While the Gods Slumber Pt. 01

First came gods, and their power was unbound
They shaped demons in their image
Gods dreamed, that they might know limits.

Demons ruled, though they numbered few
They bred with beast and tree
Demons lusted, that they might be gods.

Then came woman, and her brood was plentiful,
It grew upon the earth like stalks of grass
Men built, that they might conquer death.

While the gods slumbered.

-Transcribed from oral histories in the manuscript of Jabari San, scribe to the Golden Magisters of Namu, c. 3117 by the Ummran calendar.

Zhura walked the muddy trail that wound through the forest from the village to the Little Mongoose River. It was early in the day, so only a few young girls passed by, carrying heavy water jugs atop their heads to market. The girls chatted and giggled with each other, sparing not even a glance in the direction of the young herb-witch.

Zhura sighed, well aware that this was her fate. She, and the crone she served, birthed babies, cured fevers and healed wounds. But when the villagers were not ailing, they shunned the healers, because herb-witches trafficked in the magical secrets of life and death.

She hiked up her skirt, baring her muscled calves, to step carefully along the great flat rocks that banked the lazy channel of the river. The morning sun shone through the trees, dappling the water like gold, twinkling upon dew-spotted leaves like so many diamonds. The air smelled of mud and orchid blossoms, and the faint smell of cook-fires.

Zhura was used to being alone, much as it sometimes pained her. She was an orphan, who had never known her kin. Menga, the ironsmith, had raised her with his own sons, and apprenticed her to the old herb-witch as a small girl. He used to say Zhura had distant cousins in one of the villages in the north. But he had never taken her there. Now that she was grown - a woman of eighteen rains - what did it matter? That family was foreign to her, and might as well have been in Namu-on-the-sea for all it mattered to her life.

She left the area where the washerwomen often spread their laundry on sun-drenched rocks, venturing into a stretch of the Little Mongoose where bush and trees grew thick and wild along the water. Zhura wouldn't normally come this far upriver. Predators often lurked along the edges of the village of Boma, coming to the river to drink or to find a straying chicken or dog. If she found a good specimen of wentago leaf, she would uproot it to plant in the crone's garden, so she wouldn't have to venture as far.

She was picking her way upstream, looking for the copses where she knew the shrub grew, when the cries came from behind her.

"Help! Anyone! Please!"

Zhura clutched her short staff and pack tightly as she rushed back along the bank the way she'd come, careful that her sandals wouldn't slip on wet stone.

A woman lay upon one of the rocks beside the water. Her ankle was wedged between two flat boulders.

"Thank the Merciful Mother!" the woman said when she spotted Zhura. "Can you help me?"

"Yes," Zhura said, hurrying over. She set down her gear and laid on her belly, peering between the rocks where the woman was stuck. The skin on her leg was unbroken, but it would probably bruise.

"Don't try to pull your leg straight out," Zhura said. "Swing it along the length of the crack."

As the woman obeyed, Zhura couldn't help noticing how alluring she was, and how scantily clad. The green skirt she wore was slit to her hip and slung low enough to reveal her pelvic bone. Her bright yellow halter bared her navel and the upper halves of very healthy breasts. The brightness of her clothing contrasted with her smooth mahogany skin, a shade not unlike Zhura's own.

Though the woman was at least ten rains older than Zhura, her skin was unwrinkled and unblemished. She wore a dark mass of tight braids - almost as thin as single strands of hair - that fell over her breasts in heavy black tresses.

Her neck, wrists and ankles hung with charms of bone and shell and horn, the kind most people wore as wards against demons. From ear to collarbone, the woman was marked with tiny ritual scars, darkened flesh that spotted her like a cheetah, but were mainly hidden by her thick hair.

The woman winced as she swung her leg free. Zhura examined the scrapes around the ankle, and then went to her pack. She came back with gumwood bark, a dollop of coconut oil and a small mortar and pestle.

"I'm an herb-witch," Zhura explained. As she worked, she eyed the woman's waterskin. "Wash the ankle," she said. "This will take but a moment." Zhura glanced at the jungle around them. "What were you doing this far upriver?"

"I'm not from Boma," the woman said, pouring water over her wound.

