Passion of the Different

by Daniel A Roberts

  “I’m afraid I don’t…” he started, but she cut him off.

  “You look nothing like anybody I‘ve ever seen,” she pointed out. Her finger addressed every part of him in the mirror. “Your long hair is dark and wavy. Your eyes are the color of a summer sky, which has never been seen before. You have huge muscles. I have never seen muscles so big in all my life. Your skin is like bronze. Look how tall you are. I was always teased for being the tallest girl ever among my people. Men are actually unhappy with having to look up at me. You… even compared to me you’re a giant. Your voice is so low, I can't even begin to describe the effect that has. Your ears are rounded and short and somehow it fits you instead of looking like a defect. Nobody in my town or whole world for that matter, as far as I know, looks or sounds anything like you. Is your memory so far gone that you don’t realize this?”

  Now it was his turn for his mouth to open and close several times before he got out his one worded reply. “Yes.”

  “For crying out loud,” she exclaimed, the realization of his condition being more serious than she realized had loaded more stress on the word than she intended. He staggered and almost fell. He put a hand to his head and his vision clouded, cleared and re-clouded in mere seconds. It wasn’t anything in her tone or expression. It was that one word.

  “What?” he muttered to her, astonishment robbing his deep voice of much of it’s volume, making it almost a whisper.

  Her slim form attached to him instantly, her shoulder going under his arm. She supported him with the quickness of thought and helped him stagger to a lowlying couch. Concern and surprise chased itself across her pretty features as his weight made the white wood frame creak. She detached herself but sat close, her hand going to his head to feel for a fever. He didn’t have one, but his eyes weren’t focused. “What’s wrong?” she asked quickly.

  “You said a word,” his voice staggered out. He leaned his head back and put both hands on each side, his long brown hair spilling over the back of the couch.

  “For crying out...” she tested slowly, and her hands shot out to steady him as she realized the word 'crying' had done something to him. He writhed as if in agony and she had no idea what to do. “I’m sorry!” she added louder, hoping it would reach him as she started to feel responsible for his pain, and also frustrated in not knowing what or why this was making him thrash.

  He gave no notice he heard the apology. He couldn’t. Something about the word thundered through his mind, something close. There was no physical surface pain, but a horrible shifting pressure as if something wanted out, a deep pulse pushing forward from the center of his head. A mental squeeze that was high in pressure. He knew what that something was, and even as he fought it, he hoped it would win.

  It was a lost memory trying like hell to break out.

  A deeply buried and powerful memory was drilling through the cold black barrier in his mind. Hands pressed each side of his head and they tried their best to squeeze it out. Realization set in that they were his own hands, as he thought for a crazy moment that is was Myra who was doing the squeezing. He barely felt her long cool fingers on his chest, pressing him back and trying to steady his thrashing.

  Crying. That word was so close to the front of his thoughts. Why? What was special about it? He mentally repeated it to his striving mind again, and the barrier in his head heaved again. A damn common word as far as he knew. What was it? What! There was an internal popping sound only his ears could hear, as if he was adjusting to a different altitude. A good change.

  The pressure was off instantly and he felt better than normal. He found himself sitting on the couch with hardly any recall as to how he sat down there. Then he became aware of Myra and her beautiful eyes, filled with fright now and a small tear about to fall from one corner. Her light blue hair was in disarray around her pale shoulders and her hands remained palm down on his wide chest, as if expecting him to start thrashing again without warning.

  Love for Myra exploded throughout his entire being like some star in the night sky going nova and turning the darkness into new and unexpected daylight. Skills he didn't know he had at masking his thoughts clicked into action and his expression smoothed. He felt, not knew, just felt that there was nobody more caring than this gentle woman before him. The fact that she was physically pretty was enhanced into a serene beauty by the force of her caring spirit. It pulled him like a magnet. If the situation had been normal and he was one hundred percent certain she felt the same about him, he would have taken her into his arms and kissed her with every fiber of his being. He knew better however, to not act on it. Especially during this moment of near personal crisis.

  He knew why the word 'crying' affected him like it did. It sounded close with her musical accent. So very close to something he had tried in vain to recall when he first woke up. His calm finally reached her and she started to search his face for an understanding. Though he was deeply in love with her, he had to guard it. Hide the emotion as much as he could until the time was right to let her know such things. Now however, she needed an explanation as to why he struggled with himself so hard.

  “You said crying,” he explained, voice calm as he lowered his hands to hers and politely took them off his chest. “With your accent, it’s close. Almost sounds just like it. It hurt my head coming out and I don’t know why. Because you said crying, I know my name.”

  Her hands reversed themselves in his and she clasped his palms and squeezed as she asked sotto voce, “What is it?”

  “My name is Ryan,” he replied. She pleasantly surprised him again as her arms went around his neck and squeezed. He hugged her back and suppressed a rising groan. If only she knew what she was doing to him now, but it wasn’t the time for anymore revelations. She smelled so nice and he was distracted by his own churning thoughts that he almost missed it. She was trying not to laugh. “What’s so funny?” he said, following up with a friendly smile to let her know he wasn’t offended.

