Chapter 1 - Kaleh 

After the death of Alexander III of Macedonia, better known as Alexander the Great, the world he had conquered was divided into four satraps, and ultimately three empires. One of them, the Seleucid Empire, covered all of Mesopotamia and Persia, and, at the height of its power, was arguably the most powerful of the three. But its glory did not last – Rome grew to power in the West; the Ptolemaic Kingdom remained strong in the South; and to the East, the Maurya dynasty ruled the Indus Valley.
Yet, the Seleucids remained for generations, at the heart of the Hellenistic world. At the heart of the Seleucid Empire, was the city of Kaleh.
There was more than one Kaleh in the empire, but only one Kaleh was located near the headwaters of the Euphrates River. It was known for its high citadel, its great temple of Cybele on the river, and for the Oracle who dwelt there.

Pretending indifference, Praxis the trader, attended by his steward, arose from his seat at the city gates and followed the petty warlord to his gathering of horses and people. Three men pushed the slaves forward… children mostly.
Two or three times a year, the warlord and his people raided villages along the Black Sea, away from the power and law of the dying empire. They collected children and a few women from fishing villages, and brought them to Praxis or some other slave trader to sell for handfuls of silver.
Praxis put on his best scowl and marched down the line of naked children. They were the usual, backwater Persians with dark hair, generally dark eyes, and olive skin. “At least you’ve kept them healthy this time,” Praxis observed. “When you bring them to me this way they are worth more.”
He stopped at a young girl who was prettier than the older children; she had a small patch of pubic hair. “Is she still virgin?” Praxis asked. “I’ll check to see for myself if you say yes,” he warned.
The warlord spat. “Bah!” he said. “Two months we’ve had these. My sons are not eunuchs.” He smiled slyly. “She should be worth extra. She may be carrying a male from my line.”
Praxis frowned at the man. “I’ve told you before; virgins are worth much more.” He moved on to the boy who was standing in line after the girl. The boy had a sprinkling of pubic hair and the enlarged genitals of early pubescence, along with good lines and features, and a pleasing body – slender, but strong.
“That one is worth much,” the warlord said. “He will be strong, and he’s smart.”
Praxis studied the boy, slapping his butt and finding it firm, squeezing the boy’s arms and legs for tone. He looked in the boy’s mouth. He learned that from a horse trader. You can learn a lot, looking in a slave’s mouth. “We could neuter this one,” Praxis said, thinking aloud. “He would make a good house slave or body slave.”
“Or catamite you mean,” the warlord said with a laugh. “You city dwellers and your boys!” He spat again.
The boy’s eyes had gone wide.
“Did he understand me?” Praxis asked, surprised.
“I told you he was smart,” the warlord said. “He already understands many words.”
Praxis nodded, thinking that he could sell the boy to the governor, himself. He stepped to the next child. “And this girl?” Praxis asked. “She is ugly and her eyes are weak. Tell me that you have at least left this one a virgin.
Two of the men laughed, and one of them spoke up. “That one, he took for himself,” the man said, pointing back to the warlord.
“She isn’t ugly,” the warlord said with a growl.
Praxis nodded, knowingly. It was easy to become attached to a slave when they were children. Something about this one must have appealed to the old cutthroat. Praxis made a mental note that the warlord would want too much for her.
Praxis reached the end of the line and pulled his steward aside. They conferred in whispers, and then Praxis returned to the warlord. “These are all children, and only one or possibly two females of breeding age. None of them look that healthy.” Praxis shrugged. “But you have kept these slaves in better shape than you usually do. Because we are friends, you and me, I will give you one hundred and fifty silver drachmas.”
The warlord scowled and spat ferociously. “Praxis, you pig fucking, piss drinking, bastard!”
Praxis angrily held up his hand. “Insults will lower what I offer.”
“Insults!” roared the warlord. “You insult me by offering such a low price. You know these slaves are easily worth three times the amount you offer.”
“You... are crazy,” Praxis said, waving his hand dismissively.
“Crazy?” the warlord cried incredulously. “My people faced swords to take these slaves – swords! We have fed them and taken care of them for weeks. And you? You risk nothing. You sell them overnight for many times what you pay us… I know you do. Don’t forget, Praxis; you are not the only slave trader I can go to.”
Praxis frowned. Each time, they went through this dance. It was time now for Praxis to go back down the line of slaves, as if reconsidering. He did so, and turned when he reached the end. “Two hundred,” he said. “But no more. There hasn’t been much demand lately for children.”
“Bah!” the warlord shouted. “Take them back to the horses,” he called to his men.
“Alright!” Praxis shouted. “Stop!” He bit his lip as if struggling with the price. “Two twenty five. And you keep the ugly one.” It was indeed more than he intended to pay, but not much more.
The warlord eyed the ‘ugly’ girl and nodded. “Deal.”
“Bring them to my house,” the trader said, “and my steward will pay you.”
“Wait,” the warlord called as Praxis turned to go. “I have something else to show you.”
Praxis turned back. This was new. Had the warlord held back something? He was learning too well how to negotiate.
The warlord signaled to his people and, from behind the baggage, two more children were brought forward; a boy and a girl.
They looked alike enough to be brother and sister; maybe even twins. It was impossible to tell which was older. They were perhaps nine or ten years old. Their skin was a deeper olive than the other children and their flawless complexion had an alluring depth to it. Their hair was jet black, but with a sheen, and luxuriously thick. On both the boy and the girl, it hung back off their ears and straight down to the middle of their backs. They were slender, with long limbs and elegantly proportioned young bodies. But it was their faces – their fine, even features and particularly, their remarkable eyes – which were most striking.
Their eyes were large; large and intelligent. They were wide-set and of a rare color – a blue so pale as to be almost silver.
Praxis took the chin of each child in a hand and studied them. Their eyelashes were long and thick; their eyebrows were widely spaced and gracefully arched like the wings of a bird; their noses were straight, their lips full, and their cheekbones high. They were exquisitely beautiful.
Praxis dropped his hands and walked around them. The boy had a long cock which some Greeks didn't like, but which Praxis knew was good on a slave kept for beauty. The same was true of the girl’s already slightly rounded hips.
“Their father was a warrior,” the warlord said. “He and his two older sons killed seven of my men before we cut them down. I’ve never seen such fighters in a fishing village, but then, I don’t think they were from that village.” He spat. “Their mother had a knife – she was like a lioness protecting her cubs. A beautiful woman.” He glanced at his men for confirmation and they nodded. “We accidentally killed her, trying to take away the knife.” He frowned. “She would have been worth her weight in silver. But then,” he gestured toward the two children, “so are her cubs.”
Praxis nodded, too distracted to hide his interest. The warlord was right. Such remarkably beautiful children would be worth a lot. “A hundred for each,” he said.
The warlord concealed his pleasure. He’d had no idea what the children might be worth. Now he hoped for more. “Children of a warrior and a lioness!” the warlord exclaimed incredulously. “Look at them! Are you blind that you offer me only a hundred each?”
Praxis glanced at him angrily. “One twenty-five each. That is more than they are worth, and you know that.”
The warlord shook his head. “The girl is a virgin,” he said. “I threatened to kill any man or boy who fucked her. They are both smart… very smart… smarter than that boy who understood your words earlier. They don’t look so smart right now, but it’s been less than two weeks since we hacked down their parents and brothers in front of them. I’ve watched them and I know what they are worth, Praxis. I want three hundred for her and two hundred for the boy.”
Praxis swallowed hard. He had to have them. Reluctantly he nodded.
+ + + + +
“Bring them to my room,” Praxis told the steward. “They will sleep with me tonight.”
Such valuable children needed to be protected from thieves or even from others in the household who might be jealous of them or want to have sex with the girl… and greatly diminish her value.
With this girl, Praxis wouldn’t even trust his steward, a man in his late twenties. The steward had married one of Praxis’ female slaves and they had children, but Praxis suspected the man fucked other slaves.
“And bring a bath,” Praxis added. “I will wash them myself.”
Praxis was sitting beside the open window of his sleeping chamber, watching the sunset across the river, when he heard the steward behind him. He turned. The children were still naked but their hands were unbound. “They have been fed?” Praxis asked.
The steward nodded.
“Fine. Light a couple of lamps and then leave us,” Praxis said, his eyes dropping to the children. He waved them forward. The boy took his sister’s hand and they came to stand before him. Their faces were expressionless.
Praxis leaned back in his chair. “What are your names?” he asked.
The children stared blankly.
“What are your names?” he repeated. He patted his chest. “My name is Praxis. What is yours?” He looked from the boy to the girl.
They said nothing.
He patted his chest again. “Praxis.” He patted the boy’s chest and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Jeet,” the boy said in a high, pure voice.
The man turned to the girl and patted her chest. “Weela,” she said.
Praxis nodded approvingly. “Jeet and Weela,” he repeated.
One cannot be a slave trader and have a kind heart, but Praxis liked these two. He would be in no hurry to sell them. He would wait until he had a really good offer. “You will be my personal slaves for now,” he said. “You will learn our language and you will attend to my needs. Tonight I will bathe you and you will learn to bathe me.”
He stood and walked out to the balcony where his servants had filled a wide, wooden bath with several inches of water. The balcony was screened from the sides and below, and Praxis often bathed out here. He was not a modest man, as most men in his time were not modest. But he was a private man. That is why he had never married; he didn’t want to share his life with a woman. There were always slaves for his physical pleasure and comforts. Twice, that he knew of, slaves had borne him sons, the younger of which he had kept in his household. The boy was sixteen now, and Praxis would probably free him, officially adopting him… someday. Praxis was close to forty, and life grew increasingly uncertain after that age.
He motioned for the children to come to him, and pointed into the bath. They stared at him.
Praxis frowned and pointed emphatically into the wooden tub. The boy and girl stepped into it. Removing his outer cloak, Praxis grabbed up a linen rag, and moistened it with his private mixture of bath salts and oil from a vessel. He began with the boy, scrubbing briskly over his back and shoulders before more gently cleaning the boys face. He was gentler there, not because of the boy’s feelings, but to protect the boy’s valuable complexion.
He cleaned the boy thoroughly, including his butt crack, his scrotum, and his penis, pulling back the foreskin to make sure the boy was completely washed. The boy stared forward, his body rigid, but his penis betrayed him, growing erect under Praxis’ manipulations. The man smiled. It would serve his purpose for the boy to associate pleasure with the man. And he smiled for a second reason; the boy’s erection was quite long.
Praxis did the girl next, particularly taking his time between her legs, hoping to stimulate her as well. The boy watched with narrowed eyes.
Praxis, ladling water, rinsed them both. Then he removed his tunic and stepped naked into the tub; his penis thick and partly erect. The boy started to step from the tub, but Praxis stopped him with a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. He reached for the rag he had used on them and handed it to the boy. He handed a second to the girl and then knelt in the water between them. He nodded at the rags, and the children began cleaning him.
They were reluctant to clean his cock and balls, but grabbing them by their wrists, he cleaned himself with their hands. His penis grew erect.
It was time to start bending the children’s will to his own. Praxis was an expert at that. He had done it countless times before – taking a captive, bending their will to his, and then building their attachment to him. He was never sure how he did it; he simply knew that within a matter of weeks, sometimes days, most captive slaves became devoted to him. The trick, of course, was to build their attachment to him without him becoming attached to them in the process. He had always been successful at that as well. Praxis wasn’t a cruel man; he simply kept himself detached.
He stood and, taking the children’s hands, he placed them on his erection and scrotum. He would teach them how to pleasure him, with their hands first. In days to come, he would teach them other ways to please him. But he would be patient. Breaking in slaves was a skill that required patience, to be done properly.
The boy struggled, pulling his hand away. The man let go of the girl and used both hands on the boy; one behind the neck to apply pain without causing damage. The man’s eyes locked on the boy’s, and he applied pain until he saw the boy’s defiance yield. He placed the boy’s hand on his now more flaccid cock, and, once more the boy pulled his hand back. Praxis patiently, determinedly, reapplied pain. The trick was to bend the boy’s spirit without breaking it.
Afterward, Praxis dried the children’s bodies. They were silent; their eyes downcast. He had them dry his own body next, and he had them spread fine, scented oil over his skin. He did the same for them and was especially liberal applying oil into the crevices of their perfectly formed little butts. Not tonight, but soon, he would teach them much greater submission.
Submission first, but always with pleasure. He would teach them pleasure.
+ + + + +
It was two months later that Jeet overheard Praxis tell his steward, “The boy, I may keep, but while the girl is still a virgin she is far too valuable for me to hang on to.” Praxis glanced at Jeet, who was sweeping his master’s sleeping chamber. “I have enjoyed my little bed mates,” Praxis said. “Too bad I must sell the girl.”
The steward nodded, eyeing the boy. “The boy may understand you,” the servant cautioned in a whisper.
The boy turned his back to them as he swept. Praxis shrugged. “If so, it is just as well that he understands the reality of things.”
That night, as every night, the brother and sister pleasured Praxis. Afterward, the man fell asleep between them while stroking their long hair. When the man grew quiet, Jeet carefully extricated himself from under Praxis’ arm. He crawled over beside his sister. Earlier, Jeet had explained what they must do, and now Weela’s hand reached between his legs. She fondled him and he grew hard. Then she lay onto her back like she and Jeet did for the man, only Jeet entered her vagina instead of her rectum.
Weela bit her lip at the initial, burning pain, but it quickly passed and they began to move together.
Jeet pressed his cheek against hers, and they held each other tightly as they pumped their pelvises and discovered pleasures they hadn’t expected.
Jeet intended to let Praxis know what they had done, the next day. The man would beat him, but Praxis wouldn’t think that Weela was so valuable that she had to be sold.
But Jeet did not tell Praxis the next day. Instead, once the man was asleep that night, Jeet moved over beside Weela, his penis already long and hard.
It wasn’t until a week later that Praxis awoke to their motions and opened his eyes to find the two of them rutting in moonlight from the balcony, like small animals… in his very own bed! The sight of their small, pumping bodies instantly aroused both his cock and his anger. He threw Jeet off Weela and off the bedding in one motion. “You will pay for this with your hide!” he growled at the boy angrily. Then he looked down at Weela, whose long, slender legs were still spread.
He almost moved up over her himself. If she was no longer a virgin, why deny himself the pleasure any longer? But he considered it. Though the boy’s erection was long, it was thin. Perhaps some of the girl’s hymen remained. Tomorrow, he would check in the daylight to see.
He glared over at the boy who simply stared back. “You have no idea what you’ve done!” Praxis shouted. “You’re supposed to be smart, but this was stupid, stupid, stupid!” He thought about beating the boy, right then. But the sight of the beautiful boy in the moonlight, his thin erection still pointing up his belly, mollified Praxis. For an instant, Praxis considered taking out his revenge by hard-fucking the boy’s butt, but just as quickly decided against it. He didn’t want the boy to associate sex with Praxis with anything other than submission and pleasure.
“You will sleep out there tonight,” Praxis said, pointing out toward the balcony. “I will deal with you in the morning.” He glanced down at the girl. “And with you.”
He laid back down, pulling the girl’s body to his own, primarily to keep her from moving to the balcony or to keep her brother from moving back to join her. He barely closed his eyes, when he remembered the conversation with his steward in front of Jeet; the conversation about having to sell Weela while she was still a virgin.
Praxis’s eyes flew open and he sat up. He looked out toward the balcony. The boy was sitting with his back to the balcony railing, his eyes staring emotionless back at Praxis. “You little devil,” Praxis whispered to himself.
Praxis checked the next day. The girl’s hymen was gone.
The man knew how to beat a slave without leaving permanent marks. He beat the boy. He told the steward why, but no one else, and he warned the children to say nothing. “If others find out that you are no longer a virgin,” Praxis warned the girl, “they will be tempted to fuck you themselves; do you understand?”
The girl nodded.
That night, Praxis made Jeet sit to one side while Praxis stimulated the girl with his mouth and his hands. She resisted at first, but Praxis knew her now; he knew what she liked. Before long, he had her writhing under his ministrations. And then he moved up on her, angling his erection down between her legs. She was tight… and hot. Her vagina slid down over his cock like a warm, tight mouth.
His eyes closed and he sighed. The boy had done him a favor. Praxis would have never forgiven himself if he let the girl go without tasting her this way. He began to move his hips and the aroused girl under him moved her hips to meet his thrusts.
Praxis glanced at the boy. Jeet stared back angrily, but the erection pointing up from his lap betrayed him. Praxis gruffly motioned the boy over and made him kneel beside his and the girl’s heads. “You started this,” Praxis said, meeting the boy’s glare with his own. Then Praxis took the boy’s erection into his mouth and began to suck. He would make the boy a party to this pleasure and compromise the boy’s resentment.
Praxis gave himself over to the task, sucking the boy’s cock with enthusiasm. Before long the boy rested his hands on the man’s head and began to pump into Praxis’ mouth.
Praxis moved his hips slowly. The girl was tight, and he did not want to damage her. She might not be a virgin anymore, but she was still valuable.
+ + + + +
When Praxis’ son reached eighteen years of age, Praxis freed him from being a slave and made him an heir. Within a day, the boy was complaining to Praxis’s steward about his father’s chamber slaves.
“Your father is wealthy enough,” the steward explained. “If he wants to keep two more valuable slaves for himself, he can afford it.”
“He’s had them three years,” the boy complained. “For as long as I can remember, he has said that it is foolish to become attached to slaves, but he’s been attached to those two from the moment they entered this house. He doesn’t just fuck the two of them. He pampers them.”
“He hasn’t fucked the girl for several months now. He’s afraid she will start menstruating and he might make her pregnant.” The steward paused and leaned closer. “Your father still pretends he might sell them.”
They were reorganizing the slave quarters after selling off the latest batch. The steward resumed his work. “Your father may pamper them, but they are still just chamber slaves. They wash his body. They clean his butt after he craps. They empty and clean his chamber pot. They clean his bedding and his clothes. They clean his quarters. Their bodies are his whenever he wants. And he keeps them prisoners inside this compound because he's afraid that if he takes them out where they will be seen, someone will want to buy them”
