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Her name was Iana. Her sister’s name was Wana, and they were twins,
but not, I regretted most painfully, of even remotely equal beauty. Their
feet, which they wore naked in the warmer seasons, seemed never to have
known shoes; to cramp such lovely, graceful feet in clogs or boots would
have seemed a sacrilege. Their legs were slender and well muscled and, like
their feet, slightly browned by the sun. When presented with a view of
their backs, I could perceive, beneath each skirt, generous swells that
suggested pumpkins. When they turned about, my eyes wandered among four
small mountain peaks which I longed to climb and explore. But above their
shoulders, fate had dealt its cards most unfairly. Iana’s face was pretty,
although not extraordinarily so, with small ears, brown eyes which sparkled
when the light struck them, and light brown hair that hung, as straight as
water falls, down to her shoulders. But Wana’s face was ugly, with large,
misshapen ears, grey lifeless eyes that seemed to have been filled with mud
from a river bank, and thin, stringy hair cut in a mockery of her sister’s.
I must confess that I might have passed the night with Wana, out of
compassion for the unfortunate maiden (for surely, I thought, she must be a
maiden), were it not for the availability of far more comely game.