Silence Is Golden

  The effort of hiking hundreds of miles through the jungle was finally catching up with me. As soon as a good-hearted Indian lady showed me two suitable trees, I hung up my hammock, fell into it and was dead to the world. I think not even a lovesick monkey cleaning my ear could have woken me up right then and there. When I woke up, I was confused for a moment. The sun was just about where it had been when I had fallen asleep in the middle of the day - but the clouds were totally different, and so was the colour of the sky.

  ‘What…?’ My voice was nothing but a drowsy drawl. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘The real question,’ came a cool voice from nearby, ‘would be “what day?”.’

  Blinking, I hauled myself up until the statuesque form of Mr Rikkard Ambrose came into view not far away, sitting on a rock so still you might think he was part of the stone.

  ‘I’ve slept more than one day?’ I demanded.

  A snap announced the opening of Mr Ambrose’s silver pocket watch.

  ‘Two days, three hours and twenty-seven minutes, to be precise, Mr Linton. But don’t feel the need to end your nap prematurely. It’s not as if we are in any hurry, with a horde of bloodthirsty soldiers on our track and an enormous treasure to find.’

  I sat up all the way, shaking off the sleep. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

  Mr Rikkard Ambrose never had an expression on his face. Never. But, if such a thing were possible, purely hypothetically, I would say that he looked a tiny bit sullen.

  ‘That woman wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Woman?’

  His left little finger twitched. ‘The old hag that gives the orders around here. She was quite firm in her admonishments in regard to your state. Seemed to think that I have overworked you in some way, which apparently isn’t proper in our situation.’

  I stared at him. ‘In our situation?’

  His cold, sea-coloured gaze met mine. ‘For some reason, she seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that you are my…intended.’

  ‘Intended?’ My eyes almost bugged out of my sockets. ‘Intended as in engaged?’

  ‘I do not think they take things quite so formal here - but yes, in essence that is what she meant.’

  I felt heat rush up to my face, and not for the first time was profoundly glad that my tanned skin didn’t blush easily. Instinctively, my eyes flitted away from his, hiding under my lashes. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Well, I put her straight, of course. And do you know what she did then?’

  ‘No. What?’

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘She patted me on the head, turned, and walked away!’

  ‘Dear me.’ I did my very, very best not to laugh as I visualised Mr Rikkard Ambrose being patted on the head. I didn’t think I was entirely successful, though. ‘That must have been…upsetting for you.’

  Arctic eyes met mine, making it clear that I had better be quiet if I wanted to live to see the next day. Clearing my throat, I quickly changed the subject.

  ‘So…this is why we are still here?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was less than pleased. ‘She flatly refuses to help us before you are properly rested. She has threatened to instruct me in the proper way for a man to treat his…woman.’

  An image flashed in front of my mind, of Mr Rikkard Ambrose sitting at a table, me beside him, being taught how to properly eat mousse au banana and roasted monkey bottoms by a little old Indian lady in a governess’s outfit. I disguised my laughter as a cough as best I could.

  Then I realised that the image didn’t just make me want to laugh. It also made my stomach growl.

  ‘Come on,’ sliding out of my hammock, I stretched, yawning. ‘I’m hungry. Time to find something to eat.’

  However, apparently roasted monkey bottoms weren’t exactly the main staple of the local tribe. Instead, the menu consisted mainly of roots, some big kind of fruit that grew on dark, gnarled trees and something that looked a bit like a potato, but tasted a lot sweeter. These were supplemented with various small birds and other animals, brought in every day by the hunters and roasted over an open fire.

  The old Indian lady sat next to me during the whole meal, chattering away in Portuguese and force-feeding me choice morsels. Every now and again she would pat me comfortingly and glare at Mr Ambrose. I had to say, I hadn’t enjoyed a meal like this in a very, very long time.

