Wild Life 4
“You pierce the egg of my soul with thy stare.” Seheal’s mellifluous tones penetrated the mind-numbing dislocation of her visitor’s rapt regard. He winced at the thought she might be making a complaint about his admittedly fixated gaze, but the young woman’s lustrous Welsh smile tantalised and encouraged him and the poesy of her words etched intimations of ardent interest into his hopeful imaginings.
He waited for a cunning riposte to assemble itself in the back of his brain and spout from his lips whole and complete, but Ram’s captivated thought processes seemed uncharacteristically incapable of manufacturing a single seductive witticism. The teenage vamp’s grin twinkled through a haze of roiling brightness as she raised long bare legs and crossed her perfectly formed limbs on the cushioned seat, maintaining an equally fixated stare on her guest.
He peered through a bedazzling aura that almost concealed her pale pixyish features, and it seemed he beheld an unbelievably alluring young Seraph; a beamish nubile beauty awash with swimming veins and wavering fronds of light. A dazing nimbus surrounded her buxom yet slight spritely form, comfortingly enfolded in the carven arms of a claw-footed wooden throne.
Ever since her housemate Penny had departed for the kitchen, the freckle-faced redhead and pony-tailed hippy had been staring into each other’s gazes across the raggedy xpanse of an ornately woven Persian rug. Finally alone and together within the shared house’s subterranean lounge room, the long haired counterculturalists were breathlessly absorbed in a silent courtship whose rules of engagement neither could define. They mirrored each other in stance and appearance, and like gradually melded unto like as ramparts of difference were subtly breached and embraced. Different yet dovetailing genders and beliefs, the fortnight of summers and winters which separated the moments of their births – all dissolved in the bright hot glaze of rapt communion.
You pierce… Seheal’s words tolled like bronze bells in Ram’s mind. …the egg… Beating time with the slow but systematic opening of his heart; …of my soul…
Her eyes were twin emerald fixities in a swirling mist of shifting colours; the brilliance of her aura pulsed in time with his heartbeat and swelled with their breaths. Bright wavering waves spread outward and engulfed him, roiling across the scant three paces that separated her throne from the deeply upholstered chair, where he perched in awed contemplation of her brilliant beauty.
He felt her heart beating in counterpoint to his rhythm, resonating through all the protoplasmic viscosity of the living, breathing world and pealing within the cavity of his core; an incessant pounding that thrummed in his temples and loins. Their mutual yearning was a palpable pulsation of twinned heartbeats, of intimately interlocking desires and hopes – a racing, racy surge of empathic lust which flushed the translucent white masks of both their freckled faces into warmer, richer and rosier hues.
Simultaneous glimmers flashed in widening stares when recognition of their interlocking and matching expectations dawned on both at once. They watched each other’s reactions, balanced on a tightrope of connexions whose unseen extremities ensnared them in a slowly growing field of abject and magnanimous joy. Their link was a string in a flowing web - a gossamer bind that was tangibly umbilical - which threaded its way through foundations of buildings, past ancient campsites and inside the living soil, to web city and country, continent and globe with a lacework of meaning; A sending of love.
Are these my visions and thoughts, or hers, or ours? The shaman sensed the subterranean spaciousness of the Gothic-inspired and rudely appointed living room as a nodal plexus amid intersecting nexuses - an oasis of leyline-crossed energies in the ancient raked-over landscape that lay slumbering beneath the rimy encrustation of the Emerald City. Crumbly, damp, anciently convict made and laid brick walls had buckled inward in several bulging places and the vestige of a small underground stream trickled down a decaying cornice, disappearing into cracked brickwork near the stripped-down open fireplace. The atmosphere was infused with musk, patchouli and olibanum, less definable feminine scents and an undertone of cannabis, none of which dispelled the underlying strata of faintly saccharine mustiness.
Orange flickers licked at Seheal’s bare toes as she extended her legs before a fire of smashed fence palings (the diminutive young Aphrodite had removed her stilettos and fishnets when she’d disappeared upstairs to ‘powder her nose’, briefly leaving her guest alone with a shy cautious Penny). She never took her eyes from his, welcoming the shaman’s stare with an intensity that challenged the resoluteness of his will and matched his most heartfelt desire, beat by pulsing beat.
