Venera Dreams

by Claude Lalumiere

  Emboldened, I added: “And it is your native tongue, sir.”

  He tapped his walking stick to the floor twice in rapid succession. “Quite so! But on to more serious matters.”

  Including the director, the Brigadier, the Mistress, and myself, there were ten of us gathered in the meeting room. The director stood at the ostensible head of the round table, while the rest of us had been invited to sit. Some but not all of our tablemates were known to me, and full introductions had yet to me made; the three agents I did not know were all women. One was small, dark, and spectacularly beautiful. Another was pale and gaunt, with long hair like brittle, colourless straw; she appeared too ancient to be alive. The third seemed barely there, as if she were flickering in and out of existence; there was some sort of glamour about her face, making it difficult to distinguish her features. Those agents familiar to me were, like the Mistress, renowned adventurers, revealed now to also be, as was the entire assemblage, clandestine field operatives of the Vermilion Eye. The trio I knew were called Le Nomade des Étoiles, Eule-Königin, and Sweet Honey; together they travelled throughout Europe, their often scandalous exploits never failing to be the talk of both low and high society. Our paths had crossed on five occasions, sometimes working in tandem, sometimes engaged by patrons with conflicting aims. (The first of these encounters was published as “The Adventure of the Peerless Machines,” collected in The Scientific Investigations of the International Mistress of Mystery.) I now suspect that, whatever the ostensible conceit of the cases we were involved in, the Mistress and this trio always worked together for the interests of Venera first and foremost.

  We had descended several flights of maze-like stairs to reach this cavernous room. Above, below, and around us mineral veins and plant tendrils pulsed with that eerie rust-red glow that I now associated with Venera and which provided our only illumination. The table around which we were gathered was made of glass and reflected the sinuous ebbs and flows of the reddish light, accentuating its disquieting lifelike character. At first, the room seemed too dark to clearly discern anything but soon my eyes adjusted. Or had the vermilion light grown in intensity since we’d arrived? I could not be certain.

  The director continued: “Our new recruit shall, alas, endure a trial by fire. This chamber has now been sealed by both science and sorcery. There is no way out until I utter the secret command.” The transparency of the table seemed, at this point in the meeting, designed to remind us all of our vulnerability.

  The consternation among the gathered agents was palpable. Only one of the others, one of those three as yet unknown to me, seemed more amused than alarmed. I glanced at her again. She was indeed a great beauty, perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever beheld. Less than five feet tall, she nevertheless radiated regal assurance. Her face was youthful, but her eyes betrayed a calm wisdom and a vast potential for mischief that such youth could not account for. Even under the reddish hue that pervaded the room I could tell her skin was as dark as any unmixed African’s, but her features were more Arabian, or perhaps Indian, as was her long lustrous black hair. Her dress was simple, but also immodest by most standards. A floral frock with generous décolletage that left her arms bare and reached above her knees. The garment’s rust-red pattern seemed to shift if I stared at it. Her eyes sought to probe my own, but I lacked the confidence to lock my gaze with hers.

  Brother Nocturne ignored the ensuing questions and protestations. He patiently waited for his agents to regain their composure. When at last they had, he continued: “All will be explained shortly. For now, for the good of the Eye and the welfare of Venera, it is necessary for you to introduce yourselves, as not all of you are familiar with each other, and, to fulfill our agenda today, we must come to know each other as thoroughly as possible.”

  The Brigadier spoke up. “You overstep your position, Nocturne. Your directorship is not a mantle of authority, but merely a mandate of coordination and communication.”

  “Nevertheless,” Brother Nocturne accentuated the word with a double tap of his walking stick, “this is how we shall proceed.”

  There was tentative agreement from the group. “For now, perhaps,” Le Nomade des Étoiles said with a hint of northern French accent.

  Brother Nocturne ordered me to go first, and I repeated to the assembled group what the Mistress already knew about me. It seemed to satisfy the director.

  The Mistress was next. “You all know me. I am the International Mistress of Mystery.”

  There was a long pause, and when it became clear that the Mistress did not intend to continue, Brother Nocturne said: “No. That will not do. Who were you before, and how did you come to be who you are now? What is your relationship to Venera? How did you come to work for the Eye?”

