Out of Place

                Molly would have screamed if she could.  As it was, she sat on the cold, hard ground of the forest floor, eyes wide, moth hanging open--a silent tableau of terror.  The thing that stood before her--which had just nuzzled her back to consciousness with its enormous, slimy nose--tilted its great fuzzy head and grunted, sounding for all the world as if it were laughing at her. 

         Molly scrambled to her feet, searching frantically for something, anything, she could use to defend herself.  She lunged for the stick that lay a few feet away, never taking her eyes off the monster.  She brandished her weapon triumphantly, doing her best to look as threatening as possible.

         She'd initially thought the thing was an enormous bear.  But now she had the chance to get a good look at it, she had no idea what it was.  It's huge head was indeed rather like a bear's, but it's body was covered, not in fur, but in quills, like a porcupine.  She noticed it's long, furry, floppy ears for the first time when it shook it's head and grunted at her again, before finally turning and plodding away, it's rat-like tail swaying behind. 

         She breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the stick, suddenly feeling rather silly.  Well, at least it's gone!  Though it had seemed to find her more amusing than threatening.  Of course, how threatening could a short, bony, mute girl waving a stick possibly be?

         As the adrenaline drained from her body, a plethora of questions rushed to take its place.  Where was she?  What was she doing here?  How had she gotten here?  And what the hell was that thing?

         The last thing she could remember... was waking up to a cold, wet nose.  She desperately searched her memory, seeking some clue as to how she could have wound up unconscious in the middle of a forest that didn't seem even vaguely familiar.  But it was as though there were a solid wall standing between now and before.  Try as she might, she could remember nothing before this place.

         Amnesia!  It must be amnesia!  But no...  Her name was Molly Parkinson.  She was mute since birth.  She was short, thin, and very much a red-head, just like her mother.  And she had inherited her father's webbed toes.  The faces of her parents were crystal clear.  Her parents who were right now worried sick, waiting for her to come home to...  Where?  She was shocked and terrified to realize she had no idea whatsoever where "home" was. 

         Molly sighed.  Well, there was one thing she did know.  She wasn't going to find any answers by standing around holding a stick.  And so, she gathered herself, turned, and marched off in the opposite direction as the spiky, rat-tailed, bear thing.

                                                          *****

         "Bloody hell," James R. Whitamore III--who could distinctly recall that his mates back that the pub called him Whit, but hadn't the foggiest recollection of where "back at the pub" was--muttered to himself.

         And as if it wasn't bad enough that he had awakened in the middle of a mysterious forest with no idea where he was or why he was there--with no signs of the hangover that would have, at least partially, explained things--now he'd managed to plant his Doc Martens in the midst of a disturbingly large pile of shit. 

         Progressively muttering his way through an impressive repertoire of curses, he employed the assistance of a large root protruding from the ground in removing the foul mess from his shoe.

         He stopped mid-expletive, as he heard the distinct sound of a twig snapping underfoot.  He spun toward the noise and caught a glimpse of something blue ducking behind a tree.

         "Hello?" he called, moving cautiously in the direction of the blur.  For a long moment, there was no response.  Then a mane of curly, bright red hair and a pair of large, frightened green eyes emerged from behind the trunk.

         He smiled, quite thankful to have found another human being.  And one with breasts, to boot.

         "Hey there," he called again.  The girl didn't budge.  "You can come out, you know.  I'm not going to hurt you."

         She seemed to study him for a time, apparently trying to decide whether or not to believe him.  At last, she emerged, though she didn't move far from her tree, and she maintained a tight grip on the stick she was carrying.

         James couldn't help but laugh.  "That's a nice weapon you've got there," he said, nodding toward the stick.  "Be perfect for roasting marshmallows."

         The girl's face reddened and she relaxed her grip a big, but remained silent.  He has slowly made his way to just a few feet from her and could now see the dirt and grass stains on her simple blue dress, the smattering of freckles across her nose, and the look of terror in her bright, green eyes.

         "I don't suppose you'll beat me with your stick if I try to shake you hand?" he questioned, giving her his friendliest smile.

         She turned her gaze to her feet, shook her head, and took the hand he had offered.

         "Name's James Whitamore," he introduced himself.  "Friends call me Whit.  How 'bout you?"

         The girl frowned but said nothing.  She seemed to think for a moment, then pointed at herself, made a motion as though she were operating a sock puppet, and shook her head.

         James stared at the girl for a moment, wondering what on earth she was--

         "Oh!  You... You can't talk?" he guessed.

         She nodded vigorously.

         "Ah.  Great," he muttered.  "I love charades." 

         She shot him a glare.  He grimaced.  Nothing wrong with her hearing...
         He watched as she hurriedly glanced around the ground nearby, apparently looking for something.  A small, triumphant smile.  She'd found it.  Understanding dawned as she made her way to the patch of bare, dusty ground, knelt, and began scratching at it with her stick. 

         He came to stand beside her, furrowing his brow as he tried to read the faint crooked letters.

         "Molly?" he ventured.

         She nodded. 

         "Ah.  Well, it's nice to meet you, Molly."

