Challenge

by Montgomery Mahaffey

  “Follow your heart.”

  “What!”

  Her voice had taken on a jagged quality. The sharp point of one word pierced the images from the past and those memories dissolved. The Wanderer was pulled back to the present, to the woods of No Man’s Land, to the lingering aroma of supper, and to the fading light of a dying fire and his neighbor. She seemed feverish with her cheeks flushed.

  “What did you just say?”

  “That was something he liked to end his stories with,” he replied. “A lesson of sorts. I don’t understand why that would upset you.”

  “Just what was your grandfather trying to teach you, Wanderer?”

  He paused, taken aback by her sudden insolence. The effect was both unsettling and offensive, making the Wanderer reluctant to continue. Yet something in the way she looked at him was mesmerizing. He had no choice but to heed its call.

  “My grandfather cherished love more than anything,” he said. “He always claimed that everything in life that truly mattered always came back to love.”

  “I’m sure that’s very nice,” the girl snapped. “But so what?”

  “So he made up these stories about a woman who destroyed men with too much pride by stealing that which they never valued. Hence, he often finished his stories with ‘follow your heart.’ So we’d grow up and live in a way that honors love.”

  “She stole their hearts?” she asked. “This woman that your grandfather…imagined?”

  The Wanderer nodded, frowning slightly as her expression shifted to incredulity. The girl covered her mouth, but not before he saw the corners twitching. Then her shoulders started to shake, a sign she was helpless against the fit of laughter coming on. He watched the girl try to resist the pull of mirth until she couldn’t hold back any longer. But the Wanderer was still stunned when she collapsed, her entire body quaking as she laughed.

  Minutes passed and she didn’t stop. Then his confusion mounted to rage. For the first time in his life, the Wanderer was tempted to hit a woman. He had never understood the fighting instincts of brutal men. But as the girl howled and rolled on the ground, it was all he could do to restrain himself. Staring at the girl gripping her stomach, the Wanderer felt something burst in his heart, an emotion he didn’t recognize. The sentiment was violent but not impulsive; it had a lingering quality, an enduring relentlessness. The girl stopped laughing as soon as she saw his face. She even pulled up and moved away from him.

  “Did you ask me about my grandfather just to mock him?”

  “Wanderer, I’m not mocking your grandfather,” she replied. “I’m mocking you.”

  “You’re going to have to explain what you found so funny. Because I can’t see it.”

  “Look upon the obvious and you might. You certainly didn’t learn your lessons well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

  “If you’ve been taught all your life to follow your heart,” she said. “Then this is the last place you should be. Yet here you are. And you insist on staying.”

  She chortled and shook her head.

  “Really, you have a better place to go. So what are you doing here?”

  “I have my reasons,” he retorted. “Why should you mind anyway? I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Don’t be such a hypocrite, Wanderer. I know what you want.”

  A hard edge came into her voice. But the glint of knowing in her eyes still made his heart beat faster, and the air teased along his flesh just as it had the day he had first seen her. A current shot the quiver delicious up his spine, making him restless.

  “You don’t seem especially troubled by that,” he shot back.

  The girl chuckled. Her demeanor was seductive, yet also terrifying. Her eyes glittered when gazed at him, and her large teeth gleamed when she smiled.

  “That’s because I want something from you too, Wanderer.”

  Her voice grew soft, a rumbling whisper that made the heat rise from the depths of his belly and the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. The Wanderer wondered if the girl could see inside his darkness, knowing the desires he dared not think about. Then the vision of a hungry wolf stalking prey came to his mind.

  “And the longer you stay,” she said. “The more likely I’ll take it.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what it is? Maybe I’ll give it to you.”

  “I’d really like to spare you, Wanderer. But you’re exhausting my good intentions.”

  She chuckled again and stood up. Her movement was so swift and fluid, the girl had already taken his plate and skillet along with hers before he understood what she was doing. Just like that, the mood shifted. Her eyes were empty when she glanced at him, her manner distant.

