Widow Omalla reached between the thorns to take the rich purple mung berries and drop them into her basket. Picking mung required attention if you wanted only the ripest berries. The unripe could be left for a later day. Like most villagers picking and weaving took up much of her day but the rewards were great. The land was rich by the bounty of their Goddess. Bananas ripened on their trees. Villagers cut the cane, pineapple, coconuts, breadfruit, and other vegetables so none went hungry. The island was rich, and in return, the villagers gave thanks to their Goddess, Lovely Shahira.

Omalla was not content. It had been three seasons since her Mapil left to fish. Now he belonged to the Sea Witch. Mapil had been a fisherman and the villagers had a proverb, 'Fisherman feed the people. And then they feed the fish.' All knew her man was lost. Her daughters had no father and her nights were cold and empty. Not a day went by when she did not miss him.

Her daughters Omaka and Mapila did not think often of a man they barely knew. They were at her feet, old enough to pick, but still too young to resist a ripe mung berry. That was understood, for picking was the best way to teach children to pick only the ripe and leave the rest for later pickings.

Zemla, their Bride of Shahira, walked among the pickers, chatting and touching, as she sought to encourage her flock. Upon her skin, their priestess bore the signs of Shahira. The Sun had been tattooed above her left breast and the Moon above her right. Her waist was marked with the circle of lovers. In Youth, she had been known as a great beauty and all had come to see Bridal march. Omalla thought her lovely still, not caring if the priestess's black hair had whitened and her breasts now pointed more down than up. Omalla enjoyed her company when she had it. Perhaps the priestess felt the same. She felt Zemla's fingers gliding along the small of her back, a gentle touch, and somewhat intimate but that merely made it sweeter.

“You have something on your mind, Omalla?” stated the priestess, ever perceptive. A Bride or Husband saw things others missed. Perception was a gift Shahira gave to Her own.

Omalla stopped picking to face Zemla. She'd been thinking of this conversation for some time but had not expected her Priestess to initiate it. “Bride Zemla, Mapil has been gone for three seasons now. My mat is barren. I loved him but we both know he will never return from the sea. I am far from old and could attract someone new to share my life with. May I visit Shahira's Garden to see if our Goddess has another flower for me?”

Zemla nodded. “Your request is not unexpected, and will be welcomed in the village. Many eyes follow you as you pick.”

Omalla smiled bitterly. “I have seen those eyes. Most are bonded men who already warm another's mat. I have seen the longing gaze of fallow boys who imagine me their docent. i do not want a boy.”

“You would not wish to serve as a docent?”

“Maybe. But why me?”

“Why not? Did you not imagine the perfect docent when you lay fallow, forbidden any intimate touch but your own?”

Omalla laughed and straightened. “Of course I did. I fantasized about more than one man.”

Zemla chuckled. “My fantasies were filled with visions of Shahira. Well, there were a few others. I admit I never really believed the Goddess might actually choose me until She did.”

“Was Shahira . . ?”

“No, our Goddess was not my docent. I made my debut like everyone else. Rest assured I enjoyed my Sugar Season thoroughly before Shahira claimed me.” Zemla's hips rolled suggestively, making it clear her Season had been sweet.

“Were you disappointed in your docent?” asked Omalla, delighted to be speaking so frankly with the Bride.

“Were you?” Zemla shot back with a smile.

Her retort struck home. “At first I was. I had chosen Old Kentan's flower, the carver with knobby knees. I was appalled and shocked when I arrived at my Sugar Cave to find him inside.”

“Did your repulsion last?” the Bride asked, already knowing Omalla's answer.

Omalla laughed. “Not long. Shahira is Wise. By the time we were halfway through the exercises, I was eager to take him inside me. When my Honeymoon came to an end I was in tears.”

Zemla's eyes sparkled as she chuckled. “None learn better than a student who is truly hungry to learn.”

