Liz Fielding - Wedded in a Whirlwind

They were small, the fingers long, slender, elegant, well cared for-the remains of polish still clung to what was left of her nails-were a mess. The skin torn, knuckles bruised and broken.

She saw where he was looking and, mistaking his reaction, she spread her hand, regarding it with distaste. ‘My manicurist is going to have a fit when she sees this,’ she said, taking a step back to that woman who’d roused him with her scream, God alone knew how many hours ago.

Putting the mask back in place before she returned to the outside world.

‘Don’t!’ he said. He was not a man given to fanciful gestures, but he would not let her slide back into that dark place any more than he would have left her to fall and he reached for her hand, holding it across his palm. ‘Don’t do that, Miranda. You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. We have no secrets. We know one another.’ And then he bent and kissed her fingers, saluting her wounds as a badge of the courage she’d shown last night. ‘We will always know one another.’ ‘I…’

He saw her throat move as she swallowed, for once lost for words.

He waited.

‘I…Yes.’ And it was not the sophisticated woman of the world but an echo of the shy young woman she must have been. ‘Thank you.’

In danger of saying-doing-something that was totally out of place, he turned and looked up the shaft to the outside world. It seemed a very long way and, having seen the state of her hands, he wondered if she was up to this second climb.

If he was.

But he knew there was no point in suggesting she wait while he went for help.

‘Are you ready?’

She nodded. Then said, ‘No! Wait!’

And she took her tiny cellphone from her pocket, opened it and quickly entered a brief message. Then, when she saw him watching her, she started to shrug, stopped and said, ‘It’s not that I doubt we’ll do this, Nick. But I could get knocked down crossing the road. Or the plane could-’

‘Optimistic soul, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘My parents were killed when the yacht they were on sank. They were just gone. Nothing.’ She paused, looking up at him as if asking him to understand. ‘Suddenly life seems very precious, Nick. I want the people I love to know how I’m feeling now. That I’m…happy.’ And then she reached up, pressed her cheek to his. ‘Thank you for last night. For listening. For knowing me…’

For a moment she was in his arms and they clung to one another. Any two people would do the same, he told himself. Except he knew it was more than that. They had connected in the darkness. Bonded. Exposed themselves in ways neither of them had ever done before.

What had happened had forced them to look at their lives, confront the dark spaces, consider a different future.

‘Okay. I’m ready now,’ she said, taking a step back.

He grabbed her wrist as she disturbed loose stones that, endless seconds later, clattered to the floor below, then, without a word, he took the phone from her and keyed in a message of his own before handing it back.

‘I don’t have a cell number for my father, so I’ve sent it via your brother…’

She smiled. ‘You won’t be sorry.’

He didn’t answer, just said, ‘I’ll go first. Stick close. Whatever happens behind you, just keep going.’

Manda knew how to concentrate.

She concentrated her world into Nick’s voice, giving her a running commentary of his moves. She concentrated on his feet, his boots, one step ahead of her. And, one move at a time, she finally found herself not so much climbing out of the shaft as falling, tumbling, rolling sideways down a steep slope until his body brought her to a halt.

He said nothing, just took her hand, and she lay still while she regained her breath. Only then did a giggle explode from her. They’d survived, overcome all the odds, made it back from the dead.

Somewhere above them in the canopy a bird, or maybe it was some small mammal, joined in, setting up a cacophony of raucous laughter that echoed around the forest.

It just made her laugh all the more.

‘What?’ Nick said, turning to look at her.

She just shook her head, unable to answer him, unable to do or say anything. Laughing so much that tears were pouring down her cheeks.

And after a moment his beautiful, strong, sensuous mouth-the one that looked as if it hadn’t smiled in centuries-twitched in sympathetic response. Then widened into a smile and then he too was laughing.

Jago wasn’t sure when Miranda’s laughter tipped over into tears. It didn’t surprise him. There were always two sides of any emotional roller-coaster and hers had been a dark ride. He just held her hand so that she knew he was there and, after a while, hiccupping, sniffling a little, she rubbed a sleeve over her cheek. Then looked at the once white linen, the smears where sweat and tears had mingled with dust, a little blood where a loose stone had caught her cheek.

‘I’m filthy,’ she said.

‘You’re gorgeous.’

She turned to look at him. ‘So are you.’

‘Filthy?’

‘Filthy. Gorgeous. Gorgeously filthy. What we could both do with is a shower. You run a very slack establishment if you don’t mind my saying so. I was lured to Cordillera with the promise of beautiful beaches, thrilling scenery and every comfort known to man.’

‘Put your complaint in writing. I’ll give you the name of the Minister of Tourism.’ Then, because he didn’t want to think about that, because he was alive and he didn’t want to feel bad about anyone-not Fliss, not even Felipe Dominez-he said, ‘In the meantime, if you can stagger a hundred yards or so, I can offer you the basic facilities, always assuming that nature hasn’t messed with the plumbing.’

‘Plumbing?’

‘There’s a stream at the bottom of this hill. Cold and cold running water.’

‘Water! What on earth are we waiting for?’ She didn’t exactly leap up, but made a very good stab at it. She barely winced as her knee buckled. ‘Which way?’

He forced himself to his feet. ‘This way,’ he said, leading her down through the mess of dead leaves and shattered branches that littered the forest floor, towards the sound of running water.

She was limping, he noticed and taking her hand to give her support, he asked, ‘How’s your knee?’

‘Thirsty.’

The walk down the steep path to the bottom of a small side valley nearly finished them both, but the sight of water pouring over a small waterfall and into a pool brought him to a halt.

‘What is it?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He’d expected change, devastation. ‘Apart from a few leaves floating on the water, it seems untouched…’

‘Well, that’s great,’ she said, urging him on and as one, they flung themselves down beside the pool, scooping up water in their hands to slake their thirst.

Manda drank, splashed water over her face, then lay still, her sore fingers trailing in the cool water.

‘Better?’ Nick asked.

‘I didn’t believe water could taste that good. Is it safe?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been drinking it for five years without any ill effects. It comes from a spring just below the main building of the temple and I ran a standpipe to the site.’

‘Maybe someone should bottle it.’

‘Maybe they should.’ He rolled on to his back. ‘It was considered sacred by the people who lived here and the original temple building was built over it to protect it. Then, as the power of the tribe grew, new buildings were added and the water was channelled through them for cleansing rituals.’

‘So why wasn’t there any down in the basement, where we needed it?’

‘Over centuries of neglect, the original spring gradually silted up. But water, being water, it found another way.’ Then, ‘Maybe we should make a move. There will be people looking for us.’