(Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is 
copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless 
explicitly indicated.)



*BERYL AND THE POLYMORPH*

by virgosun (c) April 2004
*******************************
(Part 2)

She loved it best when George wrapped her in a big bear 
hug, almost engulfing her in his burly shoulders. His 
body was hot, his muscles thick. But there always came a 
point where he became too overpowering, too heavy. He 
liked to lean over her, liked to squash her into a 
corner. His kisses on her throat made her sigh, and she 
liked it when he felt her bottom. But his fingers were 
blunt and work-roughened; manly, she supposed.

These days she preferred it when he kissed her neck and 
breasts. It kept the taste of stale hops out of her 
mouth.

"Berry, love, let me touch you there!" he panted, 
tugging at her hemline.

"George, I...don't, no, please, I'd rather you didn't, 
not yet."

"But you liked it the other night! Come on, love, just 
one little touch, please?"

"Don't...it's delicate down there. You wouldn't like it 
if I mangled your, er, thingies."

"What, my nobbles?" He laughed and caught her hand in 
his. "Berry, you can play with my nobbles any time you 
like!" And stuffed it deep into the hot fabric of his 
crotch amidst the lumps and bumps that dwelt there. She 
yanked her hand back.

"No! I told you, not until we're married, and not one 
day before!"

"We _will_ get married, I promise!" he insisted 
sturdily, dragging at her skirt again. "I'm saving for 
the ring! Just one little touch?"

She fumbled for her purse, anything to distract him. 
There was one cigarette left. "Georgie, I need a smoke, 
would you light it please?" She didn't believe he was 
saving anything, and beginning to understand the little 
frown Dad wore whenever he saw George lately.

George grumbled and sat back, thumbing the dashboard 
button for the cigarette lighter. "We've got to wait a 
while longer," said Beryl desolately. "I'm not old 
enough."

"You're nearly seventeen."

"By the time you save any money I'll be seventy! Why do 
you drink so much, Georgie?"

"Because I like it!" he said sulkily.

"But you used to be so much nicer before," she sighed.

"Oh yeah? Well, you smoke too much, all you've done 
tonight is puff fags!"

"I thought you liked it when I did that."

"Yeah, well, you can't tell me I drink too much then." 
Then he smiled, and threw his arm around her shoulders, 
looking more like the George of old. "Come on, Berry, we 
shouldn't be fighting like this, eh? I love you, you 
know."

His eyes twinkled; that look had always made her heart 
flutter. "I'm sorry, Georgie, I didn't mean it," she 
whispered, snuggling against him again. His lips found 
her temple, her cheekbone, the hollow beneath her 
earlobe, and he sighed.

His hand ran up the inside of her thigh. She squeezed 
her legs quickly and firmly together.

"If you love me, you'll wait. I think you'd better take 
me home now."

"Shit," George muttered.

***

The doorbell jingled, and Beryl looked around from 
stacking loaves of fresh bread in the display rack. "Oh 
hello Doug," she smiled. "What brings you here? Do you 
need to change your lunch order?"

Doug's Adam's Apple bobbed up and down his neck and he 
looked around nervously. Beryl was the only person 
present; Mum was out the back helping Dad stack 
deliveries, and it was Dot's day off. She gave a 
mischievous smile and tapped her nose. "Don't worry, 
Tempest isn't here."

This brought a deep flush to Doug's long face. He 
cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full 
height. "Ahem. Beryl, good morning. I, er, as to the 
reason for my stopping by, it's not to change my lunch 
order, it's perfect as is thank you. No, what I mean to 
ask you is..." He gulped. "Seeing as you're on good 
terms with the families out there," and he gestured 
jerkily toward where the tower now peered above the 
rooves of the town, "I wondered if you might...care to, 
ahem, accompany me to an, er, birthday celebration 
they're holding this Friday night. I would be much 
obliged if you would." And then he stood stiffly, almost 
eyes-right, as if awaiting an execution bullet.

Beryl put down the last loaves slowly, carefully. "This 
would be...to keep Tempest off your case?"

He eyed her, a steely, determined quality coming into 
his gaze. "Not necessarily, not as such. I would like 
merely the pleasure of your company. If that is too much 
to ask..." He rocked on his heels.

"Doug...was it _you_ who sent me a letter a little while 
ago?" she asked carefully, not wanting to show her 
startlement.

He pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring, and gave 
one jerky nod.

_Oh my! Wait 'til Dot hears this!_ Friday night was 
always Georgie night, had been for over a year.

"Who's birthday is it?" she asked with a small, 
speculative smile. Doug relaxed slightly.

"Basil Blake's. He's turning 28."

"Then I shall have to get him a birthday present," Beryl 
thought aloud, pressing a finger to her lips. "What sort 
of things does he like?"

A big grin split Doug's face, and with his moustache for 
a moment he looked quite rakish rather than awkward. 
Then he sobered up quickly. "No, no, I have that taken 
care of, not to worry."

She had turned toward the main display case 
thoughtfully, where pies, custard tarts and sugar-dusted 
streudels lay in tempting wait. "Well, what about a 
birthday cake? Something special for the invisible 
feller in the crane."

"I don't think anyone's organised a cake for him yet," 
said Doug thoughtfully.

"Good, that's settled then," Beryl said matter-of-
factly, pencilling an order on a notepad. "Me, cake, 
you, motorbike?" She flashed her most flirtatious grin, 
well aware that Doug got about on a small motorcycle, 
hardly a cruise-machine for dating.

"I'll borrow something more appropriate," he promised.

When Doug had gone, Beryl sighed and gazed at the posy 
of flowers in a vase sitting on the window display. Rain 
streamed from the awning outside, and she watched as 
Doug shook out a big black umbrella before walking away. 
The crops had been suffering, drying out, but Tempest 
had promised rain would come today.

The posy had been brought in by George the afternoon 
before, with a Sorry card. He was sorry he had been such 
a brute of late, and promised he wouldn't have more than 
a couple of beers before going out with her.

But why shouldn't she indulge Doug, if just this once? 
She was pretty sure he would keep his hands to himself, 
and it would be nice not to have to end Friday night 
before it grew too many fingers, for a change.

***

"Nothing too formal," Doug had said. She wore a party 
dress, had the cake ready in a box with a big ribbon, 
and at the last moment, popped out to the garden where 
she found a pink carnation bud and wrapped it carefully. 
And she left the spare cigarettes at home.

Although Doug was driving, the car that arrived to 
collect her was the big pale blue buggy that belonged to 
Mr Phillips. And while he had said informal, Doug was 
not far short of black tie, hair slicked across his 
high, high forehead. He greeted her and took the cake 
box and placed it on the back seat, then ushered her 
around and opened the door gallantly for her, as though 
he drove a swanky sportscar rather than someone else's 
ordinary sedan. Laughing merrily, Beryl felt a million 
dollars.

Instead of downtown to the Tatts Club, bistro or picture 
palace, or out to Wildgoose Hall for the barn dance, 
they drove the same way Beryl rode every day, a familiar 
route made exotic by darkness. They paused at the gate, 
which Doug rattled open, and the homes ahead were a 
carnival of coloured lights. Music pulsed distantly; not 
a dance band, but something much more modern, the kind 
of sounds that came from the sophisticated parts of big 
cities.

Doug drove around the back of the housing estate to the 
Phillips' place, then opened the door for Beryl. "I have 
the cake, Mrs. Phillips!" he called.

"Douggie!" came Tempest's delighted cry. An outdoors 
light flicked on, backlighting a halo of hair and swirl 
of skirts. "Oh Beryl, hi! Pro didn't say you were 
coming, what a wonderful surprise!"

"Um, Pro didn't actually ask me," Beryl admitted, 
steeling herself to weather an eruption of peer 
jealousy. Tempest just laughed and clapped.

"He didn't? Oh, super! He is gonna be so surprised then! 
Come on, I'll show you the dance floor they've nailed 
together today!" There was barely time to greet Mr. and 
Mrs. Phillips as Tempest tugged her away, giggling back 
at "Douggie" as she went. Her party mood was infectious 
as they went toward the lights and music.

"Where is Pro?" Beryl asked.

"Over at his place getting cleaned up, he shouldn't be 
too long. He's connected to water now, so his bathroom 
works."

"Pro's got a whole _house_ of his own?" Beryl stopped in 
her tracks. Tempest looked at her as if she was an 
idiot.

"Of course! Okay, it doesn't have all its walls or doors 
or windows yet - hey, even _I_ have a house, although 
it's not built, but I do have a patch of ground marked 
out! They won't start work on it until I'm eighteen. He 
hasn't got any furniture either, but Pro doesn't need 
that much furniture." They started walking again. "The 
Enabled look after their people. We've all got to have 
somewhere to live, so that when we get married we can 
have families with more Enabled children. I hope Douggie 
gets to share my house," she sighed, dreaming of the 
future.

