Free The Laughing Falcon by William Deverell

sand.
    The visual banquet spread before her was so beyond her experience that she could not take it all in. She removed her glasses, fogged them, cleaned them, then slowly surveyed the long curve of beach at low tide, the canopied jungle promontory abutting it, the rocky islets in the distance, their sheer walls topped with green brush cuts, waves crashing, birds calling, a rich humid salty smell suffusing the air. The bleak prairies had not prepared her for such sensory extravagance.
    She strolled along, her feet splashing through waves as they petered out by the tide line. Sandpipers scattered before her, regrouped, and flew off again on stiff, beating wings. She studied the tall, cresting waves, which had attracted several surf-boarders. Though Maggie was a strong swimmer she decided to seek out the quieter beaches of the nearby national park; she had never swum in an ocean before and worried about currents.
    At a wooden booth, she paid an entrance fee and was handed a brochure, then made her way to a placid stretch of beach — a scimitar of soft sand cupping a bay of blue-green water and fringed with leafy trees twisting toward the shore. Behind her rose the virgin jungle of Manuel Antonio Park.
    Her new-found bliss shattered when, out of nowhere, like an unexpected burp, came Pablo Esquivel’s sugary words.
You are unlike some of the empty-headed women I have been forced to know
.She felt seared; no one’s head had been emptier than hers. Here, however, was medicine for her soul: the sweet healing waters of the ocean. She laid out a towel, shucked her shorts and T-shirt, tucked her glasses in her pack, and ran, arms flailing, into the tropical sea. The warmth of the water felt almost sinful.
    After several minutes of a leisurely swim, and a longer time letting the surf toss her aimlessly like clothes in a washer, she began to chide herself for her glumness. What an idiot she had been: the stereotypical naïve tourist; Pablo must have seen her coming a mile down Rural Route Two.
    But adversity was not without its rewards; Pablo had inspired an admirably villainous foil for her heroine’s affections. Even if spurious, his story of a lost mission was a plot that might even be worth eight hundred dollars, plus the bill for the meal and the tip. She would steal from the thief: he held no copyright on his tale of buried Spanish treasure. Several weekends of toil at the University of Saskatchewan library would bring Captain Morgan and the sack of Panama into bold relief.
    As she bobbed in the waves, she felt her spirits rising on the wings of inspiration. She would refashion her novel — every second of last evening would be recreated for
The Torrid Zone
. (Will the worldly Dr. Fiona Wardell be seduced into the rascal’s bed? Will he slip away with the treasure map?)
    For this conceit to succeed, however, the heroine must become more Maggie-like; Fiona, once so graceful and lithe, will find herself slightly uncoordinated: if not an endearing trait, this will add verisimilitude. The early chapters will reek of authenticity; the characters will jump from the pages. Her bad encounter could well have been a lucky turn of fate: a career-enhancing soft collision between woman and man.
    After playing in the waves for half an hour, Maggie crawled onto her towel and brought out her notepad, feeling perkier, more like Maggie Poppins. She was intrigued by the concept of reshaping Fiona in her own image.
Creative Writing 403: Seek character in yourself
. Perhaps, in doing so, she will find a pathwayto the meaning of love, discover the elusive glue that binds woman and man. (Surely that overpowering rush she felt last night was a false symptom, brought on by deceit, a fleeting thing, almost forgotten now.)
    She must create a role for her hero.
Only one other person knew the upper reaches of the Savage River
. Just as Fiona had begun to metamorphose, so would Jacques; someone of a different mould was now required. Discard these: