Tickle Street Chapter 25 – “Emily”

By Strelnikov
Copyright 2004 by the author


Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance)

Ashley Curtis
A.K.A Beauty Queen. Tall and shapely, just turned 19 yrs old, long blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. Her mother started entering her in beauty pageants and contests as soon as she could walk. She lives with her mom, a former beauty queen herself, who always showers Ashley with positive influence on how beautiful she is. Ashley and her mother moved to Tickle Street about a year ago. Besides being exceptionally beautiful, Ashley is also exceptionally ticklish – an ideal combination.

Emily MacDonald
Emily is a petite girl with bright green eyes and a glorious mane of fiery red hair. She's somewhat older than the rest of the new graduates from TCHS – she spent a year in rehab after a car wreck. She and her widowed father moved to Tickle Street last summer. Her ticklishness is her greatest weakness, she feels that it makes her too girly and weak.

…plus the Usual Suspects.


********************


Thursday

Ashley was waiting on the front porch when Emily drove up. Emily had insisted on an early start – the stars were just beginning to pale to the east.

Ashley was tall and drop-dead gorgeous. She had long blonde hair, blue eyes, flawless skin, a beautiful face, an hourglass figure and long, shapely legs. She wore t-shirt, shorts and sandals, and had added a sweat shirt against the morning chill. She picked up her suitcase and carried it out to the curb.

Emily left the old Toyota running, got out and opened the trunk. She was dressed like Ashley. She was petite and youthful-looking, with a glorious fiery red mane that fell to her shoulder blades and that lovely fair skin that only redheads have. Her eyes were jade green. She just missed being beautiful.

“That it?” Emily asked.

“Yah. Let’s go.”

“Tea in the thermos behind the seat,” Emily said. “Irish Breakfast, black, no sugar.”

“There’s no milk because the cows aren’t awake yet, right?” Ashley said.

Emily laughed. “Something like that.”

Emily turned right onto Johnson’s Ferry Road and drove north to the interstate. She pushed the car to 75 mph and held it there, as steady as cruise control. She drove like she did everything else – competently, efficiently, without waste motion. They were well on their way by dawn.

The girls had graduated from Tieson City High School just two days ago. Both had jobs lined up, but they weren’t due to start for another 10 days. Emily had a modest inheritance from her grandmother. Ashley had some money saved for college, but she had decided to join the U. S. Coast Guard after the summer instead. The U. S. armed forces provide excellent education benefits to veterans – Ashley figured she could spare some money for a last vacation.

Ashley’s change of plans was the result of an adventure she had. It had matured her, and changed the trajectory of her life. Ashley found it tough being a kid again after she returned, with all of the restrictions and petty indignities that status entails. Her mom had always been extremely protective – she wanted to prevent Ashley from repeating her own mistakes. Mom was only 35, Ashley hadn’t been planned.

It had finally come down to a major fight – afterward, both were a little surprised that the neighbors hadn’t called the police. Their relationship settled down afterward on new terms of near-equality – the same terms, Ashley realized, that Emily had with her widowed father.

Emily was older than the other graduating seniors. She had just barely survived a bad wreck in her former home town that had killed her mother and grandmother, and had missed a year of school. After she had recovered, she did pretty much as she pleased. But unlike some in that situation, Emily was sober and responsible. She had struggled at the start of the school year, but had applied herself diligently and had graduated with a solid “B” average.

Mom and Emily’s dad started dating after the big fight, and by now were getting serious. Ashley had never had a sibling. What would it be like to acquire a sister? Probably not like it would have been a few years ago – she and Emily were full grown.

But Ashley welcomed the connection even so. Even if it hadn’t existed, the two girls had been drawn together since Ashley’s return.

Ashley and Emily had both joined the Ancient and Honorable Society of Vellatrices last fall. It was the creation of a neighbor and classmate, Candice Wade, who loved to be tickled. The neighborhood girls got together and tickled each other silly – especially Candice, which had been the idea from the start. Ashley still considered another member, Morgan Ernst, to be her best friend. But there had been an underlying strain in the friendship since Ashley’s return.

Ashley was a grownup. Morgan wasn’t – not quite.

Emily was subtly different from the other Vellatrices. She participated in their tickling games and seemingly fit right in with everyone else. But there was some inner reserve that the others couldn’t touch. Sometimes, Ashley had seen a look of amused indulgence on Emily’s face, quickly suppressed. It was the way one looks at puppies or small children – cute and playful, fun to be around, but certainly not one’s peers.

That was the basis of the attraction. Emily was the only other grownup in the group.

Emily was practical, down-to-earth, and an astute observer – she didn’t miss much, and could spot a liar through a stone wall. She seemed to take more joy in life now than she had last fall, and took occasional risks for the sake of a good time – carefully calculated risks, not like the never-refuse-a-dare style favored by Candice’s friend Sara. She had a nimble wit, a wry sense of humor, and a taste for dreadful puns. Ashley hoped they would get to know each other a little better on this trip.

They finished the first leg of their trip in early afternoon – Evans Center, NY, on the Lake Erie shore south of Buffalo. Ashley gave directions, but was surprised to discover that Emily didn’t seem to need them. They drove west to Lake Shore Road, south past a beach bar called Mickey Rat’s Club, and a mile or two further to the Point Breeze Public Beach. Then another half mile, and a left turn onto a street of early 20th Century cottages and summer homes.

“There!” Ashley said. “That’s her on the porch.”

Ashley made the introductions – Amanda had shared her adventure.

Amanda Mason had curly dark brown hair, brown eyes, dark brows and long, dark lashes. She was a little cutie, a petite girl with a trim and shapely figure, who stood an inch or so over five feet tall in her bare feet. She was 18 now – two years ago, she had walked away from her last foster home with just the clothes she wore and whatever money she could find in the house. She was playful and fun loving, impossible not to like. She had been working locally and sharing the cottage with half a dozen other girls.

“Eve and Mandy left last weekend,” Amanda said with a crooked grin. “I worked my last shift at Mickey Rat’s last night, cashed my last check this morning. I’m ready to go.” Amanda was moving to Tieson City – she had already made arrangements to share an apartment with red-headed Rachel Griffin, another who had shared the adventure.

Ashley and Emily carried their gear indoors – they would crash with Amanda tonight, and give her a lift to the bus station in the morning. Afterward, Emily kicked off her sandals and flopped down on the couch. She had done most of the driving – she was asleep almost instantly.

Ashley heard the laughter start when she was in the bathroom and temporarily indisposed. She emerged a few minutes later to find exactly what she expected.

Emily was on her tummy, her feet in Amanda’s lap, her ankles trapped in a simple leg lock. She was laughing like mad, squirming as Amanda covered her feet with fiendish and skillful tickling. Amanda tickled two handed, toes to heels, looking for the sweet spots. She tickled back up Emily’s arches, held her toes back and tickled the soft skin underneath. Emily went wild, laughing at the top of her lungs – Amanda had found the sweet spot, where her feet were off-the-scale ticklish.

“Amanda! STOP!” Ashley yelled. Emily kept on laughing, her fair skin turning pink.

“Not yet,” Amanda said with a grin. “I need to get Emily’s mind right.” She tickled onto Emily’s stretched out soles, side to side, forcing a stream of ticklish laughter. Then back under the toes, and Emily’s laughter went off the chart. Amanda tickled faster, side to side under all ten toes. Emily laughed and laughed until she ran out of air.

Amanda stopped tickling and released Emily’s toes. Emily laid there gasping, then managed to say “I’ll… get you… for this… ”

“Promises, promises!” Amanda said. She tickled Emily’s heels two handed, bringing forth another burst of laughter.

Ashley grabbed Amanda’s hands. “Let her go,” she said. “I’m sorry, Emily – I should have warned you. Amanda’s like Candice – she’s just trying to provoke you.”

Emily worked her ankles free of the leg lock and sat up. “Why didn’t you just ask me to tickle you?” she asked.

“More fun this way,” Amanda said. “Get your swim suits – let’s go to the beach before supper.”

They spent three hours on the beach and playing in the lake. Afterward, they had a fish fry supper – lake walleye, the biggest member of the perch family – at the diner near the beach entrance. Their waitress was one of Amanda’s roommates. She tried one more time to talk Amanda out of leaving. She liked the little brunette too – everybody did.

Back at the cottage, Amanda kicked off her sandals. “Time to tickle me silly,” she said. “Who’s first?”

“Me,” Ashley replied. “Chair tie OK?”

Ashley tied Amanda’s hands behind her back and tied her to one of the kitchen chairs. Amanda put her feet through the legs of a tall stool and rested her ankles on the brace between the far-side legs. Ashley tied Amanda’s ankles together, took a loop around the brace to anchor them, and tied her big toes together with string. She slipped out of her own sandals, kneeled and sat back on her heels. Emily sat in another kitchen chair to watch.

“Get going!” Amanda said with happy anticipation.

Ashley spread Amanda’s right little toe apart from its neighbor and tickled in between. Amanda threw her head back and laughed her head off.

Stream after stream of ticklish laughter came from Amanda as Ashley tickled her way across both feet, tickling between each pair of toes. Ashley held Amanda’s toes back and tickled the soft skin underneath, then side to side across the stretched out soles. Amanda laughed like a crazy woman as Ashley drew fast figure-eight’s around the balls of both feet. She gave the center of Amanda’s soles a few extra nail flicks on each pass, and each time Amanda’s laughter went up a notch.

Ashley released the toes and tickled Amanda’s soles with both hands, watching the toes twitch and curl as Amanda’s wild laughter filled the room. She tickled down both arches, lingered on the ticklish heels, spider-walked her nails back to the soles again. Amanda laughed helplessly, tears of laughter running down her face.

“With me so far?” Ashley asked Emily. “I saved the best for last.”

Ashley held Amanda’s toes back again and tickled the exact center of the left sole, along the crease. Amanda bucked and squirmed, laughing at the top of her lungs. Ashley tickled across the balls of both feet to the center of the right sole, then dug in, fingernails flying. Amanda was in the zone now, red faced and sweaty, laughing like mad. Ashley kept it up, tickling side to side, letting her friend get just enough air to keep on laughing. She finished on Amanda’s right sole and tickled the girl into red-faced silent laughter.

“That suit you?” Ashley asked.

Amanda struggled for air. “Not… too… shabby.” A few deep breaths. “Can Emily… do better?”

“See for yourself,” Emily said. She kicked off her own sandals and traded places with Ashley.

Emily concentrated on the sweet spots on Amanda’s soles, and had Amanda laughing her head off right from the start. She shifted her tickle target, covering Amanda’s feet with well-techniqued tickling. Amanda howled with forced mirth as Emily tickled – competently, efficiently, without waste motion. Emily played Amanda like a musical instrument, filling the air with the little brunette’s sweet ticklish laughter. She kept it up for almost 20 minutes, tickling fiendishly, then speeded up, tickling the exact center of Amanda’s left sole. Amanda lost it and laughed herself breathless.

“Happy now, Amanda?” Emily asked.

Amanda was too breathless to answer – she just nodded and took long, deep breaths.

This time of year, close to the solstice, the sun set after 9 PM. “It’s getting dark. Let’s turn in early,” Ashley said. She gave Emily a hand up and cut Amanda loose. “We’ll make an early start tomorrow.”


Friday

They beat the morning rush hour and dropped Amanda at the bus station downtown. Amanda hugged Ashley and shouldered the bag that held all of her worldly possessions.

“Come and tickle me when you get back,” Amanda said.

“Don’t you ever get enough?” Emily asked.

“Nope. See ya next week!”

Emily drove north on city streets to Tonawanda and turned off onto a quiet suburban street. The houses and lots were small, Levittown type, built for returning veterans and their families right after World War II. Emily slowed down in the middle of the block and pointed.

“That one – the house with the blue shutters – I used to live there. It doesen’t look too different.”

That was news to Ashley. They had been neighbors since Emily moved to Tickle Street at the end of last summer. Back then, Emily had been… not unfriendly, really, but distant. She had been pleasant enough on the rare occasions when she troubled to pass the time with others. She was unfailingly polite, and she never complained. Candice, who was unusually perceptive for someone her age, had remarked that conflict is a form of intimacy. Quite obviously, Emily hadn’t wanted to be close to anybody.

The Vellatrices had succeeded in recruiting Emily last Halloween. She had opened up since then. But even now, Emily deflected questions about her past by answering a related question of her own choosing. Maybe that was about to change.

They cut over to the next major street and came to a cemetery entrance after about a mile. Emily drove in and parked.

“Want company?” Ashley asked, subdued.

“Come if you like.”

The stone had the name MacDonald on it. Underneath, Robert A. and beside it, Virginia G. Robert had died a few years before his wife. A nearby stone had the name Mary C. MacDonald. Virginia had been 30-plus years older than Mary, but both had died on the same day.

Emily bowed her head and stood silently for five minutes. She turned and walked back to the car without a backward glance.

There’s a local joke – that “niagara” is an Iroquois word that means “tourist trap”. Niagara Falls, NY had been a tourist destination for generations. The hotels, restaurants and other businesses that catered to visitors were concentrated along the river near the Falls.

Further away, the city wasn’t at all what Ashley expected. It was full of heavy industry, attracted 150 years ago by water power and later by plentiful and relatively cheap electricity. There were huge hydro power stations on both sides of the river. Emily said that after midnight, when the flood lights at the Falls were turned off, they drew nearly enough water to dewater the smaller American Falls.

The girls took the Maid of the Mist boat ride below the Falls, then exhausted the other possibilities on the American side in a few more hours. There’s another local joke – “You know you’re from Western NY when you go to Niagara Falls for Italian food, not the scenery.” They had an early lunch at an excellent Italian restaurant, and crossed the Whirlpool Bridge to Niagara Falls, Canada.

There was more to see here – the Canadian Falls was a lot bigger and more spectacular. They visited the Botanical Gardens too, then drove north along the riverside parkway and crossed back to the USA on the Lewiston-Queenstown Bridge.

“What’s that?” Ashley asked, pointing to a directional sign just across the bridge.

“Old Fort Niagara,” Emily said. “Historic site. Want to see it?”

History had always interested Ashley, and Emily too, it seemed. This fort had been a major strategic outpost all through the colonial period and well into the 19th Century. The most recent addition to the fortifications was an earth-covered red brick artillery battery, completed by the US Army just after the Civil War. The oldest structure was built by the French in the early 1700’s – it stood on the lake shore, at the river’s mouth. It looked like a two-story gray stone manor house with a gabled roof, but was really a disguised fort built to guard the Lake Ontario end of the Niagara Portage. The local Indians had agreed to construction of a house – the French had outsmarted them. The gable shutters concealed artillery – the whole attic was rigged like the gun deck of a sailing warship of the period. The other structures, with one exception, were in between.

