable.
Marguerite shifted her eyes around the living area of the treehouse to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation. Moving a little closer, she lowered her voice still more.
"When you took the clothes off the line, did you see my.," she lowered her voice to a raspy whisper."brassiere?"
"Which one?" Veronica asked loudly as she added a pinch of salt to the savory brew.
"Shhhh!" Marguerite pleaded, motioning her hand for silence. Leaning in even closer, she breathed into her ear, "The peachy silk one."
With a sigh, Veronica put a hand on one hip and shook the soup spoon at her exasperating friend as she said, "When I, and I repeat I, went out to take the clothes in, they had blown off the line and were all over the place. I found some of them in the bushes on the other side of the electric fence. And, no, I didn't see your peachy.thing. It's probably decorating some cannibal's shrunken head by now."
A voice spoke behind them.
"Has it occurred to you, Marguerite, that it's quite possible that your 'peachy thing' was eaten by the goat?" Challenger, unusually sharp eared, hypothesized from his chair at the table. He used his finger to mark the place in the book he had been reading and leaned forward. "It is well known that goats will try to eat almost anything they come across, and your silk . undergarment is just the tasty morsel that any self respecting goat would find irresistible." He turned to the young, blond man sitting across the table from him. "What do you say, Malone?"
Ned blushed and looked quickly up at Marguerite, then busied himself with his pencil and paper. "Really, Challenger, you shouldn't speak about such things," he murmured.
"What? Goats?" the eccentric scientist asked confused.
Veronica snorted quite inelegantly, and Marguerite threw her hands up in disgust.
"Is privacy a foreign concept to everyone here?" she stormed. Seeing their amused expressions, she moaned, "Never mind. I'll go find it myself."
She snatched up her hat and rifle as she headed for the elevator.
Lord John Roxton, who had been standing out on the balcony smoking an extremely pungent Zanga cigar, glanced over the railing as the elevator reached the ground and saw the delectable Miss Krux step out and stomp off into the jungle. He carefully set the smoke in the teacup sitting on the table beside him and reached into his pocket. He smirked as he slowly pulled out a tiny corner of peach colored material.
"Challenger, my friend," he whispered. "You are absolutely right. This old goat found the peachy undergarment quite irresistible." Reverently, he tucked the soft cloth back in his pocket, where it would stay until the time was right.
Sticking the odoriferous stogie back in his mouth, he drew in a deep, self- satisfied puff and glanced down once again at the beautiful woman frantically searching through the bushes
He blew the smoke out in a thick stream.
"Finders Keepers, my dear," he murmured. "Finders Keepers."
***********************************
Some Cookies in the Winter
By The Inner Genie
8/8/03
Just getting him to survive has taken weeks. Now, they weren't sure they could survive his recuperation.
Melancholy, morose, irritable, Lord John Roxton had rebelled against staying in bed a week ago. The inventive scientist had found a way, after must research and testing, to attach wheels to the back of one of the chairs, turning it into a vehicle of freedom for the fretful invalid. Of course, getting the big man with his broken right leg and broken left arm into and out of the chair still required a lot of muscle-muscle that he and Malone were only too happy to supply if only the end result had been more pleasant.
"CHALLENGER!" bellowed his lordship. "You've set the bloody tea cup on the wrong side, again. How the hell do you expect me to pick it up when I can't even reach it?"
The red-bearded scientist sighed as he climbed the steps from his laboratory. "Patience," his compassionate self reminded. "The man has been through hell." "Is that any reason to put us through hell, now?" his fed-up self demanded.
Compassion won, and he forced a smile on his lips as he walked over to the settee where the patient was ensconced, pillows propping up the sling that encased his left arm, and his splinted leg resting on a padded chair set in front of him.
"Really, John," the harried man said as he picked up the delicate china cup. "This is your cup from breakfast. I must have left it here when I was fluffing your pillows. I'll bring you a fresh cup, if you like."
"No, never mind," growled Roxton. He turned his head to stare out at the tops of the trees and shifted restlessly.
"Challenger," he called just as the man was preparing to descend to his lab after setting the empty cup on the kitchen table.
Challenger turned to look at him, and, seeing the bleak look in his eye, came back and sat in the chair across from the settee.
