Go to the village

You close your eyes meditatively, leaning back against Brigette, allowing the wug to lavish your breasts with his masterful touch. “I shall go to the village,” you say at last.

Brigette’s hands tighten on your shoulders. “Sister?”

You open your eyes and look up into her worried own. “We wanted this, Brigette. In the heat of the moment, perhaps. But we still wanted me to carry these young. They are my children. I will give them their chance.”

The wug nestles himself against your gravid chest. His scaly hide is cold and smooth against the tight skin of your pregnant flesh. You shiver beneath him as his hands rub your stomach. “Will take care of you. Good. Carry child. Many. Bring Tokonga and you back. Great honour.”

You frown. “Let me make this clear,” you say sternly. “We are only going there to birth my young. If we want to leave afterwards, I want your promise we may.”

The wug nods. “Will do all can.” He stands. “But need to go. Soon. Not sure when come. You chosen. Quickening come. Need you in pool when happens.”

You nod. Wearily you make to rise. It’s difficult, your stomach changing you sense of balance. You can feel the eggs inside you shifting, perhaps a dozen, maybe more, feeling as if your womb were filled with marbles. You shudder to the feeling of them rolling about inside of you. You stagger, but the wug is with you and helps you find your balance.

“Thank you.”

“Is nothing. You carry young. Will protect you.”

You smile. Brigette joins you, and with their aid you rise into the day. The sun is high and washes over you like a wave of golden warmth. Light peeks through in dappled beams the lacing boughs of the mangroves. The warm water laps at your feet as your party ventures under the wug’s guide into the forest.

Heaviness makes you sluggish. You find yourself often rubbing your gravid stomach, smiling at the thought of the young forming within you. Your children. Yours, and the wug’s. You lean on his supporting arm. He glances your way and locks his elbow in yours. You blush, the act reminding you of bride and groom walking down the aisle. It’s strange, you realize. Had you remained in the abbey, you would never be here, never have realized the glory of motherhood. The carrying of your young. What a tragedy that would have been.

You sense rather than see the change which comes over this part of the forest. It seems a little darker, a little quieter. You can practically feel the eyes upon you, and you’re not the only one. The wug’s arm tightens around yours. He stops suddenly and you do too. Brigette edges close to you both, her eyes roaming about the clearing.

You suck in a breath as the water parts. Wugs rise from the swamp like fiends from some undersea hell. Almost a dozen of them, their hands loosely carrying long spears, barbed like a fisherman’s.

At the sight of you and your sword the wugs’ spinal fins rise, flush with a warning blue, their bulbous eyes staring straight at you and Brigette both.

You feel alarmed, but then, oddly, almost contemptuous. You look at their wiry forms, and then your mate’s, feeling the muscles of his arms, ones absent from the fishmen before you. You smile a little and lean closer to your mate, watching as the fin along his spine rises in challenge to those of the sentries. One of the scouts croaks something. Your brow furrows. Strange. You can almost make out the words in their crude and garbled tongue. But the intent is as obvious as their risen fins. They’re challenging your presence. You glance to your mate.