© Copyright Cupideros, Tuesday, February 4, 2016
BOOK 2, CHAPTER 3
Muriel gathered more and more fruit into her hands. Glen tried to but found it challenging. The violin had prepared Muriel to carry the fruit.
“It’ll take us too long to come back every day for fruit, Muriel. Take off your dress. We’ll use it like a sack.”
“What’s wrong with your shirt?”
“It can’t carry enough fruit.”
Muriel realized her vision had proved right once again. “I knew you’d ask me to strip naked. I’m not doing it.”
“What? You will not be naked, Muriel. You have on your white underskirts,” Glen insisted.
“Yes, but if someone else comes to the island—the cannibals—I’ll look half-dressed to them.”
“To cannibals? Those natives wear fewer day clothes than we sleep in for bedclothes. Take off the skirt, Muriel. I won’t look.”
Muriel had to admit her white underskirt covered as much as her black skirt. The black dress was getting dirtier and dirtier by the day. It needed washing. Also, she was rather bothered by enduring the heat of Makta Island.
Glen closed his eyes.
GOD said, don’t peek, son. There will be time for that. I’m trying to get you two together. If you’d both listen and stop fighting one another.
Pointing the bustle section toward the ground, Muriel held her full black skirt in her widespread hands. “Put as much fruit as you can in my skirt. You’re going to carry it back to our camp.”
“Aha, haha. A man’s job.”
“My skirt. That’s the price of my nakedness—you carrying the fruit back.”
Muriel stood by one tree after another as Glen stripped them bare of fruit. Her skirt held, but Muriel’s arms tired. Finally, she said, “Glen, I can’t hold any more. I’ll place it on the ground, and we’ll keep adding to the bounty.”
“I think we have enough, Muriel. Pick up my spear.” Glen bent his knees and gathered her black bustle skirt up. “This is heavy.”
“We are getting rather good at building our food supplies. Coconut. Now fruit.”
“Next, I’ll catch some fish for us using my new spear.”
They headed back to camp, making little notes about the area.
“The cove!” Muriel shouted. “It’s beautiful, Glen. So beautiful. We should stay here.”
“Can’t, Muriel. Sleeping on the sand too many days is not good; those little sand critters made me toss and turn all night. A base—that is what humans need: shelter, a base,” Glen glanced at his watch. “It is almost two o’clock. We’ll be lucky if we have enough time to make a proper camp in the woods.”
“Not a tepee.”
“Not on your life.”
***
Muriel played around with Glen on the trip back, saying, “I’m in charge now; I have the spear.” Glen found this amusing. Muriel simply wanted to show him how silly he sounded, trying to augment his position and provoke her ire by making statements of superiority. “We both agree to remember society and civilization, but not in a way that harms either of us.”
“And I am fair. The spear gives me power, much as this fruit you found gives you power.”
The traditional exchange of power worked for them, but Muriel knew that in the real world, where money became increasingly more important, for all its true worth, her power was always consumed, leaving little trace. Who would eat a spear? “I believe GOD gives true power. Woman gets power directly from GOD, as man does.”
Glen fell silent. Once again, Muriel preached a better sermon. Her skill in picking just when to bring GOD into the conversation took a toll on Glen’s confidence. Glen felt she did not even know that her prophetess talents obliterated his preaching confidence. GOD, if I am to serve YOU, give me the skill to use YOUR word to bring people to understand YOU.
GOD tossed up HIS hands. Everyone is provided with skill, son. Some apply their expertise more effectively than others.
To be expected under the situation, Muriel’s spirit soared in their quiet times. She worked on seeing what they had in common. She loved to muse. Off Makta Island, what tone and torrent of emotional and intellectual chemistry might they stir in one another?
Muriel changed the subject. They joked about how life wasn’t so bad on Makta Island after all. Their excursion relaxed their nerves; they understood one another much better.
“The fire went out,” Glen said.
“That’s man’s work,” Muriel replied.
“Why don’t we exchange work? I’ll cut up the fruit; you start the fire.”
Muriel’s joviality disappeared. He knows starting the fire is too hard for a woman. “How can you, Glen?”
“I’m in my element. I know how to cut up fruit. It is my best cooking skill.”
“And fire making is my worst.”
“I will supervise as a concession.”
Some concession, Muriel steamed. Of all the low-down dirty tricks to play, how could he? Next, he will want me to hunt using the spear. Muriel gathered the flat cedar wood for the plow base. She cut the stick used to scrape up the embers. “Give me back my skirt.”
“Come on, Muriel. You want some animal to carry it away? We cannot get back over there. That’s a day’s journey.”
“Then let’s store the fruit under the boat.”
“And let the critter creatures get to them? We need your skirt to keep the fruit safe and easy to carry.”
Muriel pouted. “No complaining about my dirty underskirt after I make the fire.”
