Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (35 page)

‘
Oh,’
said Sythia inadequately.

Xanthe sighed.
‘I have little luck where husbands are concerned, it seems.’

‘
You
poor creature,’ Sythia murmured, but still her heart beat
fast.

At the
graveside, while the mourners sweated uncomfortably in their ornate
costumes, Xanthe stood cool and tall, staring down into the gaping
earth. She seemed at least melancholy.

‘
What
will you do now?’ Sythia asked her as they returned to the house.
‘Come home to Mewt?’

‘
No,’
Xanthe answered. ‘I shall remain here for a while at
least.’

‘
Alone?’

Xanthe smiled.
‘Yes. Alone.’

In the humid
evening, Hesta reverently sponged Xanthe’s skin with milk. The moon
was rising behind the trees and the gardens lay in silence. There
were no rats out there, nor in the house; no small creatures at
all. All the guests had gone.

Xanthe rose
from her bath and Hesta wrapped her in a towel. ‘I will never marry
outside my own kind again,’ Xanthe said.

Hesta made a
small, comforting sound. ‘It was not your fault, my lady.’

Xanthe shook
her head. ‘This time... this time, it seemed so right. He accepted
me as what I am, did not question my behaviour.’ Her voice was low
and uninflected, her gaze steady. She glanced down at Hesta. ‘But
what I am has followed me from Mewt. It was waiting here, but
twisted.’ She sighed and touched her belly. ‘It is time now for me
to settle this matter.’

Hesta dropped
a small curtsey. ‘I will await you, ma’am, in the kitchens.’

Xanthe smiled.
‘I will not be long.’ She clad herself in a long sheath of fabric,
the colour of the moon, opalescent and oily. She glided through the
house and out through the long back windows, down across the yellow
lawns, past the sundial, the mermaid fountain, deeper, deeper into
the garden to the court of the queen. In the outer courts the
ladies of venom lay desiccated in their beds, petals strewn around
them like papery jewels. Xanthe paid them no attention.

The queen,
Night’s Damozel, still reigned in her bower, despite the fact that
Xanthe had denied her water for three weeks. Her leaves had
withered and the tall stalks of her flowers were wrinkled like the
skin of a crone. The purple flowers were splayed open, like dying
tulips, revealing black and golden hearts. Xanthe crept through the
yews on silent, naked feet and stood before her.

‘
Greetings,’ she said. ‘We have commerce to conduct, you and
I.’

A single,
damaged petal fell from one of the flowers, and the stillness of
the night was absolute. Xanthe began to circle the central bower.
‘Your lover is dead, and your minions have either perished or
retreated into a death-like sleep. How much longer will you stand,
dark lady? I admire the way you cling to life, even though half
your roots are now nothing more than lifeless twigs.’

Night’s
Damozel seemed to shudder in the moonlight and another petal
fell.

‘
Come
forth,’ Xanthe hissed, her eyes like slits, her elegant hands
clenched into fists at her sides. Her narrow body swayed before the
Damozel, and her will pulsed out of her like steam.

Again the
plant convulsed.

‘
Do you
hear me?’ Xanthe said. ‘I order you to come forth. If you savour
life, then obey me. If not, I shall trample your crippled body into
the earth. I am not afraid of you, dark Damozel, for my poisons are
greater than yours.’

The image of
the plant seemed to ripple, and a stream of vapour exuded from the
earth. It coiled at ground level, and then puffed upwards,
resolving at last into an indistinct, female figure.

‘
But you
must show me more,’ Xanthe said. ‘I do not believe this wisp, this
ghost!’

The emanation
gradually became more solid, until it was clear that a strange
woman stood upon the withered leaves of the Damozel. Her skin was
pale with purple shadows. Her heart-shaped face was alien,
horrifying, yet peculiarly alluring. She had barely a nose to speak
of and her eyes were feathered slits.

Xanthe shook
her head. ‘He never had the power to conjure you, did he,’ she
murmured, ‘but then he knew so little of what he had.’

The Damozel
fell to hands and knees upon the soil, her pale downy hair falling
over her face. She looked starved, nearly dead.

‘
You
know I could have come before,’ Xanthe said, ‘and perhaps you were
waiting for me. If I had succumbed, would Samuel still be
alive?’She put her head on one side to study the spirit of the
flower. ‘I could destroy you now,’ she said. ‘and should. Poor
Samuel. He sought to kill me with your pollen, and woke in me the
instinct to survive. What could I do but strike? I had no choice,
for my nature overcame me. Didn’t you think of that? I found him
dead upon me. You are a jealous mistress, lady, but I know your
measure.’

