JULIEN

II

Chapter 32

Seht mich an,

jungen man!

Lat mich iu gevallen!

“Where are we?”

It might not have been the most original question in the world, but it was appropriate.

“I don't know,” said Julien. “Not where I wanted to go, anyway.”

“Isn't Aïn here?”

“No, and nor is Xarax. I'm a complete moron.”

“You didn't do it on purpose.”

“No, but I wasn't paying attention. I should have grabbed Aïn's fur, and I should have waited until Xarax was with us.”

“I expect he's with Dillik.”

“Probably.”

“Can you take us back?”

“I hope so, but I need to stop and think about it first. I don't want us to end up in some random place.”

“Haven't you ever been here before?”

“No. I don't even know which world... bloody hell!”

“What?”

“We're on my world, the one where I was born.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely.”

“How do you know?”

“The grass, the flowers, those trees over there... the grasshoppers – everything. It even smells like Earth.”

“So you know where we are?”

“That's not so easy, I'm afraid. I recognise the landscape, more or less, but I can't say exactly where we are.”

“It's a bit chilly. It's a good thing we have our blankets... so do you think you can get us back?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“Maybe Aïn will come and find us.”

“I'm sure he'll try, but he'll have no idea where we are. With a bit of luck I'll have left some sort of trace in the Outside for him to follow.”

“Then what should we do? Should we just stay here and wait?”

“Yes, I think so, at least for a bit. If he can find our track we don't want to make things harder for him than necessary. I think it's still fairly early here, so we'll wait here until midday. The weather looks good, so it should warm up fairly soon.”

“What if he doesn't come?”

“Then we'll have to come up with a plan on our own – probably I'll have to try to get us home. Oh, and I think it would be a good idea if you kept hold of my hand.”

“What, all the time?”

“Yes. I don't want to suddenly find myself travelling again and leaving you stranded here. I don't think I'd be able to find you again if that happened.”

Ambar went pale and grabbed at the hand Julien was offering him.

“Now I think I'm starting to get scared,” he said.

“I'm not sure if it could happen – after all, I was actually trying to jump to the Table when I brought us here. But it's better to be safe than sorry.”

“I think you're right. Are you sure you don't know where we are?”

“I think we're in France, because that's my country and if I was travelling back to Earth it seems logical that I'd head for my own country. And there's a sort of... I don't know, an ambiance, or something.”

They were in a fairly flat meadow halfway up the side of an otherwise wooded valley, at the foot of which ran a river, or at least a stream. There were no fences or wires to be seen, but something about the place suggested that it was sometimes used to graze animals. There were some rock outcroppings here and there, and also a few large boulders that seemed to have been scattered about at random. Anyone who knew a bit about geology would have been able to recognise the sort of place it was, but geology was something Julien knew almost nothing about.

“It's a good thing we didn't get here in the middle of the night, isn't it?” commented Ambar.

“Well, it wouldn't have made a lot of difference, but at least now we know it's going to warm up fairly soon. And we can see where we are, of course.”

“I'm getting hungry. Aren't you?”

“I'm afraid we're going to have to skip breakfast, and possibly lunch, too.”

“Perhaps there are things here we can eat.”

“If you're thinking about berries and things like that, I don't think so. It's not summer here yet. Perhaps we could catch some fish by hand if there's a proper river down there, but there's no way for us to light a fire, so we can't cook anything.”

“So what are we going to do if Aïn doesn't come?”

“I think we'll have to find a town. It shouldn't be all that hard if this is France. But we'll have to stay hidden.”

“Why?”

“Because I can't see myself being able to explain to someone, and especially not to a cop, that we come from another world. With a bit of luck we might find some clothes hung out to dry – at least with normal clothes on we'd be a bit less conspicuous. As for food... I suppose we'll have to try to steal some.”

“Why can't we just ask people to give us some?”

“I don't think we should do that. Someone would be likely to call the police.”

“What's the police?”

“It's like our Guardians.”

“Why would they call them? It's not like we've done anything wrong.”

“Kids our age aren't allowed to wander about on their own without their parents. People would think we'd run away.”