That was obvious from her southern drawl. Besides, Zhura would have recognized a local as striking as she was.

"I was just looking for a place to wash," the woman said.

Zhura frowned as she ground the paste, trying to conceal her disbelief. Outsiders rarely came to Boma, except for trade and the weddings of important people.

"Here," Zhura said. She came closer, scooping the pungent paste and rubbing it into the woman's flesh, shifting aside an anklet of hide and cowrie shells. Her skin was almost hot to the touch. It smelled of shea butter, which was normal, and faintly of a spice Zhura couldn't identify.

She felt her pulse quicken. She wasn't normally attracted to women. At least she didn't think so. But being so close to this woman gave her an odd thrill.

"You are quite beautiful," the woman said. She leaned back on her elbows, watching Zhura intently.

Their eyes met. Zhura glanced away shyly. "You are kind," she said. Definitely not a local. She scooped out more paste. "Let's finish, then we will see if you can walk on it."

"My name is Ntoza," the woman said. "What is yours?"

"Zhura."

"How old are you, Zhura?"

Zhura gazed into the woman's eyes, tumbling into the deep wells of black. She felt somehow compelled to answer. "Eighteen," she said. The flush of heat within her was spreading now. She fought the sudden urge to squeeze her thighs together.

"And your family?" Ntoza asked. "Do they live in Boma?"

"I am an orphan," Zhura said.

"The gods are cruel in their slumber," Ntoza recited. "What befell your parents?"

"I-" Zhura faltered. Why was she telling a stranger this? "I was too young to know."

Ntoza reached up, pushing thick braids away from Zhura's face. "Are you happy here, Zhura?"

Zhura couldn't look away. She wanted to draw back. But then, she didn't. The older woman leaned forward, and her full lips closed over Zhura's.

Ntoza was gentle but insistent, her lips molding to Zhura's and nibbling them open. The foreign woman rose to her knees, a hand slipping to Zhura's waist and drawing her down delicately to lay on the stone.

It dawned upon Zhura that Ntoza moved easily for someone with a twisted ankle, but the thought was forgotten as the woman's clever tongue darted between her lips.

Zhura moaned as their tongues danced, and Ntoza's explored her mouth. Zhura's hand on the other woman's chest, at first resistant, softened.

Ntoza wasted little time, sliding strong fingers up under Zhura's tunic and halter to knead her breasts. She heaved the clothing up, rucking it above Zhura's nipples and exposing them to the open air. Ntoza flicked the nubs that already stood erect and proud, sparking jolts of pleasure that shot through Zhura's body.

"So beautiful, you are," Ntoza murmured.

While one hand played with Zhura's nipples, another hand deftly loosened the younger woman's wrap skirt. Zhura's weak protests were smothered in kisses. Soon the hand plunged under Zhura's loincloth and into the trimmed hair that covered her mound, touching nether lips already moist with desire.

As Zhura writhed on the rock, Ntoza's skilled fingers began to work, dipping lightly along her slit while the older woman palmed Zhura's button of pleasure. Within seconds, Zhura's will melted completely. Her juices flowed as easily as the river beside her.

The rush of euphoria was too much. Her orgasm came sudden and strong, like a summer rain, her body shuddering on the unforgiving stone. Waves of pleasure washed through her, from her belly to her toes.

Only as she tried to rise did Zhura realize that Ntoza had completely untied her wrap skirt, and it lay spread and flat beneath her legs. The woman was tugging Zhura's loincloth over her ample thighs and off, knocking her sandals away.

"Why are you doing this?" Zhura moaned, still feeling the shivers of her climax. "Who are you?"

"The blue paint around your eyes," Ntoza asked. "What does it signify?"

"It marks me as an herb-witch," Zhura replied.

"It marks you as an outcast," Ntoza's smile was tainted with pity. The woman scooted around, spreading Zhura's legs to kneel between them.

"No-"

"This is not your home," Ntoza said. She pushed away Zhura's feeble attempt to cover her sex with her hand. She slipped two fingers into Zhura's weeping cunt. "You feel that don't you?"

Zhura gasped, not knowing if the woman referred to her probing fingers or the knowledge of Zhura's origin. "How can you know that?"

