He Talks Weird

Nightfall approached swiftly beneath the canopy. Mike glanced skyward, concern etched on his features. He started to set up a small camp—unrolling a mat, fiddling with a lightweight tarp, hooking it between branches. Fanta watched him with wide eyes, curiosity mounting. She recognized bits and pieces from the old missionary stories: explorers who carried modern gear to survive in unknown territories.

At one point, he paused to take another photo of her. She flinched from the lens, half covering her face. He lowered the camera apologetically, bowing his head. "Sor-ry," he repeated.

She felt her heart pounding, unsure how to handle this relentless fascination. She had never been on the receiving end of admiration before. For her entire life, eyes that beheld her only offered scorn, fear, or hostility. Now, here was a man who couldn't tear his eyes away, who kept marveling at her features as though she was the eighth wonder of the world.

She recalled reading a line in a novel: If an angel fell among mortals, they would be revered or feared. Fanta stifled a rueful grin. She'd been feared long enough—reverence was new and disconcerting.

He gestured, trying to form words. "We… stay night… forest danger." His accent mangled the phrase, but she caught the meaning. He asked if she'd remain with him for safety. Her chest tightened, and she nodded again, aware she had little choice. She certainly couldn't wander alone with an injured ankle, nor did she wish to. Predators roamed after dark, and she had no torch or weapons.

He offered her a small ration pack. She watched him tear it open, so she copied him, nibbling at the compressed bars of dried fruit and nuts. The taste was surprisingly pleasant—sweeter and more robust than anything she found in Ogamba's meager market. She devoured it, ignoring the way he watched every motion of her lips.

His eyes flicked from her mouth to her hair to her eyes, again and again, as if he needed to memorize her. She felt heat rise in her cheeks. She'd never seen such open awe. Even the chill night air couldn't dull the flush that crept over her.

Stop staring, she wanted to say in her perfect English. Or at least learn to do it more subtly. But she stayed mute, letting him assume she spoke no more than a few scattered words. It served as a shield—a barrier of ignorance.

He finished setting up a basic shelter with a tarp overhead. Then he spread out a second mat, patting it for her to lie on. She gingerly lowered herself, ankle throbbing less, the rest of her body sore. Mike sat just a short distance away, rummaging in a notebook by lanternlight. From the corner of her eye, she watched him sketch something—a rough outline of her silhouette, perhaps? Her stomach fluttered at the thought. She forced her gaze away, praying he'd lose interest soon.

But he didn't. Every few minutes, he glanced her way, a soft exhalation escaping his lips as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The luminous quality of her skin, her purple braids that reached her knees, her otherworldly eyes—all must be a mind-boggling sight. He raised his camera again, then hesitated, meeting her gaze. She gave a tiny shake of her head, and he sighed, respecting her silent refusal.

Darkness deepened. The forest chorus of insects swelled, a symphony of chirping, clicking, and rustling. A brisk breeze whispered through the canopy, sending leaves drifting in the lantern glow. The sweet berry scent around Fanta mixed with the forest's earthy aroma, creating a heady fragrance that Mike seemed unable to ignore.

At one point, he murmured under his breath in his own language. Fanta caught a few English words—"angel," "incredible," "can't believe"—mixed with what sounded like expletives in some foreign tongue. She feigned indifference, leaning her head back against a tree trunk, half-lidded eyes glancing at him in the flickering light.

He unrolled a lightweight sleeping bag, glancing her way as if gauging whether she'd be alarmed. She just blinked, hugging her arms around her knees. Eventually, he settled in, half sitting up with the bag draped over his legs, never quite looking away from her for long.

After a while, he pointed to himself. "Mike," he repeated. Then pointed at her. "Name?"

She paused. "Fanta," she said softly, keeping her accent thick. It was the one detail she'd give freely. Her name was well-known in Ogamba, and it mattered little if he recognized it.

He smiled at the sound. "Fan-ta," he echoed, accent clumsy. He scribbled it in his notebook. She watched him, feeling oddly exposed as he recorded her name. He then tried to ask more: "From… Ogamba… why… here?" But she just shrugged, letting him interpret her incomprehension.

His frustration mounted, but his awe never faded. He closed the notebook, gaze drifting over her figure again. He must think me a vision, she mused, half amused, half annoyed. She longed to sleep, but his unrelenting wonder pricked at her nerves. Even so, it was far better than enduring Handuza's cruelty.

At length, drowsiness dulled her senses. She curled up on the mat, hair pooling around her. The night's chill nipped at her exposed arms and legs, but the presence of another human—even a starstruck foreigner—offered a sliver of security. She clutched a corner of his spare blanket, inhaling the faint smell of his belongings—dust, sweat, something earthy. If he found her scent startling, she found his equally foreign, but not unpleasant.

Eventually, she drifted off, the day's exhaustion overcoming her wariness.