Stranger In The Forest

He muttered something in his own language, eyes darting over her face, her hair, down to her ankles. Her unusual hue, her ephemeral glow—she could feel his awe pressing on her like a physical force.

Fanta shifted uncomfortably. She was used to people reacting with horror or envy, not rapt admiration. This man, though, seemed transfixed, unable to tear his gaze away. He aimed his torch at her again, capturing every detail of her half-sodden figure.

"H-hello?" she whispered, feigning a thick accent that matched the local dialect. She wanted to keep up the illusion that she didn't speak fluent English.

He swallowed, shoulders tense. In the lantern's modest beam, she saw him fumble for a device strapped around his neck—a camera. Suddenly, he lifted it, pointing the lens at her.

She gasped, momentarily blinded by the faint flash. He snapped a photo, eyes alight with reverent curiosity. Immediately, he checked his camera's screen, breath catching. She recognized the posture from the few references about "photographers" in those old books she'd devoured.

He murmured something breathless: "In-credible…"

Fanta pressed her lips together, hugging her arms around her chest. No one had ever photographed her before. She felt vulnerable, exposed. He circled slightly to get a better angle, snapping another shot, his expression entranced.

She tried to scramble away, her ankle protesting. She wasn't sure how to handle this intrusion—he was devouring her with his gaze, capturing her every feature in that strange box. Her heart pounded.

He paused, guilt flickering across his features. "Sorry… sorry," he said softly, lowering the camera. But he couldn't stop staring. The color of her hair, the glow of her flawless skin, the unnatural blue-ruby hue of her eyes—it was like an angel had appeared out of nowhere.

Slowly, he crouched, setting the camera aside. "I… I'm Mike," he managed in English, voice thick with awe. He spoke as if each syllable was foreign. "You… from… village?" He gestured vaguely, searching her face for understanding.

Fanta averted her gaze, giving only a tiny nod. She could sense the swirl of questions in his head. The thick tension of his fascination made her skin prickle. She wasn't used to such open admiration—her village only ever gave her scorn or fear.

She tried to stand, wincing at her throbbing ankle. Mike immediately moved closer, offering his arm. She hesitated, smelling her own sweet berry scent intensify. The missionary book had never described a moment like this—a foreign man so captivated he forgot his manners, barely even blinking.

Still, she let him help her up. He stared at her hair as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Her unusual hue and the glistening droplets sliding down her honey skin left him practically spellbound.

"You… look… so…" he stammered, fumbling for the word. "Beautiful," he finally said, voice trembling slightly.

Her cheeks heated. She gave a tentative shake of her head, as if not understanding. Deep down, her fluent English recognized the compliment, but she'd be safer letting him think she was just a local girl who couldn't talk.

He repeated, "Beauti-ful," pointing at her. Then at the camera. He tapped his chest, "Mike. Photography." His accent warped the words, but the meaning was clear. He was a photographer, and he found her… stunning.

Her stomach flipped. She fought the urge to answer in perfect English, I know what you're saying, and please stop drooling. Instead, she remained silent, letting him interpret her neutral expression as ignorance.

He exhaled, seeming to realize he might be making her uncomfortable. He tore his gaze away, focusing on the net remnants. Then he gently gestured to her ankle. "You… hurt?"

She nodded, biting her lip. He crouched again, rummaging in his bag for a bandage. She marveled at his supplies—antiseptics, gauze, a small first-aid kit—like the missionaries' "medical kits" she'd read about. He began cleaning the rope burn, gaze flickering back to her face every few seconds, as if ensuring she was still real.

Fanta endured his ministrations with a stoic quiet, though her mind reeled. No man from Ogamba would dare even look her in the eye; this stranger couldn't stop staring, as though she were a deity in mortal form. She shivered inwardly. The raw admiration in his eyes both unnerved and warmed her. Better than hatred, she supposed, but it was still overwhelming.

At one point, he leaned closer to examine a bruise on her calf. That's when the berry fragrance emanating from her skin must have hit him full force. He inhaled sharply, blinking in surprise. She stiffened—had he noticed something off? He parted his lips, clearly wanting to comment, but couldn't find the words.

All he managed was, "Smell… fruit?"

She averted her gaze, giving the smallest nod, hugging her arms over her chest. He stared again, eyebrows furrowing. But then he let it go, probably chalking it up to some local perfume. She exhaled, thankful he didn't pry further. If the villagers found it demonic, she could only imagine how an outsider might react.

When he finished bandaging, he placed his hand on her uninjured foot, nodding in satisfaction. "Better," he said, flashing an awkward smile. "You… safe now."

She gave a shaky nod, though safe was relative. She was alone in a haunted forest with a starry-eyed traveler who couldn't speak her language properly. But at least she wasn't dangling from a net, and he wasn't throwing mud at her.