PRIMITIVE NIGHTS - Chapter 1






Peruvian Rainforest, South America
She was going to die.
She could see it now. Her eulogy would read: Myla Jordan, twenty-six year old InterCorp Oil engineer, was killed in a helicopter crash… 
What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she wrapped her arms around her legs and dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth. 
Darkness enclosed the clearing where the tribe congregated and the startled cries of jungle creatures filtered through the trees from all directions. The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the native’s dance. She should be scared.
Somehow - she wasn’t. 
Maybe the crash had rattled her brain more than she’d thought. Actually, thinking about it, the situation seemed somewhat poetic.
No one would ever know that she’d tried to help. Instead she’d be known as nothing more than another of the oil company’s morally deficient employees. 
And that rankled.
Her journal, and the evidence it contained, remained with the mangled helicopter. If it were found, the proof she‘d gathered would be detrimental to InterCorp. The huge oil company would be happy to let her rot in the jungle.
A roaring fire less than twenty feet away warmed the top of her head. Coupled with the oppressive heat of the Peruvian jungle, the added warmth threatened to make her pass out. She scooted back on her bottom until the irritated grunts of her captor stopped her progress. That and the painful prod of the end of his spear. She didn’t look at him. After several ringing slaps from the men of the tribe, she’d realized they wouldn’t tolerate eye contact.
It didn’t matter. After so much research, wasted money, and lives lost, she didn’t want to look into the eyes of the tribe members. There was no way for her to make them understand, to explain she meant no harm and that she’d protected them in ways they would never know. If she died at their hands, they would kill the one person who actually cared about their impending extinction. 
She scanned the clearing. Even in such a dangerous situation, to be so close to these people filled her with amazement. She’d studied them from great distances and to have such contact - under different circumstances - would have been wonderful. It seemed every tribe member had gathered the moment she’d been dragged into the village. Close to a hundred men, women and children. Each inquisitive face cast her curious glances, some revealing more anger than curiosity. None had approached, if she excluded the men who’d taken exception to her returned stare. 
Amazing or not, this exchange was far from what she’d sought with the tribe. Death certainly hadn’t been part of the plan.
She couldn’t determine how long she’d been sitting, waiting. When the helicopter crashed, she’d no more than realized the pilot was dead before the six tribesmen had slipped from the camouflage of the trees. Bruises and cuts marred her skin from their rough handling. Her head still stung from being dragged by her hair.
In the waning light, smoke from the crash in the distance spiraled toward the sky. Was this how John had met his end? Disappearing into the rainforest without a trace, to perish at the hands of the men and woman he’d so passionately tried to protect?
John. She’d come to Peru to be with him. Stayed to find him when he’d disappeared and then mourned his assumed death. The sting of long dried tears burned her eyes. Now it seemed she would meet the same end. Another bizarre twist of fate.
Sudden staccatos from a single deep drum drew her from her musings. The atmosphere of the camp shifted. As one, the women and female children shuffled back to the outer rim of the clearing, their bodies’ covered only by thin clothes wrapped around their hips. In seemingly choreographed response, the younger men and boys moved toward the fire. Thumping the ends of their spears against the hard jungle floor, they chanted in rhythm with the drum.
Only the older men stood tall - silent. Each set of obsidian eyes focused into the dark jungle near the head of the clearing as the drummer beat wildly into a snare drum style finish. With the silence, each tribe member dropped to a knee.
Goosebumps crawled up her arms. She followed their stares, squinting against the firelight. She couldn’t see anything. Would an animal come out to devour her? Maybe a jaguar, trained over years to maul the sacrifices set out for it by the tribe. 
She shook her head at the foolish thought and glanced at the man who knelt next to her. While his eyes were fixed on the jungle, she studied him. Thick, black hair trailed down his back in long strands. Dark skin stretched over lean muscle and calluses covered the outer edges of his feet.
Something on the ground next to his knee caught her attention. A dark object, the end of which glinted in the firelight. Focusing on it, her eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. 
A knife.
With silent thanks toward the heavens, she shifted to stretch her legs out in front of her. Did she dare to reach for it? Her captor certainly seemed intent on where he stared and if she moved slow enough - perhaps.
Sliding her hand from her lap, she reached for the weapon. Inch by excruciating inch, she moved her hand out wishing it didn’t shake so violently. Almost there. Her finger brushed over the handle. The man didn’t seem to notice. 
Her heart pounded violently as she curled her fingers over the top then pulled it back with the same measured pace. With a sigh, she tucked the blade under her leg and transferred it to the opposite hand. 
