Challenge

by Montgomery Mahaffey

  The girl was still turned away. Her hands works through her hair thickened with soap. While she was occupied, the Wanderer admired the lines of her back. Her sides tapered before swelling into her rump. Before his gaze rested on her too long, the Wanderer dove underwater, swimming to the other side of the pool before taking a breath. Then he floated on his back, kicking his legs to return while pushing his fingers through the thicker snarls in his hair. He opened the other bottle and sprinkled several drops in his hands, working the oil into his scalp. After several minutes, his fingers ran smooth through the heavy curls.

  Once he was done, the Wanderer saw the girl struggling with the comb. He looked at the bottle and then at her, reluctant to share his oil. But her skin was luminous and rivulets of water trickled down her spine. Then he heard the muffled ripping of hair and winced.

  “I have something that can help you with that.”

  The Wanderer spoke without thinking. The girl didn’t even react, keeping her back to him. But his body was treacherous, his hand reaching for the bottle and his legs striding to where she stood. The girl started when he pressed the cool glass in the crux of her arm and shoulder. Then she turned her head, glancing at the bottle before peering at the Wanderer with a glint of cold amusement in her eyes. In that moment, he despised himself.

  “Go on and try some,” he said. “You only need a bit.”

  Her wide mouth curved upwards and a hint of mischief came into her eyes. She shifted her gaze slowly between the bottle and the Wanderer. Then the girl pulled the comb from her hair and held it out.

  The Wanderer stared at the instrument. The wide handle was grasped between her fingers, the blunt teeth pointing to the sky. His blood quickened in his veins and his heart pounded. He knew the girl was tormenting him on a whim, taunting him with the temptation of possibility. But he still accepted the comb. The girl turned and swept her hair down her back.

  He stepped close. A soft heat wafted from her, teasing along his skin and shooting through his hand when he reached for the small of her back. She tensed when the Wanderer touched her, but he still brought his other arm across her shoulders to guide her down to the water. He leaned her back and ran his fingers through the floating strands, relaxing as many gnarls as he could. Her body offered no resistance when he pulled her up, bringing her to the ledge to sit before him, his legs embracing hers.

  He spread a dollop between his palms before fanning his hands through her scalp. With slow twirling motions, he worked the oil down the length of her hair. The girl shivered whenever his fingers brushed her skin, but she didn’t pull away. The Wanderer made several passes with his hands before switching to the comb.

  Then he gathered the lower length of hair with one hand and tugged gently through the tangles with the other, the strands giving way a little at a time. He combed through with several clean strokes, and moved his gripping hand to the nape of her neck. The girl shivered again and he smiled. The Wanderer was careful as he worked through the knots in the second length, patient until the wooden teeth of the comb made tracks, bringing out the gold in her tresses.

  As he worked, the tips of his fingers often touched skin and the thrill shot to the depths of his belly, where his core descended to his pelvis. But he forced himself to focus on his task. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and breathed to temper his ardor. During his travels, a sage had taught him this cooling breath – especially valuable in those moments when serenity was threatened from desire. The balance was a fragile tension; a sliver of clarity that scarcely held him above the ecstatic abyss while the Wanderer coaxed the knots from her hair.

  Her body gave way with each tug of the comb. The girl leaned into him, her hands dangling to his thighs. The longer he worked, the more pliant she became, eyelids fluttering and whimpers escaping from her mouth. Her surrender was provocative and impossible to resist. The Wanderer succumbed. The girl now seemed like a lover and he grew tender, working through her scalp with mild persistence until the tangles became silken threads.

  Then he was done. He put the comb down and finished with his hands, weaving his fingers through her hair, then brushing down to the ends. Her tresses glimmered, cascading across her shoulders and over her breasts. Her long sigh moan trilled through the Wanderer, and he couldn’t stop himself from combing his fingers through her hair again.

  Her head swayed and dropped back to his shoulder, her face turned towards him. Her breath warmed his cheek and her mouth was close to his the moment she opened her eyes. Her gaze smoldered when she looked at him, and the Wanderer had no doubt she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Then she iced over. The girl swept away with one smooth motion, taking a few steps from him before running her hands through her hair. She seemed pleased. She whipped the entire length behind her, a few golden strands striking the Wanderer in the face. But she didn’t appear to notice. She glanced at him with a curt nod, her hand out to take back the comb.

  The cool dismissal in her eyes made him seethe. The Wanderer flipped the comb at her and dove for the black depths of the pool. Fury propelled his arms as he went against the current, his legs kicking brutally and his heart roaring inside his chest. He was exhausted, but couldn’t stop until he was empty of wrath and lust. By that time, the girl had gone.

  Chapter Three

  He saw their horses before he saw the Lawmen. The Wanderer spent the morning foraging along the eastern hill approaching the hot springs. The woods were generous with his favorite mushrooms, and his sack was overflowing by afternoon. Eager to start the fire and make his hash, he came back to camp early. But the sight of two horses with their braided manes and cropped tails made the blood drain from his face.