  Sweat ran down the Mistress’s brow, although the temperature was comfortably cool. Even I, her companion and biographer, knew very little about her beyond her nom d’aventure, her exploits (which were, to some extent, known to the public as well), and her nocturnal proclivities, which only she and I shared. But of her past — nothing. She was a very guarded and private person. “No, Brother Nocturne. I have worked long and hard to perfect the anonymity of my persona as the International Mistress of Mystery. Why should I divulge anything now?”

  The director stayed silent for a moment. Then, he tapped his walking stick twice on the ground — evidently, a quirk of his that indicated having come to a decision — and said: “One of us is a traitor. Perhaps unknowingly so. I include myself among the suspects. A high-ranking operative of the Vermilion Eye has been leaking intelligence to the Invisible Fingers, threatening the security of our beloved Venera. It has been determined that only we ten had access to the breadth of information in question. We must now cross-examine each other with complete candour, until we determine the identity of the traitor.”

  There were gasps around the table, although the beautiful dark woman laughed.

  The Mistress bristled. “Why, then, is my assistant here? He did not even know of the Vermilion Eye before your summons.” Other objections, in multiple languages, were heard from various points around the table.

  The director tapped his walking stick to the ground, silencing the group. Addressing the Mistress, he said: “If what you claim is true, then he has nothing to fear. Before we commence our mutual cross-examinations, we must at the very least each of us know all the others. We must have some basis from which to interrogate each other.”

  The entire assemblage stayed resolutely silent. Was this kind of insubordination common at the Vermilion Eye?

  Again, a double tap to the ground from the director. “Very well, then. I shall introduce each of you to the gathering, with the exception of our recruit, who has already done so himself.”

  Brigadier Fox objected. “No. If at least one of us is a traitor, why risk exposing our secrets? No, I vote against this course of action. In fact, I propose we put it to a vote now.”

  There were murmurs of assent among the group. Brother Nocturne started to reply, but the dark beauty interrupted him.

  “We all know there is but one appropriate way for us to resolve this question and to discover if there truly is a traitor among us.” Her voice was like a song. She did not speak English; I could not identify the language she used, or even distinguish the words she uttered, yet I understood her meaning. She continued: “Or, Brother Nocturne, are you fearful of what true sharing might reveal?”

  He said: “Of course not, Scheherazade.” The director now sat with the rest us, resting his walking stick against his chair. His previous show of arrogance, along with any semblance of authority, seeped out of him. He deferred to the dark-skinned beauty he called Scheherazade.

  Who could refuse whatever she proposed? Her voice was more seductive than any siren call could ever be. We all fell silent. Were they all as awestruck as I was? It was my first encounter with this woman, and I presumed that they had been exposed to her charisma before. Although I could not imagine that her voice ever dim
inished in potency, regardless of how often one might be privileged to hear it.

  She pointed to the centre of the table. Had it not been empty before? Yet, there lay a translucent decanter. Within it shimmered a liquid possessing that same vermilion glow that suffused much of what I had so far seen of Venera.

  “This vermilion wine is a gift from the Goddess,” she said. “Let us commune.” She reached for the decanter of wine and took the first sip. Although the vessel was large and somewhat ungainly and she petite to the point of almost, were it not for her heady aura and physicality of womanhood, being mistaken for a child, she drank with elegance, her every movement beguiling and enchanting. Scheherazade rested the decanter back on the glass table. She sang, in that language that seemed to encompass all languages: “May the Vermilion Eye be ever vigilant, and may it forever keep Venera safe!”

  They all repeated the oath, in a cacophony of tongues.

  WE DRINK VERMILION WINE AND COMMUNE WITH SCHEHERAZADE

  The decanter made its way around the table, counter-clockwise. One by one, the gathered agents drank from it — although we were not as deft with the decanter as Scheherazade. Each of us spilled some of the wine on ourselves, rivulets of vermilion fluid snaking down our chins, necks, chests, and clothing. Brother Nocturne raised his mask slightly so as to be able to drink. He did so as briefly as possible and tried to hide the small portion of his lower face that was thus revealed. I thought I saw scars around his mouth, but it might have been my imagination.

