Hot Ice (16 page)

“A little jumpy, are you?” At least he had the satisfaction
of knowing she was churning even as he was. He hadn’t missed the huskiness in her voice or the slight tremor. With the tip between his finger and thumb, he pulled out the envelope.

Whitney turned quickly, hand outstretched. He had the map, he had the money. He was fully dressed, she was all but naked. He didn’t doubt she could make her way down to the village and wangle herself transportation back to the capital. If he was going to ditch her, there would never be a better time.

Her eyes stayed on his, calm and direct. Doug didn’t doubt she’d read every thought in his head.

Though he hesitated, Doug found in this case his word was indeed his word. He slapped the wad of bills into her hand.

“Honor among thieves—”

“—is a major cultural myth,” she finished. There’d been a moment, just a moment, when she hadn’t been sure he’d come through. Picking up her pack and the canteen, she walked toward the pine. It was cover of a sort. Though at the moment, she’d have preferred a steel wall with a heavy bolt. “You might consider shaving, Douglas,” she called out. “I hate my escort to look rangy.”

He ran a hand over his chin and vowed not to shave for weeks.

Whitney found it was easier going when the destination was in sight.

One memorable summer in her early teens she’d stayed on her parents’ estate on Long Island. Her father had developed an acute obsession with the benefits of exercise. Every day that she hadn’t been quick enough to escape, she’d been railroaded into jogging with him. She remembered her determination to keep up with a man twenty-five years her senior, and the trick she’d developed of looking for the stately white dormers of
the house. Once she saw them, she could lope ahead, knowing the end was in sight.

In this case, the destination was only a huddle of buildings adjoining green, green fields and a brown, westward-flowing river. After a day of hiking and a night in a cave, it looked as tidy as New Rochelle to Whitney.

In the distance, men and women worked in the rice paddies. Forests had been sacrificed for fields. The Malagasy, a practical people, worked diligently to justify the exchange. They were islanders, she remembered, but without the breezy laziness island life often promoted. As she looked at them, Whitney wondered how many had ever seen the sea.

Cattle, with bored eyes and swishing tails, milled in paddocks. She saw a battered jeep, wheelless, propped on a stone. From somewhere came the monotonous ring of metal against metal.

Women hung clothes on a line, bright, flowery shirts that contrasted with their plain, workday clothes. Men in baggy pants hoed a long, narrow garden. A few sang as they worked, a tune not so much cheerless as purposeful.

At their approach, heads turned and work stopped. No one came forward except a skinny black dog who ran in circles in front of them and sent up a clatter.

East or West, Whitney knew curiosity and suspicion when she saw it. She thought it a pity she wore nothing more cheerful than a shirt and slacks. She cast a look at Doug. With his unshaven face and untidy hair, he looked more like he’d just come from a party—a long one.

As they drew closer, she made out a smatter of children. Some of the smaller ones were carried on the backs and hips of men and women. In the air was the smell of animal dung and of cooking. She ran a hand over her stomach, scrambling down a hill behind Doug, who had his nose in the guidebook.

“Do you have to do that now?” she demanded. When
he only grunted, she rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring one of those little clip-on lights so you could read in bed.”

“We’ll pick one up. The Merina are of Asiatic stock— they’re the upper crust of the island. You’d relate to that.”

“Of course.”

Ignoring the humor in her voice, he read on. “They have a caste system that separates the nobles from the middle class.”

“Very sensible.”

When he shot her a look over the top of the book, Whitney only smiled. “Sensibly,” he returned, “the caste system was abolished by law, but they don’t pay much attention.”

“It’s a matter of legislating morality. It never seems to work.”

Refusing to be drawn, Doug glanced up, squinting. The people were drawing together, but it didn’t look like a welcoming committee. According to everything he’d read, the twenty or so tribes or groups of the Malagasy had packed up their spears and bows years ago. Still… he looked back at dozens of dark eyes. He and Whitney would just have to take it one step at a time.

“How do you think they’ll respond to uninvited guests?” More nervous than she wanted to admit, Whitney tucked her arm into his.

He’d slid his way without invitation into more places than he could count. “We’ll be charming.” It usually worked.