The boy considered that, and a smile spread across his face. “I could let it be known around town that my father has them. I could tell people what they are like.”
“Are you afraid those two will displace you in your father’s favor?” the steward asked.
“Perhaps,” the young man said with a frown. “But what about you? Jeet won’t be a boy much longer. And he is clever. He might make a good steward, don’t you think?”
The steward declined to answer directly, continuing to work a moment before responding. “Jeet and Weela aren’t ever going to be worth more than they are now,” the steward observed.
The boy nodded. “The next time my father is sitting down at the gates, perhaps I will take Jeet and Weela with me to the market.”
+ + + + +
Praxis closed his eyes and relaxed as the two children rubbed his chest, belly, and legs with sweet balm. He had an erection, but they worked around it, teasing him. They enjoyed their sex as much as he did; Praxis made sure of that. Weela was on his right side. He stroked the soft skin of her back with his fingertips. Praxis never felt more like a rich, spoiled aristocrat than at moments like these.
Jeet bent over, and lifting Praxis erection, closed his mouth over it. Praxis sighed contentedly. He and the boy still had their little contests of wills during their sex, but they had truly come to enjoy each other.
Perhaps tonight he would let the boy enter the girl and he would enter the boy. They had been doing that lately, and they all liked it.
Praxis glanced down at the boy. Jeet was on the verge of adolescence. His cock and balls had already thickened and grown. Any day, pubic hair would spring up quickly the way it did at that age. He wondered if the boy had begun shooting semen. Perhaps he would suck the boy off tonight and see. Though any ejaculate at Jeet’s age would be mostly clear liquid, it wouldn’t do for the boy to impregnate his sister.
The two children had sex with each other more often than when Praxis was with them. He knew that. And both brother and sister could come two or three times in a row, which was one reason Praxis assumed that Jeet’s orgasms were still dry. The nature of the boy’s orgasms would change when he began to shoot sperm, but until then, he and his sister had the resilience of preteens.
All that Praxis asked was that they were ready for him when he wanted. He got more than their obedience, though. From time to time, the children showed him genuine affection and their communal bed had become a retreat for Praxis; a delight every evening.
Praxis, eyes still closed, smiled. He had never expected to be happy. The children might not be content as he was, but they were not unhappy. He was sure of that. They knew that they had it good with him. Things could be worse for them. Much worse.
Weela bent to close her mouth over Praxis’ left nipple. He murmured his approval. With his training, they had become good lovers. They could be worth much.
But then Praxis frowned the way he always did when the thought of possibly selling them crossed his mind. The children were precious to him.
+ + + + +
Two nights later, Praxis woke to a murmur from the boy. The boy and his sister were sleeping like they did almost every night; in each other’s arms. Praxis let them sleep that way, usually with him wrapped up behind one or the other. Tonight, Praxis was spooned behind the boy.
Jeet often slept with an arm and a leg over his sister, but tonight he was clutching her to himself in his sleep and whimpering. Praxis did as he always did when the boy dreamed like this; he cradled the boy’s body with his own and stroked his arm.
“They’re going to try to take Weela from us,” Jeet said in the morning. “I dreamed it. You must not let them.”
“It was just a dream,” Praxis assured him, and yet the man was troubled. “In your dream, who tried to take her away?”
Jeet shook his head. “I don’t know. Men in fine clothes.”
“Get to work,” Praxis told him. “It was only a dream.”
+ + + + +
“It’s the governor himself,” the steward said quietly, but urgently when he found Praxis out in his garden.
“What does he want?” Praxis asked with a frown.
“Slaves, I’m sure,” the steward answered.
The governor, with others, was waiting in Praxis’ courtyard. Praxis' heart caught in his throat when he saw that his son had led out Jeet and Weela to serve the group water. All the eyes in the governor’s party were watching the children, who were dressed as Praxis himself preferred; in simple white tunics which showed off their olive skin and flowing black hair. Swallowing hard, Praxis came forward.
The governor, a tall man, saw him. “Praxis, you scoundrel. You’ve been holding back on us. Just who were you planning on selling these two to? You know I pay top dollar for good slaves.”
Praxis suppressed a frown. The governor only bought slaves after hard bargaining. “I have had no slaves worthy to bring you, sire” Praxis said, bowing deferentially.
The governor laughed. “Just how worthy do they have to be, Praxis? These two are beautiful. Perhaps you want them for yourself?” The governor smiled, but there was flint in his eyes. He pulled Praxis to the side with an arm behind his back. “My oldest boy, Jason, is thirteen now, and has his first short hairs.” He nodded back toward a richly-dressed boy with long, braided hair. The boy’s eyes were on Weela; only on Weela.
“I want him to have his own slave girl; a virgin to break in and learn with,” the governor said. “That girl would be perfect.”
“But governor, certainly I can find you a better girl…”
The governor stopped him with an upraised hand. “He likes that girl. I like her, too. When my son is through with her, she might please me.”
Praxis thought quickly. Keeping Weela for himself might be out of the question now. The governor obviously wanted her. Would he want her if he knew she wasn’t a virgin? It would certainly be dangerous to claim that Weela was one. But she would be worth much, much less if he admitted that he had fucked her for almost two years. The governor would probably still insist on taking her, but pay almost nothing. Praxis had to be very careful now. The trader swallowed and leaned close, confidentially. “The girl is not a virgin, sire.”
The governor frowned angrily, as if there had been an attempt to deceive him. “Sire,” Praxis said, quickly, “I only recently discovered this myself. It was the boy, her brother.”
The governor’s countenance darkened as he eyed Jeet.
“Sire,” Praxis went on quickly, “he only did it because he didn’t want me to sell his sister, and he thought I would be unable to if she was no longer a virgin.” Praxis leaned closer. “Sire, he is but a boy. He has no… no, short hairs yet. He has no semen. I’m sure that his small cock was barely able to breech her. The girl is almost a virgin. No man has had her yet.”
The governor’s look softened perceptively. “The boy did that?” he asked, watching Jeet.
“Yes, sire.”
The governor chewed his lip. “I couldn’t take them both, then. Not if that happened between them.”
Praxis shook his head. “Certainly not, sire.”
The governor returned his gaze to the girl. “Let me talk to my son,” he said. “I will see if he still wants her.”
The governor strode over to his son and pulled him aside. Praxis motioned his steward over. He quickly briefed the steward as to his conversation with the governor. “It will be suspicious if I talk to Weela directly now,” Praxis said. “But tell her that she must never breathe a word of anything differently than what I told the governor or all our lives could be in danger. Be sure she understands that.”
The steward nodded. And because his fate was tied to his master’s, he immediately pulled the girl aside. “The governor is going to buy you,” he said.
Weela glanced quickly at Jeet.
“Girl,” the steward urgently said, “this will be good for you. You will be in the household of the governor himself, and you will belong to his heir. That boy; the good looking one.”
Weela glanced at the boy, but then back to her brother. There was panic in her eyes.
“Weela,” the steward said, “you must listen to me. I have some important things to tell you.”
The governor stepped back to Praxis. “What can I say? The boy is smitten with her. I will pay you generously for her Praxis. I will give you two hundred pieces of silver.”
Praxis’ eyes flashed angrily at the governor. The governor returned a hard gaze.
“Governor,” Praxis said. “I did not try to deceive you. I have been honest with you. I am honest with you still; even though she is not a virgin, she is easily worth twice that amount. You know it.”
Weela had stepped over beside her brother and the two were whispering animatedly together. The governor’s son went over to them, pushed Jeet away, and took the girl’s hand. Weela and Jeet kept silent, but their eyes flashed at the boy.
“Quit bargaining, father,” the governor’s son called back to him. “I want her. Just pay what he’s asking.”
The governor frowned and turned to Praxis. “I won’t argue with you any longer, Praxis. I will give you three hundred pieces of silver, and you will be more careful next time to protect your property.”
Praxis bowed, defeated. “You are more than fair, sire,” he said softly.
The boy, Jeet, stood at the doorway, weeping, long after his sister and the governor’s procession disappeared down the street. Praxis left him there. He was dealing with his own sadness.
+ + + + +
There was no life in the boy that night. He lay on his side, and Praxis moved in behind him, to comfort him. The boy started to pull away, but Praxis pulled the boy’s body back to his own and ran an arm under the boy’s head to support it. He felt dampness from the boy’s eyes.
“You must toughen yourself, Jeet,” he softly said. “Life is hard. You must get used to that. Weela will be fine. She’ll be well taken care of in the governor’s house, and she will be close enough to us for you to hear how she is doing.”
“You sold her,” the boy said accusingly.
“Jeet,” Praxis said, soothingly, “I had no choice. The governor was going to take her regardless of what I did or didn’t do.”
Jeet said nothing. Nor did he the next day, or the next night. Praxis made love to him, but the boy was lifeless and the bed seemed empty. It had been a mistake, Praxis decided, to continue letting the boy have sex with his sister. They had grown too close.
You old hypocrite, he told himself. You grew too close.
+ + + + +
Three days later, the Oracle at the great temple died unexpectedly.
The Oracle’s life-long attendants, led by the Abij-hah, or literally Beloved Eunuch, prepared the body for burial and carried it to a hillside tomb which had been quickly prepared. It was tradition for the Oracle to be buried high on a hill because the seer’s grave needed a far horizon.
The Oracle’s attendants, including the Abij-hah, were then put to the sword and buried with the body so that the Oracle would have her servants in the life to come.
The city grew quiet for thirty days of morning, and Praxis hoped that the governor’s house would forget about his boy, Jeet. They would all be busy now, looking for a new Oracle. By law and tradition, the Oracle had to be a hermaphrodite like the Cybele-associated demon-god, Agdistis; just as in the same way, the Abij-hah had to be a eunuch like Cybele’s eunuch-son, Attis. Fortunately, Praxis thought to himself, hermaphrodites were not easy to come by.
+ + + + +
“I hear you have already found your new Oracle,” the governor said to Jarus, The Most High Priest, who with other guests, was seated at the governor’s table. They were eating on a high terrace of the governor’s palace. Below them lay the Euphrates River and the entire city which lay along its near bank from the temple on the left, to the agora, to the riverside gymnasium, to the great North Gate on the right.
“Yes,” the high priest, a bald man in his early fifties, responded. “We have a new Oracle. We knew of her before, of course. It was a simple matter of making arrangements. The family is Greek.” Several heads nodded around the table. The ruling elite of the Seleucid Empire were all Greek. “The father works for the emperor at Ali.”
“And the parents were willing to part with their child?” the governor’s wife asked in surprise. “I understand a poor family having to sell children, but not a family with money.”
“The father is alone. His wife died in childbirth,” the high priest explained. “He has other sons and daughters, and what is he to do with a child who is a hermaphrodite? He couldn’t very well marry her off, could he?” The priest paused. “A poor family might have been better though. This child was a favorite of her father and may be spoiled. That is a concern. The last thing we need is another demanding Oracle.”
The governor chuckled. “Your last Oracle and her grand eunuch ran your temple.”
“Grand eunuch… you mean the Abij-hah?” asked another guest, a general.
“Bah!” Jarus said with a frown. “That eunuch was beloved by no one but himself. He enjoyed the power he had, running the shrine and controlling access to the Oracle. He grew fat, lazy, and pampered.”
The general smirked. “All his power didn’t keep him from being buried with the Oracle,” he observed with a chuckle.
“A slave is still a slave, no matter how good he is at manipulation and intrigue,” Jarus said. He took a deep breath and smiled. “Bless the traditions. Now we can start fresh.”
“With another demanding Oracle?” the governor asked dryly.
Jarus shook his head. “She is very young and we should be able to train her properly. She is only twelve years old – the youngest new Oracle in a hundred years. We will choose for her, attendants that are as young as she is. Since we will have them from such a young age, we will train them to be what we want them to be.”
“Why have an Oracle at all if they are so much trouble?” the governor’s wife asked. “Tradition?”
The governor laughed out loud. “Gold and silver, my dear wife. People pay to hear from the Oracle. Rich people pay a lot.”
The governor’s wife thought that over. “You still would not need to have an Abij-hah.”
“Oh yes we would,” the high priest said. “The Oracle needs attendants and someone has to be steward at the shrine. It might as well be a eunuch we can control and don’t mind burying with the Oracle when she dies. Besides,” he said, leaning back, "eunuchs have other uses. When I was young, one of the Oracle’s servants was an exceptionally beautiful youth. There were some who traveled to the shrine simply to see him, and the rumor was, that for a little gold, he could be purchased for the night. Now something like that could add to the temple coffers.”
“There you are!” the governor exclaimed. “Buy only beautiful young eunuchs for the Oracle and you could have a real trade going.”
The high priest chewed a bite of food, thoughtfully. “That isn’t a bad idea. The Oracle has six attendants. We could get six beautiful young boys, boys that people would travel to see.”
“Why not get a dozen… or more?” the general asked.
The high priest shook his head. “No. Six is the tradition. For one thing the shrine and the Oracle don’t require more, and slaves are costly to buy and maintain – we already have more than enough temple prostitutes and priestesses whoring for us… but six beautiful boys,” Jarus said thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. “Not more than six, certainly. The Oracle’s attendants serve for life. These six will get old eventually, and the last thing the temple of Cybele needs are more, old eunuchs. We don’t need six of them, much less a dozen.”
“Change them out,” the general suggested. “Change the attendants out when they get old.”
“It’s not the tradition,” the high priest objected.
“Don’t talk to priests about changing traditions, general,” the governor said with an amused grin. “They are the protectors of traditions. Start changing too many temple traditions and someone could lose power, or worse – their job.”
From below, the temple gongs sounded for the evening sacrifice. They all paused to listen as the clear tones rose on the late afternoon air. “Traditions can be beautiful in and of themselves,” the high priest pointed out. “Traditions have made this city what it is.”
Several heads nodded around the table.
“I know who you should start with,” the governor said, smiling and leaning toward The Most High Priest. “I know the first boy you should buy. He’s with Praxis, the slave trader.”
Others around the table turned to listen. “Praxis had two of them; a brother and a sister,” the governor said, “about the age of your Oracle. He was hiding them like misers hide gold, but I heard about them and bought the girl for my son, Jason.” The governor grinned. “My son has barely let her out of his bed since we bought her for him.”
The governor glanced around. “You,” he called out to a servant, “go fetch Weela.”
The servant hurriedly left.
“The boy was as beautiful as the girl,” the governor said. “Damn if he wasn’t more beautiful.”
“Why didn’t you buy him as well?” The general asked.
The governor shook his head. “I had my reasons.”
“Our son is infatuated with the girl,” said the governor’s wife. “She’s quite lovely.”
“She’s only twelve?” the high priest asked. “How beautiful can a twelve year old be?”
“Wait till you see,” the governor said. “Ah, here she is.” He extended a hand. “Come here, Weela.”
The girl, accompanied by the governor’s son, entered the room. She came forward, and Jason, as if not wanting her out of reach, followed closely. Weela came to the governor, who with an arm behind her waist turned her to face the table.
There were murmurs of approval. “Those eyes,” one of the women said, noticing what they all had immediately noticed, “they’re almost silver… and so large… such big eyes.”
“And her hair,” the governor’s wife said. “Look at her hair. It’s so thick. I love brushing it.”
“You brush a slave’s hair?” the general’s wife asked in surprise.
“It pleases me,” the governor’s wife said.
The governor smiled and gave Weela’s waist a squeeze. “My son isn’t the only one smitten with this girl.”
The girl glanced at him and the governor thought, not for the first time, that the girl’s beauty lay as much in what was behind her eyes as in the eyes themselves. They were shrewd for a child so young. They saw, they observed, they understood. Yet in them, the governor had yet to see fear.
+ + + + +
Jeet was restless in his sleep again. Praxis pulled the boy close. “Jeet-hah,” he whispered, “what are you dreaming?”
But the boy didn’t answer.
Praxis held the boy to himself, and he thought that if ever he loved anyone in his life, it was this boy.
+ + + + +
“Two of the high priests of Cybele are here,” the steward said, greeting Praxis on his return from the city gates the next afternoon. “They asked to see Jeet.”
Praxis felt the bottom of his stomach fall away as he headed into his courtyard.
The priests and their retinue stood in a circle around Jeet. They parted for Praxis. Two of the three high priests from the temple of Cybele stood on either side of Jeet. They had removed his clothing and one of them was examining the boy’s long hair.
The Most High Priest, Jarus, smiled at the trader. “Praxis, we wish to buy this boy.”
Praxis frowned. “Holy One, I have other slaves, more fit for temple service.”
“Nonsense,” the priest said, waving away Praxis’ objection. “This boy is perfect for what we need.”
The other high priest, a ferret-faced, chubby man by the name of Stycus, who Praxis knew more by reputation, stepped forward. “We have found the new Oracle and now we need to find her attendants.”
“But the Oracle is attended to by eunuchs. The boy is not a eunuch,” objected Praxis.
“That is easily remedied,” Stycus replied.
“No,” Praxis said, and regretted the loudness of his voice. He lowered it. “A slave with his looks and coloring, he should be bred. His offspring would be worth much.”
“The temple is not in the slave breeding business,” Stycus replied.
“But the boy has spirit,” Praxis pleaded. “Don’t take that from him.”
”Nonsense,” Jarus said. “Who needs spirit in a slave? We must have this boy, Praxis. It is that simple.”
Praxis glanced sadly at Jeet, whose large eyes were on him. Their eyes met, and when Jeet saw what was in Praxis’ eyes, he looked away.
“How much, Praxis?” Jarus asked.
“A thousand silver drachmas,” Praxis murmured softly, not taking his eyes from the boy. If they killed him for asking such an outrageous price, he almost wouldn’t mind. Even a thousand silver drachmas were poor compensation for parting with the boy.
“You’re out of your mind,” Stycus hissed. “Perhaps we should just take the boy to satisfy your temple tax. When was the last time you paid the temple tax, Praxis?”
Praxis’ eyes flashed at Stycus.
“No,” Jarus said, laying his hand on Stycus’ arm. “No, think about it. You already spent three hundred pieces of silver for the Egyptian boy. Word will get around that the Oracle’s eunuchs cost a king’s ransom. People will come to see that.” Jarus glanced back at Jeet. “I’ve never seen a boy like this one. If the Oracle has an eye for beauty at all, she will almost certainly choose him as the new Abij-hah. It will please her that we paid such a price for him. The two will be legend, instantly… the new Oracle, and her Abij-hah, who was worth a thousand silver drachmas.”
“But Jarus,” Stycus began to object.
Jarus waved his objections aside. “We will take the boy, Praxis. Our servants will return before dark with your asking price.”
“Holy one,” Praxis said, detaining the high priest as the others were leaving. Praxis had wrestled with whether to tell the high priest; now he chewed his lip as he decided how to tell him. “The boy,” Praxis said, “he has second sight.”
“Oh?” the high priest asked with interest.
“He dreams,” Praxis said.