“I was very hungry by the second day,” admitted Omalla, a bit embarrassed to speak of her ritual and glad her daughters were delving deep into the bush, in search of the tastiest fruit. The ritual was not to be discussed in front of those who had not gone through it.

“Like you, I was initially disappointed in my docent. Yet he turned out perfect for me. The Goddess has many mysteries, but Her magic is strong.”

Omalla's resolve strengthened. “Then let me dance at the Rite of Renewal! I want to enter Shahira's Garden. I wish to bloom again!"

“Dance,” said Zemla. “I shall. My mat is also cool and empty.”

“It must be hard to be Shahira's. You are so pretty and could enjoy so many choices.”

Zemla chuckled. “Worry not for me. I'm already married to Shahira, and through her to each and every man and woman She has so blessed. It's just that no others happen to share our island, at least our part of it. ”

Omalla really had no argument to the Bride's words. “With Shahira all things are possible.”

“With Shahira all things are possible But think Omalla! Mapil is far from the only man claimed by the sea. Are you the only widow of your debut class?”

Omalla shook her head, knowing she was not. Few old men enjoyed meals in their village. It might be there was no one left for her. But she had to hope. “So I must survive alone.”

“I did not say that,” said the Bride. “You never experimented during your Sugar Season?” She let the words hang in the air, for the Goddess honored Love in all its forms.

Omalla blushed. "Not really. I lay with Mapil in mid-summer. After him, I did not care to continue my search.”

“Everyone noticed,” said the Bride “You were happy together, and I see that love still in your daughters.”

“Am I betraying Mapil to want another? Am I betraying my children?”

Zemla wrapped her fingers about Omalla's arm and squeezed. “Never is it wrong to seek love. I knew him too. He loved Shahira too. And maybe he sleeps with the Sea Witch. He was handsome enough for Her."

"I hope so," said Omalla.

"Me too. Come to my hut Saturday. Perhaps Shahira's Garden holds a blossom for you, my young widow.”

On Saturday Omalla came to Shahira's garden. It was divided from the village by a small hedge with a blue wooden gate that stood open. Inside she found Zemla, attentively caring for the flowers. Shahira's garden was ablaze with color, red roses, and white lilies, snapdragons and fucscia, sunflowers shading posies, marigolds besides daisies. No matter where Omalla looked she saw color, mesmerizing and enchanting. She saw flowers she could not name, but present.

“Sit,” commanded the Bride. She took Omalla's hand and led her to a place at her side upon the swing, then reached for her pouch. Zemla withdrew a eucalyptus pipe, cut in the size and shape of a man's cock, a deep bowl between his 'stones'. This she filled with the brown herb. The scent of flowers was strong and a bit overwhelming from the sheer concentration. Roses climbed the trees of all shades, along with tulips, posies, and many flowers she did not know. If there was a flower that grew upon the Urth, it grew in the Goddess's garden. Omalla had seen the inside only once before; on her Docent Day, the day she chose the docent who had guided her through her Debut. Carefully Zemla packed the herb into the bowl and with the touch of her finger set it alight. She breathed deeply of the stick-sweet smoke before exhaling small hearts of smoke while she handed it to Omalla

Omalla took the pipe and pressed the 'cockhead' to her lips, sucking the smoke through the hole.

“This will not be like your Docent Day,” said the Bride. “Then you picked, today you are to smell only.”

Omalla nodded, trying to hold the scent in her lungs as she passed the pipe back to Zemla, who took a deep drag. Omalla began to notice the insects flitting from blossom to blossom, gathering and sharing pollen, buzzing in her ear. The colors grew brighter and she began to hear the sea crashing upon the surf, a sound so familiar she routinely ignored it until the herb enlightened her. Her senses expanded to the songs of the toucans and the parrot chirping, the chittering of monkeys, and the slithering of the snake upon the ground. Her breathing deepened, matching time with the waves as she took back the pipe to suck in more of the blessed smoke.

