Hot Ice

too, honor their ancestors.”
    “What?”
    “Just tell her.”
    Humoring him, Whitney did so and was rewarded with a beaming smile. “You are welcome to what we have,” she said before she left them alone.
    “What was that about?”
    “She said something about fadamihana.”
    “Yes, they’re preparing for it, whatever it is.”
    “Feast of the dead.”
    She stopped examining a bowl to turn to him. “I beg your pardon?”
    “It’s an old custom. Part of Malagasy religion is ancestor worship. When somebody dies, they’re always brought back to their ancestral tombs. Every few years they disentomb the dead and hold a party for them.”
    “Disentomb them?” Immediate revulsion took over. “That’s disgusting.”
    “It’s part of their religion, a gesture of respect.”
    “I hope no one respects me that way,” she began, but her curiosity got the better of her. She frowned as Doug poured water into the bowl. “What’s the purpose?”
    “When the bodies are brought up, they’re given a place of honor at the celebration. They get fresh linen, palm wine, and all the latest gossip.” He dipped both hands in the bowl of water and splashed it over his face. “It’s their way of honoring the past, I guess. Of showing respect for the people they descended from. Ancestor worship’s the root of Malagasy religion. There’s music and dancing. A good time’s had by all, living or otherwise.”
    So the dead weren’t mourned, Whitney mused. They were entertained. A celebration of death, or perhaps more accurately of the bond between life and death. Suddenly she felt she understood the ceremony and her feelings about it changed.
    Whitney accepted the soap Doug offered and smiled at him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
    He lifted a small, rough towel and scrubbed it over his face. “Beautiful?”
    “They don’t forget you when you die. You’re brought back, given a front-row seat at a party, filled in on all the town news, and drunk to. One of the worst things about dying is missing out on all the fun.”
    “The worst thing about dying is dying,” he countered.
    “You’re too literal. I wonder if it makes it easier to face death knowing you’ve got something like that to look forward to.”
    He’d never considered anything made it easier to face death. It was just something that happened when you couldn’t con life any longer. He shook his head, dropping the towel. “You’re an interesting woman, Whitney.”
    “Of course.” Laughing, she lifted the soap and sniffed. It smelled of crushed, waxy flowers. “And I’m starving. Let’s see what’s on the menu.”
    When Marie came back, she had changed into a colorful skirt that skimmed her calves. Outside, villagers were busily loading a long table with food and drink. Whitney, who’d been expecting a few handfuls of rice and a fresh canteen, turned to Marie again with thanks.
    “You are our guests.” Solemn and formal, Marie lowered her eyes. “You have been guided to our village. We offer the hospitality of our ancestors and celebrate your visit. My father has said we will have today as holiday in your honor.”
    “I only know we’re hungry.” Whitney reached out to touch her hand. “And very grateful.”
    She stuffed herself. Though she didn’t recognize anything but the fruit and rice, she didn’t quibble. Scents flowed on the air, spicy, exotic, different. The meat, without aid of electricity, had been cooked over open fires and in stone kilns. It was gamey and rich and wonderful. The wine, cup after cup of it, was potent.
    Music began, drums and rough wind and string instruments that formed thready, ancient tunes. The fields, it seemed, could wait one day. Visitors were rare, and once accepted, prized.
    A little giddy, Whitney swirled into a dance with a group of men and women.
    They accepted her, grinning and nodding as she mimicked their steps. She watched some of the men leap and turn as the rhythm quickened. Whitney let her head fall back with her laugh. She thought of the smoky, crowded clubs she patronized. Electric music, electric lights. There, each one tried to outshine the other. She thought of some of the smooth, self-absorbed men who’d partnered her— or tried to. Not one of them would be able to hold up against a Merina. She whirled until her head spun and then turned to Doug.
    “Dance with me,” she demanded.
    Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright. Against him, she was warm and impossibly soft. Laughing,