"No, no!" Ruth began, reaching for Martha's head, driven by some instinct, but Martha had pulled back, searching for a safety pin. She tugged the end of the bandage tight, fastened it, then stood up and walked quickly away. Ruth caught a glimpse of her friend's flushed face as she did.
Ruth's heart sank: she had shamed and embarrassed her friend with her inexplicable behaviour.
Martha ducked into the tent, then came quickly back out seconds later, wearing a skirt and bearing another, plus a pair of clean underwear.
"By the Saint, I am hungry!" Martha declared. "Dress yourself sweet Ruth, and I shall prepare breakfast for us."
Ruth felt hungry too, but she wasn't sure that it was for food. Almost reluctantly, and feeling deeply shamed that she was so reluctant, Ruth dressed herself.
The sun was higher now, the day warming, so they sat in the little shade that the broken rock wall offered and ate their breakfast. The bread was soft, the butter rich, the tea full of flavour, yet all Ruth could focus on was the brush of Martha's arm against hers, the scent of her hair and the warmth that bloomed between them.
"We don't need to stay on this particular pillar, sweet Ruth. I noticed others with trees, which might create more shade... though I suppose they might make landing difficult."
Ruth swallowed. "This could make a fine home Martha. You have picked a beautiful safe space for us. We can always build shelters."
"Mmmm, this is true. Still, if you feel strong enough, I thought that we might test our wings and fly about the Beard. I have barely explored it. We might find more suitable sites. In particular, I wanted to investigate those pillars that seemed to have pools on top, as a water source would be more desirable."
"By the Saint that is true," Ruth agreed, "I will need a wash." She immediately blushed at the thought, wondering how she might accomplish this, here, in the open air, with no privacy.
Martha chuckled. "Me too."
She stood and stretched. Ruth watched her, admiring for the thousandth time the bounce of her blonde curls... and the bounce of other things. She shut her eyes to try to stop herself thinking so sinfully. But, if anything, closing her eyes was worse, and the images in her mind's eye were so much more depraved, if far less defined.
Opening her eyes, she found Martha smiling down at her, her hand held out. "What were you thinking of, sweet Ruth?"
"Of you." Ruth's cheeks burned. She wished for a moment she had not put her hair up in a tight bun, but had let her straight black hair curtain down, that she might hide behind it.
Martha merely nodded. "In the Saint's name, it is the same with me. The closer I am to you, the more you are in my thoughts."
Ruth took the proffered hand, marvelling at the contrasts between the calluses of the fingers with the softness of the palm, the strength and gentleness contained there. She sat, entranced by the touch, not moving, but examining with her sense the delightful vision of their hands together.
"What would you like to do, sweet Ruth?" Marth's voice was soft, entreating, private.
"I would like to kiss you," Ruth whispered back.
"I too," Martha breathed back as she bent over.
This kiss was as soft and tender and as delicate as their first. Hunger swelled in Ruth, hunger that had nothing to do with the faint taste of tea and butter on Martha's lips. But she dared not give into that appetite, lest whetted further, she could not stop, could not pull away until she had sated herself in her sinful urges and ruined the beautiful purity of this love she and Martha had. She didn't want to disgust her dearest friend.
So, although her stomach fluttered, although her heart trembled, although she gripped Martha's hand with a passion constrained, she fought against the allure of Martha's presence. Ruth stayed seated, kept her other hand still and her lips lightly caressed Martha's for but a brief moment.
With a slightly puzzled look, Martha pulled back.
Ruth gazed into her eyes. "I love you, Martha."
A smile lit up the younger woman's angelic features. "I love you too. One day, maybe I will show you how much."
"You have. You do." Ruth now allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.
"Mm-mmm." Martha shook her head. "Not completely, sweet Ruth. But Saint allow or no, I shall."
Ruth thought she knew what Martha was hinting at: she fervently hoped that she did. Whether they ever dared to take such a sinful step together, the fact that her brilliant companion seemed to share the same unspeakable desires filled her with a glow that seemed utterly at odds with twenty turns of Church teaching. But she couldn't be sure.
She felt a dampness below. "Saint's slippers!" She cursed quietly, "It can't be my moon time?" To her friend she asked, "Martha, have you any linen pads? I seem to need some."
But, after Martha had provided her with some, Ruth was startled to discover that she was not bleeding. Whatever the wetness was it was not her moonly bleed.
* * *
They spent the day flying. Sometimes, in those places where the columns were of nearly equal height, they would take short hops from pillar to pillar, a few flaps all that was required. At other times, they would beat their wings to gain height then circle on a thermal to take in the wonder of that forest of rock, the great stone spikes packed close together, with barely a few metres between them.
They startled wild chickens from concealed nests, and filled cloth bags with pilfered eggs which they packed among dried leaves. They always left some for the hens to return too. They found small, warped trees bearing tiny treasures of pine nuts, pomegranates and apples, which they gathered, and great tangles of brambles, heavy with purple fruit, on which they gorged themselves. There were fig trees too on top of towers, but none with fruit ripe and ready to eat. Some seemed to be topped with small lawns of wild cereals, oats and rye, as yet unripe, but offering a future harvest. They found wild rocket, along with mushrooms: puffballs, chanterelle and the Saint's trumpet, which they plucked and bagged. Some stone columns were encased in grape or passionfruit vines. Much of the fruit was inaccessible, unless they rigged up some kind of rope harness, but they still found plenty to pick.
Several columns housed hives of bees and, though they beat their wings a little harder to avoid these humming, murmuring masses, both agreed they might soon return and seek honeycomb once they had fashioned some equipment.
One wide-topped pillar was pitted with foot-deep circles that had filled with water. Ruth suggested that they make it their laundry, especially as a neighbouring pillar had some trees between which they might string a line. Another had a wide shallow pool that they waded in and used to wash their faces and hands. Disaster nearly struck there, when a gust of wind lifted their doffed wings and sent them skittering almost over the edge. Thereafter, they were careful to always tie them to something immobile whenever they took them off.
They found several that had sufficient collections of leaf mulch trapped in pits and wide crevices that had composted down enough to hold a crop; Martha had stolen seed potatoes, garlic bulbs and onions that they might plant. They set out stones in the shape of crosses on such pillars, so that they would hopefully be able to find these again, as well as taking note of their relative positions to other landmarks.
In places there were gaps between pillars, perhaps of thirty or forty metres, where the sunlight could reach the ground, and here there was a profusion of green growth. The more confident and practised flyer of the two, Martha dared to swoop low, in one such space startling a family of pigs, who plunged off into the thicket.
But no matter how or where they flew, Ruth never tired of the twin excitements of the movement through the air, and Martha's strong, lithe body by her. Bare legged but booted, Ruth had to fight not to be distracted by the brilliance of Martha's sumptuous skin. No ache of arms or shoulders, no struggle to rise up to the tallest of the stone towers, no sudden heart-in-mouth moment when they were hit by a sidewind that threatened to slam them into a cliff, could take away from the magic of this paired dance they carried out on a wing and a prayer through the rock forest of the Beard.
Their calls and laughter echoed through the canyons between the stacks, while at other times their laboured breath and the pounding of their wings seemed to create a ghostly orchestra of percussion as the sound bounced back.
It was a day of delight, a day of freedom, a day of daring. Ruth knew that, no matter what befell them, no future punishment, no future disaster, could mar the memory of this day. Her. Martha. The open sky and the beating of their wings. She had never known such happiness.
