7 comments/ 14639 views/ 4 favorites The Cherry Tree By: GobletHolly182 This is my submission for the 2012 Earth Day contest. I was tired of the patronizing aspect of environmental protectionism (like it's for the earth's own good that we recycle; as if the earth cares what temperature it is) but I may have gotten a little carried away... Also inspired by the stunning beauty of another DC cherry blossom festival. Thanks to smallsbag for taking the time to edit, and for the thoughtful feedback! *** The cities still burned. The screams were long silenced and flames no longer gushed from a churning black sky, but the western horizon was still marked by four angry, orange-grey bruises. An acrid stink soaked the humid summer air. Liorit wondered dully if her mother and sisters had screamed. Shrieking was six year old Amith's habit; she screamed everything from her joy to her anger to her boredom, and would have greeted her first and last taste of true pain and terror in the same way. Shalhavit might have tried not to panic, though. She was tough, for nine, and would have spent her final minutes looking for a way out. And Mother would have stayed brave, for both of them. Liorit's throat swelled shut, but the tears would not come. She searched for an emotion and found indignation. It was the wrong emotion. She knew that. She should feel rage, grief, fear. But all she managed was mild annoyance with the four unceasing, distant blazes. Why should the cities still burn, now that everyone in them was dead? It seemed so pointless, and that exasperated her. The immortals would know. They could speak with the wind and the fire; they could ask. Liorit could ask them, and they could ask the Wild Earth. She resolved to ask, and the stinging discomfort in her throat eased slightly. Amiel? She frowned in confusion when no sound emerged to accompany the thought. She'd moved her lips; she was sure of it. She tried again. "Amiel?" It was a hoarse whisper, barely audible even in the stillness of the desert. "Amiel!" There. Her voice was scratchy and raw, but it was there. Liorit found it without relief. Amiel didn't answer, though, and she looked around to realize that she was alone. She stood on a low ridge, a stretch of dusty earth barely elevated above the surrounding fields of sun-bleached grass. The sun was high overhead, crashing down onto the rolling contours of desert hills; even the pale blue sky seemed washed-out by its glare. She tried to recall how long she had kept vigil over the burning cities. She remembered leaving Chay and Liat wrapped together in their blankets. Since close to dawn, then, if the air had still been cool enough to merit blankets. Yes, she remembered. A red-gold dawn. Amiel had had the watch while his brother slept. She thought he might have objected to her wandering off, but the details of an argument escaped her. No matter. She hadn't gone far. She would find Amiel, and she would ask him about the fires. With that resolve firmly in place, Liorit clambered down from her ridge. Her limbs seemed ignorant of the fog that saturated her mind; they moved with their customary sure swiftness, oblivious to the chaos of her thoughts. Returning to their small camp, she found Chay and Liat still fast asleep. The blankets had been kicked off to the side, but they were nestled together despite the heat. Liorit let them sleep. She scanned the surrounding slopes for signs of Amiel. It took her some scant heartbeats to find him; amidst the sparse low shrubs and tangled dead bushes, there rose a single flowering tree on a hill. The tree had not been there at dawn. By the time Liorit scaled the gentle rise, a light patina of sweat covered her whole body, and moisture beaded along her hairline. She wished she'd thought of water. Amiel was hunched against the blossoming tree that had no place in the blazing Levant desert. The tree was dark limbed and slender, and dripped with cool pink buds. Amiel was sprawled on its roots, back bent, head bowed, and arms wrapped tightly around the slim trunk. His infuriating, perfect composure was gone. Silent sobs wracked his large frame. Liorit hesitated. Her heart slid to the right. She knew she should feel a rage of emotions, but yesterday's horror had wrapped her in numbness. All she felt was pity for the broken man hugging his unnatural tree. All the despair and helplessness piled and concealed in her stomach—fire and wind reducing her world to a smoldering horror, the deaths of her mother and little sisters—every pain and terror channeled themselves into a desperate need to stop Amiel's tears. Not because she loved him, which she didn't. Not because he had done his best to save her family, which hadn't been enough. She wanted to comfort him because he was feeling everything she could not. She saw in him a perfect reflection, only her side of the mirror was wrong. She had been dry-eyed since yesterday, and the grief ached and stabbed where it tried futilely to free itself from her torturous cocoon of numbness. She craved release, but it eluded her. She couldn't comfort herself, since she couldn't cry, but maybe soothing Amiel would be the next closest thing. She approached deliberately and sank to the earth near his heaving form. The soil was soft and moist with the foreign nutrients needed by the tree. Wetness surprised her knees, seeping through the light linen of her skirts. Liorit wondered if