DAMSEL IN THE ROUGH: Amazon Warrior Sarmatian story Zeus bannishes Tasha from New York to Ancient Greece where a serial killer awaits to kill his next time-traveler. Being the protectress of women, Hera offers an out---maybe. Visit page for sample chapters added May 5, 2001 ***Another Bard going for publishing. Wish me luck!

[Xena Story Index]

DAMSEL FROM NY
XENA fan fiction

©_1996, Ann Logan (wilma3)

1, 2, 3, 4

I didn't know who sent a dank package from Greece. Though the postal stamp was blurred, I made-out "Free Merchandise" stamped by the seal. Ripping open its bubble flap, I peeked inside. A 3.5" floppy was shrink-wrapped with an old Roman script-letter scroll.

It fell open to my eyes:

 'Tasha,
        Logon, Urgent!'

An instruction letter was underneath. This was too intriguing to trash. Since I was heading to the University, anyway. I got dressed in beat jeans and a kashmir sweater, slipped on a navy windbreaker, then visited an empty computer lab. Typically, school insurance covered software viruses and glitches. My home computer . . . well, I digress.

I'm Irish-Italian, with a temper as short as Brooklyn's resorts. On Saturday nights, sometimes I'm stag. Yet, many of peers get jealous. (Who needs them!) For the last ten years, since puberty, I've dated Mr. Sailor to Joe-Pro Wallstreet, bouncer to boredom. I'm my own babe, now, so to speak. Still, the disk mentioned something about romantic hope:

"Cyberdate: A Greek God Awaits your fantasies."

Popping up Windows95, I inserted the disk then clicked my way to an icon shouting, A-drive.

At first, the school PC raced through an array of C-routines. Nonchalantly, I whistled, trying to look like I belonged. A janitor rolled a mop bucket by, contented with his WalkMan fixed about his head. Then, the monitor cleared to a purple screen exploding with smoky cienna.

I enjoyed a deep voice saying, "Meet me at www.ZEUS.com, Tasha."

An admirer? I figured, what the hey. I hit ENTER to execute, sat back, and watched the program begin. Netscape opened to a quick URL then poof, a regal chat box appeared. Animated Athenians danced a waltz to harps and mini-guitars. When an orchestra chimmed in, I was surprised the school's computer didn't crash.

In the chat box, he typed, "Give me your phone number."

"Not for now," I replied. "Where are you logging from?"

My screen went black, blinking to the C-prompt. His 3.5" floppy spun wildly in the A-drive. Damn. A weird blue smoke floated from the back of the mini-tower. This was getting worse.

Over four speakers in the back of the computer lab, a loud male voice-file played. "I'm the mighty god, Zeus, and you've delighted my favor."

I ducked below the computer counter, hoping no one happening by, could report my name.

The voice continued, "Come hither, maiden Tasha, warm my bed of feathers."

I peeked up and no one witnessed my distress. The clock on the wall read 8:25, what a morning. Dobbin's Intro-to-Comp class should be strolling in, any minute. I shut-down the power button. No evidence, no crime.

As I popped out the disk, my ears barely cued on a hissing sound carrying from the front of the room. There was only a small desk and the black boards. I glanced at the computer. Though the monitor's power button was off, furled kaleidoscopes folded into pinwheel-rainbows. This was too exact to be a virus.

I spoke firmly, "Okay, who's running Candid-Camera?"

The hissing noise stopped. I slipped on my windbreaker and collected my purse. Looking at the monitor, I noticed a large rainbow ball extending several inches beyond the screen! I stood back. Where are those prankers? Ducking quick, I scanned for legs or wires under the lab counters then nosey eyes by the doors. These guys were good, I thought to myself. Suddenly, the ball shattered into a frightful pair of fluttering eagle wings!

"Oh shit," I said under my breath.

Stepping back, I watched the monitor crack along the horizon. Someone didn't burn-in this computer, properly! I yanked the power cords, ran down the computer aisle, then scouted out the door. The halls were clear. Carefully, I past a trash pail, dropping his disk then strolled to the main lobby. Each step got easier, till I realized mine were the only sound.