  I had no choice but to join in the communion, as all eyes were on me when the decanter was placed in front of me.

  All the while, Scheherazade spoke — or sang; I could not tell the difference or if, for her, there was a distinction to be made. I could discern no words or overt meaning. Rather, her voice conveyed a mood, a context. I felt myself and the nine others, including Scheherazade herself, become characters in a dream she was weaving. Doorways opened around the room-cavern, in ten different directions.

  I now sat alone at the round table. Where had all the others gone? I called out to the Mistress, to anyone, but my voice was drowned out by the song of Scheherazade, which still reverberated within my mind.

  I waited, but aside from the subtle variations of Scheherazade’s melody the scene remained static. The song did not offer any guidance, save perhaps a yearning for exploration. There was no alternative but to follow one of the ten paths offered me, which were all equally foreboding, equally tempting. Each of them presented a similar melange of darkness and light. The vermilion radiance did not truly pierce the darkness; rather, the ten black chasms were punctuated with vermilion lights and pulses.

  Whether my growing restlessness was a result of the dark woman’s song, of the strangeness of my situation, of my impatience for something — anything — to happen, or of some combination of all these, I nevertheless could no longer tolerate inaction. I chose the opening nearest me and walked into the vermilion-sprinkled darkness.

  I travelled only briefly on this path. Soon, with one step and without warning, I exited the dark tunnel and found myself in woodlands at dawn.

  EULE-KÖNIGIN, THE OWL-QUEEN

  I breathe in the pungency of greenery and decay. I am running. Not from anything, but for the rush of pleasure it affords me. The blood pulsing through me; my heart a thumping, comforting presence in my chest. Twigs and branches scratch my skin, leaving faint lacerations. I mumble-sing in nonsense sounds, peppering in the occasional German word. My thoughts, too, are in German. I think of how I can barely tolerate the presence of my five younger sisters. I wish I had a brother. My mother mostly ignores me, leaving me to my own designs as long as I do what’s asked and expected of me (I don’t always); she and I neither love nor dislike each other. I believe I am my father’s favourite little girl. At least, that’s what I see in his eyes whenever I peer into them, what I hear in his voice whenever he sings to me.

  I am a little girl?

  Yes, my head is adorned with long golden tresses. I’m wearing a dress that was once white and blue but is now mended with patches of disparate designs and colours and covered with the filth of farming and the stains of play in the woods.

  I should be starting my daily chores. Sweeping. Scrubbing. Cleaning. Feeding the pigs and the goats and the chickens. Looking after my sisters. Instead, at dawn, I am here.

  I stop. I stop running and singing. I clear my thoughts of everything about life on the family farm. And I listen.

  I listen.

  She is hooting: Eule-Königin, the Owl-Queen.

  I close my eyes and stand absolutely still. I focus on the sound. It grows louder and louder. My body vibrates, as if tuning itself to the call of Eule-Königin.

  The air swooshes around me. There’s a rustle of leaves and branches. With every hoot of the Owl-Queen the ground throbs like a gigantic drum.

  I open my eyes and turn around, and there she is: Eule-Königin, the legendary Owl-Queen. For one month now, since the last full moon, she has visited me every time I venture into these woods, at dusk or dawn. This past night, the moon was full once again.

  The Owl-Queen stands taller than I do, taller than would a fullgrown man, her owl head thrice the girth of an average person’s. Her talons, so thick and robust they look like they could shred metal, dig in the soil beneath her.

  Her merciless gaze envelops me. I feel fragile and vulnerable. But I do not flinch. I meet her gaze with whatever cold resolve I can muster, pushing down the awe that threatens to engulf me.

  I sense her giant eyes evaluating me, looking for the fear that is not within me. As she does at every encounter, the Owl-Queen stares at me unblinkingly, waiting for the terror that will compel her to attack and devour me. Always, she flies away. Whether she is disappointed by or approving of my fearlessness, I cannot fathom.