         She smiled, and gave him a distinctly "same to you" nod. 

         "So, are you from around here, Molly?" he asked. 

         She frowned and shook her head.

         Damn.

         "Yeah.  Me neither," he said.  "Any idea how you got here?"

         She shook her head again.

         A dry, humorless chuckle.  "Well, Molly, it sounds like we're rowin' the same boat."

         She nodded and turned to scratch "I'm glad" in the dirt.

         He raised an eyebrow at her as she grinned.  "Well," he said with a shrug, "I suppose it is nice to have some company.  Two can row a boat much easier than one."

         She looked a bit relieved.  He had caught her meaning. 

         Molly leapt to her feet, searching the dense growth of trees nearby, fear written all over her expressive face. 

         Whit opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong.  Then he heard it, too--an strange, chuckling growl.  Definitely nothing wrong with her ears.

         He cleared his throat.  "Well, Molly dear, what do you say we steer this boat out of these woods?"  He cursed his traitorously unsteady voice and his ridiculously pounding heart. 

         Molly nodded vigorously and stepped closer to him. 

         He glanced up and down the path and sighed.  One direction looked no more promising than the other.  Nothing.  No light at the end of the tunnel.  No arrows.  No sign reading, "This Way to Civilization."  Well, that was bloody inconvenient.

         "Right then," he muttered.  "This way?"  He pointed to the right.  Right was traditionally the direction of good; left, the direction of evil.  A silly, outdated superstition, but it seemed as good a guide as anything around here. 

         Molly shrugged as if to say, "Sure.  Why not?"

         They'd hardly taken a step when the growl came again, sounding closer this time.  Molly jumped, and he had the feeling she would have squealed had she been capable.  As it was she clutched his arm, and glanced up at him, almost pleadingly.

         Oh, bugger.

         "Hey, it's all right," he said, sounding far more certain than he felt.  He placed an arm around her shoulder, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. 

         It seemed to work.  She relaxed a bit, and gave him a somewhat sheepish smile. 

         "You ever seen The Wizard of Oz?" he asked.

         She grinned and wrinkled her nose, chuckling soundlessly, as she gathered her hair into makeshift pigtails and nodded at her blue dress.

         He laughed, too, and the tightness of fear in his chest eased a bit. 

         "Well, we're certainly not in Kansas any more, Dorothy," he quipped. 

         She smiled and pointed at him inquisitively.

         "Oh, and who would I be?"

         She nodded.

         Take your pick:  no brains, no heart, no courage.  That's me in a nutshell.

         "Glenda, of course."

         He took her sudden shaking fit as particularly raucous laughter.  He hoped it wasn't a seizure.

                                     *****

         Molly put a hand to her stomach as it gave an angry growl.  Whit glanced at her with a wry smile. 

         "I know," he said.  "Me too."

         Molly sighed as she looked ahead.  They had been walking for hours, or so it seemed, and she was beginning to wonder if this forest would ever end.  Her feet were aching and she was fairly certain she had a least a couple of blisters.  Part of her wanted very much to stop and rest for a while, but the rest of her didn't like that idea in the least.  That spiky, rat-tailed bear thing was still out there somewhere and God knew what else...  Nope, no resting.  She'd rather keep walking till her feet fell off than stop and make herself an easy meal for whatever ghastly creature this accused forest decided to spit out at her. 

         Well, Molly, you always said you needed more adventure in your life...

         Quite true.  But this was far from what she'd had in mind.  She'd meant "adventure" more in the sense of a very well-planned trip to some exotic, yet populated locale where she could sample the local cuisine or pop into a McDonald's whenever she liked and the strange beasts were kept in cages at the zoo. 

         She cast a surreptitious glance at her companion, who seemed lost in his own thoughts, which, judging from his expression, were probably rather similar to her own. 

         Well, at least I have pleasant company.

         She let her gaze linger a bit longer this time.  Yes, the company was certainly pleasant.  He was rather tall--or at least, he seemed tall to her, but then, she wasn't the best judge.  Most people seemed tall to her.  But tall or not, he was certainly well-muscled.  That much she had discovered earlier with her fear-induced groping.  She wondered if he was an athlete of some sort.  Perhaps he played some rather violent sport.  That would explain the scar on his forehead, which started just above his left eyebrow and disappeared into his dark, immaculately groomed hair.  That scar intrigued her almost as much as his bright, blue eyes.  She'd never seen eyes quite that blue.  They reminded her of the ocean--deep and fathomless, mysterious, and--

         Oh, good gravy, Molly.  The hunger must be getting to you.

         They really were quite blue, though...

                                             *****                              

         Fish, and chips, and beer, oh my!  Fish, and chips, and--Christ on a cracker, Whit!  You're off your bird!
 
         He'd heard of going mad with hunger, but until today, he hadn't really grasped the concept.  Mad he was most certainly going--with hunger and boredom and pain.  God, he didn't even want to attempt to count the blisters on his feet.  First thing he was going to do when he got home was compose a letter to Doc Marten himself.