Tree limbs swayed in the breeze and flowers too. Leaves rocked back and forth with the wind, colors growing in intensity. Reds deepened, yellows brightened, greens glowed with life as the world grew brilliant and alive. She could almost feel the sap racing through plant veins, smelled the pollen upon stamen and stigma. The colors moved and swirled like dancers at the festival. She felt her own body swaying with the motion as the smoke leaked from her as her lungs emptied.

The fingers of the Bride glided up and down her spine, caressing her, reminding her this was a human thing, drawn though she was into the magic of Shahira's Garden.

“It is time,” said Zemla. “Go and sniff the flowers. Neglect none. If one particularly appeals to you, do not fixate. If that flower is meant for you Shahira will call you back to it. Take your time, for the search for love rewards the patient and frustrates the hasty.”

“I will smell them all,” vowed Zemla. Her body felt languid, as if in some thick syrup. But she rose and went to the blossoms. Colors coursed through her sun-browned skin, traced patterns and characters she could not comprehend. But she bent her neck to smell, first some roses, then violets, then a dandelion, moving from blossom to blossom, taking in the thick, beautiful scents. She felt as if she were drunk upon the smell.

A tangerine and yellow day lily caught her attention, aged, perhaps a bit withered but the scent was so sweet and hearty, yet delicate at the same time. She took a long draught of scent, and then another before moving on as the Bride had instructed. A pansy called to her, then a white rose, then a long string of flowers whose name she did not know. But again her attention was drawn back to that singular day lily. Its surface was imperfect, but its scent, oh this scent she felt to the tips of her toes. Omalla had her instructions and did her best to try each one, and they all smelled sweet in their own way. Some flowers had scents that seemed to merge with another blossom. Were those the flowers of committed couples whose lives were one? In the end, it didn't matter. No scent compared to her day lily. When she returned to Zemla's side, she knew there was someone in the garden just for her.

The rains came hard that year, and Omalla spent a lot of time in her hut, with her girls, watching the dark skies as the Gods poured their tears down upon the land. Thunder struck and the sky flashed brilliant white. “Stormbringer Buurya must be angry,” she told her girls, who clung to their mother during the display of light and sound. “It stormed like this the night your father was lost.”

“I wish I could remember Daddy better,” said Omaka, small arms wrapped around her legs, fingers squeezing so tight. “He used to lift me above his head and let my ride on his shoulders. Why did the Sea Witch claim him?”

“We will never know,” her mother said as the light and thunder came as one. "When we meet again in Shahira's Lands, we will be together and perhaps he will tell us."

Omaka stared up at her and tilted her head contemplating that. “Mother, are you planning to dance at the Rite? I saw you with the Bride.”

Omalla froze for a second, realizing she had to say something, amazed one so young had seen so much. “I am. Your father is lost to us. I am lonely, particularly at night. My mat is empty. You will understand these things one day.”

“I will not understand,” yelled her daughter. “I want my Daddy!” And tears flowed from her child's face, stinging her like the loss of her man. Lightning flashed to light their world, and thunder cracked.

Omalla took her daughters into her arms. “I want him too,” she said softly, as the lightning flashed to light their world. “But I cannot return him to us, or I would have long ago. Remember, the proverb, that wishing will not fill our baskets. Your father belongs to the sea now.”

“Picking does not fill my basket."

"That's because you eat too many berries," Omalla said, rubbing her child's head.

"Why do men fish and women gather?” asked Omaka.

“I don't know,” Omalla said. “But if I fished the Sea Witch might claim me as well. Would you like that?”

“No!” shouted the girl and hugged her mother tight. They held each other as the thunder and lightning faded and the rain tailed off. And as the sun set on the island she saw hints of orange on the horizon, a sure sign the Rite would begin tomorrow. Tomorrow Omalla would dance.