"Challenger," the invalid began again. His voice had a flatness to it now that was even more disturbing then his former anger. He turned haunted eyes to his older friend.
"Is she really all right? Have you seen her lately? When did you say she was coming home?"
Challenger repressed a sigh. He had answered these same questions a hundred times. But he couldn't blame the hunter for asking. Regaining consciousness over a month ago, Roxton had awakened screaming out Marguerite's name. It had taken all the strength both he and Malone possessed to keep him in bed so that he wouldn't compound his injuries. The man was mad with worry. Tears streamed down his face as he cussed and fought the two men to let him go so that he might save her yet. Finally, his own weakened state made him collapse back on the pillows, but it didn't stop his anguished pleading.
"She'll be fine," they had told him over and over, although they weren't sure at that time if their words were true.
When, worn out and deeply troubled, he had quieted down, Ned had asked him what had happened. The gruesome tale had turned the young journalist's stomach, and even the hardened older man had paled and bit down on his lip to keep from exclaiming.
The two men had cared for the hunter. His wounds were severe, but not life threatening. However, while his body healed, his soul festered. He blamed himself for what happened and nothing the other two could say would change his mind.
As soon as Roxton was stabilized, Challenger had hurried to the Zanga village to help the shaman with Marguerite's care and came back with a very heavy heart, indeed. A week later, Veronica had returned to the treehouse with encouraging, but guarded news. Marguerite's wounds were also healing, but because of the loss of blood and the severity of her wounds, it would be a long while before she was well enough to make the journey home. She and Challenger divided their time between the two patients, but lately, Veronica had preferred to stay with Marguerite who, because she couldn't speak, didn't bite her head off every time she saw her.
Sitting across from the injured man, Challenger felt pity swell his heart. Worry and guilt had left this strong, honorable, fearless man completely undone.
"She's fine, John. Veronica says that she could be coming home any day now, and, to tell you the truth, she won't like to see you looking so down in the mouth. You'll have to pull yourself together for her sake, old boy. She'll need your strength to work her way through this."
Roxton hung his head and Challenger's heart sunk. He hadn't meant to add to the man's burden, but rather to give him a reason to go on.
"You know, Challenger," he said softly. "If I could just see her, see that she's all right, I think, then, my heart would be at peace."
The sound of the elevator coming up made both men sit up straighter, and their hearts beat faster. When Malone stepped off of the elevator, their disappointed faces took him aback.
"No, sorry, it's only me. All alone, I'm afraid. But I did bring home the bacon," he quipped, holding up the carcass of a small wild pig.
Challenger shook off his disappointment and jumped up.
"Excellent, Ned. We haven't had a good pork roast in a very long time. Now, you just sit tight, old boy," he told Roxton rather too hardily. "Ned and I will just put this porker on the spit and then we'll all play a stimulating game of hearts."
Roxton didn't respond. He was, once again, staring out into the jungle.
Playing cards turned out to be anything but stimulating. Conversation had run out days ago. After all, it wasn't easy to talk to a man who was so withdrawn into himself that he rarely even listened.
Quickly exhausting the news of the day, Challenger and Ned had begun regaling each other with stories of their early school days. Ned had waxed on enthusiastically about his high school experiences in his middle-class Chicago neighborhood. But even he ran down when it became obvious that he and George were talking to themselves.
"Come on, John," Ned tried gamely. "George and I have been talking all afternoon. I'm sure you've had many interesting school experiences, how about sharing some with us?"
Roxton looked at the handsome young man and the worried face of his scientist friend and sighed. They're trying so hard, he thought. I'll try, too.
"Well," he began slowly. "When I was about eight years old, my parents had to go to Austria to stay a while with my uncle who was dying. Instead of letting me stay at Avebury, they decided to send me to a dreary, old school that was owned by a friend of my Aunt Ethel. The school was in Scotland, and was surrounded by a windy moor far from anything that was even remotely interesting. I kept thinking that any day my parents would return and send for me, but the months went on and all I was told was that uncle was still hanging on. I was thoroughly miserable."
A deeply sad look flashed across his face and, for a moment, stripped away the years and showed him as the young boy he had been, fighting off the waves of homesickness-trying to keep that stiff upper lip.
