He shook his head and focused just as the goat shifted out of reach. Hank drew a deep breath. An instant later he vaulted toward the goat.
The damn thing ran almost as fast as Smitty. He chased it all over the clearing, through trees, around bushes, down the beach, and around the rocks.
For the next five minutes, the goat outmaneuvered his every move, and the kid clapped and laughed and echoed every curse he hollered. He rounded the rocks and made one last leap for the goat. It darted back, and he missed.
Hank lay face down in the sand, trying to catch his wind. It took a while. Hell, he was getting old.
He lifted his head up and watched the goat’s butt disappear into the jungle.
The kid clapped her hands. “Fun!”
He glowered at her. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”
She grinned.
“Yeah, well, I know when to throw in my cards.” He pushed up to his knees, took another breath, and stood. He turned and walked over to pick up Smitty’s cooking pot.
“Hi!”
“Yeah, yeah, kid. I know you’re there.” He bent down and grabbed the pot handle.
“Damn goat!”
Hank paused, half bent down, and turned to look at the kid. “What?”
And the goat nailed him right in the ass.
* * *
Margaret walkedinto the junglebeyond the beach. It was like another world. Fern fronds and climbing pothos webbed a narrow path that twisted where the jungle grew deeper and darker and the bamboo more dense. As if weighed down by the monsoon-like humidity, the air turned thick and heavy.
The sounds even changed. The birds whistled their songs and the insects hummed and clicked and chattered in nimble tunes dichotomous with the sluggish air. Looming like pillars at a courthouse were tall, ribbed ebony trees, their lower branches matted with dense jungle vines. Orchids in rainbow shades dripped from the dark creeper ivy and thick waxy leaves. Pockets of mist and fog lingered like forgotten guests, untouched by the heat of the island sun.
On the flowers and plants, leaves and bushes, dew glimmered in minute rivers and trickled down the veins in the foliage the same way the humidity ran down Margaret’s skin. As she walked into the interior, the path grew wider and darker. Because the rain forest was covered with a lush canopy, entering it was almost like being swallowed by dark green night.
There was a sudden stillness here, a perfectly frozen world. No motion, no breeze, just jungle.
She moved more slowly. Then, as if a giant hand had carved out a small piece of Eden, she entered into the fringes of a clearing where fuchsias, orchids, and stephanotis dangled like a socialite’s jewels from the tree branches and creepers overhead.
Sunlight sliced through the crowns of the trees like prisms on the most exquisite crystal chandelier, spilling rainbow colors on the moss- and lichen-covered ground. It was a world of color, all colors of the spectrum.
And there, sitting on a fallen hollow log of an old tree, was Lydia. Her back was to Margaret, and there were quivers of movement about her shoulders.
Margaret stood silently, afraid to move.
Lydia was crying. Her head was buried in smooth hands too young to have to cope with mourning.
Yet Margaret knew the desolate feeling well enough herself. She remembered being scared and feeling alone even though she was with her father and uncles. She remembered crying like Lydia, that empty aching sound of the lonely ones the dead left behind.
Instinctively she reached out a hand toward the girl but stopped, uncertain of what she should do. How could she explain to Lydia that time and age would lessen the confusion and turn it into acceptance?
To Lydia, her loss was all still too fresh and too painful.
From behind Margaret came a thrashing sound, someone running through the jungle. She shifted back behind a tree laced with vines.
The goat trotted up the path, then moved into the small clearing.
Lydia looked up and turned. The goat and the girl eyed each other. Lydia wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “Come here, goat. Come here.”
