The Three Sirens Read Online Free PDF Page A

rowing—combined with the discomfort of the almost airless, muggy afternoon, unrelieved by any stir of breeze—had me soaked through with perspiration by the time we had made the beach. The stretch of sandy beach, the crags behind, met us in silence. When I alighted, it was as if I had stepped on the earth of Eden the fourth day after Genesis. (Forgive my eloquence, Dr. Hayden, but this was how I felt.)
    After Rasmussen had secured the craft, he lost no time. “It’ll take a half-hour’s stiff climb, if we keep movin’, to reach your god plateau.”
    I was at his heels as he led the way to a narrow, winding footpath that ascended gradually along the slope of a cliff. “Are there people here?” I wanted to know. “Who are Paoti and Courtney?”
    “Don’t go wastin’ your breath,” growled Rasmussen, ” ‘cause you’ll be needin’ it.”
    Lest I weary you with the details of my adventure, Dr. Hayden, I will be as concise as possible about our climb to the plateau. The path was not steep, but constantly rising, and the rock walls on either side hoarded the stifling heat of the early day and was suffocating. Because I called a halt, several times, to ease the stitch in my side, our ascension took nearly three-quarters of an hour. In that period, Rasmussen uttered not one word to me. His lined, burned face was grim, and he turned aside my inquiries with cross grumbles and snarls.
    At last, the rock formations reached the summit of a broad boulder, which led to verdant hillocks, and these slowly merged into the long, level plateau.
    “Here you are,” were the first words Rasmussen had spoken in all this while. “What you goin’ to do now?”
    “Examine it.”
    I went deeper across the plateau, estimating its length and width, judging its evenness, studying the vegetation, testing the consistency of the soil, attentive even to the direction of the winds. I did all that Mr. Trevor had instructed me to do. It was during my absorbed examination—we could have been on this plain no longer than an hour, and I was on my hands and knees testing the grass and topsoil—that I first heard the voices. I lifted my head with surprise to realize that Rasmussen was not behind me. I quickly cast about, and then I saw him and saw that he was not alone.
    I leaped to my feet. I could make out that Rasmussen was in the company of two towering, lean, fair-skinned native males, one carrying a short stone adze. As far as I could judge, from my distance, and with Rasmussen blocking a full view, both native men were naked. They were in stances of repose, listening, as Rasmussen spoke to them, gesticulating broadly. Once, he half pivoted, to indicate me, and when I mistook this as an invitation to approach them, Rasmussen quickly waved me to remain where I stood. The conversation, out of earshot, went on for perhaps another five minutes, and then suddenly the three of them came toward me.
    As they advanced, I could make out the features of the two native men, and I could see that one was possibly Polynesian while the other was definitely Caucasian, although both were of the same color. They were each naked, head to toe, except for one concession to modesty. Both men wore white pubic bags—like the medieval codpieces—around their genitals, loosely held up by thin coconut fiber strands around their waists. I must confess I was disconcerted, for though I had seen these supporters in Melanesia some years ago, they are no longer the fashion in civilized Polynesia, where Western trousers or native kilts are favored. I had the impression that these men, or whomever they represented, were adhering to the old ways and had been untouched by modern influences.
    “Professor Easterday,” Rasmussen was saying, “these gentlemen were huntin’ near here when they saw my signal an’ came up to meet us. This is Mr. Thomas Courtney, an American who is an honorary member of the Sirens tribe. And this is Moreturi, oldest son of Paoti Wright, Chief