"Oh, I had rugby in the fall and cricket in the spring to keep my spirits up. It was the long winter months that I dreaded so. It wasn't the snow so much as the bloody rain. The incessant, cold, wet rain kept us virtual prisoners inside."
Challenger laughed to try to lighten the moment, but was delighted to hear him talking at all. "Rain is usually wet, old boy. You'll have to come up with a better description than that."
Roxton's lips quirked up at the other man's amusement, but when he spoke, it was with the same sad voice. "You know the kind of rain I mean, Challenger. The kind that doesn't nourish the earth so much as punishes it. It sends down relentless sheets of icy water that saturate to the very core everything unfortunate enough to be out in it. There's no dodging between the raindrops like you can in a spring rain, or feeling the refreshing cleansing of a summer storm. This rain washes out eagerness, enthusiasm, and humor. It mildews your spirit and rusts your soul."
Roxton had talked himself back into a right blue funk.
Ned shook his head and said in a hearty voice, "Come on, John. It couldn't have been all bad. You must be able to remember some happy times."
Roxton frowned, then his face brightened slightly.
"I do remember something," he said, his voice warming with the memory. "There were these two boys there, brothers. They were such jolly, cheerful lads. They both had bright red hair that stuck straight up on their heads, and their faces were absolutely full of freckles." John smiled. "They were the only boys in a family of eight girls, all as redheaded and jolly as they. Oh, how I envied them! As soon as the weather got cold, and winter settled in, every two weeks, like clockwork, they would get this big box of pastries from home. I swear that you could smell the most delicious aromas right through the wrappings!"
His friends exchanged happy smiles. It was good to hear the hunter's high spirits returning.
Roxton laughed. "All the boys would gather round while Jack and Peter opened their prize. Thinking back on it now, they must have been the most unselfish two people I have ever met. They shared every last morsel with the rest of us. Even the most bloody-minded bully got his share-and smiled and thanked them for it."
Roxton paused and sighed. Sadness crept back into his voice. "It was the only thing that got me through that time. Oh, don't get me wrong; I got packages from home as well. Socks and scarves, and winter woolens." He sighed again and said longingly, "My heart's desire was that just once-just once, someone would send me some cookies in the winter."
The familiar squeal of the elevator interrupted his story. But he didn't mind, for what he saw made his spirits soar as they hadn't in many a dark week.
Marguerite, helped on each side by Veronica and the Zanga shaman, walked slowly and stiffly down the shallow steps and stood, once again, in the treehouse. Home, at last.
Malone and Challenger leapt to their feet and rushed to greet the two women of their little family and to heap thanks and gratitude on the wise medicine woman who had returned their Marguerite to them.
The Zanga shaman bowed her head and grinned at their enthusiastic praise. Then, hugging both the women, she bid them all goodbye and rode the elevator back down to her waiting escorts.
Ned, Veronica and Challenger were bubbling over with excitement that all their family was once again under the same roof. The separation had been hard on all of them and it wasn't just one of them who were amazed at the strong ties they had forged in just three years.
The noise of their cheerful voices floated unheeded around the beautiful, dark-haired woman who stood so unnaturally still in the middle of the floor. She eyes were locked on the person who had been filling her thoughts during her long and painful recuperation. Slowly she walked over to the settee and held out her hand.
"John," was all she managed to whisper before tears choked her voice.
Roxton took her hand in his and pulled her gently down beside him. He didn't-he couldn't let go of her. Speech was too difficult. They just stared, hungry for the sight of each other, until John reached over and wiped a tear from her cheek. He held up his finger and looked at the glistening drop.
"For me?" he asked.
She nodded, glad, for now, that she couldn't speak.
He reached up and wiped the moisture from his own cheek.
"For you," he said, holding out his finger for her to see. She leaned forward and kissed it tenderly as silent tears ran down her cheeks.
Challenger strode over, happiness shinning from this intelligent eyes.
"John, old boy. Didn't I tell you she would be all right? Turning to Marguerite, he said, "You can't believe, my dear, how very miserable he has been with worry for you. Quite the Gloomy Gus, I assure you."
"George," Ned called gently. "Why don't we three check on dinner? I'm sure Marguerite could use some rest after her journey."
