till the weather and sports reports were over and music had begun to play again, waited in an agony of tension that she fought to disguise while she threaded the leather lace through the tiny holes in the toe of one half-finished moccasin. Then casually she laid it aside and stood up.
"I'm hungry," she said to Wilf, who was bent over his worktable with a tin of green paint and a brush in his hands. "Is it time to start lunch?"
In the end, the prospect of total inactivity had made Smith give in and ask to make a pair of moccasins. She hated being cooped up in the house. She wanted to explore the island, to find a means of escape. For that she would need shoes. And she was too used to hard work to enjoy enforced idleness. She needed work.
So Wilfred Tall Tree had brought her down to the studio workshop in his cabin, where he spent his time carving and painting ritual masks. The examples of his work that hung on the walls were sometimes disturbing, sometimes beautiful, always impressive. Smith had looked at Wilfred Tall Tree with a new respect.
Now he raised his head and fixed her with a deep, luminous gaze.
"Sure," he said. Smith waited no longer, just whirled and went out of the cabin and up the stony path. It was rough and hard, but by going slowly Smith had negotiated it without damage to her feet on the way down. Now she tried to run, but a stubbed toe and a few sharp pebbles slowed her down to a very frustrating pace. But she had a precious couple of minutes' head start.
There was a radio-telephone in Johnny Winterhawk's study, but the door was locked. Smith thumped experimentally against it with her hip: it would need an axe. One plank in the floor just in front of the door always creaked, and she wondered if it had been put there deliberately. She dashed to the kitchen, keeping an eye out for Wilfred Tall Tree through the windows. From the knife block she extracted the strongest knife and ran like the wind back to the study again. With all her strength Smith jammed the huge knife between door and jamb and tried to force the lock.
On the third try it gave. The door swung back around to the wall with a crash like doom, and she dropped the knife. Wincing guiltily, she glanced out the window down toward the path to Wilf's cabin. Through the trees below she spied movement.
Wings on her feet, she clicked the bolt back, pulled the door shut, snatched up the knife from the floor, and tore back to the kitchen with a speed that made her dizzy. When Wilfred Tall Tree came in, Smith was busily washing lettuce.
***
If he had slipped up once, Wilf did not intend to slip again. Though he must want to get back to his work, he stuck with her as she sat with a book in the sun, walked through the house examining the art, listened to the radio. But her inactivity bored her more than it did Wilf, and at last she asked to go back down to his cabin to finish her moccasins.
Now she worked harder and faster than she had before. Having something on her feet would give her far greater mobility if Wilfred Tall Tree were ever to let her out of his sight again.
Shortly after five o'clock she looked at the pair of golden deerskin moccasins with more pride in her handiwork than she would have imagined. As a child she had always enjoyed handicrafts. At summer camp each year her work had taken prizes. She had dutifully written to her father about them, and he had usually praised her, but he never came to see for himself on parents' day. He was always too busy.
"Finished!" she announced matter-of-factly to Wilfred Tall Tree, hiding the odd little burst of pride she felt at having made something as pretty as the delicate moccasins she was holding up for his approval.
He smiled at her, his dark eyes liquid, and nodded his head. "Very good," he said softly. "You work well with your hands."
It was as though he had recognized that small pride she hid, and Smith looked away. "I hope they fit!" she muttered self-deprecatingly, and bent to slip
"I'm hungry," she said to Wilf, who was bent over his worktable with a tin of green paint and a brush in his hands. "Is it time to start lunch?"
In the end, the prospect of total inactivity had made Smith give in and ask to make a pair of moccasins. She hated being cooped up in the house. She wanted to explore the island, to find a means of escape. For that she would need shoes. And she was too used to hard work to enjoy enforced idleness. She needed work.
So Wilfred Tall Tree had brought her down to the studio workshop in his cabin, where he spent his time carving and painting ritual masks. The examples of his work that hung on the walls were sometimes disturbing, sometimes beautiful, always impressive. Smith had looked at Wilfred Tall Tree with a new respect.
Now he raised his head and fixed her with a deep, luminous gaze.
"Sure," he said. Smith waited no longer, just whirled and went out of the cabin and up the stony path. It was rough and hard, but by going slowly Smith had negotiated it without damage to her feet on the way down. Now she tried to run, but a stubbed toe and a few sharp pebbles slowed her down to a very frustrating pace. But she had a precious couple of minutes' head start.
There was a radio-telephone in Johnny Winterhawk's study, but the door was locked. Smith thumped experimentally against it with her hip: it would need an axe. One plank in the floor just in front of the door always creaked, and she wondered if it had been put there deliberately. She dashed to the kitchen, keeping an eye out for Wilfred Tall Tree through the windows. From the knife block she extracted the strongest knife and ran like the wind back to the study again. With all her strength Smith jammed the huge knife between door and jamb and tried to force the lock.
On the third try it gave. The door swung back around to the wall with a crash like doom, and she dropped the knife. Wincing guiltily, she glanced out the window down toward the path to Wilf's cabin. Through the trees below she spied movement.
Wings on her feet, she clicked the bolt back, pulled the door shut, snatched up the knife from the floor, and tore back to the kitchen with a speed that made her dizzy. When Wilfred Tall Tree came in, Smith was busily washing lettuce.
***
If he had slipped up once, Wilf did not intend to slip again. Though he must want to get back to his work, he stuck with her as she sat with a book in the sun, walked through the house examining the art, listened to the radio. But her inactivity bored her more than it did Wilf, and at last she asked to go back down to his cabin to finish her moccasins.
Now she worked harder and faster than she had before. Having something on her feet would give her far greater mobility if Wilfred Tall Tree were ever to let her out of his sight again.
Shortly after five o'clock she looked at the pair of golden deerskin moccasins with more pride in her handiwork than she would have imagined. As a child she had always enjoyed handicrafts. At summer camp each year her work had taken prizes. She had dutifully written to her father about them, and he had usually praised her, but he never came to see for himself on parents' day. He was always too busy.
"Finished!" she announced matter-of-factly to Wilfred Tall Tree, hiding the odd little burst of pride she felt at having made something as pretty as the delicate moccasins she was holding up for his approval.
He smiled at her, his dark eyes liquid, and nodded his head. "Very good," he said softly. "You work well with your hands."
It was as though he had recognized that small pride she hid, and Smith looked away. "I hope they fit!" she muttered self-deprecatingly, and bent to slip
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