The Island of Lote chapter five: Simon
MILO FELT A cool, wet sensation patter onto her face and arms. It felt good because her skin was unusually hot. More came, droplets of cool, moist heaven peppering her cheeks and forehead, and running down her nose. She moaned softly.
The pain in her head had gone down to a dull ache, and she no longer felt sick to her stomach. She twitched her shoulders and her feet, checking to make sure she still could. She slowly opened her eyes, bright sunshine blinding her for a moment. After cringing and blinking a few times, her vision started to refocus, and she dis - covered that she was lying under a palm tree on a beach.
Sunlight was sifting through the long, narrow leaves up above her, and white sand lay beneath her, spreading out in all directions. However, she was far more startled by something else. Leaning over her, using a wet cloth to squeeze water onto her, was a boy.
He had straight, dirty-blonde hair, tousled from wind and hanging down an inch past his ears. His skin was a light, golden tan, undoubtedly the result of a life spent on an island, sand granules flecking his hands. He was wearing a pair of swimming shorts and a button down T-shirt, completely unbuttoned, firm abdominal muscles visible. His eyes, easy to inspect because they were less than three inches away from hers, were light brown. By his looks, he was a dream boy, a hot boy; the type of boy you can't help but gape at from afar, but would never dare approach.
Milo noticed this as she opened her eyes and he came into focus. But before she thought about any of that, she first thought, and expressed aloud, "Aaaaaahhhh!?!"
The boy, whoever he was, gave a shout of surprise and jumped backwards, toppling over onto the sand. They both sat frozen for a second, breathing heavily and staring at each other. He then smiled at her. Milo tried to move her head and was rewarded with a stab of pain.
"Ow," she groaned and hesitantly reached up to feel her head.
There was a cloth wrapped tightly around it. She ran her fingers over her face her face. All the blood had been washed off. Using her eyes, not wanting to disturb her cranium, she looked around her.
Her backpack, covered in a powdery layer of dried sea salt, was lying next to her. To the left of her was the suitcase that had knocked her out. Squinting, she could see other suitcases lining the shore, all having washed up the night before. Examining the one beside her the best she could at a distance, she gave a gasp of surprise. It was hers.
"Whoa!" she mumbled. "Weird!"
She then angled her gaze towards the boy, who hadn't budged and was still smiling at her.
"Nice teeth!" Bob the Conscience remarked.
"Bob!" Milo cried, flicking her eyes about until she remembered he was in her mind. "Where the heck were you last night?! Huh? I could have died!"
"I was with you last night," Bob the Conscience replied calmly.
"You just didn't recognize me because we weren't arguing. I made sure you got out of there safely. I guided you, just like in my job description. I pulled my act together."
"Oh," she said, guilt nudging her uncomfortably. "Right. Sorry. Thanks."
"Uh-huh," Bob the Conscience agreed. "So, who's the piece of beef?" he asked, changing the subject.
Milo, assuming he had meant the boy, admitted, "I don't know."
"Try talking to him."
"Kay?" she said nervously. "Um, hi!" she said to him.
The boy stopped smiling and looked perplexed.
"Hi!" Milo said a bit louder. "HELLO!"
She vigorously waved a hand back and forth. The boy, apparently understanding, smiled and waved back. He stood up quickly, walked over, and plonked himself down next to her, much closer than she would have thought necessary.
"Where am I?" she asked, trying to scoot a few inches away.
The boy once again frowned in confusion.
"WHERE - AM - I?!" Milo repeated slowly and clearly.
The boy's expression didn't change, though he stared at her intensely, so Milo decided to try gesturing. She rotated her arms, which were plenty sore from last night, in a wide arch, pointing all around her. She then shrugged and shook her head, immediately wincing afterwards.
The boy seemed to comprehend and said, "Blatih sa twra ito!"
Milo stared blankly at him.
"Pardon?" she said.
"Creee?" he responded.
"DO," she shouted, as if volume would alter his translation, "you speak English?!"
The boy didn't seem to grasp what she had asked. Milo made a talking motion with one of her hands, pointed to her tongue and then at him. It seemed to dawn on the boy what she meant, and he shook his head.
"Great!" Milo muttered, briefly looking away towards the ocean, it shimmering turquoise under the sun. She turned back to him. "None at all?"
The boy figured it'd be best to shake his head again.
"Oh, great!" Milo sighed. She again tried gesturing to everything around them, hoping he would say a word she recognized.
"Ito!" the boy said helpfully.
"Ito?" Milo repeated. She pointed at him and said, "Ito?"
"Pra, pra, pra!" he laughed, shaking his head. He poked a finger at his chest and said, "Simon!"
"Simon?" Milo repeated, pointing directly at him.
He nodded, grinning and crossing his legs comfortably.
"Huh!" she said. Inspired, she indicated to herself. "Milo!"
"Milo?" he echoed, giving it a slight trill. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Milo?"
She nodded encouragingly, eyeing the position of his hand.
Grinning broadly, he touched a hand to his collar bone. "Simon!"
He squeezed her shoulder. "Milo!"
"Yep!" she confirmed, pleased.
She nodded, for his benefit, and grinned. He grinned back, letting her go. Still, Milo didn't feel all that confident, so she decided to test. She pointed insistently to something behind the boy. He twisted around to look.
When his back was to her, Milo called out, "Simon!" His head whipped around and he stared at her questioningly. She did this several times before she felt satisfied. Suddenly he pointed past her.
"What?" she said, shifting around to look.
"Milo!"
She turned around. "Yeah?" she asked then saw his face.
He was no longer smiling, his arms crossed. Obviously, just because he couldn't speak English, didn't mean he was stupid.
"Oh," she whispered contritely. "Oh, sorry!" Not knowing what sort of gesture could mean "sorry", Milo gave him a tiny, sincere smile.
His grin returned instantly, and he mumbled something incoherent, yet cordial sounding. He stood, putting up one hand to tell her to stay there, not that Milo felt like wandering. He went over to a basket that Milo hadn't noticed earlier. He pulled out a bowl-shaped object and brought it over to her. Falling onto his knees, he showed it to her.
Milo peered in and saw some type of mush that looked like it had been mixed with corn and pepper. He scooped some out with his fingers and brought it to her mouth. She looked at it and then smelled it. It didn't smell too bad, rather fishy, but Milo wasn't about to eat it off his fingers.
She scraped some of the mush off with her own fingers and put it in her mouth. It was actually quite tasty. It reminded her faintly of tuna.
"Mmmm!" she told him, hoping that meant the same thing in any language.
The boy called Simon offered her what remained on his fingers and in the bowl. She accepted the bowl, but passed on the rest. Shrugging, he ate the leftovers on his fingers. Milo didn't realize it until then, but she was starving.
Simon watched her intently while she ate, a type of gleam appearing in his eyes. Briefly he got out a sort of container from his basket and offered it to her. Milo cautiously took a sip from it and was relieved to discover it held fresh water. She guzzled it, not caring if he was watching her. She hadn't drunk anything since last night, when she had swallowed all that ocean water. When the container was empty, she handed back to Simon, who put it away.
Milo was thoroughly enjoying herself. It had been a long time since she had gotten along with anyone close to her age, even though they couldn't verbally communicate, a fact she chose to ignore. While she ate, using one hand to ladle the mush to her mouth, she used the other to open her backpack to see if anything was damaged. Nothing seemed to be. Her clothes were still soggy, but everything else seemed fine.
"Thank Heaven for plastic bags!" Milo whispered, lightly touching her headphones.