"Of course. Of course, how very thoughtless of me. Would you like me to escort you back to your room, my dear? I'm sure Veronica would be happy to help you into more comfortable attire." He held out his elbow, eager to be of assistance.
Roxton put his hand on his old friend's arm.
"Thanks anyway, old boy," he answered for her. "But I've invited Marguerite to sit here with me for a while. She'll be quite comfortable if I just scoot over a bit to give her more room. There you go."
Marguerite flashed him a dazzling smile and wriggled into the vacated space.
Something about her smile brought the situation more clearly to Challenger's attention. He stammered, "I'm.I'm sure you're right, John," and turned abruptly around and walked off calling out, "I say, Ned. Let me give you a hand with that pork roast."
Left to themselves at last, they couldn't do much more than grin at each other. They had really thought, after that terrible attack, that they would never see each other again. It was a miracle, they thought, that they were both well, or soon would be.
Roxton's face darkened as his eyes fastened on the red, but fading scar that ran under Marguerite's chin. He saw again the knife at her throat and remembered the blood that had already started to flow down her neck as, bound both hands and feet, he did the only thing he could manage to do and threw himself on her attacker, sending all three of them over the cliff.
The attacker's neck was broken in the fall. Marguerite, he was told, had landed on a small ledge where she was found by a Zanga search party only minutes later. Unwilling to move her any more that necessary, they had taken her to their village, which was not far away. There, the wise shaman and, later Challenger, had tended her grievous injuries.
Nothing had stopped his fall. He bounced and rolled, unable to stop himself, to the very bottom of the gorge and wasn't found until twelve hours later. Challenger and Ned had taken him back to the treehouse, splinted his broken leg and arm, sewn up his many gashes, and treated his fever and concussion.
Roxton's own injuries were healing nicely and the splints would come off in a few weeks. Challenger was hopeful that Marguerite's voice would return as good as ever, given time.
Yes, it was a miracle.
He was startled out of his thoughts when Marguerite gently lifted his good arm and snuggled under it, resting her head on his chest.
Another miracle!
He pulled her close, breathing in her scent. Her large, expressive eyes never left his face.
"You know, Marguerite," he mused, long, contented minutes later. "I was just saying that when I was a lad, my heart's desire was just some cookies in the winter." His eyes bored into hers as his lip quirked up on one side. He leaned towards her so that his lips were just inches from her ear and said in that husky whisper of his, "But, now, I'm all grown up and I have a new heart's desire." He kissed her upturned face. "One that I want every season of the year."
Disclaimer: They really don't belong to me. In fact, sometimes I wish they'd get out of my head and leave me alone. (nottruenottruenottrue)
Vignettes
A Rock with a View
By The Inner Genie
7/14/03
The young man stirred in his sleep. The rough bark of the tree that cradled his head was not the softest of pillows. His leg twitched and the red covered journal in which he had been writing slipped from his lap and landed softly on the mossy ground.
The small book had no sooner settled onto the velvet, green moss that had so enticed the man to sit down when a dark shadow raced over the ground right towards it. In mere seconds the rosy cover of the reporter's journal was covered by a shiny black, undulating river of coal. Thousands and thousands of single-minded army ants swarmed out of the ground and over the jungle floor letting nothing, not even the sleeping human, stand in their way. One platoon of the inexorable army, having conquered the cover of the journal, marched up and over the man's pants legs. While most of the troops made their way to the ground on the other side, several hundred of them took the low road and streamed into his boots and the small gap around the waistband of his trousers.
With a cry that would have done Tarzan proud, the man leapt to his feet and began brushing the confused insects from his apparel. His frantic actions stirred some innate response from those trapped between the coarse fabric of his trousers and the pale, hairy smoothness of his skin. They attacked en masse.
With pain giving wings to his fingers, it was but the work of a moment for the man to kick off his boots and divest himself of the offending trousers. That action, however, wasn't enough to end the attack. The ants not dispersed by this brilliant strategy and panicked by the alien sounds and smells of this moving mountain sought cover under the sole remaining garment that covered the man's nether regions, while others stampeded north and found as yet untouched fields of flesh to plunder.