Chapter 1

It was the cold that woke me.

Opening my eyes, I discovered I was lying down, and although I was disoriented, I instinctively knew I was in a strange place – a place I didn’t belong. As my mind fought to escape the fog of confusion that enveloped it, I began to realize that I wasn’t really sure where I did belong. For a few moments I remained prone, while I tried to focus on exactly where I was, but after working at the puzzle for a few minutes, I decided I’d have to get up in order to learn more.

Slowly I began to arise, but as soon I did, a sharp pain streaking across the side of my face forced me to stop. Pushed further into consciousness by the pain, I realized it was coming from sharp stones that were cutting into my cheek, and I finally understood that I was lying outdoors, on cold hard ground. Fighting the murky fog that muddied my thoughts, I pushed myself into an upright position, and placed my aching head in my hands.

Within a few minutes, my eyes focused on the world around me. My head continued to ache and a nauseating sickness rose up from my stomach. My ears buzzed with a low-pitched hum, a dull droning sound that vibrated in my head. I felt as if I’d been standing beside a large bell that had been fiercely rung – its reverberation continuing on long after its tolling ceased.

Since I was already on my knees, I leaned back on the heels of my feet. As soon as I did I felt more pain when the stone shards I was kneeling on dug sharply into my legs and knees. Steadying my balance, I reached out and held onto a large rock in front of me. Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths. The air rushing into my lungs, although cold and sharp, helped to further revive me. A few minutes passed and once more I opened my eyes. Moving slowly to a sitting position, I began to survey my surroundings.

I was in a dark and dreary place – perhaps an alleyway. It was deserted and eerily quiet. On either side of me abandoned and crumbling buildings lined both sides of its dirt and rubbish strewn cobbled pavement. Ahead of me the alley connected to a similarly abandoned street. Turning to look behind me, I discovered that it terminated in a dead end – a brick wall too high to climb or even see over. I’d forgotten the misting rain until I stood and felt it falling lightly on me. It had thoroughly soaked the filthy rags I was wearing, and I shivered when a cold gust of wind blew over me.

Looking down at my feet, I saw that they were bare. I also noticed that I was wearing some type of loose, ill-fitting garment. After trying to adjust it I could tell that I wasn’t wearing any undergarment, since I could feel the coarse cloth scratching the tender skin of my bottom. In fact, my clothing was in such tatters I might as well not have been wearing anything. Feeling something heavy on my chest I reached up and touched it. It was a disk suspended on a thick gold chain that hung around my neck. I took it into my hands and looked at it carefully.

The object was round and heavy. At first I thought it was a coin, for it seemed to be made of gold. Framing it was a pair of wings that wrapped around its circumference. In deep relief on its obverse, I could see markings in the form of swirling and spiraling lines. Turning it over, I found a different image carved on its reverse – a cloud with lightning bolts shooting from it.

From the size of my bare feet and hands, and the appendage between my legs, I could tell that I was a boy. But I couldn’t remember how old I was. In fact, I began to panic when I realized I couldn’t remember anything about myself. I couldn’t recall if I had a home, or family. All I had knowledge of was my present surroundings. Standing scared and alone, the only things I knew for sure were that I was cold and wet, barely dressed, and very hungry. I also became aware of a painful soreness all over my body. The dull aching sensation caused me to think that I might have been in a fight. My arms, legs, and back all hurt as if they’d been bruised, but I couldn’t see any marks other than a few cuts and scratches on my legs and knees.

Taking a few halting steps, I felt a burning pain in my back that was so intense I feared I might have been stabbed with a knife and left for dead. A quick visual scan of my body turned up no signs of blood. Reaching around in attempt to touch the spot, I failed, finding it impossible to put my hand on the place where the pain was most intense. Without success, I resorted to turning my head and looking over my shoulder, but my efforts were futile. If only I could have seen my reflection I could have gotten a better view, but under the circumstances that was impossible. For the longest time I stood like a statue, still trying to regain my senses. At the same time, I searched my memory for an explanation of my plight.

Finally accepting the fact that I couldn’t remain in this dismal place, I began to stagger toward the open end of the alley where it connected to the next street. Carefully threading my way around and between piles of rubbish and dirt I froze, gripped in fear, when I heard a low growl coming from one of the abandoned buildings on my right.

Turning toward the sound, I glimpsed the dark form of a large, furry creature lurking in the shadows under the crumbling arch of a doorway. Its one, red-stained eye stared menacingly at me. Its head was down and it uttered a second blood-curdling growl when it saw I was observing it. The thing may once have been a dog, maybe even someone’s pet, but it had a crazed and evil look.

As it crept from the shadows, it was clear this animal had lived a harsh life. One of its ears was torn off, leaving a small wiry tuft of fur. Emerging further into the light I gasped when I saw a pattern of deep scars covering its body. The bloodshot eye that first caught my gaze continued to coldly examine me as if I were about to become its next meal. Its head turned to the side, and I could see no evidence of a second eye, only a scar streaked area where it had once been.

Ceasing all movement, I stood silently and watched as it arched its back, made a few angry barks, and began to advance toward me. Paralyzed with fear, my eyes darted about while my mind raced to discover a means of escape. On either side of me stood dilapidated buildings that might contain more of the same terrifying creatures. Looking closer, it was obvious that none of the structures were stable or safe. After a few more seconds of frantic searching, I realized that even if I made a dash into one of them, there were no doors or windows to bar the creature from charging in behind me.

To my back was the high brick wall, in front of me lay the intersecting street, but what was beyond it remained a mystery. The dog continued to glare at me. Its constant growl fueled my fear. As the beast stood watching my every move, I took the only option open and slowly inched my way toward the street in front of me, hoping that I could disengage myself from the animal or that someone might be nearby to save me.

Cautiously, I moved toward the intersection of the alley and street. The creature never took its eyes off me, and my heart pounded as I watched it follow in my wake. I knew its powerful jaws could easily tear me to shreds. Beads of sweat dotted my forehead, my mouth was dry, and my breath came rapid and shallow.

Caught in the animal’s gaze, I made a foolish mistake. Propelled by terror and fear, I quickened my pace. Fixing my eyes on the creature’s single riveting eye and not on where I was walking, I didn’t see the small hole in the pavement – a hole easy enough to avoid, but perfect to catch a boy’s foot. I stepped into it, twisted my ankle, and fell.

Tumbling forward, I threw out my arms in an attempt to break my fall. Hitting the ground hard, I cried out when I felt a searing jab of pain come from my hand as my palm scraped against the rough pavement, shredding the skin in a bloody rash. I hit the ground hard and fast – so hard that the breath was pushed from my body.

