Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “Your shirt is damp,” Demetrius’ crenellated fingers stroked Lakif’s arm. He gestured to a low brazier nearby. “Let it dry before the fire, lest you catch pneumonia.”

  While the brazier would indeed dry out her damp shirt, Lakif dithered. Removing any extra garments in the present company would, without a doubt, elicit an unwanted response.

  “No, thank you. I shall not be here long.” Lakif cringed before the pervert’s ogle.

  In response, Demetrius grunted and shrugged his shoulders, as if Lakif had forfeited a prize. But the creepy crony nonetheless inched closer to the Acaanan. At this point, the waiter skipped off to fetch their order.

  “What is this place?” Lakif fidgeted away from the senior’s probing fingers. She was all too eager to steer the conversation toward platonic topics.

  “The Titan’s Toe Tabernacle,” Lysander boasted.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Demetrius demanded with an arched brow. It rose so high that it disappeared under his false hairline.

  “Lakif.”

  “Pardon?” He steered the ear trumpet toward the Acaanan.

  “LAKIF,” she echoed.

  “And no other!” Lysander hooted.

  “What an excellent name!” Demetrius gushed, wringing his hands. Lakif noted that the senior had a single golden tooth stationed in front. This alone spoke volumes of the local neighborhood. Where Lakif had grown up, a golden tooth would be a fleeting treasure, surely to be knocked out by a hopeful in a brawl.

  “Yes, a most appropriate name!” Lysander reassured her with a friendly pat on her shoulder, one that ended in a sly rub.

  “By the way…I’m a girl.” Lakif hesitantly informed them.

  “Of course you are!” Demetrius gushed. “That’s our delight!”

  Lakif now knew they viewed her much like the waiter. Even Acaanan males were slim and often girly.

  “You claim this to be a tavern?” Lakif inched along the sofa but was walled in by Lysander on her other flank. She was uncomfortably sandwiched between the two. Should she sidle away from the Scylla of one, she strayed dangerously near the Charybdis of the other.

  “A tabernacle,” Lysander corrected her with a swaying finger, as if chiding a pupil’s misunderstanding.

  “I see.” Lakif had absolutely no idea what the word referred to. “Do all of you work here?”

  Both erupted into a chorus of astonished giggling at the absurdity of the question.

  “Silly boy,” Demetrius corrected her. “It’s Monday. Who works on Monday?”

  Lakif thought of the frazzled businessmen in the square outside. “Don’t many?”

  “Only the man in the moon, boy!” Demetrius slapped Lakif’s knee affectionately.

  “So true!” Lysander added. He was all smiles, as if he had uncovered a buried treasure in the Acaanan. From their tangential responses, Lakif readily gathered that they weren’t at work.

  “Try the Patina de Piris, boy,” Lysander gestured toward a platter of pear slices covered with a gravy sauce. It looked appetizing, but she declined. To sample the delicacy would have indebted her to the scholars in an unattractive way.

  “No, thank you.” Lakif tried speaking in her most natural, feminine voice, but suddenly feared that would only encourage the duo. “You come here on your holiday?”

  “Holiday? Yes, this is a day of gay merriment.” One chuckled, although Lakif couldn’t be sure from which it issued.

  “The warmth of your homes doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “There are many flames here to warm the body, boy,” the elder cooed. The double entendre was clear enough. Lakif was becoming concerned with the repeated use of the word boy. Even if she were a male, she would be too old to deserve that title.

  “The tabernacle is warmed by the flames of discourse, lad,” Lysander chimed in with a fortunately benign answer. Both loomed up close against the Acaanan from either side. Lakif felt like each had four arms and eight eyes.

  “Perhaps you’re right. My socks are drenched.” Lakif promptly squeezed out from the encroaching cliffs of their shoulders. Socks seemed a safe article to discard and offered her a golden opportunity to extricate herself from the two trolls. The ruse worked. Pulling off her socks, she laid them under the brazier.

  “What do you talk about?” Lakif suspected that the congregation was merely a pretext to revel in homoerotic activities.

