What, then, was she to do? That was the problem that balked her. There had to be an answer, but it eluded her.
O Spirits of the land, help me, she prayed silently.
There was a sound. She looked up, startled, and there was a strange man standing before her. He had hair on his face and oddly baggy clothing on his body, in contrast to her own loincloth. He was staring at her bare breasts.
Well, that suggested that he was of the mortal realm, because though her breasts were excellent, the spirits hardly cared about sex appeal. Who was he, and from what tribe? She had never seen his like. He was so pale in his face and hands! But it did seem that the spirits had answered her.
Then there was a sound behind her. She whirled, but too late to escape the second man. He grabbed her by the arms.
“Let me go!” she exclaimed. She could have disabled him with a knee, but preferred for the moment to play the role of the helpless girl. She wanted to learn more before she drew on her combat skill. It would be a rebuke to the spirits if she did not consider their offer carefully.
The man uttered something unintelligible. The other man responded. It seemed to be some sort of language, but like none she had heard. They must be from a very long way away.
The two men consulted. Then one produced some cord and bound her wrists behind her back. They were going to do something with her, or take her somewhere.
Rebel used the toes of one foot to catch the vine anklet on her other foot. It was an intricate anklet of her own design, identifying her immediately. She pushed it off and left it on the ground. That would show where she had been. Her brother Hero would come looking for her when she didn’t return from her forage, and he would find it, and would know that something had happened to her.
Now the men walked, hauling her along with them. She had to walk, or fall; she chose to walk. Where were they taking her? This was seeming less like spirit intervention and more like something else.
They brought her to a busy camp beside the water. Beyond it were what looked like enormous canoes with treelike poles rising high above them. Rebel had never seen, dreamed, or even imagined such things. This must after all be the spirit realm!
As soon as they entered the camp, men clustered around, exclaiming in their spirit language and gazing at Rebel’s breasts. She liked being admired, but this was more attention than she was comfortable with. All these men were oddly white-skinned, like her captors, with hair growing on their faces. All were similarly garbed. Evidently they didn’t much like showing their bodies. If her body were as pale as theirs, she might be hesitant to show it too.
Her two captors took her to where a big structure was being put up. It looked like a kind of house, but was huge. There was a man in impressively strange clothing, evidently a leader, because they deferred to him.
The leader took a solid look at Rebel. He, oddly, did not seem to approve of her breasts. Then he said something. Immediately a man brought an armful of cloth. This turned out to be a set of clothing similar to what the men were wearing: a heavy shirt and trousers. They removed the cord binding her wrists so that her arms were free, and indicated that she should put on the clothing.
“I don’t need stuff like that,” Rebel protested. But then she saw one of the men watching her from across the compound. He looked vaguely familiar, or maybe it was just his manner. His eyes were fixed on her breasts and he was licking his lips. All these men seemed to be obsessed by breasts, one way or another, as if they were not perfectly natural and attractive accessories. He desired her—but she did not desire him. His stare made her feel like chattel. A man like that had raped her once, and bashed her on the head so that she lost her memory for a time. His name had been Bub, and he no longer existed, but she thought of this new man as another Bub. So she struggled into the shirt, but the trousers were so large and baggy that they covered her feet and dragged on the ground.
The men consulted, and decided that the shirt would do. Then the leader made a decision. He spoke curtly, and another man came up. This one was young and handsome; she liked his look despite his alien skin color and hairy face.
After further consultation, the young man approached her. He tapped himself on the chest. “George,” he said.
He was introducing himself! She tapped herself on her voluminous new shirt. “Rebel.”
“Revel,” he repeated.
“Rebel.”
“Rebel.” This time he got it right.
She pointed to him, to show she understood. “George.”
He smiled. He was really handsome then.
The leader spoke. The other men scattered back to whatever they were supposed to be doing. Then the leader went on about his own business. She was left with George.
He spoke to her, but of course she couldn’t understand the words. So he took her by the hand and led her to the shelter of a tree at the fringe of their work area. He sat by the trunk and gestured her to do the same. She did so, sitting facing him with her knees bent before her so she could wrap her arms around them for support.
George blushed. That was interesting. It took her only a moment to fathom why: he had seen between her lifted thighs to her loincloth, the shirt out of the way. She had good legs, and they affected men, especially in this position. He desired her, and this time she was not concerned. She already knew he was no rapist. In fact, the chances were that he had never been with a woman, not having the courage to approach any sexually. That gave her control of the relationship.
She smiled at him. “I think we shall get along, George.” But then she adjusted her legs to show less, because she wanted to know more about him than the state of his desire.
He got down to business. He tapped his chest again. “George.” He indicated hers. “Rebel.” Then he took the cloth of the shirt between thumb and fingers. “Shirt.” He reached cautiously to touch hers. “Shirt.”
“Shirt,” she agreed, getting the word.
He touched his right hand with his left forefinger. “Hand.” He touched hers. “Hand.”
She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently, causing him to blush again. “Hand,” she agreed.
