Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
Three days later, after what was obviously intensive study, the pattern became clear to Elizabeth Nord. Hannah read the relevant passages with stunned amazement.
There is no longer any doubt. I have been a victim of my own bias. The record left by Reverend Helmsley has removed the last of my doubts. The islanders have deliberately deceived me on several occasions. I do not think it was maliciously done. Rather it is as if they simply make a practice of telling outsiders what they think they wish to hear. I was a woman who wished to find the power structure on the island centered around the females. It was probably easy enough for my informants to figure out what I wanted to hear. They then took pains to exaggerate their explanations. It is not an unheard-of phenomenon in fieldwork. I should have been alert to it. My notes are not all lies and nonsense by any means, but I am forced to reconsider my conclusions concerning the basic role of women in the social structure of the islanders. It would appear that it is not all that different from the role of women on neighboring islands. While unique in some respects, it is fairly traditional in many others.
Hannah read further, suddenly growing afraid of what she would find next.
I fear that I am faced with a decision. I can write
Amazons
as I originally intended, describing a fascinating culture based on female power, or I can write what appears to be the truth. If I do the latter, my book will merely be one more in a long line of studies concerning South Pacific island societies, adding little that is new or illuminating. But if I write the book as I originally intended, a great deal of good might be accomplished. I will provide a whole new view of human nature, especially the nature of women. It will astound anthropologists as nothing else has done in recent years except for Mead's work on Samoa. Perhaps it will cause the so-called male experts to reevaluate their own biases and to view the women of other cultures with new eyes.
The decision, Elizabeth Nord concluded, was truly hers. By the end of 1943 Revelation Island had been retaken from the Japanese. As Nord had predicted, there was little left to disprove her conclusions. The islanders were scattered now, their culture forever destroyed by the forces of modern civilization. Even if they could all be successfully brought back to their village at the end of the war, there would be no way to undo the influences of modern life to which they had been exposed. Another unique pattern of society had been wiped out. That meant, as Nord realized, that no one would ever be able to contradict what she chose to write.
It is my chance to force a new view of culture into the field of anthropology. My chance to shake old beliefs and prejudices concerning the supposedly subordinate role of women in primitive societies. I am going to seize the opportunity. Once
The Amazons of Revelation Island
is in print no professional student of human beings will be able to take for granted that the role of women in society is a biologically determined one. This glaring exception must always give the student pause, force him or her to question his assumptions about the nature of power in any society, cause questions to be asked concerning the roles of the sexes. Once questions are being asked, all things are possible. I will write the book the way I want it written.
Hannah closed the journal with a feeling of disorientation. Elizabeth Nord had lied. She had deliberately skewed her findings to establish an anthropological myth that had lasted for years and was still in existence. And in the process she had established herself as a giant in her field.
Y
OU HAD TO
hand it to Aunt Elizabeth, Hannah decided, even her deceptions were practiced on a larger-than-life scale. The enormity of the Nord lie was awesome. Hannah sat stunned in the fanback chair, gazing unseeingly across the room. The journal still lay on the desk where she had left it when she'd gone to fix herself a cup of coffee.
It wasn't coffee she needed but it seemed indecently early in the day to be pouring medicinal scotch.
The whole underlying premise of
The Amazons of Revelation Island
was a fabrication. For generations of college students it had been required reading, the landmark book of one of America's most eminent anthropologists. Elizabeth Nord's stature had been of such towering height that the carping criticism of people such as “Dear Roddy” had been generally dismissed.
Whatever had happened to poor old Roddy? Hannah thought about the man and wondered anew what he must have been like. There was no doubt that in the beginning of his association with Nord he had been a typically condescending, overbearing, patronizing male of the species
academius
. He had probably been intelligent enough to see the brilliance in his young associate. At first he had apparently treated her the way he would treat a precocious child. But when the child began to surpass him in accomplishments and publications, that condescending attitude had shifted into something else. He had become resentful, petty, and critical. He had even gone through a stage of trying to appropriate her future for himself by asking her to marry him. In the end Dear Roddy had drifted into relative obscurity, just one more anthropologist in an overcrowded field.
The fact that he had been right about Elizabeth Nord's interpretations of the social structures of Revelation Island was an ironic twist of fate. Hannah wondered how he had felt as he watched Nord's position in the academic world become unassailable.
She got up from the chair, suddenly consumed with a desire to know more about Dear Roddy. Hannah wondered how he had coped with his bitterness and the knowledge that Nord's greatest claim to fame was based on a lie. Yanking a World War II-style bomber jacket out of the closet, she grabbed her cane and headed downstairs to the street. She needed the resources of an excellent academic library, a library that would be much more comprehensive than the one belonging to the small college where she worked.