The fort’s young tour guides were uniformed as 1760’s British infantry. The park was perennially underfunded – the uniforms were older than the wearers, and looked it. It was an accidental touch of realism, Emily said. Everybody back then led hard, active outdoor lives. Infantrymen would have looked just this ragged after six months or so on campaign.

The one 20th Century building on the grounds housed the snack bar and souvenir shop. It was wood framed and sided with split logs. Outside was a bench and a set of stocks for the tourists. Emily was amused – flogging was the usual punishment during most of the fort’s active history.

Ashley gave her camera to Emily, sat and let the guide close the stocks over her ankles. After the obligatory snapshot, the girls traded places. But then Ashley slung her camera and swung a leg over the top of the stocks, trapping Emily. She grinned devilishly, flipped off Emily’s sandals and tickled her friend’s feet. Emily yelped, squirmed and laughed like mad.

There were others around – Ashley quit after a minute or so. They left the fort and had supper – “beef on weck”, a local specialty, hot roast beef sandwiches on hard rolls called “kummelweck” that were sprinkled with coarse salt and caraway seed before baking. Then south to the interstate and eastward. They stopped for the night at a generic motel at a rural exit an hour east of Buffalo.

Ashley kicked off her sandals and flopped backward onto the bed, crosswise. “My feet are killing me,” she said. “I just about walked ‘em off today.”

Emily flipped the end of the bedspread up over Ashley and scrambled after. She was very fast, and a lot stronger than she looked – in no time, Ashley was rolled up like a burrito, with just her bare feet sticking out.

“Hey!” Ashley said through the muffling folds of bedspread. “Let me go!” She struggled, but the spread was rolled too tight – she was trapped.

Emily folded the spread down away from Ashley’s face, then sat on the bed and trapped Ashley’s ankles in the same leg lock Amanda had used on her. “This is a fingernail foot massage,” she said, and drew circles on Ashley’s heels with one fingernail each.

“Sta– haha! –ap! Emilee– hehehe! Stopit! Hehe-haha! Stopit!” Ashley giggled and begged.

“Why Ashley, this is just the thing for sore feet,” Emily said, still flicking and scratching. The giggles came in a continuous stream now. “I bet you’ll forget all about how sore they are.”

“NOOOO! HAHAHAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHA!” Ashley laughed as Emily went to work on her ticklish feet.

Ashley’s feet were insanely ticklish all over – she didn’t have a sweet spot. All the better for Emily – she flicked and scratched Ashley’s heels, spider walked her nails up both arches, scrabbled the soles. Ashley’s toes twitched and curled, she laughed like mad, she felt the tickling suck her strength away.

Emily tickled between Ashley’s toes, then held them back and tickled under them. Ashley laughed her head off as Emily tickled her stretched out soles, tickling side to side, over and over. Emily concentrated on the balls of her feet next, tracing fast figure-eights around both. The loops got smaller, faster, covering every square inch of ticklish flesh. Ashley arched her back and laughed at the top of her lungs.

Ashley was helpless now, all ability to resist was tickled away. Emily drew circles and other random tickling shapes in her arches, then covered her heels with fast, tiny nail flicks until Ashley thought she would go crazy. Emily tickled two handed up the arches to Ashley’s soles. Ashley slipped into ticklish delirium, red faced, tears of laughter running down her face.

Ashley wasn’t sure afterward how long the tickling lasted. It seemed to last forever. But finally Emily stopped tickling – Ashley giggled weakly as she came back from Tickle Hell.

“Had to stop,” Emily said. “Guy in the next room was banging on the wall. Do your feet feel better now?”

“Yah. Geez Louise, that tickled! Why’d you do that?”

“Just for giggles,” Emily said, and stroked her nails from Ashley’s toes to her heels.

“Hehehehe! Enough!”

“OK, I quit,” Emily said, and helped Ashley to free herself from the bed spread. “I’ll even let you have the first shower.” She wrinkled her nose. “You could use one after that.”

They turned in right after their showers. Tomorrow would be another early day.


Saturday

Saturday was primarily a travel day. They drove east through rolling countryside dotted with dairy farms. The corn was just getting started, but the alfalfa was already greening up. Emily said that this area had been the primary wheat-growing region of the early 19th century USA.

They turned north toward the Adirondack Park at Utica and followed secondary roads to the small village that was the day’s destination. They checked into a bed-and-breakfast in mid-afternoon. It was too late to do much exploring, but they visited a public lake nearby.

Only small children were swimming – the water was cold, everybody older had better sense. They rented one of the park’s canoes, flexible heavy plastic, with an aluminum tubing frame. The outer skin had been finished as a half-ass imitation of an Iroquois birch bark canoe. Emily picked through a pile of paddles, most of which looked like they had been chewed by beavers. She finally found two that were serviceable and the right length, and they were off.

Canoeing is an art. The paddler in front provides 60% of the power. The rear paddler steers when necessary and keeps the canoe going straight the rest of the time. Ashley was hopeless – she had them going in circles. When they finally managed to work their way back to the shallows, Emily ordered Ashley out and took the rear position herself.

It went smoother after that. They paddled around the lake, inspected a muskrat house, looked down on fish idling in shallow water, saw an eagle perched in a dead tree near the shore. They waded in the shallows for a while on the far side of the lake. By then, it was close to supper time – they headed back to their b&b.

Supper was basic country cooking, served family style. They took a walk afterward, watched the sun go down from the front porch, and went early to bed.


Sunday

The next day, the girls took a tour of the area, driving to the various scenic views. They had brought a styrofoam cooler. The b&b landlady packed sandwiches for them – they bought Cokes and ice and were on their way. Ashley marveled at the rugged, heavily wooded mountain terrain. This countryside certainly wasn’t what she pictured when someone said “New York”.

“This is Last of the Mohicans country, isn’t it?” Ashley said. “I bet it hasn’t changed much in 250 years.”

“Actually, it’s a lot different,” Emily replied. “This whole area was logged off in the 19th Century. It’s had something over 100 years to recover – what you see here is old second growth. But it’ll be another hundred years, maybe two, before there’s an old growth forest here again.”

“The Indians had trade routes. Must have been tough traveling.”

“They used water routes when they could,” Emily said. “And no nonsense about white-water canoeing either – a birch bark canoe is much too fragile. They portaged around, like the sensible people they were. That’s why the French built Fort Niagara, and Ticonderoga, and some others – to control major portages.

“Land routes were a lot tougher. Easier in the winter, when the swamps and streams are frozen over, but hard enough even then.” Emily hesitated, then went on. “I can give you a taste of it, if you like. It won’t be a stroll in the park, though – you’ll have to work.”

“I’ll go for it,” Ashley said.

“OK. We’ll take an extra day here and do it tomorrow.”

They found much of what they needed in a place on the edge of the village. The sign on the building said GUNS – Buy – Sell – Trade, and underneath, Bait and Tackle – Army Surplus. Emily had a talk with the old guy who ran the place. Between them, they decided on a suitable trail nearby that circled a small lake near a public camp ground.

