couldn't pull her "fantasy man" out of a hat.
***
Drusilla couldn't have said if it was the trelas that was responsible, but something was making her feel sleepy, so she pulled a lounge chair closer to the shore and settled down to lie in the sun for a while. It was peaceful and still, with only the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves and the occasional bird call to break the silence. As she lay on the verge of sleep, the calls became more frequent, eventually joining together to form a melody. Hauntingly beautiful, it continued on, gaining strength until she realized it couldn't possibly be a bird song. She'd been to many different worlds and had heard a lot of birds before, but never any who could sing like that.
She knew very little about Baradan culture but had to assume that they had some form of music—nearly every culture did. This was simply someone off in the distance playing a flute—it might even have been Roger, though she hadn't noticed him carrying anything but his srakie. She was trying to imagine the sort of mouthpiece such an instrument would have to have for a wide-mouthed Baradan to play it, when the song ended.
She waited for a time to see if it would begin again, and when it didn't, she considered going for a swim or a ride in the boat. Both sounded good, so she went out to the dock and climbed aboard. The boat was a large pontoon; rectangular in shape with a flat deck surrounded by padded seats on all sides and a safety rail at the outer edge to keep the careless—or intoxicated—from falling overboard. She'd piloted a similar craft in her youth and, knowing that it took very little skill to maneuver, had no qualms about taking it out alone. Rummaging around beneath the pilot's console, she found a visor to shade her eyes from the sun's glare and then gave the engine the command to start. It engaged without as much as a sputter, and, after casting off the mooring lines, she settled herself into the large, contoured pilot's chair, took the wheel, and steered it easily away from the dock and out toward the open water. The lake was relatively narrow near the house—an easy swim from shore to shore—but further to the east, it widened out to a vast expanse of water that seemed to be very deep. After a relaxing cruise of its full length, she returned to the center of the lake, stopped the engine, dropped the anchor, and dove in.
The water was cool and silky on her bare skin and the quiet stillness surrounded her completely. The only sounds were the birds and other jungle creatures—none of which were dangerous, she reminded herself as a snake skimmed along the water's edge. She swam lazily for a while and then lay on her back and floated.
After a bit, she heard the sound of something emerging from the water and wasn't surprised to hear Zef's voice.
"Isn't this just the best damn lake you've ever seen?" Zef said, lolling nearby.
"Sure is," she replied. Somehow, her previous conversation with Zef had removed the aversion she felt toward him, and the idea of swimming in the same lake with him didn't bother her anymore. For such a hideous creature, he moved through the water as gracefully and effortlessly as an otter, and he disturbed her no more than the fish—until he spoke, of course.
"My friend's been watching you," Zef blurted out.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah. Says you're nice to look at."
Memories of the Ionian Impressionist returned. He'd said the same thing, though Drusilla didn't return the sentiment. "Sweet of him to say so."
"Told you he was a nice fellow, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
"Don't mind him watching you?"
"Not particularly."
It was obvious that this lack of interest disturbed Zef, for he made another sound like that of an exasperated snort. "Don't feel interested or irritated?"
"No."
"Want to meet him?"
"Not really."
"Sure about that?"
"Yes,"
***
Drusilla couldn't have said if it was the trelas that was responsible, but something was making her feel sleepy, so she pulled a lounge chair closer to the shore and settled down to lie in the sun for a while. It was peaceful and still, with only the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves and the occasional bird call to break the silence. As she lay on the verge of sleep, the calls became more frequent, eventually joining together to form a melody. Hauntingly beautiful, it continued on, gaining strength until she realized it couldn't possibly be a bird song. She'd been to many different worlds and had heard a lot of birds before, but never any who could sing like that.
She knew very little about Baradan culture but had to assume that they had some form of music—nearly every culture did. This was simply someone off in the distance playing a flute—it might even have been Roger, though she hadn't noticed him carrying anything but his srakie. She was trying to imagine the sort of mouthpiece such an instrument would have to have for a wide-mouthed Baradan to play it, when the song ended.
She waited for a time to see if it would begin again, and when it didn't, she considered going for a swim or a ride in the boat. Both sounded good, so she went out to the dock and climbed aboard. The boat was a large pontoon; rectangular in shape with a flat deck surrounded by padded seats on all sides and a safety rail at the outer edge to keep the careless—or intoxicated—from falling overboard. She'd piloted a similar craft in her youth and, knowing that it took very little skill to maneuver, had no qualms about taking it out alone. Rummaging around beneath the pilot's console, she found a visor to shade her eyes from the sun's glare and then gave the engine the command to start. It engaged without as much as a sputter, and, after casting off the mooring lines, she settled herself into the large, contoured pilot's chair, took the wheel, and steered it easily away from the dock and out toward the open water. The lake was relatively narrow near the house—an easy swim from shore to shore—but further to the east, it widened out to a vast expanse of water that seemed to be very deep. After a relaxing cruise of its full length, she returned to the center of the lake, stopped the engine, dropped the anchor, and dove in.
The water was cool and silky on her bare skin and the quiet stillness surrounded her completely. The only sounds were the birds and other jungle creatures—none of which were dangerous, she reminded herself as a snake skimmed along the water's edge. She swam lazily for a while and then lay on her back and floated.
After a bit, she heard the sound of something emerging from the water and wasn't surprised to hear Zef's voice.
"Isn't this just the best damn lake you've ever seen?" Zef said, lolling nearby.
"Sure is," she replied. Somehow, her previous conversation with Zef had removed the aversion she felt toward him, and the idea of swimming in the same lake with him didn't bother her anymore. For such a hideous creature, he moved through the water as gracefully and effortlessly as an otter, and he disturbed her no more than the fish—until he spoke, of course.
"My friend's been watching you," Zef blurted out.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah. Says you're nice to look at."
Memories of the Ionian Impressionist returned. He'd said the same thing, though Drusilla didn't return the sentiment. "Sweet of him to say so."
"Told you he was a nice fellow, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
"Don't mind him watching you?"
"Not particularly."
It was obvious that this lack of interest disturbed Zef, for he made another sound like that of an exasperated snort. "Don't feel interested or irritated?"
"No."
"Want to meet him?"
"Not really."
"Sure about that?"
"Yes,"
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