Sef and Haal

The town was remote, a few days overland from the nearest airport by winding dirt road. It had grown a lot since the '70s when the western travellers first started to come through, but it was still a small place, with just a few streets. Though tourism hadn't reached it on any scale and probably never would, the guide books described it favourably and it had become well known among backpackers.

He had worked with the visitors in various ways all his life. His generation had never known the time before them. He was sitting at his usual evening spot at the hostel, but tonight he was unusually distracted.

His gaze kept being drawn back to her as she chatted with her companions at the table on the other side of the hostel bar. She wore an ankle length skirt that swished as she moved, and a vest top that clung to her pert breasts. She clearly went without a bra, and her nipples were one thing that kept catching his attention. That, and the unselfconscious way she laughed. Her face seemed to light up, and the sound was a little deeper than he expected from her slim frame, slightly husky somehow. There was a confidence and freedom about her that fascinated him. Some of her movements seemed like a performance, as if she was trying to project a worldliness to compensate for her youth.

She had that hippy look which seemed popular among the backpacker girls who did the hostel circuit, but it suited her and she carried it off naturally. A mess of mousey dreadlocks hung to her shoulders, adorned with beads and threads and bits of silver jewellery. There was a stud in one side of her nose. Both ears sported multiple piercings. Her features were neat and expressive, her lips too full and her eyebrows too thick to call her elfin. As she gestured animatedly he glimpsed tufts of underarm hair, and her eyes sparkled as if with some secret knowledge. Damn, she was getting under his skin and he hadn't even talked to her.

She got up and headed towards the toilets, passing his place next to the bar. Their eyes met, and he felt a frisson of connection, the electric blue of her eyes striking in combination with her brown hair. He caught her smell in the warm night air: a hint of Patchouli, Nag Champa incense, cannabis. Then her natural body odour: the oils in her unwashed dreadlocks, the sweat from her armpits, and something more. Something unmistakable: a hint of the scent from her most intimate place. It spoke of womanhood and a ripe fecundity. And it hit him like a magic charm. Time seemed to slow as he turned to watch her.

Her movements were lithe and supple, hips swaying, small buttocks muscular under her skirt. His eyes were drawn to her dimples of Venus, exposed just above the low-slung skirt. As if feeling his gaze she looked back over her shoulder, eyes lidding slightly as they flicked down to take in his body, before rising to meet his. Her face broke into a coquettish grin, her chin angled down as if shy, then she spun away and on towards the toilets. She exuded both a playful innocence, and an awareness of her sexual allure. Her smell catalysed his arousal, his cock growing in insistent throbs with each beat of his heart. As he watched her walk away he felt a deep urge, different to anything he had felt before. A longing which combined primal sexuality with a yearning for spiritual union.

What was going on with him? He wondered. Usually the stream of young travellers who passed through the town held little interest for him these days. Although they had to be over eighteen to stay at the hostel, he often found their behaviour immature and predictable, and so tended to keep himself to himself. They seemed to have something to prove, indulging in a one-upmanship of travelling tales, and a pretence to wisdom and experience beyond their years which he found transparent and tiresome. Yet this girl had a different vibe, one which struck him when she had first arrived the day before. His awareness of her presence was acute, like he had an internal compass that tracked her direction.

He shook his head, and left the bar to walk around the block. Working security for the hostel, he made sure to keep a discreet but close eye on all the goings on in the nearby area. There were several other hostels in the town, but his had a good reputation, its presence in the guide books maintaining a steady flow of guests. Like most of the buildings it was a bit rough and ready, but it was pretty clean and he made sure it was a safe place. Doing so was generally an easy job. He maintained good relations with most of the other local businesses that served the tourists, paid the appropriate backhanders to the police and syndicate. His quiet physical presence seemed to defuse most situations before they became dangerous.