Emily selected a compass, a bottle of GI bug dope, a bandana, and two worn but serviceable army blankets. Next were two canteens, two mess tins cast off by some European army, and a small entrenching shovel with a folding blade. She hesitated, then added a tomahawk and a flint-and-steel to the pile. They were made for the tourists, but probably no worse than the trade items sold to the Indians in colonial times.

“Anything else, young lady?” the old guy asked.

“Got any flatware to go with these Kraut mess kits?” Emily asked.

“In the bin behind you.”

“OK, ring it up.”

Their next stop was the hardware store. They bought a cast iron skillet, a c-clamp, a big mill file, and after a little searching, a wood-handled kitchen knife with an 8” blade of old fashioned steel, the kind that rusts. Last on the list was a roll of duct tape and a piece of rubber sheet packing.

They stopped at the small grocery store on their way back to their b&b. They bought a metal spatula, cardboard salt-and-pepper shakers, loose tea, beef jerky, 2 lb of salt pork, a can of Crisco, and a bag of self rising corn meal.

They did the rest of the prep work after supper. The landlady seasoned their skillet for them with the Crisco. Emily clamped the knife handle to the porch railing and edged the blade with the file, then repeated the process on the tomahawk and the shovel blade. The final item was a knife scabbard – Ashley made one out of the sheet packing and duct tape.

They went to bed at sundown. Tomorrow would be an active day.


Monday

They registered at the campground’s ranger station and got lucky. This early in the season, on a Monday, they got a campsite that was isolated from the others and right next to a mountain stream. The water flowed over a little waterfall maybe 10 ft high – spring snow melt had scoured out a pool below the falls. The water was clear and cold – the ranger assured them that it was safe to drink.

They parked the car and made ready. They wore t-shirts and sweat pants – Emily insisted on long pants for protection against deer ticks, mosquitos and black flies. Their sneakers weren’t the best choice for hiking, but probably better than the shoes most people had 250 years ago. Both girls had fanny packs – they filled them with jerky and clipped their canteen carriers to the belts. Emily slid a pair of nylons into an outside pocket of her pack, hung the compass around her neck on its lanyard and slid the tomahawk and knife under her belt. They tied sweat shirts around their waists by the sleeves, applied bug dope and were ready to go.

“What’s with the tomahawk and the nylons?” Ashley asked.

“I might need to make a splint for a broken leg,” Emily answered. “Not likely, but it never hurts to be prepared.”

The map Emily had gotten from the ranger said that the trail was 8.7 miles long, following around the lake shore and ending where it began. It didn’t have much elevation change, but enough that Ashley soon realized how out of shape she was.

Emily was out of training too, so she set an easy pace. They walked for 50 minutes, then stopped for 10 to rest, pee, chew the leathery jerky, sip from their canteens. They didn’t stop for lunch – Emily said that a rest longer than 10 minutes would cause them to stiffen up. Along the way, Emily pointed out various useful plants and the uses of each. Her knowledge was encyclopedic.

Their hike took just over 8 hours, start to finish. Ashley was exhausted by the time they got back to the car.

“How did they do it?” she asked Emily. “I’m whipped.”

“They lived hard lives, with plenty of hard work and sometimes hard knocks,” Emily replied. “The ones who survived were hard too. They could have made 12, maybe 15 miles a day on an easy trail like that one, even carrying 40 or 50 lbs of supplies and gear.”

Ashley sat and pulled off her sneakers and socks. “Well, I’m gonna soak my feet for a while.”

“We’re not through yet,” Emily said. “We’re really not supposed to do this, but I cleared it with the ranger – he said it would be OK if we cleaned up after ourselves. Bring some river rocks up here, about the size of two fists, and put them in a circle about 3 ft across. I’ll get us some wood.”

Ashley tried to put her sneakers back on, and discovered that she couldn’t. Her feet had swollen up. She got to work anyway, limping a little, trying to avoid the sharper rocks.

Emily laid the fire in the completed ring and struck a light. “We need to let this burn a while – I need coals, not flame.” She got to work breaking up the bigger pieces of wood with her tomahawk. “Get the mess kits out of the trunk and fetch some water.”

The lower part of the German mess kits was like a bucket, kidney shaped rather than round, with a wire bail handle – it held about 2 liters of liquid. Another vessel a few inches deep was nested inside – it could be used as a dish or bowl. The lid was also a few inches deep, with a hinged straight handle that let it be used as a cup or a small skillet.

Ashley returned with two buckets of water and found Emily spading and turning the dirt on the upwind side of the fire ring. Emily picked out the rocks and tossed them aside, then smoothed the soil with the blade. “You’ll see why later,” she said in response to Ashley’s question.

Emily added more wood to the fire, then set both buckets in the fire. She sliced the salt pork, put half in one of the buckets of hot water, wrapped the rest and returned it to the cooler. After that, she set the skillet in the fire to heat.

“They would have had bacon – not like ours, it was salted and smoked, and would keep without refrigeration,” Emily said. “This was as close as I could come.”

“Why not fry it?” Ashley asked.

“Too salty to eat – you have to parboil it first.” She fished the salt pork out of the water and dropped it into the hot skillet.

Emily was a competent and efficient camp cook. She fried up the salt pork golden brown, then took it out of the skillet and set it aside. She made batter with the corn meal, seasoned it with pepper and a little salt, and poured it into the hot grease in the skillet. She took the bucket of clean water off the fire, added a handful of loose tea to the hot water and attended to her cooking. When the batter was almost done, she laid the salt pork on top to re-warm it.

Emily served up the meal. “Trail rations – fried salt pork, fried mush and tea,” she said. “Bon appetit!”

Ashley was ravenous. The meal was much better than it looked – greasy, filling and satisfying. She made it disappear, licked her fingers and sipped her tea.

“No sugar?”

“A luxury,” Emily replied. “Most people used molasses or maple sugar as sweetener, or did without.”

They scoured out the pots with river sand. The iron skillet just got wiped out with the bandana, which Emily rinsed and hung from the car door handle to dry. Afterward, they sat by the fire, sipping tea and chatting. They were still in their sweat pants – they added sweat shirts against the evening chill.

“This would be a good time for a smoke,” Emily said. “If either of us had the habit, or the means to satisfy it.”

“Did you used to smoke?” Ashley asked.

“Gave it up,” Emily replied.

“Me too,” said Ashley, and yawned mightily.

“Bedtime,” Emily said. It was just past sundown. She banked the fire, got the blankets out of the trunk and gave one to Ashley. “Do as I do.”

Emily spread the blanket on the turned earth, took off her sneakers and socks, laid down with her feet toward the fire and rolled herself up. “See? Soft dirt and no rocks. Like a feather bed. Good night!”

Ashley woke up shivering. It was still dark, and colder now. She tossed more wood on the fire.

“Easy now – I need that wood for the breakfast fire,” Emily said from her blanket roll. She went on in a Hollywood Indian accent. “Indian build small fire, stay warm keeping close. White man build heap big fire, stay warm cutting wood.”

“I’m f-f-freezing!” Ashley protested.

“Here’s how two people can stay warm with only two blankets,” Emily said. She spread hers out flat. “Now lay down, and we’ll both get under yours. Cozy, huh?”

It was. Ashley dropped right off and slept dreamlessly.


Tuesday

Ashley giggled in her sleep. She giggled again and woke up. She felt fingernails flick her bare sole, giggled and sat up. It was just past sunrise. She felt surprisingly rested for having spent a night on the ground.