The spirit of
the Damozel lifted her head. Her eyes wept an indigo steam.

Xanthe
extended one slim foot until it nearly touched the Damozel’s
fragile, splayed fingers. ‘I have loved and lost too many times,
but in Samuel found peace. In his innocence and inexperience, he
lacked the brutal qualities of men who awake the beast within me.
Noxious flower, you have destroyed my haven, for now I am alone
again!’

The Damozel’s
fingers flexed in the dry soil.

Xanthe folded
her arms. ‘In my land, you are known by a different name, Ophidia.
You are the serpent flower. They say in Mewt that the serpents who
doze among your leaves give you the gift of their poison. It is
said that this is how you able to concoct your seductive venoms.’
Xanthe laughed coldly. ‘We know better, don’t we?’

The spirit
raised its head and opened its mouth, the interior of which was
black. No sound came out.

‘
Oh, you
are parched, of course,’ Xanthe said. ‘Do you choose death or life,
dark lady? You see, I am merciful. I give you that choice.’She
squatted down before the spirit. ‘As I know your kind, Ophidia, you
must know mine. We have a long history between us. I walk the land,
but you cannot. You are the cauldron of venom, and I am its
channel. Together we become greater than our separate parts. You
have killed my love, and made me all that I sought to forget. So,
we must revive the ancient contract. Refuse me, and you
die.’

The Damozel’s
eyes were black holes in her pale countenance, without expression.
Then, with painful slowness, she attempted to crawl to Xanthe
across the crumbling soil.

Xanthe smiled
to herself and stood up, retreating a few steps. She gestured with
both arms. ‘Come, come to me, serpent flower. Get to your
feet.’

Stumbling, the
Damozel lifted her body erect. It seemed she was unused to it, for
her limbs moved awkwardly. There was a hunger in her posture, in
the curve of her spine.

Xanthe put her
hands upon the mushroomy flesh of the Damozel’s arms and lifted her
as if she were a child. Xanthe opened her mouth wide and lifted her
tongue. In the moonlight, two dark glands that leaked an inky
liquid extended over her lower teeth. Even before the Damozel’s
lips met her own, a spray of venom jetted out of her mouth,
smelling of burned feathers. ‘I know you,’ Xanthe hissed. ‘Take my
bane.’

The house was
cool now, a shadowy sanctuary from the sun. The gardens below
simmered and seethed in the last of summer’s heat; the grass now
parched and crisp, the flowers brown and withered. Xanthe looked
out upon the garden from her bedroom window as Hesta busied herself
stripping the sheets from the bed. Summer was breaking now. It
would not be long before the cold came creeping across the land,
bringing with it the desire for sleep.

‘
My
lady,’ Hesta said.

Xanthe turned
and found the woman holding out the folds of white bed-sheet to
her. They were filled with a fibrous dust. ‘Yes, it is time.’ She
stroked her swollen belly, where the heart of a daughter beat and
grew. Xanthe’s kind rarely had sons. She took some of the dust in
her fingers, then let it trickle away. Her skin itched, and now her
face looked grey and tired.

‘
It has
been a long summer,’ Xanthe said. ‘I will be glad to cast it
away.’

She removed
her dress and went naked through the house, down long stairs,
through the drawing-room and out into the sunlight, moving stiffly.
The desiccated lawn crunched beneath her feet. In the herb-garden,
the soles of her feet burned against the flagstones, yet her face
registered no pain. Deeper now, into the court of the queen. The
bower thrived in a tropical lushness, and a single flower remained
in the midst of the Damozel’s leaves. Here, Xanthe lay down upon
the soil. She closed her eyes and arched her back, her brow
wrinkled in a frown. She touched her throat, and then pressed one
finger-nail, the colour of dried blood, against her flesh. The skin
parted with a soft popping sound. Slowly, she drew the nail down
her body, opening herself up like a flower. Pollen drifted down
from the Damozel; the last of it. No blood beaded along the deep
scratch in Xanthe’s flesh. The skin simply lifted away, like old
paper, crumbling with age. Beneath it lay clean, virgin skin
already coloured a deep honey gold, glistening as if kneaded with
rich oils. Softly, the last petals of the Damozel fell down upon
Xanthe’s body and veiled her eyes.

The Face of
Sekt

This story
first appeared in ‘Grotesques: a Bestiary’, 2002, edited by Thomas
Roche and Nancy Kilpatrick (Berkeley).

