Chapter Two: A Flower, a Name, and a Memory
"Nice shooting, Veronica," Roxton said, coming up from behind her. The sow lay at her feet, two clean bullet wounds in its chest.
"Thanks, Roxton." Though Ned had taught her to shoot a rifle during their first few months here, she rarely used the weapons. Recently though, they had all been practicing different fighting arts. That odd sense of foreboding is still bothering me... It was that odd, just-over-your-shoulder sense of danger that had prompted these drills. She had confessed her unease to Ned, who had reluctantly suggested a round-robin type of training session. It was only to reassure me, after Ned woke me from one too many nightmares. So she had learned the use of firearms from Roxton, while teaching some of the hand-to-hand combat she'd learned with the Amazons. Roxton contributed some basic moves from his army days and "tavern brawls" as Marguerite deemed them. Ned and Challenger had little experience with battle outside their plateau days, but Marguerite's skills surprised them all. They'd known for some time that she was a crack shot with a gun and had a frightening skill with a whip, but her rudimentary knowledge of some of the fighting arts of the Orient had come as a shock. Especially when she'd executed a move on Roxton that threw him on his back with such force the wind was knocked out of him.
They'd all looked at the slim woman in amazement. Marguerite's smug smile had disappeared when she realized that she'd inadvertently invited questions about her past again. "Where—where'd you learn that?" Veronica asked in disbelief. I had found it inconceivable, that our Marguerite had such a broad array of fighting skills to compliment her conning ones. Then again, Challenger mentioned that Parsifal was known for being capable of anything.
Marguerite had shrugged. "You all know that I was in Shanghai for some time. Well, one of my employer's bodyguards liked green eyes. I wasn't about to pass the opportunity up." Roxton's reaction was predictable. Another argument was on the way, but Veronica had demanded that Marguerite teach her the move on the spot. After a sketchy explanation, Marguerite simply refused to do more. When pressed, she'd simply stated that the guard had tired of teaching a "foreign devil" and had walked out. Veronica knew that it was unlikely that they'd ever see the end of Marguerite's exotic "talents".
Poor Ned. Most of the training had for his benefit, to his embarrassment, though he had made a few contributions. Challenger had left the four "youngsters" to their own devices after the first afternoon, returning to his experiments on the pretence of "age", though they all knew it was only the call of science. Marguerite was the only one besides Ned who hadn't had extensive weapons training, and Veronica wasn't even sure of that statement. Among with her other formidable skills, she had demonstrated her ability with both knives and swords. She had gone to work with Challenger soon after, declaring the exercise pointless, much to the disappointment of a certain hunter.
After Marguerite's departure, the "training" lost some of its appeal. Roxton was obviously preoccupied, and Ned finally told him to go after her. And with only the two of them, there were other activities that were more enjoyable than fighting. A blush crept upon her cheeks at the thought and she hoped Roxton didn't notice her preoccupation. Of course, the great white hunter was cleaning the beast, and she was supposed to be on watch, not dreaming of blue eyes and a dazzling smile.
Then, right on cue, she heard a furious squeal from the brush behind them.
Ned brought the axe down forcefully, his body quivering at the impact. The sweltering jungle heat had forced him to discard his shirt long ago, so he stood in only his trousers, sweat running in rivulets down his back. Tossing the last of the logs onto the stack, he snatched his shirt and headed back to the tree house for a quick shower.
Typically, he and Roxton laboured at the gruelling task together, laughing or--more frequently--griping about the ladies or Challenger's latest crazy concoction. The older man was like a brother to Ned, a well-meaning if meddling older brother. As much as he respected the lord, Roxton's lack of trust in Ned to handle dangerous situations rankled as much as it hurt. Roxton had no trouble handing decisions to Challenger or Veronica, even Marguerite, trusting them to pull the group out safely--if only to save their own skins, as in Marguerite's case. But Neddy-boy? No, Neddy couldn't be trusted as protector, only as protected, he thought bitterly.
He remembered his first encounters with raptors. They'd been off on a mission to save Challenger when a lone raptor had leapt out of the bush at him. When Ned had hesitated to shoot, Roxton had raised his rifle, but was unable to get a clear shot. In the end, only Marguerite's--Marguerite, of all people--good aim had saved him from his cowardice. Her contemptuous attitude had almost made him wish that she'd missed, though it would have been his demise. Veronica had been forced to stay with the poor, injured Ned to protect him, leaving the others to save Challenger themselves.
Though he had saved Veronica later that day by killing the two raptors chasing them, it had been his stupidity that had attracted them in the first place. The only good that had come of the entire episode had been the kiss Veronica had given him, for "inspiration". A dozen similar incidents flashed through his mind--usually ending with him getting knocked unconscious, as Marguerite pointed out frequently. At least Marguerite intentionally got herself into trouble. Trouble just seemed to find Ned Malone.
But that had been two years ago. Certainly, by now, he was more of an adventurer--more of a man--than he'd been when they first arrived. He'd killed a dragon, found the entrance to the Guardian's village, saved the explorers and the tree house on more than one occasion. Turning off the water, Ned straightened and shook the water from his hair. He might not be as strong as Roxton, as fierce as Veronica, as clever as Marguerite or as brilliant as Challenger, but he had his own unique talents. And if he could only prove it to them, perhaps he'd begin to believe it himself.
Drying himself roughly, Ned mentally shook his head. Such bleak thoughts on such a beautiful day! Knowing what would cheer him and blushing furiously, he grabbed his journal. Her face came to him unbidden and his pencil flew across the paper.