By the exit door, a popular water fountain was open. Did someone make a new holiday? I strut outside, threading my keys between my fingers for safety. For an autumn morning, it was way too dark. I thought I was dreaming. In the middle of the parking lot, I spotted my black ford mustang, alone. That's not the way it was when I drove in!

Suddenly, that same dark spirit yelled from behind me, "Heed me, mortal!"

Being a New Yorker, I respectively flipped my finger in his general direction then entered my car. Forbid that, I said to myself. A funny rumbling shook my car. Glancing left and right, I noticed stripped maple trees that were loaded with red leaves when I came in. I pinched myself and it hurt!

Shoving my keys into the ignition, I ignored a grinding sound in my V-8 engine. Just cool down, I thought. Adjusting the rear-veiw-mirror, I did a lipstick-check. Purple clouds leaked from my tail pipe. The rumbling noise increased. I tried to get out but my door froze shut. With one lightening bolt, Zeus commanded the Fates. It was awful!

The sky opened for a dropping tornado. Freaking in my car, I smashed the back window. Arbitrary winds knocked and circled. Gripping seatbelts, I hung on as the car lifted and flew through churning funnels of hazel fumes. Then, I landed on a quiet dirt road.

"Weather report!"

I flipped on the radio. Empty static on every channel.

"Shelter."

Exiting my mustang, I grabbed my school bag filled with books. (For what I paid, they were gold!) I spotted a few nervous villagers wearing potato sacks and leather thongs. To each their own, Mom always said.

I smiled and asked, "Can you help me?"

They ran from me and I showered that morning. Then, it hit me.

"This ain't Kansas, is it?"

As I entered the village, the fermented smell of filthy townsmen nearly knocked me over. Greek letters hung from a poll, reading Welcome. I strolled muddy streets, breathing strictly by mouth. What year is this? Filthy people dashed inside straw huts, peeking behind rag curtains. No indoor plumping, no fumes from motor cars. I gazed up. No planes? God, the skies were a rich pearly blue.

In the middled of town, I saw a grey wooden structure with a pine-shingle saying, Open. A portly farmer, with a young pig, dickered with a lean merchant who wore a grey eye-patch. Apparently, the coin was something called dinars. The farmer stepped away, contented with six in his palm. Money means clout. As I approached, the merchant closed shop, slipping out a cotton doorway in the back.

As I stood there, hungry, a parade of kids drew close. Ready-cooked-eats would not be easy. Despair never helped! I started moving, scanning for a pawnshop. My school books got heavy, fast. Reaching a high-rise stone structure, I spotted a pristine gentry kicking his house-man down his marble stairs.

"Knock-it-off,"I yelled. "Or I'll call a cop!"

It was instint. In my neighborhood, we lend-a-damn about anything near our door. This guy just looked at me, not really interested in my statement, more like my outfit.

"You are right," he said, obedient on the surface.

The rich nobleman stolled inside. That's when it hit me. Why can I understand them and they me? I didn't have time to marvel long. A crowd of adults gathered around me, bolder in numbers. Some whispered about my college books. I guess any book is rare, here. My stomach started echoing like a bump muffler.

I politely asked, "Have you, a pawnshop?"

Several male voices yelled, "Witch!"

"Hey," I yelled back.

Two women dodged as if ducking a blow. Freaked mercenaries pulled short-swords, studying my stance for the greatest weak-points. I tossed a copy of ROGET's THESAURUS then ran like Exlax, back to my mustang.

Dogs scratched at my driver's door while I fumbled to insert my key. I started the engine, watching the crowd stampede in my rear-view mirror. Bows, arrows, and javelins landed way-too close for me. I floored the gas and got the hell out.

It was a bumpy ride, hobbling hoof-pocket roads. Dropping to 45 miles-per-hour was fine. I knew every minute meant 3 more I could sleep. But, where was I going?

After six hours of driving, I dated my place as late BC, early AD, Greece. The roads almost washed in some areas. Thank God, I got new tires last month.

Just before nightfall, I found a cave by a shallow mountain spring, parking inside and turning off the engine. It was dark and damp without any bears, a mansion in this time. I went to the road with a keychain flashlight. From a ledge, I held a panoramic view that stretched a good 7 miles over sloped terrain.

