The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  I thought my heart was about to squeeze itself out of my chest. What the fuck?

  But a horse I could deal with. A human intruder not so much. I was almost sick with relief. This was probably an escapee from the racing stables down the road. It was not unheard of for their animals to get out from time to time. But to end up in my yard? I so didn’t need this right now.

  I slid the door open and went to stand on the deck, the cold welcome on my skin.

  “Hey there, lad,” I said to the horse.

  The animal shook its mane, but didn’t look otherwise perturbed by my presence. Then again, he—and I couldn’t help but think of it as a he—was much bigger than me. What did this beast have to fear from one scrawny human woman shivering outside in her nightdress?

  The horse was coal black and, when he moved, dapples of moonlight scattered coins on his hide. His tail swished with the sound of running water but it was his eyes that mesmerised me. They seemed to glow with an unearthly gleam. Or maybe it was just a quirk of the low light. I couldn’t be sure. I thought again of the little horse carving now on the mantelpiece. Of bone bearing a rusty smear of my blood. Here in the dark it was easy to imagine that I had somehow conjured up this steed of dreams whose hooves crushed the foliage in my garden. Even now he bruised the lavender bushes, and the scent hung heavy in the air.

  What to do, however...I couldn’t well leave the animal free to move about. It might wander into the road where it could get hit by a car. I should try to catch it then call the cops. Or something.

  Yet I was loath to move from my position on the deck, even to fetch my phone. I remained watching my nocturnal visitor while the beast gazed at me with almost lambent golden eyes. Each breath he expelled sent plumes of vapour from his nostrils, as though deep within he burnt with an unquenchable fire.

  What must it feel like to run a hand over that smooth hide, to feel each muscle twitch and shiver beneath skin? As if aware of my thoughts, the horse snorted, shook its head and took first one then another step toward me where I leant against the banister. His breath was hotter than I expected and the whiskers by his lips tickled my finger before he allowed me to run my hand up along his jaw.

  There was something exquisitely unreal about this entire situation, some small, logical part of me wondered, but at this point I smothered that voice of reason while I marvelled at how fate had brought me to this moment where I could be lost entirely in the now.

  What did Paul and the rest of the world’s dumb opinions matter in the dark light of this rare meeting? How often did we tumble into an encounter so perfect, so beautiful, but were unable to pause in our own headlong march to the grave in order to stop and just be in the moment?

  I had a feeling tonight was one of those mythical, once-in-a-lifetime occurrences, and I was in a precarious position where I had to assign meaning, had to just let go of everything sane so I could reach out and grasp some weird, impossible dream.

  It seemed the most logical thing to ease myself onto the horse’s back. After all, it had sidled up to the deck and it was simply a case of swinging my leg across while holding onto the thick mane. Never mind that I’d never ridden anything bigger than a craft market Shetland pony.

  And like a boat just unfastened from its moorings and pushed into the main current of a river, the horse moved away from the deck and my house. Its gait was surprisingly smooth but I held on with my knees and tangled my fingers in the coarse mane. The animal’s bulk was unfamiliar between my legs and its vertebrae jutted into my cleft in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of sex. Its flesh radiated heat.

  Yet I found myself moving with the beast, enjoying the rhythm of its pace as its hooves clopped on the tarmac. What a sight we must make, though I realised belatedly that all good people would be asleep and dreaming at this ungodly hour. Thing is, I didn’t care. Paul’s infidelity, my uncertainty of a future as a single woman, the troubles I’d been having at the office... All of these paled in significance to the present, the here and now that saw me astride a magnificent steed.

  The animal continued its sedate walk along the road then down to the little cul-de-sac where the dunes started. I should have worried about having no idea where the horse was taking me but at this point I simply enjoyed the night: the way the stars were spattered in a broad swathe across the sky, like paint flecks, and the growing rumble of the sea. I could be a gypsy princess riding away to Landau, a fierce Amazon tracking an escaped prisoner...anything.