Back on the ground, I looked at my now injured hand. The pain coming from it was intense. For a few seconds I pressed it hard against my leg to stop the bleeding, but only succeeded in stamping a bloody handprint on my thigh. In my fall I’d momentarily forgotten the creature, but a sharp bark followed by a low growl brought me back to reality and face to face with my dire predicament. By now the angry animal stood only a few feet from me. Its head was low to the ground, its eye cold and unblinking, and I could almost count the long sharp teeth in its mouth as it snapped and snarled at me.

Looking upon this instrument of my eminent death, my mind reeled as an intense burst of feelings and emotions filled my head. The sensation was so powerful it took me by surprise and almost caused me to faint. It was as if I had somehow mentally reached out to the creature, and I cried out in terror when I found that I was powerless to stop my mind from melding with that of the beast.

Strong emotions and strange feelings flooded my consciousness. Were they from the creature? Was it somehow reading my mind? Terrified, I felt like an observer outside my own body, unable to control what was happening in my head. Raw, painful memories of torture, cruelty, and mistreatment rushed into my mind and I shuddered at their intensity. Yet while emotions of anger and hatred bubbled to the surface, I became aware of another set of feelings buried deep below the layers of pain. Falling deeper into the mind of the beast, I was shocked to find feelings of love and gentleness, loyalty and courage, and I came to understand that the positive and negative emotions of this animal were in a relentless war with each other.

Engulfed in an emotional tug of war, I began to choke and cough on the bile rising in my throat as a sickening wave of nausea boiled up from the pit of my stomach. I was in the midst of an emotional storm, wrestling with the same conflicting memories and emotions that inhabited the creature’s mind.

This second set of emotions stirred up feelings of sorrow within me, but their strength and intensity also terrified and confused me. My mind fought with the mental irrationality I found myself caught up in, and my growing fear was more palpable to me than anything I could imagine.

The animal, its head down and its single eye unblinking, continued to advance toward me. By now it was so close that I could see my own reflection in its eye. I sat and shook as it closed the gap between us. As the distance narrowed from a few feet to a few inches, I lowered my head and closed my own eyes as tightly as I could. If the thing was going to kill me, at least I wasn’t going to watch it.

By now, it was right next to me and even though I pressed my eyelids as tightly together as I could in a weak attempt to pretend it wasn’t there, I couldn’t ignore the stench that rose from its body and filled my nostrils causing me to gag and cough. Grimacing, I turned my head when I felt the warm moistness of its foul breath against my face.

The creature advanced ever closer, and I flinched as a few drops of the drool that had been foaming up on the sides of its muzzle dripped onto one of my bare legs. When it was as close to me as it could get, it stopped and then began to circle me. Completing its circle, it came around to face me and stood motionless before me. Once more I shuddered as I felt a few drops of its drool fall onto my right foot. Terrified over the pain I was about to suffer, I drew my arms and legs together in a ball bracing for the coming attack…when it abruptly ceased growling and lowered its head.

Opening my eyes, I stared into its bloodshot eye. This time I was overcome with feelings of great loneliness and sadness. The years of pain and suffering it had been subjected to crashed over me like a wave. Tears came to my eyes, and it was at that moment I no longer saw a horrible monster, but a kind and noble animal tortured and abused to the edge of madness, and although a part of me couldn’t believe my actions, I instinctively reached out a trembling hand and began to softly stroke its gross and misshapen head.

The dog, slowly and deliberately, lay down beside me and gently rested its head on my thigh. From deep inside its scarred and deformed body, it released a long, low sigh. My tears ceased and I continued to gently stroke its head while I spoke to it in soft, low tones. The dog remained quietly next to me as the light rain misted down on us. Still fearful of what was to become of me, I kept stroking and petting its scarred head. And that’s the way we were when they found us.