“Think you can pull it off?” she asked and strode by him to the flatland at the base of the hill.

Though Whitney felt uneasy, she continued to walk forward, shoulders back. The crowd grumbled, then parted, making a path for a tall, lean-faced man in a stark black robe over a stiff white shirt. He might have been the leader, the priest, the general, but she knew with only a
glance that he was important… and he was displeased with the intrusion.

He was also six-four if he was an inch. Abandoning pride, Whitney took a step back so that Doug was in front of her.

“Charm him,” she challenged in a mutter.

Doug scanned the tall black man with the crowd behind him. He cleared his throat. “No problem.” He tried his best grin. “Morning. How’s it going?”

The tall man inclined his head, regal, aloof, and disapproving. In a deep, rumbling voice he tossed out a spate of Malagasy.

“We’re a little short on the language, Mister, ah…” Still grinning, Doug stuck out his hand. It was stared at, then ignored. With the grin still plastered on his face, he took Whitney’s elbow and shoved her forward. “Try French.”

“But your charm was working so well.”

“This isn’t a good time to be a smartass, sugar.”

“You said they were friendly.”

“Maybe he hasn’t read the guidebook.”

Whitney studied the rock-hard face several long inches above hers. Maybe Doug had a point. She smiled, swept up her lashes, and tried a formal French greeting.

The man in black robes stared at her for ten pulsing seconds, then returned it. She nearly giggled in relief. “Okay, good. Now apologize,” Doug ordered.

“For what?”

“For butting in,” he said between his teeth as he squeezed her elbow. “Tell him we’re on our way to Tamatave, but we lost our way and our supplies are low. Keep smiling.”

“It’s easy when you’re grinning like my idiot brother.”

He swore at her, but softly, with his lips still curved. “Look helpless, the way you would if you were trying to fix a flat on the side of the road.”

She turned her head, brow raised, eyes cool. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just do it, Whitney. For Chrissake.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said with a regal sniff. “But I won’t look helpless.” When she turned back, her expression changed to a pleasant smile. “We’re very sorry to have intruded on your village,” she began in French. “But we’re traveling to Tamatave, and my companion—” She gestured toward Doug and shrugged. “He’s lost his way. We’re very low on food and water.”

“Tamatave is a very long way to the east. You go on foot?”

“Unfortunately.”

The man studied Doug and Whitney again, cooly, deliberately. Hospitality was part of the Malagasy heritage, their culture. Still, it was extended discriminately He saw nerves in the eyes of the strangers, but no ill will. After a moment, he bowed. “We are pleased to receive guests. You may share our food and water. I am Louis Rabemananjara.”

“How do you do?” She extended her hand, and this time, he accepted the gesture. “I’m Whitney MacAllister and this is Douglas Lord.”

Louis turned to the waiting crowd and announced they would have guests in the village. “My daughter, Marie.” At his words a small, coffee-skinned young woman with black eyes stepped forward. Whitney eyed her intricate braided hairstyle and wondered if her own stylist could match it.

“She will see to you. When you have rested, you will share our food.” With this, Louis stepped back into the crowd.

After a quick survey of Whitney’s periwinkle shirt and slim pants, Marie lowered her eyes. Her father would never permit her to wear anything so revealing. “You are
welcome. If you will come with me, I will show you where you can wash.”

“Thank you, Marie.”

They moved in Marie’s wake through the crowd. One of the children pointed at Whitney’s hair and spilled out with an excited babble before being shushed by his mother. A word from Louis sent them back to work before Marie had reached a small, one-story house. The roof was thatched and pitched steeply to spread shade. The house was built of wood and some of the boards were bowed and curled. The windows sparkled. Outside the door was a square woven mat bleached nearly white. When Marie opened the door, she stepped back to allow her guests to enter.

Everything inside was neat as a pin, every surface polished. The furniture was rough and plain, but bright cushions were plumped in every chair. Yellow daisylike flowers stood in a clay pot by a window where wooden slats held back the intense light and heat.

