night on a Cuban farmer in the fields neighboring Guantanamoâavoiding any more luxury craft but gorging on rafts full of Cuban escapees, plucking men and women at will from the decks of Haitian smuggling boats.
My hunger seems to grow each night. I realize if I continue at this pace that I will eventually put myself at risk, yet I do nothing to modify my behavior.
The memory of cinnamon and musk, the promise of a mate of my own kind overpower any thoughts of caution. The closer I come to her, the more my loins ache, the more sleep eludes me, the more I need to take to the air. Only the night and the hunting its darkness allows provide any relief. Then, at least, while I search for prey I can forget my need for her. Then I can lose myself in the kill. Then, after I gorge myself on fresh meat and blood, I can finally sleep.
Â
When the low island of Grand Cayman finally rises on the horizon, I consider mooring in its busy harbor, but then decide to bypass it for the lesser island of Cayman Brac. Anchoring in an almost deserted cove, I resolve to go no further until I meet the girl.
I continue the pattern of sleeping through the day, hunting after dark. Some nights I see how far I can roam, trying to fly a wide arc between Jamaica and Haiti, attempting always to catch her scent.
Days pass, evenings go by. I sleep. I fly. I hunt. I search. And I sleep again.
Â
When July first comes and goes without any sign of her, I worry that I may have miscalculated. Maybe, I think, I should have concentrated on Curaçao. Maybe I should have waited in Miami.
A storm front comes through and for three horrible days I pace, caged in the cabin of my small ship, my mind filled only with thoughts of her.
The weather clears the next day and I take to the sky the moment the sun sets. The air rushes around me, rain-cleansed, fresh. I allow myself to hope again as I fly far to the south and curve north, then sweep back again.
Nothing.
I gain altitude and repeat the sweep once more. Toward the southern end of the arc something tickles my nostrilsâa hint of an aroma, a possibility of cinnamon. I spiral in the air, breathe in, over and over again.
Nothing once more.
Widening the spiral, I circle down to the water, then rise back into the sky. A whiff of cinnamon and musk attacks my nostrils. Surprised, I roar into the evening air, roar again when I lose track of the scent. I reverse the path of the spiral, desperately sniffing the air, searching, hoping.
My nostrils flare when her scent hits me. Unbearably strong, its effect courses through me the way a drug must affect an addict. My heart races as I continue to follow its trail, my loins ache with want for her. I speed forward into the dark night air, her aroma growing more intense as I fly nearer.
The lights of a city pass underneath me and I realize Iâve reached land. Jamaica, I think; the time hasnât been long enough to reach Haiti.
Shortly after that the land goes dark below me, barely a light glowing anywhere in sight, only the stars and a half moon to light the countryside.
By now Iâm mad with lust, lacking any care or caution, any thought of anything but finding this female, this temptress, and taking her, having her, using her until Iâm spent.
The aroma intensifies. I wonder if I can endure it.
Something passes in the air, over and behind me and a delightful sound of laughter, a noise like silver bells ringing, fills my mind.
âWhere are you?â I mindspeak.
âLook down,â she says, her thoughts touching me, smooth and cool as velvet against skin.
I look below and see a dark shadow skim over the equally dark landscape. Suddenly the shadow turns and the pale, cream-colored underbody of her shows in the moonlight.
My breath escapes me. I realize sheâs flying upside downto display herself to me and the pleasure of it is almost unbearable. âYou like?â she asks. The pealing of silver bells fills my mind again and
My hunger seems to grow each night. I realize if I continue at this pace that I will eventually put myself at risk, yet I do nothing to modify my behavior.
The memory of cinnamon and musk, the promise of a mate of my own kind overpower any thoughts of caution. The closer I come to her, the more my loins ache, the more sleep eludes me, the more I need to take to the air. Only the night and the hunting its darkness allows provide any relief. Then, at least, while I search for prey I can forget my need for her. Then I can lose myself in the kill. Then, after I gorge myself on fresh meat and blood, I can finally sleep.
Â
When the low island of Grand Cayman finally rises on the horizon, I consider mooring in its busy harbor, but then decide to bypass it for the lesser island of Cayman Brac. Anchoring in an almost deserted cove, I resolve to go no further until I meet the girl.
I continue the pattern of sleeping through the day, hunting after dark. Some nights I see how far I can roam, trying to fly a wide arc between Jamaica and Haiti, attempting always to catch her scent.
Days pass, evenings go by. I sleep. I fly. I hunt. I search. And I sleep again.
Â
When July first comes and goes without any sign of her, I worry that I may have miscalculated. Maybe, I think, I should have concentrated on Curaçao. Maybe I should have waited in Miami.
A storm front comes through and for three horrible days I pace, caged in the cabin of my small ship, my mind filled only with thoughts of her.
The weather clears the next day and I take to the sky the moment the sun sets. The air rushes around me, rain-cleansed, fresh. I allow myself to hope again as I fly far to the south and curve north, then sweep back again.
Nothing.
I gain altitude and repeat the sweep once more. Toward the southern end of the arc something tickles my nostrilsâa hint of an aroma, a possibility of cinnamon. I spiral in the air, breathe in, over and over again.
Nothing once more.
Widening the spiral, I circle down to the water, then rise back into the sky. A whiff of cinnamon and musk attacks my nostrils. Surprised, I roar into the evening air, roar again when I lose track of the scent. I reverse the path of the spiral, desperately sniffing the air, searching, hoping.
My nostrils flare when her scent hits me. Unbearably strong, its effect courses through me the way a drug must affect an addict. My heart races as I continue to follow its trail, my loins ache with want for her. I speed forward into the dark night air, her aroma growing more intense as I fly nearer.
The lights of a city pass underneath me and I realize Iâve reached land. Jamaica, I think; the time hasnât been long enough to reach Haiti.
Shortly after that the land goes dark below me, barely a light glowing anywhere in sight, only the stars and a half moon to light the countryside.
By now Iâm mad with lust, lacking any care or caution, any thought of anything but finding this female, this temptress, and taking her, having her, using her until Iâm spent.
The aroma intensifies. I wonder if I can endure it.
Something passes in the air, over and behind me and a delightful sound of laughter, a noise like silver bells ringing, fills my mind.
âWhere are you?â I mindspeak.
âLook down,â she says, her thoughts touching me, smooth and cool as velvet against skin.
I look below and see a dark shadow skim over the equally dark landscape. Suddenly the shadow turns and the pale, cream-colored underbody of her shows in the moonlight.
My breath escapes me. I realize sheâs flying upside downto display herself to me and the pleasure of it is almost unbearable. âYou like?â she asks. The pealing of silver bells fills my mind again and
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