Matched… He pondered the simultaneous blazing of their harmonically symmetrical wills, immersing his awareness in Seheal’s spirit and soul as their intermeshed auras xpanded and contracted in time with their synchronised breaths. He could barely believe his good fortune in finding so wonderful a woman during his vanishingly brief sojourn to the city of his birth. She was all he’d ever dreamt of. A natural… The thoughts flowed through his mind like warm maple syrup; …a magician, a Wiccan or Daikini…
Or all three? Hers is a heart of gold… He’d been living alone in the forest for a very long time, with only very infrequent visits by various old flames to warm heart and blood through the occasional isolate night; all had invariably been ‘just passing through’ en route to warmer and more populous Rainbow Region climes, or returning to the Emerald City. But none had ever affected him like this - like Seheal. How could one so gorgeous and bright possibly be alone… and available?
Her warmth was a palpably loving tide, her unblemished radiant wholeness an inextinguishably vibrant beacon of sheer and alluring aliveness. Ram’s heart danced alongside Seheal’s while their stunned twin wills reached across the chiasmic void of the communal lounge room and coiled into a tender and tenacious linkage. His entire being throbbed and resonated inside the eerily silent yet vibrant space of the brick-lined cavity, mentation fading and mind almost lost in thrilled thrall to the ardently shining urgency of Seheal’s glittering sentinel stare. Her gaze was freighted with longing and conveyed an imploring, pressing intensity that mounted higher on a swelling tide of meaningful looks and hopeful intimations, rising toward a crescendo of…
“Sugar or honey?” Penny’s voice clanged into the chamber, dispelling all the charged tension of their mutually hypnotised expectancy. Seheal’s housemate clattered down the wooden staircase carrying an overflowing tray laden with a surreally floral china tea set. The silent pair’s interlocked gazes flashed to the place where Penny’s bare toes incautiously teetered on a loosened tread, but the intimacy of their contact remained as an unspoken promise hanging in the air between them.
A silver teapot replete with handmade woollen cosy jostled against three dainty enamelled porcelain cups and a small plate of honey-dripping baklava. Penny levelled the tray and frowned an apology. “That’s me,” she announced, belatedly noting the soundless shattering of their wordless mutual engagement. “A bad penny always turns up unexpectedly…”
“Honey, thanks,” the shaman answered before the moment could wax even clumsier.
“Ram’s giving me a lift up north tomorrow,” Seheal told the slightly older young woman. She stretched on her throne with catlike grace and the feline girl’s prepossessingly prominent bosom threatened to burst from her lacy bodice. Lithe limbs rapidly retracted and crossed, and she sat back in the claw-footed chair when her gaze met her housemate’s wry expression. She reacts as if to a subtle censure, Ram’yana noted absentmindedly. Are they closer than they seemed?
Penny placed the tray in the centre of the centrepiece rug. “It’s a silken quim,” she announced, “or at least, it was…” Her palm caressed the damaged silk of the tattered carpet while her dark Irish eyes bestowed a knowing look upon the shaman through awry satin sheets of glossy black hair. “I’m sure you must know what it was made for.” Ram’s expression betrayed only querulous interest while his mind whirled around the resonant strings of Penny’s entendres.
The decidedly cherubic brunette openly displayed many of the theatrical accoutrements of a postmodern inner-city witch; pentacle pendant, long black nailed fingers overflowing with silver-bound gemstone rings, an array of thin circlets about her left wrist and an open-weave shawl the shade of dried blood, worn over a long black dress that hugged her marginally plump body all the way down to her bare black-nailed feet. She gave Seheal a sidewise wink which Ram espied in an Art Nouveau mirror. “Giving you a ride?” she asked as she poured steaming peppermint tea. “To your parents’ place?” she appended.
“Halfway there,” Seheal explained, extending her scarlet claws in the firelight. “I can get a train the rest of the way, or catch a bus – or hitch.”
“Promise me you won’t let her hitchhike on her own!” Penny spun toward Ram’yana, pleading with sudden and obviously genuine concern. She turned a relentless stare on Seheal. “You promised me you wouldn’t do that again – not after…”
“Don’t be a bad Penny.” Seheal’s brow creased in mock admonition and her lips pursed into a pout. Her frown was more beautiful than a goddess’s smile and her radiance seared a pathway right into Ram’s blossoming heart as Penny relentlessly stared the redhead down. “All right,” the wilful pixie relented, “I won’t hitch any more. Not alone, anyway…”
“Don’t worry - I’ll make sure she gets there safely.” Seheal giggled at Ram’s bald declaration, throwing his confident mien a little off centre. I must sound so chauvinistic… Penny accepted his assurance with a glance that almost veered into the suspicious territory of a guardian warden issuing a guarded warning. Her slit-eyed wordless glare bespoke eloquently enough; ‘You’d better’.