         Dear Doc,

                Having put your footwear through a rather thorough test, I feel I must  lodge a complaint.  I have found that your boots, while perfect for wandering the streets of London, are not at all suitable for more rustic terrain.  Perhaps you would consider a hiking line...

         Whit sighed inwardly, and cast a surreptitious glance at his companion.  Well, at least he had decent company.  In fact, if she were just a bit taller, and her hair were a bit less frizzy, and her breasts were a bit bigger, she'd be the girl of his dreams.  Of course, having spent the last several hours trudging through these endless woods with only the sound of his own voice to fill the silence, muteness suddenly seemed less an asset than he had previously believed.

         He glanced her way again, letting his gaze linger a bit longer this time.  She really was rather attractive in her own way.  She was quite short, but she carried herself in a casually confident manner, as if to say to the world, "I may be small and silent, but dammit, I'll make you notice me anyway!"  Her hair made that a certainty.  It was hard to miss such a lovely, vibrant shade of red, and even it's unkempt nature suited her.  It was obvious she had more important things to do with her time than perfect her coiffure.  And something told him that if anyone considered suggesting otherwise, one less-than-friendly glance from those emerald eyes of hers would make them think twice.

         Whit found himself wondering, yet again, what her voice would sound like if she had one.  Deceptively soft, probably, with a certain underlying strength... Melodious...  She could probably sing like--

         Bloody hell!  Pull yourself together, Man!

         Whit shook himself, pulling his thoughts out of the clouds and back down to Earth.  Assuming, this was in fact, still Earth... 

         Maybe I'm dreaming...

         But no.  No, if he were dreaming, his feet wouldn't hurt and he'd be traipsing through the forest with Betty Paige, not Molly the Mute.

         Molly... who had suddenly stopped in her tracks and was staring at him, wide-eyed.

         "What are you--"

         She pointed.  He turned.

         "Bloody hell!"

         That was sword.  Pointed at him.  That was a sword pointed at his chest.  That was a sword pointed at his chest held by a rather muscular arm.  That was a sword pointed at his chest held by the rather muscular arm of a rather tall and exceedingly naked woman. 

         Whit slowly raised his hands and backed away.  "Okay, woah, you--"

         "Silence, Male!"  She spat the word at him like something disgusting and filthy.  "This forest is ours.  You are a trespasser."

         "Trespasser?"  Whit gaped.  "But we--"

         Whit swallowed his tongue.  Her eyes and her blade made it very clear that she was not about to repeat herself.

         "You are a trespasser and you shall suffer the consequences," she stated.  "Andi!"

         A younger, but equally nude and just as imposing woman stepped forward, removing a pair of heavy shackles from the belt which was the only adornment she wore.  Whit cast a nervous glance at his surroundings.  Perhaps he could find a weapon.  A large stick maybe... 

         Oh, taking a page from Molly's book, are we?

         Whit told his inner voice precisely where to go, and considered the leader's sword.  Maybe he could... get sliced up and served on a platter like a Christmas goose.  Never mind. 

         Oh, well.  Fine.  He'd just play along for now and find a way to escape later.  Wait... Escape what?

         "Um..."  The leader raised an eyebrow.  He hoped that implied permission to speak.  "What... precisely... are those consequences?"

         His stomach turned somersaults as he awaited her answer.

         "Slavery," she stated with a grin best described as sadistic.

         Whit very nearly shat himself. 

         "What?"  he shrieked.  "But--" 

         The torrent of arguments regarding the morality and legality of that prospect shriveled and died on his tongue as the younger woman thwacked him quite soundly on the back of the head. 

         "Quiet!" she snapped.  "Bite your tongue, or I'll bite it for you."

         Whit was too busy seeing stars and being thankful that he hadn't swallowed his teeth to argue.  A glance at the woman made it clear that she was, by no means, exaggerating.

         Right then, Whit.  Take another cue from Molly...

         He turned to find the poor girl looking as though she were having trouble staying on her feet.  He could have sworn her knees were, quite literally, knocking.

         The leader stepped toward her, and Molly took a shaky step back. 

         "And what is your name?" the leader asked, her voice and expression suddenly gentle.

         Molly turned a pleading gaze on Whit. 

         "She can't talk," he blurted, quickly shutting his mouth, in the hopes of avoiding any further violence.

         The leader stopped and turned to Whit, her eyes narrowed.  After a dreadfully long moment, during which Whit felt very much like some specimen stuck to a slide, she turned back to Molly.

         "Is that what this male has told you?" she asked.  "That women are meant to be silent?"

         Molly blinked and shook her head. 

         The leader smiled warmly.  "It is all right, Child.  The lies of Man can be quite convincing.  But they are lies."

         Molly cast another pleading glance at Whit, who shook his head slightly.  He wasn't about to speak any more than she was. 

         The leader tilted her head thoughtfully.  "You look as though you could use a meal," she said.

         Molly nodded.

         The leader extended a hand.  "Come, then.  We shall take you from these dark and dangerous woods, give you food and accommodations."  She cast a disparaging glance at Whit.  "And arm you with truth to fight the lies of Man."