Perhaps the villagers forfeit. In the west, where I had come, a storm brewed. I turned back, locking myself in my car. Considering the gusts the rattled in the cave, I knew my loose-dirt tire tracks would vanish, quickly.

Thanks to my Pop, I'm a girl-of-all-trades. Every summer since my thirteenth birthday, he brought me to craft-masters to learn how-to everything. I could hunt and fish and do more things that folks from this age could dream. Maybe that's why I'm here.

As morning birds screeched, I hiked farm trails through thin woods leading to a grassy clearing. At the far edge, I found a small apple orchard, a satisfying lunch and prospect for dinner. I scooped apples into a satchel then strolled on while the sunlight lent the time. Using my father's old swiss knife I marked trails heading north. (only way I knew to find my way back)

About noon, I stepped along a wide dirt path. Several strands of chimney smoke cleared a covey of thick trees, dead ahead. The area was manicured, farming folks puttering about with blissful smiles. I still felt probing stares as a past.

The first building in a town with three roads was a small mercantile. I traded apples for a burlap dress and declared myself a visitor from a royal convoy. It made me feel as though I belonged. Changing into their clothes, I itched like crazy. I was one of them for as long as I needed to be. Every knock being a boost, I soon attracted a friend.

He was a kind young bowman, 6-foot lean, dusty blonde hair, and gazing upon me with the richest brown eyes. When we left town, I borrowed his bow and bagged a stag. He applauded. It was a wonderful beginning.

As I changed into my New York clothes, he agreed to meet me in the morning. He was smiles and lustful glances, something else my ego devoured. It was his idea to share future hunting expeditions.

By days, we hunted deer, pig, and fox. All those creatures, annoying to the majority of farmers. I fashioned several Mohawk deerskin suits, for myself then looked to make some for trade. It took to long with my unskilled hands. My Honey decided to work his crude tanning tools and taught me his ways.

By my suggestion, he agreed to let me haggle our bounties for a higher coin. Considering I did most of the successful hunting, I snuck my profits to my car before joining Honey at our spot. It was a survival move, hoping for a better day. He had friends and family and the energy to last our nights.

We jungle-loved and kissy-pooed. Never near my cave, my mustang was too advanced for him to share. Thankfully, my medical insurance forced my doctor to write advanced prescription for birth control. And then my love met the one constant in all times, changes.

Prince Wonderful hunted less and lusted more. My profits were shrinking. The day after I missed a moment with him, he was all over me. It was wild and rustic. He glossed over areas I preferred to tease. One night, he developed a manly frustration.

I gently whispered, "It's just tension, dear." Guys need to hear that.

"Not, I, fear not," he replied. "You have my wife's barren sickness. My charman shall work a cure."

"Wife?" I jumped into my deerskin suit. "You never told me you were married."

"Dost it matter?" He grabbed me, pulling me close. "We will pay for your services."

"You're right, " I said.

After kneeing my favorite goal, I ran from him, wailing in agony. Naturally, I ran with his best knife, a sturdy bow, and 50 dinars well earned. I knew from somewhere, good tidying wouldn't last. Before morning unfurled, I started my car and headed west for a popular path going north. The headlights scared most theives from trees. (You should have seen the one, I introduced to my horn!)

Forest paths grew wide then narrow, village after village. All looked horribly the same. Think new, my Dad would say. Though, low branches scrapped my car, I kept driving and praying. The angels are my friends. Sometimes change works for you.

Suddenly, a hawk swooped over my windshield. On the edge of a great clearing, I spotted a wonderous oak tree and parked beneath, leaving my headlights on. A 12-foot rock pillar made an easy climb onto an overlooking cliff. It felt perfect.

I stood on the cliff. Below was another cave cloistered by a covey of steep hills and a roaring mountain stream, fresh water. There was a winding sandy path that reached from the clearing, down to the stream. Terrific! I ran back to my car, slowly driving it along the sandy path then straight into a narrow cave entrance. Inside, it was a glorious uninhabited chamber, sloping upward to dry ground. Homebase.

