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Chapter Three

A liyah

The smell of simmering meat greets me as I enter the cave. I’ll clean the male and then tend his wounds as best I can. If he’s still alive, I’ll spoon broth into him, then I’ll pray. He’ll need more than prayers, though. Belly wounds are the most lethal of all.

After soaking several of the large doram leaves in a hanging gourd filled with simmering water, I use the pliable material to clean him. Between dried blood, and the dirt and dust caked in his wounds, this process takes forever. Some of the filth penetrated his shredded organs. I wonder if I’m doing more harm than good as I painstakingly clean the delicate tissue.

I’m not a healer. That never interested me. I’ve always loved to hunt and fish like my Poppa. I’ll do my best with this male, but I fear my best won’t be good enough.

If I had only watched Chernan, the shaman, more closely, perhaps I would know how to patch up this male. I’d know how to boil special herbs to form a healing poultice or smash leaves into medicine. But I know nothing other than to clean him, feed him, and dress his wounds.

While I gently place the cooling doram leaves over his mangled belly, I whisper urgent prayers to Ballam, the God of good health. It scares me that the male isn’t moving at all, not even moaning when one of the leaves touches his entrails. I doubt he’ll live to see daylight.

There’s nothing more I can do. I bank the fire to burning embers, remove my clothes, and climb into the nest I’ll share with my guest.

He’s an enemy, but I’m not afraid. He’s so close to death he’ll never harm me. There are only enough furs for one comfortable sleeping pallet. I don’t mind sharing.

The cave is almost pitch black, illuminated only by the glowing embers. The air is crisp and cool, and I snuggle deeper under the furs.

My face is close enough to feel his shallow, panting breaths. I inventory our similarities and differences. The shape of his face is like mine with a gentle slope from cheekbone to chin, not like my tribesmen who have more angular, almost-square jaws.

I press my palm to his cheek, comparing our coloring. My shade of tan almost matches his, which makes me smile. How many times have I envied my friends for having brothers and sisters they resembled? Even my sleep has been peppered with dreams of finding one other person who looks like me.

Other than my mother, this is the only being I can remember whose skin isn’t green with red specks.

I’ve always considered my coloring as ugly and foreign—unlike anyone I know. Yet when I look at this stranger, I find him handsome.

It suddenly strikes me that I’m touching this male. I snatch my hand from his too-warm cheek as if it was fire. I’m an untouchable. Since my mother’s death almost twenty winters ago, I’ve been denied the simple comfort of another’s touch. Not a pat or a rub or a brush or caress. Chernan was even forbidden to touch me when he healed me from the ternu fever.

I thought I’d abandoned the desire for physical contact long ago. And yet… gods know how desperately I yearn for it now.

Poppa had a good reason to forbid any of the tribe to touch me. I understand, I do. But this handsome stranger will be dead by morning. What harm would it cause if I indulge my urge to explore tonight?

Before I fully make up my mind to break my father the chief’s edict, I trace my finger from above the bone on his brow where the squiggles are, then slide down the slope of his nose to the dip toward his mouth.

His skin is hot—far too warm to be healthy. I take long moments to pray again to Ballam. It’s the best I can do.

Those lips call to me. I’ve seen my wavy reflection in the water. I know my lips are pink, a few shades lighter than this male’s—not like my tribesmen’s lips of leafy green.

I’ve watched the people of my village holding hands and pressing their lips to their mates since I was little. I remember Momma and Poppa kissing, and the soft looks they exchanged that spoke of their affection for each other. I’ve been denied these small pleasures since Momma died. Would it be so terrible to experience this sensation once in my life?

My teeth nibble my bottom lip as I argue with myself.

Poppa never forbade me from touching others. He only forbade others from touching me. Handsome Stranger wouldn’t be in trouble since he won’t be doing any of the touching. And besides, a small voice in the back of my head tells me, he’ll be dead by morning anyway.

One kiss. I’ll steal one kiss from Handsome Stranger. It will be one kiss that must last my whole lifetime.