An eternity passed before she managed to slip the weapon into the pocket of her cargo pants and when she finally settled back, each breath struggled through her nerve tightened throat. The crazy pulse of her heart ricocheted through her body until her head spun. Taking several deep breaths to ease the dizziness, she managed a semblance of calm. The knife wouldn’t do any good if she passed out.
The crude carving on the handle scratched her palm when she pulled her hand from the pocket. Somehow, the sensation gave her comfort. The deadly blade, which at any other time would have been an amazing tribal discovery, worthy of a place in the museum, now was nothing more than a means of escape.
She rubbed her hand over the bulge it made against her thigh, slid her finger down over the flat side of the blade. Could she kill a man? She’d led a peaceful life since her father had passed away, rummaging through hundreds of historical artifacts or pouring through books. And even though violence wasn’t a new experience, it had never been at her own hand.
Now she might be forced to protect herself. All those years and she’d never stood up to her father. Would she have the fortitude now to defend herself? She tightened her hand into a fist. These men were different. They would kill her and she had no intention of becoming a martyr. 
The tribe considered her a threat, an interloper who could bring harm to the tribe. She didn’t doubt for a moment that they would protect themselves from what they perceived as danger. If there were any chance for escape, it would have to be of her own making.
The drum started again, a rhythmic confirmation of her thoughts, echoed in slow, methodical thumps. The men stared into the jungle, shifting from side to side. Firelight shimmered over the dark cocoa of their skin, tracing the firm lines of their bodies.
Intent on the tribe’s movements, a startled gasp slipped free when a hand twisted into her hair with cruel pressure. The man next to her dragged her to her feet. Panic filled her chest with suffocating pressure and she bit back a cry as he pushed her closer to the fire. The sinewy muscles of the drummer moved faster with the eerie tempo.
She wanted to scream, fight, or close her eyes to whatever horrible end waited. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, macabre curiosity refusing to let her look away. Then a slight shift caught her attention, barely discernible through the blinding firelight that flickered off the trees. She squinted and caught the faint outline of a dark shadow moving through the jungle.
Like an apparition, a shadowy figure materialized from the trees in the form of a man. Light from the fire grazed his sleek, muscular form and his hooded gaze passed over the tribe in slow perusal. 
Powerful legs bulged with each slow, confident step he took, his presence filling the space. A leather cloth tied at his trim waist brushed his muscular thighs. Unlike the others, this man wore numerous strings of beads and feathers draped across his torso in a thick, colorful band. Coils of something resembling pale fur laced the long length of his dark hair. His singular essence demanded respect, exuded leadership.
Powerful. Riveting.
She sensed intelligence in his keen gaze. But something in the way he stared, the way his presence drew her to him, the sensual way he moved, scared her. None of the pictures she’d seen or taken of these people had ever made her feel the way she did when she looked at him. She hadn’t expected such an enigmatic persona, such a sexually provocative male. He had to be the leader.
He ignored the tribes’ people before him and raised his gaze to meet hers across the fire. Dark brows furrowed and she reached down to run her hand over the hidden knife. The muscles of his defined chest tightened, his fingers flexed at his side, and he - stared.
When he mumbled something in his native tongue, another man walked over, gesticulating wildly. Of a much smaller stature, this man spoke in a guttural language she couldn’t begin to understand, pointing to the sky before he brought his hands down in a sharp movement. The leader listened intently and ran a hand over his chest. He fingered the beads, his eyes still fixed on her.
Mixed emotions tumbled through her mind. Years spent trying to protect tribes like this made it impossible to ignore the incredible moment in their presence and yet, her very existence hinged on these people’s choices. Sweat beaded her lip and despite the heat, she shivered. Certainly her predicament warranted confusion. She stood in the presence of a great leader. Maybe one of the last of his kind. One that could very well make her his last act of defiance toward the outside world.
His was one of the last surviving un-contacted tribes left in the rainforest. Their way of life depended on her and the others who wished to help them. Decimated over the years by the oil companies and illegal loggers, his people would continue to die from encroachment and exposure to disease brought by intruders. The Peruvian government did little to protect them or their land, and now, all her hard work, the hours spent fighting for change, researching, proving to any who would listen that they were a viable race of people - was for naught.
An eerie silence broke into her thoughts and she snapped her attention back to the present. The smaller man had stopped talking. Numerous curious eyes shifted between her and their leader. Each shattered breath rushed from her lungs, tension gripping at her shoulders. This might be her only opportunity. If she could control him, there might be hope.
If the knife would even faze this man. 
Used to the brutal elements and wars with neighboring tribes, he might not fear her or her weapon. She would have to take the chance.
