by Ray Furness
Then, in a trice, everything disappeared.
He saw her upon the crucifix, stretched in the full glory of her nakedness. Golden snakes twisted about her arms, her ankles, and a broad golden girdle embraced her hips, a girdle closed by a clasp which rested on her navel, a precious lotus-flower, sparkling with the rarest jewels. She gazed at him with her eyes half-closed, from under her long lashes lustful snakes were creeping, tempting with a flattering whisper … She was rocking back and forth on the cross in a lascivious ballet, her pudenda twitching, her breasts stretching towards him … Her voice was hot, sucking …
Do you recall how my father dragged me, naked and ashamed, before your throne?
Do you remember how you were sitting on the throne, shuddering, shrieking with lust, and stretching your arms towards me?
I was pure as the lotus blossom which gave birth to the god, you have shattered the holy lamp of my soul, poured out the ardour which was held in my veins, you have eaten away my soul with the acid of desire and wild, lustful dreams, and you then have crucified me.
Her voice was shrieking in panting lubriciousness.
Do you remember how your eunuchs pressed golden nails into the white lilies of my arms, blood was squirting in steaming spurts, and I scorned you, I spat curses and vituperation into your face, I bit into your soul with the poison of my jaws …
Come, come you poor slave of the blood, blood which you have whipped into a raving madness, come into my embrace which you have never tasted, come into the hell and the perversion which you have awakened within me; you have crucified me, and are rolling in the dust before me …
Creep closer, closer! Lick my feet, that they should twist in the febrile ardour of your lips, oh!, more!, more fervently, stronger!
He was creeping up to her …
And there was a hideous scream: ‘O Ashtaroth, Ashtaroth! Mother of hell and lust!’
But at that moment his brow was touched by a breath, an eternal, pure, holy chaste exhalation from the still hands of lilies …
He feared to gaze upwards, he feared it might be a dream again, this time a holy dream of eternity …
The hellish horror disappeared without trace, he felt her hand caressing his brow and her still, chaste kisses closing his eyes, her silken hair spilling across his arms with a loving benediction.
He felt her hand in his, he saw the two stars of her eyes, and an unknown blissfulness poured into his heart …
Yes, it is she, she, as quiet as death, the chaste one, the holy one; it is she who once gave him the bouquet of flowers …
* * * *
It was already late in the morning when he laboriously pulled himself out of bed, feverish and exhausted.
Why does she avoid me? He asked himself, despairingly. Why does she flee from me?
His thoughts grew confused: a thousand plans, a thousand decisions criss-crossed his brain, and a thousand images floated across his soul, until he finally sank, collapsing, on to the chair.
He could understand nothing.
He examined the entirety of his anguish, his ravings and his madness, since she gave him the flowers.
Pain arose within him, and a wild hatred.
I’ll crucify her, crucify her! he repeated, with a demented smile.
He closed his eyes and revelled in the mortal terror of his slave.
In a gigantic palace courtyard, somewhere in Sais or Ekbathana.
Around him stood his warriors in their heavy silver armour and their golden helmets; the rings of their breast-plates were glinting in a blinding gleam, and their eyes were flashing with the bloodthirsty greed of wild beasts of prey.
Three times the trumpets sounded: the eunuchs dragged the poor slave into the courtyard.
She was mad with fear; her lips were bleeding; she gasped, fell backwards; the black slaves seized her by the arms and dragged her across the scorching, sun-drenched flagstones to the foot of the cross …
The King closed his eyes and gave the sign.
They swung her upwards on to the ebony wood of the cross; the executioner seized her hands, a slave held her tight by her hips, and one heard the blows of the hammer …
But at that moment the King roared like a rabid beast …
He tore her from the cross and held her like a child in his arms; the blood from her wounds dripped on to his raiment; he kissed her wounds and drank her blood …
The minions who dared to touch her were hanged, drawn and quartered; he made her a goddess, and brought sacrifices to her …
Yes, yes, she was his God, and the whole world should genuflect before her …
O God, how he loved his slave, he, her most abject slave!
And why should he torment himself so?
He decided quite suddenly to tear her out of his heart, never more to think of her, to throw out the flowers together with the red ribbon which reminded him of her with such anguish.
But when it grew dark he ran out to the house into which she had disappeared the day before, and waited …
He finally caught a glimpse of her as she stepped out of the doorway – she looked around, but did not notice him.
He followed her, quietly.
He must not frighten her! She must not disappear from view! He scarcely dared to breathe.
She was walking quickly, as though she sensed that someone was quietly creeping behind her: she increased her pace, the white gleam of her dress flickering in the dusky avenue of hot, blossoming acacia trees like a will o’ the wisp between clumps of reeds in a dark swamp.
He was now almost certain that he would lose sight of her: he stepped up to her, half conscious and scarcely aware of what he was doing.
She stood stock still, terrified, and gazed speechlessly at him …
‘I was afraid I might lose sight of you,’ he said at last. ‘You were walking so quickly.’
He was breathing deeply, and fell silent.
