THE LOST WORLD
Hunter's Mind
"Give it a rest, Marguerite."
"No surprise there – the great-white-hunter doesn't want off the Plateau."
"Of course I want off the Plateau. I just don't weave the idea into every bloody conversation." Roxton raised his hands in mock surrender.
"No need for all the drama, I only said: I'm tired of stepping in dinosaur sh–"
"That is not what you said, Marguerite! You said: if you were in London, you wouldn't have to put up with this sh–"
"Same thing." Marguerite waved a dismissive hand.
Roxton spun, pressing his hands onto her shoulders. "No! It's not the same. What you put up with, is; this life, my friends… me."
Marguerite wiped her boot in the grass. "No, John; I just want a good night's sleep, silk sheets, room service… and clean shoes."
The two had been walking most of the morning, heading back to the tree house. Last night, they had camped near the inland sea; they had shared a simple evening laughing too hard and leaning too close. Now, the walk back into reality was bringing out the worst in them.
"You think leaving this Plateau is going to make everything right? A fist full of diamonds – and London's high society will be bowing at your petticoats?
"A fistful would do – but I'll be bringing back ten times that." Marguerite's eye gleamed with an intensity few could match.
John threw his hands into the air and paced a frustrated circle. "I've been society's show-pony, Marguerite – a thoroughbred example of lordly nobility," he mocked himself.
"So, then why can't you understand? I just want my turn." They had stopped walking. Marguerite removed her pack and used it to rest on.
John leveled a hard stare off through the jungle, avoiding her keen emerald eyes. "My father used to say: It's a rare man that knows his use."
"And, apparently yours is to be marooned on a plateau," Marguerite teased.
"Yes! Maybe it is," John almost roared, stepping toward her.
Marguerite recoiled, sinking into her pack. She had seen John's anger countless times – in battle. But now, it had lost focus; in that brief moment, he seemed… almost dangerous.
"Go on John, I'm listening." Marguerite soothed.
"My father was right. Every morning we wake up on this plateau knowing exactly what we need to do – live through the day."
"I like the benefits," she said, with a playful shrug.
"Our life is easy here, Marguerite. Back in London, everyday was a struggle; justifying my privilege – while others starved, accepting an invite – that was really a summons, memorizing the endless protocols of the House of Lords."
"It sounds just awful, John," Marguerite taunted.
"It was." John reflected, as he sat down on his own pack.
"I didn't mean to upset you."
"I know you didn't." His anger washed away. "I can't explain it, Marguerite. Watching over these people has been the defining act of my life. As barbaric as it sounds, shooting that capybara last night, and roasting your dinner – It fills a place in me that I never knew was empty."
"It could have used a little salt." She brushed the hair from his eyes, letting the touch linger.
"Poke your fun… But everyday we live through is a validation of our right to survive. Last night the capybara was dinner, tomorrow it could be us."
"That won't happen, John."
"No, it won't, Marguerite, because I am one of those very rare men – who know my use."
END