Venera Dreams

by Claude Lalumiere

  The language in which Scheherazade sings is not in any way distinguishable; yet as the song unfurls so does the story. The song is the story.

  It is impossible to be certain whether, for the next three and a half hours, the image projected is nothing more than the face of the singing Scheherazade or a fantastical montage of stories within stories — of adventurers and merchants and thieves and farmers and beggars and hunters and spies and kings and queens and princes and princesses and whores and clerics and mercenaries and demons and wizards and gods and monsters and warriors and demigods and ghosts and lovers; set in a mythic past that could never have been, in a time before cities, at the dawn of human civilization, in the time of the great empires, in times of war, in times of peace, throughout history and throughout the world. Or perhaps the unfolding narrative is superimposed on the face of the storyteller?

  This mosaic of stories does not follow any chronology. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to summarize or even pick out specific moments from the narrative. But what is told encapsulates the whole story of Scheherazade and of the tales she has birthed.

  Eventually, the singing stops. The only image left is that of Scheherazade’s face, in such tight closeup that no surrounding element is visible.

  After a pause during which the image is static and the film mute, the camera zooms out to reveal that Scheherazade is standing within a labyrinth of otherworldly ruins. Subtle and eerie echoes pepper the soundtrack. The only light comes from glowing rivulets of vermilion water and pulsing veins of the same colour in the stone walls.

  A whirlpool of iridescent vermilion forms next to Scheherazade. Solemnly, she steps into it. The whirlpool engulfs her and then disappears, taking her along with it. The camera lingers on the ruins. It zooms out as it fades to black, then fades back in to a starry night sky. The camera pans downward, revealing the cityscape of Venera.

  End credits.

  PART 3

  THE SECRET HISTORIES OF MAGUS AMORE

  THE SUBTERRANEAN ODYSSEY OF MAGUS AMORE

  His mind saturated with vermilion, Magus Amore bends down to the basement floor and lifts a metal slab, revealing a dark chasm. He slides into that darkness, downward into the bowels of Venera, while upstairs, in her home and studio, which had once been, in the hands of the previous occupants, a boutique selling artisan vermilion aphrodisiacs, his lover, the artist Belinda Gerda, paints the first tableau in what he already knows will be a series inspired by his ecstatic visions of the world’s goddesses.

  Amore descends through the mysterious and inscrutable vestiges of past Veneras. The air in this underground universe is moist yet not at all dank. Amore breathes deeply, lets the uncannily fresh atmosphere fill his lungs, his belly, his head, his crotch, his entire body. It’s like breathing in the conceptual ideal of spring water instead of any earthly, mundane matter; the effects are purifying, cleansing, bracing. But Amore is also aware that it might affect his sensory perceptions, perhaps even his perception of time and of himself. Mixed in with that brightly flavoured air are particles of vermilion dust; his mind is by now so attuned to the divine substance that he can detect its subtle intrusion.

  At the edge of his sight he sees her: his guide through subterranean Venera, the dark-skinned feminine psychopomp of the Veneran underworld, the story within the story. She turns her head, and her eyes meet his briefly. And then she begins to sing. Softly, so softly that her song is barely a hum. She sings in the language of the gods.

  Unknown even to most Venerans, this subterranean world offers a consciousness-altering spectacle of architecture, geology, history, myth, and divine lights. Once again, Amore considers forever abandoning the glittering decadence of the modern city-state of Venera and instead lose himself in the contemplation of these mysterious, forgotten, improbable iterations of the city that serves as his refuge.

  Magus Amore the Mad. Magus Amore, former writer of international repute, whose every bestselling thriller has been adapted into equally successful films. But that was before. Before Venera. Before vermilion, the delicately aromatic Veneran hallucinogenic, had opened his mind. Magus Amore now spends his days whispering incantations dedicated to strange deities, engaging in atavistic rituals of brutal eroticism, surrendering his illustrated flesh to the passions of otherworldly monsters, despoiling himself like an infant as he babbles incoherent nonsense. Magus Amore, now the butt of jeers, rumours, slander, and parodies.