That morning the villagers gathered. Omalla hugged Samaka for a long time, as her Breton had not returned with his ruined boat, a sure sign he was lost. Omalla took her place in the line with those who were in Season. The Bride filled a cup of Shahira's Liquor for each person and handed them out. Finished, she stood in the center and raised her own cup. “Drink now, for this is Shahira's wine. Drink and dance for Shahira!" She nodded and the drummers began to beat out a steady rhythm. Zemla drank deeply. The pipes played high notes soaring like butterflies above the driving, steady rhythm. Lyres joined in filling the gaps between the pipes and the drums as the song rose.

Omalla drank her fill. The liquor was thick, sweet yet bitter, syrupy with the taste of anise. She lifted her cup high and poured every drop down her throat before setting the cup back down on the ground. Her body grew warm and a sweet feeling flooded her skin as she began to feel the rhythm of the drums, colors of the pipes, and the rhythm of the sea. Her hips swayed slowly at first but grew freer and she rose her arms above her head as her body melted into the song. All around her dancers moved as the rhythm absorbed their minds and bodies. The cocks of dancing men swelled to full height. Omalla felt her pussy warming, glowing, becoming sticky and needy. She felt like falling upon the first man she saw but recognized none through the mists filling her mind. Shades and floating images of flowers surrounded her as the liquor bent her perception. She saw flowers, translucent but glowing in brilliant colors.

The Bride walked around the circle of dancers, tapping one person at a time to send that person alone into the jungle. Each departed dancing. Omalla took little notice as their shades passed. The scent of her lily filled her nostrils, the same lily from Shahira's garden. “I am waiting” someone whispered into her ear. “Come find me.” And she saw her flower formed into a translucent, lovely shape before her eyes. Her blossom began to move, floating just ahead of her. Omalla followed. Her lily led her down winding paths that glowed yellow-green. She followed the scent and image along the mountainside then down, down into the valley, deep into the jungle. Shapes passed her by, men and women with hard cocks and stiff nipples, each following their own flower. A glowing flower floated above each head, but none wore her flower. Only one scent might do. Macaws seemed to laugh. Monkeys grinned and pointed. Birds chirped to the rhythm of pipe and drums. All the world moved in rhythm, melted into one life, one heartbeat as she descended down to the bottom of a valley. She found and followed ancient steps leading down into a tunnel. Never had she noticed them despite her many trips in the jungle. It was as if only the lily could lead her this direction. Her lily's scent and image grew stronger as she descended. Down into valley she went, led by her flower, and that scent, that perfect scent.

Omalla could not say how long she followed her flower. Finally, she came to a small cove set between the mountains, she forded a small stream wetting her feet in the cool water, and then walked onto the soft glass. A woman danced upon the soft grass, slowly swaying. As she came closer Omalla recognized Zemla. Her flower came to rest upon the dancing Bride, then united with her.

“Finally, someone has found me,” Zemla said. “And it is you, Omalla! How blessed I am.” She reached out for Omalla, laced their fingers, and pulled the widow tight into her embrace. Their bodies pressed tight as they danced to the rhythm of Shahira.

“But you are Shahira's,” hissed Omalla her eyes locked upon the Bride's, their arms linked and their skin pressed close.

“Ours is not a jealous Goddess. Love belongs to everyone,” said the Bride. Her fingers slid across Omalla's neck, and she turned the widow's head. “Look into the pool. Behold our Goddess!”

Omalla caught her breath, for she saw a woman's face in the pool, hair shining yet dark as a moonless night. Her eyes flashed like emeralds and her lips were red and full. Never had Omalla beheld such beauty! Their Goddess mouthed a kiss with those perfect lips. Omalla felt those full lips upon her, all of her, and moaned aloud in sheer pleasure. “Is that Her?”

“Of course! Now you too have felt Shahira's kiss,” Zemla said. “We are blessed,” she said taking Omalla's hands in hers, pressing her bare breasts to the young widow, and sliding her right thigh between Omalla's to press firmly upon her mound. Their fingers met as they moved together, hands on the palm of the other, then reversing, fingertips gliding down her skin. Zemla's caressing fingers left golden tingling paths on her skin. As their positions reversed, her own fingers left a beautiful trace upon the Bride's brown skin. Zemla's eyes were dark and wide, the wrinkles at the tip giving them a softness. In the Bride's pupils, Omalla saw her flower reflected back at her. And she leaned close to rub her lips across the Priestess.

