Darkness, I

by Tanith Lee

  He tried a little, to see how his body responded. It barely did. In his bladder he felt the dull premonition of pain.

  I’m afraid I need the bathroom, Mother.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘we won’t worry about that.’

  ‘But,’ he said, ‘I may piss your nice sheets.’

  ‘They’re not nice sheets,’ she said. ‘I don’t care.’

  So, she meant him to lie in his own filth. Perhaps, when she was gone, he would be able to reach the bathroom. It seemed unlikely.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said. She bent near. She smelled of some cheap, sweet scent, something probably the American, Bus, had given her. There was a small glass in her hand.

  ‘What is it, Mother?’

  ‘Something delicious.’

  ‘What?’

  She said, rationally, ‘Either you drink it, Johanon, or I’ll inject it between your toes, like last time.’

  He tried to take the glass, which would give him a measure of control, but he could not make his hand, or neck, or body obey.

  She put the glass to his lips.

  It was in wine, whatever it was.

  He let a lot dribble out, as if he could not help it. Actually he could not.

  Sofie giggled like a girl.

  ‘It’s all right.’ She said in English with an American accent, ‘I mixed it strong.’

  He lay back, and waited, and a fearful euphoria swept up on him, and then a wave of numbing delirious unconcern. The ship cast off. He was at sea.

  Sofie swam through the bright air, which perhaps was that of late afternoon, a day or a month after he had come up here from their dinner, when she had poisoned him in the red-glass goblet.

  Something shone in Sofie’s hand.

  ‘Do you recollect when you first got hold of it? The magic potion for your face. That man brought it, didn’t he, from the Americas. It took the hair away. A secret. But the Scarabae can get anything.’ She leaned even closer than ever and he smelled her clean devil’s breath. ‘But now there’s a little stubble, isn’t there. And some hair on your hands and arms and legs. Not what you like.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  She must have heard.

  ‘Oh, but yes. I want us to be happy. And I can make you happy now. Look.’

  In one hand was a brush ruffled with foam.

  In the other a cut-throat razor.

  ‘Just keep very still, darling,’ she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  He remembered a hymn his mother—an atheist—had especially hated, although where she had heard it he did not know. The words were mysterious. There is a green hill far away, without a city wall. Why wall a hill?

  Yet, here, there was such a hill, green and lush, walled in by far high ruins.

  Faran thought of Cimmie, his mother, briefly, looking at the hill. But it was like the fire-flies that came with the dark. A sparkle, then gone.

  The children lived in a sort of bungalow place of yellowish plaster, under the semi-tropical hill. If they wanted, they could be taken to see the ruins, and Faran had gone. But the little girl, Berenice, had not wanted to. Berenice was always sad.

  Clouds sometimes garlanded the hilltop, and mountains farther off often vanished and might not have been there. The sky was blue and vast, and huge birds hung in it like beings of dark paper.

  Berenice had said something about a lost people, a people killed, exterminated, and Faran, confused, had thought she meant the Jews. Cimmie, who was anti-Semitic, had nevertheless frequently alluded to the Nazi persecution. But Berenice did not mean the Jews. She spoke of a people with golden skins hung by gold, and ink-black hair, who had worshipped the sun.

  The Greek boy had laughed at her. Her English was not good.

  Faran had told him to shut up. Berenice knew a great deal.

  There were only six of them, including Faran and Berenice. The other boys were Greek and Swedish, and one came from Canada and spoke French. There was another girl from Wales.

  They did not really like each other, had nothing in common. Their ages varied between six and nine. The Canadian and Faran were the oldest boys. All had some English, but Berenice, who should have done best with the French Canadian—she was Parisian—would talk only to Faran.

  This was a responsibility. He did not truly want to bother with her.

  He was thinking all the time of the woman. The woman in the picture Mr Thorpe had shown him, before the long journey out here. Faran had not dreamed of her again. At least, he had, but so incoherently he could not recapture it. He felt a strong thread of excitement in him, almost terror. She was not his mother, yet in a way, he thought of her like that.

