Paradise Forbidden by Natalie E. Wrye

Author:Natalie E. Wrye [Wrye, Natalie E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Coming of Age, Romance, Contemporary, New Adult & College
Amazon: B013Z36DOA
Goodreads: 25341969
Published: 2015-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

***

The area where Ama directs me is a little offset room with a window that would be a bathroom, if it had any amenities. At the moment, it is simply a little nook in the corner of, what I realize, is a log cabin, but it is certainly more than enough for me.

The entire cabin has a homey feel, albeit rustic, and each room contains an elaborate pleated rug in which one may sink his or her feet. Already, I can see how it is a wonderful reflection of Ama and her openhearted personality.

Before she leaves me to it, I help Ama carry buckets of fire-heated water into the crudely built bathroom, and we pour gallon after gallon of steaming liquid into what will soon be my bath.

She crushes a few mint leaves into the hot water, adding them to provide a salve, she says, for my irritated and itching skin.

The “bath” I take is really nothing more than a dip in a gray vat of scalding water. It’s an oversized bucket that barely fits my body, but I have to admit: it may be the best bath I’ve ever taken.

Hot water is now a luxury of which I’ve been deprived for the past six days, and getting to wash my body with it, no matter how hot it is, is so refreshing and relaxing that I find myself nodding off in the cramped-up oval base of the vat.

I let myself languorously sink inside of the water until I overstay my welcome and it eventually grows cool. I sneer at my tattered clothing on the floor before exiting the tub, grabbing instantly for the masculine clothing that Ama has left behind for me to wear.

The clothes are just a bit too small, but they suffice, and I slip the grey t-shirt overhead (with some difficulty because of the tourniquet), and eventually hop my way into the khaki shorts that she’s provided.

I reach up to touch my face, feeling the newly grown shag that’s accumulated there, and I wish desperately for a mirror that seems nowhere to be found.

The sound of a door opening and closing startles me and I leap to action, immediately leaving the room, wet hair and all.

I’m surprised when I walk back into the main room to find a tall man standing there, hair as black as ink, with a large and goofy grin on his face. His nose is sharp and long; his eyes are large and brown. He has the face of Ama. This must be Viho.

When Ama mentioned Viho’s youthfulness, I expected a child… but what walks in is more man than boy: a broad-shouldered, smirking youth with strong arms and long legs. His face is an exact replica of his mother’s: kind and handsome.

But where Ama is a shining beacon of tradition, Viho is a gateway to modernity. Ama’s feet are adorned with what looks like deer-skinned moccasins; Viho wears rubber-soled sneakers. Ama is fashioned in a three-quarter-length dress with diamond patterns; Viho sports a plaid t-shirt with torn jeans.

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