Their kiss was hungry and deep, tongues dancing as one. Omalla ground her mound upon the Bride's thigh. Zemla pushed back, her own sex leaving moist trails upon Omalla's hip. Feeling that trail of pleasure upon her skin sent shivers to her widowed sex, and made her squeeze it tight and press her own mound tighter against her partner's hips. The scent of her flower grew stronger with each grind of Zemla's wet pussy upon Omalla's hip. The pressure built in their loins, their nipples stiffened as they pressed tight against each other. The touch of the Brides's tongue upon her own, teasing her, swirling with her, plunging deep into her mouth made her feel like it was her Sugar Season again, and her body driven purely by hunger and need, released into a whole world of pleasure and joy. Her fingers slid into Zemla's hair, soft strands running between her fingers. The Bride's tongue claimed her and pressed deep to thrust like Mapil's cock once had. Zemla squeezed Omalla's fingers and pushed harder on her, forcing the woman backward up to one of the stone walls.

She broke the kiss and whispered into Omalla's ears. “I am yours and you mine! In Her name, I shall drink you and you shall taste me. Our mat shall never be cold again." Her fingers wrapped around the widow's head, pulling her tight to her as matched hips found their own beat, in and out, in and out, press and release it was a new pace, a beautiful pace that timed with the quickening beats of their hearts.

Down onto the grass, Zelma lowered Omalla. Soft blades of grass cushioned her. Teeth grasped her right nipple, lips sucking inside as the Bride's tongue swirled across her nipples. Fingertips glided across Omalla's belly, her skin filled with tingles and anticipation, her cunt quaking in its emptiness and need. Down the Bride's fingers went, snaking across her belly and onto Omalla's mound, into the garden there to slide along her vessel, sliding those lips in the gentlest of sweeps, a great tease that made her cunt quake and her hips turn, needing Zemla's fingers inside her.

The Bride remained patient, she suckled to the drumbeats of her heart, her fingers swept and explored. It was in her mouth the suction, the pressure of her teeth, and the sweep of the tongue she showed her need. They breathed as one, moaned as one to the beat, until Zemla pushed three fingers inside Omalla, who cried out in ecstasy as that touch sent her over the waterfall and released her warm and sticky flood to run down her legs while her body was lost in sharp, tingling spasms.

Zemla did not stop. She pushed her fingers deep and thrust them there, twisting and pushing, her lips moving lower, coming down to capture the last of Omalla's eruption on her lips, “Blessed Goddess, who grants us sweet fountains” and her lips closed over the Omalla's pearl to suckle and lick, tongue flicking as the spasms continued and continued, moving from one deep eruption into the next. Omalla felt herself spinning with the Bride's mouth pressed to her sex. It felt as if Omalla's whole body floated, leaving wakes of purple and red. And she saw The Goddess again, looking down on them with those radiant green eyes. Shahira smiled and again she felt Her kiss.

The world quaked, the ground moved, and stars burned brightly overhead as the Bride drank from Omalla's bounty, until she could quiver no more. Zemla rose to stand and with shining eyes and face. Slowly the Bride lowered her mound to Omalla's lips. Zelma's cunt smelled of her flower and her taste was moist and sweet. Omalla licked as her docent had taught. Upon her lips the Bride blossomed and fed her the sweet liquor of pussy love. Zemla rode her up and down like a board on the waves, surfing her storm until the Bride cried out and coated her. Her cries of love filled the cove rebounded off the hills and filled the widow with joy.

Omalla gathered her breath, as they lay upon the grass together hand in hand, side by side, chests heaving as they breathed deeply each other's scent.

“How is this possible?” asked Omalla.

“How could any love be impossible?” came her answer.