An outing
far from Palace walls
free from strict constraints
or at least from rote surveillance

Drums of Summer but an echo
repercussion left in stone
providing puddle bird baths
for a score of native species

monsoon dousing wildfires
Tears of Allah
washing woe from those dependent
on the seasons to fulfill their cyclic pledge

quenching the thirst of flora and fauna alike
dousing desiccated underbrush
deep-freezing fast asleep highlands
prior to lowlands' thawed awakening

snow pack melting into a thousand frigid cataracts
gurgling, tumbling, rumbling thunderous
momentum gained paying homage to the Great God Gravity

Soul a fluid concept in the Land of Druk Yul
prone to spiral upward / spiral downward
like a waterspout / like a whirlpool

wind-horse prayers on cloth swatches honoring sacred sources
breeze-blown
withers-sped
snap-flap galloping recitations to the Himalayan Crown
so tall so steep the gap to Heaven's Gate effectively seems miniscule

crows caw

a raven veers
its flight path crooked through the heady heights on scythe-like wings
sharp angles slicing thin air
lean air
mean air
taxing lungs to breathe at all

yet once a certain glade is reached

wherein the chosen clique will picnic
wherein huffs and puffs will cease to race apace with pounding pulse
wherein pungent sweat will dry
wherein cheeks grown flushed will pale
under veils professing modesty
normal hues renewed
refreshed by the strenuous hike
and its sheer exhilaration

girls adept at the art of pleasure giving
in pleasure will partake

            Nana slips and falls, her wet descent along the mossy-slick embankment lush and cushioned soggily, shoes, designed for trampling plush-pile carpets, lacking proper traction, slippery slopes and gravelly grades a challenge for ladies one and all.

            Others, similarly ill-shod, hurry back to help.

            'Lollygagger; serves you right.’ Alicia (long on tongue-lashing) is the first to lend a forearm to assist her fallen comrade. ‘Hurt?’

            'I bumped my hip, is all. I’m mostly soaked.’

            'And filthy. Yuk! That’s yak shit!’ Jude, offended by the smallest smudge (her nickname ‘Miss Immaculate’), sidesteps Nana—who arises, plucks some leaves from her pantaloons, and waves a dung-brown hand in Jude’s direction.

            'Want to sniff?’

            'Mon Dieu!’ is all Dominique exclaims, having backtracked somewhat hastily, her lead intimidating everyone except the foursome’s Sherpa—who halts, beneath a head-borne load, but keeps his eyes averted under penalty of castration; looks are barred; his orders are to safeguard, transport provisions, guide the shrouded picnickers to and from the glen, but hazard a sidelong glance and risk his voice going up an octave.

            Brilliant rays (afflicting Jude with a migraine; neither squints nor soot-dark sunglasses allay the light’s intensity) penetrate garb as drab as it is unrevealing. Black are the quartet’s pantaloons, veils, hooded capes, (inappropriate) shoes and stockings (while flagrantly pastel are the garments underneath). Pilgrims tread these alpine passes, monks and herders, also, plus a smattering of the country’s rural population—most devout—and though they may not all be Buddhists they tend to be traditional. A harem in their midst, if flaunted, surely would affront, as would its individual members should any be exposed. The Prince, therefore, neither flaunts nor exposes his household or its hirelings. Locals (scores employed) are sworn to secrecy before and after service. Forays, beyond the Palace, are reserved for the trustworthy few; Nana, Jude, Alicia, and Dominique granted the current privilege, each one understanding, and agreeing to tenets of decorum—none of which bans cattiness, to the paramours' joint relief.

            Settling into a sylvan break like the Four Harmonious Friends (Elephant, Monkey, Hare, and Bird) fatigued, pooped, bushed, and energized, they recline to catch their breath.

Medic!

Oxygen, quick!

I need an Iron Lung!

Tenderfoots, sissies, cry-babies; humph. Sacré bleu.

            Three pairs of eyes do slow-motion takes, rebutting “Ms Decathlon”—whose stamina puts to shame her less athletic peers.

Easy for you to say...

Sweet sixteen...

And never been exhausted.
 

There’s more to do in the gym, girls, than paint your silly nails. Rent-a-Bodies, like ours, ought to be kept in...

Rent-a-What, did you say? Bite your tongue!

And spare the Prince’s foreskin?

You’re a fine one to complain about oral stimulation, Ms Linguini.

Ladies, ladies.

... you make licking a postage stamp lewd and lascivious.

Enough, already.

Butt out, Mademoiselle Intersex. Even Snow White’s powder-puff of a pussy pales next to yours.