The effect of this latest assault was instantaneous. The man ripped off his shirt, buttons flying like miniature UFO's, and shimmied out of his drawers. Like an incoming missile complete with sound effects, he ran straight to the deep, sparkling waters of the small river and dove in. The sound of his torment ended abruptly. Concentric rings spread out from the epicenter of his entry and small bubbles rose slowly to the surface of the water.
Two men and two women were sitting on a blanket beside the cool, shaded stream. The raven-haired beauty was leaning ever so lightly on the shoulder of the handsome, distinguished-looking dark-haired man who, feeling the sweet pressure and seeing they weren't observed, ran his finger gently down her porcelain cheek.
The ginger-haired man and the stunningly beautiful blond woman had their backs to the water as they put the last of the picnic things into a woven basket.
"What was that?" the blond asked whipping around, her hand on the knife in her boot.
The dark-haired man, who had witnessed the whole affair, shifted lazily and drawled, "Just Malone."
His ladylove smiled contentedly and spoke with unusual restraint. "He must have fallen asleep on an anthill again." She laughed. "What is this? The third time?"
"Indeed," the red-bearded scientist agreed, nodding his head sagely. "One would think he'd learned that lesson by now."
With a naughty gleam in her eye, the blond beauty smirked and moved to sit on a rock just above the fast dispersing bubbles.
She grinned at her friends.
"I love this part," she said and fastened her eyes on the area of the water where the naked man was sure to emerge.
*****************************
Finders, Keepers
By The Inner Genie
8/7/03
"Veronica," Marguerite hissed.
Looking up from the pot of soup she was stirring, the jungle girl frowned. "What?" she asked, her tone none too friendly. The dark-haired heiress was supposed to be helping her with lunch, and, so far, she hadn't so much as chopped a vegetable.
Marguerite shifted her eyes around the living area of the treehouse to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation. Moving a little closer, she lowered her voice still more.
"When you took the clothes off the line, did you see my.," she lowered her voice to a raspy whisper."brassiere?"
"Which one?" Veronica asked loudly as she added a pinch of salt to the savory brew.
"Shhhh!" Marguerite pleaded, motioning her hand for silence. Leaning in even closer, she breathed into her ear, "The peachy silk one."
With a sigh, Veronica put a hand on one hip and shook the soup spoon at her exasperating friend as she said, "When I, and I repeat I, went out to take the clothes in, they had blown off the line and were all over the place. I found some of them in the bushes on the other side of the electric fence. And, no, I didn't see your peachy.thing. It's probably decorating some cannibal's shrunken head by now."
A voice spoke behind them.
"Has it occurred to you, Marguerite, that it's quite possible that your 'peachy thing' was eaten by the goat?" Challenger, unusually sharp eared, hypothesized from his chair at the table. He used his finger to mark the place in the book he had been reading and leaned forward. "It is well known that goats will try to eat almost anything they come across, and your silk . undergarment is just the tasty morsel that any self respecting goat would find irresistible." He turned to the young, blond man sitting across the table from him. "What do you say, Malone?"
Ned blushed and looked quickly up at Marguerite, then busied himself with his pencil and paper. "Really, Challenger, you shouldn't speak about such things," he murmured.
"What? Goats?" the eccentric scientist asked confused.
Veronica snorted quite inelegantly, and Marguerite threw her hands up in disgust.
"Is privacy a foreign concept to everyone here?" she stormed. Seeing their amused expressions, she moaned, "Never mind. I'll go find it myself."
She snatched up her hat and rifle as she headed for the elevator.
Lord John Roxton, who had been standing out on the balcony smoking an extremely pungent Zanga cigar, glanced over the railing as the elevator reached the ground and saw the delectable Miss Krux step out and stomp off into the jungle. He carefully set the smoke in the teacup sitting on the table beside him and reached into his pocket. He smirked as he slowly pulled out a tiny corner of peach colored material.
"Challenger, my friend," he whispered. "You are absolutely right. This old goat found the peachy undergarment quite irresistible." Reverently, he tucked the soft cloth back in his pocket, where it would stay until the time was right.
Sticking the odoriferous stogie back in his mouth, he drew in a deep, self- satisfied puff and glanced down once again at the beautiful woman frantically searching through the bushes
He blew the smoke out in a thick stream.