“I s’pose we’ll start packing your things up tomorrow,” she suggested through the pillar of fragrant steam that was rising from her chrysanthemum-clad teacup. Seheal climbed out of the chair and kneeled before the fire to retrieve her cup and saucer; the shaman remained immersed in every supple movement, watching thoughts bud and unfold in the translucent tabernacle of her brightly glowing mind and blossom from the enticing pink coracle of her mouth.
“I’m going to start tonight,” she demurred, flinging wayward roseate coils from her glittering turquoise eyes. “I’ll be staying up anyway - until dawn, at least.” The young women exchanged an obscurely meaningful glance.
Penny’s reply was slow in emerging, and her carmine-painted lips chewed this unexpected news like a sheaf of indigestible hurd. Her eyes closed in thoughtful contemplation when she finally spoke. “In that case I’ll stay up and help; you have such a godawful pile of stuff after just a few months!” Her eyes snapped open and turned on the entranced hippy. “How are you going to move it all? You should see how much she has…”
Ram watched his mind mull over these new revelations from a slightly benumbed distance, witnessing his hopes of bedding Seheal (at some undefined point in the latter enfoldments of this enigmatic night) flutter into the hearth and fly up the convoluted brick chimney. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s a van.” Yet Penny’s words still echoed in the cavern of his braincase and their import dawned like a slow sunrise streaming through an open cell door; Move it all?
“I don’t need to take everything now,” said Seheal. “I’m not even sure I’ll be moving in with mum, anyway; we don’t really get along all that well.” She turned her beaming eyelights on the bemused shaman. “I’ll pack the rest in tea chests. But if you have any spare room at your place we could take a couple of bits of furniture and a few other things with us, and leave it all there until I can pick it up later.” She leaned forward and touched his knee with her index finger. “Sunset would be perfect,” she announced as moss-hued tea sloshed into her tilting saucer. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Ram’yana recognised the moment of his dismissal, gamely concealing his disappointment even as a wave of longing descended on his shoulders and held him in place, a heavy cloaking shroud of incipient loneliness that lengthened his face and shortened his posture. In the next moment he was filled with elation. The possibilities seemed all too glaringly obvious and his mind swirled with hopeful ideas and visions. He made small talk with Seheal and Penny for a few more minutes, unwilling to leave the gorgeous red-haired girl’s mesmerising side even as the tide of his sexual expectancy rolled away toward a distant but promising horizon.
Seheal seemed in no hurry for him to leave. He recognised an unspoken invitation within the brazen light of her alluring gaze, a curious sense of immanence in her entrancing smile, a promise of intimacy in her fleet arousing touches and unmistakeably engaged body language. He watched her acknowledge their connexion, recognising the awed awareness that dawned in her eyes as she verified his ardent and carnal interest in her; exulted in the way she looked right into the core of him while their hearts beat as one; felt the unabashed longing in her body and soul when their gazes interlocked over the brims of the cooling porcelain teacups.
Penny’s dark irises rolled from side to side to follow the match of their conversation. Even while pithy temporalities poured from their lips and passed around the small circle, pounding waves of mutually obvious horniness swam between their magnetised bodies and threatened to unite all the other jigsaw-fitting levels of their beings.
The hippy mage couldn’t bring himself to rise and swim upward and outward, leaving the mad swirling current of loving lust that thrilled through his plasm while his attentiveness spiralled round lovely Seheal; yet he longed to summon the willpower to depart her presence in a timely and stylish fashion. He could only sit in admiration, absorbing every word that sentenced him to an incarnation of willing incarceration in her heart, becoming utterly entranced by every adorable nuance of her expressive face and enticing form.
When Penny reassembled the tea set on the tray and ascended toward the heights of the terrace house Seheal seized the moment, springing up in front of the dying fire. As she leant down to grasp Ram’s hands his gaze flashed to the generously revealed lace-fringed hemispheres of her extraordinary breasts before returning to face her directly, an innocent admission of guilt writ on his features. The wise girl smiled at his automatic response and began tugging him to his feet.
