by Peter Ponzo
Chapter 2
There was little to do except eat the strange fare we were offered, which included roasted bugs—probably caterpillars—and dried roots and berries and nuts. So I inspected our quarters. The hut was of straw and a red mud, rather crude. I had imagined craftsmen weaving elaborate structures of palm fronds interlaced with willow branches and centrally located soaring edifices with tiled courtyards at which they worshipped their gods and ... well, so much for the weeks I spent studying the flora and fauna.
And I counted. As far as I could tell, there were exactly one hundred and thirty-seven natives in the village, and all but twelve were male. Eleven of the women were pregnant, and weary, ranging in age from about thirteen to one old hag who looked like seventy. Except for her, the others were really young. It wasn't easy to guess their ages. Perhaps the seventy-year-old was really twenty, although her face was quite hairy. She was clearly pregnant, so I guess she was young enough, but had had a hard life and it showed. In fact, except for the one young woman who wasn't pregnant, they all looked tired, overworked and perhaps overutilized by the macho midgets who outnumbered them ten-to-one.
The eleven pregnant women lived together in a large mud and thatch shack in the centre of the village and the men brought them food and drink. Nothing wrong with these Chokli. That was the way civilization should have evolved back-home.
The twelfth female, the only one who wasn't pregnant, lived alone in a red mud hut. She was short and plump, less than twenty years old I would say, with massive—I mean humungous—bare breasts, and she spent most of the day parading before the males, all of whom took turns in presenting her with gifts of cassava root, berries, fat caterpillars, skins, pottery and tiny green and purple-veined leaves: the miracle weed, no doubt. In spite of this, she didn't look happy. She stamped her feet and marched to the small hut which housed Charlie and me. Piled high by our door were cassava roots, berries, caterpillars wrapped in leaves, skins, pottery and weeds—and several dozen male Chokli waiting their turn to see the White Goddess who bore such a remarkable resemblance to their statue. In case you've forgotten, that's me.
"Miss Fleetsmith," Charles said urgently. "This must stop. You cannot lead them on like this. It's quite dangerous. You now have your weed it would seem. We should consider methods of escape. And you must repair your shirt. It is quite indecent. And ..."
"Charlie, have you seen the scar? Look, it's now half its original size." I stopped rubbing the leaves on the scar and held up my hand. The scar was barely visible. "And stop worrying. As their goddess, I can do no wrong. I just point, or grunt, or wave my hand and they all jump." I leaned back against the pile of skins, pulled open my shirt, bared my breasts, and waved my hand. "Show the next one in."
Charles, dressed in jeans and a torn shirt, crawled reluctantly to the door and waved at the short native. He came bounding in and fell to his knees before the White Goddess, reached out to touch an extended toe, then, delicately, touched an exposed breast. I could see the plump female stooping by the door, her tits hanging like melons. It was clear that these bantam Romeos preferred quality to quantity. I grinned, patted my Romeo on the head, pointed at the door and he left immediately, his bushy tail wagging delightedly.
"Next," I muttered.
A short and plump girl stalked in, the one with the huge boobs, the one not pregnant. She had seemed angry earlier in the day and was now prepared to vent her wrath on us. There were gasps from the natives outside.
"Trouble," grunted Charles.
"Mmm."
I leaned forward, held out my hand as a gesture of friendship, smiled widely. Miss Boobs frowned, stared for a moment at the outstretched hand, then began pointing at me and gnashing her pointed teeth. I closed my shirt and leaned back.
"Miss Fleetsmith?" began Charles.
"It's okay, she's just jealous," I whispered. The girl began to chant and the natives outside joined in. I rolled to my knees, careful not to scrape my head against the low ceiling, crawled to the door, past Charles who sat with hands to cheek, past the chanting girl with pointed teeth, stopping at the entrance to our hut. As soon as I appeared in the doorway the chanting outside stopped and the Chokli fell to their knees. I stooped out the door, rose towering to my feet, pulled my shirt open once more and crossed my arms beneath my perfectly ample breasts. It was a good scene. The chanting began anew.
"Eat your heart out, lady," I muttered over my shoulder. "You'll have to wait your turn."