“Couldn't we go and find the First Lord and tell him what happened?”

“Trust me, that's a really bad idea.”

Ambar was about to launch into another string of questions when they heard the sound of voices – juvenile voices, at that. He closed his mouth at once and squeezed Julien's hand even more tightly.

The voices came from the far end of the meadow, and the two boys dropped down and tried to melt into the long grass.

“This is it - we're here!”

“About bloody time too – I'm knackered.”

“Why are you complaining? You only had to carry the ground sheet!”

“Yeah, and the sugar, and the oranges, and three tins of ravioli!”

“Rapha! Where the hell is Rapha?”

“He stopped for a piss.”

“So where's Nono, then? Did he stay to hold it for him?”

“Here I am – don't get your knickers in a twist.”

“Good. Stick your packs down over there and get the kit out. We'll put the tent... over there should do. Greg, as soon as Rapha finally honours us with his presence...”

“Calm down, I'm here. Can't we even have a pee in peace now?”

“You took long enough. Are your sure the two of you were only having a piss?”

“I've no idea what you're talking about. So where are we going to put the bloody tent?”

“The mallet – who's got the mallet? Don't say we left it at home again!”

“Greg, you and Rapha, get your arses in gear and go and find some wood!”

“Yes, O Great One! As you command, Commander! Whatever you say, Master!”

“Finally! Take note , the rest of you – that's how to talk to your PL. A bit of respect, that's what we need.”

“Woodpecker, instead of talking bullshit...”

“Don't fucking swear in my presence, you tosser!”

“Forgive me, O Great Patrol Leader. Instead of spouting nonsense, please do you think you could be so good as to put the peg in at the correct angle? Because otherwise the tent is likely to fall on our fucking heads, begging your pardon, Milord.”

“Most Honourable Assistant PL, please don't take me for an idiot. There's a stonking great rock under here, right where that peg needs to go.”

“Far be it from me to exceed my authority, humble and subordinate as it is, but might I make a suggestion?”

“By all means, my d...”

“Hey! There's someone over there!”

“Where?”

“Over there! There are two people lying in the grass!”

The two people in question stood up, still holding hands. Julien thought that what was clearly a patrol of Boy Scouts was a far better choice for First Contact than a bunch of cops. The one who had found them, a blond, curly-haired boy of about twelve or thirteen in a standard French Scout uniform, was jogging towards them. He'd started to head towards them as soon as he was sure that he wasn't faced with a couple of dangerous perverts on the prowl, but – to judge from their height, anyway – a couple of boys of his own age who were wrapped up in blue blankets. But he stopped suddenly when he got close enough to see that their faces were covered in war-paint. Then he advanced again, but at a much more careful pace.

Julien hadn't realised why the kid had stopped all of a sudden, but he put on his most charming smile.

“Hello!” he said. “Are you Scouts?”

“It's pretty obvious, isn't it? Are you from round here?”

“Erm... no, not exactly.”

“Have you been sleeping out? Where's your tent?”

“Ah... anyway, I'm Julien and this is Ambar.”

“That's a pretty odd name. I'm Nathaniel, but they call me Natha. So what's the disguise about? Are you playing some sort of Wide Game?”

“Huh?”

“You know... why've you got paint all over your faces?”

“Oh, that... it's a bit of a long story. Is that your PL over there, the one who's signalling to you?”

“Yes, that's Woodpecker. We're the Jaguars.”

“Can we go and talk to him? I mean, maybe it would be easier if I explained who we are to everyone at the same time, all right?”

“What's that you're wearing under your blankets – some sort of night-shirt?”

“Come on, let's go talk to the PL – like I said, there's no point in repeating the story over and over.”

But Nathaniel seemed incapable of keeping the questions in check.

“Is he your brother?” he asked. “Only you don't look much like each other.”

“No, we're not brothers. He's a friend.”

“He doesn't say a lot, does he?”

“He's not from round here. He can't understand French.”

“Oh. So where does he come from, then?”

“He's from Nüngen.”

“Nüngen? Where's that?”

“It's another planet.”

“Right. So where's his flying saucer?”