the Wild Earth felt pain to reshape itself thusly; if transplanted by human hands, the tree's roots would have quickly been crushed by the hard baked earth, its cool flowers withered by the heavy sunshine. It was meant for another place, and another season. "The tree," she said quietly, "is wondrous." Amiel raised his head. His bronzed skin was flushed, tears clumped his overlong lashes, and the dark curls straggling to his chin were a disheveled mess. His eyes were deep with ancient regrets and battered with newly raw sorrow. "Cherry." His voice was its usual velvet-wrapped thunder. "It's called a cherry tree. They were my daughter's favorite." He shifted his large form, unfolding gracefully to sit up straighter beside his tree. His robe hung open above its corded belt, revealing a long swathe of defined chest and stomach muscles. "Daughter?" Liorit echoed. Carob brown eyes flicked from her to the arching dark branches and pale flowers above. Although his sobs had ceased, Amiel did nothing to dry the tears that streaked both cheeks and glistened along the square line of his jaw. "She was four, when the wild waters came. One of the youngest." He spoke softly, tranquilly even, lending a serene acceptance to his hopelessness. "I would coax cherry blossoms from the Wild for her while she was still at the breast, and she spoke the Wild Tongue before she could say 'Mama'." The Wild Tongue. Liorit recalled her purpose. "Amiel," she appealed, "please make the fires stop." She saw in his face that he'd forgotten. His tears had been for his own family, not hers. His darkest nightmares were of water, not fire. It didn't matter. Two thousand years ago or yesterday, the loss was the same. Liorit slipped closer and rose up onto her knees, sliding deft hands around his neck to pull his head under her chin. She hugged him to her chest, stroking his shoulder blades as if he were a child. Like a child, he let her. "Please," she said again. "They—they're still burning. For nothing, now." Her voice was poised, reasonable, treacherous. She could beg no more than she could cry. "Liorit," Amiel finally whispered. "You know I can't." Anger sliced through the enveloping numbness, and Liorit froze, startled into stillness. She examined the sudden emotion, dancing tentatively around it at first, then gripping it firmly. A faint thrill ran through her when it didn't dissolve in her grip. She clung to the anger, stiffening her embrace. "You won't," she accused flatly. Amiel pulled away. Coldness had replaced the anguish on his handsome immortal features. "We do not command." "So you've said," Liorit snapped. She ducked her head and seethed, slanting a glare up at Amiel from behind her long dark curtain of curls. "You flatter. You cajole." She threw his mantra back at him verbatim, surprising herself with the precision of her own memory. "You build a rapport and work to gain the Earth's trust, that the Wild elements might act in accordance with your wills." She sensed bitterness, pounced, and triumphantly reclaimed that emotion, too. It rivaled the anger in strength. She smacked the cherry tree, hard enough to bruise the heel of her palm. "The Wild Earth answered this request. Maybe," she suggested, "you just don't want some things badly enough." She said it to wound, to punish him for not being able to truly control the elements, the way the stories said. The stricken look in his eyes told her that he believed it. That he'd thrown the same accusation at himself, again and again, for two thousand years. Remorse, shame, guilt. These were right. This was what she wanted to feel. But the emotions she soaked up from Amiel were not enough. Liorit wanted to feel more. The desire to comfort Amiel was swept away by a powerful desire to share his pain. So she twisted the knife. "Did you even try? Did you ask? Or were you too scared of what it would mean if the Wild listened, this time?" A corner of her mind asked if she was trying to provoke the immortal into killing her. The idea surprised and excited her. Amiel only watched her in silence, though, his perfect face revealing no denial, no panic, no more guilt. His own peculiar brand of quiet anger had reasserted itself, and he had recovered his everlasting, absolute control. No, no, no. Control was what she was trying to escape. Remorse and shame began to fade, slipping away faster the more frantically she chased after them. Anger and bitterness followed, and a vast, hollow numbness opened to swallow her. "Please, Amiel," she whimpered. "Don't take them away. I want the pain. Give it back, please." So she could beg, after all. Curious. He recoiled from her, pity creasing his dark brow. "Please," she pleaded, desperate. "I didn't mean it. I know you wanted to save your wife, your daughter. I'm sorry! Just give me back the pain." Inspiration struck. "Burn me! Call fire, if you can't banish it. You can do this much. I know you can." Amiel rose swiftly to his feet and towered over her, dark eyes unreadable. He was stern and imposing and beautiful. "Stop it, Liorit," he commanded. "Stop it, now." She blinked up at him, trying to puzzle out his distress. "Stop?" "Stop," he repeated firmly. There was power in the calm order. Somehow, they had switched places, and he was reassuring her, now. "Stay here. Stay with me." "Stay," she repeated. She tasted the word until it made sense. He thought she wanted to die. She reminded