A Jungle Full of White Roses

A Jungle Full of White Roses

It was the beginning of my eighteenth dry season, the ending of my seventeeth wet season and a few days shy of my day of first breath, when the humans came to my lands. My tattoo on my right arm marking my ascension into adult was healing over and the scabs were slowly breaking off, though the bruising still remained. I was gathering herbs in the forest, as shaman in training are supposed to be doing, or at least the youngest of the students, when a shout arose from young who often played near the spire digging out ancient shells, no longer fragile thanks to time.

I raced through the forest, a fist full of a bitter, acrid plant with leaves spotted with markings like dried blood, to the spire. The young, dark brown skin the color of bark since their skin has yet to lighten and blush the red of adulthood, stood pointing at the horizon, the ship whose sails graced the skies, wiping them free of clouds.

My people did know of humans and their ways, we were familiar with the tales, albeit never seeing one close, and seeing their ships from only a distance, and seeing only those ships when we climbed to the top of the ancient sandstone spire covered in ferns and heavy with petrified bones of our ancestors above our village. Human ships, with their sails that challenged the clouds in whiteness and size, were always a sight to behold. They were rarer than passing pods of dark blue skin whales, born up from the bottom stones of the ocean, their skin marred with barnacles. The ships were slow, lumbering things, like the blue whales, jokingly we called them “wave whales”, which in comparison to our own smooth sailing ships, were magnificent but slow, much like the blue whale was to the scaly dolphin. It took the ships much time passing the horizon, so hours or so could be spent watching them when there was little else to do, and when one of my village saw the ships, there was very little to do, but sit in our huts and wait for the ships to pass.

Easily we could have taken our ships out to greet them, if we so desired, but we did not, and spent our time hidden in sandy cove waiting for the ships to past. We did not fear the humans; they were monkeys if there was any better a comparison out there. And never trifle with a monkey, as my teacher, Shuka would say. You trifle with a monkey, you get shit thrown at you till no end. Go back into the forest, and shit is still thrown at you. Avoidance is the best way to avoid…shit, as Shuka would say. We knew humans stirred up much…shit…whenever they came to a village.

My village was well hidden and protected in a cove surrounded in the Earth Mother’s embrace of dark sandstone and the bones of our ancestors. Fishing was grand, if one chose to be a fisherman. Mother’s daughter, the ocean, offered fish, shell fish, aquatic lizards, and sea plants a plenty, never once waning in her gifts. The Forest Sister waned every dry season, but nether less bequeathed my people, especially shaman such as I, in plants, herbs, meat from forest animals, fruits, and woods. The Mother herself not only protected my village from the seasonal ravages of the Ocean Daughter and the human ships who passed, but the embrace of her earth gave my people the clay for their pots and the walls of their homes, rich soil for their farming, the iron for their fishing hooks, knives, and carts, and the precious stones for their trade and jewelry.

When the humans came alarm rose through the village. Perhaps they spotted our people along the beach or on the spire, but our skin would keep us hidden among the Mother’s embrace. Perhaps they heard of us from other villages, or spotted smoke from our cooking fires. The young, shouting excitedly as foolish young children do, watched from the spire as the ship, instead of traveling across the horizon, directly approached.

Many villagers stood on the beach watching the lumbering behemoth. Most hid in the village while others, such as me, stood in shadows of the small forest around the beach watching. I unfortunately could not stand out on the beach head like the others, the burning afternoon sky would redden and blister the shell white skin of my left arm, shoulder, and the left side of my back. The colorless markings of Mother’s chosen distinction left me with few choices in my career options. I was born much too weak of nature to work in the mines or farm, and the delicate piebald skin could only stand the morning sun and the evening sun with only the smallest of painful affects, so I could not stand out on a boat to fish. My artistic skills are sub-par, and my left hand still bears the silver grey scar where I sliced it open with a knife as I tried to chip the mother of pearl from an oyster shell. Shaman, a delicate, but intricate job, was the option my horrified parents had to give me. Shuka, who saved my life at birth, was unwilling to train me, claiming, that young born such as I, with skin as white as shell (or just about half my body in my case) and eyes as blue as a clear afternoon sky, do not live long, meaning the effort of training one was in vain. My appearance is only skin deep, I am hale and quite healthy after overcoming the troubles of a less than healthy childhood. I am considerably shorter than all the males in my village, though, but I can still stand my own ground if need be.