  It turned out that the old lady had meant what she said. We were staying in the village for now, no matter how many frosty glares Mr Ambrose shot at the old lady. I was a bit worried about that, myself - after all, we did have half a battalion on our trail - but here we were probably as safe as we possibly could be. The Indian village was high up in the hills, up on a rocky cliff, where we would see any pursuers coming from miles away. Plus, our native friends had done their best to conceal our tracks on their way in. And, to judge by the way they slithered silently through the jungle, their best was probably the best there was.

  So I decided, as long as we were here, I might as well put the time to good use. Every day I went to shooting practice with Mr Ambrose, and with my ultimate threat - emulating the native dress code - I got Karim to start teaching me Portuguese. And I wasn’t just talking about curse words! It wasn’t that I felt a deep-seated need to expand my language skills - it just pissed me off that I was the only one who could only communicate with hand gestures! The old Indian lady spent most of her time talking to me, and yet I didn’t understand a single word she said! And…I would have liked to. Unlike many of my fellow females at home, who frittered away their lives on balls and buffoonery, I had a suspicion she was someone I could really talk to.

  And what do you know? After a while it paid off. It only took me a few days, and I started to catch a word here and there in her conversations with Mr Ambrose. A few more days, and I spoke my first word in Portuguese. It was ‘Bastard!’ Oh, what a proud moment! If my mother still been alive, I’m sure she would have cried.

  Mr Ambrose didn’t appreciate the special moment fully, however.

  I started helping out around the village, making a few really awful pots and bowls, and helping to weave a few cloths that were only fit for scarecrows. The other women found my attempts amusing enough not to mind. It turned out that a few of them also spoke broken bits of Portuguese, and with their help, I slowly started to be able to communicate. As long as the sentences were short and to the point, I could manage.

  Communication had its dangers, however, as I learned a few days later. The men were just returning from the hunt. Mr Ambrose had gone with them, since, as he put it ‘if I have to spend another minute in unproductive idleness, I will murder someone, just to have something to do!’ The other men had been quite amenable, interested, I supposed, in seeing how one of the palefaces hunted with their exploding sticks. And, apparently, the hunt had been quite successful.

  ‘Ay! Ay!’

  The excited cries of a child were the first signal announcing the return of the hunters. Putting aside the pot I had been able to form, and which looked more or less like a pelican trying to commit suicide by tying itself into a knot, I stood up and, shielding my eyes against the sunlight, looked over to the distant entrance of the village, where an excited gaggle of naked children was already gathering.

  His head - tall, dark and proud - was the first to appear out of the jungle. Then followed the long staff that was resting on his shoulder, and only then came the other men, helping to carry the staff. And then…

  My mouth fell open, and I gaped at the shape of the enormous wildcat hanging limp from the stake that had to be carried by at least half a dozen men. The beast’s face was twisted into a snarl in death, its fangs visible even from where I stood. The children were gaping in awe - but just for a moment. Then they started screeching in excitement and rushed forward, wanting to touch the enormous beast. Unlike them, I didn’t stare at the leopard. I only had eyes for Mr Ambrose.

  Light, slow footsteps approached from behind me. I didn’t have to look around to know
who it was. The old Indian lady hobbled to a halt next to me, supporting herself on a gnarled old stick. She regarded me with shrewd eyes.

  ‘He.’ The old woman nodded at the tall, dark figure striding at the head of the hunters. ‘Strong. Quick. A good hunter.’

  ‘He…good at…getting what he wants,’ I grudgingly admitted in halting Portuguese. ‘No matter what.’

  ‘Then why the two of you not make small things yet?’

  I looked at her, nonplussed. ‘Small things?’

  ‘You know.’ Letting go of her stick with one hand, she mimed the shape of a round, extended belly in front of her own, and winked.

  Good God! She wasn’t asking why we hadn’t made ‘small things’! She was asking why we hadn’t made ‘little ones’, as in…

  I felt heat rush to my face.

  ‘I…we…well…um…’

  ‘Yes?’