I turn toward him so I’m lying on my side. He’s on his back. As my skin presses against his, my nipple brushes his arm. A lightning bolt of sensation sparks through my body. My eyes widen in wonder. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s shocking—and feels good.

As I press closer, my nipple is in a hard little peak and slides along his tanned skin. My breath catches in surprise. My pulse pounds and my belly clutches in need, but I’m not hungry.

Am I catching a fever from him? But I don’t feel sick, I feel something else. I move his arm as if it’s a pillow for my head and place his hand around me until it falls across my waist. It’s like he’s hugging me, just as I see with the young couples in the village. Just as I’ve dreamed of season after season.

I feel safe and cared for even though Handsome Stranger isn’t awake.

“Can I kiss you?” I whisper, basking in the safety of knowing he won’t deny me. I lean closer and brush his lips with mine.

How could this be? Energy swirls through my body with just this swift touch of my lips to his. The only time I experienced something similar was when I drank the brew of the marta plant and danced to the drums for hoaras.

Handsome Stranger groans and I realize what I’m doing. I leap from the furs, wring out more simmering doram leaves and replace the old with the new. The shaman did this for Momma when she was dying. He said it would pull the bad spirits out. It didn’t save Momma, but maybe it will save this male.

“I’m sorry, Stranger. I’m not a nice female. I stole a kiss from you. That’s not honorable.”

His skin is far too hot. He’s sweating, and wisps of that gorgeous, long brown-and-black hair are stuck to his forehead. I wipe his skin with cool water, then slide to the far side of the pallet and fall asleep.

~.~

Before I open my eyes the next morning, I pray for Stranger’s health and, barring that, I pray for his safe passage to the next life. I’m afraid to look. I’m certain he died during the night.

But I realize I’m pressed against him, and his skin is warm. When I gaze at him, I see he’s breathing nice and deep, not choppy and labored like last night.

I pull off the doram leaves and can’t quite understand what I see. The destroyed mess of blood and entrails that was visible under many deep cuts last night looks improved. It’s as if somehow the organs have begun to knit together.

I remember my mother pressing her lips to my forehead when I was sick as a little girl. I do this to Stranger and can tell his skin is cooler.

The shaman sews people’s skin when they’re hurt this badly. Now that it seems Stranger’s internal organs might be healing, I should sew him up.

I grab a bone needle and thin sinew from one of the baskets of supplies in the back of the cave. After choosing the most delicate strips of sinew, I pull the fur with Stranger on top until he’s outside the mouth of the cave. I’ll need the best light possible.

The wound itself is a maze of jagged cuts, not one clean slice. There are places where the mam’non’s claws shredded his skin. I make dozens of perfect, tidy stitches. Sewing never seemed important to me until right this moment, but it’s urgent I do it well now. My aunts would be proud of how attentive I am to my stitchery.

After what seems like half the day, I lean back to admire my handiwork, shaking my hands, then squeezing them to stop the ache from such exacting labor.

I keep Stranger outside near the mouth of the cave so he can benefit from the curing powers of the sun. Also, I like to glance at his handsome face as I do my chores.

After gathering firewood, killing a few little brown waruxes , and finding some root vegetables to throw into a stew, I sit by Stranger’s side and sing. I’ve watched Chernan the shaman do this many times. Sometimes he sings well-known tribal chants; sometimes he whispers secret healing songs into his patient’s ears.

Of course, I don’t know any magical songs, so I’ll sing the songs of my tribe for him. I especially like the songs my Poppa taught me, those that are special to my clan.

I sit near Stranger’s head and comb my fingers through his long hair. It isn’t like that of my tribesmen, thick and the color of dark doram leaves. It’s like the silken tufts of the tselan flower, but it consists of many different hues—from almost black to brown with a few golden strands that shimmer in the sun.

I wash his hair, and when it’s dry, I plait it into braids like the males of my village. This makes him look more beautiful to me, which makes me want to kiss his lips again—but I don’t. I shouldn’t have done that last night. It wasn’t right.