“The ship! It has a gash in it like a shark had torn into it!” one of the young shouted from the spire.

“A big gash!” another agreed in childish obsession with destruction. I suppose it is only natural for ones who are too young to create young and too uncoordinated to create food, art, and the like to be obsessed with destruction. They squeal with childish joy at the shatter of a pot, so only one could imagine the anxiousness at the obliteration of a great human ship. “It will sink!”

There were cheers from the young, the elders only nodded while I gazed in curiosity at the floundering ship, the gash now only becoming evident.

It took the ship a full hour before it beached itself along the coast. It had moved even slower than most human barges, and at first my people had thought that it was dead, floating merely like a long neck carcass in the water until striking land.

We approached the ship with caution. I had come out of the forest to walk with my people, behind them and in their shadows, to the ship. Men were pouring of the ship, as was water from the gash. We paused only a hundred yards away from the wreak; we could see the humans from at least three hundred yards from the ship, the men wore bright clothing, shades that challenged the flowers of the forest and the coral of the waters. We, with the colors of Mother’s earthly grace, were only noticed by the men, those who were not rushing from the ship, until we were a hundred yard distance away. We were silent, while the humans gasped and whispered among themselves.

For many moments it was a stressed silence, like a tightly pulled bow string being plucked, quiet, yet indistinguishable sound reverberated. Some men rushed back on the ship just as quickly as they rushed off of it. A man, wearing a strange cap adorn with a large feather, much puffier and whiter than the feathers on our local birds, descended down from the ship. He approached us with open arms and greeted us in our own tongue, and slightly different accent, one from farther north, the direction in which the ship came. A few of the adolescents stepped back, allowing me to step forward and attempt to peer over my more taller companions’ shoulders at the view.

The man, a captain I presumed, the term was occasionally used by neighboring villages, but not used by mine, spoke our language in broken phrases and mispronounced bits to the lead fisherman, Atu, and bead maker, Lanala, the son and daughter of the late Chieftess. Shuka stood off to the side, arms crossed, and listening in, but saying nothing on her part. In the broken phrases of the broken phrases I was able to make out from the captain, I knew that there was an accident farther up north. The man made a curving gesture in the air and then smacked his hands together. A long neck, attracted most likely to the fish guts and food the sailors threw overboard, had attacked the ship, tearing at the canvas sails and knocking the ship sideways into the rocks as the humans tried to defend their ship. He explained the ship has been pulling in water, but there were no good coasts for the ship to dock at, and they were forced to crash land near our village, completely unaware of our existence.

The captain was quite happy of our presence. Through the faces of many of my people, I could tell that many were not as thrilled as the captain was. I was rather…nonplussed, by my own feelings. Excitement, delight, fear, anticipation, worry, consecutively chewed at my heart and mind.

It was a lengthy few minutes of deliberation, explanation, and acceptance. My people stood many feet away from Atu, Lanala, and Shuka, as did the humans from their captain, while we listened in on the conversation, the humans watched us. Most bore some form of nervousness, and a few disgust. A human dressed in white robes, robes even whiter than bones or clouds, even whiter than the skin that marred my left side, stared us down in such a way that his short height, he must have barely come to even my chest, that he was like a giant. Many were worried about this strange man in white, whose only other color next to his skin, was a necklace of large, round beads of red jasper and a massive gold and polished wood charm. He bore a similar handheld version of the charm in his clenched right fist. His lips trembled in anger as the captain negotiated.

Hands were shaken.

Shuka snorted and spat in the sand.

The humans came to our village in a single group. There were still many more than what were on the beach head. A half dozen or so were seriously wounded from the long neck attack, and the human’s medical tools were lost when the ship gained water. Others were less lightly wounded from the fight, and many bore the blisters from standing in salt water. The humans were nearly thirty count in number; the young sat on the spire and counted them as they marched into the village like the crabs on the beach when the tide disappears.

