The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  She rocked slowly, quickly, slowly, backwards, forwards, side to side. The perspiration poured out of him. It was only a matter of seconds.

  “Why are you here?” She repeated, slowed right down almost to a stop.

  “I don’t understand why it’s so important to you?”

  “I’m just making conversation.”

  She knew it was wrong but she was starting to enjoy this. Whilst his cock wasn’t big by any stretch of the imagination, the shape and thickness of it were really pushing her buttons.

  “My...ancestors...” he panted.

  Her heart quickened. “Ancestors?” She needed to concentrate, tried to bring herself back into the room. The colours she saw inwardly, darkened.

  “...my great grandfather was here...in Paris...but...” his eyes closed again.

  “Yes?” She put down the hammer, grabbed his balls, squeezed them.

  “He got in with a bad crowd...a cult they said...he was murdered.”

  What was he talking about? What did he know?

  He tried to force her to start moving again by using his hips but she had turned her head away, lost in thought.

  “Murdered? In Paris?”

  “Paris? God no...London! It’s a long story but for another time, yeah?”

  Were those tears in her eyes? She began grinding again.

  “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he stated.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Rea...? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

  He howled in agony.

  She had done it so quickly.

  What the fuck? She’d opened his palm, pulled aside his leather restraint, revealing more of the wrist. It wasn’t making sense to him, looked like she’d smashed an iron nail into his flesh, straight through the bone, into the wooden bedpost. The blood flowed down his arm, onto the pillows, staining the sheets. She had this wrong, he hadn’t paid for this.

  “Isn’t this what you truly wanted?” She mocked, climbing off him. His cock slipped out of her gaping hole. She went to the bag, took out another nail.

  He writhed in agony. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

  At the end of the bed she bent down, licked the sole of his left foot, then his toes, sucking them one at a time.

  “Please...don’t...”

  She ignored him, placed the nail to his ankle, then with one large wallop of her hammer, she whacked the nail through him, deep into the wood.

  “Fucking hell!” He shrieked.

  His cock quivered, had taken on a life of its own. She knew she had to strike (no pun intended) now before the moment passed.

  Swiftly she went to the bag then made her way up the bed, knelt astride him. His dick had no problem finding her entrance. He groaned in both pleasure and pain. She sat back a little, stretching the tight skin of his penis.

  Tears flowed down his cheeks – the agony obvious. His expression suggested he was heading rapidly into shock. She couldn’t take that risk, not yet. She leant over, placed that final nail over his left wrist.

  “Shall I stop?” She pushed down with her hips. His groin fought against her. “I asked, should I stop?”

  He whispered something. She leant down to his ear. “I didn’t actually catch that.”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Just as I thought.” She had become such an expert that she didn’t even need to look as she beat that final nail into him.

  There was a sudden flooding between her legs.

  His cock convulsed as it pumped the semen into her. “More...more...” She was in ecstasy now, bouncing up and down on him, taking as much of him as she could handle. Her cunt swallowing every last drop of his spunk.

  After several moments and realising he was flaccid, she noticed his mouth wide open, his tongue lolling to one side. The colour of his face had gone gray, pallid.

  He was dead.

  She climbed off, cupped a hand between her legs. She didn’t want to lose any of that precious nectar. She lay down on the floor, raised her legs in the air and began reciting her incantation. The language would be unfamiliar to many, but Middle Eastern in origin - just as she was. The letters on her skin began to vibrate, to swirl around her body.

  When finished, she gently lowered her legs but didn’t stand, just lay there for a while. She was utterly exhausted and needed some much needed sleep – she knew what ordeal awaited her and she had to be fully prepared.

  She opened her mouth, let the blood from the boy’s wrist drip into her mouth. She smiled, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Her body exploded.

  A million black-as-pitch scarabs, a dark constantly-in-motion carpet, scattered across the floor, heading for crevices, hidey-holes, gaps in the walls or ceilings they could find and disperse.

  On the bridge, a crowd began to gather...

  ***

  The Pont Neuf, Paris, 23rd August 1572

  “Burn that fucking bitch. She deserves everything she’s got coming to her!” A man with a freshly broken nose shouted, spitting to accentuate his point.

  “Calm yourself, calm yourself. We have to be certain that this is God’s desire.” The cloaked man replied, playing with the brim of his hat, brushing off the dust and dirt. It had been a long ride from Anjou. He was hungry, thirsty, tired and cranky. There was tension in the air, the quicker they could get this over with, the better for everyone.

  “This abomination has nothing to do with God.” Another voice called from within the darkness of the shadows, not ready to be revealed just yet. “She is with child, his child! They both must be burnt.”

  It was a moonless night, difficult to see anything, the light from the torch not worth a jot, not with this wind anyway.

  In the metal cage, the woman screamed, rattled the bars. Her eyes wide, raw and red. Her hair matted, stuck to her sweaty face. The rags that barely covered her nakedness: filthy. “It’ll be worse for all of you if you don’t let me out of this prison and quickly.”

  The cloaked man crossed himself, took a step closer to the cage but broken-nose grabbed him. “Be careful Father. She turned old Rottiers into a toad. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I see.” He paused. “She speaks with an accent I am unfamiliar with, from where do you think she originates?” He placed the hat back on his head.