She realized her hair was in her face, and felt around in her pack for another scrunchie. Finding one, she tried to pull her hair back, but the other hand was holding the bowl. Before she could set it down on the sand, Simon lean forward, took her hair and drew it back for her. With nimble one-handed dexterity, she put the scrunchie in, and he withdrew his hands.
"Thanks," she muttered, certain her embarrassment was written all over her face.
He smiled kindly at her and abruptly exploded into a frenzy of gibbering in his language. He gestured so fast that Milo couldn't catch a thing he was trying to tell her. Finally he stopped and stared at her expectantly. She stared back.
"What?" she asked, smiling and shaking her head.
He sighed and slowly said something in his language, enunciating each syllable. But of course Milo couldn't understand. She shrugged apologetically. Simon attempted several more times to relay what was on his mind, with no better results. Finally he stood up, turned away from her, and slowly began to walk, with one of his arms erect, like he was holding someone up. After he walked a ways, he turned around and walked back in the same fashion. Once he got back, he looked at her inquiringly, his head tilted to one side.
"Can I walk?" Milo thought. "I don't know. Maybe."
She tried moving one of her legs. It worked perfectly. She tried the other, and it jerked obediently.
"Yep," she said to Simon. She nodded.
Simon's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he hesitantly nodded back.
"Uh-huh!" Milo said, nodding faster and giving him a friendly grin.
Simon smiled hugely and laughed softly. The more Milo nodded, the happier he looked. The nodding continued, Milo not sure what else to do, until Simon suddenly let out a cry of joy. He jumped into the air, obviously unable to contain the delight that had overcome him. He flailed his arms and danced up and down the beach, kicking up sand and shouting unintelligibly. The whole time, Milo kept on smiling and nodding her head dumbly. She had no idea what was going on.
At last he stopped and rushed over to her. He bent down and hugged her.
"Uh!" she stuttered. "Um. Thanks. I guess."
Simon straightened up and grabbed one of her hands to pull her up.
"Whoa! Wait!" Milo cried.
She pushed against the ground with her other hand, first putting down the dish. Simon let her go when she was standing upright, leaning against the tree. He then took the bowl back to the basket and picked it up, along with her suitcase. Milo noticed that the basket looked similar to a reed basket she had seen in Hawaii. She had gone there with her parents when she was ten to see if they should live there. It didn't work out though, because while they were on a tour, her mother got bit by a snake and had to be rushed to the hospital. Her mother had had a bias against Hawaii ever since.
Milo was wobbly on her legs at first, and they were incredibly sore, but at least she could stand. She zipped up her backpack and slung it onto her shoulder. Simon grabbed her hand once more, first putting the basket under his other arm, and began to pull her towards the forest. The forest was a harsh entanglement of brush, vines, and trees, but eventually they came to a path. The path wound on and on, Milo not even noticing Simon's hand in hers because she was too busy gawking at everything around her. She saw gigantic leaves, vibrant flowers growing on bark, and different nationalities of ants running drills along tree trunks.
The further they went, occasionally having to pause so that Milo could rest, the more beaten down and worn the path became. Suddenly there was a sharp turn to the left. More turns came after it, and the trees became less dense.
They eventually came to a clearing, the sun creating one enormous patch of yellow on the brown ground, and when Milo looked to the left, she could see the beach. Not the one they had just left, however. This was a different, bigger beach that looked like it ran for miles, with rocks poking out of the water and bunches of boys scattered about.
The only other thing in the clearing, besides a few tropical trees dispersed here and there, was a house. Well, not really a house. It resembled a bungalow, only it was much larger. It was built out of a type of wood that, to Milo, looked like bamboo.
"Only it's not bamboo," she mused. "Bamboo isn't as big as that. It's not as wide or dark. That wood is very dark and not shiny. Bamboo always seems to look shiny, not dull like that."
Simon was leading her up to this house. He halted them when they were directly in front of the door, took her backpack from her, and disappeared inside.
"Hey!" she called out.
But he was back in a moment. He didn't have her luggage with him, but he did have something clutched in his hand.
After a few silent moments of them just staring at each other, Milo asked, "So! Whatcha got there?"
She indicated to his clenched fist. Simon, his mouth twitching, inhaled deeply several times before opening his hand to show her. In the center of his palm lay a small, round object topped by a sparkling dot. It was a diamond ring.
"Oh, cool!" Milo commented, taking a closer look at it. She had a keen interest in jewelry, or moreover all things shiny (cd's, silver tea sets, chef's knives, etc.). The only rings she could ever afford to buy were made out of glass, and tended to chip. This ring, however, looked real.
Simon grinned and shoved his hand towards her.
"For . . . me?" she said, dodging out of the way to avoid getting hit.
She pointed from it to herself, and Simon nodded enthusiastically.
"Oh, no! No, no, no!" she chuckled, taking a step backwards. "I can't take that from you. It looks way too expensive."
Simon of course didn't understand what she had said, and tried to put the ring on one of her fingers. Milo pulled her hand away each time, finally stuffing it into a very stiff pocket. But Simon, apparently not one to give up easily, pulled it out again by her wrist. Therefore Milo made a fist, not sure what else she could do, besides run away, which she doubted her legs could handle.
Simon tried to gently unfurl the fist, but she held firm, still shaking her head. However, he was obviously stronger than her, and as his coaxing became more insistent, Milo had to surrender. He opened her hand just wide enough to drop the ring inside, and quickly forced it closed again. Milo continued to shake her head, now trying to get him to take it back. Simon began to look confused and upset. He babbled something in his language, tapping one of her fingers.
"Oh, dear," Milo thought. She wanted to keep things friendly.
"Oh, well. If it makes him happy," she thought, though she didn't feel at all comfortable about taking it. But, hey! Who wouldn't want a diamond ring?
"Are you sure about wearing that?" Bob the Conscience asked.
"I wouldn't," she answered. "I don't know where he got it. It might be a family heirloom or something. But he seems to really want me to have it, and I don't want him to get mad. Why? Are you sensing something bad about it?"
"No, not really. It just sort of looks like an engagement ring or something."
Milo laughed. "Yeah! Sure! Riiight!"
Oh! If only she had listened!
She slid the ring onto the finger that Simon had tapped, and he resumed his smiling.
"There you go!" she told him, flourishing the hand in front of his face.
Suddenly he reached out and hugged her again, murmuring softly.
"Okay!" Milo squeaked. "Okay!" She gave him a hasty pat on the back.
He abruptly put an arm around her shoulders and led her inside the hut. She quickly shrugged him off, though, for she was begin - ning to feel a little uneasy about the way he was staying so close to her.
The house looked larger on the inside than on the outside. It had dirt floors, packed down hard. The door led into a walkway, a hall extending straight ahead, and on the left was what looked like a sitting room, filled with furniture made from the same wood as the house. To the right of the front door was a kitchen.
Simon walked into the kitchen, not bothering to show Milo the rest of the house. He took a sharp looking knife off one of the counters, which were also made from the strange wood. Milo, who had followed him into the kitchen, now started to rethink her decision. But the only thing Simon did with the knife was cut away the bandages on her head.
He did this so swiftly, the knife just a blur, that Milo's stomach lurched. He unwound the cloth carefully and examined the wound underneath. It seemed to meet his satisfaction, for he did not apply another bandage. Throwing the bloody cloth away in a wooden barrel, which appeared to be the trash can, he turned and headed the door.
Milo, who would have preferred to stay and explore the house, reluctantly followed. It was most definitely his house, and she didn't think it would be polite to wander through it without his company.
Once outside, he again tried to hold her hand. She clasped both her hands securely behind her back and marched straight ahead. Though this puzzled the boy, he decided not to start another argument.
