Into the LairWild Life 15
*
“You’d better get cracking packing,” the dark haired, dark
eyed young Irish woman suggests.“It’s starting to get late,” Penny
says. She emerges from the stairwell draped in a long mourning robe - a sardonic
vision of gothic splendour that appears in a corner of the shaman’s distracted
vision. Her plump black pussycat style is a perfect counterpoint to the
blinding brightness of the ravishing younger beauty, who sways to the music
before his rapt gaze.
The redhead teen’s translucent
skin seems to shine right through the sheer white gown that reveals as much of
her extraordinary figure as it conceals. The grapefruit orbs of her breasts are
so firm that they barely roll beneath the loose nightdress. The garment is so
brief her ultrawhite legs rise up all the way up to a lacy hem that rides her
curvaceous buttocks like the tattered edge of a schooner’s sail in the face of an
approaching tempest. Her hips swing around, forward and back as she moves to
the music, barely an arm’s length from his eyes. A mauve-lidded gaze glitters
behind a screen of russet lashes, and a half-moon smile creases a single
crescent dimple below her rosy cheek when she notes his attentiveness.
When he’d appeared at the door of
the inner-city terrace the shaman had weathered knowing looks and
conspiratorial winks from Penny, Seheal’s perpetually bemused girlfriend. “I
was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it in time.”
“In time for what?” She’d ignored
the question and ushered him downstairs with an unlikely sense of ceremony, as
if his arrival and imminent departure with the teenage redhead was a matter of
grave import – or critical timing. “She was
sure you’d be here, so of course I should have known…”
Now Penny clears her throat, eyes
riveted to the younger girl as the vinyl track pulses from spiralling groove to
revolving halt. “Will you need a hand carrying everything out?” She gently
lifts the sapphire needle from the slightly warped record, a half-crisped black
pancake which continues spinning after she drops the arm into its bracket.
His eyes remain on the other girl who
wheels around on the spot. As the skimpy dress swirls with her twisting motion a
fragrant breeze laden with native feminine scent billows across her seated
admirer. “You’re already doing so much… but it is getting late,” she says. Ram’yana springs to his feet beside her.
“Let’s be about it then! We’d best get the heaviest things in first…”
“That’ll be her throne.” Penny
winks at Seheal and selects a cassette tape. “It’s just about the only thing
still up in your room – and he’s the only one strong enough to get it down the
stairs.”
“I suppose…” Seheal agrees with
guarded reluctance. He still can’t take his eyes from her; the dainty teen’s
pout is eminently kissable. But her obvious note of doubt immediately impels
him to cross the subterranean chamber and make for the stairs. “No worries,” he
reassures the girls, “just show me the way.”
Seheal reaches for his hand and
her touch is instantly electrifying. When his fingers gently twine with hers a
cupid smile beams in dazzling response, igniting his heart and firming his
loins. He’s so entranced and blazingly enflamed that his supremely satisfying
dalliance earlier in the evening with the other
awesomely beautiful redhead is thoroughly forgotten.
“I’ll take him,” she tells Penny without
removing her glittering eyes from his. Her gaze is so warm he dares to believe
that her feelings mirror his own. When she steps to the door he drifts alongside
so naturally it’s as though he’s become one of her limbs.
He drops behind when she leads him
up the narrow staircase, unable to take his eyes from her mesmerisingly perfect
shapeliness. With each step her barely concealed buttocks clench and relax,
roll and sway. How old is she? It
isn’t a question he feels comfortable asking directly; he’s accustomed to an
era when men never discussed a woman’s age. In Seheal’s case he feels sure that
bringing the subject up would be demeaning to them both, and he’s loth to do
anything that may drive a wedge of difference between them.
She pauses and turns, nodding at a
reproduction of Van Gough’s ‘Starry Starry Night’ which hangs slightly askew in
an ornate wooden frame. “I may leave that for Penny.” Her eyes twinkle into
his.
She’s finished art school, so she’s must be at least eighteen or nineteen…“A great gift,” he says as he fixates
on those emerald orbs that gleam with glee and, he hopes, a glint of
anticipation. Though she stands two steps above, their gazes meet on the same
level. But she’s so fresh… seems so
young…Old enough, that’s for
certain… She nods right on cue, as if hearing his thoughts.