  “It’s such a short, funny name,” she admitted, then started to laugh louder as she peeled herself off of him quickly and sat back into the far corner of the couch, establishing personal space as if she realized suddenly how close she was to him. Her laugh was delightful and natural, inviting him to share the humor with her, which he gladly did. It was a few minutes before they laughed themselves out. Then she continued to explain the importance of it. “In fact, short names are unheard of among men. If anyone ever hears of you before I can prepare the folks around here, and it may take some time, believe me, then you'll need a longer name.”

  “Why?” he replied, cocking his left eyebrow and giving her a half-smile while defending as kindly as possible what had taken a lot to recall. “Ryan is who I am, what I was given at birth by a mother I can't even remember. That should be good enough for anyone.”

  She sighed and tried again. “Because names are what defines respect among men. Not just length, but the sound and how it flows. Your name must reflect your strength and size.” She closed her eyes for a minute and concentrated. “Too long of a name indicates a braggart. Too short, you would be considered a fool and your words would have little to no value.”

  “It really hurt my head to remember my name, Myra,” he explained as best he could without sounding rude. “My name is Ryan, that’s important to me.”

  “I know,” she said, eyes still closed as she furrowed her brow in deep thought. “Hush a moment please, trust me.” If she had said that in any other way than the caring tone she used, he would have been highly offended. He regarded her lovely face, light blue hair and ample breasts on her slender form as she concentrated. His heart started to ache and he could visualize himself reaching out and gathering her into his arms. This took him by surprise again, these sudden feelings of his that played tag with his surface thoughts before hiding again.

  He had only known her for less than half a day, and yet, he felt as if he knew her for far longer. He felt strongly that she wouldn’t accept him this soon, if at
all. He may look like a freak to her and she might scream in sudden fright. That was something he didn't want to happen. Then she opened her eyes and interrupted his chain of thought. “My uncle was a warrior in the far west, part of the frontier army called Defenders of Justice. His name was Za'Dajor Vena'kur. With a little twist, we could call you Za'Ryan Ven’Krue.” She paused, studied his face for a moment. “I will call you Ryan when nobody else is around, when the day comes you meet and talk with others.”

  He took a moment to think about it. It did occur to him that her generous nature was part of the attraction he had for her, but was he starting to take advantage of such innocent goodwill? Upon further examination of everything that had happened, he was lucky she was taking the time of day with him, big as he was compared to her. She didn't seem frightened or on edge, accepting at face value his good behavior. He respected her for that quite a bit, and now she was trying to help him to fit in socially. Since she took him at face value then he would do the same for her. He would also make good on his offer to work for her efforts and time. He smiled at her quickly, her face was starting to cloud over by thinking he disapproved as he took awhile to analyze the situation.

  “I like it,” he told her, genuinely pleased. “My real name is part of it, that makes a big difference. You must really like your uncle, too. So I’ll take it. Za'Ryan Ven’Krue.” She started to perk up and smile under his praise. Then he asked, “What’s your surname? Is it the same or different?”

  Her happy expression fell and her smile vanished. He sat up straighter and was thinking of the best way to apologize when she explained. “Women aren’t allowed to have surnames until they’re married. Men don’t like me because I’m too tall. It’s the only reason why I built my home close to the deep woods and away from town.” Her head bent farther down, ashamed. He was completely shocked. He had heard her mention it before, but this is the reason why she secluded herself? Height made her unattractive to the men of her people?

  The words were out of his mouth before he could think. “Those men are fools, doubly so. You’re beautiful, gentle and ever so nice to people you don't even know.” Oh no, his heart and mouth were collaborating together to speak before his brain could reach down and slap them both into saying something else. “There's nothing wrong with you and any man should be proud to hold you in his arms. Maybe one day in the future I’ll have the honor of proving it.” Finally back in control of the speech center, he stood immediately and began to pace. He needed a diversion away from the unintended exposure of his feelings. He caught her lavender gaze looking up at him through her light blue bangs, slowly coming back up from feeling ashamed. They were almost luminous.

  He had no idea how to read that and he feared he said far too much, maybe frightened her somehow. As he continued to walk back and forth and searched for words to fix his blunder without sounding stupid, she flicked her head back up the rest of the way quickly and her light blue hair whisked out of her face. She changed her expression to neutral as he found the subject he wanted, “I’ll work for you as long as you want me to, Myra. Since you made it obvious that I’m one heck of a stranger around here, I can’t go find a job just anywhere. The moment you're satisfied with my work and want me to leave, I'll do so without complaint. Deal?”

  This earned him a warm smile as she stood up and stopped him from pacing by looping her arm around his elbow. “It’s a deal, Ryan,” she happily replied, then pulled him into another part of the large cottage. “I’m starved, let me make dinner and get you measured for those boots.”

