Whispers on the Wind

by Judy Griffith Gill

Jon cast forth a narrowly focused beam, seeking only Minton. For an instant, something flickered on the edge of his consciousness, but then it was gone.

  “Jon? Jon!” He became aware that Lenore had spoken, was shaking his arm. “Come inside. Sit down. You’re still weak. You’re shaking. You can hardly stand.”

  “Yes.” He was still weak. Even the effort of trying to buffer Lenore’s mind while sending out that small probe had depleted much of what strength he had regained. He needed more rest. More food. More warmth. And he needed something which he did not have—time. This window through which they had risked their translation was small. In another six weeks it would be closed entirely, not to open again for another ten years.

  It was imperative he succeed in this mission! And to do so he needed a complete Octad. And Zenna.

  Still unsteady, astounded at Lenore’s swift ability to recover from what must have felt like a body-blow to her, he allowed her to assist him across the room. Maybe he had captured Minton’s probe before it penetrated too deeply into Lenore’s mind. Indeed, he thought as he lowered himself into a soft, moderately comfortable chair, she seemed completely unaware this time that Minton had once more used her as a conduit.

  The chair failed to cradle him and conform to his body, but it was softer than either the rock ledge where he had regained himself or the back of the horse upon which he had been transported down the mountain. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He had occupied worse seating on other worlds, and endured much less captivating company. He liked Lenore’s home. It smelled of delicious food, wood-smoke and forest, all blended with her delicate scent and he breathed it in, finding strength even in that.

  “You’re not going to disappear again, are you?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her nervous tone. “I am not. I have ample strength to maintain my corporeal form. Thanks to you. I do, however, need food and drink.”

  “What kind of drink? Tea? Coffee? I have no alcohol.”

  Carefully, he sought knowledge of those from one of the mildly receptive minds he had sensed before. Alcohol, he knew, was a deadly poison, one he cared not to try. It was as dangerous as the drugs Rankin and B’tar were busily extracting from Earthly plants.

  Tea? Coffee? He projected both words out a very small, and he hoped, safe distance. An image came to him of a woman, shorter than Lenore, much the same age, with yellow hair curled all over her head. Yes. The one who had wanted a ship and a blue ocean and a man dressed all in white with shining gold bands on his sleeves and on the brim of his white cap. He probed gently and saw that she was now content with a man named Peter, who wore dark blue clothing and a hat with the words John Deere on it, and was telling her about his new calves.

  He placed into her mind the names of the two beverages Lenore had offered him and felt the woman breathe in an aroma while her mind said coffee. She sipped, and her cerebral cortex experienced mild stimulation.

  “Coffee,” he said to Lenore. “Coffee would be very nice. Thank you.” He closed his eyes again as she left the room. As warmth began to penetrate his body, he let the jacket and boots go. He would have preferred to divest himself of all covering, but knew it was best that he disturb Lenore’s sensibilities as little as possible.

  Moments later, the scent he had lifted from the yellow-haired woman’s mind drifted to him in reality. “How do you like it?” Lenore called. “Black, or with sugar and milk?”

  Once more, he dipped into the consciousness of the other mind, wishing for the convenience of merely tapping into Lenore’s for knowledge of different tastes and sensations. “Black, if you please,” he said.

  She returned, carrying steaming drinking vessels on a flat rectangle which she set on a low table before him. She lifted one of the vessels, took a seat at right angles to him, and sipped. He sat watching her, waiting for his turn. It did not come. She tilted her head to one side and looked at him inquiringly. “Please,” she said. “Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

  “You will not feed it to me?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He knew very well she had heard his words, yet her facial expression told him she had not understood. “Are you really too weak to lift your own coffee cup?”

  “No, no, of course not, but...” And then he remembered what he would have remembered long before had he not been injured. On Earth, that kind of sharing was uncommon.

