A/N: Salutations! Thank you everyone who has been so incredibly patient with me. I’ve just finished my last year of highschool at the nation’s top community college, and with three five hour long art courses a week, it left little time to write. In addition, I have just moved with my family to a new house in the city, leaving the isolation and safety of the country behind for one of the most dangerous cities in the U.S., and it is indeed proving to be extremely dangerous to live here. Hopefully I’ll finish this story before I’m shot and robbed of all the two dollars in my name!

Again, please R&R, your comments are always most helpful. I know there hasn’t been too much Wonka lately, I truly am sorry about that. But, I have to write the story the way it’s supposed to go!

“I thought I’d found a reason to live

Just like before when I was a child

Only to find dreams made of sand

Would just fall apart and slip through my hands

But the spirit of life keeps us strong

And the spirit of life is the will to carry on

Adversity what have I done to you

To cause this reclusive silence

That has come between me and you

And the spirit of life remains in light

And the spirit of life remains inside

I never thought it would be quite like this

Living outside of mutual bliss

But as long as the veins in our arm still stand up

The spirit of life will keep living on”

— Dead Can Dance

And so he left Jack there, with hardly a good-bye. Jack watched as the jungle swallowed him, the deep raspberry red of his coat slowly fading in to greenery as he walked away. This was certainly...unexpected. Jack was sweating profusely from the heat; once he had ascertained that Mr. Wonka was really gone, Jack doffed his waist coat and nervously unbuttoned his vest. He hung them both on a low lying branch, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his face and neck. Jack stared up towards the canopy; his mass of hair felt sticky and wet against his skin.

“Am I supposed to climb, or what?” Jack asked to no one in particular. He still couldn’t quite grasp the reality of his situation—those tree houses looked like bird’s nests, was he actually supposed to live in one? And for just how long did he say? A few months, was it?

Suddenly a head popped up out of one of the houses–an oompa loompa, who else? He motioned to Jack, and pointed to the tree.

“What, no ladder?” Jack said incredulously. The oompa loompa simply laughed. Jack sighed in frustration. I can do this. This whole thing is ridiculous, but if this is what it takes to stay with Mr. Wonka, I’ll do it, no questions asked. At least, no questions asked aloud. Jack bent down and untied his shoes, tying them together and slinging them around his neck. Removing his socks and discarding them, Jack wandered over to the tree in question. Putting a gloved hand to the trunk, he winced. There was no way he was going to get to the top without roughing up his clothes; might as well spare your gloves from being shredded, he thought. Removing his gloves and stuffing them in the back pocket of his trousers, Jack rolled up his sleeves and gripped the narrow trunk. Oh please let there not be any ants on this thing...

And so Jack climbed, slowly, and fell only twice. The going was rough; the bark was wet but it chafed the insides of his thighs and his arms. He was grateful when the trunk split, the first time he took the opportunity to roll up the hem of his trousers, which was unraveling quickly. The second time the trunk split, Jack nearly ripped off his shirt, so hot it had become. He was only just able to quickly unbutton it all the way, tying it about his waist and proceeding up the tree in only his undershirt, his binding still snugly in place.

By the time Jack reached the hut, his hands and feet were red and covered with wet moss and bits of bark. His clothes were stained with sweat and dirt, and his hair was an absolute mess. Jacks face was dirt-streaked and flushed, and he realized how very little exercise he got on a regular basis in comparison. He climbed through the large window, and realized that this hut was made large enough for him to stand up fully in. Sitting on the floor, Jack eyed the Oompa loompa, who was dressed only in a loin cloth. Suddenly, Jack felt very embarrassed about his size and ungainliness, sitting next to someone who probably thought nothing of climbing trees every day.

The oompa loompa, who’s English name was Henrik, was indeed wondering if the boy before him was a hopeless case, but oompa loompas were not known to give up easily. The first thing, of course, was to teach this boy oompa loompa sign language. It would have to be an intensive course, as harvest season was just around the corner.

'My name is Henrik'. He signed to Jack. Jack looked dumbfounded, and then spoke, “I’m sorry, I am not from your country...”

The little man rolled his eyes, the boy wasn’t going to get off easy—Henrik knew enough English to get by, but speaking it was saved only for the songs they improvised for the Cocoa Lord. The oompa loompa language was thankfully not a phonetic one, or else they’d be here all year. Instead, each gesture represented a word, or, as Henrik was trying to teach Jack now, a name.