"Doug probably needs a bit of room to make that 
decision," Beryl advised carefully. But Tempest had 
already skipped ahead, calling out to this clansman and 
that, and Beryl too was soon greeting and laughing with 
familiar faces.

Over by a large speaker-box, someone had started blowing 
on a comb and tissue-paper in time to the music, and it 
sounded like three others were whistling in harmony 
together. It was a bright and happy sound, and Beryl 
made her way closer, recognising Reg and only one other 
hunched figure dressed in a full-length dressing gown.

"Hello Beryl!" Reg called.

The other straightened up suddenly, as if growing long 
skinny legs from beneath his robe. His hands were hidden 
beneath the sleeves as if those sleeves were too long. 
"Beryl!" Pro cried in absolute astonishment, and she 
laughed. Even in the dim light from the outdoor 
lanterns, she could see him flush fiery red. "Oh my 
lordy, I'm not dressed for this, I better go home and 
get some clothes! Stay there, I'll be back!" he babbled, 
fleeing on the scrawniest legs and stumpiest bare feet 
she had ever seen on a grown man. Reg and Tempest traded 
looks and burst into gales of laughter.

She was standing with Doug, Reg and his wife, Sylvia and 
Tempest watching Pyrus Blake lighting a bonfire when she 
noticed a figure approaching with his distinctive loose-
limbed, graceful gait. Pro was now dressed as he might 
be for the picture show, in pinstripe pants and vest but 
minus glasses and hat, a big grin in place when he saw 
her.

"Terrible sorry about that, Bezz, you caught me right 
off-guard then! I don't always stand around in my 
bathrobe, although this lot will tell you different. 
What are you doing here? You brought Basil a cake?"

"It's all down to this fine gentleman here," she 
declared, tucking her arm within the crook of Doug's 
elbow. He jumped, then patted her hand on his arm 
paternally, with a thin smile. Pro's browbones almost 
jumped off his face.

"Oh! Trading up from the suckerfish, then, are we? I 
knew you could do better."

"Now Pro," said Beryl sternly, letting go of Doug to 
prop her hands on her hips. "I told you before, I won't 
have you rubbishing George..."

"I'd be careful if I were you," said Pro with a cheeky 
wink. "One day he's going to suck all your skin off in 
one go and you'll end up looking like me!"

"Pro Phillips!"

"Guys!" Tempest cried, favouring each of them a sharp 
glare in turn as she stepped between them. "Cool it! 
Pro, stop that, it's none of your business!"

"Look," Doug added, "here comes the cake! Ahh..."

Mr Phillips brought the cake to a trestle-table set with 
platters of party food. At the last moment Pyrus spiked 
it with sparklers and lit them, while children ran to 
get Basil. His wife, a long lean-faced woman, hefted 
their baby son onto one hip, pointing at the pretty 
lights. Louis was a bonnie-faced babe with a soft brown 
curl in the middle of his scalp, showing no trace of any 
disfigurement or deformity, and he gazed solemnly at the 
sparks.

"Come on Basil, leg it or the show'll be over! What a 
cake! Love the crane, Beryl," said Mr Phillips 
approvingly. It had taken a bit of doing, but she'd 
stuck a crane together from drinking straws and foil, 
and wrapped a piece of cardboard tube in foil with a 
pie-plate on top to represent the tower. There was a 
murmur of assent and praise.

"Here he is, the birthday boy! Happy Birthday, Basil!" 
Pyrus declared as his youngest son arrived, clapping his 
hands, leading the cheer that was raised.

"Ohh, my!" Beryl murmured, agog.

Basil glanced about with a sheepish grin as he stepped 
up to the table, behind the cake. "Well, well!" he said, 
and kissed his wife and baby. It wasn't that he was 
twisted, distorted or malformed. He was tall and slim, 
and cut a fine figure in his bronze serge suit. He had 
even, chiselled, quite regal features and generous lips, 
and might well have been described as classically 
handsome. If it weren't for his skin being completely 
covered by fine green scales that glittered by the light 
of the sparklers, from the top of his hairless skull to 
the tips of his elegant fingers. His eyes were enormous, 
rounded and bulging, all-golden in colour with vertical 
slit pupils, as serpentine as could be. She almost 
expected him to have a forked tongue.

She was keenly aware of Pro's blue eyes glinting as he 
gazed down at her. With the tumult of applause, it was 
too noisy to say anything. She added her claps and 
cheers to the chorus.

"Pyrus, put those damn things out, they're dropping soot 
on the icing!" Poppa Stone growled. Pyrus reached over 
and nonchalantly pinched out each sparkler, fearlessly 
grasping each red-hot wire between smooth-skinned 
fingertips. His Enabled gift made him immune to heat, 
and only carbon stained his fingers.

From there, the party began in earnest. Guests tucked 
into the buffet, and brought gifts to Basil. Doug had 
another gift-wrapped parcel to give him, Beryl dutifully 
at his side; the paper came away to reveal a natty cream 
beret. Delighted, Basil thanked Doug, then smiled at 
Beryl.

"We meet at last!"

"My pleasure, Basil. And they told me you were ugly! 
Happy Birthday!"

"I believe I, too, gave you fair warning. You must be in 
love with Pro, then."

"Eh?" said Doug. Beryl laughed and blushed, noticing Pro 
chatting with his sister-in-law, words momentarily 
failing her. Basil rescued her.

"May I have the pleasure of dancing with you after 
dinner? With Doug's permission, of course."

"You borrow all my tools, and now you expect to borrow 
my companion? I suppose you must if you must, it is your 
birthday," Doug grumbled.

"At least I return your tools." Basil caught her hand in 
his smooth, scale-textured clasp, and touched his lips 
to her knuckles in a chaste but stylish kiss. "I think 
you can spare Beryl for one whirl."

Everyone ate, taking dining chairs brought out of homes, 
or fold-out iron chairs, some simply parking themselves 
on hay bales. Doug picked carefully from the food on 
offer, choosing the blandest fare he could find and 
daubing his moustache fastidiously with a napkin. 
Tempest and Pro camped on a grassy edge nearby, Tempest 
casting coy glances up at Doug. Then it was time to 
dance.

Doug stepped out stiffly and formally. He had clearly 
learned to dance from a set of footprints painted on a 
floorboard at a boys' school. On the more upbeat 
numbers, Beryl imagined this was how it felt to dance 
with a pogo stick. Sylvia, being waltzed by Basil, must 
have seen something telltale on Beryl's face and gave a 
wry face of sympathy that made Beryl giggle. He was her 
date for the night, so she stuck with him for a few 
rounds until flirted away by Pyrus, who loomed over her 
from his staggering height of six-five. He was in his 
mid-fifties and fancied himself with the ladies; was 
quite a good-looking man, but with large, slanted eyes 
of all-bronze with those reptilian irises that his son 
had clearly inherited. Then Basil claimed his due, as 
graceful a dancer as his serpentine hide suggested he 
should be. Reg took her for a spin, then his dad; then 
she had the nerve-wracking task of avoiding Poppa 
Stone's clumsy feet. He was half-blind even in bright 
daylight, becoming well lubricated, and everyone else 
looked out for him. Even the deckchairs cleared the deck 
for Poppa Stone.

"Not avoiding me, are you?" asked Pro as he came to her 
rescue.

"Good gracious no!" He laughed and whirled her around, 
and she held him with private delight. He didn't so much 
dance as swirl, so liquid were his movements. His back 
and shoulders beneath her arm rippled and shifted almost 
magically. After three numbers, she glanced guiltily 
around for Doug.

"I really should change."

"What, and break that scene up?" Pro pointed, to where a 
laughing Tempest was using all her weight to get Doug to 
spin about, skirt flipping up as she swung on his arms 
and _forced_ him to move.

"Ohh, no!" Beryl laughed, almost sorry for Doug.

"No, no, leave 'em be! That's true love if ever I saw 
it."

"Grade A for persistence, at least, and enthusiasm," 
Beryl sighed. "I tried to get him to loosen up a bit, 
but," she shrugged.

"Yeah, well, that's our Douggie, Mister Kick-up-your-
Heels. Again?"

"Please!" Pro swept her around, with such alacrity she 
wondered at what she had been missing. His body flowed 
around hers. At last, she said something outright 
flirtatious, something a girl with a longtime boyfriend 
saving for a wedding ring had no place saying. "Pro...I 
wish you had asked me to a dance ages ago. You're a 
brilliant dancer!"

"Am I? Thank you...I must be doing something right. 
That's good, real good. I'm never sure if I'm moving 
right." He grinned and nodded almost to himself, self-
congratulatory. Then his tone became more teasing. 
"Better than SuckFace George?"

