He pulled away, stood, turned his back to her. He went to the wall and lifted a monkey skull candle up. He held the light along the yellow wall. “You think from what I’ve done that I’m a monster, Miss Boone. You think I thrive on cruelty, but it’s not that way. Even Greer, in his last moments, thanked me for what I did. Even the children, their life-force wavering and the stains along their scalps spreading darker juices over their eyes, whispered praise with their final breaths that I had led them to that place.”
He held a light up to the papers stuck to the wall. His shadow seemed enormous and twisted as he moved the light in circles; he didn’t look back at her, but moved from petition to petition. “Blessings and praises and prayers, all from the locals, the believers in Y-Cha. And I, Miss Boone, I am her sworn consort, and her keeper, too. For it is Nathan Meritt and no other, the Hero Who Skinned A Thousand Faces, who is her most beloved, and to whom she has submitted herself, my prisoner. Come, I will take you to the throne of Y-Cha.”
A pool of water, a perfect circle filled with koi and turtles, was at the center of the chamber. Jane had followed Nathan down winding corridors whose walls seemed to be covered with dried animal skins and smelled of animal dung. The chamber itself was poorly lit, but there was a fire in a hearth at its far end; she thought she heard the sound of rushing water just beyond the walls.
“The river,” Nathan said. “We’re beneath it. She needs the moisture, always. She has not been well for hundreds of years.” He went ahead of her, toward a small cot.
Jane followed, stepping around the thin bones which lay scattered across the stones.
There, on the bed, head resting on straw, was Lucy. Fruit had been stuffed into her mouth, and flowers in the empty sockets of her eyes. She was naked, and her skin had been brutally tattooed until the blood had caked around the lines: drawings of monkeys.
Jane opened her mouth to scream, and knew that she had, but could not even hear it. When she stopped, she managed, “You bastard, you said you hadn’t hurt her. You said she was still alive.”
He touched her arm, almost lovingly. “That’s not what I told you. I didn’t hurt her, Jane. She did this to herself. Even the flowers. She’s not even dead, not yet. She’s no longer Lucy.” He squatted beside the cot and combed his fingers through her hair. “She’s the prison of Y-Cha, at least as long as she breathes. Monkey God is a weak god in the flesh, and she needs it, she needs skin because she’s not much different than you or me, Jane. She wants to experience life, feel blood, feel skin and bones and travel and love and kill, all the things animals take for granted, but the gods know, Jane. Oh, my baby,” he pressed his face against the flowers, “the beauty, the sanctity of life, Jane, it’s not in joy or happiness, it’s in suffering in flesh.”
He kissed the berry-stained lips, slipping his tongue into Lucy’s mouth. With his left hand, he reached back and grasped Jane’s hand before she could step away. His grip was tight, and he pulled her toward the cot, to her knees. He kissed from Lucy to her and back, and she tasted the berries and sweet pear. Jane could not resist—it was as if her flesh required her to do this, and she began to know what the others had known, the woman with the scraped face, the children, Greer, even Rex, all the worshipers of Y-Cha. Nathan’s penis was erect and dripping, and she touched it with her hand, instinctively. The petals on the flower quivered; Nathan pressed his lips to Lucy’s left nipple, and licked it like he was a pup suckling and playing; he turned to Jane, his face smeared with Lucy’s blood, and kissed her, slipping a soaked tongue, copper taste, into the back of her throat; she felt the light pressure of his fingers exploring between her legs, and then watched as he brought her juices up to his mouth; he spread Lucy’s legs apart, and applied a light pressure to the back of Jane’s head.
For an instant, she tried to resist.
But the tattoos of monkeys played there, along the thatch of hair, like some unexplored patch of jungle, and she found herself wanting to lap at the small withered lips that Nathan parted with his fingers.
Beneath her mouth, the body began to move.
Slowly at first.
Then more swiftly, bucking against her lips, against her teeth. The monkey drawings chattered and spun.