"Finders Keepers, my dear," he murmured. "Finders Keepers."
***********************************
Some Cookies in the Winter
By The Inner Genie
8/8/03
Just getting him to survive has taken weeks. Now, they weren't sure they could survive his recuperation.
Melancholy, morose, irritable, Lord John Roxton had rebelled against staying in bed a week ago. The inventive scientist had found a way, after must research and testing, to attach wheels to the back of one of the chairs, turning it into a vehicle of freedom for the fretful invalid. Of course, getting the big man with his broken right leg and broken left arm into and out of the chair still required a lot of muscle-muscle that he and Malone were only too happy to supply if only the end result had been more pleasant.
"CHALLENGER!" bellowed his lordship. "You've set the bloody tea cup on the wrong side, again. How the hell do you expect me to pick it up when I can't even reach it?"
The red-bearded scientist sighed as he climbed the steps from his laboratory. "Patience," his compassionate self reminded. "The man has been through hell." "Is that any reason to put us through hell, now?" his fed-up self demanded.
Compassion won, and he forced a smile on his lips as he walked over to the settee where the patient was ensconced, pillows propping up the sling that encased his left arm, and his splinted leg resting on a padded chair set in front of him.
"Really, John," the harried man said as he picked up the delicate china cup. "This is your cup from breakfast. I must have left it here when I was fluffing your pillows. I'll bring you a fresh cup, if you like."
"No, never mind," growled Roxton. He turned his head to stare out at the tops of the trees and shifted restlessly.
"Challenger," he called just as the man was preparing to descend to his lab after setting the empty cup on the kitchen table.
Challenger turned to look at him, and, seeing the bleak look in his eye, came back and sat in the chair across from the settee.
"Challenger," the invalid began again. His voice had a flatness to it now that was even more disturbing then his former anger. He turned haunted eyes to his older friend.
"Is she really all right? Have you seen her lately? When did you say she was coming home?"
Challenger repressed a sigh. He had answered these same questions a hundred times. But he couldn't blame the hunter for asking. Regaining consciousness over a month ago, Roxton had awakened screaming out Marguerite's name. It had taken all the strength both he and Malone possessed to keep him in bed so that he wouldn't compound his injuries. The man was mad with worry. Tears streamed down his face as he cussed and fought the two men to let him go so that he might save her yet. Finally, his own weakened state made him collapse back on the pillows, but it didn't stop his anguished pleading.
"She'll be fine," they had told him over and over, although they weren't sure at that time if their words were true.
When, worn out and deeply troubled, he had quieted down, Ned had asked him what had happened. The gruesome tale had turned the young journalist's stomach, and even the hardened older man had paled and bit down on his lip to keep from exclaiming.
The two men had cared for the hunter. His wounds were severe, but not life threatening. However, while his body healed, his soul festered. He blamed himself for what happened and nothing the other two could say would change his mind.
As soon as Roxton was stabilized, Challenger had hurried to the Zanga village to help the shaman with Marguerite's care and came back with a very heavy heart, indeed. A week later, Veronica had returned to the treehouse with encouraging, but guarded news. Marguerite's wounds were also healing, but because of the loss of blood and the severity of her wounds, it would be a long while before she was well enough to make the journey home. She and Challenger divided their time between the two patients, but lately, Veronica had preferred to stay with Marguerite who, because she couldn't speak, didn't bite her head off every time she saw her.
Sitting across from the injured man, Challenger felt pity swell his heart. Worry and guilt had left this strong, honorable, fearless man completely undone.
"She's fine, John. Veronica says that she could be coming home any day now, and, to tell you the truth, she won't like to see you looking so down in the mouth. You'll have to pull yourself together for her sake, old boy. She'll need your strength to work her way through this."
Roxton hung his head and Challenger's heart sunk. He hadn't meant to add to the man's burden, but rather to give him a reason to go on.
"You know, Challenger," he said softly. "If I could just see her, see that she's all right, I think, then, my heart would be at peace."
The sound of the elevator coming up made both men sit up straighter, and their hearts beat faster. When Malone stepped off of the elevator, their disappointed faces took him aback.
"No, sorry, it's only me. All alone, I'm afraid. But I did bring home the bacon," he quipped, holding up the carcass of a small wild pig.