  “We don’t talk, boy,” Demetrius clarified, his tone now a shade coarser. His partner puffed his cheeks in frustration. As Lysander seemed the more innocuous of the two, Lakif resumed a seat on the other side of him.

  “We debate,” Lysander continued his cohort’s thought. “Well-reasoned debate is the cherished bedrock of all scholarly advancement.” Lakif wondered if Lysander was spitting out a memorized mantra. Clearly, the Tabernacle was a place of vast academics.

  The waiter returned bearing a porcelain ewer. Both men fawned over him, complimenting him on his efficiency and praising his delicate, developing muscles. Lakif’s stomach twitched at the show.

  While the predators doted on the adolescent waiter, Lakif took full advantage of the perverse interlude to take in other features of the Tabernacle. As noted, all present wore an identical lily-white toga. But she noticed that the congregation varied in one aspect. Each wore a colored ribbon around the waist like a belt. Four colors were represented among the academicians. Her new-found admirers both wore lavender ribbons. This color was donned by the majority. The other colors were lime, rose, and turquoise. These latter colors were more or less equally represented among the attendants. Lakif imagined that the pastel belts represented a type of hierarchy among the scholars, although how such a division could be established bewildered her. If there was a ranking among the fraternity, it did not preclude them from mingling with colleagues of a different stratum. All colors blended equally together without any apparent restrictions.

  Her attention was drawn to the Tabernacle’s rear. There, a section was partially closed off by statues. A group of men sat cross-legged on cushions beyond, forming a circle. One of the cushions was vacant. Its occupant stood in the middle of the gathering, reading from a scroll. Unlike the others, these men wore teal belts. Garlanded wreathes encircled their sagacious brows.

  “There you go, Lakif!” Lysander eagerly handed the Acaanan a goblet of wine. Lakif flashed a forced smile, as much from an uneasy feeling with her neighbor as from the drink. She wasn’t a great fan of wine; moreover, she felt that by accepting the drink she was obliging herself to her hosts. Although she accepted the offering, she quickly placed the goblet on the table.

  “What is that forum?” Lakif singled out the sequestered circle.

  “Why, that is the quadrivium,” Lysander answered.

  Lakif didn’t understand the word, which she viewed as yet more scholarly jargon. She interpreted it as some high-brow division of a university.

  “But who are they?”

  Without turning to confirm of whom the Acaanan spoke, Lysander replied, “The Laureates, of course.”

  Lakif looked blankly.

  “The Laureates have achieved the highest ranking among us,” Lysander continued. Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t fail to see Demetrius flirting with the waiter. He wove a beka before the boy like a treat tempting a dog. His fingers danced around the lad’s toga, searching for a pocket to deposit the tip in. Lakif felt sorry for the lad, but for Lakif’s sake, his presence offered a happy distraction for the troll.

  “What is he speaking of?” Lakif referred to the central figure who was expounding at length.

  “Speaking?” Lysander was quick to correct Lakif.

  “I mean debating.” Lakif looked about, now feeling the weight of several stares.

  “Debating?” the scholar echoed forcefully, and Lakif felt she had committed a gaffe.

  “Nothing so base breaches that perfect circle. The Laureates have graduated beyond debating. That exercise is for us with puerile standing. Instead, they p
ontificate.”

  “On what?”

  “What could be today’s theme?” Lysander paused to scratch his chin. At this juncture the waiter skipped off, and Lakif knew that the lewd partner was back in the fray.

  “Pardon?” Demetrius blinked as if he had just awoken from a sweet dream. His hairpiece now sat askew on his crown, as if he truly had bed-head.

  “Lakif asked about the Laureate’s theme today,” Lysander informed him, bringing him up to speed.

  Demetrius merely shrugged his shoulders and sipped his wine. From the sound, he was lapping up the drink with his tongue, a clear message to the Acaanan.

  “Over here, lad,” a voice harrumphed in the background.

  Lakif cocked her head, fully expecting to see someone standing behind her. Instead, a scholar reclined at ease on a cushioned chair nearby. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, in the characteristic habit of a tailor. Like his academic compatriots, he was well advanced in years. Not a single hair blemished his shiny scalp. Thin, circular glasses rendered him a pedantic look, particularly so when juxtaposed on his thin face. A white beard masked his thin lips, which sucked on a polished wooden pipe. A thin train of smoke crept upward in ever widening circles. In his lap lay a clipboard, which he tapped with a quill. He was garbed in the customary uniform of the Tabernacle, but unlike Lakif’s licentious benefactors, he wore the rose variety of belt.