She had the distinct feeling she'd been deceived. But Ntoza's fingertips began to rub a spot inside her that Zhura didn't even know existed. She groaned, involuntarily thrusting her hips up against Ntoza's hand.

"Your maidenhead is already broken," Ntoza observed. "At least you have not denied yourself the pleasures of a woman."

Zhura had lain with a young hunter, less than a year ago. She had been curious. He had been clumsy, and he avoided her afterwards. She had, of course, brought herself to climax many times before. But never like this.

A pressure began to build, like a stream swelling up against a dam, causing Zhura to feel as if she had to pee. What started as a pleasant itch, grew to a desparate need, stronger than anything she had ever felt.

"Who do you choose to be, Zhura?" Ntoza asked. "A humble herb-witch, shunned by villagers? Or something more?"

Ntoza bent her head and began to flick her tongue upon Zhura's nub of pleasure, even as her fingers curled deep within, caressing the same point from underneath. The rush of sensations made Zhura's eyes roll. The dam was about to burst. She shook her head helplessly, fearing release even as she arched her body, surrendering to the older woman.

Ntoza paused, raising her head. Zhura shuddered, teetering on the brink, slowly opening her eyes. She glanced down, to see Ntoza's lips stained with her cream.

"Do you want to know who you are, Zhura? Come to my home. It is upstream on the far bank, where this little river runs clean over a fall of water. Come alone, no later than tomorrow night, or I will be gone."

Zhura was unable to speak. Her body was trembling.

She couldn't say how long they had lain upon the rock. It seemed like hours. She heard the washerwomen, not far away, singing as they worked. She didn't care. All she cared about was what Ntoza was doing to her.

"Now," Ntoza's fingers steadily plunged deep into Zhura's cunt, making wet sounds. The older woman stoked the embers, not allowing them burst into flame, tending Zhura's exquisite agony. "Do you want me to finish you?"

Zhura nodded in shame. "Please..." she begged.

Ntoza flashed a triumphant smile. Her fingers curled upward again. The moment Zhura felt the woman's tongue, she exploded in a powerful orgasm.

Waves of bliss whipped Zhura's tortured mind. Fluid gushed from her core, spattering the rocks like a hard rain. Ntoza continued to fiddle Zhura's little bud, prolonging the climax, until Zhura screamed and shook uncontrollably, pleasure almost turning to pain.

Still in the throes of orgasm, Zhura was barely aware of Ntoza crawling upwards until the women were face to face. The older woman kissed Zhura again, this time sharing her mouthful of Zhura's juices.

The taste was bitter, but not unpleasant. The herb-witch swallowed it down as their tongues danced. When the kiss ended, Zhura lay still, aware only of her throbbing body and the sun's gentle warmth on her partial nakedness.

When Zhura opened her eyes again, she realized she must have drifted off to sleep. She felt refreshed.

Better than refreshed, even. She felt as if she had drunk her fill of redroot tea, or chewed kola nut. Perhaps both at once. Vitality coursed through her veins.

She squinted against the sun. It was still morning at least. Then, as she sat up, she froze.

Not ten paces away, a leopard gazed at her.

The beast was large enough to kill her easily. Leopards rarely attacked adults, but it did happen. Zhura's staff was out of reach, and not the right weapon anyway. Only a spear would do, and she did not have one. Ntoza was nowhere to be seen.

Still, somehow, Zhura felt stronger than ever. She slowly rose to her feet, holding the leopard's stare, showing the predator she was not weak.

The cat watched, motionless. It padded to the water and lowered its head to drink. Despite herself, Zhura admired the leopard's power and grace. When it finished, the cat slunk lazily towards her. To her shock, it rubbed its flank against her and butted a head under her hand. Then, with one glance back, it trotted off into the bush.

Zhura released a breath she had been holding for longer than she could remember. This was indeed a morning of unbelievable events.

Still on unsteady feet, she slowly gathered her belongings. Zhura reeked of her own sex. The bright colors of her skirt had darkened with her juices, but she tied the damp thing around her waist anyway. She stuffed her loincloth into her pack and found her sandals.

As she headed back downriver, she cut a wide swath around the washerwomen. She felt their eyes on her back. Once she was on the village trail, she heard them snicker behind her.