corpse on the floor.
Human again, she lay on the floor, face down and averted from the corpse. She was surprised that Doro did not go on beating her, that he did not kill her. She had no doubt that he could.
He lifted her, ignoring the blood that covered much of her body, and placed her on the bed beside Isaac. She lay there, limp, not looking at him. Oh, but the meat was warm inside her. Sustenance. She needed more!
"Why is Isaac here?" asked Doro. There was nothing in his voice. Not even anger.
"The other one brought him. Lale Sachs. He said you sent Isaac to me . . ." She stopped, confused. "No. He did not say it, he . . . he was in my thoughts, he . . ."
"I know."
She turned finally to look at him. He looked tired, haggard. He looked like a man in pain, and she wanted to touch him, comfort him. But her hands were covered with blood.
"What else did he tell you?"
She shook her head back and forth against the bed. "I do not know. He showed an image of me lying with Isaac, then lying with him. He made me see it—almost made me want it." She turned away again. "When I tried to send him away without . . . harming him, he did another thing . . . Doro, I must have food!" This last was a cry of pain.
He heard. "Stay here," he said softly. "I'll bring you something."
He went away. When he was gone, it seemed that she could smell the meat on the floor. It beckoned to her. She moaned and turned her face down to the mattress. Beside her, Isaac made a small sound and moved closer to her. Surprised, she raised her head to look at him.
He was still semiconscious. His eyes were closed now, but she could see that they moved under the lids. And his lips moved, formed silent words. He had almost a black man's mouth, the lips fuller than those of the other whites she had seen. Stiff yellow hairs grew from his face, showing that he had not shaved for a while. He had a broad, square face not unattractive to Anyanwu, and the sun had burned him a good, even brown. She wondered what white women thought of him. She wondered how white women looked.
"Food, Anyanwu," Doro said softly.
She jumped, startled. She was becoming a deaf woman! Doro had never been able to approach her unheard before. But that did not matter. Not now.
She seized the bread and meat from his hands. Both were hard and dry—the kind of food the crew ate all the time, but they were no challenge to her teeth and jaws. Doro gave her wine and she gulped it down. The fresh meat on the floor would have been better, but now that she was in control of herself, nothing would make her touch that again.
"Tell me all that happened," said Doro when she had eaten what he had given her.
She told him. She needed sleep now, but not as badly as she had needed food. And he deserved to know why his son had died.
She expected some comment or action from him when she finished, but he only shook his head and sighed. "Sleep now, Anyanwu. I will take Lale away, and Isaac."
"But . . ."
"Sleep. You are almost asleep now, almost talking in your sleep." He reached over her and lifted Isaac from the bed.
"What happened to him?" she whispered.
"He overextended himself just as you did. He will heal."
"He is cold . . . so cold."
"You would warm him if I left him here. You would warm him as Lale intended. Even your strength would not be enough to stop him once he began to awaken."
And before her slow, drowsy mind could question this, Doro and Isaac were gone. She never heard him come back for Lale, never knew whether he returned to sleep beside her that night, never cared.
Lale Sachs was dropped into the sea the next day. Anyanwu was present at the small ceremony Captain Woodley made. She had not wanted to be, but Doro commanded it. He told everyone what she had done, then made her appear before them. She thought he did it to shame her, and she was ashamed. But later, he explained.
"It was for your protection," he told her. "Everyone aboard has been warned against molesting you. My sons
Human again, she lay on the floor, face down and averted from the corpse. She was surprised that Doro did not go on beating her, that he did not kill her. She had no doubt that he could.
He lifted her, ignoring the blood that covered much of her body, and placed her on the bed beside Isaac. She lay there, limp, not looking at him. Oh, but the meat was warm inside her. Sustenance. She needed more!
"Why is Isaac here?" asked Doro. There was nothing in his voice. Not even anger.
"The other one brought him. Lale Sachs. He said you sent Isaac to me . . ." She stopped, confused. "No. He did not say it, he . . . he was in my thoughts, he . . ."
"I know."
She turned finally to look at him. He looked tired, haggard. He looked like a man in pain, and she wanted to touch him, comfort him. But her hands were covered with blood.
"What else did he tell you?"
She shook her head back and forth against the bed. "I do not know. He showed an image of me lying with Isaac, then lying with him. He made me see it—almost made me want it." She turned away again. "When I tried to send him away without . . . harming him, he did another thing . . . Doro, I must have food!" This last was a cry of pain.
He heard. "Stay here," he said softly. "I'll bring you something."
He went away. When he was gone, it seemed that she could smell the meat on the floor. It beckoned to her. She moaned and turned her face down to the mattress. Beside her, Isaac made a small sound and moved closer to her. Surprised, she raised her head to look at him.
He was still semiconscious. His eyes were closed now, but she could see that they moved under the lids. And his lips moved, formed silent words. He had almost a black man's mouth, the lips fuller than those of the other whites she had seen. Stiff yellow hairs grew from his face, showing that he had not shaved for a while. He had a broad, square face not unattractive to Anyanwu, and the sun had burned him a good, even brown. She wondered what white women thought of him. She wondered how white women looked.
"Food, Anyanwu," Doro said softly.
She jumped, startled. She was becoming a deaf woman! Doro had never been able to approach her unheard before. But that did not matter. Not now.
She seized the bread and meat from his hands. Both were hard and dry—the kind of food the crew ate all the time, but they were no challenge to her teeth and jaws. Doro gave her wine and she gulped it down. The fresh meat on the floor would have been better, but now that she was in control of herself, nothing would make her touch that again.
"Tell me all that happened," said Doro when she had eaten what he had given her.
She told him. She needed sleep now, but not as badly as she had needed food. And he deserved to know why his son had died.
She expected some comment or action from him when she finished, but he only shook his head and sighed. "Sleep now, Anyanwu. I will take Lale away, and Isaac."
"But . . ."
"Sleep. You are almost asleep now, almost talking in your sleep." He reached over her and lifted Isaac from the bed.
"What happened to him?" she whispered.
"He overextended himself just as you did. He will heal."
"He is cold . . . so cold."
"You would warm him if I left him here. You would warm him as Lale intended. Even your strength would not be enough to stop him once he began to awaken."
And before her slow, drowsy mind could question this, Doro and Isaac were gone. She never heard him come back for Lale, never knew whether he returned to sleep beside her that night, never cared.
Lale Sachs was dropped into the sea the next day. Anyanwu was present at the small ceremony Captain Woodley made. She had not wanted to be, but Doro commanded it. He told everyone what she had done, then made her appear before them. She thought he did it to shame her, and she was ashamed. But later, he explained.
"It was for your protection," he told her. "Everyone aboard has been warned against molesting you. My sons
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