Syren

Chapter Four

The first thick gobbet of rain landed directly in the bowl of Bellows pipe, dousing it with an audible hiss. They were both soaked to the skin immediately and without answering his question Emily grabbed his hand and took off down a well-worn path. Bellows ran behind her huffing and puffing with the effort... he wasn't a young man after all. He glanced back towards the beach but the thick trees and hanging moss and vines blocked his view of the ocean.

The storm had come up suddenly and he hoped the men had made ready for it, bringing in the sails and securing the anchor. They were a good crew and he had no option but to assume that they would. He turned back, noting that Emily was now more than ten feet ahead of him, having let go of his hand on the narrow trail. The pelting rain had drenched her dress, and as he watched she untied the torn skirt mid-run, and wrenched it off. Now that her legs were free of the sopping material she ran even faster and he struggled to keep up, smiling as he watched the undulation of her bare bottom glistening wet with his reddish hand print still vivid against her pale skin.

She began to slow and then he saw their destination. The little shack or hut was actually quite beautiful. It stood in a natural clearing, its mud-brick walls bowed slightly with age, were no more than four feet tall. The thick roof was made of huge palm fronds and leaves. Two small windows on either side of the arched doorway were covered by simple wooden shutters. The door itself was meticulously carved from two wide planks of wood and the handle was a simple knot of rope.

Emily grabbed the knot, pulled the door open and ushered him inside slamming it shut behind them loudly. She ran to the small bed that occupied the far corner of the room and Bellows turned away as she used the patched bedspread to cover herself.

"Sit there," she said indicating a small table with two chairs. "I'll find you something to wear."

Bellows nodded and lowered himself into the chair with its back to the sleeping area. As he did so he let out a small groan, a sound he had heard other old men make when they sat, or bent or did some physical thing that was harder than it should be. He didn't like the sound when other men made it and lately he had caught himself making it all too often.

Behind him, Emily was changing. He could hear the distinctive sounds made by the strings of her corset as she untied them and pulled them loose in their eyelets. Then the billowing sound like a sail flapping in a soft breeze as she pulled her blouse and remnants of her torn skirts over her head. She padded around the room in her bare feet now and in his mind's eye, he pictured her soft shoulders and the curve of her back. Her small round breasts would sway slightly over her ribcage and then down further the warmth of her belly and the shallow recess of her navel. He was just imagining the curls that concealed the mystery of her womanhood when something landed in his lap.

Bellows looked down surprised and saw that Emily had provided him with a large white linen shirt and faded blue breeches. He looked up and thanked her. She was wearing a soft, airy blouse that fell down off of one shoulder and a skirt of green light-weight material that seemed to dance with even the tiniest movement. She went to the small hearth and busied herself with stoking the fire as he quickly changed into the dry cloths. They were tight but not uncomfortably so and when he turned back she had a fire roaring in the grate. Emily hung the wet things nearby to dry and put a pot over the fire, then joined him back at the table.

She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her fists. The fire roared higher behind as the wind gusted outside, throwing an aura of light around her blonde hair and deepening the shadows that obscured much of her face. Her eyes seemed to gleam, though there was no other light source in the room, and for a fleeting moment, her face resembled a grinning skull. As the fire settled back down the image was gone and she smiled.

"She doesn't speak." Emily said, and it took him a second to understand that she was answering his earlier question... 'Tell me about the girl in the temple.'

"Oh... why not."

"I don't know. I've tried a few times when the monk wasn't nearby, but she never speaks."

"Does she speak to him?" Bellows asked. He could smell something now. Whatever she was cooking over the fire made his mouth water.

Emily looked puzzled. "Of course not, why would she?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"What would be the point? You know he's deaf don't you?"

Of course, he hadn't known. "Are you sure? He spoke to me."

Emily rose, turning back to the hearth, she was stirring the big pot over the fire. "He can speak... he's deaf, not dumb."

Bellows mulled this over as she retrieved two bowls and ladled out stew from the cooking pot into them. She placed one of them in front of him. Then she sat down across from him with her own. Once again, her face was in darkness but eyes still gleamed. The monk had answered him... hadn't he? He tried to remember the chain of events in the temple but it seemed so long ago. Could it really have been less than two hours before? It might as well have been two days or two months.

He tasted the stew, it was good, if a little thin. There were small chunks of meat in it and a large bone. Small onions and something green that tasted very tart added to the.. unique... flavour. He was very hungry. For the last month aboard ship, they had been surviving on hardtack and water. The rock-hard biscuits had the added bonus of weevil larvae for a little protein. The strange tasting stew was better.

They ate in silence and when the bowls were empty Emily took them away and washed them with water from a wooden bucket beside the fire. Outside the storm was in full swing, the wind rattled the shutters and whistled through the cracks around the door. Night was coming quickly and she lit candles around the room which did little to cut the gloom.

He had hoped the storm would blow past so he could return to the ship for the night, but now he knew that wouldn't be possible. The room was sparse, the table with its two chairs and the small bed in the corner made up the bulk of the furniture. There was a writing desk piled with old books near the door and a small box with a lid near the bed that he assumed was a commode for nighttime use. At the end of the bed was a large wooden trunk, where the girl kept her clothing.

The bed seemed suddenly very inviting, as did the idea of the young girl sharing it with him. Perhaps if he was younger but he was an old man and he knew he would have to sleep in the chair. Why am I so tired, he thought as his eyes drooped. She took him by the hand again and pulled him up from the chair.

She led him to the bed and pushed him down gently. It was so soft and her hands were warm as she stripped off the breeches and pulled the shirt over his head. Hadn't he just put those on? He lay his head back on the pillow and she leaned over him. She was naked now and her nipples scraped softly against his chest as she straddled him and he felt that familiar tightness encircling... warm and wet. It must be a dream, he thought. I haven't had this kind of a dream since I was a boy. She was moving slowly against him, sitting back with the palms of her hands flat on his chest. She was laughing, and that got him laughing and then he couldn't stop laughing. 

The room seemed to spin as if he'd had too much to drink and he tried to put one foot on the floor as he did when he was drunk but he was pinned under her. Just as she had been pinned under him so long ago... no just a few hours ago... pinned like her brother with the spear. As he lost consciousness Bellows imagined himself a butterfly pinned to a board with a little Latin label printed underneath.