So I sit under the dappled light of the overhanging branches and sing the songs of my tribe as I plait Stranger’s hair. I try to control my thoughts, but my mind weaves stories of a future life with this male.

I see us laughing and swimming together, jumping from the high cliffs to the azure pool below. And I see touching, lots of touching. I see enough touching to make up for all the years I’ve never felt the affection of another’s contact.

I’d better stop this foolishness soon, quit braiding Stranger’s hair, and start braiding doram leaves into a sturdy rope. If he doesn’t die, he’ll wake up. And when he wakes, he’d better be securely tied up. Because Poppa told me if males ever come with firesticks they’ll be the enemy. Stranger will try to kill me. And, failing that, Poppa will certainly kill him.

Sirius

By all the gods, pain has never sliced through me like this before. My belly must have been ripped apart. The horror of being clawed by that angry beast returns to me now. Everything comes rushing back: leaving the Lazy Slacker , being hunted by the Galerians, and the attack by a pride of angry, snarling beasts.

Perhaps I’m no longer alive. I’ve heard stories of what some cultures call heaven. I’ve also heard of hell and have wondered many times if my miserable life wasn’t a life at all, but a punishment in hell for sins in a previous existence I don’t remember.

I use my enhanced senses to assess everything around me. There’s the gentle sound of running water in the distance and the call of birds above me in a canopy of leaves. The sun is pouring down upon me. My fingertips are lodged in soft furs, the same furs that cover my body.

Is someone caring for me? I dare not open my eyes to assess my surroundings. I’m not tied up. I’ll bide my time and see what information I can glean before my captors know I’m conscious. I’m too weak to fight. The only strength I have is the power of surprise.

I want to plan an attack, but the pain squeezes my gut like I’m being torn apart. Then the siren song of unconsciousness calls me again.

~.~

I’m awakened by a female singing. I remember my circumstances and don’t move a muscle, not wanting to reveal I’m awake.

The Feds who created me and owned my body and soul could only train and abuse me for so many hoaras a day. Thank the gods they allowed me time on the Intergalactic Database. Leaving geneslaves alone with computer pads was so much easier than educating us. Even though the sites were heavily censored, I learned so many amazing things.

In my teens, I became fascinated with languages. By my count, I learned thirty-eight of them. I learned nine root languages from which many other languages sprang.

The songs the female sings aren’t related to any of the tongues I’m familiar with.

I listen attentively to all the sounds around me. If there was another humanoid nearby I would certainly be able to sense their presence.

There is only the singer and me.

My pain is still so great I doubt I could stand and subdue a child, much less an adult. I need time to heal, perhaps one more day. If she’s my only adversary, I’ll be able to overpower her and leave soon enough.

She’s talking now. I can’t translate any of her words, but her lilting tone seems sweet and calm. I pay close attention; perhaps I’ll be able to pick up some speech patterns.

She sits down behind me and sifts her fingers through my hair. Her touch is gentle, more tender than when Brianna reached around me on the bridge the day I left the Slacker . I stop breathing for a moment, fully absorbed in this magical feeling.

Maybe this is why animals like to be stroked. It calms the nervous system—but does something more. It… makes me feel worthwhile. It ratifies my very existence. I understand why felines purr and canines wiggle when they’re on the receiving end of this. It’s a geneslave’s version of heaven.

I force myself to stay still so the female doesn’t notice I’m conscious. But how can I command every cell in my body not to respond to this female’s sweet touch?

I’ve never felt anything like this before. Is this why males and females pair up? To give each other calm pleasure like this?

She begins singing again, at the same time her fingers change their absentminded stroking and start gently pulling in an organized rhythm. Is she braiding my hair?

Her hands are busy, her mouth is chattering, and the stroke of her soft touch must be what they talked about when they spoke of heaven. It feels so good I consider praying to a god I don’t believe in just to make it continue forever.

My immersion in this rapture is so deep, so divine, an odd warmth develops behind my eyes. My jaw and my cheeks are quivering. If I don’t grab hold of these unusual reactions, I’ll give myself away. Perhaps my brain was damaged in the beast’s attack. Something is wrong with me.

