Trading Rosemary by Octavia Cade

Author:Octavia Cade
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: science fiction
Publisher: Masque Books
Published: 2013-10-25T04:00:00+00:00

Cargill

The fifth coin had gone to a jewelry collector who lived in the far south of the archipelago, one who specialized in coins that were slightly warped and just round enough to give the illusion of beads. Rosemary paid for its return with a necklace of shimmery coins she made herself, aboard a private sailboat she had hired to quicken the journey to Dunedin. She spent several days wearing her own necklace, feeling the flashes of pleasure, of fragmented memory and flickering emotion, feeling the way they intertwined when brushing against her skin. It was a highly sensuous experience, lying on deck, playing with her necklace and smiling at the crew—especially the cook, who cooked her gurnard he caught fresh, and told her stories of the places he had visited.

Why not? she thought, when he came back early from shore leave. Rosemary had not wanted to leave the boat, had come back as soon as she was able, once the arrangements for the following day’s trade had been completed. The necklace hung prettily around her neck, coins twisting against her skin, brief contacts flashing through her consciousness, the smell and feel of the coast.

She helped him stow the supplies, unsurprised when one of his hands brushed against hers in the galley, and again on the deck. She had spread blankets there to sunbathe, and the wool caught against her bared skin. Why not? There were no responsibilities here, no child or library or household to consider, just the warmth of the wind on her bare skin, the gentle rocking of the boat, the smell of the sea around her, and the shadows of gulls passing over the boat.

Always strong-stomached, she enjoyed the sunlit rocking, tempered as it was in harbor. The heat of the sun left her dizzy, closing her eyes against the brightness.

Above her, he smelled of cockles and fresh thyme, the faint astringency of lemon. Her breath seemed magnified in her ears; the slap of water loud against the side of the boat. She moved with him and the boat, and the memories jostled against naked skin, changing positions as she rocked, bright flashes before closed eyes.

Jam jar gleams green in the sun, a plastic roof tied taut, tight with rubber. Many hands pass it along, octopus-like, but unlike the octopus no one opens the jar—although why they don’t is beyond her. Probably no one would let them do it, for fear it would upset the parents. But then, passing a poisonous spider around in a jam jar was okay, especially when the one who was poisoned was doing the passing. Got bit several times, he said. Felt like being pinched with pliers, he said. She peers closely through the jar, at the multifaceted eyes within, but the katipo is small, inoffensive, and when it waves its legs it is impossible to see where its mouth is, when it would bite.

They live in driftwood, he said, the dry salt scent of driftwood. The afternoon sun fell golden around, golden outside and greenly within the jar.

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