hair and beard plastered flat by
the water. Pale shoulders, a dark smudge of hair to the chest as he bobbed up
and then settled again, deeper in the water. He raised a hand to rub water from
his eyes, then flicked his hair back, creating a fountain of glimmering
droplets flying through the air.
And then, as if water were his natural element, he dipped
forward. His head submerged as his back appeared, a sinuous, flowing movement,
and then his butt, legs, feet and he was gone once more, lost below the
churning surface of the pool.
Briefly transfixed by the sight of the man, which had lasted
only a moment, she tore her eyes away and searched the forest perimeter again
for signs of any others.
Nothing.
She waited, and then there was another swelling of water and
the man’s head and shoulders bobbed up again, followed by the same eyes-swipe
and head flick.
She didn’t know what to do. If she slipped away, she would
never know where he went, only that there was a stranger here in her forest.
But what else? She could hardly approach him. That would be too dangerous. He
was an unknown, a risk.
She needed water, too, and the spring that fed this pool was
the only safe source she knew.
What to do?
She watched him carefully, now picking up all those clues
that must have been subliminal before. A grunt as he cleared his throat, an
irregular splash of water as he moved, almost lost to the steady gurgle from
the stream. A scent in the air, perhaps. When you live a life like this your
senses become attuned to these things.
§
He had been lying back in the water, arms spread, eyes shut,
drifting slowly until now he straightened, found his footing on the rocky
bottom of the pool – she knew the slimy hardness of those rocks so well! – and
stood.
Swaying for balance, the water came up to his ribs now.
His arms were long and lean, his frame wiry and muscular. He
had the look of a fighter, a scrapper. A survivor.
That smudge of dark hair thickened across his chest, down
over his ribs and over his belly, she saw as he started to emerge from the
water, treading carefully as he headed towards dry land... towards her .
His belly rippled with muscles and looked hard, dark with
that hair as it thickened towards...
She swallowed as he paused, the water around his thighs and
the long shaft of his manhood hanging down, fat and heavy. Its head just
touched the water’s surface, sending its own ripples spreading outwards.
She reached down, fingers trailing across her ribs, her
belly, to the waistband of her jeans, that belt of cord and the hardness she
had tucked there before venturing out.
Easing it free, she raised the handgun, suddenly very aware
of its weight. She didn’t aim it yet, just stood there with it poised. A solid
lump of reassurance in her hands.
The man stretched, yawning, and she watched his manhood
twitch, and then flop to one side as he took another step out of the water. Its
length swung easily as he moved.
“You got a silver bullet in that thing?”
He was staring right at the screen of vegetation, as if he
could see through it!
She didn’t move. She wasn’t the only one whose senses were
attuned to the environment, it seemed.
“If so, you don’t want to be wasting that silver bullet on
me,” the man went on.
How long since she’d heard another voice? She didn’t know.
Another memory lost, or buried deep
“It’s an old wives’ tale anyhow.” The man’s tone was easy,
conversational; no indication from his voice that she had a handgun that was
now trained on him and he was standing their butt-naked in front of her.
“Silver bullet or any old bullet – you hit one of the beasts right in the head
or in the heart and it’ll drop just like a man. Useful piece of information
that, and I’m giving it you as a gift, you hear me?”
One more step, another, and he was clear of the water.
She studied him, unable to deny the base feelings the sight
stirred in her. How long had it been? Since the
the water. Pale shoulders, a dark smudge of hair to the chest as he bobbed up
and then settled again, deeper in the water. He raised a hand to rub water from
his eyes, then flicked his hair back, creating a fountain of glimmering
droplets flying through the air.
And then, as if water were his natural element, he dipped
forward. His head submerged as his back appeared, a sinuous, flowing movement,
and then his butt, legs, feet and he was gone once more, lost below the
churning surface of the pool.
Briefly transfixed by the sight of the man, which had lasted
only a moment, she tore her eyes away and searched the forest perimeter again
for signs of any others.
Nothing.
She waited, and then there was another swelling of water and
the man’s head and shoulders bobbed up again, followed by the same eyes-swipe
and head flick.
She didn’t know what to do. If she slipped away, she would
never know where he went, only that there was a stranger here in her forest.
But what else? She could hardly approach him. That would be too dangerous. He
was an unknown, a risk.
She needed water, too, and the spring that fed this pool was
the only safe source she knew.
What to do?
She watched him carefully, now picking up all those clues
that must have been subliminal before. A grunt as he cleared his throat, an
irregular splash of water as he moved, almost lost to the steady gurgle from
the stream. A scent in the air, perhaps. When you live a life like this your
senses become attuned to these things.
§
He had been lying back in the water, arms spread, eyes shut,
drifting slowly until now he straightened, found his footing on the rocky
bottom of the pool – she knew the slimy hardness of those rocks so well! – and
stood.
Swaying for balance, the water came up to his ribs now.
His arms were long and lean, his frame wiry and muscular. He
had the look of a fighter, a scrapper. A survivor.
That smudge of dark hair thickened across his chest, down
over his ribs and over his belly, she saw as he started to emerge from the
water, treading carefully as he headed towards dry land... towards her .
His belly rippled with muscles and looked hard, dark with
that hair as it thickened towards...
She swallowed as he paused, the water around his thighs and
the long shaft of his manhood hanging down, fat and heavy. Its head just
touched the water’s surface, sending its own ripples spreading outwards.
She reached down, fingers trailing across her ribs, her
belly, to the waistband of her jeans, that belt of cord and the hardness she
had tucked there before venturing out.
Easing it free, she raised the handgun, suddenly very aware
of its weight. She didn’t aim it yet, just stood there with it poised. A solid
lump of reassurance in her hands.
The man stretched, yawning, and she watched his manhood
twitch, and then flop to one side as he took another step out of the water. Its
length swung easily as he moved.
“You got a silver bullet in that thing?”
He was staring right at the screen of vegetation, as if he
could see through it!
She didn’t move. She wasn’t the only one whose senses were
attuned to the environment, it seemed.
“If so, you don’t want to be wasting that silver bullet on
me,” the man went on.
How long since she’d heard another voice? She didn’t know.
Another memory lost, or buried deep
“It’s an old wives’ tale anyhow.” The man’s tone was easy,
conversational; no indication from his voice that she had a handgun that was
now trained on him and he was standing their butt-naked in front of her.
“Silver bullet or any old bullet – you hit one of the beasts right in the head
or in the heart and it’ll drop just like a man. Useful piece of information
that, and I’m giving it you as a gift, you hear me?”
One more step, another, and he was clear of the water.
She studied him, unable to deny the base feelings the sight
stirred in her. How long had it been? Since the
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