  Berenice was only frightened.

  From what he could gather, her father had been unkind, not only an idiot but cold and harsh. She was timid, yet clever. She had wonderful cool eyes flecked by Inca gold. Each eye seemed intent on a different thought.

  They had cut her hair, shoulder-length, and they washed it every day. It was fine as floss, but full of lights.

  The adults who did these things, saw to their hygiene and comforts and expeditions, and some rudimentary though quite interesting lessons, were stoically helpful always, and smiling.

  Faran did not like them, or trust them. After Mr Thorpe he had felt a grim, angry alarm. But then, some things must be taken on trust.

  Besides, it was too late. Faran had shown he did not give a damn about Cimmie and Wellington. He was to be taken to the woman with the face of a lioness. The woman named Lilith.

  His memories of her he had filed away. He was not prepared for them. Yet the beauty of the first rush of dreams, never repeated, kept some part of him at least in thrall.

  He was secretly afraid poor little Berenice had a sort of crush on him. And Berenice meant nothing.

  Faran was the only black child. But then they were all different. Perversely, although they did not much like each other, they were in some quite definable manner, similar. Precocious children, not necessarily coy or absurdly intelligent, but old. They were old children. Ancients in restricted moulds, chafing, irritated, or distraught.

  The Greek was the worst. He had nightmares. He dreamed of soldiers and battles, murders, fights. And though each child had its own sleeping room, the wails of the Greek, Christos, sometimes woke them all. Then the Welsh child, Linnet, would cry—she was nine—and the Swede, Jan, would shout in Russian, and Pierre, the Canadian, boiled with silence. Berenice stayed hunched in her bed. Only-once had Faran caught the sounds of her weeping, and that was in the compound or garden or whatever it was supposed to be, behind the house.

  ‘What is it? Do you miss your mummy—maman?’

  ‘I—my cat.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well I should. What sort of cat was it?’

  ‘No, was only—a doll. Someone stealed her.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Faran. ‘That’s foul.’

  Then, thinking about it, he tried to explain to Berenice that, although the cat would miss her too, it would have a great time, being fussed over. If they stole it they must really have wanted it.

  Tiny things—humming birds?—flew against the flowers.

  Berenice calmed. ‘Do you think she go happy?’ asked Berenice.

  ‘Toys forget,’ said Faran. ‘They have to, like animals.’

  Probably it was a mistake, for after this, Berenice came to look at him in a special, haunted, docile way.

  But he felt sorry for her; she had, after all, put the toy cat first.

  The Welsh girl was nasty. She kicked you if you did not watch out. She refused to speak English, although she could. The adults spoke, presumably, in Welsh to her.

  They had all been here too long.

  Faran had spoken to one of the adults, the red-lipped woman.

  ‘When are we going on?’

  ‘Are we going on somewhere?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘You know we are. We know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He thou
ght, she of all of them tried to treat them like children.

  He said, ‘I know I’m going to meet Lilith.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the girl. She sucked in her breath. She said, ‘It is to be. But there has to be a little wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re to meet him, too. The man who will have charge of you.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ she said.

  Faran looked up at her. He knew, as so often, that she was younger than he, though mature over him by fifteen years, and taller by two feet. He said stubbornly, ‘Mr Thorpe said—’

  ‘Now you’re here,’ she said, ‘do you wish to go to see the temple?’

  ‘Yes, all right. But—’

  ‘You must be patient.’ Suddenly she looked at him in a sort of fearful respect. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘You’re special. I’m only following orders. I don’t know when they’ll call for you. You know it’s very cold there?’

  ‘Yes.’ The oblique lessons had informed them all of this, among other oddities.

  ‘Well, enjoy the sun while you can. This is the land of the sun. It’s night there for weeks and weeks. They—like the dark.’

  ‘Then, I shall,’ he said. Then he said again, ‘Who is the man, this man we have to go to?’

