by Sandra Hill
While they worked on her, they talked.
“I do not understand,” Britta said. “Oh, I know, I keep saying that, but how did this come about? I fell off a cliff. One moment I was staring up at that lackbrain Sister Margaret, and the next I was staring at that lackbrain chieftain Uxley.”
“Yea, Uxley is a lackbrain,” Madrene agreed. “As for me, I was in a harem in the Arab lands—do not ask, it is a long and not very interesting story—when a fierce lightning storm erupted. Somehow, when the storm ended, I was in a cave, still in the Arab lands, but a thousand years into the future. Ian rescued me.” She disclosed that last on a sigh.
“You already know I was caught in a mudslide,” Hilda said, squeezing Britta’s hand in empathy for her confusion. “When I emerged from the mudslide, I was also in another place and time: Malibu. Except Torolf was there with me. The sweet lout rescued me.” Another sigh.
“My family was on board a longship, caught in a strange fog,” Kirstin revealed. “We landed on a Hollywood movie set.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” Kirstin grinned. “My uncle Jorund arrived on a killer whale, naked, and ended up in a mental hospital. That is the most bizarre of our means of transportation.”
“So, you are saying that I must learn to accept that I have time-traveled.”
They all nodded.
“It’s important that you don’t discuss any of this time-travel business with anyone,” Hilda warned. “I barely escaped some madmen two years past. They wanted to cut me open and study my innards.”
Britta’s eyes nigh popped with horror. “Why?”
“Because they suspected I was not of this world, and they wanted to know how I was different,” Hilda explained. “Those particular men are not a danger to us, but there will always be others if word gets out.”
“Are we different?” Britta asked.
“A little bit. At first.” Every so often, while Hilda was talking, she would go to the window and scan the beach and deck area to make sure her husband had their son in tow. He did; they, like all the other males, were watching the meat cook.
Madrene’s babe slept soundly in his own cradle in the next room.
“’Tis something about the blood,” Hilda went on. “But after we are here several months it seems to become the same. Strange, I know, but then this whole time-travel business is strange, is it not?”
Strange is too small a word to describe this happenstance. “How many people have…um, time-traveled?”
“We do not know precisely. From the Ericsson family…Jorund, Geirolf, Magnus,” Kirstin said, “plus all of my father’s children. You are the only person outside the family that we know of, except of course when Torolf’s SEAL teammates went back with him, then forward again.”
More than a dozen! Good gods!
“Since we do not make our presence known, mayhap there are others out there who do not talk of it as well,” Hilda speculated.
Britta’s head spun with all the bizarre details. “Why? I mean, why us?”
“Since they could not come up with an explanation, my father and his brothers decided that it must be a miracle, ordained by the Christian One-God.”
“I suppose,” Britta said dubiously. “Like many of my country, I accept both Christian and Norse religions. I assumed I was here because Zachary wish-prayed me here.”
“Really?” Kirstin clapped her hands together with delight. “My father says he was wish-prayed here, too, by Angela’s grandmother.”
“You know what this means?” Hilda took both of Britta’s hands in her own.
“What?” She did not like the sly looks in all three women’s eyes.
“You and Pretty Boy are destined to be together,” Hilda announced.
“Soul mates,” Madrene concurred. “Best be careful; my father will have you wedded and bedded in a trice if he hears of the wish-praying.”
Britta laughed. “Zachary would turn green and run like the wind if he heard you say that. Oh, he wants to…you know, ‘rock my world,’ but just for a bit. Then he will swagger off to wave his dangly part elsewhere.”
“Rock your world?” Kirstin sputtered.
“Dangly part?” Madrene put a hand over her mouth to cover a giggle. “I have not heard it called such in ever so long.”
“Yea, swaggering is what men do best,” Hilda opined.
“Or mayhap you were sent to help Pretty Boy with his son, who is more than a handful, believe you me,” Madrene offered.
“Hah! I have already declined his offer to be nursemaid to his bratling.”
They all laughed, Sammy’s wordfame having traveled far.
She stood as they finished working on her. Looking in the mirror over the sink, she scarce recognized the face staring back at her. “Are you certain I do not look wanton with this face paint?” Britta asked, wanting to reach for a towel and scrub it off but not wanting to offend her friends.
“Honey, you looked hot before,” Madrene said. “Now you are a hottie.”
Britta was not sure she wanted to be a hottie.
They were walking down the corridor leading to the stairs when Madrene asked, “So what was Pretty Boy saying to you earlier that had you turning red-faced, then stomping off?”
Britta waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, he was goading me, as usual. Said he wanted to give me orgasms tonight.”
Madrene and Hilda grinned at each other, then looked back at her. Kirstin just blushed.
“And? Are you going to let him?” Madrene inquired.
“Nay.” She was not about to tell them that she had brought the subject up to him first. “In truth, I do not really know what an orgasm is, except the women who share my sleeping chamber speak of it incessantly.”
“Oh, sweetling, do I have something to show you!” Madrene said, taking her by the hand and winking at the others.