“Good morning, sleepy head!” Emily said. “Salt pork, mush and tea again for breakfast. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

They broke the camp down after breakfast, shoveled earth over the fire, tossed the smoky rocks into the pool below the waterfall. Next year’s snow melt would roll them around and scour them clean.

“How’d you learn all this stuff, Emily?” Ashley asked. “You’re like Natty – no, Natalie – Bumppo.”

Emily scoffed. “This is merit badge stuff. Any 8 yr old could learn it. You just weren’t interested.”

Ashley picked at her sweat shirt. “I smell pretty ripe.”

Emily took underwear, shorts and t-shirt out of her suitcase and laid them on the hood. “Easy to fix,” she said, and stripped to the buff. The doctors who had put her back together after the wreck had really known their business, Ashley thought. Emily’s skin, so fair it seemed almost translucent, was clear and unblemished – the surgical scars had faded to imperceptibility.

Emily plunged into the pool and surfaced whooping. “You too, Stinky!” she said. “It’s not so bad when you go numb.”

Ashley did likewise. The water was cold, probably about 50 F – it felt like an electric shock. But she felt much better when she got out and dressed in clean clothes.

They drove eastward on winding roads for a few hours, out of the park, and crossed Lake Champlain to Vermont on a car ferry. It was a few hours more from there to Mount Washington, NH, their next stop. The countryside was rugged here too, mountains with small towns and hill farms. It was far too early for local vegetables, but one enterprising farmer had home-made maple syrup on his roadside stand. The girls stopped and bought a quart each.

They rode the inclined railway to the top of Mount Washington. It was like being at the top of the world – the day was clear and cloudless, they could see for miles.

They stayed at a tourist camp outside the park, a former Civilian Conservation Corps camp of wood-frame cabins built before World War II. Emily had some distant connection to the old couple that owned the place. They had supper with their hosts, good old-fashioned country cooking. They watched the sun go down from the cabin’s porch and went to bed.


Wednesday

The girls were up at dawn for a country breakfast. Afterward, they drove east through New Hampshire and Maine to the seacoast. They drove south along the coast, following secondary roads, stopping when the urge hit them. This early in the season, the people who ran the tourist traps in the small coastal towns were lean and hungry. Ashley bought a scrimshaw necklace pendant for her mom at an antique shop, and actually paid a fair price.

They got to Salem too late to visit the Witchcraft Museum, but they took pictures of each other in the stocks outside the place anyway. Ashley was a good sport – this time, she let Emily tickle her feet. Emily only kept it up for a few minutes – a passing police officer stopped his patrol car and moved them along. Ashley didn’t mind. It was all in fun anyway – no big deal.

They backtracked north toward Gloucester – on their trip south, they had seen a fellowship supper advertised on a church sign in a little town up the coast. Much of the food was donated by fishermen members of the congregation. They feasted on chowder, lobster, clams, crab, fried fish until they thought they’d grow fins. It was all first rate. And cheap too!

The church was an old one. The girls walked around the churchyard cemetery after supper. The gravestones were all pre-1950, the oldest ones weathered nearly illegible. Some of them marked empty graves – memorials to men lost at sea. Ashley had the impression that Emily was looking for something, or somebody – an ancestor, maybe. But if she was, she never let on.

One of the church ladies ran a b&b a block from the harbor. The girls helped with the cleanup, then went home with her. Ashley was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.


Thursday

They were on the road to Boston right after breakfast. They saw the Old North Church and other tourist sites, then visited Old Ironsides – USS Constitution, launched in 1797 and the oldest commissioned warship in the world. The US Navy maintained the old ship as a memorial – the young guides were American sailors in 1812 uniform.

Old Ironsides was big for her rate, but small by modern standards. The deck spacing had been set by structural requirements rather than habitability. Ashley was tall for a woman – her head brushed the undersides of the deck beams in places. Sailing warships had huge crews to serve their guns and handle the clouds of canvas that drove them. Nighttime conditions on the gun deck, with over 400 men packed into hammocks, were best left unimagined. There had been one saving grace – unlike merchantmen, warships didn’t heave-to for the night. Having crewmen on watch to manage the ship would have reduced the crowding somewhat.

The girls left Boston after lunch and headed south to Plymouth. They had their pictures taken in front of Plymouth Rock, then toured the reproduction of the Mayflower. This ship was positively tiny – Ashley was amazed that anyone would trust their lives to so frail a vessel. Emily told her that ships of this type had once sailed all over the world – they had made European expansion possible. Not me, thought Ashley. I guess I’m not a pioneering type.

They visited the Plimoth Plantation, a reproduction of the colony in its early years. Ashley remarked on the primitive nature of some of the houses – one-room huts with a dirt floor, thatched roof, walls of woven-together sticks plastered with mud. Once again, Emily corrected her misconception. Plenty of poor rural English families had lived in wattle-and-daub huts. The colonists hadn’t lived too differently from their contemporaries in England.

They ate seafood again for supper. Their meals cost much more than the church supper, and weren’t quite as good.

They drove south after supper, and checked in to a mom-n-pop motel south of Plymouth. It was close to the ocean – they took a walk along the beach, looking for shells but finding mostly empty plastic soda bottles and other flotsam of civilization. The ocean was too cold to interest them in swimming, but felt pleasant enough on their feet as they waded in the shallows.

Emily took the first shower. She was in and out, ready for bed, in less time than it would take Ashley just to wash and rinse her long hair, let alone dry it. She looked younger now in her horizon-blue pajamas, baggy pants gathered at the ankles and a midriff-baring sleeveless top with a heart on the front. She flopped on the bed and clicked the TV on, looking for a news program.

As always, it took Ashley a long time to dry her hair. Not for the first time, she thought about what a nuisance that was. She wasn’t modeling any more – why not get it cut to a more manageable length? She resolved to do so as soon as they got home.

Ashley emerged from the bathroom in her pajamas, a pair of gym shorts and an oversized t-shirt, both soft and supple after many washings. Emily had already watched the news. She was on her tummy, her red hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, idly kicking her feet in the air as she clicked through the TV channels. Hmm…

Ashley pounced and straddled Emily’s hips facing aft, catching her friend completely by surprise. She grabbed Emily’s ankles, pulled, and wrapped her legs around Emily’s in the figure-four leg lock.

“Hey! Get off!” Emily said, squirming and bucking. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Guess,” said Ashley, and traced a figure-eight in Emily’s arch with a fingernail.

“Hehehe! Ashlee– hehe! Nooo!” Emily begged and giggled.

“Remember the fingernail foot massage you gave me?” Ashley asked sweetly. “It’s payback time!” She held Emily’s toes back and flicked her nails in the exact center of Emily’s right sole. Emily bucked and squirmed, her giggles were continuous now. Ashley kept her seat like a rodeo cowboy, tickling fiendishly. Emily lost it and laughed her head off.

Ashley tickled back and forth across both stretched out soles, then released the toes and tickled the soles again, watching the toes twitch and curl. Then down the soles and arches to the ticklish heels, drawing circles and other tickling shapes, while Emily laughed like a madwoman. Ashley backed off a little to give her some air, then speeded up again. Emily laughed helplessly, howling with forced mirth.

Ashley varied her technique, and held Emily on the edge for a long, long time. Emily laughed, and giggled, and laughed some more while time expanded and the tickling filled her universe. She stopped struggling, all resistance tickled out of her. All she could do was laugh and laugh as Ashley’s fingernails danced and flicked, covering both feet with unbearable tickling.