He touched his foot, which was covered by a heavy framework. “Foot,” he said. Then he reconsidered. He took hold of the framework and pulled it off his foot. “Shoe.” He touched his bare foot. “Foot.”
Rebel wore no shoes. She lifted up one foot and touched it. “Foot.” She smiled again.
George was blushing furiously. She had shown him more than her foot, in the process of lifting it. He had gotten the best glimpse yet. She was beginning to enjoy this.
They continued with words. Hand, Foot, Elbow, Arm, Knee, Leg, Head, Hair, Face, Eyes, Nose, Mouth. Rebel was good with words, when she tried, and she was trying now. She remembered each as it was introduced. Soon she knew a number of parts of the body, including “Breasts,” gleaned via the worst-yet siege of blushing when she lifted her shirt clear to point them out.
Then they walked around the compound, and she learned Man, Spade, House, Tree, Flower, Woman. That last was not the best experience; the woman was old and seemed sickly, and she did not like the presence of young lush Rebel at all. Rebel, in turn, did not like the continuing stares of the man who was eying her. He was working, but orienting on her at every opportunity.
She needed to pee. But where? She did not want to do it in sight of these men. Men could react strongly to the sight of a woman peeing; she knew from experience. So she had to ask George, gesturing to the necessary anatomy.
He blushed again, naturally, but led her to the place set aside for such functions. She could tell by the smell. So she squatted and did it, while he faced away. That was interesting; he had the opportunity to see, but chose not to. She took that as further evidence of his niceness.
They returned to the main camp. There was the Bub man, staring, leering. He knew what she had been doing. He would have looked.
There was a sound. It was a Bell, rung by a Cook to summon the Men. Th
ey were serving Food, consisting of Bread, Cabbage, and Beer. That last turned out to be a foul-tasting but interesting liquid, being alcoholic. George cautioned her to drink it slowly, but she already knew its nature and could handle it. She knew all about fermenting berries.
They continued the word lesson, and as evening approached they were beginning to converse more meaningfully. She learned that this was a Colony, and the leader was Governor Phillip. But the Colonists were Convicts: people who had broken Laws—the precise meaning was vague, but it seemed they had acted badly—and been sent here on Ships—the monstrous canoes—to live so they wouldn’t bother the people back in England. England was really obscure; it seemed it was an Island very far away across the Water where many many people lived.
Now there was a problem. “You are captive,” George explained. “Can’t let you go.”
She understood about that. This was a foreign tribe, and they had caught her. What George did not understand was that she might be satisfied to remain a captive, because it would solve the problem of her marriage. So she was not about to try to flee, if that was his concern. For one thing, she knew that if she did, he would get the blame, and she didn’t want that. She liked him, and knew that he liked her, or at least her body, as his blushes signaled.
The problem, it turned out, was that she needed a place to sleep here. George took her to the Female Compound, but the motley women protested vigorously. They did not want a (young, pretty) Savage among them. Rebel understood their case perfectly; she had that effect on ordinary women, and these ones were worse than ordinary. She made them look bad. But joining the Men in their Barracks was out of the question. Too many were clearly like Bub.
George consulted with Governor Phillip. Rebel couldn’t follow all of the dialogue, but she understood more than the Governor thought. He didn’t want to let her go, but understood why neither the men’s nor women’s barracks were suitable. It was his job to make decisions, and finally he made one: the Ship.
George was a Midshipman, someone who had some authority on the ship. He normally spent his nights there. So he would take Rebel there. She was somewhat in awe of that, because the idea of sleeping on a giant canoe was so new as to be daunting. But the notion also intrigued the adventurous side of her. What an experience!
They got in a truly canoe-sized boat, only this turned out to have Oars, which were like paddles tied to its sides, and the oarsman pulled on them instead of pushing, so that he faced backward. But it moved along well enough, and soon they came to the Ship. There they caught on to ropes and were hauled to the Deck, which was well above the surface of the water. Then they went Belowdecks, into a cavelike labyrinth of narrow passages and Holds. It was dark, but George had a Lamp that was like a torch, with a small flame that burned steadily and gave off sufficient light.
They came to his Cabin, which was a section separated somewhat from the rest of the Hold. It had two Hammocks. He showed her how they worked: they were for sleeping in! Amazed, she got into one, and promptly spun over and fell on the deck. He had to show her how to stay safely within it.
But something else was wrong. She was feeling increasingly ill. In fact, she needed to vomit.
George caught on. “You’re Seasick!” he exclaimed. “I should have realized.”
“Sick,” she agreed. Then she vomited into the wooden basin he fetched. After that she felt a bit better.
He explained, as well as he was able, and she followed most of it. People who were not used to ships were bothered by the way they rolled, especially when at anchor. It made them sick. Usually it passed in a few days.
“Days!” she exclaimed, appalled.
He spread his hands. There was nothing he could do. It was too late to return to land, and nowhere safe for her there. But if she closed her eyes and lay down, it should not be as bad.
