And then I thought that perhaps I should kill Adam. He had already killed William and my father. He would never appear before a jury, as Justine Mortiz had. Perhaps I had a duty to be his judge and executioner. But even if I could find a way to overcome his greater strength, I lacked the courage. I could not kill the spider that wove its web in a corner of the ceiling. I had never killed anything in my life, and could not do so now, in my death-life.
One night, he was sitting in my father’s chair, waiting for me to finish making our dinner. My father had brought several bottles of whiskey from Mainland. He used to drink a glass after dinner, to aid digestion, he said. I thought it was foul stuff myself, but then I have never liked the taste of spirits, not even as Justine Moritz. Adam had found the bottles and taken to drinking, first after dinner, and then during the daytime. That night, he had already drunk several glassfuls of the amber liquid. And he was excited: he had finally decided that we would go to Africa. With our superior strength, we could traverse jungles and deserts that made the interior of the continent dangerous for white men. We would see what no European had ever seen. Surely the rude savages would worship us as gods. All day, he had been talking about it, asking if I wished to go to Africa with him, there to start a new race, more than human. I would be his Eve in that distant paradise. Eventually our children would return to Europe and rule over civilized men, who had grown weak and overconfident through their use of technology. I said yes, of course I was excited at such a prospect. I agreed with him so he would not get angry, to keep him in good humor.
I was cooking potatoes in lard over the fire, stirring them in a skillet with a wooden spoon. The skillet was set on a metal grill directly over the flames. I was trying not to burn the potatoes, and although I said that yes, we would go to Africa, to start a new race there, I suppose my distracted assents did not satisfy him. Suddenly, he was next to me.
“You are going to love me, are you not?” he asked. He smelled of whiskey. “Justine, look at me. Tell me that you will love me, in time.”
I looked up at him, startled. This was a question he had never asked before. I did not love him—I loathed the sight of him, and at that moment he saw the truth in my face. He roared with rage and caught me by the throat. “I shall make you love me! You shall either love me or die.”
I gasped for air. What madness was this? We were the only two of our kind in the whole world, and he would kill me? I, whom he had called his Eve, whom he considered a mate and the mother of his future children?
But he was enraged, and the whiskey was clouding his mind. Slowly, I could feel his hands closing around my windpipe. I still had the handle of the skillet in my hand. I swung it toward him, flinging the hot lard and potatoes into his face. He screamed and let go of my throat, stumbling back and clawing at his eyes. I did not give him time to recover—if I had, he surely would have killed me. I swung the skillet, hitting him on the side of the head. Over and over I swung it, hitting him about the head as he staggered back, then fell on one knee, roaring and still trying to see, in pain. Blow after blow, for he was so strong that it took many to fell him. Finally he lay on the ground, still.
I did not know if I had killed him or merely rendered him unconscious, but as soon as he was no longer moving, I dropped the skillet and ran, out of the cottage and down to the shore where my father’s boat was pulled up beyond the tidemark. I lifted it and carried it to the water, then pushed it out as far as I could. I got into the boat and began to row. I had never done such a thing before, and it took a moment to adjust to the oars and the buoyancy of the water beneath me. But I had seen my father do it, and I stroked as he had. Slowly, but steadily, I rowed away from that island, south toward the Scottish shore. I worried about missing it, not knowing how the ocean currents might carry me, but I consigned myself to God and prayed that He would guide my boat. If He wished me dead upon the seas, that was His prerogative. At least I would not die by Adam’s hand.
Night fell, but my father had taught me about the stars, so I continued to row, heading always south. When the sun rose, I saw that I had reached a rocky shore, and I breathed a prayer of thanks that I had not crashed upon it. I did not know where I was, but I pulled my boat up on the rocks and climbed to the highest point, a hill of scrubby grass. There, I looked about me. As far as I could see, there was nothing: the sea on one side and barren hills on the other. What could I do but walk, following the shore, knowing that sooner or later I might reach a fishing village? To the west, the shore veered south, so I went both westward and southward at once, with the wind howling over the hills on my left, and the sea crashing on my right.
After three days of walking, I came upon a village, a small one tucked into a cove. It was clear that the village made its trade from the sea, for there were fishing boats in the harbor. I know now that it was a tiny place, scarcely a hamlet, but at the time it was the largest I had ever seen.
I was starving. I had been walking for three days, all day and most of the night, sleeping as little as possible, curling into what crevices I could find. I could go for a long time without food; nevertheless, I felt the pangs of hunger like any other creature. I had eaten some berries that grew on the low shrubs—no berries were poisonous to my constitution. I had eaten mussels washed up on the shore, and some snails, raw because if Adam was following me, a fire might alert him to my presence.
I knew how the people of that village would treat me, for Adam had told me how men and women treated our kind. Even the children had thrown rocks at him, called him monster, driven him from their midst in fear. But the town had a bakery, and I could smell bread, fresh because it was still morning. It stirred a distant memory of Justine Moritz taking a basket of bread, fresh from the oven in the great kitchen of the house in Geneva, to her mother’s house. I imagined what that bread would taste like and thought, What if they kill me? Perhaps I deserved death after all, not for my actions, which I thought had been justified, but because of what I am. That is what hunger and tiredness will do to the mind. At last, even the instinct of self-preservation begins to go.
I walked into that village, my clothes stiff with mud and saltwater, my hair tangled like a bird’s nest. The fishermen saw me first, back from their morning’s catch, gutting their fish or mending their nets. They stared at me, as at an apparition that had walked into their midst. Then a boy who had been kicking a ball in the village square saw me, and called to his playfellows. They shouted at one another, but not with fear, neither with hatred. No, it was . . . excitement. Even a sort of delight. I looked at them curiously.
Several of the fishermen left their boats and walked toward me. Ah, I thought. Now the stoning will start. But I could not make myself turn and walk away. These were the first men I had seen, apart from my father. I wanted to stay with them and continue to smell the tantalizing scent of fresh bread from the bakery.