I awoke, in the morning, from my back seat and strolled out to the stream. It was dazzling. The autumn air was crisp and clean, much like my Uncle Mike's hunting camp. I drew a deep cool breath, feeling action tug my muscled. With my knife and bow, I strolled up the sandy trail and climbed to the look-out cliff.

In the distance, I saw a wobbling farmer's cart rolling northward. The clearing was waste to him, to many, apparently. With the winds in the area, seed was harder to keep. Good, no challengers to my new place.

I studied a wonderful old oak tree that had signaled me, the night before. It was healthy, protected by the gust I enjoyed. My next weeks past quickly. I hunted and traded for metals and a smeltering pot. From the things I learned in my youth, I crafted a novel line of more efficient carpenter tools and kept on going.

It's been 2 years since my day in the lab. To make a better hunter, I use homemade camaphlage make-up on my face, hands, and deerskin togs. I'm mostly proud of this oak tree-hut: 2 bedrooms, full-kitchen and half-bath with a great mountain spring, a stone's throw south. (Yes, I threw the stone.)

Often I hunt from the comfort of my kitchen window. Some teenagers work my fields of wheat, a commodity to exchange. In a secluded place, game is plentiful as are dangers when the night comes. Twice a week, I collect my tanned furs and trade with the locals who are getting happier to see me.

I know good hunters are few and being less astranged should be great. But, I'm lonely. Woman over sixteen are mostly married or half-way dead. I need friendship. Apparently, one of the gods sent less needful company.

One blustery morning, I watched from my kitchen window. Two female travelers blazed a short-cut through the edge of my northern woods. The first was a large muscular brunette riding a fine tan horse.

She was thirtyish, a few years older than myself. Her bicepts look like my calves. Amazon, I figured. I loved her long braided raven hair and her tight black-leather tunic wrapped in vine-like silver. Her watchful green-blue eyes seemed to smile at her fidgety friend. But, they were heading away.

I crept from my kitchen window, climbed down a knocked rope to the ground and crept closer. The second traveler was a talkative blonde, maybe five years younger than me. She chatted with a delightfully tuneful voice, spinning some yarn, so playful.

Peeking from around a pine tree, I forget my camaphlage appearance. "How you doos!"

The larger one drew a wickedly long sword, and the other squawked, "Xena, what is she?"

I can't believe this witch, I thought to myself. "I'm a New Yorker, duh!"

Then, I remembered my painted deer-skin pant suit. Head-to-toe camouflage with green and yellow makeup.

"Honey, don't worry." I chuckled. "This ain't warpaint. My name is Tasha Malone Fidelli."

As I offered a handshake, the larger one scaled off her tan race horse. Her fixed scowl almost cuts me in two. There, I stood with my open palm and all this silence. Finally, her friend followed meekly, clutching a tall walking stick with both hands.

"I'm Xena," the tall one said. "My careful companion is Gabrielle."

She took my hand with a grip almost popping my eyes. Then, she released, pleased with her superior power. I waved for blood to circulate then smiled to her friend.

"Yous two are new, here," I said. "Where you heading?" Like I know anything about this place.

The little one moved to my right, still holding that stick. "Where are you from," Gabrielle asked.

"Why," I replied.

Xena stepped around my back, sizing me up. Being a Brooklyn babe, I drew the knife acquired from my Romeo-bowman. Gabrielle froze. Xena didn't seem to care.

I shouted, "No one needs to get hurt, here." Volume didn't seem to help.

Xena hurled a metal Frisbee that bounced from tree to tree. Suddenly sparks spit into my eyes. My palm burned as the knife ripped from my grasp. With a heavy slap on my shoulder, I blindly fell to my knees. Xena's cold razor blade tickled my throat.

"Take it," I shouted. "Take my bow, my furs, then take a hike. That's all I have."

Xena lowered her sword, stepping behind me, then collected her Frisbee and my knife slipping both on her leather utility belt. Calmly she said, "Gabrielle, take Argo's bridle."

I slowly stood, my hands at my side. "Fine, " I said. "Just kill me quick."

The blonde burst into giggles but Xena only waltzed in front of me. Her aqua cat-eyes pierced through my soul. She was always in charge. I could tell.

