Caught In A Snare

Fanta lay sprawled in the muddy shallows, every inch of her slim frame stinging from the assault she'd just endured. Water lapped around her legs, the aftermath of Handuza and her friends' cruel torment. Her purple hair, slick with river water, clung to her back. Mud smeared her perfect, honey-hued skin, and a dull ache pulsed through her ankles and knees where she had fallen. She tried to breathe slowly, ignoring the burning in her lungs.

She could still hear Handuza's triumphant cackle echo through the humid air. They never stopped, no matter how she tried to live quietly. As she pushed up onto her hands, something foul and thick slid off her forearms—remnants of the mud they'd flung at her. A bitter taste rose in her mouth, but she fought it down. At least, for now, they'd left. No more stares, no more laughs, no more stones. Not here.

Fanta dragged herself upright, wincing. Her bare feet sank into the riverbank's soft clay, the sun overhead highlighting her every movement. She stood a bit over 5'6'', her figure slender yet undeniably curved in a perfect hourglass shape. If it weren't for the bruises, she might have looked like an apparition stepping out of the water, especially with her unusual extra long and thick purple hair, blue-ruby eyes, and raspberry lips.

She wiped her face, revealing her symmetrical features beneath the mud: a face so eerily perfect—high cheekbones, a pointed nose, and teeth of blinding white—that villagers called her a curse. Her eyes glowed like sapphires in the daylight, rumored to drive people insane if they stared too long. Her fruity-like fragrance clung to the air around her, sweet and intoxicating, even mixed with the stagnant smell of the river.

It was too much for Ogamba. No one in the village accepted that such a girl could be human. They branded her a demon, an omen, a ghost—a plague on their land. And so she ran, heart racing, lips pressed together in silent fury.

She couldn't return home again. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Without a second glance, she turned her back on the river and limped toward Okiya Forest, letting the trees swallow her.

Into Okiya Forest

The air changed as soon as she stepped under the dense canopy. The scorching sun gave way to a dim, green-filtered light. The trunks loomed around her, thick roots snaking across the ground like living creatures. An eerie hush enveloped her, broken only by distant birdcalls and the rustle of leaves.

Her ankle throbbed, but she pressed on, ignoring every scratch or bruise. She was used to them, and they'd fade soon anyway—one of the inexplicable things about her that set her further apart. At least here, in the forest, there were no jeering faces. She could breathe without hearing whispers of "cursed" or "ghost."

She recalled her mother, Anayara, warning her as a child: "Never venture too far into Okiya Forest. It's not safe." But was Ogamba any safer? The humiliations and attacks only grew fiercer. Better a wild beast, she thought bitterly, than a hateful villager.

She stumbled through thick vines, wincing each time her injured ankle bent at a bad angle. Her long purple braids swayed heavily against her back. From them rose her unique, fruit-like scent, clashing with the forest's damp musk.

The day wore on, and she found herself deeper among towering trees. At last, exhaustion demanded she rest. She slumped against a broad trunk, sliding down to the mossy ground. The old anger from Handuza's assault flared again, flooding her mind with their sneers. I can't let them do this to me forever.

She resolved to keep going, deeper if she must. Perhaps she'd find a spring or a secure nook to shelter in for the night. The thought of leopards or snakes gnawed at her, but returning was unthinkable.

She picked herself up and continued, ignoring the creeping dread.

Caught in the Snare

As dusk approached, the canopy grew darker, shadows lengthening. Fanta's hair, drying at last, shimmered in the half-light, the purple hue catching the occasional ray of sun. She brushed aside a fallen branch, eyes darting warily. The forest was quiet—too quiet. She remembered reading in one of her old missionary-taught English books that such silence might herald a predator.

Her heart pounded, but she pressed on, stepping over tangled roots with care. That was when the ground vanished beneath her feet. She let out a startled cry as something yanked her upward, flipping her head-over-heels. The world blurred.

A rope pinched her ankle; she dangled in midair, dress sliding dangerously. Her hair fell around her face like a silken purple curtain. Mud and sweat stung her eyes. For a long moment, she just swayed, too shocked to even scream.

A snare, she realized. Someone—perhaps a traveling hunter—had set a trap. She tugged at the rope, panic clawing at her throat, but it only tightened, sending a fresh jolt of pain through her leg. Blood rushed to her head, leaving her dizzy.

She forced herself to whisper in the local dialect: "Help…" even though no one would likely answer in this isolated place. Her bruised arms trembled. Maybe it's better if no one finds me, she thought gloomily. She might prefer a beast's swift mercy over returning to Ogamba.

But then—footsteps. Crunching leaves. A faint glow, like a lantern or flashlight. Fear spiked. What if it's a poacher or a bandit?

Terror flooded her veins. She tried to still her frantic swinging, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She glimpsed a tall shape moving closer, wearing clothes that resembled nothing from Ogamba—pants, boots, a satchel across the chest.

A quiet exclamation of surprise escaped the figure. Fanta's heart thundered. Could it be someone from across the seas? The missionary books she'd read described such travelers. But in real life? She swallowed, wanting to speak but too unsure what to say.

"Ah—are… are you okay?" The voice was male, low, laced with accent-heavy English. Broken, stilted, like someone who'd learned from poor teachers.

She froze. Her heart hammered. He was speaking English? She understood perfectly, but the accent grated oddly on her ears. In her mind, she thought: He must be illiterate in his own language. A wry flicker of humor almost made her laugh. She could speak it far better than he did.

Yet, she said nothing, only nodded or shook her head at his slow, halting phrases, letting him believe she barely comprehended.

He crept closer, shining a small electric torch—the kind Fanta had only read about—on her predicament. "I… help you?" he managed.

She nodded vigorously, tears burning. The rope dug into her ankle. She needed him to cut it. He rummaged in his bag, producing a knife. Fanta flinched—her belly twisting with fear—but he gently gestured for her to stay calm. "Don't… worry," he tried, sounding each word uncertainly.

With a few quick slices, the rope gave way. Fanta dropped, landing painfully on her shoulder with a gasp. Mud squelched under her, and her ankle screamed in protest. At least she was free.

She trembled, pushing onto her knees. Her purple hair draped across her face in tangles, and the sweet fruit-berry scent she emitted seemed to intensify with her rising panic. She peeked up at him, noticing now, in the lantern's glow, how he gawked at her.

A long silence hung between them as he took in her appearance—the honeyed skin glowing under a thin film of dirt, her tall, slender build, the near-perfect symmetry of her face, those enormous sapphire eyes, and that violet hair. His eyes went wide, mouth partially open, as if he'd just encountered some celestial being.