Annika's Islands Ch. 03

I thumped my spear on a tree like a drumstick, "Woah, oh, oh, ooh sweet child of mine!" I sang, loudly and probably not very well. "Woah, oh, oh, ooh, sweet love of mine..."

I'd started singing mostly to frighten away any would-be predators, but honestly I was in a fantastic mood.

You're awfully chipper this morning, Love noted, and I indulged the fantasy, imagining a winged arch-angel sitting atop a nearby branch.

"Why yes, I believe I am," I smiled widely. It was solo-hikes or alone at my house that I'd ever literally speak to the mental manifestations of my personality. The day I started believing they were actually real was the day I'd seek professional help.

Glad you gave in? He smirked, as if sex was just some amusing joke to him.

I sure as fuck am! Fabio-Darian, aka Lust commented, appearing from behind the same tree. Truly... bravo, pal. Virgin pussy is truly a treat, one which you've stubbornly never indulged. See what you were missing?

"What, hurting someone? Thanks, but no thanks," I scoffed, noting my footing as I made my way deeper into the forest.

Lust was insufferably smug. Couldn't have hurt too much, the way she came. For like a fucking hour!

Indeed, that surprised me as well, Love added. She climaxed merely from the act of you entering her -- which in itself must have been quite painful. Yet she went over the edge wildly... perhaps from the mental significance?

I nodded conceding the fact as likely. She must have been incredibly aroused...

It would indicate a powerful bond emotionally, Darian. Do not take it lightly.

"I won't, that's for sure. Whatever connection we share is something I've never felt before. I've doubts, though; considering the... circumstances. Hell, up until a few years ago I was her legal guardian. We may share a special connection, but this can get awfully confusing back home."

It can be worked around a black-clad, ninja-like form said. Cunning and he was just that. You have money, resources, expertise. You both have little contact with your family. A simple change of address and you're both Mr. and Mrs. Black, newlyweds.

I gulped... yet the thought was appealing. "Friends know we're related. You all know how I feel about Caleb, I could never abandon him, nor would I have her abandon all of her friends."

You are so sure Caleb would disapprove? Love questioned. He's your best friend. You share everything, every secret. He'd shown nothing but compassion over the incident of her 20^th birthday -- understanding how you felt at the time, even when you'd admitted your attraction to her.

"True... but even so, would her friends understand?"

Maybe. If not, does she really need them as friends?

"We're not discussing abortion, here. This is... incest." The word tasted dirty on my tongue.

You'll hold your best friend to such standards of loyalty, yet not expect the same from her?

"Damn it, Love. Things are not black and white here. Typically I'd be on the 'against' side of this debate. How can I expect someone who doesn't know all the facts, who can't feel what I feel, to say it's ok for me to be in a sexual relationship with my sister?"

You'll inform them, to the best of your ability. What it will come down to is -- who can you live without? Someone who is very possibly your soul mate? Or friends who can't get past their own bigotry?

"Not wanting to fuck your sister isn't bigotry; it's a widely held moral belief."

So, my friend was racism.

I sighed.

Almost time to head back, I thought some time later, letting loose another whistle I'm sure 'Nik couldn't hear.

I'd found mushrooms, including some brown mushrooms with furry white patches on them. I'd taken one... but kept it in a separate pocket, wrapped in yellow plastic. It didn't look at all appetizing, but for all I knew it could hold some sort of medicinal value. I'd also run across a huge patch of berries, and had picked maybe 100 of the plump red balls, intending on having fresh-squeezed juice with breakfast in the morning. It was a poor substitute for coffee, but better than water.

I'd even collected some leaves from the bushes. Typically, one would expect edible fruit bushes to not have poisonous leaves. Who knew what the dried leaves would taste like if brewed?

Just as I was about to head back, a flash of color caught my eye. Green... but not like the rest of the forest, brighter.

I made my way over to the color carefully, always checking the ground for danger. I'd not seen anything larger than a beetle since yesterday, other than the various birds that chirped, twittered, and squawked incessantly.

A low hanging unusual tree towered over me, with small oblong-shaped fruit. They were uneven, with bumps jutting out from them at odd angles, and had spiked leaves on top.