The clan had already picked out a name for Jack—‘pale insect,’ due to his enormous goggles. Now Henrik was drawing a crude picture of Jack on a chalkboard that was set up next to the window. It was little more than a line drawing, arms and legs spread apart with a thin face and long hair and pouting mouth. Henrik pointed to it, and then pointed to Jack with his thumb extended. Then Henrik touched his palms to his face, and then made a fist, wiggling his thumb and pinky finger up and down: 'You, pale insect.' Comprehension dawned on Jack, and he pointed to himself with his thumb, and repeated the gesture. 'I, pale insect.' Henrik rose and eyebrow and looked pleased. Next, he drew a picture of himself, which to Jack looked like every other oompa loompa he’d ever seen, except this one had a loin cloth so he was pretty sure it was referring to Henrik himself.

Pointing to the picture, Henrik then smartly pointed his thumb at himself, and then opened his palm in a graceful gesture, and then closed his fingers around his thumb: 'I, word protector.' Which was indeed his tribal name, chosen for his skill at communicating concepts through his hands. The sign language of the oompa loompas was often very subliminal; he knew that Jack would begin picking it up and interpreting it in his own signing without needing a teacher to help him a long. Still, the basics were very important for what Jack would be doing later on.

They continued like this, for four days, from the time Jack was woken in the morning to the time that Jack would pass out, exhausted, in his cot. Jack was a fast learner, and Henrik could see that Jack was very happy with his own progress, seeing that finally he could be good at something. The heat was a little taxing on Jack, but his clothes were taken away to be washed often. On the third day of his stay there, his things arrived, and Jack thrilled to have a change of underwear, a clean undershirt (for that was all that was tolerable in that miserable heat) and his notebook back. In it, he would record diagrams of hand gestures, and what they represented. He learned basic things first, common verbs, adjectives, nouns, that sort of thing. He also learned the many ways of saying chocolate, in all of its forms. Throughout that week, the only people Jack saw was Henrik and a few female oompa loompas who came to take his laundry away.

Daily hygiene soon became a problem, though. Each morning, Jack was given a bowl full of rain water (yes, it did indeed rain within the factory) to wash his face in. There was soap, thankfully, but there was no way that Jack could bathe, or wash his hair. When Jack asked Henrik about this, at the end of the week, Henrik smiled and led him out of the hut for the first time. They traveled along a bridge till they came to an enormous tree, with an arch carved out over a platform, leading presumably inside the trunk. Together they went inside, to discover that the trunk had indeed been hollowed out, the top carved open to let in the light and to provide air. Torches lit the interior, and Jack saw before him a huge basin carved out in the wood, filled with rain water. Playing and bathing together in the reservoir were Oompa loompas of all ages and sexes.

'This way, members of each clan can remain close even if their daily work takes them away from each other.' Henrik said, and guided Jack to the edge of the basin. The other oompa loompas looked inquisitively at Jack, standing there in his undershirt and slacks. His heart pounded. There would be no way he could keep his gender a secret now; not without probably insulting the clan members deeply. Jack bit his lip, looking down at Henrik, who only looked back expectantly.

'You know about my secret, then?' Jack asked, a little impulsively. It was so much easier to pretend, but if this is how it was going to be, might as well make sure first...

'Oh yes. But no worries; it stays with the oompa loompas, it won’t leave.' Henrik signed.

'And it doesn’t repel you?' Jack asked.

'No.' Henrik signed simply. 'We cannot find any fault in it, so who are we to judge?'

Jack nodded, then, taking a deep breath, said aloud, “Okay.” It would be good to feel clean again. A breath of relief seemed to escape from the clan, and once more they resumed chatting and playing amongst themselves. Jack felt the pressure come off him, and so did not feel quite so embarrassed when he removed his undershirt in front of a room full of people. Following the undershirt came the binding, which he unwrapped very carefully, wincing a bit as his breasts became unrestrained. Then came his trousers and underpants, and then into the water Jack went, careful not to step on anyone. This made the oompa loompas all laugh, and Jack looked confused.

'You just look so much bigger when you’re surrounded by a bunch of us little people!' Henrik laughed. Jack laughed then, and let the cool water sooth his anxieties.

Suddenly Jack felt his hair being pulled on. “What–” He tried to turn around. Another oompa loompa signed to him, 'you’re our guest, we want to make you feel welcome. The women have been wanting to do this forever anyways.'

Jack was able to see out of the corner of his eye two women cooing over fistfuls of tangled golden hair. A third woman came over with a huge basin, setting it down next to him. It smelled fragrant, and another male oompa loompa swam over to Jack, signing, 'most of the ingredients for shampoo are found in the jungle, you see. And those girls have never seen hair like yours!'

Jack turned around and signed to them, 'It’s all right, you really don’t need to wash my hair, I can do it myself.' The younger girls looked disappointed, but an elderly woman scoffed and turned Jack around by the shoulders. Cries of joy and excitement resumed.

As Jack’s hair was being pulled at and scrubbed and combed through, four other women approached him, each carrying what looked to be rough pumice stones. Each took a hand or foot, and scrubbed at it till it was pink and soft. 'Don’t scrub too hard, you’ll wear away the callouses Pale Insect has worked so hard to get!' One man laughed.