  This morning, it is different. She waits longer than she ever has before. Her gaze is static, unwavering, relentless. I, too, am static, unwavering, and relentless. I am hers to gaze upon. A living statue devoid of emotion and response.

  But my body betrays me. My belly tightens and is then gripped by sharp spasms, by a rhythmic ache followed by a strange sense of release. Moistness spreads from my sex and onto my thighs.

  Immediately, I know. My time has come. Womanhood.

  [The illusion — or dream? — was at that moment briefly shattered, and I was myself once again, in the darkness of the narrow tunnel, my eyes teased by the sparse strands and pinpricks of vermilion glitter. I reflected that the girl — the child version of the tall, regal woman I knew as Eule-Königin, agent of the Vermilion Eye — was not quite as young as I had first surmised. Before I could formulate another thought, I was once more transported into the scenario of the young girl, or rather woman, being both her and myself at the same time.]

  I struggle to remain stoic in the face of this transformation, this bloody farewell to childhood, to not let pain or discomfort or uncertainty tarnish the cold demeanour I present to the Owl-Queen.

  But I cannot fool her.

  The character and timbre of her hooting changes. She beats her wings and flutters around me with a swiftness that is surprising for such a bulky creature. Although her feathers brush against me, cutting my flesh, I do not fear the Owl-Queen. Let her devour me if she so wishes. I do not fear her.

  I close my eyes, waiting to be consumed. It is a much nobler fate to become food for this powerful and ancient goddess than to become yet another anonymous farmwife bearing children I do not want — better this than a lifetime of filth and tedium and neverending chores.

  But her hoot once again changes, becomes more songlike.

  The flutter of wings builds like a crescendo until it becomes a rumbling of wings.

  I open my eyes. The Owl-Queen is flanked by her subjects. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of birds of all kinds — more species than I am able to identify.

  The birds swarm to me. They peck at the underside of my knees, and my legs buckle. I fall onto a bed of birds,
and I am carried up, up, up into the sky.

  Eule-Königin leads the flock. We head south. So high in the sky, the cold wind is terrible, and for the first time I am afraid. I fear that I will freeze, accidentally, the Owl-Queen oblivious to my human frailties. I do not want to die in such a thoughtless, meaningless manner.

  I huddle into foetal position, or at least as close to it as my precarious carriage will allow. I rub my hands and shield my face. This I do with regret, as the view of the world from the perspective of the birds is even more beautiful than I ever imagined.

  By the time we alight on a roof garden, although the air is hot and moist, my whole body is shivering. The landing itself is surprisingly gentle. It is now mid-morning, and I am the midst of a vast city, unlike anything I have ever seen. [I experienced a double vision of sorts, as my submerged true self recognized Venera.] The vegetation and the architecture meld together into one giant puzzle as far as my eye can see, broken only by a complex network of street-like canals, bustling with activity. Everything is so alive that I briefly imagine that the buildings themselves are in constant movement or transformation. Before I can examine my surroundings more carefully, I am greeted by a dark-skinned woman, shorter than I am even though I am barely not a child anymore and she has many years on me. Her long black hair —

  [The sight of Scheherazade, looking exactly the same as she did in the meeting room, decades later than the scene I was experiencing, jolted me back to the dark passage and to myself. I waited, but I did not re-enter the dream. Growing impatient, I marched deeper into the tunnel, to rapidly find myself at a crossroads, with nine other tunnels offering possible paths. In the background of my mind, I could still hear faint echoes of Scheherazade’s song. In equal parts fascinated and irritated, I chose the path to my immediate left.]

  SWEET HONEY

  In this second tunnel I encountered a simulacrum of the woman I knew as Sweet Honey — petite, dressed to emphasize her disproportionately ample feminine voluptuousness, brazenly wearing her shoulder-length hair loose. Always, the Mistress and I had met her in the company of Eule-Königin (or, rather, according to what I had just learned, she who grew up to assume the owl goddess’s name) and Le Nomade des Étoiles. The three of them travelled the world under the guise of adventurersfor-hire — what better way to serve the Vermilion Eye and the international interests of Venera than to hide in plain sight? After all, the Mistress operated under similar pretenses.