CHAPTER ONE

Wili Slatz couldn't breathe. He should have been crying but he couldn't do that either. Before his hair had been grabbed and his head pulled back he had been crying. He had been kneeling beside his Papa, looking in horror and disbelief at the blood-smeared, scalpless skull and lifeless eyes. As he knelt, feeling the horror of the moment, he could look past his Papa at her, also scalpless and bloody. The baby was not bloody but he knew that she was dead. She had screamed and cursed and kicked at the Indian. The Indian had grabbed Wina from her and thrown her to the ground. Wina hadn't moved since. She had to be dead. Wili cried for Wina but not for her. He cried for Wina and his Papa. Wili tried not to feel hate for her. He tried not to be glad she was dead but he couldn't help it. Wili was glad she was dead.
But now he just waited, feeling nothing. He knew that it was the Indian pulling on his hair. He knew that his hair would soon be gone and he could bleed to death and be with his Papa again. He knew that he would go to heaven with his Papa and Mama and Wina and not have to worry about her ever again. Wili knew that she had gone to hell.
Wili wished the Indian would hurry up. He wanted to be dead. He was ten years old and everyone he loved was dead and he was alone in the middle of the Kansas prairie. At least his Papa had said he thought they were still in Kansas. Maybe they were in Colorado Territory. The wagon master said he'd send soldiers back from Denver.
The Slatz family had been happy in New Bedford. Most German people went to Pennsylvania when they came to America but Dieter Slatz was not your regular penniless immigrant. Dieter's father was a very successful cooper in Munich. Slatz barrels were highly prized by the area breweries. Dieter learned the trade along with his four older brothers. Dieter loved his brothers but they were the problem. Slatz barrels were prized and business was good but Dieter, fifth in line for any management position, quickly accepted the offer to come to America and make barrels in New Bedford so that the salted fish and whale oil could be preserved and shipped. Business was good and Dieter and Ilse were happy. Yes, they missed home and family and it took a while to fit into the Portuguese community but they did make friends and when Wilhelm was born, they were extremely happy and content.
Dieter's business made him moderately wealthy. Ilse grew plump and jolly and his little Wili was his pride and joy. Wili was a husky, happy little boy. It was a happy home.
Ilse, too, took great pleasure from Wili. He was such an exuberant boy. He loved to splash in his bath water, and as he grew older, in the sea. But it was the baby and husky little toddler that made Ilse's heart sing. She would laugh with him as she bathed him and come away from his bath almost as wet as he was. She loved the unbounded joy that drove Wili to run naked and giggling through the house after his bath, Ilse, also giggling, running after him trying to catch him and dress him—such strong little legs what a cute, round, sturdy little bottom. It was a game they played and it was a game of love and joy. Running, even as a toddler, seemed to make Wili come completely alive. He was usually a happy little boy but when he ran, he was pure joy. Ilse's plumpness and Wili's natural agility had her plopping into a chair, breathing heavily and little Wili playfully coaxing his mama to try to catch him again. After a few tries, she gave up. Wili seemed to enjoy freedom from clothes and they were German, so what did it matter?
Wili's lithe, husky, not fat, but compact and firm, healthy little body made Ilse proud. She was a good mama. Her boy would be a strong handsome man like his papa. Ilse loved the healthy, robust glow of that body so she did not insist that he clothe it. Wili, as he grew, continued to prefer freedom from clothes and their European heritage had not been tainted by the Puritan sense of modesty. When he was home and it was warm enough, Wili spurned clothing. He even occasionally played outdoors as he played in his house. His Portuguese playmates were also of European heritage.
Ilse loved the four-year-old but somehow she felt she loved him more when he was a baby, held close to her, suckling from her, being completely dependent on her. But as she thought, she realized that she did not love the boy less than the baby. She loved them differently and she so wanted to have both of those loves. She wanted more babies. Many times after Wili was born, Ilse's body had told her that it contained a new life but each time, her body could not continue to hold that life. Ilse would cry and Wili, as a toddler would wonder. His happy, loving mama was sad and that frightened Wili.
Ilse, after a period of time would seem to revert to her former happiness but Wili knew that it was not the same. Dieter also hurt for Ilse's disappointment but also for his. He too wanted more children.
When Wili was old enough to understand, he would be told that there was going to be a baby but there was no baby. There was only his mama crying. Wili, in his childish mind thought that the babies just didn't want to come and they were making his mama sad. He was angry at those babies.
Ilse cried when he was four. She cried when he was five. She cried when he was six. Wili's mama didn't cry when he was seven. She died.
Wili was not sad. He was angry with his mama. He had been told that the babies would come from heaven. Now he was told that his mama had gone to heaven. In Wili's seven-year-old mind, his mama loved these babies more than she loved him. The babies wouldn't come to his mama so his mama went to them. He tried to remember the love and the fun times with his mama but all he could think of now was that she was gone. She left him for the babies. She had fooled him. She made him think that she loved him but all she really loved was the babies.
He told his papa that. Dieter thought the boy was too young for a discussion of biology but as the boy became more and more morose and irritable, Dieter realized he had to tell the boy.
Wili wanted to believe his papa. He wanted to believe that his mama wanted both him and the babies, but what his papa told him about babies being inside his mama just didn't make sense. Vaasco Sanchiz had a baby in his house and you could hear it crying all the time. If his mama had a baby in her, why couldn't Wili hear it crying? Anyway, how would a baby get in there? Wili knew that his mama got fat sometimes but Vaasco's mama was fat all the time so mamas just get fat. Wili couldn't think that fat mamas and babies had anything to do with each other. If his papa was right about his mama not wanting to go to the babies—if she really wanted to stay with him, Wili was sad. He didn't like sad. It hurt and he wanted to cry all the time. Wili decided that his papa was teasing him. Mad was easier than sad. Wili got back to being a kind of happy boy but he stayed mad at his mama. He didn't act mad. He just thought mad. It felt better than sad.
By the time Wili was eight, he wasn't mad so much. There was a kind of empty place in him that felt a little sad but by then, he was used to his mama not being there. When his papa was working, Vaasco's mama was Wili's mama too. She had too many other children to chase him and Vaasco around like his old mama did but she laughed a lot and she let Wili and Vaasco run naked after their bath. Since the mama was too busy to chase them, they chased each other. Wili's papa said that he was too old to run naked but Wili said that when he was at Vaasco's house, he was Portuguese like Vaasco and a lot of Portuguese boys ran naked, some until they were ten or twelve. They never went to the stores or to school or church naked but they played and even did their chores around the neighborhood naked. Most Portuguese mamas said that when it was warm, boys played too rough and that knees and elbows didn't cost anything to heal. Torn britches cost money.
Dieter didn't make an issue of it. By Wili's age, many boys in Germany, particular in the Slatz's social class, would have been embarrassed to be seen naked but this wasn't Germany and social class didn't mean much in the fishing community. A large portion of the New Bedford population was Portuguese fishermen so what seemed to be a Portuguese custom prevailed. Actually, the part of New Bedford in which they lived was just a transported Portuguese fishing village. In Portugal, little boys had run nude around their homes or to play in the sea for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. So, even in New Bedford, it didn't seem to offend anyone. Even the English seemed not to notice and if they did, it was a distant, condescending aloofness toward these 'savages'. Wili had just suffered a major loss and change of lifestyle. Forcing another change on him now seemed cruel to Dieter. Dieter knew that Wili would be more than willing to wear britches soon enough.
Dieter was a good papa so, even with Ilse gone, the Slatz home was a relatively happy one. As time went by, Wili's joyful demeanor bore only a slight tinge of sadness—a sadness that Wili felt deeply but did not allow to dominate him. He remained his happy, playful self. Only when he went to bed did he cry for the mama hug and kiss that were no longer his—and, of course, bath time would never be the same. Even the gleeful giggling and rowdiness of bathing with and chasing Vaasco was only a thin veneer over the sad remembering of what bath time had been with his mama.
Dieter loved his son but he was only thirty-four years old and he was lonely. There were very few Germans in New Bedford and, while he had friends among the Portuguese and English, he could not completely fit in. He spoke English reasonably well and his Portuguese got him by but on the occasional evenings he went out, he just did not feel at ease with his friends at a Portuguese café or an English pub. Dieter knew the protocol in der biergarten but not in a café or a pub. He would enjoy himself but not completely. He was always ill at ease. He didn't know the songs and he didn't know enough words to tell his German jokes in either English or Portuguese—and the English were condescending and the Portuguese drank too much.
But it was the ribald humor, the crude remarks about the barmaids, the general disrespect for women that made Dieter most uncomfortable. He was not a prude but he had loved Ilse deeply and he sincerely wished that he could find that love again. He had a longing for a good woman and he hated to hear them insulted, to hear them spoken of as things. At that point in Dieter's life, the memory of Ilse's love was almost sacred and so women were almost sacred. He needed the love of a woman and Wili needed a mother.
By the time Wili was eight, Dieter felt it appropriate to court but he could find no one to court. Although he was not a deeply religious man, his Lutheran upbringing made him loath to look among the Portuguese Catholics. He wondered at that. Most of his employees were Portuguese Catholics. They were fine men and Joana Sanchiz was a fine woman. He didn't recall ever hearing anti-Catholic rhetoric in his home but he had an almost instinctual sense that there was something wrong with being Catholic. For whatever reason, Dieter gave no thought to looking among the Portuguese.
Dieter's business had grown to the point that most of his time was required in management functions. He missed the hands-on feel of the oak, the smell of the wet wood as it was curved and fitted together. He missed the satisfaction of seeing a completed barrel, knowing that he had brought a project to completeness. Management seemed to have no start and no finish. He went home every night leaving much undone but knowing that he needed to be with Wili. He had good men. He had personally trained many men who were the equal of the best that Slatz Coopers had in Munich. He had good men who were responsible management assistants but the business was his and he was ultimately responsible. There was success. He was now shipping to breweries in Boston and Philadelphia. But there was always the pressure of not enough time—and the loneliness. His only real joy was Wili. Dieter thought Wili should be enough but he wasn't. Dieter needed the love of a woman.
It took only a week for Dieter to realize that Marvilla Tilford-Hay was not that woman. She had come to his office on the pretence of collecting money for charity. Even in that role, Marvilla was not a pleasant woman. She had the superior, condescending mien of the English. It was obvious to Dieter at that first meeting that Marvilla was not interested in charity. She was interested in him.
Dieter donated a small amount but that did not mean the end of Marvilla Tilford-Hay.
It was a week before Dieter realized what was happening. It seemed that everywhere he went outside his home or his work, Marvilla Tilford-Hay was somewhere nearby. She would show up at his door as he was leaving for work and ask to be driven somewhere. She would be at the grocer's when he shopped for food. She would be at the park when he took Wili to play. As time passed, she became bolder. She asked him to dinner. She asked if she could sleep in his spare room as her family was having guests and there was not enough sleeping room for everyone. Dieter tried not to be rude but he eventually had to forcefully tell her that he had no interest in her company.
But the Tilford-Hays were not finished with Dieter. Dieter was not a heavy drinker but he did enjoy an occasional beer. He found that since he could not get German beer, he preferred English ale to the Portuguese brews. One evening while he was nursing a pint in a nearby pub, he felt a pat on the back. He looked up into the face of Nigel Tilford-Hay, Sir Nigel as he demanded to be called. He claimed that he had inherited the family dukedom. He was only in America temporarily to see to some family real estate investments. He was in New Bedford investigating other investment possibilities.
He was a bit more pleasant than his daughter. He was very proper but did not project the haughty superiority of many of the English in New Bedford. Dieter rather liked him. Dieter bought Sir Nigel a pint and later Sir Nigel reciprocated.
Dieter's head ached and his limbs felt heavy. He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. He slowly became aware that he was in bed, naked with a naked Marvilla.
Dieter was confused. Why was he here? His last memory was chatting with Sir Nigel in the pub. His mind cleared slowly but finally the full understanding of the situation dawned on him. He sat bolt upright. He glanced at Marvilla. She seemed to be still sleeping. He got out of bed and in a stupor gathered his wits and his clothing. He dressed and quietly left the room and the house without, he thought, being seen.
Wili had passed the night at Vaasco's. He came home that morning to a different Papa. He greeted Wili with a hug but talked funny and mostly just sat and stared at the wall. When Wili talked to him he was answered by grunts or single words.
Over the next several days, he talked right and didn't stare but he wasn't the same Papa. It wasn't the same as when his Mama didn't get a baby or even when his Mama died. It was kind of like before his Mama didn't get a baby but worse. Wili could tell that his Papa was worried about something.
And Dieter was worried. What had happened? Dieter had heard of people being drugged and he was sure that is what happened. But why and by whom? He had asked the pub landlord and was told that Sir Nigel had said that Dieter had just drunk too much and that he would take care of him. But Dieter had had only three pints. He was German. Germans don't pass out after three pints. Dieter had drunk five pints over an evening and was hardly drunk. And even if he had passed out, why was he put into bed with Marvilla?
Who were the Tilford-Hays? They had only recently arrived in New Bedford—they said from London. But, in truth, there were no Tilford-Hays in New Bedford. There was the Scruggs family whose ancestor, Jack Scruggs, had been exiled to the Georgia Penal colony two hundred years before. There was no Sir Nigel Tilford-Hay nor Marvilla Tilford-Hay. There was Natty Scruggs and daughter, Matty. They were rather accomplished confidence people—who would in the twentieth century be called grifters.
Had Marvilla been that determined that she would enlist her father in her pursuit of Dieter? Well, no—actually it was the other way around. 'Sir Nigel' planned the villainy and 'Marvilla' was his shill. They had left a string of jilted 'husbands', empty bank accounts and questionable deaths along the Atlantic coast from Georgia to Massachusetts. Dieter's money and his unmarried situation seemed to make him the perfect mark. But he had proven to be a difficult mark. 'Marvilla's' wiles had been enough to lure their marks in the south, but this German was tough. He would not take the bait. They had never tried the drugging thing before and were not sure they wouldn't kill Dieter. But it had worked out and now they were ready to make their move.
And make that move they did. Six month after that unpropitious night, 'Sir Nigel', a very pregnant 'Marvilla' and the local vicar were sitting in the Slatz parlor cajoling Dieter to do the right thing.
Dieter had no memory of that inauspicious night. He suspected that he was being set up for a swindle but there was also the possibility that the child was his. He could not bring himself to allow his flesh and blood to be left, unprotected, in the hands of 'Sir Nigel' and 'Marvilla'. It was not a pleasant thought but he had to make this work.
It didn't. Marvilla was now not only pompous and condescending but she was demanding and peevish. After the baby was born she only became more difficult. It was obvious from the little girl's appearance that Dieter was not the father and Marvilla was sure Dieter would send her away. She became frantic. She could not get any information from Dieter about his finances. She made demands and threats but Dieter held firm. He told her nothing about his finances.
Nigel had gone to the bank with a forged letter granting Nigel permission to withdraw from Dieter's accounts. It didn't work. Dieter had advised the bank that money was to be given only to him personally. Nigel was annoyed but Marvilla was furious. Nigel, however, insisted that she stick it out.
It had been so easy in the past. Each of her new 'husbands' had quickly given her what she needed to know and Nigel had cleaned out bank accounts or pillaged secret hoards and they were off to the next town and the next victim. But now she ended up with a baby she didn't want and was forced to live with people she despised, particularly Wili. But Dieter could be their biggest score so she had no choice. She had to stay—as long as Dieter would let her. Actually she wondered why he didn't make her leave. Certainly Dieter had noticed Erwina's obvious Portuguese features. Marvilla hated having the baby to care for—but the process of making it—well, it almost made it worth it. She still often stole away to be with Leitao.
Dieter was conflicted—not about Marvilla. He knew that she was seeing Leitao but he was actually glad she was. It took her away from the house and away from Wili and Dieter certainly had no physical interest in her. It was the baby, Erwina, who created the dilemma. He knew that he was not the father but she was a baby, a tiny human being who should not be left in the care of such as Marvilla. And… Wili loved the baby so Dieter did not force Marvilla to leave. He knew that Marvilla did not want to be there and she did not want the baby. He was sure that eventually she would leave. It was unpleasant, but for the sake of Erwina he would bide his time.
Wili had no concept of genetics. The fact that Wina looked more like Vaasco that she did him did not puzzle Wili. Babies were babies as far as Wili was concerned. That's how babies looked. All of Vaasco's babies looked like that. Anyway, Wina was theirs and—oh—he loved her. Dieter saw that. He saw his happy, loving little boy again. Wili was sure that his Mama had sent Wina from heaven so he could be happy again.
Marvilla, too, saw the happiness in the boy. Actually, she detested the boy. It was bad enough to have to live there but that uncivilized little savage turned her stomach. He actually ran around the house naked. He belched and passed gas. He made a mess when he ate. When he did wear clothes, he left them lying around. He talked too much and he giggled. He brought that naked, heathen Portuguese into the house. So far as Marvilla was concerned, Wili had no redeeming quality.
Marvilla's disgust for Wili was part of her ploy. Her British properness was feigned. Her English childhood in Georgia had been more London slum than Windsor Castle. But if they were to carry out the scam, she needed to act—and act she did. She railed at Wili's lack of modesty. She bought him stiff, British schoolboy clothing and made him sit doing nothing for hours to teach him that children should be seen but not heard, to teach him proper English decorum. She would not allow him to play with Vaasco. She would, in fact, not let him play at all because a proper English gentleman did not waste time on frivolity. She even, at times, if Dieter was not there, unleashed her ire with blows—always being careful not to strike the boy in the head or face. Everyone knew that caning was necessary to create a proper English gentleman. And, finally, because she saw that the boy took joy from Wina, she refused to allow the boy to go near the baby. Wili became sullen, combative and withdrawn.
Dieter tried to explain why he was tolerating the situation but Wili was even angry with his Papa. Letting her in their house had changed everything. The only good thing was Wina and now even that had been taken from him. Why did his Papa let her treat him as she did. Had Dieter known the extent of Marvilla's evil he would not have but he did not consider even Marvilla capable of such cruelty.
It was when Wili showed his Papa his bruises that Dieter realized something had to change. He talked to the Magistrate about keeping Wina and forcing Marvilla to leave. He was told that the whole town knew that he was not the father of the child so legally he had no claim on her. As far as the neglectful mother thing, it would just be his word against hers.
Dieter suggested to Marvilla that she leave. She did not love Wina and he would not have her cruelty to Wili. Marvilla wanted to leave. She begged Sir Nigel but this had gotten to be a personal thing with Nigel. He had been successful with all his previous marks and he would win this one—no matter how long it took. Marvilla was to stay!