Ashley spread Emily’s toes, tickling between each pair, forcing more bursts of helpless laughter. She held the toes back and tickled the soft skin underneath, tickling side to side, over and over. Emily went wild, squirming, laughing at the top of her lungs, trying desperately to pull her feet away. Ashley put on a burst of speed, fingernails flying, and tickled Emily into gasping, red faced silent laughter.

Ashley dismounted. Emily rolled over, drew her legs up and shuffled her feet on the bed to get the tickle off. She was sweaty, short of breath, tears of laughter running down her cheeks.

“Wooo! That really tickled!” Emily said when she had her wind back again.

“It was supposed to,” Ashley replied, grinning.

Emily sat up, winced, and grinned back. “You fink! Now my abs hurt, and I need another shower!”

“Help yourself. We’re the only ones staying here tonight – should be plenty of hot water.” She eyed Emily’s bare midriff. “Want a tummy massage afterward?”

“Are you kidding? You’ll just tickle me again!”

“Who, me?” Ashley asked, the picture of wounded innocence.

Emily made a rude noise, shed her pajamas and went into the bathroom. But Ashley knew that Emily wasn’t really upset by the tickle attack. They were old friends by now, completely comfortable with each other. Too bad the trip was almost over.


Friday

Ashley and Emily pushed on to New Bedford the next morning, to the New Bedford Whaling National Historical Park. New Bedford had once been the preeminent whaling center in the world, providing whale oil for lamps and sperm oil as a fine lubricant for machinery. It had fallen on hard times after the Civil War. Refined petroleum had replaced New Bedford’s products– it was cheaper and just as good.

Now, though, the place had made a comeback as a tourist destination. They spent most of the day there, visiting the museums and historic buildings, seeing the sights. Ashley marveled that men had spent two years at a time at sea, away from their families, hunting whales all over the world. Emily just said, “People do what they must. Life was tough everywhere.”

They had supper in New Bedford – seafood again – and headed west to Fall River. Emily drove to the naval memorial park at Battleship Cove, home to the retired battleship USS Massachusetts, and parked.

“No more ship tours, Ashley – I promise,” Emily said. “They’re closed for the day anyway. But Grandpa Robert served in that big bastard over there in World War II. He brought me here years ago to see it. I just wanted to see it again.”

This was more like it, thought Ashley. The ship was huge, almost 700 ft long, over 100 ft broad, and as tall as a 10 story building. The big guns fired shells that weighed as much as a full-size pickup truck. But it was a different story inside, Emily said. Space was always at a premium on warships – they were as big as they needed to be, and no bigger. The ship was so crammed with machinery that the crew hadn’t had much more living space than the crew of Old Ironsides.

They stopped for the night at a generic highway motel near Taunton. One more day, and it would be time to head back home.


Saturday

Saturday’s trip was an easy drive through rolling countryside. They took their time, stopping in small towns along the way to check out antique shops and such. They got to their destination in mid-afternoon.

At first glance, the quaint New England town that was home to Commonwealth University was an odd destination for two girls who didn’t plan to go to college. But the original source of the town’s wealth had been the Cabot Woolen Goods Mill. Ashley had done a high school history project on the Mill with David Goodson and her friend Morgan. She wanted to see the place.

The Mill was long gone, of course. The mill jobs had paused in the Carolinas for two generations, on their way south to Honduras. These days, the University was the town’s biggest employer.

The old downtown had retained its original character. The locals, no doubt influenced by faculty member fellow citizens, had succeeded in a degree of preservation. The girls saw few of the “improvements” that scarred so many older town centers. It was a thriving commercial center – businesses that provided personalized service had replaced others put out of business by the chains and discounters.

Afterward, they drove to a neighborhood of tall Victorian mansions near the campus, all long since chopped up into student apartments. Candice’s older sister Nicole, a Pre-Med student, lived here, although she was now home for the summer. The girls had arranged to stay in her apartment – they had called Nicole’s downstairs neighbor on Thursday night to give a heads-up.

Most of the old houses had been renovated with an eye to economy and low maintenance – aluminum siding, roofed with huge interlocking barn shingles, and so forth. But the neighborhood was starting to re-gentrify. Two of the houses had been restored to their original appearance and converted to two-family occupancy. Another was a one-family home again, or would be soon – there was a contractor’s sign and stacks of building materials in the front yard, and workmen going in and out.

With most of the local residents home for the summer, they had no trouble finding a parking space. Nicole’s building showed no signs of activity, though the windows of the first and second floor apartments on the left side were open.

Ashley heard faint laughter as soon as she got out of the car. They left their gear in the car and checked the place out. The laughter got louder as they approached – it seemed to be coming from the open first-floor windows. It was louder still in the hallway outside the door of Apartment 1A – a young woman, laughing her head off.

Ashley knocked, then knocked again, louder. The laughter stopped.

A young woman answered the door. She was small and trim, Mediterranean-looking, with long, lustrous dark brown hair, dark brows and lashes, brown eyes. She was barefoot, wearing t-shirt and shorts, her hair tied back in a long pony tail.

“Stacy Haviland?” Ashley asked.

“No, but this is her place,” the other replied. “Hold on – I’ll get her.

“Ashley Curtis?” a voice called from inside.

“Yes!” Ashley called back.

“Let her in, Alicia,” the voice said. “I’ve been expecting her and her friend. Nicole said they’re cool with our hobby.”

Stacy sat sideways on the living room couch, her hands tied behind her back, ankles tied together. She was dressed like Alicia, about the same size and build, a pretty brunette with curly shoulder-length hair and soft brown eyes.

“Forgive me for not coming to greet you,” Stacy said. She grinned. “I’m a little tied up. Alicia and I were playing, killing time until you two showed up.” Ashley recognized the same Down East accent she had heard in Maine.

The girls introduced themselves while Alicia was untying Stacy. “You’re from Buffalo, or somewhere close by,” Alicia said to Emily. “The broad “A” – my relatives sound like that.”

“I’ve lived there,” Emily said. “Your name is Jemison. You’re a Seneca Indian, aren’t you? You don’t look like one – I would have guessed Italian.”

“A lot of us don’t. Too many White Indians in the woodpile – I’m descended from Mary Jemison, one of many. But I don’t live there. I’m an Air Force brat – my family are at RAF Lakenheath now, in the UK.” Her speech had a West Coast flavor. There’s another joke – that career sailors, Navy and Coast Guard, sound like swamp Yankees, Army and Marines like Southern country boys, but in the Air Force, everybody’s from California.

Stacy was 21, and majoring in Hospitality Management. She worked at Ali Baba’s, the local Persian restaurant, waiting tables and learning the business. She shared Apartment 1A with her sisters. Ashley, the oldest girl, was a grad student – she was at an out-of-town academic conference this weekend. Michelle, the youngest, was home for the summer. Stacy offered their rooms to Ashley and Emily. It would be more comfortable than Nicole’s attic efficiency, right under the roof and stifling hot this time of year.

Alicia was Stacy’s co-worker – she had just finished her Freshman year, and lived upstairs in Apartment 2A. She had stayed on for the summer – she knew she didn’t have a prayer of finding a summer job in the UK. Air Force families are an eclectic lot – Alicia had learned belly dancing from a friend’s Lebanese mother at age 14, and had kept it up ever since. During the school year, she danced two 20-minute sets, twice a week. Now, she waited tables at lunchtime on the days she danced, and the dinner shift on three others. It all paid the same – a free meal and minimum wage – but half of her tip income came from dancing.