He got free board and lodging as part of the job; just a simple room, bare save for his makeshift altar and few belongings. He sometimes made a little extra money on his days off doing demonstrations of the traditional movements. They were a martial art disguised as a dance, or perhaps a dance disguised as a martial art. He would teach a few moves to travellers who showed an interest, and were willing to spend the time and money. He trained in the courtyard every day, even when there was no one to pay to watch, and meditated each morning as part of his spiritual practice. The same sense of sacred duty was the foundation of his approach to taking care of the hostel.

---

The next day was bright and sunny as usual. After his morning ritual he would generally take a seat at the end of the broad veranda that fronted two sides of the hostel and overlooked the main road. He had learned that by carefully observing the movements on the street he could gather a lot of information about what was going on, and what might occur later. Sometimes he got the feeling he knew of things before they happened. This intuition had allowed him to avert disaster more than once, and he was thankful for it.

The low tables and comfy cushions of the veranda usually had few occupants at this time of day, and he sensed her before he saw her. There at the corner table with a sketch pad, lost in concentration. Allowing his gaze to linger, he took in her beauty in the bright morning light. That mole on her top lip only enhanced her appeal. She tucked a loose lock behind her ear, the motion drawing his attention down the line of her neck, on to the curve of breasts and bare midriff. The movements of her pencil were flowing and her gaze shifted regularly between the paper and the street. Her face was alive with fleeting micro-expressions; frustration, joy, curiosity, sorrow, wonder. Her mouth moved; tongue between lips, biting bottom lip, parted with jaw loose, then pursed.

She was entirely unselfconscious, absorbed in the creative process. She stopped and took a deep breath, appraising the image before her. Laying down the pad and pencil, she closed her eyes and stretched, reaching high above her head. It was a natural gesture, but watching the graceful change of posture affected him deeply. Her back arched a little, lifting her breasts and jutting them forward. The crop top lifted, exposing her toned belly, elongating the shadow of her navel. The stripes of hair in each armpit were bared in all their straggly glory.

He found himself walking over without intending to at all. He stopped behind and looked over her shoulder. The drawing was of a street dog, the hardship of its life revealed its face. His breath caught at the pathos of the image. The pencil lines were economical, yet rich in expression. The overall effect was almost naive, yet fascinating and deeply revealing of the sentiments of the artist. He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, to reassure and comfort her after experiencing the emotions which she had laid bare in her work. He wanted to show her there was also goodness in the world. He realised with a start that he wanted to reflect her own beauty back to her by giving her the beauty of physical pleasure.

Fragmented images flickered through his head as he stood there, inhaling her fragrance. He saw her back arched in pleasure, felt her fingers wound in his hair as she clutched his head between her thighs. He saw the bounce of her breasts as she moved atop him, dreadlocks flailing. He felt the way her pelvis ground backwards as she bore down on him. He knew the clutching of her pussy as she found her release. He shook his head to return to the present and realised that he didn't know what he might do if he stayed this close to her for much longer. So he merely said

"Amazing work."

She turned in surprise at his presence and beamed up at him, blue eyes sparking with delight.

"Thanks!" she exclaimed, genuine gratitude in her husky voice, looking once more at her drawing, now through his eyes. She turned to him "Sef" she offered her hand.

He took it, suppressing a shiver at actually touching her. Her hand seemed tiny in his own.

"Haaf" he introduced himself.

He felt a sort of vertigo as they looked into each others eyes. She seemed to feel something too, because they stayed there in motionless silence, holding hands for a beat longer than the introduction called for. At the point of overwhelm he released her hand,

"Let me know if you need anything" he said, turned and walked away.

This time he was aware of her eyes on his back, and felt absurdly pleased that he had pleased her.

---

She had been out all day, and it had been an uneventful one for him. Thoughts of her kept intruding as he went about his routine. Night came, and most of the guests had returned and eaten, though she had not yet got back. He walked down the steps off the veranda, on one of the regular strolls he took to keep aware of the goings on around the neighbourhood. A little way down the street on the other side of the dusty road was a bar, run by some of the more dubious characters in town; a haunt of the local crime syndicate.