Joana Sanchiz, Vaasco's mama, had an eighteen-year-old daughter. Dieter would pay the girl to help her mama care for Wina and Wili when he was not at home. He told Marvilla that he did not care where she was but she was not to go near those children unless he was with her. Marvilla again begged Nigel to give up on Dieter. He was just too much trouble. Even if he was the richest of all those they had scammed, all his money would not be enough to reward her for having to change shitty diapers and putting up with cocky, feisty little German and Portuguese imps.
But, in Nigel's mind, this was now a war. He was obsessed with this troublesome German. He hated Germans. Germans had diluted the royal English blood and, although he knew nothing of history, he was sure that it was that polluting German blood that had caused whichever king it was to create the Georgia Penal Colony. If it wasn't for the Germans, his ancestor, Jack, would never have been exiled. Nigel really believed that if his family were still in England, he would, indeed, be a duke. He was not about to surrender or even retreat. He would get this German pig. Marvilla was instructed to do as she was told or what had happened to their mark in Charlestown could happen to her. Marvilla had not known for sure until that moment that Nigel had murdered Robert Nelson, a small cotton gin owner and her fourth 'husband'.
Six weeks after Dieter realized that Marvilla would not leave, Horst Slatz, Dieter's nephew, the son of his oldest brother, arrived in New Bedford. Horst would manage Dieter's New Bedford business. Dieter was going to Denver where rumors had it that a German named Coors planned to expand his Denver Bottling Company and establish a brewery in nearby Golden, Colorado Territory. If that were true, there would be a good business opportunity in Colorado Territory. If not, Dieter was sure that, once away from Nigel's influence, Marvilla would leave. To assure that Nigel would not follow them, Dieter had 'loaned' Nigel one thousand dollars with the caveat that Nigel sign a note promising to repay in one month. Dieter had no intention of recovering his money. He knew the money would not be repaid and he could then have Nigel held in debtor's prison at least long enough for Dieter and his family to disappear.
Marvilla did not leave but she made the trip hell. It had been Dieter's intent to take the train the entire way but Marvilla had made herself so obnoxious and created such disturbance and ire among her fellow travelers that Dieter could no longer purchase railroad passage. Conductors considered putting her off at some whistle stop in Illinois but Dieter prevailed upon them to wait until St. Louis.
By 1870, wagon trains were almost nonexistent but some westward emigrants found it more economical to haul their possessions via wagon rather than to pay railroad freight fees. Most had more time than money. Dieter was able to sign on with one of the last wagon trains ever to leave St. Louis.
Marvilla refused to stay in St. Louis or to accept Dieter's offer to pay her fare back to New Bedford. She was afraid of Nigel's threat. She did not know of the wire sent from Charleston to surrounding jurisdictions describing a Sir Thomas Garton who was wanted for murder in South Carolina. The description was an exact match of the features of Sir Nigel Tilford-Hay. Nigel had gone from debtor's prison in New Bedford to a jail cell in Charleston two weeks after Marvilla had left. Had she gone back, she too would have been arrested.
Marvilla's behavior with the wagon train worsened. Her ranting and cursing evoked the image of a medieval London slum crone. She stole. She picked fights. She terrorized little children who wandered too near her. She appeared to be insane. She was not. She was evil.
Finally, just west of Goodland in Kansas territory, the wagon master had had enough. Dieter was told to pull his wagon out of line. He had to leave the train there. Dieter argued to be allowed to stay on until Denver or at least be guided back to Goodland. There would, however, be no concession. She had caused too much trouble and caused too much delay. He had the other members of the train to think of. They could go back to Goodland or proceed to Denver on their own. The trail was well marked. They would be safe. The local Indians were peaceful and there was no danger from outlaws or wildlife.
Dieter acquiesced, agreeing to wait a day and then proceed on to Denver. Goodland was nothing more than a saloon and three poorly built cabins. There were some prosperous looking ranches nearby and the county sheriff lived near Goodland but it did not give Dieter the feeling that Goodland was a place of sanctuary. Dieter felt some comfort in the fact that the wagon master promised he would send soldiers back from Denver to meet them. It was, in a way, an empty promise. They would still be on their own for at least several days. Dieter was an urban child—a man of the city. He was not a westerner. He had depended on the constabulary for protection all his life. He was not sure he could protect himself, much less his 'family' should the need arise. It was with reservations and apprehension, that Dieter watched the wagon train disappear over the western horizon.
The wagon master was correct about the local Indians. They were a small band of about seventy Southern Arapahos, whose chief had impressed the local military commander with his acceptance of reality. The buffalo was gone and Indian tools of war were no match for the white man's technology. Actually, the entire clan showed an eagerness to learn and adapt to the customs of white culture.
They were to have been removed with the rest of the Southern Arapahos to the Cheyenne/Arapaho reservation near Darlington Agency in Indian Territory. But with the reluctant acquiescence of the Bureau of Indian affairs, Colonel John Reid secured permission for them to stay on several thousand acres of government land on the Kansas-Colorado border. They had built cabins and were trying to learn farming techniques. They were eager but not really successful. The climate was too dry and the soil too poor to do the kind of farming Colonel Reid was trying to teach them—the type of farming he had learned as a boy in the fertile lands of south-central Pennsylvania. In time both Colonel Reid and the Indians would switch to cattle ranching and/or adapt their farming to the environment with primitive irrigation and appropriate crop selection for that environment and the little community would dissolve as these progressive people slowly merged themselves into mainstream culture. But now, in the early 1870s, life was difficult.
Yes, the wagon master was correct about the local Indians. He was also mostly correct about the wild animals. With the buffalo and the deer mostly gone, predatory cats and wolves tended to stay in the mountains. There was always the chance, of course, of an isolated incident but it was slight. Outlaws were perhaps more a problem but they tended to stay away from wagon trains even now when the trains were smaller; there were fewer men to fight off but they were also poorer travelers with much less possible loot of value.
But, the wagon master did not know about Norman Munson. Actually, no one on the Kansas/Colorado border knew about Norman Munson. Norman was born in Iowa in 1830. His mother came from a family of drifters, very poor people who lived wherever they happened to be. They had a horse or mule and a wagon and slept under the stars. They lived on day work, scavenging, and sometimes petty theft. They tended to drift south in colder weather.
When Bertha Munson was sixteen she was kidnapped by an Iowa Indian. Actually, it was a kind of kidnap/runaway. People like Bertha were disdained and shunned. Bertha knew what the Indian wanted. She liked the attention she was being paid. She liked the food she was being given and although the act was not a new experience for her, copulating with an Indian added to the thrill.
In her society, bodily sensations were the only real pleasures and their exploration was sanctioned and even encouraged from early childhood. She had done it since middle childhood but there was a wildness about this. This was a savage ravaging her and it was ferocious and frenzied and it did things to her body and mind she didn't understand but of which she couldn't get enough. It was a kind of freedom from the usual, a breaking away from the mundane misery of her life. It was new and different and wonderful and she might even get a baby from it—something she could finally call her very own.
When there was a chill in the September air, her family just left. They didn't look for Bertha. They were, in fact, relieved: one less mouth to feed and one less adolescent to deal with. She stayed with the Indians. Her life was more stationary but otherwise not much different. She was not a member of the tribe. She was, in fact, a sort of slave. She did the work expected of her and the sex but it had become as mundane as that of her childhood. But she was fed and in a manner of speaking, accepted and when Norman was born, happy as much as she understood happiness.
Bertha and Norman lived with that Iowa band until soldiers arrived to force the Indians onto a reservation in Indian Territory. When they found a white woman living with the band, they would not allow her to go with them to the reservation. For ten years Norman had been the pariah of the Indian children and the recipient of many adult curses and kicks. But among the Indians he was cowed. It was not safe to be angry or fight back. Outwardly he was docile but fury was simmering in his gut.
Bertha and Norman were taken to Sioux City. The only work she could find was prostitution. She really didn't mind. At least she got paid for it now and for the first time in her life she had money. She did not, however, have any idea how to use her money or how to be a proper mother.
Norman lived on the dirt streets and was as much a pariah to the white population as he had been to the Indians. He didn't fit anywhere. Everyone looked down on him and it was now safe to be angry and fight back. Frequently for the next five years, Norman was jailed with adults, drunks and outlaws. He learned to be tough and that fury that had simmered now boiled into a hate that was barbarian and lustful of retribution.
At fifteen, Norman first fulfilled that lust by murdering a storekeeper who didn't want any half-breeds in his establishment. The too-compassionate judge felt that a fifteen year old—even a half-breed should not be hung. Norman spent the next twenty years in prison.
Norman granted his own parole. The "papers" were signed in the blood of two prison guards. His years in Sioux City and in prison had made his hate for whites deeper than the hate he had for Indians so he decided to live as an Indian—not with the Indians; he hated them also—but as an Indian. He murdered the first Indian anywhere his size he came across, stole his buckskins and feather and headed west.
Norman Munson "died" that day. He was not going to carry a white man name. Neither was he going to carry an Indian name. As far as he was concerned, he had no name. As the years passed and he moved through the west, pillaging and murdering, others referred to him by that ubiquitous pejorative, The Breed.
The wagon master had heard of The Breed but the last he'd heard, The Breed was down in Indian Territory. When he left Dieter, The Breed did not even enter his mind. He should have.
The Slatzes passed the first night peacefully enough. Wili had found enough water in the nearby stream to amuse himself and had gone to bed in the wagon to the ranting of Marvilla at his nakedness and to sleep to her ranting at Dieter for having brought her to this god-awful place. When Wili woke, Marvilla was still ranting and Dieter was calmly going about setting a fire. Wili went into the tall grass to satisfy the usual bodily demands. He was about to return when he heard the screaming. It was not the usual Marvilla rant so he stood and watched in horror as Marvilla kicked at and cursed the Indian. He saw the Indian snatch Wina from Marvillia's arms and throw the baby to the ground. He saw the Indian stab at Marvilla and bend over her to take her scalp. He saw his Papa run to Wina. That seemed to be the first the Indian had noticed Dieter. Had Dieter been as concerned about himself as he was for Wina, he might have lived. Wili watched as the Indian hacked away at Dieter's scalp and then went and finished with Marvilla.
Wili had no idea how long he had stood in his trance of horror but when he could again think, the Indian was gone. He ran to his Papa's side and knelt beseeching his Papa not to die. But Wili knew he was dead. They were all dead so it was with a kind of relief that he felt his hair grabbed. He, too, would soon be dead.
But Wili did not feel the sting of the knife. He heard a devilish scream and realized that his hair was no longer being held. He turned to see the Indian appear to be looking at him, his eyes glassy and a knife in his throat. The Indian remained upright for a moment and then fell on his side. Immediately another Indian was hacking at the dead Indian's scalp.
Shock can do funny things. Wili was in a kind of eerie calm. He was thinking that it was OK. If the first Indian didn't kill him, this one would. He was supposed to be dead but he could wait. As he watched serenely, it occurred to him that this Indian was a boy, not much older than he. It even occurred to Wili that this Indian wasn't as good at scalping as the first Indian.
The young Indian tucked the hair of the scalp under the thong supporting his breechcloth. He wiped the blood off the blade on the buckskin shirt of The Breed and walked toward Wili.
"You was dumb as hell comin' here when The Breed was in your wagon stealin' stuff. He near 'bout got your scalp too."
So, Indians talked the same way the English did in New Bedford. Wili looked at the knife, wondered briefly how bad it would hurt but mostly wished the Indian would hurry up.
"Name's Eagle Shadow. Used to be Obadiah Dugood when I lived with Ma and Pa Dugood. Ain't no more."
The boy looked at Wili as if he were expecting a response. He got none. "Reckon you'll be fine. Your talk will come back. Mine done it after it quit on me when I was thinkin' them Indians was gonna kill me.
"You're thinkin' I'm gonna kill you, ain't you? I ain't, so you might as well get to talkin'. We best be gettin' back to the village. Tall Man be real proud I got me The Breed. Breed killed Thunder Eagle and Tall Man ain't got no more sons. Thunder Eagle all he had. Weren't but fifteen summers and he done me real good. That's the cause I went lookin'. Took Tall Man's best horse. He be lookin' for me. Beat me good when he find me don't I get a chance to show him The Breed's scalp first."
Eagle Shadow/Obadiah went to climb onto his horse but Wili stood for a moment and then climbed into the wagon. He came out with a shovel. He walked to his Papa and tried to dig. The ground was rock hard.
"What you doin'?"
Wili continued to pound the shovel into the ground. It barely left a mark. Wili seemed not to notice. Even in his shocked, almost trancelike condition, he knew you didn't just let dead people lie. He somehow knew it was a sign of respect to bury dead people and he intended to give his Papa and Wina that respect.
Eagle Shadow realized what Wili was trying to do and took the shovel from the boy. The larger boy had no better success. When Eagle Shadow stopped trying, Wili again hacked away at the ground. He was not aware that he was making no progress. He was simply driven to give his Papa and Wina respect.
If Wili heard the hoofbeats, he gave no indication. He just kept pounding on the ground with the shovel. Eagle Shadow, however, became alarmed. He went to his horse and pulled the scalp from his thong. His demeanor was anxious and pleading. He held out the scalp as if it were a charm that would prevent the beating he feared. It did.
Tall Man didn't really care about the boy. He cared about his horse. His son, Thunder Eagle, had wanted the boy for a slave but he did not treat him as a slave. He treated him as a friend. Tall Man didn't understand that. One did not treat captives as friends. But he had loved his son and perhaps it was another of the ways of the whites he had learned from the soldiers the Colonel sent to teach the children. Since Eagle Shadow was his son's friend, Tall Man allowed the boy to stay after Thunder Eagle's death. The boy was fed and given a place to sleep but otherwise mostly ignored. It was rigid custom that one did not interfere with another's slave. Eagle Shadow was now no one's slave but he had belonged to the chief's son and the chief was ignoring him so everyone ignored him.
Thunder Eagle had learned many words of the white man. The white man's ways were the ways of the future. Tall Man knew that if his people were to survive; they must learn the ways of the white man. He had been proud of his only son. He would have made a great chief in this new world of the whites. Even before Thunder Eagle had learned the words of the white man, Tall Man knew that he would be great. The scream of the Eagle and the clap of thunder at the moment of the boy's birth was the omen. Thunder Eagle would have been a great chief but the Breed had found him alone and had killed him. He hadn't even taken his scalp, the deepest of insults. It said that the Breed did not think Thunder Eagle was a worthy enemy. The death of his son tore at Tall man but the insult enraged him.
Tall Man went straight to his horse. Eagle Shadow saw the anger in the tall Indian's eyes and held the scalp higher. Tall Man recognized the scalp. Only one man had the coarse hair of the Indian but the red color of the whites. The Breed was dead. Even after Thunder Eagle's death, the boy had been his shadow; Eagle Shadow had avenged his son. In that moment, Eagle Shadow went from an annoying anomaly to a great warrior in Tall Man's mind.
Tall Man jumped from his mount and grabbed the scalp from Eagle Shadow. He threw it on the ground and danced and stomped on it. He was joined by the three braves who had accompanied him. They danced and yelled and stomped until the scalp was in tatters.
They urinated on it. Finally one of the braves defecated on it. That was the ultimate contempt. Only then could Tall Man feel his son had been fully avenged. The Breed was not only dead, but his scalp—that symbol that he had ever lived—had been desecrated and destroyed. Tall Man stood silent for a moment and then began the slow, mournful dance and wail of the dead.
Tall Man's death dance and mourning must have lasted for an hour. During all that time, Wili had not stopped hacking at the ground. He was oblivious of the drama around him. He hacked at the ground. He hacked and hacked and hacked.
Wili gave no indication that he realized that the shovel had been taken from him and he had been set on the horse behind Eagle Shadow. He seemed not to see the braves hitching up the Slatz's four horses each of which had been tethered to a separate wheel of the wagon. He seemed not to notice that his Papa and Wina had been wrapped in blankets taken from the wagon and had been placed inside the wagon. But when the braves went to wrap Marvilla, Wili shrieked and jumped from the horse, yelling, "NO! NO! NO! NEIN! NEIN! NEIN! NAO! NAO! NAO!" Fully aware of what he was doing or not, Wili covered every language he knew and made it quite clear that Marvilla's body was not to be put in the wagon. He pulled on Marvilla's leg, obviously trying to pull her toward the Breed. The Indians understood. They could see by this traumatized boy's wrath and his actions that, to him, this woman was as evil as the Breed.
When he was satisfied that Marvilla's body would be left with the Breed's, Wili walked back to Eagle Shadow's horse. Tall Man lifted him on. Wili wrapped his arms around Eagle Shadow and squeezed tight. He had never been on a horse before.
"You get your talk back yet?"
Wili did not respond. "You gonna talk soon, anyway. Might as well start now."
Eagle Shadow was told in the language of the Arapaho to leave the boy alone. It had taken Eagle Shadow a week to talk when Thunder Eagle had first brought him to camp. "The boy's frightened. Leave him alone."
It took an hour for that strange, sad funeral procession to reach the village. Wagons were not unknown in the village but this was a train wagon. There was some fear among the old women that Tall Man had raided a train and that the soldiers would come. The old women remembered the fighting. Many had lost their braves when the soldiers came.
Curiosity pulled most of the villagers toward the wagon. Only a group of boys about Wili's age were so engrossed in their game of Hoop and Lance that they did not come. The boys did not come but they were what Wili saw. He looked at Eagle Shadow and then at the boys. Eagle Shadow and the Breed were Indians but their skin was like Wili's. These boys had skin like Vaasco. Not exactly like Vaasco. They were a little darker. Wili looked at Tall Man and for the first time really saw him. His skin was the same as the boys'. At least what he could see was like the boys. Tall Man was dressed in buckskin breeches. The braves wore breechcloths. The boys had nothing on.
Wili looked at the boys but he did not see Indians. He saw happiness. He saw freedom. He saw his Portuguese friends in New Bedford. He saw himself. He saw them all running and laughing. And… then he saw his Mama chasing him. He saw a happy Wili with no Marvilla and he saw happy, carefree boys unfettered by clothing, trauma or abuse.
He still said nothing but he jumped from the horse. He pulled off his clothes—feeling as each item went as if he were slowly being freed from some awful bondage. When all his clothes were gone, he ran. He ran from his Mama's death. He ran from his Papa's death. He ran from Wina's death. He ran from Marvilla. He ran and he ran. Soon he was not running from things but to things. He ran to his toddlerhood. He ran to his bathtub. He ran laughing to the happiness of having his Mama chasing him. He ran after Vaasco and Vaasco ran after him. He ran into the sea and splashed his Mama and Papa. He became aware that the boys were now running with him and he was back in New Bedford, running with his friends. He ran to something out there that he wanted. He didn't know what it was. It was different than anything he had known but it was good. Something was pulling him from an old world into a new one. Wili ran and he ran and he ran. He ran until he collapsed in exhaustion, and then he slept