This was wise, considering that Milo was a woman, and you simply can't mess around with women's feelings. Nothing can be more frightening than an angry female, and may no man forget it! Women are warriors of a different breed, and Milo was one of the toughest specimens. Simon could sense this in a small way; if she did not want to hold his hand, then she wouldn't. That was that. No debate. No pushing his luck.
Simon took the lead, striding towards the heart of the island. The ground was becoming as hard as regular cement. The trees were becoming fewer and fewer, and the hot sun beamed down on the two teens. Every now and then they would pass a house, built in the same fashion as Simon's, some smaller, some larger. As they walked on, the trees began to reappear. Very tall, wide trees with broad, green leaves that provided shade. Encircling the bases of those trees were flower beds, where tropical flora had been transplanted.
They trudged onward a short distance until they reached what undeniably had to be their destination. Passing several decorated trees, Milo gasped in amazement. It was a town! An entire town, constructed entirely from that strange type of wood. There were many houses, some sporting porches, several shops, one very large building with a huge doorway, a school house, and a church that she identified by the large cross on its roof. There was another big building, on the far side of town, with a second story and many windows. Milo couldn't tell what it was used for.
All these places were widely spread out from each other. Way off in the outskirts, Milo thought she could see what appeared to be a large, black house. Palm trees speckled the streets, towering over everything. These trees also had flower gardens planted around the bases, and some even had benches nailed around their trunks.
But what most astounded Milo was the abundance of people milling about. They were dressed almost exactly the same as people at home, only more modestly, with no offensive or statementmaking clothing. But since it was a tropical island, they were mostly dressed in colorful island attire. Such as what Simon was wearing.
Simon led Milo down the streets, pausing now and then to let her gape in through a window or at a passing person. Nobody was paying them much attention. Simon would occasionally receive a warm greeting, but Milo mostly got bemused stares.
They eventually reached a small store with a window cut into the wall. Attached to the window was a sill, and on the sill was a bell. Not the type of bell found in the lobby of 711 Shady Ally, that you slap and it would ding, but more like an old-fashioned school bell. Simon leaned his elbows on the sill and rang it. Like the bell at 711 Shady Ally, it also had a woman hurrying to answer the call. In complete contrast to Miz Ricca, this woman was a plump little thing, with a pleasant smile and a full bun of brown hair.
She began to gibber happily with Simon, who was very glad to see her. Reaching through the window, they embraced lightly. Milo quietly stood next to him, wondering why Simon had brought her over to meet this particular lady and if they were talking about her. She figured they were, because Simon put his hand on her shoulder while he spoke. As he jabbered away, the woman grew more and more excited. Her gaze kept flicking from Milo and to Simon, her smile growing larger and more animated.
When Simon finished talking, he pointed to the ring on Milo's finger, and the woman clapped her hands together, gleefully bouncing on her toes. She then did something that Milo had not expected at all. The woman spoke English.
"Aw! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!" she chirped in a rich Irish accent.
"You speak English?" Milo said, astonished.
"Oh yes, dear!" the woman laughed. "I can understand your surprise. I'm sure you think that everyone on the island speaks Galo."
"Galo?" Milo repeated breathlessly, bewildered.
"Yes, that's the name of the language." "Oh!" Milo exclaimed, looking behind her at all the sun soaked houses. "So, are they, like, Galonians? And is this the island of Gal?"
"Oh, no," the lady chuckled, waving the question away. "This island has no name. The people here are just people. They came up with the language many ages ago, and they are allowed to name it. So they named it Galo, just because they wanted to."
"Ah," Milo remarked, wondering why the language deserved a name, but nothing else did.
The woman extended her hand, and Milo politely shook it.
"I am Mrs. Lanslo, dear," she said, introducing herself.
"Hello," Milo said. "My name is -"
"Oh, I know already! Simon here told me. Milo. What a beautiful name! I adore it!"
Milo had to smile. This was not usually what she heard.
"But what is your last?" Mrs. Lanslo asked.
"Last what?" Milo said.
"Name, dear," Mrs. Lanslo clarified. "Simon said he doesn't know it."
"Oh! Right, um, Hestler."
Mrs. Lanslo nodded genially, and, turning to Simon, began to speak to him in the language Galo.
Milo heard her say Hestler, and assumed she was bringing him up to speed. Simon looked pleased, and Mrs. Lanslo again addressed Milo.
"Ah, yes!" she twittered joyfully. "Milo, Simon has told me everything! Absolutely everything! And I am so happy!"
"Did he?" she said nervously. "I didn't know there was that much to tell." What was going on?
"Oh, of course there is! And there's sooo much to tell you, as I am sure you have many questions."
"Yeah, I do," she admitted. "First off, we weren't properly introduced. Who exactly is this?"
She nodded to Simon.
Mrs. Lanslo laughed heartily, a hand flying to her chest, and said, "This is Simon Swallow."
"Simon Swallow," Milo repeated, so as not to forget.
Simon, upon hearing his name said twice, gibbered inquiringly to Mrs. Lanslo. She explained what was going on, and he, grinning, offered his hand to Milo. She shook it and afterwards practically had to yank hers out of his grasp.
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Lanslo continued proudly. "A fine boy he is. Understanding and kind. Responsible and polite. Charming and law-abiding. All the girls swoon over him, which makes it a mystery why he has been looking so long for a wife."
"A wife?" Milo gasped, unbelieving. "How old is he?"
"Sixteen, dear. But on this island, when a boy is over fifteen, he can marry any girl over thirteen."
Milo was speechless, her jaw lax and dropping. To her very Western Hemisphere state of mind, this was the most outlandish thing she had ever heard of. "Really?" she stammered.
"Yes," Mrs. Lanslo confirmed carelessly, as if it were a common, reputable practice. "It is an island law. There are many laws here, especially about marriage, and they are always enforced, no matter what."
Milo looked startled.
"But don't worry, dear! The laws are quite reasonable, and as long as you obey them, you have nothing to worry about. All the boys here over fifteen are trying to get married. If a boy is still single when he turns twenty-two, a wife is chosen for him; if he wants to marry, that is. Simon has always wanted to marry, and has been looking for the right bride for some time now. And finally - Oh, I am so happy! - he has found one. Simon is friends with everyone here, and we all will be very happy to see him marry at last!"
"Who is it?" Milo asked Simon.
Even though those laws gave her the creeps, she felt she should at least be happy for him. But instead of translating, Mrs. Lanslo looked confused. She said to her, "Why, dear, it's you." Milo stood, staring transfixed at them, until she began to laugh.
"Yeah! Sure! Riiiight!" She repeated exactly what she had said to Bob the Conscience.
Sometimes the strongest, most provoking words in the world are words of silence, and those very words were being spoken by Mrs. Lanslo and Simon. They said nothing to her. Right to her face. They stared at her, and their looks brought on the horrid truth. The more Milo absorbed these stares of verification, the more she began to lose it.
Slowly she began to shake her head and to utter words such as: "Nuh. Unna. Nuha." She then looked down at the ring on her hand and screamed. Milo wasn't a person to scream at any old thing. When she was on the plane she had a good reason to scream. Sheer terror was coursing through her veins during that time, and this one moment seemed almost worse.
When she finally cut off her screams she looked, panic stricken, at Mrs. Lanslo.
"No!" she cried desperately.
"I don't understand, dear," Mrs. Lanslo said, concerned. "Why are you so upset?"
"Why?!" Milo repeated, breathing hard, her limbs trembling. "Why? Be-because! That's why! I don't want to get married! I mean, come on! Married? Are you kidding?"