Congratulations, Dom; you’ve insulted the lot of us. Triple play.

What’s that; cricket terminology?

American baseball.

How arcane. The fact remains; we’re Harlots for Hire, hymens notwithstanding.

Why this virginity hang-up, I wonder?

His-nibs wants dibs; what else?

Performance paranoia; he’s afraid to be compared.

Afraid he won’t measure up, I agree. Good thing Nana's is punier.

The Prince is a sweetheart. Why be so unkind?

What she really means is he's a spoiled-brat, rich-kid letch. Imagine the kind of wealth it takes to maintain yonder citadel. All for what? Some silver-spoon philanderer with a yen for popping cherries?

Why come here in the first place, then?

Duh!

”Duh” what?

A million Swiss francs, duh!

            This unanimous chorus gives Nana cause to question. Is she alone in judging money of secondary importance? Hers is more a sense of returning a special favor; not earning a small fortune. To Sheik Hadithah, she owes... well, everything: her rescue from America, her extended foster-family care, her education, her mind-set that an anomaly can be an asset when appreciatively regarded; the Prince could have been grotesque and still she would have done her duty, fulfilled her obligation, faithfully performed her designated task—no matter it be conjugal. In fact, surrendering one’s virginity, when weighed against the benefits, was a humble price to pay—if not so utterly valueless as it was in the West. For years, her un-breached status had been considered meritorious, something to be protected at all costs, something to be revered, no less a gift when given to a Prince than when bestowed upon a husband. Perhaps her knowing beforehand, and by whom she would be deflowered, distinguishes hers from the present company’s attitude.

Jude, I thought you told me your parents would have sold you into...

Prostitution? This is true. And sure enough they have. Rather, I sold myself, with their permission—billed as “a domestic”.

But the Palace...

Is a cathouse...

By a highfalutin name.

Instead of clients-plural, we got lucky. Beaucoup femme, un homme. All the same, we’re tarts in a fancy trumped up brothel.

Call it what you like.

            Candor, typically squelched by cameras, microphones, ultra-tight security, and the Prince’s self-confessed penchant for watching unawares, is flexed with uncurbed verve out-of-doors in this isolated spot, no one to overhear—except the monolingual Sherpa (who speaks the local dialect).

            Nana, disconcerted, mulls the phrase “to serve”:
 

People are unequal. Some are gifted, some inept, some rich, some poor, some highly born, some born as lowly commoners. Some are not even born so much as engineered—then placed in a foreign nest like some disenfranchised cuckoo. Given such disparity between class or caste distinctions, between those with powerful influence and those with few advantages, service, one to another, seems perfectly understandable. Public service, private service recognizes that society falls apart without degrees of deference. Neither has to bow and scrape nor vainly put on airs if views are in accord. Why, then, do my peers insinuate servitude bears an onus? They seem loathe to lavish talents, modest or extravagant, on a man prepared to pay them more than they are worth. They hold Him in contempt, no matter how He might pamper them, resentful, it appears, of the Prince’s unearned wealth. Not everyone has to work to afford a life of luxury. This is true today no more or lessthan in days gone by. Affluence always has guaranteed an easy time for some while those without it cope, aspire, or resign themselves to scarcity. To serve, however, rescues both from the evils of deprivation—moral deprivation for the former, material deprivation for the latter. The Haves provide a livelihood; the Have-nots offer labor. Whatever the disproportion, is not this concept fair, if neither side exploits or heaps disparagement upon the other, if both confer respect and mutual esteem?             Were I a Prince or a Princess—better yet, a Queen—servants I would have in great abundance, to wait upon me hand and foot befitting my Regal status. How then criticize Him, to whom I am indentured? Why begrudge the Prince one measly year, when I would claim much longer were roles reversed? How would Jude, Dominique, or Alicia behave were a team of males procured to fulfill their every whim?             Somehow this has less to do with fairness than with ordinary ego. Deference is perceived, by the West in particular, as humbling to demeaning. Respect for elders, clergy, even for deity is currently out of style. Whereas self-respect too often lacks foundation, and cannot be achieved without first respecting others. Preachy though that sound, it is what I believe—and I am proud regardless the defamation 'whore'.

            Begun while sipping a vintage sherry, oyster half shells strewn about the glen (incongruous as their litterers), Nana’s entry is finished back in her twilit quarters. Restoring the kidskin journal to its usual throw-rug stash (safe and sound in the snow leopard’s open-jawed snarl), Nana notes her module; an incoming message blink, blink, blinks.