Bound by Rites

by Thomas Cleckler

  They were wary of the structures. There are ample reasons why one would elect to live so secluded, each one more dangerous than the previous. They hid behind a smooth trunk, waiting for sign of life. They saw a shadow of movement in one of the windows of the smoking house. Had they not been so cold and hungry, they probably would have ignored the houses and trod on. They decided it best for Rhone to sneak up to the house and try to steal a glance inside to size up the threat. Nebanum watched his young body move across the earth nimbly, his white robe—no longer white—trailing after him. His hair swayed as he skulked.

  Rhone was at the window, beneath it. He heard the bubbling of a liquid and the occasional crackling of a fire. There was another sound he couldn’t put his finger on. He eased an eye above the windowsill. There was a figure sitting by the fire, silhouetted. The sound he could not identify was humming. The figure leaned forward to rise, moaning as he did so, then continued to hum as he moved about the room. Rhone knew he was moving due to the rise and fall of the hum (he had ducked when the man began to rise). When it sounded safe to look again Rhone rose steadily. His eye met with another; a pair. They were not startling, but warm and glistening. Rhone stood—it was Arborem.

  Eighteen

  “...and who do I see?” Arborem laughed as Rhone and Nebanum inhaled the soup, “And who, peaking out behind a tree like a peeping Tom?” He laughed away the answer.

  Arborem told them that the houses belonged to his brother, who had died before his arrival in Thallfoot.

  “I’m just keeping an eye on them so his wife’s family doesn’t swoop in and claim the lot. He has a nice wine collection, in the southern house. We’ll try it tonight, in honor of him. I insist you boys stay, I’m in low spirits since I learned of his passing. I could use the company.”

  Rhone and Nebanum readily accepted the invitation; sleeping outdoors had lost its appeal—the little it had. After they had eaten, Arborem led them into one of the adjacent buildings. It was cold and had a musty, vinous atmosphere. Inside were three racks full of dust-caked bottles. Rhone walked along one of the racks. Arborem slumped in the lounging chair that sat before a dead fireplace.

  “My brother was always the collecting type. I suppose we’d be better off if he collected gold goins or silver trinkets, but alas, his treasure was squeezed from grapes.”

  Some of the bottles had small mushrooms growing out of their corks, others acted as anchors for spider’s web. Neither of them knew much about wine, but nonetheless were pleased when they presented their chosen bottles to Arborem and when he praised their good taste. They returned to the main house in the twilight. Rhone picked the disintegrating cork from his bottle as Nebanum offered an abridged relation of the events between then and the last time they’d met.

  “The man’s name was Gorenberg. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “It sounds familiar,” Arborem sucked at a bottle he’d selected, “then again, I’m an old man and have met many people in my time—I could be mistaken. He owned this brothel?”

  “It wasn’t a traditional brothel,” Nebanum said, “there were men there, and children.”

  “Children?!” Arborem became agitated, “God help the man that harms a child in my presence!”

  Rhone managed to dislodge the final quarter of the cork from the neck of his bottle. It fell down and he watched it float in the dark liquid. He took a drink of the bitter wine. He held it on his tongue. The alcohol tingled his tongue and gums while an acrid sweetness lingered after he swallowed. The taste grew on him. He took in gulps, finding himself in need of numbing. He rubbed his wine-stained fingers together while Nebanum spun the semi-truthful yarn:

  “We escaped when the place burned down. I think most people escaped.”

  “Not everyone,” Rhone said, maudlin.

  “No, not everyone,” Nebanum agreed.

  “And of the entrepreneur of this vile place? What of him?”

  “He didn’t make it,” Nebanum said, eliciting a drunken laugh from Rhone.

  “Good riddance,” Arborem said flatly. He took another heavy gulp.

  Rhone’s eyes hung lazily on Nebanum. He spoke to Arborem while holding the gaze:

  “We heard of a place, a friend of mine called it a ‘murder house.’”

  “Demons, the lot of them,” Arborem spat.

  “You know of them?”

  Rhone braced himself with a drink as Arborem did the same.