  “I’ll wash up,” she said. “My way of saying thanks for tonight’s supper.”

  But the girl had only taken a few steps in the direction of the nearest creek before she turned back. Shadows from the dimming fire flickered across her face.

  “Take the Lawman’s advice, Wanderer, and go home. There’s nothing for you here.”

  He didn’t move for a few minutes. Listening to the splash of water as the girl cleaned the dishes, he could still feel the light slap of her braid against his cheek, the brush of her fingers when she took his plate, and the honey musk scent of her he tried to force out of his mind.

  The Wanderer knew she was right. He had no reason to stay once he finally recognized the emotion borne in him during her fit of laughter. It was hatred.

  ****

  The dream started like the others. He drifted through heat until he came to the cabin, but this time the Bard held onto him longer. He wanted more than anything to rest in the safety of that embrace, but the Wanderer knew their reunion wouldn’t last. When the old man pulled back, there was sorrow in his deep black eyes.

  “There was something I never told you,” he said. “Sometimes it can destroy a man to follow his heart.”

  Before the Wanderer could answer, his grandfather pushed him through the fire and he came out in the garden surrounding the manor. He knew it was summer from the sweat on his brow and the scent of lilies. Then he saw the couple.

  The Patroness had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes sparkled and she had a robust bloom in her cheeks as she strolled with her husband through the garden paths. The Wanderer arrived in time to hear her say she was pregnant. The Patron gave a shout of joy, picking up his wife and spinning her through the air. His beloved was light as a feather floating and fading away.

  Her chambers were the next destination in this journey of dreams. The Patroness seemed ready to give birth, her belly swollen and round beneath the sheets. But the Wanderer was aghast at her appearance. Her cheeks were hollowed, her skin the color of ashes, dark circles under her eyes. He suspected she’d been confined to bed for months. The Patron was at her side, reading a parable in the rhythm used to lull a child to sleep. But his wife was agitated.

  “Be good to her.”

  Her voice that once rang with the clarity of a silver bell was ravaged, now raspy and hoarse. She gripped her husband’s hand and pressed her lips to his palm.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  The Wanderer had to look away from the desperation in her eyes. The Patron paused, then set his book aside to stroke her forehead.

  “My love, please don’t distress yourself.”

  “The baby is a girl. Girls need…”

  She trailed off, her face crumpling before she turned away. Her husband caressed her and murmured soothing words, but she turned back to him with a hard set to her features.

  “Give me your word that you’ll be good to her.”

  “Everything will be fine,” the Patron said. “You’ll mend after the baby comes.”

  “Promise me!”

  She tightened her grip on his hand until his fingertips were white. The ferocity in her gaze forced the Patron to look away.

  “If you love me, then you will be good to our daughter no matter what—”
/>
  “That’s enough!” the Patron shouted. “Of course I’ll be good to her. I give you my word along with the promise that we will make wonderful parents for our little girl.”

  Her features softened and the terrified urgency in her eyes was gone. The Patroness was almost beautiful again and she kissed her husband’s hand with ardor, disappearing from the Wanderer’s view as he drifted back into the mist between dreams.

  But there was no warmth and all was black around him. The chill on his skin reminded him of nights in early spring before winter was ready to let go. Then he heard her screaming.

  He came back to the chambers of the Patroness, startled when a servant walked through him. He realized she must be the midwife and the birth must have gone horribly wrong. The woman’s features had the distortion of grief and the bundle she held in her arms was silent. The Wanderer thought the baby must have been stillborn, for the Patron’s anguish was deafening. He sat in a pool of blood, the cords along his neck bulging from the howling threatening to tear the room apart. He held his wife in his arms, rocking her back and forth. Her head rolled aside and the Wanderer stared into eyes that had gone black, seeing only into the land of death.