him of those he'd lost to the Wild Tongue, the ones who spoke too often with the Earth, until they could understand nothing else. In their last days, the Lost spoke only of their own eagerly anticipated deaths. "No." She shook her head. "I'm human, remember? I cannot hear the Wild, and I don't want to die. I just want the pain, Amiel." She dug her hands into the soft dirt and clawed her fingers into fists. "Please?" He gazed down at her sadly. "The pain will come," he told her. "And you will feel no better." Why didn't he understand? "I don't want to feel better," she explained. "I want my mother back. I want my little sisters to laugh and play again. I want to kill Iofiel." Amiel flinched at the sound of his brother's name. "You, and the Wild Earth," he reminded her, bitter as dandelion. There was little question as to which of those Iofiel might actually have to worry about. "Why do you hide him, protect him?" she wanted to know. "It's his fault." She pushed herself to her feet, anger simmering just beyond her reach. "It's all his fault. Your floods, my fires. He tricked the Earth, and now we are all punished!" Amiel shook his head. He still stood several heads taller than her. "He didn't mean for the entire city to burn." His immovable forgiveness bashed a fissure into her cocooning numbness. Splinters shot out, and anger rushed in. "Four cities!" she cried. "Hundreds and hundreds of people. Children—" Liorit choked, gasping for breath. "He must have known. He did it on purpose!" "He didn't," Amiel said. His nostrils flared dangerously. "He wouldn't!" "Ask the Earth!" Liorit yelled. They confronted one another beneath the cherry tree, their anger crackling between them. "The Wild will tell you—he called it, persuaded it, forced it! I know it." She swiped the gathering moisture from her brow, smudging the back of her hand with sweat and ash. "Why do you hide him?" "He is my brother," Amiel rasped, white-faced. "We don't betray brothers, not even to the Wild. Especially not to the Wild." "Damn you, Amiel!" Liorit took a furious step forward, and had to tilt her head further back to hold Amiel's gaze. "What the fuck do you call what he did to you?" "It wasn't him!" Amiel snapped back, trembling. "Even if he'd wanted to unleash the elements, the Wild will never bend itself to Iofiel's will again. Not ever." "I don't believe it." Liorit's anger boiled over. "I'll give him to the Earth myself." She threw herself at the cherry tree and dragged her dirt-caked nails down its slender trunk, mutilating the neat horizontal lines that slit the dark bark. "I'll give you Iofiel!" she shouted hoarsely. "Oldest, hear me! I know where to find Iofiel!" It wasn't strictly true. She had no idea where he'd gone after the fires had started to rain, although she did know that if he had survived, he'd make his way back to his brothers. And even if she had known exactly where to find Iofiel, she could not speak the Wild Tongue; the Earth could not hear her. Amiel hit her anyway. The blow snapped her head to the side, and Liorit was suddenly lying on her back, blinking through blackness. The darkness cleared slowly, revealing bright sunshine reaching down at her through a tapestry of pink blossoms. She groped at the raw thickness along her right temple, and her fingers came away bloody. A spasm pulsed between her thighs. She pressed harder into the bruise, and the dull ache solidified into a dizzying pain. Yes. Liorit gasped for air. "Oh," she breathed. "That's good." Amiel's face swam into view, and her prodding fingers were forced away from the wound. "Liorit," he murmured. "I am..." His voice trailed off. His eyes were huge, and the vestiges of his fury lurked beneath the concern and shame. "Are you...?" "It hurts," she told him gratefully. The tears would still not come, but the pain, at least, was fresh and strong and wonderful. He pulled her to her feet. Dizziness spun her, and she fell into him. He caught her easily, and propped her against the trunk of his tree, supporting her with steady arms. She squirmed, seeking to free herself from his iron hold, wanting to jab her fingers into her swelling face before the pain had a chance to fade. His grip tightened. Frustrated, she jerked her head back to dash it against the hard cherry wood. Pain, warm and comforting, flooded her mind. Her lips curved upwards. "Dammit, Liorit," Amiel grated at her. Her vision had blurred, but she could hear fear in his gravelly voice. "Stop it." She ducked her head to slam it backwards again, but before she could, long fingers grasped her throat. Amiel held her head in place. Liorit whined. Amiel dragged her chin up, forcing her gaze into his. When their eyes met, desire kicked Liorit in the stomach. She sighed in surprise and stopped fighting. Amiel held her so tightly that she barely moved at all as her muscles suddenly wilted. A wave of delightful craving shuddered through her, deepening the welcome agony in her head. Amiel stared back at her. Fear and distaste mixed in his dark eyes, but Liorit could feel his shaft stiffening against her hip. Self-loathing chased anger across his handsome face, and he pulled back abruptly. Liorit sagged against the tree, but managed not to fall when he released her. "Amiel!" she blurted. He didn't look away. "Don't go," she whispered. His eyes burned straight through her as he drew in again. His hands grazed the twin swells of her buttocks before circling her waist and pressing her in towards him as he crushed her against the tree. His erection was a hard bulge digging into her stomach, hot even through the layers of their robes. Amiel's hands slid back down to her buttocks and squeezed hard, as if he were juicing grapes. Then they slipped even lower and lifted her suddenly. Liorit's feet left the ground. Her dress ripped as it dragged up the trunk. Amiel stepping into the space she vacated, thrusting his thighs forward and balancing Liorit so that she was wedged between his pelvis and the tree. She gripped Amiel's hands where they held her thighs, wrapped her knees around his lean waist, and looked up at him. His face was expressionless, but there was a storm in his gaze. Liorit waited. