All Sweet Things

       “Well, well, well,”Koatinga thought, tilting her head back and shielding her eyes with a paw from the hot sun, her massive tail propped against solid ground. There was a stranger, stretched out like a ragdoll on a branch of a gnarled, stunted cedar, right above the edge of the trellis for the vines. A lad on the cusp of manhood, sixteen at most. He looked quite human: no fur, no long muzzle. Enormous blue eyes radiated curiosity, so bright their colour was visible even from the ground, in the shade of the cedar and a large butterbur leaf that served as his hat. “Hello. And what fruit is this?” As calmly as if he were in his own kitchen, the fellow reached down to a fruit on the vine beneath his branch, plucked it, and gave it a thoughtful twirl in his hand. “That’s a kiwi,” Koatinga said, amused by his cheek. “Like the bird from faraway lands, because they’re both wingless, rather round, and covered in greenish-brown fuzz.” “Like you?” the trump grinned, and before she could protest that she was not round but pleasingly oblong, he moved on to his next thought: “Seems more like a mouse to me, though. The fuzz, the size… Makes you want to just chomp it!” Which he promptly did. With ease and relish, with a flash of sharp fangs. “And what sort of fruit are you?” Koatinga asked, surprised. “Not a human, and not quite a mymble, I think. And, incidentally, this is my garden and my fruit.” “A human?! Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed in mock horror. “I’m a mumrik. And incidentally, can you truly begrudge a few meagre fruits? You have hundreds of them here. And they’re terribly sour.” “That’s because you picked an unripe kiwi,” she laughed. “Wait a week or look for softer ones, more brown than green.” “A wee-EEK?” The Joxter went limp on the branch as if he hadn’t eaten for a week already. “Look for them? Right, I’ll have a think about which is simpler.” With that, he simply closed his eyes and settled his cheek against the branch. “You’re going to fall that way,” she noted, though without much concern; if he took a tumble, it would be his own fault. “And what’s your name? I’m Koatinga from the Lower Hill.” “Joxter,” he answered with a yawn. “And I never fall off trees.” *** And so, a mumrik nested at her plantation. By day, he would lounge on the branches of nearby trees or right on the supports of the vines, limbs dangling carelessly, and true to his word, he never fell. And by evening, he might step silently from the darkness onto the threshold of Koatinga’s hut and curl up by the hearth. He turned out to be rather short, only coming up to her chest, which he often seemed to be studying instead of her face. Cheeky drifter. She would share sweet potatoes, flatbreads, and coffee with him, and he would tell tales of far-off countries, his eyes glinting mysteriously from beneath his wilted leaf-hat. Koatinga even wove him a proper hat out of reeds, but Joxter first sat on it, then rolled it in the dirt, explaining that he simply couldn’t stand new things. And indeed, all his other cast-off clothes looked ready to fall apart at any moment. They’d clearly been on a long journey, just like their owner. He was, of course, thoroughly tanned, but against the natural olive hue of the locals' skin and fur, it was still obvious this tan lay over the pale skin of a northerner. Koatinga listened to him, enthralled, a mixture of disbelief and sheer delight. It was fascinating to hear of such things—water that hardens like stone, white fluff that falls instead of rain, or all the trees turning yellow and shedding their leaves at once. And Joxter was probably not lying when he claimed the folk in those parts slept for several months at a stretch when it was cold. He himself could certainly sleep through anything. He napped for days on end. And he was no help whatsoever with watering or weeding the vines. To her reproaches, he’d retort that he spent his nights scaring off enormous bats to stop them eating his fruit (the sheer nerve of it! His!). And then he’d placidly pluck another piece of fruit. He’d developed a taste for the ripe kiwis. “Sweet,” he’d purr, licking his lips in a way that made Koatinga wonder if he was flirting with her. He was a bit young to be making eyes in such a confident and natural manner. Though, true, those were mesmerising eyes. *** And yet, he did fall. From the trellis. Not in his sleep, mind you, but in broad daylight: reaching for a distant fruit to harvest it into a basket, he stood on a corner support, and it cracked. But fortune favoured him, as he crashed down right on top of Koatinga. He wasn’t terribly heavy, but she lost her balance, and even her tail couldn’t save her. And the ground was hard; the rains were late. She was trying to catch her breath, which wasn’t easy with a young mumrik lying on top of her with no intention of moving. His eyes were wide, he was sniffing the air, and his hands were planted squarely on Koatinga’s breast (which she considered the envy of everyone). “Well, and what exactly is your plan?” she inquired, as his fingers gave a slight, testing squeeze. “You don’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend,” Joxter stated as if this were a perfectly sufficient answer. A slow, impish grin spread across his face. “And you’re remarkable.” She gently took hold of his wrists and sat up; he slid into her lap and simply stayed there, looking up at her with those impossibly blue, inquisitive eyes. “Do you even know what you’re suggesting?” she asked in amusement. “I know. I’ve seen. I sleep in trees, you see,” he explained, his tone matter-of-fact, as if describing the weather. “And couples often come under the trees to… attend to each other. They never notice me. Well, sometimes they do, but later,” he giggled, a soft, rustling sound, “and then they get so funnily frightened or cross! So I got curious. Wondered what all the fuss was about that made it so good.” Now it was Koatinga’s turn to laugh. “Curious,” she repeated, shaking her head. Well, why not? It would be amusing to see how far his sheer audacity would take him. She’d never had a virgin before; she usually preferred lads older than herself. This would be a novelty. “Alright then, go on,” she said, a playful challenge in her voice. “Since you’re so