Chapter 1

... to cross that dark chasm that exists in heart and soul.

There must be a greater meaning to your life than you have found thus far.

So screamed an angry wind that held his heart in a frigid grasp.

All he knows is what all men know. The fear of a little boy as he faces a larger one in a playground fight, more afraid of being called a coward than he is of getting hurt or losing. There is the pride and accomplishment that comes from building something new. There is the rush of power, and that little thrill, that comes with tearing down something old and rotten. There is the confusion that arises as a result of being asked what he feels by a woman he loves, and the knowledge that his inability to answer arises from not knowing, rather than from an unwillingness to share. There are even simple things of life that define him, like the relief that spreads forth from his bladder when he relieves himself first thing in the morning.

He knows that the urge to procreate exists in every part of his mind and body. It colors his whole view of the world. He remembers that thrill, felt as a young man, when he actually got his first feel of a woman’s breast even though a bra covered it. There is the remembrance of the embarrassment felt as a teenager when he would get erect in class for no reason at all, and the dread that everyone would know of his excited state and laugh at him. There is that sense of rightness in how his hand fits around his cock as he strokes his erection while fantasizing. There is the accompanying unease at the chance of being caught masturbating that drives him to finish as quickly as possible, and abort the full potential for pleasure that the act promises. There is that catch in the throat when he looks down at a woman sucking his cock and sees that she is looking up at him with a smile in her eyes. There is that indescribable pleasure of entering a woman in that most intense act between man and woman. He fears the devastation that would come from having a woman laugh at the size of his cock, or ridicule his performance as a man. He wants to deny that day when he finally becomes too old or ill to get an erection, and thus prays that day will never come.

He knelt beside the fire pit, a stone pressing into his right knee, irritating, but insufficient to force him to change his position. Ignoring his discomfort, he poked through the ashes looking for the dull red of a last remaining ember. In the pre-dawn light, even the faintest glow would stand out. Finding one, he worked it to the center of the pit with a small stick. He placed a small piece of dried moss upon the ember and blew gently. His breath coaxed the ember to glow a little brighter, and the grayish-green moss began to smoke. Then, with the suddenness that always surprised him, it burst into a fragile flame with a weak wisp of smoke rising from it that was easily lost in the gray light. With the care that comes from long experience, he laid small sticks across the wavering flame and blew gently as he resurrected the fire that had burned through the night.

He rocked back until he rested, buttocks on heels, and gazed with simple pleasure at the result of his labor. He watched the steadily growing flame until he was satisfied that the fire needed no further care for the moment.

Looking up, he watched the day break over the eastern horizon, performing what had become a religious ritual. The unseen sun was lighting up the sky, painting it blue against the gray background that slowly spread upwards. He smiled at the lack of red on the horizon that, according to ‘sailor wisdom’ meant there would be no rain that day. A cold wind that lasted no more than three seconds disturbed the quiet air, bringing a chill that spread across his whole body. Every morning that wind blew through, and he felt this indicated a magic moment. By the time the chills subsided, the sun broke the horizon signaling the beginning of a new day.

Muscles stiff from holding the same position too long, he rose with great difficulty and examined the camp. From the leather case on his belt, he removed his compass. Turning north, strode fifty paces into the woods, chased by the barking of squirrels disturbed by this strange presence. He looked up and spied his orange backpack hanging from a rope thrown over a branch of a stately oak. The bright yellow of the ski tow line stood out in sharp contrast to the bluish gray background of the sky and the green leaves of the oaks. He followed the rope to where it was tied on a separate tree. He pulled on the free end of the rope, thereby releasing the knot. Lowering the backpack, he watched the swaying of the branch over which the rope hung. He marveled at the nature of the forces that translated his angular release into a gradual lessening of the forces sustaining the pack against the force of gravity.

When the pack finally reached the ground he went to it and retrieved the rope. He coiled the rope and replaced it in its normal position on the backpack. Hefting it, he judged the pack was at least ten pounds lighter now than it had been two weeks ago. He deftly swung it around while slipping his arms into the straps. Having performed the act several times a day for the past month, it settled into place very naturally.

As he walked back to camp, he took a little more time to watch the antics of the squirrels. Bushy tails flattened behind, ears laid back, and a ferocious look pasted across their faces they barked their displeasure at him. These truly wild animals had not seen a human in at least ten of their generations. Unlike their tamer brethren that lived in and around cities, these squirrels wouldn’t eat any bread that he might leave out for them.

Reaching his camp, he set his backpack down next to his bedroll and carefully opened it. There on the top was his metal cup and the container of coffee. He filled the cup with water from his canteen, added two spoons of the extremely finely ground coffee, and two packets of sugar. He preferred the packets of sugar as it simplified measurement, storage, and left waste that was easily burned in the fire. After burning the paper from the packets, he threw several handfuls of dirt upon a portion of the fire. He set the cup upon the dirt. The dirt would heat up and form a natural medium heat that would brew a very strong Greek coffee in about twenty minutes.

Seating himself on his bedroll and next to the backpack, he removed his well-worn leather-bound journal. Once it’d had that fresh leather smell; now it smelled of wood smoke, leaves, and sweat. He opened it to the first blank page, and removed the pen from the pen holder built into the spine of the book. Checking his watch, he wrote:

June 21 6:45 AM

I stayed up late last night watching the stars. The night was very clear and the stars presented themselves in all their glory. I never fail to have that sense of wonder that I imagine primitive man had when he first stared up at the night sky and realized that the stars were more than just décor but were something magical. The moon was full and so bright that you could have read a newspaper. Amazing what you see when you leave the lights of the city.

