by Morgan Rae
THE ALIEN’S VIRGIN
(Chief Of Kurah)
By Morgan Rae
2016 Copyright © Enamored Ink
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CHAPTER ONE: GAROCK
The Harvest Celebration is in full swing. The children played during the day, swiping at each other with wooden swords and replaying the victories of their forefathers. Now, as the Harvest sun fell and spilled golden and crimson streaks across the sky, the children went to sleep while the rest of the Kurah Tribe stayed up to celebrate. Spirits were poured, the bonfire burned brightly, and the Kurah sang chants and danced.
I keep my distance from the fire and sip ale from my mug. The ale is strong and burns the back of my throat. The burn is good. I watch the shadows of flames flicker across my people. Their drums pound through the air like the footsteps of large limbed beasts and they caw and howl like animals. Their long braids swing as they dance and the beads on their leather tunic clatter. This is how my people celebrate. Even in peace, we are warriors.
My second, Leyana, sits down on the stone beside me.
“Not joining the celebrations, Chief?” Leyana asks. Her voice is low and brassy, like a man’s. Like all people of our race, she has copper skin and dark eyes. The Kurah’s most distinguished trait is the dark markings that flicker up our skin like tree roots. Our Kaul. They are the marks that connect us to our inner energy and to the energy of the world.
“My mind is elsewhere,” I confess.
“Tell me where,” Leyana says with a hint of smile on her lips. “And I’ll try to find it.”
Leyana’s leather armor exposes the markings that run along her arms and up her throat to just under her jaw. Her dark hair is sun streaked and knotted into a long braid that hangs low on her back. She is one of the strongest women in our tribe, which is why I chose her as my second-in-command.
Before I can answer her I hear the tall grass behind us hiss. I lift my head and snap my gaze over my shoulder as my hand flies to the axe strapped to my back. The shuddering of the cattails quiets and a man stands still in the clearing. He is not Kurah, his skin is clear of our markings and he looks thin, weathered. His eyes are lined in dark ink and I recognize him as one of the gypsies that lives along the coast.
The gypsy looks dazed as he sways in the clearing. Leyana tenses beside me and reaches for the dagger that hangs on her side. I hold up my palm to signal her. Wait.
Finally, the gypsy turns to me, bleary eyed, and speaks. “I’m lookin’ fer a savage they call Garock.”
“Chief Garock Nordan,” Leyana hisses defensively, “stands in front of you, so watch your tongue.”
“What is it?” I ask. The man is clearly startled and I do not waste time going over titles.
The gypsy sways on his feet and says, “The Selith have come down from Skymount. They’re raiding our camp.”
A darkness crawls up my skin, like a shadow. The Selith. Most of the time, they hide themselves in the old castle carved into the tall mountain, Skymount. A castle that belonged to the Kurah long ago, before the Selith came and took everything from us. When they come down it can only mean bad news. They have slowly been taking over our planet, Naruda, inch by inch. If they have come into the Highlands, the land that belongs to my tribe, it means they have come for a fight.
“Have your men ever fought the Selith before?” I ask the gypsy.
“No, Chief. Naht up ‘n close like this, anyhow.”
“Tell them not to look the Selith in the eyes.”
The gypsy blinks at me as though he cannot understand what I am saying. “The eyes, sir?”
“Yes. That is very important. Now go. Lead us there.”
I shoot Leyana a look and, in an instant, she knows. She’s to come with me. We go on foot and leave the Harvest Celebration behind to follow the man to his people. The path winds through open plains, through our lolling hills, but eventually, we make it to the coast.
The gypsies aren’t hard to find. All we have to do is follow the rattle of their pods and the bang of their drums. I can smell charcoal of the fire pit before I even catch sight of the yellow flames licking the sky. The gypsies are tucked away in the shelter of the dunes, though I wouldn’t exactly call it hiding, not with all the noise they are making. Leave it to gypsies to sing their way into trouble.