Challenger shook off his disappointment and jumped up.
"Excellent, Ned. We haven't had a good pork roast in a very long time. Now, you just sit tight, old boy," he told Roxton rather too hardily. "Ned and I will just put this porker on the spit and then we'll all play a stimulating game of hearts."
Roxton didn't respond. He was, once again, staring out into the jungle.
Playing cards turned out to be anything but stimulating. Conversation had run out days ago. After all, it wasn't easy to talk to a man who was so withdrawn into himself that he rarely even listened.
Quickly exhausting the news of the day, Challenger and Ned had begun regaling each other with stories of their early school days. Ned had waxed on enthusiastically about his high school experiences in his middle-class Chicago neighborhood. But even he ran down when it became obvious that he and George were talking to themselves.
"Come on, John," Ned tried gamely. "George and I have been talking all afternoon. I'm sure you've had many interesting school experiences, how about sharing some with us?"
Roxton looked at the handsome young man and the worried face of his scientist friend and sighed. They're trying so hard, he thought. I'll try, too.
"Well," he began slowly. "When I was about eight years old, my parents had to go to Austria to stay a while with my uncle who was dying. Instead of letting me stay at Avebury, they decided to send me to a dreary, old school that was owned by a friend of my Aunt Ethel. The school was in Scotland, and was surrounded by a windy moor far from anything that was even remotely interesting. I kept thinking that any day my parents would return and send for me, but the months went on and all I was told was that uncle was still hanging on. I was thoroughly miserable."
A deeply sad look flashed across his face and, for a moment, stripped away the years and showed him as the young boy he had been, fighting off the waves of homesickness-trying to keep that stiff upper lip.
"Oh, I had rugby in the fall and cricket in the spring to keep my spirits up. It was the long winter months that I dreaded so. It wasn't the snow so much as the bloody rain. The incessant, cold, wet rain kept us virtual prisoners inside."
Challenger laughed to try to lighten the moment, but was delighted to hear him talking at all. "Rain is usually wet, old boy. You'll have to come up with a better description than that."
Roxton's lips quirked up at the other man's amusement, but when he spoke, it was with the same sad voice. "You know the kind of rain I mean, Challenger. The kind that doesn't nourish the earth so much as punishes it. It sends down relentless sheets of icy water that saturate to the very core everything unfortunate enough to be out in it. There's no dodging between the raindrops like you can in a spring rain, or feeling the refreshing cleansing of a summer storm. This rain washes out eagerness, enthusiasm, and humor. It mildews your spirit and rusts your soul."
Roxton had talked himself back into a right blue funk.
Ned shook his head and said in a hearty voice, "Come on, John. It couldn't have been all bad. You must be able to remember some happy times."
Roxton frowned, then his face brightened slightly.
"I do remember something," he said, his voice warming with the memory. "There were these two boys there, brothers. They were such jolly, cheerful lads. They both had bright red hair that stuck straight up on their heads, and their faces were absolutely full of freckles." John smiled. "They were the only boys in a family of eight girls, all as redheaded and jolly as they. Oh, how I envied them! As soon as the weather got cold, and winter settled in, every two weeks, like clockwork, they would get this big box of pastries from home. I swear that you could smell the most delicious aromas right through the wrappings!"
His friends exchanged happy smiles. It was good to hear the hunter's high spirits returning.
Roxton laughed. "All the boys would gather round while Jack and Peter opened their prize. Thinking back on it now, they must have been the most unselfish two people I have ever met. They shared every last morsel with the rest of us. Even the most bloody-minded bully got his share-and smiled and thanked them for it."
Roxton paused and sighed. Sadness crept back into his voice. "It was the only thing that got me through that time. Oh, don't get me wrong; I got packages from home as well. Socks and scarves, and winter woolens." He sighed again and said longingly, "My heart's desire was that just once-just once, someone would send me some cookies in the winter."
The familiar squeal of the elevator interrupted his story. But he didn't mind, for what he saw made his spirits soar as they hadn't in many a dark week.
Marguerite, helped on each side by Veronica and the Zanga shaman, walked slowly and stiffly down the shallow steps and stood, once again, in the treehouse. Home, at last.