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, each erratic beat echoing in the wound on her head. He didn't love her. Not the way Chay loved Liat, with the soul's entirety, with euphoric terror and fierce tenderness, with passion groping towards oneness. No, that love shone in his every unguarded smile, but it was not for her. Amiel loved three things, and Liorit was not one of them. He was in love with his wife, two thousand years dead, claimed by the Wild Earth in a moment of impulsive rage and fear. He loved his brothers, his brethren immortals, the survivors. Chay. Iofiel. And, in the way of immortals, he loved the Wild Earth. Liorit would never understand how he did, how he could still, despite what it had taken from him. It was a complicated love, a vast love, an inhuman love. Equal parts challenge and worship, it was a trust so complete, it had survived broken faith. It was violence and utter submission. Amiel loved his dead wife, his brothers, and the Wild Earth. He didn't love Liorit. She wondered if he hated her. Liorit stared into his burning brown eyes, and found no tenderness there, but no hate, either. She shivered when she realized what it was she saw. Need. The need in Amiel's eyes was more powerful than any desire. It was a simple inevitability, a desperate poverty, an insatiable compulsion. He didn't want her. He had to have her. "No," she croaked. "Not like this—" He cut off her words with his mouth, mashing his lips against her own and forcing his tongue roughly inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered, struggling to breathe around his assault. He wielded his tongue like a weapon, shoving it into the tender, membranous skin of her cheeks and gums until she tasted blood. Amiel jerked his head up and spat loudly. Liorit's eyes flew open as she dragged in a deep, ragged breath. The world reeled, a giddy jumble of pink and blue and brilliant sunshine. Still squashed between the man and the tree, Liorit grabbed Amiel's rigid shoulders and dug her nails into the muscles straining beneath his sleeves. Silence thundered around them. "Don't go," she repeated finally, her voice pitched low and scratchy. Amiel ripped her robe apart in agreement. The delicate weave gave easily, to expose Liorit's small breasts and taut stomach. Amiel yanked it all the way down to her hips before rubbing his hands up her sides to fondle her breasts. The coarse bark was rough against her skin, and bit where her spine protruded. A soft whimper escaped Liorit as she looked down at her chest. Amiel's large, elegant hands groped with a wholly uncharacteristic lack of grace and restraint. They squeezed too deeply, pulled too forcefully, pinched too hard. She would have bet all five cities that Amiel was a thoughtful, refined lover. The Cherry Tree I look away as the young man pauses in his work and removes his shirt, baring his torso to the bright Caribbean sunshine. The sun is hot, but there is a light breeze that his tight white tee shirt has screened his sweaty back and chest from enjoying. This, I assume, is why he has removed his shirt in my backyard. His muscles ripple as he bends and heaves the heavy bag of leaves to his broad shoulders and walks, crab-like with it to my front gate, dumping it there for the trash collection tomorrow morning. I try to get back to my work, but it is useless. My eyes follow him through the wall of windows around the house to my gate. I cannot tear them away from the muscled shoulders that taper into a strong back, narrow waist and pert buttocks. I wonder what he would look like emerging from my pool, beads of water clinging to that smooth chocolate-coloured skin, his short dreadlocks sending rivulets down his spine and along the undulating plane of his pecs. I sigh. At 46 I'm old enough to be his father and it's not safe to be openly gay in Jamaica. He'd probably curse me or beat me to a pulp if he knew that I wanted to lick the sweat off his body. I close my eyes, waiting for the image of him, emblazoned on my retinas, to fade. My cock stiffens as I do, and I sigh again. Writer's block is a hell of a thing. "Time to take a break and get a drink, Andrew," I mutter to myself. "You should have taken to method acting instead, my boy. At least you'd have been good at it. You need to get into your characters' heads and feel what they feel. Feel the killer's hands as he watches his victim..." I know that I must have been daydreaming because I realise that I do not know what has caused the young man outside to break into a sheet of local expletives. I wonder fleetingly if he saw me watching him, but dismiss that thought frantically since I was assured by my architect that these windows would not allow that. Reluctantly brave, I go to check on him. My heartbeat stops again and I fight my body not to have an erection when I see him. He is so beautiful; so perfect as the protagonist in my next novel. "Are you okay, Kevin?" I croak. Smooth, Andrew! Pull yourself together. "What's the matter?" I try again. My voice sounds more normal to me this time. "Oh shit, Mr. Vereen! I need to get this off me!" he says brushing his skin wildly. I stand like a deer stuck in the headlights. "I don't understand," I manage finally. Surely he couldn't have meant that he wanted to remove his skin, and anything else was just too much to imagine at the moment. 