Leyana and I follow the gypsy across the sand dune and towards the noise. We are not alone, however. We come to a halt behind a thick bush and I yank the gypsy down into the sand so we can hide here. Through the branches in the bush, I can see the firelight flicker over the orange, wooly body of Faron’s ca’tar and, slowly, the clatter of the gypsy camp goes still and falls silent.
We’re too late.
“Don’t stop on my behalf,” Faron smiles. His canine teeth flash in his wide grin. The Selith prince is a grown man, certainly, but the redness in his cheeks gives me the impression of summer youth. The glint in his armor, perfectly crafted, undented, and etched with the Selith crest of a triangle with a line going straight through it, stinks of royalty. His voice is aloof, airy, like the first fallen leaf from the Wylah tree in cold season. Faron is not alone, either. He comes with a troop of three knights, each well-armed. This is not a friendly meeting.
I can sense the shimmer that goes through the Gypsy tribe and can practically taste the metallic energy of their fear. Fearful people are dangerous and unpredictable. I grip the handle of my axe and prepare for anything.
“My prince!” A gypsy man, drunk, electric, staggers up to his feet and splays his arms wide in reverence. I notice a flicker of gold in the man’s crooked grin, he must be the gyspy’s leader. leader. “Ta what do we owe the pleasure a’ yer most esteemed presence, m’lord? We ain’t nothin’ but humble beggars ‘n travelers.”
“Beggars and thieves, you mean,” Faron retorts from his lofty spot on his ca’tar. “Our caravans were raided just last night…I don’t suppose your tribe knows anything about that?”
The gypsy’s gold teeth flash in the flicker of the bonfire. “As I said, m’ most handsome lord,” the gypsy says, his long, ragged braids flopping as he shakes his head. “Nothin’ but foolish beggars, us. We wouldn’t know nothing ‘bout a thing like that.” He gestures wildly to the fire, making his bracelets rattle. “Come sit with us. Share our wine.”
The gypsy’s tone drips with sickly sweetness, but as I scan the tribe from our hiding spot, I can feel each man and woman on their haunches, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. I plant my feet in the sand, ready.
Faron’s lip curl in disgust. “I’d sip wine with a ca’tar before I ever shared wine with a gypsy. I don’t have time for this. Kill their men. Take their women.”
Faron’s knights lift their swords. The gypsies immediately jump to their feet and I can hear the metal hiss of daggers unsheathing.
The gypsy leader breaks into a rattling laugh. “Our women will nevah bend t’ you!” he spits.
“Is that right?” Faron smirks, a cocky, boyish smile, as though the gypsy just challenged him to a game of toss-ball. Faron’s eyes scan the crowd before he lifts a hand. “Which one is yours? Bring her to me. If she stays true…let’s call the whole thing off.”
A wave of confusion ripples through the tribe. The leader coughs on a laugh. “What kind a’ game is this?”
“No game.” Faron swings his leg around the side of his mount and jumps to the ground. “It is exactly as I say. Do we have a deal?”
Do not take the deal, I want to warn the gypsy. Instead, I remain quiet. If we give away our position now,
there’s no telling how Faron’s knights might react. Any other night, I might have jumped into the fight without a second hesitation. However, it is the night of the Harvest and something different is stirring in my chest tonight. I do not want innocent blood on my hands if I can help it. If we wait perhaps the gypsies can talk their way out of this one.
A woman rises from the crowd. Her skin is the color of an elm tree and her raven hair flows down her shoulders like a waterfall. She is beautiful. “I will take the challenge,” she says, clearly. “I am not afraid of you.”
The gypsy leader grabs her arm then and pulls her close. Although they whisper, I can hear him ask her if this is what she wants to do. She does. They kiss, intimately. There’s a strange ache in my chest, though I know not what causes it.
The woman approaches the Selith prince, holding her chin high. “What is your name, daulín?” Faron asks.
“Mara,” she tells him.
“Mara. A beautiful name.” When she is close enough, his fingertips move to her chin and he guides her eyes to his own. “Look into my eyes.”