  “Excuse me?” Lakif wasn’t certain the remark was directed at her, or if there had actually been a remark for that matter.

  “The descent of man from Clothorai?” Lysander wondered aloud. He was still stewing of the Laureate’s topic and hadn’t noted Lakif’s distraction.

  “That was last week.” Demetrius shook his wigged head. A stray curl fell from the mat and dangled before his nose.

  Lakif was only half listening to their dialogue. The outsider now intrigued her.

  “The fall of Khante?” Lysander continued to speculate. A second negation came from his colleague.

  “I wonder…” Lysander began, then paused. “Eureka! The Renaissance!” He shrieked, beaming with pride at his stroke of insight.

  “Well done!” Demetrius hoisted his goblet in salute. The wigged gentleman went on to extol his colleague’s sheer brilliance, affirming that he would be next to don the lime ribbon. The other denigrated his insight as pure luck.

  “My consultation is free today. Come, relax,” the reedy voice squeaked out again. There was no doubt it issued from the same stiff. The neighbor was beckoning Lakif and pointing to a sofa nearby. The seat only obliquely faced the scholar.

  Fortunately, her overzealous hosts were too engrossed in mutual admiration to notice the invitation. Lakif seized on the offer as a pretext to excuse herself from the florid duo. But should she accept? She briefly feared that she was moving from the frying pan into the fire. But as she had been directed to sit at a sofa somewhat removed from the fellow, Lakif felt that his intentions were probably platonic.

  “Have you seen the public baths?” Demetrius suddenly boomeranged back to Lakif. His offer was an unmasked, last-ditch effort to corral the Acaanan. Apparently, he sensed they were losing their hold on the prey.

  “Pardon me.” Lakif excused herself from the thorny situation. She thought that her exit would encourage protests, but they accepted the bailout without a fuss. It was all the better, for Lakif was eager to leave the salacious scholars behind.

  VII

  The Analyst

  “THANK YOU.” THE ACAANAN DROPPED TO THE SOFA BUT WAS HESITANT TO assume a fully reclined position. Nearby glistened a marble basin for hand washing. “What consultation do you refer to?”

  “I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to analyze an Acaanan,” the man tapped his pipe over an ashtray.

  “Anal…yze?” Lakif feared there was lewd imagery at play. The two perverts had left her hypervigilant.

  “Please, relax. It’s much easier that way,” the scholar cautioned her. The Acaanan looked around hesitantly for others who might be taking an undue interest in the dialogue. Perhaps she had been a bit hasty in abandoning the former pair. At least their mutual revelry diverted some unwanted attention.

  “Who are you looking for?” the spectacled scholar queried. “Are you expecting someone?”

  Lakif was somehow reminded of Lucretia at this point. Indeed, Lysander and Demetrius hadn’t apparently taken note of the reedy scholar. Was he akin to Lucretia, a will-o’-the-wisp willing to lure the Acaanan into its enchanted realm for hours? Lakif had an idea.

  “Excuse me.” Lakif flagged down a scantily clad lad who was strutting by. “I would like a drink, whatever he recommends.” Lakif pointed to the pipe-puffer. If he was indeed a specter such as Lucretia, the waiter wouldn’t be able to see him.

  “What do you recommend, doctor?” The waiter’s voice warbled with the maturation of adolescence.

  “Two scruples of peony, a pot of steaming water, and two cups,” the doctor replied with a mien of sophistication.

  The order taken, the lad scurried off. At least Lakif knew the doctor was of flesh and blood.

  “What type of liquor was that?” She questioned the doctor’s choice.

  “It’s a tea.”

  Lakif groused. She had traded in wine for tea! She looked around a second time.

  “I ask again, were you expecting somebody?”

  “No. I just thought that…” Lakif faltered before the sober visage. She felt that everyone was staring at her now. Her uneasiness was not lost on the doctor.