When they reached the solar, Madrene pressed a flat box she held in her hand. Instantly, yet another box, this one the size of a hearth opening but resting on the floor, sprang forth with light.
Britta gasped.
“It’s a television,” Madrene explained. “I want to show you something. Check this out.”
Britta had no clue what Madrene had just said. But then it did not matter.
There were little people inside the box. One of them, a handsome man with brown hair threaded with white, was standing over a body that appeared to be dead. Leastways, the brown-haired man was cutting open the belly of the prone man, blood spurting everywhere. Was he torturing a prisoner? And the women dressed in white at his side had huge breasts that pointed straight out.
“Oh, my gods! Can we not do something? There are four of us, and they are small people…dwarves, mayhap.”
Madrene, Hilda, and Kirstin all laughed.
“You find humor in torture?”
“They are not real people,” Madrene said, patting her hand. “I wanted to show you this soap opera, Light in the Storm, so you could see Pretty Boy’s father. He plays Dr. Lawrence Bratton on this show.”
“He’s really good-looking, for an old guy,” Kirstin said.
“I hear he has a mistress who is only twenty,” Hilda remarked.
“Well, that is just like a man, is it not?” This from Madrene. “Always chasing the young girlings.”
“Wait, are you saying that dwarf torturer there is Zachary’s father? I must needs console him, even if he is a lout. To have such a monster for a father has got to be a burden.”
The three women laughed again. “I’ll explain it to you later,” Hilda said, “But Pretty Boy’s father is not really in the TV box. He may be an old lecher, but he is not a torturer.”
“Forget about that. This is what I really wanted to show you,” Madrene said. “My favorite program. Sex and the City. I have twenty shows on tape.”
Britta had no idea what Madrene had just said, and she did not care because, whoa, different people were in the box now. Naked people. A man, whose buttocks could be s
een pumping up and down, and a woman beneath him who was writhing and moaning and then actually screaming. Before Britta had a chance to ask what that was, there were yet again different people in the box. Four women, fully clothed, sitting at a table eating, and one of the women was the screaming one. How had she dressed so quickly? And gotten to this other place?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Britta said. “What was that?”
“That was an orgasm, honey,” Madrene said, grinning. Kirstin and Hilda were grinning, too.
“It happened so quickly I scarce had time to study the…uh, process.”
Still grinning, Madrene pressed something on her handheld box, and the same naked scene was happening again. This time she saw some kissing, too. Hard, passionate kissing. She would bet her best sword there were tongues involved.
Britta felt the same pearling of her nipples and weeping in her woman place as she did when Zachary touched her.
“Who are they?”
“Samantha and Jerrod.”
“Do they not have any qualms about doing it in front of one and all?”
“Apparently not.” Madrene was grinning, as if she had some great secret. Over and over Madrene manipulated the magic box till they had witnessed the orgasm six times. “How many times can they do it afore needing to rest?”
“Oh, dearling,” Hilda said, “those aren’t real people. I know how it must seem. We all felt the same way the first time we saw television.”
“As for those orgasms…I see no appeal in all that writhing and moaning and screaming! Besides, you must admit, the man looked a mite ridiculous with his buttocks in the air. Yea, methinks I will abstain from that particular exercise in torture.”
For some reason, the three other women laughed hysterically.
Chapter 8
You want to put WHAT on my penis?…
Zach sat on the edge of the low, rail-less deck with Cage on his right and JAM on his left. Max and Ragnor sat on low beach chairs in front of them. Omar and Slick were down at the Wet and Wild.
They were all swigging down longnecks, having been banished by Commander MacLean to a perimeter of no closer than ten feet from his precious grill. They had been giving grilling advice, which had not been appreciated by MacLean.
Sammy was a short distance away, near a sand dune, blowing bubbles that Madrene had given him, thus giving Zach a short breathing period. Zach figured that should occupy him for, oh, say, five minutes. The kid had the attention span of a gnat.
“How’s the WEALS program going?” Max asked. All the SEALs had nicknames. Torolf’s was Max…short for Magnusson.
Zach rolled his eyes.
“We’re treatin’ them with kid gloves, and they think we’re torturin’ them,” Cage said. “Wait till next week when we start IBSs.” The hated Inflatable Boats, Small, were the bane of every trainee who had ever tried to be a webfoot warrior, though necessary in the field. Some considered that phase of BUD/S even worse than Hell Week. “I ’spect we’ll have a dozen DORs the first day. That bell’ll be ringin’ like a Salvation Army Santa. Talk about!”
“And Britta? How’s she doing?” Max asked.
“She’s holding up,” Zach said.
“Holding up what?” Geek asked with wide-eyed innocence as he joined them. Sometimes Zach suspected that Geek wasn’t as naive as he pretended to be.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” he snapped.
“Hah! Like your mind isn’t there most of the time,” JAM commented. He ducked when Zach tried to swat him with his free hand.
“As to your question, Max, the WEALS will train for one year, under less stringent conditions, and have weaker bodies in general…” He shrugged. “Would you want one of those covering your six in a black op?”
“Hell, no!” the rest of them said.