  Magus Amore cares little for what others say or think of him. It is here, in the subterranean world of the main island of the archipelago of Venera, that he has been able to explore the ineffable mythologies of his imagination. The deeper Magus Amore descends, the closer he comes to grasping his own primordial ur-story. To experiencing the archetypal narrative through which he perceives the world. In all his novels and stories, the writer had tried in vain to achieve such transcendent self-knowledge. Then, his life’s quest took him, here, to Venera. To vermilion, and to the deities, creatures, and realms the drug and the psychopomp have revealed to him.

  Downward still goes the mad visionary. The tunnels lead in infinite directions, but as always he follows the trail of Venera’s psychopomp. She smells of spice: of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, tinged with vermilion and the brine of the female sex.

  The entombed Veneras of the past are not shrouded in absolute darkness. A rusty gold-red glow emanates from veins in stone and sediments, from rivulets of unknown origins that flow through some of the most decrepit ruins, from cracks on the surfaces that surround Amore in this underground universe, from the invasive roots of the World Tree Yggdrasil, reborn, from a desiccated shoot brought by the Viking invaders, as a vermilion plant — omnipresent, serpentine, and carnivorous.

  The psychopomp, too, glows subtly of vermilion. As Amore descends he gets closer and closer to her, but she never lets him quite catch up. The vermilion sheen accentuates the deep darkness of her naked skin. Onward she leads him, with song, with the promise of story and the lure of the Goddess herself.

  This labyrinth of past civilizations leads to colossal architectural works that sometime dwarf the bio-architectural wonders of the surface Venera. These past civilizations ooze unfettered grandiosity and sublime vulgarity. These the ruins tease achievements relegated to secret histories.

  The subtle melodies of the psychopomp enrich Amore’s vermilion-enhanced perceptions of subterranean Venera.

  Amore stands within the remains of a structure decorated with brutal frescoes depicting demons devouring live humans. This sacred place is the Casa Tenetrarum, a sanctuary dedicated to the Thrikathian god of cannibalism, Terrutala. Downward still he travels. The song of the psychopomp continues to whisper to him, bestowing upon him knowledge of the lost languages and forgotten cultures and myriad histories of Veneran antiquity.

  Every one of Amore’s journeys into the subterranean yesteryears of Venera has revealed different and contradictory pasts. The tunnels, ruins, and chambers undergo perpetual metamorphosis. Venera’s past, present, and future are all equally fluid.

  The barracks and storehouses of the Thrikathian, Clumbarian, and Hyppogean eras tell stories of possible past Veneras. Etched into stone are records of colloquial languages, corruption, superstitions, everyday life, and hidden rites — such as the cruel rituals depicted in the panorama of Sumod’s lavish Insuleaa Sanctuary.

  Within the Hyppogean Maxias Kirras dwells the sacred images of one of the most ancient Veneran cults, that of the fish-goddess Nayadaga. Amore is bestowed visions of Nayadaga’s half-human faithful taking part in orgiastic rituals, dancing to the rhythms of forgotten musics, testing their mettle in savage initiation ceremonies.

  Amore reaches never-excavated levels of subterranean Venera; these civilizations that once thrived in the world above are now buried by the deposits of the infinite iterations of Veneran history. Having reached a dead end, the psychopomp’s path now takes Amore upward, back toward the surface.

  Walking among the broad arcades of a Domuskian stadium, A
more relives the excitement of ancient spectacles. The Clumbarian Sylla Pompios evokes a long-forgotten vision of the afterlife tinged with aspects of Orphic mysteries, hinting at a connection to the Hellenes of Ancient Greece; its graceful, colourful, and joyous depictions of the netherworld portray the realm of the dead as a playful setting.

  The Via Venza speaks of the death throes of Veneran Christianity. The small basin at the end of the hall used, at first, for the meek ablutions of these early Christians and later for the gory immersions of the debauched Baptistas, the orgiastic mystery cult that supplanted the short-lived Christian sect of Venera.

  The Paollo Regola district retains the smells and arrangement of a lively commercial area interspersed with decrepit apartment blocks and lavish private villas. At Traverstera, the barracks of the Excubirotium once housed, during the Roman occupation, militia and civic guards, its walls defaced with contemporaneous graffiti — voices and images of ancient daily life. Along the deserted vias: extinguished torches, dry water pumps, desecrated altars.