Pharaoh’s Curse Pt. 01

******
Andrew McCain stood in the airport with his father and his new wife who were taking a very long summer honeymoon. They had been dating for the past three years of his eighteen-year-old life. Not that he didn't like the woman that his father had married, Wilma was quite the lovely lady. She brought happiness to his father. Andrew couldn't ask for more. After his own mother left them for some high fancy museum job eight years ago he had hated her for it as he always saw the sadness in his father's eyes. So, when Wilma came along he was the first one to congratulate his father on finding the woman that brought joy back into his life; and in time Wilma started to feel like a mother to him. So, when they told him that they were going to take a world cruse he was elated for them. Not so much when his father told him he would have to stay with his mother while they were gone. Not that his father didn't trust him to be on his own for a weekend, which had happen a number of times. His father wasn't about to leave his teenage son in a house all alone for two and a half months.
"Come on Dad, I don't want to go to Egypt," Andrew groaned as the overhead lights played along his dark red hair that he had inherited from his mother.
"It'll be over before you know it," Wilma said, flashing him that motherly smile, which she had honed to perfection. Her grey eyes peered at him through her frameless glasses, her light brown hair bounced softly on her shoulders. Andrew knew; while yes, she did wear the minimal amount of makeup, Wilma never needed too. She was just that beautiful. He wouldn't openly admit it to anyone, but he did masturbate to her on a semi-regular basis as her perky right 36B breast pressed against his father's left arm. Her slender arms rested in the nook of his elbow, the light glinting off the ten-carat diamond of her engagement ring. Andrew knew being a kindergarten teacher she had married up due to his father running one of the top advertisement firms in New York. Not that Andrew held that against her. He was glad they had found each other.
He just didn't want to spend his summer with his mother; a mother, he might add, he hadn't spoken to for eight long years. After he failed to respond to the letters she would write during the first year her letters stopped altogether. Which he was glad for, he didn't have a thing to say to her. His mother cared more about three-thousand-year-old bones than she did about her own son, how she nearly destroyed his father.
"Andrew," Julián said, in a stern fatherly voice as he placed his strong meaty hand on Andrew's right shoulder. "I understand your feelings regarding your... mother," he said, with the hint of bitterness in his voice. His light green eyes softening as the wrinkles formed by laughs and mirth, not by sadness, lined the sides of his eyes as he stared at his son. His trim salt and pepper beard sat close to his face. His strong jaw held aloof his high cheekbones as he lightly squeezed his shoulder. "I know you can take care of yourself, but I'm not leaving my million-dollar penthouse condo in your care for two months," Julián said, his lips curved into a warm smile. Knowing they'd had this talk serval times that week.
"But does it have to be her?!" Andrew pleaded with his father. "Why can't I stay with Aunt Candis and Uncle Peter?"
"You know why," Julián said, patting his son's shoulder. "They have enough on their hands than to deal with you under foot as well," he said, referring to their new twins they had just given birth to thanks to the advancements in science.
"That's our flight," Wilma said, lightly patting her husband's bicep. "Now Andy," only Wilma called him that, "you behave yourself during the flight, and when you get back we'll all go out to celebrate our reunion," she said, slyly winking at him as she moved past him as they left him at his gate.
His cheeks heated recounting the time when she abruptly walked into his room when he was going to town on himself, and to his horror she had heard him moan out her name. So, every so often she would tease him with scantily clad photos of herself in various displays of erotism.
"Andy, I know this will be hard on you." Wilma's text vibrated his phone in his pocket as he waited for his flight to board. Andrew swallowed hard as he stared at the two naked photos of his new step-mother. He could feel his cock growing as he zoomed in on her bare 36B breasts then to that bright pink cunt she held open for the camera. "I know these aren't much, but I hope they will take your mind off of things while you're there. Worry not..." A devious little devil emoji appeared on his screen. "You're sweet adoring mother wouldn't leave you with two, oh no, you shall see much more over the months we are away from one another. Your father is returning, we'll see you soon." Andrew felt his face heat all over again as she sent another one of her blowing him a kiss with those sweet supple lips of hers.
As the speakers overhead blared announcing the boarding of his flight. With a reluctant sigh, Andrew lifted himself out of his seat. Pulling out his plane ticket from his back pocket and handing it to the man at the podium. At least he knew he wouldn't be flying coach; Andrew could at least take comfort in that.
******
"Fuck it's hot," Andrew groaned in annoyance as he felt the heat burning through the airport's windows. Even with the air-cooled interior the late Egyptian summer sun was winning against the machines. "I bet they didn't think of this in Terminator, the machines would melt!" he muttered to himself as he walked through the busy airport in Cairo. Once he retrieved his bags, he sucked up his courage to go face the woman that had left him behind... at least that was what he thought. "Really?!" Andrew loudly groaned as he saw a woman, not his mother, holding a sign with his full name on it.
"You look so much like what your mother told me," her slight English accent seemed odd due to her Egyptian decent.
"Where is she?" Andrew asked, his temper rising. He was sure the twenty something woman was pleasant, but his father had told him his mother had assured him that she would be here.
"She's on a dig, she sent me in her place to fetch you," the woman said, wondering why he sounded angry. "Come, we have a long drive ahead of us."
"Wait... I'm not staying in the city?" Andrew asked, perplexed.
"No, Professor Sanders is in charge of the dig, it would be irresponsible of her to leave the site," she said, as the desert wind lifted her ebony hair off her shoulders. "Especially since we found something big," she said, ominously. Not that Andrew cared, he already missed his air-conditioned high-rise bedroom.
"Just great, just what I wanted to do with my summer," Andrew sighed as he tossed his bags into the back of the range rover.
Andrew had stared uninterestedly out on the sand dunes as they sped down the desert highway. When the woman beside him learned that he wasn't in the mood to talk she had quickly turned on the radio. Slyly pulling out his phone, gazing at the nude photo of Wilma. He still couldn't believe she actually sent that to him. Sending his father a quick text telling him that he had landed and on his way to meet his... mother. How he hated typing that word.
"Glad you're safe son. I know it's hard, but I know you can get through this." His father sent back along with a selfie of him and Wilma at the bow of the ship as the glaciers of Alaska appeared in the background. His fingers trailed down his father's smiling face. Knowing it was going to be two long months before he could see it again in person.
"We'll be at the dig site soon." Andrew's eyes glanced to his left as she spoke over the sound of the radio. He honestly couldn't see anything other than mounds and mounds of sand that stretched as far as the eye could see.
"How can you tell?" Andrew asked, after they been on the road for the past four hours.
"GPS," she said, smiling at him pointing at the device.
As they passed what Andrew thought were nothing more than more sand dunes like he had been staring aimlessly at for the past four hours until the top of the buried temple came into view. The thirty-foot-tall statue of Bast stood in the center of the complex. What he found surprising was the statue looked like it was painted yesterday. Which he knew was impossible, given that the religion died out around 300 to 500 AD. His history books were never that clear on the subject, nor did he take to it given that it reminded him of his mother and all those books that cluttered the house before she ran off. Groaning as he opened the door, wishing he could just live inside the interior of the Range Rover for the next two months. Already feeling his sweat beading along his brow as he grabbed his bags.
The canvas tent flaps fluttered in the dessert wind. A neat row of ten greeted him as he walked towards them. Seeing a red cross above on of the tents' openings due to the dig site being four hours away from any form of civilized life. Chatter filled the air as he followed after the woman that drove him there.
"Professor Sanders!" The woman called out leaving Andrew behind as a late twenties, olive tone skinned man stepped out of the larger of the ten tents. Andrew ignored them as the woman wrapped her arms around his neck. Waving him in without losing a beat as she and whomever the guy was kissed like they haven't seen each other in years.
And so, as Andrew stood in the entrance to the tent. After eight long years he saw the first image of his mother. Her long, dark red, thick hair was held up by a hair band that strained under the pressure. Her army green shirt sat lightly on her chest, letting everyone know she wasn't wearing a bra underneath given how the cotton detailed the shape of her breasts and her nipples. Her once alabaster skin now held a healthy tan due to her years beneath the blazing sun. Her tan cargo shorts fell a few inches above her knees. Her muscular calves flexed as she shifted her feet, another hard-earned perk due to her years traversing tombs, temples, and more importantly giant sand dunes.
"Hello Andrew," his mother said, without bothering to look at him as she studied the artifacts they had just unearthed.
"Hello Alexandria," Andrew said, with cold indifference. Why his grandparents named her that he had no clue, nor did he have one for the guy who conquered the known world at the time couldn't be better at -- naming things! Her sky-blue eyes flickered over to him at the sound of his bags hitting the tent floor.
"I told your father that I wouldn't be able to look after you until next month, yet he sends you here anyway," Alexandria sighed shaking her head.
"Not that I need looking after, I am eighteen. I've taken care of myself so far," Andrew said, coldly.
"I don't have time to have this discussion with you..."
"No, of course not, you never did when dead people were involved. Shall I go bury myself and get mummified, would you then have time for your own son," Andrew said, his anger rising as he crossed his arms.
"No, even then you wouldn't be that interesting," Alexandria (or as she liked to be called Alex), said as she studied the piece of shattered pottery, returning his own coldness back to him. "Shouldn't you people be doing something?" Alex scolded her undergraduates as they just stood there listening in stunned shock.
"Just tell me where I can sleep and an outlet and we can go on ignoring each other like we've done for the past eight years," Andrew huffed.
"Where do you think we are? Do you see any power lines?" Alex asked, arching an eyebrow at her son.
"You have generators, right?"
"Only used when they are needed, not to charge your little toys," Alex said, returning to her cataloging the relics. "If you need to charge it use the one in the Rover, but it's going have to last a few days. I can't have you wasting gas just so you can chat with your little Facebook people," she said, not hiding her smirk at the horrified look on her son's face. "As for where you'll sleep..." She lowered her yellow pad, sighing in her mind knowing it's going to be two long months. An equally three long weeks since she hadn't been with anyone for the last eight years. Her career came first, it was the reason she lost her family in the first place. "You'll have to bunk with me," Alex said, turning to look at her son seeing the equally horrified look on his face at the thought of it. "Or you can sleep in the sand with the scorpions and camel spiders, your choice," she said, shrugging her shoulders. Her thin lips curved into a smile as she heard her son's sigh. "I'll take that as you choose not to sleep with the scorpions and the camel spiders," Alex said, setting down her pad and pen. "Like I said, I told your father as such given this is a working dig. Not some vacation spot for him to send his son to. The limited space we have has been allotted to those that want to be here. Who want to make history."
"Is that so," Andrew said, narrowing his eyes. "So, dried up bodies, powdered organs in canopic jars, rotten linen wraps were worth everything?"
"I don't expect you to understand," Alex sighed. She had tried to get her son to understand why she left, but he never wrote her back. He probably never read her letters in the first place. Not that she could blame him, her son was entitled to be angry with her. She did after all choose dead people over her own living son.
"Whatever just show me the way already," Andrew said, growing tired of the conversation already.
"I can show him to your tent Professor Sanders." Andrew turned to look at the unknown speaker only to see that same guy who nearly sucked the face off the woman that drove him there.
"Thank you Abasi, make sure he doesn't touch anything," Alex said, returning to her work. She had to get what was on the table cataloged before nightfall. There was much, much more work to do before the site was shut down. The Egyptian government only gave them a month to do a preliminary study of the site to see if it was worth it to fund a more thorough one after the winter. That month started a week ago once they had finally got all the sand carted out. She just couldn't understand why they would build such a grand complex temple only to bury it once it had been completed. Had a sand storm buried it? Did they purposely do it, to hide it... Shaking her head at the thought. "No, that can't be right," Alex muttered to herself.
"Of course, Professor," Abasi said, bowing his head slightly. "Follow me," he said, while shyly checking Alex out. "So, you're the Professor's son..."
"Listen, can we not talk about that?" Andrew asked, as one of his bags rested against his back while the other hung from his left hand.
"Sure, whatever you want," Abasi nodded. Glad he didn't have to play nice with a spoiled little rich kid, or that's what he took Andrew as. Little did he know what Andrew did to comfort his father when his mother shattered his heart, of all the little things only he could do being a ten-year-old child. Just so he could see his father smile at least once a day. So, he wouldn't think about how his mother left their lives in shambles. "Obviously, you can tell where the med tent is. If you have to go... you know," Abasi said, peering over his shoulder. "They're behind the water truck," he said, pointing in the general direction. "Just follow the smell. Shouldn't be hard to miss. That's the mess hall, and this," Abasi said, stopping in front of the second to largest tent there. "Is the Professor's tent," he said holding the flap to the side. The front of the tent was filled with reference books: a folding desk littered with small pieces of a statue, a leather-bound journal, a small laptop, and his eyes narrowed at the picture that sat on the desk. It was of when he had just turned ten, a few months before his mother fled from their home. Taken in central park, his mother holding him close as her chin rested on his right shoulder her arms around his waist hugging him close as his father took the picture. It was the last time he had happy thoughts about the park and that warm spring afternoon. "Just past the insect netting is her sleeping quarters," Abasi said. Wondering how he was going to worm his way into her bed now. "I'll leave you to it," he said, sharing a slight nod with Andrew.
Andrew's bags thumped on the tent floor as he dropped them beside the wall. Arching an eyebrow at the hammock and the ingenious fan attachment that hung over it. Yawning as the jet lag was catching up with him. Pulling out his phone, texting his father that due to the lack of power, he'll have to text him every few days to save his phone's battery.
"Okay son. I'll text to you in a few days." Julián texted back.
"Miss you Dad," Andrew texted back, smiling warmly at his phone when the words 'I love you too' appeared on his screen before he powered off his phone. Tucking it into the pocket of his bag so sand wouldn't creep into the case. Pulling his sweat soaked shirt off, tossing it onto the top of his bag. Kicking off his tennis shoes and stuffing his soaks into them. Hoping the netting would keep all those nasty scorpions and camel spiders out. Sighing as he laid on the cool sheets that covered the hammock as he gently swung side to side. Before he knew it Andrew was drifting off to sleep.
He didn't know how long he slept for, the sound of water dripping into a pail gradually brought him to the surface of his waking mind. As he slowly opened his eyes, his breath was caught in his chest. There his mother stood in the weak light of the LED lantern the large yellow sponge ran along her arm. A single droplet of water hung on her light pink nipple as she ran the sponge along the top of her chest. He didn't know why he kept on looking as his mother tilted her head back, running the sponge down the valley of her 32C breasts. Down her flat stomach and in-between her legs. Biting his lower lip as his mother bent over, the stubble of her formerly shaven mound could be seen as his eyes were glued to it. Andrew had to admit for a woman in her early forties her cunt almost looked virginal in all its neat, tight packaging. Quickly shutting his eyes, he could almost feel his mother's eyes on him as he heard her movements still. He dared not look fearing that she would know he had spied on her bathing. Andrew felt something light and soft lowering on his body. The shifting of the hammock nearly made him clutch to the side of it. Then he felt something very odd and very, very familiar. The brushing of the back of her fingers along his cheek sent him back to his childhood when he would climb into bed with his mother. The way she would do that very thing, then he felt her lips on his forehead which would always end the gesture before he would fall asleep.
"I am sorry, Andrew. I know how angry you are with me. But I had to follow my dream. I hope you can come to understand that someday," Alex whispered. Andrew totally wasn't expecting his mother to say that, nor was he expecting to hear her soft sobs as she rolled to her right. God. He felt like an ass.
"But couldn't you do that in New York?!" He wanted to ask but he was a coward and simply fall back asleep.
Andrew awoke with his mother's face less than two inches away from his. Her arm was draped along his chest. His heart instantly leapt to his throat as he felt his mother's bare breasts pressed against his arm and chest. Her right leg was wrapped around his. His eyes darted down to her lips as she lightly smacked and gently rubbed her cheek against shoulder. Then his mother's eyes shot open darting to his face then down to his body.
"Oh God! I'm so sorry Andrew!" Alex said, clutching the blanket to her chest as she nearly flew off the hammock. Her eyes fell on the bulge in his shorts. Instantly she felt her face reddening at the sight of her son's morning wood. "Well... you definitely aren't the little boy I once knew," she said to herself. Watching how he swung his legs off the side of the hammock. Knowing he was probably as embarrassed as she was. "Give me a few minutes to get dressed then you can wash yourself... i-i-if you have to... do it in the pail and toss it out," Alex said, unable to bring herself to say masturbate to her son

