Jungos: The Return Of Johnathan Retched Smith

SimonW

Active member
Note: This is a sequel to The Legend Of Johnathan Retched Smith.


Chapter 1: Upon A Beach...

The sea waves rippled with tensed ease, lightly crashing against the sandy beach of an island a good distance from the Island of Bunga.
A lone figure was sprawled halfway in the water and the shore. Beneath the figure was a piece of driftwood, once a part of a small rowboat that was ultimately destroyed by a blast as shown by the faint remnants of scorch marks upon the piece of debris.
The figure was not awake, half cradling the driftwood as it acted as an anchor as the tide of water eased off from the beach. Half bobbing in water, the figure was of a thirteen year old boy, knocked unconscious from the blast that had also destroyed the rowboat.
His tanned face beheld a touch of innocence but his attire and body told his story oh so well. Half naked from the waist up, the boy had on only tattered and wet from the ocean shorts that were held up by a coarse but tight rope. His only other clothing was that of a red bandana headband tied around his forehead, his wet brown hair glistening in the sun overhead.
His tanned body was covered in faint marks of scars and cuts, a few bruises near his shoulders and deep yet faint impressions of whip marks across his back that were so faint they almost seemed to fade with his tanned skin.
A crab scuttled past the prone figure that laid upon the beach. It was not interested in what was apparently fodder from the sea.
After a few minutes, the figure of Johnathan “Retched” Smith stirred. A twitch was in his left forefinger as he slowly started to regain consciousness.
Fluttering his eyelids open a fraction of a second, Johnathan arched his back to rise up. But the pain in his shoulders made him wince and his arms buckled under him as he fell down face first into the water that had come with the tide.
Sputtering, Johnathan was wide awake now. He began clambering with outstretched hands as he found the piece of timber he had floated to this island with and used it to support himself once more onto firm ground.
Lifting his head abruptly from the salt-tasting sea water, Johnathan breathed in a lungful of air as he tried to ignore the pain in his shoulders. He knew he had felt worse pain then this in his life as a Cabin Boy upon a pirate vessel.
Johnathan wondered if any of the others also survived the blast that had been caused by the girl known as Hatti Tanaki.
Johnathan “Retched” Smith loathed that native friendly girl now with a passion. He vowed silently to himself that once he was able, he would find her and kill her.
It was very unlikely that Johnathan’s adopted father, Captain Lock-Jaw, and his crew survived. Johnathan just could not accept it. His stubborn hope that the fearsome crew of pirates were still alive was a false one that he knew he’d have to accept sooner or later. But Johnathan hoped it would be later. After all, he had already once assumed the worst and that changed when he knew it was not so.
Shaking his head lightly, Johnathan knew he had to think straight. Alive or dead, he knew he was alone once more.
But that was not true. For as Johnathan had started to slip back into the depths of unconsciousness, a tall figure seemed to huddle over him before blackness once more consumed his already racing mind.


(to be continued...)
 
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Lots of sensory realism in your scene-setting. Note that where you say: "...a small rowboat that was ultimately destroyed by a blast due to the faint remnants of scorch marks..."

-- grammatically, this is saying that the boat's destruction was literally CAUSED BY the scorch marks. What you want to say should be worded something like: "...a small rowboat that had ultimately been destroyed by a blast, AS INDICATED BY the faint remnants of scorch marks..."
 
I like it so far Simon. Let's read some more. I wonder where this story is going. I like the names of your characters, including of course the main one.
 
( chapter 1, part 2)