The captain led the sailors into the village, who were to set up camp as they spent the next month fixing their ship and refurnishing their supplies. Behind the captain walked the man in white, who appeared to desperately trying to slow down his pace to avoid walking before the captain. Behind the man in white were the sailors. But in the center of them, was a curious sight in deed.

In the middle of the sailors, walking masses of bright navy blues, dark greens, sun bleached reds, and fading yellows, was a figure wearing soft pastels (rarely seen color shades in my village), clothing flowery and feathery like the feather in the captain’s hat. I do believe the figure may have actually been wearing white, like the man in the robes, but the white was even pastel compared to his, subdued and softer, not as sharp or blaring. The figure carried an umbrella, resembling a mushroom decorated in lace woven into poor excuses of flowers, covering it completely. I lay on my stomach near the spire with a few of the young and two other apprentices of Shuka, watching the humans, and more particularly the figure in the light pastels, who stood like a delicate early wet season lily in a bouquet of vivid jungle flowers.

“Aye ya, what is up with that figure? Is it a shaman of some sort?” Stark stated beside me. “They have it all surrounded.”

“Don’t be a fool, Stark, humans don’t have shamans,” Kip hissed. “It doesn’t look like a shaman. Shamans don’t walk with their heads down as such.”

“Then what is it? It’s gotta be something if they’re so damn protective of it,” Stark hissed. He was the oldest of us, I being the youngest, Kip being the middle in age. Stark still did not have the red blushing of an adult despite his age of nineteen and his tall frame; so he did not bear the tattoos of an adult. This dry season, my stripes, those not affected by my albinism which were silvery-peach colored, began to turn red and my colored skin lightened to a rich tan color, marking me an adult. Stark, who continually picked on me because of my difference increased his ridicule towards me because of his frustration. It was only a matter of time until …“Half-color, melon rind… shaved monkey…piebaldy…De’ban, you idiot, what do you see?”

I wasn’t paying attention. Stark had to resort to using my name to get my attention. I didn’t answer, of course. Why pay heed to Stark when there are more important, at least more interesting (and perhaps in Stark’s case, less offensive) things to pay heed to.

At Stark’s harsh comment and even harsher voice, the figure turned slightly, angling the umbrella allowing the light of the sun to reveal it. I saw a shine, a soft shine akin to woven gold with the blush of rich copper, spun so fine that it challenged even spider webbing in shine and delicacy. Hair…hair different from the rough or coarse fur of animals that lived in our forest and different sailors’ greasy, dark, clingy hair that looked much like decaying seaweed. The hair was in coils, falling in thick strands like vines in the jungle, but much neater and definitely more eye catching. What little skin I saw was pale, appearing to be the same shade and subtle texture of the early wet season lily. The skin was not reddened or tanned by the sun.

My curiosity was rapt.

“It’s a female human!” Stark stated. “She’s so tiny compared to the males. Aren’t the females supposed to be bigger?”

“How do you know it’s a she?” Kip hissed.

“Breasts,” Stark answered matter-of-fact. He cupped his chest. There were reasons why Stark was eager to become an adult…and of the nine reasons eight involved eight different females he hoped to woo and one involved taking part in councils (most likely to meet other females of higher status).

“Of course you would notice that,” Kip stated.

“She has small breasts, hardly any,” Stark stated. “And no hips…none at all. And ugly clothes, I can’t see a thing with those clothes or that umbrella. How does she bare children with such tiny hips? How does she feed children with such small breasts?”

“Humans are strange creatures. Females must die in child birth that is why we see never see them. Or heat exhaustion, that clothing is not appropriate for the heat,” Kip stated. “Strange in deed.”

“I wonder what they think of us,” I spoke up as I wiped the grit and dead leaves off of my belly and chest. “If they are strange to us, what are we to them?”

“It worries me,” Kip stated. “I heard stories about humans. They tear down the Mother’s statues, and burn down all they do not like. They cut out our piercings and slash off our tattoos, leaving hideous scars.”

“Those are old tales,” I said watching the path.

“I don’t like the one in the white robes,” Stark stated. “I don’t like the way he looked at our people. He looked like he was imagining our ear piercings were being ripped out and our tattoos skinned off. He looked like he was enjoying it while he was imagining.”