  “Murder dens—houses, red tailors, abattoirs—”

  “Abattoirs?!” Rhone interrupted. Nebanum hushed him and Arborem continued:

  “Yes, cryptic names for cryptic practices; they use them when there’s chance of a prying eye or ear. Those who can afford it pay a handsome penny to kill without the risk inherent in war. If the common man ever found out, he’d either revolt or simply disbelieve it. And one of those two is significantly easier to do.”

  The room was silent with the weighty topic. It had become nearly pitch; none moved to relight the fire. Arborem laughed abruptly.

  “I swear, nothing but jovial conversation with you boys.”

  Rhone watched him rise in the dark and fumble before the cold logs, lighting the fire with unseen tinder.

  “You boys can stay in the wine room. Help yourselves, but leave me one or two bottles to remember him by. Sorry I can’t offer better accommodations; I think a family of badgers have moved into the other house. Nothing but tools anyway.”

  Rhone lit the fire in the wine room. Nebanum was in the chair watching him, recently-opened bottle in hand. The wine could fight the cold only so little, and the fire only so much. Rhone wedged himself in the padded chair alongside Nebanum, draping a dusty rug over them.

  “This wine is good,” Nebanum said offering the bottle to Rhone. Rhone took a sip and handed it back. He ran his hand along Nebanum’s torso, underneath the rug that was their blanket.

  “I love your skin,” he whispered. His hand ran along down the ribcage.

  “Tell me,” Rhone whispered as he worked slowly, “are you really hairless or do you sneak off and shave everyday?”

  “I remember one time I used charcoal to draw eyebrows on myself.”

  Rhone giggled and took Nebanum in his hand, “I love it. I wish you had more flesh for me to play with.”

  Rhone slid off the chair and positioned himself between Nebanum’s legs, taking him in his mouth. He feasted hungrily, surprised at his own fervor. In his excitement he let his teeth slip occasionally, pulling an exquisite whimper or gasp from his lover. He could feel the pressure building in himself as he pleasured Nebanum and stopped before climax. He stood, offering himself, but Nebanum hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” Rhone asked, vulnerable in the cool air.

  “Nothing, that’s not what I like about you though,” he slapped Rhone’s member playfully. It wagged side to side and Rhone let Nebanum spin him around, but walked towards the fire instead of letting him pull him onto his lap.

  “You don’t like it?” Rhone asked.

  Nebanum couldn’t read the tone and no thoughts leapt across to aid him in his answer. Perhaps he’s preventing them from being shared.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it...” he ventured.

  “If you don’t like it, just say so,” Rhone snapped, “you only like to take me like you would a woman.”

  Nebanum stood in protest, still erect. He spun Rhone around in anger, resenting his ability to discard him so easily; to stack so many implications neatly in one sentence. Rhone’s gray eyes were wet.

  “If I wanted a woman, I’d be with a woman.”

  Rhone looked at the blurry, pale form holding him. His mouth was agape, his long teeth twinkling the reflection of the fire. Rhone dove for Nebanum’s mouth. He wanted it deeply; he pushed his gums and teeth into Nebanum’s, drawing blood and sharp pinpricks of pain. Nebanum bit back, pressing his erection into Rhone’s stomach as Rhone pushed his into him. Their bellies grew slick with precursor as warm iron flowed between their mouths, dr
ipping down their chins, catching where their bodies touched and mixing with the salty residue. Rhone dropped to his knees and carried the blood to Nebanum’s sex, sucking, nibbling, scraping, begging for more essence from his lover.

  Rhone’s groin tingled as he felt Nebanum begin to undulate in his mouth, his thighs trembling beneath his hands. He doubled his labors, working faster, nicking the thin skin with his teeth, adding to the concoction that dribbled out of his mouth onto his own erection, which he stroked. Rhone began to see spots as the tremors between his legs fell out of his control. He closed his eyes. The spots came, yellow and white, green and red. His closed eyes fluttered as the unbelievable torrent flowed through him—the ecstasy seeming to erupt from Nebanum then out from him. His heart stalled, skipped, and fluttered with the spots. It’s okay, he consoled himself, you’re just dying.