I plucked one warily, holding it away from me as I pulled out my multi-tool, extending the knife. The outer flesh of the fruit was hard, but could be cut with some effort. I did switch to the saw-blade, however, and was surprised when it was cut fully in half.

The smell wafting from it was undoubtedly citrus, yet the interior was built more like a coconut with a soft, fleshy husk containing a hard inner core. But instead of a milky, white fruit inside, it was very similar to that of an orange.

Like an orange with armor I thought, tasting some of the juice on my fingers. I made a face, Sour! It may look like an orange on the inside, but it tasted more like a lemon.

I picked a dozen, regardless. I'd bet that coco-lemon juice would taste great on some fish or crab, not to mention make fairly good cups afterward... or perhaps ladles for soup. One of the reasons I'd yet to make soup was lack of a ladle, and spoons.

Bodily functions made themselves known, and I set my pack down on the coco-lemon tree, finding a bush. As I did my business, my gaze fell on a large, caved in log cabin obscured partially by forest. I wondered for a second who put it there

Then I nearly zipped my dick into my pants.

A log cabin!?

Carefully assuring my... shorter spear was unharmed; I hefted the larger with both hands, immediately on the defensive. There had been no sign of life on the island other than the beach, and that likely from 1946.

It was old, clearly. The forest had long since started reclaiming it; bushes, vines, and even stubby trees surrounded or grew out from the structure. I noted the area was lighter, almost a clearing, and I couldn't easily spot any tree stumps. I gathered from all this that the cabin had been constructed a long, long time ago.

My hand stroked the scruffy blond stubble at my chin. Annika was expecting me back shortly, but with our whistle system, she'd hear me before I was truly late. I would have to be quick about it.

The log walls were sturdy, and connected in a fashion similar to Lincoln logs -- there were no visible nails or screws. The door at its front was nearly destroyed, had no hinges and only two indentations for a grip. I inspected the frame, finding a sort of sliding system. Every time the door had to be opened, the entire -- quite heavy -- door needed to be manhandled into and out of its place.

The inside was shrouded by the fallen roof, caved in at the middle. It hadn't been very tall -- the top of my head was roughly level with the highest bit of wall, but I could see the beam running across the center of the cabin had snapped.

It wasn't too much of a problem; the roof must have been mainly mud, grass, and branches judging by the remains. I managed to pick my way through carefully, however, wary with every step. There were a million hiding places for all kinds of nasty creatures.

Upon careful inspection, I noticed something odd about the roof-beam. It was a proper wood beam, square and straight, as if milled by saw. Thinking along those lines, I realized the walls were cleanly cut, cleanly etched logs.

With the skill of a really terrible archeologist, I cleared the debris off into one empty corner; a tedious process of prodding, picking, hauling and heaving clumps of dried mud, heaps of calcified grass, and odd bits of wood. Thankfully, the place was so small it took little time, and I worked quickly.

Finally clearing the majority of the wreckage, I allowed my focus to rest on the few remaining intact items left by the previous owner. A feathered cap, slightly flattened had been my first find, and made me think of a... colonial-type, perhaps anywhere from the 16 to 18 hundreds. Near it, lying untouched was a rusted length of metal nearly 6 feet long, with a wooden stock. I only figured out it had been a musket because of the empty horn of powder that hung attached to it, as well as the two items propped next to it; made sense to keep weapons together.

First, a longbow, still strung and nearly as tall as I was; and beside that a wickedly curved long sword, still sheathed in an amazingly detailed, if tarnished, silver or bronze sheath. Hanging from the ornate scabbard was a weaved, barely surviving wooden crate filled with stone-tipped, brightly fletched arrows.

In the back left corner was a sturdy looking chest that brought to mind visions of pirate treasure. I hadn't opened it during my clean-up, though I'd be royally tempted. Next to it was a bed... an actual, honest-to-god wood-framed bed that had held up very well to the test of time. It had been completely covered with debris at first, which must have protected it from the elements. On it was several layers of skins -- real furred skins. Deer, buffalo, bear; one even was tiger... orange with black stripes. They had a sort of earthy aroma, almost musty but not at all unpleasant, really.

The only other items were two overturned wood barrels, as well as the remains of... chairs, maybe. The latter were rather hard to tell. I turned my attention to the chest, which was large enough to store a body in, and I half expected to find one.

