was humid, so thick it was
hard to breathe in the closeness amongst the foliage. Sweat dripped down his brow, ran from beneath his
arms, and he swatted at the insects that came to taste him. His booted feet crunched over fallen dried
palm fronds and squished tropical fruits that had partially splattered on the ground. The further he pushed
into the forest, the thicker the growth around him, but in the distance, he could hear what he had gone
there to find and so he struggled with the trees and shrubs and bushes, going deeper into the green-black
lushness of the tropical forest.
Genevieve Saur followed close behind.
When she saw him sneaking away from the compound, furtively looking about him to see if he was being
watched, the hair along her arms stirred.
“Just what the hell are you up to?” she'd whispered beneath her breath.
Falling in behind him, she was surprised when he set off into the grove of fruit trees. As he made his way
deeper still into the stand of trees, she thought she'd found at last why he was there.
“You're going to meet someone, aren't you, Sorn?” Her lip curled. “Some whore from the village, no
doubt."
Genny had not believed her brother or Patrick's adamant and emphatic assurances that Syn-Jern Sorn
was not sleeping with one of the village women.
“He's a man, isn't he?” she scoffed. “No, let me rephrase that: he has the proper equipment, doesn't he?"
For a moment her quarry seemed to disappear in a black veil of foliage, but when Genny stumbled her
way across roots and fallen branches, she caught sight of him ahead of her where the growth was
beginning to thin out. So intent was she on following him and finding out just exactly what he was up to,
she didn't hear the sound that had been beckoning Syn-Jern Sorn since the day he had arrived at
Montyne Cay.
He wasn't really sure when he became aware of being followed. He hadn't heard anyone behind him, but
his sixth sense seemed to be coming alive the deeper into the forest he walked, and he could almost feel
an invisible set of eyes watching him. He hid behind a tree at one point, hoping to catch sight of his
pursuer, but he could see nothing moving among the mango trees and sweet shrubs.
“You know I'm following you, don't you, Sorn?” Genny thought aloud as she crouched under a wild hog
plum tree. She saw him looking her way and held her breath. When his vision swept away, she let the air
out of her lungs slowly, softly. She stayed in that one position, her thighs cramping her, until she saw him
shrug. “That's right,” she thought, a jealousy she did not understand making her livid with rage. “Go on.
Go meet your mistress, you son-of-a-bitch!"
He knew someone was there. He could almost smell them. But for some reason he found hard to
understand, he wasn't afraid. Whoever was trailing him didn't mean him any harm; he was sure of that.
He knew he would have sensed danger had it been following him. Making the decision to go on into the
sparser reaches of the forest, he turned his back on his bird dog and started the slight climb upward
toward the sound that had intrigued him for months.
“Where the hell are you going?” she thought as she clawed her way up a steep incline of black, rotted
and compacted leaves. Her booted toes dug into the soft ground covering and squished wetly. The smell
was musty and not all that pleasant and she wrinkled her nose with disgust as her right foot slipped and
she slid down on her knees into the muck.
Syn-Jern had just reached the top of the incline when he heard a soft explosion of salty language and
stopped dead still in his tracks. His head whipped around and he peered back down the rolling mound of
leaves, slippery bank and twisted, exposed roots. He couldn't see anyone, but took the one tailing him to
be a young boy for the voice had been high-pitched and not all that accustomed to using foul language.
He frowned. It must be one of the village boys who
hard to breathe in the closeness amongst the foliage. Sweat dripped down his brow, ran from beneath his
arms, and he swatted at the insects that came to taste him. His booted feet crunched over fallen dried
palm fronds and squished tropical fruits that had partially splattered on the ground. The further he pushed
into the forest, the thicker the growth around him, but in the distance, he could hear what he had gone
there to find and so he struggled with the trees and shrubs and bushes, going deeper into the green-black
lushness of the tropical forest.
Genevieve Saur followed close behind.
When she saw him sneaking away from the compound, furtively looking about him to see if he was being
watched, the hair along her arms stirred.
“Just what the hell are you up to?” she'd whispered beneath her breath.
Falling in behind him, she was surprised when he set off into the grove of fruit trees. As he made his way
deeper still into the stand of trees, she thought she'd found at last why he was there.
“You're going to meet someone, aren't you, Sorn?” Her lip curled. “Some whore from the village, no
doubt."
Genny had not believed her brother or Patrick's adamant and emphatic assurances that Syn-Jern Sorn
was not sleeping with one of the village women.
“He's a man, isn't he?” she scoffed. “No, let me rephrase that: he has the proper equipment, doesn't he?"
For a moment her quarry seemed to disappear in a black veil of foliage, but when Genny stumbled her
way across roots and fallen branches, she caught sight of him ahead of her where the growth was
beginning to thin out. So intent was she on following him and finding out just exactly what he was up to,
she didn't hear the sound that had been beckoning Syn-Jern Sorn since the day he had arrived at
Montyne Cay.
He wasn't really sure when he became aware of being followed. He hadn't heard anyone behind him, but
his sixth sense seemed to be coming alive the deeper into the forest he walked, and he could almost feel
an invisible set of eyes watching him. He hid behind a tree at one point, hoping to catch sight of his
pursuer, but he could see nothing moving among the mango trees and sweet shrubs.
“You know I'm following you, don't you, Sorn?” Genny thought aloud as she crouched under a wild hog
plum tree. She saw him looking her way and held her breath. When his vision swept away, she let the air
out of her lungs slowly, softly. She stayed in that one position, her thighs cramping her, until she saw him
shrug. “That's right,” she thought, a jealousy she did not understand making her livid with rage. “Go on.
Go meet your mistress, you son-of-a-bitch!"
He knew someone was there. He could almost smell them. But for some reason he found hard to
understand, he wasn't afraid. Whoever was trailing him didn't mean him any harm; he was sure of that.
He knew he would have sensed danger had it been following him. Making the decision to go on into the
sparser reaches of the forest, he turned his back on his bird dog and started the slight climb upward
toward the sound that had intrigued him for months.
“Where the hell are you going?” she thought as she clawed her way up a steep incline of black, rotted
and compacted leaves. Her booted toes dug into the soft ground covering and squished wetly. The smell
was musty and not all that pleasant and she wrinkled her nose with disgust as her right foot slipped and
she slid down on her knees into the muck.
Syn-Jern had just reached the top of the incline when he heard a soft explosion of salty language and
stopped dead still in his tracks. His head whipped around and he peered back down the rolling mound of
leaves, slippery bank and twisted, exposed roots. He couldn't see anyone, but took the one tailing him to
be a young boy for the voice had been high-pitched and not all that accustomed to using foul language.
He frowned. It must be one of the village boys who
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