A Stranger Named Mike

Fanta felt the day's warmth slowly ebb from the depths of Okiya Forest as the sun began its descent. Dusk's oranges and purples filtered through the high canopy, bathing the undergrowth in a surreal half-light. She sat gingerly on a fallen log, nursing her sore ankle where the snare had chafed it, torn between relief at no longer dangling upside down and bewilderment at the man who'd cut her free.

He called himself Mike—a name foreign to her ears, shaped by an accent that twisted her village tongue into stilted syllables. By now, the net trap lay discarded behind them, and the forest clearing they occupied felt simultaneously claustrophobic and strangely intimate. The air held the hum of insects, the faint chirp of birds settling for the night, and the soft crackle of leaves underfoot as he moved about, carefully unpacking gear from a canvas bag.

She had never known a man like him: pale skin, brown hair disheveled from travel, boots laced tight against his calves, and an array of metallic contraptions that she'd only read about in battered English books. The sight of that camera—the thing he used to snap pictures of everything, including her—made her heart flutter with both curiosity and an uneasy self-consciousness.

Mike knelt to inspect her injured ankle one last time before the day's light vanished completely. Even now, he couldn't stop sneaking glances at her face—her honey-hued skin, violet braids, and striking ruby-blue eyes. Fanta caught the flush in his cheeks, the way he swallowed whenever her natural berry-like fragrance wafted close. This was not the gawking of Ogamba's people, filled with disgust and fear. His was a different breed of fascination—captivated and even drawn to her.

While it unnerved her on some level—no man had ever studied her with such open desire—she felt no malice from him. Is this what it's like, she wondered, to be admired, not hated? The feeling both thrilled and terrified her.

As the sun sank, Mike rose to his feet, scanning the dense undergrowth. "We… make camp," he said slowly, each word carefully enunciated. He tapped a spot beneath a wide tree, where the ground seemed relatively dry. Fanta, who caught his meaning in perfect English but pretended ignorance, responded with a slight nod, hugging her arms around her. The early evening air was already cooling, the forest's humidity clinging to her muddy dress.

Mike rummaged through his canvas bag. From it, he pulled a foldable tarp and a few metal rods, snapping them into place with practiced efficiency. Fanta observed with wide eyes. She might have read about travelers using modern tents and tarps, but seeing it happen in front of her, in this haunted forest, felt surreal. He laid out a small area for them to rest, brushing aside loose leaves.

Throughout it all, he kept glancing at her, as though verifying she was still there, still real. Fanta could almost hear his unspoken wonder: How can someone look like that? Even beneath the grime, with bruises on her arms, her features were unnaturally symmetrical. Whenever she turned her head and caught him staring, he'd look away, cheeks coloring, only to sneak another look moments later.

And Fanta… she found she didn't mind as much as she expected. In Ogamba, all eyes on her had been full of hate or suspicion. This attention felt gentler, laced with genuine intrigue. If anything, she was the one who flushed, her chest fluttering with an emotion new to her—a strange thrill at being desired rather than despised. She remembered lines from a hidden English novel about the heady swirl of first attraction. Now, she was living it with a man from another world.

Fanta realized the sun was setting fast. Orange shafts slid through the overhead leaves, turning the forest around them into a tapestry of shifting shadows. Mike stepped away, retrieving a small lantern from his bag, plus what looked like a lighter. He checked her face, then gestured as if to say, We'll need a fire, but carefully.

She nodded, standing on her still-sore ankle. She bit her lip, trying not to let him see her healing quickly—another sign of her unnatural state—but still wincing enough to appear in genuine pain. Carefully, she limped to gather some dry kindling. Her mother had taught her how to start a fire from a young age—something many village girls learned.

As she knelt to arrange small twigs and leaves, Mike crouched opposite her, messing with the lighter. A few sparks, some cursing under his breath in a language she only half recognized. She found a strip of bark that had peeled off a trunk, used it as tinder, and in short order, coaxed a tiny flame to life. He seemed both impressed and relieved by her quick skill.

She offered a shy shrug. In Ogamba, such tasks were second nature. Even if she was cursed in the villagers' eyes, she still learned their practical knowledge. Mike grinned, murmuring something about "resourceful," though his words were clumsy. Then he indicated the flame, cautioning not to let it grow too large.

All the while, their unspoken tension thickened. Each time she moved, her violet hair shifted, releasing subtle waves of her scent—berries and sweet fruit. She could tell Mike was not indifferent to it, for he inhaled a bit deeper each time, eyes flicking her way with a look she recognized: a man undeniably attracted. She wasn't entirely sure how to process that. Her village life had been all about rejection and fear. Here, this stranger's desire tinted the air with a new vulnerability—and an odd sense of power.

As dusk melted into night, the small fire crackled, offering comforting warmth against the forest's chill. Mike laid out a lightweight sleeping mat near the tarp. He patted the space, half inviting, half instructing Fanta to sit. She hesitated, heart pounding. Alone at night with a man who stares at me like this… Her mother's caution about men surfaced, yet there was no immediate threat in Mike's eyes, only earnest concern.

She lowered herself onto the mat, tucking her legs under. The firelight illuminated the planes of her face—smooth, honey-like skin, no blemishes. Her blue-ruby eyes caught the dancing flames, glinting eerily. She knew how villagers reacted to that glow, but Mike looked transfixed, as if he found it beautiful rather than demonic.

He settled across from her, rummaging for some kind of meal. Pulling out a small ration bar, he broke a piece off and offered it to her, then took a piece himself. Fanta accepted, nibbling gingerly. The taste was sweet-salty, new to her. She recalled the meager times she'd tasted foreign candy in the village, but this was different—dense with nutrients, she guessed.

Silence hovered between them, but not a cold one. The forest enveloped them in a cocoon of buzzing insects, distant croaks, and the crackle of fire. Occasionally, Mike would attempt a word or two in halting speech—a question about her name, her home, or if she had family. She'd respond with shrugs, head shakes, or simple phrases, letting him think she had limited understanding.

But inside, her thoughts roiled: He thinks I'm a fragile village girl, clueless about his language, yet I speak it better than he does. Part of her longed to drop the façade, to engage him in full conversation. But fear held her back. If he found out she was not only unnaturally beautiful but also a secret speaker of his tongue, would he see her as a wonder or an abomination?