  Nebanum held onto Rhone’s chestnut hair as he was drained; his muscles tightened and cramped, spasmed and shook. The onslaught of thoughts Rhone had sent him, in conjunction with his zealous performance had arrested his mind. All he was focused below his waist. When at last the convulsions subsided and the blood and salt ceased flowing, Nebanum fell to his knees with Rhone. They held each other panting, bleeding, throbbing. Their hearts struggled to keep up with their muscles’ demand. They were a single creature, sharing blood and seed; two hearts beating within the same beast. Exhaustion came quick, tempting blissful sleep. Rhone pulled the dusted rug onto their naked bodies as they curled by the fire. Their flesh was slick with sweat and other things and the cold air, which was easy to ignore in passion, now came back biting and cruel. Rhone could sense that Nebanum had been lost to sleep almost immediately. Something kept him awake and he stared into the weary fire trying to figure out what it was.

  Nineteen

  “I was wrong about you boys,” the corpse head said. Rhone sipped his tea while Nebanum squeezed the breast on the wall. A few dribbles of milk trickled into his cup. The Spoke Man continued:

  “It’s rare, you see, for anyone to come this far so soon—let alone two. I saw you boys in that awful place. I saw what you did.”

  Nebanum sat with Rhone, “What did you see?”

  “How you handled that child killer. Good show,” the yellow arms whirled around, clacking, to the laughing head, “Don’t think he’ll be getting much use out of his pecker now! Ahh, hah hah hah!”

  “We could have saved her if we’d gone sooner. It’s our fault,” Rhone said.

  The wheel spun to the head weeping permanent tears, “Poor child... children have no place in this world. In our world,” the arms spun back to the gray head, “Now, I’m afraid I’ve lapsed in my duties. I believe you boys took an interest in Jhilrah?”

  “Who is that?”

  “Her supple breast makes weak men weep, her fingers cultivate lust like wheat; with curving hips that virgins dread, she’ll ride your hips until you’re dead.”

  The Spoke Man was a whirl of thrashing arms and waking and fainting impaled heads, each holding its wired and nailed expression. The arms spun back to the gregarious head, “If I had a cock that worked, I’d split her in half! She can stitch a hymn on my chest if she likes, I don’t mind!” the melancholy head, “I wish I had a cock,” the gray head, “but on the other hand, it was a distraction. More tea?”

  The wheel tilted forward and back as the torso caught its breath after the strenuous spinning of the wheel. Rhone and Nebanum left the home of the Spoke Man on good terms, comforted by his promise that they need not rush and that their stay was secured.

  They trod through the chewing sand, towards the exploded house of Jhilrah, the seamstress. She stood idle, her table empty. Her plentiful body beautiful and tight. Even Rhone, who was normally indifferent to or disgusted by women was impressed with her beauty. She turned to the lovers as they stopped a few yards from her. They were intimidated by her body. She moved her hands towards the sack over her head. Oh God, if that’s her body, what’s her face?

  Her blond hair billowed out of the brown bag, falling on her chest and shoulders. It was a golden halo to her angelic visage. Her pouting lips glistened under the gray skies. Her eyes were vivid and cobalt, holding their gaze was nearly painful. Her lips parted and a breathy voice weakened their knees:

  “Do you come to be mended?”

  Rhone was speechless; he had no clue as to what he wanted. In this ethereal place he didn’t know what he did or did not enjoy—only his earthly pleasures. Jhilrah walked slowly towards him. Nebanum backed away, repelled by the aura of her beauty. She reached for Rhone, touching him with her warm fingers, like warm wax sliding across his flesh. It stimulated him in a comforting way, unsexual. He felt a strong urge to melt into her bosom, to be held by her like a child. Her hands slid up to his throat, onto his face. She ran a finger over his lips, dried with blood and rough from his rolling.

  “These get in your way?” she whispered to him.

  Rhone was hypnotized. He blinked his eyes, unable to look away but confused at the swirling that began on the angel’s face. Wrinkles were plowed near her eyes and the edges of her mouth. He was startled as her sacred flesh began to pop and tear, splitting with red lesions. Red and white boils sprouted and grew around her sensual lips as she repeated her question.

