Chromosome Quest Page 4

  With that ominous pronouncement, he lengthened his stride, resolutely placing one foot in front of the other. I shifted gears to keep up. For an old guy, he was agile, we were close to a dead run, and I was suddenly too busy breathing to ask silly questions.

  Castle

  We had walked for miles when the trail opened up to a large clearing. Despite Petchy's pessimism, there was still ample daylight when we arrived, although it was definitely late afternoon. In the center of the clearing was a magnificent stone house. More of a castle than a house, lacking only a moat and drawbridge, easily home to dozens, if not hundreds of residents. I was impressed by the masonry; the massive stone blocks would have taken strong muscles, long levers and the labors of many years to carve and move into place. It appeared to have been constructed over many years and to be centuries old. Some parts looked as if they could be millennia old, as aged as the Sphinx, or the Great Pyramid. Not that I'm an expert in such things and any opinion I might venture is just a pure guess. In any case, it was apparent we were not in California anymore.

  My companion called out in a strange language, and the main door opened. As it did so, I noticed no wood was used anywhere in its construction. The door was a massive, finely balanced stone, carefully carved from a single boulder and finely polished.

  A diminutive figure appeared in the doorway. For an instant, I thought it was an animal. Then I heard a high, delicate feminine voice answer in the same strange tongue, and I realized with a start though our greeter was indeed a fur-bearing mammal. She was not an animal, as I quickly saw, instead, an entirely human, very mammalian appearing female, tiny, but no shorter than many Earth humans, lean and curvaceous, and nude as we were, save she wore an elegant head-to-toe pelt of the most exquisitely sensual and luxurious gray fur. Like a tailless cat, really, in fact, very much like a short-haired Russian Blue with which I had once shared a house.

  I almost felt an urge to stroke her, then shuddered slightly, suspecting it might be bad manners to stroke a stranger as if she were a pet.

  Petch held no such qualms. He went straight into her arms, giving her a big enthusiastic hug, nuzzling her cheek and stroking her head and neck quite the same as I might have greeted my feline former house-mate. I won't say she purred like a cat, but she did make small guttural noises in response to his caresses. She tucked her head into his chest and gyrated seductively against his body. It would appear that these two are old friends.

  He spoke boisterously to her in the same language, pointing at me. I heard “Fitz” in the jumble of syllables. After they exchanged a few words, she came to me, apparently expecting the same intimacy. For a moment I hesitated, then acquiesced, stroking her head, neck, and shoulders as she nuzzled my chest. More of that strange language flowed forth, an incomprehensible jumble of syllables ending with a heavily accented “Welcome Fitz.”

  Petchy spoke, “Her name is Stapleya. She says welcome to her home, and she will be very pleased to receive your boon, and feed you, and teach you Language. Be on your best behavior boy. Don't be provincial. These are civilized people, good folks and we do not want to offend them. Your best behavior!”

  My new found friend took my hand and led me inside. We met quite a few individuals, obviously all females, and she seemed to be alternately introducing me and explaining to them who I was. Petch was greeted and variously nodded to and returned the greetings, but he got little of the attention that was focused on me, suggesting he was already well-known here.

  She kept eyeing me while chattering away as she lead us deeper into the interior. Several times I thought she was blatantly eyeing my crotch. I suppose, lacking her people's natural furry cloak, my exposed manhood was something of an eye-magnet.

  Besides, I had stolen a few furtive glances at her furry curvaceousness, so I guess fair was fair. I wasn't inclined to complain.

  I tried to note and remember the people I met and remember their names. It was overwhelming. They all sported the same exquisite gray fur as my host which made telling one from another difficult at first until I began to distinguish faces and body forms. Their pelt hindered estimating ages too until I started to recognize subtle tell-tales in form, stride, posture and the texture of fur. I made a sincere effort to remember their names, repeating each name while bowing slightly and making a mental note of any distinguishing characteristics.

  I was introduced to a stooped, elderly male named Pugiya, or at least that's how I heard it. I dubbed him 'Grandpa' in my mind. Then she presented, with great emphasis, a pubescent female she named as Williya. I began to suspect the trailing syllable 'ya' was shared by the entire clan, as a surname. I resolved to ask Petch to clarify when we were not so distracted.

  When presenting Williya, she stood with her arms around the girl for some time, chattering away, presenting the girl with extended an endorsement. I deduced from her body language that this was her daughter. I tried to guess the girl's age, settled on equivalent to about twelve to perhaps fourteen on my Earthly scale. In my mind, I dubbed her 'Lolita,' a not exactly inappropriate nickname, as I was to discover.

  I did not know what she said, but I had the strong impression it was significant. I nodded studiously, as if I understood, and bowed deeply, taking the girl's delicate fur-covered hand as if I were going to kiss it. I met her gaze squarely and solemnly responded in my best sensually masculine voice, “It is a very great pleasure to meet such a charming young lady.” The gesture seemed to work, as the girl broke into a broad smile and began chattering away, amplifying on her introduction.

