I must admit, I felt pretty uncomfortable about being expected to deal with some unknown local male who was "terrorizing" the women around him. I mean, I was sympathetic, sure, poor girls, but not exactly confident that I was the man for the job. In other words, I was chicken. "I'm a musician, not a fighter," I said to Magga. She bobbed in agreement, "But you are also an Orator. You can usually talk someone into cooperating." She was gracious enough not to mention that time she had seen Daklakht wipe the grass with my ass-- while he was being careful not to hurt me. I may be considered a superman among the wee NokhSo folk, but here in Squatchland I'm just a regular guy. Nor could I count on any back-up from Pokey or Mike; a Nokhon bully was way out of their league. Magga and Masnia, now, are hardly helpless damsels, they are very strong and had both received some Alutna training from Daklakht, but my macho male ego didn't like the idea of being rescued from humiliation by our dainty girls. Nor was I especially comfortable about barging in on some unknown mlønoli's kha-rat in the middle of an unknown jungle. For one thing, it was my experience that each community protected itself by interviewing and observing any strangers before they were allowed to participate in such an intimate ceremony as a kha-rat. Once accepted into the fold, a newcomer could merrily yøramma with each and all, but usually the initial kha-rat with a new group was "lookee but no fucky-fucky". For another thing: who WERE these people? We were two thousand miles from our own forests in the Pacific Northwest, so when you think about how different campesino Mexicans are from Washingtonian gringos, you had to expect some corresponding difference in squatch cultures, if not racial. I knew the language was universal, based upon the hundred-thousand-year oral tradition of Atli, but I'd never actually spoken with another Nokhon so far away from Aket. Maybe they do an entirely different kind of kha-rat. But Magga had set this up and she had an agenda, I trust her, so I backed her up. We all did, assuming that she knew what she was doing. She usually does. Which put us marching single-file through a jungle that got thicker and wilder with every step. Magga said she had been told the way, half a day's march should put us beside an ancient ruin site where her contacts usually held their kha-rat. It was beautiful, but also intimidating, bigger trees than any of us had ever seen before, vines and other weird growths dangling so far down from lofty treetops that we had to push them aside to get through, giant rain forest fungi everywhere, enormous insects, long thick centipedes, unhurried snakes slithering from our path. Like a Tarzan movie, only more so. Neither Magga nor Masnia nor I had any problem with the heat, but our NokhSo friends were sweating a lot. They were constantly thirsty and began to stagger. I took Mel and Liss on my back, Magga took Pokey and Maki. Mike tried to be macho, but an hour later had to accept a piggy-back ride from Masnia. It had been suggested that they wait in the bus, especially because squatches tend to dislike tiny hairless people who are nothing but trouble, but Magga assured us that they were welcome. She had been in telepathic contact with a Sha-haka-ma named Mandichala who was interested in any males-- even tiny NokhSos, as long as they could yøramma --so desperate were those females for a real kha-rat. Pokey was willing, as always, but Mike was not so sure: the whole idea of the kha-rat seemed pretty daunting. He'd been getting so much sex on the tour that he didn't see any advantage to getting more with some strangers... but that was before he'd spent two days sweltering in shyøma and being celibate. He was desperate now too. Magga also wanted the whole band along because they--except for Mike --were familiar with Daklakht, Dagrolyt and Old Wallace, whom we were going to try to locate during the telepathic phase of the kha-rat. The more minds in tune to the target, the better. We arrived at the ruin site before anyone else. The anthropologists among us got very excited about those ruins. Pre-Columbian but definitely not Mayan, some of the stone work reminded me of what I'd seen at Aket, but the major clue was the size of things-- everything was bigger than normal; doorways, stairs, ceilings; it had apparently been built by and for squatch-sized people. Not that there was very much of it still intact or standing, and the jungle was hiding most of it; one had to look for archeological clues. Melly and I took pictures. Yes, we had cameras with us, and other forbidden skesk, like canteens for water and a first-aid kit. Mike and Pokey had backpacks full of stuff they would need, which we had been intending to hide before making contact. The ruins had distracted us, but I would have heard/smelled if anyone else was there. I reminded everyone that we had to strip naked and hide all our skesk before the others arrived. Mike was the only one among us who had not always been accustomed to nudity, but he had learned to relax about it during our long trip south, during which there had been so much sex-play going on that he might just as well stay naked. But I could