  Chapter Three - Mild Culture Shock

  Ryan’s dark leather boots sank a half-inch into the soft earth with every step he took. He was also whistling a made up tune as he carried the four tied fence posts across his shoulders, his hands on both sides keeping them balanced. The wood they were made out of was dark and heavy, unlike the softer white pine. He guessed they weighed about four hundred pounds altogether, which was one log more than last week. Good. He felt the workouts improving him even more as he earned his keep with Myra.

  He arrived at the edge of the property where he was extending the fence and shrugged them off backward. As they thudded to the ground, her exclaim of surprise reached his ears. “Is there no end to your strength, Ryan?” He turned and smiled as she approached with the water pitcher.

  He wore the same type of leather work pants and tank top that she did, having them handed to him a few weeks earlier so he wouldn’t ruin any of his comfortable clothes. “Yes there is,” he admitted casually as she handed him a ladle. “I couldn’t carry five.”

  Her expression darkened as he spooned the water and sipped. “Don’t injure yourself, I mean it. I had to hire two men from town to carry one at a time several years ago, when I had the gold to build a fence. I would have to hire twice that many just to carry you into your bed.” Her expression didn’t change when he laughed out loud.

  “No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” he finally got out between chuckles after his laughing fit died down. “The town would learn about me mighty quick, then.” He winked at her. He recalled the first time he did that and she stared, then asked him to do it again. She had never seen a wink, nor was it anything her people did. It took him almost two weeks to teach it to her because the gesture was so alien to her people. She winked back as he handed her the ladle and took a drink for herself. This time he held the pitcher for her.

  Even though it was only a little less than a month when she first found him, Ryan felt huge amounts of respect for her ability to work hard. She couldn’t lift near as much, but what she lacked in volume and heavy hauling she more than made up for it in small doses of speed. It also helped him learn her society, and from his basic feelings that would surge from time to time, he knew they were totally different from his own.

  Her large lavender eyes regarded him as she took a second ladle full and drank. He knew he could watch those eyes all day and night. Only one time did he see them fill with tears and it had torn at his heart. He had offered to make a meal so she could take a break from cooking, as she always prepared the various fruits and vegetables she would pick from the wild and her small farm.

  It took him several hours to calm her down as she cried her heart out. Among her people, women did all the preparing of food and they take it extremely serious. If a man cooks the meal, it’s telling her she’s a total failure. Worthless. When she understood the meaning of culture shock and that he hadn't intended to insult her, she felt a lot better, to his immense relief.

  They both had long talks about his potential origin. There were far more questions than answers. He didn’t have anymore freaky memory explosions. They both sat down one night and went through every word they both knew and nothing else triggered. Then they both stood in front of the mirror side by side and repeated every word they knew, hoping it would happen with a visual clue. It didn’t, but at least they had tried.

  She finally finished her drink of water and took the pitcher back from him. He smiled and she smiled back. Bringing him water three times a day was her routine. He learned quickly not to question her routines and just accept it, he never wanted to see her devastated like that again.

  “How long?” she wanted to know, gesturing to the fence posts that were on the ground.

  “Four days,” he replied easily. “Then you’ll have enough fencing to plant twice the food next spring.” He stretched and felt his muscles ripple. “I better get back to it, or it’ll be five days.” He winked again and started to turn back to his work.

  He was suddenly drenched from head to toe. She had soaked him from the three gallon pitcher and was laughing, then squealed unexpectedly while hopping from one foot to the other. He made an exaggerated pivot on his heel in mock anger and genuine surprise and started after her. She dropped the pitcher onto the soft grass while on the run and he scooped it up, exhilarated and delighted at the same time. While she had played small little pranks on him before, this one topped them all combined. As he pass
ed the water trough where they pumped it up through an iron spigot, he scooped and half filled his new water weapon.

  He already knew she was fast as lightning when she ran, and all but flew to the rear of the cottage. He got to the house as she broke left and went out of sight behind it. He suddenly stopped and made stamping noises with his feet, then crept up on the opposite corner near the front. He knew he was challenged at this, her footsteps were so light she was more silent than a soft wind. Suddenly and without warning, a new thought from the center of his being pushed forward. It felt like an instinct rather than a memory and he knew exactly what to do.

  He mentally measured the amount of time it took for her to reach the back. Then he counted off three short seconds and slung the water in an underhanded swing at the far front corner. He laughed hard as it worked! She ran right into it and her light blue hair plastered back, wet and dripping all down the front of her work clothes. Her loud gasp and shocked look turned into an expression of dark humor and revenge as he dropped the pitcher and ran like hell for the barn. She scooped it up and refilled on her way after him, determined not to miss.

  As Ryan got sloshed going up the ladder to the loft, he dropped back down and sat in the hay. She sat next to him and they both chuckled and regarded each other. Even with his memory dark and silent, he knew deep down in his gut that he never had such a good time before in his life. He had a large compulsion to give up any quest for recall, to not look back and only build new memories. Here and now, with this gorgeous woman who loved to play as much as she enjoyed work. A woman who took compassion on others no matter how afraid she might be and shared with ample generosity. A wiser, more realistic part of his personality told him that while he may wish to never remember who he was and how he got there, there would be no going back to being ignorant when those memories did choose to resurface.