  “The land of the unclean, the unbelievers...she crawled out of the sand on her belly just like the serpent she is.”

  “Indeed, indeed. And besides turning your friend Rottiers into her familiar, what other proof do you have of her guilt?”

  Broken-nose clicked his fingers. A large warty woman stepped forward from the darkness. She curtseyed. “Father.” She looked about her, cleared her throat, began to articulate herself, slowly and surely as possible. “Three nights ago, I was sleeping. I heard a noise from the yard. A strange noise. Like the screech of an owl and with it an eerie lament, music Father, from an instrument I am unfamiliar with. When I roused myself and glanced out of the window, I saw that all of my livestock were dead. They had been slaughtered.”

  “Slaughtered?” The priest enquired. “How so?”

  “The expressions on their poor poor muzzles suggested they had died the most horrible of deaths.” She wiped her cheeks, the emotion evident for all to see. “My family’s future was tied up in those animals...what am I to do? WHAT AM I TO DO? I will be homeless if I cannot pay the...”

  With a flick of the priest’s gloved hand, she fell silent. “A sad story yet I can’t quite grasp how this woman is responsible, your testimony...”

  “The full moon?” Broken-nose interjected.

  The woman nodded.“The full moon, yes, that’s right. I could see everything and it was bitterly cold.”

  “Everything? What actually did you see?” The priest was becoming exasperated.

  “The devil! That bitch is in league with the devil!” The woman howled.

  An explosive hue and cry went up from the sizeable crowd standing behind them on the bridge, mostly concealed by the shadows. At the
mere mention of the devil, there was beating of chests, ripping of clothes, tearing at hair.

  “How did you know it was Satan?” The steam from the priest’s breath was battling with the rising mist from the river flowing beneath.

  She pointed to the cage. “They spoke with the same tongue.”

  “Come on, come on,” Broken-nose prompted. “We haven’t got all night. Hurry up, tell him the rest, quickly, there isn’t time for this.”

  The woman frowned, her expression suggested she was searching for the right words. She clasped her hands together in front of her rotund belly. “I saw her fornicate with the devil, Father. I saw both their nakedness and I was ashamed. And as they fuc...did their business, I saw her reveal a blade from between her legs and slit the throats of my pigs, my cows, my chickens as they danced hand in hand under the cherry red moon and then...”

  She paused, crossed herself.

  “And then what?” The priest appeared perplexed.

  She put a hand to her mouth, shook her head. “Don’t make me speak of it. It is...was...too horrible.”

  “Then I bid you goodnight, there is nothing further for me here.” He turned, headed to his horse and the boy whom had ridden with him from the country. “There is no devilry here, just vulgar stories and rumoured cheap parlour tricks.”

  “WAIT!” The crowd separated, someone stepped forward. A man wearing such finery that suggested he was a man of learning, of distinction. He held a small black lacquered box.

  “Who are you?” The priest enquired.

  “I am from the University.”

  “And that?” He pointed to the box.

  “See for yourself.”

  Reverently, the man laid the box down on the ground and backed away. He reached inside his robe, pulled out a small velvet purse which he threw to the woman who caught it, bowed and made a dash for it.

  The priest, intrigued, approached the box, bent down, examined it carefully. There wasn’t a lock as such, just a small clasp. He went to undo it.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, wouldn’t you rather see what pleasures I can offer?” The woman rubbed between her legs.

  “I will not be tempted by you.” He spat.

  She laughed. “It is not I that is tempting you. Can’t you see that?”

  Broken-nose picked up a bucket of dirty water which one of the horses had been drinking from, threw it at the cage, drenching her. It had the desired effect: she fell to her knees, cowered, fell silent.

  The priest sung an Ave Maria then opened the box. He frowned briefly, reached inside, pulled out a small object which lay there on a bed of velvet. It was a small spear-head. He held it up to the dim light.

  “What is this?”

  “That was the blade she used to kill those innocent animals. Sacrilege!” The learned-man stated, crossing himself.

  The priest turned the spear-head over. “Perhaps, though there is something else here. I can feel its power.”

  “It was once belonged to a Roman centurion.”

  There was a pause as the priest took in what had been said. “But how did it end up in her hands? Wasn’t this in the possession of the Austrian usurper?”

  “That harlot is in league with the devil, why are you surprised?” He waved in her direction. “Look at her. Yes, really look at her. She speaks our language, but the accent is foreign. Her eyes: so bright green, almost inhuman. The olive skin. The red hair. Those words that have been tattooed upon her skin?! She no doubt stole it from whoever had it, Austrian or otherwise.” The learned-man was frothing at the mouth.

  “Calm yourself, calm yourself. I need to be clear, what do you expect of me?” The priest asked.

  “They are expecting you to execute me. They want my blood on your hands, they are too cowardly to do it themselves.” The woman whispered.

  Broken-nose spat, his phlegm flying over the bridge. “She’s a witch, she fucked the devil, she’s a murderer.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because you are the Hammer. Your talents are well known.”