  With Lenore, though, it was what he wanted. How strange. He never had difficulty adapting to the customs of other worlds, adopting them as his own while he was there, trying to blend in as he investigated a crime. But here, while he was certainly hoping to bring to justice two criminals, there was a deeply personal element to his time on Earth. Maybe that explained his strong desire to have her join him in the ritual of bestowing sustenance, one to the other.

  Dropping to his knees before her, he gently took her cup from her hand and, holding it in both of his, tilted it to her lips, showing her how it should be. “Drink,” he said.

  Her eyes wide, startled, and confused, gazed at him over the rim of the cup, but she drank. He then set the it on the table and waited.

  With a frown, she picked up, not her own, for real sharing, but his, as if they were strangers, holding it as he had, in two hands. She lifted it to his lips. The beverage flooded his mouth as contentment flooded his senses. Because he yearned so strongly to share the full emotion of this gracious participation with her, and knew he could not, unless she agreed, he gently tilted the vessel upright after only one sip. “Thank you,” he said. He would make himself be satisfied with even such a small beginning.

  No! He negated the thought even as it was born. Not a beginning. The word suggested there would be a continuation, which there would not be. Could not be. He had six Earth weeks, no longer, and even waiting that long would entail great risk.

  “I...uh...thank you,” she repeated, and offered him the cup again. Once more, he sipped, then lifted his head. She watched him almost warily, but when he lifted her cup and held it to her lips, she drank. Pleasure filled him. Ah, but she was swift when it came to accepting new habits! Pride in her glowed through him. He beamed it at her with only his eyes.

  She blinked, as if even that contact was too powerful for her to sustain, and turned her head away from the drink he offered. She jumped to her feet.

  “Food,” she said. “You told me you needed food. And I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll get you...something.”

  He caught her hand. “You will get us both something,” he corrected her. “And we will share. Yes?”

  He watched her face pale, then color delicately. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper. “We will share.”

  He didn’t even have to dip into her subconscious to know all of what she wanted to share with him. He read it in her eyes, saw it in the graphic projection her mind flung outward. It was all he could do to remain there on his knees. Not until she had left the room again did he rise and return to his chair.

  Lenore...Lenore...who are you? Did my Kahinya lead me to you, specifically?

  Chapter Ten

  HYSTERIA ROSE IN LENORE’S throat as she stumbled from the living room into the kitchen. What kind of food did a woman serve to an alien? When she had fed him stew, she’d had no idea of what he was. But...did she, even now, know for sure? Of course not!

  Despite all evidence to the contrary, it was impossible to fully accept Jon as an alien. He looked too human. He felt too human. He kissed too human.

  She gripped the edge of the counter and stared into the polished bottom of the antique stainless steel sink. Wrong, Lenore! The man does not kiss like a human. He kisses like an angel.

  To distract herself, she waved on the kitchen receiver. Responding to her chip, it activated. It was tuned, as it usually was, to a twenty-four hour newsie, which she picked up in mid-sentence, scarcely glancing at the holo-image forming in the corner of the room. She wanted only the sound to block out those wild and ever wilder t
houghts crowding into her mind like the avalanche.

  An avalanche—she had never experienced one, so how could she have known so intensely the suffocating sensation, the cold, the weight, as the snow tumbled her end over end, rolled her from side to side, ricocheted her off tree trunks? Though it had been dark under the depths of snow, she had sensed large boulders narrowly missing her, had the feeling they were being repelled by some force she did not understand. How? How could she know the flood of relief to see daylight when at last her scrabbling hands broke through the surface when it had not been her hands at all, but those of someone—something?—in yet another waking dream?

  She shivered.

  “...and now on the lighter side of the news,” the announcer said, a definite chuckle in his voice. “A pair of otherwise sober Minnesota farmers have reported the strange appearance, and then disappearance, of a naked man who first showed up in the middle of a field of winter rye. He was picked up, covered in nothing but goose bumps, a ratty pair of coveralls he’d stolen from a scarecrow, and a ‘real pretty necklace’ according to the couple. He claimed to be a truck operator whose rig had been hijacked.

