Rover of the Sands
Protocol be damned. You’re dead on your feet, scared witless though you won’t admit it, and not in the mood for a chinwag with your taciturn captain about things going bump in the night.
You fight the storm all the way astern to the hatch leading below decks. The sound of the roaring wind fades as you quickly descend the rope ladder. As has been your custom since your field promotion, you move your eyes proudly from the hammocks of your fellow crewmembers to the narrow wooden door marking your own private quarters just at the base of the ladder.
You and the Captain are the only people onboard to have your own small wood-and-slate ranges and you must use them very sparingly, as the extra fire creates even more heat on the already overtaxed vessel. Viola cooks just one meal for you per week and tonight is the happy night. On all other nights, you join your comrades in the cantina. What you really want right now though is the guaranteed second act to your weekly treat with Viola, the part that doesn’t involve cooking.
You step quietly inside. Where is she? The unattended pot of boiling water on the stove suggests she must have made another quick run for the head. Lately there has been much swinging back and forth of doors as your poor wife competes with all your bluff shipmates for access to the one below-decks latrine. For the most part, though, they have been understanding. You sit down at the table, removing your heavy boots, throwing them into the corner. You can’t wait for Viola to scold you for your untidiness, pointing angrily in that beguiling way of hers.
Daydreaming as you are, it takes you a moment to hear the hissing and to see the water boiling over. Where the hell is she? You choke the flame, grabbing the nearest rag to pull the pot off the range. As you throw open the door to go out and search for her, she is standing right in front of you. You both recoil in mutual surprise, but the tension quickly dissolves into a deep kiss.
A moment later, she is at the stove, her shapely hips showing to advantage in her purple gingham dress under the gas light. Her growing belly makes her apron cling at an awkward angle and she pushes it with some impatience to the side. Her straw-colored hair hangs loosely in its customary knot, lightly leaning against the nape of her long and graceful neck. You decide now is not the time to tell her about your strange day. Instead, you stamp your foot and she hesitates for a moment, bringing her hands to a stop over the newly boiling pot. This is your invitation. You cross the tiny kitchen and wrap her in your arms, with all her scent and her heat and her brimming promise. You kiss her up and down the curves of her soft shoulders before she turns to face you. Her cheeks are inflamed, almost feverish.
She is impatient throughout your silent supper, finally standing to take you by the hand, which she raises to cool the growing fire in her cheeks. She slowly turns her back to you and you are faced with the delicious prospect of her fine hair, which you love nothing more than to take slowly down so it rolls over her shoulders and her breasts. You notice she has tied her hair in a double knot tonight. Her pregnancy has made everything expand and blossom with such speed!
She turns back to you, her eyes now having completed their secret transformation. Whenever you are about to make love, the whites of her eyes turn sky blue, the way the sky used to be in the Old Times. They shine with a subtle luminescence until the act is complete, when they return again to the slightly jaundiced yellow of every human now living on the planet.
Viola is both your greatest thrill and your greatest secret. Her loyalty to you is absolute. If anyone else knew about her uniqueness, it would mean her summary execution. And quite possibly yours as well.
You fight the storm all the way astern to the hatch leading below decks. The sound of the roaring wind fades as you quickly descend the rope ladder. As has been your custom since your field promotion, you move your eyes proudly from the hammocks of your fellow crewmembers to the narrow wooden door marking your own private quarters just at the base of the ladder.
You and the Captain are the only people onboard to have your own small wood-and-slate ranges and you must use them very sparingly, as the extra fire creates even more heat on the already overtaxed vessel. Viola cooks just one meal for you per week and tonight is the happy night. On all other nights, you join your comrades in the cantina. What you really want right now though is the guaranteed second act to your weekly treat with Viola, the part that doesn’t involve cooking.
You step quietly inside. Where is she? The unattended pot of boiling water on the stove suggests she must have made another quick run for the head. Lately there has been much swinging back and forth of doors as your poor wife competes with all your bluff shipmates for access to the one below-decks latrine. For the most part, though, they have been understanding. You sit down at the table, removing your heavy boots, throwing them into the corner. You can’t wait for Viola to scold you for your untidiness, pointing angrily in that beguiling way of hers.
Daydreaming as you are, it takes you a moment to hear the hissing and to see the water boiling over. Where the hell is she? You choke the flame, grabbing the nearest rag to pull the pot off the range. As you throw open the door to go out and search for her, she is standing right in front of you. You both recoil in mutual surprise, but the tension quickly dissolves into a deep kiss.
A moment later, she is at the stove, her shapely hips showing to advantage in her purple gingham dress under the gas light. Her growing belly makes her apron cling at an awkward angle and she pushes it with some impatience to the side. Her straw-colored hair hangs loosely in its customary knot, lightly leaning against the nape of her long and graceful neck. You decide now is not the time to tell her about your strange day. Instead, you stamp your foot and she hesitates for a moment, bringing her hands to a stop over the newly boiling pot. This is your invitation. You cross the tiny kitchen and wrap her in your arms, with all her scent and her heat and her brimming promise. You kiss her up and down the curves of her soft shoulders before she turns to face you. Her cheeks are inflamed, almost feverish.
She is impatient throughout your silent supper, finally standing to take you by the hand, which she raises to cool the growing fire in her cheeks. She slowly turns her back to you and you are faced with the delicious prospect of her fine hair, which you love nothing more than to take slowly down so it rolls over her shoulders and her breasts. You notice she has tied her hair in a double knot tonight. Her pregnancy has made everything expand and blossom with such speed!
She turns back to you, her eyes now having completed their secret transformation. Whenever you are about to make love, the whites of her eyes turn sky blue, the way the sky used to be in the Old Times. They shine with a subtle luminescence until the act is complete, when they return again to the slightly jaundiced yellow of every human now living on the planet.
Viola is both your greatest thrill and your greatest secret. Her loyalty to you is absolute. If anyone else knew about her uniqueness, it would mean her summary execution. And quite possibly yours as well.