He closed the distance, standing too near, his eyes once again roaming over her body. His words were an indistinct whisper, rich with curiosity as he fingered her clothing, her hair, her skin. Resisting the urge to slap his hands away, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. His scent filled her lungs. The smell wasn’t unpleasant. Male, earthy, but not unpleasant at all.
She opened her eyes a fraction, following his every move from beneath her lashes. Slow steady breaths moved his chest and a muscle in his jaw twitched. When she met the anger burning deep in his eyes, she shuddered and braced for the impact of his hand. When it didn’t come, she dared another glance.
His skin was a rich brown, the olive green paint marks on his forehead much lighter than the deep green of his eyes. She studied the high arch of his cheek bones, the rigid line of his jaw. He had a strong, smooth chin and she had to admit, he was handsome. Attractive in a rugged, untamed way. An entirely feral wa- 
Wait! That wasn’t right. She met his gaze.
Green? A Peruvian tribesman with green eyes? The man holding her pushed her head down and she struggled to look up. The leader said something in their native tongue and the hand holding her disappeared. 
Tentatively, she raised her head. The man’s hard stare bore into her. Questions raced through her mind. Green? That was impossible. Wasn’t it? It seemed unlikely he came from mixed ethnicity. She hadn’t noticed a significant difference in his skin coloring compared to the others, though the odd shifts of the firelight could hide anything.
She’d never get an answer to anything if he killed her. The inability to communicate could never be as profound as it was in that moment. Raising her hands in what she hoped resembled supplication, she whispered, “I mean no harm.”
He grunted and leaned closer, inhaling deep. Was he actually smelling her? A sudden urge to laugh took hold. What the hell was the matter with her? She managed to remain silent even as a smile forced its way free. She’d cracked. John had been right after all. She wasn’t cut out for this. She never should have come to Peru.
He’d warned her she wasn’t the type to go wandering around the jungles. She’d thought her work so far had proven his theory wrong. Evidently not. At least not outside her normal safety zone. Now that actual danger presented itself, her mind couldn’t function. Another giggle threatened and this time she couldn’t quite contain the impulse. Being smelled was too much.
The sudden rigidity of his body broke the language barrier. He didn’t like her laughter. Every muscle tightened with tension. His skin shimmered with sweat, his breathing harsh. 
Not quite daring to look at him, she kept her eyes low. The bright beads draped over the expanse of his hairless chest and taut nipples contrasted with his skin. Every ridge of his abdomen sliced downward to the thick strap of his loincloth and…
She closed her eyes, shocked at the sight of his semi hardened penus, the impressive length not completely concealed by its meager covering. The need to laugh returned. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she resisted the urge to pinch herself. 
Hadn’t she had this dream before in her loneliest hours? Minus the danger of death and the tribal members looking on? A mysterious, handsome jungle man, sweeping her off her feet? Carrying her away to his hut to make love to her, in wild, untamed passion? Her very own Tarzan.
If she guessed correctly, he might have the same thoughts. It seemed whatever emotions he felt at the moment, about her, excited him and her heart drummed up another notch. It crashed against her ribs a moment later as she realized her death might be what excited him. Turning her head away, she focused her eyes on the ground, trying desperately to calm the erratic beat of her heart.
She jolted when his hand closed around her hair, tugging the elastic band free. He tossed it away before pulling his fingers through the ends to untangle the thick braid. Lifting the strands, he inhaled deep and brushed the tips over his mouth and cheek.
A sharp tug made her look down at her hair. Before she could say a word, he sliced off a couple of inches with a knife and handed it to the man who had held her. He in turn, walked to the fire. Holding it up, he sang out to the others.
A cacophony of sound erupted around them. The whoops and guttural yells of the tribe’s people awakened the jungle. Birds squawked and fluttered from their roosts. Angry yips and snarls issued from the dark and the baleful cry of unknown creature stretched out on the wind.
Horrified, she bit her lip to keep from crying out as the man with her hair tied it to a decorated wooden staff. He waved the staff over the fire and the strands went up in flames. Another round of celebratory noise filled the air.
Tarzan-man hadn’t bothered to witness the burning. His lips parted in a smug smile and at his nod, two men came forward. They grabbed her arms, digging into her skin as they held her, easily overcoming her struggles. She lashed out, kicking and screaming until the leader grabbed her neck. His hand moved down over her breasts and belly where he tucked his fingers into her shirt. One sharp tug parted the thin fabric to expose her chest and stomach.
Panic overwhelmed her mind in a dizzy swirl. She couldn’t recall a single time Tarzan had raped Jane and all of her depraved humor fled. Primal instinct took over. She struggled, straining until the muscles of her arms burned with exertion. The men were too strong. She cursed and kicked wildly, landing several blows before the leader stepped closer. His eyes held hers and the slight shake of his head held a clear warning. 