The man in white was of little concern to me. The image of the human female, with her hair the color of spun copper and honey, and the flesh the color of sun bleached seashells, remained burned in my mind. She remained burned in my mind for many days and nights to come.

We had little problems with the sailors. Drunkenness was the foremost problem, causing nuisance for three nights after they had landed in our village. Our alcoholic brew, at its best, was weak compared to their drinks that they guzzled down their lean-tos and bonfires every night. Occasionally they invited a few of the warriors down for a drink. The results were always the same: one of my people faints under the influence of the drink and a fight breaks out. The village elders met with the captain on the third night and after the fifth fight to discuss the matter in Shuka’s center room. It was a long heated discussions filled with tensions from both sides. I listened from my room, the room also used for the storage and drying of herbs and totems to the discussion. I put my hands behind my head and listened, since their arguments kept me awake. I tried to cover my head with a smooth, bark skin blanket to smother the sound, but the heat of the dry season prohibited it. The tension in their voices was obvious, strained like the vine pulled down by a very fat child. My people knew of the stories of what sometimes happens when humans come to our lands. The captain needed to fix his ship and gather supplies; he did not wish to be driven away. It was a few hours near sunrise when the delegation ended, I knew this because when I finally fell asleep two hours afterwards, and the sun woke me on minutes after I fell asleep.

The alcohol was buried in an undisclosed location in the two hours I slept. The location was known only by captain and accompanying elders.

As I said earlier, the sailors were only a problem, a slight problem for the first three days. After the alcohol was hidden, the tension faded between my people and the human sailors.

The man in white however, was a continual thorn in our sides.

I had never seen anyone of his temperament and behavior. His first action in our village on the first morning was to kick down the totem of the Great Mother in the village. Shuka challenged him, gesturing with two clawed fingers in the air, a gesture meaning to shove your fingers in your nostrils. The man spit on her. She proceeded to throw her fist in the air, shove your tail up your ass. He stepped on the head of the mother and Shuka tore the necklace from around his neck and cracked it in half like the spine of a fish. The argument drew everyone into the village center and ended by the sea captain before Shuka had the chance to smack the man across the head with her ornamental gourd.

He shouted at children and threw finely ground up salt on them, turning their wood brown skin white (they responded by throwing ground up clay onto his robe, turning him a red brown, further aggravating him) and shouted at the females and their exposed midriffs. He disturbed a tattoo ceremony for a young female who was becoming a warrior, and was taken out when Shuka finally got to use her gourd. He continually glowered at me. There was a cold bolt in his stare, and every time I passed him, he would pray, bony fingers wrapped around the broken necklace. According to Shuka, to him, I was demonspawn, my markings were where evil spirits sucked my soul from my baby body, and I was “evil” and marked so by his god. Though my condition was a source of consideration to my people, I was never considered “evil”. My people understood that there was something different about me, and that was Mother’s choice that I am born with this form. Shuka told me when I was little that Mother marks those who she loves, and reminds us that a forest is not a forest with trees that all look like. Then she would add, the older I became, “You couldn’t hide in a forest if your life depended on it. Your white skin can be seen miles away.”

The human female was a sight we have never seen, and rarely seen at that in the village. She hid, most of the day in a Lanala’s home. She sat on a stool in Lanala’s den sewing, a metal needle, held between gloved fingers, through a length of cloth tied to a hoop. She wore a different dress everyday as well, despite the fact she rarely ventured outside to soil her clothing. She wore a bonnet as well to cover her hair, letting only a few coils, derived of the sun that made them shine so, hang by her cheeks.

I did not know why the human female rarely left the den or her sewing. She shied away from my people as we glanced into through the window, wondering about her strange behavior and clothing. Mostly I thought it was human men that kept her in such a state. The captain hid her in Lanala’s home the first day as she tried to walk around the village. He took her by her arm, clothed in a long glove that went to her bicep, and led her into the hut. As well, many sailors, especially when they were imbibing, would bang on the door and shout for her, and on once occasion and very young gangly human attempted to climb through the window only to be pulled out by the captain.

