Challenge

by Montgomery Mahaffey

  Then he couldn’t stop. The pressure built inside him, he saw white spotting in the darkness again, and the moan borne from the depths of his belly escaped from his mouth. The girl’s tension also rose; her breath came in rapid puffs, the nub grew hot and her musk turned to sweet. She undulated her hips, the wetness between her legs inviting him to push his fingers inside her. She was at the precipice, but the Wanderer didn’t give in. The girl cried out, biting his shoulder. The sharpness of her teeth pulled him back from the edge to another memory of the springs. He could still see the disdain in her cold blue eyes when the girl held her hand out to take back the comb.

  The Wanderer was reaching his own crescendo, wanting more than anything to give in to the wave, its crest frothing before the crash. It took all of his strength to stop. He took both of the girl’s hands and pulled them above her head. Then he rolled on his back, and brought the girl with him to rest on his chest.

  “Damn you, Wanderer!” she snarled. “What are you doing?”

  “I was curious as to why you haven’t told me no.”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  Then she spread her legs and took him. The Wanderer gasped when the soft jaws devoured him. He reveled in her moist before the blackness went completely white. The girl screamed and shuddered the moment he exploded inside her.

  ****

  Darkness gave way to light, but the Wanderer hardly noticed. Immersed between her legs, his hands roamed over her belly, and the soft melted under the tips of his fingers. She gave herself over to another climax, her moaning alto hum resonating in his bones while he drank from her. He wanted more of her nectar. But the girl brought him up, engulfed his mouth with hers, wrapped her legs around him, and let him enter her again. The Wanderer lost himself in the storm that went on without end, the girl shuddering in his arms. Her head was thrown back, and a low growl escaped from her mouth the instant her body was no longer her own.

  Then it was night again. Falling with the rise of the sun and going down when the moon rose, the Wanderer and the girl came together and apart in a rhythm of their own, the union of their bodies different each time. She fell over the edge time and again, but she would never surrender. She was never pliant in his arms, lying on him with her head against his chest and her face averted. The more they made love, the more he craved that softening. He tried to enfold her in tenderness, but the girl always pushed him away. The Wanderer had never known a lover like her. She had the delicate flesh of a woman and the hard drive of a man, a lust equal to his. He saw it in the hunger blazing in her eyes every time she reached for him, and his heart beat violence inside his chest.

  The Wanderer lost count of the days that passed, their carnality both bliss and torment. He yearned for the girl to melt in his arms just once. But after each shudder that claimed her body, she grimaced like one in pain, moaned and turned her face away.

  “Are you all right?” he would ask.

  But the girl never answered. Before she fell upon him again, her gaze was primal, ensnaring the Wanderer in a delirium of coupling that left him exhausted and exhilarated. He fell into near unconsciousness while making love to her. When he woke up joined to her again, his peak crested into his dreams and blurred his reality, their bodies churning in a rhythm that left them breathless.

  Eventually, they had no choice but to stop. The girl collapsed, too spent to resist. She was soft in his arms, the closest to surrender he would ever get from her. His pulse slowed and the Wanderer dozed. The slumber was a relief until the bite of her teeth woke him up. He saw the girl gnawing on him, her thick teeth piercing his flesh where she sucked below his left nipple.

  “Stop it!” he yelled, jerking away. “That hurts!”

  The Wanderer was shocked at the blood dripping from the wound, his skin mottling around it. When he looked at the girl, his heart started pounding hard against his ribs. The ferocious longing in her eyes stirred up tentacles of fear.

  “What was that about?” he whispered.

  She groaned, that muscle twitching in her jaw. The girl reached for her naked throat, her fingers groping for nothing. Then her gaze turned to ice and she started to laugh. He heard the edge of hysteria in the sound, and wondered if this was the start of a fit. But the girl heaved for air until she stopped, and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.

  “You are one lucky fool, Wanderer,” she said. “You’re the luckiest fool I’ve ever seen.”