When he teetered upright she sprang onto tiptoes and brushed his lips with an electrifyingly brief graze of soft fragrant silkiness. A second later she was turning away and leading him by the hand toward the bare-bricked ground floor entryway. Womanly hips rocked and swelled and girlish cheeks contracted and relaxed with each barefoot step, fully revealed through her tight cotton miniskirt.
He followed her through a trailing cloud of feminine animal fragrance, as thoroughly entranced by Seheal’s native scent as by the fluid flexure of her slender musculature. When they reached the landing and the exit came into sight, she abruptly turned and wrapped her extraordinary body around the astounded hippy in a lithe flowing flexure of firmly soft feminine flesh. She whispered his name as she gripped and enfolded him with all the surprising strength of her grasping, yielding, urgently kneading clasp.
Lips and tongues met in an impassioned epiphany while the strangely familiar strangers discovered welcome and welcoming terrain in the matching textures of similar simian bodies, separated and joined by the tender age-old tyranny of difference. They strained closer, and the hypersensitised shaman could feel Seheal attempting to dispel the last nagging fears that still restrained her from complete surrender. Now that the fearful tolling of three-letter titles had progressed from the realms of IBM and CIA, NIH and WHO, NBC and NSA and transgressed into the sacristy of sexuality, arcane acronyms rang in the ears of most wise young people like warning bells whenever they slipped into the thrilling embrace of a stranger’s loving arms.
The experienced hippy knew that relationships rarely progressed as swiftly over the last few years as they had before the temporary little pandemic began decimating gays and junkies amidst all the excess and decay of the previous decade. Yet Seheal continued to surprise him. All of a sudden she budded open in his arms, having finally penetrated the permeable cloth of ingrained caution that had enveloped all the Aquarian flower children, when the end of the Millennium had approached like an albatross swooping off the starboard bow of all their horny, unknowing and innocent young lives.
She cast off the last lingering shackles of trepidation and they united in a brazenly binding kiss, shimmering together amidst the blazing outpouring of their fundamentally identical and thoroughly complementary needs, each caressing and coiled round the wellspring of the other’s mortal coil. They murmured love-laden names between exorbitant kisses, revelling in the uncanny fit of their automatically meshing flesh and the angling tangle of firmly padded bones.
Seheal tasted of strawberries and cream, honey and cinnamon, flavours that slowly emerged from beneath the cloaking blandishment of peppermint tea while he explored her dainty mouth. Her breath was a fragrant scintillating caress that hallowed the hollow shell of Ram’s body each time she exhaled into his lungs, remaking him whole and entire. Her presence was inescapably attractive; their bodies were a perfectly interlocking puzzle which, when joined, revealed expansive vistas of heart-warming splendour and idylls of supersensual glory.
Ram’yana was a moth drawn to a mesmerising flame that flared through his soul. Fleet images and flashes of disconnected memories vied for attention with the vivid reality of Seheal’s embrace; visions of ancient encounters, memorable and forgotten times strewn throughout the flickering pages of fickle and volatile eternity – a hurdy-gurdy of bygone days and lustrous nights shared with the same red-haired fey pixie who grasped him now, breathing his name with the urgency of long-denied love.
The heartfelt welcome of a yearning young woman, finally reunited with her truly beloved man… He wondered at the power of their attraction, the extraordinary completion implicit in their embrace, while exulting in her kiss, her caress, the firm limber strength of her longing. Love… He held himself back from uttering the word-spell aloud.
Seheal pressed all the charms of her gloriously feminine young body full-length against his chest, belly and groin and, as a single breath coruscated back and forth between their fused lips, the more mature hippy began to comprehend the magnitude of the blessedly demonstrative girl’s intentions – and the intensity and willingness of her love.
“Seheal,” he breathed the susurrant name into her mouth and she held him even more closely, twining limber legs around his midriff and clasping her arms more tightly about his neck while he hoisted her upward and closer still. He was pleasantly startled to find that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. “Mm…” she replied, thrusting her tongue into his mouth with an encouraging molten rush of inarticulate passion.
Her wonderfully firm round cheeks fitted his hands perfectly, and wilfully parted within his palms when his fingers began to drift toward the furry fringe of her magnetically attractive sex; the sheer heat emanating from her cleft was a magnetic and glorious radiance. His fingertips orbited her inward pyre in a slowly closing spiral, drifting across her inner thighs to skirt the hills of her buttocks while she kissed and caressed him with increasing familiarity.