'It's the cherry tree! I'm allergic! I always break out into a rash when cherry branches touch my skin!" I look at him more closely and indeed, see a fine rash breaking out all over his torso and arms. I frown at him. If he knew this then why did he not say something before? My mind turns to blackmail immediately and I want to cry. The truth dawns on me that I am already in thrall to this young man. "So if you knew that this would happen why did you try to trim the tree?" I exclaim. "I didn't think you'd believe me if I told you that. Many people don't. I just wanted to do a good job for you but this is killing me!" "Come!" I say grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the house. "Would a shower help?" "Yes, please!" he sounds sorry for himself and it tears at my heart. I want him so much. I lead him into my home and excuse myself as he undresses in the bathroom. I take the clothes that he hands to me around the door and leave him, to put them in the washer. Hell! I hold his briefs up for inspection. He really is naked in my home! I sniff his musk and sweat and wish, naughtily that he would catch me doing it. I giggle like a madman. I hurry down the stairs to fulfil my task. It's no use, he could never be interested in a short, portly, balding, middle-aged writer with an uncertain past. I'm only embarrassing myself to even dream of something happening between us. I move between the utility room where I wash and dry his clothes, and my kitchen where I fix us a light meal of tuna salad and cornbread. He is mine, if for only an hour this afternoon, and I'm going to milk this fantasy all I can. I wonder if I should offer him some white wine, but decide that that smacks too much of romantic interest, and that I do not yet dare to confess. I turn on the stereo and serve up a little light jazz-inspired reggae. It is classy, up-market music, but still reggae. I hope he will be impressed. It occurs to me suddenly that he might be a dancehall fan and I don't have any of that in my collection! I think of finding a radio station somewhere and just using that as my background noise if the conversation falters. I'm almost angrily disappointed that he doesn't like jazz when it occurs to me how pathetic I'm being. I haven't even asked him what he likes but I'm already disparaging his choices. Isn't close-mindedness a sign of getting old? Ageing isn't about numbers, it's about attitude to life, I tell myself importantly. I feel younger for having thought of this by myself. I decide to just tell him that the radio is there and that he should select something. At least I'll learn something about him if I allow him to do that I think cleverly. I don't realise how long I have spent preparing for our "date" and thinking about him until I hear my clock strike two. I've been here for nearly an hour! I grab his clothes, still warm from the drier and bolt upstairs to find him. He turns when he hears me coming and smiles welcomingly at me. He has been browsing through a book from my shelf, his head bobbing slightly to the strains of some jazzed-up Marley. He's wearing only a towel sarong that rides low on his hips and it is all that I can do not to reach for the knot in front. "I was wondering where you were," he says simply, but if he had said "Oh baby, come to bed now and let's make love," I couldn't have been happier. "I was looking at your paintings," he says sounding slightly amused when I say nothing. "Interesting choices." His voice is gently challenging. My paintings are mainly of nude men; even the abstracts, so surely he knows what I am now if he didn't suspect before. He looks at me thoughtfully and then looks away quickly when I meet his eyes. In a way I'm disappointed because I want some sort of reaction from him. I comfort myself with the thought that at least he didn't curse me, and remind myself that I did not expect anything from him at all. "May I get dressed, Mr. Vereen?" he says after a while, and reaches for the clothes that I'm still holding. I hand them to him; and as he takes them from me I would swear that his finger rubbed mine, deliberately. Well, I'd swear it if I hadn't just been dreaming of it and so probably really did conjure the gesture. He turns away from me and walks toward my powder room to change. "Wait!" I shout, startling him, and myself. "How's your skin? I-I mean, do you want me to put some talcum powder on you?" He looks straight into my eyes and smiles wickedly. "Do you mean that you want to rub talcum powder on my body, Mr. Vereen?" "No! No! Of course not! I have some that I was offering you to use on your rash!" As with that phantom touch of a few moments ago that still haunts me, I imagine