The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [46]
Then Emer walked out to the surf. Starting with the man’s blouse, she began to rinse out her new clothing, not knowing if there were bloodstains or holes in it that needed to be patched. She scrubbed the fabric together furiously, as if the sea could wash away what a dead man had seen and felt.
When Emer returned to the cave, she laid the clothing out to dry on the rocks and picked up the cutlass again. She felt its edge, and then tested its sharpness by clutching several strands of her long hair and pulling the cutlass through them, cutting the hair at chin length, away from herself. In a trance, she continued to do the same with the rest of her hair—clump by clump—until it was all relatively the same shape around her face, with an uneven boyish fringe at her forehead. She gathered up the pile of hair and walked it to the sea, throwing it as far away as she could and holding back tears.
Sometimes, to defend your honor, you have to do awful things, Emer, her mother said.
Emer sniffled. “I watched you kill two men, Mother, and I understand now.”
You should be proud you were able to defend yourself! Not ashamed!
Emer answered inside her mind: “I will try to hide my shame. I will try to be proud.” But it wasn’t working. No matter how she looked at it, she didn’t feel comfortable with the murder. He hadn’t been trying to kill her, and he wouldn’t have. Did he really deserve to die for the sake of her honor? On an island of whores and savages?
Suddenly, she noticed a man walking toward her on the beach. She’d left the cutlass in the cave after cutting her hair, and now, making out the man’s familiar frame, she ran back inside to find it. She hid in the corner nearest the beach, squatting, the cutlass perched between her thighs, and tried to slow her breathing.
He was speaking French, in teasing tones. She could hear from his voice that he was smiling. Then, she heard him gasp as his toe met the dead, naked body of his comrade. She saw his silhouette lean down to inspect it.
“Are you in here, my little English girl?”
Emer watched his bushy dark hair flick around as he tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness within the cave.
His voice echoed. “Do not be afraid. You do not need to kill me too.”
He sounded happy, as if he were playing a game with a child. And like a child, ten feet away, Emer suddenly didn’t know what to do. She froze. Would she have to keep killing for the sake of this useless chastity? One man already lay dead because of this game. Need there be two?
Before she even felt him grab her, she was flat on her back on the rocks, her cutlass snatched, and he was pressing his full weight against her. He kissed her neck the same way as he’d done the day before, and breathed in the sweetness of her sweat.
The Frenchman reached down to Emer’s breasts and this time she did not flinch—half for fear of a slap, or worse, and half because she was still frozen in her childish game of indecision. She didn’t scream or squirm. She just lay still and let him touch her.
He yanked her slip up to her waist and she could feel his hard groin grinding against her thigh, now wet from seawater. Emer didn’t know if she was feeling desire or repulsion, excitement or fear. He kissed her bosom and grabbed her tightly around the waist, almost crushing her ribs between his hands, before plunging himself.
She groaned in pain and pulled her hips from the hard stone to avoid injury as he thrust back and forth, panting, his head buried in her neck. Her hands moved to her sides to balance this whole event, trying to control the uncontrollable. Still frozen by her mixed emotions, Emer prayed that he would finish soon. She thought back to the nights she had lain in the boat, listening to the whores please the crewmen. How long had it taken them? Was time making any sense at all? How long has he been doing this?
And then he stopped. He hadn’t finished, just stopped, and breathed slowly until he felt contained—then started at the beginning