She felt Nathan’s teeth come down on her shoulder as she licked the woman.
He began shredding her skin, and the pain would have been unbearable except that she felt herself opening up below for him, for the trembling woman beneath her, and the pain slowed as she heard her flesh rip beneath Nathan’s teeth. She was part of it, too, eating the dying woman who shook with orgasm, and the blood like a river.
A glimpse of her, not Lucy.
Not Lucy.
But Monkey God.
Y-Cha.
You suffer greatly. You suffer and do not die. Y-Cha may leave her prison.
She could not tell where Nathan left off and where she began, or whether it was her mouth or the dying woman’s vagina which opened in a moan that was not pleasure, but was beyond the threshold of any pain she had ever imagined in the whole of creation.
She ripped flesh, devouring, blood coursing across her chin, down her breasts, Nathan inside her now, more than inside her, rocking within her, complete love through the flesh, through the blood, through the wilderness of frenzy, through the small hole between her legs, into the cavern of her body, and Y-Cha, united with her lover through the suffering of a woman whose identity as Jane Boone was quickly dissolving.
Her consciousness: taste, hurt, feel, spit, bite, love.
In the morning, the saint slept.
His attendant, Sunil, came through the entrance to the chamber with a plate of steamed vegetables. He set them down on the table, and went to get a broom to sweep up the broken ewer. When he returned, the saint awoke, and saw that the servant stared at his face as if seeing the most horrifying image ever in existence.
The saint took his hand to calm him, and placed his palm against the fresh wounds and newly formed scars.
The saint felt the servant’s arousal. Sunil was a beautiful dark man, with piercing eyes, and the great man let his free hand slide down Sunil’s back, beneath his shirt, to the curve of his buttocks.
Sunil gasped because he was trying to fight how good it felt, as all men did when they encountered Y-Cha.
The saint found his warmest place and stroked him there, like a pet.
His mouth opened in a small O of pleasure.
He was moist and eager. Already, his body moved, he thrust, gently at first; he wanted to be consort to Y-Cha.
He would beg for what he feared most, he would cry out for pain beyond his imagining, just to spill his more personal pain, the pain of life in the flesh.
It was the greatest gift of humans, their flesh, their blood, their memories. Their suffering. It was all they had, in the end, to give, for all else was mere vanity.
Y-Cha pressed her finger into him, delighted in the sweet gasp of expectation from the beautiful man’s mouth.
Words scrawled in human suffering on a yellow wall:
Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood
I delight in your offering
Make of your heart a lotus of burning
Make of your loins a pleasure dome
I will consecrate the bread of your bones
And make of you a living temple to Monkey God.
The servant opened himself to the god, and the god enjoyed the flesh as she hadn’t for many days, the flesh and the blood and the beauty—for it was known among the gods that a man was most beautiful as he lay dying.
The gift of suffering was offered slowly, with equal parts delight and torment, and as she watched his pain, she could not contain her jealousy for what the man possessed.
* * *
Delicious Antique Whore
by Wilum H. Pugmire
I knelt beneath twilight and prayed to the depraved angel. My quivering lips had difficulty mouthing the arcane words that dreamed within my skullspace. I felt those words stir within t
he pit of my being, felt them ooze toward my mouth and linger on my dry tongue.
Trembling, I prayed. Shaky hands clasped elbows. Tearful eyes that had been kissed by inhuman mouths scanned the nighted sky. They watched the weird moon, saw how dark and hazy it seemed, how its outline ebbed and flowed as it sank slowly from the heavens.
Ah, no—it was not the moon.
Cool air chilled my naked flesh. I could smell the hunger of immortal lust. I closed my eyes as liquid tongues smoothed the surface of my throat. It kissed me there, and there; oh, and there. My lips found its single breast. I sucked. Its curdled nourishment dripped into my mouth and churned within my soul.
I tried once more to recall when I had first devoured this delicious decadence. But I could not remember. My other life was but a dim forgotten dream, gladly tossed away like useless skin. This angelic beast alone was my reality.