Malone and Challenger leapt to their feet and rushed to greet the two women of their little family and to heap thanks and gratitude on the wise medicine woman who had returned their Marguerite to them.
The Zanga shaman bowed her head and grinned at their enthusiastic praise. Then, hugging both the women, she bid them all goodbye and rode the elevator back down to her waiting escorts.
Ned, Veronica and Challenger were bubbling over with excitement that all their family was once again under the same roof. The separation had been hard on all of them and it wasn't just one of them who were amazed at the strong ties they had forged in just three years.
The noise of their cheerful voices floated unheeded around the beautiful, dark-haired woman who stood so unnaturally still in the middle of the floor. She eyes were locked on the person who had been filling her thoughts during her long and painful recuperation. Slowly she walked over to the settee and held out her hand.
"John," was all she managed to whisper before tears choked her voice.
Roxton took her hand in his and pulled her gently down beside him. He didn't-he couldn't let go of her. Speech was too difficult. They just stared, hungry for the sight of each other, until John reached over and wiped a tear from her cheek. He held up his finger and looked at the glistening drop.
"For me?" he asked.
She nodded, glad, for now, that she couldn't speak.
He reached up and wiped the moisture from his own cheek.
"For you," he said, holding out his finger for her to see. She leaned forward and kissed it tenderly as silent tears ran down her cheeks.
Challenger strode over, happiness shinning from this intelligent eyes.
"John, old boy. Didn't I tell you she would be all right? Turning to Marguerite, he said, "You can't believe, my dear, how very miserable he has been with worry for you. Quite the Gloomy Gus, I assure you."
"George," Ned called gently. "Why don't we three check on dinner? I'm sure Marguerite could use some rest after her journey."
"Of course. Of course, how very thoughtless of me. Would you like me to escort you back to your room, my dear? I'm sure Veronica would be happy to help you into more comfortable attire." He held out his elbow, eager to be of assistance.
Roxton put his hand on his old friend's arm.
"Thanks anyway, old boy," he answered for her. "But I've invited Marguerite to sit here with me for a while. She'll be quite comfortable if I just scoot over a bit to give her more room. There you go."
Marguerite flashed him a dazzling smile and wriggled into the vacated space.
Something about her smile brought the situation more clearly to Challenger's attention. He stammered, "I'm.I'm sure you're right, John," and turned abruptly around and walked off calling out, "I say, Ned. Let me give you a hand with that pork roast."
Left to themselves at last, they couldn't do much more than grin at each other. They had really thought, after that terrible attack, that they would never see each other again. It was a miracle, they thought, that they were both well, or soon would be.
Roxton's face darkened as his eyes fastened on the red, but fading scar that ran under Marguerite's chin. He saw again the knife at her throat and remembered the blood that had already started to flow down her neck as, bound both hands and feet, he did the only thing he could manage to do and threw himself on her attacker, sending all three of them over the cliff.
The attacker's neck was broken in the fall. Marguerite, he was told, had landed on a small ledge where she was found by a Zanga search party only minutes later. Unwilling to move her any more that necessary, they had taken her to their village, which was not far away. There, the wise shaman and, later Challenger, had tended her grievous injuries.
Nothing had stopped his fall. He bounced and rolled, unable to stop himself, to the very bottom of the gorge and wasn't found until twelve hours later. Challenger and Ned had taken him back to the treehouse, splinted his broken leg and arm, sewn up his many gashes, and treated his fever and concussion.
Roxton's own injuries were healing nicely and the splints would come off in a few weeks. Challenger was hopeful that Marguerite's voice would return as good as ever, given time.
Yes, it was a miracle.
He was startled out of his thoughts when Marguerite gently lifted his good arm and snuggled under it, resting her head on his chest.
Another miracle!
He pulled her close, breathing in her scent. Her large, expressive eyes never left his face.
"You know, Marguerite," he mused, long, contented minutes later. "I was just saying that when I was a lad, my heart's desire was just some cookies in the winter." His eyes bored into hers as his lip quirked up on one side. He leaned towards her so that his lips were just inches from her ear and said in that husky whisper of his, "But, now, I'm all grown up and I have a new heart's desire." He kissed her upturned face. "One that I want every season of the year."