They sold cocktails made from cheap local liquor which pulled in the tourists, and the stream of young foreign women in a state of intoxication also attracted the local Lotharios, hoping to strike it lucky. The bar owners didn't care, after all those local men were buying drinks too, so they tended to turn a blind eye to their predatory behaviour. There were periodically accusations of drinks being spiked, but no charges ever stuck. Drug money lining the right pockets saw to that, no doubt. It sickened him they way those animals seemed to be able to prey upon women with impunity, and he advised his guests to steer clear of the place.

He looked in as he passed, oppressive beats coming from the open-sided building, low lighting inside dimly illuminating people dancing. The lights on the eaves were a bit brighter, shining on the tables around the perimeter where people sat drinking. Then he saw her. He recognised the three local men sat at the table with her as some of the most malign of the predators, underlings in the syndicate, and immediately crossed the road heading straight for the bar.

She was sat strangely, her head lolling forward, hair hanging over her face. One of the men had an arm around her, holding her upright. As Haaf got close he saw the other hand was under her top, groping her breasts. The groper had a broad grin, and was laughing with the other two men. There was the sense they were celebrating a successful catch, before leaving to consummate it. He could see her face more clearly now. Her eyes were almost closed, face slack, cheeks streaked with tears and mascara. Her chin was wet with drool and remnants of vomit, which also stained her vest top. She seemed barely conscious, unaware of her surroundings.

He didn't slow as he strode up, but without warning put all his momentum into a punch that went straight through the space occupied by the groper's head. It threw him back out of his chair to sprawl on the ground, unconscious before his head hit the concrete floor. She flopped forward onto the table without the groper to support her, and he turned to the other two men who stared incredulously at their fallen comrade.

"Leave." he said to them "Now."

Turning to look up at his substantial form they exchanged glances, and shrugged. They left, moving slowly and with those mannerisms of machismo the syndicate liked to affect, trying to save face in front of the other people in the bar who had now all stopped dancing to watch the drama unfold.

There was a sense of unease among the crowd - going against the syndicate people wasn't usually very wise, and sometimes bystanders got hurt in the backlash. He looked around, and while one of the owners glowered at him from behind the bar with a hard stare, there was no immediate threat apparent. He glanced down at the unconscious guy on the floor; no blood pooled under his head. He'd probably be fine, just bruises and a bad headache for a day or two.

He dropped to his knee beside her and lifted her head. It seemed heavy in his hands. He pulled her eyelids open with his thumbs to check her pupils: dilated and unresponsive to the lights above the table. She was totally out of it, whatever they had given her was in full effect now. He picked her up effortlessly in his arms, cradling her so her head lolled onto his shoulder. He caught the eye of the bar owner, and carefully spat on the floor, before turning and walking out.

He breathed deeply and slowly on the walk back to the hostel, in a walking meditation to drop the anger and adrenalin that was coursing through him. He was surprised and disturbed by his own behaviour. Initiating violence was something he had almost never done before. He had acted instinctively, with the priority being to get her safe as quickly as possible. Usually he would hang back, observe, formulate strategy, act only when reasonably confident of success. It could have gone very differently, and he had been lucky. Perhaps the ancestors had aided him. He was certainly grateful that he had been guided to walk by the bar when he did, the alternative didn't bear thinking about. He looked down at her floppy form in his arms. She seemed unhurt, physically at least. She would be safe in the hostel, and she could sleep off the effects of the drug.

He went in through the kitchen, and the cook looked askance at him. He briefly explained what had happened, and that he was putting her to bed. Heading upstairs to her room, he pushed the door open with his shoulder. He took her weight on one arm for long enough to pull back the covers, and laid her gently on the bed. He took off her sandals, moved her into the recovery position, and only then took in how filthy she was. He couldn't leave her to wake up like that. He went to his room to grab his wash cloth, ran a bowl of warm water, and returned.

