A Place to Wear Your Hair and Skin

The Nelori Shrieks, hundreds of towering jagged crags murderously slash the suffering sea like rusty neglected scalpels discarded by a long-forgotten pantheon of demented surgery-obsessed deities,form a ringed un-welcome committee for any visitor wanting to step foot onto the wounded and torn shores of Nelori Island. Only Experienced and many may say foolhardy captains dare approach the infamous island, guided by the wailing of the waves being sliced apart by these notorious outcroppings.

The indigenous Des-ai are the only people allowed to live year-round on the reclusive paradise of Nelori, and what they do and create twice a year is what attracts adventure tourists and traders in cultural oddities in risking the short dangerous journey from the relative calm of the ports, coves, and yacht clubs along Galoreya Prefecture’s hyper-urban coast through the notorious waters of the angry agitated outer mouth of the Yeln River meet those of the mournful restless Helba Bay.

Hari Harbor is the only safe port of entry on the island where visitors from the city’s mainland can safely disembark from their Nelori-modified vessels. The idyllic harbor covers the clothed waves of outsiders in a balmy cocoon of soft sea breezes and fluttering fragrant Fuanan leaves. First-timers, leaving their boats blushed in nauseous green and swaying to and fro as if drunk on Djol, become wide-eyed with mouths agape at the hidden paradise magically appearing out of the gloom of the watery blistery realm of the Shrieks.

“I never get tired of this part,” Kurj said. He leaned against the ill-modified boat recently violated by a particularly nasty Shriek known locally as the ‘Rapist’s Blade’.

“What?” His mate grunted, not really caring what the answer might be. He was too busy rummaging through the Blade’s victim for anything valuable the doomed crew and passengers left behind.

“The tourists’ faces.” Kurj snickered. “They look ridiculous. They’ve all heard about this place from thousands of others who came here over the years; but they’re still surprised.”

“Hmm,” his mate’s indifferent response echoed from deep in the galley.

Kurj’s massive friend finally surfaced fiddling with his collar.

“You’ve been doing that all day, Asen.”

“What?”

“Pulling at your collar.” Kurj mimicked Asen with an exaggerated pout face.

“Still not used to wearing this stuff.” Asen tugged on his coveralls, squirming and scratching as if the uniform was tainted with one of those poisons he heard was all the rage with revenge seekers on the city mainland.

“Clothes?”

“Yea, they feel unnatural. How did you get used to them?” Asen squirmed in his cloth prison adjusting himself and his piercings, which were incessantly punishing him by pinching his sensitive bits. “Everything is so squished.”

“I’ve been working and living in this damn port for 5 years now. You’ll get used to it.” He finished winding a frayed rope between his thumb and elbow. “Can’t be freakin’ out the clothies when they are oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing off the boat, especially you. You’re a good half meter taller than anyone on the island.” He let out a breathy titter at an image of his friend running down in all his nature to greet the new arrivals – a huge hairy beast lumbering toward them clinking and clanking from parts of the body many mainlanders would never think could or should clink or clank. “Besides, you’ve only been down at the port for a coupla weeks.” Kurj looked out at the dock where the latest tourist group was stumbling in chaotic unison in what he called the ‘clothie stupor’ toward the welcoming center. He shook his head. “Don’t be complainin’, you get to go up-island for the festival tomorrow. You can be back wearing just your own hair and skin – lucky bastard.”

“You went the last time.” Asen said. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his overalls, teasing his body of what’s to come. “No luck involved, is just my turn.”

Asen looked down to the docks at the latest wobbling spectacle for the first time. “Yea, they do look silly. Look how gaudy they wear their bodies.” He closed his eyes and let the ephemeral kiss of the cool early evening breeze slip down his slightly exposed chest, turning his sweat-glued chest hair into an icy streambed down his torso. He released a soft pleasured moan.

“Have you decided who you’re going to spley with tomorrow night? I bet its Tueru. He’ll be ready this year. Or will it be Kase? She couldn’t make it last time.”

Asens’s eyes were still closed enjoying the icy bath of air. “Don’t know yet.”

“Well, whoever it is, I’m sure the spley-art you two create will be snapped up by one of them down there?”

“I hope so. I need the money. Don’t want to be walking around in these sweat-soaked caskets for the rest of my life.” Asen re-opened his eyes to his reality. “Come on, let’s get back to work and fix up the old girl so she can have a re-match with the Blade and I can strip out of this hell.”