  He knew this was only a dream and struggled to come awake, but he couldn’t. The dead stare of the Patroness blurred, leaving the Wanderer gazing into the black eyes of his mother. He never realized how frightened she had been that night until he saw her as a man. He reached out to her, but she looked right through him, standing at the door with a finger to her lips.

  “Be quiet,” she said. “And do not move.”

  The Wanderer turned around and saw himself. He was a little boy in bed with the covers up to his chin, his eyes wide with terror. Then his mother closed the door and thrust him into the darkness. He couldn’t do as she told him this time. When his mother screamed, the Wanderer screamed with her. Silence and stillness had killed her. He would yell and fight. He would rail against the demons he was blind to, the intruders who had murdered his parents.

  He felt a touch on his shoulder and swung his arm. His hand balled into a fist, his fingers crushed against skin and bone. The punch was gratifying, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly his wrists were gripped, his arms pressed above his head, and one of the demons was upon him.

  “Wanderer…Wanderer…”

  He wasn’t a child anymore. He knew he was stronger than his attacker, pushing back until the weight on him gave way. Then she leaned into him and he heard her voice in his ear.

  “Wanderer, wake up!” she said. “You’re having a nightmare.”

  He opened his eyes and saw nothing. He pushed again, but confusion exhausted him enough she was able to keep his arms pinned above his head. He knew it was the girl from her scent. The honey musk was undeniable. Her breath was warm on his face.

  “Wanderer, do you remember where you are?”

  He was shaking, and before he could stop himself, began to sob. He felt the girl stiffen and her weight shift. But he sat up and grabbed her, burying his face in her neck.

  “Let me go, Wanderer!”

  But he had to hold on. He couldn’t see anything but the nightmares and memories still haunting him. The images were slow to disappear, but as he became aware of his surroundings, they did. He felt the hard ground underneath his legs, the chill on his skin, the feeling of his rough blanket fallen around him. The girl was rigid in his arms, but warm and soft. He held her tight, breathing in her aroma. He was surprised when he noticed her folded legs hugging his hips. She must have climbed on top of him during his nightmare. Then he remembered.

  “Did I hit you?”

  “Yes, you did,” she said. “Now that you’ve finally come back to your senses, will you please let me go?”

  He strained to make out her shape, but, in the darkness of his tent, that was impossible. Her smooth liquor voice and sweet pungent smell disoriented him. Only the feel and smell of her made this seem real. He wished she would touch him. Maybe then he could stop shaking.

  “Can’t you just hold me for a while?” he asked.

  “You can’t be serious. You want me to comfort you?”

  “Is that really asking so much?”

  “Yeah it is,” she said. “I’m not exactly the comforting type.”

  “You woke me up from a nightmare, didn’t you?”

  “Because you were screaming and woke me up. What else was I supposed to do?”

  The girl sounded as bored and detached as always. For once, the Wanderer welcomed the bitter hardness to pulse inside him, anything to make the terror go away. But his rage wasn’t enough. His limbs were overpowered with a violence of trembling he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know who he despised more, the girl for her indifference or himself for needing her not to be.

  “I’d like to know something about you,” he snapped. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Ask whatever you want.”

  “Do you ever hate yourself?”

  He savored the sharp intake of her breath. He had actually gotten to her. The Wanderer knew for certain when she didn’t answer right away, a victory he hadn’t foreseen.

  “Well,” he persisted. “Do you?”

  “All the time,” she said. “If you must know.”

  “I dare you to try something different. You might surprise us both.”

  “I have no idea what you want of me, Wanderer.”

  “That’s crazy,” he said. “Hasn’t anybody ever calmed you down when you were upset?”

  She fell silent, but the Wanderer didn’t push her to answer. The thrill of cruelty was already wearing off and left him ashamed. It was strange talking to the girl without being able to see her. The blackness made their dialogue a specter floating in the abyss where it would be forever suspended.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “Once, there was somebody who did.”