The erudite perfection of her petite suppleness fit his slender frame in a formfitting clasp. She pressed the naked heat of her pudenda against his cloth-restrained smouldering tumescence and her head pulled away just far enough to whisper two words into his mouth; “Tomorrow night.” When she subsided in his embrace and her bare toes dropped to touch equally bare floorboards, her eyes held a promise that required no further articulation. The top of her curls barely reached his shoulders. They cuddled, holding each other gently in an intimate and less lividly heated silence for an enduring time before she pushed him away and turned him about in the entry hall, bidding him to leave with a quick sharp slap that tightened his muscular buttocks.
Penny swayed up behind the diminutive redhead as Ram’s feet carried him backward along the narrow tiled path to the tall iron gate -back toward the dark uneven footpath of the inner-city street. He bid the girls farewell on the stoop and left them to pack Seheal’s possessions into a clutch of plastic bags and cardboard boxes in her as-yet unseen boudoir.
Fleur-des-Lys spearpoints wobbled loosely when the wrought iron gate clanged shut behind him, and Ram began to wonder how he was going to break the unexpected news of his immanent departure to Andrea. She wanted to come away to the rainforest, too, he recalled, appalled. I can’t take them both… Can I?
Then, feeling as if he was emerging from a trance, he watched another forgotten detail arise from the clutter of as-yet-to-be-kept promises that was accreting on the backburner of his brain; And I’m supposed to take Yeti up north with me as well…
“The moment of wonder is never far away.” His words seem hollow, echoing around inside the sporty red car while predawn mist obscures the dreaming forest. One corner of
“Careful,” he warns. “Mixing metaphors can give you a bad hangover. No – just a simple scrutable observation. You can take it however you like.”
“I know,” she replies. He winds the window all the way down and cocks his head to one side, admitting the ubiquitous mist into the sedan’s interior as he straines his hearing to listen beyond the plaintive cries of a distant solitary mopoke. The chill, fresh, and extraordinary pure mountain air is instantly invigorating, dispelling the sweat-sour funk of his nervous expectancy. “Any number of improbable things are still likely to happen; the threatened species legislation might even be upheld, or… Hear that?”
Ram’s eyes automatically follow the young woman’s long lean legging-sheathed limbs as she slides from the black bucket seat. Semi-camouflaging tights cling to her slim legs and boyish buttocks like a second skin.
“Break a leg,” he replies as he twists around to glimpse his friend jogging back down the dirt road toward the Fnord. “But not one of yours.”
“At the turnoff,” he raggedly whispers. “There must be forty of fifty of them. And I think… that’s the sound of the cherry picker coming up the road…”
“I reckon,” agrees the more experienced representative of the North East Forest Alliance while B.J. pauses for another breath. “Looks like they’re serious this time,” she decides. “I’d better tell the others; you guys should get some rest while you can. You’ve both been up for days.”
“No rest for the Wiccan,” the driver announces as he reaches into the back seat for a hardened steel pinch bar. “I think we could use a small landslide about now.”
“Even a big one,” B.J. agrees with a grin. “Or maybe a couple. You’d better tell Jarrah to get on the blower and call for reinforcements; I think we’re about to be seriously outnumbered.”
“Make sure he uses the code,” B.J. yells after her when the torchlight suddenly disappears. He drops into the passenger seat beside the older hippy shaman, his exuberant underlit grin suddenly macabre and appropriately wild-looking in the mossy dashlight. “I guess it’s unlikely they’ll be listening in on the seaphones, but you never know,” he murmurs. “Got a joint for an old digger?”
The shaman flips a long spliff into his lap and opens the driver’s door. “Time to start digging, then. Let’s light up on the way.” He carefully removes the steel bar, moving incrementally to avoid scratching the duco as he climbs from the car while B.J. extracts another pinch bar from the narrow rear floor. When he closes the door they both pause, instantly blinded by the black velvet sack of the nocturnal forest.
There’s still no moon at this late hour and a gentle breeze is rapidly freshening into a cool winter wind that soughs through the tall subtropical treetops and sloughs from peak to peak. The driver carries a small metal maglight (among an impeding assemblage of other accoutrements), but he disdains to use the comforting device for a number of reasons; not least its insuperable thirst for dry-cell electrons.