  As if by an uncontrollable impulse, she surged into my arms and hugged me, rubbing her budding breasts against my body. Taken aback, I responded by stroking her as I had seen Petch doing to the others. I was surprised and a little shocked when she escalated the greeting by hugging me even closer, gyrating suggestively. As she turned against my very being, I sensed the impending, unexpected and manifestly unwanted expression of the ancient gallant reflex. Suddenly terrified at the prospect of embarrassing myself amongst strangers, an overwhelmingly female audience no less, I pulled away from her slightly as I fought to retain control over the beast within, and covered by stroking her head and neck while thinking about ANYTHING other than this strange but extraordinarily young and nubile Lolita so enticingly near.

  After several seconds my impending tumescence receded, and I relaxed a little, though still flashing back to school days and those inopportune times the teacher might choose to call a young male to address the class. Here I had no textbooks to shield a rising semaphore. No doubt she had felt the oncoming stiffening heralding the imminent rise before I managed to break contact. She seemed to have intended to elicit precisely that response. I wondered why she would try and embarrass a guest she had barely met so overtly. The only way she could have been more direct would have been to stroke it directly with her delicate furry hand.

  Thank goodness she didn't go that far, a test I would have no doubt failed. Cultures may vary, but I suppose teenaged girls everywhere instinctively humiliate the male in the never-ending mating dance. No doubt she was having a private little laugh at my discomfort. Would she have thought it funny had I failed to rein-in my arousal? Probably. Hopefully, our host would not have been so insulted by such a display as to eject us into the gathering gloom, probably fatal if I take Petch's dire comments about nocturnal predators at face value.

  I wished I had pants. Or a rucksack. Pants AND a rucksack. ANYTHING to shield myself.

  The greetings and introductions continued. After perhaps a half-dozen new faces and names I realized except for 'Grandpa,' Petchy, and myself, everyone else present was female, petite bouncing boobies everywhere I turned, not another furry phallus was evident. I had little time to ponder that observation, however, as I was struggling to absorb all the names and faces.

  Petch was busy with his greetings, hugging and caressing a variety of the eager furry friends as if greeting long-lost lovers. From time to time he pitched words in my direction as if to clu
e me in, but I wasn't glocken his spiel. His words were neither helpful nor even understood, and my mind was reeling trying to make sense of the cacophony. After my greeting of Williya, I noticed her mother beaming as if I had pleased her, and Petch said sotto voce “Good job boy, you've got them eating out of your hand. She is eager!” No doubt clueless at how narrowly we had avoided disaster. I was puzzled but relieved.

  Presently we seemed to have been well greeted, and the throng gathered in a 'great room' in the center of the house. The room was surprisingly well-lighted. High open windows let in the rapidly fading sunlight, providing air movement and ventilation too. An absence of glass implied the climate was constant and thus no reason to close them. It also suggested perhaps they had not discovered window glass. The wall was provided with huge, high, elaborate wall-sconces every few feet, sconces which flickered with actual fire. In the middle of the room hung the most massive chandelier I had ever seen. A real chandelier too, no electrically lighted imitation. An almost unbelievable array of real candles supplied the light, with polished reflectors directing it downwards. I did not take in all these details at once, I was in sensory overload from seeing so many furry faces, busily rethinking my skepticism about being on another world.

  Below the massive chandelier, on a vast polished stone table, a magnificent feast was laid out. Many of the dishes on display were unfamiliar, yet others would have been right at home on my grandmother's dining table. If I had a grandmother and she had a giant stone dining table, that is. The roast pig was a little odd but recognizably porcine. The turkey was a lot skinnier than a classic American Thanksgiving bird, but still recognizably a turkey.

  The table itself appeared to have been carved from a single massive block of marble, polished to a glossy smoothness and sheen that almost defied belief. It also bore the signs of great age and much use. Around the table, on all four sides massive, matching stone benches provided for seating.

  In the corner of the great room was a raised area upon which stood what appeared to be a group of musicians. As we entered my initial impression was confirmed. Pulling out a collection of simple instruments, they began to play. The Philharmonic they were not and the music was unfamiliar, yet their effort was pleasant and professional.

  The musicians played us to our seats. I was invited to sit next to Stapleya, as her guest of honor, I presumed. Exquisitely beautiful, highly polished stoneware was loaded with food, and as the meal was about to begin, the musicians paused. Our hostess stood and clapped for attention.

  I wished dearly I knew the language. The words may be lost to me, but I can recognize political speech-making when I hear it. Her cadence and timbre rose and fell as if she were telling a great tale. Her fur undulated rhythmically as she spoke and gestured. Her audience laughed on cue and applauded as she ended. I don't know what she said, but it seemed well received. Thankfully the speech-making was short, and with a gesture and rising cadence she ended with what could only be “Let's Eat!”

  The Musicians resumed their melody-making, and the crowd fell to with gusto.

  Feast

  I was hungry enough not to care what I was eating. As long as it wasn't too hard to chew, and wasn't staring back at me from the plate, I was game. The dinner conversation was boisterous and frequently punctuated with laughter, but mostly lost to me. I began to pick up a few underlying themes. Some things rise above words alone. Sexuality, it seems is a given, and a 'dirty' joke is a dirty joke in any culture, and some gestures seem to be universal. My nearly all female audience seemed rather ribald, based on my limited interpretation of what was happening around me.