  ‘Señor Cain,’ she said. Then she laughed as if ashamed.

  And Faran felt an intimation of jealousy.

  Cain—for some reason the name made him think of the dark kola men had sold on the mountain track, in the thin shrill air as they descended, by the private bus, to this house. A dark name. Or was it a sort of pun that misled him, co-caine. The drug that killed.

  A shade fell, chill and unanswered. Faran turned. Only Berenice was there. They must have given her a new toy cat, for she now held one carefully in her arm. She was too old for toys. But then she was too old also, like all of them, to be a child.

  ‘Come and see the sun temple, Berenice.’

  Berenice held the woolly cat to her face and asked it caringly if it would like to see the temple.

  ‘They have pumas on leads,’ said Berenice, ‘the Inca. Do you think are any still?’

  ‘Ghosts, maybe.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She laughed. Something lighted up in her. Well, then. If Lilith had Señor Cain, Faran had, substitutionally, Berenice.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The plane had landed. It had stayed down only thirteen minutes. The pilot wanted to be away from that place.

  On either side of the brown runway, jungle lay like tapestry, green as paint, humming and buzzing, electric, live: spotted cats and snakes, monkeys, types of parakeet. As if nothing could eradicate it.

  On the field, the man waited, in his sand-coloured clothes. Blind white, his hair lay over them. He was still as a stone.

  Cicadas scratched.

  Then the jungle moved.

  Six men, sprung like the dragon’s teeth. They ran, khaki and green, with camouflage-mottled, unshaven faces.

  The leader reached Malach. The leader was a Brit, tall and heavy with muscle, with ginger in his overgrown wavy hair. And a ripe Glock 17 coming out of him like ectoplasm, pressed tight to Malach’s forehead.

  Malach said, in English, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Shut up. Who are you?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  The mercenary pushed on the gun harder and Malach moved his head. The soldier said, ‘Watch yourself. Put your hands up on your fucking noddle.’

  ‘No,’ Malach said.

  There was another sound. It was not cicadas, but the noise of a jeep.

  The mercenaries who guarded the strip turned their heads. The Brit with the Glock did not look.

  ‘Now you’re forrit, cunt.’

  Malach smiled.

  Out of the first jeep came the plump young man with slicked-back hair, sunglasses, a five-hundred-dollar silk T-shirt that mimicked the purple-green of the jungle. His driver, the beautiful woman in khaki, walked beside him.

  The mercenaries waited now.

  The woman walked straight across to the man with the Glock. She was also beautifully made up, her hair tied back like a dancer’s.

  She struck the Brit hard across his stubble.

  He reeled.

  The mercenaries fell back.

  The plump man came to Malach, turning his T-shirt shoulder to the forest and the men alike. He bowed, then held out his hand. Malach shook it. The man spoke in Spanish.

  ‘Will you come up to the house, señor? We have chilled drinks, and a wonderful whisky from Scotland.’

  ‘Thank you, no. Where’s my transport?’

  ‘Five minutes, señor. They were delayed. Forgive the... nuisance.’

  The woman looked at Malach openly.

  When he met her eyes, she smiled.

  Malach did not smile.

  The second jeep came, soldiers with SA 80’s.

  At the edge of the forest, the first men cowered. The Brit looked sick. Where the woman had struck him was a welt. She wore a ring.

  A grunt jumped out of the second jeep, and ran over. He stood behind the plump man.

  ‘Can my people send something down to you, señor?’

  ‘No. Just let my transport through.’

  ‘Señor. I am distressed. We are honoured.’

  Malach glanced at the woman. The plump man said, ‘Anything you wish, señor.’

  ‘Thank you. No.’

  The woman frowned. She was very beautiful, golden, strong as a jaguar.

  She walked behind her owner, back to the jeep. The grunt followed.

  The young man wiped the sweat from his plump face. In English he said, ‘You don’t know why we must? Eh, Rosa?’