He tries to rein in his
enthusiasm, reminding himself that the girl probably just wants a lift up the
coast, but her inviting expression and the undeniable synchrony of the moment belies
his wavering conviction. “But I’m afraid I have to bring thatone with me.” She
points to the landing above, where a huge framed photograph of Pope John II
smiles down beatifically in living black and white. “My mother gave it to me,”
she explains with an apologetic little pout and a shrug that makes his eyes dip
momentarily. Her smile returns as she turns away and hurries upstairs.
He follows her bare, lightly
padding feet past the pope, up two more flights and into an open doorway. “The
last of my stuff’s still in here. That’s the throne.” She nods toward a low,
ornate, claw-footed wooden chair and leans over to retrieve a carpet bag
overflowing with feminine garments. The nightdress rides up her slim, pale
thighs and settles partway up her buttocks, exposing a glimpse of
ginger-fringed labial pinkness. His heart pounds in his chest, pumping his incipient
hardness with a fresh rush of blood. He can’t help but think; Another real redhead...
When she rises to place the bag on her unmade bed he notices the queen-sized mattress holds two pairs of ruffled pillows that have seen recent use. A swift glance around the large, gaily decorated room – obviously inhabited by a romantically inclined female – reveals signs of being shared by more than one person. Penny? He wonders. Or someone else? It doesn’t seem polite to ask directly, so he strides to the chair and removes a thick lace-covered burgundy velvet cushion that fills the broad seat while the girl finishes packing.
“What a throne – fit for a
princess!” The arm rests are ornately lathed and carefully carved from
lacquered hardwood and mirror the design of the padded backrest and three-toed
clawed feet. The piece resembles some kind of tautly muscled squatting animal,
vaguely feline and ready to pounce. When he reaches down its weight is
astonishing, but he manfully hoists it up and turns toward Seheal, who has
stopped packing to observe his effort. “You are
strong,” she says approvingly as he tries to keep the strain from showing. From
another female he might suspect mere ego (and penis) inflating flattery, but the
petite girl’s admiration seems genuine. “It was my mothers, too.”
She turns to face her reflection
in a full length mirror propped by the bed while he stands fixed to the spot,
unwilling to take his eyes off her despite the hefty weight. She puts her hands
on her hips and he watches as the material outlines her form even more
faithfully. Her eyes flash toward his in the looking glass. “Do you think I
need to change for the trip?”
I hope not…“That’s up to you”, he says aloud as he gains a better handhold, wishing she’ll
decide in favour of the nightdress. “It’s a warm night, but it’s a long trip.”
“It is warm, isn’t it?” she says to his reflection, swaying on the
spot. “This’ll do then.”
“It looks great on you.” He
regrets the facile words as they emerge from his mouth, but Seheal’s smile
becomes a wider grin. He grins back, turns for the door and almost trips over a
pair of shoes. “Careful,” she admonishes. “Don’t hurt yourself.” The shoes seem
incongruously unfeminine but he has no time for a closer look.
He navigates the wide piece of furniture
through the narrow doorframe and turns into the walkway, unobtrusively resting
it on the rickety banister rail and pausing for a better hold. The stairs seem
much steeper with such a heavy weight balanced in front of him but there’s no
other way to get the bulky cubic object downstairs, so he leans back and
descends carefully, tread by squeaky tread while he ponders; I wonder who’s been sharing her bed?...
The first flight and landing are
fairly easy going. The second is a little harder. When he turns at the foot of
the second landing a wooden claw snags on the huge portrait of the pope, which
teeters away from the wall. He crooks an elbow around an armrest and reaches to
steady the frame, and the chair twists around and pulls him off balance.
The stairwell spins around the
pope, whose grey eyes follow his as he spins and falls. The portrait presses
against his face with the weight of the throne behind it and he teeters for an
endless moment before he manages to carry the mass down atop him onto the
landing instead of tumbling down the metal-edged stairs. The throne jams at an
angle between the banister and the wall, pinning him to the carpet beneath the
dead pope’s grey visage. Try as he might he can’t move an inch.