Alicia and Stacy had the night off. They all went to the Persian restaurant anyway, the best place within easy walking distance. It was still early – the main dinner rush wouldn’t start for another hour or so. Mr. Mooshie gave all four of them free meals – Persian cucumber salads, hummus with thin fresh-baked pita-like bread, lamb kebab with basmati rice, delicate pastries afterward with Turkish coffee strong enough to strip paint.

Pleasantly full, the girls drove to a student hangout on the other side of the campus. The place was called Colonial Jack’s, and had a cartoon figure of a Minuteman with a foaming mug of beer on the sign over the door. It had started life as a corner local for the surrounding mill-worker community, now home to students and the working poor. It opened early in summer – the owner needed all the business he could get with most of his customers away in their home towns.

There were only a few customers, and only two at the bar, girls of 19 or 20. The smaller girl was blonde and blue-eyed, maybe five feet tall, with a solidly Rubenesque figure, a page bob over her cherubic features and cerulean (indeed!) lipstick and fingernails. She wore a Far Side t-shirt, work pants and Doc Marten boots. Her friend was lovely in an exotic way, rail thin with olive skin and dark eyes. She wore her long, jet black hair in a pony tail, and was clad entirely noir – long sleeved sweat shirt, short skirt, nylons, sandals.

Stacy scowled. Odd, thought Ashley – her impression had been that Stacy was easygoing to the point of imperturbability.

“Time for you to leave,” Stacy told the two at the bar. She pointed to the door. “Beat your feet.”

They looked back angrily, but they were outnumbered. They did as they were told. Ashley noticed that Emily was standing ready, in a deceptively relaxed posture, but ready for instant action if the situation required it.

“What was that all about?” Ashley asked.

“Townies, former neighbors,” Stacy answered. “The blonde is Clarice Witciewicz – the French Arab is Dominique Harad. They tickled the shit out of your friend Nicole all last fall. Me and my older sister too, but they were merciless with Nicole. We ran ‘em off right after Thanksgiving. Nicole got reinforcements from home. The Sopranos, twin girls and their younger sister – Vicky, Veronica and Brittany.”

“Their name’s Righetti,” Ashley corrected. “So that’s where they went. They never said.”

“Forget it,” Alicia said. “Let’s get a pitcher of Margaritas.”

Emily could hold her own, but Ashley had never been much of a drinker. The drinks went right to her head. She excused herself and went outside. Maybe a walk and some fresh air would clear her head.

Sundown was still an hour and a half away. It was too early for night life – the side street was pretty much deserted, not even many parked cars. The neighborhood was quiet, with most of its student residents away.

Ashley had just passed a parked van when the back doors flew open. Four hands grabbed her and dragged her inside. She yelled and struggled, but to no avail. Her attackers dumped her roughly on her tummy. One sat on her while the other pulled the doors shut. They tied her hands behind her back and then rolled her over.

Clarice and Dominique. They sat down cross-legged, facing each other, grinning evilly. Each grabbed one of Ashley’s ankles, trapped it in a leg lock and flipped off a sandal.

“No Sopranos tonight,” Clarice said. “I bet this one’s a contralto.”

“It will be fun to find out,” Dominique replied in French-accented English. “How long do you think we have until the others miss her?”

“Maybe 15 or 20 minutes. We better get to it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Ashley asked. “What have I ever done to either of you?” She had stopped struggling and yelling – there was no point in it, with no help at hand.

“There’s an old saying in Arabic,” Dominique said. “The friend of my enemy is my enemy too. Ready, Clarice?”

Clarice flicked her fingernails along the bottom of Ashley’s trapped foot. Dominique joined in. Ashley threw her head back and laughed at the top of her lungs.

Ashley’s tormentors tickled in tandem, mirroring each other’s motions, and were rewarded with streams of helpless ticklish laughter. They varied their technique – they were true artists. They used scrabbling motions that had Ashley laughing wildly. Light flicks with the tips of their nails produced a constant stream of giggles. Then heavier tickling, scratching, drawing circles and figure-eight’s with their nails, and Ashley laughed her head off.

Ashley was so ticklish that she didn’t have a sweet spot. No matter – everything they did made her laugh like mad. They tickled along the creases in the exact center of her soles and onto the arches just behind, then held her toes back and tickled her soles mercilessly. They tickled down both arches onto her heels, back up to her toes, spread them and tickled in between, held them back and tickled underneath. Ashley lapsed into ticklish delirium, laughing like a madwoman. She had lost all power of resistance, or even coherent thought.

Someone outside yanked the doors open. “TABARNAK!” an angry voice shouted. “Let her GO!”

Through a haze of ticklish agony, Ashley saw Stacy behind the van, with Alicia and Emily on either side. Dominique snarled something back in French – a deadly insult, from the sound of it – and tickled faster. Ashley’s laughter went off the scale – she was very near the end of her endurance.

Emily’s right hand went to her hip, reaching for something that wasn’t there. She unleashed such a torrent of furious abuse that Ashley’s tormentors actually recoiled – even Clarice, who understood not a word of French. The tickling stopped instantly.

Clarice scrambled into the driver seat and cranked up. Dominique shoved Ashley out the back doors – Ashley stumbled and went down on one knee, gasping for air. Clarice floored it and sped off with the doors still open. Dominique flipped Emily off and tossed Ashley’s sandals out. Emily’s hands were both balled up into fists – she shouted something else, bit her thumb in an oddly foreign gesture, and spat on the ground.

Alicia helped Ashley to her feet. Stacy retrieved her sandals. Emily quivered, then came back to herself and turned to her friend.

“Are you OK, Ashley? I’m sorry, we never knew you were in trouble until you didn’t come back,” Emily said.

“I’ve had worse done to me,” Ashley said. She took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m OK now. Anybody got a knife?”

No one did – they had to untie her instead. None of them felt like staying at the club – the incident had killed their outing. They headed to the apartment house.

Alicia drove, with Ashley in the shotgun seat. In the back, Stacy said something to Emily in French. Emily answered hesitantly. They picked their way along for a few minutes, slowly, with much repetition. Finally, Emily held up her hands in surrender.

“Let’s stick to English,” Emily said. “My French is pretty rusty. Where’d you learn it, Stacy?”

“I’m from a border town. I’ve spoken it since I learned to talk, along with English. We all do, back home – the québécois variety, not the European. Like Australian versus BBC English. But I didn’t catch everything you said to Dominique, and what I did… You sounded like…”

“A seaport whore.” Emily looked amused. “I learned French the way you did – by speaking it. I was older than you when I learned, and my teacher… Let’s just say that Marie had been around.” And after that, she would say no more.

“Hey, everybody, it was no big deal,” Ashley said back at the apartment. “It was just tickling, and we all do that all the time. It’s still early – why don’t we play for a while?”

The others agreed. They were all still wired from the Turkish coffee anyway, despite the Margaritas. They paired off, Ashley with Stacy and Alicia with Emily. A few minutes later, Stacy and Emily were barefoot and hogtied, laughing helplessly as the others tickled their feet.