  The old lady regarded me like an owl, her head cocked to the side, her wide, wise old eyes looking disturbingly deep inside me. I tried to think of a way to explain the intricacies of feminism, women’s rights and the men who denied them to this little old Indian lady - and couldn’t. All those things seemed suddenly very far away.

  ‘He arrogant!’

  She waited - then, when I didn’t say anything else, she prompted: ‘Yes?’

  ‘And stubborn! And greedy, and merciless and convinced he is always in the right!’

  ‘Yes?’ She was still watching me as if waiting for the important part of my explanation.

  ‘Umm…that’s it.’

  ‘Girl, you just describe every great hunter.’

  I blinked, desperately searching for more arguments, desperately trying to express what was my problem with Mr Ambrose.

  ‘Um…he not…’ I struggled, trying to find the right words. ‘He not believe women as good as men.’

  The old lady didn’t seem very impressed. Instead, she just winked at me again. ‘Well, then someone had better teach him differently, eh?’

  *~*~**~*~*

  The words of the old lady stayed with me, and over the next few days, I found myself watching Mr Ambrose again and again.

  That was nothing new in a way - I’d had my eyes on him often enough in the past, to glare at him or glower or make sure he wasn’t doing anything chauvinistic. But now I wasn’t doing any of those things. I was simply…looking. Not at my employer. Not at the chauvinist, or even the businessman, but at the man beneath.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  What kind of a man was he?

  It startled me to realise how little I still knew about him. I had no idea where he came from, if he had family, what he had done before he had started dominating the world trade, and what had driven him to become the most powerful man in the British Empire. I had no idea who he really was.

  And yet…

  And yet, in another way, I knew exactly who he was. I knew he was hard and strong and unforgiving. I knew that he would take whatever he wanted and protect what was his to his last breath, and possibly beyond. I knew that he expected the best of himself and others, and did not forgive failure. I knew he breathed power like other people breathed air. And I knew that he had spectacularly firm pectorals. Oh yes, in a way, I knew Rikkard Ambrose. I knew him very well.

  Well enough to help him change?

  Good question, Lilly. But here’s an even better one: do you want him to change at all?

  Of course I did! He was a bloody chauvinistic son of a bachelor!

  And you like him just the way he is, don’t you?

  No! No, of course I didn’t!

  Really? Think about how it felt, unbuttoning his shirt, sliding your hand over those smooth, hard pectorals of his…

  Well, all right, maybe I did like parts of him. But purely in a sinful, lusting manner! It didn’t have anything to do with really liking him or, God forbid, any of that yucky romantic stuff! That would be just…Ugh!

  The thought of romance alone made me shudder. I felt like I needed a bath to wash the filthy thought off my skin. Actually, there were a lots of other things stuck to my skin - including sweat, little twigs and dead mosquitoes - that could do with washing off. But it wasn’t very likely that I was going to find a bathtub in this wilderness, was it?

  Sighing, I settled back against the wall of the hut outside of which I had been conducting my little foray into personal philosophy. Someone stepped out of the hut and I felt a familiar presence settle beside me.

  ‘Something bothering you?’ asked the old lady, a kind, if gap-toothed, smile on her face.

  ‘I need a bathtub!’ I sighed. ‘Badly!’

  ‘Bath…tup?’ The old lady repeated, puzzled. For once, it seemed, I had hit on a Portuguese word she didn’t know.

  ‘I need to wash,’ I explained. ‘But I not think there are things like bathtubs or showers here in village.’

  ‘Wash?’ Her face brightened. ‘Of course you can wash.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Of course. You see there?’ She pointed towards the centre of the village, where a little stream meandered through the huts. ‘Stream run into lake. Lake spill over cliff. Waterfall come down from cliff. Small waterfall, not dangerous unless it rain. Go there and wash. Take your time. My grandson show you way to bottom of cliff.’

  I was so elated to be able to wash all the grime of my skin that I didn’t even notice the devious twinkle in her eye. In retrospect, of course, I know I should have. Oh yes, I definitely should have.