Mrs. Lanslo, in a tone that implied that she was far from kidding, asked, "If you don't want this, then why did you say yes?"
"Yes?" Milo cried, hitting her forehead with her palm. "I didn't know he was proposing to me! I don't even think he did!"
"Think hard," Mrs. Lanslo said gently.
Suddenly a gesture on the beach flew to Milo's mind, and she gasped in horror. She whirled on the spot and glared at Simon, who knew what was going on thanks to Mrs. Lanslo translating for him.
"You!" she accused under her breath. "You didn't!"
"I'm afraid he did, dear," Mrs. Lanslo interjected. Milo faced her desperately, her brow wrinkled and breaking out in a sweat that wasn't just from the heat.
"Well . . . oh, come on! I didn't know what he was saying! It could have meant anything! I didn't know what I was saying yes to! So . . . technically, I'm not engaged!"
As she thought this over, a small smile of relief curled up on her lips.
"But you have on the ring," Mrs. Lanslo observed, after telling Simon all this. Milo looked back at the ring with new fear.
"Oh. Yeah," she said, without much else to say. She glanced up at the two other people and saw the concerned expressions they had. "Um," Milo mumbled, realizing that she didn't have much of an excuse. "Well. Okay! I don't know why I put on the stupid ring! But I still don't have to marry him!"
With that, she wrenched off the ring and threw it at Simon's feet. He gasped and hurriedly scooped it up. He tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't take it, instead crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. Finally, he said something to Mrs. Lanslo, who stood in shock at what Milo had done.
"He says," she breathed heavily, "that you have to wear it, and that he wants you to."
"I don't care what he wants!" Milo exploded aggressively. "I don't have to be engaged if I don't want to!"
"Actually, dear," Mrs. Lanslo whispered. "You do." Milo turned her mutinous glare on the little woman. "What?" she snapped.
"It's one of our laws," she explained patiently. "Once you are engaged, you have to get married. There's no breaking it. Once the girl says yes and puts the ring on, that's that. The deal is sealed."
"B-b-but I didn't know what he was saying!" Milo cried, after finding her voice.
"That would be an arguable case, dear, if you hadn't put on the ring."
Milo, now tapping her fingers on the window sill in an agitated manner, tried to figure this out.
"So," she choked out, "since I put on the ring, I can't get out of it?"
"Yes," Mrs. Lanslo said, nodding sagely. "That's right."
Milo stood gasping, at a loss for words. That is, until she found some.
"I'll just refuse then!" she declared, pounding a fist onto the wood. "You can't force me to marry!"
"Well . . . yes, we can," Mrs. Lanslo said softly. Milo, her complexion getting more ashen by the minute, said weakly, "What?"
"We can," Mrs. Lanslo repeated, "and we have, and we will. Unless, of course, you do it willingly, dear."
"Never!!!" she shouted, out of control.
At this point, there was a yell for attention behind her, which sounded more like a grunt. Simon and Mrs. Lanslo instantly stiffened with respect. Milo swiveled around to see who was behind her.
There was a group of old - excuse me - older men with pinched faces and impressive beards. They were all wearing long, black and grey robes, and were holding many books. One man especially, whose robe was extra dark and held one exceptionally thick book.
The man in front stepped forward and began to talk to Mrs. Lanslo in a gruff voice. Mrs. Lanslo promptly answered in Galo. She spoke very fast and pointed from Simon to Milo, then from Milo to Simon. The man, whose garb was slightly fancier than the rest, became very angry, the impressive mustache over his impressive beard bristling dangerously. He spoke severely to Simon, who answered him quietly, his gaze reverently downcast. Milo was terrified. Who were these men?
A crowd was beginning to form around the scene, people gibbering to each other out of the corners of their mouths. The man spoke sternly to Mrs. Lanslo, and Mrs. Lanslo spoke to Milo.
"This," she said seriously, indicating to man, "is the President, or Mayor, of the island. Mayor Em-I. He works in the library with these other gentlemen. They make sure everyone abides by the laws."
"I can't see a library," Milo whispered, trying not to look at the mayor. Mrs. Lanslo pointed to a small building on the other side of town. "That doesn't seem big enough to be a library."
"The library's underground," Mrs. Lanslo said dismissively. "Listen, please. Mayor Em-I wants to, first of all, welcome you to our island."
Milo glanced at him dubiously, wondering if this man had ever welcomed anyone to anywhere in his life.
"And second of all," Mrs. Lanslo continued, "to let you know that even though you've just arrived, you still have to obey our laws. He doesn't want you to cause trouble right now, because they are about to investigate a plane that crashed here last night."
"That's my plane," Milo muttered.
"Is there anyone else with you?"
"No, everyone else escaped without me," she mumbled bitterly.
"Oh. Well, the Mayor wants me to read you a few of the other laws, and let you know that you will obey them. No matter what."
More incoherent jabbering ensued between the officials and Mrs. Lanslo, before she added submissively, "This island has been functioning beautifully for generations, and you will not be a disruption."
"Well, we'll see about that!"Milo replied with new vigor, obliged to disrupt no matter where she was. "I'll be rescued anyway."
Mrs. Lanslo began to laugh, holding on to her middle, and relayed to the others what Milo had said. Everyone immediately laughed hard along with her. Milo looked around with wide, troubled eyes. Apparently, this was a humorous topic.
"My dear," Mrs. Lanslo exclaimed, after she got control of herself and caught her breath. "No one knows this island exists! Nobody has ever been rescued from here. I myself crashed here five years ago and haven't been found yet. Now, listen."
The man with the very thick book came forward, flipped to a certain page, and held it open for her.
"'Laws on marriage,'" Mrs. Lanslo read aloud, slipping on a pair of spectacles that were hanging about her neck. "'Once an engagement has been finalized by the female voluntarily donning the traditional ring, said engagement may not be canceled by either party. All fiancees must dwell in the same abode. All engaged couples shall be thrown a wedding, all villagers invited. All married individuals must sleep in the same bed. All those married in their teenage years shall adopt one child and raise it.'"
Mrs. Lanslo, finished reading, lowered her spectacles. The keeper of the volume shut it gingerly and returned to his group. A silence had fallen as the laws were read, even though most of the gathered people probably couldn't understand a bit of English.
"What was that last part?" Milo managed to say, her throat starting to close up. The horror of the laws was biting into her, making her shrivel and shrink as each one was read off.
"You can adopt a child," Mrs. Lanslo said. "Simon will explain it to you later. It's sort of a package deal."
Package deal.
Milo remembered her parents once referring to the apartment building as a package deal. She wasn't in the mood for another one. Mayor Em-I spoke.
"He says," Mrs. Lanslo interpreted dutifully, "that these laws were made by our ancestors, and you will obey them."
Simon tried to give Milo back the engagement ring, but Milo just shook her head. Mostly in disbelief, but she was also saying no. No, no, no. Three no's in a row. No, she didn't want the ring. No, she didn't want to get married. And, no, she wasn't about to follow any unreasonable, unfair, cockamamie laws written up ages ago by a bunch of meddling lunatics.
Mayor Em-I saw only one No, but it was one No too many for him.With a shout, he leapt forward with surprising spryness, pulled a dagger out of his robe and deftly aimed it at Milo's throat. There was a collective intake of breath from everybody, especially Simon, who looked like he wanted to knock the dagger away, but didn't dare.
Milo was too frightened to move. She couldn't even properly see the dagger, but she could feel coldness emanating from its blade. Terrified, her thoughts erased, she let her hand hang limply in the air. Mayor Em-I grunted something sharply, and Simon tentatively came forward to put the ring on her finger. She began to sense that they weren't kidding.