"Pro..."

"I don't think your temper's quite as bad as Tempest's."

"I'll say it again, but my patience does have limits. 
Don't..."

"Don't insult your boyfriend. I'm sorry," he said 
sincerely.

"That's better. George and I learned to dance together. 
I don't think we were ever that great, but we were used 
to each other, and that's the important bit. I don't 
think I could ever get used to Doug's style."

"He's a good feller, Doug, but his dancing, well...can't 
have everything, I suppose. As for...what's his name, 
George..."

She deliberately stomped on his foot.

"Ow, George - I'll say this much for him. He must have 
been a reasonable dance teacher, because you're great."

"Good boy, you're learning."

"I learn fast. I have to," said Pro, as Doug tapped him 
on the shoulder.

"Mind if I cut in? There's a good chap."

***

The dishes were being cleared away, the tables being 
moved. "Doug, would you excuse me a moment? I had a 
little something for Pro, and clean forgot it in all the 
excitement earlier." He nodded assent as he folded a 
tablecloth. Beryl looked around, but couldn't see Pro at 
first. Instead, she walked toward the black framework of 
the crane, a red light winking balefully on the high tip 
of the derrick.

It had been a splendid night; she couldn't remember the 
last time she'd had such fun. Dot's wedding reception, 
perhaps. Since things had become so serious between her 
and George, they'd stopped going out with other people. 
Now she remembered what that felt like, and missed it.

A late moon was rising over the town. She had told 
George she was unwell, cancelling their regular meeting. 
If she hadn't, by now she would have been fending off 
his wandering hands. She shivered, and pressed her legs 
together. If only he wouldn't get drunk. Maybe that was 
the trouble. Tomorrow night would be the Wildgoose Barn 
Dance, and another chance to park with George.

"There you are," said Pro, stepping from amidst the 
stacked trusses behind her. "They said you were looking 
for me."

"I thought you might be looking at your tower."

He smiled and moved to stand beside her. "I was, 
actually, but down the other side of the block."

"It's looking good from wherever you stand. You can see 
it from our shop now. Some people don't like it because 
it's all new and strange, but Dad thinks it's 
magnificent, and when I look at it I feel happy. It 
makes me think of you, and Tempest, and Doug, all my 
friends out here."

"I'm glad you like it." He put his hands in his pockets, 
then eyed her archly. "Well, what did you think of 
Basil?"

"He's not ugly at all. Barbara must have seen that early 
on, I doubt she'd call him ugly."

"Still, takes a bit of getting used to."

"Not at all! He wasn't what I expected, that's all. When 
you all said ugly I was expecting, like, _ugly_, all 
twisted and squished or something. You know what? I 
think Poppa's uglier than Basil," she whispered.

Pro chuckled. "All the same, Bazz would cause a riot if 
he walked up Main Street on a Saturday morning."

"Probably. It's not fair, is it?"

"You don't know about his Enabled skill," Pro remarked 
darkly. "He really can turn people to stone with one 
glare from those eyes. They shoot out this kind of 
energy, I don't know what, and it can stun you. Make you 
faint. That's the kind of ugly he can be." He propped 
his foot up on some lumber, gazing up at the tower. "If 
people knew half of what we can do, they would hate us 
so much. They'd all be afraid of us. Even you would be."

"I could never hate you, Pro," she vowed. "I don't think 
I hate anybody."

"But you're not fearless, Beryl, nobody is, that's the 
trouble. Okay, you've seen Basil now, but he's different 
to me, and if you knew only half of what I can do, I 
swear you'd run screaming from here back to Georgie's 
arms quick smart. Then you'd hate me."

He had turned to face her, a dark shade with pale cat's 
eyes, voice low and sober. Beryl's heart rattled, 
wondering what he could mean. "I know you can put all 
your joints out, like your father does when he stretches 
only worse, I suppose..."

He just shook his head. "See, that's the problem. They 
all think I should show you. You took me by surprise 
turning up like you did tonight, and it...scared me. I 
wasn't ready, and I was lucky...well, anyway. Beryl, you 
said to me once that the trick to getting along with 
people is just being yourself. But I don't think I could 
be myself with anyone outside my family. Not even you. I 
wish I could, but...I just can't. For fear of losing the 
little friendship we have."

"Pro, I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

He gave a little laugh, and kicked at a stone, looking 
down. "Sorry. Nothing much. Feeling sorry for myself I 
suppose. I should be feeling happy; after all, you gave 
up a night with Gorgeous Porgeous to be with us. I 
should be better company than this."

"Yes, well." She folded her arms around herself, pulling 
her cardigan around miserably. "I don't really want to 
think too much about George at the moment." She didn't 
see his head jerk up.

"Why, he done you wrong?"

"No, not at all." She dredged her heart for some 
enthusiasm, and the levity in her words sounded 
strained. "We're off to a barn dance tomorrow night, 
although, after tonight you may have spoiled him for me. 
Dancing, I mean."

"Oh. Good," he said, but there was an unsteadiness to 
his tone, a lack of conviction. What was normally 
conversation had ground to an awkward halt, so she 
pressed on to something tangible.

"Pro, look, before I came out this evening I found 
something else that reminds me of you, and I'd like you 
to have it. Here," she said quickly, burrowing in her 
handbag for the foil package. "I hope it's not spoilt. I 
should have given you this much earlier in the evening."

He caught her hands in his fingertips. "Oh. Beryl, thank 
you. Lately carnations have this way of reminding me of 
you, I can't think why," he joked.

She tucked it into his top vest pocket. "And this is for 
you too. Please don't take it the wrong way. It's 
because I like you, not because I'm sorry for you." 
Standing up on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his 
cheek and lingered there, hands resting on his chest, 
feeling his heart hammering close below. "There," she 
whispered.

"Beryl." His hands, soft and gentle, came up to cup her 
face, her flaming cheeks. He pressed his lips to her 
brow. Through his touch, she could feel his whole body 
trembling, before he stepped away. "Wouldn't do to be 
kissing another man's date," he said a shade roughly. "I 
wouldn't ever want my being Enabled to challenge your 
affection, you hear? Better get you back to Douggie 
now."

"There's a dance on at Wildgoose Hall tomorrow night at 
seven," Beryl said weakly. "Bring Tempest along, she'd 
have a great time there, they all dance like her. I 
could...use the company."

"What about George?"

"He'll be there too," said Beryl sadly, not looking as 
she turned to leave. "Goodnight, Pro. Thank you for the 
dancing."

"Thank _you_," came his voice from the dark as she 
walked away. "Just remember, you can do better than 
George. Stick with Douggie, never mind his dancing, you 
hear?"

*** 

Doug borrowed the car again to get her home. He wasn't 
exactly full of conversation on the way back; but that 
was Doug. Beryl, though, found the silence disturbing.

"Doug," she asked at last, still unable to make much 
sense of some of the things Pro had said, "what exactly 
_is_ Pro's Enabled ability?"

"He didn't tell you?" he said, not taking his eyes from 
the road. "He couldn't have felt that the time was 
right. Since I am his friend, I will not tell you 
either. Enabled effects can be very personal things."

"What does he do, turn himself inside out or something?"

He shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"Have you ever seen him do it, ever use his ability?"

"I have."

"And did it...bother you?"

"I found it a little...nauseating; but you know I have a 
weak stomach at the best of times. Give him time to feel 
comfortable with you, and then he may share that secret 
with you. That's all I'll say."

And it was all he said. When they stopped outside her 
house, Doug hopped out and opened the door for her.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Doug, I really mean 
it - it was great fun. I hope there's more Clan 
birthdays coming up."

"I thank you, Beryl," he countered. "I, uh, my 
admiration for you still stands as written in that 
letter - I just hope you would see fit to accompany me 
on a subsequent outing." From behind his back, he 
produced a single red rose, and gave her a very starchy, 
dry-lipped peck on the cheek. "Good night."

"Good night, Doug."

As the car started and drove away, the candle-light in 
Mum's window went out.

***

The next night at the Wildgoose Dance was miserable. 
George smelled of pub and smoke; she had never minded 
before, but somehow tonight it was affecting her. She 
danced the usual reels with him, all the while waiting 
and hoping some interesting strangers would show up. 
Sylvia was there with some of the younger swells, but 
none of the other Enabled showed. Certainly not Basil, 
and definitely not Pro.

Which left her tired and jaded at the dance's end, and 
less than enthusiastic about going parking. She 
eventually convinced George she wasn't over the headache 
that had "kept her home last night".

"We should go out with other people more often, Georgie! 
I'd love to see Grace and Joe again - we could go to the 
trots with them in Kennaware."