“He hasn't got one. He got here by teleport.”

Julien was starting to enjoy himself: telling the truth to someone who was sure he was winding him up gave him a certain perverse pleasure.

“Julien,” said Ambar, “kye nyi kan segui yoare? Nga kan yang agogui mindou!”

“Is that English?” asked Nathaniel.

“No, it's Tünnkeh. He wants to know what we're talking about. He says he can't understand anything at all.”

“So they don't speak French on Mars, then?”

“It's not Mars, it's Nüngen.”

By now they were surrounded by the entire Jaguar patrol, and the PL Woodpecker, a slim boy of around fifteen, took charge as soon as Nathaniel's garbled 'explanation' confirmed that their unusual appearance wasn't the only thing about the two boys that was strange.

“We'll finish the introductions later,” he said, firmly. “Now get to work, the lot of you! Greg and Rapha, I want a fire going inside ten minutes, big enough and with enough spare fuel at hand for us to cook the damned ravioli. Nono, you and Natha can sort everything else out. And while you're doing that I'm going to have a chat with our visitors. Come on, you two, let's go and sit on that rock.”

Once they were sitting down the PL opened his mouth to start asking the obvious questions, but Julien, who was still holding Ambar's hand, got in first, doing his best to sound persuasive.

“Before you start asking questions,” he said, “please listen to me: there are two ways I can do this. I could make up a bunch of lies that you'd probably be able to believe, or I could tell you the truth, which you'll probably find it a lot harder to believe. Which would you prefer?”

“Tell me the truth,” said Woodpecker. “I'll try to believe you.”

“All right. That's not going to be easy for you, but I give you my word that everything I'm about to tell you is one hundred percent true.”

oo0oo

To his credit, Jean-Marc Becquet, aka Woodpecker, knew how to listen. Not only did he not interrupt Julien's story with unnecessary questions, but he also gave all the verbal and non-verbal cues necessary to keep the story moving forwards. Better still, he arranged things so that the whole patrol was able to listen in without it disrupting their normal activities too much: they were able to prepare, share and eat a meal (Ambar had to make a considerable effort not to show his distaste for the infamous tinned ravioli) without causing the fascinating description of the Nine Worlds to be interrupted for any longer than it took to swallow a mouthful or two. Julien finally had to let go of Ambar's hand while they were eating: he sincerely hoped that he wouldn't suddenly be whisked away, abandoning his friend on a planet where he could neither understand nor be understood.

The afternoon wore on, and still Julien was getting nowhere near the end of the tale. By this time Ambar was getting bored. However, it was hard to miss the fact that Grégoire, a boy of around thirteen, with the sort of rosy cheeks and dark curly hair that would have had Caravaggio scrambling for his paintbrush, and who had taken it upon himself to look after him, making sure that he had everything he needed, was sitting right in front of him and almost staring at him. In fact Grégoire seemed far more interested in the silvery swirls that decorated all the visible parts of Ambar's body than in the ongoing narrative of Julien's adventures.

Ambar had a generous nature, and so he had carefully failed to adjust his laï, which like every other laï in the Nine Worlds had a tendency to creep slowly up every time its wearer moved in his seat, and even more so if he had no seat and were just sitting carelessly with one elbow resting on a raised knee in order to alleviate the discomfort of sitting almost motionless for a couple of hours. Consequently he was offering his admirer, in the light that filtered through the flimsy white material of the laï, a glimpse of the unique pattern of the Ksantiri Marks and, more importantly, of those intimate places the Marks were decorating. These places were all the more intimate because, unlike Julien, Ambar hadn't thought it necessary to wear any undergarment to the party.