"You never listen to me!" said Bob the Conscience.
The Island of Lote
The pain in her head had gone down to a dull ache, and she no longer felt sick to her stomach. She twitched her shoulders and her feet, checking to make sure she still could. She slowly opened her eyes, bright sunshine blinding her for a moment. After cringing and blinking a few times, her vision started to refocus, and she dis - covered that she was lying under a palm tree on a beach.
Sunlight was sifting through the long, narrow leaves up above her, and white sand lay beneath her, spreading out in all directions. However, she was far more startled by something else. Leaning over her, using a wet cloth to squeeze water onto her, was a boy.
He had straight, dirty-blonde hair, tousled from wind and hanging down an inch past his ears. His skin was a light, golden tan, undoubtedly the result of a life spent on an island, sand granules flecking his hands. He was wearing a pair of swimming shorts and a button down T-shirt, completely unbuttoned, firm abdominal muscles visible. His eyes, easy to inspect because they were less than three inches away from hers, were light brown. By his looks, he was a dream boy, a hot boy; the type of boy you can't help but gape at from afar, but would never dare approach.
Milo noticed this as she opened her eyes and he came into focus. But before she thought about any of that, she first thought, and expressed aloud, "Aaaaaahhhh!?!"
The boy, whoever he was, gave a shout of surprise and jumped backwards, toppling over onto the sand. They both sat frozen for a second, breathing heavily and staring at each other. He then smiled at her. Milo tried to move her head and was rewarded with a stab of pain.
"Ow," she groaned and hesitantly reached up to feel her head.
There was a cloth wrapped tightly around it. She ran her fingers over her face her face. All the blood had been washed off. Using her eyes, not wanting to disturb her cranium, she looked around her.
Her backpack, covered in a powdery layer of dried sea salt, was lying next to her. To the left of her was the suitcase that had knocked her out. Squinting, she could see other suitcases lining the shore, all having washed up the night before. Examining the one beside her the best she could at a distance, she gave a gasp of surprise. It was hers.
"Whoa!" she mumbled. "Weird!"
She then angled her gaze towards the boy, who hadn't budged and was still smiling at her.
"Nice teeth!" Bob the Conscience remarked.
"Bob!" Milo cried, flicking her eyes about until she remembered he was in her mind. "Where the heck were you last night?! Huh? I could have died!"
"I was with you last night," Bob the Conscience replied calmly.
"You just didn't recognize me because we weren't arguing. I made sure you got out of there safely. I guided you, just like in my job description. I pulled my act together."
"Oh," she said, guilt nudging her uncomfortably. "Right. Sorry. Thanks."
"Uh-huh," Bob the Conscience agreed. "So, who's the piece of beef?" he asked, changing the subject.
Milo, assuming he had meant the boy, admitted, "I don't know."
"Try talking to him."
"Kay?" she said nervously. "Um, hi!" she said to him.
The boy stopped smiling and looked perplexed.
"Hi!" Milo said a bit louder. "HELLO!"
She vigorously waved a hand back and forth. The boy, apparently understanding, smiled and waved back. He stood up quickly, walked over, and plonked himself down next to her, much closer than she would have thought necessary.
"Where am I?" she asked, trying to scoot a few inches away.
The boy once again frowned in confusion.
"WHERE - AM - I?!" Milo repeated slowly and clearly.
The boy's expression didn't change, though he stared at her intensely, so Milo decided to try gesturing. She rotated her arms, which were plenty sore from last night, in a wide arch, pointing all around her. She then shrugged and shook her head, immediately wincing afterwards.
The boy seemed to comprehend and said, "Blatih sa twra ito!"
Milo stared blankly at him.
"Pardon?" she said.
"Creee?" he responded.
"DO," she shouted, as if volume would alter his translation, "you speak English?!"
The boy didn't seem to grasp what she had asked. Milo made a talking motion with one of her hands, pointed to her tongue and then at him. It seemed to dawn on the boy what she meant, and he shook his head.
"Great!" Milo muttered, briefly looking away towards the ocean, it shimmering turquoise under the sun. She turned back to him. "None at all?"
The boy figured it'd be best to shake his head again.
"Oh, great!" Milo sighed. She again tried gesturing to everything around them, hoping he would say a word she recognized.
"Ito!" the boy said helpfully.
"Ito?" Milo repeated. She pointed at him and said, "Ito?"
"Pra, pra, pra!" he laughed, shaking his head. He poked a finger at his chest and said, "Simon!"
"Simon?" Milo repeated, pointing directly at him.
He nodded, grinning and crossing his legs comfortably.
"Huh!" she said. Inspired, she indicated to herself. "Milo!"
"Milo?" he echoed, giving it a slight trill. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Milo?"
She nodded encouragingly, eyeing the position of his hand.
Grinning broadly, he touched a hand to his collar bone. "Simon!"
He squeezed her shoulder. "Milo!"
"Yep!" she confirmed, pleased.
She nodded, for his benefit, and grinned. He grinned back, letting her go. Still, Milo didn't feel all that confident, so she decided to test. She pointed insistently to something behind the boy. He twisted around to look.
When his back was to her, Milo called out, "Simon!" His head whipped around and he stared at her questioningly. She did this several times before she felt satisfied. Suddenly he pointed past her.
"What?" she said, shifting around to look.
"Milo!"
She turned around. "Yeah?" she asked then saw his face.
He was no longer smiling, his arms crossed. Obviously, just because he couldn't speak English, didn't mean he was stupid.
"Oh," she whispered contritely. "Oh, sorry!" Not knowing what sort of gesture could mean "sorry", Milo gave him a tiny, sincere smile.
His grin returned instantly, and he mumbled something incoherent, yet cordial sounding. He stood, putting up one hand to tell her to stay there, not that Milo felt like wandering. He went over to a basket that Milo hadn't noticed earlier. He pulled out a bowl-shaped object and brought it over to her. Falling onto his knees, he showed it to her.
Milo peered in and saw some type of mush that looked like it had been mixed with corn and pepper. He scooped some out with his fingers and brought it to her mouth. She looked at it and then smelled it. It didn't smell too bad, rather fishy, but Milo wasn't about to eat it off his fingers.
She scraped some of the mush off with her own fingers and put it in her mouth. It was actually quite tasty. It reminded her faintly of tuna.
"Mmmm!" she told him, hoping that meant the same thing in any language.
The boy called Simon offered her what remained on his fingers and in the bowl. She accepted the bowl, but passed on the rest. Shrugging, he ate the leftovers on his fingers. Milo didn't realize it until then, but she was starving.
Simon watched her intently while she ate, a type of gleam appearing in his eyes. Briefly he got out a sort of container from his basket and offered it to her. Milo cautiously took a sip from it and was relieved to discover it held fresh water. She guzzled it, not caring if he was watching her. She hadn't drunk anything since last night, when she had swallowed all that ocean water. When the container was empty, she handed back to Simon, who put it away.
Milo was thoroughly enjoying herself. It had been a long time since she had gotten along with anyone close to her age, even though they couldn't verbally communicate, a fact she chose to ignore. While she ate, using one hand to ladle the mush to her mouth, she used the other to open her backpack to see if anything was damaged. Nothing seemed to be. Her clothes were still soggy, but everything else seemed fine.
"Thank Heaven for plastic bags!" Milo whispered, lightly touching her headphones.
She realized her hair was in her face, and felt around in her pack for another scrunchie. Finding one, she tried to pull her hair back, but the other hand was holding the bowl. Before she could set it down on the sand, Simon lean forward, took her hair and drew it back for her. With nimble one-handed dexterity, she put the scrunchie in, and he withdrew his hands.