that I see a flicker of desire and disappointment in his expression. "Mr. Vereen?" he says puzzled and I know that I have slipped off into a daydream about him again. I must pull myself together. "May I offer you some lunch?" I say breathlessly before I do something foolish. "Lunch? Wow! Thank you! That's very kind of you." He seems genuinely startled by my gesture. "There's taclum powder in the bathroom upstairs," I say softly. "You can use it on your rash. If you really need any help though." He only smiles weakly and shakes his head at me as he turns away again. When he returns ten minutes later he has smoothed the powder over his stomach, legs, neck and arms. In fact, it occurs to me that he has put it everywhere that he can reach. My cock twitches at the thought of where that might include. I say nothing when he hands me the bottle of powder and turns his back for me to oblige him. My hands tremble as I run my fingers over his flesh and feel the strength of the muscles under his skin. My hand rubs him down gently and I am happy that he has his back to me since my cock has hardened again. "There you go, Kevin," I say after about five minutes of touching him. "Please stay away from my cherry tree in the future. I am not going to be angry if you don't trim that, but I won't be amused if you do!" I'm babbling inanely, I know; and my attempt at humour isn't funny at all, but I just want to keep my hand from reaching for his cock, or from straying anywhere else on his body for that matter. Our lunch goes surprisingly well! Over the next three hours we discover that we share the same politics, that we both love sports – cricket, tennis and golf for me, football, boxing and basketball for him and athletics for both of us; and that we do enjoy some of the same music. I promise myself to get some Bounty Killer before he comes again in two weeks. It will make me feel closer to him. I smile to myself when he actually manages to convince me that Buju was really a victim of circumstance! I'm surprised to learn that he is a college graduate and that he does this gardening only because he was unable to find a job after he left his employment when his boss made a pass at him. Some women are like that, and some men, like Kevin, are principled. Of course, I take the hint that he may not judge me because of my lifestyle choices, but that was not to be confused with personal interest. I resign myself to having to look but not touch him during his fortnightly forays here at my home. "I can come back the day after tomorrow and finish up if you like; no extra charge!" he says quietly after a rare silence between us. "Okay!" I say hoping that I don't sound too breathless and eager. "Afternoon good for you? There's not much left to do. I could probably finish it this evening," his voice trailed off. "No, come back on Monday!" I watch his eyebrows rise for the second time that afternoon. The first time was when I offered the wine. He declined that, but agreed to share a six-pack of Red Stripe with me. I watch mesmerised as throughout the afternoon he rubs the cold bottles on his skin still seeking relief from the sting of his allergy. I am especially happy for the cover of the table between us when he rubs it over his chest and I watch his nipples harden. I hear him groan and know that I would give anything; everything that I own, to be with him. I need to get him out of my home before I make a fool of myself. "So, Monday then," I say, in my closing-a-deal-with-my-agent voice. "I have to get back to work so I'll see you on Monday." He takes the hint that our lunch is over and stands up. "You don't need help with the dishes?" "No, no! That's fine!" He extends his hand and I realise how ridiculous I must look sitting at my table like a lady receiving the hand of a gentleman. I stand up quickly and extend my hand into a firm, professional handshake. "Thank you, again, for your kindness," he says letting go my hand. "You're a good man, Mr. Vereen. I've enjoyed myself. I don't know my father at all. I was raised by his grandmother after my father abandoned my mother as a pregnant teenager. I've always wanted to have even one evening with my father where we could just talk about things man-to-man like today." I smile at this little speech. I knew that I'd be saving him from something. I always sense this in my new boyfriends. It's part of the reason that despite appearances, I am a great seducer. I watch him pack away his things out in the yard and load them into the back of his pickup. Mercifully, he doesn't turn around because I am finding it hard to let him leave. I want to invite him to watch tv with me or something. I can't explain it, but I feel so lonely because I know that he's leaving and I won't have any reason to call or see him before Monday. I pull myself together after he drives away, and comforting myself with the thought that I'll see him in two days instead of my customary two weeks, I psych myself up for a very cold shower. Needless to say, it does not work, and I am tormented with images of him when I close my eyes. Finally I succumb to my desires and allow myself to fantasize about him. I fist my rigid cock as I dream of myself entering the shower and washing him down lovingly to relieve the anguish caused by the cherry blossoms. My hands roam his soapy wet body like a sculptor getting to know a piece of rock before his assault. I slip