When she does, she does so with fearlessness. I feel pity for her. She does not know what is to come. “Mara,” he repeats her name. “Have you ever been unfaithful to your husband?”
“Never,” she says.
“You must love him.”
“Very much.”
Faron’s eyes glimmer. He is enjoying this. Even in the dark of the night, I can see the change in his eyes. His irises have morphed from a bright blue to a deep purple. As Mara locks eyes with him, her irises begin to change color too. She is falling for his hypnosis.
“Take off your robe,” Faron says, slowly.
Without a moment of hesitation, Mara pulls the tie on her robe and lets it fall from her shoulders. She is naked underneath. A hush falls from the gypsy tribe.
Faron’s eyes never leave hers. The bond of his hypnosis is strong. He tilts in close to her and he asks, “Do you want to kiss me?”
“Yes.”
“For all to hear.”
“Yes!” Mara’s once defiant eyes are now soft as a doe’s. She is weak, sluggish under the Selith’s hypnosis.
“This is sorcery!” the gypsy leader growls as he gets to his feet.
Faron lifts his hand. “We’re not finished.” His eyes flicker over Mara and he lifts his hand to her. “Lick my glove,” he says.
Submissively, Mara sucks his chainmail gloved finger into her mouth. Her eyes never leave his as she nurses his finger.
Rage leaps through my veins as I watch Faron degrade this strong woman. I cannot remain quiet anymore. I get to my feet quickly and grip my axe in my hand as I step forward.
“Stop.”
“Garock. I must be going mad. Did a savage actually dare to speak out of turn to me? How kind of you to join us.”
“You are on Kurah land, Selith,” I remind him. “Stand down. You have no authority here.”
“These cretans stole from our caravans,” Faron hisses.
“The gypsies are harmless,” I tell him. “If they have gotten the better of your men, then I suggest you get new men. Your knights are weak and foolish to fall for gypsy tricks.”
“Is that it, then?” Faron snarls. “Chief of the Wastelands. You rule over common thieves and savages. Someday soon your lands will belong to the Selith. And we’ll rid the coast and the highlands of the piss and shit you call tribes.”
“We won’t fall to the Selith, Faron,” I say. My voice is firm. I know the Selith intend to claim all of Naruda as their own. I also know that they will be disappointed every time they step foot on our lands. The Kurah won’t bend. We won’t bow to anyone, especially not leaders made of vain boy kings and petulant children-men. The Selith are dream walkers and can control the minds of those around them, but the Kurah are warriors. We have armor on our hearts and our minds and, so far, the Selith cannot get in, try though they might.
Faron knows this. I can see it in his displeased grimace. “Everyone falls eventually,” Faron says. He grips the naked gypsy woman suddenly and gives her a shove to prove his point. She cries out, slips on the sand underneath her feet, and falls to the ground. “Whoops,” Faron smirks. “My hand slipped.”
Rage blinds me. He cannot be allowed to disgrace my people. I rear back and flick my wrist. In a split second, my axe leaves my hand, cuts through the air and swipes across Faron’s face. It spins an arc past the Selith and then turns in the air, drawing a large circle back towards me. Pulled as though by a magnet, the axe I’ve named Swing finds its place in my hand again, only now the tip of her blade shines crimson.
Faron cries out with pain as he doubles over towards the ground, covering his face. Wet blood seeps through the chainmail links in his gloves. He’s pitiful, mewling and shouting curses. “My face!” he cries. “You savage beast!”
“Whoops,” I murmur. “My hand slipped.”
His aides rush to his side. They help Faron back on his ca’tar. Faron continues to grip his face and uses only one hand on the reigns. He shouts obscenities at me and bemoans his precious face in the same breath as the ca’tars break into a gallop.
“Not saying I blame you, but that was reckless, Chief,” Leyana murmurs as she stands beside me. Together we watch Faron and his men vanish up the coast, towards Skymount, the large, snowcapped mountain that looms like a shadow in the sky. “Faron is a menace, perhaps. But we shouldn’t underestimate his power.”