As ‘My Lady of
the Hearth’ involved a reinterpretation of the Egyptian goddess,
Bast, so this story introduces Sekt, the Mewtish version of the
lioness-headed Sekhmet. I set the story in the land of Jessapur,
which is mentioned only briefly in the Magravandias Chronicles. It
was inspired by the mystery-steeped land of India, which is such a
wonderful and colourful place – even in this reality – it could
have been invented by a writer of fantasy. The Hindu religion is as
old as that of the Pharaohs in Egypt, the main difference being
that the Hindu rituals and ceremonies have survived and still
thrive to this day, while those of the Egyptians are mostly
forgotten, or are recorded only in fragments. India has inspired a
great many writers, and I was eager to explore Jessapur. In this
story, Sekt is a foreign goddess, imported by conquering invaders,
but shaped by the land to which she has become native.

I have
reinstated some paragraphs that were cut from the ‘Grotesques’
version.

I am the
lioness. I speak with her voice. I look out through her eyes. I am
she. I doze in the hot bars of sunlight that come down through the
temple roof. I breathe in the scent of flowers. Priests come to me
and ask questions so I will talk. It doesn’t matter what I say,
because all the words of the goddess have meaning. They sing to me
to improve my humour. ‘Oh mighty one, sheathe your claws of gold.
Let your eyes shine with the summer light. Blaze not our hearts
from us with your gaze. Let your voice be soft, oh snarling one. Be
kind to us.’

‘
Know
me,’ I answer in a purr and stretch out my body on the
tiles.

They prostrate
themselves and then, Meni, the high priest will raise himself
before the others. ‘Oh mighty Sekt, beloved of Aan, queen of fire,
lady of the red flower, hear our petitions.’

Aan, I might
mention, is my husband, whom I have never met. He lives in another
temple somewhere. They say his face is beautiful, but the chances
are I will never find this out for myself.

‘
Speak,’
I say, yawning.

And they do.
The questions are too tedious to relate. I have to let my mind go
blank so the answers will come. Say this prayer, do that ritual
task, cast scent, rake the sand, spill blood. It’s all they want
from me.

The crown of
the goddess covers my head, my face and rests upon my shoulders. It
is fashioned from beaten leaves of gold, shaped and painted.
Wearing it, I resemble the black basalt statues of the goddess that
line the courtyards and populate the darkest niches of the temple:
lioness-headed women. The mask was put upon me in my fifteenth year
and comes off rarely. No one may see the true face of the goddess.
My hand-maidens withdraw from my chamber before I remove it to
sleep.

There are no
mirrors in my chamber, none of Mewtish gold nor Cossic glass. If I
looked upon myself I might die, for once I was human and the body
that carries this goddess is still that of a woman. It is frail. I
dare not even touch my face for fear of what my fingers might
explore. When the mask was put upon me, Sekt entered my flesh. I
was changed somehow. I wash myself in a sacred fountain, so that
only the water may touch my face and hair.

I have lived
this divine life for nearly ten years. The time before that is hazy
in my memory now. I remember being a child and the smell of dust in
the heat. I remember looking down at my bare dusty toes, and
somewhere a voice is scolding me for being wayward. But the name
they called, I can’t remember that at all. She doesn’t exist any
more. I am Sekt. I am she.

At one time,
our land was a province of the sacred kingdom of Mewt and although
those empire days are but distant memories, our culture is still
saturated, if subtly, with Mewtish things. Our major religion is
one of them. Taskish monks might still swing their bells in their
high, lonely eyries of peaks and draughts, but down here where the
sun beats relentlessly, we are devoted to the goddess, Sekt, the
Mewtish lioness deity. Originally, she was a goddess of war, whose
fierce countenance gazed down from the banners of Harakhte the
conqueror. One of the first things he did here in Madramarta,
capital of Jessapur, was build a temple in Sekt’s honour. That
temple still stands and has been added to over the years, to create
a great sprawling complex near the edge of the city. It is a
labyrinth of immense chambers, full of shadows, and tiny shrines
where a priestess might mutter in the dark. It is called the
Sektaeon. Back in the days when Harakhte sought to rule the world,
the daughters of native high caste families were first taken into
service here. The most beautiful and noble women became her new
priestesshood in this country. One the eve of the great festival of
Sekt, a woman came from Akahana, the Mewtish capital. Her name was
Senu, and she was the High Priestess of Sekt. Senu selected the
girl who would become the goddess’ avatar in Jessapur. A mask was
fashioned in the semblance of Sekt and, with great ceremony, it was
placed over the head of the girl, rarely to be removed, and never
in public. From that day onwards, the girl was called Sekt also.
She wore the golden face of a lioness, always proud, always
snarling.