  On this brief picaresque journey, Amore has far from exhausted subterranean Venera’s vast panoply of wonders. Murmurs from an infinity of unlikely pasts still snake within Magus Amore’s mind. Already, he yearns to follow another downward path among these buried ruins and relics.

  But for now the Goddess calls.

  The psychopomp stands still, now silent, and extends a hand toward Amore. His fingers link with hers. He breathes in her pungent, spicy aroma. Scheherazade stands on tiptoe, her lips reaching for his. He bends his head and kisses her, tastes the complex spiciness of her mouth.

  He kneels before her, smells the bouquet of her dark cunt, and then drinks from it. Her juices smear his face and flow into his mouth, up his nose, and down his throat.

  Scheherazade tastes like a fountain of pure vermilion. She is addictive, irresistible. His thirst for her can never be quenched.

  The psychopomp sings her orgasm. After, she grabs his head, lifting him back up.

  Before them forms a whirlpool of iridescent vermilion, the gateway that leads to Her, to the Goddess.

  Holding the psychopomp’s hand, Amore waits for her to guide them both into the whirlpool, as she has done at the conclusion of all his previous subterranean odysseys. But Scheherazade stands still.

  She whispers a song in the language of the gods. The words are ineffable, but the meaning unfurls in his mind: Scheherazade’s story has reached its conclusion. Nothing is eternal. Not Scheherazade. Not anyone. Not any story. Perhaps not even the Goddess. Scheherazade has finally exhausted her well of stories. Venera requires a new story, a new storyteller. Magus Amore is now Venera’s psychopomp.

  Briefly, Amore wonders why he was chosen. Amore is aware that he is not the only one who wanders the subterranean Venera in erotic communion with Scheherazade and the Goddess; he knows of at least five others: the tinkerer Hemero Volkanus, the pornographer Tito Bronze, the Canadian expat author Bram Jameson, the celebrated Veneran writer Renata Austin, the Slavic photographer Petra Maxim. But, without pride or modesty, Amore knows that none of them abandon themselves as fully as he does to the Goddess or to her sacred spice, vermilion. He is hers, forever — or, at least, for as long as she will have him. Even his devotion to his lover Belinda Gerda is a manifestation of his adoration of the Goddess. His insatiable lust for Scheherazade is a reflection of his desire for the Goddess.

  Within moments, the seeming eternal youth of Scheherazade gives way to age and decay. Seconds ago, her body had been that of a ripe young woman. And then the brittle shell of an elder nearing death. And then nothing but dust — vermilion dust that swirls around him, brushing against his eyes, his ears, his nose, his lips, his cock … before vanishing into the sacred whirlpool.

  Magus Amore follows her trail and descends into the glittering eddy, downward into mystery, subject to the inscrutable whims of the goddess Venera herself.

  ADVENTURES IN CRYPTO-ALCHEMY: THE GOLDEN CRYPTOGRAPH

  Welcome, dear readers, to another installment of Adventures in Crypto-alchemy. Today’s offering is “The Golden Cryptograph”: a three-part serial by that literary alchemist of cryptofiction, Magus Amore, renowned author of The League of Anarchy, The Best Americans, The Miracle Family, Swamp Sex, Who Watches the Goddesses of Lust?, From Bacchus, and The Secret History of Sacred Wines.

  Witness the genesis of the golden cryptograph in “The Quest of the Crypto-alchemist”! Follow its unlikely path in “The Exploits of the Detective of Desire”! Decipher its meaning in “The Ultimate Adventure of the Golden Cryptograph”!

  PART 1: THE QUEST OF THE CRYPTO-ALCHEMIST

  It had taken him more than three decades, but finally the crypto-alchemist attained the goal of all those who plied the alchemical arts: he had transmuted lead into gold. Not the gaudy gold that fuelled mundane dreams of greed — no. But that elusive substance, the mystical grail of alchemists, whose golden luminescence was purer than sunlight, whose very existence held the potential to forever alter reality.