  “When the woman attempted to report the crime to the local authorities, the man simply ‘winked out of existence,’ she says, leaving behind nothing but that old pair of greasy coveralls. She lamented his not leaving the necklace, saying it would have been better payment for the huge breakfast he packed away than an old scrap of den—”

  “Stop!”

  Lenore whirled as Jon all but leaped into the kitchen.

  “Can you make it go back?”

  “Back—” She stared at him, then at the bread that had slid out of the toaster. “Make what go back? Back where? Are you talking about the toast? You want it darker?”

  He shook his head distractedly as he stared at the image of the broadcaster who had now moved on to commenting on the latest announcement from the Weather Control Bureau. “To the man with the necklace. Was there an image?”

  “I wasn’t looking,” she confessed, then suddenly understood. “Do you think it was one of your...Octad?”

  “Yes. It must have been.” There was not so much as a tinge of doubt in his tone. His green eyes, alive with excitement, with hope, glowed.

  “Why?”

  “Because he translated...disappeared from where he was. And left behind the garments he wore.” He drew in a deep breath and puffed it out quickly. “We cannot translate solo in atmosphere,” he said, “unless we are naked.”

  Lenore swayed and clutched the back of a chair, mind flashing on that moment when she had been inside the cave with him, and the next instant when the two of them had been outside, still fully clad, standing beside Mystery, whom he had brought out of his closed stall in some...well...mysterious manner.

  “You translated...” She swallowed hard. It was difficult to use the word in that context, but she knew no other for what he had done. “You translated solo out of the cave with your clothes on.”

  He laid his hand over hers on the back of the chair. “No, Lenore. I did not. We translated. Together. You and I. And I was not wearing clothing. I was wearing the illusion of clothing. As I am now. It is a minor talent of mine, creating illusions. In my Octad, Zareth is the real master of it. An Octad is carefully chosen, each for a special faculty which will enhance those of the others. When we are together, with Fricka to maintain our surround, Zareth can create the illusion that we are not there, though we might be within a crowd of many.”

  She reached out to touch the shirt-sleeve she could see—and her fingers met with skin. She remembered the way his body had felt outside in the meadow when they were embracing, kissing. “Are you telling me you’re naked? Right now? That I only think I see you wearing clothes? You’re making me think that?”

  In less than an eye-blink, his clothing was gone.

  Her head grew light and her vision blurred. “Sit down,” he said, easing her onto a chair at the table. “I did not enter your mind in order to link with you. The link was already there. Physically. When I moved, you naturally came with me.”

  She gazed up at him and shook her head, numb, disconcerted, chaotic thoughts flickering here and there and everywhere. Then she pulled herself together.

  “Naturally,” she echoed. “Oh, yes, of course. This has all just been a perfectly normal, natural four days for any woman who’s completely out of her mind.”

  Jon stroked her hair. “Toor-a-loor-a-loor-a,” he sang. “Toor-a-loor-a-lie...”

  Before Lenore’s fist caught him in the solar plexus where she had aimed it, he caught it in his hand. With his other, he tilted her face up and kissed her until she had no thought, sane or otherwise, left in her head. Only feelings, sensations, easily as chaotic as her thoughts had been, circulating through her blood.

  She hungered for more. Kissing was not nearly enough. It was, though, all he seemed willing to give her just now. He held her away from him, eyes roving over her face, before he bent and touched the tip of her nose with his lips. “You mentioned food?”

  “I’ll have soup and sandwiches ready in a few minutes,” she said the moment she was able to speak coherently. “When we’ve eaten, we’ll access the newsie-site and get a replay of the item.”

  He seemed to shake himself, as if deliberately forcing a return of his normal impassivity. “Can we not do it now?” His tone was quiet but insistent, his stare intense.

  Shrugging, she complied, seeking a replay, and let him watch it as she buttered the toast, spread it with chicken-flavored nutrient paste, added lettuce and tomatoes, then slapped the sandwiches together. She unzipped two cans of soup and while the heat strips worked, cut the sandwiches, put them on plates, and set one before Jon.

