Poul Anderson - The Year of the Ransom

Excellent loneliness. Yes, Kipling could say it. I remember how those lines of his rolled up and down my spine when first I heard them, Uncle Steve reading aloud to me. Though that must have been a dozen years ago, they still do. The poems about the sea and the mountains, of course; but so are the Galapagos, the Enchanted Islands.

Today I need just a little of their loneliness. The tourists were mostly bright, decent people. Still, a season of herding them along the trails, answering the same questions over and over, does begin to wear on a person. Now theyve become fewer, my summer job has ended, soon Ill be home Stateside, commencing grad school. Here is my last chance.

Wanda, dear! The word Roberto used is querida, which could mean quite a lot. Not necessarily. I wonder about it for a flicker or two while he: Please, at least let me come along.

Headshake. Im sorry, my friend. No, not exactly; amigo doesnt translate one-on-one into English, either. Im not sulking or anything. Far from it. All I want is a few hours by myself. Havent you ever?

Im being honest. My fellow guides are fine. I wish the friendships Ive made among them will keep. Surely they will if we can get back together. But thats uncertain. I may or may not be able to return next year. Eventually I may or may not make my dream of joining the research staff at Darwin Station. It cant take many scientists; or another dream could come along meanwhile and take me. This trip, where half a dozen of us are knocking around the archipelago with a boat and a camping permit, may well be the end of what weve called el compaerismo, the Fellowship. Oh, I suppose a Christmas card or two.

You need protection. Roberto has put on his dramatic style. That strange man we heard of, asking around Puerto Ayora about the blonde young North American woman.

Let Roberto escort me? Temptation. Hes handsome, lively, and a gentleman. We havent exactly carried on a romance, these past months, but weve gotten pretty close. While hes never told me in words, I know how much hes hoped wed get closer yet. It hasnt been easy resisting.

Must be done, for his sake more than mine. Not because of his nationality. I think Ecuador is the Latin American country most yanquis feel most at home in. By our standards, things work right there. Quito is charming, and even Guayaquilugly, smog-choked, exploding with energyreminds me of Los Angeles. However, Ecuador is not the USA, and from its standpoint Ive got a lot wrong with me, starting with the fact that Im not sure when Ill be ready to settle down, if ever.

Therefore, laughing, Oh, yes, Seor Fuentes in the post office told me. Poor dear, how worried he was. The strangers funny clothes and accent and everything. Hasnt he learned what can crawl off the cruise ships? And how many blondes do the Islands see, these days? Five hundred a year?

How would Wandas secret admirer follow her, anyway? Jennifer adds. Swim? We happen to know that none of the ships has touched at Bartolom since we left Santa Cruz; no yachts are nearby; and everybody would have recognized a local fisherman.

Roberto goes red under the tan we share. With pity, I pat his hand while telling the group, Go ahead, folks, snorkel or whatever else you feel like. Ill be back in time for my share of supper chores.

Quickly, then, striding from the bight. I really do need some solitude in this weird, harsh, beautiful nature.

I could merge myself in it skin-diving. The waters glass-clear, silky around me; now and then I see a penguin, not so much swimming as flying through it; fish dance like fireworks, seaweeds do a stately hula; I can get friendly with the sea lions. But other swimmers, never mind how dear they are, will talk. What I want is to commune with the land. In company I couldnt admit that. Itd sound too pompous, as though I were from Greenpeace or the Peoples Republic of Berkeley.

Now Ive laid white-shell sand and mangroves behind me, I seem to have utter desolation underfoot. Bartolom is volcanic, like its sisters, but bears hardly any soil. Its already hot beneath the morning sun, and never a cloud to soften the glare. Here and there sprawl gaunt shrubs or tussocks of grass, but they become few as I walk toward Pinnacle Rock. My Adidases whisper on dark lava, in simmering silence.

However . . . among boulders and tide pools, Sally Lightfoot crabs scuttle, brilliant orangeand-blue. Bound inland, I spy a lizard of a kind unique to this place. Im within a yard of a blue-footed booby; she could flap off, but simply watches me, the nave creature. A finch flitting across my vision; it was the Galapagos finches that helped Darwin understand how life works through time. An albatross wheeling white. Higher cruises a frigate bird. Unship the binoculars hung at my neck and catch the arrogance of his wings in the spilling sunlight, the split tail like a buccaneers twin swords.

Here are none of the paths Ive generally required my tourists to stay on. Ecuadorian government strict about that. Given its all too limited resources, its doing a great job, trying to protect and restore the environment. Care where I put my feet, as becomes a biologist.

Ill circle around to the eastern end of the islet and there take the trail and stairs leading to the central peak. The view from it, across to Santiago Island and widely over the ocean, is stunning; and today Ill have it to myself. Probably thats where Ill eat the lunch Ive packed along. May later go down to the cove, peel off shirt and jeans, enjoy a private dip before turning westward.

Careful about that, kid! Youre a bare twenty klicks below the Equator. This sun wants respect. Tilt my hat brim against it and stop for a drink from my canteen.

Catch a breath, take a look around. Ive gained some altitude, which I must give back before reaching the trail head. Beach and camp are out of sight. Instead, I see a sweep and tumble of stone down to Sullivan Bay, fiery-blue water, Point Martinez lifting grayish on the big island. Is that a hawk there? Reach for the binoculars.

A flash in the sky. Light off metal. An airplane? No, cant be. Its gone.

Puzzled, I lower the glasses. Ive heard enough about flying saucers, or UFOs to give them the more respectable name. Never taken them seriously. Dad gave his children a healthy inoculation of skepticism. Well, hes an electronics engineer. Uncle Steve, the archaeologist, has knocked around a lot more in the world, and claims its full of things we dont understand. I suppose Ill simply never know what it was I glimpsed. Lets push on.

Out of nowhere, a moments gust. The air thuds softly. A shadow falls over me. I turn my face upward.

Cant be!

An outsize motorcycle, except every last detail is different, and it has no wheels, and it hangs there, ten feet up, unsupported, silent. A man in the front saddle grips what might be handlebars. I see him with knife sharpness. Each second takes forever. Terror has me, like nothing since I was seventeen, driving along the cliff tops near Big Sur in a rainstorm, and the car went into a skid.

I pulled out of that one. This doesnt stop.

Hes about five feet nine, rawboned but broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, pockmarked, hook-nosed, black hair falling past his ears, black beard and mustache trimmed to points though getting shaggy. His outfit is whats absolutely wrong, on top of such a machine. Floppy boots, saggy brown hose poking out of short puffed breeches, long-sleeved loose shirt that might be saffron below its grime-steel breastplate, helmet, red cloak, sword scabbarded at left hip

As if across a hundred miles: Are you the lady Wanda Tamberly?

Somehow that snaps me back from the edge of screaming. Whatever is going on, I can meet it. Hysteria never has been compulsory. Nightmare, fever dream? I dont believe so. The sun is too warm on my back and off the rocks, the sea too steadily bright, and I could count every spine on yonder cactus. Prank, stunt, psychological experiment? Less possible than the thing itself. . . . His Spanish is the Castilian sort, but I never met that accent till now.