After a few moments their eyes adjust to the night and they pick out a scattering of stars shining down through the thick cloud mass and interlaced canopies that cover their mountaintop vantage. The gravel road is a pale band of luminescence amidst an unseen landscape of shadowy hummocks and barely discernible tall pillars, massive clumps of vegetation rearing upward into masses of leafy darkness that sway in the night somewhere just beneath the clouds, way up above their long haired heads.
“I didn’t think they’d bring in the damn cherry picker so soon,” Ram’s friend declares as the distant rumbling grows inexorably louder with each passing moment. B.J.’s footsteps approach around the dark glittery bulk of the car and their night vision is temporarily ruined when a cigarette lighter flames between his cupped hands. Puffs of fragrant smoke are carried off on a westerly wind as his worried features shine with a ruddy gleam. His mull-recycling whisper is blown away on the breeze amidst a few gasps of smoke; “I’ll cover the road with an obstacle course while you loosen the boulders.” He takes another quick puff and passes the joint. “Do you want to stash the car?”
“It’ll make a good last-ditch roadblock if it stays where it is.” The driver consecrates the fuming number before taking a deep drag.
“Better lock it, then.”
“The steering lock is on and it’ll only jam up against the rock face if anyone tries to move it - without a dozer or cherry picker, anyway. I’ll try to get the landslide going a little further up the road. If we’re lucky we’ve already trapped all the heavy equipment in the entire area in the log dump, and we might actually be able to slow them up for a while; until they unlock the girls, or more likely cut them out. You know how it goes.” He hefts the bar and begins striding uphill, passing the joint back to his friend. “You’d better have the rest of that; we may not have time for another one for awhile…”
“Well,” B.J. announces as they pick their way through the gloom, “looks like it’s finally happening. Do you really think it’ll work?” Ram’yana stops and turns to face a glowing red point in the darkness. “Of course,” he laughs as he butts the bar’s point into the gravel. “We’re totally outnumbered and they’ll get past whatever we throw in their way, but something will work; we just have to hold them up long enough, however we can.” He hears his friend’s voice snicker as he watches the burning tip of the joint nod up and down. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were delusional,” the younger hippy announces.
“I am delusional,” the shaman replies. “It’s just that my delusions have a habit of manifesting.”
“That’s why I’m here,” B.J. says softly, “instead of down at the tripods with the others.” He follows the shaman uphill as their returning night vision confirmed the configuration of the rugged landscape - whose delineaments they knew intimately, after years invested in exploring the remote threatened forests that surround their isolated home. An unearthly chattering sound soars over their heads, a gibbering scream that spans a wide gap in the canopy over the road as they froze on the spot. “There’s one now,” B.J. hisses. “A Yellow-belly for sure! Why don’t they believe us?”
Ram flashes the maglight toward the canopy and a gleaming pair of golden eyes blinks down from a branch for a split second, only to disappear just as instantly. “Yellow belly,” he confirms. They stand quiet and still for another long minute while the cherry picker lumbers ever closer in the middle distance – still five or six miles away as the eagle flies, a good deal further by road - and when their eyes readjust they watch the distant shadowy silhouettes of a family of extraordinary gliding marsupials flitter across the brightening field of occluded sky. They jump and flow from one massive Tallowwood tree to an even more humungous assemblage of mighty boughs, chittering and chattering as they traverse ancestral sky-paths known only to their highly rarefied and endangered kind. “There are none so blind…” B.J. breathes.
“As those who choose not to see…”
“…as those who choose to only conduct surveys for endangered nocturnal animals in the daytime,” elaborates B.J. The younger man steps off the crunching gravel and disappears behind a roadside clump of lantana. “And they always clock off and leave the forest well before sunset.”
“Only because they’re afraid of the dark….”
“And the yowies.”
“I’ll meet you back here,” Ram says as he walked up the steep road. “If they start coming this way you’ll hear the usual signal.” The conservationists have developed a code of bird and animal cries; calls of native creatures that don’t exist in this particular region, or are never heard at night – signals which the police and even most forest-savvy loggers would almost certainly have no way of noticing, let alone deciphering. B.J. emits an acceptable semblance of a Sea eagle’s whistling cry and departs with a cautiously despatched sentence; “Time to start juggling boulders!” As Ram’yana hefts the heavy bar up the road the sounds of crunching timber announce the start of B.J.’s solo blockading effort.
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