  “Nothing,” he said, his face bleak. “There was no picture of the man—only the woman who was reporting the incident.”

  “I’m sorry, Jon.” She touched his hand. “You’ll find your people. There must be a way. But first, you need to get stronger.”

  She served the soup in thick bowls. Without being asked or urged by more than the lost expression in his eyes, she picked up his spoon, filled it with soup and held it to his lips. When he had taken the mouthful, instead of using her bowl to feed her, he lifted the spoon she had set beside her soup, dipped it into his own bowl and offered her his food.

  Sharing like that, turn and turn about, bite for bite, until his bowl was empty and they began on hers, feeling his lips brush her fingertips when she held out a sandwich for him to sample, tasting the unique flavor of his skin when his finger rubbed against her lips, made for the most erotic meal she had ever eaten.

  When the meal was finished, he rose, towering over her. “I wish to thank you properly for sharing sustenance with me.”

  He took her hand in one of his and lifted her to her feet. She rose willingly, too willingly. With his other hand, he tilted her face up and kissed her. She didn’t fight it. Kissing Jon was far preferable to thinking anyway. Especially kissing a very warm and extremely naked, and totally aroused, Jon.

  When the kiss ended, she rocked back on her heels and stumbled toward the counter, breathing ragged, pulse erratic. Her insides quivered but she fought for control. She stared at him. He was fully erect, ready for sex. An erection of that nature was not something she thought even an alien male could fake. “You...I...” She swallowed hard as she realized that, she, too, wore not a single stitch of clothing. Nor was it visible anywhere in the kitchen.

  “What happened to my clothes?” she shouted, taking refuge in fury.

  “They are not far away. I merely put them out of our sight.”

  “Well, you can damn well put them back in our sight! Back on my body!” She wrapped her arms over her breasts, hugging herself tightly to try to remain intact, knowing she was in grave danger of flying away into a million shattered shards of...of what, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

  “Please,” Jon said. “Do not cover yourself. My Kahinya will keep the temperature in a com
fortable range. If you do not find it so, you need only tell me. I like to look at you.”

  She swallowed hard. Dammit, she liked to look at him, too, and he was right. It was plenty warm in the cabin now, though dusk was creeping in and the outside temperature had surely dropped.

  She made a harsh sound. “Don’t bother with idle compliments, Alien. They aren’t necessary. I’ve already said I’ll help you. And I’ll do it without the expectation of any kind of reward.”

  “I do not make idle compliments,” he said, relaxed and under apparently complete control, though his erection had only partially subsided. “I do enjoy the sight of your body. And its scent—the textures of your skin and hair.”

  Lenore sighed, then dropped her arms from her breasts. “I’m thirty-seven years old, Jon,” she said. “Pushing hard at thirty-eight. I faced reality a long time ago. My body is just that—my body. It’s nothing special. And gravity has certainly taken its toll.”

  “It pleases me.” He was suddenly behind her, without her having been aware of his moving, his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face a mirror hanging in the hallway across from the kitchen. “Look at yourself, your body, try to see it as I do. You have straight shoulders, a tapered waist, feminine hips and perfect breasts and—”

  “Hair!” she squealed, one hand flying upwards to brush back the long hair that hung down over one of those ‘perfect’ breasts. “My hair is short. I keep it that way because it’s practical and now look at it. How the hell long have we been here, anyway?”

  “How long were we in that damned cave?” she demanded when he didn’t answer. “How could my hair have grown to such a length in what seems only hours to me?”

  Jon reached out and drew her against his chest as he rocked her back and forth, sideways, his arms folded across her naked middle. “Toor-a-loor-a-loor-a...”

  She wrenched herself free, spun and faced him, hands on her hips. “Dammit, Jon! How long have I been with you?”

  “Since the beginning of time,” he said, and his expression suggested he actually believed it. His tone made it a truth she came all too close to accepting. She shivered, not with cold, but with something she couldn’t quite identify. Less than fear, more than apprehension, much too pleasantly mingled with...anticipation.