Struggling against mounting odds,
he tries even harder not to interpret the event as an untoward omen. “You know
what they say about Catholic girls;” Penny says as she reaches down to help.
“You can get a girl out of the church…” She levers the throne from the wall and
dislodges the portrait, “…but you can’t get the pope out of a girl…”
Three moons later Penny’s snickering advice is almost
forgotten. “This is
where I pictured us living together.”Seheal’s
words are ferried on a stream of smoke. A spiral of fireflies frames her form
and haloes her eerily glowing face. Dark water chuckles all around them,
flinging aerosol sprays upon pale naked limbs glistening in the last of the
light.
“Here? In the middle of the
river?” She nods and her teeth flash and gleam in the twilight. “This is what I
saw. Thee and me, right here, making love on this rock while fireflies dance
around us.” She leans forward and upward, balancing daintily on hands and knees
atop the mossy stone. Succulent lips touch his with supreme gentleness and the
tip of her tongue slides forth, serpentine, to outline the margins of his
mouth.
A soft frizz of thick curly hair
caresses his cheeks and covers his eyes while tongues entwine and their lips
seal closely. She exhales into his mouth and he draws her living essence into
himself, holding her there, deep inside, before returning the gift in kind. A
lone frog starts calling from one bank of the river and is instantly answered
by another, and another, until the valley is filled with guttural waves of ancient
song while the lovers imbibe and share their souls.
Despite the rigors of the day
they’re both overflowing with vitality and intoxicated by their surroundings,
the magical night and, most of all, each other. They savour this idyll together
in Paradise, drawing each moment out in an eternity of sensuous bliss. Then laughter
sprinkles the twilit forest with uncommonly human sounds, drawing them back
toward mortal realms. The kissing couple recalls they’re just beyond sight of
the rest of the group, around a tight narrows in the remote rainforest gorge.When she begins to draw away he
reaches out and his fingers unerringly enter the rent in her dress. The touch
of her skin, as always, electrifies. He shifts to make room for his hardness in
the tightening pants and watches her face as he strokes her trim belly. She
rears upward onto her knees and moves his hand with her own, drawing it round
and onto a softly firm breast. She leans back and sighs to the first stars that
shine through a cleft in the gorge, scattered amid moirés of palm leaves and
vines. Her breast feels uncommonly hot; the nipple is already rigid when his
fingertips reach it and gently squeeze.
“Don’t stop.” She carefully shifts
the furry coat from the edge of the rock where they perch like Atlanteans
marooned in the Flood. “Mm…” Her
breast heaves against his palm and her knee brushes back and forth along his
thigh through the thin layer of cotton. “We can lay this beneath us…”
His fingers stroll across her
breastbone and onto the upland of her other breast. “You’re not too cold?” A
small hand settles directly onto the crown of the erection that’s starkly
outlined through his pants, and he moans. “You’ll keep me warm,” she assures
him. “And I’ll keep you hot. I’ll be thy blanket, my lord, and you can be my
mattress! Anyway, the night is warm – and guess what? There are no mosquitos!
Do you suppose the frogs eat them all?” Her hand pulls away and his body
unfreezes while his mind returns partway onto its tracks.
“Aye,” he agrees, “and the bats.
But it’s still early in the season and it may be too cold for them yet…” His
fingers caress the edge of her breast and long nails tickle her ribs. She sighs
and begins to pull the thick coat beneath his buttocks. He carefully moves to
make room without ripping the hole in her dress any wider. “There”, she says.
“Now lie back and let’s see what we can manage without falling into the lava
pool.” He starts to acquiesce, but pauses, asking, “Did you play that game as a
kid, too? If you fell off the bed…”
“You’d fall into the molten lava.
Of course! Or off the chair, or the rug, or the log… you know. Every kid does
it. Most adults don’t remember, just like everything else they forget. Now just
lie back while I get our bed ready…” So he does; his bare feet and ankles hang
over the edge, above the splashing lava. She spreads the coat over as much of
the outcrop as possible, pulling it taut betwixt him and the stone while
crouching astride him. “We can use our clothes under us, too.”