She would take the bus to the University of Washington, Hannah decided. It was much more economical and efficient to use public transportation. The fact that it gave her an excuse not to drive the Toyota was not lost on her but she didn't dwell on it. Driving back from the airport had been enough of an adventure for one day.
Two hours later she sat in a study carrel piled high with old anthropological journals and collected readings in the field. With the help of a reference librarian she had tracked down the scattered essays and papers that had dared to criticize Elizabeth Nord. There weren't a great many of them that had been published since World War II but the pre-war materials provided richer digging. Finding Dear Roddy in the pile was going to take some work, but Hannah knew that at one point at least he had been associated with the same university as her aunt. In the early days they had actually collaborated on some papers.
The first reference that looked positive was a short paper done by Roderick Hamilton and Elizabeth Nord for an obscure journal that had long since ceased publication. It was a discussion of certain aspects of the building of ceremonial canoes on a small South Pacific island.
Roderick Hamilton. Sure this was “Dear Roddy,” Hannah continued her quest, finding other papers that had been published over the years. Shortly before the war her aunt's name stopped appearing under Hamilton's. Her own publications became more frequent while his became less and less so.
There were a couple of stinging critiques of Nord's work by Roderick Hamilton in the 1950s, but none of them seemed to have inspired much controversy. By the late sixties there were a few pedantic pieces by him, mostly rehashes of his pre-war work. By 1970 there were no further citations.
The man had been right about Elizabeth Nord but no one had listened. Hannah could just imagine how that would have grated on him. She closed the last journal and walked back to the reference desk.
“I'd like to see if there is an obituary of Roderick Hamilton,” she explained to the librarian. “He was an American anthropologist.”
“What university was he affiliated with?”
Hannah told her the name of the school that had been listed in Hamilton's last paper. The librarian began reaching for several reference books on academic personnel. Ten minutes later she found the obituary. Hannah turned the book around on the desk so that she could read the short entry. There wasn't much to it. Roderick Hamilton had died ten years earlier after a long career in anthropology. Some of his early works were cited as having been influential. None of his later work was mentioned. His greatest claim to fame was that he had collaborated with Elizabeth Nord at one time. Hamilton had been a widower when he died. He was survived by a daughter. Hannah stared at the name: Victoria Hamilton.
It was too much of a coincidence. Victoria Hamilton had to be Victoria Armitage. Frowning, Hannah went after the information she needed. It wasn't hard to find. Victoria Hamilton had graduated with honors and the results of her early fieldwork started making its way into print shortly after she married Dr. Drake Armitage.
Good old Drake, Hannah reflected. No wonder Vicky stuck with him. He knew how to play the academic game, how to get the right kind of attention, how to make certain people know how brilliant Vicky was. He had known how to get her published. Unlike Elizabeth Nord, who had refused to ride to fame on the coattails of a husband, Vicky had chosen to marry a man who could smooth the way for her.
But, as far as Hannah knew, Victoria Armitage hadn't resorted to creating a myth in order to establish her name.
Depressed, Hannah thanked the reference librarian and walked out of the elegantly old world library building. Outside, the sun was shining on the prestigious brick university structures and the acres of wooded campus. Students ranging in style from Mercer Island preppies to kids fresh off the farms of eastern Washington lolled in the red brick plaza. She picked her way through them and started down to “The Ave,” as University Way NE was casually termed. The street was lined with everything from leftover counterculture shops to trendy boutiques. Even during the summer there was plenty of activity. She crossed the footbridge, resisted the temptation to duck into the art gallery, and strolled slowly along the Ave. There were, Hannah remembered, a couple of excellent coffee houses tucked away amid the clutter of stores and ethnic restaurants.
She found the quiet corner she needed not far from the huge University bookstore. She tried to order plain coffee but soon discovered that was next to impossible. One had to select between café latte, cappuccino, or espresso. Ensconsed at a table with a small cup of very dark, thick liquid in front of her, Hannah tried to come to terms with what she had learned. When she didn't have much luck with that line of thought, she found herself dwelling on the subject of Gideon Cage.
Theoretically, Gideon was not a part of her current dilemma. He was safely back in Tucson by now. But he kept slipping into her mind, entangling himself with the chaos that was already there. Slowly, Hannah forced herself to finish the expensive espresso and then go back out onto the street to find a bus that would take her home.