  *~*~**~*~*

  The path down to the foot of the waterfall was winding but not long. The old lady’s grandson guided me down as promised, grinning all the way. Normally, I would have been more than a bit concerned about being shown to a bathroom without doors or walls by a grinning adolescent boy, particularly if there were convenient bushes nearby to hide behind. But, in this particular case, the adolescent boy ran around butt naked among a community of equally butt naked people. Even if he were to spy on me, I doubted very much he’d see anything he hadn’t seen before.

  The boy called out and pointed ahead. I couldn’t see anything yet, but then we rounded a corner and my mouth fell open.

  The water fell down over the sharp, ragged cliff in a rainbow of glittering colour and silver, collecting in a charming little pool below that was so clear I could see the scales on every fish waggling their fins in the water. Flowers in golden-yellow, red and purple bloomed around the pool, interspersed here and there with a fresh spot of green. The scene looked like something out of an ancient Greek myth - a spring so clear only the gods would dare drink from it. But it was far more than a scene from a storybook. It was alive. In a flash, one of the fish jumped, water spraying in all directions, and before I could blink he had swallowed a mosquito and disappeared into the silver waters again.

  Awed, I approached the beautiful spot. With care, I knelt down and slipped a finger into the water.

  My eyes slid shut in bliss.

  Oh…

  Cool. Blessedly cool.

  I slipped in my whole hand, then my arm, splashing the water all over my dirty face, and then, suddenly, there was no holding me back: I tugged off my boots, and without even bothering to pull off my chemise, plunged into the water. What the heck! It could do with a wash, too, anyway.

  The water was like balm on my skin. No, actually better than balm, because balm is medicine, and medicine itches, and usually stinks into the bargain. This was…pure. Soothing. Cool. Clear. Wonderful.

  The pool was not deep - just above waist height. I let myself sink back into the water and drift under the cool spray, just letting the water soothe my aching muscles, luxuriating in every second. I heard scuffling and, cracking one eye open, saw the boy running back up to the village. I was alone with the fish and the water and the wonderful, wonderful coolness all around me.

  For a while I just drifted. Then I slowly forced my eyes open.

  Get a move on, Lilly! You came here to clean up, not just to float around like the Lady of Shalott on hol
iday!

  Taking a deep breath of the cool air - yes, even the air was cooler here in this heavenly spot - I got to my feet and started washing my hair, strand by unruly strand. My chemise was soaked by now, and while it was blissfully cool against my skin, it was also just about as see-through as you could get. So, just in case any of the boys from the village were spying on me after all, I moved behind a picturesque rock that rose out of the centre of the pool.

  It took a while to get the worst tangles out of my hair. Finally, when I no longer felt as if I had a mop plastered to my head, I leant back against the rock with a sigh and for a few minutes just enjoyed the feeling of being (partially) clean. After a while, I decided it was time to stop lazing about, and started to pull off my chemise, to give it a thorough wash as well. The moment I began to pull the thing up, the water rushed in from all around me, tickling me deliciously. I was so lost in the bliss of cool air around me and clean water on my skin that, for a moment, I didn’t even register the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Wait a minute…footsteps?

  And not any footsteps, either. No. These were quick, hard, determined footsteps. Footsteps that I knew very well.

  My hands dropped the chemise, and it fell back down, clinging to my wet skin.

  No. No. No, no, nonononono no!

  Clutching my skimpy garment to my chest, I peeked around the rock, praying that I was wrong. Praying that I was right, too. The first prayer was denied. The second was answered.

  There, right in front of me under the glittering shower of the waterfall, stood Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his back towards me, his shirt half unbuttoned. As I watched, he swiftly grasped the hem of the shirt and pulled it over his head, revealing all that lay beneath.

  Oh dear God…

  How did Father Marcos put it again?

  Our Father, which art in heaven,

  Lead us not into temptation.

  Well - it was a bit too late for that now. Mouth dry and skin wet, I watched as droplets of water ran over hard, impenetrable muscles.