“Still, there might be a place for them. No, there will be a place for them,” JAM, ever the fair one, said. “This country is in antiterrorism mode, and probably will be for the next century. We need every breathing body we can get to help with the good fight.”
JAM’s defense of the WEALS program wasn’t surprising, and he was right. This country needed every able-bodied man—and woman—to fight the ever-increasing tangos in the world.
“Besides, I suspect the one-year WEALS program, if it succeeds, is going to end up being a two-or three-year deal, just like SEALs,” Zach speculated.
“What’s the latest with Arsallah?” Ragnor wanted to know.
“Still making lots of noise. Our government doesn’t deal with terrorists—at least not publicly—but the Afghan government is now claiming Sammy belongs in his native country. And the Department of State is on my tail, too, wanting concessions to avoid alienating the tenuous government there.”
“I’m thinkin’ it’s a Taliban pride kinda thing,” Cage said, tugging at the stupid gold loop in one of his ears. “The U.S. representing some imperial warrior kinda monster tryin’ ta destroy Afghan culture.”
“In other words, a propaganda nightmare,” Geek remarked.
“What kind of concessions?” Max asked. Being a fairly new father, Zach suspected that he was more conscious of the paternal instinct. “Surely not a shared custody, because you gotta know, once they get him, they’re never letting him come back.”
“I know. Ironically, to Arsallah, Sammy is racially impure. I’ve gleaned this from bits and pieces Sammy reveals. When Arsallah looks at him, he doesn’t see half-Afghan, he sees half-American. No blood bond there.”
“And worse,” JAM added, “Sammy was fathered by a Navy SEAL, number one on the Taliban hit list.”
“I don’t think they would use Sammy as a suicide bomber, nothing that drastic, but my greatest fear is that they would use him in some political way. Train him to speak against America…and me, representing the U.S. military.”
“When do those bodyguards hired by your father arrive?” Geek asked.
“Any time now. Plainclothes, of course. Two in Sammy’s vicinity at all times until this whole mess settles down.”
They all nodded their understanding of the need for protection.
“You making any progress with your son?” Ragnor asked.
“Not much,” he answered honestly. “He resents me for not coming for him the instant his mother died. And he resents me for having abandoned his mother, too, when she was pregnant. Not that he says so in those words. In his potty-mouth lingo, he pretty much says, you humped my mother, then left.”
All the guys grinned.
“It’s not funny.”
They still grinned.
“Dickheads,” he muttered and took a long draw on his beer, meanwhile checking out Sammy. He was still blowing bubbles, but he was blowing them at some seagulls that were trying to pick a few crumbs left on the beach. The gulls ignored him.
“I’m ready to ditch this party after we eat…if MacLean ever gets that filet done. How about a lift to the Wet and Wild?” JAM was speaking to Geek.
“Yeah, I’m in the mood for a little…dancin’.” Cage waggled his eyebrows to indicate it was more than dancing he had in mind, though the Cajun did love his two-step.
Geek’s face turned red. “Sorry. I’m not going in that direction.”
“Oh?” Zach said. “Big date?”
He hadn’t really meant anything by his question, except Geek’s face turned even redder. Geek gave the impression of being sexually inexperienced, but, hell, at his age he was no virgin. So, why the embarrassment? The other guys must have thought the same thing, because they were all staring at Geek.
“I’m helping a friend set up a website,” Geek said.
“And that makes yer face turn red as boiled crawfish?”
“Could this friend be of the female persuasion?” Max asked.
“Yes, it’s a girl. She has this…uh, invention that she wants to market on the Internet. I’m just helping her set up the website.”
Ragnor, also a computer expert, tapped a forefinger against his closed lips thoughtf
ully before he inquired, “And the name of this site would be?”
Geek put his face in both hands.
Now every guy in the group was on red alert.
“Mon Dieu! This has gotta be really bad…or really good,” Cage observed.
Geek mumbled something.
“What?” they all asked.
Geek raised his head and glared at each of them in turn before revealing, “It’s www.penileglove.com.”
There was stone silence, expect for the ocean sounds.
Finally, Cage exclaimed, “Say what?”
And Zach said, “Uh, I think you better explain, Geek. Otherwise, we’re gonna think you’re putting a glove on your cock at night to keep the little guy warm.”
“Bullshit!” was Geek’s reaction to that. “Listen, have you ever heard of hand waxing?”
They all shook their heads, except for Cage, who frowned and said, “Isn’t that the crap they have in beauty parlors and spas, where people put their hands in warm wax before getting a hand massage?”
Amazing! Zach thought. Where does he learn this stuff?
Geek nodded, no doubt thinking that would be the end of the interrogation. Not a chance! Not when there was the mention of penises and something warm. “It’s sort of a massage kind of thing, like Cage said. You put your hand in the warm wax, then take it out. As it dries, it shrinks and hardens, but not like a face mask…more like a tight, formfitting rubber glove. But the neat thing is when you pull it off, slowly, starting at the wrist, it’s a really sensual feeling.”
More silence as everyone let what Geek had said sink in. Then there was a communal smile.
“No way!” Cage said.
“Hot damn!” JAM said.