"Where are you from," she asked.

"The future I think. Maybe 2000 years." I didn't spook this one.

"How did you get here, " she asked.

"I was working on a computer project for school and some dude, named Zeus wouldn't take no for an answer. The next thing, I'm here, fighting for a breakfast."

She stepped around me, still studying.

I spoke to her friend, "If there's a way back, I sure haven't found it. Listen, I built a cabin not far from here. Nasty things happen when the sun goes down."

A home court advantage, I had hoped. When Xena emerged on my left side, her thumb brushed my face. Watching me, she sniffed the residue of the green smire I wear for cover.

"Did you make this?" She slipped her sword into a back sheath, still in charge.

I drew a deep breath. "My father was Spec4, in the Army." I wouldn't move without her permission.

"Spec4? You mean, a soldier, " she said. "I'm looking forward to your home."

Nudging me forward, she stalked behind, letting her friend tow Argo in the rear.

On the way, Gabrielle hopped forward. "Did you craft your clothes?"

"Yeah," I said.

I am proud of my fancy-smancy deer-suit and the the care I used to double-stitch it with horse-tail hairs. (Then again, I was never genius enough to win a battle with a Singer sewing machine!) I painted it with camouflage colors, staining several outfits the same. For the longest time, laundry was a KILLER. Until, I let strung a thick line over the stream, hanging a wire basket of wears. Over several days, the rushing spring waters did my labors.

Gabby pointed to my feet "I really like your boots."

Rabbit fur-lined with a wheedled oak base. I attached a 3/4 inch heels with wooden biscuits then sanded the ends. Fit great!

She smiled. "You're a skillful one! Do you want to trade?"

I cringed at the thought of my tender toes in her soggy sandles.

I smiled and stolled. "My feet are a different size, Toots. Maybe I could carve you a custom pair. It would be better for you. How long you staying?"

Xena spoke up. "Make that, two, Tasha. It's a durable style."

"Sure, sure," I said.

About a 100 yards forward, I spied my tree-hut safe and secure. I wanted to run, slam the door, yank its latch bolt, and ready my crossbow. But, that warrior woman would grab me off the second wrung of my rope ladder. Glancing at a pine stump, I remembered a chopping axe resting among tall weeds.

How can I hurt a kid like Gabrielle? She reminds me of my little sisters. All, big talkers fighting for my prize teenage company. Maybe she's a prisoner, here.

Pointing upward, I presented my tree cabin. "Home, Sweet, Home."

Neither one spoke, for Gabby this was odd! I watched her study my split-level tree pad. All the words drained from her brains.

Xena cleared her throat, picking-up my hidden ax.

I blushed. "I wondered where I left that."

Grabbing a rope ladder hanging from my tree, I stepped up once then descended. With Xena staring at my porch, I gave the rope to Gabby.

"Hold this, " I said. "When I held a part-time job with the phone company, shimmying trees got secondhand. This rope is easier." I hurried my climb. "Someday I hope to make an elevator..er nevermind."

Halfway up, Gabrielle's weight tugged the line below me. My door was a few moments outside my grasp. I yanked and pulled until my butt sat on the edge of my smooth maple-plank floor. Unfortunately, Xena entered first, grabbing my double-barrel crossbow.

"Nice hut, " she said.

As I followed, obedient, Xena studied my porch invisible from the ground.

"Clever constuction," she said.

She marches inside spying a fully stocked drawer-cutlery counter. It figures she'd know where to find the knives! I took a seat and waited for Gabrielle.

Xena said, "You live, alone."

"Yep."

Gabrielle races inside. "Anything to eat?"

"Yep," I said.

Gabrielle's licked her lips as she studied a small mason chimney simmering stew in a round black pot. "Smells good!"

"Help yourself, kid. Bowls are stacked on the mantle."

As Xena stepped away, carrying my knives, cross-bow, and forks; I strolled into my kitchen to wash my hands in my kitchen sink.

---

Tom Berenger plays a tough marine sergeant who is teamed with a green Olympics marksman to wade through the Panamanian jungle and eliminate a rebel honcho and his drug lord bankroller.

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