  The Lawmen looked like phantoms. Dressed in black coats flaring to their knees, they prowled around the camp. The Wanderer watched the shorter one come to the girl’s tent with pistol in hand, while the taller one crouched at the fire pit. The iron weave was cast aside and he sifted through the ashes with one hand, the other holding his baton with a firm grip.

  But they were afraid. The Wanderer could smell their fear, the sharp pungency assailing his nostrils. He also knew from the weapons trembling in their hands, their tight lips and pale faces. Then he stepped on a twig and the loud crack shattered the stillness, catapulting the Lawmen into aggressive defense. The taller one stood, the baton high over his head while the shorter dropped to the ground and aimed his pistol for the Wanderer.

  His sack slipped from his fingers, spilling mushrooms, berries, and herbs at his feet. The Wanderer was transfixed on the man lying belly to the ground, a gun shaking in his hand. He couldn’t stop staring at his face, thinking it strange that any Lawman should resemble an aging cherub. He even forgot the other one until he stepped into his line of vision. The taller Lawman peered at him with watery green eyes, relaxing once he realized the Wanderer couldn’t move.

  “I assume this is your camp,” he said, after his partner stood up and joined him.

  The Wanderer nodded.

  “Where do you come from?” the shorter one asked.

  “I’m from here,” he replied, pointing to his tent. “I have my papers in there.”

  He retrieved his documents and the Lawmen flipped through the pages, perusing the stamps of all the countries he’d been in the past five years. The taller Lawman even whistled when he turned back to the first page and read the name of his family and village.

  “You’ve certainly traveled far from home,” he said. “How long have you been back?”

  “About three months.”

  The Wanderer cursed his absence of mind when both Lawmen looked up.

  “What are you doing in these woods?” the shorter one asked.

  “Am I breaking the law?”

  “No. But why are you living like this now that you’re home? Don’t you have people?”

  The Wanderer flinched as if he’d been slapped. His throat closed up and he crossed his arms, leaving the Lawmen waiting for an answer. When none came, they frow
ned.

  “You were asked a question,” the taller persisted. “What are you doing in these woods?”

  The Wanderer knew he was foolish to remain silent. They might arrest him if he didn’t cooperate, but he couldn’t respond. He glanced at the shorter Lawman. He seemed more bewildered than offended, his round eyes flicking to the page his partner held open. Then his brow furrowed and he bent his head, looking closely before staring into the Wanderer’s face. He thought it must be his imagination when he saw recognition in the Lawman’s eyes.

  “I don’t believe it!” he cried. “I haven’t seen you since you were a bitty boy!”

  Official formality disappeared from his manner and the Lawman broke open with a smile. His eyes sparkled when he laughed, clapping the Wanderer on the shoulder.

  “I don’t expect you to remember me,” he continued. “But we come from the same village. You look a lot like the old Bard. Do you also tell stories like your grandfather?”

  The Wanderer froze for an instant, uncertain he heard correctly. Then he expelled a bellow of air, his limbs shaking from relief.

  “I don’t know if I’d make that claim,” he said. “But I do the best I can.”

  The Lawman from his village chuckled. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but his partner interrupted.

  “As happy a chance as this is, you still haven’t told us why you’re living in these woods.”

  “He has a point,” the shorter one said. “I know you have people waiting for you.”

  The Wanderer looked away from the Lawmen, swallowing a hard lump down his throat.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “Except for one.”

  The shorter Lawman’s face cleared and he nodded slowly, his eyes filling with sympathy.

  “It was a sad day for us all when the Bard passed on,” he said. “I can only imagine what a terrible loss that must be for you.”

  The Wanderer nodded, but said nothing else. His former neighbor pulled his partner aside and they conferred in voices too low to be heard, and the Wanderer was relieved when the taller nodded and headed for the horses. As his partner mounted, the Lawman from his village approached with his hand outstretched. His hold was firm when he grasped the Wanderer’s hand with his own.

  “It’s good to meet you again,” he said. “You’ve grown up into a fine young man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So do your grandfather proud,” he continued. “Stop living like a wretch and go home. Some folks worry about you. They need to know that you’re all right.”

  “I…uhhh…” the Wanderer hesitated. “I never thought of that.”

  The Lawman nodded, satisfied to make his point and went to his horse. While he climbed into the saddle, the taller one looked between the two tents.

  “By the way,” he said. “Your campmate’s been gone for some time.”

  “I guess so,” the Wanderer said and shrugged. “That’s not unusual.”

  “Really? Where do you think she could be?”

  From the edge of his vision, the Wanderer saw the Lawman from his village glare at his partner. But his gaze never wavered from those watery green eyes.

  “She?”

  “Yes,” the taller Lawman persisted. “She. You are camped with a young woman, aren’t you? So where is she?”

  “No sir,” the Wanderer replied. “I’ve been traveling with a friend I met on the ship and I suppose he’s still out hunting.”

  “Can you be certain of that?”

  “Of course I can. He hunts every day.”

  “Very well then,” he said and touched his hat. “Welcome home, Citizen.”

  With a final nod, they took their leave. The Wanderer couldn’t move, staring into the woods long after the Lawmen were gone. Citizen. In his mind, the word lilted before echoing through him, soothing a desperation he didn’t know he had, the first time he’d been addressed as such since he came home.