my hand into the crevasse between his buttocks and curve them around his slippery tight ass cheeks. His groaning is music to my ears and so I slide my hands down his flanks. Kneeling, I feel the failing strength of his powerful legs as he trembles under my deluge of passion. I play with his cock and when I feel it respond to my ministrations I nurse at his groin, and he growls his approval. I feel his thick phallus harden in my mouth. I hear him whimper. "Shit!" he exclaims at last. I chuckle at the uncontrolled expletive and the rumble of my chest sends lightning bolts through the nerve endings in his cock to his brain and back again. "Jeez! Fuck!" he groans and grabs the back of my head, forcing me to stay with his cock. He threatens to deep throat me, but stops just short of that. I suck his cock harder and hear him beg me to stop. I can't move even if I want to because his hands press my head down even more tightly the more he wants me to pull away. He's going to force himself to accept this. It is what he has wanted for a long time, but he has been too afraid of public opinion to allow himself satisfaction. He cums violently and I choke on the copious amounts of jism. I stagger to my feet and meet his body sliding half-way down the tiled shower as his legs give way at last. He looks dazed. He smiles at me gratefully. He clutches for my body and fondles my nipple. "You're amazing, Andrew," he whispers as I lean in to claim his mouth. The loud ringing of the telephone interrupts my daydream. "Damn!" It is my agent asking if I've come up with the plot for my new novel. He reminds me how worried my publisher is. I haven't written anything work shit in two-and-a-half years. They think that I've lost my nerve since I moved back to Jamaica. I've discovered to my chagrin that gay erotic horror muse isn't inspired by the horrifying situation in which I now find myself. I've got into serious trouble with two men before in Toronto, and my mind taunts me that Kevin will be strike three! How often will I succeed in killing my protagonists before I'm caught? "I'm working on something," I inform him, ignoring my misgivings. I reflect that if I offer to drive him here on Monday there would be no one to tie him to my place since it would not have been time for his fortnightly visit. I smile wanly to myself as I mentally calculate how much Gramoxone I will have to give Kevin in order to subdue him. My cock hardens again as I think of my soon-to-be-lover. It will be hard to wait for two days, but I will force myself to do this for the sake of my art. The Cherry Tree Not that there were still five cities left to bet. Liorit groaned in despair, and thrust her hips forward. Her loincloth was drenched with the slippery fluids seeping from her slit. Craving friction, she tried to roll her hips, but was trapped too tightly against the tree. "Amiel!" she begged. He shifted beneath her, shoving one hip forward to hold her in place while he fumbled with a hand inside his robes. She ground against his jutting pelvic bone as he tugged the folds of soft wool apart and maneuvered to haul her skirts up around her waist and pull her undercloth out of the way. His erection dragged along her inner thigh, trailing wetness. Liorit gasped, arched her neck, and stared at the delicate flowering canopy overhead. There was a probing stiffness, a twitching, triumphant discovery, and an abrupt twinge as she was stretched open. Amiel's rigid length slid greedily inside. Liorit clenched her muscles around the unyielding shaft and hissed. Amiel buried himself in her, crushing her against the tree with his chest. He grunted throatily and began to thrust. He pounded her steadily into the tree. Each stroke glided deep, slamming in to fill Liorit over and over, teasing her insides with jolts of maddening pleasure. Rough bark chafed with exquisite pain as her back scraped up and down the trunk. She pushed her hands inside Amiel's open robe and around his jerking torso. His skin was sweaty, hot, and soft as butter. She raked her nails down the smoothness of his back, urging him to go harder, faster. "Oh!" A cry burst from Liorit as the pad of Amiel's thumb dove into the folds of skin above her opening. She was so wet that his finger slipped around uncontrollably, running over the tight, throbbing nub of nerves with no semblance of rhythm, or even conscious intent. The unpredictability propelled her higher. And higher. Pleasure flooded in her lower abdomen, spreading a tingling numbness through her buttocks, thighs, and stomach. The sensations inflated rapidly. Her pleasure swelled larger and larger, seeking a breaking point but not finding one, despite the preoccupied dedication with which Amiel was sawing away at it. She didn't notice when his hand left her clit, but she did notice when a slippery finger shoved into her other, tighter entrance. The surrounding muscles rippled. She moaned loudly as the new pressure intensified every sensation but still withheld release. The pleasure hurt, the pain hurt, and a haze gathered around Liorit. She cried out for Amiel, but instead of the beautiful immortal, her mind's eye saw two little girls. Shalhavit sat on the orchard wall and nibbled on sycamore figs, watching the guards with her quiet fearlessness. Amith peered excitedly around a corner, her peaking eye bright with challenge, a cloud of golden curls compromising her hiding