“How did you know I…?”
“Ishga would not bring you unless you had something to trade. And I do not want your clothes.” She laughed again, a low, dirty sound that turned Marius’ lips downward in prudish disapproval. “Well? What have you got for me?”
Marius reached into his jerkin and removed the two wedding rings he had lifted in Borgho City. He held them out on his palm.
“Are these enough?”
She viewed them with a curt “tch”, and he lapsed into an embarrassed silence. This woman was nearly an animal. And here he was, a man of the world: sophisticated, educated – well, knowledgeable, at any rate – at home in any city in the civilized world, holding out trinkets like a child hoping for approval. He almost closed his hand and removed the offering. He couldn’t say why he didn’t.
“Well, what does she normally charge?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. The old woman tilted her head and glared out of the corners of her eyes at him, and he realised with sudden certainty that this transaction was no longer about buying the sex of an island stranger. There was something deeper being bargained for, and he was momentarily too afraid to continue the transaction. Before he could act on his fear, however, the old lady pointed an unreasonably long nail, and speared the rings, holding them up to her eye.
“What’s wrong with them?”
Marius stammered, and half-rose before finding his composure. Good God, he thought, what is wrong with me? This is simple market negotiation, nothing more. You’re acting like a naughty grandchild. The normal course, under these circumstances, was to imagine your adversary naked. It had the effect of removing the silver from their words, revealing them as the same sweaty, greedy lump of flesh as the rest of us. Imagining this woman naked was the last thing Marius wanted. He sniffed, and gathered his wits.
“Nothing,” he said, deepening his voice and speaking slower. An old trick: control the pace of the conversation, increase the gravitas of your words. “I inherited them from an aunt, a spinster who died before she had the chance to wear them in commitment to a man.”
“Hmm.” The crone lifted them from his hand, cupped them in her palm, and closed her eyes. “An interesting man, your aunt. The beard suits him. Not easy, affording a suit on a butcher’s wages.” She opened her eyes, look straight at Marius. “She turned him down, when he could not present her with a ring. A lonely, broken man, your poor aunt.”
The rings disappeared into her rags and she leaned forward, until their faces were separated by less than a foot. Her smoke-yellowed eyes captured his with a glare so piercing he glanced away in case she read something he didn’t want revealed.
“Why are you here, dead man?”
“I…” Marius peered around the hut and wondered why himself, just for a moment. “The girl, the one that brought me here…”
She laughed at that, a raw cackle that took an eternity to dissolve into coughing. She hawked, and spat a gob of phlegm past his ear.
“Been that long, has it, boy? Can’t get a girl from the village, not looking like you. Maybe even
Marius closed his eyes and let her words sink into his skin. Finally, “No, you’re right. Not that.” His shoulders slumped. He had hoped to get through this without admitting his fear aloud. It seemed he had no choice. Whatever this old woman was, she knew his mind better than he did. No hope of escape, then, without the penalty of disclosure.
“Where I come from…” he waved a hand in the vague direction of “away”. “They’ve charged me… this… this task. I can’t do it. It’s impossible, a ridiculous thing. And I don’t think… I don’t think I can escape. I need to know…”
He straightened himself again. Do this properly. Negotiate from strength, and if you don’t have strength, fake it.
“I need to see my future. I need to know what path to take. I have to escape. But I need to know: can I get it back?”
The island woman stared at him for ageless seconds, her hand sneaking out of its wrap to juggle the rings between her fingers. Marius stilled himself, lest the noise of his fidgeting influence her decision. Finally she nodded once, and rose, bones popping. She scampered over, drew him to his feet by the simple expedient of grabbing his jaw with one claw and pulling him upwards. He loomed over her, his jaw several inches above the top of her head. Still, she didn’t let go. She examined him, running an experienced eye along his height. He had the unpleasant sensation of being measured up for a pot.
“Undress.”
“What?”
“Get out of your clothes.”
“Hang on a tick…” For no reason he could think of, Marius was terrified at the idea of standing before her, naked and exposed to her judgement. “Is that really necessary? There’s a time and a place, you know.”
“Oh yes,” the old crone laughed, “Any time and any place, as long as you can dive between our young girls’ legs.” She waved a claw at his clothes. “Clothes cover your true nature, dead man. Pretend to be what you are not, or learn what you really are. Your choice.” She nodded toward the world outside, and he understood the implication. Either lose his modesty, and undress, or make his way back to the ship with questions unanswered. He drew himself up, and refusing to meet her gaze, began to remove the clasp of his cape.
She waited with arms crossed, eyeing him as he disrobed. He saw the speculation in her stare and turned away, ignoring the queasiness in the pit of his gut. She made no comment at the sight of his hairless chest, the thinness of his legs, the length of his manhood. Marius had never been at ease with his weaknesses. Without money, or beer, or any of the thousand other shields he could place between him and scorn, he was as exposed as he had ever been in front of a woman, and he did not like the sensation. He folded each piece of clothing as he removed it, laying it in a pile on the ground behind him. When he was finished he stood with arms crossed over his chest, shivering despite the oppressive heat. The crone nodded in approval.
“Now you look like a man, and not a shrouded corpse, hmm?”
He ignored the remark, staring past her at a cat-o-nine-tails folded like a sleeping snake against a far corner of the hut. The witch clucked her tongue, then shot out a hand and grabbed his testicles in a grip like old hardwood.
“Hey!” The reaction to pull away was automatic, and he immediately regretted it. Her hand did not move, and the pain forced his knees to lock together, lest he fall to the ground and be suspended from her hand by his balls.
“Stand still, boy,” she whispered, her mouth at ear level as he curled over in pain. “Where else do you think your future springs from?”
She tightened her grip. With the other hand, she reached out to enfold his member. Despite her age, the warmth of her grip did the job. He felt his member rise.
“Oh, for the Gods’–”
“Shush.”
“I was kind of hoping that Ishga…”
“I said shush.” She squeezed, and Marius shushed. In less than a minute he spurted up her arm. Marius kept his eyes closed, hating himself for wanting more of her knowing fingers. When finally he was able to trust himself to speak, his question was less sarcastic, and more pleading, than he hoped.
“Are you finished?”
“Almost.”
She shifted her grip on his testicles. While Marius did his best not to whimper she drew a razor-sharp nail across the skin of his scrotum. Blood dripped, and she caught it in the palm of her hand. Just as Marius was deciding whether or not to faint she let go, and he slumped to both knees, head bowed, fighting the rise of bile. The witch slid her hand down her other arm, depositing his ejaculation onto the blood. She moved around the hut,