'He can grow callouses plenty soon; let us enjoy such lily white hands and feet while we still can!' The women shot back. At first Jack felt uncomfortable with so many people touching him, but soon he grew used to it, even enjoyed it.

The women poured a tub of water down the back of Jack’s head, washing away the home-made shampoo, and then handed him a cloth and pumice stone to wash himself with. Jack thanked them, and was quickly feeling refreshed and tingling. Once Jack had finished, a woman nervously approached him from the other end of the basin. In her arms was a small child. 'Will you kiss my child, Pale Insect? Your people have done so much to help us, you have truly been a blessing to the oompa loompas.'

Jack nervously took the tiny child from the woman’s hands. The baby fit easily in the palm of his hand; no more a handful than a few cookies would have been. You’re supposed to kiss the baby, not eat it. Gently, Jack kissed the top of the child’s head, and carefully handed it back to the mother. The room broke out into applause, and Jack tried not to feel embarrassed.

After the communal bath, there was a meeting on one of the lower platforms, closer to the ground where it was cooler. Everyone sat on blankets. There were no towels, but Henrik came to him and gave Jack a beautiful floor length silk robe. 'The Cocoa Lord wore this to our banquet of honor to him; he left it here when he went back to the rest of the factory. We thought you’d like to wear it.' Jack took it reverently in his hands, gazing upon it in awe.

The robe itself was a work of art, like all of Mr. Wonka’s clothes. Pale, ivory silk, perfumed to smell like white chocolate, Jack inhaled the scent greedily as he slipped the robe over his shoulders and that fell to his ankles. The fabric was embroidered with bold black thread, in busy swirling Turkish patterns that extended past the silk hem of the sleeve and came to drape over Jack’s pale hands like a beautiful ornate net. The sash was thick and covered all of Jack’s waist, and the ends hung down to his knees, decorated with the same thick black design. In one of the deep front pockets, Jack found a length of delicate gauze. Henrik motioned to wrap his hair up in it, as Mr. Wonka once did. Jack carefully bound his hair up, securing it with a pin made of opal that he had found in the gauze.

Jack realized that many Oompa loompas were staring at him. 'What is it?' He signed to the group.

After a moment, one of the oompa loompas replied, 'Pale Insect is so beautiful; you remind us all of how he looked the first night he dined with us in our new home, so many years ago.' Another said, 'you look like a god'. Another signed, 'you look so much like he did!'

Jack felt at once incredibly flattered, that a seventeen year old boy could ever compare to Mr. Wonka. Jack also felt, once more, very singled out. After all, he was this tall, slender, white person, sitting like royalty amongst all these tiny, stocky little brown people. The oompa loompas didn’t seem to single him out after this, and engaged him in conversation while a banquet was set at their feet.

All around them, birds called, and insects chirped; Jack marveled at how completely Mr. Wonka had recreated the forest. Jack slapped at a mosquito that bit his arm. The food was excellent; no green caterpillars to be seen. They ate fruits and vegetables mostly, with small amounts of meat to go along. Jack sipped the mango juice and watched the oompa loompas dance and play their instruments.

'We’re very glad to have you here with us, Pale Insect.' Henrik signed, sitting to Jack’s right.

'And I am very honored to be your guest.' Jack signed back.

'The elders have hoped that perhaps your being here may one day convince The Cocoa Lord to visit us here in our homes. Henrik signed. We know he is very busy, but we feel it is our duty to take him away from his work sometimes, and remind him of what he means to us as our benefactors.'

'I am certain that Mr. Wonka is very grateful for what you have done for him. Perhaps he may come here one day, and we can both celebrate the fruits that our friendship has beared.'

It was hard not to feel optimistic, that night. Jack reveled in the feel of the silk robe against his drying skin, knowing that it had once fit so intimately around Willy Wonka’s body. Jack felt very serene, somehow this idea had turned for the better, and now for the first time he felt as if he was among people who understood him and whom he could call friends. Walking back to his hut, Jack felt as if nothing could take this night away from him, and he was more relaxed than he’d ever felt before.

Debating on whether or not to sleep in the robe, Jack decided to simply sleep in the nude, as he did not want to sweat on it during the night, or wrinkle the silk. Jack unpinned his hair and tucked the gauze into the robe’s pocket, hanging it from one of the branches that ran through the center of the hut. Climbing into his cot, Jack took out his diary and stylus and began drawing Willy Wonka as he must have appeared that night, regal and exotic in his oriental silk. Jack couldn’t help but add a tiny little heart on the page next to Willy’s head. I think I’m actually falling for you, this time. You’ll never know it, though... Jack wrote on the page in his loose, spidery script, and then, shutting the book and laying it on the floor, fell back into his pillow. That’s a secret between the robe and I.