The females did bring her a gift of a halter and long skirt, much lighter and more suiting to the climate than her own clunky, delicate, heavy clothing in hopes of luring her out to speak with her. She tried the clothes on, and with in three steps out the door, the man in white struck her across the face, leaving a welt as red as a sunburn. She cried as he shouted at her and sent her back into the house where she spent the better part of the week.

From a distance, Kip, Stark, and I watched her with curiosity, a mix of general curiosity and the curiosity often stricken by males our age.

It was evening we sat outside of Shuka’s turtle shell shaped home with wild flowers sprouting from the rooftop. Stark and Kip attempted to play a game of knucklebones, betting tomorrow’s herb duties while I (as I said, being the youngest, and being me, I did not get such an opportunity to gamble herb picking duties anyway) leaned against the side, watching the dwelling in which the young woman hid. Occasionally they looked up as Lanala, coming out with a tray of clay beads to dry in the sun.

“Aye ya, what does she do in there?” Stark whined, shaking the knucklebones. “A week sewing? Only the old do that.”

“She’s baking like a banana cake,” Kip said. “That dress must be an oven.”

“That bastard man in white won’t let her change into anything cooler,” Stark added. “I’ll like to see if she has hips.”

“I wonder if she is as hairy as the men,” Kip spoke up. Kip was a critical thinker, sometimes he thinks more about thinking than he does about shamanism. Shuka wanted him to travel to the cities in the south with the great libraries and schools, and Kip was thinking about it.

“She has no smell either,” I observed.

I was never truly close enough to smell her skin, but no scent even permeated from her or the window she sat by. Females of my people have special glands behind their ears that leak a sweet perfume, different for every female. It was a rich musk, not as strong or overpowering as the males (we bathe often to assure we stay clean). Female musk could be as varied as the smell of ripen fruit, to jungle flowers, to the morning breeze of the ocean, and the soil of the ground. It was addictive smell, and a male who often had a mate could be seen nuzzling behind her ear to smell such a rich flower.

I smelt no scent, yet, I remained interested in this female. Maybe it was the enigma of her, what else was there to her?

“And the human males smell too,” Stark stated with a grin.

“That’s because they don’t bathe,” Kip stated.

“The white robed bastard is always washing his hands,” Stark hissed.

“He does not like the Mother’s soil dusting his white hands,” Kip stated. He giggled. “Or robes for that matter.”

“He can eat shit and die for all I care,” Stark added.

“Aye ya, what is going on?” I spoke up noticing Lanala leaving her home with the human female behind her. At the sight of the flowing dress we dove behind the hut, hiding from view. Our three heads poked along the side, watching. I was squashed at the bottom with Stark’s elbow between my shoulders. Kip was wedged between the wall and Stark.

Today the human female wore a light blue dress with a matching bonnet, tilted to the side. Her locks did not shine because the sun was setting, but they were still very beautiful to look at. She carried the umbrella still and wore gloves, one delicate hand holding up her skirt to keep it from dragging on the ground.

“Where is she going?”

“I think to the hot baths,” Kip answered. “I saw them gathering up firewood near the bathhouse.”

“In this weather? The water in the creek is as warm as piss,” Stark added.

“Only you would know how warm piss is,” Kip stated. “Drunkard.”

“Do you think she would want to bathe out here with those men around with grubby hands?” I asked.

“Not even I would want to bathe out here. I fear the man in white might come around and chop off something of value,” Stark said.

“Aye, what would that be? Your hands?” Kip said.

“Shove it, Kip, shove it hard,” Stark retorted.

“Aye ya! See, she is going to the bathhouse!” Kip said.

“Silly humans,” Kip stated.

At that moment Shuka waddled out of the hut to see us in a pile. She rolled her eyes and grunted.

“Aye ya,” She hissed, shaking a clay pot. “Foolish males, bad luck with skirts here so you resort to chasing human skirt.”

She dropped the clay pot on the ground. “It’s bathing salt. Take it to the bathhouse for the human.”

She grabbed at her head as she returned to her bed. “Aye ya, that is the last time I take males as students.”

We separated like a school of fish that child had thrown a rock at. We kneel around the pot of bathing, sea salt mixed with the oils of herbs, flowers, and the rinds of fruit. It was a potent mixture: it scrapes off dead skin, while soaking up oil and sweat, and scents the skin as well. It could simply be added to water to scent it plus give the natural healing qualities of seawater.

