The Price of Love and Other Stories by Peter Robinson

sweet summer air as if it belonged there, like the scent of rosemary or thyme.
    Then we reached a clearing and could see the log cabins. Three children were playing horseshoes, and someone was taking a shower in a ramshackle wooden box rigged up with some sort of overhead sieve. The music was coming from inside one of the cabins. You can imagine the absolute shock and surprise on our faces when the shower door opened and out walked a young man naked as the day he was born.
    We gawped, I’m sure. I had certainly never seen a naked man before, not even a photograph of one, but Mary Jane said she once saw her brother playing with himself when he thought she was out. We looked at one another and swallowed. “Let’s wait,” Mary Jane whispered. “We don’t want them to think we’ve been spying.”
    So we waited. Five, ten minutes went by. Nothing much happened. The children continued their game and no one else entered the shower. Finally, Mary Jane and I took deep breaths, left the cover of the woods and walked into the clearing.
    “Hello,” I called, aware of the tremor in my voice. “Hello. Is anybody home?”
    The children stopped their game and stared at us. One of them, a little girl, I think, with long dark curls, ran inside the nearest cabin. A few moments later, a young man stepped out. Probably only three or four years older than us, he had a slight, wispy blond beard and beautiful silky long hair, still damp, falling over his shoulders. It was the same man we had seen getting out of the shower, and I’m sure we both blushed. He looked a little puzzled and suspicious. And why not? After all, I don’t think anyone else from Jasmine Cove had been out to welcome them.
    Mary Jane seemed suddenly struck dumb, whether by the man’s good looks or the memory of his nakedness I don’t know, and it was left to me to speak. “Hello,” I said. “I’m Grace Vincent, and this is my friend Mary Jane Kiernan. We’re from the town, from Jasmine Cove. We’ve come to say hello.”
    He stared for a moment, then smiled and looked at Mary Jane. His eyes were bright green, like the sea just beyond the sands. “Mary Jane,” he said. “Well, how strange. This must be a song about you. The Mad Hatters.”
    “What?” I said.
    “The name of the band. The Mad Hatters. They’re English.”
    We listened to the music for a moment, and I thought I caught the words “Mary Jane is dreaming of an ocean dark and gleaming.” I didn’t recognize the song, or the name of the group, but that didn’t mean much; my parents didn’t let me listen to pop music. Mary Jane seemed to find her voice, and said something about that being nice.
    “Look, would you like to come in?” the young man said. “Have a cold drink or something? It’s a hot day.”
    I looked at Mary Jane. I could tell from her expression that she was as uncertain as I was. Now that we were here, the reality was starting to dawn on us. These were the people the Preacher had calledthe Spawn of Satan. As far as the townsfolk were concerned, they drugged young girls and had their evil way. But the young man looked harmless, and it
was
a hot day. We were thirsty. Finally, we sort of nodded and followed him inside the cabin.
    The shade was pleasant and a gentle cross-breeze blew through the open shutters. Sunlight picked out shining strands of silver and gold in the materials that draped the furnishings. The Newcomers didn’t have much, and most of it was makeshift, but we made ourselves comfortable on cushions on the floor and the young man brought us some lemonade.
    “Homemade,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s not as cold as you’re probably used to, but we don’t have a refrigerator yet.” He laughed. “As a matter of fact, we’ve only just got that old generator working, or we wouldn’t even have any music.” He nodded towards the drinks. “We keep some lemonade chilled in the stream out back.”
    By this time, the others had wandered in to get a look at us,