  He became aware of her gradually. He turned his head slightly, and saw her deep in the woods beyond her tent. He wondered how long she’d been there. Her gaze locked with his when their eyes met and they didn’t waver, not even when she cantered her stallion through the trees to stop before him. He glanced at the pheasant dangling from the saddle.

  “So I was wondering,” he said. “Do you think we could share our supper tonight?”

  The girl didn’t answer right away, swinging her leg over to dismount. She glanced at the fallen sack, the harvest strewn on the ground and back to him. She fingered her star-shaped crystal, the muscle twitching in her jaw, and looked beyond him. The Wanderer went numb when the girl walked to her tent, shocked that she would continue to slight him. Then she pulled the necklace over her head and dropped the pendant inside.

  “All right,” she said, turning to face him. “I suppose we can.”

  He blinked when she spoke and didn’t move when she came back and untied the pheasant from her horse. She glanced at him and raised her brows.

  “I’ll need an hour to get the bird ready.”

  The Wanderer was too stunned to do anything other than go to the pit. To his surprise, they worked well together, falling into each other’s rhythm with ease. The girl had the pheasant dressed and lined along the spit by the time the fire was ready. She laid it between the prongs and placed one of her pans underneath to catch the droppings while the Wanderer made up his hash. His mouth watered when he poured the fat over his dish, stirring it in with his spoon and inhaling the savory wafting from the skillet. Tonight, his hash would be perfect.

  “I think the pheasant is done.”

  The sound of her voice startled him. He looked up, surprised the evening dusk was growing darker and that the girl already pulled the spit from the fire. Without a word, he gestured for her to hand the pheasant over. He tore the meat to shreds, mixing it all into the hash until it was moist, then loaded a mound on each plate. The aroma made his head swim, but the Wanderer knew it was only a hint of the tastes and textures to come. Rubbing his palms briskly and hovering them over his plate, he closed his eyes to give thanks, a blessing ritual he hadn’t done in months. He opened his eyes to the girl staring at him, her fork dangling from her fingers.

  “Did your grandfather teach you that?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “So tell me about him,” she murmured. “He was a bard, right?”

  “Why should you care?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she shrugged. “Just a mention of him got the Lawmen out of here.”

  “Are you going to tell me what brought them here looking for you?”

  “I’d rather hear about your grandfather instead.”

  “Was it because you crossed the border illegally?”

  “It could be for lots of reasons.”

  “Give me one.”

  The girl shook her head and took her first bite. The Wanderer was gratified when she closed her eyes and sighed deeply, but hunger pulled his attention to his own plate. The supper was better than he expected, the meat tender and the hash softened, the infusion of herbs stronger with the base of animal fat. He chewed until he no longer distinguished one flavor from another. When he took his next mouthful he moaned, amused to see the girl scowling at him.

  “I take it you prefer silence while eating.”

  “I don’t care how much noise you make,” she retorted. “But are you going to talk about your grandfather or not?”

  “Why do you want to know about him?”

  The girl didn’t answer right away. She ate until her supper was half finished. Then she turned towards the Wanderer again.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess he sounds like an interesting topic of conversation.”

  Although her voice held the casual tone of boredom, the Wanderer narrowed his eyes. He even set his plate down and peered at her.

  “Well if you’re going to be like that,” he said. “Tell me why the Lawmen showed up and I’ll entertain you with stories about my grandfather.”

&
nbsp; “Forget it,” she snorted. “I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”

  “I know you didn’t. But—”

  “But nothing. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  They finished the rest of the meal in silence. The Wanderer had to exert himself to eat slowly, for his relish had diminished. He couldn’t stop thinking that this strange girl who refused to speak to him for a month had shown interest in the Bard. The lure was irresistible.

  “So what do you want me to tell you?”

  “Whatever you wish to share,” she said. “Did he teach you how to cook?”

  “Not really. He taught me how to forage.”

  At first, the Wanderer found talking to her difficult. Her inscrutable expression implied indifference, stemming the flow of his memories and making his speech come in hesitant bursts. But her face grew soft as she fixed her eyes on him and unlocked his past. Then the Wanderer lost himself in stories of the Bard. He even smiled as he described how strict his grandfather had been in the woods, refusing to let him gather alone until he’d made no mistakes for a year. Growing up, he’d always been frustrated with the Bard’s exacting standards. But later, he was grateful. He could always feed himself when he had nothing, the marks of nourishment and poison similar all over the world.

  “You learned that much during visits?” she asked.

  “I grew up with him.”

  His throat tightened and the Wanderer stopped talking. The girl frowned, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she held up her empty plate.

  “Supper was quite good,” she said. “If your grandfather didn’t teach you, how did you learn to cook?”

  The Wanderer was relieved the past rushed back so easily. He opened up again to the vivid images in his mind, returning to the nights for stories when he taught himself how to pair herbs and spices through his sense of smell. He could hear the logs crackling, his back warm from the flames of the past, the Bard’s voice ringing through the cabin. Drifting in the sea of those memories, he murmured the adage his grandfather had repeated as the years passed.