"But it'd take half the night to get there, and the rest 
of the night to get back!" he grizzled. "I want us to be 
alone together, Berry. It's the only chance we get to 
kiss and cuddle. You won't come up to my room with me."

That sad, mixed-up feeling stayed with her all week, 
taking the sparkle from her eyes and the roses from her 
cheeks. She mourned the way things had used to be with 
George, when love was fresh and new, and he had been 
content to steal a kiss. She worried about Doug's 
restrained passion, not wanting to hurt his feelings, 
but certainly not about to fall in love with him either. 
And Pro, she simply didn't want to think about at all, 
for suddenly he was some kind of mysterious, dangerous 
forbidden fruit. What she felt for him, she couldn't 
tell. She sure wanted to go dancing with him again; 
could feel his lips on her brow and smell his skin, and 
feel his heart leaping beneath her hand as though it 
were just below the surface rather than buried in his 
chest. Of course he wanted her - he had made that clear 
often enough. But then, he had practically rejected her, 
thanks to his being Enabled.

On Friday evening, she went and sat in George's car 
outside the pub and waited for an hour. He didn't 
emerge, although she heard his voice raised several 
times, and he sounded drunken. Eventually, she walked 
home.

The next morning, talk was all over town. The glazier's 
truck was parked at the pub, the men carrying new sheets 
of glass in to replace broken windows. There had been an 
almighty brawl, and Dad had been down to the lockup to 
bail George out. The whole thing had been down to him, a 
couple of mates, and some of the strangers including the 
funny-looking one with the mosquito allergy.

George was too hung-over to make much sense. "He's lucky 
they're not pressing charges," Dad muttered. "Whole 
thing's going to the district magistrate, they've all 
got to answer for damage and public affray."

"I know those people!" Beryl cried. "I can't believe 
they'd pick a fight...unless it was Poppa, but he wasn't 
there, was he?"

Dad shook his head. "Lass, it was just one of those 
things. Booze in, wits out. Most anyone else who was 
there'll tell you - I'm afraid it was mostly down to 
your big-mouthed boyfriend, he was saying some 
disgraceful things. I don't know what's going on with 
George, he was such a nice young feller. You just be 
careful with him now, eh? Beer's turned him nasty."

"I know," she sighed. "He's still lovely when he's 
sober, but..."

She wanted to rush out to the tower on her bike even 
though she didn't do any weekend deliveries; made 
herself calm down and wait until Monday. There was 
enough to do with home and family affairs until then, 
when everyone would have calmed down somewhat.

Come Monday though, she still punched her pedals hard. 
Sylvia met her at the gate. Reg, Doug and Pro were all 
wearing knocks and scrapes by her testimony. The 
families greeted her cordially as ever, but glances at 
her lingered, gossip tiptoeing around the Enabled 
community as surely as anywhere else.

She checked-in with Poppa Stone. "Do you mind if I have 
a word with the boys?" she asked, gesturing toward the 
workings. He squinted through thick glasses, his big 
nasty grin dividing his face, nod wobbling his chins.

"Go right ahead, Beryl. Only wish I'd been there and 
smashed a few heads! I'm right proud of them boys! Don't 
you forget, they did it for you so I hope it was good 
reason."

A shiver ran down her spine. She set her jaw and 
clenched her fists, determined to find out what had 
happened. Snatched a hardhat from a peg. Basil's elbow 
hung out of the crane cab, safely out of reach. Doug 
raised a hand from high on the tower's workdeck. There 
seemed to be nobody else about at ground level.

"If you don't come down here, I'm coming up!" she 
yelled. "I want to know what's been going on!" Something 
made a soft slithering noise in the shadowed doorway of 
the tower's base. There was a rustle. The hot breeze 
that scuffed dust about her matched her temper; she may 
as well have been Tempest this day.

"Didn't you ask George?" came a quiet voice, wry with 
disgust. "Though somehow, I doubt he'd tell you the 
truth."

"Pro Phillips." He strolled from the tower buckling his 
trouser belt beneath a worn blue bathrobe. There were 
purple blotches on his hide. Beryl glared up at the 
tower and Doug again. "George said Doug started it, he 
punched him for no reason."

"And you believe him? Our Douggie?" Pro threw his arms 
up in a dismayed gesture. "How can you think Doug would 
hit somebody for no reason!"

"That's why I'm here, so I can hear your version! 
Douglas Franklin, get yourself down here right now!" she 
boomed imperiously. High above, Doug shrugged and tapped 
his ear. "And if you had any part in it, Pro...did you 
call him one of your silly names, perhaps? That would 
set him off!"

"He could call me anything he liked, but I won't have 
him calling you names, and neither will Doug," said Pro 
with determined, forced calm, eyes keen upon her. "He 
said things that were utter, utter filth, that no man 
should ever say about a woman if he truly loves her. 
Yeah, Doug lost his temper, and so did I!" His nostrils 
seemed much larger than usual, and pulsed as he puffed 
air. "He wanted a fight so he darn-well got one!"

"George would never say bad things about me," Beryl said 
haughtily, but a dubious frown settled between her 
brows. Pro nodded.

"Oh sure, right - I mean, he was obviously imagining 
things, having a little jape. He said people like us 
would never get to finger a woman's, uh, privates wasn't 
the word he used either, and Beryl obviously knew right 
from wrong because she let him do that and that's the 
bad sort of stuff he said..." Pro's face turned more and 
more scarlet and his voice faltered. Thick eyelids 
shuttered his eyes as he blinked. "So Doug decked him. 
I'm sorry, Beryl, I'm really sorry, but you asked so I 
had to tell you." His lips quivered.

She was conscious of her mouth hanging open; and of 
Pro's eyes meeting and holding hers, seeing in them the 
horror, the flash of guilt.

"Dump him, Beryl," said Pro tautly. "You don't need 
garbage like that. Especially if he's...has he ever 
groped you, Beryl? 'Cos if he ever hurt..."

"_No_!" Beryl cried, bright red. She spun and dropped 
her hardhat, then jumped on the bike and pedalled for 
the exit. Only there did she remember the lunches that 
were still in the panniers; she hopped off at the gate 
and stacked them on the ground while waiting for 
somebody to let her out. It was Tempest who came to her 
rescue.

"I suppose the whole of the Clans know about it?" she 
demanded. Tempest nodded, sober-faced.

"Everyone's really worried about you."

"It's none of anybody's _business_!" she snapped, 
wrenching her bike around and shoving through the gate. 
Without looking back she powered for town, red-faced, 
angry and weeping at once.

Back at the shop, another posy from George had been 
delivered.

***

She tried to tell herself they had made the whole thing 
up as an excuse for starting the fight. But how did they 
know what George had done to her? She couldn't make the 
vicious lie theory work. And she asked Mum to deliver 
the clan's lunches with the car.

George met her at the Sunny Cafe midweek, and they ate 
dinner together. He wasn't drunk, but still boasted how 
he was going to go after the freaks for everything he 
could. "They said you went out there at lunchtimes to 
sleep with them," he insisted, in a voice loud enough 
for her to wave her hands in alarm and shush him.

"No way!" Of course it was them telling lies about her, 
not George saying things. Wasn't it?

Friday Night was picture show night. Hoping the 
experience might have shown him the trouble his drinking 
could bring, Beryl sat in his car and waited. Waited. 
When he finally emerged, he took a sidestep as he 
lurched for the car. Beryl checked in her handbag, 
suddenly anxious. No smokes.

She should have gotten out right there and then. But 
George was already starting the engine, grinning, giving 
her a big beery kiss. He was happy, so that much was all 
right. Before long they were at the picture show, up the 
back like always, his kisses tickling her earlobes and 
the nape of her neck.

At intermission, she felt a prickly heat on the back of 
her head, the acute sensation that she was being 
watched. She turned, glimpsing between patrons moving to 
the milkbar or washroom someone standing motionless on 
the far side of the cinema, blue flecks glinting 
unnaturally as he watched her. He didn't smile. Didn't 
move. Didn't wave.

_Oh no!_ Beryl grabbed George in another clinch. The 
last thing she needed was a brawl breaking out at the 
cinema too. George gave a delighted grunt of pleasure at 
her attentions.

When she looked again, Pro was gone.

After the show, she and George drove down to the 
riverside, parking under the willows by the tennis 
courts. He kissed her with abandon, but she found her 
enthusiasm lacking.

"Georgie, please love...back off a bit, it's not comfy."

He chuckled. "Cushions, oops, forgot!" and disengaged to 
reach over the back for them.

Beryl folded her arms, hugging herself miserably. 
"Georgie...you wouldn't tell anyone what we do together, 
would you? Like, feeling under my skirt? You wouldn't 
tell anybody about that, would you?" 

"Wha?" He looked genuinely confused, and pinched the 
bridge of his nose.