  The swell was always big in winter, and tonight was no different. Without a single drop of wind to flatten them, the waves curled in white foam before they made their last gurgling rush up the sands. An illuminated path had formed on the ocean where the moon was gradually dipping toward the western horizon. I’d always wondered about these gleaming moon paths on the water. They must lead somewhere in the fairy tales.

  The beach at this hour was its own kingdom, of a nearly endless empty stretch of white sand begging for a gallop. The horse must’ve picked up on some of my excitement because its ears flicked. Then its muscles bunched and it put on a fresh turn of speed.

  I might not have gone for lessons, but some deep-rooted desire to ride had me moving instinctually with each stride, and I lost myself in the thrill of the way this was almost like flying. The air beat at my face and filled my lungs, and I was certain my hair streamed behind me like a ragged banner. The cold raised gooseflesh on my skin and all I could hear was the rush of wind and the ever-growing grumble of the ceaseless Atlantic.

  The horse’s pace changed when we reached the hard sand by the water’s edge, and I was jerked on my perch and almost slid off. The animal paused then, for which I was grateful, and I was able to secure my seat.

  “What now, lad?” I asked as I patted the straining neck.

  I almost didn’t have the opportunity to get a good handhold before the beast spun around. The heaviness of salt stung my sinuses and we were facing the waves. The beast’s ears pricked forward and before a squeak of dismay could escape me, we were making for the ocean. Big hooves splashed down in the breakers and droplets spattered my naked skin with stinging cold sparks.

  Soon the water sucked at the beast’s chest and my feet were rapidly chilled.

  I had to let go. Whatever nightmare goal the horse had, if I remained astride I too would wind up drowned, with seaweed tangling in my hair and small fishes whispering where my eyes used to be.

  But I couldn’t let go. The mane was knotted around my now numb fingers.

  “Stop! Stop!” I shrieked, but my voice was lost in the thunder of an incoming breaker.

  A white rumbling wall of water approached us and I knew, just knew that when it struck us we’d be completely submerged.

  “No!” I shrieked and then the icy wall exploded into us.

  Cold.

  Salt.

  Dark.

  Up was down, sideways.

  Next I knew my limbs were being dragged along by a ferocious tide and I was gasping for each wheezy, salty breath in the shallows. That wave had knocked me clean off the stallion and had brought me closer to shore.

  I didn’t turn around. I didn’t wait. Some dumb instinct had me shove every inch of the will to live into my limbs and I ran. Never mind that the sand past the high tide line was soft and powdery, and that each step had me sink beyond my ankles.

  I ran.

  Even though the air seared through my salt-stung sinuses and lungs, and I thought my heart would burst, I put every last effort into my flight from the ocean, expecting at every moment to hear the dull thud of hooves in pursuit.

  How I got home I don’t know, but I locked the sliding door to my bedroom, drew the curtains and collapsed in a shivering heap beneath the covers from whence I did not stir for the rest of the night.

  * * *

  Of course the previous night’s madcap antics seemed absolutely pathetic in the garish light of day. I called in sick because I really did feel sick—I had a temperature and couldn’t stop the
scratchy cough that nestled like a fist between my lungs. At some point I’d have to pull a mission to go see the doctor for a sick note, but not now, not yet. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

  I’d almost not believe that any of last night’s Big Imaginary Horse Episode had actually happened if it were not for the sand that I’d tracked into the house and smeared over the bedding. And there’s nothing worse than beach sand in your bed.

  Which led me out onto the deck where, lo and behold, I saw enough hoof prints in the sand around the lavender bushes to convince me it wasn’t just a bad batch of too much gin and red wine coupled with severe emotional stress that were leading me to imagine magical horses.

  So I had a shower, got into clean jammies then went to go feel sorry for myself in the lounge, where I could at least light the gas fire and subsist on ginger tea while watching many episodes of Spartacus back to back. Sometimes I snoozed. Other times I managed to peer blearily at the screen. But mostly I didn’t feel like the house was so achingly empty.