  Carefully, while the gold was still in liquid form, radiating such intense heat that the crypto-alchemist nearly fainted from exposure, he poured it into a mould. Not one drop could be wasted; according to his calculations, he had transmuted exactly enough lead to fit into the receptacle. The mould was in the shape of a pen, and with that pen the crypto-alchemist intended to write, and thus record and safekeep, the arcane secrets the gold would impart. Precision was essential; he had calculated to the minutest fraction the exact volume of both the mould and the gold. Had he produced either too much or not enough gold the pen would not function. All the alchemical gold from this transmutation had to be contained within a single vessel, and that gold had to fill the vessel to saturation.

  Slowly, the gold flowed into the pen. The crypto-alchemist’s entire body was covered in sweat, from his long hours of labour transmuting the lead, from the unbearable heat generated by the alchemical process, from the strain of handling every instrument with superhuman dexterity. Finally, the last drop fell from the cup and into the pen. Success! His calculations had indeed been as precise as required. The crypto-alchemist sealed the top of the vessel; he held the pen in the palm of his hands, marvelling at how quickly the gold cooled once it settled into its receptacle.

  The crypto-alchemist was tempted to surrender to sleep — he had been awake for sixty hours — but he knew that, should he succumb to such mortal weakness, all his travails would be for naught.

  He uncapped the pen. The gold nib glowed like a miniature sun, blinding him. The crypto-alchemist remained calm; he knew that he was not blind, but that the light of the gold, now that it had moved into semi-solid state, was of such purity that it overwhelmed all other colours. That brightness would not last, however. In too short a time, unless it were crafted into a form that would maintain its alchemical properties, the alchemical gold would decay, either reverting to lead or, if the alchemist had transmuted it with especial skill, becoming indistinguishable from mundane, mercantile gold.

  The hand that held the pen started to work as if of its own volition. The still-blinded crypto-alchemist surrendered to the gold.

  The crypto-alchemist, his sight restored, woke up in his workshop, still holding the pen, which was now hollow, all the gold having flowed from it through the nib to create the object before him: the golden cryptograph!

  He had no memory of fashioning it. As the gold had started to guide his actions through the vessel of the pen, the crypto-alchemist had slipped into a trance, from which he had segued into sleep once his task had been completed.

  The golden cryptograph was composed entirely of alchemical gold. His mastery of the crypto-alchemical arts had not failed him: the golden cryptograph shone with a subtle inner luminescence. In shape and size it resembled a greeting card — a rectangle folded vertically in the middle — the gold sheet so thin and pliable that it could open and close like paper. The front-cover frame was illuminated with embossed decorations, enhancing the beauty of the objec
t. In the centre of the design were three words, each on its own line. For now, the crypto-alchemist could not decipher those words, as he could not recognize either the language or the characters. The two inside pages were filled with text in the same esoteric script, with the occasional embossed illumination. The artful layout of text and images instilled in the crypto-alchemist, despite the as yet impenetrable meaning of the words, a sense of profound serenity. The centre of the back cover sported a small round image — concentric circles whose rings contained delicately minute swirls and designs. The crypto-alchemist suspected that within this circle there hid the key to unlocking the mysteries of the golden cryptograph.

  What secrets had the gold revealed to the crypto-alchemist? What was the key to unlocking the sacred alchemical language in which those mysteries were encoded? How would his life — and perhaps all of reality — be transformed once he deciphered the golden cryptograph?

  These questions now consumed the existence of the crypto-alchemist. Every waking second of every day was spent trying to decode the golden cryptograph. Even his dreams were preoccupied with this alchemical riddle. Alas, the efforts of neither his reason nor his subconscious were rewarded with success.

  He would not admit defeat, however. Within his grasp, he knew, there resided the knowledge of ultimate transcendence, the alchemical formula with which the ecstasies of divine knowledge and physical reality could be forever wed. Once he felt he had exhausted his own skill, knowledge, and resources, he studied under other crypto-alchemists. He didn’t care if they were his elders or his juniors, if they were more or less experienced than he was — his pride was of little concern. The only thing that mattered was the quest: deciphering the mysteries of the golden cryptograph! He approached his colleagues with as much humility as he could muster and sought to expand his command of the crypto-alchemical arts, opening his mind and imagination to whatever knowledge or inspiration these other crypto-alchemists could impart.