"Ohh, poor Georgie," Beryl sighed while he shook his 
head as if trying to remember; she slipped her hand 
across his chest and snuggled on his shoulder. "It's the 
drink, you've got to stop."

"Did those creepy freaks say that about us?" he growled. 
Then he stabbed a blunt finger toward the rear window. 
"They probably got big ears and big eyes, cameras and 
stuff up there in that friggin' tower so they can spy on 
us! I don' want you goin' out there with them no more, 
Berry, you hear me? No more."

"I only take their lunches to them, Georgie."

"Yeah, well get your old man to do it, the van's all 
right now. You should be helping your mum in the shop 
rather than wasting time going out there."

She sighed against his chest. Thought of Pro's heart 
pounding against her hand, and squeezed her eyes shut. 
"Maybe you're right."

"That's better," George purred. "That's more like the 
Berry I know. Love you, sweetheart." He leaned over her, 
gathering her in his best bearhug, lips and tongue 
playing boisterously. He had put the cushions behind 
her, so she leaned back and responded, knotting her 
fingers in his hair, arching her neck to offer him her 
throat and collar. His hands roamed, cupping her 
shoulders, finding her breasts where he squeezed and 
fondled. As his lips found their way toward her 
cleavage, his hands moved to her hips and rump. He edged 
his knee between hers, feeling her thigh beneath the 
pleated skirt with his hands. Fingertips found bare 
skin, then slipped back up toward her hip again, taking 
the fabric with them.

"Georgie, I said no!"

"Come on, I ain't touched you!" He leaned over further 
as she tried to claw her skirt back down, squashing her 
between his body and the passenger door. "Love you 
Berry! Can't wait to make you mine!"

"Get off me!"

He just laughed, the hand under her skirt grabbing at 
her britches and tugging hard. She couldn't get her legs 
together; by struggling she only allowed him to get both 
his legs between hers.

"_George!_" She hammered at his back with her fists, 
cold horror jamming her heart into overdrive. She may as 
well have pounded on an elephant's back. Fabric was 
giving way. The window-knob and doorhandle were being 
crushed between her ribs. If only she could reach the 
doorknob, but that was impossible, she wasn't double-
jointed.

George shoved his hand hard into her crotch. She 
shrieked. "Aah!" he cried. There came a loud, brittle 
crack of noise close by, the tinkle of glass. 

Over George's shoulder, Beryl saw the driver's side 
window craze and crumble as if in slow motion. Saw a 
large, shapeless mass ooze and squeeze through the hole 
and dollop into the driver's seat, where it loomed up, 
filling the cabin. George twisted toward it too, and 
Beryl lost sight of the intruder. But then a voice rang 
out, delightedly cruel, and familiar.

"Hallo Georgie, remember me? I'm your worst nightmare!"

Beneath Beryl, the door suddenly gave way as it opened; 
strong arms caught her as she tumbled out. Both she and 
her rescuer staggered away as George rolled out too, 
legs kicking at the air, making muffled noises. He 
seemed to be struggling with a large leather bag that 
was wrapped around his head and shoulders; he threw it 
off and got to his feet, looking around wildly while it 
rolled a few feet away. George's eyes lit upon Beryl and 
the man who held her.

"Franklin! Why, I'll...You boys wanna finish this, fine 
by me!" He advanced with fists raised and tense.

The rolling sack stretched, rearing up in front of 
George who sneered and punched it full-force. There was 
a dull, meaty smack and the bag shivered, while George's 
face whitened with horror. His arm was embedded almost 
to the elbow, seemingly in taffy, and the mass crept up 
his arm toward his head. With a yell he spun and hurled 
the bag against the car, and it let him go.

"Careful! Watch him now!" Doug warned, giving Beryl's 
shoulders a reassuring squeeze before letting her go and 
taking cautious steps toward George. George had picked 
up a lump of fallen branch from below the nearest tree, 
a natural club, and brandished it menacingly. His eyes 
darted from Doug to the bag and back as they flanked 
him. "Watch!"

George swung; swung again, and again. Doug didn't dare 
get too close, but the bag had no such compunction. As 
the club swept in, it would stretch thin as taffy and 
loop backward, dodging the weapon three times before 
growing a tentacle that coiled rapidly around the club 
and twisted it from George's hand. 

Disarmed, George gave a yelp, ran to his car and 
wrenched open the door. There was a sharp tang of urine 
in the air. His car coughed to life, engine roaring. He 
reversed and swung so quickly that he almost struck 
Beryl, headlights making white spotlights on her dress; 
then he was gone.

Pro's voice cut the eerie quiet that remained. "Doug, go 
get the car, we should take her to Mum to make sure 
she's all right."

"Or to hospital," said Doug, turning away.

"I - I'm all right, I don't need to go to hospital," 
Beryl quavered. "I think I should just go home..." She 
could still see George's tail-lights disappearing down 
the lane like angry eyes; Doug's taut frame walking 
jerkily toward the main road. Then, soft warm arms 
slipped around her, holding her snug and safe. She put 
out her own arms instinctively, finding a warm, smooth 
back and shoulders. Unbidden, deep wracking sobs came up 
from deep in her chest, and she clung to him as he 
whispered in her ear.

"Ssh, sshh, it's all right now. You're safe now. You're 
not alone...ssshhhh..."

Her knees wanted to fold. She felt faint and wanted to 
sit. Body shivering, she let her legs buckle; all the 
while, Pro held her close, supporting her body in a 
strong but gentle embrace, snug and comforting. It was 
as though she sank into a deep, soft armchair; the 
strangeness of her posture didn't matter. No bitumen 
scraped her knees, no cement edges made her 
uncomfortable. And best of all was hearing Pro's voice 
talking her through that darkest of nights.

***

"Mum's gonna get sick of me taking the car all the 
time," said Pro as Doug seated Beryl inside.

"So isn't it time you bought one of your own?" Doug 
countered. "You coming?"

"I, er, well, I suppose I could get in the boot, I got 
no clothes on."

"Don't be absurd," Doug snapped. "Get in! They're in the 
back where you left them, remember?"

Beryl had managed to compose herself. "I promise I won't 
look," she managed with a watery hint of mischief. She 
gazed straight ahead at the town lights, and the red 
wink of the lights on the tower.

Pro's mother was a nurse. Doug had argued that Beryl 
should go to the police; Pro countered that seeing them 
would worsen Beryl's pain. They had started raising 
their voices, themselves hyped-up by what had just 
happened.

"I'm all right. He didn't put it in me," said Beryl in a 
cold, matter-of-fact tone that had silenced them. She 
wanted to go home. She didn't want to be apart from Pro. 
She needed new underwear. She needed to check herself 
over.

They drove to the tower, where Doug went and knocked-up 
the third of the Enabled grandfathers, Avis, their best 
legal eagle. Pro's mother took one look at Beryl's pale 
face and gave orders - "Tempest, run a nice warm bath! 
Pro, you put the kettle on and make us all some tea."

Surrounded by familiar faces, Beryl felt her assurance 
coming back. She had escaped. It could have ended much, 
much worse - but she was all right. In the bathroom with 
Margaret Phillips, a cosy bath awaiting, she handed her 
clothes one-by-one to the older woman, who examined them 
with a critical eye before folding and hanging them. She 
also examined Beryl's body, looking for bruises; then 
asked her to sit on the edge of the bath to check 
between her legs.

Beryl felt tender and sore on the outside, and there 
were a couple of scratches on her thighs and outer 
labia. "This is still a beastly thing to do to a girl," 
Margaret declared. "We'll see what Avis has to say about 
this! But you're going to be all right, love, you hear?"

Beryl nodded. George was behind her for ever. "I feel 
better already."

While she bathed, Margaret rustled up some underwear, a 
big fluffy towel, and some salve for the abrasions. 
Beryl could hear the warm, low voices of the menfolk 
outside, and felt comforted.

After her bath, she dressed and Tempest brushed her 
hair. When she entered the lounge to say goodnight the 
men all stood. Pro's dad gave her a crackly hug, 
kindness in his eyes, and Doug pecked her cheek. Pro 
simply squeezed her hand in his. She wanted to keep hold 
of him; their eyes held even as he let his hand slip 
away.

"Thank you," she whispered. He nodded.

Margaret drove her home. The candle-light in Mum's 
window flickered out. Beryl wandered slowly inside, 
stunned by how much life had changed.

***

Beryl didn't make the delivery out to the tower the next 
day; it was taken by van, as had become customary. That 
afternoon, a big bunch of roses arrived at the shop, 
sent by George. Dot and Mum watched in mute amazement as 
Beryl angrily threw them straight in the garbage can, 
crashing the lid like a car door slam.