  There was weariness, even sadness, in her voice he never heard before. The Wanderer was surprised by the flush of sympathy pouring into him. He was even relieved. His compassion brought him back to the man he had always been, whose kindness and goodwill made him friends all over the world - the man his grandfather had raised him to be.

  “All right,” he said gently. “Why don’t you start with that and go from there?”

  The Wanderer couldn’t believe it when the girl did as he asked. She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around him, her head falling to his shoulder and nestling against his neck. She gave a long sigh when he pulled her close, her body melting into his and her hands slowly stroking the length of his back. The Wanderer gripped her until the shaking subsided in smaller waves. Then he loosened his arms and they continued to hold each other, their breathing merging and rolling in mirrored rhythms. His lungs expanded with the air she pushed out and, every time he exhaled, his breath flowed into her.

  Then his trembling was gone. His face was still buried in her neck where her scent was lighter. He inhaled deeply and let his hands roam over her back. The girl didn’t resist, returning his caresses with her own. Before the Wanderer knew what he was doing, he brought his lips to the flesh below her ear. He felt the offering she made of her neck, her sighs longer and louder as he nibbled down the canal to the base of her throat. In a swoon, the Wanderer collapsed to the ground and the girl fell with him.

  Her head rested on his chest, and her moaning reverberated into him before her lips pressed his left nipple. The subtle bite of her teeth made his heat surge, and the Wanderer clutched at her blouse, the rough fabric irritating his skin and keeping him from the flesh underneath. Her arms gave and stretched above her head when he pulled her shirt off, her breasts crushed against his chest. The Wanderer pulled her head down, bringing her mouth to his. Her lips were surprisingly soft, her taste hinting of salt and savory.

  Then the girl spread her legs and opened those lips, moving along his shaft. He could feel her through the cloth of their pants and groaned. The pressure was exquisite, making him harder as he clawed his hands
down her spine. Her scent was changing to pure musk and her back arched into his fingers. The girl cried out, but she hadn’t reached her peak yet. Her taut muscles still quivered under his fingers. She gripped his hands and took them away, her undulating rocking harder waves upon him. Pleasure gave way to pain, catapulting the Wanderer back to that day at the hot springs. He remembered her smoldering gaze just before the girl iced over and pulled away from him.

  She was right at the edge. Her cries reached a higher pitch the moment she was ready to fall. But the Wanderer rolled her off him, making her suffer the denial she brought on him. But he couldn’t restrain the urge to bring his mouth to her breast and suck. The girl whimpered at first, her body soft against him. Then she chuckled, a low and nasty sound reverberating in the darkness. Her hands came to his waist; her deft fingers untied the laces and pulled his pants down. She slipped from his grasp and the Wanderer’s breath was trapped in his throat when she took him in her mouth. Her steady rhythmic suckling built the pressure slowly. The Wanderer saw white spots in the blackness and he rocked his hips to push deeper in her mouth, his belly quivering as he reached for the climax. The girl pulled away, and agony clenched his innards.

  He doubled over in pain. Her chuckle taunted him, prodding him back to that day at the pool. He could still see her tresses he had just combed into silk, the golden strands slapping him in the face when she whipped her hair back. The Wanderer snarled, gripping the girl around the waist with one arm, undoing the string at her pants with his free hand and pulling them off. Then he cupped her pubis with his hand, pressing the heel of his palm into her mound until her resistance melted. He waited until her breath caught in her throat before bringing his fingers up the lips, parting them where he found the nub. With tender firmness, he embraced the moist flesh between his fingers and rubbed slowly. Her long humming sigh sang in his ears and her scent inflamed his senses. The girl arched her pelvis towards his fingers, and the Wanderer brought his mouth down on hers and sucked on her lips. He wanted to engulf her, but forced himself to hold back. The girl must have sensed he was about to stop. She brought her forearm down, pressing his phallus and she pulled until her hand came to his head. She gripped and kept pace with his rhythm.