There was no lock, and inside, no glittering gold; nor a skeleton or something equally as useless. The chest was filled with clothes, very old fashioned and much worn; I doubted they would fit on me.

I held up a ruffled, once white shirt. Definitely gaudy, but maybe 'Nik would like them, as her clothes were selection of outfits was rather limited.

I threw a few of the not as tattered shirts and --pantaloons? -- Into my pack for her. Nearing the bottom, I noticed a bit of something interesting; paper, maybe, or parchment. Beside that some various bits of faded leather packs, pouches, and straps -- those immediately went into my bag. But the paper perplexed me -- there was no way paper could have survived what must have been hundreds of years in a wood and leather trunk.

This wasn't ordinary paper, though, and it was tied with tine, tightly around a box of some sort, completely encasing it. Wax paper, perhaps, or the nineteenth century equivalent of wax paper, anyway.

I slipped off the twine and unwrapped whatever it was, finding a leather, very fancy case. The leather almost seemed to retain some of its sheen, like it had been oiled not too long ago. I opened the simple latches, and had to take a sharp breath.

"Beautiful..." I whispered reverently.

It was beautiful. The interior was padded in red velvet, holding in place a delicate bow, various ivory pegs, small decanters of oil, grease, polish and varnish, with accompanying small, silky-soft cloths. In the center was the most stunning, pristine violin I'd ever laid eyes on -- glistening maple with an amazing ebony fingerboard. The four catgut strings were loosened to the point of being completely slack against the soundboard, which gave me hope. Violin strings had a set lifetime, and I didn't see any spares tucked away.

Until I lifted the velvet interior, finding a plethora of beautiful, finely wrapped strings with proper colored silk attached to the ends -- making it easy for me to distinguish between them. In a small, leather pouch next to them was a few specialized tools -- though I doubted I'd be able to use them. I played the violin -- I didn't repair them.

Upon opening the chest, I'd hoped for an axe, saw, maybe an airplane. This, while not incredibly useful, was even better... A million times better.

Carefully, I hefted the violin, tightening the strings until they were just barely taught. It took me ten minutes to tune them... though without a reference of some sort, I couldn't be sure I got it perfect. In fact, I could be sure I hadn't -- but it regardless of being out of tune, it sounded wonderful. I was terrified of putting this priceless instrument to my chin, the entirety of my tuning it was done at my hip.

Deciding it was a close as I was going to get, I summoned my courage, wrapped one of the silk cloths over one of the tattered bits of clothing and covered the chin plate.

I placed it beneath my chin.

My eyes closed, and my touch was feather light as I stroked the bow with utmost care over the strings. I played the first, long note with leisure, enjoying every reverberation... the pitch, the tone, the soul of the violin. My fingers worked the board of their own volition, muscle memory returning without conscious thought. My fingers led me through a tender series of chords, filling the cabin with the instrument's sweet song for the first time in hundreds of years.

When I stopped, the last vibration rang silently through my ears... I had never heard something so beautiful. I replaced the precious instrument with care, noting its maker's mark. Giovanni Paolo Maggini. I'd never heard of him... though I had the distinct impression the family's skill was up there with that of Stradivari.

I'd fallen in love with the violin in college, teaching myself how to play in my free time, quickly mastering the basics. The past year I'd taken up proper, thrice weekly lessons and had astounded my teacher whom said she "Felt the emotion flowing" from me, rather than just hearing the notes. She explained how, while anyone could learn the notes, few could play them with emotion; fewer still play them as I did. She joking called my playing "Making love to the violin."

Considering I'd not been making love with anyone else at the time, I'd figured that made sense.

I re-wrapped the case in its paper and twine, again in spare plastic from the raft, and again in cloth. Not being a very... religious person, the compulsion that followed surprised me. I closed the chest, knelt, and placed my elbows atop it, palms together.

"Thank you for this, for everything." I didn't know if I was talking to God, the ghost of the person who'd made the cabin, or some other deity. "This object was obviously cherished. I will cherish it equally, and share its song with as many as I am able. I hope this is what you would want. Again, thank you." I kissed my hand and touched my heart.