George tried to phone several times. She refused to 
answer the phone. Being short, silent and angry, 
everyone knew something had gone seriously wrong. It was 
Dad she caved in to at last, telling him that George had 
broken the cardinal rule of keeping his hands to himself 
- that was all the detail she gave - and they were now 
finished. At home that evening, she threw out all her 
George paraphernalia. Her bracelet, sweetheart ring and 
costume jewellery all went to the charity shop.

Dad hugged her. "I'm glad, sweetie. I couldn't have told 
you to drop him - you would have dug your heels in like 
your mother does. I trusted in your good sense winning 
through." She nodded tearily from his shoulder.

The days passed in a dull haze, all the town's bright 
summery colours dimmed. Gusty, hot winds scoured the 
district, bringing in palls of dust as if to echo her 
mood. Several calls came from tower folk, mainly 
Margaret Phillips and Avis, who talked about statements 
and court and extracting the most from the pre-existing 
case regarding the brawl at the pub...She just nodded 
and agreed to whatever he said; nothing made sense any 
more. There was an empty, aching gulf where George had 
been; nowhere to go for fun and no-one to go with, or so 
it seemed.

Nor did George leave quietly. He took to roaring up the 
main street in his car, parking as close to the shop as 
he could, and blasting on his horn whenever he went by. 
She was flooded with letters that ranged from the 
simpering and sorry to the outright malicious. 

_They turned you against me! You saw what that freak 
did! How could you want to get sexy with a thing like 
that!_ one letter cried. She stopped opening them and 
started burning them on sight.

A big bunch of mixed garden flowers arrived at the shop, 
brought in by Doug and Tempest. "Are you all right?" she 
asked, big eyes wider still with feeling. "It makes me 
so angry every time I think of what happened!" A gust 
rattled the awning outside, and Tempest drew a deep 
breath, closing her eyes briefly and smoothing her 
dress. "Would you like me to set your hair for you?"

Beryl was able to find her smile again. She had felt 
very ordinary lately. "Thanks, I'd love that."

"Oh, and there's this!" Tempest suddenly remembered, 
delving into her carry-bag. Carefully, she pulled out a 
single small carnation bloom, cut end wrapped in damp 
cotton and foil. "It's from Pro. He wants you to know 
that he thought it best if he stayed away until you'd 
worked it all out..."

Tears sprang unbidden to Beryl's eyes, Tempest's words 
fading into the background. She brought the petals to 
her lips, breathing the sweet fragrance. For a moment, 
she wished for another world, where she could go dancing 
with him, smiling and laughing and being whirled in his 
arms.

The sound of Doug clearing his throat brought her back 
to the shop. "We had better let Beryl get on with her 
work now..."

***

The court appearance blew by, with all parties fined and 
paying for damages, and put on good-behaviour bonds. 
George was made to speak to a doctor about his drinking 
habit. He withdrew his complaints against the Enabled 
men.

Beryl had wished nothing to do with it. Dad let her know 
things had gone well. A splendid carnation opened out to 
full blossoming, where it stood in a small bedside vase.

With her seventeenth birthday rapidly approaching, she 
rode her bike out to the tower one morning - not on a 
delivery run, but to visit Tempest at home to have her 
hair set. Margaret, Sylvia, and even Barbara Blake and 
her little boy joined them; for the first time in weeks, 
the clouds lifted from Beryl's mood, and she started 
laughing properly again in happy female company. They 
washed each others' hair, then with rollers pinching at 
their scalps and scarves fixed firmly over the drying 
masterpieces, they giggled and clucked together over 
magazine items, or spoilt baby Louis. They sat about in 
wicker chairs outside, beneath a new verandah awning, 
and a warm breeze puffed about them to help their hair 
dry quickly.

"Tempest...you really _can_ control the weather, can't 
you?" Beryl asked slowly. Tempest beamed.

"It's not so much control as use. Nobody could ever 
control something as big as the weather. I can tune in 
to it, and it can tune in to me," she shrugged. "That's 
the only way I can explain it." She brushed Beryl's hair 
into soft brown waves that gleamed.

"Speaking of Enabled," said Barbara, glancing around 
significantly. Margaret, still in her scarf and rollers, 
nodded. Sylvia grinned and stubbed out her cigarette, 
and Tempest jumped up so quickly she almost knocked her 
chair over. She put her hand out to Beryl expectantly.

"Come on, let's get him!"

Beryl smiled cagily, letting herself be tugged along, 
the conspiratorial mood of the women catching. A group 
of women united with a single goal in mind, any man will 
agree, is an implacable force that will brook no 
argument. They headed toward the tower workings, 
complete with Louis on his mother's hip, pausing only 
when Beryl saw something in a garden that she wondered 
could she take along.

They passed through the inner compound wall, bringing a 
couple of wolf-whistles from the more outgoing of the 
working lads. Sylvia and Tempest led the march into the 
tower basement, nobody stopping for hardhats; past a peg 
where a faded blue towelling bathrobe hung.

Margaret cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted up 
the shaft with matronly authority. "_Proteus!_ Would you 
please come down here for a few minutes? Quickly now, or 
I'll be up to get you in person!"

"Righto Mum!" came an innocent call from above. The 
climbing-rope suspended in the tower's centre tensed and 
weaved, taking the weight of an adult male. All eyes 
were raised in anticipation, and Tempest smothered a 
giggle.

There wasn't much to see at first, an indistinct shadow 
against the backlit open end of the tower. Beryl's heart 
was in her mouth as she saw again the window of George's 
car shatter, and _something_ oozing in to save her...it 
had all happened by moonlight, shadows and tricks of the 
mind.

Although the tower wasn't brilliantly lit, now she could 
_see_ him. A rounded globule, pale, flecked with tan and 
pink slithered quickly down the line. As it neared the 
floor it slowed and stretched out, a thick trunk of the 
substance forming a pedestal to alight upon. A bright 
blue disc appeared from the centre of the amorphous 
mass; the edges around the eye "blinked".

"Let 'er rip, Doug!" Sylvia yelled.

The blob rippled all over, trying to stretch back up the 
line as Doug called, "Watch out below!" Heavy coils of 
rope dropped as he let Pro's ladder go, affording him no 
escape. Something between a squeak and a whisle whooshed 
from a pit on his skin as he flowed away from the 
falling rope but was still struck by a few loops. He 
flow-rolled toward the staircase, blocked by a laughing 
Tempest; the doorway was blocked by his mother, arms 
folded expectantly.

Silence deepened as he stopped trying to flee. His skin 
rustled against the gritty floor as he came to rest 
immediately before Beryl. Now he looked like a giant, 
thick pancake with a slightly rosy flush. His skin 
quivered, tremors rippling in waves across the finely 
pitted surface.

Beryl held the carnation she had picked in clammy hands, 
heart in her mouth. She watched as one blue eye, then 
the other, migrated into the centre of the disc, 
blinking lids forming around them. A head-sized lump 
rose slowly behind them. Just below and between them, 
one of the pits of his skin grew larger and deeper, the 
rim coming together to form the lips of a mouth.

"Ask me am I scared, my God am I scared, I have never 
been so scared in my life, even meeting Barbara for the 
first time was never so scary as this," he babbled.

Beryl's voice was smooth and steady, calm as Mum's in a 
crisis, for which she was thankful. "Pro," she said 
gently, "have you been hiding from me?"

"E-every day, just like Basil, every day!" Between his 
eyes and above his mouth, a small pit opened; a sequence 
of pores enlarged right across his body and his upper 
surface subsided - it was a sigh, she realised, a 
strange one but a sigh all the same. Now she understood 
why his hands and fingers had felt so odd, the times he 
had danced with her or touched her.

"This," he said softly, "is me. I'm sorry if 
you're...disappointed."

She shook her head. "Pro," she said, and this time her 
voice trembled. "It doesn't matter what you look like. 
You were there when I needed you. You were right about 
George, and I wouldn't listen to you...you were so 
right!"

His head became more pronounced, the bump of a nose 
growing where the breathing-pit was; his edges 
contracted and thickened, building shoulders and a trunk 
that rose upward, then dividing into two legs. Soon he 
stood before her in a mannequin-shape, roughly human; 
yet his face was so familiar! Beryl stepped forward, 
looking up into his eyes.

"I've missed you," she said, offering him the carnation. 
As he reached up his mittenlike hands divided into 
supple fingers, accepting the flower delicately. A shy 
smile warmed his face.

"Been so worried about you," he admitted. "I...tried to 
call you a few times but...lost my nerve."

"I'm okay, now, I'm a lot better." She put her arms 
around his chest, and his smile widened as he looped his 
arms firmly around her, holding her snugly, tight and 
secure. More than anything of late, this was what she 
had wanted. Needed. The skin of his back was dappled 
velvet beneath her hands, his cheek smooth and warm 
alongside hers. She wanted to stay right there for as 
long as she could.