Glen replied, “I don’t have one stitch of clean clothes.”
“Civilization doesn’t judge men’s dress.”
“For GOD’S sakes—forget about civilization. There are only us two, Muriel.”
“I’m glad you remembered GOD this time!” Muriel sat down on the white sand. She spread her legs, knowing her underskirt covered her skin. “I’m sure HE doesn’t want me naked tempting you, the only man on the island.”
“Women wear too many clothes anyway. I don’t have to state the obvious, do I?”
Glen knelt down and began to pick out the most tempting fruit to cut into a salad. Sensing their rift again, he tried to make amends. He cracked open a coconut and gave her both halves. “You must be thirsty. Here.”
Muriel’s distress eased; her euphoria at finding the fruit returned. And this small gesture told her he would not criticize her too harshly if the fire she made failed.
Muriel stared at all the prepared equipment. Finally, she turned her palms down and placed her right over her left, as Glen had demonstrated. In practice, she etched out a couple of plowing moves.
Then suddenly, she began in earnest, rubbing the sticks together. Her arms churned the wood pieces together. Her wrists squeezed the plow tight. The plow groove, held down by her bare feet, didn’t move an inch, but her breasts went all over the place.
Each time she got up a good rhythm, burning the sticks together, frottaging them together, she thought of sex.
From her perspective, to make matters worse, her breasts never stayed in her corset. The movements brought about a smirk on Glen’s face.
Working, pushing, and pulling the plow onto the plow groove, she looked up, her face angry, snarling. Her blonde ponytail, the only thing fixed, preserved her dignity. “What are you smirking about this time? This is exactly how you looked when making the fire.”
“Oh no, no, no, I did not have those—um—two—well.”
Muriel stopped. “Civilization? It is only two of us, eh!” She got up.
“You make the fire from now on, since my making it provides too much tempting entertainment. And entertainment is the bane of society; it makes us lazy and evil, right?” She bit into the light-green, almost pear-shaped soft fruit. Its juices ran down her chin. For all his handsome frame and beautiful black hair, Glen was a thistle in the end—one of those prickly leaf flowers you never get used to being around. If she were a man, she’d let him make the fire and not focus on her breasts. His natural talent for noticing things caused her self-awareness to heighten. On the Valiant, he had watched her every move.
Her every gesture, how she ate, how she sat, and who she looked at and for how long—he watched. No wonder women fail at science; they are not allowed to observe anything!
Glen laughed and sat down. In about five minutes, he waved the snake grass around before him, and it burst into flames. “There is fire. Make the rest of it. Shouldn’t be entertaining at all.”
Muriel tossed the twigs and larger gathered sticks onto the fire.
Minutes later, full of fruit, Muriel and Glen sat together and looked out into the sea.
“I hope another ship comes by soon,” Muriel stated. “They’ve probably laid my dad to rest now. On top of that, Captain Burriss probably lied and said, ‘We fell overboard.’”
“We’ll deal with Captain Burriss when we reach home.”
“The sea is soothing, though. Peaceful.”
“I like it as well. How did you come to play the violin? You’re, you know.”
Muriel’s jaw dropped. Glen rarely came right out and complimented her. “It seems to be a difficulty for men to give compliments to a woman. Thank you.”
“I’m trying to improve,” Glen added. “This is actually good learning.”
“I’m learning, too.” Muriel wanted to lean on Glen’s shoulders but told herself to stop. “My mom played. I am everything she failed to achieve. Living through me is not an easy thing for my mom.” Muriel swiveled her shoulders around to face Glen. “It was hard for me, too; finding that separation between her and me took years. Meditation and Bible study finally convinced me. What my mom wanted, I also wanted. That truly released my skills. I even look like her, with blonde hair, larger hips, and narrow shoulders. Perfect bustle shape, by the way. All but these two dimples you sometimes see recall my mom. She is well-established in Australian society now due to my dad’s work. So, I started to play early, before my teen years. Some call me a prodigy; I train, though. I read music. I can play on instinct. If all that makes me a prodigy, so be it. I just love music and listening to things. Everything has a strum, a stroke, and a sound. Hearing those three can bring the soul into the oneness of GOD.”
“That’s beautiful, Muriel,” GOD said “You will make an excellent wife to someone one day. I can tell. I do have that skill. I loved marrying people off; I am not ashamed to say. Give me a marriage between a man and a woman to do, and I am all ears for women’s chatter and concern. Two opposite-sex people—that is music. Two opposite-sex hearts. Two opposite-sex hands holding. Two opposite-sex lips kissing.”
Glen turned to face Muriel again, but she had swiveled her shoulders and faced back toward the South.
“It’s late. We need to gather some sticks and make camp in the woods. We’re too vulnerable out here on the beach, from sand critters and cannibals.”