see that he was nervous about being so exposed around strange squatches. Well, me too. The sun set about an hour after we had arrived, and it got dark quick. Tropical latitude: sunrise at 6:00 am, sunset at 6:00 pm, snap. Still no other guests. Magga and "her sisters" had foraged along the way and had blended a rather effective herbal paste against mosquitoes, so we were comfortable enough. Finally I heard them coming. Which surprised me: nobody should be able to hear squatches moving around in nature, not even other squatches. They were being much sloppier than where I come from. But then the smell of shyøma intensified so much that it would be impossible to be unaware of several females approaching. The Full Moon was not visible through the tangled jungle foliage, but its light was enough that we could see seven Nokhons came out of the jungle. They looked really wild; such long shaggy dirty hair that we couldn't see if they were male or female. Although one had a Sha-haka bag, so that should be the Sha-haka-ma Mandichala, a female. Another was so much taller and wider and more muscular than anyone else that he had to be male. This was obviously the "local male" who'd been terrorizing the females. A really big bruiser, bestial-looking, almost nine feet tall. I’d say he resembled a genetic throwback; a Neanderthal squatch maybe. And he looked pretty stupid, I had to wonder if he could even speak. Magga spoke first: "Kha, Mandichala," she greeted the Sha-haka-ma formally, "o'o yaws-ahat ome." But it was not the Sha-haka-ma who answered; the big male spoke instead, taking charge: "Bring me the NokhSo females, I want to inspect them." He spoke all right, but it was definitely a rude breach of etiquette. An alarming message too. Right away I knew this was not good. He took a step towards Lissandra, moving with an arrogance I've seldom seen in a squatch. She stepped back, looking scared. "Wo-sba, ma!" he commanded: "come here, female!" I stepped into his way. He stopped, surprised maybe. I mean, he was really scary and probably not used to guys getting in his way. "I don't want another male here to yøramma these females, so you go. Now!" He was ugly enough without the sneering and scowling and generally macho demeanor. Obviously a brutal asshole, and quite a bit bigger than me. Did I feel intimidated? Threatened? Maybe even... scared? Well, kinda, yeah! "Can't do that, motherfucker, got some women to protect," I said, playing Clint Eastwood as cool as I could. Or Bruce Willis, I don't care, one of those guys. Pretending to be brave. Actually, it worked: he stepped back, maybe a little unsure of who he was dealing with. He didn't have the backlog of movie he-men I had to draw from, this might have been behavior unusual enough to confuse him. Then he did something odd: grabbing one of the females he'd come with and gave her a quick-stab yøramma; jammed it in, pumped for two strokes and done, then shoved her away so that she fell down. She had not resisted nor did she complain, even though that was something cultured Nokhons just don't DO: rape doesn’t happen. Besides, no shyøma-sex is allowed before the kha-rat actually begins. Then I realized that all the others were females, six of them, he the only male. He'd demanded that I leave my women with him to yøramma, including the human girls. He was herding them for himself, no other males allowed. I also got the impression he'd gladly fuck our human girls to death. He was sporting an erection (as were all us guys) but his was SO BIG that mine almost shriveled up of inadequacy. Melly, Lissandra and Maki were looking at him-- and it --in genuine horror. They all moved behind me, their infallible hero. I hoped. At the moment he was deciding what to do, the quickie had just been a shot of courage. Then I saw him lock his eyes onto Melly. Squatches were always attracted by her golden hair, more than how beautiful her face is, and her relative tiny size and delicate shape is especially stimulating for males. Squatch guys think Melly is hot. Including me. He decided to use Melly for another quickie and made his move. Not for Melly, but for me, expecting that I'd interfere: time to get rid of the competition. I'm not totally helpless, although when I sport-wrestle with squatch guys I lose the match as often as I win. Fighting is not an instinct for me, although I've been told I have the rare "warrior gene" somewhere in my DNA, so it should be. But I have learned to make my haka flow, and that's the most important thing. I tell myself. He lunged at me, I swerved, he missed. I kicked-- and missed too, he was out of the way too fast. Then bam bam bam bam, he was punching my ribs, which HURT! A kick in the face and I went over backwards, a knee in the gut as I tried to come up, it all went by really quick. It was clear I hadn't a chance. More than the pain, I felt the shame that I had not defended my women. And the fear of what this asshole would do to them. Pretty bad moment for me. But Magga stepped in, did the tap-on-the forehead trick that squatch police do to down a belligerent opponent. But this guy did not go down: his skull was too thick, or he was too stupid to feel pain. He punched her in the midriff and she