He can feel her heat from inches
away, radiating from the cleft beneath her dress. She rises upward and his hand
is pulled free, as in a single motion the dress slips up over her belly, her
breasts, her chin and the cascading mop of her tresses. She shakes loose her
curls and rolls the torn material into a swag while his eyes try to catch sight
of every inch of her in the gathering gloom. Then she places the bundle beneath
his head; “And this thy pillow.” The tips of her nipples brush against his
chest and her derriere dips for a tantalising instant, alighting astride his
entrapped erection.
Then, stark naked in the gloaming,
she flings her littler body upon his lankier one and grips his sides with all
the uncanny strength in her slim elfin thighs. She squeezes against him, a livid
heat wriggling and writhing round his hardness and pressing him into moss and
stone. He thrusts upward between the splitting furnace of her labia and lightly
caresses the length of her spine while she grinds down around his cotton-clad manhood.
His hands descend to cup the
cheeks that so perfectly fill his grip. He pulls her closer, tighter, and the
furry fringes of her outer lips rub against his index fingers while his shaft
slides back and forth between taut fleshy labia.
Her smooth brow nestles into the
pharaoh’s beard beneath his chin. He inhales sweet spicy scents of wild curly hair
and flowing feminine juices. When she writhes against his hardness and moans
into the mattress of his body, twinned pillows of milky flesh cushion the
gorgeous teen’s inconsequential weight against his abdomen. She tilts her face
upward and their lips reseal as she drags his shirt up between their bodies. Breaths
mingle faster, deeper, wildly frenetic when he firmly grasps handfuls of firm
round cheek and grinds her closer, wetter, hotter.
Seheal moans, flails his face with
shaking tresses and rises onto knees and elbows. “This be our altar,” she says,
“…and you’ll make a fine sacrifice this night…” The rising cloth pulls his hands
from her flesh, pins his arms above his head inside the fabric as it covers his
eyes. “…hoodwinked and bound…”
He smiles. “For glory?”
“To me!” Another distant peal of
laughter rings through the woods as she leans over him to hold his wrists down.
Her other hand snags the front of his trousers and when she pulls them down
across his hips a cool smooth palm slides along his cloth-sheathed shaft. He
raises his weight so the material slides more easily and she stops when his
pants are twisted round his knees, binding his legs.
He feels that lithe little body
shift atop him as lips start sucking his left nipple. She holds both wrists
down above his covered head and clambers astride his immobilised frame. The
sensation of sheer, soft, nubile feminine thighs sliding against his furry
legs, the liquid caress of feminine tongue, the brush of hard nipples and a
waft of hot breath against his bare skin in the cooling evening while she holds
him at bay; all so excruciatingly arousing.
Chiming, chirruping choruses of
frogs and crickets erupt all around them, drowning the sounds of nearby humankind.
Those kissable lips lave a wet trail down his abdomen as those satiny thighs
slip along his limbs. He lies unmoving yet thoroughly moved while she savours
the chance to mercilessly tease him. Toes claw to push his pants further
half-mast and her ticklish mane pours over his chest, his ribs, his belly. She
tongues her way down toward the straining prize of his captive cock and pulls
his bound wrists to the side of his throat, wrapping his face and neck more
tightly. He dares not move lest he divert her intent and spoil the girl’s talented
artistry.
A hot, humid wind bastes his
crown. Her delectable mouth must be wide open, surrounding without quite
touching his glans. Hot breath wafts around him, raising his staff to harder
hardness, and then her tongue is a blazing brand that sears the tip of its
pythonic head. When her lips finally touch his most sensitive skin he groans
and jerks upward into soft silken lips that stretch tautly firm round the rigid
girth. Her pubic bone grinds against his knee, just as hot and precisely as wet
as the mouth that absorbs his challenging manhood. His legs start to tremble
and she grips his knee tightly betwixt her thighs while slowly, tenderly, inch
by inch, she swallows the length of him whole.
“Oh, beloved!” His moan is smothered by the shirt; hers by thick man-flesh
she crams past her cheeks, her palate, and into her throat. The teenage pixie
has been practicing, often, during the three moons they’ve shared in the forest.