  I became aware my Lolita had joined me, as she snuggled up to my side, her firm rounded hips pressed resolutely against mine. I had become the tube-steak in a three-person sandwich, Williya pressed tightly against me on one side and her mother on the other. She touched my shoulder and began chattering away, meaningless syllables to me, oblivious to the fact that I was missing every word. As I listened to more and more of the language, both from her and from the others around me, I fought to fit the sounds into a framework of meaning. I tried to judge when to nod or comment based on context, but it was difficult to know. A couple of times I got quizzical looks, to which, not knowing what else to do, I shrugged. Other times I elicited enthusiastic agreement, without the first clue to what I was agreeing.

  The more she chattered, the more familiar she got. She pressed firmly against me and began to become outright 'handsy,' softly touching again and again to emphasize her words. She seemed captivated by my biceps at first, then commenced slowly moving from relatively neutral touches of arm and shoulder to knee, then thigh. A couple of times she stroked my inner thigh, and I discretely took her hand to redirect it away from her apparent target. Trying not to offend, each time I gave her hand a discrete little squeeze, drawing it away from her obvious target to a more neutral area, trying not just rudely to push her hand away but to guide it gently to a safer zone. It only worked for a moment. Each time, within moments she returned to explore the contested territory, becoming more aggressive on each thwarting. I began to worry that if this continued, I again risked the potentially disastrous embarrassment I had so narrowly avoided just minutes before. This pubescent child knew what she wanted and had fixated on her mother's guest as her victim.

  I made every possible effort to guide and redirect her explorations, yet despite my best efforts, she managed to reach her goal time and time again. I almost jumped from the table at her first success, and each time I hastily redirected her exploring hand and fought mightily to retain control. But despite all I could do, each touch she landed met a more turgid touchstone until I could no longer restrain my tortured flesh from its full pride.

  I was sweating bullets and not due to the climate. I was sitting between the mother and daughter, feigning outward calm, trying to pretend everything was normal while all the while sporting a raging turgidity just out of line-of-sight below the table edge. Terrified her mother would twig to what was happening below; I was simultaneously struggling to avoid permitting the child to tease the object of her fascination further. This tiny, pubescent child was an unrelenting sexual aggressor, and I was her target.

  This could not end well!

  This situation persisted until her mother unaccountably came to my rescue, unaware, I think, of the disaster she was averting. She spoke softly to the child. Again, the syllables were mere noise to me, but her meaning seemed clear. She was telling the child to stop harassing the guest and let him eat in peace. At least I don't THINK the child's mother had noticed what was happening beneath the table since her manner remained calm and her voice did not rise.

  The child, without appearing notably chastised, turned to her own platter and ate quietly for a while, allowing me to calm and recover. She still glanced knowingly at me between bites, eyes smoldering as if eagerly awaiting a planned assignation. Clearly, she had more in mind. What on Earth was I to do? Better scratch the 'on Earth,' I thought wryly.

  I focused on my dinner and concentrated on reigning in my throbbing, uncooperative tumescence. After a few moments without further stimulation and by calmly focusing on the food, and the language flow around me, the surging under the table began to abate.

  Then it was time for the after-dinner entertainment. 'Grandpa' stood and quietly clapped for attention, and began addressing the group, a canned speech he had given many times, as judged by his manner. He spoke slowly, and haltingly, his audience listening politely. He finished quickly to perfunctory applause. Our host then stood, and spoke sprightly and enthusiastically as if introducing an honored guest, and then handed the spotlight over to Petchy.

  Petch stood to a massive round of applause. Either he was a bit of a celebrity among these people, or perhaps they were just really starved for entertaining after-dinner speakers. Petch clasped his hands over his head in a congratulatory manner, bowing slightly to his audience and began to speak. He said in English, “Watch and learn kid, watch and learn!”
and then lowering his hands and shifting to their incomprehensible language gave a Billy Sunday style rousing speech like nothing I had seen outside of a church or political rally. The audience loved it. I don't know what he said, but whatever he was selling, they were buying in bulk!

  Then he turned to me; syllable flowed after syllable. It seemed clear that he was telling them something about me, what, I had no clue. He paused, then said quietly to me, “You're on, boy. Doesn't matter much what you say, they won't understand English anyway, just say it with passion.”

  Hoping and praying the troublesome noodle had visibly subsided, I stood to face the audience. Sensing a touch of floppiness, I dared not glance down as I prayed silently for calm and inner peace.

  I had sensed Petch was about to toss the baton to me. From the moment he had stood to speak, I had been racking my brain for something, anything I could render from memory as performance art. I had once been active in the theater of a fashion, a few high-school plays, but that was long, long ago. I struggled to remember anything at all. Any lines I could deliver rote from memory. I settled on some lines, as best as I could pull them from my flailing brain, from a long-ago school rendition of Macbeth.

  No doubt Petchy was cringing and crossing his fingers that I could pull something out of my, er, that I could think of something. Slowly I raised my hands, clasping them above my head and bowing as Petch had done, paused for effect, and then intoned in my best theatrical voice.