She tried, but the hammock rolled her out again, and the next siege of sickness was building. That got to her; too much was new and strange, and she couldn’t handle it. She started to cry, which annoyed her, because she preferred to be always strong and independent.
“I’m sorry,” George said, and put his arms about her.
He was comforting her! This was ridiculous, but she really appreciated it.
She turned into him and kissed him. He fell back, embarrassed, but she stayed with him. She had already decided to seduce him, and this was a distraction she needed.
“Rebel,” he protested. “I didn’t bring you here to. . . to. . . I want you to be safe.”
“I know,” she said. And kissed him again.
After that, he was in her control. He was inexperienced, but more than willing, once he understood this was her intention. She got him out of his trousers, freeing his rampant member, and they did it on the tilting deck. In moments he was spurting within her. She did not have an equivalent climax, but that was not the point. She enjoyed making him hers.
“Oh Rebel!” he panted. “I think I love you!”
Which was part of the point. She wanted to bind him to her emotionally, and this was the most feasible way. Men did tend to foolishly love the women who seduced them. “Love,” she agreed, kissing him once more.
They lay there a while, holding hands. Her sickness had faded; the distraction had been enough.
Then he tried again to show her how to sleep in the hammock, but she still did not feel comfortable there. Until he made the most persuasive argument.
“The sickness is from swaying. The hammock doesn’t sway the same. You should not be sick in it.”
She worked it out. “Hammock. No sick.”
“Yes.”
So she tried it again, and again, and finally caught the way of it, and was able to hang suspended in that narrow net. He was right: when she closed her eyes, it was like being in a tree, swaying slightly in the wind, a natural motion that did not make her ill. She was tired, and slept well enough.
In the dim morning she found him standing beside her hammock, gazing raptly on her. She knew that look.
She got out of the hammock as he steadied it for her, kissed him, and took him down to the floor for another round of sex. She knew he was thoroughly smitten with her, and this encouraged that. She did like him, though she had learned that he was only twenty, ten years younger than she. Did it matter? It was not as if they were going to start a family.
They went to the main deck, and then to the waiting boat that took them across the water to the camp. There they had the morning meal of gruel, which was a sort of grain soup. She could handle it.
The language lesson continued. George was clearly pleased by her ready progress. Of course it was more than that, but she knew better than to let anyone else know that she had seduced him. She learned that he was an artist. He sketched lifelike pictures with hard charcoal on parchment: the ships, the buildings, the trees, the people.
Then he got an idea. He had her stand beneath a tree while he sketched her. She looked at the result and shook her head. That huge clumsy shirt would never do. She took him by the hand and led him to a secluded nook. Then she took off the shirt and posed nude.
George was glad to oblige. He sketched her, and this time the picture was a flattering likeness. He made her even prettier than she was naturally. It was his love enhancing his art.
“So!” a man’s voice exclaimed. “Getting a little, hey?”
They whirled. It was Bub Two, spying on them.
It turned out that George was an Officer, while Bub was a convict. George rapped out a few choice words, and Bub quickly departed. She understood the context: if Bub spoke disrespectfully to George, he would be punished. This rough crew surely had effective means of punishment. So he obeyed, but she knew he had not forgotten. Had she been alone, she would have had to fight for her body.
But thereafter she put the shirt back on, and they rejoined the main camp. George reported to the Governor, and had Rebel say a few words: “George. Rebel. Governor Phillip.”
The Governor smiled, pleased by th
e progress. The native girl was being educated. “Carry on,” he told George. That meant that George was supposed to keep doing whatever he had been doing. It seemed he needed such an order, to continue.
They carried on. Now they were allowed to depart the colony site, so she could show George the best scenic places to sketch. Naturally when they were suitably isolated she gave him sex again. Once a man got it from a woman, he craved more of it, and she intended to see that she was always protected by this man. She pretended delight in his prowess, though it was hardly special. His art was in sketching pictures; hers was in boosting the male ego.
She learned more about him. He was an upper-class youth—she wasn’t clear on the concept of classes, but it seemed some were better than others—who wanted to be an artist, but was obliged to serve a tour as a low officer on a ship first. It seemed to be the English form of initiation. Fortunately for him, the Governor liked his sketches and encouraged them as a record of their accomplishments.
But why had he been assigned the chore of teaching her? For she knew it had been a chore, though he was now more than willing to pursue it. It turned out that officers were supposed to supervise rather than actually work, but he was not an effective supervisor. So the Governor needed to find some other work for him, and Rebel was it. As long as she behaved and showed improvement, she would remain his assignment. He hoped, blushing, she would continue.
Oh, she would, though it was now clear that if she chose to depart, George would not hinder her. He wanted her to be pleased with him, even if it meant losing her. If she remained a captive, Harbinger would be free to marry Haven and have a child. So it was a solution to her problem.
But, he protested, in time he would return to England. She would not want to go there.
No? She was increasingly curious about that island, and she couldn’t return to Harbinger, as that would make her effort here pointless. Yet George was firm on this point: she would not like England. She would be a Freak there, a Savage, a Spectacle.