As he enters her throat she slows her advance, no longer sucking, and swallows
him down her tight grasping gullet a tiny bit at a time while her other wetness
blazes a trail down his shin.
He’s always surprised at how long
she can go without taking a breath, nostrils flaring as her pale skin darkens. She’s
learned to keep her teeth from his skin and can fit even more of his generous
member through her lips than inside her tight little pussy (the petite redhead
beauty is so perfectly feline no other word for her cunt ever enters his mind)
– and her pussy is even more deliciously tight than the rings of muscle that
squeeze him now.
Tonight, out her in the rainforest
gorge, she suckles his cock in tantric stillness - not milking his hardness
with hands and mouth as she usually does while he licks her sex into horny
frenzy. Tonight she wants to have it all. When her nose touches his pubic hair
her moan is a hum that goes right through his balls. He can tell she’s
beginning to choke and gag, but she struggles to swallow even more.
Her lips stretch so tautly they
grip like a vice. The sensation of her throat wrapped round most of his cock,
working its meatiness with muscular spasms, is indescribable; almost
unimaginable. He must be filling the entire slim length of the equine neck that
stretches and strains to take everything he has to give. It’s all he can do not
to thrust the last couple of inches through those tightly squeezing lips, glide
right past her larynx and plunge all the way down behind his girl’s birdlike breastbone.
He knows that her every straining
quiver is far more than a showoff teenage display of sexual athleticism; this incredible
pleasure she so intently bestows upon him is a vivid, unforgettable declaration
of the utter depths of her love.
Seheal quivers, barely moving,
trying to hold back her reflex to swallow, to restrain the pressing need to gag.
She pushes his knuckles beneath his chin while soft, firm breasts rub against
his thighs. The air grows close inside his shirt and he starts to pant for air.
Stars flash behind eyelids, infuse his bloodstream and sparkle through flesh while
his long, thick cock pulsates inside his girlfriend’s gracefully narrow neck.
He can scarcely believe how long
she lasts. His testicles tingle and swell round her chin while his crown throbs
and strains deep inside her. The promise of an orgasm begins to stir in his
roots and, despite the rising urge to explode inside her, he knows it would be
even better to fill her belly from the other end, watching her eyes while he
glides past her clitoris. He’s about to pull his hands free to draw the
determined girl away when, finally, her throat convulses all around him and
those wondrous lips stretch back along his length when she rapidly comes up for
air.
Her gasping and panting is
surprisingly loud in the sudden hush that fills the glade. Only the plashing of
water is heard as he feels her thighs rise and she lifts his arms back above
his head. His erection stands upright in a cool waft of air; the contrast is
astonishing. A moment later another wet mouth caresses the lubricious crown of
his freestanding cock, and another set of perfect pink lips begins to stretch
around him – even hotter, wetter, tauter this time as her furry sex envelopes
his hardness in softer, tighter, squirming young flesh. He feels a sigh start
in the base of her belly and erupt from her mouth as a lowing groan.She shifts her ankles over his
legs and holds his knees down while taking him slowly, teasingly, merciless
inch by gradual inch, ’til he knows she can take no more. She groans again when
her cervix grinds down and her pussy convulses from lips to womb, grasping him
with a wringing grip more intimate than any he’s hitherto known. She falls
forward to lie on his belly and chest, pressing her nakedness down into his
while her pussy gives him a mighty squeeze and it’s his turn to groan aloud.
She seems content to stay there,
fully stretched and stretched out upon him, unmoving as she pins him down with
hands and feet and breasts and sex. Her breath subsides and the frogs begin to
call again, refilling the sudden silence. He’s more than happy to lay here
forever beneath his perfect loving maid – spreadeagled upon her chosen stone altar
while this unparalleled teenaged Goddess mounts the baton of her chosen mate.
And he knows – despite months of
fervent practice – that she still can’t come unless she’s on top.
“Love,” he says inside the shirt.
“Mm,” she replies as she sucks on
his nipple and practices squeezing his cock inside her. She begins to fuck him,
suck him, without moving an inch – on the outside – and he practices lying
unmoving inside her while she pleasures them both with her talented vulva, the
circles of muscle deep inside her, the gripping ring of her straining pink lips.