In common with the rest of the patrol Grégoire, once the initial work of setting up the site was complete, had changed out of his heavy woollen navy-blue uniform shorts and into a much lighter and thinner cotton pair. This meant that he was much more comfortable, but it also meant that it was much harder for him to conceal the evidence of a certain emotion, evidence which, for all he knew, might well upset the delicate sensibilities of this strange, innocent child. He did his best by folding his hands in his lap and trying to find something a bit less stimulating to look at, but he was no match for the wiles of a specialist like Ambar, who had so often overcome the reticence of Julien, back when he still wasn't accustomed to the ways of the Nine Worlds. And nobody, not even the Caliph's Head Eunuch, could have failed to be moved by the little lizard with its silver tracing, stirring in the pale half-light – that timid little creature which seemed to breathe, at times inflating a little and lifting gently away from the soft cushion of the scrotum beneath it, while at the same time the two small eggs hidden within it were in turn moving slightly, as though awakening from sleep. The inexorable force which drags compass needles towards the north was insignificant beside the imperious power which dragged the eyes of the unfortunate Jaguar towards that which he refused to consider, even for a moment, as legitimate prey. But then there's nothing wrong with window-shopping, is there?

However...

However, it’s possible to convey a great range of information without words, and the whole behaviour of the strange young boy made it absolutely clear that displaying himself the way he was was no accident, and that although the boy was clearly aware that Grégoire was eyeing him up he didn't mind in the least. In fact, he was entirely happy about it. He was signalling this every time he moved, and when he got up to go for a pee it was plain that he expected to be followed.

Grégoire was amazed – the idea of going to watch one of his friends having a pee had never before occurred to him. He wasn't completely ignorant of sex, but despite the significance of the Flower Power revolution he had so far done nothing beyond a little self-stimulation, and even that had been ruined by the guilty feelings which inevitably followed. He really didn't know very much else, and he took no part in the playground discussions at school on such subjects as French kissing and wet pussies. In fact, he thought that if that was what sex was about, he wasn't interested. On the other hand, he had sometimes felt a certain tenderness, or maybe even something stronger for which he had no name, for one or other of his school-friends.

But when Ambar stood up and spoke briefly to Julien, telling him where he was going, Grégoire decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and stood up as well.

“I'd better go with him,” he said. “I could do with a pee myself anyway.”

Which he hoped would give the impression that he was merely concerned for the safety of a boy who might otherwise find this a strange and hostile environment...

oo0oo

The laï is the fruit of several thousand years' worth of sartorial evolution, and one of its many benefits is the way it allows its wearer to have a pee in relative privacy, provided that he takes care, when squatting, to keep its folds out of the way of the stream. Ambar knew perfectly well how to do this, because he'd been doing it since he was old enough to stand on his own two feet. But he also knew how to pee against a tree while standing up, just like people who wear trousers and suchlike garments. And since the Earth boy had been brave enough to follow him Ambar thought that it would be only fair to reward him by choosing the upright stance, even though this meant holding the hem of the laï under his chin and thus uncovering his body as far up as his navel. Unfortunately he'd failed to notice (allegedly) a bramble next to the tree he had chosen as his target, and when he did spot it he was forced to step further away from the tree, leaving himself completely exposed to anyone who might happen to be watching – like the helpful lad who had come with him to 'protect' him, for example.

The helpful lad in question had taken up a position by the next tree along in order to keep up appearances, but he was having some difficulties because he was currently afflicted with an embarrassing erection. It wasn't very big, but it would be very hard to miss if he wasn't careful. Of course he couldn't turn his back on Ambar without missing out on what he had followed the boy to observe. Ambar, on the other hand, didn't seem to be at all worried about his own exposure and simply started to produce a golden arc which was backlit by the sun to look like a line of pure light.

This didn't help Grégoire at all: although his bladder was full, he found it impossible to pee through an organ which was now extremely hard – so hard, in fact, that only a few glistening drips escaped from it, strangely viscous, forming a thread that broke and was blown against his thigh, where it felt cold and unpleasant. This unpleasant sensation, coupled with his feeling of frustration, actually helped by softening him up a bit, and finally he was able to produce a flow which started erratically but soon became a deeply satisfying torrent.

When he looked up again he saw that the other boy hadn't straightened his garment – in fact he was still standing with it gripped under his chin, staring at Grégoire's equipment and grinning. It was odd: with his pulled-up laï, his blond hair and his smile he looked a bit like an angel. A mischievous angel, to be sure, but he didn't look like someone who is doing something that is wrong, or even inappropriate. He was, in fact, a picture of innocent mischief, and when he moved closer Grégoire didn't do anything to stop him, not even when he reached out and took hold of Grégoire's penis, as naturally as he would have taken his hand to shake it.