Alien Shifter

~~~~~
Marmon had been on earth for more than three years at this point.
His people were peace-loving explorers.
Being able to shift their biological forms to replicate that of nearly every species they had encountered in their travels, they could blend in and study almost any civilization without detection.
Marmon had graduated from his studies on his home planet - the equivalent of college or university for Earthlings - at the top of his class.
During his training, he learned everything he needed to know in order to fulfill his life-long dream - to follow in the footsteps of his maternal grandfather - to return from exploring an unknown world and have his research added to the Archives.
He wasn't after the titles or the accolades - he just wanted to experience some of the amazing things that his grandfather talked about in his stories!
Marmon was sure that half of the family thought Grandpa was crazy - or embellishing - but he could see the cold certainty in those eyes - the magic - the adrenaline.
After the official graduation ceremony - and the celebration with relatives and friends - Marmon's family had handed him the keys to his very own wormhole ship.
His grades had earned him a sizeable discount on the vessel. As a result, his family was able to procure a more advanced model and still save credits - compared to purchasing a standard one at the regular price.
Regardless, their significant investment in his future was a testament to their faith in his abilities.
It was only big enough for one person - but it was perfectly outfitted to enable him to cross the galaxies and succeed in his quest.
This was his opportunity to make his place in the world - by finding a people-group to study, imbedding himself in their daily lives, collecting his data, recording his findings & assessments, and (someday) returning to contribute to the Archives - the massive data-store of knowledge that their people had built over the centuries.
During his studies, Marmon had identified a handful of suitable worlds that had not already been explored.
From this set of potential destinations, he had the computer select one at random. The ship mapped his course and he initiated the launch-sequence.
Once he was far enough off-planet to create the wormhole, he gave the command - and leapt across time & space.
He gave the computer instructions to wake him on arrival and then placed himself in suspended animation.
Arriving in the Terra system, the ship cloaked itself, started waking the pilot, and ran a series of scans.
Marmon came out of deep-sleep to find that his scanners only showed life on one of the system's planets - the third closest to the local star.
That scan had also shown that the inhabitants were actively scanning for incoming threats or visitors.
He would need to sneak in.
The computer identified a comet that was headed in-system whose path could be used to mask his approach.
He caught up to it and shadowed it on its orbital path.
At the opportune moment, he spun out from behind the massive traveler and made his approach to the planet.
He masked his electronic, radiation, and heat-signatures, and allowed the ship's momentum to drive him through the Earth's atmosphere - appearing on all of the planetary systems as if he were a small meteorite of no significant interest.
Choosing to avoid inhabited areas until he knew more, he splashed through the surface of the ocean and settled to the bottom.
He took some time to study the fauna and flora beneath the surface waves, collecting data & pictures as he traveled - eventually stopping some distance off the coast of what these people called California.
His systems intercepted the ambient communication signals and, over time, built a picture of everything they learned.
Soon Marmon had picked a location where he wanted to imbed himself.
The inhabitants spent their evenings in a variety of dwelling spaces and traveled to work or studies during the day - much like people did back home.
An inebriated homeless guy on the beach provided the DNA sample Marmon needed for his body to replicate the appearance of the local inhabitants.
Through his sensors, Marmon "followed" the homeless man for almost a week - to get a sense of his daily routine.
The 30 year old homeless guy's human interactions didn't quite match up with Marmon's plan to live & learn among others.
From there, he selected other people and tracked their travels and interactions.
Based on those observations, Marmon chose to be a college student - around 20 years old - at the fulcrum between youth and adult - by North American Earthling definitions.
Since his native form was not too dissimilar, it only took a handful of minutes for his body to finish the transformation.
If Marmon happened to come face to face with the DNA donor, the man would simply think he was looking at a younger version of himself - if he recognized his face at all - given the slight modifications Marmon had made when "growing" his new body from the sample he'd collected.
Over the last several months, sitting below the ocean's surface, studying all of the data, Marmon had learned to understand the native language in its audible and written forms.
With his new vocal cords, he began to practice his vocalizations.
Although these people used computers more than they wrote by hand, he also practiced his writing - which helped him adapt to how his new body moved and functioned.
When he spoke, the computer noted that he had just a bit of a European "accent". Marmon decided that this would help serve to explain some of his awkwardness when reacting to situations he might find himself in.
Marmon calculated that he needed documentation to establish his identity as well as some form of currency to buy or rent accommodations - since that would become part of his back-story.
His ship created a communication device that would not only use local protocols - but would allow him to remotely communicate with his ship & onboard computers.
This device looked enough like a smartphone that no one would notice.
In any verbal interactions with the device, all conversations with "Siri" would, in fact, be coming from his ship.
His computers worked their way through the various databases to craft the identity he would need, and produced a valid photo ID.
His systems also created a credit card that was linked to an account with enough of a credit-limit to allow him to handle most purchases.
His computer assistants had also initiated a few "entrepreneurial" ventures that would siphon funds into the account but remain invisible to any processes designed to find inconsistencies or theft.
One business layer functioned as a stock-trading program that took a transaction fee for performing its function. As this was a normal business process, it would not raise any "red flags" - unless the company whose business it had replaced - noticed they were missing a few small customers.
From this starting point, the computers - who didn't have brick & mortar buildings to rent - or employees to pay - other than Marmon - continued to reinvest the business proceeds until there was a steady enough income to manage everything he would need money for.
By the time Marmon walked up to the office of the apartment building he would live in, his rental agreement had already been on file for a couple weeks, all of the credit checks had been completed, all of the utilities transferred, and he simply needed to show his ID to pick up the keycard.
The clothes he wore were created with latent technology that would perform equivalently to tactical body armor.
Having noticed that humans - or at least Californians - tended to change clothes every day, his clothing could change its color and shape whenever he needed - thus looking like he had a full wardrobe when - in fact - he had one set of clothes that cleaned itself each night.
In his backpack, there was a suit of clothes with active protection that was far more advanced than his day-to-day outfit. This combat uniform would remain in his domicile unless he perceived things to be outside of the normal parameters of his expected experiences.
If anyone went through his apartment, they would probably never even find those items. They were contained in a camouflaged pack attached to the ceiling - above the door - where they weren't likely to be discovered.
~~~
Over the previous three years as a college student, Marmon had studied a variety of courses and interacted with lots of people - from classmates - to people on the street - to his neighbors.
He could now understand - and make himself understood - in every language in common use on the face of this planet.
He had graduated with two Bachelors of Science degrees. One degree was in Civil Engineering. The second was in Computer Science. He had just started classes to work towards his Master's degree.
Outside of class, Marmon was launching a business that was almost guaranteed to make him rich.
The ship had created a standalone fabricator that Marmon had set up in his apartment.
After spending some time - and quite a bit of money - gathering the raw resources to feed the reprocessing unit - Marmon had created the items needed to transform a standard coffee vending machine into something that had national coffee shop chains reexamining their monthly reports to determine why some of their locations had suddenly seen half of their customers stop queuing up for their morning brew.
Marmon's machines were faster - more consistent - and supplied products at a decent discount - but not too much of a discount.
Seriously, though, a machine that kicked out your favorite brew in a fraction of the time was why Marmon's customers kept coming back.
Walk up to the machine, scan the QR code for your standard order, swipe your card, and your perfect-every-time beverage was delivered in less than a minute - speeding you on your way to work or class.
The most challenging part of the business was making sure the supplies were ordered ahead of time and delivered to the service company that restocked the machines. Marmon's wormhole-ship dedicated one whole subsystem to managing those tasks.
Meanwhile, Marmon sat in one more computer class - slowly working his way towards his next academic achievement.
He looked around at the other students. His eyes settled on Silva.
Marmon had met her - the first time - in one of his undergraduate computer classes, last year.
She was intoxicating.
Based on appearance alone, Silva wasn't that different than the other people in his classes.
She was smart - grasping new concepts easily when their classmates were struggling - even though she was a year or two younger than their peers.
Her consistently superior academics had been what drew his attention to her - but it had been those captivating eyes that had stolen his heart.
Her eyes were a stormy-gray that almost looked as if tiny lightning bolts were trapped beneath the surface, waiting to burst out.
He caught himself looking at her instead of paying attention to the professor.
She caught him looking and smiled.
Her mouth wasn't oversized - but it was not small.
His study of Earth's juvenile youths had led him to a brief study of human porn.
The male sex-organ he had "inherited" from his homeless donor was fairly substantial by human standards - but - based on his research - she would have no problems accommodating his flesh-rod.
He calculated that her mouth would perform in a superior way for every sexual act his distracted mind could recall.
He found himself becoming aroused by those thoughts. He glanced at the forgotten instructor and used his hand to adjust his growing erection.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Silva observe his attempt to shuffle things - and felt the blood rush to his cheeks in embarrassment.
That only served to make her giggle.
Her giggle was intoxicating too.
Over the next several classes, he tried to be more discrete in his observations but - curse the sixth-sense of the females of the species - he got busted looking more times than not.
Soon, it became a game.
A few days later, he noticed that it seemed like her blouse was unbuttoned an extra button.
Whenever she saw him looking, she would lean forward slightly.
He heard an involuntary groan escape his lips and threw his hands up to cover his face.
It was a good thing he already fully understood the material the instructor was going over or he would have had to ask a classmate for a copy of their notes - because he didn't hear anything that was being said the rest of that day.
During the next class, he glanced over and she was playing with the hem of her grey & black plaid skirt.
He believed the correct human expression was "Fuck!" - or - possibly "Holy shit!"
He tried to focus on the teacher again.
He'd already completed today's homework and was just waiting to turn it in.
Actually, he'd already completed every assignment and exercise in the textbook for each of his classes. The papers were stacked on the desk in his apartment in their proper sequential order, sorted by class.
Only the quizzes and tests were unknown to him - but they wouldn't be a challenge either - none of his classes had been.
At the sound of the bell, he shoved his book into his backpack, glanced at his "smartphone", and stood to leave.
Silva stretched out an arm towards him.
In her hand, he saw a piece of notebook paper, folded in half.
He opened it and read, "Student Union, McDonald's, noon?"
He looked up at the question in her eyes - noticed a couple of her teeth biting down on her lower lip - and stammered out, "Yes."
She smiled and eased past him to leave - passing close enough that his olfactory glands were filled with her honey-vanilla scent.
He sat in his next class, consumed with anxiety as he thought about their upcoming rendezvous.
Class was only half-finished when he excused himself to go to the men's room to vomit.
He rinsed his mouth out, stopped at the small drugstore on the corner, bought a travel-bottle of mouthwash, and went to the closest bathroom to try to rid his throat & tongue of the bile flavor.
Ten minutes before noon, he was sitting at a table in the corner of the McDonald's dining area, watching people enter and exit.
Five minutes later, he was struggling to control his heartrate when she suddenly appeared.
It's a good thing this human body was in fairly good condition or he might have suffered from a mild heart attack.
Her tanned, toned legs were longer than he remembered.
The grey & black plaid skirt was shorter than he remembered.
Her straight platinum-blonde hair was longer than he remembered.
Her smile was more brilliant than he remembered.
She sat down.
"You eating?"
"I'm not sure I could."
"Why?"
"I already got sick once."
"Agreeing to meet me made you sick? Then why are you here?"
"Honestly, I'm so worried I'll screw up that my body doesn't feel like it's in control of itself. I believe my current heartrate is somewhere around 120 beats per minute."
She reached across the small table, gripped his wrist with her thumb and forefinger, felt for his pulse, and looked at her watch.
After about 10 seconds she said, "Yup. 120."
Marmon gulped - at her physical touch - and her confirmation of what he already knew about his body.
"I won't bite," she stated.
He looked up at her.
She bit her lip again and said, " .. unless you want me to." She grinned.
"Oh, fuck!" he gasped.
Realizing how loud he'd been, he looked around to see who had heard him.
Silva giggled.
"So .. I take it that you'd be interested in going out sometime?"
Not trusting his voice any longer, Marmon just nodded.
She asked, "Can we eat and talk - or do you need a little time for your heartrate to go back to normal?"
Marmon looked at her - at those piercing eyes. His own eyes shot back down to the tabletop.
"If .."
Silva waited silently.
"If I just stare at my food and pretend you're not sitting across from me, I could probably carry on a somewhat normal conversation."
He glanced up to see if his suggestion would halt the proceedings.
"That is acceptable to me. I'm starving."
She got up and headed to the counter to order.
Marmon watched her walk away - those gorgeous legs - and that perfect ass - in that tiny plaid skirt.
He stood and tried to shift his pecker around as it threatened to escape his underwear and crawl down his pants leg.
He made his way to the counter.
His McDoubles and fries came quickly - probably pre-made - and he returned to his seat.
She came back with a box of chicken nuggets (no sauce), apple slices, and a bottle of water.
"You have a bit of an accent," she commented, "Where's that from?"
"I did a student-exchange thing in Germany for a year. I guess from there, maybe. I grew up on the east coast but nobody ever says I have a New Jersey accent."
"Yeah. It sounds a little European, I think."
"You from around here?" he asked.
"La Jolla."
"Sea lions?"
"Yeah - that's all anybody remembers about the place."
"I haven't been there yet."
"I could take you."
Marmon looked up at her.
She was a little easier to look at, now that he was getting used to just talking, but he quickly looked back to his food just to be safe.
"So .. You wanna go out?" she asked.
"Yes - definitely - but could we meet like this a few more times first?"
"Sure. Would it help if I didn't wear a skirt?"
Marmon's mind briefly gave him a picture of her walking up to the counter in her underwear - and he just about choked on his beverage.
He calmed himself and answered, "You would probably have to wear a hajib and a veil before my heart would stop trying to explode out of my chest when I saw you."
She giggled again and he looked up to see she was covering her mouth with her hand to smother any stronger reaction.
He stared into those eyes for a split-second and then went back to looking at the empty table.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"You've got nothing to apologize for. This is a me problem - not a you problem.."
"Okay," she replied. "Here, tomorrow, noon?"
"I would like that."
"See you , Marmon."
"See you, Silva."
He didn't watch her walk away.
Over the next couple weeks, Marmon and Silva met every day for lunch.
They talked about classes, favorite foods, places they wanted to visit, favorite zoo animals, and adventures that were on their bucket-lists.
Silva made an effort not to stare at him too intently, or play with her skirt, or bite her lip.
Marmon tried not to think about how he'd love to pound his human dick into this beautiful female's fuck-hole.
Each night, following one of their visits, he sat on the edge of his bed, imagined what her naked form would look like, took his man-meat in hand, and spewed his seed into a few more Kleenexes - before his ragged breathing returned to normal and he could fall asleep.
Eventually, Silva suggested a movie. They met that evening. Once the show started, she took his hand, interlaced their fingers, smiled at him, and then sat patiently while he waited for his heartrate to go back to normal.
She didn't push him beyond that and he slowly adjusted.
The next week, when their food was gone - and they were sitting talking - she took his hands in hers.
She was talking.
He looked down at their hands.
He should be listening.
She would probably ask a question soon.
She had stopped talking.
He looked up.
"You okay?" she asked.