folded too. Not looking good for her either. But then Masnia was on him. Tiny compared to that guy, she danced around him and kicked him in the face 4-5 times, never hard enough to drop him, more like teasing. He punched at her several times but never connected, she was faster and more agile. But all it would take was one lucky punch... She stopped, facing him square on, breathing easily. He stopped, breathing hard, getting ready. She smiled. He looked confused. Then she crouched, as if for a spring and--SHRIEKED at him. It was the Bigfoot howl: the kind hunters and campers report having heard coming from deep in the woods, the spooky and scary kind. The kind that rattles your nerves; the kind that hurts and makes you wince. All squatches can do it, it's for emergencies. I can do it too, but Masnia seemed to blast out three times the volume of any squatch I'd ever heard before, male or female. I was staggered by it. And so was our enemy, he went sideways and had to struggle to stay on his feet. Then Masnia stepped in close to him and tapped his forehead with a finger, the same move Magga had tried, only more softly, more delicately, more accurately. His eyes snapped so wide, as if his brain had exploded and he fell backwards, hitting the back of his head hard on a big rock, then lay there, groaning. But Masnia was not finished with him, she stepped even more forward, straddling the guy, bending down to scream into his face: "You shall NEVER harm anyone again! You shall NEVER misuse any female again-- IN YOUR LIFE!" Then she stepped back, giving him room, then pointed out into the jungle, commanding: "Now GO from here and do not return!" He slowly crawled to his feet, staggered like a drunk, looking completely defeated. Which, evidently, he was, because he walked away into the jungle without a word to anyone, not even the females he had arrived with. Then he was gone. We never saw him again. Masnia slumped, her work here done: a wild-eyed live wire, trembling with unspent power, nostrils flaring, looking like an avenging angel. I'd recognized that Voice of Authority she can sometimes call up. Wow! Warning guys: don't mess with Masnia. Later we learned the male's name was Dablogeh. The final "H" instead of "T" meant he still had a child's name because he'd never passed his Enduring (a Manhood Rite, High School Graduation, etc), since he'd always been a social outcast, a kronoke,or exile. Meanwhile, Dablogeh's six abandoned females looked around in confusion, in wonder, not believing he was truly gone and that they were free at last. They began to whimper and weep for joy. We learned that he'd stolen these girls from a local mlønoli and enslaved them to serve in his own private harem. He'd fought off the local Alutna and killed two males who'd tried to free the females. That guy was a bad squatch. The females reeked of standard squatch-stink and were unusually dirty and unkempt, even for a Bigfoot. Traditionally, all the smeared shit and piss is washed away for a kha-rat, so that the "sweet" smell of shyøma could be dominant. But it seems that Dablogeh had not allowed them to wash ever, nor to groom their hair; he preferred them to be as ugly as himself. Naturally, they were also nervous and depressed after having been tyrannized for so long. Also meanwhile, the Full Moon was in the sky above us; the kha-rat should begin. The six females were too confused to start any sort of ceremony, so Magga took charge and said the words. Nobody was in the mood for a kha-rat: Melly, Liss and Maki were still just about traumatized by what had happened ("Gol, did you see that BONER? It would have KILLED any of us!"); Mike was gagging with the smell and didn't think he could bring himself to yøramma with any of these new females ("Oh god, they're so RANK, ugly and dirty!"). The females felt similar misgivings about Mike and Pokey ("But they're so TINY, they don't have a real dakh between them!"). Magga just wanted to get to the telepathic part. And worst of all-- there was only one male squatch to take care of eleven shyøma-frenzied chicks: me. But the shyøma is as unstoppable as the moon; none of us could ignore it. None of us WANTED to be horny, but erections were bulging, vaginas were gooshing, it couldn’t be held back much longer. "Wait!" shouted Mandichala, the newly freed Sha-haka-ma, "on the other side of these ruins is a pool of water where we can bathe to purify ourselves!" We all stampeded around the ruins and sure enough, there was an ancient pool, maybe once a municipal swimming pool a few hundred thousand years ago, half-filled with water. Okay, not clean, chlorinated water, but stagnant rain & drain water. It was mossy and there were snakes and bugs and leaves; normally you would think a long time about going in and definitely decide against it. But under the light of the full moon it was just so beautiful, and if there were any dangerous snakes they probably fled in fear as the entire pool exploded with the impact of so many big hairy squatch mamas all at once. We heard those women laughing, probably for the first time in a long while. So we jumped in too. As we helped them wash the stink and the terror away, everyone started laughing. For a moment there