spot. Shalhavit, riding double in front of Liat and swaying with the donkey's lazy pace, grinned and begged Liorit to teach her the words of a dirty song. Amith curled up in her sleep and pressed her cheek against the slumbering Shalhavit's back, both girls lulled under by the sound of Liorit's lyre, candlelight flickering over their small faces. The glimpses were simple and joyous and terrifying. They speared Liorit, impaling her as Amiel did. She was drowning, suffocating in their happiness. "Amiel," she choked. "Harder." Amiel complied, although the glazed look in his eyes made Liorit unsure whether he had actually heard her. He plunged into her with a desperate brutality. As she writhed beneath him, she wondered what ghosts he saw. Then the cherry blossoms began to float down around them in a surreal, gentle rain, and Liorit realized that Amiel fought not only with his past, but with the Wild Earth itself. In that flash of intuition, she understood. Everything he could not claim from the Wild Earth—submission, relief, deliverance—his body demanded from her. Wild fury drove his thrusts, desolation his cruelty, fear his frantic haste. His pain and sorrow tore into her own. Agony and pleasure battled one another for release, crying out for an escape. She screamed in frustration. As if her scream had been an unwittingly awaited signal, white hot pleasure streaked suddenly through her entire body. It converged in her core, flared, and burst. Powerful contractions rocked her insides. And, finally, the tears came. They stung her eyes and burned as they streamed down her cheeks. They wet her bruised lips and slid, salty, into her mouth. They mingled with the sweat on her neck to form wet rivulets that trickled across her collarbone and between her breasts. Loud, throaty wails filled the air as she continued to spasm around Amiel's mighty thrusts. She cried wordlessly, letting go of the numbness and welcoming the cleansing release, the blistering sears in her heart, the waves of torture and bliss. She cried until her face was drenched and her vision sparkled. Everywhere, cherry blossoms swirled. She wept for the cities. For their erstwhile beauty, and for what they had become, in the end, nests of hate and avarice. For the proud monuments of splendor and majesty reduced to scorched graves. She wept for the immortals. For their failed pleas for reason, for their eternal devotion to one another, for their despairing decision to take Liorit and Liat and escape the holocaust. For the horror on Iofiel's face as he spoke the Wild Tongue and, for the second time in two thousand years, ended an age in destruction. She wept for the terrible beauty of the Wild. For the bright, radiant blaze of fire as it erupted around Iofiel. For the lissome grace of the wind as it scattered men like tumbleweed. For the awesome crack of rock, singing as it opened to swallow palaces, markets, and gardens. She wept for the dead. For her sisters, whose sweet, precious lives had been cut much too short, and for her mother, who had gone back to the girls knowing she would die. Chay had warned her that if she didn't stay with the immortals, they couldn't save her. She had nodded grimly, and told him the little ones would need her. "No!" She howled at the unfairness of it all. How could souls so innocent and loving be condemned to suffer and die? How could she still feel anything, when they never would again? Liorit keened her grief and beat her fists against Amiel's broad chest. He didn't notice. His breathing was labored as his penetrations became shallow and urgent. He buried his eyes in Liorit's shoulder and moaned loudly. She felt his shaft swell hotter and harder as it thrust faster and faster, and knew he was there. Amiel threw back his head, a name ripping from the bottom of his lungs as he exploded inside her. "Yael!" Dark eyes wide, he gasped through his orgasm. Liorit cried quietly as the rolling waves eased and slowly subsided. She came down gradually, drained and unbound, and clung to Amiel. He pulled out of her but held her so she didn't fall. That was just as well, since Liorit couldn't feel her legs. She let him lower her onto the surrounding carpet of petals. The air was still. The cherry blossoms smelled of spring, lush and fresh. Amiel leaned against his tree, and she lay in his arms, looking up at him. He didn't kiss her again, but ran a gentle finger across her broken bottom lip. "The Earth," he told her after a long moment of silence, "says thank you. For your tears." A breeze prickled along her damp cheeks, and Liorit shivered. "I'm glad I can't hear the Wild Tongue." She recalled the strange rain of blossoms. She had thought they were Amiel's doing, but suddenly wasn't so sure. "The Earth. Did it cry, too?" Amiel smiled sadly. "A small piece, yes. The Wild is everywhere. It cries, and laughs, and screams, and dances. All at once, always." Liorit stared bitterly up at the shining sun and spreading, slender branches, still full of pale flowers. Beauty hurt. Liorit wondered if it always would. "I'm glad I can't hear the Wild Tongue." She reached for his hand, and gripped it tightly. "But I want it to share my pain." "It does." Amiel hugged her closer. She believed him, but it wasn't enough. "If I could hurt the Earth," she said fiercely, "I would." Amiel shook his head, dark curls swinging. "You cannot hurt the Wild, Liorit. "You can only anger it."