They were walking slowly next to each other.
He regained his composure.
‘I don’t know how I dared to hold you back, but at the moment I crossed your path I didn’t know what was happening to me …’
He fell silent for a moment, then spoke quickly, abruptly, in a staccato fashion, and urgently, as though he wished finally to rid himself of his burden:
‘You don’t realise how much I have sought you. I’ve been wandering for days throughout the streets, in churches, parks and boulevards, just to catch a glimpse of you – not a glimpse, no, only the remotest impression, the most distant breath from your soul. I didn’t know you, I’ve never seen you before, I only knew that I would find you amongst a million women. The one who gave me the flowers, whose eyes have kissed the depths of my soul, can only look like you.’
She walked even quicker and he begged, implored and whispered ardently:
‘Oh, how I love you, my divine slave. You are my earth and my song, you are everything that is deep and pure within me. I carry you within me like a holy sun: you gleam in the depths of my soul like the radiance of a powerful star in an ocean tempest, your eyes are like two tuberose stars, and every night you embrace me with the willowy slimness of your limbs …’
She stopped, trembling, and let her head sink low.
‘How often have I held you in my arms, how often have I touched your face with an infinite love, kissed your eyes, lifted you to my breast and drunk the divine joy of your lips!’
He grabbed her by the arm. She was trembling like a heart that has just been ripped from the breast.
‘Say a word, just one word. I know that you love me, that you must love me, for she who sends such flowers must truly love. You know full well that you gave yourself to me when you gave those flowers.’
Again he fell silent, and only looked at her with an imploring gaze.
She said nothing, withdrew her hand and walked on quietly.
‘Just say a word, he begged. If you wish, I’ll never say another word to you – just permit me to follow you from afar, that
I should catch a glimpse of you occasionally, that I should taste your form, the music of your steps, the endless harmony of your movements. Just grant your permission, you don’t know the agony I’m in, what sorts of hideous dreams I have, driving me into madness, just say one word, at least tell me that I should go away …’
He became more and more confused, he stuttered, stammered, tormented himself unspeakably, tripped himself up and forgot what he wanted to say to her.
The tears were flowing across her face, but not a tremble, not a twitch of the muscles betrayed the fact that she was crying. She was quietly weeping the blood of her heart, weeping as a seagull weeps who has lost the way, who longs to return, but does not return …
He felt a whole world collapse in a thunderous crash within him. His heart was gripped by a wild, hopeless sadness: he walked alongside her as at the moment of their ultimate decline when the sun is extinguished for ever and an eternal night, shuddering, arches over the earth.
He walked as though he were walking to the end of the world, to be rowed across to that secret shore of shadowless trees, in a dead, cold cemetery air where motionless birds were resting with stretched and lifeless wings.
Something of his poured into her: perhaps she sensed the same endless sadness, the same premonition of an eternal emptiness and the silence of death; she shuddered, then she put her arm through his and pressed herself gently against him.
‘I am frightened!’ she whispered softly.
They gazed at each other in deepest horror … Breath froze in their hearts in the anticipation of something about to overwhelm them with the terror of the Day of Judgement.
And then, abruptly, there poured over his soul the Golgotha of his last few days in a hideous flood of torment. Wild fury seethed in his brain, he seized both her hands in anger, pressing them in an iron grip, and screamed:
‘I’ll crucify you! Crucify you! Crucify you!’
She stood for a moment, trembling with terror like an aspen leaf, then twisted herself from his raging embrace and fled at tremendous speed.
He saw her run away, but everything seemed to spin in circles before his eyes, lightning transfixed the darkness, and a sun sank, crashing, into the abyss …
He fell silently to the ground, as though laid low by an invisible scythe …
* * * *
Many days, many nights came and went.
He had shut himself away and admitted no one.
He was terrified of going out on to the street for he knew that he would meet her, and he knew that she also was looking for him, that she was wandering around, seeking him as he had sought her.
And when it was growing dark, and he had to go out, he would creep past the houses and the avenue of trees.
The least single noise filled him with dread, and the echo of distant footsteps made him start, for everything that surrounded him, the whole cosmos of thoughts and memories, the whole world which stalked him, was she.
He did not know why he was so frightened. He only felt that something terrible must happen should he meet her again.
And he had never longed for her so much; never tormented himself like this.
Whenever the world fell silent in an immeasurable stillness, when the blessing of light blossomed forth in the starry chalices and poured down on him, when the sadness of the moon bled between the chestnut trees: then ah! he would stretch out his hands towards her in a shriek of desperation, his soul dying in wild convulsions, and he crept towards her, for it seemed that the distance would melt away between them, and that she would climb down to him, embraced by the precious perfume of the most splendid flowers that he had ever experienced in his dreams, and dressed in the supernatural enchantment of divine azure, she would descend and soothe his fevered brow with her radiant hands, and embrace him, and caress him, and kiss him …
Or, alternatively: she will pour over him with an indescribable benediction of silence and calm, will pour into him with forgetfulness and intone in his soul the high song of silver dreams.