There was his heart, beating above her breast, pounding 
strongly. After all, he was still a man, however 
strangely shaped or gifted.

"Come on, girls," said Margaret, "I think the worst is 
over. Beryl, you're more than welcome to have dinner 
with us - that's you included, young man! All right, 
Tempest, but if you want to go up to Doug you'll need to 
put a hard-hat on." She smiled at Pro over Beryl's 
shoulder. "Why don't you two go for a stroll? I think 
the boys can manage without you for a while. But be back 
in time for dinner."

***

Although his naked, doll-like body had no distinctive 
anatomical details, Pro still donned his bathrobe once 
he finally let Beryl go. She held the carnation while he 
dressed and stepped into slippers, then tucked it into 
the breast pocket. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his 
cheek, and he returned the gesture shyly, blushing 
brightly as he took her hand in his.

Their fingers meshed, twining comfortably. Then, side-
by-side, they strolled from the workings; past fields of 
tussock-grass golden in the afternoon sun, along the 
dusty works road, past piles of lumber and pallets of 
brick. Past empty paddocks marked by corner-pegs and 
ribbon, and trenches for pipes; toward the distant trees 
that marked the edge of the river on the far side of the 
Clansfolk's land.

"My skull," he started, "is the only large piece of 
solid bone in my body. It has to protect my brain. The 
rest of it is all freeform, sacs of fluid under 
pressure, elastic cartilages, with a few small 
knucklebones as hinging points for muscle-like 
structures. That's what the doctors say, anyways. I 
don't care much for why I am as I am, though, I just got 
to live with it." He laughed with that bitter flavour 
Beryl heard from all the Enabled from time to time. "I 
really am the weirdest of the weird."

"But how did you learn to do all the things you do?" 
Beryl wondered.

"I got my ways." Pro shrugged. "Watching your parents 
and your bigger brother helps. I always had to be doing 
what Reg was doing, stuff like that. I think I must have 
cottoned on to how strange I was really early, like, 
earlier than I can remember, so I had to be like Reg 
even more after that. Doctors say I've got the most 
highly evolved nervous system ever seen in a human 
being, so I suppose that's something."

They sat on a fallen branch in the shade of a jacaranda 
inside the boundary fence, unable to get to the river, 
while Pro talked of his childhood. "Has your mum got any 
pictures of you?" Beryl asked.

"Yeah," Pro laughed, "a few, and Dad's sure to dig them 
out at dinner. Living as I am, I guess it's like 
anything really. First, I had to learn to do this." He 
melted down to a blob, leaving his robe behind, then 
shuffled like a grounded, flesh-shaped seal across the 
coarse grass. His face stayed in place at the leading 
edge. "Then I started reaching for the things I wanted." 
A tentacle coiled up from his back, snaking and thinning 
well beyond human reach to snap a frond from the tree 
overhead, then bring it back to Beryl for a fan. "I sort 
of rippled around like a caterpillar for a while, but 
watching Reg convinced me two legs made for greater 
height and higher speed. Four legs is even faster, 
animals worked that out ages ago."

Sometimes Beryl laughed, and sometimes she was 
dumbstruck, and sometimes she clapped for joy as Pro 
demonstrated just some of the amazing things he could 
do. "When I was a little kid and there was something 
amazing going on, I discovered I could do this." He ran 
his eyes up on long stalks - Beryl gave a yelp then 
laughed hard. "If you ever hear Tempest talking about me 
doing the snail, that's what she means. It's great fun 
having internal organs you can move around. Like, look 
at these."

"What?" He closed his eyes (which were more properly 
"light-sensitive organelles" rather than eyes in the 
conventional sense, she would learn) in concentration. 
He had resumed his humanoid form, and a pulsation 
rippled along his arms to his closed hands. With a big 
grin on his face, he opened his fingers, displaying a 
smooth, whitish-pink ovoid the size of a very small hen 
egg lying just beneath the thin skin of his palms. 
Closing his hands again and flicking them with a 
magician's flourish, the pulsation travelled back into 
his body. "What were those?"

"Guess!" he bubbled, pure impishness on his face.

"I don't know," Beryl flustered, "I'm no doctor. Were 
they kidneys or gall bladders or something?"

"Nobody's got two gall bladders, not even me!" Pro 
laughed. "Next time you're talking to Sylvia, though, 
ask her about the first time she saw a set of 
testicles."

"_Pro!_" Beryl jumped up, laughing and amazed and 
shocked all at once. "Don't tell me you just showed me 
your _balls_!"

"And to think we were just holding hands," he sighed. 
Beryl stared at him.

"You have _got_ to be kidding!"

"I kept 'em well out of sight the night I went out with 
Jean," he mused soberly. "Most dames don't go that well 
with a lad showing them his testicles on the first date, 
but in Jean's case she might have made a grab for them 
and tried to run off with them."

They laughed and laughed, until tears poured down 
Beryl's face and her cheeks ached. She pulled a hanky 
from her pocket to wipe her eyes as they sobered, and 
she sat back down beside him, looking into his eyes.

"Are you sure you and Sylvia aren't..?"

"Aren't?"

"Don't make fun of me, Pro, you know what I mean," she 
smiled. He nodded.

"Sylvia and I aren't. We never have, although, in the 
past she probably would have liked to be closer and do 
more. We're from different families and all, but I feel 
more like she's a cousin than anything else."

She gazed at his chest. "And you can move your heart 
around too?"

"Not as easily as other parts. It's too vital. I only 
move my heart if my survival depends on it." His eyes 
glowed earnestly. Beryl smiled and looked down, 
remembering.

"It just seemed so close, like I could hold it in my 
hand, whenever we were near to each other."

"I wish that my heart could be close to yours, Beryl."

She didn't know quite what to say, and fell back on her 
mother's laugh. "I'm sorry," she mumbled at last. "My 
heart's kind of broken lately."

Pro nodded. "Of course." He lifted and stretched his 
arms in the air, making a circle that flowed into 
itself, a solid circuit of flesh that he lowered gently 
over her head. There was no revulsion on her face, only 
wonder as she let him gather her close and wrapped her 
arms around him again. It was how he had hugged her that 
fateful night, holding her close, shielding her against 
the hostile outer world. She sighed and leaned against 
him, and for a time they were content to sit that way, 
rocking together, hip to hip.

At last, she raised her head, driven by curiosity. "But 
how do you do things, like, breathe, and eat, and...um, 
other things? You don't seem to have the usual sort of, 
uh, plumbing," she blurted. He smiled good-naturedly.

"I'm not so much a solid blob of jello as a sponge," he 
explained, "with lots of little channels and connections 
through the goo that shift and stretch. Some of the 
pores in my skin have channels that lead to deeper 
pockets and cells inside. I can pump myself so full of 
air that I can stay under water for half an hour, for 
example," he said with quiet pride. "When I eat, the 
food travels down a tube to my stomach, same way you do 
it. All the right plumbing is in the right places; it's 
just not as obvious."

"Oh." She couldn't help looking at his body again. For 
comfort his legs had merged, so that he was more like a 
comfortable bale of wool below the waist. He had 
loosened his arms enough to let her sit back, but hadn't 
released her completely; there was a feeling of strong 
hands in the small of her back, and it was nice. His 
chest was the proper shape, with lightly-curved pectoral 
muscles, but he had no nipples; his skin was patchy-
textured as ever. She wanted to run her hands over his 
chest and shoulders, to feel his extraordinary shape and 
know that he was real. "It's just that, well," and she 
giggled. "I'm sitting here with a, well, a naked man - 
isn't that kind of naughty?"

"In other words, where are my testicles now?" he 
quipped. "Deep inside my body where they can't get 
hurt," he confirmed as they sobered. "There they'll stay 
until I get married and want to try making babies. Then 
I'll have to wear them closer to the surface."

"You can do that?" she gasped, unthinking. He managed to 
look hurt.

"Of course! Wouldn't be much of a man if I couldn't!"

"Goodness! No, I didn't mean it like that." She hugged 
him, squeezing him tight; it felt no different to 
squeezing a normal person. "I'm sure you'll make a 
wonderful father some day."

"I hope so. Dad to a family of Enabled. There's no 
telling what will come out of my genetic soup. Look at 
Basil, ugly as your average gecko, yet you never saw a 
child so pretty as Louis." His cheek was against her 
temple, head lifted slightly.

"Do particular Enabled abilities run in families?" Beryl 
asked.

"No. There's no evidence of it yet. But they can't be 
sure either." He was gazing, she realised, at the tower. 
"That's part of why we're building that sucker, a safe 
place to be. 'Cos my kids are going to live the Enabled 
life just like me, and although there'll be more of us 
in the next generation, we'll still be outnumbered and 
there'll be plenty who'll find reason to hate us."