She scoots from near my right shoulder to my left, then feathers her fingers through my hair and starts braiding again. How could anything so pleasant be done by an enemy?

“Twinkle, twinkle little steer, how I wander here and there,” she sings.

I spent a lunar cycle on the Lazy Slacker with twelve Earth females. I didn’t just rely on my subdural translator, I Iearned their language. She’s speaking Earther.

She continues singing a song that makes no sense, but it’s all Earth words. Am I on Earth? Why did all her other speech sound so foreign? I guess there could be many dialects on Earth.

From what I gleaned from the females aboard the ship, Earth is an incongruous combination of scientific mastery and territorial warfare. Is this female braiding my hair to expose my neck so it can more easily be sliced off my body?

“The eensy beensy diaper crawled up the water snout,” she sings for a while, then returns to the other language I can’t translate.

She stops braiding and becomes still and quiet, then leaves my side. I hear her many paces away, moving things within a nearby cave. Peeping one eye open, I confirm she’s out of sight, then take quick inventory of my surroundings. Shade trees overhead appear to be turning color with the change of seasons. The mouth of the cave is to my left. I notice no huts or lodgings of any kind. The female is alone out here. An instant pang of fear for her shoots up my spine. Why would a single female put herself in such a position with a lone male, even a sick one?

It’s only now I notice my hands are bound. Testing lightly, it’s obvious her rope is of the flimsiest material. I could break my bonds in the blink of an eye with little effort.

Good. If she calls her kinsmen, or tries to harm me, I can protect myself. I’ll bide my time to see what game she’s playing.

I hear her approach before she exits into the sunlight. She kneels at my side and spoons warm broth into my mouth. These certainly don’t seem like the actions of an enemy.

The breeze seems cooler, and the sun isn’t pouring down on me anymore. She grabs hold of the skin I’m lying on and drags me back into the cave.

The Feds who created me were sadistic and merciless, but they did me one favor. The healing properties they endowed me with have surely saved my life.

I feel my strength returning with every passing minima . If she attacked me now, I’d be able to fight. Not for long, and not well, but certainly enough to overcome this female.

All day long she’s been chattering and singing in either her strange language or Earther. Since we came back into the cave, though, she’s been eerily quiet.

She kneels next to me and it takes all the self-control I have not to sneak the smallest peek. If she’s going to harm me, now would be the time. I’ll have to rely on my superior reflexes if she launches an attack.

The rhythm of her breathing has changed from light and easy to deep and slow. Her gaze is boring into me—I can feel it. She’s making a big decision. It’s so obvious I can almost read her mind.

I pull my wrists to the ends of their tethers. I can break free immediately if I need to. I want to see her next move before I reveal I’m awake.

Aliyah

He’s recovering swiftly. At the rate he’s improving, he might be awake as early as tomorrow. I have his long knife at my side, and I’ve been convincing myself to use it if I need to.

I wasn’t able to tear my eyes from him all day as he laid in the dappled sunshine, the light playing across his handsome features. It was hard to keep my fingers from exploring the hard muscles under the subtle stripes of his skin when I changed the doram leaves on his abdomen.

I’ve kept the furs firmly secured around his hips, although my fingers itched to follow the blue lines of his veins down his flanks to his hips, and lower.

I press my fingers to my lips—they still tingle from our kiss last night. I’m a selfish female. I want to experience that again—once more in my lifetime before he awakens and hates me or tries to kill me.

I kneel next to him and lean over in small, slow increments. I promise myself I’ll only kiss him once, then I change my mind and decide to have two kisses. Two perfect kisses that will be sweet and soft and will last me the rest of my life.

“I’m sorry, Stranger. I know this isn’t right,” I apologize. “Even though my God will punish me, I just can’t help it.”

I hover over him, my lips so close I could lick him, but I don’t. I drink in the smell of him and notice the tiniest details of his face—the curve of his brows, the slope of his nose, the dark indigo markings on his forehead.

