Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

The servant appeared directly behind Dona Isobel. At the promise of a sweet, Innocencia became docile, and the frown left her face. She allowed Naka to take her by the arm and lead her out of Maranta's room.

"I am sorry that Innocencia disturbed you, Maranta," Dona Isobel said. "I think she will not bother you again tonight. But to make certain, come and lock your door after me."

Maranta obediently climbed out of bed and followed Dona Isobel to the door of the sitting room. She stood watching the woman walk down the hall with the unsteady flicker of the candle beside her.

No wonder Dona Isobel had been able to find Innocencia so quickly. She had left a trail of shredded flower petals and stems all the way to Maranta's door.

Turning the lock, Maranta groped her way back to bed, where she lay, unable to go to sleep until the horizon became red with a new day rising.

After that night, Innocencia was confined to her room. Evidently, she had inherited her madness. And some times it was worse than others, Dona Isobel explained later in private.

Such a tragedy—Innocencia, so beautiful, yet with a mind less than a child's. Maranta felt a great pity, not only for the young woman, but also for Dom Ruis. It must be heartbreaking for him, seeing a beloved and adored wife in such a state. Was it the loss of their child that had shattered Innocencia's mind?

Maranta, suddenly restless, got up from her chair on the deserted veranda. She had not taken a footstep outside the enclosed compound the entire time she had been at the fazenda.

In the distance, she heard the faint roar of the falls of Hitû. And the perfume of exotic plants filled the air. A scent—almost like jasmine at Midgard. Could it be the coffee plants on the slopes? Already, the bushes were forming berries that would be harvested in summer. But some of the limbs still held the beautiful white blossoms. Like cotton, Maranta thought, with various stages of development on the same plant.

She felt a need to get beyond the fazenda, to see the land that produced the pineapples and oranges, the vegetables that she enjoyed at mealtimes. Yet, she had been told by Dom Ruis not to leave the grounds alone.

Dom Ruis was not at home. He could not know how confined she felt with nothing to do. If he had unpacked the artist's supplies, he had not bothered to mention it to her.

Opening the gate, Maranta slipped out. She would not go far. Only a few feet beyond the wall. It would be perfectly safe there, within calling distance of everyone in the house.

The air was heavy, promising more rain; for it was the rainy season when, at will, the skies opened and saturated the rich earth that nurtured the coffee plants.

The small shelter in the grove attracted Maranta. She headed for it, thinking there would be a place to sit—and a roof to protect her from the rain if she should happen to be caught in it.

Someone had gotten there before Maranta. She stopped, watching the figure—an Indian, in tattered clothes. He began to eat from the tall wooden shelf. Was it a shelter for travelers? Did Dom Ruis make a habit of leaving food for the people who journeyed through his land?

The Indian turned and stared at Maranta. And she gasped in revulsion. His skin was covered with scales—thickened, rough scales that resembled the amphibious-like skin of some creature who had crawled from the sea.

Away from the shelter and back through the gate she sped, all the time trying to deny what she had just seen. He did not even resemble a human being—ugly—covered with lesions—a man to be pitied.

Maranta hurried toward the steps. She would not feel safe until she was in her own apartment with the door locked.

So intent on blotting out the horrible vision, Maranta did not at first see what lay in front of her, curled up by the steps. Her eyes widened. No, not in the compound. It was impossible. The danger was beyond the gate—out in the wilderness—the mata. Yes, that was where it belonged. But as Maranta stood there, frozen in motion, her eyes reaffirmed her terror. Blocking her way was a giant snake, black and glistening and making no move to disappear as the snakes on Midgard Plantation did when a human approached. Maranta tried to cry out, but no sound came from her throat.

A rumble of thunder resounded through the sky, and several drops of rain pelted Maranta's face.

"You will get wet, pequena, if you keep standing there."

Dom Ruis leaned over the veranda and watched her with amused dark eyes. His clothes were dirty and rough, and the suede three-cornered hat was slung carelessly at his back.

With a trembling finger, Maranta pointed to the snake, and her eloquent dark satin eyes begged Ruis silently for deliverance.

"The muçurana is harmless, Maranta," he assured her. "He will not mind if you walk past him."

Still mute with fright, Maranta shook her head and remained where she was.

"Now if it were a venomous jararaca, that would be different," he said, laughing, as he walked toward her. "He would have you for a meal, and then go to sleep for two weeks."

Ruis took her by the hand and led her past the snake. Maranta edged closer to Dom Ruis as they went up the steps to the veranda. And she continued to stand close to him, trembling at her unnerving experience.

Feeling her body still shivering, Ruis said, "Surely our family pet has not upset you, menina? It must have been something outside the gate that made you so fleet of foot."

Maranta nodded. "The Indian. His s-skin."

"Ah, so you saw one of the Tupis on his way to the Lazar House in Hitû. Leprosy is not a pretty sight, Maranta. I am sorry that you had to come face to face with it, so