An oppressive cloud has been lifted now that the Selith are gone. I watch as the gypsy man runs to his wife, throws his arms around her, and holds her. They are safe, for now. But Leyana is right. The Selith threat will only get worse from here.
“I will handle it,” I tell her. I am Chief of the Kurah. Above all, I need to protect my people. “Keep an eye towards Skymount.”
“Aye.” Leyana nods in acknowledgement and then leaves my side.
I linger there a moment. The weight of my responsibility rests heavily on my shoulders. Kurahs are warriors. We were trained from youth to protect our lands and protect our ways. But we have never faced anything quite like the Selith.
I lift my head and taste the salt in the air. The winds have shifted and cold air blows in from the sea. Something needs to change. And quickly. We’re running out of time.
CHAPTER TWO: KENNEDY
“Earth to Kennedy.”
I tear my eyes from my iPhone and the device clatters around my hands. Amazingly, I don’t drop it this time. Thank god. It already hasn’t recovered from the last time someone jolted me out of a good read, as evidenced by the cracks that look like spider webbing across the glass surface.
Sean, manager at The Tavern and, more importantly, my boss, looks up at me from under his wire rimmed glasses. His eyes judge me impassively.
“Oh,” I say, relieved. “It’s only you.”
Sean clucks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure no one in the eighteen century had an iPhone, darling Kennedy. Put it away.”
I want to tell him that no one in the eighteens century had his prescription of glasses either, but I keep that to myself and drop my phone in my apron pocket. I’m wearing a powder blue petticoat that goes down to my ankles with an apron fastened around my waist, a white shawl at my chest, and a coif on my head. True-to-era pilgrim fashion. This might be a suitable work uniform for, say, someone playing Abigail Williams in a village theatre performance of The Crucible. For me, it’s just what I have to work with.
Such is the life of inhabitants of Old Salem, North Carolina. Perched in the greeting section of the restaurant, I can get a clean view of the world outside. Old Salem is a small, historical town stuck somewhere in the late eighteenth century, with buildings that have been around just as long. Old gas-lit lanterns hang out on the porch, cobblestones line the sidewalks, and weeping willows cast long shadows under the hot Carolina sun. Across the street, there’s an old fashioned, restored water pump. Pull the handle and c
lean well water comes spilling out onto the stones below.
The people that live here are serious about history. So serious, in fact, that everyone who works in town is required to come to work in era-appropriate garb. Overkill? Maybe, but truth be told, it was one of the things that charmed me to this city. I went to Winston-Salem for college, got my degree in studio art, and have stayed here for the five years since graduation, , just soaking up the history and ambiance.
Sean, the aforementioned grumpy manager, is actually not grumpy at all. He’s actually a kind person when you get to know him, he just enjoys playing the part of Eeyore and picking apart everything around him. I think it’s one of the reasons he likes to hover over me, because I’m his polar opposite. I find the good in every dirt-awful situation. It’s a coping mechanism, to be honest. I’ve had to dig through a lot of dirt to get to where I am now.
“What are you reading now?” Sean sighs, he and I never agreed on what is considered good literature and what is considered trash. He, at least, knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t text on the job; I’m far more likely to pull up my Kindle App and use every spare second to flip digital pages. “Let me guess…boy meets girl, girl falls for boy, boy fixes all of girl’s problems with one night of passionate lovemaking, yada yada…”
“Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon. Ever read it?”
“No.” He pinches his glasses between two fingers and removes them. “That’s the one that takes place in Scotland, doesn’t it? I’ve been there two or three times. Beautiful place. You ever been?”
“No,” I say and shrug it off. Travel is a bit of a sore subject right now.
Speaking of travel, I hear a car horn and I light up when glance outside to see a familiar blue Honda Fit.
“Ah!” I squeak. “I’ll be one second!”
“Make it half a second,” Sean chides. “The patrons are waiting.” He’s being glib. It’s that awkward hour between lunch and dinner and, for once in the day the place is nearly empty.