“De’ban, you take it,” Stark immediately.

“Yeah, you,” Kip agreed, for once.

“What? Why me?” I asked.

“Because you’re the youngest,” Kip added.

“And the smallest,” Stark added.

“But I have my tattoos and you don’t. Technically I'm your elder!” I retorted to Stark.

“And I’ve received more charms than you have,” Stark retorted.

“And I’ve received more charms than you Kip,” I stated to Kip.

“I’m still older,” Kip said, sticking out his tongue. “Plus I collected the herbs for the day. And I made that salt, so you can take it De’Ban. You need to get those rocks out of your ass instead of daydreaming all day.”

“Yeah, you take it,” Stark added.

“Aye ya! Babies, I’ll take it,” I said snatching up the pot.

“Tell us what she looks underneath those clothes!” Stark shouted as I was halfway towards the bathhouse.

“Shove it!” I exclaimed thrusting the pot into the air. “Shove it hard!”

The bathhouse was a small baked brick building set up by the stream that fed into our village. Water could be drawn into the bathhouse and heated allowing us warm baths if we so desired. During the dry season the water was warm, in the stream and the ocean, so we did not bathe in the bathhouse other than females heavy with child, elderly, and those who are sick. During the wet season, the water is often chilly and cold and from constantly moving, not allowing it to warm in the sun or earth, and hot baths are necessary to remove the mud that the wet season creates.

With a heavy steel spear in hand, Lanala was standing guard near the entrance of the bathhouse. She recognized me yards away, and allowed me access with a nod. She left after I entered.

The bathhouse was full of steam, heavy like the morning, but warm. I walked over the tiles, my claws clicking.

There was a large square pool in the center of the bathhouse where many of my people can swim, play, and bathe; this was meant for the adults, since small children could drown in the deep pool. There were many smaller, more appropiate tubs and basins for bathing the young.

I found the female human in the corner near a deep round tub. It was small tub built to hold one member of my people. She was undressing. She had taken her gloves off, her bonnet, her shoes, her dress, and the umbrella; they were all hanging neatly on the hooks by the tub. There was a nasty looking piece of clothing that looked as if it was made from bone with a small bit of harsh looking fabric straps. She wore only a slip, so thin, so delicate that it looked like it was woven from spider webs. It clung to her in the steam of the bath. I was amazed to see her figure, curves like that of our females.

She had her back to me, and was starting to slide of the straps of her slip. Her skin was white, but white as if color was drained from it, not denied color like mine. I could see her delicate shoulder blades and vertebra, hidden underneath her milky skin. Her rich hair, heavy with moisture fell past her shoulders almost concealing her delicate backbone.

I cleared my throat. And she jumped.

Ever feel a chill or accidentally sit on a hermit crab yet not quite kill it? That is what she looked like.

Her face burned red, rushing down her skin, down between her shoulders, down her back, I could see it through the slip, heavy with moisture clinging to her form.

I was taken, and nearly fell backwards by her warm, blushing skin. I did, however, drop the herbed salts on the ground, shattering the clay pot. She jumped again as I fell to my knees, a blush of my own spreading to my cheeks, the top of my muzzle. I attempted a pose of submissiveness and shame, but my blush, inappropriately turned on by her own blush (females blush red all over in heat; it was purely, I hope, unintentional on my part). She however was not aware of the physiology of my people. In a strange way, I was thankful and unthankful for her misunderstanding. Had she been a single female of my people, she, perhaps, would have taken my blush and pose to heart. But she only looked at me confused, a half smirk forming on her face.

Pathetic is pathetic in any language.

“Foolish me,” I apologized. “Foolish. My fault.”

I scooped up the lightly colored salts, slowly liquefying in my hands and offered it to her. The smell of jungle mint and coconut oil tinted the air.

“Amber,” she said, pointing to herself. “Am-bur.”

Her fingers delicately touched the top of the wet salt. “Am-bur.”

“Dee baawwn,” I said straightly, elongating my name as she did, then I straightly said. “Amber.”

“Deebawn,” Amber said. I shook my head.