  She reached for him again and the madness of coupling continued. Finally, the Wanderer fell off his last peak to soar into the realm of dreamlessness.

  How long he stayed there, he didn’t know, but he knew the girl was gone before he opened his eyes. The soreness of his flesh permeated his bones and he ached. Her absence was as acute as her presence had been. He fought to stay in the limbo between sleep and waking, but the crack of burning wood and the smell of smoke pulled him awake. He almost collapsed when he sat up, his hunger making him dizzy. The scent of savory was a relief, a hint of food made ready. The girl must have gotten up early to prepare the meal for them.

  The Wanderer came outside his tent to an explosion of color. He was shocked to find the autumn season reaching its peak. The trees had been mostly golden when last he remembered, but the clearing seemed on fire with the orange and red leaves glowing from the evening sun. He was spellbound for a moment before he saw the girl had left.

  The camp was desolate without her things to fill it up. The only trace of her was the iron mesh resting over the pit. On top was his skillet filled with the meat, herbs, and mushrooms she had cooked for him. The fire was nearly dead, the embers spitting their last flares. Next to the pit, she’d staked a pole where the carcasses of two squirrels dangled. They were skinned from their necks to their hind feet, the meat of their bodies still fresh, their eyes filmy and unseeing.

  Too weak to forage, the Wanderer couldn’t ignore the meal she prepared for him. But he tasted nothing as he ate, knowing emptiness would consume him later.

  Chapter Four

  Once he left No Man’s Land, the Wanderer didn’t stop moving. He found irony in the strangers who smiled at him, looked him in the eye, and called him citizen. After he sold his mare to a farmer who needed a gentle horse for his daughter to ride, he lived more like a vagabond than ever. He only took on labor he could finish in a day and declined anything more. But hospitality was accepted with gratitude, because he wouldn’t have to go back into the woods.

  He couldn’t get the girl out of his mind. In his dreams, he could remember her under his fingers, those cold blue eyes staring through him. Sometimes he’d wake up with his flesh tingling from the memory of her touch, the smell of her lingering in his nostrils. He’d open his eyes and see she was gone, the numbness crushing him just like the day she had left.

  The Wanderer hated the girl, but ached for her in his bones and sinews. He was a fool, as the girl had said. He knew he should go home to the people who loved him. For two weeks, he kept moving until he drifted into the port town where his journey started.

  He didn’t recognize where he was until he saw the ship. He blinked and had to look again. Except for the name on the stern, the vessel was just like the one he had been on five and a half years before. When the horn blew, he started, suddenly aware he was on the wharf, immersed in a mass of people swarming around him. The crowd blew kisses to the passengers on deck, while they leaned over the railings, waving to their loved ones who were sending them off as the crew hoisted ropes from the dock.

  His heart squeezed from the joy and sadness around him. But the sight of an old man crying and shouting good-bye to a youth on the ship stopped him in his tracks. In that moment, he saw his grandfather as he had been on the day he’d left. Their Patron and Patroness had stood on either side of him. The gnarled hand had been at the level of his heart and the Bard had never stopped waving, growing smaller from the Wanderer sailing away. But he had remained on the deck, waving back long after his grandfather was gone.


  A swell rose from the depths of his belly and returned the Wanderer to the moment the Bard’s soul passed. The tears streaming down his face flooded his vision, making him blind to the stranger drawing him close. There was warmth and strength in that embrace, and he sobbed into the unknown shoulder. After a time, the other pulled back and the Wanderer looked into the whiskey brown eyes of the old man.

  “Son,” he said. “It always hurts to lose someone. But the pain is worse if you hold on when it’s time to let go.”

  Before the Wanderer could say anything, the horn bleated farewell. The old man touched his face and slipped away. He turned back to the boy on deck, waving with one hand and blowing kisses with the other. The youth’s face was filled with the bittersweet of excitement and sorrow, and the Wanderer couldn’t stop crying. He left the crowd behind for a lone stump down the wharf. There he faced the sea and surrendered to mourning.