was no shyøma in the air, a temporary relief, but washing those poor violated women was a rather intimate and erotic experience. As everyone ran their hands over bosoms and buttocks, bellies and thighs, erections returned. Timid hands caressed my dakh, then not so timidly. I could hear Mike and Pokey giggling; my own girls gasping. The shyøma-smell returned in full force. Any and all squeamishness got forgotten Then we were all out of the water and rolling around in one big hairy clump, fucking anything that was somewhat accepting of penetration and still wet, no idea who or what, in absolute abandon. Later on in the evening the kha-rat finally achieved some decorum. The new girls had brought a good portion of the local psilocybin mushrooms the area around Palenque is famous for, we had some khos we'd blended. I recited someAtli, Magga organized a group trance, and we wallowed in the Ma-ket, Full Moon. Finally, we achieved a group Vision. That was really what all this was about. We wanted to tune in on our friends in the Far White Mountains. Make sure they are okay. See how far they've come. They had started with a GPS cell phone with them, but Art had only gotten one semi-coherent SMS (as far as we knew at that time). "Tuning in on them" is nothing less than social telepathy-- like group therapy, but not so secret: everyone experiences what your group is thinking and feeling, but not necessarily which individuals are thinking what. Which makes it less embarrassing all around. Magga let everyone know what she was looking for. It helped that most of the females remembered having met Daklakht-- intimately, the old rogue --on his way back north several moons back, so they were interested in the search as well. It's not always so easy to get a group decision for which way a vision should be looking, but this time it was the officiating Sha-haka-ma who called the shots: Magga. So we all "tuned" together. Snow. Mountains all around us. We are tired, but know we are approaching the secret city of Shamballah. There are three of us, all still alive so far. Daklakht knows the way. Dagrolyt knows the drill. Dawalasat knows the truth. We are walking up a very high mountain. It is steep, the snow is deep, we creep. On and on. Wind in face. On and on. That was the vision. If we believed it, our friends were alive and well. If we didn't believe it was true.. well, them, we had nothing.
The next day-- well, you know by now how a Kha-rat day-after is: shyøma still charging the air, but fainter and less frenetic. People lying around, casually screwing, but also talking, getting to know one another. It's usually nice, the sex is just an excuse to get close to someone. Effective, works wonders. I was getting to know Mandichala. She had opened up to me (or my dakh) after being shy and over-respectful. She and all the other females had been so downtrodden by Dablogeh that they had given up all hope or self-esteem. They'd seen him murder their own mates, defeat every male who tried to help them, and then murder those of his slave-females he grew tired of. I found myself reconsidering my stand against noisekillers, maybe blowing that monster away would be an OK option. But Nokhons don't do that, I reminded myself. Anyway, Mandichala told me that her mlønoli was falling apart because there were no more males available. There were too many lonely female Nokhons in this jungle, they would have to find another place where there were extra males. She said I'd done a pretty fair job of orgasm-giving yøramma for just one male (did my best), but when I traveled on there would be not one male left except for Dablogeh. I said there were male Nokhons up north. But she'd enjoyed orgasms with Mike and Pokey and had a new respect for NokhSos. I told her about the NNP, how squatches are coming out into the NokhSo world. She said she’d consider going that way. I couldn't offer to take all six of them home with us in the bus, but I told them how to get there on foot. Three thousand miles, but squatches do that stuff easy. But I did wonder how the US Border Guards would react.
The six ex-harem girls had been despondent in many moons, and they looked it. Shaggy messes, all of them. But they became inspired by Magga and Masnia, both clipped and neat, silky short fur-- especially Masnia's bare nipples, they considered that somewhat risqué, practically inviting a male to nibble. We had scissors in our first-aid kit, so we helped trim them all. They looked so much nicer when we were done. Now you could see that they were females, they had figures, they became pretty. Also because they began to feel pretty, a powerful re-kick of shyøma hit us all. Group yøramma, sun went down. The moon came up-- not quite a full Ma-ket, but good enough to keep the kha-rat going until the dawn. That also gave us the chance to make another group-telepathic call, this time to find a mlønoli with some extra males. And we did: farther south, in the jungle of Guatemala, were a community of squatches who needed females. It was not so far away, a two- day march. It was agreed that these females would go and join them. A happy ending? Maybe, who knows? But we got no more contact with our friends on the Himalaya expedition.
|