"Open your eyes," Marguerite commanded.
"Oh!" the girl exclaimed. Looking about in delighted amazement, she turned to the dark-haired woman beside her. "It's beautiful, Marguerite. May I?" She gestured to the meadow below them. Marguerite had chosen perfectly, it seemed. Hundreds of colourful jungle flowers filled the little clearing, and the girl was obviously enchanted. Veronica had pointed the spot out as one of her mother's favourites.
"Of course. Just don't stray too far." With permission given, the girl capered off. Marguerite watched her wander, picking whatever flower caught her fancy. Somehow, Marguerite felt inordinately pleased with the girl's reaction. Getting soft in my old age, she noted wryly. Knowing they needed to head back soon, she rose to call the girl back. And the world spun.
{She stood in another flower-filled glade, but she was home, in England. How she knew, she didn't know, yet this clearing was in England. Glancing about in a sudden need to confirm her sudden knowledge, she was both frightened and relieved to note that both the flora and fauna matched that of the island. What is the plateau throwing at me this time? She felt oddly detached from herself, yet at the same time she was suffused by a feeling of contentment.
"Do we have to leave?" a plaintive young voice asked. Marguerite spun to face the speaker and her eyes widened in shock. It was the girl, and yet it wasn't. She appeared younger than Marguerite's plateau companion, perhaps seven years old. This child had the same blonde hair, the same pleading blue eyes, but instead of a soaked, torn dress she wore a beautiful costume of white, edged and embroidered in gold. A thin circlet of gold rested on her brow, and a red cloak blew gently behind her. She sighed at Marguerite's silence and began to walk towards her.
"You know your brother will worry if we're not home soon," Marguerite heard herself say gently. Now where did that come from, she wondered.
"I know," came the resigned reply. "I just wish he wouldn't worry so much. It isn't as if I could get into trouble here with you."
"He loves you, Elaine. He is well named, your hawk. He'll never stop looking out for you, and you're lucky to be loved so. It is a gift bestowed upon few." Her voice sounded almost wistful, and Marguerite realized with vexation that she had no control over her actions.
"I love you," the girl declared emphatically, looking up at her.
"And I you, little one." Marguerite felt herself smiling warmly before the world spun again.}
A quick glance revealed that she was on the plateau again. Looking about frantically for the girl, she was relieved to find her a few yards away, bending to pick another flower. Marguerite's eyes widened in alarm as she realized what the girl was reaching for. "ELAINE!"
The girl froze instantly; her hand half-extended towards a dark red blossom.
Marguerite was beside her in seconds, drawing her away from the plant. "You don't want to touch that particular plant. Veronica named it 'spiky-hurt' the first time she encountered it, at the age of three," she said with a laugh, trying to make the situation humorous. The subtle tension in the girl's shoulders betrayed her fright. Marguerite knew the girl's composure was precarious, though it had held up well throughout the day. It seemed that Marguerite's shout had finally brought reality crashing down.
"Veronica was out with her parents on a picnic to this very spot, when she picked the 'spiky-hurt' as a gift to her mother. When Mrs. Layton saw the blossom, she snatched it from Veronica and threw it away, but it was too late. The blood flower has tiny barbs in its stem that releases a poison. By the time they'd gotten back to the tree house, Veronica's hand was completely swollen and she had to be carried. That's when she named it 'spiky-hurt'. It was her first contribution to botany." She spoke in a kind, reassuring voice that was the explorers rarely heard. Marguerite could count the times she'd used it.
It had the desired effect, despite its disuse. The girl straightened with remarkable willpower, and offered the bouquet to Marguerite.
"For me?" The heiress was both surprised and deeply touched by the simple gesture. The girl nodded, offering them to her again. "They're wonderful. Thank you." Only years of training kept her voice steady, and Marguerite didn't trust herself to say more. A single day and this strange girl owned her heart. The revelation frightened her. To avoid further conversation, she walked back to their abandoned laundry and picked up her pile. The girl did the same, and Marguerite led them back to the trail.
Silence reigned for a few minutes before the girl spoke again. "Marguerite? When I was about to pick that flower, you called me, and I stopped. What did you say?"
Marguerite told her the truth, though she wasn't sure how she knew. "I called your name."
"You...my...how..." Again the girl collected herself. "My name. What is it?" It wasn't a request.
Shifting the laundry basket to her hip, Marguerite turned to face her. "Elaine." She of all people knew the power of a name: a word, a name, a life.
"Elaine." The girl tried it, as if teaching her tongue the sound. "Elaine," she repeated. She looked at Marguerite in amazement. "It fits. I don't know how, or why, but it fits. It's like," the girl struggled to find the words, "like the missing piece of a puzzle I'd lost. And suddenly I've found it and it fits perfectly. Thank you," she said sincerely. It was only a moment before her eyes sharpened. "Marguerite?"
"Yes?" Marguerite knew what came next. "If you were going to ask, I don't know how I know your name. Like you said, it just fits perfectly. Lucky guess, I suppose." Elaine regarded her suspiciously, then nodded, apparently satisfied with her honesty. Marguerite nearly laughed. As if a girl could read her when some of the greatest...artists in the world hadn't been able to. "We'd better get going. Plateau rule number one--if you aren't home before dark, you may need a search party. And we'll want to hang the laundry before the sun sets or the mosquitoes will eat us alive."
With that, Marguerite turned and headed down the beaten path, with young Elaine following close behind.