This was a shock! It wasn't so much the audacity of the gesture but the actual physical sensation of being touched there by someone's hand other than his own. It wasn't like the anonymous hand of a doctor carrying out a routine check of a soft penis that was entirely disinterested in the process – no, this was a set of agile fingers deftly taking possession of his organ, which was absolutely interested, being once again very hard and very sensitive, and clearly intending to explore and use it. Had his heart been caressed and gently squeezed by those delicate fingers the contact could not have been more intimate.

Ambar's eyes were dark brown in colour, dotted here and there with tiny specks of malachite dark green which could only be seen from very close. And Ambar was that close – close enough for his nose to touch Grégoire's chin. And by lifting his head just a tiny bit he was able to brush the swiftest and lightest of kisses on Grégoire's lips, which were still half-open in amazement.

Ambar had many qualities, but perhaps the most characteristic of them was his gentleness, and it was that gentle tenderness which was communicated by the contact of their lips. There was nothing torrid, or even sensual, about it: it was more like a calm reassurance that everything was for the best.

Of course, even a chaste kiss such as that had required him to lift his chin and so drop his laï back over his own body, and so he stepped back and, giggling, pulled the garment over his head and discarded it, thus revealing himself in all his glory, clad only in his Marks and a pair of sandals, a bit like the Indian ones which were starting to appear on market stalls in the Latin Quarter. And those sandals, even more than his Marks, made him look like something far more than a mere boy: it was as if the statue of one of those benevolent pagan beings Grégoire had sometimes secretly admired during his all-too-infrequent visits to the Louvre had suddenly come to life and was visiting him in this enchanted forest.

He was suddenly aware of how ridiculous he looked, his stiff pale shaft with its uncovered head that looked (he had recently thought) a bit like a big purple cherry jutting out of the open fly of his shorts. So he did what came naturally and soon he was as naked as the faun in front of him.

Ambar immediately jumped into his arms, clearly not aware of the maelstrom of emotions he was producing, and Grégoire quickly discovered the difference between bragging about sex while fully clothed and holding an actual naked boy in your arms – a boy, furthermore, who is rubbing against your erect penis with his own erection and clearly expecting you to do something about it.

Perhaps it was that excess of emotion that caused his knees to buckle, or maybe Ambar engineered it somehow, but either way they were soon lying on a hastily-improvised bed formed by their clothes, and after one thing had led to another for a while Grégoire found himself contemplating, from a distance of only a few centimetres, the object which would form the basis of most of his fantasies from that point on.

Ambar, as well as being the most attractive boy he had ever met, was also a genuine work of art: Grégoire was able to admire the calligraphic perfection made by the branching spirals of the Marks across the living silk of the scrotum, and the truly fascinating way in which a silvery tendril followed the line of the perineum, back along the raphe to decorate, without actually touching, the little wrinkled flower of the anus. He could see all this because Ambar, remembering what Julien had told him about the oppressive and restrictive upbringing suffered by boys in this world, had opened himself up completely, allowing Grégoire to explore parts of his anatomy that the French boy would never have thought possible in his wildest dreams.

However, since they both realised that if they stayed away from the rest of the patrol for too long someone might come looking for them, they moved quickly on to other things. In fact Ambar took the lead and, bearing in mind the likely limitations of a boy raised in a place such as Julien had described, he decided to keep it simple and not to go beyond the basic practice described in the Delights. So he stretched out on top of his partner, face to face, establishing a direct contact between their 'Pleasure Fountains', and allowing them at the same time to look at each other, which in turn led inevitably to further lip contact.

When Grégoire experienced, shortly afterwards, a still-dry orgasm it shook him like an electric shock that seemed to spread along all of his limbs. And afterwards, cuddling with the cuddliest creature in the universe had the effect of curing him once and for all of the poisonous sadness which had until then ruined his shameful pleasures.

oo0oo