Each breath raked through her lungs, and she forced herself to remain still. Her mind wrapped around the image of fighting in vain as she was subjected to repeated rapes. It flashed to the natives burning her alive. Then to other horrendous deaths. Each vision followed by another. She clenched her teeth and fists, forcing the images from her subconscious.
With an almost imperceptible nod from the leader, the men relaxed their hold on her arms and stepped away. An elderly woman approached carrying two bowls. Patches of long, gray hair swept the severely wrinkled planes of her face. She kept her head lowered and offered the first bowl to the leader with gnarled fingers.
He brought the bowl to his mouth and drank. Then, he held it up to Myla’s mouth. Cool water dribbled over her lips and she opened, drinking deep. The water disappeared to quickly and she licked her lips, only realizing how thirsty she’d been.
He handed the bowl back and dipped his fingers into the second one. Chanting in a soothing rhythm, he brought his hand to her forehead. Dark crimson stained his fingers and with a gentleness she hadn’t expected, he pressed two fingertips to her skin. Slow movements drew down over her right eye and lower to her cheek.
Her vision blurred and warmth spread through her belly. She closed her eyes as a languid sensation flooded her entire body. When she opened them again, she felt disjointed, disconnected and sensitive. The slight breeze caressed her skin with incredible strength. Each muffled sound increased and ebbed. Firelight played tricks with the surroundings, creating odd colors and ribbons of rays that danced before her eyes.
She met Tarzan-man’s gaze, entranced by his slow, confident smile. Had his lips been so enticing a moment ago? Full and damp, slightly parted? Dazed and unable to understand the sudden sense of calm, she shook her head to clear the fog. He returned to the bowl and this time, he traced over her breast, at the edge of her bra where her heart beat with violent punches. He had to feel it. 
Then he placed his thumb over her navel and rotated his fingers across her lower belly, brushing the top of her pants to draw a half circle on her skin. Then he stepped closer, his voice a low indistinct chant.
She tore her gaze from his and tried to ignore the heavy draw of his body. The need to back away warred with an insane want to press close. She couldn’t shake the powerful allure that drew her to him. The way his shoulders glistened in the firelight, smooth and taut. The urge to reach out and touch him burgeoned in her mind. Shaking the thought away, she returned her gaze to his mesmerizing stare.
His eyes never left hers as the sound of the tribe reached a crescendo. Whatever spell his gaze had wrought eased. He raised his hand and to her utter horror, the men of the tribe started to come forward.
Lost in her stupid imaginings, she’d almost forgotten the danger around her. And now, it looked as if she might pay the price. The strange behavior of the men coupled with the torching of hair did not bode well. This was it. She shook her head again, noticing the slight daze reflected in his pupils. The water! It’d been laced with something. He’d drugged her!
Fury crashed through the drug’s effects – somewhat – and she jerked back. His gaze followed her movements when she reached into her pocket and pulled the knife free. Wrapping both hands around the handle, she pressed the tip against his chest directly over his heart. “No!”
Silence surrounded them. The other men stopped where they stood. Tarzan-man barely glanced at the knife pressed to his skin. No telling signs of fear, no attempts to move. Then by slow degrees, he lifted his head until their eyes locked.
Anger. Absolute fury laced his icy glare. Her entire body trembled, and it became clear her legs would give out at any moment. She pressed the knife closer until it made an indention in his skin. “Please. Please don’t.” 
With stunning speed, he grabbed her wrist. He twisted until her fingers burned, keeping the pressure firm as he tipped the knife back. The blade dropped from her numb hand to land harmlessly on the jungle floor. 
He didn’t release her wrist. Instead, he dragged her close. His other hand wrapped around the end of her hair, tugging her head back. She had no choice. She had to look at him. 
“That was unintelligent, woman.”
“I had to try someth -” Her breath caught in stunned silence. 
His English was… nearly perfect.

Random thoughts from a would-be, wanna-be, haf-ta-wait-to-be an author.


Daily life takes it's toll on our time spent with the muses. Anyone else out there think that the great authors of our past struggled with all the day in and day out trials of life? I'm sure they did. Probably more than we know. But I've found lately that if I get more everyday things done, I have more energy when it comes time to write. My muse let's loose after being couped up inside my head, and fingers fly over the keyboard...


Okay. Not ALWAYS. I do settle down to write sometimes and end up with indentions from the keys tattooed into my forehead. But more often, because I've hashed and re-hashed scenes and ideas and themes in my head all day, my muse is more than happy to put it all down in black and white.


Even if the words aren't good, and even if they make no sense. Get 'em on paper or disk. You never know what you might come back to find or how it will spark your creative juices.


Happy writing!