She drew away just a little, enough to be able to gaze 
at his face, and feel the smooth line of his cheek in 
the palm of her hand. "I'm sure you'll convince enough 
people to love you, too. Hate's always around, but so is 
love. You have to believe that."

"Do you really mean that?" he whispered, turning his 
face toward hers. Beryl nodded, gazing into the 
crystalline lights of his eyes before he lowered his 
lids. 

Their lips met halfway, in the sweetest kiss Beryl had 
known in a long, long time. He was reticent, unsure of 
his way; Beryl squeezed his lips gently with hers. She 
hadn't thought it would last long, being only their 
first kiss, but Pro lingered as his mouth softened, lips 
melding to her shape, moving ever so lightly as his arms 
tightened around her. A glorious fire was alight in her 
heart, banishing the ache in her chest and sending warm 
tingles throughout her body as though she were caressed 
by velvet. His heart throbbed close by hers.

They held that moment between them for as long as they 
could. It was Beryl who drew away first, if only to 
touch his marbled face in wonder, and kiss the tip of 
his nose as he smiled. She could feel his breath, and 
his whole body pulsating in echo to his heartbeat. With 
her fingertips, she tickled an earlobe.

"You're getting better at ears."

"Goddamn, that feels good," he murmured, rocking his 
head into her hand. "Can we do it some more?"

***

They didn't head back toward the houses until the 
afternoon light was slanting low over Mount Barrow. Then 
they returned hand in hand, laughing together. Beryl 
carried Pro's robe over her arm; he spent most of his 
time in mannekin-form, although sometimes he melted down 
into a seal-shape, oozed or rolled, and then his 
slippers would migrate up his body so that they stuck 
out of his back.

"Proteus Phillips, put your robe on _now!_ It would not 
be seemly for me to be seen wandering around with a 
naked man," she declared imperiously, twirling the robe 
in the air and casting it over him like a tarpaulin. 
Laughing, he crept along doing a reasonable 
impersonation of a dog wearing a large overcloak; then 
morphed up to human form again, this time dressed. They 
would stop to share a lingering kiss, Pro like the child 
who had discovered candy for the first time, unable to 
resist another, or another, or another. And Beryl loved 
him all the more for it. The heaviness of George's 
passion had taken over their physical relationship - the 
light kisses, where lips did all the work and tongues 
rested, had been long neglected, even forgotten.

"I don't have anything that needs hiding," Pro grinned, 
spinning around, robe flapping wide open.

"Nevertheless..." She eyed his pelvis and crotch frankly 
and dubiously. There was nothing more than a vague bump 
to see - a boy doll had more sex to hide. His skin 
tones, however, were distinctly more scarlet toward the 
place where his legs joined his body. He followed her 
gaze south, and cocked a browbone mischievously before 
methodically folding his robe across and tying it shut.

They arrived at his parents' place arm-in-arm, to a wolf 
whistle from Tempest and the smiles of onlookers. There 
was a moment when Beryl worried, for Doug had also been 
invited to dinner; she blushed and wasn't sure what to 
say when Doug approached Pro and shook his hand stiffly.

"I, ehrm, hope you don't mind if I stay for dinner too, 
given Miss Tempest invited me?" he said rather 
awkwardly.

"Mind? Not at all, Doug!" said Pro happily. "I just hope 
you don't mind my keeping company with Beryl."

For a moment, Doug's intense gaze was upon her. "Nothing 
will change my estimation of Beryl," he said softly. 
"Should you ever treat her improperly, it will go badly 
for you, I'll see to that, do you understand?"

Pro nodded. "Loud and clear."

"I know you will be good to her, and that's what 
matters."

Beryl looked down, at Pro's comfy worn slippers and 
Doug's impossibly-shining, perfectly polished shoes. 
"I'm sorry, Doug. The right girl for you's out there, 
and you'll find each other."

He smiled thinly. "Think nothing of it, Beryl. But I 
shall always hold you in the highest of esteem."

***

From there, the light and laughter returned to Beryl's 
life. They started catching the bus to the Wildgoose 
Hall dances, along with Sylvia, Tempest and Doug, and 
others of the tower households. At their first outing, 
the men stayed close around Beryl, particularly when a 
large red Linker sedan roared into the parking paddock. 
George, however, was not alone; he opened the passenger 
door with a flourish, and Jean stepped out in a slit-
sided silk dress of scarlet, with seamed black 
stockings.

The women greeted each other coolly. George's face was 
flushed with pride and booze. "I'm comin' up in the 
world, I am!" he bragged. "This coulda been you, Berry!"

Pro glared, and allowed an arm that was bare in short-
sleeves to roll and stretch more like a tentacle as he 
put it around Beryl's shoulders to guide her away. "Come 
on, we don't have to hang around here."

"Beryl likes it kinky!" George declared, but his face 
paled beneath the flush, and that was all they heard 
from him. They didn't have to put up with George and 
Jean's presence for long, as the pair left early.

Dancing with Pro, Beryl scarcely noticed.

Now that she knew his secret, she understood how he 
moved so smoothly. His body curved perfectly around 
hers; he didn't so much dance as flow. Whatever his 
Enabled skill, to be a great dancer required co-
ordination and a sense of rhythm too, and these he had 
in generous measure. Nor were they quite so shy with 
each other as they had been before. When the slower 
dances came along, they pressed their bodies close and 
swayed in intimate contact, breathing each others' 
scent, their silken faces gliding cheek-to-cheek. Most 
of all, she loved the warm security of his arms around 
her. She did not have to fend him off, nor did she feel 
the need to.

And then the spell would break and the couples part to 
clap and cheer as the music paused, then sped up. "Do my 
eyes deceive me," Pro called happily over the clapping 
and fiddles, "or is Douglas actually _laughing_?" The 
whole hall lined up in pairs for Strip the Willow, an 
energetic skipping dance that left everyone giggling and 
panting and made thunder of the floorboards. The glow of 
Doug's face matched the light in Tempest's eyes, and the 
joy in Beryl's heart.

When it was over the bus took everyone back to town, 
Beryl cradled in a snug loop of Pro's arm in the 
dimness, and they traded soft kisses. Hands enmeshed, 
they walked to her home. Behind the mickleberry hedge, 
well away from Mum's candlelit window, they kissed 
goodnight for almost twenty minutes. For the first time, 
their lips parted and their tongues met; bowing and 
nodding politely as dancers on greeting, then slipping 
and sliding into a private waltz. As their tongues 
slithered together, so did their bodies, Pro melding 
against her so that he could feel every curve of her 
form with his. Smooth arc of thigh, the taper of 
waistline and sweet swellings of breasts. His fingers 
snaked through the soft, fragrant wonder of her hair, 
combing its silk through more and more digits.

It felt more like he was brushing her hair than stroking 
it, and she broke their kiss to arch her neck and sigh 
at the languid pleasure of the sensation. His lips found 
her throat as he brushed with long, steady strokes. 
Instead of brutishly sucking, his mouth made tiny 
nibbling motions, which sent tingles echoing throughout 
her body.

"Beryl Crabtree! It's high time you got yourself to 
bed!" Mum called from the doorstep.

Pro muttered a low curse from against her neck. "Be 
there in a minute!" Beryl answered, thinking _darn 
right!_

"Does she have a talent for listening?" Pro whispered, 
gazing down at her from shuttered eyes that glinted in 
the half-light. He brought the hand that had stroked her 
hair down her temple, cheek and ear, and it seemed to 
Beryl fifty tiny fingers tickled the sensitive skin. Her 
eyelids fluttered shut as she leaned against him. She 
wanted his lips, and more of his touch.

"Beryl!?"

"We'd better call it quits," he sighed, breaking 
contact.

"Yes, or she'll come looking."

"Boy, could I show her something!"

"Pro!" Beryl giggled, although something in the idea 
chilled her. Mum had always been convinced George was 
the right man; the last thing she needed was Pro 
alarming her with his strange bodily tricks. She quickly 
kissed him goodnight, then trotted obediently toward the 
front door. Her hair felt light, soft and silken, and 
she tossed it happily.

"There you are, young lady! I don't much like you 
sneaking in like this! It was much better when George 
dropped you home and I could hear that you were back."

"Mu-um, I'm nearly seventeen, and I've managed to stay 
out of trouble so far." Unlike poor Dot, who had been in 
strife by then. Beryl went through to her bedroom, which 
faced the street. Through the open window she could hear 
cheerful whistling. Sweet music on its own, the solo 
voice was then joined by another whistle trilling in 
harmony, then a third. Yet only one man strolled up the 
middle of the street toward the tower district.


  
polymorph b