He shook his head. From a disastrous start, it had actually turned into a pleasant evening. All they needed now was to find a way to stop Lamont from fishing. For a man who claimed he’d never caught a fish in his life the guy was an embarrassment. Even when he dropped an empty hook into a rock pool, he somehow caught an eel. Heh. It was definitely getting on Liz’s nerves. She kept muttering something about “beginner’s luck.” But Jerry suspected that the goddess of luck’s blessing had a more long-lasting effect on Lamont than he would have supposed.
More than anything else, the good relationship had been fostered by the two children. They’d been both trusting and inclined to questions which adults might have shied from. “Why is your hair such a funny color, lady?” demanded the younger child.
“I dyed it,” replied Liz.
“Why? Did you want to look like a nereid?” asked the older boy.
Liz shrugged. “Because I thought it might make me look prettier.”
Both children fell about in helpless laughter.
And then—wonder of wonders—the stolid Cruz turned into the kind of guy who liked playing “horse” and “merry-go-round” for kids.
The other thing that had been fairly priceless was the reaction of Medea and Glauce to the men cooking for them and serving them with food. It was known that men could cook—well, char meat—when they had to. But as it turned out it was the men of this party who could really cook.
Cruz’s contribution had been particularly valued. Red mullet briefly marinated in some of Medea’s olive oil, chopped fennel, and a little wine, and then encased in wild vine leaves and grilled. The sergeant seemed to be a cornucopia of surprises.
Also inspired had been Lamont’s rosemary-twig-skewered venison liver. Pure chance had governed that one: “I want sticks that won’t kill us and it’s an herb, Jerry. It’s got to be non-toxic.” It had worked extremely well, especially basted with the hot sauce which McKenna had in his rucksack.
In each case, Jerry knew, it had been force of circumstance that had taught the men how to cook—but Medea seemed convinced that it was a general American trait.
“This island—America—where the men cook and wait on the women . . . is it the Land of the Giants?” she asked, peering up at the red-headed, six-foot-two paratrooper.
McKenna, very well oiled with wine by now, nodded eagerly. “And the Packers and the Jets and the Steelers and the—”
Cruz belched. “Oakland Raiders.” Belch. “My team.”
21
Pigging out with Circe.
Rosy-fingered dawn smeared the sky, outlining a solitary fisherman on rocks lapped by the full tide.
Jerry peered. “For Christ’s sake, Lamont! Haven’t you caught enough fish yet?”
Lamont shrugged. “Well, there’s breakfast to provide for a fair number of people. And those dragons eat a lot.”
“And you don’t just like fishing?” Jerry grinned. “Don’t expect me to swallow that line.”
Lamont smiled back. “No, I don’t like fishing. I like catching fish. I thought you’d have hooked onto that. Yesss! Another one!”
“It’s only just dawn,” grumbled Liz from the cave, “and you two are punning already. There ought to be a law against it.”
Lamont looked at Jerry. “It’s amazing how grumpy some people can be when they can’t have any coffee first thing in the morning.”
“Gah. Did you have to remind me?” Liz, tousle-haired and rumpled, emerged from behind the sleeping dragons. “I’ll swear these things are twice as fat as they were yesterday. They look like little balloons. What are you up to?”
“I thought I’d get the fire ready for the great fisherma—”
The dragon-flatulent blast nearly shattered their eardrums. Cruz and McKenna appeared as if by magic—spears in hand, looking for a foe.
Liz waved a hand in front of her nose. “No naked lights or matches! Or it’s your life!”
She moved hastily upwind. “Now I think I understand how they can fly. Talk about gasbags . . . ”
Jerry grinned. “Good thing you weren’t smoking!”
Liz raised her gentian eyes to heaven. “Something to be said for giving up. ‘You won’t accidentally set fire to dragon farts.’ The born-again breathers will just love that.”
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