It drifted from me, whispered my name. My eyes opened. I beheld its swirling shapeless shadow, the blur of its endless wings, its halo of dark flowing blood. I gazed at the multitude of grinning mouths and wept as a chorus of the damned spoke my name with longing.
The creature bit into its tongues with perfect fangs. Its raining blood baptized my body. The scarlet dew sank hungrily into my numbing flesh, became a part of my substance. My mouth stretched wide, shaped newly in rebirth.
The beast seethed before my face. Lips that were strangely soft sucked the nectar from my eyes, eyes I could not close. I was blessed with nameless vision. I beheld myself surrounded by others of my kind. We were the chosen ones who writhed among the passion of celestial monsters. We lurked the darkness of night in search of soft human skin, sweet succulent blood. We celebrated our lust with wild abandon as we fucked among the shadows of gods.
Stinging orgasm returned me to my senses. The formless angel howled in daemonic delight. I felt its fangs upon my throbbing throat.
“Drain me,” I begged. And it did. O, so delicious. And I died, for a little while.
* * *
Triptych di Amore
by Thomas F. Monteleone
I was here before the Great Temples at Luxor, the Colossus of Rhodes. I walked with Aeneas at Carthage, Alexander at Philippi. I saw the horror of Black Death, the joy of Polo’s return. I heard the heresies of Galileo, watched the Sistine Chapel transformed. I am Helen to Menalaeus; I am Geraldine to Christabel; I am the Vlad of Desire. I am as old as the world is young.
—Inscription found on the underside of altar’s capstone, village church, Scarpino, Sicily, 1944.
Vienna, 1791
One of his earliest memories was of his father, Papa Leopold, touching the keys of a harpsichord or a piano, demanding the instrument’s pitch to within an eighth of a tone. Before he had learned to read German, he was reading music in his mind. Little Wolfgang’s ears had been magically sensitive, his fingers lithe and almost supernaturally quick. Crystalline memories of being in the circle of astounded adults as he played, while his father beamed with pride.
But memories seemed to be all he had lately. If only he were not such a goddamnably bad businessman! If only his Constanze were not so sickly all the time! If only there were ways to protect and warrant the music he’d created!
If only the world were fair…
Mozart laughed at this crazy little wish as he sat on the outdoor table of his favorite Konditore, a pastry shop on the Domgasse near his previous home. He had lived in the Figarohaus for three years, until it became too expensive for him and his fragile wife. How he had loved that woman, and now… how he sometimes despised her!
She was as devoted to him as a house pet, as helpless as a child, and less passionate than either. What with his home life being so miserable, his financial situation taking him to the edge of poverty itself, and a new emperor ascending to the throne, it was incredible, even to Mozart, that he could still continue to produce musical masterpieces with the precision and punctuality of a Swiss clock.
The war with the Turks had finally ended and the Viennese court was starting to pay more attention to frivolity and the arts again. The ten-year reign of Joseph II had just ended and Leopold II was now in the palace, but Wolfgang hated the man. He seemed to have no soul for music, and even less understanding of what it meant to create anything. Leopold II, despite being told by many esteemed men (even Haydn himself) that Mozart was a “national treasure,” refused to issue him a royal stipend. Even though Don Giovanni proved to be the most popular opera in the history of the city, Mozart remained estranged from any of its profits—such had been the nature of his original agreement with the theater owners.
Almost destitute, Wolfgang had appealed to the Vienna magistrates, asking that he might be appointed as “humble assistant” to Kapellmeister Hoffman at Saint Stephen’s Church. It was a grand ploy, except that the magistrates were so overwhelmed with such a modest petition, that Mozart was appointed to the post as an honorary employee without a salary.
Fuck them all! he thought viciously as he finished his pastry and coffee. It did not seem to matter anymore what happened to him. He had just nursed Constanze back to a fair simulation of good health, and perhaps she would have to take in sewing or laundry to pick up a few extra ducats.