Johnathan felt weary. He slowly opened his eyes and noticed he was staring up at a thatched roof. A split second later he realized he was no longer in the water. He was dry and laying upon his back. A tightly woven weave of straw and bamboo seemed to support him upon the hard ground. But despite this mild discomfort, Johnathan knew it could be worse. Ignoring the pain from his back and shoulders as he slowly eased himself up into a sitting position, Johnathan surveyed his surroundings.
The circular hut was of a simple form, the deeply hollow and high thatched roof seemed to overshadow the sides of the structure itself. There were no windows but save for a hole on one side of the wall, crudely carved into the bamboo thicket that held grass and clay-like moulding together to make the hut stable. There was no decorative items aside from the quick makeshift “bed” that Johnathan was sitting upon and a coarse cover of sorts save for the doorway that had a piece of old fabric pinned up to have some privacy from the outside world.
Johnathan felt nervous and cautious. He knew he was in a Native Dwelling. The only peace of mind to him was that he was pretty sure it was not a part of Hatti Tanaki’s tribe. Otherwise he’d be dead by now. But despite this solace Johnathan still had a bad feeling about being in a Native place.
Suddenly, the piece of fabric was brushed aside as a Native came into the hut via the doorway. She looked older and had decorative beads hanging from her neck. The native woman was wrapped in tunic fabric, her modesty not being noticed as she was bare-chested from the lower ribcage up to her forehead save for the beads. Johnathan felt uneasy at this, but let his eyes wander from the woman as he observed her kneel down and place a simple wooden bowl of various fruits in front of Johnathan. Without saying anything, the native woman stood upright again and left the hut via the doorway she entered.
Feeling his flushed face, Johnathan tried to get this encounter out of his mind. These people obviously were more simple than Hatti Tanaki’s tribe. They had no need for proper clothing. Johnathan brushed away these thoughts as he delicately reached out and took a hold of the wooden bowl with his fingers. He could clearly see some forms of fruit he has tasted before from the Bunga Island but there were more strange fruits he could not recognize. Dipping the fingers of his other hand into the wooden bowl, Johnathan felt uneasy. There was liquid in this bowl too, underneath the fruit. Every instinct made Johnathan feel unwell with this offering. But still, he had not eaten or drank anything for a good while, not since the night he was hit on the head by Hatti Tanaki.


(to be continued...)
 
(chapter 1, part 3)

Having eaten and drunk his fill, Johnathan felt tired once more. Head spinning from his body reminding him of lack of food and drink, Johnathan allowed himself to ease back down upon the thatched makeshift bed beneath him on the ground. As he drifted off, Johnathan felt the bowl in his right hand slip through his fingers as he was overcome with sleep long overdue.


“Nimbadu-ka-whoo. Nintar seltinki,” muttered one of the Tribe Elders.
“Senzo-tarroboy, Nikitare,” replied another of the Elders in a calm but authorative voice.
“Humma-tay, Winataki?” asked the only female presence in the room, that of a young tribes girl that was sitting to the side of the Elder within the big headdress that looked down at her with furrowed thought upon his face.
“Senzo,” he merely stated back to her question whilst rubbing his chin in thought.
“Hinto-wannaki, Nashtar Korro-Nay,” she replied before getting up and departing after turning and giving a bare-fisted salute on her shoulder to the Elder within the ceremonial headdress.
The Tribe Elders conversed once Nikitare had left the hut, her father the Head Tribes Elder of the village. The girl traversed past the local village huts that were slightly lower than the Elder Tribe hut, the boy from the sea god Korro-Nay obviously a blessing for her village, or so the local populace and elders believed. For Nikitare, she did not hold much faith in the local superstition but could not doubt the boy came from the sea for a reason. As to what, she did not yet know.
Making her way with a smile upon her face past the locals in their daily living, Nikitare stopped outside the hut where the boy was kept. Feeling slightly apprehensive, Nikitare brushed away this feeling, reminding herself to be strong like her ancestors and her father. She stepped into the hut, lightly brushing aside the bead doorway as she stepped towards the sleeping form of the boy from the sea. She sat down on both knees beside the boy, reaching out with her hand as she gently placed her hand upon his smooth tanned cheek. She had to admit, he was about her age, maybe a year older than her, but he was just still a boy in her eyes, not a man.
She stopped caressing the boy’s cheek with her hand and took in his body with her eyes, the faded scars upon his back almost looking like she misjudged his manly nature because only those could have come from the sea god, as it was known the lashings of the sea could prove fatal. And yet, she could hear this boy’s steady breathing, the essence of life within his body as his chest slightly moved within his slumber. It seemed unnatural, almost terrifying, that a mere boy could survive the sea god’s wrath. And yet, Nikitare knew better. She did not question anything about this boy, having known a few things from her father as his only offspring as the mother goddess granted to him. Nikitare sighed very lightly and felt herself gently lay down next to the boy, wrapping her arms around his mid-section, careful not to wake him as she eased herself against his back in a tender embrace and closed her own eyes. Nikitare knew what she wanted and this boy from the sea would give it to her, of that she was certain.


(to be continued...)
 
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