"Thanks," she muttered, certain her embarrassment was written all over her face.
He smiled kindly at her and abruptly exploded into a frenzy of gibbering in his language. He gestured so fast that Milo couldn't catch a thing he was trying to tell her. Finally he stopped and stared at her expectantly. She stared back.
"What?" she asked, smiling and shaking her head.
He sighed and slowly said something in his language, enunciating each syllable. But of course Milo couldn't understand. She shrugged apologetically. Simon attempted several more times to relay what was on his mind, with no better results. Finally he stood up, turned away from her, and slowly began to walk, with one of his arms erect, like he was holding someone up. After he walked a ways, he turned around and walked back in the same fashion. Once he got back, he looked at her inquiringly, his head tilted to one side.
"Can I walk?" Milo thought. "I don't know. Maybe."
She tried moving one of her legs. It worked perfectly. She tried the other, and it jerked obediently.
"Yep," she said to Simon. She nodded.
Simon's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he hesitantly nodded back.
"Uh-huh!" Milo said, nodding faster and giving him a friendly grin.
Simon smiled hugely and laughed softly. The more Milo nodded, the happier he looked. The nodding continued, Milo not sure what else to do, until Simon suddenly let out a cry of joy. He jumped into the air, obviously unable to contain the delight that had overcome him. He flailed his arms and danced up and down the beach, kicking up sand and shouting unintelligibly. The whole time, Milo kept on smiling and nodding her head dumbly. She had no idea what was going on.
At last he stopped and rushed over to her. He bent down and hugged her.
"Uh!" she stuttered. "Um. Thanks. I guess."
Simon straightened up and grabbed one of her hands to pull her up.
"Whoa! Wait!" Milo cried.
She pushed against the ground with her other hand, first putting down the dish. Simon let her go when she was standing upright, leaning against the tree. He then took the bowl back to the basket and picked it up, along with her suitcase. Milo noticed that the basket looked similar to a reed basket she had seen in Hawaii. She had gone there with her parents when she was ten to see if they should live there. It didn't work out though, because while they were on a tour, her mother got bit by a snake and had to be rushed to the hospital. Her mother had had a bias against Hawaii ever since.
Milo was wobbly on her legs at first, and they were incredibly sore, but at least she could stand. She zipped up her backpack and slung it onto her shoulder. Simon grabbed her hand once more, first putting the basket under his other arm, and began to pull her towards the forest. The forest was a harsh entanglement of brush, vines, and trees, but eventually they came to a path. The path wound on and on, Milo not even noticing Simon's hand in hers because she was too busy gawking at everything around her. She saw gigantic leaves, vibrant flowers growing on bark, and different nationalities of ants running drills along tree trunks.
The further they went, occasionally having to pause so that Milo could rest, the more beaten down and worn the path became. Suddenly there was a sharp turn to the left. More turns came after it, and the trees became less dense.
They eventually came to a clearing, the sun creating one enormous patch of yellow on the brown ground, and when Milo looked to the left, she could see the beach. Not the one they had just left, however. This was a different, bigger beach that looked like it ran for miles, with rocks poking out of the water and bunches of boys scattered about.
The only other thing in the clearing, besides a few tropical trees dispersed here and there, was a house. Well, not really a house. It resembled a bungalow, only it was much larger. It was built out of a type of wood that, to Milo, looked like bamboo.
"Only it's not bamboo," she mused. "Bamboo isn't as big as that. It's not as wide or dark. That wood is very dark and not shiny. Bamboo always seems to look shiny, not dull like that."
Simon was leading her up to this house. He halted them when they were directly in front of the door, took her backpack from her, and disappeared inside.
"Hey!" she called out.
But he was back in a moment. He didn't have her luggage with him, but he did have something clutched in his hand.
After a few silent moments of them just staring at each other, Milo asked, "So! Whatcha got there?"
She indicated to his clenched fist. Simon, his mouth twitching, inhaled deeply several times before opening his hand to show her. In the center of his palm lay a small, round object topped by a sparkling dot. It was a diamond ring.
"Oh, cool!" Milo commented, taking a closer look at it. She had a keen interest in jewelry, or moreover all things shiny (cd's, silver tea sets, chef's knives, etc.). The only rings she could ever afford to buy were made out of glass, and tended to chip. This ring, however, looked real.
Simon grinned and shoved his hand towards her.
"For . . . me?" she said, dodging out of the way to avoid getting hit.
She pointed from it to herself, and Simon nodded enthusiastically.
"Oh, no! No, no, no!" she chuckled, taking a step backwards. "I can't take that from you. It looks way too expensive."
Simon of course didn't understand what she had said, and tried to put the ring on one of her fingers. Milo pulled her hand away each time, finally stuffing it into a very stiff pocket. But Simon, apparently not one to give up easily, pulled it out again by her wrist. Therefore Milo made a fist, not sure what else she could do, besides run away, which she doubted her legs could handle.
Simon tried to gently unfurl the fist, but she held firm, still shaking her head. However, he was obviously stronger than her, and as his coaxing became more insistent, Milo had to surrender. He opened her hand just wide enough to drop the ring inside, and quickly forced it closed again. Milo continued to shake her head, now trying to get him to take it back. Simon began to look confused and upset. He babbled something in his language, tapping one of her fingers.
"Oh, dear," Milo thought. She wanted to keep things friendly.
"Oh, well. If it makes him happy," she thought, though she didn't feel at all comfortable about taking it. But, hey! Who wouldn't want a diamond ring?
"Are you sure about wearing that?" Bob the Conscience asked.
"I wouldn't," she answered. "I don't know where he got it. It might be a family heirloom or something. But he seems to really want me to have it, and I don't want him to get mad. Why? Are you sensing something bad about it?"
"No, not really. It just sort of looks like an engagement ring or something."
Milo laughed. "Yeah! Sure! Riiight!"
Oh! If only she had listened!
She slid the ring onto the finger that Simon had tapped, and he resumed his smiling.
"There you go!" she told him, flourishing the hand in front of his face.
Suddenly he reached out and hugged her again, murmuring softly.
"Okay!" Milo squeaked. "Okay!" She gave him a hasty pat on the back.
He abruptly put an arm around her shoulders and led her inside the hut. She quickly shrugged him off, though, for she was begin - ning to feel a little uneasy about the way he was staying so close to her.
The house looked larger on the inside than on the outside. It had dirt floors, packed down hard. The door led into a walkway, a hall extending straight ahead, and on the left was what looked like a sitting room, filled with furniture made from the same wood as the house. To the right of the front door was a kitchen.
Simon walked into the kitchen, not bothering to show Milo the rest of the house. He took a sharp looking knife off one of the counters, which were also made from the strange wood. Milo, who had followed him into the kitchen, now started to rethink her decision. But the only thing Simon did with the knife was cut away the bandages on her head.
He did this so swiftly, the knife just a blur, that Milo's stomach lurched. He unwound the cloth carefully and examined the wound underneath. It seemed to meet his satisfaction, for he did not apply another bandage. Throwing the bloody cloth away in a wooden barrel, which appeared to be the trash can, he turned and headed the door.
Milo, who would have preferred to stay and explore the house, reluctantly followed. It was most definitely his house, and she didn't think it would be polite to wander through it without his company.
Once outside, he again tried to hold her hand. She clasped both her hands securely behind her back and marched straight ahead. Though this puzzled the boy, he decided not to start another argument.