  ‘No.’

  He said, ‘Scarabae.’

  Under her beauty and her make-up, Rosa’s face went flat, like ironed paper. She licked her lips, and jumped into the driver’s seat, eager to be off.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Women came in.

  Not her women—Shesat, Mesit. Nevertheless, by gesture, they intimated she would be theirs—or they hers. Did they not, then, speak English?

  Anna consented, for there was nothing else to be done. She knew what this was for, he had told her. He had not remained with her for long.

  The bath was as usual, but now there were heavy scents mixed in it—cypress, perhaps, cedarwood. They laved perfume over her from narrow, hard, smooth hands. They touched all of her, except the hidden places between her thighs.

  When it was done, she was dressed, and now the dress was Egyptian. Gaufred white linen, tight, so tight on the thighs and legs she must take little, little steps. Across her bosom a cross of pleats, and a chitinous cape over her shoulders and upper arms, like wings.

  One led her to the table shaped like a cat, and here they made up her face.

  There was an unguent that smelled of honey, and over this a fine transparent powder, applied with brushes, but if they were modern or antique, she was not quick enough to see—she had had to close her eyes.

  Upon her lids they put soft blueness. And then they painted in the dark green, certainly, of malachite, which, ground upon palettes, now was like fine dark cream.

  They put on her lashes mascara. No. The Egyptians had not had mascara.

  Her hair last of all they bound up tight on her head, and strangely this stirred a sort of memory, but what it was Anna did not know. Had Althene ever bound her hair? Rachaela? Or—as Ruth—then—

  Over her head they slipped a wig of darkest blue tresses, plaited many times and twined with golden discs and miniature shells.

  On her breast the women lowered, two of them, a collar of gold and green stones, conceivably jasper. This they fastened at her back, and a butterfly of green paste hung on her spine.

  An inch below her waist they clasped a girdle of gold with beads of red and green and blue.

  On her feet, gold sandals, with a broad band at the ankle embroidered gold with flowers.

  The
y painted her toenails then, and the nails of her hands, a dull rich gold. And at the corner of each eye, they set a tiny golden sequin.

  Anna stood up, and through the gauzy linen she saw the rose glimmer of her own nipples, although not the smoky mark on her left breast. The smoke was below, white, the nub of her sex. Not concealed now by French undergarments. She wondered if he had lied to her. He had spoken only of a great dinner.

  Bracelets of gold.

  A woman offered Anna a pot of rouge.

  This one said, clearly, ‘Pour les levres.’

  Anna took the pot—alabaster, formed like a grasshopper—and put a trace of the soft red on her mouth.

  In the contemporary mirrors, how beautiful she looked.

  Anna saw only that she was now an Egyptian.

  A hundred lamps must be hanging, lighted like yellow stars, from the goddess-ceiling of the Hall of Nuit.

  In the priceless floor they reflected with a mad loveliness.

  There were lights too before the clusters of gods, the Isis group, the family of Set. Before Sekhmet with her gold puss-face. The blue water window shone beyond, dim as one more submerged jewel. No one was there.

  The platform had been put into the centre of the enormous space, under the starry belly of Nuit.

  Two chairs, unoccupied, stood up on it. They were both of black metal, perhaps iron. Lions’ masks of gold were on the arms, and the feet were the hoofs of golden bulls. Two low tables rested in front of them, white in contrast to the black, and flowers floated in bowls of water, and golden sockets floated flame, and cups of faience, like the one he had given her, but also white, and black, waited for drink.

  A Lilliputian green glacier lay on the second table by the black cup. Was it an emerald? It was huge, polished not cut, bleeding soft green light.

  There were other low tables set about below the platform, and round them on low stools and chairs sat people. A company.

  They were garbed in bleached linen and in jewellery. The men were shaven headed, some of them, others massively wigged. The women were wigged in hair of darkest green and blue.

  These people laughed and talked easily and artfully, like diners in a fashionable West End restaurant.