“De’ban,” I stated with a grin. “De’ban.”

“Debaun,” Amber stated, then returned my grin. “Debaun.”

I nodded, stood up, and dumped the wet salt into the hot bath. I turned to see her looking at me, curiously, just gazing up. I was after all almost a foot and a half taller than her. Her face burnt red. I felt my nares rise at the sight of her hands holding on to the straps of her thin gown. She slowly walked passed me and I slowly walked passed her. I glanced down, I think she expected me too as I passed, because she did not glance up when I passed, but she blushed.

I paused at the entrance of the bathhouse and looked in, watching her removed that thin gown. I was, for lack of better term, enthralled, like the little bird who became obsessed with the glass beads Lanala made. It saw one glittering and sat there, at her window watching them on the tray or hanging from threads. The blush regressed up her spine.

I wished, sadly, hopelessly, that her skin was white like mine instead of that pale peach color, just so we could find something in common, just so I could find someone to truly talk to. But strangely, acting like I was standing guard, I felt something was exchanged between that our skin color had little to do with, something else I was even more thankful for and hoped for more of.

I crossed my arms and watched her get into tub. Maybe she knew I was watching. Once again, parts of me hoped and did not hope for she knew. She sat back into the tub. I saw her breasts, shaped much like the females of my village, albeit on the small side, but I would not complain for they were much bigger than I planned them to be, since they were always held and caged in that tight fabric, they appeared so much smaller. They were soft, held high, the skin being shaped and color of scallop shells. Her nipples were darker and melted into her skin. Soon her breasts disappeared under the wave of water.

Lanala appeared nodded her thanks to me standing guard. I hesitated leaving the door, looking back when I was a distance away. Surprisingly Stark and Kip were no where to be seen, I could hear them a distance away, fighting and complaining down by the ocean. I was thankful. My skin tinged with heat.

I entered the tent, Shuka was slouched over in her hammock, snoring loudly, overtaking the chirping insects and attempting to overtake the roar of the ocean. I passed her and went into the back where my own bed set among the drying herbs from the rafters. I lay on my cot, staring up into the dying sky. Soon, the night came. I put one arm behind my head and gently rubbed my stomach, running a clawed finger down the center past my navel. My legs bucked. My lower half of the body had no idea what my upper half was thinking.

I ran the finger down again, pausing at my pants band. Shuka snored.

I rubbed my stomach again, unbuttoning my belt and loosening my pants with my free hand. I thought of her while I did it. I will not say it was my first time pleasuring myself, but it was the first time I did it with a particular female in mind. Sometimes the urge that came with adulthood was so powerful I need no image to rid myself of the desire. Males and females did it often not to be bothered of the needs of mating when there were other things to get to. Currently, I did not have the urge that I needed to lose. I had the urge to get the urge and lose it.

My fingers slit into the slit on my underbelly, while my other hand went down the skin that covered the slit and shaft, gently massaging it, just letting my claws brush against it to sent little pricks of pleasure into the organ hidden in my body. I sighed softly as my body gave my penis up. My penis easily slid out the sheaf into my one had while the other remained rubbing the skin of the shaft, keeping limp. It slid down to my testicles, rubbing them gently in circles. My red penis, burning red with blood and the thoughts of her that pounded down my body, throbbed in my hand. I brought my hand up and down my organ, feeling the heat forming. I softly grunted, it running up my throat and from between my lips.

I kept massaging my organ, each thrust from my hip in sync with a light grunt from my nose. I felt my lungs give out as my body finally gave out. Hot seed poured onto my hand. I softly grunted as my body cooled. I leaned back into my cot, wiping my hand on a spare cloth by my cot. I looked out the window.

I wondered if she looked out hers. I wondered about her again. My thoughts no longer about sex, but just about her, about being with her, near her.

The light in Lanala’s hut was on. I could hear the human men out near the beach head singing near a bonfire. I could see their black forms in the orange light. I saw Kip and Stark exit the ocean, each carrying baskets filled with the tiny silver fish that made great broth but only came to the surface during sunset. But I did not see her…Amber…not a shadow moving through the hut, not a glimpse of copper hair…nothing.

It was going to be a long, lonely, empty night.