  His heart throbbed in the same manner whenever the girl had angered him. But this time, he was thinking of the last time he saw his grandfather. Shocked, the Wanderer tried to push it away, but the sentiment wouldn’t be denied. Breathing deeply, smoke from the ship’s furnace mingled with the salt of the ocean, both acrid and refreshing at once. His tears dried up and he wanted to curse at the sky. His limbs were taut with the urge to run and make his escape.

  But he didn’t. The Wanderer finally admitted he was angry with the Bard for insisting he leave, and with himself for going when his heart told him to stay. He remembered his first sight of the boat and the blinding white of its sails. He felt again that rush of guilt when he knew he wanted to get on board more than anything in his life, even while his grandfather was dying. He couldn’t breathe when he thought of how alone he had been since the Bard passed on. Solitude was the one thing in life he found unbearable.

  The memory of his parents’ murder rushed in and the tears came again, and a torrent of sobs wrenched him apart. But he allowed the terror to consume him, just as it had that night. He flinched when he remembered the intruder who had come to his room. Then he saw himself, suddenly overcome with tenderness for the terrified child he had been. He finally recognized the shame he carried all his life for surviving an ordeal his parents didn’t. Something lifted from the Wanderer. The relief made him giddy, so much he almost fell over.

  Then he continued through the early years with his grandfather. Rage disappeared in the onslaught of love showered on him for the rest of his childhood. He had nothing but a deep gratitude for the man who saved him from the abyss of darkness that could have consumed the rest of his life. He could still see the Bard’s face, with its deep lines and black eyes filled with the wisdom of life well lived. He wept until no tears were left.

  Alpenglow streamed across the sky once he was done. The crowd had long dispersed and the ship was tiny at the edge of the horizon. The Wanderer smiled at the last glimpse of the vessel before it disappeared into the eastern mists. He felt as if he were a shade above the ground when he stood up, the buoyancy like nothing he’d ever known in his life.

  “Go home.”

  The voice was soft. The Wanderer turned around to find nobody was there.

  “It’s time to go home.”

  Then he realized the whisper came from inside, the voice of his heart echoing through him. Suddenly he yearned for the village, for his friends and neighbors. Then the cabin came to mind, the windows and door lit up from the fire blazing in the hearth. He saw himself enter, and savored the aroma of wood burning, the heat warming him to the bone. Everybody was inside to welcome him home. He could hear their voices tinged with affectionate joy. The image was so vivid he almost believed he was there until the call of the fishermen pulled him back to the wharf.

  The smell of fish made him grimace and he listened to the salt rough voices of seamen shouting to one another. But when he looked around, the Wanderer recognized the changing hour when day people came to their finish and the night people to their start. Fishermen hauled nets, their muscular necks straining while the ladies of night sauntered along the dock, their rolling hips an exaggeration of availability. Dusk was forgiving of these women, lending the illusion of bloom over their defeated faces. They loitered near the boats and ignored the disapproving glares of passersby, their eyes narrowed slits fishing for the men looking for them. The Wanderer smiled at the furtive couples who passed him on their way to the bordellos.

  Life after dark was the same all over the world. But here, the night people struck a deeper note inside him. They were a part of him. They were all citizens and outcasts of the same country. Listening to them speak in his native tongue, the Wanderer finally believed he had come home.

  Then he saw her.

  Her stallion was nowhere in sight. The girl was on foot at the end of the wharf lined with taverns and disreputable inns. She would have looked a downtrodden prostitute in her tattered skirts were it not for her walk. Hers was not the gait of desperation, but the long stride strut of a man. One glimpse and his body became a traitor to him again, his longing more brutal than ever.

  The Wanderer didn’t realize he was following her until a large black carriage caught her attention. A quartet of horses pulled their burden with a high-stepping trot, the open box exposing the four noblemen inside. The cape of one soared outside the carriage, its extravagant length sweeping along the wharf. The gentleman’s face was hidden with the likeness of a skull, and the Wanderer realized it must be All Hallows Eve. All the occupants were in costume, their faces covered in masks. But their voices were loud, their accents rendered uncouth from drink.