Or, alternatively: she will come to him with the muted resonance of distant bells which will spread within his soul the green carpets of his homeland and make his heart drunk with the gleam of lovely childhood memories when, on his mother’s lap, he could still dream of a wondrous world, a world still holy within his virginal breast, and could listen to the song which the lake at home was singing to him at the midnight hour, and gaze up at the birds spreading their heavy wings silently over the mysterious graves, and he could wander in the garden, gardens precious with black trees from whose monstrous umbels heavy gold blossoms were hanging.
He was longing for her, yet was terrified to see her.
Once he thought he saw her through the window. She was pressing her face against the panes and was gazing at him with eyes like a dying double star.
He felt a pain so deep that he felt unable to shriek, or groan. There was only an ashen, dying log in the grate, only the last flickering of the requiem candles at the catafalque from which the coffin had been removed, only the last gasp of the wind which fell to earth and moans through the autumnal stubble fields.
He gazed in deepest dread, and recoiled, only the eyes remained in her transparent face, the two dying stars. He leaned, shuddering, against the wall and everything suddenly disappeared: he was gazing in unspeakable dread into the deepest suburban darkness.
Days, and nights, passed like this.
Until the pain ceased, and he overcame his sick longing.
He only had to say something to her in parting, to scream forth his last utterance.
When he stepped on to the podium he saw nobody: he only felt the hot breath of the thousands beneath him. The green light of gigantic chandeliers flickered before his eyes, and for a second his brain trembled with thoughts of her – he wanted to see where she was sitting, where she must be sitting; he felt her gaze wandering, demented, over him – but then everything dissolved and unspeakable stillness spread throughout his soul.
The stillness and calm before creation.
A superhuman melody streamed from his hands.
He was sitting on Golgotha at the feet of crucified humanity. Centuries of torment, of hideous martyrdom poured like a hurricane over his soul, an eternity of damnation and suffering, of screams, howling for redemption; there were curses, infernal curses and convulsions of roaring, of screaming for one second of happiness. Within his soul the whole of Being celebrated a sombre mass, full of horror …
He was sitting at the foot of the cross and staring into Stygian darkness; above him, the sun, hung with black draperies.
He was battering the doors of heaven with raging fists, was cursing destiny, that destiny which made him live, made him writhe in deprivation, spew revulsion and disgust and putrefy in the hell of insatiable sensual lust.
An impotent rage of vengeance was howling in his brain, an impotent desire for retribution was seething in his blood, and a hideous shriek was ripped from his hoarse throat: Where is the end? Where the beginning? What is the cause, the aim?!
He was wandering, the star of madness on his brow, and leading with a bloody torch a mob behind him, sick, terrified and shuddering with fear. Covered in blood he works his way through the thicket of night beneath ghostly horrors until he reaches the subterranean passages where unknown treasures, darkly felt, and dreamed-of, lie concealed. He is walking at the front, proud, inaccessible, but dread and despair are eating his heart – shall I be able to find her? I have promised her to the crowd: how long must I wander?
And in a second he was the cosmos which burst into a million stars, into milliards of species and it all became One in him, an eternity of feelings, an eternity of creations and planets.
He was carrying a monstrous sun within his breast, he was flying, flying into the heights. Higher and higher, and he lost the awareness of omnipotence, of will, of being: he spread white wings from one pole to the next and hovered in deep brooding over the earth.
Anger and pain collapsed:
pain petrified, and longing, for the earth was slumbering in the dusk of evening.
And, below, the fields of corn were swaying in a dreaming drunkenness; in the depths the barren stubble field gleamed in the ghostly gloaming, and wandering will o’ the wisps flickered across dark swamps – ah, in the depths the skies were hovering in the black abyss of the lake, and from its depths pale stars arise, and on the smooth surface dances the silent magic of sunken churches …
His heart was seized with a heavy, oppressive longing.
And again he was striding forwards, he, the son of earth, striding with the holy belief that he was bringing salvation, but with the deepest, saddest, most transcendent pain he realised that he would be crucified …
He dragged himself along the via dolorosa with bleeding feet; bloody sweat dripped from his brow and a Gehenna of torment seethed in his breast.
He felt that he was carrying something in his arms; he was carrying it with reverence and with infinite care, but he saw nobody …
And suddenly there was the rustling of a dress in his room, the gleam of a pair of hot, longing eyes.
He started in terror.
No, no, it was not a dream.
Not a dream!
It was she, incarnate!
She was standing against the wall, breathing deeply.
They looked at each other, frightened, silent, trembling.
‘I have come to you,’ she whispered, ‘I have come to you, longing and desire were eating my soul.’
And she sank into his arms.
* * * *
Oh hour of God-intoxicated rapture, hour of wonder, when two souls flow into one!
‘Are you afraid of sin?’ I ask her, hot and shuddering.
‘I love sin, I love hell, with you, with you …’
And she threw herself into my arms, without consciousness, and oblivious to all …
* * * *