This was wise, considering that Milo was a woman, and you simply can't mess around with women's feelings. Nothing can be more frightening than an angry female, and may no man forget it! Women are warriors of a different breed, and Milo was one of the toughest specimens. Simon could sense this in a small way; if she did not want to hold his hand, then she wouldn't. That was that. No debate. No pushing his luck.
Simon took the lead, striding towards the heart of the island. The ground was becoming as hard as regular cement. The trees were becoming fewer and fewer, and the hot sun beamed down on the two teens. Every now and then they would pass a house, built in the same fashion as Simon's, some smaller, some larger. As they walked on, the trees began to reappear. Very tall, wide trees with broad, green leaves that provided shade. Encircling the bases of those trees were flower beds, where tropical flora had been transplanted.
They trudged onward a short distance until they reached what undeniably had to be their destination. Passing several decorated trees, Milo gasped in amazement. It was a town! An entire town, constructed entirely from that strange type of wood. There were many houses, some sporting porches, several shops, one very large building with a huge doorway, a school house, and a church that she identified by the large cross on its roof. There was another big building, on the far side of town, with a second story and many windows. Milo couldn't tell what it was used for.
All these places were widely spread out from each other. Way off in the outskirts, Milo thought she could see what appeared to be a large, black house. Palm trees speckled the streets, towering over everything. These trees also had flower gardens planted around the bases, and some even had benches nailed around their trunks.
But what most astounded Milo was the abundance of people milling about. They were dressed almost exactly the same as people at home, only more modestly, with no offensive or statementmaking clothing. But since it was a tropical island, they were mostly dressed in colorful island attire. Such as what Simon was wearing.
Simon led Milo down the streets, pausing now and then to let her gape in through a window or at a passing person. Nobody was paying them much attention. Simon would occasionally receive a warm greeting, but Milo mostly got bemused stares.
They eventually reached a small store with a window cut into the wall. Attached to the window was a sill, and on the sill was a bell. Not the type of bell found in the lobby of 711 Shady Ally, that you slap and it would ding, but more like an old-fashioned school bell. Simon leaned his elbows on the sill and rang it. Like the bell at 711 Shady Ally, it also had a woman hurrying to answer the call. In complete contrast to Miz Ricca, this woman was a plump little thing, with a pleasant smile and a full bun of brown hair.
She began to gibber happily with Simon, who was very glad to see her. Reaching through the window, they embraced lightly. Milo quietly stood next to him, wondering why Simon had brought her over to meet this particular lady and if they were talking about her. She figured they were, because Simon put his hand on her shoulder while he spoke. As he jabbered away, the woman grew more and more excited. Her gaze kept flicking from Milo and to Simon, her smile growing larger and more animated.
When Simon finished talking, he pointed to the ring on Milo's finger, and the woman clapped her hands together, gleefully bouncing on her toes. She then did something that Milo had not expected at all. The woman spoke English.
"Aw! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!" she chirped in a rich Irish accent.
"You speak English?" Milo said, astonished.
"Oh yes, dear!" the woman laughed. "I can understand your surprise. I'm sure you think that everyone on the island speaks Galo."
"Galo?" Milo repeated breathlessly, bewildered.
"Yes, that's the name of the language." "Oh!" Milo exclaimed, looking behind her at all the sun soaked houses. "So, are they, like, Galonians? And is this the island of Gal?"
"Oh, no," the lady chuckled, waving the question away. "This island has no name. The people here are just people. They came up with the language many ages ago, and they are allowed to name it. So they named it Galo, just because they wanted to."
"Ah," Milo remarked, wondering why the language deserved a name, but nothing else did.
The woman extended her hand, and Milo politely shook it.
"I am Mrs. Lanslo, dear," she said, introducing herself.
"Hello," Milo said. "My name is -"
"Oh, I know already! Simon here told me. Milo. What a beautiful name! I adore it!"
Milo had to smile. This was not usually what she heard.
"But what is your last?" Mrs. Lanslo asked.
"Last what?" Milo said.
"Name, dear," Mrs. Lanslo clarified. "Simon said he doesn't know it."
"Oh! Right, um, Hestler."
Mrs. Lanslo nodded genially, and, turning to Simon, began to speak to him in the language Galo.
Milo heard her say Hestler, and assumed she was bringing him up to speed. Simon looked pleased, and Mrs. Lanslo again addressed Milo.
"Ah, yes!" she twittered joyfully. "Milo, Simon has told me everything! Absolutely everything! And I am so happy!"
"Did he?" she said nervously. "I didn't know there was that much to tell." What was going on?
"Oh, of course there is! And there's sooo much to tell you, as I am sure you have many questions."
"Yeah, I do," she admitted. "First off, we weren't properly introduced. Who exactly is this?"
She nodded to Simon.
Mrs. Lanslo laughed heartily, a hand flying to her chest, and said, "This is Simon Swallow."
"Simon Swallow," Milo repeated, so as not to forget.
Simon, upon hearing his name said twice, gibbered inquiringly to Mrs. Lanslo. She explained what was going on, and he, grinning, offered his hand to Milo. She shook it and afterwards practically had to yank hers out of his grasp.
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Lanslo continued proudly. "A fine boy he is. Understanding and kind. Responsible and polite. Charming and law-abiding. All the girls swoon over him, which makes it a mystery why he has been looking so long for a wife."
"A wife?" Milo gasped, unbelieving. "How old is he?"
"Sixteen, dear. But on this island, when a boy is over fifteen, he can marry any girl over thirteen."
Milo was speechless, her jaw lax and dropping. To her very Western Hemisphere state of mind, this was the most outlandish thing she had ever heard of. "Really?" she stammered.
"Yes," Mrs. Lanslo confirmed carelessly, as if it were a common, reputable practice. "It is an island law. There are many laws here, especially about marriage, and they are always enforced, no matter what."
Milo looked startled.
"But don't worry, dear! The laws are quite reasonable, and as long as you obey them, you have nothing to worry about. All the boys here over fifteen are trying to get married. If a boy is still single when he turns twenty-two, a wife is chosen for him; if he wants to marry, that is. Simon has always wanted to marry, and has been looking for the right bride for some time now. And finally - Oh, I am so happy! - he has found one. Simon is friends with everyone here, and we all will be very happy to see him marry at last!"
"Who is it?" Milo asked Simon.
Even though those laws gave her the creeps, she felt she should at least be happy for him. But instead of translating, Mrs. Lanslo looked confused. She said to her, "Why, dear, it's you." Milo stood, staring transfixed at them, until she began to laugh.
"Yeah! Sure! Riiiight!" She repeated exactly what she had said to Bob the Conscience.
Sometimes the strongest, most provoking words in the world are words of silence, and those very words were being spoken by Mrs. Lanslo and Simon. They said nothing to her. Right to her face. They stared at her, and their looks brought on the horrid truth. The more Milo absorbed these stares of verification, the more she began to lose it.
Slowly she began to shake her head and to utter words such as: "Nuh. Unna. Nuha." She then looked down at the ring on her hand and screamed. Milo wasn't a person to scream at any old thing. When she was on the plane she had a good reason to scream. Sheer terror was coursing through her veins during that time, and this one moment seemed almost worse.
When she finally cut off her screams she looked, panic stricken, at Mrs. Lanslo.
"No!" she cried desperately.
"I don't understand, dear," Mrs. Lanslo said, concerned. "Why are you so upset?"
"Why?!" Milo repeated, breathing hard, her limbs trembling. "Why? Be-because! That's why! I don't want to get married! I mean, come on! Married? Are you kidding?"
Mrs. Lanslo, in a tone that implied that she was far from kidding, asked, "If you don't want this, then why did you say yes?"