Stacy was a lot of fun to tickle – a great reaction and a musical tickle laugh. Ashley tickled between and under her toes, across her soles, down the arches to the heels. She covered both feet with tickling nail flicks, and discovered the sweet spots – the exact center of Stacy’s soles, along the creases. She tickled the stretched out soles, faster now, and Stacy’s laughter went off the scale.

Ashley glanced over at the others. Emily was red faced, laughing her head off. Alicia had discovered Emily’s sweet spot too – her tickling fingernails flicked and scratched the soft skin under Emily’s toes. Emily wasn’t struggling – Alicia had tickled her into submission. Emily laughed helplessly, tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks.

They rearranged themselves after a while. Alicia released Emily, and submitted to a hogtie herself. Ashley explored Alicia’s feet, tickling fiendishly, and learned that her new friend’s sweet spot was the same as Emily’s. Alicia was an active ticklee, squirming and straining as she laughed. Ashley kept her laughing, tickling other ticklish spots for a little variety, then back under the toes. Streams of sweet laughter poured out of her victim.

Emily was doing good work with Stacy too. Stacy laughed and laughed as Emily’s tickling fingernails flicked and scratched. Emily tickled two-handed, from the heels to the soles, getting great reactions. Then she held back Stacy’s toes and concentrated on the sweet spots. Stacy arched her back and laughed at the top of her lungs.

Ashley and Emily untied the others a little later for a much-needed break. Emily and Alicia were on the couch, joking and comparing notes. Stacy followed Ashley into the kitchen.

“How well do you know Emily?” Stacy asked.

Ashley considered. They had been neighbors and school classmates for nearly a year, friends of a sort for much of that, and had gotten very close on this trip. But Ashley hadn’t even known Emily’s former home town until a few days ago. What did she really know about Emily?

“Not well at all,” Ashley admitted. “But I like her a lot.”

“Has she ever gone off like that before?” Stacy asked.

“Once that I know of,” Ashley said. “She thumped Sara pretty good – blacked her eye.”

Easygoing or not, Stacy was deadly serious now. “Emily’s dangerous,” she said. “Sara’s lucky Emily didn’t have a knife. She was going for one tonight, or maybe a gun. I’ve seen it before – I waited tables at a road house before I hired on with Ali Baba’s.”

“Come on,” Ashley protested. “Sara had it coming – Emily’s just about the most even-tempered person I know. This is only other time I’ve ever seen her do anything like this.”

“Maybe so. But there’s another thing,” Stacy said. “You’d have to go way off the beaten track to hear French spoken the way she speaks it. Somebody old maybe, who spent their whole life in the far north of Québéc.”

Stacy hesitated, then went on. “No, it’s more like… You’ve seen Treasure Island, right? The one from the 1950’s?”

Ashley nodded, a little perplexed at the change of subject.

“Remember Long John Silver? Arrr, shiver me timbers, like that? Translate his English pirate brogue into French, and it would sound a lot like Emily did tonight,” Stacy said.

Stacy paused again, frustrated. “That’s not it either. But there’s more to Emily than she’s told you. There’s no malice in her, we’re safe with her tonight, but later… Be careful, Ashley. You really don’t want to set her off.”

Ashley was still skeptical. Emily hadn’t caused any real harm to anyone that she knew of. Even Sara had only gotten a black eye, and neither Sara nor Emily held a grudge over the incident. She didn’t have much time to think it over, though, because they resumed their play soon after.

This time, Stacy tickled Ashley while Emily had her revenge on Alicia. Ashley didn’t see much of Alicia’s tickle torture – she was laughing much too hard. Stacy tickled her into the zone with fast nail flicks, held her there drawing random tickling shapes in her arches and on her ticklish heels. She tickled under and between Ashley’s toes until Ashley thought she would go crazy. Then Stacy attacked her soles again, covering them with well techniqued tickling. Ashley’s laughter went off the scale. She lost it and laughed herself breathless.

Ashley laid there gasping, blinking away tears of laughter. Alicia was still laughing madly, her ticklish laughter filling the air.

“Sorry, Ashley,” Stacy said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s… OK… ” Ashley gasped out. She took a deep breath. “Good one!”

Emily put on a burst of speed, fingernails flying. Alicia laughed at the top of her lungs, bucking and squirming, trying desperately to escape the tickling. Emily kept her laughing for another two or three minutes, then took pity and quit – Alicia had been right on the edge, about to lose it.

Emily released Alicia and submitted to a hogtie by Stacy. Emily was no different from the rest of them, Ashley thought. How could Stacy think otherwise?

Alicia knee walked over to Ashley. “My turn,” she said, and put a knee on either side of Ashley’s to prevent a rollover.

Emily burst out laughing. The laughter went up a notch as Stacy started tickling with both hands – Emily’s face turned pink, tears of laughter leaked out of her closed eyes.

“You’re awful quiet,” Alicia said, and applied appropriate corrective measures. Ashley bucked violently and then laid still, laughing at the top of her lungs. Her feet, insanely ticklish anyway, had been sensitized by Stacy’s tickling. Now, the tickling sensation overcame her completely. All she could do was laugh and laugh, while Alicia covered her feet with skilled and fiendish tickling. Her last thought before she zoned out, laughing helplessly, was that Alicia was very good indeed.

Alicia stopped eventually – her fingers were tired, she said. Stacy had already finished with Emily – the two of them released her while Alicia went to the kitchen for Cokes. Ashley winced as she sat up. Her ribs and abs were sore from laughing.

They showered and went to bed soon afterward. Stacy took Ashley’s hands in her own at the door of her borrowed bedroom. “Remember what I told you,” Stacy said. “Watch yourself.”


Sunday

This was the last day – tomorrow, she and Emily would start their jobs. They were up early again, ate a fast-food breakfast in the car and pushed hard out of New England and across southern New York State. They had a rolling fast-food lunch too, and reached Corning, NY in early afternoon. They spent a few hours in the Glass Museum, saw the defective first mirror blank for the Palomar telescope and the collection of Steuben glassware. Then another pit stop, and they were on their way home.

Ashley was driving now – she figured to have them home an hour or so after dark. She kept their speed a little above 70 mph. The Toyota was like a faithful old horse, Emily had said. It would get you where you were going, but it was tired and not to be treated too roughly.

Ashley was feeling like an old horse too – she was smelling the barn. It took conscious effort to hold the speed down. She glanced over at Emily, napping in the shotgun seat.

At highway speeds, the car’s air conditioning struggled on warm days. Emily had done her hair up in two little-girl pigtails to get it off her neck. She wore shorts and an oversized t-shirt. She had tilted the seat back slightly and propped her bare feet up on the dashboard. In repose, she looked all of about 15 years old.

Stacy was right. There was more to Emily than met the eye. She had a life story that she didn’t talk about, any more than Ashley did about her own.

Ashley turned her eyes back to the highway. I wonder what Emily’s story is, she thought. I wonder what she would think of mine.


***THE END***




Afterword…

Clarice and Dominique first appeared in “Sabbatickle” by Capt. Spalding, aka Tee Hee Lawrence, posted elsewhere on this forum. The descriptions are his, more or less verbatim. They are used with his kind permission.

Strelnikov

Awesome stuff....
Great STORY!!!
And great tickling...
Nicely done!

Any fantastic chapter in this fine series. Great descriptions, both of the tickling and of the locations.

Strelnikov,

You are truly a master of epic story telling!

Morandilas
MTJ Publishing

superb