  The priest looked back at the spear-head. “Surely there is someone else in this city, what about Father Vincent de...”

  The learned-man held up his hand. “Haven’t you heard what is happening? Paris is imploding, Catholics and Protestants are slaying each other in their hundreds. A massacre of the innocents – there will be no respite until the whole city is awash in blood and gore.”

  “But you are positive she is a witch? I have my doubts.” The priest sighed.

  “Isn’t what we’ve told you enough?”

  The priest looked heavenwards, closed his eyes, slowly nodded. “May God forgive us all.” He took a deep breath, walked towards the cage, put his hands on the bars, the woman backed away.

  “The key.” Broken-nose threw it to him. The priest caught it, was visibly shaking when he placed it in the lock and turned. The cage door opened, he entered.

  The witch, if that was indeed what she was, didn’t move. Just sat there with her legs wide open, stared back at him, pulled at the rags that covered her, bared her breast and tilted her neck, exposing her neck.

  “Do with me what you will.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes from her body. He was aroused but tried his best to force those ungodly feelings to the back of his mind. That swelling in his groin was obvious though as he was on his hands and knees, and as he had his back to the crowd, he doubted anyone would have noticed.

  “What I do is God’s work,” he stated as forcefully as he could muster.

  “I wonder if your God knows that you even exist,” she smiled. “Mine does.”

  He wiped the sweat from his face, inched ever closer. He could smell her now. Her scent was musky yet intoxicating. She opened her legs further, yanked up the rags. First, to her knees, then to her thighs, then higher still. She dipped a finger into that soft mound of folded flesh, then into her mouth.

  “I can still taste him. Has your God ever fucked you?” She let out a cackle that chilled his core. She pointed to the boy. “And I don’t mean him, as divine as he may purport to be.”

  He forced himself to keep going, moved between her legs.

  “I know you want me,” she whispered so only he could hear. “But there’s nothing wrong with that, you’re only human.”

  “You are wrong, I don’t...” his words trailed of, his throat parched.

  Suddenly she reached forward, grabbed his throbbing erection, teased it between her fingers. Every stroke sending a shockwave of desire throughout his body. “You have never known a woman’s touch. That boy cannot show you the pleasures that I can.”

  The priest closed his eyes. “You will not tempt me, Whore of Babylon.”

  “I may be many things, but whore isn’t one of them.” She let go of his penis.

  “They said you fornicated with the devil.”

  “With my God, I did fuck yes – and I’m happy for that. But that doesn’t make me a whore.”

  He motioned to those behind them. “They want to see you die.”

  She stretched out her arms. “Forgive them for they know not what they do.” Whatever her intention was, her words only incensed the priest. He put a hand to her throat. “You mock my Lord?” He began to squeeze.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Your God does not exist. He is a figment of your perverted imagination.” She squawked.

  He stared down into those green eyes and for that moment he convinced himself that he saw compassion deep within but that steely determination quickly returned. Compassion became pity. He let his hand fall away.

  She coughed, spat in his face. “Fuck you. Fuck your church. Fuck your God.”

  Before he was able to control himself and in such anger he never knew he possessed, he drew the spear-head across her throat. She went to say something, probably some curse or other but there was such a look of total surprise on her face, her voice fell silent and the blood began to spurt.

  He crawled out of harm’s way. S
he put her hands to her neck to try and stem the flow but it was no good. She attempted a scream, though all that came out was a gurgle. Her body began to shake violently.

  There was blood on his hands, his robes.

  “No...no...no...” What had he done?

  He clambered out of the cage, onto the bridge. Everyone had disappeared, it was just him, the boy and her.

  “The city is in flames.” The boy exclaimed. “Fuckers, they’ve done a runner!”

  It was true. The night sky was alight. Fires seemed to be burning everywhere. He could hear the screaming, the shouting, the misery. No wonder the crowd had vanished.

  “We need to leave now,” the boy urged.

  The priest stayed silent, just stared at the woman in the cage. She was kicking, fighting for life but as her heartbeat slowed, there was nothing he or anyone else could do. She would be with her Anti-God soon enough.

  Realising that he still had the spear-head in his hand and seeing that the box lay on the ground, he picked it up and placed the weapon inside. He walked to his horse, put the box in his saddle-bag.

  The boy helped him up.

  “Is something the matter?”

  For a moment, the priest noticed the boy’s bright green eyes, that olive skin...could he? No, he shook his head.

  The boy climbed upon his own horse. “Anjou?” He asked.

  The priest took a second or two to gather his thoughts but then jumped down.

  “Whatever this girl was in life, she deserves better in death.”

  Confused, the boy followed his master. Yet, when they got to the cage, the girl had gone. Something though was moving inside, a large swirling black mass.

  “What are they?” The boy sounded disgusted.

  “I’m unsure.” The priest replied but then as he went to climb in, the blackness exploded. “Out of the way, out of the way!”

  Thousands and thousands of scarab beetles spilled out of the cage and onto the bridge.

  “So she was a witch then?” The boy crossed himself.

  “Some would say that, yes.” The priest replied as the last of the beetles ran over his foot. “Let’s leave this place forthwith, the flames of hell fast approach.”