He pulled the dreads from in front of her face, and lifting her head, gently and carefully wiped the rivulets of mascara from her cheeks, and the vomit and saliva from her chin. He wiped her neck clean, down to the edge of her vest top. her top was caked in matter, and some had gone down inside too. Maybe he should take her top off, to clean her so she didn't wake up caked in vomit? He sat there, looking down at her helpless form. He wanted to make her safe and comfortable, but he also felt more carnal urges too. What was really behind his desire to remove her top? He wasn't entirely sure it was the right thing to do. She was so pretty, and the curve of her breasts was very beautiful, despite the mess across the front of them. His cock began to swell, and then he knew he had to resist removing any clothes. The urge to protect and honour her won out, but only just.

He found he only needed to wipe just below her neckline to clean her skin fully, and he began to wipe the matter from her vest top, leaving it firmly in place covering her breasts. He gently wiped with the damp cloth, and soon the fabric became damp too, and stuck to the skin beneath. By the time it was reasonably clean, the vest top was clinging to her breasts and her nipples had become hard. He gazed at them, spellbound for a while. Then she made a little noise and moved, and he stood hurriedly, taking a last look at her chest before pulling the covers up and tucking her in carefully and chastely. He left the room, closing the door softly behind him, not sure if he could trust himself to remain in there a moment longer.

---

The next day she marched up to him, and stood there arms crossed. She glared at him, her eyes flashing.

"Uh, I s'pose I should thank you?" She sounded sarcastic and annoyed. He guessed she had heard something of last night's events, but maybe she didn't get the whole story.

"Are you feeling okay?" He asked gently.

"I feel pretty rough, but I also feel pretty fucking violated." She was definitely angry, and apparently with him.

He had saved her from an awful experience, from a situation she had put herself in. He found his own annoyance rising at her ungrateful response, and apparent ignorance of what she had narrowly avoided, thanks to the risks he took for her.

"You know the best way to avoid that? Don't accept drinks from strange men." His tone was harsh.

"But it's okay for strange men to carry unconscious women around? Take them alone into bedrooms?"

He just stared at her. She hit a nerve: he had wanted her last night, had almost succumbed to temptation and become like those animals he rescued her from. He had almost betrayed her at the time she most needed someone trustworthy. In a way she was right, and he deserved her opprobrium. But she misunderstood his lengthy silence, and her manner suddenly softened.

"Sorry. I know you helped me." her arms dropped to her sides "Thank you. It's just... I don't want to need help, you know. Just going for a drink shouldn't mean I end up needing to be helped." Her hands formed little fists, and her chin jutted. "It's not fair."

His feelings softened in return, and he was filled with compassion for this tough young woman.

"I understand." He replied softly. "Want to even up the odds? I could teach you some movements to defend yourself, if you want."

She looked at him intently, as if assessing something "I'd like that." and she sounded pleased again, like she had when he complemented her drawing.

"Meet me in the courtyard in an hour."

She nodded with a little grin, and bounced off, her demeanour transformed.

---

He had already warmed up, and was working through the first sequence of movements when she entered the bright sunlight of the courtyard. He had spread out the impact mats to form a training area and she approached barefoot to stop on the edge. She had tied her locks into a fat wad behind her head, and removed her dangly earrings. She watched him closely as he moved fluidly, with practised motions. Despite his mass he moved economically, with grace and control. He returned to a relaxed standing position, making the final genuflection to the ancestors. He beckoned her over

"Stand here, to my right and behind so you can see me. Now just do what I do."

She obeyed, taking up position. He restarted the first sequence, but at about a quarter of the speed he did before. She mimicked his movements, and he watched her reflection in the window.

"Again" he said after the first run through, and began again, but quicker this time.

He was staggered at her aptitude. It was clear she must have trained in dance. She picked up straight away on a lot of the subtleties which might take someone else countless repetitions to notice. As he watched her it struck him that it was almost like her body was remembering the movements rather than learning them. She seemed to already have her own style; she was faithful to their essence, yet brought something of herself to them too. For a beginner to have style was unheard of - that took time to develop, and a deep familiarity with the forms. Yet watching her lean muscular body move he couldn't deny it.