During the trip back to Capitol Hill she sat slouched in a seat, staring out the window at the endless green that enfolded Seattle. Her fingers toyed absently with the necklace she wore. Nothing seemed to be clarifying itself. Perhaps she was still in shock.
When she reached her apartment she was going to call Gideon. He had been there at the beginning with her when she had uncovered the journals. He alone, besides herself, knew about Dear Roddy. She needed to talk to someone. The phone in Tucson was answered on the third ring. Gideon's voice sounded impatient.
“This had better be important, Decker. I'm half way into a shower.”
“Gideon, it's Hannah.”
“Hannah.” There was a distinct pause and then Gideon said quietly, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, really. I called to see if you'd gotten home safely.”
There was another pause. “You did?”
“Well, no. I mean, I assumed you'd gotten home safely. What I actually called about was Dear Roddy. Remember him?”
“Hannah, you sound odd.”
“I'm feeling odd. You do remember Roddy? From my aunt's journals?”
“I remember him.”
“Well, I looked him up this afternoon at the University library. Roderick Hamilton was Vicky's father. Isn't that a coincidence?”
Gideon hesitated thoughtfully. “I guess it explains her interest in those journals.”
“It also might explain why she always argues against my aunt's work.”
“Possibly. But I think Vicky tends to argue because it comes naturally to her,” Gideon said. “It probably drives Armitage crazy at times.”
That stopped Hannah for a moment. “I didn't realize you'd made such a thorough study of the woman.”
“Once you get past the great pecs you can't help but notice the loud mouth. That woman would chew a man alive in bed.”
For some reason Hannah was annoyed. “What about me? I do a fairly good job of arguing on occasion, too!”
“Yeah, but I can usually keep you from doing it in bed. What's this all about, Hannah? Are you really calling just to tell me you've found out who the mysterious Roddy is?”
“Was. He died a few years ago and no, I'm not calling just to tell you that. There's more.”
“Out with it. For Christ's sake, Hannah, you sound as if you're in shock.”
“I am. I just got to the point in my aunt's journals where she admits she knew she was wrong about the Amazons. She decided to write the book, anyway.”
Gideon exhaled on a long, low whistle of astonishment. “She admitted she was off base about the whole female thing?”
“Yes.”
“But she wrote the book the way she had originally planned to?”
“She lied. Deliberately. It's the most incredible thing, Gideon. I can't quite take it in.”
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked bluntly.
“That's one of your strong points, Gideon. You have a way of getting right to the bottom line. The truth is, I don't know what I'm going to do about it.”
“What about us?”
“I don't know what I'm going to do about us, either. I feel totally confused at the moment.”
“Hannah, listen to me,” he ordered urgently. “Pack a bag and come on down here. You don't have to do your thinking all by yourself. You can do it here.”
“I don't think that's such a good idea, Gideon.”
“You've just admitted you can't think straight. How do you know whether it's a good idea or not?”
“Instinct. Goodbye, Gideon. I'll talk to you later.”
Hannah hung up the phone before he could argue further. She might not be at her most brilliant that afternoon but something told her she wouldn't find herself getting any more intelligent while sleeping in Gideon Cage's bed. Hannah looked at the snapshot of her aunt's cottage on Santa Inez.
That was what she needed, she decided, the quiet solitude of a beach cottage. She needed to think things through in an environment that held the essence of Elizabeth Nord. Hannah made up her mind and picked up the phone to call a travel agency.
The door buzzer sounded from downstairs just as she finished making the reservations. Hannah sighed and went over to the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“Hugh Ballantine.”
There was something in his voice. It was too flat and unemotional. Hannah considered her options and then decided there really wasn't much she could do except politely let him inside.
“Come on up.”
He was at her door a moment later, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his suede jacket. The red hair was tousled and the blue eyes didn't appear quite as open and friendly as they had the time he had taken Hannah to dinner.
Blue eyes, Hannah thought as she stepped aside and let him into the room. Why did he have to have blue eyes? She was not going to start becoming paranoid about blue eyes as well as freeway driving, she vowed.
“What can I do for you, Hugh?” She didn't sit down.
He stood watching her as if he was trying to figure something out. “You're the key.”
“To Gideon? You're wrong. How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not involved.”
“You've changed him.”
“Impossible. Nothing short of a nuclear explosion would change Gideon Cage. We both know that.”
Ballantine shook his head. “He says he's going to run. He says he won't stand and fight. Claims he's going to hand Surbrook over to me on a silver platter.”
Hannah considered that. “Do you believe him?”