interested.” She leaned back, lacing her fingers behind her head — where would he even begin? She certainly wasn’t going to offer any instructions. Well… Hmm. Nothing remarkable. But for a first attempt, it would do. And if she offered a few pointers, it might even amount to something. The main thing was, he wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed. Just… “Those claws really need to stay in, alright, love?” she murmured gently, guiding his hand. “We’re not skinning a fruit. Or a mouse.” “That was brilliant,” Joxter grinned, panting. “But too exhausting. Now I understand why those couples always have such a stupidly pleased look on their faces afterwards.” “Because they’re better at it than you are,” Koatinga couldn’t resist the jab, still thrumming with energy and thoroughly unsatisfied. She took his hand and pulled him towards her hut for a rework of mistakes and gaps. True to form, he fell asleep almost immediately. Typical. Right on her breast. Oh well. She liked a good cuddle too, and a strange feeling washed over her: a sudden urge to gather this little beast into her arms, to hide him from the world in the darkness, to press him close to bosom… Oh dear, she thought. Those are maternal instincts. Right then, how many days until the full moon? What did it matter, really. If a little one was coming, it was the will of the spirits. And she was curious, what would a cross between her and a mumrik look like? And who knows, perhaps the drifter would become even more attached. He was almost tame already, spending more and more nights under a roof, and not just for the new diversion (a quiet voice of reason whispered it was because the nightly rains had finally arrived). She’d even found uses for him around the plantation—picking fruit from the high branches she couldn’t reach, sorting through the harvest and eating the spoiled ones. Or running down to the trading post by the river to see if the steamer had arrived with hardware, so she could rush to trade fruit for nails, salt, and tins. Though the stevedores there had quickly taught him to roll cigarettes with just about anything. Well, at least they hadn’t got him drunk; small mercies. And then one day, Joxter returned from the river and announced that the steamer was expected tomorrow by noon. And also that he would be leaving on it. Koatinga nearly dropped her coffee grinder. The question must have been plain on her face, because the mumrik scowled but explained: “The others. Think I can’t hear from twenty paces away. They called me your boyfriend.” He puffed out his chest, a picture of affronted pride. “But that’s not true. I’m my own. And I can leave whenever I want.” For a moment, she was speechless. Oh, my dear boy… From your perch, you’ve missed the main event, haven’t you? “But that’s precisely what you are,” she said gently, placing a hand on her hip. “You sleep with me, I’m carrying your child—that means you are my boyfriend, and you can’t just…” “What child? Where?” he stirred with a laughably genuine look of surprise that made Koatinga snort. “You don’t know where babies come from?” she asked, patting her stomach, which was, for now, only as plump as it usually was. Her fat reserves were, she noted with some pride, absolutely ideal, exactly where they should be and in just the right amount. “Well,” he blinked, suddenly flustered, “women… get them from somewhere. You mean, like that? From that?” “Yep,” she said, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Rejoice, you’re going to be a daddy.” But Joxter had already grown bored and turned away, so Koatinga hurried to appeal to the one thing that united them. Curiosity. “Don’t you want to see your own son? To give him a name?” “What, haven’t I seen a baby before?” he retorted, his voice dripping with a theatrical weariness. “Loud, awkward things. Take up far too much time and energy. No, too much bother. And a name…” He waved a dismissive hand, twirling his half-finished roll-up between his fingers as if seeing it for the first time. “How long could it take to think of one? Something daft, like he’ll be. Snuf… No, not enough. Oh, I know. Snufkin.” “But it’s like with love,” Koatinga persisted, refusing to surrender. “You said it yourself—watching from the sidelines is one thing, but taking part is quite another! Imagine holding your own tiny likeness with those big eyes and feeling…” She hoped it was true, though she herself only had the stories from friends and her mother about how they adored their pups. And for a moment, Joxter seemed to waver. He scratched the back of his head, a flicker of uncertainty in his bright eyes… But then he shook his head decisively and took a step towards the door. “No. Not like love. I don’t remember a mother or a father.” His tone was flat, final. “Which means they had fun making me, but not so much fun raising me, since I was left in a forest.” “But maybe something happened to them?” she offered, a last, desperate attempt. “And even if it did,” he said with a shrug that was far too casual for the subject, “it didn’t upset me in the slightest. So my kitten won’t mind either. No, truly,” he added, turning back from the doorway, his expression softening for just a second, “you are wonderful, and I do love you, but… I can’t live on nothing but kiwis when there are oranges, and cherries, and… apples, for instance. And other women. It’s interesting to try new things.” And then, as quiet as a ghost, he slipped through the doorway and was gone. When Koatinga rushed out onto the high porch, the reeds around the house didn’t even stir. And the next day, down at the jetty, she saw no sign of the mumrik. Though of course he’d be hiding somewhere onboard—he had no money for a travel fare, and laziness would never allow him to hire on as a stevedore. *** The pup looked like Joxter, save for the brown eyes and olive skin. For a while, Koatinga busied herself with him, indulging her instincts, but then she decided it was unwise to grow attached to someone who, like his father, might one day simply vanish. So she sang the child a lullaby, laid him in a sturdy, new basket, and set it adrift down the river. Perhaps one day the boy would meet his father… Though, most likely, they would just pass each other by, even if they did recognise each other.