"Yes?" Milo cried, hitting her forehead with her palm. "I didn't know he was proposing to me! I don't even think he did!"
"Think hard," Mrs. Lanslo said gently.
Suddenly a gesture on the beach flew to Milo's mind, and she gasped in horror. She whirled on the spot and glared at Simon, who knew what was going on thanks to Mrs. Lanslo translating for him.
"You!" she accused under her breath. "You didn't!"
"I'm afraid he did, dear," Mrs. Lanslo interjected. Milo faced her desperately, her brow wrinkled and breaking out in a sweat that wasn't just from the heat.
"Well . . . oh, come on! I didn't know what he was saying! It could have meant anything! I didn't know what I was saying yes to! So . . . technically, I'm not engaged!"
As she thought this over, a small smile of relief curled up on her lips.
"But you have on the ring," Mrs. Lanslo observed, after telling Simon all this. Milo looked back at the ring with new fear.
"Oh. Yeah," she said, without much else to say. She glanced up at the two other people and saw the concerned expressions they had. "Um," Milo mumbled, realizing that she didn't have much of an excuse. "Well. Okay! I don't know why I put on the stupid ring! But I still don't have to marry him!"
With that, she wrenched off the ring and threw it at Simon's feet. He gasped and hurriedly scooped it up. He tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't take it, instead crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. Finally, he said something to Mrs. Lanslo, who stood in shock at what Milo had done.
"He says," she breathed heavily, "that you have to wear it, and that he wants you to."
"I don't care what he wants!" Milo exploded aggressively. "I don't have to be engaged if I don't want to!"
"Actually, dear," Mrs. Lanslo whispered. "You do." Milo turned her mutinous glare on the little woman. "What?" she snapped.
"It's one of our laws," she explained patiently. "Once you are engaged, you have to get married. There's no breaking it. Once the girl says yes and puts the ring on, that's that. The deal is sealed."
"B-b-but I didn't know what he was saying!" Milo cried, after finding her voice.
"That would be an arguable case, dear, if you hadn't put on the ring."
Milo, now tapping her fingers on the window sill in an agitated manner, tried to figure this out.
"So," she choked out, "since I put on the ring, I can't get out of it?"
"Yes," Mrs. Lanslo said, nodding sagely. "That's right."
Milo stood gasping, at a loss for words. That is, until she found some.
"I'll just refuse then!" she declared, pounding a fist onto the wood. "You can't force me to marry!"
"Well . . . yes, we can," Mrs. Lanslo said softly. Milo, her complexion getting more ashen by the minute, said weakly, "What?"
"We can," Mrs. Lanslo repeated, "and we have, and we will. Unless, of course, you do it willingly, dear."
"Never!!!" she shouted, out of control.
At this point, there was a yell for attention behind her, which sounded more like a grunt. Simon and Mrs. Lanslo instantly stiffened with respect. Milo swiveled around to see who was behind her.
There was a group of old - excuse me - older men with pinched faces and impressive beards. They were all wearing long, black and grey robes, and were holding many books. One man especially, whose robe was extra dark and held one exceptionally thick book.
The man in front stepped forward and began to talk to Mrs. Lanslo in a gruff voice. Mrs. Lanslo promptly answered in Galo. She spoke very fast and pointed from Simon to Milo, then from Milo to Simon. The man, whose garb was slightly fancier than the rest, became very angry, the impressive mustache over his impressive beard bristling dangerously. He spoke severely to Simon, who answered him quietly, his gaze reverently downcast. Milo was terrified. Who were these men?
A crowd was beginning to form around the scene, people gibbering to each other out of the corners of their mouths. The man spoke sternly to Mrs. Lanslo, and Mrs. Lanslo spoke to Milo.
"This," she said seriously, indicating to man, "is the President, or Mayor, of the island. Mayor Em-I. He works in the library with these other gentlemen. They make sure everyone abides by the laws."
"I can't see a library," Milo whispered, trying not to look at the mayor. Mrs. Lanslo pointed to a small building on the other side of town. "That doesn't seem big enough to be a library."
"The library's underground," Mrs. Lanslo said dismissively. "Listen, please. Mayor Em-I wants to, first of all, welcome you to our island."
Milo glanced at him dubiously, wondering if this man had ever welcomed anyone to anywhere in his life.
"And second of all," Mrs. Lanslo continued, "to let you know that even though you've just arrived, you still have to obey our laws. He doesn't want you to cause trouble right now, because they are about to investigate a plane that crashed here last night."
"That's my plane," Milo muttered.
"Is there anyone else with you?"
"No, everyone else escaped without me," she mumbled bitterly.
"Oh. Well, the Mayor wants me to read you a few of the other laws, and let you know that you will obey them. No matter what."
More incoherent jabbering ensued between the officials and Mrs. Lanslo, before she added submissively, "This island has been functioning beautifully for generations, and you will not be a disruption."
"Well, we'll see about that!"Milo replied with new vigor, obliged to disrupt no matter where she was. "I'll be rescued anyway."
Mrs. Lanslo began to laugh, holding on to her middle, and relayed to the others what Milo had said. Everyone immediately laughed hard along with her. Milo looked around with wide, troubled eyes. Apparently, this was a humorous topic.
"My dear," Mrs. Lanslo exclaimed, after she got control of herself and caught her breath. "No one knows this island exists! Nobody has ever been rescued from here. I myself crashed here five years ago and haven't been found yet. Now, listen."
The man with the very thick book came forward, flipped to a certain page, and held it open for her.
"'Laws on marriage,'" Mrs. Lanslo read aloud, slipping on a pair of spectacles that were hanging about her neck. "'Once an engagement has been finalized by the female voluntarily donning the traditional ring, said engagement may not be canceled by either party. All fiancees must dwell in the same abode. All engaged couples shall be thrown a wedding, all villagers invited. All married individuals must sleep in the same bed. All those married in their teenage years shall adopt one child and raise it.'"
Mrs. Lanslo, finished reading, lowered her spectacles. The keeper of the volume shut it gingerly and returned to his group. A silence had fallen as the laws were read, even though most of the gathered people probably couldn't understand a bit of English.
"What was that last part?" Milo managed to say, her throat starting to close up. The horror of the laws was biting into her, making her shrivel and shrink as each one was read off.
"You can adopt a child," Mrs. Lanslo said. "Simon will explain it to you later. It's sort of a package deal."
Package deal.
Milo remembered her parents once referring to the apartment building as a package deal. She wasn't in the mood for another one. Mayor Em-I spoke.
"He says," Mrs. Lanslo interpreted dutifully, "that these laws were made by our ancestors, and you will obey them."
Simon tried to give Milo back the engagement ring, but Milo just shook her head. Mostly in disbelief, but she was also saying no. No, no, no. Three no's in a row. No, she didn't want the ring. No, she didn't want to get married. And, no, she wasn't about to follow any unreasonable, unfair, cockamamie laws written up ages ago by a bunch of meddling lunatics.
Mayor Em-I saw only one No, but it was one No too many for him.With a shout, he leapt forward with surprising spryness, pulled a dagger out of his robe and deftly aimed it at Milo's throat. There was a collective intake of breath from everybody, especially Simon, who looked like he wanted to knock the dagger away, but didn't dare.
Milo was too frightened to move. She couldn't even properly see the dagger, but she could feel coldness emanating from its blade. Terrified, her thoughts erased, she let her hand hang limply in the air. Mayor Em-I grunted something sharply, and Simon tentatively came forward to put the ring on her finger. She began to sense that they weren't kidding.
"You never listen to me!" said Bob the Conscience.
The Island of Lote
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