My lids flutter closed, and I finally allow my lips to descend to his. I drown in their warmth and pillowy softness. Brushing back and forth, I pretend he’s kissing me back.

My imagination is so strong it sweeps me into another world where his strong hands surround my back, his fingers splay out as he pulls me toward him. In my fantasy, I hear a soft, deep growl escape the back of his throat as he squeezes me even closer and kisses me harder.

His hands cup the back of my head and press my lips to his as if he doesn’t want me to lean back. Why would I picture it this way? I’d never pull away from a kiss this enthralling.

Spearing my hands through his hair, I hang on to him as I lower myself and lay next to him. His warm tongue spars with mine. His taste is spicy, he smells like warm sunshine. It’s like my body’s been asleep and is waking up after a long slumber.

My nipples are hard points, warmth pools between my legs, every part of my body hums with energy.

His mouth is open to me, his tongue is in my mouth. How can this be? I pull back, open my eyes and see he’s turned toward me, his eyes open.

“You’re awake!” I spring up and grab the most threatening weapon I have—his long knife. I point it at him, my eyes slit in anger. “Don’t touch me. I’ll kill you.”

My thoughts are swirling. It wasn’t my imagination—he was kissing me. How could that be if he’s the enemy? And his eyes, those gorgeous odd eyes, one is brown, one ice-blue. He’s so handsome.

It doesn’t matter how attractive this male is, or how wonderful that kiss was, or how amazing my body responds when we touch. He’s an enemy. He had a firestick. I conjure a quick picture of him using his sharp canines to bite that mam’non . Gods, what was I thinking? I can’t let my guard down.

“You’re from Earth?” he asks. “Are we on Earth?”

His words sound familiar, but I can’t quite make them out.

“Airth?”

“Right, Earth. You sang songs in Earther.”

“Airth?” I was young when Mom died. It’s been so long since I heard this language, it sounds foreign and familiar at the same time.

I keep my knife pointed at him. He’d have to conjure magic to spring up from the furs and hurt me. Reminding myself I’m safe, I stand here and talk to him.

“You Airth?”

“No,” he shakes his head, then points to his temple. “I know Earth speech.” He points to his mouth.

“Speech more,” I order.

He cringes in pain as he sits up. I haven’t changed the doram leaves in a long time, so they’ve dried and fallen to his waist. The mangled cuts of yesterday look almost healed.

“Sirius.” He points to his chest, then motions to me.

“Aliyah. Speech more.”

“Fur.” He points to the furs covering him. “Hair, nose, mouth…” He points as he recites the words, then names every item in the cave. At first, I just repeat each word, then he indicates he wants to learn my words, so after I repeat each Earth word, I tell him the People’s word for the same item.

I pull over a stump and sit close enough to converse, but far enough he can’t hurt me. We start a second round. He points to an object and I have to say it in English. He says it in my language. He’s so much better at this than me. He hasn’t missed one yet.

The longer we play our game, the more it wakes up the part of my brain that used to speak this language. I push back the sadness this conjures—thoughts of my mom, wispy memories of french fries with ketchup, cartoons on TV, cars and grocery stores and movie theaters.

I stop him. I don’t want to learn any more words. I want to understand who he is and why he’s here.

I stand my two index fingers side by side and say, “Friends,” as I smile. Then I knock the two fingers together, my face angry as I say, “Fight,” because I can’t remember the word for enemy. I look at him seriously, my brow furrowing. “Sirius and Aliyah friends or fight?”

“Are we friends or enemies?” he asks, his voice gritty and low. “Friends.” Nodding, he looks deeply into my eyes and my tummy does a little spin with the intensity of his gaze. “No harm. No hurt. You’re safe. No touch.” He puts his hands up, palms facing me in a gesture that indicates goodwill among my People.

“You’re safe.” He places his palm against his chest and bows his head toward me. “Thank you.” Pointing to his belly, his wounds, he repeats, “Thank you. You saved me.”

He graces me with that beautiful, piercing gaze and lifts the corners of his mouth in the tiniest smile. “Thank you.”