Just before falling asleep, I saw a most amazing sight. Three meteors simultaneously raced across the sky perfectly in parallel with each other. They were well spaced so that I could easily tell which one was closest to me. The one closest to me was the smallest, the middle one was about twice the size of the small one, and the furthest was huge. There had been no meteors before that or afterwards.

He took a moment to read what he had written and, satisfied that his entry had captured all of the events of the previous night, he slipped the pen back into the holder along the spine. Removing the map from the back of his journal, he opened it and examined it for a couple of minutes. Reaching into the backpack, he removed the GPS and read off his location. He checked that against the point that he had marked the night before and nodded when the two locations matched. Folding the map, he replaced it in the journal, and returned the journal and the GPS to the backpack. He glanced over at the coffee and saw that it wasn’t ready, yet; it never was, this soon.

He stood and lifted up his bedroll. Holding along the long side, he shook it with a great snap to remove any bugs, leaves, or other debris that might be stuck to it. It took only a half a minute to fold it into thirds and then roll it into a tight bundle. He tied it with four strings that he retrieved from his backpack. Setting it down next to the backpack, he squatted and removed two small packages from the pack. The packages contained a small piece of sausage and another of hard cheese. It wasn’t much, but it was more than sufficient for a cold breakfast.

He checked the coffee again and found that it was ready, and very hot. Using his shirttail, he lifted it by the handle from the mound of dirt, and set it aside. Rich foam topped half of the cup. The aroma of the coffee filled his nostrils and brought back memories of the Greek woman who had taught him to make coffee in this fashion. He remembered the time she had made a cup of coffee with a distribution of foam almost identical to what was on the cup he was now examining. She told him that a major change in life was indicated. That same day an event happened that completely changed his life. Even now, the memory of that day brought a shudder to him. Since then, he had never touched alcohol or drugs. He turned from drop-out into determined student.

Breaking away from his reflections, he took a bite of the sausage. His stomach twisted in response to the strong flavor of garlic so early in the day. He grimaced, but continued to eat. Alternating between bites of sausage and cheese, he slowly consumed his breakfast. Occasionally, he would take the time to sip his coffee enjoying the strong flavor and the rush of caffeine. It wasn’t long before he had nothing left except for a half a bite of sausage and cheese. He set them aside saying, “For the Gods and Goddesses.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, he emptied the remains of his coffee cup onto the last embers of his fire. The sudden onslaught of wet coffee grounds threw up a cloud of steam, laced with the heavy scent from coffee smoking amongst a few remaining coals. He added a small amount of water to the cup, swirled it with a deft flick of the wrist, and tossed the water onto the fire as well. The last coals died with a protesting hiss, and his cup was free of coffee grounds.

He added more water to the cup, dunked his toothbrush into it, and added a quarter-inch dollop of toothpaste from the small “travel size” tube of toothpaste. After a minute of vigorous brushing, he spat out the white foam into the fire pit. A quick sip from the cup and a general swishing of the water through his mouth was followed by another splash of water hitting the fire pit. The fire pit was now a mess of sodden ashes and half-burnt sticks. He drank down the mouthful of water that remained in the cup.

It only took another five minutes of work, and all of his possessions were packed into the backpack or tucked into his pockets. With a patient scan over his campsite, he assured himself that there was little or no trace of his stay. A small mound of dirt where his fire pit had been and a small piece of cheese and sausage were all that remained. The flattened grass where he had slept would stand again in a day or two. He took considerable pleasure in performing the strict routine of his morning tasks.

It was after three hours of leisurely hiking that a chill ran up his spine. He froze in place as he struggled to come to grips with the unnatural feel of his surroundings. Everything was too quiet. There was no wind, and no bird calls. He listened carefully trying to identify the source of his uneasiness, yet nothing reached his ears. As he looked around, it seemed as though the colors were too bright. The greens of the leaves, the browns and grays of the trunks and branches of the trees, and the blue of the sky screamed at him. There was a profusion of colors. The light hurt his eyes with their intensity.

The sound of a branch moving struck him like a whip. His head swiveled to see what had caused the noise. He stared in shock as a naked woman stepped from the forest. A current of electricity raced through him. His cock went from placid to erect instantly, and painfully.

Time came to stop as she stood at an angle to him, while allowing him to take in her beauty. She was the perfect woman incarnate. Her stance was one of complete ease and confidence. Her right leg supported her weight. The left leg was angled to the side; the toes just touching the ground. Her left hand rested upon her hip. There was no trace of embarrassment in how she presented herself to him, although there was no modesty in her pose.

Her skin was silky white and totally unblemished. Her light brown hair hung to the top of the most sensational ass that he had ever seen and partially covered her breasts. Her gravity defying breasts were the perfect size, not too big and not too small. The pencil eraser sized nipples were erect, rising proudly from the light brown aureole.

Her face was perfect. Her eyes watched him with direct and piercing intensity, tempered with a softness that spoke of deep understanding of mortal frailty. The irises were the color of emeralds and shone with a light of their own. Her lips were of a natural reddish hue that gave them a sensuality that no lipstick could ever achieve. Her lips, raised slightly in a wry smile, conveyed a sense of amusement. The cheeks shone with a natural blush.

His gaze returned to her eyes and through them, he saw himself. He felt as though he were the one naked. He knew himself to be filthy from hiking for two weeks without a civilized shower. It had been two days since he had washed himself and that time had been in a pitiful stream where the best that he could do was wet his shirt and wipe himself with it. The knees of his pants were permanently stained from kneeling in the dirt and grass.