Oddly enough, the saw and axe were outside, in another wooden crate. The saw was most probably useless, but the axe was sturdy, and would sharpen well with a stone found near it. There were a number of tools, as well, that could be use to shape wood, stone, and perhaps even metal -- if I could smelt it. And with a hoe that looked as if it were crafted on the island, as well as a hammer, it got me thinking that there could just be naturally occurring iron somewhere on the island.

All told, I'd squandered an hour, but the stop had been well worth it, even if I did feel bad about worrying 'Nik. Burdened down as I was, I knew I'd be well over an hour late, and set a quick pace back.

Hopefully, the thought of a soft bed, nice music, and perhaps some alcohol would allow her to forgive me.

Annika

I toweled myself off with one of Darian's "Junk" shirts -- the long-sleeved white one far too thick for use in the heat. It wasn't the best towel, but it did the job with some effort.

I squeezed into a pair of tight, short-shorts, pulled on the too-small white bra and slipped on the white dress shirt, tying it into a tank top, leaving my belly-button and flat tummy exposed.

Checking my reflections in the tiny mirror, I tackled my hair with the brush, eventually taming it into manageable tails, then braided them into two tails that hung over my shoulders.

Smiling with satisfaction into the small mirror, I pulled on a pair of socks until they nearly reached my knees, and slipped on my sneakers. The only thing missing was the skirt, which couldn't be helped, but I thought the effect was good enough.

He likes the whole schoolgirl fantasy, eh? I made various seductive faces and poses at the mirror. Well this should do the trick.

I perfumed my pulse-points lightly, discreetly applied some deodorant, and hopped in the raft waiting for me by the caves stream entrance.

It was a bit of work to pull the raft along -- I'd connected the rope I'd made over a handy outcropping outside the short tunnel -- but I managed to get to shore without getting wet.

I checked my watch. Damn! 11:30. That had taken longer than I thought. I must have missed Darian's whistle. Slightly pissed at myself, I hurried to put my plan into action.

Operation Seduce Darian. The title was a work in progress, but the mission was clear. After my brief... experience, in the hot spring earlier, my desire had only heightened, or perhaps sharpened in intensity. Honestly, it was driving me crazy, and I wasn't sure I wouldn't tackle him to the ground the second her returned.

Physically I was feeling much better -- the soreness was nearly gone after my soak, or perhaps because I'd loosened muscles up with a bit of healthy masturbation. I was ready for him now, at least physically; but unprepared in a few other ways.

Like starting lunch. (is this needed?) I'd worked up quite an appetite, and I hadn't been out hiking through a forest all day. Quickly, I stoked the waning fire with some dry wood, spitted the fish that had brought the idea of a quick bath to mind, and seasoned it with a bit of sea salt before setting it on the forked sticks on either side of the fire.

Knowing I'd have to turn it regularly, I checked on the "bed" I'd carried outside earlier. The weather had been pleasant the previous night, and looked clear today. I figured a nice, relaxing evening under the stars would be... romantic.

Listen to yourself, girl. You're really getting gooey with this love stuff I blushed. It was rather unlike me if I compared it to any other relationship I'd been in. It was just different, with Dari. I wanted to find ways to show him my love, just as I cherished every little way he showed me.

Even my lust was toning down to a manageable level, the more I thought about my feelings for him. It was so much more than physical. We liked the same things, from books to music to food. We connected, fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Granted, it likely had some genetic reasons, but I didn't care. I loved him.

I made sure the cup and bottle of brandy were out of sight, and returned to the fire, turning the fish. I nibbled on a couple slivers of the Shitake mushroom as I waited. Properly seasoned, it was delicious, though I noted we were running low on salt.

I'll just call Dare up and ask him to stop at the store on his way home I shook my head and grinned. What a difference technology makes.

He was late, but I burnt the fish -- so I considered us even. That, and I'd heard his first whistle at exactly 12, which turned my worry into just mild annoyance.

It was sort of a blessing, though, as it allowed me to work on the other idea I'd had -- torches. I had a bunch of rope left, and put some of it to good use constructing four fairly decent torches out of sturdy branches, dry bundled grass and smaller kindling. I noticed the thicker, straw-like grass could also double as a broom, and was finishing it just as he appeared from the tree-line.