  The carriage stopped before the most raucous tavern on the wharf, and he heard the sounds of merrymaking ringing from inside. The Wanderer raised his brows. Surely the gentlemen wouldn’t dream of going there. This was the place for those who lived and worked on the wharf, not for the guests of a fancy dress ball. But the garbled discussion about the fun that could be found on the wharf confirmed that they intended to do exactly that. The Wanderer shook his head and snorted. The noblemen looked absurd stumbling out of the carriage, tripping over the capes cascading to their ankles. When they lifted their masks, they uncovered bloated features and bleary eyes. But the tallest of the four was the last to remove his; the grinning violet demon was replaced with a handsome face.

  The Wanderer immediately recognized him as the type of noble he resented the most. He suspected this was a man whose pride exceeded his ability. Even his beauty betrayed that kind of vanity. Sharp cheekbones sliced the midline of his face, full lips curled in derision, chin at a high tilt. His dark brown eyes were empty when he looked at his friends, his contempt for them thinly veiled. But he still followed them into the tavern.

  The Wanderer saw the girl watching them as well. Her eyes glittered as she stared after the billowing cape of the handsomest nobleman, her thick teeth gleaming when she smiled. She didn’t hesitate to follow His throat grew tight and the churning in his belly surged the taste of bitterness to his mouth.

  “Go home…”

  The call of his heart was endearing in its gentleness. He tried to capture the lightness of spirit he had from his vision of going back to the village. But the memory of the girl was seared into his flesh and the thought of her with the arrogant nobleman made him burn. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself in front of the tavern. His stomach clenched and the throbbing of his heart was agony. He tried to will himself to turn around and go home. Instead, he pushed through the doors.

  The revelry inside knocked the wind out of him. Seamen were everywhere, both fishermen and pirates. There were also vagabonds, conmen, craftsmen, and merchants. All of them drinking together in the riotous brotherhood of men, the only women in the tavern were serving wenches and prostitutes. The former were comely; their blouses laced up their middles, their generous breasts pushed against their necklines, and their arms were muscular from carrying mugs of ale, most holding three to a hand. Others carried snifters of high spirits, their balance impeccable as they held thei
r trays high and pushed through the crowd. The wenches were adept at avoiding unwanted touches, leaving room for the night ladies to move in. Their faces were garish from powder and rouge, their flimsy gowns cut low to the waist. They stalked for the amorous embrace, their sharp eyes prowling for the look of lust, a mouth turned down from hidden sadness, boredom crossing one face in the company of friends. Those were the signs the night ladies sought out before sidling near their men and smiling with a suggestive wink.

  The Wanderer couldn’t move at first. The shouting and singing merged into a loud buzz ringing in his ears, and his nose was assailed with the smells of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume. Then the mass of bodies became a rolling sea that drew him into its storm, and he found himself winding through the crowd. He was grateful nobody was in costume, for that would have been too much to withstand. He was surprised to find an empty stool at the bar. Before long, he had a frothing pint before him, leaving him free to scan the room.

  The fancy dress quartet was easy to find. The florid tavern keeper kept them separate from the mêlée, settling them at a large round table on the stage and gesturing to the prettiest of his wenches to serve them. She seemed cheerful with her dimpled cheeks and her round face framed with copper curls. But she had a taste for the vulgar. The noblemen roared when she pulled a match from her cleavage and struck it against her teeth to light their cigars. The stoutest of them smacked her bottom, chortling at the loathing that marred her features. The wench made her way to the counter and waited until she was loaded with snifters and mugs. Then she disappeared with her tray into the latrine, smiling when she came out and returned to the table onstage. Her tone was playful as she urged her honored guests to throw the spirits down their throats, for there were more to come. She smirked after they drained their snifters and she bowed with a low curtsey.