The young girl appeared in the door, stepped out and raised her arms, moving her pelvis left and right, her pendant breasts swaying in synch. Several Chokli, with heads still bowed, raised their eyes and the chanting increased in pitch. Wait just one minute. I tore the shirt from my jeans, flung it over the kneeling natives, then began moaning softly. Ludicrous, a competition, Miss Boobs and I. The chanting increased to fever pitch. I could see Charles, lying at the doorway, rolling his eyes, his palms together. I do believe he was praying.
"Miss Fleetsmith, you shouldn't have tormented them." Charles was sitting cross-legged within our small hut, a hand clasped about each knee. It had been raining for over an hour and I was at the door watching the mud puddles form in the clearing. Although the roots, berries, bugs, skins and pottery were still outside, soaking wet, I had pulled the pile of weeds under the roof to keep them dry. Well, reasonably dry; the hut was hardly weatherproof.
I rolled on my side to inspect the curious red-stemmed plant with its thin branches and withered, purple-veined leaves. Each leaf seemed to be covered in a dull, frosty-looking powder. The powder came off when rubbed. Perhaps it was the powder that healed. I looked at the back of my hand.
"Well, Charlie, it works." I carelessly waved my hand to show that the scar had vanished. Indeed, the purple scar had been transformed into a pale cream blemish, smooth and well-defined. "Too bad you lost the camera. I really need a picture of this." I gathered a few leaves and sniffed. "Oregano." But something was curious. I sat up and looked at Charles. "Why so few woman? And why so young? And all pregnant, except Pelvis."
Charles leaned forward and frowned.
"Oregano?" he muttered.
"Smells like oregano," I said, spreading the leaves. "The weed smells like oregano."
"Pelvis?" he said.
"The young girl, Miss Boobs with the pulsating pelvis."
Charles screwed up his face. "To attempt an answer to your question: I suspect, Miss Fleetsmith, that most babies are born male. I believe your father agreed with this deduction. That would explain the lack of females, and the perceived need to worship woman and child, as in the stone statue which lies in this village and which we also saw—"
"No, too simple," I said. "There are old men, but no old women, except for the hairy one who is probably twenty but looks seventy." I crawled to my pile of skins and rolled onto my back. I began to hum. I always did that when I was thinking, and I knew that Charles would not disturb these cerebral machinations. He waited. Suddenly, I had it. I jumped up and my head went through the mud and thatch roof.
"Shit!" I grunted, and sat down abruptly, and the rain poured through the hole in the roof. I slid sideways, pulling the skins with me, and a steady column of rain danced on the straw floor beside me. "It has something to do with the weed," I said, rubbing my head.
"Miss Fleetsmiith, four letter words are unbecoming a lady of breeding," Charles whispered.
"Weed?" I said.
"S-H-I-T," he spelled.
"It's the weed." I ignored his comment. "Somehow, the lack of women is tied up with—uh, wait a minute ..." I hummed softly. "I think they all use it, the weed, I mean. Certainly they use it for healing. Maybe for other things. Yet only the women are affected in some very different way. Whatever way that is, it accounts for the lack of women. Why?" I turned again to Charles. "Charlie? What's the difference between male and female?"
"I beg your pardon?" Charles involuntarily went from cross-legged to stiff-legged, knocking hi
s knees together as though to conceal his privates. "Male? Female?" he muttered.
"Charlie, think! A weed is used for medicinal purposes, both sexes use it, yet only the females ... uh, die, or maybe get sick and eventually die. And they do that when they're young. Perhaps after their first use of the weed. Right?"
"Babies," Charles muttered.
"What?"
"The difference between male and—"
I jumped up, really excited. I opened another hole in the roof. "Shit!" But the rain had stopped so I just stood and gazed out across the village, my head and shoulders protruding above the low roofline. The Chokli were coming out of their huts now, and they were all headed toward the hut with the two holes in the roof, their White Goddess issuing from one of them.
"We're having company," I said, still standing. "But this time ... this time—" I dropped into the hole and sat, cross-legged, staring at Charles.
"This time ... what?" he asked.
"Wait," I said, just above a whisper.
We waited for only a moment, then the first native stuck his head into the door, then another, then another, until some six or seven heads were jammed into the opening. Charles looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Then the heads vanished one-by-one, there was some discussion outside, and the first Chokli crawled in.
"Gracious!" Charles fell back against the wall of the hut and placed his hands to his cheeks. "He ... he's naked." He leaned forward and stared and added, "and ... uh, quite extraordinarily erect."