  “Your lips, they hinder you?” Her left eye began to cloud and fill with pus. A plague was sweeping across her face, vile and cruel. Not visions or words, but a whirlpool of sensations filled Rhone’s mind: his teeth and gums biting into dense flesh, drawing blood and inhaling the metallic aroma through skinned nostrils. He felt, and smelled, Nebanum’s neck, his stomach, his sex, pressing into the exposed flesh, closer than ever before and unburdened by the swinging of fleshy gates. The angel’s face began to yellow and blacken. Stains fractured across her now decaying face, surrounding deep black pockets of rot. Do your lips hinder you? The sensations still flooded Rhone, he heard himself say, “Yes... yes...”

  The seamstress placed a young finger above his nose, ever warm, ever comforting. His eyes doubled her digit as he held her gaze; her clouded eye began to dribble onto her cheek. Warmth ran down the bridge of his nose then under to its meeting with his upper lip. Her other hand embraced his erection which spilled into it; a constant stream of his seed—payment for her service. The warm finger split the valley of his upper lip and fell to the bottom. Warmth dripped down his chin after her finger had finished its journey. When she’d encouraged the last of his payment into her hand, she wiped it into her purse.

  Her bloodied fingertips dug into her navel, withdrawing a black threaded needle. She ran it through the left upper lip then pulled him close as she wrapped her arm around his head and pierced the right upper lip. His head drew near her chest, under her raised arm; she smelled of cool sweat and summer rain. Her scent made Rhone dizzy with desire. She returned and repeated the process with the bottom wings of his split lip. When she finished, she took the string in both hands and began to pull steadily. A tearing sound echoed in Rhone’s mind among the sensations and smells she promised him. He felt the edge of his mouth pull, a pressure as his cheeks and lips moved in impossible directions. The warm, nearly still breeze of the red sands moved through his teeth and strolled across his tongue; it licked the exposed red beneath his eyes and on his chin. His face became a scarlet butterfly.

  By the time Jhilrah was tying off the black thread behind his head, her body still the vision of forbidden lust it ever was, her face was all but rotted away. Again he was pulled into her bosom, the scent of her flesh poignant and dizzying. She withdrew and pulled the woven bag over her face. Her golden hair turned white floated into it, the spell was broken, and Rhone’s face was flayed.

  Her head hidden, Jhilrah approached Nebanum, her flanks and buttocks swimming with each delicate step. She stood, her flesh moving still to her new position.

  “Do you come to be mended?”

  Nebanum watched his hand reach towards her breast. His fingers spread and took in the forbidden flesh. It was silk
in his mortal hands, fine and smooth. His fingers sank into her breast as he groped firmly.

  “What do you offer?” she whispered.

  Nebanum shook himself from the hypnosis. She was reaching for the bag. He had watched her pull Rhone’s face apart. She’s killed him! What’s going on? His thoughts wrestled with the stupor the angel thrust upon him. He withdrew his hand from her flesh and pulled his eyes away to look at Rhone. He was standing, lurched forward, bleeding. His wound was painting his throat and chest red, curling around his teeth.

  “What have you done to him?” he whispered.

  When he looked back to Jhilrah, the bag was again discarded and her face again angelic. Her eyes locked Nebanum, paralyzing him to probe his mind for desire. She offered him visions of various pleasures she could enhance or lusts she could weave. He felt her looking through his eyes at his intimate moments with Rhone. She watched his hand strike, stab, caress. She sailed the storm of his confusion and hesitation with Rhone, the pillage of Mary, the murder of Gorenberg. She felt his thoughts halting when confronted with complexity; his fear of children, his contempt for man.

  “Do you wish your mind unlaced?”

  She had him feel what it would be like to have a clear head; to be free from emotional turmoil, to never again wonder what he should or should not say—to be sure of his words despite their effect.

  “Yes” he whispered.

  “The price is heavy.”

  Fayette’s cold flesh ran under his fingers as he lay his amulet on her chest. His stomach knotted with rage at the image of the sagging fiend over her holy purity, stealing and spoiling her innocence.