“There is water and soap.” She led them farther inside where the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. From a small alcove, Marie produced deep wooden bowls, pitchers of water, and cakes of brown soap. “We will have our midday meal soon, with you as our guests. Food will be plentiful.” She smiled for the first time. “We have been preparing for
fadamihana.”

Before Whitney could thank Marie, Doug took her arm. He hadn’t followed the French, but the one phrase had rung a bell. “Tell her we, too, honor their ancestors.”

“What?”

“Just tell her.”

Humoring him, Whitney did so and was rewarded with a beaming smile. “You are welcome to what we have,” she said before she left them alone.

“What was that about?”

“She said something about
fadamihana.”

“Yes, they’re preparing for it, whatever it is.”

“Feast of the dead.”

She stopped examining a bowl to turn to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s an old custom. Part of Malagasy religion is ancestor worship. When somebody dies, they’re always brought back to their ancestral tombs. Every few years they disentomb the dead and hold a party for them.”

“Disentomb them?” Immediate revulsion took over. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s part of their religion, a gesture of respect.”

“I hope no one respects me that way,” she began, but her curiosity got the better of her. She frowned as Doug poured water into the bowl. “What’s the purpose?”

“When the bodies are brought up, they’re given a place of honor at the celebration. They get fresh linen, palm wine, and all the latest gossip.” He dipped both hands in the bowl of water and splashed it over his face. “It’s their way of honoring the past, I guess. Of showing respect for the people they descended from. Ancestor worship’s the root of Malagasy religion. There’s music and dancing. A good time’s had by all, living or otherwise.”

So the dead weren’t mourned, Whitney mused. They were entertained. A celebration of death, or perhaps more accurately of the bond between life and death. Suddenly she felt she understood the ceremony and her feelings about it changed.

Whitney accepted the soap Doug offered and smiled at him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He lifted a small, rough towel and scrubbed it over his face. “Beautiful?”

“They don’t forget you when you die. You’re brought back, given a front-row seat at a party, filled in on all the
town news, and drunk to. One of the worst things about dying is missing out on all the fun.”

“The worst thing about dying is dying,” he countered.

“You’re too literal. I wonder if it makes it easier to face death knowing you’ve got something like that to look forward to.”

He’d never considered anything made it easier to face death. It was just something that happened when you couldn’t con life any longer. He shook his head, dropping the towel. “You’re an interesting woman, Whitney.”

“Of course.” Laughing, she lifted the soap and sniffed. It smelled of crushed, waxy flowers. “And I’m starving. Let’s see what’s on the menu.”

When Marie came back, she had changed into a colorful skirt that skimmed her calves. Outside, villagers were busily loading a long table with food and drink. Whitney, who’d been expecting a few handfuls of rice and a fresh canteen, turned to Marie again with thanks.

“You are our guests.” Solemn and formal, Marie lowered her eyes. “You have been guided to our village. We offer the hospitality of our ancestors and celebrate your visit. My father has said we will have today as holiday in your honor.”

“I only know we’re hungry.” Whitney reached out to touch her hand. “And very grateful.”

She stuffed herself. Though she didn’t recognize anything but the fruit and rice, she didn’t quibble. Scents flowed on the air, spicy, exotic, different. The meat, without aid of electricity, had been cooked over open fires and in stone kilns. It was gamey and rich and wonderful. The wine, cup after cup of it, was potent.

Music began, drums and rough wind and string instruments that formed thready, ancient tunes. The fields, it seemed, could wait one day. Visitors were rare, and once accepted, prized.

A little giddy, Whitney swirled into a dance with a group of men and women.

They accepted her, grinning and nodding as she mimicked their steps. She watched some of the men leap and turn as the rhythm quickened. Whitney let her head fall back with her laugh. She thought of the smoky, crowded clubs she patronized. Electric music, electric lights. There, each one tried to outshine the other. She thought of some of the smooth, self-absorbed men who’d partnered her— or tried to. Not one of them would be able to hold up against a Merina. She whirled until her head spun and then turned to Doug.

“Dance with me,” she demanded.

Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright. Against him, she was warm and impossibly soft. Laughing, he shook his head. “I’ll pass. You’re doing enough for both of us.”