  Somehow watching a bunch of mostly naked men slice and dice each other with an assortment of pointy objects made me feel a whole lot better about my predicament, and in my fevered state I had half-dreams where Gannicus kept asking me whether I’d like pass that page for printing...

  I snapped awake in a dark house and at it took me a moment to go through my mental checklist: yes, your husband has left you; you feel like shit ’cos you’re about to die of bronchitis because you can’t breathe through your nose and have an elephant crushing your chest; the sun has gone down; and you haven’t eaten all day.

  “Shit.” My voice was all breathy and my lungs made a discouraging accompaniment that sounded like a piano accordion with a holey bellows.

  Oh, don’t forget your midnight ride with the circus pony from hell.

  “Fuck.”

  All I could hear was the tick-tick of the antique cuckoo clock and the sough of the wind in the milkwoods. There must be a storm brewing, because the scrape of twig against the roof had that particular urgency that spoke of one of the Cape’s classic storms. Had I closed all the windows?

  Then another sound imposed itself on my senses. The muffled crunch of hoof on gravel, and a dark shape eased past the window, its shadow bulbing across the wall thanks to the orange streetlights.

  Oh shit.

  The horse. It was back.

  Another spasm of coughing hit me hard and that was all I could do for a while. Every breath was precious and, by the time the hacking subsided, I was weak, and had to lie back.

  The horse whinnied—a strident cry that cut straight through me and had me clutching the duvet. The creature’s snort was explosive, and then it started pacing, around, around the house. I huddled on the sofa, but I knew that it knew I was here. Why else would it have returned?

  Except now I was certain of what the horse wanted—to carry me to my death, covered over by the icy grey-green Atlantic Ocean. Maybe they’d find my body washed up in a few days, bloated and well nibbled by scavengers. The kelp gulls would fight over the choice bits and the insects would crawl all over me in itching blankets until some luckless early morning stroller encountered me while out walking his dogs.

  “Go away,” I keened, but the damned horse kept up its circling, as if it were hitched to a mill, grinding, grinding, until nothing remained of me.

  I was halfway to the door, ready to let myself out, wanting to rage at the thing, shake my fists—do something, anything other than cower in a pathetic bundle—when I spotted my violin case. I’d never packed it back when I’d found my Box of Precious Things, and now it lay half-in, half-out of the cupboard.

  My violin. Music. I needed to drown out that awful animal pacing outside, ready to carry me away to my oblivion. With trembling hands I guided the cursor of my laptop so I could get the music player up and running. The machine was sluggish, hourglassing, but I brought up Philip Glass’s Akhnaten. A powerful piece of music to drive away demons. Voices surged, speaking of the wonders of the gods, and even while the first crescendo built, I unclasped my violin case.

  Outside a clatter of hooves rained down on the deck, making the whole house shake, and I couldn’t help the tiny squeak that escaped me even as I lifted the violin to its accustomed position. Drums beating from the ninth pit of the infernal realms. Beating for my soul.

  My fingers were numb, and I trembled so much the next time the beast outside let off its rage-filled scream I almost dropped my violin. But I persisted, muscle memory taking over as I dredged up the familiar motions of turning the tuning pegs, using the violin’s natural harmonics in the spaces between the notes of the opera playing on the sound system.

  I played. Like I’d not played in years.

  You’ll never make it as a pro, your music’s too sentimental, Paul’s words echoed. Rather focus on your career at the magazine. You’ll have a salary.

  Fuck the salary. Fuck Paul. I’d pushed myself into a little box for too many years now trying to live up to his expectations, what my parents had thought was the better course of action: You should get married before you move in with a man.

  I played for that young woman who’d seen herself on stage, who performed wordless love songs, dirges, lullabies. It didn’t matter but for the music that had lain dormant, stashed away carelessly so that she had to make do with the pre-packaged stuff.