And I will continue to give music lessons to the few in this city who can afford me, he thought as he downed the last of his linzer-torte. Picking up his coffee cup, he drank down the final swallow, the rim almost touching his forehead, obscuring his vision.
He didn’t see her until he put the cup down.
Then, he could not stop looking.
Shining blond hair enveloped her head like spun gold, and her long, aquiline face seemed like a piece of Greek sculpture, so perfect were its lines. She had eyes of the most penetrating green he had ever seen, and their gaze had him fixed like a butterfly on a pin. If she’d told him her name was Helen of Troy, he would have only smiled.
Suddenly she was sitting at his small table, having somehow slipped down in front of him, during the instant that he sipped the last of his coffee.
Astonishing!
He cleared his throat and tried to speak. “Yes?” The word fell off his lips hoarsely.
The woman smirked, her mouth glistening with the sensuous moisture of youth. “You are Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?”
He nodded. “There is none other.”
“Oh, I know… your music aspires to Olympus. Surely the gods themselves have never heard such strains.” Her voice was even and refined, suggesting a maturity unexpected in one so young.
Mozart laughed nervously. “Well, I’ve never heard anyone express it quite like that, but, yes, I agree with you: my music is special.”
The woman smiled openly this time, prompting him to continue.
“My father keeps telling me to write more simple stuff, so that more of the people can understand what I am doing. ‘What is slight can still be great,’ my father said, but that is not my style. I would first jump into the Danube before writing less than my music!”
“Good for you, my Amadeus. It is said that you are the world’s foremost musical genius, and even upon first meeting you, I am already inclined to agree.”
She stroked his ego so skillfully he did not even think to ask her name or her purpose in sitting at his table. By the cut of her clothes, it was apparent she was an extremely wealthy woman— the wife of a great landowner, or perhaps a duchess, maybe even an emissary from the Court of Leopold II. It would be wise not to be too arrogant with this woman until he knew more about her.
“Uh, thank you, madame…” he said more cautiously, as he watched her breasts heave and swell above her bodice. It seemed as though they had a life of their own, that they were straining to break free of the constraining cloth. Finally, coming out of his trance, he addressed her once again. “As much as I enjoy the praise of strangers, I am compelled to ask if there is anything I might do for you…”
She reached out to touch his hands.
“These are the fingers which dance upon the piano
keys with such magic, are they not?”
“So I’ve been told, yes.”
She stroked his fingers lightly, stirring passion in him that he had not felt since his first times with Constanze. “I would have you give me lessons, Mozart…”
He was stunned! Surely she did not mean what she said. He had never had a female student, and indeed, it was rare to hear of any women studying under one of the masters in the city.
“What?” he asked politely, but not hiding his surprise. “You wish to study the piano?”
“In a sense. More precisely, I wish to study you, Amadeus.”
“Me? You mean my music?”
She tilted her head slightly as though considering her answer carefully.
“Well, your music will make a good beginning…”
And it did.
The woman introduced herself as the Countess Bellagio from the city of Como in northern Italy. She had a large house on Schullerstrasse, complete with servants and maids on every floor. Although she was not Austrian by birth, she understood the Austrian concept of Gemütlichkeit very well: good living with charm and graciousness. On every visit to her home, Mozart was treated to the finest breads, cheeses, wines, and pastries.
And she took her music lessons very seriously for several weeks, until the roles of teacher and pupil became reversed.
Wolfgang had been seated with her at the piano when it happened. She had been practicing a little rondo he had written especially for her lessons, when he became aware of what could only be described as an overwhelming scent. It seemed to envelop him like the snakes of Laocoön tugging at his consciousness, squeezing off his powers of will and concentration.
It was a raw, pungent, animal smell. It was the aroma of rutting, the heat-musk of desire. It was the scent of mating and release. The music in his mind, in his ears, faded away like smoke. The only thing he could concentrate upon was the ripe body of the woman seated by him.
Love in Vein Page 17