  “What bothers you so?” The doctor sucked on his pipe, and a white ring rose above his head like a divine halo.

  “I thought that others might be…” Lakif fumbled.

  “Who?” The gentleman looked genuinely surprised.

  “Them!” Lakif’s hand whirled in the air. “The other members!”

  “Members? A curious choice for a word, quite phallic. And what are they doing?”

  “Watching us…I mean me!” Lakif explained.

  “Why would they do that?” The lens of the scholar’s glasses flashed with reflected light, like an interrogator’s lamp directed in the Acaanan’s face.

  “Because…I’m different.”

  “How so?” the doctor replied, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers.

  “I’m an Acaanan…and they are Human.”

  “And?”

  “Humans hate Acaanans!” Lakif spat out. “Everyone knows that!”

  “I see you haven’t faced your own latent homosexuality.”

  “What?” Lakif shrieked. “I said…”

  “You claimed that they were spying on you,” the doctor replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Paranoia is just a manifestation of repressed homosexuality.”

  “Pardon?” Lakif’s voice shrilled as much as the juvenile waiter’s.

  “It’s all expressed through unconscious defense mechanisms, of course. You see, ‘I love them,’ seen as an unacceptable impulse, is transformed or reversed to its opposite. Namely, ‘I hate them.’ In technical jargon, this is called reaction formation. Then, ‘I hate them’ is changed into ‘they hate me,’ a simple projection of your feelings on to another. Ergo, paranoia is simply the external manifestation of an inner struggle with your own despised homosexuality.”

  Lakif had absolutely no idea what gibberish the scholar was spewing.

  “So forget the tea and drink of wine. Let it imbue your spirit with the taste of experimentation. The superego is soluble in alcohol, the so-called superego lacuna.”

  “I’m not homosexual,” Lakif corrected.

  “Denial is the very foundation of…” The doctor twirled his pipe.

  “I said I’m not homosexual!” Lakif truncated the scholar before he could conjure up any other preposterous theories. She froze. Her vehement denial had not gone unnoticed by several nearby scholars.

  “Then you’re preaching to the wrong choir, lad,” the fellow concluded and blew into his empty pipe. He then th
rew her a mischievous wink. Lakif realized that he must have noted her awkwardness before the two scholars and had twitted her.

  “You’ve had some good amusement at my expense. By the way, I’m a woman.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Who are you?” Lakif asked.

  “Galen Johem, doctor,” he began packing his pipe anew.

  “You are a medical doctor?” Lakif was eager to pick the scholar’s brain on a host of ailments that plagued her. She couldn’t recall the last time she had spoken with a doctor. It was certainly before adolescence. Although the details were vague, she recalled it was a harrowing experience.

  “My specialty is abnormal psychiatry,” Galen clarified.

  “I see.” Lakif nodded, although she hadn’t a notion what the doctor was referring to. “So why do you want to speak with me?”

  “To crack open an Acaanan’s mind is to breach the forbidden fortress of mental afflictions. It is nothing less than drinking from the Holy Grail of abnormal psychiatry. No psychiatrist worth his degree would squander the opportunity.”

  “I see. I suppose I’m honored.” The doctor had made it sound like the mental disturbances accredited Acaanans were positive attributes. “What did you wish to discuss?”

  “Lie back and let’s start from the beginning.” The analyst set down the pipe and armed himself with the clipboard and quill. “Tell me of your parents; anything that leaps to mind.”

  “I don’t remember much of them.” Lakif dismissed her interrogator.

  “Surely there must be…”

  “Enough!” Lakif snapped, silencing the prying analyst. The very first question had struck a nerve. “I’m not interested in being a guinea pig for your mental scalpel.”

  “That’s a pity. You are free to leave at any time,” Galen informed her. Lakif stood and was about to leave when she was struck by an idea.

  “Doctor. Perhaps we can speak on another issue.”

  “Of course.”

  Lakif resumed her seat. Torkoth’s plight had weighed heavily on her mind all morning, and the doctor seemed the expert to shed some light on Torkoth’s condition. “Is it possible that a wound to the rear of the head can cause one to forget events?”