  So my violin’s voice dipped and wailed between those of the singers, surging into a threnody as that fucking horse outside raged and roared. Or was it the wind? At this point I didn’t care. I set the music free and it emptied me, of all that vicious bile and the sickness that had festered for almost a decade.

  I didn’t stop until the last whisper of Glass’s opera dissipated, and there was that slight hesitation while the computer cycled through its playlist and Charles Mingus started plucking the opening notes of the Haitian Fighting Song.

  The first splatters of rain wept down on the big panes, and I was drawn to the windows, violin cradled to my breast.

  The fingers of my left hand left a ruddy smear on the glass, but I didn’t mind so much. The horse was gone.

  For now.

  Q Is For Qareen

  Le Sacrifice

  Dean M. Drinkel

  Hotel Domis, Near The Pont Neuf, Paris, May 1968

  “You’re honestly telling me you’ve never done this before?”

  “Should I have?”

  The girl smiled, she shrugged. “You just look the type that’s all.”

  Out of sight, she opened the leather bag, took out the nail, then the hammer, licked her lips.

  The boy, no, the young man, was drenched in sweat, it dripped down not just his face, but his chest, his belly, between his legs. Soaking the sheets beneath him.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your faith? That would be such a shame after...all this.”

  As far as was possible, he shook his head. The restraints cut into his neck, his wrists, his ankles.

  The instruments clutched to her belly, she stood at the window, stared out at the Seine, there in the distance. It wasn’t cold, but her breath misted up the glass nonetheless.

  Momentarily he was distracted, he could have sworn that he heard the hoot of an owl and what was that? An accordion for goodness sake? The city was in protest and all he could hear was an owl and a fucking accordion?! Where were all the people? Locked away in the safety of their homes watching it on television no doubt. Typical.

  He was hard. No hiding that. There it was – his small fat cock – sticking up between his thighs. It quivered, moved under its own direction. There was some wetness on the tip, though that could have been because she’d had it between her lips only moments ago, before letting it slip out of her mouth. That was when she had slithered off the bed, gone to her bag, searched through it for her tools. Not that he knew that of course.

  “What now?” He whispered.

  Her expression almost betrayed her, not though that he was focusing on her face – as beauti
ful as she was. Right then, it was her breasts (pert, blossoming nipples) and freshly trimmed cunt that interested him more.

  And what about that calligraphy which appeared tattooed onto her olive skin; that ran up and down both sides of her body? He was dying to ask her what it meant, but for some reason he didn’t have the balls (which was ironic in itself, for what he lacked in penis he certainly made up in scrotum and when he came, did that spunk flow – what was it an old girlfriend once said of him – “you’re all airbag and not much gearstick” – something like that anyway).

  When he did eventually glance at her face, it was her eyes that drew him in. Totally intoxicating. Deep pools of green. Her hair too, a lighter shade of ginger.

  “Pain,“ she hissed. “There will be plenty of that from here-on-in.”

  He smiled. “That’s what I paid for.”

  She frowned. “Indeed you did, but this is your first time?”

  His throat was dry. “I said that it was.”

  “Then who am I to further question, especially when you have paid so...handsomely?” With her hands behind her back, she sauntered back to the bed, clambered up onto the mattress, knelt either side of his groin.

  His cock more than eager. He could feel the heat emanating from deep within her.

  “Why you are here?” She enquired.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Paris is rioting. Why are you here? Why now?”

  The head of his cock shuddered, anticipating the pleasures that the folds of her flesh promised.

  So close, yet so far.

  “I...I...” he mumbled.

  She lay her down upon his chest, could feel his heart beating beneath her. “Just put it in you, I need to be inside your hole. Please,” he whispered.

  “Why not?” She replied, lowering herself onto him. No need to guide him in, she was open, wet, his rock hard dick found her entrance easily. His back arched as he ground his hips, trying to get as much as he could into her.

  He shut his eyes as she moved in a circular motion upon him. He grunted in pure pleasure.