Time drifts away into patterns of colours in visceral shapes. All he knows, all
he feels, all he wants is her, here, now. Forever.
Two years
later he sits atop that self-same gorge, peering down into the very canopy that hid their
nakedness from the stars. The sky now blazes down upon him in full azure
daylight, yet their tryst that night amidst firefly magic is vivid still,
seared deep inside his roving mind, imprinted into his body with flames that
still burn so brightly they outshine the day.
His eyes prise fully open and his
sight falls to tightly fitted tongue-in-groove floorboards arrayed beneath him,
an incongruous sight in this remote wilderness. He sits cross-legged in the
tiny shack that Nick Flash built for Gabe’s spirit - after Gabriel suddenly up
and died in unheralded seizure. The memory of Gabe caroms through his mind,
leaving a trail of glittering guilt. You warned
him not to do it, his unseen companion reminds him. Aye, he silently replies, but
I didn’t tell him he could die if he did…
He was well warned… he had no respect…
Did I?
Enough. You still live…
Do I – without Her?
All that’s passed is ever with us… she and thee are of this world
still… lift thy sights and behold the world, this Life you do both share…
He does as he’s bid and
breathtaking views of a rainforest gorge and rolling vistas of green-capped
mountains fade into distance untouched and unsullied by ‘modern’ humans, man or
woman. The sky goes on forever blue. In a few brief moments his spirits lift
immeasurably – but he can still taste the scent of that wondrous female, feel
the sheer thrilling texture of her alabaster skin, of red hair roiling between
their bodies, those membranes and muscles wrapped tightly about him like no
other woman’s, the perfect cushions of firm round breasts pressed flat by his
chest while four slim limbs wrap tightly right round him, pulling him closer inside,
all around, never wanting to let him go; the emerald eyes that burn through the
world, that he feels are watching him, even now, as he sits on the edge of a
long, sheer drop and returns to the gift of the present. More cabinet than cabin, the tiny
structure is barely large enough to accommodate him. Perched on a boulder atop
a cliff, it presents a perfect coign of vantage over the disputed terrain below.
The watercourse is invisible in the far depths of the gully, entirely screened
by deep green swathes of giant trees festooned with ferns and tinselled with
vines as thick as his arms and thighs.
Older than the oldest mind incarnate here today…
Older than thine? He asks the unseen spirit.
Older than thy star, the Sun… Older than imagining… prime primordial
Home…
His eyes lift higher until he’s
blinded by the glaring ball that burns amid the blue. Gaia older than the Sun?
She outlives all Her mates this one… thus far… The unheard voice is sibilant,
almost hissing through a distant haze of bright white noise.
Like you? he
silently asks. There comes a pause that stretches longer while a single
Wedge-tailed eagle soars above the gorge, below his perch, floating on an
invisible current that soon lofts the raptor beyond his sight. Like that?
She is not the last of Her kind… And as he realises the entity is discussing two
things at once – at least! – he also recognises depths of loneliness far deeper
than his own; losses scarcely imagined.
He becomes aware of a distant
racket that slowly grows louder, closer. By the time he unfolds his legs on the
floorboards he smells the acrid odour of diesel fumes and clambers from the
hidden sleeping platform just as the engine cuts out. He can almost hear the
words of a conversation coming through the scrubby screen that separates him
from the clearing above, yet the intent behind the heavily accented speech seems
obviously malign. He silently steps into the bushes and cautiously approaches
the raucous voices of two or three men.
“Let’s just pull the fuckin’ thing
down.”
“Nah – not yet anyways. You sure
no-one’s around?”
“No fuckin’ vehicles, no fuckin’
worries.”
“Yeah,” the third man pipes up,
“But what about the fire?”
“What about it? It’s almost out by
the looks of it.”
“Yeah, but somebody’s not long
gone.”
“Leave it for now. We gotta get
back.” He gains sight of three stolid men standing with arms crossed over their
chests. All three are clad in chequered shirts and well-worn blue jeans,
staring at the impressively large tepee that stands in a corner of the
clearing. He’d only finished skinning the structure with tarpaulins a few hours
earlier and it’s easy to tell the hollow cone is quite uninhabited. They turn
away and walk toward an oversized ute parked across the track that leads into
the clearing.
“So this’s Log Dump Two, eh?” a
younger man says to the obvious eldest, whose hair is silvered grey. “This’s
the one we’re usin’, right?”
“And number three,” the older man
replies as he opens the driver’s door. “But this one first…” The rest of their
conversation is drowned by the engine.
He kneels on the mulch, lurking
amid bushes while he waits for the loggers to leave. Something crawls across
his fingers and he glances down to see a huge red bull ant rocking from side to
side on the back of his hand, waving its antennae in the general direction of
his face. The mandibles are almost a quarter of an inch across and its body is
almost two inches long. The black beads of its eyes are focused on his. He
doesn’t move a muscle while the ute reverses out of the clearing and onto the
small dirt road.
He doesn’t move for another half
minute – not until the monstrous and utterly territorial ant has decided he’s
part of the scenery, climbed off his hand and wandered a few feet away. Then he
hastily stands and steps away, alert for the rest of the hive. By then the
engine is almost inaudible, moving away on a nearby ridge.
A short while later another engine
revs down the road, but this time it’s one he recognises. He emerges from his
lair beneath the butt of a huge fallen tree and meets the vehicle as it
arrives. “Yo, dude!” A bandana-bound head emerges from a window of the well
maintained old station wagon. “Back with supplies – and another few bods!” Ginger
Meggs climbs from the rear with a boxful of groceries while a dazed group of
dreadlocked ferals emerges from every exit and mill around beneath the tall trees.
“Hey,” says a petite teenage girl
with dusty platinum dreads and multiple rings through nose, lips, ears and
brow, “I know you – you’re the guy who gave us the map – on that pamphlet.” The
lightly freckled barefoot teen is vaguely dressed in a scantily attached beige
leather vest – so loose it fails to conceal the rings that adorn the pale pink
nipples on her roundly rolling breasts - and an equally brief and artistically
ripped leather skirtlet.
“Aye,” he says with the start of a
bow; one he forestalls at the last moment, and takes the box from Meggsie.
“So this is the blockade?” The
girl’s voice is an upper crust singsong, with posh British enunciation that
seems incongruous out here in the wild forests of the Great Southern Land.
“Forest action,” the Budd explains
as he steps from the wagon behind her. “We’re not using the B-word – yet.”
“That’s Ramses,” Ginger Meggs
tells her. “And these guys reckon they all want to stay.”
“Great! The tepee’s just finished
and ready…”
“Cool!” The girl is joined by a
similarly beringed and dreaded young man who wraps an arm round her bare
slender waist. At least three strands of beads of various types hang round his
neck and across his bare chest. His wrists are girdled with tooled leather
bracings and his dreads are threaded with coloured beads. “And we have some
friends coming in another car, too,” he says in a matching accent.
“You see?” says the Budd while he
rolls a rollie. “I told ya, Meggsie – this is what happens if you just keep the
home fire burning.” He nods toward the smoky campfire that still burns with a
fitful flame. “It’s magic, I tell ya. Works like a charm every time.” The trio
of newcomers approaches the fire and the tallest one bends to retrieve a branch
that he carefully places atop the flame. The Budd smiles and places the ciggie
between his lips. “Looks like the energy’s building.”
“Certainly is,” Ram agrees in a
quiet tone. “The loggers were just here, a few minutes ago.” At this news both
the Budd and Meggsie literally pause with matches burning an inch from their
smokes. “But the good news is, we picked the right spot. This is where they’ll
be coming in.”
The Budd ignites his cigarette.
“How d’you know?”
“They said so.”
“Did they just rock up and say
hello?” Meggsie asks.
“Not exactly. They were only here
for a minute.”
“And they didn’t even see you,
eh?” He offers a filter tip from his thoroughly crushed packet, but Ram shakes
his head. “No thanks,” he says. “I never smoke them straight.” At that very
moment the taller dreadlocked newcomer approaches with a paper bag that
overflows with huge green flowers.
“That’s what I call timing…”
*
A True
Story
Continues…
- R.A.
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